by Dani Wade
Murdoch grew silent for a long moment. She could almost hear him thinking, but she was afraid of saying anything further. Afraid of bringing her fears to life. After all, Tate wasn’t the only one who was scared of something.
“Then I only have one question,” he finally said.
“What’s that?”
“Are you okay?”
No. She thought back over all the strange symptoms she’d had since taking the morning-after pill, all the ups and downs of her interactions with Tate, and her own fears about what Murdoch was telling her. She wasn’t ready, was she?
“I’m really not sure.”
“I’ll tell you the two things I’ve learned since coming here, Willow.” His voice was a deep mixture of happiness and regret. “One, love can make even the most fearful thing worthwhile. And two, nothing will ever make loving someone completely easy. You might never be ready...but you’ve got to take the leap sometime.”
* * *
Tate sensed Willow’s presence even before he heard her. He wanted to go to her, take her, but too much had happened. There was too much to process. Every inch of him, mind and body, felt oversensitized.
“It’s not a good idea to be here,” he said, wincing at the density in his voice.
He didn’t want to scare her off, but the river of emotions and need bubbling up inside him were too deep not to find their way to the surface. Especially in the room that held such sexy memories of her. Where her scent still lingered on the pillow. His imagination could paint the perfect picture of her laid out on his bed in the heat of the afternoon sun.
She needed to stay far away from him.
But she didn’t heed his silent warning. Instead she moved closer. “Murdoch needs to be with his family right now, Tate.”
He waved off her words with a rough gesture. “I know that! I’m not a selfish teenager anymore, expecting someone to cater to my wants and needs.”
If anything, her voice softened further. “That doesn’t mean change isn’t hard. That it doesn’t spark resentment.”
In the mirror, he saw her sink onto the edge of his bed. The sight of her vibrant beauty against the navy comforter drew his eye. But he refused to turn, knowing he’d do something rash.
“You know, Tate—” she said, tilting her head to the side. A wash of auburn hair swung into view. “I lost both of my parents when I was a teenager.”
Shock froze Tate’s entire body for several seconds. “You did?”
She nodded. “Both of them. Car accident.”
Though she’d talked about going home for family dinners, Tate had never asked her whom she met with or any of the details. Normally functioning families weren’t something he could relate to...in fact, very few of the characters in his books had them. He was more likely to kill off any close relatives or orphan the characters in some way. That isolated lifestyle was one he knew far more about than being part of a happy family.
“Congratulations on turning out far more normal than me,” he said, only a touch of bitterness tainting his reply.
“Unlike you, I had a very loving family left even after they were gone. I have two sisters—one older, one younger. My little sister was still young enough to need extra care. We came back to Savannah to live with Auntie.”
He shouldn’t want to know, but he asked anyway. “Who is she?”
“Not a blood relative at all, actually. Auntie was my grandmother’s best friend, and nanny to my mother when she was little. Though she’d moved back to Savannah, they remained close. She adopted all three of us girls and raised us like her own family, even though she’d never been able to have children of her own.
“So losing people I loved was a lot different for me than it was for you. None of that made it easy, just bearable. But if I had my sisters ripped away now, I don’t know that I’d survive. They are my support system. I can’t imagine losing them.”
Tate’s voice was raspy as he struggled to speak from tightening lungs. “What will I do?”
“I don’t honestly know, but we’ll figure it out.”
Tate sensed her approach behind him and inhaled at the press of her body against his back, as if she were bracing him for the changes ahead. “Murdoch has been your family, even more than your blood family, for many years. It’s okay to grieve,” she said.
It had been one thing to have Murdoch leave for a while, hard to accept but doable. To know he wouldn’t be coming back, would no longer be part of Tate’s daily life... That was something for which Tate was completely unprepared.
Closing his eyes, Tate breathed deep and soaked in the heat of her against him. Oh so slowly, her arms moved up his sides to anchor her against his shoulders. Almost as if they were one, braced against the world. As much as he shouldn’t want it, he couldn’t turn away from the incredible feeling of her melding with him.
When the need grew too strong, he moved toward her instead. Chest-to-chest. Face-to-face. He buried his hands in that fiery hair. He had to have her, had to savor this incredible woman who had come into his life so unexpectedly.
Having made the decision, Tate refused to hurry. If this was the only taste of heaven he ever had, he wouldn’t rush it.
Using his hands to tilt her head back, he traced her lips with his tongue. Memorizing every part of her became his top priority, no matter how loudly his body demanded he take her right now.
Her perfectly full lips had a slightly salty taste. He couldn’t hold back a groan as he pushed deeper. So hot. So responsive. Her tongue reached to meet his. Something about holding her like this, demanding entry and receiving her surrender, spiked his pleasure. He massaged her scalp. Her neck muscles loosened, her head falling back into his palms. Knowing he brought her pleasure, too, made his head spin.
