by Nora Roberts
“Why?”
“Curiosity.” He blew out a stream of smoke as a reporter behind them swore and hung up his own phone. “She describes her niece as a shy, quiet girl. Apparently Elise loved Heritage Oak, and unlike Anne, had already begun to take over the position of lady of the manor. She enjoyed the planning, the entertaining, had ideas for redecorating. The aunt was astonished when Elise ran off with Louis’s brother—hasn’t seen or heard from her since. She thought Elise was devoted to her husband.”
“So did everyone else,” Laurel commented. “Things like that do happen, Matthew, without anyone on the outside being aware. I don’t imagine Elise would’ve told her aunt or anyone else that she was having an affair with Charles.”
“Maybe not. There is something I find interesting,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on Laurel’s. “Elise inherited fifty thousand dollars on her twenty-first birthday. She turned twenty-one the month after she left Heritage Oak. The money,” he said slowly, “was never claimed.”
Laurel stared at him while ideas, answers, spun through her mind. “Maybe she—she might’ve been afraid to claim it thinking Louis could trace her.”
“Fifty thousand buys a lot of courage.”
“I don’t see what digging into Elise’s business has to do with Anne.”
His eyes were very calm, very direct. “Yes, you do.” She looked pale again, drained as she had that morning. Smothering an oath, Matt rose. “It’s something to think about,” he said briskly. “For now, we’d better concentrate on what we have to do tonight. Let’s go home. We can catch a couple of hours’ rest before we have to get ready.”
“All right.” She didn’t want to argue, and though it was cowardly, she didn’t want to think about what he’d just told her. There’d been enough that day. If she was to win out over her emotions, she needed the time to do it.
Matt didn’t press her, but made easy, innocuous conversation on the drive home. He was good at falling back on a relaxed style to conceal his inner thoughts and feelings. It was one of his greatest professional weapons, and personal defenses. If he was furious with Laurel’s automatic and unflagging defense of Louis Trulane, it wasn’t apparent. If he harbored frustrating, near-violent urges to take her to some dark, private place until she forgot Louis Trulane existed, he didn’t show it. His voice was calm, his driving smooth. His muscles were tight.
“A nap,” Laurel said as they left his car to cross the courtyard, “sounds like heaven. It’s been a long two days.”
A long year, he thought as needs crawled in him. “And it’s going to be a long night,” he said easily.
She smiled at him for the first time since they’d left the Herald. “What time do we go on safari?”
“Midnight’s the accepted hour, I believe.” He touched the tips of her hair, then started up the steps.
“Garlic doesn’t work against ghosts, does it?” Laurel mused. “No silver bullets, wooden stakes. What does?”
“Common sense.”
She gave a windy sigh. “No romance.”
At the top of the steps, he grinned at her. “Wanna bet?”
Laughing, she bent to pick up a wrapped box at the base of her door. “I don’t remember ordering anything.”
“From Jerry, no doubt—a box of number-two pencils.”
She tried to glare at him and failed. “Midnight, Bates.” After a brief search, she found her keys and unlocked the door. With a final arch look, she closed the door in his face.
His grin faded as he started down to his own apartment. The woman was driving him crazy. She had to be blind not to see it, he thought as he jabbed his key into the lock. Maybe he’d been too cautious. As he walked into the kitchen, Matt stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Then again, it had taken him weeks to get used to the fact that he’d been struck by lightning the first time she’d lifted those dark green eyes and looked at him.
At that point, he’d told himself it was impossible, the same way he’d told himself it was impossible for him to lose his head over the neatly framed photograph Curt had put on their shared desk in their college dorm.
“My sister,” Curt had said in his abstracted way. “Runs copy at my father’s paper during the summer. Guess you’d know about things like that.”
The words hadn’t registered because Matt had to concentrate on just breathing. There he’d been—a senior in college, a man who’d already seen and worked his way through more than many men do in a lifetime—rooted to the spot with one of the shirts he’d been unpacking dangling from his hand, head swimming over a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Impossible.
