Slow Burn

by Heather Graham

  “But I didn’t. I had the great and noble David Delgado there to save me, thanks to my grandfather’s money.”

  “Spencer—”

  “Do you mind?” she cried out furiously, stepping into the bathroom and slamming the door.

  She heard him swearing, then sitting down on the foot of her bed to wait.

  She turned on the water. Hard. Steaming. She stepped out of her jeans and shirt and underwear and tossed them on the floor. She stared at them for a moment, then picked up the lot and crammed them into the small trash basket in the bathroom, knowing that she would never wear any of them again. If David had said it, he would have been right. She wasn’t cut out for such things. Such places. Her heart went out to the street people, but she hated the dope dealers and the brutal criminals who were trying to tear down the city she had loved all her life. She would do anything she could to set Danny to rest, but she didn’t have to like doing it. She admired the young attorney who had dealt with the leering prisoners with such a cool demeanor. She applauded her. But she wasn’t like her.

  She stood beneath the streaming water, and she let it run and run and run.

  She winced when she heard his fist slam against the bathroom door. It wasn’t locked; but he didn’t open it.

  “Spencer! You can’t get rid of me that way!” she heard David shouting.

  She wrenched the water off in a fury, grabbed an oversize towel and wrapped it around her, then slammed open the bathroom door, totally unsure as to exactly why she was so angry.

  He’d moved away from the door and was by the foot of the bed again. He’d worn jeans, and a tailored blue cotton shirt, open at the neck. She knew he was agitated, because she could see a telltale pulse ticking away at his throat. His eyes glittered, still appearing black as coal rather than blue. She stood in the doorway, the towel wrapped around her, still dripping. “Talk, talk, talk! What is it you want to talk about? You were the one who threw me bodily out of your office! Now you want to talk. Why? Am I suddenly making the lot of you—you and all of Danny’s cop buddies—look like fools?”

  “One more time, Spencer, try to get this. You almost got yourself killed!”

  She walked toward him, eyes narrowed, a finger pointed straight at his nose. “Cut the macho crap, David! Danny was a guy, a tough guy, a carry-a-gun guy. And now he’s dead. So—”

  “All the more reason for you to get out of this and stay the hell out of it! Danny knew what he was up against. He joined the force and he took his chances. What is it with you, Spencer? You won’t be happy unless you wind up dead, too?”

  She shoved his chest, intending to walk around him to her closet. “Fuck you, David,” she told him succinctly.

  She started by him but felt his hand grip her shoulder, pulling her back with angry force. “No! Fuck you, Spencer!” he snapped in return.

  And it was then that she lost her towel.

  She’d never believed in people just falling into other people’s arms. There was some kind of conscious thought involved in every deed performed by man. And it wasn’t that she didn’t know what she was doing. She did.

  For a long moment they were dead silent. She felt the blood race to her cheeks and considered grabbing the wayward towel so she could hide behind it once again. But she felt the heat of David’s gaze on her, and it was almost as if she was hypnotized, just as she’d been with Delia. It was as if David were touching her. Her breath seemed caught in her chest. There was something incredibly hot and erotic in that alone; if he touched her, she would melt.

  He touched her. He was still angry, explosively so. She wondered if he knew exactly what he was doing.

  He did. He knew, all right. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind, David knew this was about one of the most stupid things he’d ever done. But he would be damned if he could stop it. He was suddenly staring at her and she was stark naked. And she was the same wild-haired, high-handed, blue-eyed, perfect little blonde he’d been asinine enough to fall in love with all those years ago. It didn’t matter now. Touching her did.

  And so he reached out, curled his fingers around her perfect nape, felt the silky softness of that perfect Anglo hair tangle around his fingers. He pulled her close. And he kissed her.

  There could be no half measures with Spencer.

  Danny Huntington’s wife.

  Widow.

