by Karen Young
Smiling, using her finger to trace the shape of his mouth, she asked, “Do you think we could stay in the same house—” she looked around “—or lodge—and still sleep in separate bedrooms?”
He angled his head back to get a good look at her face. “That’s a trick question, right?”
She laughed and launched herself over into his lap. Startled, it took a split second before his arms came around her, hard and tight. And with a sound that came from his heart, he pressed his face in the sweet hollow of her throat. “Am I dreaming?”
“No.” Carefully, keeping in mind his damaged knee, she straddled him. “Am I hurting your knee?”
With his arms locked around her, he mumbled, “What knee?”
Another soft laugh. “My hair smells like smoke.”
“Your skin smells like heaven.” His tongue came out and he licked the hollow of her throat. “And you taste even better.”
She rocked against his pelvis and even through the rough thickness of his jeans, she could feel his arousal. “Better than heaven?”
“Has to be.” With his hands he framed her face, needing to look in her eyes. “If we get started here, it may be hard to stop. Maybe impossible. I’m that hungry for you, Anne.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” she said quietly.
Still holding her gaze, one hand went to the front pocket of his jeans and with a thumb and one finger, he pulled out a condom and waggled it before her. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” he told her.
She looked at him. “How long have you had that?”
“Since the day I reached the city limits of Tallulah.”
“Oh.” She watched him tear it open and set the foil pack on the end table within reach. “Okay…”
And if there was some doubt in her voice, he told himself they would talk about it later. Not now. God, not now.
Holding her gaze, moving at a pace she could easily block, his hands went to the buttons on her shirt. He stripped it away and then with a deft flick of his fingers, he had her jeans open. “We can do this here or somewhere else,” he said, his voice sounding to his own ears a little unsteady as if he had some kind of obstruction in his throat.
Without a word, she was on her feet and kicking off her jeans. Only her bra and bikini panties left. Wanting to entice him, she slipped the straps of her bra off one shoulder slowly. Buck simply lay back against the couch and watched. But he was breathing hard, praying he would be able to make this last long enough to at least give her what she needed.
His jeans were unsnapped and the zipper down now, but all she could see was a strip of white underwear. Just to look at him made her mouth go dry and her heart race. She wiggled out of her bra and tossed it toward the fireplace. The bikinis she eased down and kicked away without taking her eyes off Buck. There was color in his face and a stillness about him that was almost predatory as his gaze roamed over her, from her throat to her breasts and waist and further, his whiskey-gold eyes darkening with heat.
And then with a curl of his body that was almost violent, he reared up and reached for her. Again she was astride him, this time his hands framing her face and his kiss devouring her. There was nothing gentle in the way his tongue plunged, his need so fierce that the sounds coming from him were almost animal-like. And there was nothing shy in the way Anne returned the kiss.
Ah, the familiar taste of him. She’d needed this, she’d craved it. And while she drowned in sensation, she was unable to recall why she’d denied herself all these weeks.
Breaking away, Buck left a trail of openmouthed kisses until he reached her breasts. He wanted to smile as he drew a nipple into his mouth, heard the tiny sharp breath she inhaled, felt her sigh as he teased the other until it peaked and she cried out with the sheer pleasure-pain of it.
Suddenly he set her aside. “Out of this chair,” he muttered, rising. “We’ve got to get out of this chair.” And then he had her on the floor, the delicious weight of him warm and familiar, so wonderfully familiar. She wasn’t sure how he managed it, but somehow he’d shucked his jeans and the condom was on and he was probing, finding her wet and ready. As she whimpered, he made a like sound and drove into her, plunging deep and true.
For a few blind minutes, he held her still, his forehead against hers, his breath harsh and strained as he forced himself into an unnatural disciplined pause. “I love you, Anne,” he told her in a voice that was unsteady and oddly strained with the effort to hold off. But she was mindless with a greedy need for satisfaction and battled back a momentary urge to give him the words he wanted to hear. Instead, she made a plaintive sound and arched her body to force him into movement. But he was stubbornly still, rigid with tension. Waiting.
