by Lynde Lakes
“What’s wrong?” she asked, with wide eyes. “Is it something Ted told you?” The strength in her voice amazed him, but how would she hold up after hearing about the killer’s latest attack?
York nodded. “They found Joel strangled.”
Jen gripped the edge of the table, as though the guy had been a friend. “Oh, God, not him, too.”
Her reaction took him by surprise. He was learning she wasn’t the usual coldhearted newshound. He tucked the revelation away for later reflection. “I’m sorry to cut our weekend short, but I need to get back to Boston. I have a meeting with the chief in the morning.”
She shrugged. “Of course. No problem.”
He wished she were a little disappointed, but why should she be? She’d accomplished her trip goal, she’d questioned Howard.
York resumed pacing, pounding his palm with his right fist. He stopped and stared down at Jen, wishing he didn’t have to tell her the rest. But for her safety she had to know.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” she asked softly, looking so damned vulnerable that he had to fight himself to keep from taking her into his arms. And it shook and intrigued him that she could read him so easily.
He held every muscle in his body stiff. “It’s bad. The strangler broke into a small toy store run by a man and wife. It was just after they’d closed, and the man had gone to make a bank drop. When he returned, he found his wife strangled.”
“Oh, no. How horrible for him.” She lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. After a moment, she raised her chin. “If only Joel hadn’t disappeared, we could have gotten Sniffles’ journal from him and maybe saved Joel’s life, and the woman’s life...”
“There’s more. The husband found empty packaging for a doll called Reporter Barbie, and a Barbie-sized redheaded wig.”
Jen’s face paled and she seemed to shrink. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
Her whispery soft voice reached down deep inside York, tearing at his guts, and he wished he could deny the significance. He shrugged, not wanting to get too specific until he evaluated her reaction to the rest of the news. “It gets worse, Jen.”
Jen closed her eyes briefly and pressed her lips into a fine line, as though preparing herself. When she lifted her lashes, he could see that she’d overcome the dread with raw courage. “Worse than Joel and a woman murdered?”
York swallowed, fighting the constriction in his throat. “The killer carved the letters
J-E-N into the woman’s forearm.”
****
Driving home along the dark curving road increased Jen’s anxiety, and she jumped when York spoke into the quiet hum of wheels rolling over pavement.
“Something besides the latest killing is bothering you, right? Was it my brother’s far-fetched speculation about Ted?”
She knew York was just trying to distract her from her fears. And she played along. “Maybe,” she said, feeling disloyal to his brother, a man who’d shown her only kindness.
“Wayne knows some reporters are hungry for sensationalism. His groundless hypothesis was a test to see if you’re one of those vultures. And you came through like a champ.” York sounded prouder of her than she deserved. “If we’re to believe anything Sniffles said,” he continued, “the guy behind everything is a big wig, not some homicide detective who has proven a hundred times over that his whole life is about getting killers off the streets, not ordering hits.”
Jen smiled. “I don’t know why I needed to hear you say that. But I feel better now.” It was only partly true. She never been more scared, but she kept it to herself. York had enough on his mind.
****
An hour and a half later, she followed York into the lighted foyer of his Beacon Hill home. He flipped a main switch, turning on additional lights throughout the house. She knew it was to make her feel safer. But would she ever feel safe again? I’m the strangler’s obsession....
She trembled.
York dropped their bags and when he pulled her close, she reveled in the hard, strong feel of his arms around her.
“It’s going to be all right, Jen,” he whispered into her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you. From now on I’m your Siamese twin.”
She wrapped her arms around him, never wanting to let go, seeking his warmth, his strength. She kissed his neck and undid a few shirt buttons. When she pressed her lips to his chest, he backed away and cleared his throat. Feeling off balance, she looked up at him.
“This probably isn’t a good idea.” He stroked her sides and she felt him harden against her thigh.
She stared up at him, trying to tell him with her gaze that it didn’t matter. She wanted this—needed it.
