Dylan Page 17

  The sound of hammering broke through her thoughts. Since she wasn’t getting any paperwork done, it was time to start cooking, even if she wasn’t certain she’d be able to continue with their bartering agreement. She needed to come up with a way to earn money fast, or her dream of owning her own business and flourishing out West was going to evaporate under the brutally hot Texas sun.

  Cooking helped her mind sort through her troubles. She grabbed her frying pan and set it on the stovetop. Opening the cabinet, she found the Italian flavored bread crumbs, canola oil, and cooking sherry. Setting everything out on the counter, she opened the fridge and pulled out two eggs and the chicken breasts she’d bought earlier in the day.

  Knife in hand, she started to debone the chicken.

  ***

  Dylan’s gut clenched with need, but he strove to ignore it as the vision that greeted him just a short while ago replayed in his aching head. He hadn’t slept much, troubled with dreams that didn’t make sense. Well, part of his dreams made sense—the ones where he’d emptied himself into the brunette currently driving him crazy—but the other part was actually what had given him the ache at the back of his skull and between his eyes.

  He’d dreamt of a man, a tall man with a build a lot like his own, but the face wasn’t Dylan’s face. It was similar, but more like their grandfather’s. The man had lifted a young boy up off the ground and tossed him in the air, catching him at the last moment, thrilling the boy. In that moment, Dylan had felt that thrill right down to his toes and knew he was that boy.

  Then the man turned to the other little boy and did the same with him. Dylan’s heart nearly broke all over again as the man turned and set the boy on his feet and turned toward a woman holding the youngest of the three boys. She was his mother, and the man in the khaki-colored uniform was his father. He’d left that day to go on a peacekeeping mission in Beirut.

  He didn’t really remember, but he did remember his mother telling Dylan and his brothers that they should be proud of their daddy. He was a Marine. Three weeks later, their lives shattered when his mother’s worst fear became reality and a dark sedan pulled up to the ranch house and two Marines came to their door with a letter.

  His mother held the letter to her breast but didn’t open it. The two officers saluted her as tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. His father was one of the 220 Marines killed when their barracks exploded, the act of a suicide bomber that, to date, was the largest single-day loss in the Marine Corps since the Battle of Iwo Jima during WWII.

  Their lives had irrevocably changed with that single act of terrorism. Their mother had gone on with their lives because she had three reasons to—five-year-old Tyler, four-year-old Dylan, and her youngest, Jesse, just two years old—but she’d never really recovered from the loss of the man she’d loved her entire life.

  Dylan blinked and reality painfully intruded as he hit his knuckles with the hammer instead of the nail. “Sonofabitch!” He set his hammer down and shook his hand; it never helped with the pain, but was something he’d been doing for as long as he could remember. His grandfather had taught them to walk it off if they’d fallen and to shake it out if they’d smashed their hands.

  “That’ll teach me to keep my mind on what I’m doing.” Ignoring the throbbing in his hand, he went back out to his truck and hauled the first drywall panel over to the sawhorse he’d set up on the sidewalk. He measured twice and cut once, just as his grandpa had taught him. Armed with his reconditioned drywall screw gun, he was ready to rebuild the first of four walls.

  The sound of footsteps overhead soothed the rough edges that remembering his dream had left behind. It must have been working with his brothers rebuilding their father’s final gift to their mother that sparked the long ago memory. He didn’t like to think about what might have been if his dad hadn’t been in the Corps. Everything happened for a reason, his mom used to say. Although why God in His infinite wisdom decided he and his brothers would lose both parents before they’d learned to drive was beyond him. “Probably better that way,” he mumbled as he screwed the drywall into place.

