McLain's Law

by Kylie Brant

  “Okay, if I’m so wrong, correct me,” dared Connor.

  Michele watched him warily. She would have liked nothing better than to prove to him just how mistaken he was about her. But something told her that it would be beyond her powers to do so. Something—or more likely someone—had hurt this man, had burned him so badly that he had built a fortress around himself to avoid getting hurt again. Or maybe she was giving him too much credit. It was just as likely that it was this exact attitude that had cost him his wife to begin with. Heaven knew he had tried her patience to the limit on countless occasions, and she didn’t have to live with him.

  Live with him. She sat back abruptly, stunned at the sensations curling in the pit of her stomach at the thought. He would be a difficult man emotionally, but physically she was certain that living with him would be very easy indeed. She was aghast at the direction her thoughts were taking, but she blamed it on her uncharacteristic drinking tonight.

  She studied the man seated across from her. She couldn’t afford to open herself too much to this man; she didn’t trust him not to use what he learned against her somehow. But what did she have to lose? He could discover anything he wanted about her whenever he wished, just by picking up a phone. Suddenly she felt her old anger at this power he had over her life, this ability to pry into her background at will.

  “If I know one thing about you, Lieutenant,” her voice was acid, “it’s that you are capable of learning anything about me that you wish. You’ve already proven that.” Michele gathered her things and slipped out of the booth. She’d suddenly had enough for one day. She doubted her ability to last one more moment in his presence without losing her cool completely.

  She turned to face him and reached in her purse for some money. “Here’s my half of the check,” she began, but his sudden movement interrupted her. Connor grasped her wrist and tugged with just enough strength to pull her down into the booth beside him. He leaned closer then, and Michele felt a flash of panic. He was too close, and after last night she never wanted to allow him so near again. His pale green gaze was shooting sparks, and she swallowed hard in the face of his dangerous attractiveness.

  “What’s your hurry, Michele, hmm?” he murmured, keeping a firm grip on the wrist she was trying to free. “Things getting a little too personal for you?”

  Michele’s chin went up at his gibing tone. “I hardly think you’ll miss my company. You said yourself that I bring back unpleasant memories.”

  Connor considered that. “I don’t believe that’s exactly what I said. I said you have a lot in common with my ex-wife. But the joke’s on me, not you, Princess.” He bared his teeth savagely. “You know why? Because that similarity doesn’t make me want you any less. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to touch you. It doesn’t keep me from wanting to feel your mouth crushed under mine.”

  Michele couldn’t keep the shock from her expression. She was aghast at the suddenness of his attack as well as the light burning in his eyes. “I’m leaving,” she said breathlessly, and, miraculously, her wrist was released. She rose shakily and laid her money on the table before she turned to flee.

  Connor rose, too, and threw down some bills and followed her quickly out the door. She slipped away from him, intent on getting into her car without further conversation. But her trembling hands refused to fit the key into the lock properly. She cursed mentally as she tried again and again before she heard the click signaling the lock’s release. Her sigh of relief was short-lived when she felt his hard body in back of hers.

  “Michele,” he whispered, drawing her against him. His mouth went to the sensitive area below her ear, and she shivered as he pressed a light kiss there. Both his hands were cupping her shoulders, his fingers kneading lightly. “Don’t run away from me.”

  “Stop it,” she whispered agonizedly. “What’s the point of this? You don’t like me, and you certainly don’t trust me. I’m not about to get involved with anyone who feels about me as you do.” What was she saying? she thought aghast. She wouldn’t get involved with Connor McLain under any circumstances. Every ounce of self-preservation she had screamed at her that he could be the biggest mistake of her life. And she had made a couple of huge ones.

  Connor turned her around then and moved closer until she was pinned between the car and his hard body. “Why shouldn’t you be as tortured as I’ve been?” he demanded, his tone harsh. “Why shouldn’t you relive the memories of being in my arms? I spent all last night and today wanting to touch you again. It’s only fair that you be tortured by it, too.” His mouth swooped down then and captured her own, and Michele was lost. She felt herself spinning out of control, her senses careening madly. She gave herself up for lost and returned his kiss.

  Connor felt her capitulation and urged her closer. In some region of his mind he marveled at how well she fit him. Only a couple of inches shorter, her legs were an almost perfect match for his own. When he pulled her close like this his aching groin was pressed against the warm juncture between her thighs. He tried not to torment himself further by imagining the perfection of their fit if neither of them was clothed.

  His mouth slanted over hers. His tongue just skimmed her lips, barely entering her mouth, and Michele moaned unconsciously. Desire slammed through Connor at the sound. He parted her lips and swept the recesses of her mouth surely, as if he had the right. And he did have some rights, he thought savagely. Last night had forged a bond between them, one she was anxious to deny, one he was just as anxious not to let her forget. He wasn’t sure of his own thoughts where she was concerned, didn’t know what he wanted from her, other than the obvious, of course. But he was damn sure he was unwilling to let her run away before he was ready to let her go.

