“Then put up a brave front for Miss Carol and Allen. Even let your employees go on thinking you’re superwoman. But I’ve got some broad shoulders, Deborah. And they’re here for you to lean on any time you feel the need.”
She looked at him, her blue eyes softening just a fraction. “Part of the job, Mr. McLaughlin? I thought you were supposed to protect me. Giving comfort is extra, isn’t it? How much more will that cost me?”
He stood and jerked her up into his arms in one swift move. She gasped as she fell against him and he trapped her body, holding her securely in his arms. He lowered his head until their breaths mingled.
She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of him, telling herself she was a fool to succumb to his easy charm.
“The comfort is free, Ms. Vaughn.” He whispered the words against her lips. “If you’re woman enough to accept it.”
Sucking in a deep breath, she opened her eyes. He released his hold on her and gave her a slight push away from him. Turning his back on her, he headed for the door.
“Ashe?”
“I’m just going to get a cup of coffee. I’m not leaving you, even if right now I’d like nothing better than to walk out that door and not come back.”
“No one is stopping—”
He pivoted around, glaring at her. “No, that’s not true. I don’t want to walk out on you and never come back. What I want, more than anything, is to shove all that stuff off your desk, lift you up on it and—”
“I think you’re confusing me with Whitney,” Deborah said.
“No, honey, that’s something I’ve never done. It’s your legs I’d like to slide between and your body I’d like to claim, not your cousin’s.”
Ashe turned, walked out of the office and closed the door behind him.
Deborah stood beside her desk, trembling. Visions of her lying on top of her desk flashed through her mind. She shook her head trying to dislodge the thoughts of Ashe McLaughlin leaning over her body, lifting her hips and burying himself inside her.
She covered her mouth with her hand to still her cry, then bit down on the side of her finger as shivers of desire rippled through her.
CHAPTER SIX
DEBORAH HAD THOUGHT about making a fire in her sitting-room fireplace, but had neither the strength nor the determination. Although the October night was chilly, it wasn’t really cool enough for a fire. She’d simply thought a cosy glowing fire would be soothing. Instead she had settled for a nice warm bath and a cup of cinnamon tea.
She curled up on the huge padded window seat beneath the stained-glass window in her sitting room alcove. Her room was her haven. Since early childhood, she had escaped into this luxurious old room with its high ceilings and aged wooden floors. Many days she had sat where she sat now, watching the way the sun turned the colors in the stained-glass window to sparkling jewels.
She had written silly, girlish poems about love and life and Ashe McLaughlin. She had long ago burned those poems. Even now she could feel the tears on her face, the tears she had shed the night she’d tossed those hopeless professions of love into the fireplace and watched her youthful dreams go up in smoke.
She shouldn’t be dwelling on the past, not with so many problems facing her in the present. Between the constant harassing threats and Ashe’s presence, her nerves were raw. She wanted to scream, to cry, to break something—anything—into a thousand pieces.
She wanted Ashe to go away; she wanted Ashe to never leave her. She fantasized about telling Ashe that Allen was his son; she lived in fear Ashe would discover the truth.
Deborah set her teacup on the mahogany tea table beside the window bench, pulled the cream crocheted afghan over her legs and rested her head against the window frame. She should have been in bed an hour ago, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The simple, orderly life she had worked out for herself had suddenly and irrevocably fallen apart. She had turned off on the wrong road, witnessed a murder and her life would never be the same again. Not only was her life being threatened by the most notorious hoodlums in the state, but the very man determined to protect her posed the greatest threat of all. How ironic, she thought, that she should fear Ashe McLaughlin even more than she feared Buck Stansell.
She heard a soft rap on her door. Her mother? Had she taken ill? Or Allen, who usually slept soundly the whole night through? No. Not her mother. Not Allen.
Ashe.
Dropping the afghan to the floor, she walked across the room, her heart hammering away in her chest. Just before opening the door, she readjusted her silk robe, tightening the belt around her waist.
