Killing Secrets

by Docter, K. L

  Rachel wanted to tell him to remove the animal, but after the way Amanda just responded to him, she knew she wouldn’t. If Buckwheat would help her little girl, the dog stayed. The truth was she hated the idea of sleeping alone in the master bed another night. “I’m still close by when Amanda has a nightmare.” She held up the baby monitor. “This thing picks up everything. I got it so I can get things done while she sleeps.”

  “Does she have nightmares often?”

  The question startled her into facing Patrick. A mistake. He was too close. He wore a plain black T-shirt and well-worn jeans, but he might as well have been naked the way her libido perked up. A damp lock of hair fell over his forehead and, suddenly, she could visualize him in the downstairs shower, buck naked, steamy water running over his muscular body as he rubbed soapy hands all over his skin. Inhaling his clean, masculine scent, her eyelids lowered to capture more of the imagery running rampant in her head.

  “Rachel?” Her name was almost a growl.

  Her eyes widened. Abruptly changing direction, she walked away from him toward the king-sized bed. Good grief! Not that direction either! She stopped in the middle of the room, turned her back on the four-poster, and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Yes,” she said, responding to Patrick’s question. “She has dreams almost nightly since,” she paused, unable to discuss her last night with Greg, “for months.”

  “Did Bishop beat her, too?” Patrick asked sharply, putting two and two together without her help.

  “No, thank God,” she said with a violent shake of her head. “But that’s the night she stopped talking.” She hadn’t left Greg fast enough to protect her little girl, and guilt was a constant pang in her heart. “I was taking her to a doctor who specialized in traumatized children, but we had to leave Dallas before she made any real progress with her.”

  Patrick scowled at the doorway into the smaller bedroom. “She needs help.”

  She nodded. “I’m stuck until we can put this mess with Greg behind us. As soon as we return to Dallas, I can get her back into therapy.”

  “I’ll talk to Joe. He had a psychiatric practice in Chicago before he returned home four years ago, although,” he shook his head, “he stopped taking on patients after he became principal at the high school. Sam might have someone at the hospital who can work with Amanda if she prefers a woman doctor. If it’s been months, maybe a new approach will help.”

  Rachel stared. At every turn, this man did wonderful things for her and Amanda. “Thank you,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  “Why are you doing all this?” The question escaped before she knew it had been bothering her for days. What kind of man took on the kind of trouble she’d dragged to his door, without hesitation, without expecting anything in return?

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure he’d respond. His dark eyes were fixed on her and, inexplicably, she remembered she only wore a light dusting of powder beneath his football jersey. He wasn’t looking at her in an inappropriate way but a zing of awareness skimmed through her bloodstream. “Patrick?”

  Her whisper of his name broke his gaze. “No child should be traumatized by those who are supposed to love her,” he said. “I want to help her.”

  “No, I meant,” she waved her arm to encompass the house, “all this. You’re protecting us from Greg, throwing your life into disarray.”

  He shrugged. “Anyone would do the same.”

  No, they wouldn’t. Touched by his inability to acknowledge the caring, protective man she knew him to be, Rachel’s insides melted. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He stared at her so long she could feel the pull of sexual tension between them. Or maybe that was just her hormones taking notice. She wondered what he’d do if she walked over and kissed him.

  “I’ll go call my brothers. G’night.” Then, he was gone, the bedroom door shut tight behind him.

  Working to calm her ratcheting pulse, she crawled onto the four poster bed. Aware she wouldn’t fall asleep any time soon, despite the fact it was after ten o’clock, she propped her back on the carved headboard and reached for the romance novel Jane gave her this morning. Running her index finger over the figure on the cover, the hero’s broad chest gleaming above his tartan, she compared the character’s physique to Patrick’s. The contractor might not carry a sword like one of her favorite warriors, but he was a sexy rescuer nevertheless. He could carry her into his keep and claim her like some beleaguered princess any time!