  Easing back to eye up the drywall, he took a moment to check the fit before pulling the tape measure off his tool belt to check the measurement for the next sheet of drywall. Keeping his hands busy usually let his mind wander, but not when he was using power tools; the slip up with the hammer earlier was just that—a momentary slip up. He normally paid close attention to what he was doing when he was working. If he didn’t, he’d have ended up like Tyler, head-butted into a barbed-wire fence, or worse, trampled by their steer. When doing carpentry work, he had to keep focused, or else he’d end up measuring wrong. As a rule, his side jobs didn’t pay much, but would end up costing him to do business if he wasted time and materials.

  “Frigging perfect!”

  His mouth twitched as he fought to contain his smile, knowing it would only open up the split in his lip. “Wonder what’s got Ronnie riled.”

  The overwhelming need to see her again, after holding her in his arms as they drifted off to sleep, had him heading for the stairs.

  He walked into the kitchen in time to see her stick her bloody hand underneath the faucet. His gut clenched as he reached for the roll of paper towels. His hands weren’t clean, but as long as they stopped the bleeding first, they could clean it out later.

  “Easy, now,” he soothed, putting pressure against the folded wad of paper towels.

  Her eyes met his and he felt his gut clenching with need. They’d taken a big step forward in their relationship earlier. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, and from the look in her eyes was willing to trust him when she was injured. Surely she’d trust him with her heart soon. He struggled but managed to get his thoughts back to where they needed to be. Carefully blotting the wound on the back of her hand, he noticed the bleeding had slowed down. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

  Her sigh of relief had him looking down to meet her gaze.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve had a lot of hands-on experience recently. I’m sure you heard about my brother Tyler’s run-in with Widowmaker.”

  Ronnie nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I hadn’t met your brother then but I heard about what happened from Mavis.”

  He still had ahold of her hand and was reluctant to let go until he was certain he was right about the wound. “I need to take a look at the cut to see how deep it is.” She agreed and buried her face against his side. His heart stumbled in his chest, and before he could step back, he was sliding headfirst down the slippery slope into uncharted territory.

  Getting a grip, he uncovered her hand. Relief speared through him. It was an impressive slice across her knuckles, but when he gently manipulated the skin around the edges, he could see that he was right; it wasn’t too deep. “A couple of butterfly bandages will hold the wound closed. We just need to clean it out with soap and water first, peroxide second.”

  “I don’t even know what a butterfly bandage is.” Ronnie sounded lost.

  He brushed the hair out of her eyes and swept the tips of his fingers across her cheekbone. “I’ve got some in the first-aid kit in my truck.”

  “Is there a story behind why you travel with one?”

  He shook his head. “My grandfather taught us to keep one on hand; you never know when you’re on a job or out on the range and need one.”

  “But if you’re on horseback—”

  “Most times we are, but we transfer the first-aid kit from one of our trucks to our saddlebags before we head out.”

  “So you’re kind of like a Boy Scout.”

  He tilted his head back and laughed. The woman was pure delight. He was the one who’d found her and was keeping her. “Not hardly, but I have been known to help damsels in distress.”

  She smiled until Dylan started massaging his soapy hands over hers and then some soap went in the cut. She sucked in a breath and held it. “It only hurts for a little bit.” He
blew across the cut hoping to ease the pain and distract her. When she looked up at him, he gave into need and pressed his lips to the tip of her nose.

  “Thanks.” She looked down at her hand and the blood beginning to ooze out from the wound. “Are you sure about not needing stitches?”

  He nodded. “Where’s the peroxide?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  He ripped off another bunch of paper towels and folded them neatly, holding them against her knuckles. “Wait here. I’ll go and grab the bandages from my car and the peroxide from your bathroom.”

  “OK.”

  He ran down the stairs and sprinted out to his truck. He wasn’t worried that she’d lose too much blood, but he didn’t like the thought of her being alone and injured. He took the steps up two at a time and found her standing at the sink pouring the peroxide over her hand.

  “I thought I told you to wait here.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “I’m still here.”

  He narrowed his eyes and frowned down at her. “You went to the bathroom.”

  She grinned. “I had to pee.”

