by Julie Miller
He caught her hand, laced his fingers together with hers and pulled her half a step closer so that he could touch her, instead. One fingertip touched the bandage that closed the cut on her cheekbone, and then all five fingers sifted through her sleep-tossed hair to cup the side of her head.
“Can I keep you close tonight?” he asked. “Will it frighten you to have a man in your bed?”
Bailey leaned her cheek into the caress. “Not if it’s you. And...” Her heart might be quick to answer, but she knew her limitations. “Not if we keep a light on.”
Spencer turned off the overhead light, but left the lamp beside his bed on to cast a glow across the room as Bailey crawled in between the cool sheets. “Brr.”
“Cold?” He gathered her into his arms without asking permission, and Bailey didn’t mind a bit when she tumbled against a mile of skin and he rolled onto his side to face her. “Better?”
“Much.” She rested her head on the pillow of his shoulder and quickly stopped shivering as the thick comforter and his tall, strong body cocooned her in a haven of warmth. But he was mistaken if he thought she was going to drift off to sleep. “Were you shot in the line of duty?”
He chuckled against her hair. “You go straight to the heart of things, don’t you.”
Bailey hadn’t been intimate with a man since long before the rape, and she seemed to have forgotten where to rest her hands. But Spencer gently stopped them from dancing across his shoulders and waist, and held them against his chest where she could feel the strong beat of his heart beneath the ticklish dusting of hair.
“Back when I first made detective,” he started, “I was assigned to an investigation. Money laundering through a restaurant. They were a front for organized crime.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
His heart beat a little faster. “The investigation was the easy part. It was pretty clear the owner was doctoring his books whenever he made a big wholesale foods purchase or catered a large event.”
Bailey started tracing delicate circles across his skin, feeling antsy at how his story would end. “Did you have to deal with any of the mobsters?”
His chest expanded with a deep sigh, pushing Bailey slightly away. But he slid his hand beneath the sweatshirt and flattened his palm at the small of her back to keep her close. “That part comes later. I suppose the short version is that we convinced the owner’s sister to testify against the men who were using her brother. Ellen was an accountant. She put two and two together when she paid the monthly bills. She knew the kind of men who came to the restaurant. She was afraid her brother would get hurt.”
A woman. This was about a woman. Bailey’s heart squeezed in her chest. Was this accountant the reason Spencer worked so hard to detach himself from his emotions?
“Who was Ellen to you?”
“I loved her.” A painful gasp stuck in Bailey’s throat. Spencer’s hand moved beneath her shirt, trailing slowly up and down her back in a long, frictive caress. “Past tense, B. I loved her.”
Once she’d moved past that jealous moment, or maybe once Spencer had calmed the thumping beat of his heart, he continued. “The D.A.’s office talked her into testifying against the men her brother worked for.”
“Testify?” This time Bailey pushed away. But Spencer threw his top leg over both of hers to keep her close. And suddenly she understood that he needed her here. He needed the reassurance of her warmth. He needed the patience in her heart to open up this painful chapter of his past.
She stretched her left arm around his waist and nestled in beneath his chin.
“See any similarities?” His lips brushed against the crown of her hair.
“What happened to Ellen?” Bailey could already guess. But he needed to say it.
“We put her in a safe house right before the trial. I was one of the men assigned to protect her.”
“Oh, Spencer. And I—”
“Shh.”
He slipped a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. He pressed a soothing kiss to her lips. And though the stubble of his beard made it slightly rougher than he intended, the friction of it reminded Bailey of the contrasts between them—a man, a woman, lying close in bed in the heart of the night, sharing a hushed, private conversation. He kissed her again, stirring a response deep inside her.
“I lost my focus, B.” The minimalist nickname was his alone for her. She felt uniquely linked to Spencer every time he said it.
There was a link between them. She couldn’t care this deeply or trust this openly with a man she didn’t share a special connection with. “Did Ellen die?”
His arms convulsed almost painfully tight around her and Bailey wanted to weep at the depth of what Spencer Montgomery could really feel. “She was afraid her brother would get if she testified. She’d changed her mind, but I don’t think she knew how to tell me.”
Changed her mind? “No wonder you didn’t believe I’d stand up to Brian Elliott.”
“Don’t mention his name here. Not in this room. Ever.”
Bailey pressed her lips against the pulse in Spencer’s neck, and tasted salty, delicious heat.
“Ellen used my phone to call her brother. She thought he’d help her escape. But he came to the safe house with a bunch of thugs. They shot Ellen, her brother, a guard.”
“You.” She moved her lips to the taut underside of his chin, offering comfort, offering whatever he needed from her.
“She died in my arms because I didn’t know how to love her and be a cop.”
She kissed the marks she’d accidentally scratched on his chest, wishing she could heal his fractured image of himself as easily as these would heal. “Spencer, you can’t put that kind of burden on yourself.”
He crushed her tight against his chest. “I should have saved her. What if something happens and I can’t save you?”