“Anyone ever tell you that you have incredible, and very seductive green eyes?”
She shook her head, lost in the huskiness of his voice. That deep hum vibrating through her and his throbbing arousal clarified beyond a doubt that he was no longer just trying to distract her from her fears. He desired her. She held his gaze, knowing if they crossed this line, she’d never be the same. Could she really accept that he didn’t want her for keeps?
He stepped back as though sensing her hesitation. “Come on,” he said, snagging her bag. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
They didn’t talk as they headed up the stairs. It felt right to have his arm around her waist. At the bedroom doorway, he stopped short as though the door was barred. He glanced inside at the soft glow coming from the lamp on the night stand. Did he feel its beguiling pull beckoning him to step over the threshold? His gaze flicked to the bed. He took a deep breath and set the bag down. He turned her toward him.
She looked up at him and moistened her lips. Oh, God. She wanted him so. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked off the seconds as they stared at each other. Sensing his indecision, she tightened her hold on him. She wanted him to understand that the latest assault by the strangler had taken its toll, and she wasn’t ready to be alone. “A reporter doll…plus a red wig…a replica of me…” She didn’t try to conceal the fear in her voice.
York traced her cheekbone, his tenderness making her want him more. “Jen, don’t…” His husky voice vibrated through her.
She grabbed the front of his shirt. “Kiss me, now. Block the horror from my mind, just for tonight. Please.” With regret in his eyes, he lifted her hand and pressed a light, lingering kiss to her palm. The pressure of his lips and the warmth of his breath was more than she could endure. To hell with pride. She wasn’t above begging. “Stay here with me,” she whispered. “I need you to hold me.”
“You’re just scared. You’ll regret it tomorrow.” His voice was hoarse and thick with desire.
“I can’t be alone tonight. I keep seeing my name carved into the poor woman’s forearm.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
She put her fingers to his lips. “No. You did the right thing. Don’t ever hold out on me.” She took a fortifying breath, and forced a small smile. “Honestly, I can handle it with a little help from my favorite cop.”
He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally drew her toward him, she sighed in relief. He cupped her face in his hands, and lowered his mouth to hers so slowly she thought she might die before he brushed a kiss lightly across her lips. The light touch, sweet with the taste of coffee and desire, stole the steadiness from her legs. She swayed against him and entwined her hands behind his head, needing that lifeline. She grabbed a breath, and he kissed her again, deep and searching, making her dizzy with wanting him. His hands slid down her back to her waist, pulling her closer. She felt his arousal, harder now, and the throbbing readiness heightened her excitement.
“If we’re going to stop...” he murmured against her lips.
“We’re not,” she said a little breathlessly. His old-fashioned woman would. But she wasn’t that woman. Never would be. If only he could accept that.
He swept her off her feet, and kissed her, carrying her to the bed. As
he gently lowered her she pushed away the spread, letting it slip to the floor. Too eager to stay put, she rose to her knees and drew him onto the bed. Facing her with the softest expression she’d ever seen, he undressed her slowly as though his only need was to study her in lingering detail. The delay was unbearable.
Nude, she tugged at his shirt, frenzied for the touch of his bare skin. She yanked off his belt, sent it flying across the room, then tugged down his zipper.
He grinned. “Let me help.”
His gaze remained on her face as he undressed, tossing trousers and briefs across the room. He returned to the center of the bed, faced her and waited.
His shoulders were so wide and bronzed that she couldn’t resist. She pressed her mouth to his hot, salty, wide shoulders, his rock-hard chest. “Give in to it, darling,” she murmured, moving lower to his steely abs, then even lower, thrilled by the persistent swell of his arousal. “Let me set you on fire—”
He laughed deep in his throat. “Slow down, tiger.” He grabbed her wrists and sat her back on her heels.
Jen stayed very still. Her rush of eagerness had astonished even her. Oh, God. His old-fashioned woman would have never have been so aggressive, would never have said the things she’d said. From now on it’ll be his call.
