by Julie Miller
The cooling spray of the shower splashed her face, reviving her from the raging heat that pulsed through her body in a sensuous Latin rhythm. She gasped at the nip of teeth on her bottom, swallowed a mouthful of water and sputtered it out with a new purpose in mind.
Rising to the challenge of that playful bite, Claire turned and snatched the washcloth from A.J.’s grasp. She urged him to his feet and reversed their positions so that he stood beneath the spray, blocking all the water but the splatters off his body. She filled the cloth with shower gel and boldly returned the favor.
Student became teacher as she washed his body, cleansing him of fear and guilt as she washed away the grime of a long day and night. She taught A.J. that a nip at the jut of his chin tickled him. A kiss to the newly healed scar on his cheek made him tremble.
She brushed the cloth over his flat bronze nipples and watched them perk up. She ran her palms over them. She felt a groan vibrate through his chest, and discovered he liked that touch even better. Claire rinsed his chest, then tasted them, swirling her tongue around each taut temptation until he lurched the same way she had.
Claire stooped down to tenderly wash around his wounded thigh, then froze. She was at eye level with the unmistakable proof of his desire. His aroused member seemed shocking at first, maybe even frightening in the slick, pulsing strength of it. But A.J. was also a thing of beauty. Something inside her clenched and wept at the obvious stamp of want and need. Pressure ran to her extremities and poured into the heart of her. Her arousal was less overt, but no less potent.
Feeling awed, but more confident, Claire began to think that maybe her inexperience in life—and with this—wasn’t necessarily a drawback. With the right man, the right moment, the right purpose, maybe she could be what he needed. Maybe she could provide the same strength and will that he’d given to her.
She stood, closing a soapy hand around his sex. When he thrust into her hand, Claire gasped. She was startled at first, then awed by the sheer power that a man and woman could hold over one another.
The passion, the promise in A.J.’s eyes locked onto hers, and Claire knew this was it. There was no turning back. She didn’t want to.
The water had grown cold, but A.J. folded his arms around her and merged their bodies into one steaming kiss.
Then the water was off, a towel was around her. A.J. picked her up and carried her into his bedroom.
There’d been no words, none spoken at any rate, until he laid her on the bed. A.J. left the towel between them and lay down beside her, throwing one thigh over both of hers. He smoothed the hair from her face, tucked it behind her ears. A drop of water beaded at the tip of his nose and dripped onto her cheek. He smoothed the spot with the pad of his thumb and Claire felt the tender gesture deep inside her.
“Are you sure you want me to be your first, amor?”
She wanted him to be her only.
Claire answered with a smile and a nod and the clutch of her hands urging his mouth down for a kiss.
In moments, the towel was gone and she was sinking into the pillows and covers beneath the good, solid weight of the man she loved.
“There might be some discomfort,” he warned. “Even pain. And I don’t want to hurt—”
“You won’t hurt me. Only if you stop.”
“No, Claire, amor. I don’t want to stop.”
And then his hands and lips were on her mouth, her breasts. She smoothed her fingers along his wet, strong back, kissed him on his chin, his throat. His fingers tested her, and she moaned at the sweet, sweet torture of his hand. “That feels good. So good.”
When he slid inside her, Claire was beyond feeling if there was any pain. She was too consumed by the utter rightness of it all, the completeness of feeling him stretching her, filling her.
Then A.J. began to move. She quickly caught on to the rhythm of the sensuous dance, feeling the beat of every note build in intensity with each touch, each thrust. And when that noiseless crescendo reached its climax, Claire tipped her head and cried out. A.J. kissed her throat and she held on tight as he drove into her one last time and made the dance complete.
For one hazy moment, drifting along in the echoes of the dance that still trembled through her body, Claire remembered some old wives’ tale about this making her a woman now. But she smiled in serene contentment against the cooling pulse beat in A.J.’s throat, knowing something those old wives never could. He’d made her feel like a woman long before their very first kiss.
This made her feel like his woman.
Afterward, cleansed, sated, but exhausted beyond reason, they crawled beneath the covers. A.J. tucked their naked bodies together, her back against his chest, his hand on her breast. His knee wedged between hers and his lips nuzzled against her ear.
And skin to skin, soul to soul, healing heart to healing heart, they slept.
Chapter Twelve
“Better?”
A.J. watched Claire drift into the bedroom in her graceful ballerina’s walk, toweling her hair dry. He’d thought she’d look lost in his terry cloth robe, but she’d cinched it at the waist in such a way that the vee-shaped collar revealed an enticing stretch of creamy, cool skin, and the bunching at her hips only reminded him of the womanly curves underneath that had welcomed him with such sweet, soul-stealing abandon.
“I was fine before,” she smiled, lighting up the room, if not quite assuring him that seducing a virgin was the best way to offer her comfort or find solace for his own emotional needs. “What’s this?”
She hooked the towel over the doorknob and crossed to the bed to inspect the tray of sandwiches, chips and salsa he’d prepared while she was in the shower. “Breakfast in bed didn’t seem appropriate at one in the afternoon, but I wanted to do something…”
To thank her? To beg forgiveness? To ask her to make love all over again?
