A profusion of emotions, many of them in conflict with one another, nibbled furiously at her: shame and longing…fear and delight. Shameless longing…
She threw back the covers and rose, only to discover she felt as wobbly as if she’d been in bed a week with the flu. What is this? she thought. Am I sick? I’m never sick.
The noises she’d heard had become voices—Tony’s and Daniel’s—and they were coming from the kitchen. Curiosity overcame both physical and emotional weakness, and she pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, raked her fingers through her hair and tottered across the hallway to the bathroom. When she emerged a few minutes later, she felt marginally better, but also keenly aware that she’d overslept. It had to be nearly time for the school bus, and Daniel—
These worries carried her as far as the kitchen doorway. There she halted, transfixed, as if caught in some paralyzing force field. She stood absolutely still, bathed in warmth and light, and knowledge sifted into her consciousness like sunbeams. Love. That’s what this is. I love this man.
The tableau in the kitchen consisted of two people and one dog, all three, for the moment, unaware of her presence. Tony—he was standing in front of the stove, and he was wearing an apron. An apron! Where he’d found it, she couldn’t imagine; even she never wore an apron. Daniel—he was at the table, busily assembling his lunch while keeping up a revealing commentary on the personality quirks of his various teachers. Hilda—she sat at attention between the two but had eyes only for Tony, for reasons that became evident when he flipped her a slice of what appeared to be…
“Hey—Mom! Tony made French toast. With cinnamon. We had it with applesauce, ’cause it’s healthier for you than syrup, and it was really good, Mom. Hey—is it okay if I take the last piece of chicken for my lunch? And we’re out of bananas, but that’s okay, because Tony said he’s going to town, today, anyway and he can get some more, so I’m taking grapes instead.”
Her son’s words fell on her ears and rolled away like raindrops on feathers. Encased in her shaft of enlightenment and towed by the tractor beam of Tony’s gaze, Brooke floated into the kitchen. She murmured absent replies to Daniel’s questions and didn’t think to scold Hilda, who knew very well she wasn’t supposed to eat people food or beg for treats from the table or stove, and had, in fact, already slunk off to her corner, looking guilty as sin. Tony smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, hefting a pancake turner in one hand, a griddle in the other. “We thought we’d let you sleep in this morning.”
“No—of course, I don’t mind.” She said it with a gasp as she grabbed hold of the back of a chair and held on to it, fully aware it was all that was keeping her from drifting on into his arms for a good-morning kiss. Which would be the natural way for a woman to greet her man the morning after they’d made love. Which they hadn’t, of course. But they would…soon. That knowledge—that certainty—made her voice husky when she added, “That’s…nice of you. You didn’t have to do that. But thanks.”
“No problem. Happy to do it. I told you—the sisters. I don’t want you to have to wait on me.”
And she got lost in his eyes and his sweet, sweet smile….
Blessedly oblivious to adult undercurrents, Daniel chattered on as he stuffed his lunch bag into his backpack, slung it over his shoulders and shrugged it into place. He brushed her cheek with a kiss, bumped knuckles with Tony, and went charging out the door, with Hilda on his heels. And silence crept into the kitchen, heavy with awareness and charged with tension, like a spring storm cell.
Tension sang in the clanging Tony made as he put down the pancake turner and griddle, rumbled in the grating sound of the chair as Brooke pushed it aside. Then she was across the kitchen, and his arms reached for her, and when her body collided with his, Brooke felt as if all the forces of a storm were breaking loose inside her. The fury and power, the excitement and wonder of it filled her mind and took over her body, leaving no room for fear or questions or doubt. No room for thought. She only knew when his mouth found hers…at last.
She tasted of toothpaste, he discovered, and for some reason, he found that endearing. A moment or two later—or it could have been longer; he’d rapidly lost the ability to track time—he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra under her T-shirt. That he found not so much endearing as—not surprisingly—sexy as hell. Accepting the inferred invitation, he slipped his hands under her shirt and brought them up along her rib cage to cradle the sides of her breasts in his palms. And her gasp tore her mouth from his, and she buried her face in the curve of his neck and shoulder.