  He shook his head. “You were supposed to stay put.”

  She laughed at him. “DelVecchio women don’t like to be told what to do. You’d best realize that now.”

  He nodded. “Got it.” When she set the bottle on the counter, he blotted it dry so the bandage would hold. “This won’t hurt.” Dylan carefully squeezed a thin line of antibiotic ointment on the cut—too much and the bandage wouldn’t hold. Careful not to hurt her, he fastened the butterfly on one side of the wound and pulled it closed, pressing the bandage to the other side of the cut.

  “Don’t get it wet.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  Their eyes met, and he saw the moment her guard slipped and hunger filled her gaze. It was torture, but he tamped down on the overpowering need he had to sweep this woman into his arms and take… just take, until they were both limp and satisfied. He could make his move, and he could have her, but he knew now wasn’t the time. They’d already talked about it earlier and had reached an agreement of sorts. He might have more instant gratification, but would lose in the long run. Right now, he needed focus so he could work toward a future with Veronica DelVecchio. Quirks and all, she was the woman he needed.

  But if it wasn’t soon, he’d didn’t think he’d be able to control the greedy need he had for her. It would be raw and primitive, and he didn’t want their first time together to be their only time. He knew one taste wouldn’t be enough.

  Closing the cage on the beast inside of him, he drew back and breathed deeply. The scent in the kitchen enveloped him. “Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing.”

  She smiled up at him. “It’s just breaded chicken, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

  He walked over to the pan and looked down at it. “Where’s the bread?”

  Ronnie rinsed out the sink while she answered, “In the bread crumbs.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  This time she walked over to stand beside him and placed her good hand on his back. Not a tentative touch but the touch of someone who was familiar… like a lover. It was a start—a damn good start.

  “Are you always hungry?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly.” He eyed the crisply browned chicken pieces as Ronnie splashed white wine into the pan and covered it. “Is that dinner tomorrow?”

  She smiled and handed him an empty plate and nodded toward the dish. “No. I made it just for you.” She set the timer and turned the flame down under the pan. “It’ll be ready in five minutes. Help yourself.” Dylan watched; he hadn’t really watched a woman bustling around a kitchen since he’d been a kid. “What were you doing when you tried to slice your knuckles off?”

  Her back stiffened, the only indication that she’d been affected by his question, but he didn’t know if it was in a good way or bad. He’d have to ask.

  “Washing dishes and thinking.”

  “It must have been some serious thinking, or else you wouldn’t have cut yourself.”

  She surprised him by agreeing. “Sometimes my mind wanders and it takes awhile to get it back focused on the job at hand.”

  “What were you thinking about?” He watched the way her eyes changed from a soft spring green to brilliant emerald. Her cheeks flushed and her breathing became shallow. Lord what a picture his woman made when she was aroused. Moving in, he took the spatula from her hand and set it on the edge of the dish and pulled her into his arms.

  “Kiss me back, Ronnie.” He dipped his head and immersed himself in her taste, her scent, her need.

  She pressed her agile body against his until there wasn’t a breath of air between them. He wished he wasn’t so noble and hadn’t already decided to go slowly because the need to rip the clothes from her body had him clenching his hands into tight fists.

  Ronnie traced the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip and moaned softly into his mouth. When she nipped his lip, he slid his hands to her curvy backside and plundered.

  He needed her… now. He slid his hands back up to the collar of her T-shirt and grabbed a fistful with each hand, ready to rip.

  “Ronnie, are you upstairs?”

  She jolted at the sound of her name being called and eased back from him, forcing him to either let go or rip her shirt in half. He sighed and let go.

  Mavis Beeton walked into the kitchen and said, “I, um, ran out of mas—oh, sorry,” she said with a nod toward Dylan. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

  “My tools and my truck are right outside.” He wondered why the older woman was blushing. Imagine Mrs. Beeton blushing. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, just fine.” She turned toward Ronnie. “May I have a word in private?”

