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Not quite two weeks later, Rafe found Natalie where he knew she'd be—in her office in his house.
She didn't notice him in the doorway and frowned at her laptop, the screen filled with neat black text. Muttering and grimacing, she used the touchpad to highlight a few words, deleted them, and then tapped briskly on the keyboard.
He knew she had hoped to put the finishing touches on the final manuscript today, but it didn't look like she was done with it. He wasn't worried. Whatever she was doing was going to be exactly right.
She’d given him nothing but a wry look when he’d handed over the documents he’d squirrelled away in his safe. Not one word of blame or condemnation passed her lips. He still couldn’t believe he’d found a woman who understood him so well.
He wasn’t the only one she’d managed to convince, either. Even Otto had succumbed to her stubbornness. During an awkward, tense meeting, she had expressed her unequivocal opinion that hiding the scandal would cause him more trouble in the long run. Including it now meant he could handle the fallout well before his own political run. He'd finally agreed to this wisdom in this and had actually offered her the job as his campaign manager, should he ever need one.
She hadn't said yes, but she hadn't said no, either. Rafe figured his days of ignoring politics were done. It wouldn't be the same as when he was a child, though. He trusted Natalie would never let the game jeopardize what they had between them.
He knocked on the door jamb. Her concentration lifted from her laptop and the smile she gave him just about blew off the top of his head. Would he ever get used to the warmth and affection she so freely offered?
“How's it going?” He stepped behind her chair and stooped to cross his arms over her chest and rest his chin on her head. He couldn't hunch like this for long, but he needed to touch her.
“I'm having trouble with the last bit.” Her reflection in the screen scowled. “I hate writing conclusions.”
“You'll figure it out.”
Her hands come up to grip his wrists, her fingers warm and soft. “At some point I'm just going to have to let it go.”
“Speaking of letting go...” He straightened, spun her chair, and crouched on one knee in front of her. “I brought Shyla to the White Spruce Treatment Centre today.”
She stared. “You what?”
“They had a space come available sooner than expected. She asked me to take her.”
Her mouth pinched and a flicker of hurt flared in her eyes. “She asked you? What about me?”
He laid a palm on her knee and rubbed it consolingly. “She wanted to show you she can handle things on her own, that you don't have to be responsible for her anymore.” She'd also said she felt guilty enough, using Natalie's money, since the other avenues she'd hoped for hadn't materialized. But he'd promised not to mention that reason.
“Right. Good for her.” He could see the struggle she had to accept her sister's decision battling on her face. Looking after Shyla had been a part of her life for so long, he could understand why it was difficult for her to accept she was no longer needed.
“I'm proud of you.” Natalie had given him this gift after the birth of Lynn's baby. Now he wanted to give it back. “I know this is hard. You care for her so much.”
“I do.” She brushed back the lock of hair from his forehead. He really should get it cut, but she seemed to like touching it. And he wanted to give her everything she ever wanted.
“Come on.” He rose to his feet, taking her hand and tugging her to follow. “Let's go for a swim.”
––––––––
WEARING A LIGHT ROBE tied loosely at her waist, Natalie stood at the edge of the pool. She'd used it more in the days since she'd returned to her apartment than in the weeks she'd lived with Rafe after the fire.
She waited while he tested the waters, making sure the PH levels were correct. His movements were precise and practiced, his expression absorbed, and she thought she might burst from the love that bloomed ever brighter each minute.
They hadn't talked about her moving into his house, even though she was spending most of her days and nights there. He'd taken a big enough leap admitting he loved her...she was willing to give him enough time to grow comfortable with that before making any plans for the future.
She had no doubts that she'd be giving notice at her apartment soon, though. He grumbled and complained whenever she announced it was time to leave. It was humbling and thrilling to know she'd captivated this dour, sober man so much he didn't want her out of his sight. But the invitation would have to come from him.
“Okay, we're good.” He stood beside her, wearing a towel around his hips, which she knew from experience could be remove with a single swift tug. She'd refused his frequently repeated suggestion she swim in the nude as he preferred to do. It was a silly thing—he'd seen her sprawled in sexual abandon too many times to count, but she had been too shy to swim naked even so.
She fiddled with the knot of her belt, second-guessing her impulse. Before she could talk herself out of it, she shrugged off the robe.
He hissed in a breath.
She squared her shoulders, which lifted her naked breasts, and cocked a knee, determined not to hide an inch of her body. “I thought it was time to join you in your hedonistic habits.”
His towel did little to hide his reaction to her. “I may have made a mistake.” His teasing tone relieved her immediate embarrassment. “I might not be capable of swimming with you like this.”