He could barely move far enough away to pull her shirt over her head. The sight of the soft upper curves of her breasts in the dappled light made his muscles tighten. He could almost stand there looking all night. Cupping them in his hands, he squeezed lightly. Her breath caught. The material of her bra was thin enough for him to feel her nipples peak against his palms. Rubbing across them in short circles had them both moaning. She swayed. Willow’s hands returned to his biceps, her fingers pressing into him in search of stability.
He loved that his touch made her body go weak.
How much longer they could both stand, he wasn’t sure. Quickly he lifted her, then laid her out on the bed like a feast for his senses. Gorgeous pale skin. Sweet vanilla scent. Fresh, vibrant taste. And hot, burning touch. What had he ever done to deserve such a precious gift?
He removed each piece of clothing with exquisite care. He pulled her shorts down over long, shapely legs. Panties followed the same path, revealing the neat patch of red hair that protected her most delicate skin. She arched so he could unhook her bra, allowing him to see the dark pink nipples he’d so insistently aroused.
His own clothes came off with more speed and efficiency. Even though he was in danger of being carried away by his passion for her, Tate didn’t forget to reach into his bedside table for a condom. This time he would protect her, even more than he’d tried to protect himself.
Her body welcomed him eagerly. Tate gasped as her muscles made way for him, bathing him in her liquid heat. He squeezed his eyes shut. Somewhere deep inside, he found the control that kept him from pounding into her. From finishing before they’d both milked every ounce of pleasure from this moment.
Instead he thrust lightly into her, relishing every lift of her hips for more. The feel of her nails scraping down his chest jolted him closer to the edge. He bent low, licking and sucking at the delicate skin of her neck, feeling her cries against his lips. When she squeezed those supple legs around his hips, he could hold back no longer.
Now thrusting hard, Tate drove them both higher, seeking that ultimate explosion. For the first time, he felt as though they wer
e seeking together with a need that transcended physical release. Somehow he knew this moment with Willow was a unique promise...a bond that would never be broken.
Twelve
Willow rolled over on her back, sure something wasn’t right. It took her a moment to realize that she wasn’t in her own bed. And another moment to realize that she was alone in Tate’s.
While she was trying to banish the fog from her brain, she heard the rare sound of the plane as it gained altitude, climbing away from the island. Despite the gray darkness before dawn, Tate was already on his way.
Willow tried not to be hurt but found it hard to keep her emotions on an even keel. Yesterday and last night had been incredible. Though she tried to remind herself that Tate was probably just reaching out for human contact after learning about Murdoch, that didn’t mean he had to take off without telling her. But the very fact she felt that way told her everything she needed to know about herself in this situation—as much as she might try to be a modern woman taking things one day at a time, she was really more of a relationship kind of girl.
Which meant in the end, she was probably going to end up hurt.
She padded downstairs in Tate’s shirt, because she could. As she reached for the coffeepot, she found his note.
Wasn’t sure you remembered. I have a meeting with Charles today. See you later tonight.
Oh, right. Willow laughed a little, glad Tate hadn’t been here when she overreacted. Now she felt a little silly getting upset over something he’d already told her about. He was meeting with his editor to discuss the first book on the new contract today.
But things were always unsettled with Tate. One minute off; one minute on. No wonder she jumped to conclusions.
Staring out the window, she inhaled deeply. The dark, smooth scent of coffee filled the air. She took a couple more breaths, searching for calm. Rain started to sprinkle outside the window. They were supposed to have some showers, then a couple of overcast days before a major storm came ashore. She’d hoped to swim while Tate wasn’t here to hover, but she didn’t want to risk it in the rain.
Then again, she knew what she could do...
She smiled as she poured herself a cup, then added a substantial amount of cream. Just the way she liked it. That first sip was always heavenly, but today it made her frown.
After a minute, she tried again. Ugh. Her creamer must have gone sour. She’d get some more tomorrow. With the storm developing, Willow wanted to make sure they had everything they needed to be off the grid for a few days. Also, lunch with her sisters was always a plus.
Eager to do what she’d put off too many times already, Willow changed her clothes, then headed to the door to the third floor at the far end of the hall. She worked the key in the door, finally getting the tough lock to turn. The stairs beyond were crusted along the edges with thick dust, but the centers were clean from the recent treks of the workmen who made the repairs.
The first couple of rooms were disappointingly empty. Another one had an empty bed frame and a chifforobe filled with women’s formal clothes that could date back to the twenties and thirties.
Then—jackpot.
The door was still open to the room directly over hers, giving her a clear view of the trunks and rolltop desk she’d seen that night. It felt like forever since she’d watched the ceiling fall down on her that first night. So much had happened since then.
A quick peek showed the room across was almost identical, but even more loaded with stuff. It would be hard to walk in there without tripping over something.
Goodness, there were enough storage trunks that she could be here all day. After a good look around, she started with the first room because everything had been carefully moved to one side during the work, making it tidier. Maybe that would make it easier to search through.
