What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(45)

She was mortified, and she didn’t trust his sympathy. “You’ve always had lousy taste in women.”

“And a one-track mind.” He tipped up her chin with his finger. “As sympathetic as I am toward that embarrassing nervous breakdown you just had, let’s return to more pressing matters.”

“Let’s not.”

“As long as you’re wearing my fake diamond, I promise there’ll be no cheating.”

“Your promises are worthless. The minute the challenge is gone, you’ll be on the prowl, and we both know it.”

“Wrong. Come on, Georgie. Put out.”

“I need a little more time to adjust to the idea of being a slut.”

“Let me speed things along.” He crushed his mouth to hers.

This kiss was real, with no photographers watching or directors ready to call “cut.” She began to pull away only to realize she didn’t feel the need. This was Bram. She understood exactly how duplicitous he was, exactly how little his kisses meant, and that kept her expectations comfortably low.

He slid his tongue into her mouth in a sensuous exploration. He’d turned into a great kisser, and she’d missed this intimacy more than she wanted to admit. She slipped her arms around his shoulders. He tasted of dark nights and treacherous winds. Of youthful betrayal and heartless abandonment. But because she knew him so well, because she was beginning to trust herself, she wasn’t in any emotional peril. Bram wanted to use her. Fine. She’d use him, too. Just for a moment. Just for the lifetime of one kiss.

He splayed a hand across the small of her back, bringing their hips together. He was hard, and she was going to say no, and possessing that power freed her to indulge. His hand curled over her hip. If only the man who smelled so good, and felt so good, and kissed so well weren’t Bram Shepard.

Night and the dim light from her bedroom turned his eyes from lavender to jet. “I want you so damned much,” he said.

A dark, erotic thrill swept through her punctuated by a flash of blue-white light.

Bram’s head shot up. “Fuck!”

It took a moment for her brain to function. By the time she processed the fact that the sudden light had come from a strobe, he’d already sprung into action. He swung his legs over the balcony railing and dropped to the roof of the veranda below. She gasped and leaned over the rail. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?”

Ignoring her, he scrambled over the roof tiles, just like either Lance or his stunt double had done in a dozen films. The flash seemed to have come from the big tree that draped the property between Bram’s house and his neighbor’s. “You’re going to break your neck!” she cried.

He lowered himself over the edge of the veranda roof, hung by his fingers for a moment, then dropped to the ground.

All the security lights in the rear of the house came on. He clambered to his feet, shot off across the yard, and disappeared behind a thicket of bamboo. Seconds later, his head and shoulders emerged as he climbed the high stone wall that divided his property from next door.

Of all the stupid…She rushed downstairs and ran out into the backyard, which was lit up like midday. The idea of having such a private moment exposed to the world made her sick. She hurried along the path to the wall, her Crocs slapping her heels. The wall rose a good two feet above her head, but she found some footholds in the stones and began pulling herself up. A sharp edge scraped her calf. Finally, she climbed high enough to brace her arms across the top and see what was happening on the other side.

The neighbor’s yard was bigger and more open than Bram’s, with formally clipped shrubbery, a rectangular swimming pool, and a tennis court. Here, too, the security lights had come on, and she could see Bram racing across the lawn, chasing a man who was gripping what could only be a camera. He must have climbed the tree to spy on them, but he had to be using some kind of high-speed film, so the flash must have gone off accidentally. Who knew how many pictures he’d taken before he’d given himself away?

The photographer had a long head start, but Bram wasn’t conceding. He jumped over a row of shrubs. The man hit an open space of lawn. He was small and wiry, no one she recognized. He disappeared around a cabana.

A woman flew out of the neighboring house. In the light flooding the yard, Georgie saw long, light hair and a silky peach robe. The woman rushed down a set of semicircular stone steps into the yard, which didn’t seem like the brightest thing to do with an unknown intruder on the prowl. As she stepped into a pool of bright light, Georgie realized two things at once.

The woman was Rory Keene…and she had a gun.





Chapter 11




Georgie called out softly…ever so softly…and in her friendliest, most soothing voice. “Uhm…Rory? Please don’t shoot.”

Rory spun toward the wall, her blond hair flying. “Who is that?”

“It’s Georgie. York. And that man you just saw running across your yard was Bram. My…uh…husband. You probably shouldn’t shoot him either.”

“Georgie?”

Her toes were going numb inside her Crocs, and she was starting to slip. “A photographer climbed your tree to take pictures of us. Bram went after him.” She tried to cling tighter to the top of the wall, but her arms were getting tired. “I’m…losing my grip. I have to get down.”