âFeeling better?â he whispered, the movement of his mouth tickling her lips.
Heat flowed like lava through her entire body. Out to her fingertips and toes and back, swirling through her until it settled in her core. She bit her cheek to keep from moaning with pleasure.
âI feel wonderful,â she answered breathlessly.
He lifted his head slightly. When she raised her gaze, she saw his firm, wide mouth soften. Was he about to kiss her? Really kiss her? Right here in the middle of running from people who were trying to kill them?
She should say something. Should stop this. Because all they were doing was seeking comfort in a dangerous situation.
The men who wanted to kill her were dangerous, but so was Harte. And right now, she wasnât sure who frightened her most.
Harte Delancey always felt like such a wimpy kid around his older brothersâprobably because thatâs how they treated him.
He looked up from the grill where steaks were sizzling. Lucas and Ethan were tossing long spiraling passes to each other in the football-field-sized backyard of their parentsâ Chef Voleur home. If Travis were here instead of overseas somewhere, heâd be out there too.
Harte preferred more solitary forms of exerciseârunning, backpacking and biking. He chuckled wryly and flipped the steaks as Lucas made a spectacular leap and snagged the football out of the air.
âSteaks ready in five,â he called out as his mom brought a big bowl of her famous buttermilk ranch potato salad from the outdoor kitchen to the already laden table. Lucasâs wife, Angela, followed her carrying a massive casserole of baked beans.
âEverything looks great,â Harte said.
âI hope so,â Betty Carole Delancey said in her self-deprecating way. âThe tomatoes donât look very good.â
He eyed the plump, bright red slices with amusement. âIf they were any better, the Times-Picayune would be on the story. What do you think, Dad?â he asked his father, Robert, who sat in his wheelchair watching Lucas and Ethan.
Harteâs dad turned his head slightly. âEverything good,â he said haltingly. It had been fourteen years since the massive stroke had left him partially paralyzed and unable to speak. With his wifeâs help, heâd relearned how to talk.
Lucas and Ethan washed up at the sink, arguing about who had the more accurate throwing arm. Then Lucas kissed Angela on the cheek before sitting down beside her. Ethan grabbed the chair opposite the two of them.
Harte took the last T-bone off the grill and set the platter down in the middle of the table. He sat between Lucas and their mother.
âWant to play a game of three-team touch later, Mr. Prosecutor?â Lucas asked as he tousled Harteâs hair. Harte ducked but not in time. âOr should I call you Monsieur Chef?â he mused, stabbing a steak with his fork and holding it up for inspection.
âAfter you eat all that and canât move? Sure.â Harte was used to Lucas ribbing him about his choice of career and his cooking.
Lucas was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department, as was Ethan, and Travis, an Army Special Forces operative, was stationed overseas. It was a sore spot with all three of them that their youngest brother had broken tradition and studied law.
As if reading his thoughts, his mom said, âI was hoping weâd hear something from Travis this week.â
âWhatâs it beenâsix months since you last spoke with him?â Ethan asked, then washed a bite of steak down with iced tea.
âSeptember,â his dad said.
âThatâs right, darling,â his mom said as she cut his steak into bite-sized pieces for her husband. âItâs been seven months.â
Harte saw Lucas and Ethan exchange a glance. He knew what they were thinking. It chafed them that their mother was so solicitous and gentle with her husband. Neither oneâespecially Lucasâhad ever forgiven their dad for his drunken rages and punishing fists. It didnât matter to them that Robertâs stroke had rendered him a docile wraith of his former self.
At that moment, the patio door opened. It was Cara Lynn, smiling and dressed in a casual floral dress that sported all the pastel colors of spring. Not that the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain in Louisiana ever saw spring ⦠or fall for that matter. The weather was generally either hot and humid or chilly and wet.