by Rebecca York
Well are you going to throw me out? The question stayed locked inside his mind. To moisten his dry throat, he took another sip of the coffee. He’d picked the blend because it sounded rich and flavorful. Maybe it really was good, but he couldn’t taste it.
Amanda took a sip of coffee. Then another.
Setting her mug on the table, she started to sit. Which gave him the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
As soon as there was no danger of her spilling the hot coffee, he was out of his chair and around the table.
Unable to say what he was feeling, he swept her into his arms, lowered his mouth and kissed her, trying to put all the warmth and passion he possessed into the kiss.
The last time had been an exploration. This kiss was more desperate and more possessive. But he broke it off long before he wanted to stop.
He lifted his lips from hers and skimmed them along her cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his hand stroking over her shoulders, then inching upward to tangle in her hair.
“For what?” she whispered.
“For being willing to try something . . . different.” He swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “Probably you’re thinking I fool around like that all the time. But it’s not true. I’ve never come close to anything like that before.”
“Why did you start it—now?”
He swallowed again, figuring he had to be honest. Well, at least as honest as he could be. “After I read that letter on your desk, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He managed a laugh. “I was going to seduce you first—with the coffee and the cream and the caramel syrup, before slowly working my way around to suggesting we try the phone. Then I came home, and you were in the bedroom, and I just . . . I just took a chance and punched in your number. Are you angry about that?”
“No.” Her throat worked. “I guess if you want to know the truth . . . I’m embarrassed.”
“Why?”
She could have ducked away from him. But he’d learned that she wasn’t the kind of woman who avoided a subject because it made her uncomfortable. “Because touching yourself is a very personal thing. I did it with you on the other end of the phone line.”
“Did you like it?”
A flush spread across her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Good. Because I did, too.” He stopped and dragged in a breath. “I did some reading about sexual therapy . . . before I came down here to interview you.” A long time before, he silently clarified but didn’t voice the qualification. “One thing I read was that the more comfortable partners are in letting the other person know what they want, the better their relationship will be.”
She nodded.
“Which is what we did.”
She nodded again, as though she weren’t quite certain. And he figured that it might be time for a change of subject. How about from sex to stalkers?
“Probably we should go back to your old house to get your things.”
“Oh, right. I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“After we finish our coffee.”
When she pulled out her chair and sat down, some of the tightness in his chest eased.
“And I should question you some more.”
Her head jerked up. “About what?”
“Did you think about who might want to hurt you? Did you have a fight with anyone recently?”
She turned her coffee mug in her hands. “You want me to dredge up every little thing? Like a few days ago at the grocery store when a man and I both wanted the same space, and he shook his fist at me.”
“Was he driving a white van?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll assume that was an isolated occurrence.”
“Okay, well, I had an . . . incident with a guy who lives near that other house. I went out on his boat dock to look at the river, and he came down there and yelled at me for trespassing. Then a few other times when I passed him on the road, he glared at me.”
“I’ll have a chat with him.”
“You will?”
“Yeah. You can point out his property when I stop by there.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. She’d named two minor incidents, but she’d omitted someone from her past. Did she trust him enough to talk about what had happened before she’d moved down here?”
She looked down, turning her coffee cup again. “Something happened at Harmons College.”
“Oh?” he asked, his breath shallow.
Her cheeks had taken on a deepened color. “I was accused of getting too . . . friendly with some of my male students.”
“Were you too friendly with them?”
“No! I’m not interested in relationships with college boys. But some of them were interested in me.”
“Yeah, I can understand why.”
“Thanks—I think.”
“You’re beautiful. You’re sexy. You were probably a target because you taught classes on human sexuality. Probably a lot of guys had fantasies about you.”
“I know all that.” She dragged in a breath and let it out. “Unfortunately, there were rumors about me. That’s what made me take a leave of absence.”
He nodded.
“The rumors were started by another professor, Bob Burns. He was new at the school. He went out of his way to be friendly to me. We . . . we got into a relationship. Then I found out he’d set his sights on being head of the department—a job I was in line for.”
“Nice guy.”
“I thought he was. I found out he manipulated people to get what he wanted.”
“Why would he come after you down here?”
“He worked hard to get me out of the picture. He might want to make sure I stay away from Harmons.”
“Would you go back?”
She hesitated. “I inherited some money from my mother. It’s enough to live on—modestly—for a few years. I was hoping that I could establish myself as a writer. The column should help with that. Then I won’t have to worry about teaching.”
“You don’t like teaching?”
“Actually, I do. But there are times when I want to focus on my own work. I’d like to be able to take on a reduced class load.”
“I thought Esther Scott’s identity has to remain secret. How can the column help you in a writing career?”