Matt grabbed some orange juice from the refrigerator and chugged straight from the bottle. He’d gotten over that first . . . whatever it had been quickly enough. Or he’d told himself he had. But when William Armand had written him, all those years later, mentioning his relationship to Matt’s senior-year college roommate and offering a position on the Herald, Matt hadn’t hesitated. And he hadn’t asked himself why.
It would’ve helped, he thought as he tossed the empty bottle in the trash, if he’d found a slow brain underneath that fabulous face. Or a bland or too-sweet personality. It would’ve helped if he hadn’t sat next to her for a full year knowing she was everything he’d ever wanted.
He intended to have her, though her innocence urged him toward a traditional courtship—quiet dinners, candlelight, a gentle touch. Matt felt the stir of desire, and swore. He hoped he had the control he was going to need.
He intended to have her, though the difference in their backgrounds sometimes reared up to mock him. He’d already pushed his way through a lot of doors; now he had to make sure his luck held.
He was going to have her.
Matt stuck his hands in his pockets and headed for the shower. And he heard her scream.
Later, he wouldn’t remember bursting out of his own apartment and rushing to hers. He’d remember hearing her scream again, and again, but he wouldn’t remember beating on her door and finally, in desperation, knocking it in. What he would remember, always, was the way she’d looked, standing frozen with her hands at her own throat, her face like parchment and her eyes terrified.
“Laurel!” He grabbed her, spinning her around and into him where she stood in his arms, rigid as a stone. “What? What is it?”
He could feel the beat of her heart. Was it possible for a heart to beat that fast? Her skin was like ice, dampened by a sheen of sweat, but she didn’t tremble. Not yet. “The box,” she whispered. “In the box.”
With one hand still on her arm, he turned and looked into the box on the table. The oath ripped out under his breath, pungent. “It’s all right, Laurel. It’s dead, it can’t hurt you.” His body trembled with fury as he lifted a portion of the copperhead from the box. “It can’t hurt you now,” he repeated, turning back to see her staring, transfixed at what he held in his hand. Sweat pearled on her forehead. Through her parted lips, her breath came harsh and quick.
“Matthew . . . please.”
Without a word, he covered the box and carried it from the apartment. He returned—twenty, thirty seconds later—to find her leaning, palms down on the table, head lowered, weeping. He still didn’t speak as he picked her up to carry her to the sofa and cradle her like a baby. Then the trembling started.
Five minutes . . . ten, and he said nothing, only holding her as she wept into his bare shoulder and shuddered. She seemed so small. Even when he’d seen those flashes of vulnerability he would never have imagined her like this—totally helpless, without the slimmest defense against anything or anyone. As he held her close, Matt promised himself when he found out who’d sent the box, he’d make them pay for it.
Safe. She knew she was safe now, though the fear kept threatening to bubble up again—that awful, strangling fear that couldn’t be described but felt only. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, and the warm flesh. He was holding her, and the world would settle again.
&nb
sp; “I’m sorry,” she managed, but continued to cling to him.
“No, don’t.” He kissed her hair, then stroked it.
“It’s always been like that. I was bitten once. I can’t remember it, or being sick, but I can’t, I just can’t handle—”
“It’s all right. It’s gone now, don’t think about it anymore.” The trembling had nearly stopped, but he could feel the occasional spasm that passed through her. Her breath still came in hitches. His skin was damp from her tears. He wanted to make her forget—he wanted to get his hands on whoever had done this to her. “Let me get you a brandy.”
“No.” She said it too quickly, and the hands against his chest balled into fists. “Just hold me,” she murmured, hating the weakness, needing his strength.
“As long as you want.” He heard her sigh, felt her fingers relax. The minutes passed again, long and silent so that he thought she slept. Her breathing had evened, her heartbeat slowed and she was warm again. He knew if she’d needed it, he could have held her just so for days.
“Matthew . . .” His name came on a sigh as she tilted her head back to look at his face. Her eyes were still puffy, her skin was still pale. He had to fight the wave of emotion to keep his fingers from tightening on her. “Don’t go.”
