Public Displays Of Affection

Chapter Six

Charlotte had been in a love-hate relationship with Billy Banks for about four months now.

Sure, she loved the way he made her feel: sleek and empowered and primed to kick some serious ass if the need should ever arise. And for a woman alone, that wais a handy skill to have.

But she hated the kickboxing tycoon for the way he made her abdominal muscles scream in agony, her thighs burn, and her lungs heave in her chest.

"Get ripped!" he yelled at her from the TV screen, his dark, chiseled body shining with sweat.

"Go rip yourself," Charlotte muttered, trying to follow the complicated routine of kicks and punches.

"Roundhouse, step, step, right jab, roundhouse!"

She was hitting her zone. Entering that place where the endorphins beat down the pain. Her body was humming. Her mind was focused. But then he had to go and change everything.

"Speedbag!"

Charlotte imitated her video classmates, adjusting her weight evenly, knees slightly bent. She began to spin her fists in tight circles in front of her face in an imaginary attack of a punching bag, and as the seconds ticked by, her arms ached, ached, until they turned to pillars of lead.

"Change direction!"

She could just barely hear the phone ringing over Billy's drill sergeant commands and the pounding of her own heart. She jogged to the kitchen cordless phone* keeping her fists flying high in front of her eyes until the last possible second.

She grabbed the phone with a sweaty hand. "Hell… oh!"

"Ah. Tae Bo time."

She could hear the amusement in Ned's voice and it made her smile. "Sure is. Hold a sec. Let me catch… my… breath."

"Listen, I hate to bother you so late-"

She glanced up at the kitchen clock to see it was 9:30.

"-but Hoover's out in the cul-de-sac again. I saw him in the Noonans' yard a few minutes ago and then all the way over at the Rickmans'."

"Oh, hell." Charlotte leaned forward at the waist and drew in air slowly and deeply, shaking her head. Obviously, the seven-hundred-dollar electric dog fence had been a colossal waste of money. The jolt didn't even seem to register with Hoover. And the Rickmans and their trigger-happy calls to the home owners' association were the reason she had to buy the fence in the first place.

"You know, I swore I turned the juice to maximum on that thing the other day," Ned said.

"You did, but it doesn't… seem to make… a difference."

"Well, honey, you're going to have to get him. I went out with some bologna, but he didn't fall for it."

"Okay, Ned. Thanks."

"And I'm not giving that dog one of my perfectly good Nutty Buddies. That'd be a sin."

Charlotte laughed, pulling a paper towel off the dispenser and dabbing at her dripping face. Everyone in Hayden Heights knew that Hoover could usually be bribed with an ice-cream cone. "No problem, Ned. I'm on my way."

"Want me to come over and sit with the kids?"

"No, thanks." Charlotte used her left toe to open the trash can lid, tossed the soggy paper towel inside, and pulled on the freezer handle in one continuous movement. She tucked the phone under her chin and pulled out the half gallon of all natural French vanilla, reached into the drawer for the ice-cream scoop, and kicked open the swinging pantry door with her knee, scanning the shelves for the box of cake cones.

She flipped open the ice-cream lid while reaching for the cones.

"It'll just take me a second. The kids are in bed."

"Okay, Charlotte. You all doing okay over there?"

She smiled, feeling safe and well-cared for. She couldn't have asked for a better friend and neighbor,

"We're all doing great. And thanks again for letting me know about Hoov."

It took her exactly forty-seven paces at a quick jog to reach Hoover. He was peeing on the meticulously planted circle of purple and yellow pansies around the Rickmans' carriage light.

"Hoov, come here, boy!"

The dog glanced nonchalantly in her direction and continued to water the Rickmans' flowers. Then, without warning, he took off at a run right past her, ears flying back in streetlight

"Hey! I've got a Creamy Whip! Get back here!"

Yes, the spring night was chilly but obviously not as cold as the freezer, because Charlotte looked down to see the ice cream melting all over her hand.

She had no choice but to run after him.

Holding the cone like the Olympic Torch, Charlotte took long strides down the sidewalk. At least she was dressed properly for a nighttime run, in her black bike shorts and coordinating black and purple jog bra. At least she'd complete her workout

"Hoover!" she called out in a voice loud enough for the stupid dog to hear but soft enough not to startle the neighbors.

"He's down at the Connors' place!"

"Oh!" She came to a halt, barely making out the figure of Mrs. Watson at the end of her driveway, putting out her matching set of Rubbermaid garbage cans. "Thanks!"

Charlotte continued on, growing more and more annoyed at the stupid dog, wondering if the kids were okay, hating to be out of the house for even a few minutes.

"Hoover, you dumb thing!" she whispered, now walking in front of the Connors'. She stopped and looked up. The stone and wood house rose up from the slope of lawn, its tall, slanted windows glowing with light from inside.

My God-he was in there.

At that instant, she realized that she hadn't thought of Joe Mills for at least twenty minutes-which may have been a record for the last couple days. But she sure was thinking of him now-wondering what he wore as he walked around inside that house. Wondering which bedroom he slept in. Wondering on what section of kitchen countertop he'd decided to put his coffeepot.