If that was the case, then this setup was pretty lame. He should be buying her diamonds or taking her around the world. But then he supposed Claire Winthrop had enough money to buy however many diamonds or trips she wanted for herself. He didn’t think he could compete in her world, and she had no business staying in his any longer than necessary.
“That’s sweet. Thank you.” She dropped a quick kiss on his lips, then scooped up some salsa with a chip and popped it into her mouth. “That’s good,” she said, as she chewed.
She crossed to the dresser and started combing her hair with some of the women’s toiletries that Maggie Wheeler had brought by an hour ago. There was a new outfit in the closet, too.
A.J. hadn’t gotten any further than emptying his pockets and pulling on a pair of jeans after his shower. The cut on his leg was little more than a dull ache now, and he was rested enough to be thinking beyond the moment again. Earlier this morning, there’d only been Claire and the fact that she’d needed him. She’d been too tired, too scared, too everything to go on. When he’d heard the water running, but hadn’t heard her step inside, he knew something was wrong.
She’d needed comfort, and the only thing he had to offer was himself. But it seemed to be the only thing she’d needed. Seeing her naked, touching her, tasting her—and A.J. had known that she was the only thing he would ever need.
But that was this morning. This was now.
Dominic Galvan was still out there waiting to strike—to destroy Claire, consequently destroying him. He needed to be thinking like a cop now. They needed to come up with a plan of action—something that involved him going after Galvan while Claire was holed up someplace safe.
“Is this your family?”
Claire’s innocent question jarred A.J. away from his professional intentions. He stood and came up behind her to look over her shoulder at the last family portrait the Rodriguezes had ever taken together. “That’s us. My mother Sofia. My sisters Émilia, Luisa, Ana and Teresa.”
“And your father, Antonio.” Claire traced her finger across the silver frame on the dresser. He felt that gentle reverence as if she’d stroked his
skin. “You look like him. Now, I mean.” She looked up to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You looked like quite the tough guy back then—long hair, earrings, leather.”
“I was in a gang for a couple of years.” Her blue eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. “Yeah, I’ll bet having that on my résumé impresses the hell out of your father.”
“What?” She turned around to look him straight in the eye. “What does Dad have to do with it?”
A.J. shook his head, feeling a trace of that same resentment that had driven him to make all the wrong choices growing up. “Do you have any idea how different we are, Claire?”
“Do you resent the fact that I’m rich?”
“Do you resent the fact that I’m not?”
She shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Damn those eyes of hers. She was innocent enough to have really not considered the culture clash between them. Their ages, their backgrounds, their future prospects.
She might not see it now, in the rosy afterglow of losing her virginity, or the nebulous peace and quiet of a well-guarded, twenty-four-hour respite from Dominic Galvan. But there was no chance that she could make any long-term commitment to him. She’d have to give up too much. She’d have to put up with too much.
A.J. reached around her and picked up the photograph. “Do you see this man here?” He pointed to his father. She nodded. “He worked for your father. Years ago.”
“Dad said that at the police station—that he knew your father. That sort of rattled you.” She clutched the robe together at her throat. “I don’t think I’d seen you react to anything like that before.”
“My father was a custodian in your daddy’s twenty-six-floor high-rise. He swept his floors and emptied his trash. And every night your father would pass him by without a backward glance because my father was beneath him.”
“That’s not true.” Of course she’d defend her father. “Dad has always made a point of knowing everyone who works for him—from his closest friend on the board of directors to the men on the loading docks at the airport. If he doesn’t know them by name, he knows their jobs, he knows their supervisor. And he’ll always be courteous and friendly.”
“Would he invite the son of his custodian over to the house for a family dinner?”
Claire frowned. “A.J., why are you doing this? I thought we just shared something very special, and you’re spoiling it.”
“You’re right.” He set down the picture and walked back to the bed. “It was great sex.”
“Sex?”
Though in his heart, he knew it had been an act of love, not of lust, he let the coarse statement stand. “Claire, sweetheart, this has been a very trying week for you, and we’ve had some close calls. That can distort—”
“You better the hell not be saying I’m some kind of snob. That I get my thrills by slumming around with the first working-class guy who’ll fall into bed with me.” She grabbed him by the elbow, demanding that he turn to face her. “I don’t care where you come from—what you were like as a kid—what your father did for a living. If anything, I admire you even more because you had it tough. And look what a good man you turned out to be. A well-respected detective, a valued friend. You’re a man who saves lives, a man who puts others before himself. At least, I thought you were.”
“I’m a cop, Claire. I’m never going to be anything more than a cop.” He shook off her hand, then snagged her by the shoulders. “I’m never going to be as good a man as my father.”
“What?” He saw the anger drain from her expression, felt the tension ease beneath his hands.
A.J. released her and stalked to the far side of the bed. He swiped a hand across his jaw and wondered why the hell he was pushing her away when holding her close was the only thing that had ever made the pain go away. Probably because he was smart enough to know that there would be no forever. Eventually, she’d see him for what he was or wasn’t. And without the threat to their survival binding them together, there’d be nothing to keep them from drifting apart.
