The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

  “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life,” she confessed. “Your painting echoed my loneliness and search for love. Now I’ve found you and nothing else matters. Nothing on this earth will ever matter to me as much as you do. Nothing.”

  Paul sighed, pulling her into his arms. She eased her head down on his chest, the truth surging through her. At last she was home.

  Twenty-seven

  “I told you to wait out at my place,” Zach said as she opened her front door that evening.

  “Oh, sure. You expected me to stay there the whole day.” She was unbelievably glad to see him, even if he looked dead on his feet and desperately in need of a shave. She had spent hours second-guessing herself, wondering if she’d done the right thing in telling her father. Just seeing Zach gave her the answer.

  With a heart-stopping grin, he swung her into his arms, pulling her flush against his chest. “Good thing I know you as well as I do. I didn’t bother to drive out to my place, expecting to find you there.”

  “Kiss me and we’ll discuss my bad habits later.”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed just slightly, and she knew her comment and light-hearted attitude had taken him by surprise, considering what had gone on between them last night. She wanted a relationship. But how did Zach feel?

  One night together did not make a good basis for a relationship. It was too soon to tell where things were going, and it was most certainly too soon to tell Zach about her father. Don’t push it, Claire. Take your time, cautioned an inner voice that was usually silent, causing her to blurt out her true feelings.

  She put her arms around his neck, angling her mouth across his. She saw the startled expression in his eyes and knew he hadn’t expected her to be so affectionate. His mouth was firm and warm against hers as her tongue teased his parted lips. He groaned, his entire body suddenly going taut and desire kindling in the depths of his eyes just before he closed them.

  In a heartbeat, he took control in a sensual, possessive way. He seduced her with his tongue, curling it around hers and moving it back and forth suggestively. The muscles in the pit of her stomach contracted with a flush of warmth. Her spine arched backward from the pressure of his demanding body against hers, and she clung to him. He shuddered, a slight quiver that ran the length of his powerful body.

  “Before you get too carried away, maybe I should use your shower,” Zach murmured, his lips against hers. “I’m worse than roadkill.”

  Claire couldn’t help smiling as she led him down the hall followed by Lucy and Lobo. Just inside the bathroom, Zach halted, eyeing the huge spa tub she’d filled minutes ago, intending to use a little aromatherapy to calm her nerves. Steeping in the water was an erotic blend of lily and hyacinth with a touch of cloves. The heady floral scent rose in vaporous waves from the tub accompanied by flickering candles giving off the powerful aroma of vanilla.

  “Gimme a break! I don’t want to smell like a French whore.”

  She unbuttoned his shirt, kissing his chest as she went, savoring the masculine scent and the crinkly hair on his torso. “I dare you to get in the tub,” she whispered against his bare skin. “I double dare you.”

  “You’re on,” he said as she unbuckled his belt and popped the top button on his jeans. It took her a little longer to undo the rest, and he had to help her pull the jeans down. As they slid over his hips, his sex sprang free, hanging heavy against his powerful thighs. He was awesomely masculine.

  Thank God, he wasn’t aroused, she told herself, remembering the previous night. Even in this state, Zach was so uncompromisingly male … so magnificent that her throat constricted just looking at him. And the rest of her body—oh, well—she couldn’t help herself, could she?

  Totally unaware of how he affected her, Zach eased himself into the tub, wincing at the hot water she’d used to trigger the aromatherapic properties of the clove oil and dried blossoms. Lucy and Lobo stood at her side, watching. Zach slid below the water, dousing his hair thoroughly and raking his fingers through it. He emerged, pushing his hair back with his hands.

  Claire was struck by how young and vulnerable he looked with his hair slicked back and rivulets of water dribbling down his face. Unexpectedly she remembered the summer day—so many years ago—when she’d met him at the mountain pool. He had been swimming; his hair had been wet and brushed back the way it was now.

  Zach smiled up at her. “Okay. What next?”

  Claire picked up the soap and sat on the edge of the tub. She lathered a loofah, then started with the back of his neck and shoulders. His body was the hardest thing she’d ever felt and the softest. There was a solidness to his bones and the muscles covering them, but the skin itself was supple and smooth beneath her fingers.

  “Christ, that feels great. You’re hired, Claire.”

  She put aside the loofah and used the heels of her palms to massage the tired muscles across the back of his shoulders. The dogs looked on as she rubbed, their heads cocked to the same side, studying Zach.

  He grunted once, not a sound of passion, but a groan of pleasure at the relief she was giving his aching muscles. The intimacy of the situation, yet its naturalness felt so … right. She couldn’t resist bending over and kissing the crook of his neck.

  She inhaled the smell of the dried blossoms and a musky male scent that was somehow much more provocative than the expensive aromatherapy. It was all she could do to keep herself from jumping into the tub with him. But she reminded herself that they needed to make a connection that wasn’t purely physical.

  “I’ll understand if you can’t talk about the Bassinger case,” she said.

  “What’s to talk about? He was dead longer than Vanessa and Seth admit. Question is: Why are they lying?”

  “Was anything missing?” she asked as she nudged Zach forward to scrub his lower back.

