Kimberly Raye – The Braddock Boys: Brent (страница 2)

The wetness between your legs.

The heat licking at your skin.

He sent the silent messages and her gaze smoldered. Her hands trembled as she stared back up at him, her expression slightly bewildered. Then a light bulb seemed to go off and suddenly she knew exactly what he wanted. Her eyes sparkled as she slid the buttons free on her blouse. The material parted, revealing a white lace bra. She popped the front clasp and pulled the cups apart. Her breasts sprang free. Her nipples pebbled at the instant rush of air.

His gaze fixed on a faint blue vein barely visible beneath her translucent skin. Her heartbeat drummed in his ears, the sound as intoxicating as the ripe smell that spiraled into his nostrils. His gut tightened and his desperation stirred and then everything faded into a sweet red rush.

He leaned her back over his arm, opened his mouth wide and sank his fangs deep into the flesh just to the right of her nipple.

Soft skin cushioned his lips and liquid heat spurted into his mouth. His fangs tingled and his entire body convulsed. He drew on her harder, deeper, her essence tunneling down his throat and warming him from the inside out. She trembled and gasped and he knew she felt the pleasure as keenly as he did.

The satisfaction.

It rolled through him after several delicious seconds and the tightness clenching his muscles started to ease. The fist in his gut loosened and suddenly he didn’t hurt so much.

He indulged for a few delicious seconds before sanity sent up a red flag and a loud Enough! The beast was sated.

For now.

Easing the pressure, he retracted his fangs. He licked the tiny prick points, savoring the last few drops before leaning back. He caught her gaze and willed her to forget everything.

No tall, dark cowboy lurking in the alley behind the Dairy Freeze.

No uncontrollable lust urging her to strip down.

No fangs sinking into her breast.

Nothing but a sweet, intoxicating orgasm brought on by a very delicious daydream.

He pulled her blouse together. His fingertips lingered at one ripe nipple before he pulled away, buttoned her up and sent her back inside to finish her shift.

After that, he turned on his heel and did what he’d been doing for the past century and a half, ever since he’d been turned into a vampire on that fateful night so long ago—Brent Braddock walked away and never looked back.

2

“WHAT CAN I DO you for, sugar?” asked an ancient woman wearing a white button-up blouse, white polyester slacks and a pink apron.

“I’ll have a double chocolate malt.” Abigail Trent gave the hand-held plastic menu another once-over. “With extra whipped cream.”

Dolly—according to the name embroidered in hot pink on her left pocket—pushed up her cat’s eye glasses. “You sure about that?” She gave a pointed stare at Abigail’s plain black combat boots before shifting up, over a pair of worn Levis, to her Go Navy hoodie. “We’ve got some nice fruit smoothies, sugar. Why don’t you have one of those?” The old woman winked. “Half the calories.”

Abby ignored the pinch to her ego and held tight to her resolve. “I’d rather have a malt.”

Dolly wiggled her carefully penciled in eyebrows as if she were about to dangle a carrot. “We’ve got fresh mango banana.”

“I don’t like bananas.”

“Strawberry Kiwi.”

“I don’t like kiwi.”

Dolly gave her another once over. “You know, sugar, you’re not half bad. What I can see, that is. If I were you, I’d definitely lose that there Unibomber look you got goin’ for yourself. Especially if you want to rope a cowboy.”

Abby narrowed her gaze at the presumptuous woman. “Do I know you?”

“The name’s Dolly Cook and the real question is, do I know you?” She waved a crippled hand. “See, I know everybody in this town. Been working here for the past forty-eight years since me and my husband opened up the place. He passed on about five years ago, God rest his soul. My son took over the kitchen on account of the arthritis in my hands makes it impossible to grip a spatula. Luckily, it ain’t spread to my feet and I can still walk up a storm.” She indicated the white orthopedic shoes that she wore. “I handle the tables on account of I have a crackerjack memory and don’t need to write anything down.” She narrowed her gaze. “I ain’t never seen you here before. You’re new in town.” Dolly arched a white brow. “Visiting family?” Abigail shook her head and the old woman added, “Looking for a job?”

Abby shook her head. “A person.”

“Just what I thought.” She waved a hand. “We get it all the time, what with the divorce rate sky high and the number of good men dropping faster than the stock market on a bad day. Why, women drive in from at least a dozen counties to scope out the local pickins. It’s closer than driving to San Antonio or Austin and there’s a lot less traffic, lemme tell ya.”

