Powerhouse

by Rebecca York

  Unable to deny the invitation, he maneuvered to the side, gathering her close, and it was the most natural thing in the world to bring his mouth back to hers, nibbling, sliding, taking her lower lip into his mouth the way he’d always liked to do.

  She tasted wonderful, as sweet as he remembered, but the best part was her response to him. The returned pressure of her lips against his and the way she moved restlessly on the bed fueled a hot, frantic burst of sensation inside him.

  Not just him. He could feel needs zinging back and forth between them.

  He was on top of the covers. She was underneath. He knew he should keep her warm, so he slipped off the bed—just long enough to pull the blanket and sheet aside and slide in next to her, so he could gather her close.

  When she made a small sound of approval, he ran his hands up and down her back, then cupped her bottom, pulling her against the erection straining at the front of his jeans.

  He had missed her so much. Needed her so much, and now here she was, right where he wanted her—warm and cozy with him in bed. He heard a sound well up in her throat. Or perhaps it was from his throat. He couldn’t even be sure.

  Her hands began to move too, roving restlessly over his back, his shoulders, pulling him closer.

  They clung together, rocking slightly in the bed, as the kiss turned more urgent—more hungry—driving every thought from his mind but one. Against all reason, she had come back to him, and he must make love to her before she slipped away from him again.

  Was this reality or a fantasy? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. The taste and feel of Shelley Young was the only reality in his universe.

  His mouth moved over hers, feasting on her, his tongue sliding along the rigid line of her teeth, then beyond.

  It was all so familiar. So precious. It was as though they had never been apart, as though the past five years had never happened.

  As he kissed her, he eased far enough away to slide one hand between them so that he could cup her breast and stroke his fingers over the tip. He remembered how sweetly she responded to him, how she gave him as much as he took. And when he reached under her sweater to unhook her bra, she made a small sound of approval, then sighed in pleasure as he took her nipples between his thumbs and fingers, twisting and pulling, doing the things he remembered that she liked.

  “Shelley.”

  She answered with his name, and somehow that brought a dose of reality into the fantasy world he had created in the warmth of the bed.

  “Oh, Shelley.”

  When he put some space between them, her eyes snapped open, questioning his.

  “We can’t do this,” he said in a gritty voice.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just brought you in out of the snow, and you’re not in any condition to be making sexual decisions.”

  “Sexual decisions,” she repeated.

  “Get some rest. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about why you drove through a snowstorm to come here.”

  A look that was part desperation, part regret, part passion passed over her face, reflecting his own feelings with an aching intensity. He could take what he wanted. Right now.

  And then what? He’d hate himself for a long time afterward.

  Unwilling to prolong the moment, he climbed out of the bed and stood looking down at her.

  “Matt?”

  “Shelley, go to sleep,” he said softly.

  Her green eyes looked confused. “I…don’t want to sleep. I have to talk to you.”

  “Not now. Go to sleep,” he repeated. “For me.”

  She blinked. “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “All…right,” she said in a barely audible voice.

  As her eyes fluttered closed, he stood looking down at her, thankful that he could influence her decision, yet wondering how he was going to cope with having her in the house again. As soon as he’d taken her in his arms, all the need and longing he’d repressed for years had flared up. It was as though the two of them had never been apart.

  He cursed softly under his breath, angry at his own weakness. He wanted to be angry with her, too. She’d come here unannounced and tempted him beyond endurance.

  Why hadn’t she just called him on the phone?

  A shiver went through him. A phone call was a perfectly logical means of communication. Instead she’d driven here through a dangerous storm. Which led to the conclusion that she was afraid someone might be monitoring her calls. Or that she had some news that could only be said face-to-face. What could that be?

  He took a step toward the bed and reached out, then stopped himself before he could grab her arm and shake her awake again.

  He had to talk to her, but his previous judgment had been correct. She needed to sleep—so she’d be in good enough shape to tell him the bad news straight up. Because he sensed that whatever she was going to say would be like a punch in the gut.

  Chapter Two

  Shelley moved restlessly on the bed. She didn’t want to wake up, but she couldn’t stay hiding here forever.

  Hiding from what?

  Deliberately, she opened her eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room.

  Panic gripped her as she struggled to remember where she was. Then the past few terrible days came zinging back to her. And the past few hours—when she’d gotten into her car and started driving east—to Matt’s ranch. Because she simply didn’t know what else to do.

  She’d turned in at the gate and gotten stuck in the snow and started walking to the ranch house. She’d still be out there if Matt hadn’t come down the road and found her.

  How had he even known she was on the ranch property?

  She wasn’t sure, but it was lucky for her that he had. He’d brought her back…and, oh Lord. They had ended up in a passionate clinch—under the covers. In this bed, and if he hadn’t gotten up and walked away, they would have made love—just like that.