“No.” He smiled and traced a finger down her cheek. Her skin was still damp, still warm from her weeping. “I won’t go.”
Laurel caught his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips. Matt felt something wash over him, warm and sweet, that he didn’t yet recognize as tenderness. She saw it move in his eyes.
This was what she’d been waiting for, Laurel realized. This was what she’d needed, wanted, refused to consider. If he would ask her now—but he wouldn’t, she knew it. The asking would have to come from her.
“Make love with me,” she whispered.
“Laurel . . .” Her words stirred him, impossibly. How could he take her now, when she was utterly without defense? Another time, oh, God, another time, he’d have given anything to hear her say those words. “You should rest,” he said inadequately.
He’s not sure of himself, she realized. Strange, she’d thought he was always so sure. Perhaps his feelings for her were as confusing as hers for him. “Matthew, I know what I’m asking.” Her voice wasn’t strong, but it was clear. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time.” She slipped her hand up over his chest and neck to touch his cheek. “Love me—now.” She brought her lips to his as if quietly coming home.
Perhaps he could have resisted his own need. Perhaps. But he couldn’t resist hers. He drew her closer with a moan, gathering her against him as his mouth told her everything in silence. She was boneless, so pliant it seemed she might simply melt out of his arms like a mirage he’d traveled to over endless, impossible days and nights only to find it vanished. He deepened the kiss with something like panic, but she remained, warm and real against him.
Her mouth tasted of woman, not of visions, so warm and sweet he had to fight the urge to devour it. Her tastes, that small hand that remained on his cheek, the airy scent, merged together to make his senses swim. He couldn’t afford the luxury now, not this first time.
Matt buried his face at her throat, struggling to hold on to some slim thread of control, but his lips wouldn’t be still. He had to taste her. His hands roamed up and over subtle curves. He had to touch her.
“Laurel . . .” He slipped her loosened blouse off one shoulder so that his lips could wander there. “I want you—I ache with it.”
Even as he told himself to move slowly, he was drawing the blouse from her. She shifted to help him, murmuring, then only sighed.
“Not here.” He closed his eyes as her lips brushed his throat. “Not here,” he said again, and rose with her still in his arms. This time she’d let herself be led. She rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her into the bedroom.
The lights slanted through wooden shutters. It highlighted his eyes, so suddenly intense, as he laid her on the bed. “I won’t hurt you.”
She smiled and reached for him. “I know.”
The mattress sighed as he lay beside her. With her eyes just open, she could see the play of light while his lips traced over her face. It was so easy. She should have known that with him it would be so easy. Running her palms, then her fingertips over his back, she felt the ripple of muscle, the taut skin, the strength. This had attracted her from the beginning, and she had struggled to ignore it. Now, she could take her fill.
He caressed her with his lips. Caressed. She hadn’t known such a thing was possible with lips alone. He showed her. Her skin softened, then tingled from it.
Lazily . . . thoroughly . . .
His mouth moved over her throat and shoulders while his hands tarried nowhere but in her hair. A gentle nip, a soft flick of tongue and she was floating.
She heard the bluesy sound of a trumpet from outside. The sound drifted into the room to mix in her mind with Matt’s murmurs. He nuzzled into her throat so that she turned her head to give him more freedom and breathed in the sweet scent of vanilla from her bedside candle. She made some sound, a long, low sigh, but had no way of knowing that this alone had his pulses hammering.
His lips pressed onto hers with the edge of desperation under the gentleness. She felt it, yielded to it, as she drew him yet closer.
When he touched her, a lean, hard hand over the silk of her camisole, her sigh became a moan. She arched, feeling the aching fullness in her breasts she’d never experienced. Needs sprang up from everywhere, all at once, to pulse under her skin. But he wouldn’t be rushed—by her or himself. His fingers trailed, aroused, but stopped just short of demand. He wanted the demand to come from her own needs, not his.