She saw a shadow pass in front of a window-and gasped.

The ice cream was running down to her elbow now, she wondered if that man had even the slightest, tiniest, most minuscule memory of that day on the GW Parkway.

Her knees felt wobbly.

"Hoover! Please, please, please!" She tried to be as quiet as possible. "Come get your damned Creamy Whip!"

She saw a movement in the boxwoods along the front of the house and sighed with relief* She crept up the grass, holding the now lopsided ice-cream cone out in front of her body.

"Hoov?"

More rustling. She saw the streetlights, reflected in a pair of beady dog eyes peering out from the shrubs. Then she felt the first sprinkles and cursed the fact that it had started raining, only to realize that the Connors' much-envied automatic sprinkler system had just come on.

"Oh, great" She was about to call Hoover every nasty curse word she knew when she was suddenly off the ground. Her brain seized in panic and confusion as she saw the grass turn to a blur beneath her useless feet, the icecream cone falling from her grip. She was being carried. Someone was running with her…

She hit the ground with a thud and that's when she remembered to scream.

"Oh, hell;" the voice said, just as she was being flipped onto her back. A big hand came down over her mouth. She looked up to see-this couldn't be right-a gun pointing in her face? But it was gone so fast she thought she'd imagined it. And then all she saw was… it was him.

Her scream made no sound, even as her throat burned with the force of it

"Please stay calm." he said, and she looked up into those black eyes and experienced a sharp plunge into the surreal. His body was fully on top of hers. His hard weight pushed her into the unyielding ground. The water misted over them in a steady spray. He wasn't wearing a shirt-and she could feel how hot his skin was against her bare midriff. She could feel the wiry hair all over his upper body.

Charlotte blinked against the water-against the memories rushing into her-and screamed even harder.

"I apologize for this," he said.

Apologize?

She screamed again, this time trying in vain to open her mouth enough to bite his hand.

"I saw somebody in the yard."

She attempted to squirm her way out from under him, but her arms and legs were tightly pinned to the grass. She could hardly breathe. He was squishing her.

In a burst of optimism, she looked around his big body toward the front yard, hoping Hoover would find it in himself to take a chunk out of this idiot's ass and save her. Instead, she witnessed Hoover lick his chops for the remaining ice cream, then trot merrily away down the sidewalk.

"HMMMPPPPHHH!" she screamed. "GMMMMM-PHHHHMMMMM!"

"I am going to let you up now" the voice said. The voice was deep and rich and made something in her brain snap. Because it was his voice. She remembered that voice with every fiber in her being.

"I am going to let you up now, Charlotte."

He knew her name! He'd just said her name!

"Please calm down and listen to me."

Where was the scent of honeysuckle coming from? She was lightheaded with it. It permeated the air. It was on her skin and inside her nose and throwing a heavy blanket of confusion over her mind. The feel of his wet, rock-hard body against hers was intoxicating. She felt drunk with the realization that finally-after thirteen endless years of wishing and praying and hoping and imagining-this man's body was once again touching hers.

"HMMMMPPPHHH!" she screamed, arching up beneath him, closing her eyes as she used every Billy Banks-honed muscle she possessed to resist him.

It was the worst possible thing she could have done.

Because now she knew he was aroused.

She was being assaulted by a madman with a hard-on and a gun, which was probably not a good combination.

Charlotte's eyes flew open. Nerve endings began to short-circuit from her scalp to her toes.

Then he smiled down at her sheepishly.

"Hello, Charlotte," he whispered, brushing a clump of wet hair from her cheek. "It's really great to see you again."

She was slippery, firm, and thoroughly female crushed beneath him, but never in thirteen years of fantasies had he imagined it quite like this.

And the worst part of it was that Charlotte would not stop screaming.

"I will not hurt you. I am your neighbor. My name is Joe Mills and I promise I will not hurt you. I'm going to release you. This has all been a big mistake. Just please stop screaming."

He raised himself on one hand, his other still cupped over her mouth, his body still in contact with hers from the waist down.

Her eyes were wide with terror and it broke his heart.

"Charlotte?"

She nodded.

"If you scream, the neighbors will think I'm hurting you. I don't want any trouble. I just…"

Her brow creased in a frown.

"I'm a little paranoid about burglars, I'm very sorry about the gun-my mistake. Please don't be frightened. I'm going to let you up if you promise me you won't scream again."

Her eyebrows arched high on her forehead and she nodded enthusiastically.

He took his hand off her mouth and rose above her, pulling her to her feet. She screamed.

In an instant he'd flipped her around, one arm tight around her waist and the other hand slapped once again over her mouth.

She was kicking him in the shins with her running shoes..

She was a wildcat.

But he already knew that, didn't he?

He couldn't help but laugh, and that apparently pissed her off even more because the kicks grew more ferocious.

God.