Bailey squiggled some space between them and tipped her chin to look into those guilt-stricken eyes. “Life isn’t easy, Spencer.” She knew this secret far better than she ever would have liked. “Sometimes, stuff happens that isn’t your fault, that you can’t control. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed or that you won’t fail again. It just means that you have to fight harder. You have to be stronger. You can’t let the bad stuff win. You have to keep getting up and moving forward even when you’re afraid to or you don’t think you can.”
“B, don’t say—”
“Something may happen to me.”
“No.”
“But it won’t be your fault.”
“I don’t want to lose you!”
The words were so raw, so filled with an emotion that even Spencer himself didn’t understand, that Bailey knew of only one thing to say.
“Then love me.”
* * *
THAT WAS ONE order Spencer was willing to obey.
When Bailey lifted her lips to give him a kiss, he crushed his mouth over hers, accepting what she so generously offered, giving back all he could. He rolled her partly beneath him, running one hand beneath that sack of a sweatshirt she wore to touch the soft skin of her back, tangling the other hand in her even softer hair. He plunged his tongue into the silky warmth of her mouth and tasted her tongue sliding against his. He could get drunk on this woman’s kisses—her dewy lips, their supple strength, their bold curiosity and unselfish welcome.
Her arms wound around his neck. Her fingers tunneled through his hair. She whimpered a seductive little hum in her throat that drew his lips to the tiny vibration of sound beneath her cool skin. His right hand roamed at will, dipping beneath the elastic of her panties to squeeze that roundly delicious bottom, sliding up the plane of her stomach to cup a taut, plump mound of flesh.
Bailey was at once a burning fire and a soothing balm. A classy lady and an irresistible siren. A gentle spirit and a passionate heart.
<
br /> He knew Nick was in the lobby downstairs, keeping watch over the building, allowing Spencer the respite he needed to sleep. But even more than rest, he needed to make love to the brave woman who’d set her own fears aside to listen to his. To share his pain. To understand his guilt. To heal his broken soul.
When he caught the turgid pearl at the tip of her breast and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, she gasped aloud and buried her face against his chest. “Spencer...”
He instantly moved his hand to the more neutral territory of her back and pulled the heavy erection between his thighs away from the curve of her hip. “Did I hurt you?” he rasped, tilting her face up to read the truth in her eyes.
“No. It was...overwhelming. I’d forgotten.”
Forgotten how good this could feel? Or forgotten how another man’s hands had made her feel? “Did I frighten you? I don’t want to do anything to remind you of him.”
She silenced his apology with a finger over his lips. Then quickly replaced it with a soft, healing kiss. “He doesn’t come into this room, remember?”
“That wasn’t fair of me to say. I know you live with those memories every day. Have you even been with a man since then?”
She shook her head.
Spencer was hard with desire, but he’d take a cold shower before he’d do anything to hurt her. “Can you do this? Are you ready to be with a man?”
“I’m ready to be loved, not forced.”
“Ah, hell, sweetheart.” His lips went to hers again, reassuring her with everything in him that there was no other way he’d have her. “Tell me what you like. Tell me what you don’t. Tell me to stop. Anytime. I’m not the most sensitive guy, but I can—”
“Could I be on top?” She whispered the request, the sweetest yes a man could know. “Is that okay?”
Rising up on one elbow, Spencer shucked the sweatshirt off over her head, removed her panties. She threw the covers back when he rolled away to pull a condom from the nightstand and sheathe himself. Then he lay back on the pillows, and pulled her over to straddle him, making himself as vulnerable to her as he knew how.
When she shyly covered her breasts from uncertainty or the chilled air, Spencer gently pried her hands away and brought them down to rest on the dancing, eager skin of his chest. She was porcelain and perfect from head to toe except for the rosy pink tips of her breasts, and the golden thatch of hair at her thighs.
Her beauty and trust were humbling things. “You mean you want me to be able to watch all this beautiful skin and touch these beautiful breasts and...”
Her breathing quickened as he did what he described. She rubbed her bottom against his shaft and he groaned with need.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
There were no other words. “Yes.”
“That’s what I need, Spencer. I need someone who wants me just because it’s me.”
“I need you.” He pulled down to his chest for a kiss. With her breasts branding his chest, he lifted her bottom and slowly entered her tight, moist heat. “Ah, B,” he growled, growing hard again as her body gripped him. “Ah, sweetheart.”
She pushed herself up and he thrust inside her. “Spencer? That’s good. I like that. I—”
When she closed her eyes and the tremors clutched him inside her, he was done talking. He thrust deeper, faster. He reached for her breasts and she covered his hands, linking their fingers together, squeezing them tight.
Bailey gasped his name as thrust himself up one last time and shook with the power of his own release.
Afterward, she collapsed on top of him and Spencer gathered her in his arms and pulled the comforter up to cover them both. They slept like that, with her spent body draped over his and his arms wrapped around her. And, for a few hours, Spencer Montgomery wasn’t a cop.
For a few hours, at least, he was only a man in love.
Chapter Eleven
“I knew you’d look smashing in a tuxedo.”
