Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Archer watched Scarlett fly over the bushes, his feet tangled in the tandem bike’s pedals as it crashed into the side of the bridge. Ahead, a black Mercedes accelerated away, carrying the suspect. If he had to put money on it, Archer would bet the murderer had just gotten away.
But Archer didn’t care about that.
Because after the car engine revved, he heard a splash.
“Scarlett!” Archer’s voice was hoarse. He kicked the tandem bike away and tripped on the edge of the curb. Then he stumbled into the bushes that Scarlett had sailed over, screaming her name once more.
The river would be freezing. Could she swim? She didn’t know how to ride a bike. Maybe she’d missed learning all the basic life skills in her childhood?
A vision of Scarlett’s face, chalk-white and blue-lipped, flashed across his mind. He imagined her sodden clothes when the police pulled her lifeless body out of the water.
No .
He’d just found her. Just realized what she meant to him. He wasn’t going to let her go.
With a scream, Archer barreled down the slope and leaped into the water, arms and legs windmilling. As he crashed into the river, he saw Scarlett’s head pop up above the surface, heard her take a gasping breath.
Then the icy darkness closed over his head, and he had to fight the instinctual reaction of his body as it froze with the shock of the cold.
His lungs constricted, but with one powerful kick of his legs, he broke the surface. Scarlett spun toward him, eyes wide.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
His arm was a blade through the water. He wrapped it around her waist and pulled her close, kicking for the shore. “Are you okay?”
“Just c-cold,” she stuttered, then started kicking too.
They made it to land, their shoes sinking into the soft earth where the reeds grew. Archer stood and helped Scarlett to her feet.
Her jacket was drenched, water falling off it in a steady trickle. She pushed her hair off her face and took gasping breaths as Archer ran his hands over her body, checking for injuries. No visible blood. Her limbs seemed to be working. There was a cut on her hand and scrapes on her temple which would need to be cleaned out as soon as possible. The river was picturesque, but it wasn’t exactly potable.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her whole body trembled. “I’m okay.”
The panic in Archer’s chest beat hard against his ribs. He used his fingers to tilt her head toward the streetlight, not liking the look of the bruise forming on her jaw. “Did you hit your head?”
“You folks alive?” Eddie called out from the bridge. In the distance, police sirens wailed.
“We’re okay,” Scarlett called out.
“Need help getting back up here?”
Archer glanced up at Eddie, then surveyed the shore. They were in a bank of mud, with thick bushes lining the hillside. Directly beside the bridge, though, was a clear path wide enough to scramble up to the top. “Should be okay,” he croaked, then gestured to the path, making sure Scarlett went ahead.
When she put her hand on the concrete pillar holding up the pedestrian bridge, Archer noticed the blue tinge under her fingernails and the dangerous pallor of her skin. Fear gripped his throat as he urged her up with a gentle hand on her waist.
They made it to the top, where the chill wind sliced through their sodden clothes. Scarlett shivered beside Archer, her teeth chattering. He had to get her indoors and out of those wet clothes.
Eddie had propped the tandem bike against the bridge’s handrail, and he reached out to help Scarlett through the last of the bushes. One glance told Archer that the bike hadn’t survived the crash. The handlebars were crooked and the back wheel was bent.
“I’m so sorry about the b-bike,” Scarlett told him, evidently noticing the same thing.
“Don’t worry about the bike. You two need to get warm.”
The sirens grew louder, and Rick’s car screeched to a stop beside them. It was an unmarked car with a portable light on the dash that flashed blue and red. The tall man stepped out, scowling.
“What happened here?”
“Saw someone t-trying to break in to Pushing Daisies,” Scarlett explained. “He ran when we called out, so we chased. It’s the black c-car. The one from the night of the murder.”
“You said it was silver.” Rick’s eyes narrowed.
“No, the other car. Martha said Glenda saw it at Wal-Mart when Ethel was supposed to be in M-Mexico.”