It wasn’t that long ago that he wouldn't have been capable of making such a playful comment. She threaded her fingers through the dusting of black and silver hairs on his chest and batted her eyelashes. “We'll have to see, won't we?”
And pushed him.
It wouldn't have knocked him into the water if he hadn't wanted to go. What she hadn't anticipated was that he'd snatch her wrist and drag her with him.
Together they fell into the clear blue. Though the water was heated, it felt cooler than the air, and chills raced over her flesh. Her nipples pebbled and the sensation between her legs was unexpectedly arousing.
They'd been standing near the deeper end. He had no trouble finding his feet, the water lapping at his shoulders. She was forced to dogpaddle inelegantly to keep her head above water.
He gripped her hips and tugged her against his chest. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist and she realized he'd shed his towel somewhere along the line. His cock was a hot, heavy bar at her centre. She wriggled, settling herself so it jutted between their stomachs. Trusting him to support her, she leaned back in the water, her arms spread out, her breasts bobbing.
Slowly, he spun in a circle. With her ears below the surface, she could only discern the hum of the pump, the swoosh of the tiny waves he created. She closed her eyes and savoured the sensual caress of the water, the heat between her thighs, the muscles of his ass flexing under her heels.
His hands left her hips, slid up her ribs, and cupped her breasts. With gentle motions, he rubbed his palms on her already sensitive nipples. She clamped her legs tighter.
His touch was demanding yet tender, enflaming yet soothing. He made love with sweet determination, sending her soaring, never letting her sink.
His cock slid inside and she moaned, drowning in sensations. He brought her to her peak with controlled intensity and then followed her, shuddering and shaking in her arms.
They ended with her back pressed against the tile wall, her shoulders scraping against the rough non-slip edge around the pool. She didn't mention her discomfort—it was a vague irritant easily overlooked in the delight of being squashed against his chest.
“I love you.” He'd only said it twice since the first time. She didn't mind. It made each a moment to be treasured.
“I love you.” She'd said it more often, but he needed to hear it more than she did. Not that he'd admit such a weakness—if it was one—but she knew it was the truth.
She knew him better than he knew himself. Just as he knew her, to the marrow of her bones.
Forgiveness, healing, acceptance...check.
Love, affection, trust...check.
Happily ever after...check.
* * *
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***
KEEP READING FOR A sneak peek at the next book in the series, Too Good for Words. Penta finally gets her happy-ever-after in this fake relationship, bad boy/good girl story with a curvy heroine and a tattooed ex-convict hero.
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***
CHAPTER ONE
Penta Potter woke with a start, her pulse accelerating to Indy 500 speed in a millisecond.
The front door closed with a quiet yet unmistakable thunk. The click of it opening must have been what disturbed her moments before.
As the mother of a preteen, two teenagers, and a just-turned-twenty-one-year old, her senses were finely honed to noises in the night. But all her children should have been safe in their beds. That was why she'd been sleeping. She never did more than doze when one of them was expected home late.
A glance at her bedside clock showed 1:12 in glowing red numbers. Muffled voices filtered through her closed bedroom door. Both male, both irritated. One a gruff rumbling bass, the other a light reedy tenor.
Sliding out of bed, she reached underneath and retrieved the baseball bat she'd placed there the first night she'd slept alone in the master suite she and Mark had shared. She'd had no occasion to use it yet, but knowing it was there was reassuring.
Her right hand gripping the smooth wood about one-third of the way up—the better for getting power behind the stroke—she eased open the door with her left and put her ear to the crack.
"Come on, dude." Her second son's sullen voice drifted up the stairs leading from the main floor to the bedroom level. "I'll tell her in the morning. I promise."
A fraction of the tension banding her shoulders relaxed, even as a new question arose. What was Cyril doing awake and not zonked out in bed? He'd arrived home on the dot of eleven, his Friday night curfew, and grunted goodnight before disappearing to his room in the basement. She'd finished the movie she'd been pretending to watch as she waited and trailed up to her own room a few minutes later, ready to rest now all her chicks were at roost.
"How stupid do you think I am?"
The second voice had the hairs on the back of Penta's neck shivering to attention. So deep she could feel it in her toes. So menacing that if she'd had a tail it would have tucked between her legs.
Her protective instincts roared back into life and she flew down the stairs, bare feet silent on the carpet, baseball bat raised above her head. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing with my son?"
Cyril's thin, gawky frame was eclipsed by the hulk of a man looming next to him. A black ball cap shadowed the stranger's eyes and the lower part of his face was hidden by a full, dark red beard flecked with silver. Wide shoulders cloaked in black leather and thick legs encased in grimy, tattered jeans completed the terrifying picture.
