 
# A Wedding Story

## Dee Tenorio

### Contents

Copyrights

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Wanted

Trust In Me

10 Ways To Steal Your Lover

About the Author

Other titles by Dee Tenorio

# Copyrights

_A WEDDING STORY, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_

_"A Wedding Story" copyright © 2008 by Darlene Tenorio._

_Published by Darlene "Dee" Tenorio at Smashwords_

_Cover Art by Laideebug Digital_

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Thank you for downloading this free book. Although it is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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eBooks are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of these works. This book is an original publication of the author who authored the story herein contained.

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Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors' rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

# Chapter One

"You've got to be kidding."

"What's the matter, Rhubarb, too good for the kiddie table?"

Kids she could handle. Even this motley group. It was _him_ Ruth Ann Barbellis couldn't stand. She closed her eyes, scrunched them shut for all of ten seconds, praying to every patron saint she'd ever heard of that she wasn't in this situation. She opened her eyes.

Bobby Wichowski waved.

She decided to try again.

"St. Jude isn't a saint anymore, but hey, whatever floats your boat."

Ruth Anne, deciding neither the saints nor God would be very sympathetic to a person thinking in that kind of language, spun on her heel with full intention of wringing the neck of whomever switched her table card. "This is a mistake!"

"I'm afraid it's not," the wedding coordinator, Madelyn Wontor said three and a half minutes later. "Jason and Bonnie expressly stated they wanted you and his brother seated at table seven. I thought it odd—"

"Odd? It's the kiddie table, Madelyn!"

"Please, Ruth Anne, you're making a scene."

Ruth Anne blew a curl that had popped loose from her overcomplicated hairstyle out of her eye. "This isn't remotely a scene. When Bobby pantsed me during a baseball game at a family reunion, that was a scene. When he told my mother I was pregnant with his love child at my sister's birthday party, that was a scene. When he taped five hundred blown up condoms to my front porch, that was a scene!"

"You forgot the time you told my date I gave you crabs in the middle of a crowded restaurant." Bobby's deep voice had the nerve to sound amused.

Ruth Anne felt her blood pressure rise. She didn't bother to turn around. The jerk would probably be smiling. "It was syphilis. If you're going to mention it, get it right."

"Mr. Wichowski, Ruth Anne, you have to understand—"

"Why is he Mister and I'm Ruth Anne?"

"Because I'm the man, Rhubarb." He grunted when the point of her elbow found his ribs.

Madelyn looked ready to cry.

"And there's the happy couple!" Judging by the laughter, Madelyn's untimely demise was put off by none other than Ruth Anne's mother...and Bobby's.

"Don't they look just?"

"Just what?" Ruth Anne turned to see Glynnis Barbellis and Evangeline Wichowski arm in arm, giggling like schoolgirls.

"Just miserable, sweetie. Leave Madelyn alone now, this is entirely our doing." Glynnis, her silvery hair glistening and looking perfect despite the humid heat that had Ruth Anne's red curls in an uproar, shushed the coordinator away.

Evangeline, a graying brunette with hair as black as her son's, was already clucking away at Bobby, straightening his tie. Bobby was smiling down at her, his dimples flashing and his blue eyes teasing.

Glynnis pulled her away. "We're punishing the two of you. You want to act like children, you'll be treated like them. Quite frankly, we're tired of having our family events ruined by your constant bickering and pranks. Especially you, Bobby."

Ruth Anne couldn't help sliding him a superior look, uplifted eyebrow included without charge.

"Torturing poor Ruth Anne when you know she hasn't had a date to protect her in years."

Bobby fluttered his ostrich-sized lashes.

Ruth Anne considered spontaneous combustion. "Momma!"

"The truth hurts, sweetie. Now, the two of you go back to that table, eat your food, do your toasts and, for the love of Pete, try to control yourselves. This is your siblings' wedding. Let them have their day."

"Don't you think using today to punish us takes away from their day?" she asked, crossing her arms over the chest Bonnie's chosen bridesmaid dress almost forgot to cover.

Glynnis smiled, the eternal smile of mothers worldwide. "No, it's my wedding present to them. Now go eat. And children?"

Nope, butter wouldn't dare melt in that mouth.

"Play nice."

# Chapter Two

"I hate you. You are the reason fungus exists. You are the slime that grows in swamps that even acid can't break down—"

"How long do you plan to keep this up, Rhubarb?"

"Why?"

"Because I was going to hail down a bottle of beer and I figured you might get thirsty having your mouth open so much."

"Make it a white wine and I'll keep it short."

"No, you won't, but it might slow you down. Be right back." How he managed to get such a lanky body out of a chair that gracefully would always be a mystery to her. The man was one length of something connected to another length. And that tux should be illegal. Or at least have some sort of warning on it. _Caution: long exposure can cause blindness._

Or stupidity.

Ruth Anne looked to the faces across from her on the round table. Three girls, three boys. Alternating. The girls were all trying to make eye contact in some way or another. The boys were taking gleeful pleasure in stopping them. Until Bobby left. Now all eyes were on Ruth Anne.

For the first time ever, she couldn't wait for him to come back.

"What are you doing here?" A little blonde girl asked in a not-so-conspiratorial whisper.

"Yeah? Is that your husband?" A good-sized boy asked in a loud voice.

"Are you divorcing? My parents are divorcing. They don't talk nice either." The wide-eyed little redhead asked, a picture of pity. Bobby needed to hurry up. "They're nicer than you, though. They don't call each other names in front of us kids."

_Is this what guilt feels like?_

"He was really nice before you got here," the blonde commented, placing her napkin on her starchy floral dress covered lap. "Gave us quarters, told jokes. Do you have quarters?"

"No, I make real money."

"So, you got dollars then?"

Ambitious little thing. "Only for quiet children."

"I'm quiet." The last little girl said, brown eyes huge and beseeching. Where the hell was Bobby?

"Sorry, Rhubarb, they only had white zinfandel. I figured you'd be able to handle pink—" Bobby quieted abruptly when she jumped out of her seat and directly into his path. His eyes widened when she took the glass and gulped down the contents only to practically toss it on the table. "You okay, Rhubarb?"

"Not really, but if you get me away from this table I promise not to call you anything mean for three entire minutes." So she was desperate. She could live with that. The DJ was just finishing setting up, so she grabbed Bobby's hand and pulled him along with her. "I hope you have money, Wichowski, because we're going to need it."

"When did my wallet get involved in your hysteria?"

"When you got me stuck at a table with six versions of 20 Questions." They reached the DJ, an almost-smiling man with a receding hairline trying a little too hard to be hip. "Can you get the music started now?"

"Now?" The man looked to Bobby for verification.

Bobby sighed, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bill.

"Sure? You want slow songs?"

"Anything." Relieved, Ruth Anne started toward the dance floor, but stopped after two steps. She had to, the train of her dress wouldn't follow her. "Can you get off my dress, please?"

Bobby waited until she turned around to lift his shiny black wingtips from the pink train. "You owe me fifty bucks."

She lifted her arms, quite a feat in the over-tailored corset-turned-bridesmaid's-dress-from-hell. "Does this thing look like it has pockets?"

He took a little too long with his inspection.

"Are we dancing or what?"

He blinked at her as if she woke him from something. "Who said anything about dancing?"

"Would you rather go play with the Harry Potter set?"

He looked at the table and shrugged. "I'm out of cash no matter which way I go. Might as well take the lesser of two evils."

She was prepared to call him seven different names her mother would disown her for when he cupped her arm and led her onto the empty dance floor. She looked up at him, temporarily at a loss.

"Don't sweat it, Rhu. If I let you dance all by yourself your mother would never forgive me."

The second he took her into his arms, causing a sensation she couldn't quite describe in English as anything other than " _mmmm_ ", the music started. Well, at least the DJ was good. Anything by Bryan Addams was good, but the flamenco thrums of guitar that started _"Have You Ever Really, Really Ever Loved A Woman?"_ did something unusual to her heartbeat.

It wasn't until Bobby Wichowski, of all people, dipped her about halfway through the song that Ruth Anne realized she might have been safer with the kids.

Kids didn't touch her. Kids didn't wink at her.

Most importantly, kids didn't know how to make her body move and fit to theirs like a glove.

Bobby brought her up from the dip slowly, somehow or another making her neck fall back so that his face was less than an inch from her breasts.

Oh yes, this was definitely a bad, bad, bad idea.

# Chapter Three

"You sure you're okay, Rhubarb?"

Not the voice she wanted to hear, especially not haunting the outside of the bathroom, but Ruth Anne had finally resigned herself to spending the entire wedding all but glued to the most exasperating man she'd ever met. She'd tried to escape the intimacy of dancing with him, but Bobby's eyes took on that gleam she knew so well. The one that said he was hatching something. So, she'd stayed, twirling and twisting to his every whim, watching that gleam grow brighter and his smile more predatory.

She decided to discount what he did with his hips.

For two hours, they kept going, she afraid to give him time alone to make whatever arrangements that might torture her and he looking happier and happier about it. If his hands cupped her hips and something in her jumped in response, it was for the sake of self-preservation. If, during that one song when he turned her so her back was to his front, her heart stopped beating because his hand slid across her from her shoulder, down between her corseted breasts and over her opposite hip...well, she was just horrified.

She decided to ignore that warm brandy feeling in her belly.

But finally, the standoff ended. He won. He didn't beat her will, though. No, the only thing he'd outlasted was her bladder and her feet. One was full and the others were blistered. Damn Bonnie and her insistence on stilettos that could have doubled for an S&M device. The laces crisscrossed about twenty times over the top of her foot and up her ankle. Each and every one had lacerated her.

Unfortunately, she only had herself to blame for the glasses of champagne they both drank that were making her dizzy and...well, still full. She blamed the kids for the lack of a meal. So, here she was, alone in the back bathroom, trying for the hundred-thousandth time to reach the hooks in the back of her dress so she could relieve herself.

"No," she finally grumbled. "I can't—I can't get out of this thing."

"What thing?" Bobby asked through the door.

"This dress."

He stayed quiet for all of a minute.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you help me?"

More silence.

"Bobby?"

"I just want to get this clear so you don't knock my teeth in if I open the door."

"Bobby," she growled. Good lord, he was reasonably intelligent—nothing she would admit if he weren't already a college graduate.

"You're asking me to come in there and help you out of your dress?"

"Yes," she hissed.

"Okaaaaaaay."

"Damn it, Bobby." She turned as he opened the door. "Hurry up, I don't want anyone to know we're in here together."

"Yeah, they might get the idea I'm getting you out of your dress or something."

"Keep in mind that I'm ready to pop here and I'm not afraid to take you with me."

He made a face, then put his hands on her shoulders. Warm hands, rough fingertips. Probably from all the guitar practice. And violin. And cello. He could play anything with strings, including pianos. She was still pondering that while he turned her away from him.

"Why do you need to take that whole thing off anyway? Don't you just have to pick up the skirt?"

"You'd think." She'd actually begged. Bonnie had been insistent. "There's under...stuff."

The tiny hooks at the back might as well have been staples instead of closures. Her mother had gotten a few nicks sealing up the bridesmaids and Bobby seemed to be having the same luck.

"Bleed on this dress and I'll kill you."

"I had the strong impression that you hated this dress."

"I do, and I want to enjoy ripping every stitch of it apart without you getting first dibbs on the damage."

"Someone has to do something about your rage issues, Rhubarb."

She spun around, too late realizing he wasn't hopping along to the side of her to avoid her and that the ripping sound wasn't him trampling her train. "What just happened?" she asked cautiously.

"Well, that bleeding thing is a moot point, now."

"What?"

"Your dress kinda hooked my arm. Where'd you get this deathtrap, anyway?"

"Bonnie made them."

"I never thought she disliked you this much," he murmured.