“I’m not here looking for—“

“’Course when they realize the women around here are just as desperate,” she went on before Abby could finish, “they usually end up heading for the city. Take that group over there.” She let her gaze shift to a nearby table full of women nursing glasses of pink froth. “They’ll load up on strawberry smoothies and then head for the honky tonk out on Route 9. When they strike out there—and they will strike out on account of every man this side of the Guadalupe will be over at the VFW for poker night—they’ll head for Austin. They might have better luck there, but I wouldn’t put my money on it. A good man is hard to find these days.” Her gaze shifted back to Abby. “Sugar, if you want to lasso yourself a decent cowboy, you need to give yourself every advantage. That means ditching the fatty malt.”

“I’m not trying to lasso a cowboy.”

“Sugar, you can deny it all you want. But I see what’s right in front of me. You’ve got desperate, hopeful and horny written all over your face. You’re looking for a man, all right.”

Yeah, she was. But it wasn’t what Dolly thought.

Command Master Chief Petty Officer Abigail Trent wasn’t looking for just any man. She was hot on the trail of her man, aka Rayne Montana, the best of an elite group of Navy Seals that Abby had hand-picked and trained herself. He’d gone AWOL two weeks ago in the mountains outside of Afghanistan.

Her first thought was that he’d gotten himself killed. But they’d yet to recover a body. If he’d been kidnapped (her second thought), his abductors would have contacted the Navy to bargain a trade for one of their own by now.

The MPs had come to the conclusion that he’d snapped from the pressure and bailed. They were in the process of tracking a credit card trail from Afghanistan to Switzerland.

But Rayne was too smart to leave such obvious clues. Even more, he was too good to cut and run. Too loyal. Too trustworthy. Like Abby, he’d been career military. Married to his job. Proud of each and every operation. He took his duty seriously. He wouldn’t have abandoned a mission and compromised his entire unit unless he’d had no other choice.

Unless he was in serious trouble.

Despite what the higher ups were saying.

They were blaming Abby. They were convinced he’d cracked and that she’d been remiss and failed to notice. She’d been the Officer in Charge. The sole person responsible for the success of the mission and the safety of each man involved. It had been her duty to bring everyone home. To account for each and every man in her unit.

And that’s what she intended to do.

Abby had let the MPs go on their wild goose chase while she’d taken a two week leave and hopped a plane for Rayne’s hometown. It was Psych 101. When people were scared, they often gravitated back to the familiar. And if there was one thing Abby knew, Rayne Montana had to be scared. Fear was the only thing that would have pulled him away from the military.

And kept him away.

At least that was her latest theory and the one that had brought her to Skull Creek, Texas, to see if maybe, just maybe she could find a clue as to his whereabouts. Maybe he’d reached out to an old friend. Called them up. Paid them a visit. Sent them a letter. An e-mail. A text. Something.

She’d driven into town just a half hour ago and now she was here at the local drive-in, the only place open past sundown on a Friday night.

Located on the outskirts of town, the Dairy Freeze was the quintessential small town scene and the exact opposite of the various cities where her father had been stationed while she’d been growing up. Twelve of them to be exact, in as many years. He’d been a leading Naval recruitment officer back then, a job that had demanded constant travel and so they’d moved regularly. But while the address had changed, the atmosphere hadn’t. Crowded. Noisy. Impersonal.

This place was crowded and noisy, too, but it was different. People knew each other. They smiled. They talked. Her gaze shifted to the cluster of round wrought iron tables that sat in front of a sliding order-up window. At one table, a busy mother handed out ice cream cones to a group of messy youngsters. At the next, an elderly couple drank root beer floats, shared an order of onion rings and offered up a stack of napkins when one of the kids dumped his ice cream in his lap. Next to them a cluster of teenage boys in high school letter jackets and cowboy boots mingled with a handful of girls from a nearby car. Rows of drive-up stalls, filled with everything from pick-up trucks to mini-vans, lined either side of the busy courtyard area. People rolled down their windows and chatted with whoever sat next to them while the latest George Strait song drifted from the outdoor speakers. The smell of chili cheese fries and sugary sweet soft serve filled the air and stirred a strange sense of longing.