by Kylie Brant
He’d thought…he’d hoped that proximity would have lessened his fascination with her. It’d been his experience that most women tended to wear badly, given enough time. But not this one. Not yet. The realization brought both caution and pleasure. There were too many facets to Amber Jennings, too many complexities that both intrigued and maddened him. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever discover all of them.
There was danger in that line of thinking, a danger he’d be wise to heed. He knew what he had to do in this assignment, and letting Amber matter too much would only haze his thinking. He was too much of a professional to let that happen.
Contemplating the trio of perfect smoke rings he’d exhaled, he considered the reason for her nightly forays. She didn’t trust him, of course. Rightly so. He wouldn’t allow the realization to burn. She had as much reason to maintain defenses as did he, would never have survived on the streets without them.
Nick didn’t know how long he spent sending smoke rings to join the low-hanging clouds, but when a small noise reached him he straightened, senses heightening. It came again, and it didn’t come from the direction of the porch roof, as he’d half expected.
Reaching down, he ground out the cigar in the ashtray he’d brought out with him, and then rose, strode into his room. Grabbing his discarded trousers, he pulled them on without bothering to button them.
He stood still in the hallway, waiting until the noise reoccurred. It sounded like a small wounded animal in distress. And it was coming from Amber’s room.
Pressing his hand flat on her door, he pushed it open a ways. She was lying on her stomach amid a tangle of covers, wearing a cropped cotton top and matching boxers. There was nothing in the least bit erotic about her lingerie, but inexplicably, his mouth went dry.
“No.” Her low moan was accompanied by a swing of her arm, and her head turned on her pillow restlessly. For a moment he was tempted to slip away. There was something strangely intimate about watching the woman sleep. And dream.
But he knew better than most how nightmares preyed on the unconscious, how it felt to jolt awake, sweaty and shaken. And how the ghosts that picked the midnight hours to haunt could fade with time, but never completely disappear. Without making a conscious decision, Nick approached the bed.
She whimpered again, her hands clenched into fists. Her legs jerked, as if to take flight. But there was no escaping the mental movie in her mind, except by waking.
He knew better than to touch her and take her by surprise. Instead he pulled the overstuffed armchair closer to the side of the bed and sat on the edge of it, leaning toward her. “Amber. Wake up.”
Although she stilled, her eyes didn’t open.
“Open your eyes, chérie. Look at me.” Nick kept his low tones soothing, with the barest hint of command. “Come to me, ma petite. Don’t let the bastards win. Open your eyes and fight back.” He barely noted what he was saying—his attention was focused on her, as if he could awaken her by sheer force of will. And then he stopped, staggered, when her eyes opened abruptly and stared directly into his.
“Nick.” She levered herself away from the mattress, pushed her hand through her hair. “What are you doing in here?” The quaver in her voice was at odds with the defensive words.
“You were having a bad dream. Don’t you remember?” He leaned back in the chair, watching her carefully. And then could have yanked his tongue out when her eyes grew shuttered.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” It was disturbing to watch her try to tuck away the tatters of the dream, attempt to resurrect that famous guard of hers.
“No, I was awake.” He gave her a few moments to collect herself, observed the effort it took. “Do you have nightmares often?”
She rolled one shoulder, the movement jerky. “Everyone has bad dreams, right? Look, I appreciate the concern, but I’d like to get back to sleep.”
He recognized the lie in her words. It only made him more intent on discovering the truth. “How long have you been having them? Since New Orleans?”
Her hand stilled in the act of raking through her hair, and she shot him a startled look. “New Orleans?” Comprehension seemed to follow sluggishly. “No. Not that. I mean…I don’t remember what the dream was even about, actually.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” The shudders that still worked through her mocked her question. It obviously mattered to her. Too much.
He leaned forward, reached for her. She reared back. “What are you…Nick!”
As an answer he hauled her into his arms and onto his lap. Remaining rigid in his embrace, she said, “I’ve never been a lap sitter.”
“Something else you’ll have to work on.” He cupped her nape in one hand, kneading rhythmically. “Relax. You’re never going to get back to sleep while you’re this upset.”
Her tone was caustic. “I’m not going back to sleep at any rate with you in the room.”
“Then don’t sleep.” His lips brushed her hair as he spoke. “But give your body a chance to recover.” He ignored the way she remained stiff in his embrace, and waited for his heat to transfer to her, warming the chill from her skin. And was rewarded long minutes later when a bit of the tension seeped from her limbs and she arched her neck back against his hand.
“You’re good at that.”
“I’ve thought of hiring out.”
A smile sounded in her voice. “I’m sure your services would be in great demand.”
A final tremor worked through her body, and he frowned, shifting her weight a bit closer. When he was a child and awakened from a dream brought about by fears of monsters and ghosts, he’d had his grandmother to comfort him. He wondered who had comforted Amber. Once he got older he’d learned that some monsters were not the figment of a childish imagination, but very real, and the ghosts that haunted were the intensely personal kind. Somehow both were more frightening than anything his imagination had managed to conjure up as a kid.