Ashe McLaughlin stood in the hallway, one big hand braced against the doorpost. He still wore his charcoal gray slacks and his dove gray linen shirt, but the shirt was completely unbuttoned and the hem hung loose below his hips.
“May I come in? We need to talk.”
“It’s late, Ashe. After midnight. I’m tired.” She didn’t want him in her room, didn’t want to be alone with him. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“It could, but since we’re both awake, I see no reason to postpone our conversation.” He dropped his hand from the doorpost, leaned toward her and looked her over from head to toe. “Are you going to let me in?”
If she said no, he would think she was afraid of him, that he still held some kind of power over her. She couldn’t let him think she cared, that he… Oh, who was she kidding? Any fool could see that Ashe McLaughlin made her act like a silly, lovesick schoolgirl.
“Come on in.” She stepped back, allowing him entrance.
He followed her into the sitting room, glancing around, taking note of the lush femininity of the room. All muted cobalt blues and faded rose colors with splashes of rich cream. Ruffles and lace and dainty crocheted items whispered “Lady.”
“Won’t you sit down?” She indicated the antique rocker covered in a vibrant floral pattern.
Ashe eyed the delicate chair, wondering if it would hold his weight. Deborah sat on the wide, plush window seat. Without asking permission, he walked over and sat down beside her. She jumped, then glared at him.
“I was afraid I’d break that little rocker,” he said, smiling.
“You could have sat in the arm chair, there by the fireplace.” She indicated the wing chair, a wide-brimmed, lace hat hanging from one wing.
“I’d rather sit beside you.” He knew he made her nervous, and he thought he knew why. No matter what had happened between them eleven years ago, no matter how betrayed either of them felt, the spark that had ignited a blazing fire between them that one night down by the river still burned inside both of them.
“Fine, sit beside me.” She glanced over at the tea service. “Would you care for some cinnamon tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“What was so urgent that you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to discuss it with me?” Feeling her robe slipping open across her thigh, she grabbed the blue silk and held it in place.
“Are you all right, Deborah?” he asked. “I mean really all right. You’ve had a rough day, and you barely said ten words at dinner. Miss Carol is worried. So is Allen.”
“I’m fine, and I’ll make sure Mother and Allen both know it. Now, if that’s all you came to say—” she started to rise.
“Sit down.”
She eased back down onto the bench.
“As you know, I paid a visit to Lee Roy and Johnny Joe, a couple of my cousins who work for Buck Stansell.”
Her eyes, wide and overly bright, looked right at him. Damn her, she was working hard at being brave, at pretending she wasn’t slowly falling apart. And he figured having him around wasn’t helping her any. But he couldn’t leave, couldn’t let Sam Dundee send another agent to protect her. Deborah was his responsibility, his to protect, his to defend against whatever harm came her way.
“What happened?” Deborah asked. “I’m sure they didn’t admit that Buck Stansell was harassing me, trying to convince me that he’d have me killed if I testi
fy against Lon Sparks.”
“No, the boys didn’t admit to anything. They didn’t have to. I know my cousins. I know their kind. My father was one of them. They’re what I came from.”
Without hesitating, without thinking, Deborah touched his hand. Comforting. Caring. So much like the Deborah he’d known and liked.
“You were never anything like those people. You didn’t get into any real trouble when you were a teenager. Everything you did, you did to improve your life, to get away from your roots.”
He laid his open palm atop her small hand, trapping it between his big, hard hands. “You never looked down on me, never thought you were better than I was, like so many people did. Even though you were just a kid, you seemed to understand what I wanted, what I needed.”
Deborah shivered, her stomach quivering, warmth spreading through her like the morning sunshine slowly bathing the horizon with its life-giving light. She couldn’t bear feeling this way, longing to put her arms around Ashe, to tell him that she had loved him so dearly, had wanted nothing more than for him to return her love. She’d been a foolish girl; he’d been in love with her cousin.