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” she exclaimed, tossing the book aside. A romance was the last thing she should read tonight, not when the masculine fantasy she craved was elsewhere in the house making phone calls. Maybe there was something else to read in Ross Thorne’s office behind the stairs. She’d spotted a couple of espionage thrillers on his shelves a couple of days ago.

  She glanced into the other room and checked on Buckwheat lying alongside Amanda. It looked like he was sound asleep, but then he opened his eyes and stared at her. He exhaled a huff of air that assured her that he was on guard duty; she could dash downstairs for a different book. If she hurried, she could get back to her room without running into Patrick again.

  Decision made, she picked up the shawl Evelyn Thorne had thrown over the end of the bed and enveloped her body like a sarong, adding another six inches of material below Patrick’s football jersey. Feeling less exposed, she grabbed the baby monitor and walked toward the bedroom door. She was passing the huge antique dresser when she spotted a bubble-wrapped package centered in the middle of the mahogany surface.

  Greg had returned and left another threat?

  Alarm swept through her senses. Then, she saw a flash of silver peeking from one end and recognized the delicate engraving. She crossed to the dresser, picked up the bulky package, and began to unwind the bubble wrap. When the wrapping fell to the floor, she cradled her mother’s hand mirror.

  She stared with disbelief at her unbroken reflection. Her fingers trembled as she slowly traced the swirl design hammered into the silver frame. A couple of tiny scratches remained but the worst of the damage had been smoothed, repaired. Turning the mirror over, she examined the monogrammed letters on the surface.

  LMJ. Laura Margaret James.

  “Oh, Patrick,” she murmured, holding the precious memento to her breast. She hadn’t questioned his appearance in her bedroom tonight, but he must have been delivering this package. Overwhelmed by his thoughtful gesture, several moments passed. Then she left the master bedroom and went to look for Patrick. She found him coming up the stairs.

  He smiled and stopped a couple of steps below her so they were at eye level. “I spoke with Sam about Amanda. He has a friend who—” He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “I-I—” She held out the mirror. “You fixed it.”

  “Sorry I don’t have the brush and comb yet, but the silversmith said it would take more time to repair the other pieces. He was able to hammer out the dents and replace the mirror though.” He flashed a crooked smile. “I hope it helps to have this piece while you wait for the others.”

  How did she explain that he’d just handed her mother back to her? “You fixed it,” she repeated.

  He gave a negligent shrug, like it was no big deal. “It means a lot to you.”

  Without thinking, she leaned over the edge of the top step and kissed him. It was a chaste, grateful caress…at first. Then, it transformed into something else. Something hot and voracious. Needy.

  That quickly, Rachel couldn’t get close enough. The desire she’d been fighting in the shower flamed higher and burned through any thoughts of self-preservation. “Patrick,” she whispered. “Kiss me back. Please?”

  She wasn’t sure he’d heard her, but then he groaned and his big hands circled her upper arms. “Rachel.” Her name sounded more like a plea than a warning to stop so she was startled when he set her away from him. “If I kiss you back,” he growled, his
fingers warm on her skin, “I’ll forget I’m supposed to be protecting you. Even from me.”

  The desire blazing in his eyes was too tempting to ignore. “What if I don’t want that kind of protection from you?”

  His gaze sharpened. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  She might never have experienced real passion, but she instinctively knew making love with Patrick would be different. Just once, she longed to be with a man who made her feel truly desired. A man who set her on fire with one look. “You don’t want me?”

  “Since that first night in the moonlight.”

  Her blood heated at his rough admission. She hadn’t realized he saw her sitting on the porch that night, watched her visually caress him, sure of her anonymity in the shadows. She’d built so many fantasies in her head since then. Fantasies where she could revel in the way he looked at her, the glittering edge of passion in his dark eyes showing a man on the verge of losing control, a man who’d carry her with him.

  Like he was looking at her now.

  Before she could worry that she wasn’t ready for Patrick in the flesh, his large hand wrapped around the back of her neck. He pulled her into another kiss. It wasn’t hard, or demanding, but the caress of her dreams. He worshiped her lips. He sipped. He nibbled. He captured the sound of her moan on his tongue.