He twisted and leaned over, showing a firm, bare butt, and grabbed a bottle of lotion from the night stand. “I hear some women like to start with a back rub.”
“Now?” York might be a patient lover, but she wasn’t...not at all.
“You’ll love it,” he said.
Okay, she thought. Since it was his call, she’d go with it—for a while.
He laid her on her stomach atop a sheet that smelled like cotton and her perfume from the night before. She glanced over her shoulder and watched him pour out some lotion and rub it vigorously between his hands.
“I want this to be warm for you,” he said. He massaged her back...her waist...her behind. He smoothed the lotion, lower and lower, curving the line of her buttocks, sliding his hand between her thighs, getting nearer and nearer to her pulsing core. His gentle touch left her weak.
“Please,” she murmured, forgetting her vow to be patient.
“Not yet.” His words were low and spoken as slowly as his long, sensuous strokes. He turned her over, caressing her as if he had the rest of his life to do this one splendid thing. He lingeringly spread the fragrant lotion over her breasts, her belly, moving ever so slowly toward her damp tangle of hair. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, not...”
“Don’t you dare say that now!”
“Then don’t you dare regret this.”
“No regrets...for heaven’s sakes...no regrets!” She wanted to shake him to speed him up.
York had warned her to guard her heart. Now he was murmuring something else as he stroked her, but she could only feel waves of ecstasy, clouds of sensations...
He slid his hand lower and with long, gentle fingers he slid between her thighs and found her wetness. She groaned in readiness. He straddled her and hovered there with such incredible caring in his eyes that she knew that, for this moment, he loved her. And as unwise as it was, she loved him.
She tried to pull him down to her, but he shook his head and continued stroking—deeper and deeper, tightening her nerve endings, heightening the sweet torture until she could only arch her hips against him. “Please,” she murmured.
He pulled a foil packet from the nightstand drawer and she took it from him and leisurely rolled it over his hot, pulsing shaft, watching his smoldering eyes.
She lay back, opening herself to him. He didn’t enter her. He persisted in his unhurried game, rubbing the inside walls of her slick canal with strong fingers, bringing her to the point of shattering.
Then, at long last, he lowered himself, coupling in a perfect fit and thrust deep inside her. They moved in an age-old rhythm, made unique by their pooled sense of beat, increasing faster and faster until they rocked as one. She grabbed his buttocks and cried, “Don’t stop...don’t stop…” as he swept them both toward release. Eruptions rippled over her in electrified waves while they clung to each other, panting, hearts pounding, bodies melded in a slick, hot sweat.
Finally spent, he lay on top of her, breathing hard. After a moment, he kissed her all over the face. “Jen, Jen...my sweet Jen.” He slid his lips down the column of her neck, suckled her nipples, kissed the dewy sweat from the valley between her breasts.
She couldn’t move. She was still coming down, slowly as if in a silky parachute. When she finally landed soft and secure, he turned her on her side and tucked her, spoon-like, close to his body. “How do you feel, my love?” he whispered against her hair.
“Safe,” she purred, and fell asleep in his arms.
****
York woke up with a stiff arm, a shameless hard on, and full-blown anger at himself. An image of he and Jen in the heat of passion flashed in his mind. How could he regret something so beautiful? He’d taken it arduously slow, wanting to make a memory that would last a lifetime. It only made him want her forever, and forever wasn’t possible.
She could have stopped him at any point. He knew she wouldn’t. It had been unwise and unprofessional for him to take advantage of her vulnerability. More than that, he had opened them both up to a great deal of pain, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. He gritted his teeth, loathing himself. He could blame the memories of their first kiss, the long hours together, undeniable chemistry, heightened danger. Excuses didn’t make him feel any better.
In spite of how much they wanted each other, under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have asked him to stay with her. He should’ve been the strong one.