The truth was that if he'd been the subject of some Strange test, blindfolded, led into a room filled with twenty women, and told to touch each one and then identify Charlotte-a woman he hadn't laid a finger on in thirteen years, a woman he'd known for less than two hours-he could have done it. No problem.

He knew her. His hands remembered her. His skin remembered her skin. His bone and muscle remembered hers. And the smell of honeysuckle was everywhere, so intense he couldn't think straight, couldn't separate fantasy from reality.

He picked her up at the waist and began to walk across the lawn toward the pine trees. It was a long and painful trip, and he knew his legs were going to be black-and-blue from knee to ankle;

"You know, dumplin, it would be easier for both of us if you just stopped yelling."

She somehow maneuvered a pointy elbow into his gut, and it hurt like hell. Her feet were still thrashing.

"Really, Charlotte. I don't want any trouble."

But he was well aware it was too late to avoid it, because trouble was right there in his arms, wet and hot arid slippery and curvy and pressed against him in all the right places. And though he'd promised himself he'd get out of Minton without seeing her, touching her, smelling her, he'd just failed big-time.

Eventually, they made it through the pine trees and to her driveway, yet she kept squirming and writhing against the front of his boxers. It was more than he could stand. It wasn't fair. And he just couldn't help himself.

Joe lowered his mouth to the nape of her neck, planting one soft, openmouthed kiss on her slick skin. The contact of her hot flesh on his lips was shocking. He pulled away and gasped.

The thrashing stopped. She went rigid in his arms.

He loosened his grip, allowing her to slide down the front of his body and place her feet on the asphalt. He felt every wet inch of her on the way.

The arm that had been around her waist had slipped up to her chest, and-thank you, Lord-he'd somehow been allowed to spread one hand over a wet, spandex-covered breast while the other hand remained over her mouth.

She was silent and unmoving. The darkness gathered around them, and Joe took a second to scan the street. No one was out Her dog was nowhere to be seen. It was just the two of them in her driveway, under the basketball hoop, in the faint light coming from her upstairs windows.

He felt her shiver in his arms.

"You're wet and cold and you need to go inside.''

She nodded, and the slight movement sent a burst of scent into his nostrils. She smelled exactly like she had thirteen years ago. She felt the same. He'd finally found her.

And he'd likely never speak to her again, because he was leaving. And the sooner the better-for everyone.

The nipple under his palm was hard as a.40 caliber bullet, and he couldn't resist finding out what the other one was up to, so he dragged his hand across her little sports bra to find out. He felt her heart pound and her breath catch. Damn-her other nipple was just as tight and hard.

Her hand suddenly covered his own. Jt was soft and warm and pressed his palm with urgency against her breast, and it was the most amazing thing he'd ever experienced, and the last thing in the world he wanted.

With that single touch she'd told him everything. Yes, she remembered him. Yes, she wanted him, too.

"Oh, damn, Charlotte."

She whimpered in agreement, as if she somehow understood everything she couldn't know, why this was such an impossibly bad idea. Then Joe felt a hot droplet fall onto his fingers. Tears. Then he felt the subtle pressure of her butt. She was pushing back against him, fitting her hips against the front of his body, where she still fit perfectly.

He let his hand fall from her mouth and he spun her around to face him.

Those eyes looked back at him full of shock, confusion, and need. And he decided he'd go ahead and do it- just once-the one thing he'd longed to do since 19-fricking-91.

He kissed her. And the instant their lips touched, the kiss rocketed out of control. Everything went fierce and hot and deep and Charlotte was all over him and every single detail Joe thought he'd imagined was right there under his mouth as real as real could be-this perfect mix of sweet and sexual, this wild little redhead, this woman of his dreams.

He had to end the kiss. It was a mistake. Too much, too fast, too intense. But as Joe pulled away, her lips sought his. Her nails dug into his forearms as he tried to separate.

"Charlotte. No. Wait."

She looked as dazed as he felt. But he had to tell her this one thing while he had the chance. He was leaving, maybe as soon as tomorrow, but she needed to know he'd never forgotten her.

He grabbed her by her slippery, shapely shoulders and watched her struggle to focus on his face.

"I've thought about you every day for thirteen years," he said.

Her eyes flashed. She took a deep breath. Then she smiled at him with that pretty mouth and his knees wobbled.

"Can I tell you what I've thought about for thirteen years, Joe?"

Oh, man… He nodded, because he couldn't speak.

"I've thought about this-"

Her hot little hand landed on the front of his boxers. She cupped him through the soaking wet cotton, then stroked, moving her palm up the underside of his now record-book bulge.

Joe froze. His head buzzed from the staggering amount of pleasure in that touch. A storm blew through his heart. Never in his life had he been this surprised, or this torn. This couldn't happen. This was sheer stupidity.

This felt so damn right.

He managed to grasp her wrist, pull her hand away, and smile politely.

"I can't," he said.

"Oh God," she said.

Then Charlotte let out a moan of anguish and twisted away, running toward her house, leaving him in the driveway in wet boxers, aroused, perplexed, and sorely tempted to chase after her.

Some things never changed.