Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

Because I wanted you.

  Sleep was as elusive as answers.

  Brett laced his hands behind his head and studied the grid pattern on the ceiling. The moon emerged to cast a luminous design—a chaotic checkerboard on which he had no clue which piece to move next.

  Listening to the subtle groans of the old house and the distant sound of the breakers, he dissected each noise, however minute, for traces of an enemy. Restless and besieged with thoughts of Serena, he rose and approached her door.

  The rustle of the quilt told him that even in slumber she tossed about in distress. His fingers brushed against the wood. He could go in there. Touch her. Offer solace.

  That was a bad idea.

  Brett continued down the hall, flinching as he induced a squeal from an aging floorboard. He stood poised, waiting to see if the noise disturbed Serena, but there was no sound from the other side of her door.

  He reached the bay window and stared at the ocean beneath a three quarter moon. Waves crashed against the cliffs. The assault was methodical, reaching for the foundation of this house, attempting to draw it out to sea.

  What happened to you, Alan?

  This single thought bellowed over the raucous cadence of questions in his head.

  Escaping a nightmare that left her breathing hard, Serena’s eyes darted around the bedroom. A muffled sound, inconspicuous, but loud enough to make her flesh dimple had her swinging her legs off the bed. Controlling her quaking limbs, she found nothing amiss in her small room, but sensed trouble beyond the door. She approached it, listening to the squeak of ancient hinges as the panel swung inward.

  She peered out into the hallway where shadows concealed all the demons of night. Damn Brett for not leaving a light on.

  The lantern from her room cast a glow that ended uselessly outside her door. Still wary, she advanced into the hall.

  Trembling fingers skimmed the wall for support until she reached the living room and saw the masculine silhouette profiled by the moon. Her intake of breath made the figure pivot, but his face remained cloaked in shadow.

  "Alan," she gasped.

  "No."

  Shivering against panic, Serena lingered in her nightmares, but felt drawn towards the figure. On some lucid level, she realized that the shape was not Alan’s—that the voice was not Alan’s—but her nightmare still pervaded. Cautiously, she reached out to touch the shadow and gasped as a hand snatched her arm and drew her the rest of the way.

  "I’m not Alan, Serena."

  Serena was flat against his chest now, aware of his quickened heartbeat. She felt strong fingers wind under her hair and behind her neck.

  Powerless, she was captured for lips that descended from the dark.

  Brett slipped his arm behind Serena’s back and felt the rigid tension in her spine. His fingertips traced down that taut column until she submitted and molded against him. All he wanted was to kiss her. He did so. A swift, hot assault of her mouth.

  It tasted so sweet, but still like fear. He went slow. He would make this kiss last forever—just as long as she returned it.

  In methodic sweeps, Brett brushed his lips across Serena’s until she clung to him for support.

  She whimpered. It was that tiny bleat of despair—or was it passion? It kept him in check. Still, Brett used his grip around Serena’s back to haul her even closer, lifting her to her toes, the friction of the embrace nearly driving him to the brink.

  This was what he had always wanted. Serena. Hot, in his arms. Kissing him. But he had wanted the whole package. The whole woman. Not just this sexy, half asleep vision. Because of this, his mouth continued to taste her with light swoops, intimate passes that made him grow harder by the second.

  Lost in the rhythm, he was startled to discover that Serena’s lips had opened, parting to offer her warmth. He groaned and used the grasp on her hair to tilt her head back so that he could brush a kiss on the pulse in her throat. His tongue lashed out to savor that tiny throb. Warm, silky flesh tasted like honeysuckle and lobster bisque, and he sipped it like it was a culinary masterpiece.

  Serena gasped at the sensation, and Brett quickly returned to her mouth to swallow that soft breath. She whimpered again, but he could feel her body stir against him. Her arms laced behind his neck, pulling him down deeper into the kiss.

  Obliged to deliver, he released her hair and reached to grip the hips that started to grind against him. Defying the initial resolve to simply taste her, he kissed Serena long and deep, his tongue inside her, stroking her into life.