“Hey…” He whispered it with his lips close to her neck, just below her ear. “I thought you said you only turn into a brazen hussy during the full moon.”
“Moon’s still full out there somewhere,” she mumbled from the depths of her hiding place.
He wanted to laugh, but her hands were busy behind him, untying the apron’s strings…tugging his undershirt free of his waistband, and then the feel of her hands on his skin drove every hint of mirth from his mind.
Then he did laugh, not because anything was funny, but because the emotions raging inside him needed some kind of safety valve, and for a grown man, laughter seemed infinitely preferable to tears. It was soft laughter, low and breathy, but it shook him to his core.
“Brooke, honey,” he said feebly, “I think it’s time I carried you off to bed now.”
“If you insist,” she murmured, smiling at him, and her eyes, peeking from under her lashes, had a pixieish glint.
He did. He swept her up in his arms and was amazed at how light she seemed. Or rather, how strong and powerful he felt.
He was amazed that this woman could make him feel things he’d never felt before, when he’d known…well, quite a few women in his life. Every one had been special to him in her way, but this woman…Brooke…She was his birthday and Christmas, the most wonderful Christmas of his life, with an endless supply of packages, each one to be slowly unwrapped and savored, each one revealing something new and exciting and wonderful. Somehow he knew that with this woman, he’d still be finding new packages to open when they were both ninety.
The realization stunned him and tempered his passion with a tenderness and care he was sure he’d never felt before.
And didn’t want to look at too closely—not then.
He carried her to his room—the spare room—not hers, and wasn’t sure why. Some primitive instinct, maybe, that made him want to bring her into his place—a kind of claiming. And that, too, was something he’d never felt before. And didn’t want to look at closely.
He looked instead into her eyes and lost himself there.
“I hope you don’t think—” she began, and he dipped his head and silenced her with a kiss.
“I don’t,” he whispered. This isn’t a time for thinking, love. If I let myself think—
He couldn’t let himself think.
He wanted her. Wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman before. Wanted her with the finest nerve endings in his skin and the deepest marrow in his bones. But it was a strange kind of wanting, because he wanted not to take something from her, but to give it. He wanted to give her pleasure and joy. He wanted to give her happiness. And hope. He wanted to give her all the good things in the universe, tied up with flowers and ribbons, and watch her face while she opened them. He wondered whether he would be able to give her all those things…and then knew, beyond any doubt, that he was the only one who could.
All that was in his eyes when he looked at her, in his mouth when he kissed her, in his hands when he touched her. It was in the unhurried way he removed her clothes and smiled at her shyness and at her whispered, “Guess I’m not such a brazen hussy after all…”
It was in the way he gave himself over to her so she could undress him at her own pace, even though her explorations—sometimes shy, sometimes brazen—made his muscles knot and his jaw creak with their demands on his self-control.
Her skin tasted to him like ice cream melting in the sun, and smelled of old roses. When she tasted his, it felt like the most exquisite torture and the greatest pleasure he’d ever known.
He groaned—could not help it—and she whispered, “Are you going to have your way with me now?”
“I think—” and he could barely form the words “—you’ve got it backwards. You…are having your way with me.”
She tilted her head, and her expression was poignant, eager and sweet. “May I?”
“Yes, love…oh, yes. Whatever you wish.”
And so she straddled him and gave to him the gifts he’d wanted for her: pleasure and joy and happiness and hope. And he watched her face while she gave to him, and knew he’d never be the same again.
Sometime later, when the earth had righted itself and resumed its normal spin, and she’d become reoriented to her place in it; when they lay together in the tumble they’d made of the double bed, talking in sleepy murmurs of the wonders and coincidences of fate, Brooke remembered.
“You were going to tell me something,” she whispered. “Last night…before I…ruined the moment.” And her ear, pressed against his chest, felt his heartbeat quicken.
“Hmm…can’t remember now. Must not’ve been that important.” His voice was a lazy growl, and his hand never faltered in its silken slide up and down her naked back.
