Find Me (The Donovan Family Book 3)

by Margaret Watson

  Fatal mistake. She'd heard about the lab in detail from her friends, and knew what she'd told Mac was true - everyone in the VR world knew about that project. So he was lying about what he did.

  It could be nothing more than a guy with a boring, low-level job who wanted to make himself sound more interesting to a woman. A woman he'd already had sex with. A woman he wanted to have sex with again. She'd seen the way his sweat pants had tented. The sight had made heat curl low in her own belly.

  But...

  She couldn't assume it was just about sex. She had to stay suspicious if she wanted to stay alive. Not trust anyone, especially strangers who got washed onto Skipjack in the middle of a violent storm. Strangers who lied about what they did for a living.

  So she'd keep the telephone cord hidden. There had been something about that fourth phone call he'd made that still nagged at her brain. He'd said the exact same words every time. But there was still something off. And until she figured out what it was, he didn't get access to the phone.

  She stepped into the guest bedroom down the hall and made up the bed, then put a set of towels on the dresser. Once in the hall, she turned up the thermostat. They'd both need extra warmth tonight. Then she headed back toward the living room.

  She stopped in her tracks before she got there. Franny was sitting next to Mac, her head on his lap, as her mystery man absently scratched the dog's ears. Her first impulse was to yell at Franny. The dog was supposed to be as suspicious as her owner. She wasn't supposed to cuddle up to the stranger.

  Even if her owner already had.

  Struggling to keep her voice even, she said, "Looks like you made a friend."

  He turned to look at her, being careful not to dislodge Franny and resting his hand on the dog's head. The hard knot of suspicion and fear in her chest eased just a little.

  "She's a great dog."

  "Yeah, she is. Smart, too."

  Instead of being intimidated by the subtle warning, he smiled. "I can see that. You did a good job training her."

  "She made it easy." Lizzy gave Franny the hand signal to come, and the dog lifted her head with a reproachful look. She nudged Mac's hand, waited for one final caress, then trotted over to her owner.

  Lizzy reached for the covered container that held Franny's food, knowing that would get the dog's attention. After putting a scoop into Franny's dish, she changed the water in her bowl and swiped a hand over the dog's back as she stood up. Franny wagged her stump of a tail and continued eating.

  The fire in the living room was down to embers, so Lizzy put three more logs into the fireplace. Then she stared at the small pile of logs in the entryway. Not enough. If the generator went out, they'd need the warmth from that fire. Neither of them should get chilled again while recovering from hypothermia. They needed more logs.

  Sighing, she grabbed the survival pants and yanked them on, tugging the straps over her shoulders before bending to put on her boots. Then she struggled into the heavy jacket, put a hat on her head, and grabbed a pair of leather gardening gloves. This time, she'd be smart when she went out into the storm.

  She'd learned what happened when she was stupid.

  Memories of what had happened earlier raced through her mind. Her body warmed and arousal came roaring back. Clearly, parts of her were eager to be stupid again.

  Scowling, she yanked the gloves onto her hands, snatched up the flashlight that hung on the wall and opened the door. "I'm getting more wood," she called. "I'll be right back."

  She stepped onto the small porch, flinching when the rain struck her face like tiny knives. The button on top of the flashlight was hard to press through her stiff gloves, but eventually the light came on. The cone of brightness illuminated the stone squares that led to the wood pile, reflecting off the water pooled on their uneven surfaces. Tiny rivulets of muddy water flowed at the edges of the stones, rushing toward the sea.

  Lizzy kept the light trained on the path until she reached the wood. Piling several pieces in her arms, she turned back toward the house, stepping carefully onto one stone after another. If she'd been more careful this afternoon, she wouldn't have gotten so wet. Wouldn't have been so cold. She wouldn't have needed the heat of Mac's body as much as he'd needed hers.

  She would have been more alert. Wouldn't have slid into sex with a stranger.

  By the time she'd reached the porch, her arms trembled and a tiny trickle of water ran down her neck. Damn it! The jacket must not be zipped completely. She was tired, and had gotten careless. Stupid.

