“He’s all tired out,” Ashe said. “He’s been through almost as much as Huckleberry.”
Deborah pulled up the covers, then sat down on the side of the bed. Allen was the dearest, most precious thing in her life. There wasn’t a day that passed when she didn’t want to tell him she was his mother, to claim him as her own. But she had agreed to this charade when she’d been eighteen and not strong enough to stand up to her father. He had told her she had two choices, either give Allen up for adoption or allow him to be raised as her brother.
If only she’d had the strength to tell her father to go to hell. If only she’d taken her child and found Ashe McLaughlin and forced him to face his responsibility as a father. But she’d done what was expected of her. She’d taken what others would consider the easy way out.
Deborah smoothed the loose strands of Allen’s thick blond hair away from his face. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead, then stood.
Ashe watched her, the way she looked at Allen, the way she touched him. No one could doubt the depth of her love for the boy. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was his mother instead of his sister. But then motherly love was not limited to mothers. Indeed his grandmother had loved and cared for him in a way his own mother never had.
But what if Deborah was Allen’s mother? Was it possible? No, don’t even consider the possibility, he warned himself. Idiotic thoughts like that could be dangerous to his sanity. He was letting his imagination run away with him.
Allen was Deborah’s brother, Miss Carol’s change-of-life baby. Any other explanation was out of the question. There was no way Deborah could have been pregnant and not told him. She wouldn’t have kept something that important a secret.
Deborah, although lovely beyond words, looked tired. Drained. Sad. On the verge of renewed tears.
“Come on, honey, you need to get some rest.” Turning off the light, he guided her out of Allen’s room and down the hall.
“I need a bath before I go to bed,” she said. “I’m filthy.”
He walked her into her sitting room and gently shoved her down in the rocking chair. “Sit still and rest. I’ll get your bath ready for you.”
When she started to protest, Ashe laid his index finger over her lips, silencing her. She stared up at him, her eyes filled with such deep emotion that Ashe wanted to lift her into his arms. But he didn’t. Instead he entered her bathroom and turned on the gold taps, letting the warm water flow into her claw-foot bathtub. Rummaging around in the antique chest beside the vanity, he found some perfumed bath oil and splashed it into the water flow. He laid out two huge, fluffy, blue towels and a crochet-edged wash cloth.
In Deborah’s bedroom, he turned down her bed and then found her gown, neatly folded in a top dresser drawer. Pale pink silk, spaghetti straps, heavy white lace across the bodice and hem. After spreading the gown out across the foot of her bed, he flung the matching robe over his arm.
When he returned to the sitting room, she was rocking back and forth slowly, her eyes opening and closing, her chin nodding farther and farther toward her chest.
Before she could protest, he lifted her out of the rocker and into his arms. Her eyes flew open. She grabbed him around the neck to balance herself.
“What are you doing?” She stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Taking you to the bathroom.”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking, you know.”
“I like carrying you,” he said. “It gives me an excuse to hold you in my arms.”
She relaxed, allowing him to carry her. She felt completely safe and secure wrapped in Ashe’s strong arms. When they passed through her bedroom, she noticed he had turned down her bed and laid out her gown. The gesture touched her, making her feel cherished and cared for in a way she couldn’t remember being cared for since she was a child.
“Ashe?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for being so wonderful with Allen.”
“It was easy. Allen is a great kid. He reminds me so much of you, Deborah. The way you were at his age.”
And he reminds me of you, she wanted to say. Every time I look at him, I see you. The way he smiles. The way he rests the side of his face in his hand when he’s pondering something. The expression on his face when he’s trying to talk me into allowing him to do something he knows is against the rules.
Once in the bathroom, Ashe lowered Deborah to her feet, sliding her slowly down his body, his big hands holding her hips in place against him.
She felt his arousal, knew he wanted her. And heaven help her, she wanted him.
She pulled away, turning her back to him. “Thank you for everything.” Bending over the tub, she turned off the faucet. “I can handle things from here on out. Good night, Ashe.”
He whirled her around. She gasped when she saw the look of longing in his eyes. “Are you sending me away?”
“Yes, please, Ashe. Go.”
“All right. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She really didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to stay, to undress her, to bathe her, to dry her damp skin and carry her to her bed.
Ashe ran the tip of his index finger down her cheek, then stepped back. “If you need me, you know where I’ll be.” He laid her pink silk robe on the vanity stool.
Looking down at the bathtub, she nodded. Ashe turned and left her alone. She closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath. She undressed quickly, throwing her clothes into a heap on the floor, then stepped into the bathtub and buried herself in the soft, scented water. Leaning her head back against the wall behind the tub, she closed her eyes and picked up the washcloth. Soaping the cloth, she ran it over her face, then rinsed by splashing water in her face. She slid the cloth down one arm and then the other. Lowering the soapy cloth to her breasts, her hand froze when the material made contact with her nipple, which jutted out to a peak.
She was aroused and aching. Aching to be with Ashe. Aching to open her arms and her body and take him in. But she didn’t dare. For if she opened her heart to him, she would be lost.