She pulled her hand out of his gentle clasp. “So, your…you…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “…your visit to your cousins didn’t accomplish anything.”
Dear God, how he wanted to kiss her. Here in the feminine confines of her sitting room, surrounded by all her frills and lace. The smell of her fresh and lightly scented from her bath. Her skin glowing. Soft. Begging for his touch.
“No, you’re wrong,” he said. “The visit did accomplish a few things. I made contact with the enemy camp. I found out Lee Roy and I still have a connection. And I sent a warning to Buck Stansell.” He reached out; she retreated. He reached out farther and touched her cheek. She trembled, but didn’t pull away from him. “I laid claim to you. I told them that Buck should know you are my woman, and if he harms you, I’ll seek revenge.”
“You…you…claimed me?” She widened her eyes, staring at him in disbelief.
He ran the tips of his fingers down her cheek, caressing her throat, then circled her neck, urging her forward. “I know Buck and his type. They’re wild, they’re ruthless, but they aren’t stupid. The one thing they respect and understand is brute force. Another man’s strength. They know who I am, the life I’ve lived. And they know that if I say I’ll come after them if they harm you, I mean it.”
“But Ashe, I don’t—”
“For as long as I’m your bodyguard, we will pretend to be a couple. We’re old friends who have become lovers. As far as Buck Stansell and the whole state of Alabama is concerned, you’re my woman, and this isn’t a job anymore. This is personal. In taking care of you, I’m simply defending my own against any harm. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Yes, she understood. She understood only too well. Not only would she have to endure constant threats on her life and Ashe’s daily presence in her life, but she would have to put on an act, playing the part of Ashe’s lover.
“I can’t do it,” she said, trying to pull away from him.
He held her in his gentle yet firm grip, raking his thumb up and down the side of her neck. “Why can’t you?”
“I can’t lie about something that important. I can’t pretend with Mother and with Allen.”
“Tell your Mother the truth, and I don’t think Allen will care if you have a boyfriend. He seems to think you need one.” Ashe continued stroking the side of her neck.
“You had no right to tell anyone that I’m your woman! I’m not. I never have been and I never will be.”
He jerked her up against him, his lips a whisper away from hers. “This pretense just might save your life or at least make Buck think twice about harming you. I don’t give a damn about your objections—I’m more concerned about saving your life. From this moment on, for all intents and purposes, you’re mine. Do I make myself clear?”
Deborah swallowed hard, then closed her eyes to block out the sight of Ashe’s face. She couldn’t pretend to be his woman. Dear Lord, didn’t he understand anything about her? Years ago she had lived in a fantasy world where she dreamed Ashe would leave Whitney and come to her, claiming her, making her his. And on that one night, the night she conceived Allen, she had given herself to the man she loved, and afterward he had told her he didn’t want her.
“You can’t order me around. You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do.” She clenched her teeth and stared him straight in the eye.
“You’re so damned stubborn.”
His lips covered hers with hot, demanding urgency, the need to override her objections forefront in his mind. But his body’s needs overcame his intention to bend her to his will. He didn’t want to force her to do anything; he wanted her compliance.
Deborah fought the kiss for a few brief seconds, then succumbed to the power of his possession, giving herself over to the feel of his arm around her, pulling her closer and closer, his fingers threading through her hair, capturing her head in the palm of his hand.
Her breasts pressed against his hard chest. His tongue delved into her mouth. Slipping her arms around inside his shirt, she clung to him, her nails biting into the muscles of his naked back. Deborah and Ashe sought to appease the hunger gnawing inside them, their lips tasting the sweetness, their tongues seeking, their hands laying claim to the feast of their aroused bodies.
Ashe felt hard and hot as Deborah ran her hands over his chest, across his tiny, pebble-hard nipples, lacing her fingers through his dark chest hair.
Ashe reached between their bodies, separating the folds of her silk robe, feeling for her breast. He eased the robe off her shoulder, then the thin strap of her gown, exposing her left breast, lifting it in his hand.