  By the time she made it to the porch, she was shivering again. Before she could reach for the door knob, the door swung open. Mac stood there, framed in the light from the house, and reached for the wood. "Give it to me."

  He snatched it out of her arms and carried it into the living room. She watched for a moment, then turned to trudge back out to the wood. Why was she surprised that he'd help her? He'd done nothing to indicate that he was the kind of guy who'd sit and watch while a woman did all the work.

  Because he was clearly in pain. He'd winced when he took the wood from her. His limp was more pronounced. And he set the wood by the fireplace much too carefully.

  She made three more trips into the rain and had turned to make another when he grabbed her arm. "How much more wood do we need?"

  "More than we have," she said, tugging away from him. "If the generator goes, we'll need it to keep warm."

  "Why don't you come inside and let me get the rest of it?"

  She stared at him, but he was backlit by the light from the house and she couldn't read his expression. Did he not understand how close he'd come to dying? Didn't he realize how important it was to stay warm? He didn't appear to be a total idiot, so she guessed he was just trying to help. "That's not a good idea," she finally said. "You shouldn't get chilled right now. And you probably ache all over."

  "You must be sore, too," he retorted. "You had to drag my dead weight into the house."

  "Yeah, your almost dead weight. Don't want to have to do that again."

  "A few trips back and forth to a woodpile won't kill me," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  "What am I supposed to do if you really hurt yourself? God knows how long it would be before someone could get out here." She glared at him for a long moment, then shoved the flashlight into his hands. "If you want to help, shine this light on the path for me."

  Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and began the trudge through the rain. After a moment, the light of the flashlight bounced in front of her, illuminating the path.

  Without the flashlight in her hands, she could carry several more logs each time. In two more trips, she had enough to last through the night if they needed it. When he took the last load from her arms, she stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  Her legs felt like jelly, and she rolled her shoulders to relieve the ache in them. Then, moving as if her feet were caught in a bog, she began fumbling with the zipper on her jacket.

  "Let me help with that." He brushed her hands away and tugged the zipper down, then eased the jacket off her shoulders. His fingers brushed her upper arm and fire streaked through her veins. When he turned to hang it up, she pushed the straps of the survival pants off her shoulders. She couldn't think when he touched her.

  "Hold on," he said, and she realized she'd been trying to curl her fingers around the pull tab on the zipper. He splayed one hand over her belly and used the other to work the zipper. The back of his hand brushed her breast, and a current ran from her nipple to her clit. As he tugged the pants over her hips, his hand feathered over the spot between her legs. The spot that was already throbbing from his earlier sweep over her breast.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice was breathy. Low-pitched. Sexy.

  "Helping you get undressed." His hand lingered, and she swallowed hard. She wanted to put her hand over his and hold him between her legs. She wanted to put her hands on the erection straining at the front of his sweat p
ants. Hell, who was she fooling? She wanted to strip the sweats off him and taste him. Spread her legs and invite him to taste her.

  "Is there something else you wanted to do?" he asked.

  Oh, yeah, there was. So many things.

  A smart woman would move his hand and walk away. But she couldn't force herself to do it. "Mac..."

  He eased to the floor in front of her without moving his hand. "Do you want me, Beth? Because I want you. More than I've ever wanted another woman."

  "That can't be true. You don't even know me."

  He moved his hand gently over her jeans, and she had to bite back a cry. How did he do that? There was a thick seam of denim between her and his hand, but it felt as if he was sliding his finger through her intimate folds. And lingering exactly where she wanted him.

  "I know how you sound when you're aroused." He pressed a little harder, and an involuntary cry came out of her mouth.

  He smiled and leaned forward to close his mouth around her nipple. "I know you like it when I do this."

  Oh, God, it was too good. She was going to rip his clothes off. If he didn't stop, she would come in his hand. "Mac," she panted. "You're...I'm going to...you need to stop."

  "You're kidding me, right? You tell me you're going to come and want me to stop?"

  The thick ridge of his cock was pressing against her thigh, and she curled her fingers around him. "This is insane," she whispered, moving her finger over his tip. She ached with wanting him. If he didn't stop, she'd drag him into her bed.

