The guilt flitting across her face told him she was holding back, but she shook her head.
“If you can recall something, anything that will help us find Brittany—”
“Don’t you think I’d tell you?”
The unfamiliar sharpness in her voice surprised him. “We’re both tired. After a good night’s sleep we can think more clearly. Your memories are returning, a few at a time. Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember more.”
AS JORDAN STEERED Heavenly Days a few miles offshore from David’s estate to drift for the rest of the night, Angel welcomed the noise of the boat’s powerful engines, which drowned all expectations of discussion.
Later, alone in the wide double bed of the cabin and hounded by a guilty conscience, she tossed restlessly. She regretted lying to Jordan about her memories, but she couldn’t confess she’d killed David, not until Jordan had helped her find Brittany.
He had promised he would, and she didn’t doubt him. He might fool others with his carefree attitude and charming grin, but she’d detected his inner strength, his determination and patience, and, above all, his concern for others, peeking through his casual facade. With those qualities, he must have been an outstanding cop, and she wondered if he would ever reveal why he’d left the force or share the events that caused the sorrow lurking in his eyes.
She groaned and buried her head beneath the pillow, but she couldn’t hide from the fact she was falling in love with Jordan Trouble.
You’re not telling him about killing David, her conscience taunted her, because you know a cop could never love a murderer.
To still the accusing voice, she rose, pulled a robe over her short gown and tiptoed past a sleeping Jordan, sprawled with his long, tanned legs tangled in the sheets of the bed folded out from the galley benches.
The glass doors of the lounge rolled open soundlessly, and she stepped onto the deck. The boat drifted peacefully on the calm gulf waters beneath a blue-velvet sky, where stars poked holes in the darkness now that the moon had set. To the east, the lights of Sunset Bay cast a glowing yellow dome over the city.
Her little girl was out there somewhere. She hoped Brittany was sleeping and not lying awake, crying for her mother. She yearned to hold her daughter, to breathe her sweet baby scent, watch dimples crease her cheeks when she smiled, feel the chubby arms around her neck and the tiny lips against her face.
I’ll find you, sweetheart. I promise.
How she intended to keep that pledge, she had no idea. Sitting on the deck, still warm from the Florida sun, she clasped her knees to her chest and tried to ward off the pain, but she couldn’t halt the relentless ache in her heart or the tears that coursed down her cheeks.
If separating her from her child was God’s punishment for taking David Swinburn’s life, she deserved the pain, but Brittany hadn’t done anything wrong. Her innocent baby shouldn’t have to suffer for her mother’s sins.
The gentle swell of the waves rocked her but brought no comfort. If her surroundings were any indicator, she could be the only person in the universe. Water stretched in every direction as far as she could see, and above arched an infinite curve of dark sky, spangled with stars. Without her daughter, without family or memories or friends, she yielded to the overpowering solitude. If she disappeared that instant from the face of the earth, who would notice? Or care?
She didn’t hear Jordan’s approach, but suddenly he was there, lifting her by the elbows, scanning her face in the starlight.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
Embarrassed at being caught wallowing in self-pity, she slipped from his grasp and made a furtive swipe at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Shifting out of his arms’ reach, she perched on the cushioned ice chest that lined the stern. “It’s a beautiful night. I can’t remember seeing so many stars before.”
“Brittany is safe, and we’ll find her. You have to believe that.”
He had read her mind—or was she that transparent? Wearing only boating shorts, he stood like a bulwark between her and hopelessness. She longed to believe his assurances, but guilt prevented her.
The sins of the mother, the darkness whispered.
She shivered uncontrollably. If harm came to her daughter, she had only herself to blame. Tears she’d attempted to hide flowed faster, and she tried without success to stifle the sobs that shook her.
In the blink of an eye, Jordan settled beside her, pulled her onto his lap and into his arms. “Go ahead and cry if it makes you feel better.”
“I despise weepy women,” she said between sobs, “women who bawl their heads off, as if they’re helpless to deal with their problems.”
With a rare tenderness, he brushed her hair out of her face, then clasped her against the warmth of his bare chest and rocked her gently with the motion of the boat “Handling problems is always tough, but especially without memories. Cut yourself some slack.”
She shook her head but said nothing. He didn’t understand her fear, and she didn’t dare enlighten him.
“Besides,” he added in a light tone, “according to the experts, crying’s good for you.”
“Right,” she said wryly, between sniffles.
“It’s true. Tears flush out chemicals caused by stress.”
She was frustrated that she couldn’t cease weeping or hiccuping. “Why is everything that’s good for me so unpleasant?”
Still cradling her against his pliant warmth, he continued to rock her tenderly. “My grandmother—”
“The one whose cookies you stole?”
He nodded. “She insisted suffering makes you a better person.”
“If I get any better,” she said with irony and a sniffle, “I won’t be able to stand myself.”
His rich laugh echoed across the water. “Thatta girl. I knew you hadn’t lost your spunk.”
Warmed by his laughter, she felt her sobbing ease. Pulling away, she lifted her head and considered the man who held her. His eyes burned dark as the night sky, and his impressive profile created an enticing silhouette against the starscape.