"You're the one bleeding, smart ass." She stopped moving around and waiting for him to unhitch them. She felt the tug a few times, but nothing seemed to be happening. "Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you hurry?"

"I'm trying," he replied, sounding a little more tense than she'd ever heard him. And she'd worked desperately to rile him over the years.

"What's the matter?"

"I think your dress likes me."

She tried to twist to see but only succeeded in pulling him back around her and making him pant a little bit in pain.

"Stop chasing your tail, Rhubarb. Bleeding, remember?"

"Wuss. Unhook us."

"Ummm."

This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening.

"I don't think I can. The hooks got caught in different directions in this cuff and the skin of my wrist is kinda pinched in the middle. We need some scissors."

They both looked to the closed door leading to the kitchen hallway and hopefully Madelyn Wontor. Their eyes met, considering walking back into the reception with his hand stuck to her back. Then, as if they both remembered what they were doing there in the first place, they both looked over to the white toilet bowl in the corner.

This, officially, had become the wedding from Hell.

# Chapter Four

"Think you can make it 'til we find someone to cut us free?"

Ruth Anne wanted to say yes. She wanted to say she could hold it until the day she died, but unfortunately, this was starting to look like the day she'd die. She shook her head. "I used up all my willpower holding it while we were dancing."

He nodded. "I thought that wiggle was starting to look desperate."

She eyed him but said nothing. Why did he always have to pull out the truth?

"It's not like I haven't seen you pee before. Go ahead."

"Eww, you have not!"

"Yup, you were six and you had to go and there was no one else to take you."

Oh God...she'd been so humiliated she must have blanked it from her memory. Bonnie's birthday party...the park bathroom with no doors on the stalls and mud on the ground. To this day she hated public facilities, which was why she'd insisted on coming back here to the Bride's room bathroom. That had been the beginning of Bobby's ceaseless torture, telling everyone at the party she peed funny.

"Things have changed a lot since I was six," she grumbled. Though, no doubt he'd tell everyone at _this_ party he saw her pee, too.

"Tell me about it," he said under his breath. Not that there was much point, he couldn't get more than a foot away from her. She could probably hear his thoughts if she gave it much effort.

"We have another problem first," she sighed.

"Of course we do." She didn't even blame him for the sarcasm.

"Bonnie made us all wear this _truss_ thing, to keep the lines of the dress smooth."

"Why am I getting scared?"

"Because you can probably imagine what happens to testicles when they're shoved up where ovaries are supposed to be," she snapped. Things are getting urgent and he was worried about fear.

"Well I am now."

"It's like a strapless bathing suit underneath." Maybe she should just hold it and hope she didn't survive the urinary rupture. No...then she wouldn't get to string her sister up by her persnickety shoes. Revenge. A girl could survive humiliation if she had revenge on her mind.

"Can you shimmy out of it?" That had better not be hopefulness in his voice.

"I have to suck in my gut to get in or out of it. It's going to take some..." _Bonnie, may God have mercy on your soul_ "...yanking."

Bobby's eyes widened. Then he swallowed like there was an anvil in his throat. "You want me..."

She waited for him to continue but he didn't seem capable. So she shifted and the pain brought him back from wherever his glazed gaze had taken him.

"You want me to rip your underwear off?"

Given the need to clamp her thighs together, she didn't care how he worded it. She nodded.

"I think I've died and gone to Heaven," he murmured.

"You will if you don't watch it, Wichowski. Just...reach under..."

He bent, carefully keeping his arm extended and started tossing up the layers of skirt. Next thing she knew, she felt his hand searching its way up her thighs. Ruth Anne looked up at the ceiling, biting her lips. Somehow, this was not how she envisioned his first dive under her dress.

Not that she ever envisioned that. On purpose.

His hand found her rear end and slipped under the edge of the fabric. Good lord, Bobby Wichowski had finally made good on his taunts to get in her underpants. Her life was over.

He tugged.

Nothing happened.

She sucked in harder. Another tug.

Still nothing.

"Hey, Rhubarb, we may need to rethink our approach."

"No, we don't."

"I've only got one hand here, kiddo. Maybe if I grab the middle-"

"If you grab the middle, it'll be the last thing that hand ever does!"

He pondered that as if it explained something. "So I'm guessing you don't get a lot of company down here."

"Bobby, so help me, I will rip your arm off and beat you with it, do you hear me?"

"Okay, geez. Let me just get a look—" He picked her skirt up and pulled it over his head.

"Bobby!" She was actually too mortified to even scream so it came out like a squeak from a dying rat.

"Dammit, there's no light under here, can't see a thing."

Thank God for small blessings. "Get out of there!"

"Tell you what, how about you use your spare hand and I use mine on either side of your hips and we yank together."

"Sure. Fine. Dandy. Just get the hell out of there."

The skirt rustled and he peeked out, his face a little red, his hair a lot mussed so that the inky curls were going in every direction and a smile of pure mischief on his face. "On three. One...two...three!"

They yanked and, thankfully, the truss came free. Along with a loud ripping noise and a look of shock on Bobby's face.

"What just happened?" she asked, trying to ignore the draft she could feel.

"Um, maybe you should do your business."

While that would be smart, she instead looked down. She could feel the truss at her ankles. And about half her skirt along with it.

"I couldn't see," he said in what must have been explanation. But nothing could quite explain this. The waist seam had come apart at his pull until the entire left side now hung past her now bare hip.

Ruth Anne closed her eyes again. She had no plans to open them again. Ever.

# Chapter Five

The only thing worse than Bobby Wichowski seeing her half-naked was Bobby Wichowski watching her pee. Not that Ruth Anne was entirely sure he watched. She had her face in her hands.

"Need tissue?" he asked quietly, tempting her to peek through her fingers. Nope, not looking. He was politely turned as far left as his head would allow.

Ruth Anne put her hands down and sighed. This gave "shit or get off the pot" a whole new meaning to her. She took the tissue wad—is that how much men used? God, no wonder the rainforests were disappearing!—and rearranged it into a useable fold. There was enough left over to replace Bonnie's truss. But it was the thought that counted.

A flush later, she gathered her skirt and bunched as much as she could back to where it was supposed to be. Now all that was left was to go and get help. But how were they going to explain themselves?

"I was thinking. Doesn't the bride's room have safety pins or something?" He still wasn't looking at her.

"Yeah, probably. Probably not enough to put this back together, though."

"Well, Father Larkin's office is across the hall. Maybe he has a stapler-"

"You want to staple me?" It wasn't a bad idea, really. "Could you do it without getting my skin?"

He finally faced her, grinning, excitement starting to churn between them. "They might have some scissors in there, too."

"So what are we waiting for?" Working together with the most evil mind she'd ever encountered was unusually thrilling. After she washed her hands, he stuck his head out of the bride's room and checked for lurkers before pulling her out with him. The fabric rustled loud in her ears as he led the way in a funny little crab walk to the door across the hall. Thankfully the door opened easily and they shuffled inside, both of them taking a breath of relief once the door was closed behind them.

Father Larkin's office was nice, Ruth Anne supposed. Dark, though. Deep-toned cherry-wood paneling, tables, desks and a big stone fireplace. It was either the middle ages or a hunting lodge, she couldn't decide.

Bobby started in on the desk while she tried to help by opening another drawer. But the more she bent, the less he could reach. Finally, he insisted she look at him.

"This isn't going to work, Rhubarb. I'm going to do something here and you're going to let me or we're going to be stuck like this for a very long time."

Logic could be annoying but the idea of them getting caught not only half-dressed and stuck to each other, but rifling through a priest's personal area wasn't appealing. She nodded.

Bobby's free hand pulled her close so that she was all by laying on his chest. He even tucked her head under his chin and if she wasn't mistaken, his snagged hand hugged her closer as if he were protecting her. "Okay, now stay still and let me do the work, okay?"

It was a bad time to develop a dirty mind but Ruth Anne couldn't help it. He was holding her so close, his warmth was seeping into her despite the armor of her dress as he whispered, sending shivers down her back to where his hand braced her close. Add to that the idea of Bobby doing the work... Suddenly being next to a big flat surface like that desk was more tempting than she ever imagined.

"Found some scissors!" he said, breaking her attention from the furniture. She wanted to smack herself. She was in a priest's rectory! Her mother would have her excommunicated for her thoughts. She didn't even want to think about what Bobby might do.

Knowing him, he'd act on them.

"Stapler! We're looking good, Rhubarb!"

Yeah, good. He smelled good, too, even after all that dancing. She hadn't noticed so much before but, with her face pressed into his shirt, it was hard to miss. Woodsy, clean.

Bobby, she reminded herself, trying to shake off the unexpected case of the yums. Bobby, who was always finding the most disrespectful ways to address her breasts. Bobby, who took sick glee in rushing home plate when she was the catcher and laying flat on her until she couldn't breathe. Bobby, who spent way too much time scaring off potential—or worse, current—dating partners.

Bobby, who was nestling his chin against her hair and ever so slightly rubbing her back.

She froze. What was going on here? They were practically hugging. Getting along. Working together.

She tilted her head back, careful to look up at him and think not a single thing about how good it felt to be exactly where she was. But then she met his hooded blue gaze and being careful fell right out of her head.

"You know why I've always liked your mouth, Rhubarb?" he asked in that whispery voice again, but it was twice as intimate as before. He let go of his prizes and reached up his free hand to rub his thumb over the bottom edge of her lip. Those shivers started again. "Even when you're calling me names, it's the perfect shape for kissing."

"There's no shape for kissing." She wasn't quite sure how the words came out. Her brain was completely disconnected and so her mouth had to be on auto-pilot. Which explained why it didn't do anything when his eyes closed and his lips descended to hers.

Well, that wasn't quite true.

It moaned.

Then her hands turned traitor too and held onto him tighter. What was left of her consciousness decided to do exactly what he told her to do earlier, stay still and let him do the work. She'd never realized what an ethic the man had. There wasn't a millimeter of her mouth he didn't taste, tease and tempt. Why, he even managed to change gravity somehow because the world seemed to be tipping. Down, down, down to the nice flat desk.

Very nice...

He finally left her mouth, kissing down the side of her neck, nibbling and saying wonderful things like, "Oh, God, Rhubarb..." She forgot about the rip in her dress as her body got too warm to care about the draft and especially not when he reached beneath the layers to pull one of her legs up over his hip. Who knew tuxedo slacks were so nice on the skin? He was just a heartbeat from her corset when there came a draft she couldn't ignore.

One from the doorway.

Followed by the thump of a sixty-seven year old priest hitting the ground in shock.

# Chapter Six

"Holy shit, we killed a priest!" Bobby said from his position in Ruth Anne's cleavage. She was too busy closing her eyes and saying a speedy Act Of Contrition to add anything else to the discussion. "Come on, Rhubarb, get up! We have to help him."

Yes, checking to see if he was actually dead or not might be the saner course of action. Bobby levered her up way faster than he levered her down—she was not going to think about, remember or God help her, repeat that action—and shuffled her as quickly across the room as they could. She bent down just as Father Larkin's papery eyelids were starting to rustle.

"He's alive!" she cried, relief about not going directly to Hell nearly bringing her to tears. She grabbed Bobby's belt buckle—how'd that get undone?—and pulled him down so they were both kneeling next to the elderly man. "Father, can you hear me?"

"He's unconscious, not deaf, Rhubarb."

She ignored him. It was the only thing to do. Otherwise she'd look at him, then she'd have to admit she was still shaky inside from what had happened. Well, no, first she'd have to admit something had happened, die of shame, _then_ admit she was still shaky. Bobby seemed to understand because he hugged her closer with his attached hand and patted her side.

Father Larkin's eyes finally flickered open, out of focus, and he sighed. "Oh...oh my!"

"Just lay there a minute, Father, we'll call someone for help," Bobby said, offering a smooth touch to the older man's spotted hand.

"I thought...you two were on my desk...."