Penta's heart rate tripled and she blinked dizziness away. Waggling the bat threateningly, she spoke through clenched teeth. "Well, who are you? Cyril, get over here." She stepped to the side and jerked her head.
"Jeez, Mom." Cyril hunched his shoulders, his expression an agony of humiliation. "What are you doing?"
"What do you think? I won't let him hurt you."
If anything, her pronouncement only increased Cyril embarrassment. He muttered an obscenity. She'd deal with that offense later, after she'd taken care of the more pressing danger.
The stranger listened to this exchange with no softening of his flinty expression. "For fuck's sake, boy. Show your mother some respect." Since he used the same expletive, his command lost much of its force.
His words did, however, lessen her anxiety a notch. A thug intent on mayhem surely wouldn't be worried about Cyril's filial obedience. "Will someone please explain what's going on?"
Cyril didn't answer. His posture lost all belligerence and he shrunk into himself like a turtle in a shell.
"Tell her." Big, Red, and Scary's tone brooked no rebellion.
Despite her growing conviction Cyril had done something dreadful, she was indignant. "Don't tell him what to do."
Big, Red, and Scary ignored her. "Spit it out."
His gaze drilled into Cyril's profile and her son ducked his chin even lower, wriggling his hips. Her heart sank. He'd done that since he was a toddler whenever he was caught sinning.
"Cyril? What happened?" She realized she was still holding the baseball bat at shoulder height and let her arm drop to her side.
He muttered a few words, most of which were unintelligible.
Big, Red, and Scary took one step toward Cyril, who looked younger and frailer than ever. "Speak up."
"Me and the guys broke some windows. At his shop." He jerked his head in a minuscule movement toward the stranger.
"And?" The single syllable uttered in a quiet growl was more terrifying than any shout.
Cyril drew in a long, shaky breath and revealed the rest in one hurried rush, as if saying it fast would make it sound less horrifying. "And we knocked over a couple bikes and messed up some displays and tried to break into the drawer where we thought there might be money. And the other guys got away but he caught me." Another tiny twitch toward his accuser.
Penta wanted to sink to the floor and weep for the loss of innocence—both hers and Cyril's. But she didn't have time to fall apart. She had to get Big, Red, and Scary out of the house before Abra, Delilah, or Felix had appeared, wondering what was going on.
"I'm sure he's very sorry for doing such a terrible thing." She glared at Cyril, which was less than effective since his gaze was glued to the floor. "You can be sure he'll be suitably punished."
"I know he will. Because he's going to clean up the mess. And then he's going to work for me until the value of the damage is paid off."
Cyril's head jerked up. "I am not."
"Yes, you are." Big, Red, and Scary fished in a pocket inside his coat, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Penta.
She took it automatically, noting the grime edging his fingernails, the dark lines of a tattoo covering the back of his hand. She shuddered. No way was Cyril spend any amount of time with this man, no matter what crimes her son had committed. "I'll decide what punishment fits best. As for the damages, I'll pay them."
He ignored her again. It was getting annoying. "Eight o'clock at the shop. He knows where it is." His tone was darkly amused. "If you're not there, I'm calling the cops and pressing charges."
He opened the door, stepped into the night, and closed it with quiet finality behind him.
***
CASH RYLANCE CLIMBED into his pickup and stared at the house he'd just left.
The conventional 1980s four-level split with double garage was painted a boring beige and tan. Streetlights illuminated a slightly shaggy lawn with a large round garden in the middle, both just starting to green now it was past the May long weekend and the weather was warming up. Inside, he'd noted school photos on the wall, a clutter of shoes on the floor, and a sport bag tossed casually by the door.
All evidence of middle-class comfort and a normal, pleasant family life.
He thumped his fist violently on the steering wheel. "Goddamn idiot." The kid—Cyril—appeared to come from the kind of home Cash had dreamed of when he was the same age. But did he appreciate it? Not likely, given the mischief he and his buddies had been up to. Of course, things weren't always as they seemed. Maybe he was wrong about the panicked love he'd seen in the woman's eyes when she'd realized her son was a vandal. Maybe the kid was acting out because of abuse or neglect. More likely, though, he was just a jerk who didn't know how good he had it.
Cash put the truck in reverse, rolled onto the empty road, and started back to his shop.
The image of Cyril's mother dashing down the stairs in her pink plaid pajamas and brandishing a baseball bat played continuously before his eyes. Her curly brown hair had been pressed flat to one side of her head and a pillow crease had marked her cheek. Abundantly rounded at hips and thighs, her unbound breasts jiggling invitingly under the light fabric, her eyes had sparked with fierce lightning despite the fear he'd heard trembling in her voice.
She was a warrior woman, intent on protecting her young. And even though he'd been furious at her son and still reeling from the damage he and his cronies had inflicted on his beloved shop, he couldn't repress a stir of interest.