Hurriedly, she bathed, washed her hair and dried off, praying she would be able to find forgetfulness in sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
ASHE STOOD AT the window of his bedroom that looked down over the patio. The moonlight illuminated the autumn flowers and shrubs so lovingly cared for by the Vaughns’ weekly gardener. Ashe sloshed around the brandy in his glass, took a sip and set the liquor down on the ornate antique table to the left of the window. He scratched his naked chest, then ran his hand across his stomach.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ached so badly for a woman, and certainly not for one particular woman. Deborah Vaughn had insinuated herself into his mind so firmly that he couldn’t shake her. She had become his first thought in the morning and his last thought at night. Not Deborah Vaughn his client, but Deborah the woman.
He’d made a mistake coming back to Sheffield, seeing Deborah again. He had walked away from her once, rejected her because he hadn’t loved her the way she’d loved him. Now he wanted her as he had never wanted another woman. He burned with the need to possess her.
Ashe slipped on his leather loafers. Buttoning his open shirt, he walked out into the hall. He’d tried for nearly an hour to relax, to stop thinking about Deborah, to quit remembering how she’d felt in his arms when he’d carried her to her bath. But he couldn’t forget.
He walked down the hallway, stopping at Allen’s open door. Looking inside, he saw the boy sleeping soundly, his upper body uncovered. Ashe crept silently into the room and pulled the sheet and blanket up to cover Allen’s shoulders. The little fellow had been through quite an ordeal. Ashe balled his hands into fists. Buck Stansell didn’t deserve to live. But his kind always landed on their feet, always found a way to slip through the cracks in the legal system.
After leaving Allen’s room, Ashe eased the door to Miss Carol’s room ajar and peered inside. She slept pea
cefully. Deborah had told him that often her mother had to rely on sleeping pills in order to rest.
He opened Deborah’s bedroom door. More than anything he wanted to find her awake, waiting for him, her arms open, imploring him to come to her. What he found was an empty bed, Deborah nowhere in sight. Where the hell was she?
He made his way down the stairs, checking each room, one by one, until he entered the library. A table lamp burned softly, casting gentle shadows over the woman sitting alone on the leather sofa, her feet curled beneath her. When he stepped inside the room, she turned her head and looked at him.
“Couldn’t you sleep, either?” she asked.
“No.”
Did she have any idea how beautiful she was, how irresistible she looked? Like a porcelain figure, all flawless creamy skin and pink silk clinging to her round curves, her long blond hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders.
He grew hard just looking at her, just smelling the scent of her bath oil clinging to her skin. He stood inside the open door. Waiting. Wanting. Needing.
“I can’t believe I’m still wide awake.” She looked at him with hunger in her eyes, and wondered if he realized how much she wanted him. “I’m exhausted and yet I feel as if I’ve had an extra dose of adrenaline.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
She stretched her back, leaning into the sofa. Ashe caught his breath, the sight of her almost more than he could bear. Her firm breasts strained against the silk of her gown. Her full hips pressed into the soft leather cushions.
“I fixed myself a drink.” She nodded to the partially full glass on the end table. “It didn’t help.”
“I did the same thing,” he said. “I came down about thirty minutes ago and swiped some of your brandy.”
“Obviously it didn’t help you go to sleep.” She clenched her hands, then unclenched them, repeating the process several times. She wished he hadn’t come downstairs and found her alone and restless. He’d know she couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t make herself forget the feel of his arms around her, the strength of his arousal pressing against her.
“Since neither of us can sleep, how about taking a ride?” Holding his breath, he waited for her reply.
“A ride?” She scooted to the edge of the sofa, knowing there was more at stake than just a moonlight drive. “That sounds like a great idea.” Standing, she smiled at him, then rushed past him and out into the hallway. “Give me a minute to put on some clothes,” she said softly, then ran up the stairs.
He checked his back pocket for his wallet, then thought about his gun and holster lying on his nightstand. He hurried upstairs, retrieved his gun and put on his jacket, then walked down the hall to Simon Roarke’s bedroom. He knocked softly. Within seconds Roarke cracked the door and peered out at him.
“What’s up?”
“Deborah and I are going for a ride,” Ashe said. “I wanted you to know I’d be out of the house for a while.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Simon grinned, something the man didn’t do often.
“Don’t go reading anything into this.” Ashe turned to leave.
Opening the door, Roarke laid his hand on Ashe’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. “She’s the one, isn’t she?”
Ashe stiffened at his friend’s words. “The one what?”
“The one you told me about that night six months ago when we both got stinking drunk and wound up crying all over each other.”
Ashe didn’t like to remember that night; he’d thought Roarke would never remind him. “Yeah, she’s the one.”
Pulling away, Ashe ran his hand through his hair, straightened his jacket and headed downstairs. He paced the marble-floored entrance hall until Deborah descended the stairs wearing a pair of olive green cotton twill pants and a baggy cotton sweater in an olive-and-cream stripe.
