Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set: Behind Closed Doors...Fired by Her FlingWho's Calling the Shots?Nine Month Countdown

by Anne Oliver

  She moved to the window. Avoiding eye contact. Avoiding him. The sun carved bars of gold over her through the vertical drapes, making her seem even more inaccessible.

  ‘The truth is I couldn’t stay at the house alone, Jack. Not after...’ She seemed to shrink before his eyes, hugging her arms around herself. ‘...Scott told me about...your father.’

  Great. Just great. He rubbed the back of his neck where a tension headache was beginning to throb. ‘Let it go; I have.’ She’d loved the man; Jack had wanted to spare her the gory details.

  ‘What he did to you...’ At last she turned to face him. A well of emotions darkened the misty blue of her eyes. ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘I don’t want your pity—’

  ‘You don’t have it,’ she shot back. Gripping her upper arms with white-knuckled fingers, she glared at him. ‘I was going to say I’m sorry you didn’t tell me. What I am is angry. Why didn’t you ever fight back? I never saw him bruised and battered.’

  He shook his head. ‘Fists, violence of any kind never solved anything. It frustrated the hell out of him when I didn’t retaliate. The anger and unhappiness in his eyes each time I walked away gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction.’

  ‘And didn’t you think I had a right to know? All that time you let me love that man...’

  ‘He loved you too.’ The bastard. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘You kept the truth from me. You lied to me. You went away without a word and kept it to yourself. That hurts.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Six years of your life are a mystery to me.’ She sliced her hand through the air, rattling the blinds and cutting him off. ‘You never trusted me enough to open yourself to me, to let me in on your thoughts and experiences. That hurts. You’re like the silver bangles I make. Beautiful, strong, solitary and closed.’

  She shut her eyes, but a single tear tracked down one pale cheek. Jack yearned to pull her into his arms. He wanted her body against his. He wanted to catch that tear with his tongue and taste the saltiness, to share his own pain, a pain that right now was tearing his heart to shreds.

  Yes, he’d hidden the truth about Gerry. And he’d do it again. But he’d kept too much from her. Gerry was one thing; shutting her off from the past six years was as bad as cheating. Letting her believe he’d been living a life of indulgence and women had been a ploy to keep her at arm’s length, but it was still lying.

  He’d been an idiot. If she’d turned to Scott for more than comfort, he had no one to blame but Jack Devlin. He’d deal with Scott later; right now he had to get Cleo back. He had to convince her that they belonged together. But not here. ‘Get your stuff; we’re going home.’

  Her damp eyelashes flicked up and she looked at him, her eyes twin pools of blue misery. ‘You can still call it home?’

  ‘It’s all we’ve got at the moment. Sometimes, Goldilocks, you have to face problems where they lie.’

  Cleo stared at him. His voice was steel, his eyes like flint. But the message in his words... We’re going home. The way he’d coupled them together sent hope soaring through her heart. If only. She wanted to believe. She dared not hope. Not yet.

  ‘My car, Con...’

  ‘I’ll deal with Con. Get dressed; we’ll pick up your car later.’

  She cringed at the way his eyes slid over Scott’s shirt. ‘I didn’t...’ she began, but he’d already turned away to hunt up the cat.

  Five taut, silent minutes later she sat in Gerry’s car, staring at the house that had been given to her. Her mouth turned dust-dry, her body tightened a little more with every painful beat of her heart. Once upon a time she’d never imagined not belonging here.

  Now she didn’t belong anywhere. To anyone.

  Jack sat beside her, his familiar scent surrounding her. She understood his wanting to go back to Rome. He’d made a new life there. At least her head understood, even if her heart couldn’t accept it. Now she was independent it made sense he’d want to get on with the rest of his life without those bad memories.

  She was part of those bad memories.

  On legs that barely held her, she climbed out of the car, opened the carry cage and let Con out. He scurried away, then glared at her from beneath his favourite bush. ‘Sorry, big guy,’ she murmured. At least someone wanted to be here.

  Turning, she saw Jack watching her from the driver’s side, looking remote behind his sunglasses. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. Curt and unsmiling. So not the way she’d imagined.