  He gentled his touch, his kiss becoming less demanding and more wooing. What he had forced on her a moment ago he asked of her now. He cupped her head with one large palm, his thumb keeping her chin raised to him.

  Michele found his gentleness as compelling as his fierceness a moment ago. His heated breath was coming in short spurts, caressing her cheek warmly. He had her crowded against the car, her body caught between cold metal and warm, very warm masculine heat. Her body slackened against his, and he used the opportunity to gather her closer, until she felt as though they were imprinted upon each other’s flesh. And still it wasn’t close enough. His lips were nibbling at hers now, coaxing the response he wanted from her.

  Michele slid her hands up his strong arms and tangled her fingers in the longer hair at his nape. She had never suspected that such a hard man could be capable of such smoldering passion, that he could evoke a similar response from her. She shuddered as the tip of his tongue traced the shell-like cavity of her ear before he moved to take the lobe in his gentle teeth.

  Connor’s mouth covered hers again, and his tongue stroked her velvet heat. Their tongues danced intimately with each other, stabbing in delightful pleasure before waltzing away again, only to return for a longer taste.

  Michele’s head whirled with the sensations he could evoke with a simple kiss. Never had she experienced such passion; never had she evoked such passion in a man, she realized dimly. The proximity of their bodies made her fully aware of how aroused he was, and it was that fact that made her pull her mouth away from his, avoiding the lips that followed to coax her back.

  “No, Connor, I don’t want this,” she whispered. She didn’t want to get close enough to anyone to allow herself to be vulnerable, and this man especially was a danger to her. What he could do to her emotionally as well as physically frightened her, and she had to call a halt to this madness now, before both of them were too far-gone to stop at all.

  “Your body is calling you a liar,” Connor mocked, arousal making him grit his teeth with the effort it took to stop.

  Michele looked askance at him. “You can’t possibly want a complication like this to jeopardize the case. Or are you telling me that, despite all the wonderful things you believe about me, you’re willing to believe that the one t
hing I may not be guilty of is kidnapping?”

  Connor didn’t answer. He was pretty sure that she couldn’t be involved in that, but it still didn’t explain how she had come by the information about the jacket. Hell, he supposed it was possible that she had overheard it somewhere, maybe even at one of those society functions she was so involved in. Perhaps she didn’t even remember she’d heard it until it had figured in one of her dreams.

  Listening to his own thoughts, he loosened his grip on her and turned half away, disgusted with himself. Was he making excuses for her now because he really believed her, or to excuse his own interest in her?

  Michele felt an inexplicable lump in her throat at his silence. The answer to her question seemed clear enough. And it made her long to hurt him in return. She lashed out. “Apparently your libido dictates your professionalism. How convenient for you, but it doesn’t bode too well for the safety of this city.”

  Because her words so closely paralleled his own thoughts, Connor bared his teeth. “And what’s your excuse, Miss Easton?”

  Michele blanched at his renewed antagonism. It merely highlighted the ludicrousness of the passionate interlude they’d shared. “Stay away from me,” she commanded shakily. “I don’t want to have anything more to do with you, understand?” She turned away then and yanked her car door open.

  “I have a feeling, Princess, that neither of us is going to be able to control that,” he said cryptically.

  Michele started the engine and threw the car into gear, leaving him standing in the parking lot staring pensively after her.

  * * *

  Too uptight to face going home to an empty house, Michele drove around the city for over two hours, using the skill she needed to maneuver the busy freeways to keep her mind off Connor McLain and her confusing attraction to him. Finally she was unable to delay the inevitable any longer and drove home. She unlocked the door, then closed and locked it behind her. Connor’s warning had sunk in, if for no other reason than the ease with which he’d entered her apartment the other night.

  Michele flicked on a light and put her purse away. “Here Sammy,” she called. “Kitty, kitty, kitty.” She frowned when there was no answering meow of welcome. Sammy almost always met her at the door, welcoming her or demanding his dinner.

  She entered the living room. Sometimes the cat hid after he’d done something wrong, like the time he’d shredded several pairs of her nylons. Her eyes scanned the room, but she saw no mess he might have made there.

  She stopped, her eyes scanning the space again more slowly. That was odd. She turned in a complete circle, looking more closely. She felt a presence . . . as if someone had been here. She shivered, barely aware that Sammy had come out from behind the couch before he leaped into her arms. Michele walked slowly through the house, her senses humming. Nothing was disturbed, there was no sign of an intruder, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been in her home.

  Of course, she thought, relief spilling through her. Connor had spent the night there. That would explain the aura of another presence in her house. Her tension eased. Obviously her house found it just as difficult to shake off his stamp as her body did.

  Hurriedly changing into a nightgown, she turned on a bedside lamp and pulled the covers back. She padded out to the kitchen to feed the cat and listen to her answering machine. It whirred softly as it replayed two clicks and finally one message from her mother, asking her to call back when she had time.

  Michele smiled fondly as she turned off all the lights and slipped into bed. Although it was too late tonight, she would make time to call her mother before she went to work tomorrow. It had been over a week since she had talked to her, and that was longer than usual.