“Tell me,” he managed, his mouth at the corner of hers, his shaft deep inside her, unmoving. “I need to hear you say it, Anne.”
After a heartbeat when she finally managed to focus, she felt something inside her give over. Yield. She gave a shaky, strangled laugh and shifted so that she could look in his eyes. “This is blackmail,” she told him.
“Yeah.” He nipped at her chin. “Whatever works.”
“I guess it works,” she said, pulling him down until her lips were just barely touching his, “because it’s easy to say now. I love you, Buck.”
She could say it, she realized, because it was true. She loved him and she forgave him.
He shuddered like a man reprieved from the gallows. For Buck, the long, long weeks had built up a need that would not now be denied. Claiming her mouth in a kiss that was lush and deep, he fell blindly into the ancient rhythm, taking Anne with him, both lost in the delicious choreography of two who knew each other well, who were perfectly attuned. And when he felt the convulsive tightening around him, he was buried to the hilt, glorying in the feel of his wife in the throes of her climax. Then, with a shout, he let himself follow.
Spent, she lay boneless and satiated beneath Buck, resisting when he made to shift his weight from her. Only two fingers were capable of moving anyway, lazily sifting through the hair on the back of his neck. With his face pressed to her throat, she could feel his raging heartbeat finally slowing. The whole thing had taken less than seven minutes.
Somewhere outside an owl gave a soft hoot. “She lives here,” Buck managed to say.
“Who?”
“Owl.”
“Oh.”
“She’s a mommy with a nest under the eaves. She’s very territorial.”
Anne imagined the female owl protecting her precious eggs. “I know the feeling,” she murmured.
His nod, after a long minute, was gentle with understanding.
Anne frowned with a sudden thought and her fingers stilled. “Did we do any damage to your knee?”
“I guess we’ll know when I try to get up off the floor.”
She pushed at him to get a look at his face. “Are you serious?”
He grinned. “Nah, it’s fine.” He sighed expansively and eased off her. “Trust me, everything is fine. Or it will be once we make it to my bed.”
A few seconds passed as he helped her sit up, catching her chin so that their eyes met and he could search her face. “You are going to stay with me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But I need to call my parents—” She stopped, realizing her mistake. “Rather, I need to call my dad and Beatrice. I find myself considering them as my parents without thinking.”
He scooted so that he rested against the couch, pulling her with him. “Easy to understand,” he said, fitting her in the crook of his shoulder. “It’s plain that Beatrice loves you. Tonight when she realized you’d had such a close call, she was every bit as distressed as Laura Marsh herself would have been.”
“Sometimes I feel a little guilty that we’ve drawn so close and it seems so natural.”
“I bet your mama would be happy that you and your step-mama are so close. Laura wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.”
“She was so generous-hearted, I know she woul
dn’t.” But Anne still felt a niggling sense of disloyalty. She shifted a little and gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling fan. “Beatrice has been so sweet to me from the day we met. I don’t think it’s due so much to me in particular. It’s a natural extension of her affection for my dad. She loves him so she loves me.” She paused, still puzzling it out. “Maybe another woman might not be so…loving, but Beatrice has a lot of love to give and because she’s never had any children of her own, I happen to be the lucky recipient. Paige, too.”
Buck made a disgruntled sound. “Don’t remind me of my headstrong niece. When I think of what could have happened tonight, I swear I want to lock that kid in the attic at Belle Pointe and not let her out until she’s about twenty-five years old.”
“You’d have to lock me up, too,” Anne said, “because even though this is a small town without much crime, I shouldn’t have gone to a deserted office building at night alone.”
“Locking you up is not an option.” He bent and pressed a kiss on one breast. “But tell me this. Where did Paige get the idea that she had to sneak the journals to you? If you’d asked, I would have taken you to Belle Pointe with me any day you wanted.”