"Of course not, Father. We wouldn't do something like that on your desk. We were looking for office supplies. Did you take your medicine yet?" Bobby sounded so sure that if Ruth Anne hadn't been underneath him, she might have believed him herself.

"I...no, I was coming in...are you sure?" Clarity was returning to Father Larkin's eyes with a quickness. His gaze darted from one of them to the other and Ruth Anne wasn't having any luck controlling her flaming blush. "I know what I saw, young man," he said firmly, raising himself up despite their protests. "I have not gotten to this age without falling down a few times, I'll have you know. You're not pulling the wool over anyone's eyes here, Mr. Wichowski."

"Look at me, Father. Would I lie to you?"

Ruth Anne chewed her lips hard as she could, trying not to laugh at the huge puppy dog eyes and pouty lips that no doubt saved Bobby from any fate his mother dreamed up. Father Larkin, on the other hand, appeared unaffected. "Without a doubt."

He finally gave Ruth Anne a longer look, probably registering the bedraggled condition of her dress. "Good Lord, child, what has he done to you?"

"Me?" Bobby cried.

"Well, technically, it is your fault," Ruth Anne had to admit.

"I thought we agreed this was your sister's fault," Bobby replied, not so much as missing a beat until Father Larkin tried to push Bobby out of the way so he could get to his feet. Then his eyes bugged and Ruth Anne felt herself being jolted backward as he instinctively tried to undo the clamping on his wrist by lining her back up with him.

"What is going on with the two of you?" Father Larkin demanded, now sitting up and looking more like the stern disciplinarian they both grew up fearing.

"We'd better let Bobby tell you," Ruth Anne admitted. No one talked his way out of trouble smoother than Bobby.

Except that was when he decided to break with tradition and tell the truth. Ruth Anne covered her eyes with her hands, trying to ignore the continued patting on her back.

"So, what we need is someone to cut us free," Bobby said, finishing his tale of woe and ridiculousness.

"And staple me shut," she added, stilling in her palms.

"More than that," Father Larkin said, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees absently.

Ruth Anne parted her fingers and peeked through. Something in his voice sounded a little too...empowered. When they were kids, everyone lived in terror of Father Larkin and his adherence to the letter of the law. He'd mellowed over the years, watching young terrors turn into God fearing adults, marrying and baptizing their babies.

At least, she'd thought he'd mellowed.

She stared up from her place still on her knees, feeling quite a bit like the eight-year-old Ruth Anne who kneeled in confession because she dreamt she'd kissed Bobby Wichowski and was sure she'd been possessed. He looked just as tall, just as righteous and just as ready to mete out a punishment she was going to hate.

"I'd say what you two need before anything else is to get married."

# Chapter Seven

Father Larkin stapled Ruth Anne's dress to the sound of two people reciting a rosary. He cut away a large rectangle to back of her dress to the sound of a few desperate Our Fathers. He pulled the hook out of Bobby's wrist to the sound of Bobby getting the back of his head smacked.

"I've had fishing hooks embedded worse than that, boy," was the only sympathy he got.

"Not over an artery, Father," Bobby sighed, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and absently draping it over Ruth Anne's shoulders. He squeezed them, too, once the heavy fabric was in place.

She stared at the ground, disturbed by how natural it was to have him so close, so supportive. She grasped at the edges of the coat lapels and pulled them close across her.

"Truth is, I'd love to marry Rhubarb. She's a great girl and I've been in love with her since she was three-years-old, but she's got hopes and dreams. Goals. I'd just slow her down."

He _what_? Since _when_?

"Didn't look like you were slowing her down any when I came in, boy."

"I was enthusiastic," Bobby's voice squeaked. He looked down at her, slightly worried, somewhat green, but his eyes so warm and deep that she didn't know what to think. Was he lying, as he so often did?

Or was it possible that he was telling the truth?

Her stomach began to swim. Bobby couldn't be in love with her. He hated her. He made her crazy. He insinuated his way into her life and made her blood pressure skyrocket. He enjoyed making her scream.

And she liked doing the same thing...

He tilted his head, a frown making his brows knit as he tried to figure out what she was thinking. But she didn't know what to tell him, what to say. She wasn't sure what she was thinking, feeling, either. She felt his thumb on her cheek, a gentle brush of the pad across her cheekbone.

How many of her memories had him in them? What good were any of the memories without him?

She curled her palm around his wrist, clutching it for dear life. In a moment, everything was changing.

Then again, maybe not a moment. Maybe for the twenty-five years she'd been headed for this moment. The second when she realized that Robert Wichowski was the reason she lived and breathed. Always had been...always would be.

"You okay, Rhubarb?"

She basked in his concern. Thrilled for his touch. Ached for his kiss.

"Uh-uh."

His frown deepened, then he must have put two and two together because his eyes widened and his expression brightened until his smile was like to blind her. "Oh, Rhubarb..." He dipped his head and probably would have kissed her...

If Father Larkin didn't slap him in the back of his head again. "Wait for the wedding."

They both gasped and turned to the priest, but he was already circling the desk. "I'm going to get your mothers and I'm leaving the door open, so no funny stuff!"

They watched him go, then they both stared at the open door and the freedom beyond. Would running for their lives count as "funny stuff"?

"What do you say, Rhubarb?"

She didn't know. She just didn't know.

# Chapter Eight

"Come on, Rhubarb," Bobby said, taking her hand and pulling her toward the door.

Her skidding feet—what the hell were they doing skidding?—slowed him enough to make him turn around, a quizzical expression on his face. Then it cleared to a comforting smile.

"When I marry you, it's going to be in a dress you like, with all the trimmings girls are supposed to want, most especially without the priest knowing you aren't wearing underwear."

He did have a knack for saying the one thing that would make her move, usually right into his trap. Her feet gave up the fight and they were soon barreling out of the rectory, down the hall to the church and were a few feet from the front doors when the last person they expected to play avenging angel stepped out from behind a pillar and nabbed them.

Madelyn Wontor, her once-perfect bun now starting to show some serious wear on the left side with a few crinkling escapees of hair, bore down on them and grabbed their joined hands. "Oh, no, you don't," she growled, ignoring Bobby's yipe when she secured her grip on his wrist. "I have been looking for the two of you for over an hour!"

She finally took in Ruth Anne's bedraggled hair, make-up and dress. Ruth Anne considered it a show of true grit that Madelyn not only didn't pass out, she actually reached into her little fanny pack for a comb, mini-hairspray and new lipstick.

"I'm not going to ask. Your mothers will, but as far as this wedding is concerned, you're going to look as good as we can make you. We need the wedding toasts from the Best Man and the Maid of Honor. Since you got the dancing started before the food was served, this whole wedding has been completely out of order. We get those toasts done, your siblings can drive off into the sunset and I can go commit suicide before your cousin Louie asks me out on a date again."

"That would be _my_ cousin Louie," Bobby murmured, sharing an amused glance over Madelyn's shoulder with Ruth Anne.

"I don't care who he's related to, he's repellant," Madelyn grumbled, creating a cloud of spray in exuberance. Ruth Anne always thought Louie was cute in a helpless, never-going-to-get-a-job-but-fabulous-in-bed kind of way. He had the Wichowski dark good looks. He even had the same musical talent Bobby had. Louie just had no ambition. Or charm.

"So, once we get the toasts out of the way, we can go?" Ruth Anne asked, still trying to decide what she wanted to do. It all seemed like a huge mess with too many emotions (and way too much bloodletting) to make any decisions. She just wanted to go home, sink into her bathtub and pretend the whole thing never happened. That would be the smart thing, wouldn't it?

Bobby shook his head at her, showing his annoying skill of seeming to know what she was thinking exactly when she least wanted him to.

He took hold of her hand and pulled her from Madelyn's not so gentle ministrations. "You'll get to fix her at our wedding," he tossed over his shoulder, pulling Ruth Anne close to his side. "Don't start getting ideas, Rhubarb. We're just getting started, you and I."

"I'm sorry," Madelyn said from behind them, sounding breathless. " _Your_ wedding?"

Bobby turned to look at her, holding Ruth Anne fast. (How'd he know she was considering running for it?) "You can put it together in a week, can't you?" He smiled as Madelyn made a familiar sounding thump on the cathedral carpet.

"God does bad things to people who do bad things in church," Ruth Anne warned him, though her mouth was smiling without her consent.

"If that's an invitation, babe, I'm sure we can work something out."

She elbowed him in the ribs, but it didn't get her free. All it got her was bumped back, which forced open the doors to the reception. Where everyone was waiting. Watching. And where Father Larkin was in mid-sentence with their huddled, wide-eyed mothers.

All eyes turned to them and the party went silent. There was only one thing left to say, as Bobby took her hand in silent support.

"See?"

# Chapter Nine

"You see a way out of this one?" Bobby asked through lips that didn't move.

"Uh-uh." The only thing that moved between them was the tightening of their fingers together.

Ruth Anne watched the mouth on Father Larkin moving, but she couldn't quite hear anything. Just the sound of Bobby breathing. Her own heartbeat, rambling in her ears, picking up pace like a downhill locomotive. And yet...she could still hear him breathing. Even, steady, unafraid.

"You realize if we take a single step in that room, you're going to have to marry me," she said, turning away from every face that was staring at them, all the confusion, the growing whispers, even the looming thunder on Father Larkin's face. None of it mattered. Not her mother crossing herself. Not Bobby's mother's eyes getting wider and wider and wider. Certainly not her sadistic sister starting to turn purple while Bobby's brother laughed his head off. For the first time in her life, she tuned out every person she knew and what they thought. She listened only to the only person she'd worked all her life never to hear.

He met her gaze square on, no hesitation, nothing hidden. "I'm not the one with doubts, Rhubarb."

"No, you're just the one who's never said a word in all the years we've known each other." The truth of all he'd been saying that day had sunk in right to the core of her.

His mouth curved downward, wryly. "It's not exactly easy on the ego when the girl you want more than breathing compares you to algae. What would you have said if I showed up under your window some night and asked you to love me for the rest of your life?"

"You mean after I looked for the video cameras?" She smiled, using her gentlest touch to caress the curve of his mouth upward, where it belonged. "I probably would have jumped out the window and into your arms."

He took hold of her hand, keeping it pressed to his cheek. "You hated me."

She shook her head. "No, I wanted you. I just thought you were out of my reach. That you enjoyed showing me how far."

"Rhubarb, I would have proposed when you were in pigtails and bobby sox."

She laughed. "So think you might get around to it while I'm in staples and hairspray?"

"What?"

"Propose, dufus. We haven't done a damn thing right this far. I'm not marrying you if we don't do it right from the get go."

His eyes lit up as he sank to one knee. All around them the crowd gasped and tittered. "Ruth Anne Barbellis, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

"Ooooh, that was good," she replied, the slightest laugh escaping with her delight.

"Yeah, well, I've been practicing for twenty-some years."

"You know what I've been practicing for that long?"

He shook his head.

She leaned down and whispered in his ear. "I love you, Robert Wichowski."

His eyes turned smoky and before she could take even a single intake of breath, he was kissing her. The crowd roared, Ruth Anne wondered if maybe she heard her sister wailing, and she knew she heard their mothers sobbing happily. When Bobby let her go, she discovered he'd already walked them halfway over to the priest.

"This won't be legal," she murmured.

"Then I guess I'll have to marry you every day until it is."

They stopped cold in front of the dark glower of Father Larkin. "What do the two of you think you're doing? I told you to wait in my rectory."

"Couldn't wait," Ruth Anne replied, leaning away from Bobby's side and stage whispering to a nearby aunt of his. "I got him pregnant."

"Happens to the best of us, honey," the aunt replied, slightly slurred but happy as a clam.

"Ruth Anne!" her mother exclaimed.

"Better get it done, Father Larkin," Bobby's mom said with a knowing grin. "She's infected now. There'll be no peace for anyone until it's done."