  There was a strong bond between them; there had been for as long as Michele could remember. They had been alone for so long, dependent on each other, that it was normal that they would be close. But Michele knew it was more than that, more than the usual closeness a mother and her child shared. The adversity they had gone through before they had moved to Philadelphia was at the root of it, and force of habit had Michele trying to push those memories from her mind. But like an insidious fire they spread, ignoring her conscious desire to forget.

  Her father had died when Michele was four, but she thought she remembered him. She had inherited her straight dark hair from him, although her features favored her mother. She remembered laughter from that time in her life, and a feeling of safety, of wanting for nothing.

  A feeling that had turned out to be just an illusion, one that had shattered at her father’s death. There hadn’t been any insurance, and it wasn’t long before they had lost the house. Bit by bit they had slid closer and closer to the edge of poverty. Michele’s mother had taken in sewing and stayed busy during the day, but at least she had been able to stay at home with Michele when she was young. When Michele had entered school, her mother had gone to work in a textile factory.

  But even in those times, when they often had but one meal a day, and that likely a sandwich, Michele remembered being loved. She had never doubted that her mother would take care of her. Until Bill Strought had come into their lives.

  She closed her eyes tightly, trying to shut out the sight of him, but his likeness swam across her mind. Michele had never understood then how her mother could have married him, but after her work in the battered-victims’ shelter, she thought she understood it at least a little. Her mother had been desperate to lift Michele from the cycle of poverty that was fast swallowing them both.

  Michele buried her face in her pillow, vainly wishing her thoughts away. Maybe Bill Strought hadn’t been a bad man, maybe things beyond his comprehension had caused him to react in a way he normally would not have. She had long tried to feel forgiveness for him, to try to understand what had motivated him, but the most she was able to feel was relief. Relief that they had finally escaped him.

  Michele had only been seven when her mother had remarried, but even at that young age, she had recognized that this was not a man she would ever run to, not a man she would call Daddy. He had tolerated her, she supposed, until she had made it impossible for him to ignore her any longer. Then he had made sure that she regretted his attention with all her young heart.

  She didn’t remember the first time she’d had one of the dreams that plagued her. The night terrors, as her parents had called them, had always been there. She remembered awakening screaming at in her bed, but mostly she recalled being cradled in someone’s arms, being comforted until she slept again.

  She’d been eight years old the first time her mother had admitted that what afflicted Michele was more than just bad dreams. Over and over for several days Michele had awakened sobbing, babbling about an old woman lying bleeding in a cabin. Michele’s mother had comforted her as best she could. Bill had loudly proclaimed it childish nonsense and warned Sabrina that Michele was just doing it for attention.

  But there had come a day when they were shaken by the fact that it was more. Bill had come home from his job in town with the news that old man Bislow had hacked his wife up with an ax and left her in the cabin to bleed to death. He’d been liquored up with whiskey, probably out of his mind with rotgut moonshine. They said when he had realized what he had done he’d taken off for the woods. It had taken one of the neighbors better than two weeks to come around looking for the Bislows and find the body.

  The similarities between the incident and Michele’s dreams were too numerous to miss. Bill had been out of his mind after hearing about it in town. He’d grabbed Michele and shaken her long and hard, calling her a witch and a changeling. That had been the beginning of the longest nightmare in Michele’s life.

  For the dreams were nothing compared to the daily terror of watching Bill’s uncaring attitude change to one of mistrust, then fear and hostility and finally abuse. Sabrina had tried to shield Michele as best she could. She begged Michele to say nothing of her dreams anymore, to do nothing that would set the man off. That meant that
Michele now woke from those dreams alone, swallowing her screams, choking back sobs. There was no one there to comfort her anymore, no one to chase the demons back into the night.

  And Michele had tried to keep the dreams a secret, she really had. But it had been a big load for a little girl to carry. Even at that age she was aware that the folks in her region were a superstitious lot, and many of them didn’t trust people who were different. She had wanted to fit in as much as any other child would have. But it was difficult to keep some things to herself. One day she was playing with a group of friends who wanted to play in the woods. Michele had told them, “I’m not going. Rachel’s cat is in there. It was killed by a wild boar.” And when in fact that turned out to be true, the children had gradually begun to shun her, too.

  That time Bill had taken her to a pond nearby, and she had been terrified at the expression on his face. He had looked as if he hated her, and she’d known he meant her harm. He had ignored her struggles and dragged her into the pond, holding her head underwater for long minutes, letting her catch a tortured breath, before doing it again. Her throat had been raw, her lungs ready to burst, when her mother had arrived to save her. Michele never knew whether he had meant to kill her that day, but she remembered him telling her mother over and over again that it was the only way to deal with witches, and if Michele wasn’t a witch, what was she?

  Michele’s mother had finally come to fear for her child’s life. Beatings had been frequent—to get the devil out of her, Bill had said. Sabrina stopped him when she was there, but she couldn’t protect Michele every second of every day, and Michele hadn’t always been able to outrun him. Sabrina had promised her that she would get them out somehow, but she needed some time to ferret some money away, and then they would run away from him.