But the more she looked, she realized the dates on the papers in the boxes and trunks were too current to be relevant. For what she was looking for anyway. Unfortunately, as a history buff, all of it was interesting, so she was slow in making her way through the materials.
Finally she moved to the next room. When she was barely halfway across a loud boom shook the house. Willow jumped. A shaky laugh escaped her. The shutters were all closed, so she hadn’t realized a bigger storm had moved in. Rain, too. The drops suddenly came down heavy and hard on the roof. She hoped Tate had been able to fly clear of it.
Now to the task at hand.
The thick layer of dust in this room suggested it had been untouched for years, possibly decades. Fortunately, everything was neatly boxed. Unfortunately, there weren’t any labels to give her a preview of what was in each trunk...and they weren’t all easy to open.
She could sure use a handy crowbar right about now.
Practical planner that she was, she started at the wall by the door and worked her way around. Before long, crouching had her thighs screaming in pain, so she just plopped herself down on the dusty hardwood floor.
The first thing to slow her down was that she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for. She wanted proof that exonerated her family, but didn’t know what form said proof would take. That meant looking at a lot of pieces of paper so she didn’t miss anything.
But the dates on the documents were close to the period when the crime took place—if she could just find the exact year. That much, at least, she knew.
Tate’s family hadn’t been big on personal accounts, it seemed, but they were big on business. There were no diaries or cards or letters but lots of ledgers and files and dust. Eventually she seemed to hit the sweet spot—a trunk of dated ledgers. At one time it seemed to have been padlocked, but someone had unlocked it and simply slipped the lock back into place without forcing it closed.
Bingo! There was the year she needed.
Only a few pages in she realized Tate had been telling the honest truth about his relatives. His ancestor, Joseph Kingston, had been a bad, bad boy.
These weren’t your typical business ledgers—they contained everything that couldn’t be kept with the “official” records.
According to the neatly written pages, repeated payment went to the same four or five individuals throughout the year in question. Probably local troublemakers, if Willow had to guess. Though the entries didn’t list exactly what the men were hired for—which was a big warning sign in Willow’s brain—they did list locations, times, special supplies needed and either a company or family name.
Willow’s heart pounded over both the historical and personal significance of what she was reading. Joseph Kingston had systematically waged war on others in their regional community. Not a week went by without an entry.
How much property damage did this thick ledger represent? And how many lives were lost when people carelessly got in the way?
Like the McLemores’ heir.
Willow wondered if she could link these dates to incidents reported in the local newspapers at the time. The researcher in her was excited. Quickly she flipped through to the date she most needed.
There was an entry. She scanned through and found the memo line—McLemore.
For a few seconds, Willow savored the elation of discovery. This could make a big difference for her sister—just the confidence of being able to cast doubt if Paxton McLemore’s family accused her of anything was huge. Now they would be prepared for the conflict they all knew was coming.
But what about Tate?
For the first time, Willow thought about him in all of this. As she carried the ledger downstairs to her room, she thought over all that he’d been through lately. As private as he was, how would he feel about this part of his family history becoming known?
* * *
As Tate let himself into Sabatini House after midnight, he was curious in what state he would find Willow. Though they’d both known he’d be gone today, he was pretty sure she would have forgott
en by morning—hence the note he’d left. He’d been trying to keep himself out of the doghouse, so why had he still felt like he was bailing when he let himself out before dawn?
As Tate walked through the empty, dimly lit kitchen, he was at least grateful she didn’t jump out and start lecturing him...though his mind’s picture of Willow in full-on irate-professor mode was pretty entertaining. Realizing the lower levels of the house were quiet, he climbed the stairs, his body growing hard at the question of whether she would be in his bed.
He didn’t have the right to demand it. He didn’t even know if she thought she belonged there. After all, he’d never given her reason to believe it was where he wanted her all the time. He only knew the ache for her had been constant all day, but now it ramped up to screaming level.
He shouldn’t be so greedy, but his body was tired and his psyche was stressed. He wanted the balm he knew Willow could grant him. Besides, he knew what the next few days held, on top of the roller-coaster ride of the last few.
Which brought him full circle. Would she want him again? Or would she want him nowhere near her?
Nerves ate him up as he rounded the corner for the hall to his suite...and hers. Willow had slept every night since the first in her bed with the door closed. Part of him was resigned to finding his access cut off by the door to her room. Instead his gaze was drawn to a square of light on the floor.
Her door was open. The light was on. Tate set his briefcase and carry bag against the wall, then unbuttoned his shirt as he strode toward her door.
She lay curled away from him facing the lamp that put out soft light on the bedside table. Eager to see her, he moved to the end of the bed with soft steps. One of her hands cradled her cheek as she slept. The other rested over one of his paperback books, as if she’d fallen asleep reading.
The softest of feelings wrapped around Tate’s chest like a thick, plush blanket. It wasn’t the same as the spark of passion or the sting of regret. Nor the heat of anger.
Softness had never had a place in his life. What little he’d experienced he’d had no use for. So why did he embrace whatever was happening now?