  He was vaguely aware that if his hand dropped only a few more inches he could caress the bare thighs rubbing against his jeans. But if he did that, he wouldn’t stop. Instead, he tore away from her mouth and touched his forehead to hers.

  "Who am I, Serena?" he murmured.

  Deprived of his kiss, Serena moaned and tipped her head back, seeking him out. He evaded that temptation and whispered again, this time with his hands cupping either side of her face, so that when her eyes opened she would focus on him.

  "Who am I?"

  In the wake of the moon, Brett watched long lashes flutter and then open wide.

  "Brett," she exhaled. "You’re Brett."

  God help him, but he had no defense against that ethereal voice. With a tortured groan, he crushed his mouth on hers. His hands slipped, his thumbs tracing the curve of her breasts—all the time acknowledging that what he was doing was insensitive, that he should have more control for both of them.

  His taste. His touch.

  The nightmare was long discarded and no confusion remained about the identity of the shadow that coveted her mouth.

  Alan had never made her pulse beat so hard that she throbbed in the most private location. Alan had never taken the time to kiss her so thoroughly she found her limbs useless and relied on Brett’s embrace for support. Alan’s touch had never exacted the total abandon that consumed her. Serena’s tongue sought warmth behind the barrier of Brett’s teeth and was invited in with a sigh that might have been her name.

  Tempted past the point of demure, she drove her fingers into his hair and stroked the length of her thigh between his. Bare flesh against denim, she felt the solid muscle that coursed down his leg. She could imagine that contact being flesh on flesh, and it made her frantic. Eager fingers searched the gap in his collar, seeking the warmth of his skin.

  Serena reeled when his kiss stopped.

  "Are you sure, Serena?" His voice was husky.

  "Brett." Fingers bunching into fists on his shoulders, Serena sought equilibrium both in mind and body.

  "I know who you are—" she stammered. "I—it’s wrong, I shouldn’t be touching you—"

  Brett’s hands on her hips gently set her back, away from the evident reaction of his body. Once she was at a safe distance, he drove a merciless hand into his hair.

  "Dammit." Air rushed between his lips. "Serena honey, you have nothing to feel guilty about. I just attacked you when you were at your weakest. Hell, look what you’ve been through tonight. I could see it in your eyes. The fear that you’d find Alan standing out here, and I just—" he hesitated, "I just wanted you to know it was me."

  "Please don’t cry." His voice was husky. "I would never purposely hurt you. You know that, don’t you?"

  How she hated the gap that separated them, yet if Brett touched her again she was unsure whether she would shatter or melt. In the dark, her head tipped forward in defeat.

  Just this evening, she was presented with the possibility that her husband might still be alive, which meant that she was still married. If she had thought she was going mad during the past month, tonight she was certain of it.

  "No," she began. "But I may hurt you."

  When Brett would have stepped forward, she retreated. "If I asked you to stay away from me, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t want you." She shook her head. "I’m too old to play coy. I’m not going to stand here and deny that—that every time we look at each other there’s—heat. I’m not going to den
y that when you kiss me I feel something I’ve never felt before."

  Serena took a deep breath. "Brett, I want to make love to you. What type of woman wants to sleep with her husband’s brother?" Her voice challenged, but she didn’t let him respond. "You, you deserve so much better than me."

  It took great will, but Brett forced his hand back down to his side. He turned away from temptation and sought amnesty in the black ocean.

  Given any other venue, Serena’s admission of desire would have him confessing to the nights that she flooded his dreams. But her words of self-condemnation were the very same words that echoed in his head.

  "Look, I was wrong to kiss you," he said. "I know that. It was selfish, but God help me, if I had the chance to do it again—" he cleared his throat. "Right now, though, I’m more concerned about your safety than I am about all the things I want to do to you."

  Testing his control, Brett turned around and reached out to touch Serena’s arm. "We’re going to the police tomorrow, okay?"

  With a dispirited nod, she looked up. Her eyes were like the deepest shadows of the forest. A color he might expect to find on the shore of the Rhine, where the Brothers Grim wove many a dark tale.

