Page 69 of Just Come Over
No words spoken, and none necessary. A midnight lover, coming to you out of the silent dark, taking your breath, your sighs, your moans in payment for the pleasure he gave you. She couldn’t even have said when sighing satisfaction had turned to sleep, except that she knew that she’d still been sprawled face-down on the bed, unable to muster the strength even to roll over, and he’d still been halfway over her, his arm draped across her body, like he needed to keep her there, guarded by his strong right arm. And she’d felt warm all the way through for the first time in years.
When she woke again, dawn had stolen into the room, and he’d stolen out. She could see him, though, out the wall of windows, standing at the acrylic railing and looking like he was perched at the edge of the ravine in the pearl-tinged light of early dawn. He was sipping from a mug, wearing another blue button-down shirt and charcoal-gray trousers. His travel-day wardrobe, she guessed. The coach, back to inscrutable hard-man toughness, wearing the mantle of responsibility like the feather cloak on a Maori chief.
She pulled on her clothes from the night before, used his toothbrush again, and headed out there.
“Hey,” she said. “Brr. It’s like being in the bush, bird calls and all. Nice. What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.” He pulled her to him with one arm, kissed the top of her head, and handed her the mug. It was tea, and she wrapped her fingers around the porcelain for warmth and snuggled into him. A tui called, a long, musical warble, another answered, and the pearly light turned a little pinker. Rhys smelled clean and cedar-spiced once more, like he’d taken a shower, and she still smelled like sex.
Too bad. He was leaving in a few hours, and she had twelve long, cold days ahead to sleep alone in his bed, during which her rational, careful mind would no doubt be talking her into behaving sensibly. She wanted to smell musky and warm and sex-soaked for a little while more. Or maybe she wanted to smell that way until she dropped him at the airport, then come back and wash off the smell of him in his bath, and imagine him watching her do it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
“Worried?” She hesitated. “That was intense, last night, but... I loved it. So you know. Or feeling guilty, maybe?”
“No. Not guilty. I can’t seem to manage it. And I know you loved it. I’m feeling good. Feeling fit. I even remembered to open the hutch door for the bunnies. We’ll go inside and make breakfast. I’ll get you something warmer to wear.”
She cooked eggs wearing a hoodie that reached below her hips, and a pair of fuzzy socks. It was a pretty silly look, but when she rolled up the sleeves, laughed, and said, “Fashion plate, eh,” he said, “I like you like that. Something sexy about it, you in my clothes, just rolled out of bed, the smell of me still on you. A little messy. Nice. Mine.” With some intensity, his eyes heating up again, so she had to kiss him, and all she’d wanted was for him to pull her down and make her burn some more. Except that they didn’t have time.
So that was all very lovely and sweet and hot as hell. Until they walked up the path to her front door a little later, and her front door was ajar.
Not just ajar. Something was wrong with the frame. It was bent. Twisted. Broken.
Rhys said, “Shit,” then thought,Zora.“Stay here,” he told her.
She grabbed his arm and said, “They could still be here. They could be in the house. We should call the police. Where’s my phone? Oh, no. I left it in there.”
He said again, “Stay here.” The hell with calling the police. The hot fury was rising, filling his belly, his chest. He hoped theywerestill in there.
He didn’t creep along and peer around corners. He ran. Surprise was always the best approach. Surprise meant your opponent had no time to react, and most people’s reflexes were rubbish anyway. He leaped up the stairs in one stride and was bashing through the nearly-closed door in two more, his shoulder leading the way.
He was in the kitchen, and sensing movement. Two more strides, and he was around the corner and into the dining room, his arm already out for the fend even before he saw the figure, just starting to turn. Rubbish reflexes. He hit him bang in the chest, and the bloke flew backward and landed in a heap.
Shit.
He was over the prone figure, reaching for his hand, hauling him up, and the fella was wheezing, clutching at his chest, gasping.
“Sorry,” Rhys said. “All right? Thought you were a burglar.”
Hayden said, “What... the...hell.”Not very loudly at all. “Is that how you normally tackle? How the hell aren’t you killing people?”
“Nah. That was a fend, that’s all. If I’d tackled you, you’d have gone down much harder.” He looked around. Nothing had been disturbed, if you didn’t count Hayden’s phone, which had clattered into a corner. He retrieved it, handed it over, and said, “Hope it isn’t broken.”
“I hope myribsaren’t broken,” Hayden muttered. “I need a Panadol. And possibly an ambulance.”
“Hang on,” Rhys said. “What did they take?”
“What didwhotake?” Hayden’s face changed. Rhys could swear it went white. “Bloody hell. Zora’s not with you.”
“What? Yeh, she is.”
“No, I mean... Oh, bugger. She’s gone.” Hayden’s voice was shaking, and he had a hand in his hair. “I’m calling the cops.”
Rhys put out a hand and caught his wrist in mid-dial. “Hang on. She’s with me.”
He was saying it, then whirling at the sound of running footsteps. Zora, coming around the corner, holding a shovel over one shoulder. He got his hands out and caught her by the upper arms as she skidded to a stop, then took the shovel from her and said, “Thought I told you to stay outside.”