"Probably not after, either," Father Larkin agreed. With a deep sigh, he rolled up his robe's sleeves and set to work.

# Epilogue

"So that's how I married your Aunt Rhubarb," Bobby was saying to the crowd of kids at yet another wedding's kids' table.

Ruth Anne came up behind him, smacked the back of his head and lowered herself carefully into the chair next to him. He, of course, jumped to his feet to help her sit, smiling down at her before dropping a kiss on her lips. She smiled, shaking her head ruefully. Even after a lifetime with this man, he never failed to surprise her. One of his best qualities, really.

"Is that true, Mommy?" Mary Beth, their precocious seven-year-old demanded from the far side of the table. Ruth Anne stifled a grin. Their first born was their own mothers' revenge—a child way too much like them. She had her Daddy's eyes, blue and bedazzling, her mother's riotous curls, and the ability to find trouble with the accuracy of a laser. She had the fastest comeback for a single digit age group and, of course, she could set up a trap faster than you could snap. Their five-year-old son, Robert James, was just like her. No one knew quite sure what to make of two year old Emma Jean, redheaded like her, but calm as the sky after a summer storm. Many had asked if she was adopted. Bobby insisted it was just an old-fashioned case of the bodysnatchers. As for the one so impatient to get out into the world that he had rendered Ruth Anne's bladder bruised nearly beyond using (dammit), well, she figured they'd know soon enough.

"Is what true?" Ruth Anne asked, watching her husband fit his long length into the seat and scoot up to the kiddie table. Ten years of marriage and she still got a thrill watching him move in the slightest of ways. He wagged an eyebrow at her, letting her know he was aware of what she was thinking. Again.

Well, they'd just see, wouldn't they?

"Did Daddy really kidnap you from Gramma's house and take you to a castle in the sky and write you a song every day until you agreed to marry him?"

Every time he told the story to the kids—who'd heard it a thousand times or more—it became more fanciful, more imaginary and definitely more heroic on his part.

"Sure, honey." Why ruin their good time?

The truth was it took a whole year after their actual wedding—only a few days later, in a judge's office for legality's sake—for the scandal to die down. Everyone was sure she was pregnant and while Father Larkin had never spilled the beans about finding them on his desk, everyone kept counting on her having been impregnated at the reception. Of course, Bobby did give it a damn good effort as soon as he whisked her away home, which still made her flush when she thought about it. But despite their very best continued efforts, Mary Beth Wichowski didn't come along until she was good and ready...something she did in every aspect to this day.

"See, I told you my daddy was a hero," Mary Beth exclaimed to the oohs and ahhs of her cousins. "Gramma says she'd have wasted away if my Daddy hadn't come along."

Ruth Anne didn't have to guess which Grandmother had helpfully mentioned that. She would have defended herself—lots of heroes had shown up, Bobby was just real good at getting rid of them—but the twinges in her back and belly had gone from noticeable to disturbing in a second. (Apparently, _this_ baby knew the truth.)

"Hey, Rhubarb," Bobby said, noticing almost as soon as she did. He spread a palm over her tightening belly, before giving her a slightly cross look when the contraction loosened. "How long has this been going on?"

"Only since this morning. I'm fine."

"Come on, we're going to the hospital."

"It's a Wichowski, Bobby, he's got no plans to come out until God makes him. We've got time."

"Then we'll drive nice and slow."

She grumbled, but let him help her up. Of course, the second she stood, another contraction hit.

"See what happens when you challenge God?" he said as he hefted her up into his arms.

"Bobby, no, I'm gonna crush you."

"If I can carry a baby grand, I can carry you." He grunted and repositioned her better while walking through the party, a trail of excited Wichowskis hopping along behind him. "Mama!" he bellowed, snagging the attention of anyone who happened to miss them.

"I'll watch the kids," Evangeline replied without missing a beat—or a bite.

"You're comparing me to a baby grand?" Ruth Anne demanded. Okay, she was no lightweight, but come on. That was like calling her an Orca.

"Come on, baby, you know those pianos get me hot."

Rakish grins really shouldn't have been her weakness, Bobby didn't have any other kind. "Getting you hot is what got us in this situation."

"Actually, I think that little red teddy thing got us in this situation," he replied, strolling down the steps at a fast clip.

"I wouldn't have worn it if you hadn't gotten tenure at the University," she reminded him.

He stopped walking, looking disappointed. "You wouldn't have worn it?"

Ruth Anne rolled her eyes. "Okay, yes, I would have worn it. I'd already bought it when you called."

He gave her a kiss. "Good, I knew that thing was lucky. What say you wear it again as soon as the doctor gives us the clearance?"

"First, let's have the kid, Bobby. Then we'll get back to your raging libido."

"Oh yeah." He started walking again towards the car. "Did we ever come up with a name for this one?"

"Billy?" she offered, hunching a bit into the next contraction.

"How about David?" He freed his keys while she hung tight to his neck, and pressed the button on the mini-van for the sliding door to open. Gently, he set her on the bench seat.

"David's good," she replied, huffing a little as he secured her with a seatbelt. "If you get me to the hospital before he's born, I'll let you pick the middle name too."

"Sounds like a deal." He gave her a quick kiss then, apparently thinking the better of it, gave her a solid one, before closing the door and rushing to the other side.

As the car pulled away, Ruth Anne smiling while her husband sang a nonsensical song about red teddy bears to keep her occupied, neither of them gave a thought to the crowd waving them off, or the circle of little girls watching and grinning.

"See," Mary Beth Wichowski said to her cousins, reiterating what obviously didn't need to be proved. "I told you my Daddy was a hero."

* * *

**_The End_**

* * *

But it doesn't have to be!

* * *

Turn the page to sample more original romances

_—_ in genres spanning from Romantic Suspense and Paranormal to Romantic Comedy, Erotic Romance and Emotional Dramas _—_

all from Multi-Award-Winning Author

**DEE TENORIO**

# Wanted

### The Deadly Secrets Series: Book Two

— ** _FOR A TASTE OF ROMANTIC SUSPENSE_** —

* * *

**_Some secrets are worth dying for..._**

Undersheriff and former Marine Rick Trelane had one constant his entire life—his friendship with Whitney Peterson. Through thick and thin, she has never faltered. Never blamed. But when her former lover turns up dead, Rick must look past the walls he's built to the woman he thought he knew inside and out...and discover he was wrong.

Whitney has secrets, deadly ones. The deeper he digs, the more he sees her as a woman he desires. And suspects. But as bodies start turning up, so does the evidence against her. Now the air is thick with secrets and shadows and giving into the longing could turn both their worlds upside down. Because this killer is just getting started...

**_CHAPTER ONE_**

_Copyright © 2015 Dee Tenorio— All rights reserved_

* * *

**_M arketta, California_**

* * *

Rick Trelane walked carefully toward the ribboned off crime scene, glad his hat shrouded him somewhat from the flashing red and blue lights of the nearby sheriff's cruisers. He glanced dispassionately at the body laying in the cramped parking lot of The Stand Off, Marketta's recently re-launched bar. Arms and legs strewn wide, the dark unseeing eyes of Brody Roberts stared at him as he came to a stop a few feet away from the grisly scene.

No surprise at all, Brody leaving one last mess for Rick to clean up.

"At least that saves me a bullet." He stifled the urge to kick the lifeless form. Brody deserved the added insult to his injury. Only his dumb ass would still come to a cop bar after being thrown out of the sheriff's department. Not that Rick thought for one second that any of the cops inside were the ones who pulled the trigger, just that Brody loved tempting fate.

Unfortunately, Sheriff Evigan would frown on kicking the dead. Of the two of them, Cade definitely had a stronger sense of morality. These days, Rick had a stronger sense of not giving a shit and he found that infinitely more satisfying.

"Saves you five, actually," The sheriff in question muttered as he came to stand beside Rick, handing him a cup of coffee as if they still did this crap every day. Hard to believe it had been over a year since the last dead body had been found in Marketta. "Six if you count the slug in the car door."

The size of the hole in the door wasn't large, so it wasn't likely it went through the victim first. Five out of six wasn't bad. Whoever had pulled the trigger hadn't been fucking around. Or... "Either they wanted it done for sure or someone panicked."

People tended to reflexively keep pulling the trigger once they got started, unable to stop even when the gun emptied out. He looked around to see where the bullet casings were marked on the ground around them. Thanks to the flood lights Henderson had already put up, it was easy to see the pile were in a relatively close grouping.

Cade followed his eye line and nodded. "No sign of a weapon so far. Had the presence of mind to take it with them."

"Has anyone checked the alley between the buildings to see if it was dumped?"

"I put a couple of the deps on it." Cade squinted one eye at the body. "Wasn't Brody one of the ones..."

"Mm-hmm." Something Rick had never been able to fully prove. It had been dark the night he'd been ambushed by Wheels of Pain, the motorcycle club that he'd worked to cut out of his hometown after leaving the military. Brody was on their payroll, but aside from the familiar scent of menthol cigarettes mixed with that damn Aqua Velva, he hadn't been able to make a legal charge for the attempt on his life. But they all knew. Brody was the type to take revenge with a sucker punch.

"Any idea who we notify about this?"

Rick used to have a general idea of who was related to whom for just about everybody in town. Times had changed, though. Brody was just one of the hundreds who'd come to the area in the last ten years. He didn't know the man's family in the slightest. But, he did know someone who would need to be told.

_Shit._ "Whitney."

"I was afraid of that." Of course Cade was. No one liked thinking of Whitney Peterson with the man she'd been in an on-again/off-again relationship with for years. They _liked_ her. "Better it comes from you than me, don't you think?"

No. Rick shifted uncomfortably. Cade could at least pretend to be sorry about the news he was imparting. Whitney had been Rick's friend for so long, he used to think they'd slept in the same crib. She always knew his bullshit. He didn't relish telling her the man he hated—that she very well might have loved, however much Rick was disgusted by that concept—was dead.

Whatever Brody had done to Rick was one thing, but he'd never forgive what the bastard had done to Whitney. The fear on her face, the bruises he knew Brody had put on her. Yet another thing he'd never been able to prove. She'd been maddeningly silent about her time with Brody. "I'll take care of it. After." Somehow. "Rip been out yet?"

Cade accepted the change in subject without a hitch. "On her way."

After cleaning out the corruption from the county offices over the last two years, pretty much the entire town's assembly and staff had to be replaced from scratch. The new sheriff's deputies were handpicked by him and Cade personally, but the medical examiner hired out of New York had been chosen by the hospital. Thankfully, Dr. Jocelyn Ripley fit in with the sheriff's staff like a well-oiled cog. If cogs could freeze a man's balls at ten paces.

"Henderson better have gotten her coffee, too. The only one worse than you at this hour is her." Cade, Rick could understand. No man wanted to leave a warm wife on a cold night. Rip, on the other hand, just didn't seem to like people at any hour.

Well, no one but him and Cade, something no one had been able to explain. Proof the woman just loved being contrary, he guessed.

" _That_ is one seriously dead guy."

Rick turned to find the tiny medical examiner carrying her trusty satchel with her under the yellow tape.

Dressed in a black baseball cap with "Coroner" stamped prominently on the front, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail and an oversize slicker with the same moniker over the front pocket, Ripley glanced over the scene blandly. "This certainly has wife-slash-girlfriend written all over it. She shoot him in the jewels, too?"

"Brody's not married," Rick replied, ignoring the speculation. That was the only bad thing about Rip—she was chatty. She loved to guess case outcomes like something out of her favorite cop shows. Unfortunately, her theory implicated Whitney, the last person he could imagine emptying a revolver into anyone.

"Well, _someone_ hates his guts." Ripley sidled carefully toward the body, avoiding the blood pool seeping out from under the corpse. "Not his first rodeo with a gun, I see." She pointed to the aged linear gouge just beneath his cheekbone, surrounded by a faded shadow. "Do we know how this first one happened?"