  Which meant she’d been kidding herself for the past five years. She’d had the strength to walk away from Matt Whitlock because that was the only way to cut off the pain of their relationship, but she’d never gotten over him. And in a few minutes, she was going to have to tell him something that might make him hate her.

  And after that she was going to beg for his help.

  Would he understand her decision five years ago? Would he help her? Or would he order her out of the house? She hoped not until she could get her car out of the snowbank. And then what? She’d be right back where she’d started. In desperate trouble.

  That thought made her swing her legs over the side of the bed. She had to get this over with. Now. Standing, she looked around. Her jeans and long johns were gone, and she remembered that Matt had pulled them off. Probably because they were wet from her falls into snowbanks.

  In place of her discarded clothing were a pair of sweatpants and some thick socks enveloped by his familiar scent. The pants were too big for her slender five-foot-nine-inch frame, and the socks flopped around on her feet. His, she presumed. She pulled on the pants, then the socks. When she didn’t see her purse, she had a moment of panic. Then she figured it was with her coat and boots in the mudroom. In the bathroom, she finger-combed her hair and splashed water on her face, then inspected her visage, wishing she had some lipstick. She didn’t look great, but it would have to do. And she knew she was only stalling for time. Despite her earlier resolve, she was having a failure of nerve again.

  She bought herself a few more moments by turning to the window. The storm had blown over, and the moon had risen, making a path of light along the snow-covered ground. Looking at her watch, she saw that she’d been asleep for a couple of hours.

  Through the window she could see the familiar outline of the bunkhouse. Only one dim light burned over there. When she’d been here five years ago, the place had been blazing at night.

  No more.

  Where were the men who worked for Matt?

  Well, that wasn’t her concern, really.


  Before she could think of some other excuse to stay in here, she pulled open the door and walked down the hall. Past the office where she and Matt had worked on his accounts together. Past the comfortable den where they’d watched DVDs and eaten popcorn in the evenings.

  Sometimes they’d get a popular TV series and start watching the first season. Not once a week but two or three episodes a night if they were really hooked. She smiled at the memory as she continued through the empty dining room—and finally into the kitchen.

  Matt was standing at the stove, his shoulders rigid, and she saw that every nerve in his body was crackling with tension. Obviously, he’d heard her coming, and he was wondering what the two of them were going to say to each other.

  She’d set him on edge, and she wanted to whisper “sorry.” But that wasn’t a very good way to start off this confrontation.

  Of course, there was no good way.

  As she stopped in the doorway, he turned quickly, and she gave him a long look. She’d been too out of it to really see him earlier. Now she took in his dark, sun-streaked hair, the worried look in his blue eyes, and the tension around his strong jaw.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Okay. Thanks to you. How did you know I was out there?”

  “I have an alarm system.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I knew somebody was on the road.”

  She nodded, wondering when he’d put that in. Her head jerked toward the bunkhouse. “Do your men bed down early?”

  He kept his gaze fixed on her. “I’m not working the ranch. Only Ed Janey is over there.”

  “Why?”

  “Ed’s been here a long time. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  She swallowed, trying to take it all in. It seemed a lot had changed in five years, and nobody had told her. But why would they?

  “I mean—why aren’t you working the ranch?”

  “I made some good investments, and I pulled my money out before the stock market crashed. I’m living on that.”

  MATT WATCHED Shelley’s reaction. She was probably trying to wrap her head around all the changes that had taken place since they’d seen each other last.

  He didn’t particularly want to explain his reasoning to her. It would be easier simply to send her away. Not in so many words—but to plant the idea in her head. The way he’d planted the idea of her going to sleep.

  But she looked strung out, and not just from getting half frozen. She’d come here because something was badly wrong, and he had to find out what it was—and if there was some way he could help her.

  The teakettle whistled, giving him an excuse to turn back to the stove. After lifting the kettle off the burner, he opened the cabinet and took down two packets of hot chocolate.

  Still with his back to her, he poured the contents into two mugs, then stirred, stirring up memories as the scent of chocolate wafted toward him.

  He and Shelley had sat in the evenings in front of the fire sipping hot chocolate. They’d talked about all sorts of things, and he’d felt so close to her. Well, as close as he could feel to anyone when he had a secret that he had to guard at all costs.

  “That smells good.”

  “You always liked hot chocolate,” he answered.

  When she sat down at the table, he set the mugs between them, careful not to touch her. Then he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat.

  Neither one of them spoke.

  For something to do, he took a sip of the hot liquid. She did the same, her hands wrapped around the crockery. It looked as though she was holding on for dear life.

  He could barely taste the drink as he waited for her to tell him why she was here. She looked so alone and vulnerable that he wanted to reach across the table and grab her hand. But he hung on to his own mug because that was a lot safer than touching her.

  Finally, when she didn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes.”