  When she swayed, they almost lost their balance on the stairs. “Whoa,” Patrick murmured. His hands on her hips, he pushed her back on the landing. “This isn’t such a good idea,” he said.

  “But—”

  The sweet appeal in Rachel’s Southern whiskey voice rammed through Patrick’s defenses more effectively than if she’d tackled him with another of her soul stealing kisses. The look of confusion and, God help him, passion in her luscious brown eyes called to him. His pulse pounded in his ears.

  “Shh,” he said, taking the last two steps to the landing. He walked her backward until she bumped into the solid wall between the two bedrooms that anchored the top of the stairs, her breasts warm, yielding against him. “Now,” he said, “we won’t fall down the stairs.”

  He took the mirror from her hand and placed it carefully on the hall table to his left before his head dipped again. He nuzzled her flushed cheek, her fragrant hair, the corner of her mouth, teasing, never quite allowing himself to settle into a proper kiss.

  A sane voice in his head ordered him to take his hands off her, push her away, but the voice went silent when he tangled one hand in her silky blond hair. He angled her head to give him access to the tender area beneath her jaw. Making his way to her pulse, he took his time over that sweet spot before moving to the other side. “You taste as delectable as you smell,” he murmured, his free hand capturing her breast.

  She cried out and thrust more fully into his hand.

  Gently pinching her nipple through two layers of cloth, he was rewarded with another demanding cry. Anchoring Rachel between his aching body and the wall, his left hand flat beside her head, he trailed his free hand down her sweet curves to the bottom of the shawl she was wearing over his old football jersey. He slowly gathered the material upward until he uncovered bare skin.

  He froze. “You’re not wearing panties.” The words scraped like gravel in his throat.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Only if I had a chance in hell of sending you back to your room without taking you right here, up against this wall.”

  Talking to her in his parents’ bedroom fifteen minutes ago was difficult enough when he saw how feminine and sexy she looked wearing his old jersey. It had taken everything he had to force his libidinous carcass out of the room. Once he realized she’d gone commando beneath all of that innocence—

  “No chance,” Rachel said, her sultry smile cutting him off at the knees.

  He cursed when she pulled his T-shirt from his waistband and the back of her knuckles seared his bare stomach. “Not here,” he ground out. He took her hand and dragged her through the nearest doorway. With the light from the hallway guiding him across his brother, Ben’s old bedroom, he led Rachel to the queen-sized, brass bed. He tossed the coverlet aside and eased her onto the cool sheets.

  When he started to follow her down, she stopped him. “Shut the door?”

  “Let me see you, Rachel.”

  “Please? No lights?” She stared up at him and shrugged. “I-I don’t want you to see my scars.”

  Patrick’s insides twisted. He wanted to tell her the scars didn’t make him want her any less, but he didn’t think she was ready to hear how close to the edge he was. He walked to the door and closed it, shutting off the glow of light from the hall lamp. With the heavy drapes drawn on this side of the house, it was difficult to see much. But he knew every square foot of his family home so he walked back to the bed, pulling his T-shirt over his head on the way. He tossed it in the general direction of the chair before joining Rachel on the bed.

  “Wait. Could you put the baby monitor somewhere?”

  He hadn’t noticed she was carrying anything besides the mirror. Hesitating, he remembered why Rachel had come to Denver…and it wasn’t to satisfy his demanding libido. Whatever she’d said in the hallway, she wasn’t ready for this. She couldn’t be. “Amanda needs you.”

  Rachel tucked the monitor in his palm. “It picks up a whisper, remember?” she said. “Buckwheat’s with her, too. Just put it on the nightstand.”

  The dog would guard Amanda with his life, Patrick knew, but—” Are you sure?”

  “Please,” Rachel said.