"No." Cade answered without even a flicker to his even stare. They both had suspicions, Rick knew, but he appreciated Cade not mentioning it.

"He used to be a deputy." Cade offered grimly.

"So _lots_ of people hate his guts." Rip put her bag down and started pulling on her gloves. "Well, _this_ hater was extremely motivated. Victim's chest is swiss cheese. That doesn't happen by accident."

Rick concentrated on his coffee. The better to ignore her puncturing Brody's liver for body temp and time of death. Even his hate didn't extend that far.

"As usual, Sheriff, any cause of death I give will be preliminary—"

"Seems kind of obvious, doesn't it, Doc?" interrupted Shane Henderson, the officer on duty who'd called in the homicide and set up the scene. A good cop—dedicated, motivated, and instinctive—but not always the smartest when it came to controlling his tongue.

Rip didn't even pick up her head at the other man's prodding. "I leave stating the obvious to lesser minds, deputy."

Rick actually had to work to keep his lips from curling as Henderson's abrupt smile dropped.

"As I was saying," She pivoted on the balls of her feet toward Cade. " _Likely_ COD is the multiple GSWs to the torso. Can someone help me turn him, please?"

Always a glutton for Rip's punishment, Henderson stepped right up. Together they lifted him long enough for her to inspect the back of the body and lay him back down. "No obvious exit wounds, so we should have something to send to ballistics."

Cade nodded, but no one would mistake his expression for satisfaction. "Which won't tell us anything we don't already know."

Someone with some kind of grudge had fired a small caliber weapon into one of the biggest assholes in Marketta. Rick looked over and met Cade's dark gaze. He immediately saw the other conclusion neither of them could mention aloud.

Hardly anyone was going to care if this case never got solved.

Whitney Peterson had just put the last pan of cheese omelet breads in the oven with a sigh, already dreaming of the coffee she'd been brewing for the last fifteen minutes. Better still, the minutes were ticking closer and closer to her morning date with the man who never missed her Sunday breakfasts. It wasn't a date to him, of course. He only came for the meal and a bit of conversation with his oldest friend, but she looked forward to it anyway.

Rick Trelane stopped in most days for coffee and a quick take out meal, but he made it a point to sit with her on Sundays. Just to talk. Well, listen, anyway. Conversation wasn't Rick's strongest suit, but it felt good to be checked in on, to have someone care what she thought or felt, while she refilled coffee and rang up people stopping in for their fresh loaves. Not a romance by any stretch of the imagination, but it definitely brightened her week. And by Sunday, her week always needed brightening.

A sudden hard knock on the back kitchen door made her nearly jump out of her skin.

Deliveries never came on Sundays. Frowning, she glanced at the pot of coffee for a longing second before heading toward the steel door. On the way, she pulled the metal pipe from beside the ovens. She'd learned the hard way never to answer her door without it. "Who's there?"

"Rick."

She blinked in surprise, already dropping the pipe against the frame to unlock the heavy door. It swung outward almost on its own volition, caught easily by Rick's strong hand. The overhead light had turned on the moment he'd come within ten feet of the back door, but it was still dark out and his hat brim kept his handsome face in the shadows. Still, she'd know the shape of him anywhere. The green sheriff's department uniform, with its heavy coat and matching Stetson, should not have been sexy. Especially not with the gold and black stripes running down each side of the pants. Of course, they did emphasize the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs. The heavy muscle of his thighs...

Damn it, now she had to hold in a sigh. Thankfully, he wouldn't say anything about the blush rising on her cheeks. He never did.

He stepped forward and she instinctively moved back, allowing him to pass into the kitchen without touching her. The cool, almost foggy fall air wafted in with him, scented with a woodsy citrus tang she tried her best not to draw deep into her lungs.

God, she hated this crush. Hated that common sense had no effect on it at all. Mostly, she hated the tinge of desperation she was so sure draped her whenever she was in his presence, which was why she took a few more seconds than strictly necessary to pull the door closed and get it locked.

Shaking her head slightly, hoping to snap herself out of her stupidity, Whitney turned and tried to inject some levity into her voice. "What brings you by so early? Your bacon hasn't even stopped oinking yet."

Rick didn't appear to be in a laughing mood. He never was anymore, but this was different than the stoicism she'd gotten used to since he'd returned from military duty. Colder. Almost as if he were there in a professional capacity, a thought that sparked a frozen knot of worry in her gut. He was still facing away from her, looking at the long metal table in front of him. She waited for him to turn and fill her in, but when he took his time about it, the knot grew jagged edges.

He shifted finally, taking the hat off his head and running his hand through his shaggy dark blond hair. He turned, catching her by surprise with the hard expression on his chiseled face. Those eyes of his, a searing blue that never failed to steal her breath, locked on her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. "We need to talk, Whit."

Normally, she liked it when he called her Whit. It reminded her of when they were kids, happy and unconcerned with life's problems. This time, there was no daydreaming away the seriousness. This visit could only be her niece. Dammit, Alison had hardly been in any trouble at all in the last few months. "How bad is it?"

"Depends on your perspective, but I do think it'll be a shock."

Whitney frowned. Her niece was temperamental, causing scenes only an over-passionate teenager could. Nothing she did could be a shock. Then the grim look on Rick's face suddenly made sense. _Brody_. It had to be. "What'd he do now?" And God, how had he dragged her into it?

"He's dead."

Quiet words. Which might explain why she wasn't sure if she really heard them. What she couldn't explain was how she felt them. As if someone had punched her right in the solar plexus and swept her knees out from under her at the same time. Rick lunged forward, catching her before she hit the floor. Her short nails scraped the thick nylon of his jacket while her face nestled into the fur collar.

Vaguely, she realized he was carrying her, which was not a good idea since he'd only been off his cane for a few months. She tried to struggle, but he shushed her and slid her into the chair she kept by the recipe nook.

"Shit, I'm sorry. Should have worded that better." He grabbed her mug from its place by the coffee machine and filled it. "Where do you keep the brandy?"

"Bottom cabinet." She pointed by rote as reality started clearing up. Brody Roberts. Dead. Dead. Dead. No matter how many times the word echoed in her head, it didn't make any sense. "A-are y-you s-s-s-sure?"

She shook, though she wasn't cold, and her teeth began to chatter. Funny, with the ovens on, her bakery's kitchen was usually hot enough to make her sweat. Instead, she had goose bumps the size of Volkswagons.

He made quick work of dumping something from a bottle into the mug and then fitting the warm cup between both her hands. "Drink."

She did as she was told, keeping her eyes on him over the edge of the mug. He didn't look away and thank God, there was no pity in his gaze. "Tell me."

She had to know. Had to be sure the nightmare was truly over.

He nodded. "Saw him myself. He's not coming back this time."

She blinked. Tried to nod back at him. Then thrust the mug into his hands and ran to the sink to retch. It was, she thought with an amused sense of detachment she didn't know she was capable of, an odd first choice for a woman who'd just regained her freedom.

By the time the tears began, Rick was already there, his big hand on her back, the other helping her rinse her face. He let her cry, not doing anything to make her stop or quiet the sounds she automatically muffled against his chest. Some small part of her was aware enough to be mortified, but there was little she could do to hold it all in. She couldn't even sort out what "it all" actually was. Five years of fear, of regret and sacrifice, each one heavier than the last. But one word came to mind that finally felt right. Relief. As if all the weight she'd been carrying for so long had just...fallen off.

Eventually, the torrent of emotions began to ebb and her breathing had turned to uneven gasps. She wiped her eyes, lifting her face from his shirt to realize she had soaked it through. She touched it, the mortification growing exponentially. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry—"

"It's nothing a dry towel won't take care of." His deep voice rumbled under her fingers. "Feel better?"

Yes. No. She wasn't sure at all how she felt. Except that she didn't want to leave the safety and warmth of his hold. But Rick wasn't a toucher and the fact that he was holding her like this just proved how far over the top she'd gone. She forced herself to push him away and stand on her own feet. He kept his hands on her upper arms, waiting until she stopped wavering no matter how she pushed. Eventually, though, he let go. Because he was her friend, a careful wary friend, but one she'd already trusted with her life once. She refused to take more from him.

"How about we go out into the bakery and you can tell me what happened." She turned toward the swinging door and forced her feet forward.

"You sure you can handle it?"

Not at all. "I'm sure I need to know." Which was all that really mattered. She picked up the coffee mug from the counter on her way out, determined to keep her spine straight in front of him. They circled the glass display cases to get out to her small serving area and slid into the nearest table. He sat opposite her, calm and collected, watching for any signs of further hysteria. She'd have laughed at the expectant way he held himself—arms close to his body, doing his best to reduce his size and intimidation level—except for the fact that there was no humor left in her.

Hands flat on the table, she listened as he spoke a succinct picture. Five shots to the chest. Parking lot of the bar on Main Street. No signs of a struggle. No sign of the murder weapon. No clues about the assailant. No witnesses.

He pulled a small flip notebook and pen from his shirt pocket, both of which looked dainty in his long fingered hands. "Do you know if Brody had any personal firearms? Something he might have carried on him?"

"You think someone shot him with his own gun?" She had to blink at that. If they had, the person would've had to be strong. Very strong. Or very fast.

"We don't know much at all about what happened."

Right. It had only been a few hours. He wasn't here as the friend who came to the bakery for their Sunday breakfast. He was here as a cop. She'd be smart to remember that.

"I know he had other guns than his old service revolver, but I have no idea what kind. Mostly rifles, I think. He hunted in the woods a lot. You'd be able to find out if anything is missing from his trailer. He was obsessive about his weapons."

"Yeah, I remember." The silence stretched a few beats too long. "We'll check the registrar." Again, more silence.

She finally met Rick's questioning gaze. "Was there something else?"

"Your...relationship with Brody—"

Her head shook in immediate repudiation. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I need to know more about the nature of it." A tone that hovered just below a demand.

"The _nature_ of it?" Her hands curled into knots, her voice lifting nearly an octave without her consent.

He could have done her a favor and looked away or backed off, but he didn't. He watched. And waited.

She hated when he did that. "The nature of it is none of your business."

"It is if he was killed because he was treating someone the same way he did you."

Shock had her mouth opening, but no words came out.

"I realize this is difficult—"

He had no idea.

"—and you obviously still have feelings for him—"

"Stop, just stop." She put her head down. "Not another word."

Thank God he did what she said, but the uncomfortable tension had her wanting to climb out of her skin. Pushing out a breath, she met his gaze with a steady one of her own, leaning toward him so he'd know she was absolutely serious about her words.

"The only feelings I have ever had for Brody Roberts involve revulsion, anger, and a whole bunch of other things I will never fully divulge to you, because I don't like thinking about it, much less speaking of it. But whatever happens from this moment on, I _never_ want to hear you confuse what happened earlier as meaning I cared about him. Okay?"

His solemn nod soothed her ruffled nerves. Until he spoke. "You can't blame me for being confused. You kept taking him back—"

She jolted at the hint of accusation in his tone. "You can't think I actually _wanted_ Brody in my life."

"I didn't know what to think. You refused to tell me what was going on, even when anyone with eyes could tell it was bad. Not even when the goddamn relationship was over." That was the part that made him angry, she understood. The part that hurt him.

Better to hurt him with secrets, she'd decided, than with the truth. He always wanted to protect her, no matter what she faced. It was part of why she loved him, unrequited and pointless as that love was. But some things, no one could be protected from.

"It was _never_ a relationship." More like a hostage situation. Something she never wanted Rick to know about. Of course, he figured something was wrong within weeks of his return. And he responded the way he always had to any threats to her. Brody never had a chance against Rick's rage. The same way she didn't stand a chance against Brody's.

"It could have been mutual in the beginning."