  The moment Jack unlocked the door she fled upstairs to her bathroom, closed the door. Grabbing her toothbrush, she cleaned her teeth to chase away the sour taste of dread and to regain some sense of normalcy.

  An impatient knock on the door was accompanied by, ‘If you’re not out in one minute I’m coming in to get you.’

  His ultimatum sent a tingle dancing down her spine. She rinsed, patted her mouth dry, and, bracing herself, opened the door.

  But what she saw stopped her dead. Jack Devlin, stubble-jawed and totally masculine in tight blue jeans and white T-shirt, lying on her bed and surrounded by pink satin and lace.

  But it was his eyes that held her. It was as if they could reach deep down and see into her soul. He held her heart and her will in those dark eyes.

  As if tugged by their magnetism, she drifted across the room, stopping in the centre of her pink sheepskin rug. The faintest of breezes carried the delicate fragrance of morning, and Jack.

  The muscles in his forearm twisted like rope as he plumped a frilly lace cushion and set it behind his head. ‘We’re going to talk; we might as well be comfortable.’

  Talk. Honestly, she was all talked out. What she wanted was body contact and lots of it.

  When she didn’t answer, a corner of his mouth kicked up. ‘Isn’t that what you women want to do? Talk? Lay it all out on the table? Dissect and analyse and rehash?’

  The sight of those more-than-capable hands and long, sensuous fingers as they smoothed the quilt beside him sent a thrill of remembrance racing to her feminine centre. ‘At this particular moment, not especially. Is that what you want to do?’

  The flash of heat in his eyes disappeared beneath a darker, sombre patina, lightning behind storm clouds. ‘It’s a start.’ He jerked a thumb at the bed. ‘Sit down. I’ve made up my mind about what I want to say and I’d rather say it with you beside me.’

  She walked the rest of the way but perched herself on the edge of the rose-printed quilt and folded her hands. Took a deep breath. Swallowed. ‘I’m listening.’

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘I’ve been to see my half of the Dastardly Duo.’

  She blinked in surprise. At no stage had either of them considered tracing the whereabouts of their respective absent parents. ‘Why?’

  ‘Take a look at this and tell me what you think.’ He handed her a creased photo, warm from his pocket.

  She saw a handsome dark-haired man with a dimple in his chin. ‘He’s the image of you,’ she said slowly, comparing Jack and the photo. ‘A relative?’

  ‘He was my biological father. He’s been dead for over twenty-seven years.’

  Shock, disbelief and the chilling knowledge that they’d both been betrayed shivered through her. ‘Gerry...Gerry’s not your father.’ Each word was wrung out of her.

  ‘No. Gerry left some...info; I had to check it out.’

  The cold, flat tone, the hard, obsidian eyes were a Jack Cleo had never seen before. ‘What information? Jack, you’re scaring me.’

  ‘Which is precisely why I couldn’t tell you. Scared the hell out of me too. He told me mum had known your dad around the time I was born. A lie, but I had to be sure.’

  She took a moment to absorb the implications. ‘He thought my father was...yours too?’ Her chest was too tight, her throat so dry she
could barely get the words out.

  ‘He didn’t think it.’ Jack’s jaw tightened. ‘Gerry just enjoyed messing with my head. Punishing me for learning he was sterile and the kid he’d raised all those years wasn’t his own.’

  ‘Oh, Jack.’ That sense of betrayal erupted into an icy ball that left no room for the place in her heart where Gerry had been.

  ‘There’s more.’ He put the photo on Cleo’s nightstand before he continued. ‘I haven’t been fair to you. One of the reasons I haven’t talked about those missing years is because some of it’s not pretty.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Cleo urged, shifting closer. ‘I want to know. All of it.’

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘I landed a job as a fashion photographer in Rome for the first two years. After that I took up a post in the Middle East. I’ve seen first-hand what war does to families, children, lives. It affected me so much I stayed on to help.’

  She frowned. ‘Scott told me you were in Rome when he contacted you.’

  He nodded. ‘I was in hospital when I got the call.’

  The gunshot wound.