“For now, it’s got to be secret. But I’m hoping to give the column a different tone. And if I’m successful, Vanessa might want to promote me. Plus, when you’re submitting a book proposal, you can list qualifications that might not be known publicly.”
“Okay, yeah. And how would you make the column different?”
“Sometimes it sounded like Esther didn’t respect the people who wrote letters. At least it felt to me like she was using them to get a laugh.”
“Agreed.”
“You read the column?”
“Sure. I want to know as much about her as possible.”
“And what did you find out?”
“I probably wouldn’t have liked her very much.” He pushed back his chair. “Come on, we need to get over to your old house. How long were you there?”
“A little over a month.”
“And it was furnished. There won’t be a lot to move.”
“Food. My clothing. Sheets and towels. A few other things.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go back there. I could handle it for you.”
She looked uncomfortable. “I don’t really love the idea of your handling my underwear.”
Underwear? Or something else she didn’t want him to know about? He was trained to catch the subtle changes in a person’s voice. The remark had sounded innocent, but she’d let him know by the tone of her voice that she was holding something back, and he was going to find out what it was.
Could he do that without wrecking their relationship? He sure as hell hoped so.
Because it would kill him now if he found out something underhanded about her.
Chapter Seven
Amanda se
ttled into the front seat of Zachary’s Honda. If she weren’t uncomfortable about going back to her former rented house to pack, it would be a pleasure to watch him do his PI thing.
She might have questioned his methods that first afternoon. But as she sat beside him now, there was no doubt that he was a professional. He took a roundabout route to the old house, being careful to make sure that no other vehicle was staying in back of them. And he was especially careful as he approached the street where she’d lived—looking for cars or vans that seemed suspicious, she supposed.
After circling the area for ten minutes, he declared that they were, “All clear.”
She gave him a tight nod, still wondering how she was going to get the vibrator into her luggage without him seeing it.
She hated that her mind was focused on the damn tool. She knew her anxiety was a reflection of her personality. A more assertive woman would stride into the bedroom, pull it out of the drawer, and simply pack it with her other personal items. There was nothing wrong with having a vibrator. Nothing at all.
But Amanda couldn’t help thinking about what her mother would say. And she knew that despite the fact that she’d answered her reader’s question on masturbation with a very positive pep talk, she was obviously embarrassed about admitting that she engaged in that activity herself. Or—to be more specific—embarrassed to let a guy she found attractive know she had a vibrator. He pulled the Honda to a stop in the driveway as close as he could to the kitchen door. They both got out, and she fumbled with the key, conscious that he was watching her as he unloaded cardboard boxes from the trunk.
She could see he was trying to appear casual. But she was very aware of the assessing look in his eyes. It was the look she remembered from that first afternoon when he’d asked to use the bathroom—when his real intent was to search her room.
What was he thinking? That she’d gotten some guy to come here last night and attack her—so she and Zachary Grant could end up together? Surely not.
Again, she knew that another woman would come out and ask that question—making it a challenge. She simply said, “I’m a little nervous about being here. I mean after that guy breaking in last night.”
“I understand.”
She unlocked the door, and they both stepped into the kitchen, standing awkwardly in the middle of the tile floor. At least she was feeling awkward.
When she realized he was speaking, she forced herself to focus on his words. “We want to get out of here as quickly as we can,” he said.
Well, he’d given her the perfect opening. “Maybe you could clear the shelves in the linen closet. All the towels and sheets are mine. And I’ll pack up the bedroom. Also, the cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink.”
“Good idea,” he agreed.
She showed him the linen closet, then hurried to the bedroom. First she filled a box with underwear and other clothing. Then, after a quick glance over her shoulder, she crossed to the bedside table.
She had just slid the drawer open, when she heard footsteps rapidly cross the floor.
Either it was the stalker—or Zachary. She was betting on the latter as her body went rigid.
She breathed in Zachary’s aftershave, then turned to see him filling the doorway.
Apparently he’d been keeping tabs on her, and she hadn’t even known it.
As she looked down into the drawer, she felt him glide up behind her.
“Okay, what is it that you’re hiding in there?” he growled.
Unable to answer, she stood in front of the bedside table, keeping her eyes cast down, focused on the vibrator. There was absolute silence in the room now, and she was pretty sure she knew when he spotted the off-white plastic shaft because she heard him swallow hard.
Unwilling to turn and face him, she simply stood there. Long seconds ticked by before she finally broke the deafening silence with a question, “What did you think I was hiding—a stash of coke? Or maybe a cozy little letter from Esther’s killer?”
“No.”
“I know that look in your eye.”
“You can’t see my eyes.”
“In the car. Your suspicious look. You thought I was up to something illegal.”
“I thought I had a poker face.”
“Maybe under ordinary circumstances. But I’m good at reading people.”