  For a few seconds those thoughts careened through his mind. Then they faded. Maybe his anger had brought him to this; maybe he’d been mad for over a decade. And maybe this would have happened no matter what. A force was there, an energy, a burning frustration, something that had to be appeased. He could strangle her or make love to her. Of course, she could pull away at any minute, shove a knee up into all that energy and frustrated heat….

  But she didn’t. She didn’t really move at first; she was still while his lips moved passionately over hers, while his tongue forced its way between them, tasting and savoring her. Then suddenly he heard a little sound from her, a whimper. And then her fingers were moving into his hair, and all that nakedness was pressing against him while her lips moved hungrily against his own.

  It was all over for Spencer Anne Montgomery. Screw everything that had ever come between them. Including Danny.

  He didn’t think he’d ever been so painfully hard in his life. He wasn’t even really aware of where he was, of exactly what he was doing, what steps he was taking. She had always been tall, slim, light. In seconds he had her on the bed and his fly was open, his lips on hers again. His weight was wedged between her thighs.

  Her mouth was sweet with the hickory taste of coffee and a touch of mint. He stroked it hard with his tongue, reaching down with his hand to find the warm center of her. His palm brushed over a soft field of pubic hair. He didn’t have to see it to know it was blond. His fingers sought her. Found her hot, damp. Touched, stroked, deeper. All the while his lips were on hers, sounds catching in her throat, in his mouth. It was strange. He’d wanted her so badly, needed her so badly, that he hadn’t even allowed himself to think about it. But beyond the fevered force of pure, gut-wrenching desire, instinct had stepped in. This had to be good for her. She wasn’t forgetting this one.

  He suddenly shoved himself against her body. There was only so much you could forget. And so much you had no choice but to remember, even after more than a decade. She had been worth remembering. She had perfect breasts, full, firm, with large pink nipples, hard now. He laved one. Tasted it, teased it with his tongue. Kept his rhythmic touch moving within her. Sucked on her nipple. Heard her crying out, felt her fingers tearing into his hair.

  He moved lower, lifting her hips. His tongue replaced his fingers. She was gasping, crying out words that were incomprehensible, or which he chose to ignore. She tensed against him, straining, then ceased to fight him. He felt the sudden surge of her body, the slight easing of those fingers in his hair. She came with a wicked shudder, and he rose over her then, blanketing her with his body, driving into her with all the wild, hard desire that touching Spencer had always evoked. Eliciting it all over again in Spencer with the sheer force of his passion, the near desperate desire that washed over him.

  Then it was quick. Her fingers digging into his shoulders, her body moving with his. The world seemed all but wiped out except for the need for surcease, and for Spencer. Slick now, still so damned slim, soft, almost angelic, except for the way she moved.

  He seemed to erupt rather than climax. Maybe that was what happened when someone stayed in your dreams all your life. The whole damned world seemed to blacken briefly. Consciousness returning, he admitted to himself that it was the best sex he’d ever had. Moments later, while his heart was still pounding and he was gasping for breath, satisfaction was making him feel warmer and more content than he could remember being in a decade.

  Sex was sex, he argued with himself. He’d had some damned good sex over the years since he’d parted ways with Spencer Anne Montgomery. Even in a world where everyone was being careful, he
’d had some damned good sex.

  But nothing like Spencer. Because he’d never gotten over her. Never would. And now he was entangling himself like a foolish fly caught in a web all over again, just because of some idiotic loyalty to Sly and his obsession with her. And any idea of careful sex, responsible sex, had flown out of his head, along with any sensible questions, like, Just what in God’s name are you doing here, Delgado?

  How quick the deed, how painful the repercussions.

  It wasn’t as if she shoved him aside or anything so obvious. But she went from lying next to him, gasping for breath, her heart pounding, perfect one-hundred-percent-Anglo flesh sheened and damp and still touching his, to turning away. Suddenly she was sitting on the side of the bed, her slim back to him, and shaking slightly. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew that silent tears were running down her cheeks.

  He was lying in Danny’s bed; his head was on Danny’s pillow. In Danny’s room. Danny’s house.