Archer frowned. Was Scarlett concussed?
Rick’s gaze swept over their hair, dripping with water and mud, their drenched clothes, their squelching shoes. Then his gaze went to the tandem bike and slid across the bridge to the small cycle the fugitive had abandoned. He let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What possessed you to chase him?” he finally asked, voice tight.
“What were we supposed to do?” Archer protested.
“Call me!” Rick replied, throwing his arms out to the sides. He pulled out his phone and mashed the screen aggressively. “You, you”—he pointed to Archer and Scarlett—“stay here. I want to go over this from the start.”
“I need to get her warm,” Archer replied, grasping Scarlett’s hand. It was like a block of ice. “We can talk when we’re not risking hypothermia.”
Rick waved them off and put his phone to his ear. Eddie grimaced and offered them a ride in his car, which they accepted.
Scarlett’s home was closer, so that’s where they went. Archer watched her hands tremble as she tried to unlock her front door, and worry gnawed at his stomach. His own hands were nearly numb, and the tips of his ears and nose were tingling.
They needed to get warm.
Scarlett let out a breath as the door opened, but she stumbled over the threshold. Archer banded an arm around her stomach and steadied her, then closed and locked the door. When he turned back around, Scarlett was struggling with her jacket, which she’d managed to get caught halfway down her arms.
“Here,” he said, his voice hoarse, tugging the sodden wool off her body. It came free and Scarlett stumbled forward, catching herself against the wall.
“I’m fine,” she said, which was a blatant lie.
“Take your clothes off,” he growled, tugging at his own jacket.
She threw him a glance. “That’s very forward of you.” She stumbled toward the thermostat on the wall, pressing a button to turn the heat on. The furnace rumbled to life, but it would take too long to warm the whole house, let alone their bodies. Archer toed off his shoes and tugged at his wet sweater, letting it fall on the heap of sodden clothing that was growing at his feet.
Scarlett was moving slowly. She leaned against the wall and tried to get her ankle boots off, but the leather must have constricted in the water. She wobbled, lost her balance, then slid down the wall as she tried to tug a shoe off. A wet streak marred the wall behind her.
Archer walked in wet socks to grab her boot with one hand and her calf with the other.
“There’s a zip,” she said, pointing to the side of the boot.
He propped her foot on his thighs and tugged the zipper, then eased the ankle boot off. Scarlett let her foot fall to the floor and lifted her other leg.
He huffed, sliding his hand over her calf, and gave that bootie the same treatment. Her black tights were soaked, and he could hardly feel the warmth of her skin beneath them. They were taking too long. He needed to get her warm, or she’d be in real trouble.
Fear nipped at Archer. He couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t see her hurt. She meant too much to him. He needed to fix this, right now, this instant.
Bending down, Archer scooped her into his arms and growled, “Bathroom.”
“Down the hall to the left,” she said, waving a hand. Her other arm was hooked around his neck. She smelled like the river: mud and grass and cold, cold water. “But you’re not supposed t-to put someone in h-hot water when they’ve had a cold shock.”
“It’s the easiest place to get warm,” Archer said, stomping down the hallway. His wet socks flopped uncomfortably, slipping on the wooden floors. He found the bathroom and kicked it open, setting Scarlett down on the vanity.
He closed the door then turned to the shower and put it on as hot as it would go. It would steam up the room, and he could use the towels hanging on the rail to rub some warmth into her.
When he turned around again, Scarlett had her cardigan off and was tossing it onto the tiled floor. He tugged his own shirt off and let it fall next to her garment with a wet slap.
“This isn’t how I imagined this going,” Scarlett said, tugging at the hem of her camisole. She pulled off over her head, and it joined the cardigan on the floor.
Archer stared at the soft skin on display, the sweep of her waist, the shape of her breasts in her lacy black bra. It took a second for her words to sink in. “How you imagined what going?”
“Taking my clothes off with you,” she said, then pointed to something behind him. “Towel.”