Not that anything would come of it. He was the last person a plump, loving, suburban mom would look at twice.
He arrived at his shop via the back alley and parked in one of the three narrow slots. A metal staircase led up to his apartment, where peaceful solitude would greet him. Instead, he went through the door that led to the main floor.
The teens' rampage hadn't made it to the rear of the shop, so the room where he kept spare parts and other supplies was untouched. Who knew what havoc they would have wreaked if he didn't live above the shop. He had an alarm system—it had alerted him after the sound of smashing glass jolted him awake—but it was mainly because his insurance policy demanded it and wasn't connected to local police or a security service. Why bother when he rarely went anywhere else and had the means to protect his own if necessary?
He stepped into the room that took up three-quarters of the main floor and felt his fury rise again. Light from the street glittered on a thousand shards of scattered glass. In the partially intact windows on either side of the decimated front door, star-shaped fractures sparkled like supernovas. The two bikes he'd just finished babying into smooth-running perfection sprawled on the cement and helmets, gloves, riding gear, and other accessories had been thrown off the steel display shelves.
Pain blossomed in his palms and knuckles. His fists were so tightly clenched his hands had cramped. Hot, terrible anger rose like a red tide from his gut to the back of his throat, demanding release. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, held it until his chest ached, and then let the air trickle out of his mouth. He had to repeat this maneuver several more times before he trusted himself enough to open his eyes.
He snaked his way to the corner of the shop that was the heart of his business. The classic bike he had just started restoring still stood propped on its kickstand and his lovingly cared for tools were undisturbed. The fact the kids hadn't touched this area was all that had kept him from pummelling Cyril in his first haze of fury. The other three ruffians had managed to escape, but Cyril had stumbled on a helmet and that tiny delay had been enough to allow Cash to grab the back of his skinny, acned neck in one hand and the ass of his baggy jeans in the other.
His instinct to exact revenge had been dampened by the boy's terrified shrieks. Instead of tossing him through one of damaged windows, he'd reined in his temper, dragged the boy to his truck, and given him a choice—police or home. White showing all around his irises, Cyril had given his home address, and though he'd regained some of his bravado on the short drive, Cash could sense the panic racing under his resentful posture. At first glance, the boy's mother hadn't looked like anyone to be frightened of, despite her weapon, and Cyril hadn't cowered any more than expected from a teenager caught in the wrong. Still, Cash knew outwardly pleasant appearances could hide terrible secrets.
His threat to call the cops had always been a hollow one. No way could he subject any kid to the experience of being questioned and manhandled by those bastards. He only wished he'd had someone to protect him from the same when he'd been that age.
No. Cleaning up the mess and doing grunt work for a few weeks would be punishment enough. Cash would make sure of it.
With one last glance at the dismal damage, he went to find something he could use to board up the windows until he could arrange more professional repairs.
***
WANT MORE OF PENTA and Cash? Sign up to be notified when Too Good for Words becomes available to order. Just click here!
All the books in the Silverberry Seduction Series can be read as standalones. Here are links to other books in the series:
Secrets Under the Covers (Book One) – read now
Loving Between the Lines (Book Two) – read now
Turn the Next Page (Book Three) – read now
Too Good For Words (Book Five) – coming Fall 2023
***
NATALIE’S CAULIFLOWER and Chicken Bake
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 tablespoon ground coriander (or seeds, crushed)
2 teaspoons paprika
½ teaspoon cayenne
1 large head of cauliflower, cut into florets
1 large onion, sliced
3 tbsp. olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
6 chicken thighs (bone in or boneless)
Salt
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 garlic cloves, minced
Flatbread
Yogurt or tzatziki
Preheat oven to 425F.
Mix first four seasoning ingredients together.
Place cauliflower and onion in a large bowl. Drizzle with first measurement of olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and half (a generous tablespoon) of the spice. Mix well.
Place chicken in a large bowl. Sprinkle with more salt. Add remaining spice mixture, second measurement of olive oil, and minced garlic.
Spread cauliflower and onion on large baking sheet. Nestle chicken among cauliflower. Bake until chicken is done and cauliflower tender, about 35 to 45 minutes (longer time required for bone in chicken).
Serve with flatbread and yogurt or tzatziki.
***
BRENDA MARGRIET writes savvy, slow burn, contemporary romances with ordinarily amazing characters. In her own ordinarily amazing life, she had a successful career in radio and television production before deciding to pilfer from her retirement plan to support her writing compulsion.
Readers have called her stories “poignant,” “explicit and steamy,” “interesting, intriguing and entertaining,” and “unlike any romance you’ve read before” (she assumes the latter was meant in a good way).
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