“Let’s go,” she said, her chest rising and falling with quick, panting little breaths.
“You want to take your Caddy or my rental car?”
She tossed him a set of keys. “The Caddy.”
He slipped his arm around her waist and they rushed outside, the cool night air assaulting them the minute they opened the door.
“I should get you a set of keys to the Caddy,” she said as he helped her inside.
He leaned down, giving her a quick kiss, then closed the passenger door and raced around to the other side of the car.
He knew where he was going to take her; he’d known the minute he’d suggested the ride. It hadn’t been a premeditated idea, just something that hit him in a flash. In the dark confines of the car, he could hear her breathing, could smell that heady scent of flowery bath oil mixed with the musty scent of woman. He started the Caddy and backed out of the drive.
She waited for him to ask her where she wanted to go. He didn’t ask. It didn’t take her long to realize the direction in which he was headed. Dear God, no! Surely he wasn’t taking her there. Was he that insensitive? Didn’t he realize she’d never been back since that night?
The road leading down to the river was dark, lonesome and flanked on both sides by heavily wooded areas. Deborah closed her eyes, shutting out the sight, clenching her teeth in an effort not to scream. How could he do this to her!
“Please take me home.” Her voice wavered slightly.
“I thought you wanted to take a ride.” He kept his gaze focused on the view ahead of him.
“I don’t want to go down to the river.”
“Why not?”
“You know damn well why not.”
“I want you to tell me.” He glanced at her and wished he hadn’t. Her face was barely visible in the moonlight, but he could feel the tension in her body and make out the anger etched on her features.
“Take me home, Ashe. Now!”
He continued driving toward the river. “It’s time we talked. Really talked. We need to clear up a few things before we make love.”
“Before we make… Why, you arrogant bastard! You think you’re going to take me down to the river and screw me again and then walk out of my life and never look back. Well, you’d better think again. I’m not some lovesick teenager who believes in fairy tales.”
“No, you’re not.” He pulled the Cadillac off the road and onto a narrow dirt lane surrounded by trees. “You’re a woman who wants to be made love to very badly, and I’m the man who is dying to love you.”
When he reached out to touch her, she jerked away from him. “Don’t. I don’t want you. Do you hear me? I do not want you.”
“Honey, stop lying to yourself. Do you think I like knowing I’m so hung up on you I can’t think about anything else? Do you honestly think you’re the only one with bad memories about that night?”
“Oh, I know all about your bad memories!” Whipping around in the seat, she faced him. “You let your anger with Whitney and your need for a woman overcome your better judgment, and you screwed me. Then afterward you were filled with regret.”
He jerked her into his arms, lowered his head and whispered against her lips, “Stop saying I screwed you, dammit! It wasn’t like that and you know it. I made love to you, Deborah.”
Struggling to free herself, she laughed in his face. “You didn’t make love to me, you sc—”
He kissed her hard and fast, adeptly silencing her. She pulled away as much as he would allow and glared at him.
“Maybe I wasn’t in love with you,” he admitted. “But I did love you. I’d loved you since we were kids. You were one of my best friends.”
The tears welled up inside her; her chest ached from restraint. This was what she didn’t want—what she couldn’t bear. “All right. We made love. But you regretted it. You said it could never happen again.”
“I cared too much about you to hurt you by pretending there could be more for us. I felt like a heel, but I did what I thought was best for you.”
She took a deep breath. “I hated you after that night, you know. But all the while I swore to myself I despised you,
I kept praying you’d come and tell me you loved me. I was such a fool.”
“And when two months went by and I didn’t come to you, you decided to get revenge. All that love turned to hate so quickly.”
“What are you talking about? I admit I thought about how I’d like to toss you into a pool of piranhas, but that’s as far as my seeking revenge went.” She scooted away from him when he loosened his hold on her. “Besides, you didn’t stick around long enough for me to plot any elaborate revenge schemes.”
“You don’t call siccing your daddy on me revenge?”
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth on a silent gasp, then shook her head. “What—what do you mean, siccing my daddy on you?”
“Are you pretending you’ve forgotten or are you trying to tell me you honestly don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Then let me refresh your memory.” Turning sideways, Ashe leaned his back against the door, crossed his arms over his chest and rested his head on the side window. “About two months after our night down here—” moving his head from side to side, he glanced out at the starlit sky, the dark waters of the Tennessee River and the towering trees tipped with moonlight “—the police chief hauled my rear end downtown. And who do you think was waiting for us when we got to the police station?”
Deborah’s stomach did a nervous flip-flop. “Daddy?”
“Bingo! Wallace Vaughn himself, fit to be tied and ready to string me up for raping his little girl.”
“Raping!” The blood soared through Deborah, her heartbeat wild, the pounding beat deafening to her own ears.
“Yeah, that was my reaction,” Ashe said, uncertain whether to accept Deborah’s shock at face value or remain suspicious. “But the D.A. was there with your daddy and he assured me that they weren’t kidding. They were accusing me of rape, and when I told them that the charge would never stick, they both laughed in my face.”
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