  "Go back to bed. Try and get some rest. Try not to think about this. Try—" Brett grappled for words, "Try to forget what just happened. We have a lot of work to do."

  The tiniest nod served as acknowledgement. He watched Serena retreat down the hall, his hands hanging useless at his sides. Only when she disappeared behind her door did he turn back towards the living room.

  Sinking down onto the loveseat, Brett crossed an ankle over his knee and kneaded the back of his neck. Preoccupied, he pondered the plant stand before him. Myriad sprigs of a fern, like dancing tribes, wiggled when a persistent breeze infiltrated the cracks around the window. He swiped a hand across his face and tried not to recall the actions which even now kept his body hard and hungry.

  "Brett?"

  Serena hovered in the shadows, just out of his reach.

  "Hmm?" He came alert. "Are you okay?"

  She didn’t respond. She advanced a step. Her arm touched the frame of the sofa.

  "I can’t sleep in there—it’s—" she waited. "I want to be out in the open, where I can react."

  Precisely why he was sitting in the living room, he thought. Well, that and the fact that sleep was not in the cards for him.

  But, wouldn’t he feel safer knowing Serena was close by?

  Brett extended his hand and touched Serena’s outstretched fingers, coaxing her onto the couch.

  "Come here," he whispered.

  Serena alighted beside him, folding her bare legs beneath her and reaching for the knitted blanket. She draped it over her lap, but still remained rigid.

  A grin tugged at his lips. He dropped his foot off his knee and reclined, grabbing a pillow and throwing it across his thighs.

  "Serena honey, you’re tired. Just lay down," He patted the pillow and caught her incredulous look in the moonlight. "You sure as hell don’t have to worry about me accosting you if that’s what you’re afraid of."

  Ashamed by the stab of regret, Serena tried for a careless shrug as she stretched out and rested her head in Brett’s lap. She struggled with the knowledge that only a thin padding separated her from his muscular thighs—thighs she had just shamelessly caressed. Thighs she wanted to stroke without the barrier of clothing.

  "But you can’t be comfortable," she protested, "and you need rest as much as I do."

  Brett touched her hair. "I’m fine." His voice was husky. "More comfortable than I’ve been in years. Go to sleep, Serena."

  His gentle command lulled her eyes into closing as she breathed in his scent and realized that, indeed, it was the most comfortable she had felt in a long time.

  "You put coffee on?"

  Following the scent, Serena walked into the kitchen, slinking a towel over her t-shirt. She felt the cold sting of the tiles on her bare feet.

  Hanging from a hook beneath the cabinet, her mug was blocked by a much disheveled and very sexy man. Serena scoured that image. Brett’s blue cotton shirt was wrinkled, yanked out of faded jeans, and unbuttoned enough to glimpse a flat stomach. Her eyes lingered for too long until she jerked them up. His hair was matted on one side and faint lines creased the corners of his eyes—eyes that traced her every move with the focused intensity of a lion.

  Speechless, she stood before him, waiting for him to shift aside and let her reach for the cup, but he did not budge. Heat rose to her cheeks as she caught him staring at her lips.

  Brett cleared his throat, shuffled to his right, and reached to turn off the percolating coffee. Using the opportunity, he drew in a breath and tried to recover before looking at Serena again.

  "What are you doing up this early?"

  "If we’re going to go to the police today," Serena reasoned. "I’ve got to get downstairs and get some work done first. I’ve still got food to order for Thanksgiving, it’s only a few days away, and—"

  Brett saw her throat pump as she swallowed. She must have interpreted his gaze. She must have sensed how much he wanted to kiss her.

  God, how was he going to keep a level head and protect her when all he could think about was the taste of her lips?

  He tried to break his trance by reaching for the coffee, but instead of grabbing the handle, his fingers wrapped around the pot itself. He bellowed and jerked his hand back.

  "Brett!"

  Serena reached for him, seizing his arm and tugging him towards the sink where she shoved his palm under a stream of cold water.

  "Oww!" He howled. "Dammit woman, that hurts even more."