But just the same, she knew he lied.
Chapter 9
“I have to tell her.” Tony stared bleakly into his coffee cup, having refused Holt’s offer to buy him lunch at the diner. It had been hours since the French toast he’d had for breakfast, but it—or guilt—still lay heavy in his stomach. “This changes everything.”
“Yeah, it does.” Holt stabbed at a chunk of the meat loaf special. “You couldn’t have waited until all this was over to sleep with her?”
Anger lanced through Tony, driven, no doubt, by more guilt. “Look,” he snapped, “it’s not like I planned it, okay? Hell, do I look like the kind of guy who’d move in on his best friend’s sister, particularly at a time when she’s in dire straits?”
“I don’t know what kind of guy you are, frankly,” Holt said. “I just met you myself, remember?”
“Yeah, well…I’m not. Trust me.” He shifted and added darkly, “Okay, maybe you shouldn’t. She trusts me, and I’m not exactly being straight with her, am I?” He let out a breath. “That’s why I have to tell her. Now.”
Holt picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth with it, then reached for his wallet. “Hold off on that, if you can. Just a little bit longer. At least until Cory and Sam get here.”
“No kidding—they’re on their way?” Tony picked up the check. Even the coffee had turned sour in his stomach. “Where’d you find Cory? Sam track him down?”
Holt nodded. “He’s been somewhere in Africa—the Sudan, I think. Covering the latest uprising, I guess. Anyway, he just got airlifted out a couple days ago by the ‘independent security contractors’ along with the entire U.S. embassy staff and their families. I talked to him this morning. They should be here tomorrow sometime.” He raised his eyebrows at Tony as he slid out of the booth. “What? I figured that was good news.”
“Brooke told me some things. About…herself. Uh…jeez…” The last word was mostly breath. Holt looked another question at him, and he shook his head. “Personal stuff. About what happened to her when she was a kid, growing up. Her sister, too. The reason she got married so young. The reason her sister ran away from home.” He paused, and even thinking of talking about it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Hell, Kincaid, do I need to spell it out?”
“Her father?” Holt’s voice was soft and dangerous.
“Brother. He was a good ten years older than the twins. An adult, anyway. And they were just kids when…it happened.”
They left the diner, with Holt muttering under his breath what sounded like swearing and blasphemy.
Tony nodded his agreement with the sentiments. “Anyway, Cory probably needs to know, and I guess I’m gonna have to be the one to tell him.” He paused, then added bleakly, “He already blames himself for what happened to his family—the kids getting split up. This is going to just about kill him.”
Brooke had never been so late with her morning chores. It was nearly noon when she turned the chickens out of their house, and they clucked petulantly at her as they stalked past her and through the door. Several of the hens were already on their nests—sulking, she was sure. She cooed apologies to them while she replenished their feeder with scratch and made a point to clean and fill their water bowls with fresh water. She gave the goats, alpacas and horses a little extra measure of grain, and gave the horses a good brushing before she turned them out to pasture.
She went to say good morning to Lady, but the cougar stayed on her rocky battlement and refused to come close to the fence. “Are you mad at me, too, my Lady girl?”
The cougar’s head was low and her shoulders tensed—her stalking stance—as she stared intently past Brooke, toward the lane and the barn and beyond. A chill went down Brooke’s spine. Clearly, something had upset her.
She thought of the SUV that Rocky and Isabel’s “cousin” had seen driving out of the back road, and the look on Lonnie’s face when he’d said, “This ain’t over.” And she walked back to the house, feeling small and exposed and vulnerable, like a rabbit in an open field, sensing the hawk circling high overhead.
She found Rocky and Isabel just coming down the back porch steps.
“We were looking for you,” Isabel said, and she looked anxiously at her husband.
They exchanged a brief glance, and Rocky said, “We were worried. Ever since my cousin told us he saw the SUV again. This morning he sees this SUV drive past your driveway, going very slowly. It drives down to the back road and turns in, then backs up and turns around and drives past your house again. He says it did this three times, that he saw. He says he thinks it was the same one he saw the day Duncan was killed.”
