Deadly Deceptions by Linda Lael Miller

leaned back slightly, ready for the ride.
    And what a ride it was.
    We started out slowly, every stroke something to be savored, but as the friction increased, so did our pace. Tucker pressed me back against the seat and slammed into me until, in the same moment, like two universes on a crash course, finally colliding, the whole order of the cosmos was changed.
    Tucker gave a low, hoarse cry.
    I clawed at him with both hands, drowning in fire.
    After the Big Bang, there were a few more implosions as I descended, convulsing against Tucker each time. When it was finally over, I fell back on the seat, utterly exhausted, and he lay half on top of me, gasping for breath.
    While we recovered, I wound my fingers in his hair and cried.
    Presently he lifted his head from my stomach. “What?” he asked gently.
    â€œYou know what,” I told him.
    He sighed, lifted me again, set me on my feet on the cold garage floor, and gathered me into his arms. “It’ll be okay, Moje,” he told me in a ragged whisper, his breath like a warm breeze against my temple.
    It was a lie, of course.
    But I wanted—needed—to believe it, so I did.
    We shared a shower after that, soaping each other up and kissing and groaning a lot, but neither of us had the knee power to make love standing up, not after the episode in the garage.
    Tucker’s bed was neatly made when we got into it. Hours later, when something awakened me, the covers were on the floor and the pillows were in odd places.
    I realized the unwanted thing prodding at me, nudging me out of a semicomatose state, was a ringing telephone.
    With a muttered curse Tucker raised himself onto an elbow and groped for the cordless receiver on the nightstand. Stuck it to his ear.
    â€œDarroch,” he growled.
    Lying beside him, facing his back, I knew, even before his spine stiffened, that it was Allison calling. I couldn’t make out her words, just the hurried, slightly shrill tone of her voice.
    Tucker listened. I wanted to touch him, but I knew he’d flinch if I did, and I couldn’t have borne that.
    What he said to Allison surprised me, though. Big-time.
    â€œI’m with Mojo.”
    I blinked.
    Silence on Tucker’s end, a diatribe on Allison’s. I can’t describe the sound—it was more of a feeling, like a stripped live wire twisting and crackling on the ground in a pouring rain.
    â€œWe’re not married anymore, Allison,” Tucker said when she gave him a chance.
    Something else from Allison.
    â€œNo,” Tucker told her. “I will not put her on.” More listening, followed by a sigh.
    I got up, wishing my dress and underwear weren’t scattered all over Tucker’s garage. It’s hard to make a hasty exit gracefully when you’re nude and every ounce of tension has been driven out of you by three or four hours of intermittent, headboard-banging sex.
    â€œMojo,” Tucker said when I got to the threshold of his bedroom. I heard him crash the receiver back onto the charger. “Where do you think you’re going?”
    I stopped, turned. Actually, I hadn’t thought that far. I’d just wanted to get away. Now I remembered I didn’t have a car; I’d ridden with Tucker. I didn’t even have my purse, because I’d left it in the Volvo, which was still parked in Greer’s driveway.
    â€œTo find my clothes?” I said.
    He threw back the tangled covers, sat up. “I’ll get them,” he replied, sounding resigned.
    I took a short shower while he was gone, and when I came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, my dress and bra were lying on the bed, the dress carefully folded, my sandals beside them. The panties were missing in action, evidently.
    I put on what I had and followed the smell of cooking food into the kitchen.
    Tucker stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing only his jeans and stirring something in a saucepan. “Chicken pot pie,” he said, giving