Slowly, inch by inch, he drew the swatch of silk down to her waist, finding her skin no less luxurious. With openmouthed kisses he explored it, listening to the shuddering sound of her breathing that meant the loss of control. He wanted that from her, for her, while he desperately hung on to his own. When his mouth closed over her breast, the muscles in his back relaxed. God, she was sweet.
While Laurel went wild beneath him, he lingered, drawing out their mutual pleasure, drinking in her tastes and textures. He caught her nipple between his teeth, holding it prisoner, tormenting it with the play of his tongue until he knew she was utterly steeped in passion, in the dark, mindless pleasures. Then he went on.
She knew only sensations now—there were no thoughts, no sane thoughts, as flames leaped inside her and fire shivered along her skin. The movements of her body were instinctive, offering, pleading. His lips continued to roam over her as he slipped the rest of her clothes from her. The feel of hot flesh against hot flesh had her gasping. With each trembling breath she took, the scent they made together overwhelmed her. Intimate, earthy. Glorious.
Her body was molten—fluid, fiery—but she was helpless. Whatever he wanted from her he could have taken in whatever way he chose. The choices she had made—first to resist him, then to accept him—no longer applied. There were no choices in this world of dazzling light and radiant heat. Her body craved. Her spirit hungered. She was his.
He knew it. And, knowing, fought to remember her innocence when her passion was tearing at his control. She was agile and slim, and at the moment as abandoned as a sleek young animal. Her hands sought him without hesitation, her lips raced to take whatever he’d allow. With his breath rasping, his blood pounding, he struggled to keep the pace as he’d begun. Easy.
When he touched her, she jolted beneath him, shuddering and shuddering with the first peak. Through his own desire, Matt could feel her stunned, helpless delight. No one else had given her this, no one else had taken this from her. No one.
He buried his face at her throat, groaning. So moist, so warm. So ready. He shifted onto her. “Laurel . . .”
Suspended on shaft after shaft of sensation, she opened her eyes and looked into his. If her body was fluid, his was tight as a bowstring. Over the waves of passion came one clear
certainty. He thought only of her. She couldn’t speak, drowned by needs and the sharply sweet newness of love just discovered. Laurel drew his mouth down to hers.
At the touch of her lips, she gave up her innocence as easily, as gently, as sliding down a long, cool bank toward a warm river.
She slept. Matt lay beside her and watched the light through the window slats go from white to rose to gray before the moonlight drifted thinly in. His body was exhausted, from the strain of control, from the ultimate loss of it, but his mind wouldn’t rest.
There’d been times over the last months when he’d nearly convinced himself that once he’d had her, the lingering need would pass. Now, as he lay in her bed, with moonlight slanting across her body, with her head nestled against his shoulder, he knew the need would remain as basic and essential as the need for air.
Physically, he knew, she was his. He could touch off her passion, exploit her needs and keep her. It wasn’t enough. He wondered if he could draw out her emotions, her love, with the same deliberate care with which he’d drawn out her desire. He wondered if he had the patience he’d need.
Turning his head, he looked down at her as she slept against him. Her skin was like porcelain with the dusky lashes shadowing her cheeks. Delicate . . . He traced a finger down her cheekbone. Yes, she had delicacy, which at times made him feel like an awkward boy staring at pastries in a bakery window. But she had verve, and energy and ambition. These he understood, as they matched his own.
Partners, he thought, and his eyes glinted with something between amusement and determination. Damn right they were. Bending down, he crushed his mouth to hers.
Head swimming, body throbbing, Laurel came awake on a wave of passion. Her skin leaped under his hands as they raced over her, taking and demanding with a speed that left her giddy. She moaned against his mouth, tossed so quickly from gentle sleep to ruthless desire that she could only cling. He set the pace again, but it was nothing like the first time. She catapulted from peak to peak, swept along, driven, until he took her with all the urgency he’d blocked out before.
Spent, stunned, she waited for her breath to return as he lay over her, his face buried in her hair. Should she have known it would be like this? Could she? More than anything, that quick, desperate loving showed her just how careful he’d been with her the