The chemistry had started on day one. He had to continually remind himself that he was a cop and she was a reporter and an important person to the case. He was too good a cop to step over the line with a woman he was supposed to protect. So why had he jeopardized the case, even his career?
Something deep inside his soul told him what they shared was more momentous than just the best lovemaking of his life, and worth whatever it cost him. What about her?
Perhaps if he hadn’t taken her to meet his parents, who had welcomed her like family... Hell, why wouldn’t they? Other than her damned job, she was everything they could want in a daughter-in-law. His dad had asked him if a marriage was in the wind. He hated to disappoint him. He knew how badly his father wanted more grandchildren. His illness had brought intensity to his desires. He wanted to give him what he wanted but...
He felt a tightness in his throat. There would be time. Mom said Dad was getting stronger every day. York shook his head. Mom had sure changed. When did all that happen? She’d become this modern woman he didn’t recognize.
He laughed without humor. Now Mom and Jen were alike, both thoroughly modern women. Dad didn’t even notice the changes in Mom. He was proud of her accomplishments, and as always, reveled in her unwavering loyalty. That was the virtue both women shared, staunch, unyielding loyalty. In Jen’s case, her unyielding loyalty could be her undoing, more precisely, her loyalty to that Janus-faced Brock.
A primal desire to protect Jen tore at York’s gut. He couldn’t let anything happen to her.
Jen, Jen, what am I going to do about you? It was so damned wonderful to hold her in his arms all night, to wake up still holding her.
He shoved away thoughts about what happened between them last night and eased out of bed. From now on his focus would stay on the killer. He looked at his watch. They’d slept too late for breakfast. They’d have to get something at work. Just as well, he wasn’t sure he could face her over the breakfast table. It was too damned domestic. Besides, she wanted to leave for work by seven and they both needed to get into the shower. Alone, he thought with regret. He’d take his quickly, then get the hell out of her way. The less contact, the better.
Forty-five minutes later, he escorted Jen to her desk and posted a cop outside her office door. Other than saying she felt
like the one in jail, she accepted it. Then he risked a light kiss on the forehead and headed for the police department for his emergency meeting with the chief.
He had a hunch that he had all the pieces to the puzzle and only needed some quiet time to put it all together. Maybe he’d find a clue in the service station report he’d borrowed from Tormont’s office. But he needed an hour or so to go over it thoroughly. The weekend trip to Salem was supposed to give him time to reflect and step back from a case he’d gotten too close to. Because of the latest killing all his plans got scrapped. Jen’s plans, too, he was sorry to admit. She’d been so silent this morning, perhaps scared speechless. Or was it regret?
Ted stuck his head through the doorway of York’s cubicle and said, “The chief wants to see you in his office before the big meeting. Hope you’re wearing your flak jacket.”
York groaned. He knew what this was about. He headed down the hall and tapped on the closed door.
“Get your ass in here, Wylinski,” Chief Sharpe growled.
“Morning, Chief.” He slid into the chair everyone called the hot seat.
Sharpe raked his premature gray hair. York knew he was responsible for at least some of the graying.
“What the hell’s going on between you and that reporter?” Sharpe barked.
“Following orders.” York hadn’t forgotten for a minute that the chief had made it his personal responsibility to see that Jen’s boss, Dirk Hudson, didn’t lose another news hound to the strangler.
“Jen Lyman is the reporter assigned to the strangler story,” he explained, feeling like crap. “She’s the reporter Hudson wants me to protect.” Guilt warmed York’s neck. Hudson hadn’t asked him to take Jen to his bed, or to care so deeply for her.
Sharpe’s nostrils flared and he leaned forward with fire in his eyes. “Since when do you take your work home with you?”
York met the chief’s bug-eyed scrutiny. “Since the strangler became obsessed with her, dammit. You know what happened at the toy store.”
“When you took her to your house, you stepped over the line, Wylinski. In my department, cops and reporters don’t talk, and they sure as hell don’t wrinkle the sheets.”
