The Rule-Breaker Page 2

  It was odd, really, how well he knew her without really knowing her. He’d been able to read her from the get-go, had been able to discern the thoughts behind the furrowing of her sleek brow, the upward quirk of her ripe lips, the twinkling or dimming of her pale green gaze.

  That especially sensitive perception had also allowed him to work out some other things, as well. Like the fact that Micah had been more heavily invested in her than she’d been in him. He wasn’t judging. Even now, he wouldn’t. It happened. Micah and Shelby had been high school sweethearts who’d let things cool during college, when they’d both dated other people. They’d reconnected after a bad breakup—hers—and had stuck it out for quite a while. But it had ended six months before Micah’s death.

  Despite being desperately in love with her, Micah had drunkenly admitted after she’d broken things off that he’d taken advantage of the situation. He’d offered her a shoulder to cry on, then pressed his advantage by proposing before she was ready. “Because she would have said no if I’d waited,” he’d explained. “And I just wanted her for my own. She was my It Girl,” he’d said, smiling sadly. “I met her and—” he’d shrugged fatalistically “—that was it.”

  Eli had a grim suspicion he knew what that felt like. Because despite the fact that he’d known that she was and forever would be off-limits, to his eternal shame and chagrin, Shelby had had a similar effect on him. For reasons which escaped him, he’d been judging every girl he’d met against her for the past six years. She’d become the reason he wanted to visit the Hollands and the reason he’d desperately needed to stay away.

  It was bad business all the way around.

  To complicate matters, he suspected that he was partially responsible for the split. The last time he’d come home with Micah had been for his parents’ anniversary party. In honor of their 30th, Carl had rented the old Wickam plantation, then hired caterers, decorators and a band because he’d said he didn’t want Sally having to deal with anything more stressful than the invitations. When she began agonizing over the guest list, Carl had taken matters into his own hands and put an announcement in the local paper, inviting the whole town. Eli grinned. Problem solved.

  The wine and booze had flowed freely, the food had been plentiful and delicious, and the band hadn’t miss a single note. Watching the couples dance, most particularly Carl and Sally, had had the most peculiar effect on him, Eli remembered now. Seeing the love between the two, the affection and familiarity, had made his chest ache and a bizarre sense of...emptiness had swelled in his belly. It had been an odd, mildly troubling sensation because it smacked of regret and loneliness, neither of which Eli had ever allowed himself to feel.

  Regret was pointless and the benefit of the military was the constant company.

  At any rate, Shelby had witnessed his momentary...weakness? Confusion? Hell, whatever it was, mortifyingly, she’d seen it from across the room and even now, he could still remember the slight arch of her blond brow, the question form in her too perceptive green eyes.

  Eli had merely looked away, then proceeded to drink entirely too much. He’d danced with every single woman in attendance—and a few who weren’t so single, he’d later been told—and had pretended that nothing had happened, that he was fine, that he wasn’t envious of his friend or of his friend’s family. He’d laughed, he’d joked, he’d flirted and most importantly, he’d avoided her.

  Looking back, that was his biggest mistake. If he’d simply behaved normally, she wouldn’t have known that she’d seen something he hadn’t wanted her to see. There would have been room for doubt. But he hadn’t. What he’d done, he’d later realize, for all intents and purposes, was wave a red flag in front of bull.

  She’d waited until he’d stepped outside for some air, then made her move. He’d felt the air change, heat and charge. A wind kicked up, rattling the leaves on the hundred-year-old live oaks, bringing her scent closer. A mixture of fresh rain and gardenias. Summer, his favorite season.

  “What’s wrong with you, Eli?” she’d asked, straight to the point as always. Directness was typically a trait he admired, but that night, it had grated on his nerves. “You’re not acting at all like yourself.”

  He’d chuckled humorously, then taken another pull from the drink in his hand. “You think you know me well enough to make that call?”

  She did, damn her.

  She paused, gave him one of those disconcerting considering gazes, then said, “I do, actually. Does that bother you?” she’d drawled. “That you’re mysterious but not necessarily a mystery? Not to me, anyway.”

  His heart had begun to pound, but he’d managed an unconcerned shrug. “Why would it bother me? It’s bullshit.”

  She’d chuckled knowingly. “Oh, I have struck a nerve, haven’t I?” She’d moved closer, as though sharing a secret, then cast a meaningful glance back at the house. “They’re sweet, aren’t they? They adore one another, and are so obviously, achingly in love, even after all these years.”

  Something in the tone of her voice made him look at her and it literally hurt, because she was so lovely, because she was so close, because she belonged to someone else. The night breeze toyed with the ends of her hair, blowing a wisp across the sweet swell of her cheek. Long lashes curled away from her eyes, revealing a wistful gaze that tore at him. She’d hugged her arms around her middle and was staring through the window, watching Carl and Sally take another turn around the room. The pearls Carl had given her gleamed around Sally’s neck.

  “They are,” Eli had agreed, then looked away because, though he loved them, it was painful to watch. “Just think,” he’d said, an inexplicable edge entering his voice. “That’ll be you and Micah someday. Although I have to wonder if the tableau is going to be quite the same.”