  He almost screamed aloud. But he didn’t.

  Instead he rose from the bed and fixed his clothing. She didn’t move; she wasn’t even shaking anymore; she was just sitting there. He wished he could say something, but he didn’t know what. He felt guilty enough himself.

  But she was crying. Because she’d slept with him. No, they hadn’t slept, they hadn’t even dozed. She’d fallen into bed with him. His fault. He’d followed her up here. Her fault. She hadn’t thrown him out fast enough. Oh, bull, it was his fault.

  And now she was crying, hiding it from him, but crying anyway. Was she crying because he wasn’t Danny and she wished he was?

  Or because he wasn’t Danny and she had been glad of it? As her shoulders rose and fell, his temper snapped. “Quit it, Spencer.”

  “Quit what?”

  “Crying.”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “You didn’t do anything terrible.”

  “I didn’t say I did.”

  So she thought he was the bad guy here, huh? “I didn’t do anything terrible either, Spencer. Danny is dead. You didn’t betray him, and neither did I. We’re all grown-up now, and you’ve been alone a long time. People have needs.”

  “Would you stop!” she exploded suddenly, rising and staring at him. She was still naked. Still Spencer.

  Still perfect.

  All that blond hair still wild, those beautiful blue eyes huge. Body a little flushed, flesh a rosy hue, breasts swollen, nipples still hard…

  And cheeks dampened with her tears.

  She felt his eyes then and realized that he was dressed while she wasn’t. She strode across the room for the fallen towel, wiping the tears from her cheeks before she reached for the towel, and wrapped it around herself. “I want you out of here—now. I’m not blaming you for anything—”

  “You sure as hell better not!” he snapped, grabbing her arm and forcing her to face him.

  “David, I’m asking you to get out of here.”

  “Spencer, it’s a damned good thing I’ve got an ego or you’d make me feel like a two-bit whore myself. What is this, the same old story with you year after year? You want something you’re not supposed to want, something from the wrong side of the tracks, so you think you can just take it and then throw it away? You need a little dirt in your pristine life and I’m it? You can’t admit it, though—”

  “Stop it! I was your best friend’s wife!” she cried.

  She was hurting, and he knew that, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “Just what the hell do you want, Spencer?” he suddenly snapped out. “A little erotic interlude? How do you like it? Quick, out of sight, as down and dirty as you can get in ten minutes?”

  She inhaled sharply. He knew she was raising a hand to slap him, and he could have stopped her, but he didn’t. Maybe he was as bad as she was, because he wanted to feel the sting of her hand on his cheek, wanted to take that with him when he turned away.

  What was wrong with him? Maybe he was angry because she had been able to give only so much, and if he was going to have any of her, he wanted it all.

  He’d never had it all. He hadn’t had it ten years ago, and he couldn’t have it now.

  He felt the sting of her hand fading from his cheek. Her eyes were glazed now, holding just a bit of wariness of what he might do in response.

  “I’ll be downstairs, Spencer.”

  She paled and shook her head, moistening her lips. “I want you to leave.”

  “So you can wallow in self-pity? Sorry. Sly has paid me, after all.”

  “And you always give people their money’s worth!” she exclaimed angrily.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “I could call the police.”

  “Call them. If you get one of my old buddies, be sure to say hello for me.”

  He managed to turn away then, and he finally left her bedroom. And all the while he was damning himself for ever having entered it in the first place.

  7

  When Spencer got downstairs, he was still there. Sitting in the living room, thumbing through the newspaper.

  She ignored him, walked into the kitchen and swallowed two glasses of water.

  She had some Valium in the cupboard that she’d been given when Danny died. She toyed with the idea of taking a few. That wouldn’t make David go away, nor could it really do anything to stop the emotions ripping into her heart. She decided to pass.