When he rubbed his fingers across her jutting nipple, she cried out. He took the sound into his mouth, deepening their kiss. She curled against him. He dragged her onto his lap, lowered his head and covered her nipple with his mouth, sucking greedily. All the while he stroked a fiery path down her back, stopping to caress her hip.
The taste of her filled him, urging him to sample more and more of her soft, sweet flesh. He hadn’t meant for things to get so out of hand, but once he’d touched her, he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t seem to control his desire.
Deborah’s breath came in strong, fast pants as she clung to his shoulder with one hand and held his head to her breast with the other.
They wriggled and squirmed, arms embracing, hands caressing, lips savoring, legs entwined. Losing their balance in the fury of their passion, they toppled off the window bench and onto the floor. Ashe’s leg rammed against the mahogany tea table, knocking it over, sending the tea service crashing onto the Oriental carpet.
Breathing erratically, Deborah glanced away from Ashe to the wreckage on the floor beside them. Reality intruded on the erotic dream. She shoved against Ashe’s chest.
He wanted her to ignore everything around them, to concentrate on recapturing the raw, wild need that had claimed them, but he saw the hazy look of longing clear from her eyes.
She pulled up her gown to cover her breast and lifted herself into a sitting position on the floor. Ashe rose to his feet, offered her his hand and lifted her, pulling her back into his arms.
“You’re Ashe McLaughlin’s woman. I think we just proved that it won’t be difficult for us to carry off the masquerade for as long as it’s necessary.”
He brushed her lips with his, then released her. Deborah staggered on her feet, but found her footing quickly, determined not to give in to the desire to scratch Ashe’s eyes out.
Damn the man! He had gotten his way. He had proved that she was just as vulnerable to him as she’d been at seventeen.
“I’d like for you to go now,” she said. “I’ll explain things to Mother and I’ll tell Allen what I think will pacify his curiosity.”
“There’s less than two weeks until the trial. I think we can pretend for that long. Then for anot
her week or so, if Buck Stansell decides to retaliate for your testifying against Lon Sparks.”
“I suppose there’s always that possibility, isn’t there? If that happens, then this nightmare could go on forever.”
“Let’s take it one day at a time. We’ll get you through the trial, then worry about what might or might not happen afterward.”
Deborah nodded. Ashe glanced down at the overturned table, the scattered tea service, the spilled tea.
“I’ll clean up this mess,” he said.
“No, please.” She looked at him and wished she hadn’t. His gaze said he still wanted her. “I’ll take care of it. I’d like for you to leave. Now.”
He walked out of her bedroom. She stood there trembling with unshed tears choking her. I will not cry. I will not cry. She knelt down on the floor, righted the tea table and picked up the silver service. A dark stain marred the blue-and-cream perfection of the rug. She jumped up and ran into the bathroom, wet a frayed hand towel and glanced into the mirror above the sink.
Dear Lord. Her hair was in disarray, the long strands fanned out around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes overly bright. Her lips were swollen. A pink rash covered her neck and the top of her left breast, a result of Ashe’s beard stubble. She looked like a woman who’d been ravished. Suddenly she felt like a woman who’d been ravished.
Tears gathered in her eyes. She laid her head against the mirror and cried.
IN THE WEEK since they had begun their pretense, Ashe hadn’t kissed her again, indeed he’d barely touched her, except in front of others—a part of their performance as lovers. In another week Lon Sparks’s trial would begin. But when it ended, would the threats end, too, or would they turn deadly? Ashe screened all of Deborah’s calls and her mail. The daily threats continued, meaningless threats since Deborah never heard the messages or read the letters. Two more little gifts had arrived, both of these delivered by unknown messenger to her home. One, a green garden snake, Ashe had taken outside and released. The other had been more ominous, one he’d made sure neither Deborah nor Miss Carol saw. A newspaper photograph of Deborah, singed around the edges, a book of matches laid on top and the words “Your house might catch on fire” scrawled in red ink across the newspaper.
Witness Page 10