“That’s the funny thing. We never discussed it. Did you know where they were?”
“Now you mention it, no. I assumed they were around somewhere.”
She settled back. “Even so, Buck, I don’t see your mother just handing them over in view of the fact that she’s warned me off snooping into the Whitaker family’s past.”
“Too bad.” He angled his head to look at her. “You’re mine and you’re a Whitaker and she’ll have to get over it.”
“Maybe easier said than done for her. Victoria has a very proprietary attitude toward all things Belle Pointe,” she said dryly. “I don’t think she’s convinced that I’ve quite measured up as a ‘real Whitaker’ yet.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to have a baby. Will that be real enough?”
She went still. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” His gaze was steady as she searched his face. And after a minute when she was still silent, he said, “How about we get started now?”
Nineteen
The next morning, Buck was up and out of the house at daylight without waking Anne. Before leaving, he’d made a couple of calls and was easy in his mind about leaving his wife alone. With what he planned, he was convinced it was the last easy moment he’d have that day.
Sunrise was still just a pink promise in the sky when he stopped at the big house at Belle Pointe. Pearce would be in a dead sleep. Buck was counting on that. It paid to have the advantage when confronting his big brother.
As he expected, the front door was unlocked. He opened it and went straight to the stairs. He had a foot on the first step when his mother appeared. Clad in a blue dressing gown, she carried a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in another.
“Buck. This is early, even for you. I’m surprised you left your wife. How is she?”
“You heard about the fire?”
“Of course. Everybody in Tallulah heard about it. She’s well or I assume you wouldn’t be here.” She frowned, noting that he was on the verge of heading upstairs. “Where are you going?” she asked sharply.
Upstairs, all was quiet. Nobody stirring yet at Belle Pointe except his mother and, of course, Miriam. Good. He hiked a chin at the coffee she held in her hand. “I’d like a go-cup of that when I’m done, if you’ve got it to spare.”
“See Miriam in the kitchen,” she said faintly, still frowning. “You didn’t answer. I can’t imagine what reason you have to go upstairs at this hour.”
It had been years since he’d seen Victoria before she was made up and outfitted for the day. Now, he was struck that she suddenly looked every year of her age. Without makeup and her hair not perfectly styled, he saw that her skin had a sallow cast and there were circles under her eyes, dark circles. He had a fleeting thought that she looked downright unhealthy. Maybe she’d had a bad night after Paige’s close call.
“Actually, Ma, I thought I’d pay Pearce a little visit.”
“You will do no such thing,” she said with shocked disapproval. “Why, he’s not even awake at this hour.”
“I know.” He grinned and took the first half of the stairs in two strides. “I was counting on that.”
“Buck! You come back here this instant.”
But he was already up the sweeping staircase and headed for the double-door entrance to the wing occupied by Pearce and his wife. Only once had Buck been in this renovated section of the big house and that had been after Pearce’s wedding when he’d hired an architect to add on to the rear and reconfigure the original floor plan. Fortunately, he’d done nothing to change the look of the front of Belle Pointe, but he’d forever altered the antebellum credentials of the place. Buck wondered about John Whitaker’s reaction and imagined their father turning over in his grave. He wondered, not for the first time, why Victoria had allowed it. She’d always had a thing for Belle Pointe’s heritage.
But Pearce’s carelessness in ignoring the historical significance of Belle Pointe was not on his mind as he crossed an elegant sitting room with long strides to reach another set of double doors. Had to be the bedroom. Without bothering to knock, he threw them wide and walked right in.
Only one person occupied the king-size bed and he was motionless, still sleeping. Where was Claire, he wondered, then found himself unsurprised that she didn’t sleep with his brother anymore. Couldn’t blame her.
His footsteps made no sound on the deep carpet as he crossed to the window and pulled hard on the cord that opened the drapes. The room was instantly flooded with early-morning sun.