“Why are you so good to me?” she asked, knowing she was undeserving.
“You bring out the best in me.”
Her heart plummeted, and her tears threatened to return. “But you don’t know me—”
“I know you well enough. And I like what I know.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Once you learn more—”
“I want to learn everything about you.” His low voice carried a seductive urgency.
“What if you discover things you don’t like?”
“Nobody’s perfect, least of all me. I’ll take the bad along with the good.”
He lowered his head until his lips hovered inches from hers, and his warm breath fanned her cheek. Beneath her hands, splayed against his broad chest, his heart pounded with an insistent, primeval rhythm that stoked her blood, burning away reason and resistance. No longer alone, she reveled in the contact of flesh against flesh and the consuming heat that seared away her solitude.
“We shouldn’t,” she protested, not really meaning it.
“Shouldn’t what?” His mouth curved in the devilish grin she’d grown to love.
She fought the desire that filled her. Deeper involvement wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “We should go to bed.”
His smile widened. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“I meant go to sleep.”
“Are you sleepy?”
Sleepy? When every cell in her body tingled with awareness? When every atom of her being called to him, begged him to oust her loneliness.
“Yes,” she lied.
“I’ve wanted to make love to you from the first moment I saw you—” he brushed her lips with a butterfly kiss “—but I’ll stop if you say so.”
He raised his head, watching, waiting for her answer.
One small word would restrain him. Although she sensed the passion surging through him, she trusted his control. If she asked, he would hono
r her request.
But how could she say no when she wanted him as much as she’d ever wanted anything? She longed to lose herself in the excitement of his embrace, to express through actions the feelings she didn’t dare voice, to belong, if only for a few fleeting minutes.
Most of all—and she condemned her selfishness—she wanted something wonderful to remember during the long, lonely prison nights that stretched inevitably ahead.
“Angel?”
The resonance of her name on his lips caressed her, toppling the last of her resistance.
“We can sleep,” she whispered and lifted her face to him, “later.”
With a low moan, he gathered her closer and claimed her mouth with his. Returning his kiss, she parted her lips, welcoming the taste of him, mingling their breath. He untied the belt of her robe with one hand and slid the other around to cup her breast. She surrendered willingly to his touch, glorying in the current that sizzled between them, uniting them, expunging her isolation, ending her exile.
Lifting her to her feet, he tossed the cushions from the bench onto the deck, then lowered her onto them. With an apparent need for intimacy that matched her own, he tugged off her robe and gown and shrugged out of his shorts.
The cool gulf breeze rolled over them, steaming against the heat of their nakedness as be traced kisses from the hollow of her neck, across her breasts. When his mouth grazed the curve of her stomach, she curled her fingers in his hair and arched toward him.
His skin burned hot against hers, like a fiery blast of noonday Florida sun. She trailed her fingers across the granite hardness of his chest, over his washboard stomach and his ribs, down the firmness of his buttocks, relishing the feel of him. His latent strength and ruggedness formed the counterpart to her vulnerability and softness, two parts of a perfect whole.
She reveled in the comfort and security of his embrace, and her loneliness and solitude evaporated beneath the heat of his lips. But as his nibbling kisses teased her nipples, brushed her stomach and skimmed the insides of her thighs, comfort ignited and transformed into a deeper, more insistent force, forged into fiery desire by his touch.
Retracing the path of his lips with his fingers, he reached between her legs, stroking, fondling, until she shuddered with delight. The skillful movements of his fingers sent molten pleasure rippling through her veins, and she trembled wildly, mindlessly, racked by wave after wave of devastating sensation that left her gasping.
When she could breathe again, he knelt above her, dark blue eyes aflame.
“Angel.” He breathed her name like a prayer.
Gladly, she opened herself to him, and he lowered his hips and slipped inside her with a slow, powerful drive that made her cry out with enjoyment. Clasping him closer, she was oblivious to everything but the pulsing thrust that joined them in a bond as old as time.
She refused to close her eyes, memorizing his face and recording the input of every sense—the cool breeze against her skin, the reassuring weight of his body on hers, the hot, masculine scent of him, mixed with the biting nip of salt water and seaweed, the rasp of canvas cushions at her back, the salty taste of him on her lips and the powerful, riveting plunge that shattered solitude and isolation. She savored it all, enough feelings and images to last a lifetime.
Despite wanting their lovemaking to last forever, she couldn’t resist the tidal pull of passion that drew them closer, urged them forward on a cresting wave and flung them into the encircling dome of stars. Fiercely, tenderly, he cried her name, and it reverberated, like the heartbeat of the earth in the midnight darkness. Then the world flared like a supernova, and she exploded again in exquisite release.
Later, braced on the deck, he held her on his lap again and draped her robe around her against the cool night air. He traced the contours of her cheeks, then grasped her chin and tilted her face until their eyes met.
“No regrets?”
Tears of happiness and remorse filled her eyes. She couldn’t answer. Whether she responded yes or no, either would be a lie.
“Angel?”
“Mmm,” she murmured noncommittally, wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the hollow of his throat.