The darkness shrouded them, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy, one Amber would never have allowed under other circumstances. Her eyelids closed, and a small sigh escaped her. This time it was she who curved her body nearer to his, and his heart slowed, steadied to a heavy thudding.
Comfort turned ever so gradually to awareness. He watched her eyelids raise slowly, and her gaze fix on his. The tip of her tongue crept out, moistened her lips.
“I don’t understand you.” Her words were nearly soundless. He took her fingers, warm now, in his hand, brought them to his lips.
“I know.” How could she, when he struggled at times to understand himself? He wasn’t an analytical man. He trusted gut instinct over emotion. There was safety in maintaining emotional distance from others, in avoiding any kind of ties. But there was no denying that this woman drew unusual feelings from him, had from the start. She couldn’t know how uneasy that made him.
“I can’t stay in Florida much longer.”
He stilled, aware she’d just offered him a painful bit of truth. “No.”
Her gaze searched his, for something he couldn’t give. But then she shifted to a more upright position. Her face was inches away. Gazes still meshed, she slid a hand around the back of his neck and slowly, tentatively, pressed her lips against his.
All it took was that first light taste. Her flavor rioted through his senses, sparking memories of the only other kiss they’d shared, at a time that somehow seemed less complicated. Desire, too long ruthlessly suppressed, kicked instantly to life. There were few women he could remember wanting this badly. And none he could recall denying himself.
His mouth slanted over hers, parting her lips, and he drank in her warm sweetness. Her small gasp was lost as his tongue glided along hers. Arms banding around her, he brought her closer, until she was pressed tightly against his bare chest.
His palm slid beneath her pajama top to settle on smooth, satiny skin. The contact was electric. She jerked against him, bringing her hip into closer proximity with his aching groin. He
smoothed his hand along the curve of her waist, his fingers caressing the expanse.
She was slender, almost delicately made. He pushed up her top and raised his lips from hers, his eyes slitted. In the shadows her skin shone like marble, but pulsed with warm, supple life. The sight made it impossible to think, to weigh risks and consequences. Without considering the ramifications, he pushed the top higher to expose her breasts.
They were small, high and exquisitely shaped. His throat went dry and whatever remained of reason abruptly vanished. He cupped one in his hand and bent down to take it in his mouth.
A shattered cry escaped her as his lips pulled and tugged there. He used his other hand to cover her other breast, teasing her nipple into a small tight knot. Her breasts were firm, arousingly so, inviting a man to linger. To explore. But no, he thought savagely, not any man. Just him.
Her breathing was coming in ragged spurts when he switched his attentions to her other breast. Her fingers were entwined in his hair, exerting pressure, and he welcomed the slight pain. This time he caught her nipple between his teeth and teased it lightly, while his hand dropped to her thigh, inched up slowly.
She arched beneath the sensual assault. He flexed his cheeks, drawing strongly from her as his hand slid inside her baggy boxers and cupped her warm dampness.
Her body jolted in his arms. He parted her slick cleft and worked a finger deep inside her, using his thumb to apply rhythmic pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath his hand.
Heat suffused him, burning him from the inside out. She clutched his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin. He could feel the tightening of her body, and increased the pressure of his mouth, his fingers.
He felt her convulse, and a bolt of primal satisfaction coursed through him. He’d wanted this, and more, since the first moment he’d seen her. Wanted her naked and wet and moaning his name. Wanted to mount her, to take her without any preliminaries, and ride her hard and hot until they both collapsed in a sweaty tangle.
The strength of the wanting still managed to amaze him. And yes, to alarm him. His touch turned caressing as she lay beneath his hand, spent and soft. Clinging desperately to a remnant of tattered reason, he removed his hand, lifted his mouth. He’d long since lost any illusions about honor, so it certainly wasn’t nobility that drove his actions. No, it was common sense. Logic. He could think the words even as a part of him scoffed at them.
He rose with one smooth movement and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he climbed in beside her, drew the sheet over them both.
Curling his body to hers, he kept his hand on her stomach, keeping her firmly pressed against him. “And now, mon ange—” he kissed her shoulder “—you will sleep.”
Her body was still, but lacked the rigidity it had held after the nightmare. “Nick…you—”
“Go to sleep.” The command was as much for himself as it was for her. He had just enough control left to wrestle with his frustration, to tuck away his raging hormones. She wouldn’t easily forget what had happened between them. But if he made love to her the way he wanted to, he knew she’d never forgive him. The fact that that mattered at all was an issue he’d deal with later.
Maybe he hadn’t completely lost his soul, after all. Because for the first time in years, he attempted to abide by a long-forgotten whisper of conscience. And the hellish night he had ahead of him was only a sliver of what he deserved.
“Don’t worry.” Hearing Nick’s voice, Sara headed into his office, stopping short in the doorway when she saw him at his desk using his cell phone. He looked up and saw her, and a glimpse of something unidentifiable flickered in his eyes before being quickly extinguished. The middle desk drawer was open, and she saw a snub-nosed revolver in there. The sight was hardly surprising. Although she’d yet to feel comfortable around firearms despite the daily practice he’d given her, the ease with which he handled them hadn’t escaped her.
