by Kylie Brant
She sat up as he strode quickly from the room, and even as the sensations he evoked in her remained, she felt sanity resume. What was she doing? What would he think of her? Michele shook her head, for the first time becoming cognizant of the sensual abandon with which she had been sprawled against the silky sheets. She mustn’t do this, a sane voice told her. She knew what Connor McLain was, and how he felt about her. She couldn’t possibly hope to be able to compete with the hordes of other women in his past, and she knew suddenly that she wasn’t going to try.
She slid her legs over the side of the bed and slipped out, amazed at their shakiness. Quickly she swept the room with her gaze and on the other side of the room saw the shirt she had been wearing. She had no sooner picked it up than she heard a sound and whirled around. Connor was standing in the doorway, gloriously naked, and Michele swallowed, even as she clutched the garment to her own form.
Her eyes wandered down the splendid length of him, and she closed her eyes dizzily. He was marvelously formed, lightly padded with muscle, and the turgid proof of his desire in the protective sheath made it rampantly plain that he found her completely desirable. He was magnificent, and Michele suddenly knew that she would not be leaving him this night. Everything she wanted was here; this man had the ability to give it to her. She pushed away questions of how she would recover when he left her and concentrated instead on the most intense physical desire she had ever experienced.
Even now, with all his senses screaming, Connor made no move toward her. It was her call. If she had changed her mind, he would not touch her, although one part of his body jeeringly asked how he would manage that heroic feat.
But it wasn’t necessary. The shirt Michele clutched so tightly was released to fall forgotten between them as she reached out blindly to touch him. His arms came around her fiercely then, and his mouth ground against hers.
Suddenly it became too much. Connor lifted her, and she instinctively wrapped her long legs around his waist. He walked the few steps to the bed even as she was guiding his entrance, and he thrust into her before her back hit the mattress.
Michele gasped with the ferocity of his desire, and her eyes fluttered shut as his whispered words surrounded her. He groaned love words, sex words, into her ear, telling her how to move, what he wanted from her, how she was perfect, perfect, and then his voice broke and he lunged with even more strength into her tight moistness. Michele felt the world shatter and break away as the precipice whirled up and swept her over it in an infinite plunge into pleasure.
Chapter 9
“I hurt you.”
His statement filtered through the sensual haze that enshrouded her in the aftermath of their lovemaking. With his body still partially covering hers, Michele continued to feel the fading eddies of sensation.
“No,” she whispered, a slight smile tilting her lips. She reached out to cradle his hard jaw in her palm, guiding his mouth to hers. Their lips softly met, before Connor brushed a kiss on her neck. Then he moved to the side, pulling her with him, cradling her against his hard chest.
“I showed about as much finesse as a rutting bull, Princess.” One hard finger lifted her chin so he could read the truth in her eyes. “I wanted you so badly that at the end I couldn’t think at all. I should have been gentler.” He looked down at her delicate features and felt a stab of remorse. “I was rough.”
“You were . . . passionate,” Michele corrected him gently, touched by his concern.
“Too fierce.”
“Urgent.”
Connor looked hard at her, but her soft gray eyes were guileless. He closed his eyes as he hugged her more tightly to his chest. When he had finally felt a flicker of reason return, regret had swiftly followed. He hadn’t taken enough care of her, hadn’t been gentle enough for the kind of woman Michele was. Tricia had hated it when passion had overcome him like that. She had accused him of acting like a caveman, and a selfish one at that. He had assumed that Michele would feel the same way. But one look at her face told him otherwise, even without her gentle corrections. She bore the look of a satisfied woman, her expression soft, her eyes still dreamy. And he felt a primordial satisfaction at being the man who had put that look on her face.
Michele couldn’t have moved if her life had depended on it. A strange lethargy had stolen into her limbs, and she couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be than in Connor’s arms. She rubbed her face against his crinkly chest hair and smiled bemusedly. She found his concern strangely touching, it contrasted so strongly with his usual self-confidence.
Not that she had fibbed. Making love with Connor had been like being caught in a tidal wave of sensation, making all thought rush away. Never had she been so supremely satisfied, not a little of that satisfaction stemming from the knowledge of how urgent his need for her had been. Michele hadn’t had much experience, so it was heady to know that she affected this man as powerfully as he affected her.
Connor finally moved. He looked down at the woman in his arms and smiled a slow sensuous smile, one full of wicked promise in response to her own glowing face. “You’re sure I didn’t hurt you?” he questioned as he threaded his fingers through the soft fine ebony hair spilling across his chest.
“Positive. I keep telling you—” Michele broke off to receive the soft kiss he pressed to the corner of her mouth. She struggled to remember what she had been saying. “I’m not breakable.”
Connor still wasn’t sure about that, but the last thing he wanted to do with the woman in his arms was argue. “But that’s so hard to remember, sweetheart,” he whispered. “When you’re so soft—” he dropped a kiss on one cheek “—so silky—” another was pressed against her shoulder “—and so wondrously tight around me.” Michele shuddered, whether from his erotic whisper or the kiss beneath her ear, she didn’t know. Connor rose on his elbows above her, carnal intent evident in his eyes. She returned his gaze helplessly, her arms reaching around his shoulders. And when he endeavored to prove his claim, she matched his every caress.