Was it wrong to laugh? Even bitterly? "It wasn't. Brody was a bully. Eventually, I realized it was safer to give in than to fight him. And it was a hell of a lot safer than the alternatives." She hated admitting that, because it proved what a coward she'd been, but it was the truth. She wasn't the only woman reduced to bartering herself for the safety of her family in those years. Wheels of Pain took what they wanted and destroyed what they couldn't. She'd saved her energy for the fights she thought she could win, not realizing until it was too late that she should have fought them all. But she couldn't change the past, no matter how hard she wanted to.

Neither could Rick. She saw the angry tick of the tendon in his jaw. "You should have told me."

And have him think of her as a whore? No, thank you. It was bad enough thinking of herself that way.

"You'd just beat him up again." And again. And again. At first, Brody was the one with the advantage of dangerous allies, but Rick had taken them on without flinching. For three years he'd fought a losing war to get rid of them. It would have eventually led to someone dying because Brody refused to give up. She wouldn't have been able to survive if that someone turned out to be Rick. So, she'd kept her mouth shut. She planned to keep it that way.

"No, I would have handled it once and for all." He would have. She could see the lethal menace in his eyes even now.

"You say things like that and yet you still wonder why I don't tell you anything?" It was never Rick's responsibility to change her life. It was hers. " _I_ handled it." For the past year, Brody had stayed away. It wasn't peace, but it was a damn sight better than before. "If he was interested in anyone else, I never heard about it. But I hope to God he wasn't. No one should have to deal with that."

Rick's begrudging grunt signaled his agreement of her answer. Not acceptance, but she knew better than to expect that. It was enough that he was willing to move on.

She rubbed her eyes, hating feeling adversarial with him. Arguments were something she'd learned to live with a long time ago. One didn't spend a lifetime around a man like Rick and not have to struggle to maintain autonomy from time to time. She just hated feeling as if she were on the other side of an interrogation and talking about Brody never failed to put them in that position.

Maybe because talking about Brody always involved lying to him.

"Do you know how to reach his family?"

His question startled her. He was letting it go? "As far as I knew, Brody Roberts crawled out from under a rock."

"I could have told you that, honey." He let go a heavy sigh, softly tossing the pen onto the tabletop, his big body relaxing wearily against the back of the seat. Sweet lord, he was! Probably because he didn't want to push her any further—fine with her—but God, did he have to be so... _male_ about it?

"Is it a law that you have to have the last word or is that something you do to drive me crazy?" She ran a hand over her hair, a new kind of relief firing through her system, suddenly realizing she was still wearing the kerchief that plastered her hair back from her face and good God, the hairnet still held in the rest. She'd been sitting there raging, flying from one end of her emotional spectrum to the other, the whole time looking like a mentally disturbed high school lunch lady.

Her face flamed and for the first time, Rick seemed to notice. His mouth curved, raising just the tiniest bit at the corner as she tried to find a natural reason for her hand to be up that way. The hesitation gave her away and his slowly lifting brow destroyed any attempt at playing it off, the jerk.

Just like that, all the tension between them evaporated. Damn him, he would pick the oddest moment to show his old sense of humor. Right when she was willing to stay good and mad at him, too.

She gave in, tossing a nearby napkin at him. "Shut up. You have no idea how lucky you are that your job lets you wear a hat instead of a hairnet."

"Your job lets you smell like cookies at the end of the day. You don't want to know what I come home smelling like some days."

She wrinkled her nose, able to imagine. The sheriff's department had changed considerably in the last two years, but their jobs hadn't gotten much easier. They still had more than their share of muck to wade through, from drunken bar fights to farming disputes and apparently, the occasional dead body. Sure put making bread and cookies into perspective. So, maybe she could cut some slack for both of them. "Guess you're the one who needs some coffee now, huh?"

"Wouldn't turn it down. But let me get it." He rose from the booth with a gracefulness it was nice to see he still had. He'd nearly died not too long ago, his body beaten so badly he'd needed more than a year to fully recover. Yes, she sighed in appreciation. _So sue me._ Any woman in her right mind would appreciate a man like him, even if he did make her mad enough to throw things at his head.

He took a step, turning back as if he'd forgotten something. "One more question, before I officially get off the clock."

Whitney raised her brows.

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to see Brody dead? Seriously enough to actually go through with it?"

She froze, honesty warring with self-preservation. Unfortunately, self-preservation wasn't something she was capable of when Rick Trelane was near. "You mean other than me?"

It almost sounded like a joke. And she could see that he almost took it like one.

She lowered her gaze to her knotted hands, letting him think whatever he liked. "The better question to ask is...who wouldn't?"

* * *

**_Want to know what happens next?_**

**_Find out in:_**

* * *

**"** ** _Wanted_** ** _"_**

Available now from

_Entangled Publishing!_

* * *

Start the series from the beginning with

**"** ** _Convicted_** ** _"_**

_Turn the page for more samples!_

# Trust In Me

### A Rancho del Cielo Romance: Book Five

**—FOR A TASTE OF EMOTIONAL DRAMA—**

_A Rancho del Cielo Romance_

**_Sometimes falling in love is the easy part..._**

Locke Jackman is single, childless...and he has a bad case of empty nest syndrome. For years, as he fought tooth and nail to keep his brothers and sisters together after his parents died, his entire life was focused on his responsibilities.

Now his siblings have all moved on with their lives, and there's no one around to distract him from his overpowering attraction to his sister's best friend. Their mutual desire is stunning...but then again, so are the secrets keeping them apart.

Susie Packard's nightmarish marriage taught her what happens when she gives in to her weakness for powerful men. Too bad the big, stoic frowner across the street—the one who sets her bells jangling just by breathing—has her in his sights.

Try as she might to keep her emotional distance, Locke is determinedly knocking down all her walls. But as much as she wants to be the woman he needs, she knows better than most— passion may have its rewards, but every secret has its price.

**_Warning: This book contains a hot, modern-day Viking seducing his way to the heart of his woman, a stubborn lingerie designer with a world of secrets and a very deep bathtub... Enjoy!_**

**_CHAPTER ONE_**

* * *

_Copyright © 2013 Dee Tenorio — All rights reserved_

_A Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication_

The desk had become her enemy.

Susie stared at it grumpily from the threshold. She'd squeezed the smallest desk she could find inside what was originally a broom closet, along with a fold-up chair and its much-needed cushion. She could just open the door and work on her files, her designs, emails or maybe comparison shop. And since the little closet was just behind the register, she could do it while keeping an eye on the store. Most of the time, that was one of her favorite details about owning her own shop.

Now when she sat down, all she could think about was the calendar on the blotter. Even the annoying emails she'd been getting from her catalog account the last few weeks wasn't enough to distract her from all the X's she forced herself to make as each day crawled past. Each week. Waiting for the inevitable cramping to start. The pain that went deeper than the agony of her body. She'd never meant to go through this again. Knew her heart couldn't take another scar. But with each day that passed without the pain, without the inevitable...she began to feel the whispering tendrils of hope trying to wind around her. Which was odd for a woman who didn't think she believed in such things anymore.

But she'd never made it this far before.

Three more days and she'd be able to dream.

She'd also have to tell Locke.

Susie closed the door on the desk and pressed her back to it. She'd think about _that_ in three days.

"I didn't know the bills were so scary."

Susie's eyes opened so wide she had to scrunch them closed again to recover from the burning sensation. It also gave her a few precious seconds to bury the guilt she felt whenever she saw her best friend. Amanda Jackman, God love her, had been raised around too many males to know the signs that were right in front of her. A fact Susie had been ruthlessly capitalizing on as the weeks had passed. Not that she had any choice—her exhaustion had grown exponentially with her fears. She knew she should tell Amanda the truth, but there were just too many reasons she couldn't. Amanda being Locke's beloved baby sister the biggest one of them all. They might treat each other like the sister neither of them had ever had, but tempting Amanda's loyalties wasn't a risk Susie could bring herself to take. If Locke found out and she lost it...

She, at least, expected the worst.

Locke, on the other hand, would be destroyed.

She disliked how well she knew that. Everyone at Shaky Jakes had bets running on what Locke would do now that the infamously full house of siblings he'd given up his youth to raise had emptied out so suddenly. In less than a year, he'd gone from presiding general over five brothers and a sister-slash-prisoner-of-overzealous-testosterone to a man alone in a giant house.

Most folks figured Locke was desperate to run off and sow some long-dormant wild oats. That the last thing he'd want was someone else needing anything from him. Strange, at least to her, that anyone in this town could believe he'd go anywhere. Susie knew he wouldn't abandon his family, their home or what all of it meant to him. Locke was a man grounded in his roots. If anything, he probably had no idea what to do with himself now that the apron ties were cut.

She swallowed tightly. All but one...

"Uh-oh, is it three o'clock already?"

Susie finally looked at Amanda, wishing again the other woman didn't share her brother's pale blond hair and clear blue eyes. "What? Why?"

"You have that green look you always get around three." Amanda held out an open packet of crackers, sweet as you please. As if she always had a twelve-inch package in her back pocket for moments like these. "I read somewhere that if you have a little something in your stomach at all times, it'll help kick the lingering effect of your...flu."

Susie stared at her friend narrowly. Amanda had been talking in a decidedly Shatner-like manner the last week or two, dropping hints Susie hadn't wanted to give credence to. The obvious truth stung now. _She knows..._ "Just read that somewhere, huh?"

_She can't know. Not for sure. Not for three more days..._

Amanda's smirk—the one she'd been wearing more and more lately, now that Susie thought about it—said way too much. "I also read that lightly salted crackers were best. Bland enough to get down without making you sick, and the salt makes the taste good enough to eat a bunch of them." She rattled the bag like a pet owner shaking a bacon treat.

Susie allowed herself a pleasant vision of sinking her teeth into her best friend's wrist.

"It's better than all that gagging you do, don't you think?"

"I think someone needs to back up before I gag all over her shoes."

Amanda rolled her eyes, but she took an obligatory step backward. "Being stubborn isn't going to help you get stronger, Suze."

"Being irritated isn't making me stronger either." On the other hand, the idea of not dry heaving in the back bathroom was too tantalizing to ignore. "Gimme the damn crackers."

Amanda's big ole grin was just rude.

"I hate you right now."

Amanda turned with a shrug, grin just getting bigger. "You always do at three. You'll love me again at four. Why don't you go lie down on the chaise? It's quiet enough today."

Susie snorted. The _chaise_ was an old rusted lawn chair she'd disguised with padding, fake velvet and brocade to inspire customers to bring in their significant others while they tried on her designs. It was more comfortable than the "office" door though, and Lord, she was tired. The clinic doctor she'd been sneaking appointments to under Amanda's nose kept telling her that was normal, but it was hard to believe. There had to be something wrong. She'd never been tired like this before. A body shouldn't drag like this...

_A body shouldn't keep secrets like this either, but that hasn't stopped you yet, has it?_

Biting back a sigh, Susie left the relative safety of her alcove and stepped back into the main store. Angled racks of lingerie stood in the center of the room, separated by color and style, while her personal designs filled the wall from the window front to the red curtain that created a private section in the back. Amanda liked to call that area the "naughty" section, while Susie thought of it as the "saving my ass" section. Since it was also where the chaise waited, that name took on extra meaning.

She meant to just walk over to the back room, but because she was a masochist, she just had to look out the front window. Had to steal a glimpse across the small street to the sporting goods store. It was three, after all, and she knew he'd be there. Locke's break, timed like a Swiss watch. Even before what had happened between them in the summer, he spent his breaks staring out the window, observing the small-town comings and goings, as if measuring whether the ebb and flow of human traffic would come his way. He probably had better knowledge of who went where on Main Street than all the busybodies in Shaky Jakes combined.

Or, he used to.

Ever since that night in his cabin, he'd been watching her shop instead. Waiting for her to look out and find him. She knew he was giving her the space she demanded, but she could see his patience was wearing thin.