  “Not that we could tell. The silver was there, his Piaget watch, a five-carat diamond pinkie ring. The safe is still locked.”

  Zach turned around to face her, and it took a little maneuvering. Even though the tub was large, Zach was a very big man. Who happened to look endearingly like a little boy—as long as you didn’t look below his waist.

  The candles flickered softly in the room, and the shimmering patterns of shadow and light were reflected in the beveled mirrors that lined the walls. Shards of light caught the rippling water around Zach’s body. The floral scent was accompanied by a stronger aroma of vanilla. Perched on the edge of the tub, Claire took a deep breath, trying to keep her mind on the case.

  “What possible reason could Seth and Vanessa have had to wait so long to call the police?” he asked.

  Claire concentrated on the sensual curve of Zach’s lips as he spoke, hardly caring about Max Bassinger. The man had always given her the willies. “So ‘poor, poor Murray’ could round up every journalist on the planet and make sure they covered the event.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded as she washed his impressive chest with the loofah. “Yeager and I have a hunch something else went on out there. I damn sure hope we find something.”

  A note of discouragement underscored his words, and she knew that this case on top of Morrell’s murder meant more trouble for him. She didn’t mention Bam Stegner and the Hell’s Angels that she’d seen earlier. Zach didn’t need anything else to worry about.

  She had turned on his small television this morning just in time to see the newscast. Zach had taken her breath away. No man on earth could wear clothes as well as Zachary Coulter. His jeans and chambray shirt had been nothing, monetarily speaking, compared to Seth’s tailor-made suit.

  But clothes did not make the man, and the camera knew it. Zach’s posture had been relaxed, almost arrogantly so. What it communicated was an aura of assurance that you were either born with or would never possess. To millions of viewers, he’d come across as self-confident, not giving a damn that he’d contradicted the word of a famous actress because he believed in himself.

  She prayed Zach was right. The camera most ce
rtainly loved him, but there were too many people in Taos waiting—hoping—for Zach to fail.

  “I saw on the news the FBI is officially investigating Duncan’s murder,” she said, knowing some people, like Ollie Hammond, were using this to bolster their argument that Zach couldn’t do his job.

  “Yeah, it’s official now,” Zach said, not sounding the least bit resentful of the FBI intrusion into his case. “It’s a team effort.”

  He took the bar of soap and reached under the water to lather his nether regions. Killjoy, she thought, then decided if she’d done it, she would have ended up in the tub with him. Just keep talking.

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten Duncan Morrell’s murder?”

  “No. Yeager and I were wondering.” He put the soap in the tray, then paused for a moment. “Do you think it’s possible Nevada Murphy is gay or maybe a bisexual?”

  Claire opened her mouth to say this was outrageous, then she stopped to think about the artist she’d discovered. Nevada Murphy was a phony through and through. He’d lied to her right up to the second he’d dumped her to go to Duncan Morrell.

  “My gut instinct says no, but it’s possible,” she admitted. “Women love him. They’re the ones who meet him, then buy his work. His career would be dead if they knew he was a homosexual. Why?”

  Zach shrugged. “Just wondering. No one has a clue who Morrell was leaving his wife for. My hunch says that person is the key to cracking the case. Could it have been Nevada?”

  “I always thought Duncan was straight. Like Nevada, he was a hit with women. That’s how he managed to con people over and over, even women like Vanessa Trent. But I guess he could have been bisexual. That’s rare, isn’t it?”

  Zach flashed her a devilish grin. “You’d be surprised.”

  She had the definite impression that he was keeping something from her.

  “Claire.” He reached up and brushed his damp hand through her hair in an uncharacteristically affectionate, tender gesture. “What’s going on here? Is this invasion of the body snatchers? You’re a different person tonight. You’re being so … sweet. Why?”

  She had a real fear of needing him as much as she was beginning to need him. She was tempted to tell Zach about her father now, but sensed it would be a mistake. He might feel she was pressuring him into more of a commitment than he was willing to give. Take things slowly, she warned herself.

  “You think I’m being sweet?” she asked, striving to inject a light note into her voice. “I’m just being myself. Sometimes I’m angry, sometimes I’m sweet. You know, I have a lot of different moods.”

  His adorable smile made her want to hug him. “I like this mood.”

  “Well, earlier today, I wasn’t in a good mood at all. Paul told Angela about himself, and she doesn’t care about his prison record,” she said. “And she doesn’t mind that he has no intention of painting again.”

  “I know. Paul dropped by this morning when we were knee deep in the Bassinger stuff. He wanted to know if he could bunk at my place. Of course, I let him. Then he called later to say he’d patched things up with Angela.” He smiled sympathetically. “I know you’re disappointed to lose him, but you’ve got to understand his point of view.”

  “He came into the gallery to personally explain how he felt.” Claire shrugged. “What could I say? Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone with the Wind. One book—a masterpiece. Paul assures me these two paintings are all he’ll ever paint.”

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind. It’s a shame to waste his talent.”