* * *
“What are your plans for today?”
Michele raised her eyebrows at the abrupt question. She had badgered Connor into allowing her to fix a breakfast of sorts for them. He had expressed other intentions this morning, until Michele had regretfully admitted to some lingering soreness from their leisurely night of lovemaking. At her confession, his amorous mood had evaporated quickly, to be replaced by an almost comical solicitude. His kitchen cupboards had yielded meager pickings, but she had managed to scrape together the ingredients for French toast.
They had been eating in amicable silence, each reading a section of the paper, with the television news in the background. “I usually go to the shelter on Saturdays. Why?”
Connor wiped his mouth on his napkin, but his attention was diverted to the TV screen as Mayor McIntire’s familiar face filled it. They both listened in silence as he relayed to the citizens of Philadelphia the police commissioner’s assurances that a break in the kidnapping investigation would soon be forthcoming.
Michele frowned slightly and cast a quick glance at Connor. He was watching the newscast impassively, and she grew curious at his silence. “Is it true?” she asked. Connor looked at her quizzically. “Are you close to solving the case?”
“We’re getting there,” he answered. “But that’s not what’s really going on here.” He nodded at the screen, from which McIntire had faded, replaced by a picture of the Reverend Carlson. “It’s all show with McIntire. If we don’t solve the case before election time, he’ll take it as a personal affront.”
“You don’t like him.”
Connor shrugged. “I don’t trust him, but then, I don’t trust anybody who spends more time talking than doing.” As the news moved on to another topic, he looked at her and went back to their previous conversation. “I have to go to work for a few hours today, and I don’t want you going back to your apartment until I get off.”
Michele’s eyebrows rose regally. “May I
ask why not?”
Connor’s brows came together. “You shouldn’t have to ask,” he responded firmly. “I don’t want you in that house again until the lock is fixed on your window, and I can check out all the rest of the locks. We really ought to buy a security system for you.”
Michele knew she was gaping, but she couldn’t help herself. His arrogant assumption that she would do as he said, that she would wait around until he had time for her, was dumbfounding. She strove to keep an even tone. “That certainly won’t be necessary.”
“It is necessary, Michele,” he asserted. “As long as an intruder has easy access to your home, and to you,” he stressed, “there’s no way in hell I’ll allow you back in there.”
His choice of words immediately raised Michele’s ire. “You’ll allow me? Since when do I need you to allow me to do anything?”
“Look, Michele . . .”
“No, you look!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet in agitation. “Don’t think I’m going to let you run my life just because we . . . that is . . . we—” She stopped, suddenly flustered.
Connor rose, too, and approached her slowly. “Because we what, Princess? Just because we had sex last night? Because you let me get closer to you than I suspect any person has been in a long, long time? Because when I touched you, you melted all over me like the sweetest honey? Because holding you made me lose control faster than a randy youth, and I got harder quicker than I ever have before?” By this time he was crowding her retreating figure against the refrigerator, sliding a hand through her hair to cup the back of her head.
Michele slid both hands between them, palms against his chest. “What I mean,” she started, and damned the breathless quality of her voice, “is that I won’t take orders from you. I’m an adult. I’m perfectly capable of having that window fixed myself.”
“Is that why it’s been broken ever since you moved into the place?” Connor inquired smoothly. He made a quick dismissive gesture with one hand. “Michele, this is ridiculous. Are you actually going to tell me that you want to go back home before you know it’s completely secure?” He bent his head to her.
“No,” Michele murmured, her normally quick mind at a loss when his mouth was on her neck like this. That wasn’t what she had meant. He was confusing the issue, confusing her, she thought fuzzily, as her neck arched under his ardent mouth. He had been giving her orders, he had tried to take over, hadn’t he? And why did the importance of that fact seem to slip away when he was this close to her?
His lips made their way up the column of her throat then, and all thoughts went whirling away. She returned his kiss with equal fervor. His mouth was hot and wild, calling to the most sensual side of her nature. Dimly she was aware of other sensations, of the cool unyielding surface at her back, the tensile muscles under her fingers, the equally unyielding hardness pressing against her. But most of her senses were focused on the man who was holding her, seducing her with his tongue.
Their lips parted, and their eyes fluttered open to survey each other, hers dazed and his regretful. Connor pulled himself away with a muttered curse and raked one hand through his tousled golden hair. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said softly, taking a long shuddering breath.
He didn’t know how this woman could keep doing this to him, but she got to him on a level he hadn’t believed possible. He glanced at her, and it was all he could do to not take her in his arms again. Her eyes were smoky charcoal, the way they’d been when he’d made love to her last night. He knew from experience that afterward they would be a wide, soft vulnerable dove gray. He took a few steps back from her. They made a combustible combination, the cop and the lady psychologist.
“Look,” he tried reasonably. “You brought a change of clothes, so there’s no reason why I can’t drop you off at the shelter. What time do you usually leave?”
“Three,” Michele murmured.