His attention had returned to his conversation. “Everything is set then. Yes, you can count on it. I’ll be in touch.” He broke the connection and gestured for Sara to come inside. He set the phone in the open drawer and then closed it. “I thought you were on the beach.”
“I was. I came back for some bottled water. Were you working?”
“Working? No. I just called Detective Chatfield to get an update on his progress.”
The reminder of the search for the gunman who’d come so close to catching up with her in New Orleans cast an unexpected chill over her sun-warmed skin. “Did he have anything to report?”
Nick shook his head. “I’m sorry, chérie. There’s been no trace of the man who attacked you. But the search continues. Chatfield is still following some leads.”
The chill deepened, glazing her insides with ice. If her attacker had managed to elude the police for this long, chances were he’d never be found at all. Which meant he might be on her trail even now.
“You’re safe here, Amber.” Nick’s words closely echoed her thoughts. “My pilot didn’t include this stopover in his flight plan. There’s no way for anyone to trace your whereabouts.”
She scrubbed one hand up and down her opposite arm in an effort to chase away the goose bumps. “I’ll bet the Federal Aviation Administration frowns on that.”
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly and he inclined his head. “I’m told they do.”
She shook her head, bewildered. “Why would you risk alienating the NOPD? Chance trouble with the FAA? You don’t even know me.”
His eyes were hooded. “I’m beginning to, I think.”
Although his words could have had another meaning, her cheeks flushed. He had known her intimately last night, when he’d brought her body to shattering completion. And then held her while she slept. “Why, Nick?”
He crossed to her, his steps slow and deliberate. Reaching out, he trailed his fingers over her jawline. “I care for you.”
Eyes wide, she gazed into his and wished, not for the first time, that she could read what was in those ebony depths. How could he profess to care about her, when he didn’t know who she was? What she was? She barely knew herself, anymore.
“Mr. Doucet.”
Nick dropped his hand, but didn’t move. His gaze searched Sara’s, and despite her experience at keeping her emotions shielded, she was afraid of what he might see there. When his name was repeated, he slowly turned to survey Marta, who was standing nervously in the doorway.
“I need to go to the market for food.”
He nodded, then flicked a glance back at Sara. “Let me get some money for Marta. Then…you and I need to talk.”
Feeling a combination of relief and shock, she watched him stride from the room. Her knees had gone maddeningly weak. In need of support, she crossed to his desk, clutched its edge. It occurred to her that in allowing Nick to help her flee New Orleans, she’d merely exchanged one problem for another. She had nothing to offer a man like Nick Doucet, or any other man, save the obvious.
Her plan to slip away from him rather than return to New Orleans was seeming increasingly shabby in light of what he’d done for her. And while she couldn’t afford to rethink her plan, perhaps she could discover for herself what kind of situation she’d be placing him in. If there was any way she could minimize the risk he’d be exposed to by her disappearance, she owed it to him to find it.
With that thought in mind, she reached for the drawer where he’d placed the phone, and took it out. He was nothing if not careful. Calls made on this cell phone couldn’t be traced, or he would never have chosen the service. He wouldn’t take any chances on the detective locating them. She hit the power button, then Redial. If Chatfield was still in the district headquarters, she could talk to him herself. She could find out directly if Nick was softening the news he’d gotten from the detective. She wouldn’t put it past the man to keep any upsetting information to himself. And she could also discover the detective’s feelings about Nick taking her away. Once she vanished again, she didn’t want to le
ave him facing possible trouble with the NOPD. He deserved better than that from her.
When the call was picked up, she straightened, prepared to ask for the detective by name. But instead of the Southern accent she’d expected, the disembodied voice on the other end of the line held a flat, Midwestern cadence. The floor tilted beneath Sara’s feet and she sank, boneless, against the desk again. The person on the other end repeated her greeting, a note of impatience entering her voice.
“Victor Mannen’s office.”
Chapter 5
The blood congealed in Sara’s veins. Then it surged to her head with a dizzying rush that had her grasping the edge of the desk to prevent herself from sliding to the floor.
Nick hadn’t called Chatfield at all. He’d been talking to Mannen.
A locomotive raced through her chest and she had to fight to get air into her lungs. Each individual event that had transpired since she’d met Nick Doucet jelled into one abstract collage. The picture it formed was horrifying, but there was no escaping the reality.
Nick knew Mannen. And since Mannen had spent the last six years trying to have her killed, the next logical assumption was that Nick was his latest weapon of choice. It was shatteringly bitter to recognize just how potent a weapon the man had become.
Questions whirled in her mind, flavored with the familiar but bitter taste of betrayal. She let loose a wild laugh. How could he betray her when she hadn’t let down her guard? But of course, she had. He’d seen to that. That provocative scene in her bedroom took on new meaning and burned like poison. For some reason it was important to Nick for her to trust him. Last night was just one more step toward ensuring that she did so. The fact that he hadn’t killed her yet was a curiosity to be examined from the distance of thousands of miles. Right now only escape mattered.
She pulled back his desk chair, slowly sank into it. By the time she heard his footsteps in the hallway, an unnatural feeling of calm had descended over her. She’d survived worse betrayals than this. She would survive Nick Doucet, as well.