  He shouldn’t have said it. To this day, he still didn’t know why he said it.

  From the corner of his eye, he’d watched her attention shift to him, could feel the weight of her gaze, the full benefit of her regard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” he’d said, trying to backpedal, wishing like hell he could draw the words back into his mouth.

  “No, it’s not nothing,” she’d insisted. “What the hell do you mean by that? You think Micah and I don’t have what it takes to make a thirty-year marriage work? Is that what you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything,” he said, ashamed of himself. “Just forget it. I’m sorry. I’ve had too much to drink.” That, at least, was true, if not a good excuse.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And here’s the upside of not being your fiancé—I don’t have to.” Tension humming along every nerve ending, he’d flashed a smile at her, then turned to walk away, but she’d grabbed his arm.

  “Listen, Eli, I don’t know what your problem is, but—”

  She shouldn’t have touched him, Eli thought now. If she hadn’t touched him, he would have been able to hold it together, he wouldn’t have reacted as instinctively or as impulsively as he had.

  He’d whirled on her and backed her up against the tree, crowding into her personal space. He’d startled a gasp out of her, her eyes round with surprise...and something else, something he ached for but didn’t want to see—a flicker of longing, one so intense it nearly sucked the air from his lungs. He’d seen glimpses of it before, of course, but never this strong. And certainly never this close.

  “The problem isn’t what you don’t know,” he’d said, his voice low and fierce. “It’s what you do know. What we both know.”

  Her gaze had dropped to his lips, torturing him, then bounced back up and tangled with his. She’d swallowed carefully, lifted her chin even though he could see the rapid fluttering of her pulse beating in her neck, betraying her bravado. “Oh, and what’s that?”

  “Let’s just say that the level of affection in a relationship has to be equally weighted in order for it to succeed. And from where I’m sitting, the scales seem woefully unbalanced.”
>
  She’d stared at him, a hint of sadness poisoning the truth in her pretty gaze. “And you’re an expert on relationships, are you? To my knowledge you’ve never had a girlfriend, just a string of one-night stands.” It was true, but he’d always avoided examining the reason behind the behavior. He grimly suspected he wouldn’t like the answers he found.

  “Tell me I’m wrong, then,” he’d told her, lessening the distance between them even more. This was wrong—so wrong—but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t make his body retreat when she was this close, when the scent of her twined around his senses and the sound of her quickened breath made his own lungs labor to keep up. It took every particle of willpower he’d possessed to keep from kissing her, to keep from falling into the sweet heat of her body and losing himself completely to her.

  “I wish that I could,” she’d said, wincing with regret, her voice low and broken. A kaleidoscope of emotion moved in and out of focus in her light green gaze. “Life would be so much less complicated if I could. If I didn’t want—”

  He’d stilled, his senses sharpening. “Want what, Shelby?”

  In answer, she’d looked hungrily at his mouth, released a shallow breath, then leaned forward and kissed him. Tentatively, at first, almost reverently, as though she’d been waiting a lifetime to taste him and didn’t want to ruin it by hurrying.

  Shock and sensation detonated through him, delaying his reaction. Her lips were unbelievably soft, ripe and pillowy, and the taste of lemon clung to them, remnants of an iced cookie he’d watched her eat earlier. A little sigh had slipped from her mouth into his and, for whatever reason, the relief he’d heard in that sound had enflamed him more than anything else ever had or ever would. It was bittersweet and rang with surrender. The next thing he knew, his hands were framing her face, deepening the kiss. Her arms had wound around his neck and the best sort of tension had hummed through her body, the kind that proved she’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her.

  He would have taken her right there, against the damned tree, against reason and honor and logic and loyalty...had Micah not chosen that exact moment to walk out onto the front porch and call her name.

  “Shelby?”

  They’d broken apart like a couple of school kids caught making out in a coatroom, then stared at one another for the briefest, most horrible instant when shame polluted the moment between them.

  She’d left him, and returned to Micah’s side, where she belonged. But even then he knew she wouldn’t go through with the wedding. Not because of him, exactly—desire was fickle and fleeting—but because the minute she’d admitted the truth to him, she’d been left with no other choice than to act.

  That’s how truth worked.

  And considering that he was here, perpetuating a lie to protect the memory of his friend, he supposed dishonesty used the same mode of operation.

  With a sigh dredged from his soul, he pulled into a parking space, grabbed his tool bag from the passenger floorboard and exited the truck. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Considering she hadn’t even been able to look at him during Micah’s service, he fully expected Shelby to keep her distance. That, at least, was a blessing. Because, while he could lie to his superior officers, lie to fellow soldiers, lie to the grief counselor, lie to Micah’s parents and little brother and everyone else he was likely to come into contact with while he was here...he wasn’t sure he could lie to her.

  Because, like she’d said, she knew him too well.

  2

  “HE’S HERE,” MAVIS Meriweather announced breathlessly from her position at the storefront window. “Merciful heavens, I’d recognize that especially fine ass anywhere,” she said, humming appreciatively under her breath. “It’s hot today. You think I should take him a bottle of water?”