The compliment was genuine, but seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Bailey took Spencer’s hand and stepped out of the SUV onto the cleared bricks leading up to the front steps of the Mayweather estate. Twin Christmas trees, festooned with white lights and crystal ornaments, framed the front door, with layers of snow filling the branches in such a way that it looked as if it had been placed there for a holiday magazine ad. A red carpet led the way past a grandstand of reporters into the wide marble foyer where she could see glimpses of white roses and evergreen garlands hanging with more lights inside. The music of a small chamber orchestra, playing both classical pieces and holiday tunes, danced softly on the chilling breeze.
It was everything a Christmas ball should be. With lines of cars circling the driveway, dignitaries and wealthy guests pausing for pictures and sound bites before joining the party, it was everything her mother could want. It was probably everything Spencer loathed and it was an opportunity for Bailey.
Spencer handed his keys off to a parking valet she recognized as his partner, Nick Fensom. With a wink to Bailey and an “Everyone’s in place” to Spence, he hurried around the hood to climb behind the wheel and drive away.
Bailey inhaled a deep breath through her nose and released the steaming air out through her carefully made-up lips. She hadn’t expected tonight to be anything like a real date, but it might be reassuring to see at least a glimpse of the lover who’d bared his soul to her, and held her, skin to skin, in the warmth of his arms throughout the night.
It was important for her to be here—to calm her mother’s fears that explosions and gunfire weren’t any more of a threat than a Christmas card with an unpleasant message inside. She’d gotten the idea early this morning, as she’d lain in bed, snugged to Spencer’s side, thinking. If she could manage her nightmares, overcome her fears of intimacy, and be the woman that a strong, confident man like Spencer Montgomery needed, then she could face the reporters, face her family, face the possibility of The Cleaner or one of her hired thugs showing up tonight to try to silence her one last time.
Without any usable leads panning out, it might be the only way the police could ferret out the Rose Red Rapist’s accomplice and ensure the safety and success of his trial.
Spencer hated the idea. But he didn’t have a better one.
Spencer tapped the bud in his ear and dipped his chin toward the lapel microphone that could have passed for a fraternity pin. “Montgomery here. I’ve got Bailey with me. We need eyes on her every minute tonight. If anyone senses anything out of place, I’m the first to know.” She knew an unsettling thrill to be hanging on the arm of a man who conveyed such authority and generated such respect. She figured with Spencer was the safest place to be. Even if he doubted his ability to protect her now that things had gotten personal between them, she had no doubts. “Remember. Bailey and the guests are our first priority. If we can get this perp, do it. But we neutralize any threats to the civilians first. Understood?” A litany of responses buzzed in his ear. “Apprise Zeiss’s men of our status. Montgomery out.”
Bailey waited beside him, shivering beneath her midnight-blue wrap, fighting the cold air as much as her own trepidation about tonight. And about them.
Maybe Spencer could only allow a them for one night. Maybe he considered being with her a weakness he didn’t want to repeat. Maybe he truly couldn’t be both a cop and a man who cared.
The relentless cop had shown up to escort her to the ball tonight. The man she loved was buried somewhere deep under the starched white collar and gun and badge hidden beneath the trim fit of his suit.
If he wouldn’t tell her that things would be okay, that the massive security and crowd of cameras and guests would keep her safe enough tonight, then maybe she should reassure him.
While he looked from side to side, taking note of the cars that had pulled up behind him and e
yeing anyone who strayed too close, Bailey reached up to straighten his collar where the curling wire that connected his radio to the members of his task force had caught. “You said I could do anything I set my mind to.”
He pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow and led her onto the red carpet. “Setting yourself up as bait and getting yourself killed for the trouble weren’t what I had in mind.”
“Spencer—”
“I know. You need to do this.” His grip tightened and he pulled her aside, dropping his lips to her ear to whisper, “If anything happens tonight—if I’m not there for you—you fight. That’s what you do, Bailey Austin. You get up and you fight.”
Bailey reached up and brushed her fingertips along the cool line of his jaw. Maybe the man she loved had shown up tonight. “I will, Spencer,” she promised. “Nose, throat, gut or groin. Keep moving. Keep fighting. I won’t be the victim again.”
He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple and Bailey tilted her head, savoring the tender touch.
Then the moment was over and he tugged her closer to his side as the cameras flashed. The cop was back. “Brace yourself. The fun’s about to begin.”
“Miss Austin?”
“Look this way!”
“Who are you with tonight?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Any lasting effects from yesterday’s attack?”
The rapid-fire barrage of snapshots and questions caught her off guard for a moment. But then she found her smile and the gracious genes she’d inherited from her mother, and paused for pictures and answered questions. She introduced Spencer, raved about her mother’s decorations and reminded readers and viewers to donate as generously as they could afford.
When they reached the edge of the grandstand at the bottom of the stairs, a large television camera swung her way, capturing her in its spotlight. Vanessa Owen stepped forward with her microphone and Bailey dug her fingers into the fine wool of Spencer’s sleeve, as wary of this encounter as she’d been the night the reporter had ambushed her in the KCPD parking garage.