His steely gaze coursed over her hungrily, as if he couldn't help but drink her in the only way she allowed. He looked as tired as she felt, the rugged lines on his tanned face having gotten deeper somehow. Strain pulled at the corners of his mouth, and she could almost hear the pull of cotton as his shirt tightened at his shoulders.

One nod from her and he'd be there in her store. Any sign at all that she'd accept him and he'd come. Every day, he waited for it.

Every day, she forced herself to turn away.

_He doesn't deserve the baggage you're hauling, girl._

But in three days...in three days, he might just get it.

She stared, fear inching its way up her spine, desire and exhaustion warring with it for space. How easy it would be to let Locke help her. He'd hold her if she asked. Offer his strength and his warmth without question. And it would be wonderful. More than wonderful.

Until she needed room to breathe...

Locke didn't know how to do anything halfway. That just wasn't the kind of man she knew him to be. He wasn't offering her a warm body to hold on to, sex to satisfy but not fulfill. He wanted everything—someone to give his heart to, someone who could give her heart in return. Her soul. He didn't understand. She didn't have anything left to give away.

_I should have met you first._

If only she had. There wouldn't be so many cracked and broken pieces of her to try holding on to...

"Exactly how long am I supposed to keep playing dumb here?"

Susie jumped at the quietly exasperated sound of Amanda's voice from the other side of the counter. Locke leaned forward, trying to see what threat had scared her. She shook her head, meaning only to assure him nothing was wrong, but that wasn't how he took it. He straightened, his lips tight at the perceived rejection, but his eyes reminded her he wasn't letting go. Then he turned and headed back into the depths of his store.

Susie sighed, her heart aching as he disappeared from sight. She swallowed, forcing herself to face Amanda as if nothing had happened. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were playing."

"Cute. But I'm serious. How much longer do you think I'm going to just stand by and watch you twist my brother—not to mention yourself—into knots?"

It'd be nice if she could dismiss Amanda's concerns with an airy wave or a sarcastic laugh, but one glance and Susie could tell it wasn't going to fly. As Jackmans went, Amanda was probably the most reasonable, but get a bone in her craw and she could be as resolute as Locke. Given the unblinking stare and the downward curve of Amanda's normally very pretty mouth, Susie knew the bone wasn't only in her craw, it was about to get shoved up someone's ass.

God, she just didn't have the energy for this.

Shoulders slumping, Susie closed her eyes and gave in to a different kind of inevitable. "Another couple of days, Mandy."

"Days? Susie, come on, what difference do a few days make? Can't you see what this is doing to the two of you? Locke hardly speaks to anyone these days—"

If anything could have made her laugh right then that would have been it. "Honey, your brother doesn't talk to _anyone_ if he can help it." And yet everyone in town always knew exactly what he meant. Especially her.

"Stop trying to be funny. This isn't funny anymore, Susie."

She hadn't been aware it ever had been. "It's also not your business."

"That might have shut me down three months ago when I thought the two of you were going to work out whatever happened between you, but it's clear you're not. He's my brother and you're my best friend. I can't keep letting you tear each other apart."

"We're not—"

"No? You're a stressed-out mess who can't concentrate and has taken cookie tossing to Olympic-training levels, and he's hardly sleeping or eating anymore. The only thing he does do is wait for you to call him. Which you won't do. That's not Locke. He's turning himself inside out, Susie, and I know he's doing it for you. You need to talk to him."

Susie brought her hand up to her aching temple. She didn't need this, even if Amanda was right. "I will, I just... _can't_ yet."

_Can't tell him. Can't face him. Can't give him what he needs, what he deserves._

"You mean you _won't_."

Yes, she did.

"Three more days, Mandy. Please. I just need three more days."

The quiet between them stretched long and loud, but finally Amanda gave in. "Fine. Three days. But if you don't talk to him by then, I'll do it for you."

Susie could only nod, drag herself to the glorified lawn chair and close her eyes as her body sank into the sagging cushions. If a few tears fell, hot and splashing down her cheeks, well, she decided not to notice them.

The options, Locke Jackman decided in yet another moment of grim dissatisfaction, were not plentiful. He could count the money for the evening bank drop—again. He could clean the stock—again—in the hopes that the elder twins would come home early enough to have dinner with him—which was just depressing.

Or he could go home and soak up the silence. And the dark. Lots of dark in the house these days. No one leaving lights on as they passed because they were all such pansies they couldn't admit they were afraid. No one wrestling out their arguments. Even the clanking of weights from the basement would be welcome some nights. But no. Instead the utter silence of the house rang in his ears like an air-raid siren until he hated being in there at all. Not even his work in the Boathouse took his mind off the quiet. With the elder twins off doing only God knew what—they were beside themselves with their newfound "freedom" now that they were living in the apartment above the store—even this place was starting to echo with the same quiet.

His hands tightened on the thick blue bag with the day's earnings inside.

_I won't think about her._

A failed hope, since obviously, he already was. That was the problem with all the damn quiet. No noise meant no distraction, and no distraction meant no way to keep his mind from traveling to familiar memories of a statuesque brunette who smelled like flowers and felt like heaven...with a tongue like hell itself.

_That thought should not make you happy._

But it did.

Sure she was caustic when she felt like it, but he'd always enjoyed women with spirit. Strong women who weren't afraid of him or their own thoughts and opinions. He had brothers for those rare times he felt the need to tell someone else what to think. Susie would go toe to toe with him over anything if the topic was important enough. Usually...

That's what was killing him. All the time she'd been in Rancho del Cielo, she never balked at facing him. Seemed to enjoy it even, though he had picked up a touch of surprise every time. As if she couldn't believe she'd just done it. That had charmed him, even though she'd been slowly twisting his nerves, his libido and his self-control into knots. All three were frayed through these days. Because when Susie looked at him now, it was with trepidation. Fear, from the one person he never expected it. That hurt almost as much as her rejection. Rejection he couldn't bring himself to accept, not when she watched him with a hunger he could feel on his skin and deep in his own belly.

Need, he concluded, was an evil bitch. And it had both him and Susie in a tight grasp. The question was, could either of them get out of it?

An even better one—did she want to?

Because despite all the confusion and gut-wrenching separation, he didn't. All he wanted was more. More of her voice, more of her scent, her vitality. He missed her, damn it. Even before she'd come to his bed, she'd at least been there for him to talk to. Argue with. Hell, just sit next to, both of them pretending to ignore how badly they wanted to touch. He never imagined he'd look back on that sensation longingly, but that's the situation he was in. Wishing he could just get close enough to her again to imagine touching her.

It'd be pathetic if he gave a damn what anyone thought. Anyone but Susie, anyway. Unfortunately, he didn't have the first clue what she was thinking. Or how he could find out.

The bell from the front of the store startled him out of his thoughts, thank God. Another couple minutes and he might have had to slap himself. Again.

He turned away from the register in the middle of the room, surprised to see his sister's fair hair as she poked her face in the door. "Mandy?"

"Oh good, I didn't miss you." Her keys jangled as she pulled them from the door. "I was afraid the elder twins were the ones in here."

He frowned. "You need something?"

There it was, the twist of her mouth that was half grimace, half sheepish grin. When she was five, it meant she'd just done something she wasn't supposed to. Nowadays, it meant she was about to.

"Whatever you're up to, Mandy, I don't want any part of it." He'd done all the scheming he was capable of to get her with Cole, the guy she'd been nuts about since she was a kid. And he'd more than learned his lesson about it, too. Which was specifically why he limited his opinion-control options to his brothers. Grown women, it seemed, didn't like being told what to think. Or do. Or feel. They didn't much like "helpful suggestions" either, but he was a man, not a saint. Better to keep himself from the temptation to do what needed doing by not knowing the first thing about the situation.

"I'm not up to anything. Not really—"

"Bye, Mandy."

"I just need someone strong, okay? I'm not asking you to commit a cardinal sin. I just knew the twins wouldn't help, but if _you_ were here..."

Any of their brothers would gladly give a limb if Mandy asked it of them, which meant— "Susie?"

The guilty grin widened.

"No." He turned back toward the register. Yup, definitely counting the money bag again.

"Come on, Locke. You don't even know what I'm asking for help with."

"I know she doesn't want me there." That was _all_ he needed to know.

"She won't even know you were there. Please, Locke, I really _need_ you."

He stopped, holding in a sigh. He was really starting to hate that word. "What's going on?"

"Susie's asleep on the changing-room couch. She's been kinda sick, and you know her, she doesn't rest like she should. I let her sleep all afternoon, but I can't get her to wake up, and I have to meet Cole in an hour for that thing with his mother he doesn't want to go to..." She kept talking, but he stopped listening around the time she said she couldn't get Susie to wake up. By the time she caught up with him, he was already at the door of Susie's lingerie shop, about to stalk in and find out what was wrong.

"Locke, wait, geez." Amanda managed to get in front of him, her hands on his chest to slow him to a stop. "She's okay, just ran herself down, and she's sleeping like a brick. I can't get her upstairs by myself and I can't leave her down here. If you could carry her up to her apartment I'd feel better about leaving her alone."

He ground his teeth. Amanda's logic was sound, but he wasn't dumb enough to think his little sister wasn't taking advantage of the opportunity. The question was, was he bastard enough to go along with it?

Amanda put on her pleading face.

Susie would tear him a new one when she woke up to find him holding her. "How sick has she been?"

The pleading look flashed into a satisfied grin, but like the smart woman she was, Amanda didn't gloat. "Not emergency-room sick, if that's what you're worried about. She'll be fine if she can just get some sleep and maybe eat a little more. All the extra work to keep up with orders is running her down. If she'd just give herself a chance to really recover, but you know Susie..."

Why did she say that with that hint of innuendo?

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "If we just stay quiet, I bet she won't even know you were here."

Yes, because he was so known for his chatter.

Amanda must have gathered his sarcasm from his face because she zipped her lip and led the way to the back of the store. Past the red-velvet curtain and to the woman curled up on a couch, practically in a ball. You'd never know she was a hair under six feet tall with her body tucked so protectively into itself. She hadn't slept that way in his bed up at the cabin. Then, she'd been loose-limbed and molded around him.

_What are you so afraid of, baby?_

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but Amanda was too close and too curious, so he bit the words back and bent low to slip his arms beneath her. She moaned, rolling into his chest, nuzzling her face into his throat as he stood. Like ivy, her arms slid around his neck and she sighed his name.

Balm and torment, all in one.

How could she keep pushing him away when she was obviously so pleased to have him there?

More important, how the hell was he supposed to let her go now that she was back in his arms?

**_Want to know what happens next?_**

**_Find out in:_**

**_"_** ** _Trust In Me_** ** _"_**

**Available Now!**

_Turn the page for more samples!_

# 10 Ways To Steal Your Lover

### Love By Numbers Series: Book One

— ** _FOR A TASTE OF EROTIC ROMANCE_** —

* * *

**_His best friend 's wedding just turned into_**

**_the craziest hangover ever..._**

Kane Wilkensen's buddy was about to marry the girl of Kane's dreams. Which would have been fine—heartbreaking, but fine—if Kane hadn't woken up in a Las Vegas honeymoon suite with her, a giant sack of money and a great big blank spot in both their memories first...

He'd always thought a good man would never steal his best friend's lover, but one crazy night may be just the chance Kane needs to show his 'wife' that she's with the right husband after all...

**_CHAPTER ONE_**

_Copyright © 2011 Dee Tenorio— All rights reserved_

"Again."

The sex-laden voice, rough and demanding, roused Delilah from sleep. Without opening her eyes, a smile—already well-satisfied—curved her lips. Her head gave a dull ache but it was lost in the wash of sensation as strong, firm hands took control of her hips, lifting her up onto legs still shaky from the last loving. She rubbed her face against the pillow, almost embarrassed by the rush of heat and need that arrowed down to the open folds of her sex. Folds that even now grew plumper, slicker, beneath the intensity of a gaze she could feel like a stroke of his tongue.