  “Sure, we’ll be right back.”

  Dylan watched the two walk down the hallway toward Ronnie’s bedroom and felt the knife of need slice deeply. He wanted to take that particular walk and be the one going with Ronnie to her room.

  Emotions roiled in his gut. Lust tangled with need and got all mixed up with an intangible feeling that he’d never felt before—something that he’d never experienced with Sandy, but was a part of his parents’ marriage and it scared the shit out of him. Needing to get a grip, he picked up the plate and the spatula, serving himself chicken instead of kissing Ronnie. He skewered a forkful, blew on it, and took a bite. Tenderly cooked meat, perfectly spiced and lightly browned, had his mouth watering for another taste. “God, the woman can cook.”

  He was on his second piece when he heard the women coming back.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Beeton said, gripping the brown paper bag with both hands as she walked out the door. “Now don’t forget to keep that cut dry for a couple of days.”

  “I will,” Ronnie promised, watching Mavis leave.

  Taste buds humming, Dylan yanked her close. Her honey-sweet flavor mingled with the Italian spices, half of which he couldn’t name, but the combination went to his head like three fingers of Irish whiskey. His tongue tangled with hers and his brain shouted More!

  Hands urgent, mouth latched onto the side of her neck, he gave silent thanks as she went pliant in his arms, giving herself to him on this most basic level. Lust had him by the balls and tied up in knots. “Ronnie, darlin’, ask me to stay.”

  She pushed against his hold. He wanted her so badly, the claws of need raked through his gut and left him raw and bleeding, but he wouldn’t force her. He eased his grip and she slipped out of his arms.

  “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

  “And that’s a problem because…”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Which part of this? Me staying over, or me making love to you until your eyes cross and your head spins?”

  Impossibly, she laughed. He was as serious as a heart attack and she was laughing. He frowned down at her, needing to make her understand that this was no laugh
ing matter. Before he could speak, she held up both hands. He froze.

  “I want you so bad I’ve been on the brink of an orgasm since the other day at your ranch. If you think that’s easy, you’d be wrong.”

  The image of Ronnie walking around with the female equivalent of a hard-on had him grinning. “That a fact?”

  Her eyes flashed the split-second warning before she had her hands on his chest, shoving him backward.

  But he was ready for his filly’s temper. He grabbed ahold and pulled her with him. The table jumped and the chairs rattled as they hit the floor. The air rushed out of his lungs and his back ached like a sonofabitch, but he protected Ronnie within the shelter of his arms.

  “How long are you gonna make me wait, darlin’?”

  She laid her forehead against his and sighed. “How long have I got?”

  He slid his hands down the length of her spine to his favorite handhold, her curvaceous backside. Torturing himself, he stroked her rounded cheeks before splaying the palms of his hands on the apex of her curves and pressing down.

  Her breath caught and her eyes flashed with desire.

  “Time’s up.”

  She matched his grin and lowered her lips to his. The first kiss was a tentative foray, like a lover’s first kiss… chaste but sweet.

  He groaned and she deepened the kiss, adding the tip of her tongue, amping up the torture, stoking the fires of passion burning inside of him. “Darlin’, you’d better be sure before you go any further. There won’t be any stopping this time.”

  ***

  Ronnie’s mouth opened before her brain fully kicked into gear. “Do I have to worry about you lassoing my best friend and branding her too?”

  Hurt flashed in his eyes, but before she could take the words back, he shifted her weight and slid out from beneath her. He stood looking down at her and opened his mouth to speak, but then must have thought better of it. Raking a hand through his hair, he blew out a frustrated breath, spun on his boot heel, and stalked out of the kitchen.

  The sound of his footsteps echoed on the staircase. She’d ended a good thing before they’d gotten started. Tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to blink them back. She’d done the unforgiveable… judged, tried, and hanged a man before he had a chance to defend himself.