  "Don’t whine," She wrenched his wrist. "If the police ask you to fill out paperwork, what are you going to say, ‘I can’t, the damn blisters hurt too much?’"

  Serena turned the faucet off and gently dabbed at his hand with the loose end of the towel dangling from her shoulder.

  "I bloody well won’t fill out any paperwork then."

  Grunting his gratitude, Brett was mortified by the whole transaction. Serena’s furtive smile fueled his humiliation.

  "It wasn’t that funny," he moped.

  "Yes, actually it was."

  He brooded some more until gradually they shared a smile. He reached up and brushed a moist lock of hair back from her face, his touch lingering.

  "Will you wait for me before going downstairs?" he asked.

  Serena tipped her head into Brett’s caress. For a second, her eyes closed, and she smiled. The course texture of his palm against skin still sensitive from the shower was a heady sensation. She struggled to open her eyes and risked breaking the spell.

  It didn’t.

  Silver orbs smoldered with promise as Brett whispered, "Maybe you better go."

  It wasn’t his words, but his gaze that conveyed what would happen if she stayed. Serena’s pulse raced, and her breath caught. She set the mug down, heedless of the spilled liquid.

  "I—okay—I’m going." Unable to break his stare, she backpedaled. "I’ll—meet you down there?"

  "Mmm-hmm," he purred. "You will."

  Beneath that languid glance, she caught Brett’s grin and felt her lips tug in response.

  "Don’t look at me like that."

  His eyes dipped down her body. "Don’t stand there looking like that."

  Serena’s heart hammered.

  "Well, all right then—" She retreated. "I’m going now."

  Arms crossed, which accented the muscles in his shoulders, Brett rested his hip against the counter and continued to watch her with unabashed desire. She had never seen anything look so good in her life.

  "I’m going now," she repeated.

  "Yeah, you said that."

  Serena thought, It was either get out of here now, or— "We’ll continue this later."

  Brett laughed, enjoying the rose tinge to Serena’s cheeks, and the smile she tossed over her shoulder before hastening outside.

  With her dep
arture, the levity vanished.

  Tipping down the last mouthful of coffee, he grimaced in pain as the warm mug scalded his injury.

  It was a grim reminder that he had touched something that didn’t belong to him.

  With the bathroom door shut, his shirt discarded on the floor and his head ducked behind the shower curtain, Brett almost missed the emphatic banging outside. His first thought was that Serena was in trouble. He hastened into the hallway only to find a diminutive silhouette; undoubtedly not Serena’s, lurking outside the front door.

  "What?" Brett barked as he saw Rebecca’s animated face glide smugly over his bare chest.

  "Well, have I caught you at a bad time?" Rebecca cooed.

  "Yes."

  Seemingly ignorant of the intrusion, or any lack of decorum, Rebecca crossed her arms and pouted. "Aren’t you going to let me in?"

  He studied the woman in fake leather slacks and a short suede jacket. Her scarlet curls spiraled erratically in the breeze.

  "I’m not exactly dressed for visitors."

  Amber eyes converged on that fact. Rebecca all but licked her lips. Brett resisted the urge to drop his hand and fasten the unsnapped rim of his jeans, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she made him uncomfortable.

  "Yes—ah," Her eyes scaled up his stomach, "I see that, but I’ll only take up a minute of your time."

  Curiosity and suspicion prompted him to retreat a step and swipe his arm to allow her admission. Closing the door, Brett cursed his sore hand as he lingered near the entryway.

  "If you’re looking for Serena, she’s not here, she’s downstairs."

  Rebecca cocked an eyebrow and pursed her coral lips. "I know Serena’s downstairs, that’s why I’m here."

  Her wine-colored fingertips dragged along the edge of the dining room table as she sauntered back in his direction. "I wanted to talk to you."

  Brett folded his arms over his chest and waited.

  "What about?"

  "Well, I just think it’s awfully gallant of you to be looking after Serena like this. I mean," she paused for drama, "there’s a strong chance that she murdered your brother, and still you’re here every night keeping an eye on—things."