  While she’d been sleeping, he’d let his imagination run wild. She was in trouble. He knew that much. And he’d turned over all the possibilities in his mind. Had her business crashed in the recession, and she needed money? Had a client asked her to do something illegal? Had she discovered someone was cooking the books at a company, and she didn’t know what to do about it? Or was it something personal? He didn’t even want to speculate on what that might be.

  Forcing the issue, he finally asked, “What brings you here?”

  Suddenly she looked as if she wanted to cry—and as if she wasn’t going to give in to tears.

  “You’ll feel better when you tell me.”

  “I doubt it.” She swallowed hard, then raised her head and met his gaze. “My son, Trevor, has been kidnapped,” she blurted. “I think you’re the only one who can help me find him.”

  Although the words reached his ears, they didn’t really make sense. Maybe because, in a million years, he never would have expected them.

  “Did I hear that right? You have a son, and he’s been kidnapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord. I didn’t know…I mean. You have a son?” he said again, totally confounded by the revelation. The obvious thought leaped into his mind, and he felt his stomach clench. “I didn’t know you’d gotten married.”

  She continued to meet his gaze. “I’m not married. He’s four years old, Matt. He’s your son, too.”

  The shock and confusion was like a body blow, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Shaking his head, he tried to clear his brain. He couldn’t be hearing her correctly—could he? “I don’t think I’m getting all of this quite right.”

  In a high, strained voice, she said, “I know I’ve shocked you. I didn’t know how else to say it. Five years ago, I left you because you told me you didn’t want to get married. And you didn’t want children. Then I found out I was pregnant, and I wasn’t going to come back and beg you to marry me. So I just….” She let go of the mug and flapped one arm. “I just went it alone.”

  He tried to imagine what she’d been through, what she was going through now.

  “You’re saying he’s been kidnapped?” Matt said, his own voice turning rough. This was like a nightmare. An old nightmare coming back. Only she didn’t know it yet.

  “Yes.”

  He asked the next obvious question. “And the police and the FBI are looking for him?”

  The scared, determined look on her face tore at his heart. “No! I can’t go to them.”

  “You have to!”

  “I can’t!” she shouted, then lowered her voice. “Somebody picked him up at day care two days ago. A man, apparently. He made the teacher think he had my permission. But he left a note for me with her. It said that if I contacted the police or the FBI, they’d kill Trevor.”

  The revelation tipped her over the edge. It looked as if she’d been holding herself together with strapping tape. Suddenly, all pretense of composure evaporated. She began to cry in great gulping gasps, her shoulders shaking as the sobs racked her body.

  Matt shot out of his chair, came around the table and hauled her up. When he wrapped his arms around her, she leaned into him. As he folded her close, he knew he needed to hold on to her as much as she needed to cling to him.

  While he rocked her gently in his arms, he tried to process everything she’d just told him. It was too much to take in all at once, but he had to because the past was rushing back to body-slam him.

  Shelley gulped, and he could feel her trying to pull herself together.

  Now he was the one who was hanging on to composure by a thread.

  “You have no idea who took him?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “And you have no idea what they want?”

  “No.”

  “They didn’t ask for money?”

  “I’m telling you everything I know.”

  He stroked her back. “Okay. I believe you.” Sucking in a breath, he let it out in a rus
h, knowing he was going to make this worse for her. For both of them.

  “A long time ago, I was kidnapped,” he said.

  Her head jerked up, and she stared at him through brimming eyes. “What?”

  He had turned the tables on her. Now she had to process what she was hearing.

  “You were kidnapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never told me about it!”

  “It’s not something I was prepared to talk about—with anyone.” But now that he’d opened the subject, he knew she had a thousand questions, and he would do his best to answer them. He’d told her she’d feel better when she explained why she’d come. Strangely, he was discovering the truth of his own words. Despite the circumstances, it was a relief to stop lying. Well, lying by omission.

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.” Before she could ask another question, he pressed ahead. “A couple of friends and I had gotten off the school bus. A white van stopped and somebody pulled me inside.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t remember!”

  “But you got away!” she whispered, and he knew she was grasping onto that fact. He was here. Somehow he’d escaped from his captors.

  “I came back three months later. I don’t have any memories of what happened to me while I was gone. The next thing I remember is wandering along the stream on the ranch.”

  “You were safe!”

  “Yeah. But I made the decision never to have children. Never to put a child of my own in danger. Now I know I was right.”

  “Matt, what are you saying?” she gasped, obviously trying to put it all together.

  “Shelley, it can’t be a coincidence that I was kidnapped, and then Trevor. It’s got to be related.”

  When she stared at him, stunned, he said, “I understand your confusion. Let’s sit down where we’ll be comfortable.”

  He led her down the hall to the den where they’d sat on so many evenings long ago. After seating her on the sofa, he crossed to the fireplace and removed the screen. Kneeling down, he struck a long match and lit the kindling under the dry logs in the grate, watching them flame up.

  When she turned, he saw Shelley huddled on the cushions, staring at the fire as though the flames held the answer to their problems.