“I am too.. There’s nothing wrong with using a vibrator.”
“You don’t have to tell me that!” she snapped. “It’s a perfectly legitimate . . . toy for a woman to have. I would certainly tell that to my readers. I just happen to be embarrassed about being seen with one in my bedside table drawer. And I was hoping I’d have some privacy when I packed it. But no. You were waiting to find out what I was up to.”
“Yeah.”
She dragged in a breath and let it out, wishing he’d back away from her. At the moment, she wanted to be alone.
“I didn’t intend to embarrass you.”
“Is that an apology?”
“Yes.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Part of doing my job is judging your moods.”
“Oh, that’s just great. “
“That’s why I followed you into the bedroom.”
“And now you can stop snooping.”
“I’m not trying to make life difficult for you.”
With any other man, she would have said, “Why don’t you just let me finish packing? Then you can take me back to my new rental property and go back to New Jersey.” That’s what she should say, she told herself. But Zachary Grant wasn’t just any man. He was a man who had gotten very close to her in a very short period of time.
That was emotionally dangerous in itself. But it also presented an opportunity.
###
Outside on the street, Tony Anderson slowed the white van and stared at the Honda parked in the driveway. In the next moment, he sped up.
The Honda had been there the day before. It belonged to the guy he had started to call Mr. Buttinsky. The guy who had been hanging around Amanda O’Neal. The guy who had almost coldcocked him.
The bastard was back. Or the two of them were there. Good—unless one of them picked this exact moment to come outside.
Tony sped up again, drove down the rural road, and turned off into a long driveway, screened by trees from the road. Then he got out a map and pretended that he was trying to find a particular address.
Really, he was thinking about what to do now. He’d been circling back here every half hour or so, hoping to spot O’Neal. She’d been gone since the incident last night. But she’d left her car at the house, and he’d figured she was coming back. He’d hoped to catch her alone. But it looked like Buttinsky was back, too.
The guy was dangerous. Tony had barely gotten away last night, and he was going to be damned careful not to get caught now.
But he couldn’t simply leave, because this was too good an opportunity.
If O’Neal came out, he’d follow her. Or if the guy left, that might give him another crack at the woman. Either way, he felt like his luck had turned again.
###
While she was trying to decide what to say and what to do, Amanda felt Zachary move in closer behind her so that the front of his body was pressed to the back of hers.
His voice had turned low and intimate when he said, “The most important thing I want you to understand is that I find the contents of your bedside table very sexy.”
“Why?” she managed to say, her own voice cracking on the single syllable.
“Because it tells me that your sexuality is important to you. You don’t deny that component of your personality. You make a point of keeping in touch with the sensual side of your nature.”
“Oh.”
Apparently her ability to speak had been reduced to monosyllables. And all hope of speech choked off completely when he leaned over, reached into the drawer and picked up the vibrator. She wanted to close her eyes, but her gaze was riveted to the eight-inch-long plastic shaft grasped in
his masculine hand.
It looked out of place in his large fist. But when he ran his thumb up the length of the thing, a low, buzzing sound started up in her head, making it almost impossible to string one thought after the other. She assumed it was the pounding of the blood in her veins. Then she realized he had switched on the motor.
“I never used one of these things,” he murmured. “It makes your skin tingle—just holding it in your hand.”
“Um.” He was making her skin tingle. And she knew she wasn’t the only one affected because she now felt the unmistakable shaft of an erection pressing against her bottom.
They were standing beside the bed, and she felt trapped between his body and the edge of the mattress. She could step around him and leave the room. But she had the feeling her legs wouldn’t carry her across the carpet now. When she swayed on her feet, he crossed his free arm over her chest, pulling her back so that most of her weight rested against him.
“You should let me go,” she breathed.
“Why?”
“It’s . . .”
###
“Very arousing,” Zach finished the sentence for her. Then he dipped his head, kissing the side of her neck, the edge of her jaw, loving the feel of her silky skin against his lips.
He couldn’t believe he was holding her like this, doing the things he was doing, but there was no way he could stop himself now—not unless she pushed him away.
And he had to give her that chance, because he didn’t want either one of them to conclude he was forcing her into anything. With that thought in mind, he ordered himself to loosen his hold on her. When she stayed where she was, he breathed out a small sigh.
Slowly, deliberately, he moved his other hand, the one that held the vibrator.
“I’ve seen ads for these things in magazines. In the ads, they always show the shaft against the woman’s cheek,” he said, stroking the plastic shaft against that very part of her anatomy, then her neck.
The low buzz of the plastic wand close to his own head had set off a muzzy sensation in his brain. Probably anything he did now would set his head spinning.
Carefully, he shifted his other arm in order to move the plastic wand lower, playing it over her breasts, over their hard, distended tips.