She wanted that tongue. Again. Feeling wanton, almost powerful, she stirred her hips for him slowly waving from left to right and back again.

His grip tightened, but he did nothing to stop her. "I've waited years to look at you just like this."

She almost laughed. She'd never had a problem with his looking, but Craig almost never wanted her positioned like this anymore. The last month or so, he'd barely even touched her...

Delilah frowned, her fuzzy brain trying to remember something, something important. She stared down at her hands, her fingers knotted in the sheets, focusing on the rings on her finger. Not the silver band Craig had given her six months ago. Not the pale sapphire he'd said matched her eyes. Instead a clear diamond, marquis-shaped, bound by gleaming gold and a matching smooth band next to it, resting where Craig's ring should have been. She blinked at it, confused how it got there, when the heat of his open mouth came down on the highest curve of her unturned ass. Synapses fired like the fountains outside their hotel and the thought was gone.

She lifted higher for him, crying into the pillow with a voice gone half-hoarse. He ate at her flesh, licking and suckling hard enough to leave a mark and send her nerve endings into paroxysms. Up over her hip, along the sensitive nip of her waist, along the indent of her spine as one hand reached beneath her and cupped her aching breast. She jerked against his mouth, shocked at her own unexpected reaction, torn between feeling too much and wanting even more.

_It 's never been like this before..._

She'd been with Craig for three years, but not once in all that time had he devoured her like this. Had he set her on on fire like this. Though she'd always crushed the stray, not-quite-sated thoughts from her head, this time she couldn't get over how every part of her body felt at this moment. Alive. Tingling. As if he'd spent the entire night wringing pleasure from every single inch of her and still wanted more. Made _her_ want more. Why now? Because they'd finally gotten married last night?

Wait, wait a second, the ceremony had been set for morning—so why did she remember stars overhead? A gazebo? What the hell—

Blunt fingertips dragged over one side of her ass, obliterating her questions and leaving fading furrows in her skin heading inexorably for her sex. She moaned as he repositioned her knees on top of some pillows. Utterly lost in the feel of those callused hands moving over her, stroking the pouting lips up one side and down the other. Slowly. Teasingly. Parting them to dip inside, drawing the moisture he found into mind-bending circles around her opening... She arched higher, desperate to deepen the stroke for him.

Which only made him laugh.

Right before he sank two fingers deep into her.

Delilah shuddered, her legs nearly giving out in relief, her internal muscles rippling around his surging touch. Again and again he pumped his fingers, taking the relief and heightening her need with it until she felt like mass of desperation.

"So close already," he crooned, laying his hard body over her so he could rumble in her ear. She blinked, his voice sending flickers of recognition through her. Craig's body wasn't soft, but it wasn't the hot, rippling steel flexing against her bare back. His fingers delved again, stroking her once, twice, before pulling out and leaving her empty, but not for long.

Even as she moaned, he began to push inside her. Thick flesh, hot and rigid, moved through her folds with a carefulness that belied his earlier aggression. She took him in smoothly, her body already familiar with the feel of him.

She pushed back against him, so deliciously full of him she couldn't manage a deep breath. Panting, she closed her eyes, torn between the screaming passion threatening to burn her up or pushing past the cottony blocks of her memory. He seemed to understand the precipice she balanced on, remaining perfectly still, perfectly buried within her.

If only it could stay like this forever. She didn't want to think. Didn't want to break this sensual spell. Didn't want to open her eyes and realize that the man behind her wasn't her fiancé.

Or that she didn't care.

Delilah cried out, lifting her head. The only truth that mattered right now was how much she needed him. Powerful thighs flexed against her own as he began to move. He reached for her, pulling her up, against his chest, his hands clasping her breasts, mouth open on the back of her neck. He drew hard, pumping up into her relentlessly, meeting her rocking motion back to him. Her head fell back on his shoulder, her own hands latching over his. Their fingers wove together, their bodies moving as if they'd been lovers for years.

As if they'd been made for each other.

She opened her eyes, heavy though the lids were, when she felt him staring at her with that smoldering green gaze. A gaze that had always followed her, always made her feel like everyone around her could see the lies she told herself and everyone else to get through each day. That stare cut her open every time it caressed her face, demanding her honesty though the man himself never once uttered a word to ensure she gave it. In three years, that gaze never failed to make her cheeks flame and her body tingle in ways it shouldn't.

It didn't do any good to avoid him now, she already knew who he was.

Kane Wilkensen.

The best man at her wedding.

Kane stared into Delilah's passion-laden blue eyes and felt that tightening in his chest again. The one he always felt when she managed to meet his stare. The soft weight of her breasts filled his hands as they had in so many other fantasies, the taut pink tips slotted between their twined fingers waiting to be teased. Even better, the wet glove of her pussy squeezed his cock with every roll of her hips, her ass sliding against his belly like hot silk. He pistoned into her, over and over, each deep thrust wetter, tighter, flat-out fucking _better_ than the last.

As wet dreams went, this one had to be the best and he'd had years of them to compare to. He could actually taste her this time, smell her and the musky heat of sex in the air. Her hair even fell over his shoulder to tickle his back. He had it bad for those inky black tresses that always seemed to catch light that wasn't even in the room and gleam back at him.

Each bit of her was something he wanted to look at, study and apply to memory for all time. He wanted to see his cock driving in and out between the smooth lips of her pussy. Wanted to watch his hands plucking the candy-colored nipples until she begged him to lick them, suck them. He wanted to see if there was a mirror anywhere that would allow him to see all the angles while he fucked her into screaming oblivion.

But he couldn't tear himself from that steady, gem-colored gaze.

Her mouth opened, just a little, as she gasped with each thrust.

Her hand rose, sliding over his jaw, running through the bristles of his morning beard. She held him like that; a gentle, loving touch amidst the raw fucking he couldn't begin to slow down. It didn't fit somehow, despite feeling utterly amazing. As if she really were there, no matter how impossible that was. Apart from her marrying Craig, his dreams of her were never gentle. They were fervent, unrestrained to the point of being damn near desperate. Only here was he free to take her over and over, never worrying about hurting her or scaring her with his overt sexuality. Never having to see that glint of attraction in her eyes get snuffed out by dismissal.

He slowed his thrusts, confused, until she whimpered, her nails adding bite to that gentle caress. "No, God, don't stop."

Like he could. His cock felt like it was about to burst already. But something wasn't quite right...

"Please, Kane... Harder. I'm so close..." She closed her eyes, turning her face away and arching for a deeper penetration.

He groaned at the sensation, but confused or not, he wasn't going to let her turn from him again. He left her breast to cup her chin, turning it back his way. "Look at me, Delilah," he ground out, when her eyes widened in surprise. "Watch me while I make you come."

He didn't wait for her to agree, mating their mouths together with almost primal force, pushing his tongue into her mouth to gorge on the taste of her. She groaned into him, returning the marauding with strokes of her own. He sat back onto his heels, bringing her with him until the kiss broke, but she kept those sleepy eyes fixed on his face as he'd commanded. His hands coursed down hers, over every inch of that creamy skin until he fit them over the curves of her hips. Her hands came down on his outer thighs, desperate for a balance he wouldn't allow her. He commanded her rise and descent on him, a fact that gave him a kind of brutal satisfaction.

"Kane, please," she whispered.

That was all it took to snap his control.

Lifting her until only the very tip of him nestled at her opening, he thrust his hips upward, slamming home. She cried out, a gasp so excited he could feel the pleasure of it against his skin. Followed quickly by a second and a third. Each push had her tightening, her cream flowing steadily down his length while her hands stretched out wildly for purchase. He helped her find his forearms, which she gripped so tight all he could feel was her pulling him up for more.

"Kane, yes, yes," she said, bouncing against his hold as best she could, her voice rising until she was simply gasping his name over and over. Giving in, he pounded into her without thought or mercy, his body jackhammering while her cries turned into a keening scream and her pussy rippled around him, milking his cock relentlessly. Finally, fucking _finally_ , the pressure within him burst and he yanked her down to grind into her as deep as he could reach, joining her orgasm, almost as if it were his own. She clenched around him, her ass still moving against him, lighting stars in the back of his head and leaving him wrung out like an old rag.

Well, that wasn't new. Delilah had been making him see stars since he met her. KO'd, down for the count.

What _was_ new, though, was that the dream wasn't over.

Usually, when he came in these dreams he woke up still thrusting into ruined sheets, his face pressed into a pillow.

This time, he was most assuredly still balls deep inside Delilah McGavin, his face pressed into the mass of silken black hair now that they'd fallen to their sides on a bed far too nice to be his. Like him, she was gasping, trying to catch her breath. She was also bonelessly limp, her sweat slick body slathered over his, their legs tangled, their sexes still throbbing against each other, fitted together like a lock and a key.

"Delilah?" he asked after a few more silent seconds passed and he still didn't wake up.

"Mmmm?" More of a purr than a reply.

"This isn't a dream, is it?"

He thought she might have stiffened, but her body didn't have the energy to hold it. Instead, long seconds later, she sighed, turning her head to look up at him with an altogether too hard to decipher shadow in her eyes.

He knew the answer before her kiss-swollen lips pursed to form the word, but he held his breath anyway. Waiting for himself to be wrong.

Please, God, let him be wrong.

"No."

_Shit._

**_Want to know what happens next?_**

**_Find out in:_**

* * *

**_"_** ** _10 Ways To Steal Your Lover_** ** _"_**

**Available Now!**

_Turn the page for more samples!_

# About the Author

Award-winning author Dee Tenorio has a few reality issues. After much therapy for the problem—if one can call being awakened in the night by visions of hot able-bodied men a problem—she has proved incurable. It turns out she enjoys tormenting herself by writing sizzling, steamy romances of various genres spanning paranormal mystery dramas, contemporaries and romantic comedies. Preferably starring the sexy, somewhat grumpy heroes described above and smart-mouthed heroines who have much better hair than she does.

The best part is, no more therapy bills!

Well, not for Dee, anyway. Her husband and kids, on the other hand...

Dee Tenorio is a winner of both

**_The 2009 Prism Award for_**

**_Dark Paranormal Romance_**

&

**_The 2015 Holt Award of Merit for_**

**_Romantic Suspense_**.

* * *

If you would like to learn more about her work,

please visit:

**_Newsletter_** ** _|_** ** _Twitter_** ** _|_** ** _Facebook_** ** _|_** ** _Google+_** ** _|_** ** _Pinterest_** ** _|_** ** _Instagram_**

www.deetenorio.com

authordeetenorio@gmail.com

# Other titles by Dee Tenorio

**Deadly Secrets Series**

_Wanted_

_Convicted_

* * *

**Rancho del Cielo Romances**

_Trust In Me_

_The Virgin 's Revenge_

_Burn for Me_

_Love Me Tomorrow_

_Betting Hearts_

* * *

**The Lonnigans Duo**

_All of You_

_All or Nothing_

* * *

**The Resurrection Series**

_Deceiving The Protector_

_Tempting The Enemy_

* * *

**The Remingtons**

_Legacy_

_Temptation_

_Serenade_

_The Remingtons Box Set_

* * *

**Love By Numbers**

_10 Ways To Steal Your Lover_

* * *

**Single Titles**

_Elemental Forces_

_Kiss Me Again_

* * *

**Novellas**

_Wedding Wishes_

_Shaken_

_Love Me Knots_

###

**COMING SOON**

_Pursued_

_(Deadly Secrets Book #3)_

* * *

_5 Secrets You Never Tell_

_(Love By Numbers, Book #2)_

* * *

_Enticing The Stranger_

_(Resurrection, Book #3)_

**Available wherever ebooks are sold!**