  Shelby Monroe ignored the kamikaze butterflies swarming in her belly at this news and glanced indulgently at her assistant. “He just got here, Mavis,” she drawled. “He’s hardly had time to work up a sweat.”

  The “he” in question was Eli Weston, of course. Just the thought of him conjured more feeling—most of it conflicted—in her rapidly beating heart than could possibly be good for her.

  Nothing new there, damn him. She should have known...

  Mavis pretended to swoon and braced a bejeweled hand against the wall. “Sweat,” she murmured, blinking slowly. She shook herself and sent Shelby a scolding look, her perfectly drawn on brows furrowed with chagrin. “You ought to know better than to say things like that when I’m in this condition.”

  “This condition” being hornier than a teenage boy with his first skin magazine. Mavis’s hormone replacement therapy had gone horribly awry. Either she was especially sensitive to the medication or she was on the wrong dosage. Regardless of the reason, the drugs were having a hyper reaction in Shelby’s older friend and, as such, had resurrected her flatlined libido with disturbing results. A former Vegas showgirl who’d dated A-list celebrities and famous politicians, Mavis had never married—had said she considered it an invasion of her privacy—and had always been a charismatic force of nature. But a desperate-to-get-laid Mavis had the makings of a natural disaster.

  “Have you talked to Doc Anderson?”

  Mavis turned away from the window and fanned herself. She’d recently gone from blond to red, a shade that suited her. “I have an appointment next week.”

  It wasn’t soon enough if you asked Shelby, but she supposed it would have to do. “Maybe he can get you sorted out.” One could hope, at any rate.

  She harrumphed under her breath. “The only thing that’s going to get me sorted out is an obliging man, preferably one with an especially large penis and more stamina than intelligence.”

  Startled, Shelby’s needle missed the buttonhole and pricked her finger. She winced and inspected the damage, thankful when she didn’t see blood. She’d hate to bleed on this fine piece of vintage chenille. She was putting the finishing touches on a custom romper for Lilly Wilken’s little girl. It was excellent work, if she did say so herself.

  And she did, because she was a first-rate seamstress. She’d learned at her grandmother’s knee and had taken to the craft like a fish to water. While other little girls had been playing with dolls and Easy-Bake ovens, Shelby had been learning how to sew. She’d gotten her own machine at ten and had started making her own clothes shortly thereafter.

  Never one to follow the trends, Shelby had been happier with her own designs than anything she could buy off the rack. She’d always had a firm sense of self, knew what looked best on her own body and could tailor-make anything that struck her fancy. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until other girls were knocking on her door asking her to help them find their own personal style, as well. She’d gone to college on a partial home economics scholarship and was able to pay for the rest with the modest inheritance her grandmother had left her.

  Armed with a business degree—with a minor in fashion merchandising—she’d returned to Willow Haven, bought the old dry goods store on the town square and converted it into her own shop, which she’d named In Stitches. The front room showcased her own custom designs, the back housed the working area, where she kept three full-time seamstresses employed, and she’d converted the upstairs space into an apartment, which was presently part of Mavis’s employment package.

  But whereas business might be good, her personal life was in the toilet.

  Between Micah’s death and the guilt she felt over breaking off their engagement—not to mention the guilt she carried over what had happened between her and Eli the night of Carl and Sally’s anniversary party—and the threatening letters she’d been getting for months, the last damned thing in the world she needed to complicate things more was Eli Weston, here in the flesh. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

  He blamed her—or at least considered her a contributing factor—she knew. How could he not? After what had happened? Though the official line from the military had cited an accidental death, Shelby
knew that hadn’t been the case.

  She knew...because Micah had written her prior to his death and told her so.

  She hadn’t received the letter until several days after Micah’s passing, but even then she’d suspected. Though she’d broken their engagement six months before his death, they’d still kept in touch. Hell, they’d been friends since grade school. Just because the romantic relationship was over hadn’t meant that she’d stopped caring about him, that she hadn’t wanted the best for him. And he’d been struggling, she knew.

  Eli, she imagined, had known it, too.

  Shelby had been so consumed with grief and regret that she’d hadn’t even been able to look at him during Micah’s service. She’d been too afraid of what she’d see there. And she blamed herself enough as it was. Not specifically for Micah’s death—the sole purpose of his letter was to keep her from blaming herself—but the pain she’d inflicted on him, the guilt of longing for Eli... She owned that and suspected she always would.

  Eli, she imagined, would, as well, which made facing him all the more difficult.

  But there would be no avoiding him here and, considering that she needed his help to try and figure out who was sending the letters, she’d better pull herself together.

  She released a shaky breath, thankful that her hands were steady even though her nerves were stretched thinner than a razor’s edge.

  Thankfully, Sally had insisted that Eli be a part of the building and dedication of the gazebo going up in the center of the town square. A tribute to Micah, their fallen hometown hero. Because she’d always been good with a pencil, Carl had asked her to draw up the design. He’d told her it would mean a lot to the family, to Micah. In light of the breakup, she wasn’t certain it was completely appropriate, but Carl and Sally had been too good to her over the years for her to be anything other than helpful.