He jerked his gaze away from her chest and spun around, tossing her a towel. She wrapped it around herself like a cape and a moment later, the bra joined the other items on the floor.
Archer tried not to think about it, but his eyes darted to the scrap of black lace next to his foot. She was inches away from him, and she wasn’t wearing anything above the waist.
He cleared his throat and tried to focus. The room was steaming up as the temperature rose, which was good.
Scarlett leaned against the mirror and held the towel tight around her neck. She wasn’t trembling anymore.
“Stand up,” Archer barked a little more aggressively than he meant to. “You need to get that skirt off.”
He expected another quip, but Scarlett just shimmied to the edge of the vanity and slid to the floor. She held the towel pinned between her chin and her chest, and then fumbled with the zipper at her waist.
Trying to give her as much privacy as he could—and get his rioting pulse under control—Archer turned his back on Scarlett, shucked his pants, underwear, and socks off, then wrapped a towel around his waist. When he turned back around, Scarlett was still struggling with the zipper.
“It’s stuck,” she said, sounding close to tears.
Archer pushed her hands away and tried to tug the tiny black pull tab that definitely hadn’t been made with his-sized hands in mind. He tried to lower it, but the wet fabric had bunched in the zipper. When he tried to yank it up, the jam only got worse.
Growling in frustration, Archer tried to force the zipper down again. It wouldn’t budge. Scarlett rocked forward, catching herself against his shoulder with one hand.
Her palm was still glacial.
Archer jerked, then put his hand to her waist. She was frozen there too, and her stupid zipper wasn’t budging. Gritting his teeth, the last of his patience fled. Archer grabbed the bottom of the skirt and gave it a violent jerk. Fabric ripped and the skirt fell to Scarlett’s ankles. She kicked it aside while Archer hooked his fingers around her tights, pulling them—and her underwear—down to join the skirt.
He averted his gaze and focused on pushing the clump of wet clothes away from Scarlett’s feet, but when he touched her calf and found it nowhere near warm enough, there was nothing sexual in his mind. His woman was suffering, and it was his job to make it better.
He stood, gripping the edge of the towel she held tight to her neck. “Put your arms around me, sweetheart,” he said as gently as he could manage, even though every instinct in him screamed to act faster. “Skin to skin. We need to get you warm.”
She let out a shuddering sigh, then opened the towel and wrapped her arms around his waist. She pressed herself against him with a sigh, her face smooshing into the crook of his neck. A gnawing ache in Archer’s chest settled slightly, and he gripped the towel around her shoulders with both hands, rubbing it over her arms and back to get some blood flowing in her body.
A little mewl escaped her, and Archer paused. “Am I hurting you?”
He could barely hear her voice over the sound of the shower when she said, “No,” and squeezed him tighter.
Her breasts were pressed against him. He could feel the softness of her flesh, the hard point of her nipples. Ignoring the sensation, Archer busied himself chafing her with the towel. He needed to get her warm. He inhaled a big gulp of steamy air, looking up to see the mirror completely fogged.
Good. The bathroom had warmed up quickly. He was wasting water, and he didn’t care.
Scarlett’s hands had been clenched into fists at his back. She spread them flat against Archer’s ribs and he jerked at the feel of them.
“Jesus,” he said. “Warn a man before you put those ice blocks against his skin, will you?”
Her laughter was barely a huff against his throat. “Sorry.”
Wrapping his arms around her, he brushed his lips against her temple. “I was kidding, Scarlett. Give me your hands.”
Still pressed against him, Scarlett slid her hands to his chest, where he placed his own palms on top of them. He held them until they began to warm. Scarlett let out a sigh, then slid her palms to his waist, which gave him an unobstructed view of her chest.
His cock was rock hard, of course. It had been from the moment her bra had hit the floor. But now, faced with the reality of Scarlett’s naked body so very close to his, the thrumming of his blood became more insistent.
Only a piece of shit would touch a woman when she’d almost been hypothermic. The lowest of the low. The worst kind of man.