Without another word, he rose with her in his arms and carried her to bed.
WHEN HE AWAKENED before dawn, Jordan cursed himself for the worst kind of fool and slid away from Angel, who was lying with her slender arm across his chest. He yanked on a pair. of shorts and deck shoes and climbed to the flying bridge.
Relying on the stiff breeze to clear his head of the tantalizing image of Angel in his bed, he revved the powerful engine to maximum speed and headed toward shore.
He never should have allowed his involvement to progress this far. Any kind of relationship with Angel had been doomed from the start. She’d already been through hell, losing her daughter, accused of murder and suffering from memory loss. She didn’t need him and his problems adding to her difficulties.
Not that he believed she’d killed her husband. With Frank and Sidney after her, the whole scheme had stunk of a setup from the beginning. Her car in Carleton James’s garage was even stronger evidence that she’d been framed.
It wasn’t her guilt that worried him.
It was his.
What could he, a burned-out former cop who had committed one of the most monumental screwups in the history of the department, who had seen his confidence shredded into nonexistence, offer a woman like her?
He couldn’t support a wife and child on his security pay, couldn’t even offer them a decent roof over their heads. And worst of all, he couldn’t guarantee he’d stay sober, not with a stampede of screeching demons still on his heels.
He brooded all the way back to Swinburn’s estate and hoped the stiff breeze would blow away his frustration. Docking the boat and connecting the hookups for water and electricity Henry had shown him the day before, he realized his disposition had returned to its usual gloomy level—until he heard Angel moving about below and his frustration reappeared with a vengeance.
When he entered the galley to fix breakfast, she was in the shower, and he fought his irrational longing to join her and resume where they’d left off last night. It had been a mistake then—it would be a disaster now.
That should never have happened You knew from the get-go to keep your distance.
He had an excuse, just like every two-bit punk he’d ever arrested. But his excuse was a doozy. He’d been pitted against a force bigger than both of them. He sure as hell hadn’t figured on falling in love.
“Hello!”
Flinching at the sudden but familiar shout, he scattered ground coffee across the countertop. With a quick swipe, he cleared the counter, inserted the basket into the coffeemaker and pressed the on switch before hurrying on deck.
Michael Winslow stood on the lower terrace, the jacket of his gray suit hooked by a thumb over his shoulder. Jordan welcomed his friend with a grin.
“Come aboard. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute.”
Michael leapt onto the deck with the grace of an athlete and followed Jordan into the lounge.
“Had breakfast?” Jordan asked.
“Been up since dawn, on the phone with Maggie.”
Wearing Jordan’s terry-cloth robe pulled tight at the waist, with the sleeves rolled back above her slender wrists, Angel stepped out of his cabin smelling of soap, honeysuckle and temptation. Jordan avoided her gaze, knowing Michael would read what his face couldn’t hide.
“Morning,” Michael greeted her.
Lucky for him, his gaze didn’t linger. Friend or not, Jordan would have been tempted to punch out his lights if he’d looked at Angel the way Jordan was looking at her.
“You’d better hear this, too, Sara,” Michael said when she headed toward the lower cabin.
Angel turned and shot Jordan a puzzled look. He shrugged to indicate he didn’t know why Michael was there, pointed to the galley bench and, after she slid onto it, scooted beside her.
&nbs
p; “Has your secretary located Brittany?” she asked, hope lighting her face like a beacon.
“Claire’s called every name on the list, but no one could help us,” Michael said gently.
The light in her eyes disappeared. Despite his earlier resolve to keep his distance, Jordan reached for her hand.
Michael sat across the table from them. “I came to fill you in on the evidence Maggie has in the Swinburn case.”
Angel stiffened beside Jordan.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, remember?” he warned her.
“It doesn’t look good for the home team,” Michael admitted solemnly.
Not wanting to frighten Angel, Jordan suppressed a shiver at his friend’s tone. She already seemed nervous enough for both of them.
“Does Maggie have a case?” he asked Michael.
“Rock solid. Swinburn was shot with a gun he bought for Sara.”
Jordan tightened his grip on Angel’s hand. “So the evidence is circumstantial?”
“I wish,” Michael said with a grimace. “Six shots at point-blank range. And only Sara’s prints are on the gun.”
“Witnesses?”
“A neighbor saw Sara fleeing the scene within the time frame the medical examiner gives for Swinburn’s death.”
“I did it,” she confessed in a soft, flat voice. “I shot him.”
Michael’s eyebrows peaked in surprise. “You remember?”
“I... think so.”
“Do you remember why?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “All I get are...flashes. Bits and pieces.”
Her face pale and trembling beneath the navy blue towel she’d wrapped turban-style over her wet hair, she wouldn’t look at Jordan. He wondered if she had just remembered or if she’d known all along and hadn’t told him. He rejected the latter possibility. Angel was no killer and no liar, either. If she had shot her husband, she must have had a damned good reason, like self-defense.
He rose and poured coffee for the three of them before resuming his seat. “When do I get access to the house?”
“Crime scene unit finished late last night,” Michael said. “Which reminds me. They found something interesting.”
A Woman of Mystery Page 12