  She strode into the living room. She’d dressed defensively in a sleeveless silk suit with a high mandarin collar, stockings and the highest heels she owned. She’d twisted her hair up, as well, determined not to let him look down at her. “Perhaps you’ve been paid to sit around all day,” she told David as coolly as she could manage, “but I’ve got to go to work.”

  He stared at her long and hard, nothing in his bronzed features giving away any thoughts or feelings. Even so, she felt there was a certain contempt in his expression. She’d felt it before when she had been younger. And maybe she deserved it.

  She didn’t want to think about that. She was going to pretend it had never happened. And no matter what, she was never going to let him know that she still couldn’t stop shaking, that she hated him, hated herself….

  And that she couldn’t stop wanting him all over again. In Danny’s house. In Danny’s bed.

  “I’ll drive you,” he said, his tone flat, without a spark of emotion. As if he had already forgotten what had happened. As if it hadn’t meant a thing to him.

  Well, maybe it hadn’t. What did she really know about his life anymore? She and Reva had more or less cut their ties after high school. She’d seen David as infrequently as possible since her marriage to Danny. And David did have a life of his own. He’d been living it just fine without her. Sex still seemed as natural to him as breathing. He was too good at it not to have been enjoying it all these years.

  A flush crept up to her face. They were living in the nineties. What the hell was the matter with her? She hadn’t even thought about safety. She’d just wanted to feel him as fast as possible. Have him. A burning shame invaded her. No one should just fall into bed so irresponsibly.

  But she had. And then she’d wanted to ignore it. Now she couldn’t seem to get it out of her mind for an instant, but there was David, cool as ice, staring at her with that strange glitter—mockery? contempt?—in his eyes.

  “I want to take my car. I don’t suppose I can stop you from following me, but at least it will get you out of my house.”

  “Don’t you mean Danny’s house?” he asked softly.

  She had no answer for that. She spun quickly and started for the front door, heels clicking on the marble floor of the foyer. But before she could escape, the doorbell rang. She flinched at the sound, instantly tensing.

  David did more, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster and stepping past her, looking through the peephole. He frowned, instantly sheathing the gun and opening the door. “Fried! What are you doing here?”

  Spencer could see Danny’s
last partner standing awkwardly on the front porch in a wilting brown tweed jacket. He seemed surprised to find David there, then stared at Spencer a little sheepishly. “I just came to see Spencer for a minute.” He straightened, as if inwardly yelling at himself for wavering in his purpose so quickly. “Actually, Delgado, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to try to talk a little bit of sense into her.”

  David arched a brow, pushed the door open farther and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked from Jerry Fried to Spencer. “Be my guest. This ought to be good.”

  “Come in, Jerry,” Spencer said wearily.

  He stepped inside and looked around, and Spencer wondered if he liked the old house, with its warmth and elegance, or if he simply resented the fact that Danny had lived here. The two men hadn’t gotten on particularly well, but a lot of that might have been Danny’s fault. David had been his partner before Jerry, and in Danny’s eyes, no one could have lived up to David. Danny had thought that Jerry was nice enough, a good fellow. Just not as sharp as David.

  “Want some coffee, Jerry?” Spencer asked politely.

  “Are you kidding? It’s hotter than a mother out there! Oh, sorry, Spencer.”

  “Cold drink? Soda, ice tea?”

  Jerry shook his head. Then he plunged in. “Spencer, I’ve just gotta tell you, you’re hurting us all.”

  She frowned. “I’m hurting you…all?”

  “Come on, Spencer, you lived with a cop long enough. You were his wife. You know we’re doing everything we can. We practically camped out on Delia’s door. We followed up on every single thing Danny was working on when he died. We haven’t given up. We’re going to get the killer. You just have to give us half a chance.”

  “But I’m not interfering with anything you’re doing!” Spencer protested.

  He shrugged sheepishly. “Spencer, come on, you were prowling around a graveyard at night, for chris-sake!”

  “I had a hunch.”

  “A hunch, huh?”

  “Jerry, I shouldn’t have been there, all right? But my hunch was on the money, and you do have Delia in jail.”