  The rasp of her zipper being lowered was loud in the sudden quiet. "I want to taste you. I want to watch you come. If you don't want that, tell me to stop."

  She should stop him. But he was sliding his fingers down her panties and she couldn't form the words. He groaned when he touched her. "You're so wet. God! I need to taste you."

  He pulled her to her feet and stripped the jeans and panties down her hips. He stared at her for a long moment, then traced a finger over the curls at the junction of her thighs. "You're beautiful," he murmured. He slid his hands around to her ass and pulled her toward him.

  Lizzy stumbled, her feet trapped by the jeans puddled at her ankles. His hands tightened on her ass, then he let her go and tried to yank her jeans off.

  Suddenly desperate to taste him, to explore him, she peeled them off herself, then took his hand and dragged him toward her bedroom. Once they were there, she yanked the quilt and blanket off the bed and tugged him onto the sheets. But when she tried to slide down his body, he stopped her. Instead, he spread her legs and put his mouth on her.

  He did wicked, clever things with his tongue, tasting her, sucking on her, flicking her swollen, sensitive clit as she thrashed on the bed beneath him. He held her thighs apart with his shoulders and drove her higher and higher, until she exploded in his arms, a high-pitched, keening sound filling the room.

  Her chest heaved and she tried to suck air into her lungs as he stripped off his sweats and slid into her. She wound her arms and legs around him, clinging to him, moving with him as he drove her to another peak. And when she was sobbing in his arms, he thrust again, hard, and came himself.

  A long time later, she stirred in his arms. "We didn't even get all our clothes off," she said, plucking at her sweater, bunched above her bra. She slid her hands beneath his jacket, trailed her hands over his chest and abdomen. "I couldn't see you. And I wanted to taste you, too."

  He pulled her against his chest and she felt his lips on her hair. "We'll get to that," he murmured. "Next time."

  She was too blissed out to argue with him about whether there would be a next time. Because she was pretty sure there would be. Pretty sure she wouldn't be able to resist him.

  "Need to go to bed," she murmured, her nose against his neck. She breathed him in, a hint of cedar from the clothes he wore, coffee, that fresh air scent she'd noticed before. A delicious combination that made her open her mouth and taste his skin.

  "We are in bed, honey," he whispered, brushing her hair away from her face.

  "No. To sleep. I made the other bed for you." Her eyelids were heavy, but she dragged them open and leaned back to look at him. He smiled down at her.

  "You want me to leave?"

  No. "Yeah. Too much temptation here."

  "Okay." He stroked her hair again, then again. Soothing. Mesmerizing. "In a minute."

  Something cold nudged her arm, then Franny licked her skin. She dragged her eyes open and Franny barked once. The signal.

  Lizzy struggled to sit up. "She needs to go out."

  Mac put one hand on her chest and pushed her back down. "I'll let her out. You stay here."

  "I can do it."

  "I know you can. But I can, too." He kissed her, his mouth lingering on hers. "Sweet dreams."

  As he walked down the hall with Franny trailing him, Mac said something to her dog. Lizzy smiled as she pictured Franny's stubby tail wagging in response.

  He continued to talk to Franny until the door opened. She fell asleep before she heard Franny return.

  She startled awake when she heard someone groaning. An elbow rammed into her side, then a hand gripped her arm.

  "No! No, please."

  Mac's voice. She rolled over and found him in her bed, his eyes tightly closed as he thrashed.

  He was having a nightmare.

  Chapter 9

  "Mac."

  Someone clutched his upper arm. Shook him. Hard.

  It was the cop. The one who'd grabbed him, made him look at the cop's partner, lying in the street.

  "I didn't mean it," he said, staring at the pool of blood beneath the officer's head, the unnatural angle of his leg. "No! Please!"

  "Wake up, Mac!" Someone grabbed both of his arms. The cop? His mother? Cobwebs trailed over his face. Was he in jail, then? A dirty prison?

  "Mac! Come on! Wake up!" The voice cut through his memories, his panic, and his eyes fluttered.