And that would hurt. It would kill him to lose Claire.
“Tell me about your father, A.J.” He heard the bed creak as she sat behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut at the gentle balm of her voice. Damn it. She was going to be sweet and understanding about this.
With a surrendering sigh, A.J. sank onto his side of the bed. He braced his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. Then he pulled one knee up on the bed and turned so she could read his lips. “My father was killed when I was seventeen. He burned to death in a car accident—supposedly, he was hit by a drunk driver.”
“Supposedly?”
“There was no one in the other car. No one could have survived that kind of collision and fire and walked away. I always thought it was a cover-up. That he’d been killed somewhere else, and then the accident was rigged to hide the true cause of death.”
“That’s awful.”
He raked his fingers back through his hair, seeing the blackened skeleton of that burnt-out Trans Am in his mind. Knowing in his heart that he’d never lived up to his father’s expectations. “A couple of days before he died, my father tried to tell me that he was in some kind of trouble—that there were men who wouldn’t be too happy with him if they found out he knew something.”
“Did he say what it was?”
He shook his head, damning himself the way he had for eighteen years. “He tried to tell me, but I was such a damn punk back then I wouldn’t listen. He was always on my case, trying to get me to be a better man—no, just trying to get me to be a man, period. I thought it was some other stupid piece of advice he was giving me. I didn’t listen. And then he was gone. I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since. But I can’t.”
“Oh, A.J.” Her soft gasp weighed upon his soul.
He shook his head, feeling the tears clutch at his chest. But he couldn’t shed them. “He was always trying to teach me to do the right thing. To listen more than you talk, and to tell the truth when you do open your mouth. To stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.”
The bed shifted as she moved across it. “But you do all those things.”
“I didn’t use to. It took a good man dying for me to change.”
“You were a kid.” He flinched as her cool hands splayed across his back. “That’s not who you are anymore.” Her glorious hands swept around his shoulders and she hugged him from behind. “I know your father would be so proud of the man you’ve become. I’m proud of you. You’re a man of peace. Of strength. Of honor.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder—three times, marking each tattoo. “That’s why I love you.”
A.J. went still.
I love you. They were the most beautiful words he’d ever heard.
And nothing had ever scared him more in his life.
With a quick twist, he reached around and pulled her into his lap. He realized this argument wasn’t about teaching her a lesson, teaching her why they couldn’t be together. It was about admitting to himself why he never wanted to be apart.
He caressed her face, stroked her lips, touched her delicate ears. “I look at you, and I’m ashamed. Look at all you’ve overcome. You lost your mother, your hearing. But it hasn’t jaded your heart. You knock yourself out to help everyone else when you have every right to be taken care of yourself. You’ve tried to do the right thing from day one on this case. It can’t be easy to stand up to your father. You knew Galvan was dangerous, but you reported the crime, anyway. You—”
“Shut up.” She pressed her fingers over his lips and silenced him. “Just shut up.”
She replaced her fingers with her mouth and A.J. held her tight and absorbed the guilty pleasure of her kiss. He slipped his hand inside her robe to caress her breast. Her hands touched his face, his shoulders, his chest. She opened her mouth in loving welcome and he seized advantage of the gift. She loved him. She might be a fool, but he was an even bigger fool for believing it.
; A.J. needed her, and Claire denied him nothing.
In a shameless matter of minutes, he’d slipped out of his jeans. He straddled Claire across his lap, pushed the robe to the floor. He entered her in one long thrust and fell back onto the bed to savor the feel of her soft, warm body closing down around him. In this, there were no differences between them. Not age, not money, not secret shames.
He played with her breasts as they bobbed above him, but he was too far gone to make this last. He rubbed her with his thumbs and pulled at her thighs and plunged into her slick, welcoming heat, then watched her cry out in pleasure as he poured himself out inside her.
She collapsed atop his chest and he held her tight.
“Te amo, amor,” he whispered in her ear, knowing she couldn’t hear. “Te amo.”
A FEW HOURS LATER, A.J. parked his Trans Am in the street across from the Winthrop Building and climbed out. He buttoned his tweed jacket over his T-shirt and gun and circled around the hood to open the door for Claire.
In her blue silk suit, she looked a lot more suited for the boardroom confrontation he expected than he did. But Claire had convinced him to face her father and the board on his own terms. So, armed with the knowledge from the investigation, and his tenuous faith in Claire’s claim about being any man’s equal, A.J. escorted her into the building and made their way up the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor.
Amelia Ward tried to stop them first. “Miss Winthrop. Detective.” She hurried across the mahogany tiles to reach them before they reached the black steel doors of the executive boardroom. “It’s so good to see you. Is everything all right now? Your father was so worried. Is he expecting you? The board members asked not to be disturbed. They’re trying to figure out what to do about Mr. Hastings. He was arrested, you know. Something about lewd behavior and resisting arrest.”