Pearce made a disgruntled sound and rolled over, away from the shaft of sunlight that struck his face.
Behind Buck, Claire appeared in the doorway. Already fully dressed, she looked surprised and then slightly amused to find Buck in their bedroom. “What’s going on?”
Buck put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Reaching over, he caught the expensive comforter in one hand and yanked it off. Pearce, buck naked, rolled over in a temper and spotted Buck. For a second, he blinked in sleepy confusion.
He reared up in stunned shock. “What the hell!”
Buck stood with his back to the window. “Claire, you might want to leave us now,” he said calmly. “You may find what I’ve got to say to Pearce embarrassing.”
“Get the hell out of my house!” Pearce ordered. “Claire, you stay right where you are.”
With a casual lift of one shoulder, Buck crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against an antique armoire. “Fine. Suits me. I just thought you might want to keep our conversation private.”
“We’re not having a conversation in my bedroom, private or otherwise. How’d you get in here?”
“Through the door. And yeah, we are having a conversation, Pearce,” Buck said quietly. “One that’s way overdue.”
Pearce paused a long minute to study his brother’s face and found something that cooled his outrage. Without taking his eyes off Buck, he said in a milder tone, “Go downstairs, Claire.”
She had moved from the door to stand at the window and appeared to have no intention of leaving. “Don’t mind me,” she said and perched on the edge of an elegant chaise. “I’m dying to know what this is all about.”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Pearce said, not taking his gaze off Buck’s implacable face. “Buck, tell her to leave.”
“C’mon, hon.” Buck walked over to Claire and took her hand. “He’s right. This is between me and my brother. Go have some coffee and I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’m holding you to that.” With her face full of curiosity, she allowed herself to be led to the doors.
Pearce was out of bed when Buck strolled back to take up where they left off. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage here, bro. How about I take a piss and put on my pants?”
“My wife wa
s at a disadvantage last night when she found herself trapped in a burning building. The SOB who set it left your unconscious fourteen-year-old daughter on the floor to die.” Buck snatched a pair of pants folded over a clothes caddy and threw them at Pearce. “They both survived, but only by the grace of God.”
With his pants shielding his privates, Pearce’s dark brows snapped together in a fierce frown. “Now you wait just a goddamn minute, Buck. I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“And I don’t like what I’m thinking, Pearce. So tell me something that will convince me my own brother isn’t a full-fledged sociopath.”
“That’s a helluva thing to say, man. You’ve had a bug up your ass about me since you got here and I’m sick of it. I was at a fund-raiser last night! Somebody said there’d been a fire at the Spectator, yeah, but I was told it was put out before any harm was done. I didn’t know Paige or Anne were involved until I got home.”
Buck’s smile was wolfish as he watched Pearce put on his pants. “Did that disappoint you, Pearce?”
“Disappoint me?” Pearce looked up with one leg in his pants, genuinely baffled. “That Paige wasn’t harmed? What do you take me for, man?”
Buck was shaking his head, looking weary. “I’m working on that, Pearce. At this point, I’ll be goddamned if I know. When Jim Bob Baker died I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I’m wondering what other low-down stuff you’ve done since. Stuff I might have prevented if I’d done the right thing then.”
“And I’m wondering if you have some brain damage from that last concussion.” Pearce gave a hiss of exasperation and began to pace the room. “Just listen to yourself. You’re talking like an idiot. I am a respected individual in this town. I’m going to win that senate seat and in four years I’ll be in Washington, D.C. You are not going to screw it up for me, Buck.”
“You almost killed my wife, you bastard!”
Pearce swung around, eyes blazing. “That’s a goddamn lie! You go around saying crazy stuff like that, my campaign is toast. You’ve gotta get a grip.” After a beat or two, he gave a sickly smile as if trying to sooth a fractious four-year-old. “We’re family, Buck. When you get right down to it, I’m a Whitaker. You’re a Whitaker. We can’t lose sight of that.”
