Lover Beware 03 - After Midnight

couldn't expect any help from anyone but Rider who, from all accounts, was too busy with his new girlfriend to notice what was happening to his neighbour.
    Wiping moisture and wet strands of hair from her face, she peered in the direction of the drive. Movement registered out of the corner of her eye, as if someone was walking toward the kitchen rather than the front door. The flicker of movement was followed by a gravelly curse, then the rattle and clang of tins as the bucket came down. She heard something that sounded suspiciously like a groan, but the sound was muffled and indistinct.
    Gripping the torch, she peered around the corner of the After Midnight
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    house. The faint wash of the light from the kitchen windows flowed over a familiar male form.
    Switching the torch on, she hurried forward, knelt on the wet grass, and began dragging the tangle of cans and rope off Rider, her hands feverish. The bucket must have caught him on the head, knocking him out.
    In the dim light his eyes flickered, and his gaze locked on hers, narrowed and glittering. "Since coming back I've been arrested, cuffed, and fingerprinted, tortured by spending four hours solid with Tucker and Zane Parker." He lifted a hand to his head and winced. "Now, I've been attacked by a bucket.
    Whoever said Tayler's Creek is Sleepy Hollow lied. It's a war zone."
    The bite to his words barely registered beyond the fact that his irritation told her that he was obviously okay. She swatted his hand aside. "Let me see."
    The lump was situated in the centre of his forehead. Unexpected amusement quivered through her. When she was a kid the bucket trap had never netted much success. Obviously her targets had all been too short. Rider, at -around six-feet-two, was the perfect height. The bucket had caught him clean—right between the eyes.
    He pushed himself into a sitting position and fingered the lump. "Oh yeah, you got me good. I saw stars." His gaze swept her, still glittering, and not a little irritable. "You're getting wet."
    Understatement of the universe. Already her shirt was clinging to her skin, and her hair was sopping. Retrieving the torch, she got to her feet. "In case you hadn't noticed, Rider, there's a storm; everything's wet."
    His teeth flashed white in the dim light as he eased to his feet, stumbling slightly as he straightened, as if he was having trouble orienting himself. "Some things look better wet than others."
    Her amusement was replaced by a spurt of anger, and she was glad she'd resisted the urge to grab his arm and steady him. Rider had obviously come to check on her because the power and telephone were out, which was nice. Very neighbourly. She was sorry he'd gotten hurt, but obviously the bucket hadn't hit hard enough to anaesthetize his libido. "I 216
    FIONA BRAND
    saw Marg Tayler in town yesterday," she said pointedly. "She said you were involved with someone."
    "Did she, now?"
    Fury flickered at the expressionless mask of his face, the stony male reserve that was one of Rider's defining qualities—
    and did she detect a hint of male smugness in that low, gravelly voice?
    Her jaw clamped, and in that moment everything changed.
    For years she'd been on the defensive—running—and she hated that. One thing she had never been was a coward.
    She shouldn't feel one iota of emotion for Rider, but un-fortunately she felt considerably more than that. Against her better judgment, against her will she'd been tied to Rider for the past seven years as if she'd been married to him instead of Patrick. To say she was ticked was putting it mildly.
    Rider's head came up, as if he'd somehow latched on to her thoughts. Light glistened off the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the strong shape of his jaw. "What did you expect?"
    he said coldly. "That I'd live years on about two minutes of lip contact?"
    Her chest contracted on a sharp pang that she refused to label as hurt. "It wasn't just lips."
    And it may have been two minutes, but it had felt like an hour of teeth and tongue, hot, steamy breath, and full, pulse-pounding body contact. To say he'd kissed her didn't cover it.
    His intentions and arousal had been explicit, and so had hers.
    Fully clothed as they'd both been, within the two minutes they'd been "lip-locked," they'd practically had sex on her front porch. The only thing that had prevented actual penetration had been the sound of the answer phone engaging and a crippling surge of guilt.
    She had climaxed.
    Heat washed through her