  "You're having a nightmare." Cool hands cupped his face, and warm, sweet-smelling breath fanned over him. It smelled like citrus and honey and woman. Lizzy.

  His eyes fluttered open, and he stared into her eyes. The cobwebs were her hair, the curls tickling his face as she bent over him. The nightmare began to recede, leaving behind only the guilt-drenched memories and the echoes of desolation and loss.

  "Mac," she breathed, smoothing her thumbs over his cheeks. Caressing him. He blinked and focused on her face. "You awake?"

  He didn't want to say yes. Her touch was comforting. Soothing. He didn't want it to stop. If she knew he was awake, she'd back away from him. Re-establish the distance he knew she wanted.

  "You're awake." She moved away, settled on the bed beside him, her back against the wall. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," he managed to get out. "A nightmare."

  "Was it about falling overboard? Being in the water?"

  "Ah, no," he said, shifting on the bed. He hadn't had the nightmare in years. What had set it off? Was it his near-death yesterday? The complicated situation with Lizzy? A combination of both?

  "You're safe," she said, skimming a hand down his arm. "You're on Skipjack Island."

  "Yeah. Right. The storm. The boat." He shivered, remembering his plunge into the frigid water of Puget Sound.

  "You okay now?"

  He pushed up so he was sitting with the headboard behind his back. "Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry I disturbed you."

  "What...what were you doing in my bed?" Even in the darkness he could see the flush of arousal on her face.

  He shoved his hand through his hair, trying to remember. "I, ah, let the dog out. Then got into bed with you." He studied her, watching her color deepen. "We'd had sex. I assumed you'd want to sleep with me." He'd wanted to sleep with her. He'd wanted to feel her against him as he fell asleep.

  She cleared her throat. "You okay now? You want to go back to your bed?"

  "Not particularly."

  "You want to talk about it?"

  "About what? Having sex
with you?"

  "No! The nightmare." She cleared her throat again. "I've had them. Sometimes it helps to talk about it."

  Who had woken up next to Lizzy, calmed her from her ugly dreams? His hands fisted in the quilt, and he forced himself to relax them. And no, he didn't want to talk about the dream.

  But maybe he should. Maybe if he confided in Lizzy, she'd confide in him. Tell him what she was doing here. Why she'd run.

  "It's about something that happened when I was a kid." He closed his eyes. No. Oh, no. It could not be about guilt. He felt no guilt about deceiving Lizzy. He'd bet money she wasn't a meth dealer, but she had information about Kelly's murder. Information that was vital. It would be ridiculous to feel guilty about deceiving her. Unprofessional as hell.

  He was always professional. And if he could use his recurring nightmare to prod Lizzy to confide in him, he'd do it.

  She took his hand. "Tell me. It's the middle of the night. We both need to sleep. Get it out of your head."

  He stared down at her hand, holding his. She was being kind. Caring. And he was here to haul her back to Chicago. If he needed to spill his guts to gain her trust, then that's what he'd do.

  He focused his gaze on her. "My dad died when I was a kid. Fifteen."

  He hesitated, and she touched his cheek. A feather-light caress that burned his skin. "I'm sorry. I know how that feels."

  She did. He knew that from the research he'd done on her. "Yeah. But that's not what the nightmare is about." He was telling her because his job required it. But he swallowed and tightened his grip on her hand. "I was the oldest kid. Have three brothers and a sister. My dad was a cop."

  Lizzy sucked in a breath. "Was he killed in the line of..."

  "No," he interrupted. "By a woman who'd dropped her lipstick on the floor of her car. She bent down to get it, ran a red light and T-boned my dad's car. Killed him instantly."

  "That's horrible," Lizzy whispered.

  "Yeah. At his funeral, everyone told me I was the man of the family now. I had to take care of my mother and my brothers and sister." The grief, the pain, the helplessness washed over him in a huge, enveloping wave. "My mother was completely devastated. She and my dad were totally in love. She had to deal with her own grief and help us with ours. My mother is an amazing woman, but it was hard. She didn't know what to do."