Archer never stood a chance.
His hands found their way to either side of her neck, where his thumbs stroked over her silken skin. She softened, closing her eyes as she tilted her head up toward him. Then with his right hand, he traced the line of her clavicle with the backs of his fingers, then moved them down the slope of her breast to her diamond-hard nipple.
Scarlett trembled, then, but Archer didn’t think it was from cold. His knuckles traced the pink peak of her breast while his other hand tangled into the wet hair at the nape of Scarlett’s neck.
Time stopped. The world fell away. For those few, suspended moments, Archer touched her with the backs of his fingers, enraptured. He watched the way goosebumps blossomed over her chest, the way her lips parted on a sigh. When he grasped her nipple between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, pinching slightly, he noticed the way she rubbed her thighs together, so he did it again.
His gaze swept down the curve of her stomach to the small thatch of hair between her legs. She was utterly perfect. He wanted her so much he was dizzy with it.
This woman was everything he didn’t deserve. She was smart, educated, successful, and what was he? How could he possibly think to possess her, even for a moment? She’d been right to push him away when they’d first come together all those months ago. She was right to back off after what had happened on the couch. She must have known, instinctively, that she could do much better than him.
When she changed her mind about wanting him, it would affect their entire friend group. It would ruin his life to lose all the people he cared about.
“Archer,” she whispered, arching into his touch.
His left thumb stroked the line of her pulse. His brain screamed at him to take his hands off her, to stop sullying this beautiful, intelligent goddess with his dirty hands. But his hands stayed right where they were. One brushing her breast, the other on her nape.
Weak—he was weak. He wanted her too much.
Her eyelashes lifted, and she met his gaze. He had no idea what she saw in his eyes when she blinked, tilting her head.
She’d realize that she deserved more. She’d tell him to back off, and she would be right.
But Scarlett didn’t push him away. She did the exact opposite: she slid her hands around his shoulders and pulled him closer.
“Kiss me,” she pleaded, tangling her fingers into his hair.
He let out a shuddering breath, leaning his forehead against hers. He had to stop this. He couldn’t have her like this—when she was vulnerable, when she’d had a scare. He’d ripped her clothes off and told himself he had good intentions, but now she was naked and wanting and…
A better man would pull away and let her find someone worthy. Not some scumbag who ghosted her, and not the village idiot who barely graduated high school.
Someone good. Someone better.
“I know we said we’d just be friends,” she said softly, misunderstanding his hesitation. “I know. And if you don’t want this?—”
“I want this,” he growled. “I want you, Scarlett.”
She flushed. “So what’s the problem? Don’t make me beg, Archer.”
Hand tightening in her hair, he angled her head back while his other palm slid down her side, past the nip of her waist and the flare of her hip. He clasped her thigh and lifted it, hooking it around his waist. He lowered his mouth so he could feel the heat of her breath against his lips. Every muscle in his body was tense and trembling. He held himself back with the thinnest of threads.
Her fingers scratched at his scalp, stroking, soothing. She nudged his nose with hers, questioning.
She’d told him she wanted the real deal. True love. But how could she want that with him? How could it be possible?
“I can’t do casual with you, Scarlett,” he admitted, the words ripping from his throat. “I can’t just be another notch on your bedpost.”
When she pulled away, it felt like a part of Archer was being ripped in half. Her gaze was shuttered and her voice was low when she asked, “Does it bother you that I’ve had sex with...quite a few other guys? I get if that’s a problem for you, if you want someone more—innocent?—”
His laughter had no humor in it. He pressed his hips into hers so she could feel how little he cared about her past through the towel that still separated them. When his eyes flared, the smile on his lips faded. “I don’t give a shit who came first, or second, or twentieth, Scarlett,” he told her, his voice so hoarse he barely recognized it. “All I care about is being your last.”
Her lips parted as her fingers tightened in his hair, and the thread that leashed him snapped.