  He’d been in a war zone. She could sense it all: the desert haze, the terrible sounds of gunfire and men, the hot smell of metal and sweat, the cold shroud of fear. For a terrifying moment she was with him in that dark place looking into the jaws of hell.

  Too agitated to sit still, she jumped up, paced away. She’d all but accused him of being with a woman when she’d seen that wound, and he hadn’t said a word in his defence. She wanted to kick that stubborn, sexy backside into next week.

  She swung to face him, a brew of anger and pride, admiration—and love—simmering in her heart. ‘Silly stubborn...man. You put yourself in danger and I—’

  Shrugging deprecatingly, he said, ‘You’d prefer I walk away and pretend I didn’t see?’

  She almost laughed at the irony. ‘Didn’t you do exactly that to me, to us?’ She was coming apart, but she pushed the words out over the lump in her throat. ‘Is that what you’re going to do now, Jack?’

  He shook his head, watching her with a sensual heat that seemed to flow out to her like a deep-moving river. ‘What I’m going to do now is something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.’

  TWELVE

  Cleo didn’t need the words to know what he wanted. What he intended. He was going to make love to her. The slow, bone-melting kind that she’d waited half a life time to share with him.

  So why did she want to cry? Because that kind of loving came from the heart. At least it did in her books. It came with love and commitment.

  Jack didn’t believe in love and commitment.

  Cleo believed in love. Despite her childhood, she believed in commitment. She longed to show Jack how love could mend the hurts of the past. She ached to unlock that something he’d closed off from the rest of the world. To give him a reason to stay.

  To tell him she loved him without anger to taint the words.

  And to hear those same words from his lips. She felt her eyes fill and blinked the moisture away.

  His languid expression faded and his brows puckered. ‘You have a problem with that?’

  Definitely, absolutely. It will hurt too much when you go. She swallowed over the ball of pain lodged tight in her throat and blurted, ‘You’re so clever, you figure it out.’

  He stared at her, a help-me-out-here plea in his eyes. ‘I can’t think of a damn thing,’ he said. ‘Unless I was mistaken the other night...’

  She remained where she was, too far away to touch him, but close enough to smell warm skin, to see the wear-and-tear marks on his medallion and the tiny gold flecks in his dark irises. ‘The night we made love, I thought...’ You loved me. She shook her head. Naïve and wishful dreams. ‘I didn’t think, neither of us did.’

  ‘It doesn’t always pay to think too hard,’ he said softly, reaching for her.

  And wasn’t that the cold, hard truth? She stepped further out of his reach and said, ‘I don’t know how to play this. Relationships aren’t my forte.’

  With a rasp of denim over cotton quilt, he shifted on the bed so that his body angled towards her. ‘You could start by coming over here.’

  She hesitated, torn between throwing herself into his arms and running from the room. Neither option would give her what she craved.

  ‘Come here, Goldilocks.’ His tone dared her. ‘Or are you afraid?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t play fair, Jack.’

  ‘Cleo.’ His eyes held a quiet torment. ‘You’ve healed me, hit me, seduced me, refused me. And now you’re damn near killing me.’

  It wasn’t a challenge or a dare. It was a simple plea that squeezed at her heart. Cautiously, she sat on the edge of the bed again. She didn’t want to fool herself into thinking this was any different for him than any other woman he’d had. But, oh, if she could only convince him... ‘Our relationship’s always been a roller coaster ride.’

  ‘But what a ride.’ He sat up. She could feel the heat pumping from his body, his warm breath caressing her cheek as he spoke. ‘And you’re finally ready to admit we have a relationship. So am I,’ he finished quietly.

  His fingertip touched her nape. Barely there, but, oh, what a feeling. ‘We practically grew up together,’ she managed. ‘Of course we have a relationship.’

  ‘A very close, very personal, very intimate relationship.’

  His finger slowly tracked down her spine, setting each vertebra on fire and making her shiver at the same time. Her eyes closed at the scorching, sensual pleasure. But she shook her head. ‘You denied us that, Jack, when you left.’