  “I doubt it. Paul was very firm.” She hesitated, reluctant to mention his father. “Speaking of talent, I saw that fabulous bronze owl on your coffee table.”

  He quickly reached for a towel, turning away from her, but she thought his expression reflected in the mirror was troubled. Or maybe it was a trick of the candles flickering in the dark room.

  “What about the owl?” he asked, his face now concealed in shadows.

  Claire hesitated again, wondering if their parents would always stand between them like an invisible wall. “Angela told me more of your father’s bronzes are in your storeroom. If they’re anything like the owl, they’re fabulous. Your father was very talented.”

  His head angled to the right, his eyes narrowing for a second. “Yeah, he was a helluva guy.”

  “After your mother died, you left town. What did you do with all your things?”

  “I didn’t have much worth a damn. I left some stuff with Tohono.”

  She should have guessed, she thought, watching him let the water out of the tub. He’d turned to Tohono when everyone else in town refused to help him. Years later, it had been Tohono who had been instrumental in getting Zach his job as sheriff.

  Without another word, Zach stepped out of the tub onto the marble floor beside the dogs. She watched him, amazed that such a large man could move with such athletic grace. His body was total perfection, she thought, discounting a few scars that said he’d been in more than his share of fights.

  He took several swipes at his torso with a towel, then knotted it around his hips. She should volunteer to dry him more thoroughly, but she was suddenly overcome by the insane urge to throw her arms around him and cry. Not because she was sad. She was afraid, terrified that she had fallen in love with him.

  She’d gone beyond the point of no return when she’d told her father. Her life was never going to be the same again. Knowing this, made her fearful. Yet with this fear came a contradictory sense of elation. In telling her father, she’d put the worst behind her. That sword was no longer hanging over her head.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked as he followed her into the bedroom.

  “Sure, babe.”

  She nudged him toward the bed, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried from the room, remembering the posole casserole in the oven. The rich hominy and pork stew laced with chiles was her own special variation of the traditional Southwestern dish. She’d made it when she’d come home, hoping Zach would drop by. After all, the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Although she’d seen no evidence this would work with Zach, she wanted to give it a try. She took a bowl in to him.

  His large body was sprawled across the bed, leaving no room for her. The tension was still there in his face, but she could see he was asleep. She set the steaming bowl of posole aside and undressed before easing her way into bed next to him. He was exhausted, she thought, noting how soundly he slept and remembering how little sleep he’d had since Duncan Morrell’s murder.

  She cradled his head against her bosom and lightly kissed his damp hair. There was an aching tenderness inside her, a longing to love and be loved. She recognized it, but had no idea if this man could actually fulfill her dreams.

  Dreams? She again kissed his moist head, thinking about what she wanted from life. A successful gallery. Well, it seemed she was fated to have a gallery perpetually suspended on the tightrope between success and failure.

  What else did she want? A home and a family. She knew that no matter how successful her gallery became, she would never be happy without a family to call her own. So, what was she doing here? Zach might not deserve her father’s scathing condemnation, but was he father material?

  He stirred in her arms, his body seeking hers, his leg capturing hers. There was a certain comfort to the feeling, a sense of being needed that made her forget the reservations she had about their relationship. She let her thoughts drift, determined not to think about her father.

  Zach opened his eyes, trying to remember where he was. What was that noxiously sweet smell? It came back to him like a bolt of lightning. Aromatherapy. Had he really let Claire coax him into a tub full of stinky flowers?

  Well, hell, why not? She’d been so sweet, so like the fantasy of her that he’d harbored all these years. He’d been powerless to deny her anything. What had changed her? He pulled her close, nuzzling her breast and realized she was still awake.

  “Claire,” he wh
ispered, “have I been asleep long?”

  “About four hours. You were exhausted.”

  The tone of her voice told him that she might actually care about him. It was a startling revelation and a sharp contrast to the way she’d behaved last night. A strange feeling surged through him. He wanted her to kiss him. He needed her to … to what? Hold him, he realized. Hold him and love him.

  He’d experienced the same emotional upheaval the night he’d brought her home after inspecting the room at The Hideaway. He’d wanted her to take him into her arms and kiss him. Make love to him.

  Of course, she hadn’t. So what was he expecting after last night? He’d chased her across the meadow. She’d insisted on fighting him, needing him to almost force her to make love.

  He listened to her breathing, his body touching hers at the hips and shoulders, his leg slung over hers. What was wrong with him? A flash of insight told him that he’d slept with too many women who hadn’t meant a damn thing to him.

  But one woman had always held the key to his heart.

  There had been plenty of women who would have loved him—if he’d let them. But he didn’t want just any woman. In the back of his mind hovered one special woman. Claire Holt.

  He needed her to reach out to him, to make him feel loved and wanted. He seemed to remember falling asleep and having Claire cradle his head against her breast, her hands gently caressing his head. Being sweet and tender.

  Or had it been yet another dream?

  He wasn’t sure. He wanted her with a blind, ferocious need that stunned him, yet he longed for her to reach out to him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to understand himself. Oooo-kay, he’d been alone since he could remember. His parents had been around, but they’d been absorbed in their own problems, never having time for him.