Brooke felt her body go still, while inside, her heart pounded hard and fast, and in her mind, a little girl’s voice whimpered, Tony, where are you? Come back! I need you….
Then the voice was gone, and the stillness was inside her, too. She said quietly, “Where is your cousin now?”
Again, Rocky and his wife exchanged glances. He cleared his throat and shifted nervously. “He is gone. He left this morning—after he sees—saw—the SUV. He is afraid because—” Another anxious glance at Isabel.
Isabel stepped forward and said angrily, “He’s afraid because he knows the sheriffs are crooked. They are bad men, Brooke. I’m sorry, but Duncan was, too. They take money, from the…from people like our cousin, and then they tell them they must get more money or they will kill them and send them back to their families in Mexico in little pieces.”
“How does your cousin know this?” The voice came from the vast stillness inside Brooke.
“He had a friend—Ernesto. They came over the border together. The sheriffs stopped them, but they didn’t make them go back or put them in jail. Instead, they took their money and told them they must get more from their families or friends here in the United States. Ernesto told them he had nobody here, and they took him away that night. My cousin never saw him again. My cousin managed to get away, and he came here, to us. So you see why he is afraid.”
Brooke nodded. She folded her arms across her body and rubbed at her upper arms to try to warm herself, but she felt cold clear through, anyway, in spite of the September sunshine. She said, with a calm that amazed her, “Whoever was in the SUV your cousin saw…I don’t think he was after your cousin—or me. It’s Lady he wants.”
“The lion? But why?” said Isabel.
“He wants to kill her,” said Brooke. And in her mind was the image of Lady crouched on her rock pile, a clear and easy target. “I don’t know why. Maybe because he believes she killed Duncan, in spite of what the medical examiner says. Maybe he’s just crazy. But if I don’t
do something, he’s going to kill her.” She looked pleadingly into her neighbors’ eyes. “Will you help me? Please?”
Tony drove back to Brooke’s place on autopilot. His mind was lost in a swamp of confusion, where dark shadows and deep waters held unknown perils, and anxiety lurked like the indefinable fears and bad dreams of children.
He hadn’t known such anxiety since he was a child, and he realized he was feeling it now for the same reason he’d felt it then: because he was vulnerable. Overnight, it seemed, he’d come to care for someone in a way that up to now had been reserved for blood kin: mother, father, sisters and brothers. This woman and her son—Brooke and Daniel—had somehow become his responsibility and concern, and their well-being and happiness vital to his own. The realization made him feel warm and excited and happy in a way he couldn’t recall ever feeling before, but at the same time it made his heart tremble and his stomach fill with a cold, hard knot of fear.
The first thing he saw when he drove into the yard was that Brooke’s pickup truck wasn’t parked where it usually was. The second was that Hilda hadn’t come bounding out to meet him. The formless fear inside him coalesced and grew and threatened to become panic.
He got out of his car and slammed the door, leaving the groceries he’d bought sitting on the backseat. He called her name. And that was when he heard it—the sound that sent a chill shooting down his spine: the squall of an angry cougar.
He ran, and each footfall on the hard Texas soil jarred his head and his chest like hammer blows. She’s okay. She’s okay, he told himself, without rhyme or reason for either the fear or the futile attempt at reassurance. A hundred what-ifs tried to crowd into his mind all at once and only created a nightmarish chaos in his imagination.
From inside the barn, from the point where he had a clear view down the lane to the cougar’s compound, Tony could see Brooke’s pickup, and that it was backed up close to the gate in the chain-link fence. And what looked like the lion’s holding cage was sitting in the back of the pickup. And Brooke’s neighbors, Rocky and Isabel, were standing beside the pickup, their attention focused completely on what was happening inside the compound. He saw no one else, no big fawn-and-white dog, no sign of a sheriff’s SUV or deputy in or out of uniform.
Lady Killer (The Taken Book 3) Page 13