  ‘I’m not denying it now,’ he muttered, his voice rough with emotion. ‘Say yes, Goldilocks. Tell me you want me.’

  Her body was melting like metal beneath her blowtorch. Her brain wasn’t faring any better because she couldn’t seem to remember why she’d thought letting the man she loved touch her was such a bad idea. She sagged against the solid wall of muscle behind her. ‘Yes. Yes, Jack. I want you.’

  With a low growl that vibrated against her back, he pressed his lips to the pulse in the sensitive hollow above her collar-bone. She felt her legs tremble as he tugged her gently to her feet with him so his thighs touched the backs of hers and his hands warmed her belly through her vest-top. So he surrounded her.

  ‘I want to do things to you. I want my name on your lips when you come,’ he murmured, and stroked a moist tongue over her ear lobe.

  His words slid like mulled wine through her system, intoxicating her with their promise, blinding her to consequences. Jack wanted her, so-not-sophisticated Cleo Honeywell in her oldest vest-top and frayed jersey shorts.

  The hot press of his palms on the soft cotton shifted lower. She felt the roughness of callused skin as his fingertips slid over her belly, the gentle glide of fabric as he eased shorts and panties down over her hips until they fell softly to her ankles.

  Desire coiled low in her belly, dampening the place between her legs and filling her with restless anticipation. ‘Jack...’ Her arms seemed heavy as she lifted them, pushing her fingers through her short cap of hair, then twining them about his neck behind her so that her breasts lifted, tingling and full.

  But he didn’t touch them, not yet. He slid his hands over the cloth one more time, tracing the dip in her navel with a fingertip, then shimmied her top over her head. Her breasts spilled free, swollen and heavy.

  ‘No bra,’ he murmured.

  ‘Was in a hurry.’ Her pulse thundering in her ears, she waited on a razor’s edge. She heard the rustle of fabric behind her as he stripped off his own clothes.

  At last he turned her in his arms. His gaze locked with hers. She saw his need in the dark soulful eyes, felt it in the quivering muscles in his arms. Felt that need nudge hot and hard against her belly.


  It made her feel female and powerful.

  He disabused her of that notion when he swept her up and laid her on the bed as if she weighed no more than a puff of air. He was the one in control here—but he was the one trembling.

  A rainbow danced overhead as the sun-catcher in her window twisted in the breeze, catching the glints of chestnut in his hair. For a long hot moment they simply stared at each other. She absorbed the long, lean lines of him, from the broad, muscled shoulders, to the tapered waist, to the brutally masculine jut of his sex.

  He drew in a long, unsteady breath. ‘You have the most exquisitely beautiful body I’ve ever seen.’

  And for the first time in her life she felt beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the models he worked with. But perhaps he was a mind-reader because he said, ‘I want to photograph you, just as you are now.’

  ‘Really?’ She shifted on the cool coverlet, restless with the promise in his husky voice, aching with need under his scorching, sensuous gaze.

  ‘Really.’ Sinking to the bed, he stretched out over her, his spread knees capturing her hips. He held her face in his hands as if he held something special. ‘Later,’ he whispered, and lowered his mouth.

  Surprisingly soft. Sinfully seductive. He was all she could think of—his unique taste, the scrape of stubble against her chin, the caress of his breath on her cheek.

  Hot, masculine flesh rubbed against her belly, one hard-packed muscled thigh between hers. She heard her own low moan as she clutched the hard curve of a shoulder, rubbing her aching nipples against the plush roughness of his chest.

  Sensing her need, he eased her back. ‘Let me.’ He filled a hand with her breast, rubbed a maddeningly slow thumb over the tip. ‘So firm, so beautiful.’

  ‘So oversized,’ she whispered, hearing the trace of her earlier vulnerability creep into her voice.

  ‘Never.’ He cupped both breasts in his palms. ‘See? The perfect fit.’

  He lowered his head again. The deep, wet pull of his mouth on her nipple, the slow, gentle glide of his hand over her belly, her hip. He suckled the other breast while his fingers parted her woman’s flesh, slipped a finger inside her and slid it out slowly. Over and over. His unhurried gentleness, the fine tremor in his hands undid her.