  The urgency he heard in her Southern drawl convinced him, so he did as she asked. Then, lying on his side, he brought her flush with his rigid length, straining his zipper. She sighed. Her hands drifted over him, cool flutters over his scorching skin. Every touch made his muscles contract, each caress building on the next, until he ached for release.

  When she flicked his nipple with a fingernail, a punch of lust ripped a ragged path to his balls. They tightened unbearably inside his jeans, the heavy material the only thing that kept him from plunging into Rachel like a randy teenager. He sucked in air when her hand grazed the bandage covering the nine stitches Sam stapled into his side on Thursday.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “Not as much as it will if you stop touching me,” he admitted with a small laugh. “You’ll just have to be gentle with me.”

  Aching to have her naked—and soon—he fumbled with the knot between her breasts and released the shawl. Unwrapping her like a present, he tossed the material over the side of the bed to the floor. His football jersey quickly followed. Rachel finally naked in his arms, he forced himself to slow down. He’d been dreaming of this woman forever. He was going to take his time.

  He nuzzled her fragrant skin over her collar bone, the tops of each breast, around her nipples never quite touching them. He played with her until she arched closer in demand. Only then did he draw her into his mouth. He suckled one nipple, wrapped his tongue around it and tugged until the tip grew hard and distended.

  “Oh!” She quickly released the top button on his jeans, the rasp of the zipper loud in the dark room. Her hand dipped behind the waistband of his briefs and cupped him. She whispered his name. “Patrick.”

  The air around him was laced with the scent of desire, lilacs, and Rachel. He wanted to see her, but somehow the darkness that surrounded them forced him to use his other senses which made each sensation stronger. More intense. With each stroke of her fingers, he lost another piece of his mind.

  Her skin grazing his, the slender curve of her butt firm in his hand felt as good, no, better, than he’d imagined. He’d dreamt of making love to Rachel for days. He longed to make all of his fantasies a reality, kiss her from head to toe and back again. Explore her secret places. Find her sweet spot. Make her scream with her climax.

  He wanted to look into her angel-soft, brown eyes and watch her come apart. Then, he’d finally, finally push inside her and put out the fire that had only flamed higher each
day he was around her.

  The image of Rachel sheathed tight around him, crying out as she reached for her orgasm, pulled a frustrated growl from his throat. The woman made him crazy stupid. He didn’t have a condom!

  There might still be one hidden in a corner of his old dresser down the hall, but if he found it, did he dare trust Rachel’s protection to fourteen-year-old latex? She rocked her heat against him, his dilemma becoming more urgent by the second.

  A voice whispered in his head. Shuck your jeans and just claim her. Hard. Fast. Damn the consequences.

  “Rachel, stop,” he said loud enough to smack down his libido. He caught her shoulders and gently pushed her away. “I can’t do this.”

  She froze. “I-I—” A heartbeat passed before she whispered. “You don’t want me. It’s the scars, isn’t it? Even in the dark…oh, God!”

  When she tried to scramble off the bed, he pulled her back. A mistake. The position made it difficult to think coherently. “It’s not the scars, sweetheart. I don’t have a condom.”

  “Oh.”

  He felt her relax. “There are other ways,” he said, unable to let her go.

  “It’s okay,” she said at the same time.

  “What?” Patrick wished the moon shone through the drawn curtains so he could see her expression. “Honey, I have to protect you.”

  “I’m clean. So, unless you have a disease,” she stopped to lick a sensitive spot below his ear, “we’re good.” She traced an erotic path to the hollow at the base of his throat. Her tongue dipped into the indentation there.

  His throat tightened. Trying to talk a woman out of making love to him was a new experience for him. It would help if his dick wasn’t still waiting impatiently for him to get on with the program. She’s good. You’re good. What’s the hold up?

  Swallowing a curse, his heart raced. He wanted to accept Rachel’s assurance at face value. If he couldn’t see her, he wanted to feel her. Really feel her without anything between them. But, that way lay stupidity and he just couldn’t—

  “I can’t…get pregnant,” she said, nipping his skin.