“Okay, so at three I’ll pick you up, we’ll make a stop at a hardware store, you can pick out the lock of your choice,” he stressed humorously, “I’ll take you home, install it. And all you’ll have to pay for this service is a mere steak dinner.”
“A steak dinner, hmm?” Michele pretended to consider. “I don’t know. I’ve already cooked for you once today. I don’t know if I want to set a precedent.”
“Lady, you’ve already set a precedent,” Connor crooned with a wicked glint in his eye, leaning one hard arm forward to set it next to her head. “And it has nothing to do with cooking.”
Michele recognized the look in his eye and the intent on his face. Knowing that she didn’t have a chance of thinking coherently in his arms, she agreed hastily as she backed away from him. “Okay, but if you want dinner, we’re going to have to stop at the grocery store, as well. My cupboards are almost as bare as yours.”
Connor recognized her diversionary tactic for what it was. But since he couldn’t trust himself to keep his hands off her if he touched her again, he allowed her to get away with it. After all, he had made very important inroads here. Michele Easton was no longer questioning his involvement in her life.
* * *
When three o’clock rolled around, Michele couldn’t help the feeling of relief that flooded her. She enjoyed volunteering at the shelter once a week. Something about these women and children touched a chord deep within her, reminding her all too vividly of the time in her life when she, too, had been a victim. Working here allowed her to give help to people, help of a sort that had been absent when she had needed it. But today had been different. She had watched the clock surreptitiously, waiting impatiently for three o’clock.
But when she exited the building, Connor was nowhere in sight. She frowned in confusion. He had been adamant about her not going home by herself, but the only man she saw was getting out of a beige car and strolling toward her.
He looked vaguely familiar. Where had she seen that dark head of hair and that swagger before? When he reached her and swept off his sunglasses, Michele started in recognition. He was the man she had seen in Connor’s office the first day she’d gone to the police, the one who also appeared in some of the pictures in Connor’s home.
She blinked. Somehow her memory, and the photos, had failed to do this man justice. He was movie-star handsome, with black hair and eyes, flashing white teeth and bronzed skin. Combined with that cocky strut, he was the embodiment of what every mother warned her daughter about.
“Cruz Martinez, at your service.” He swept her a comical bow, ignoring her bemused look. “I’m Connor’s friend,” he explained. “You probably don’t remember me, but I saw you at the station that day you first came in.”
“I remember you, Mr. Martinez,” Michele said with a slight frown. “But I’m afraid I’m not sure why you’re here.”
“I’m doing Connor a favor,” he explained easily. “He got roped into an emergency meeting with the police commissioner again, and he’s going to be late. So I offered to come and get you.” He held up a paper bag he was holding. “I’ve even picked up a lock for your window. I can probably have it on before Connor even gets there, and for that, he will owe me— big time.”
Michele chewed her bottom lip unconsciously. She wished mightily that she had insisted on driving her own car. Then she would have been spared this embarrassing feeling of being at the mercy of someone else’s schedule.
As if sensing her indecision, Cruz waggled his eyebrows. “I’m completely safe, I promise. I’ve had all my shots, and my mother still makes me go to confession every week.”
Michele couldn’t prevent a smile. “I’m sure there’s a real need for that.” At his look of mock insult, she relented. After all, she didn’t have much choice in the matter. Soon she was seated next to him in his car and giving him directions to her home.
Cruz kept up a running commentary all the way. By the time they had arrived at Michele’s place, he had regaled her with his family history. “It’s true,” he avowed, despite Michele’s laughter. “My mother is Irish and my fath
er is Mexican. I’m twice blessed—a Latin lover with the gift of the blarney.”
She shook her head. He was an utterly charming man, with a ready wit and an easy sense of humor. He was also quite obviously a lady-killer, but he was so unabashed about it that there was something almost harmless about him.
Except for his eyes. Though his were dark where Connor’s were green, they both shared a shrewd, assessing quality that observed more than most people.
By the time Michele had found him a drill and a screwdriver, they were chatting like old friends. Even while Cruz worked on the window, he talked continuously. “I don’t envy Connor his meeting today, that’s for sure. The commissioner was hotter than, well . . .” Cruz continued with a quick look at her. “He was pretty hot. He’s tired of being chewed out by the mayor, and I have a feeling he was going to do some chewing out in return.”
Michele frowned. “But just this morning the mayor was on TV saying that the police were doing a fine job.”
“Oh, yeah, we are. Just not as quickly as the politicians would like.” He grimaced as he reached for the drill again. “But they don’t always have a real good idea of what police work is all about, you know? They care about their image and their standing in the polls, and they forget that the rest of us are out there busting our butts to solve the case.”
“He won’t get into real trouble, will he?” she asked with concern. “As long as progress is being made?”
“Who knows? With the mayoral race being so close right now, this case has turned into a hot potato.”
“But no other children have disappeared,” Michele argued. “You have a good chance of finding them, don’t you think?” She was hoping for reassurance. Each time she tried to approach the topic of the investigation with Connor, he changed the subject. There was no way she could offer proof to Connor that what she had seen in the dream was indeed true. But she knew in her heart that it was. She had never been led wrong before, and she was certain that two of the children were no longer being kept with the others.
