by Beverly Long
He rubbed his hand across his face. “There’re a whole lot of things happening that I never expected.”
The air in the room was charged with electricity. His own senses seemed heightened. The light was brighter than usual and the air was thick with the scent of the flowers that remained in the middle of the kitchen table.
She blinked twice. “Sometimes unexpected things are good.”
He swallowed hard. “Sometimes.”
She stood up. “Mature adults ask for the things they want, right?” Her voice was tentative.
He could feel his heart rate accelerate. “Yeah. They don’t expect other people to guess.”
“I’m asking, Sam.” She held out her hand. “Will you kiss me?”
He felt the air swoosh out of his lungs, like he’d been sucker punched in the stomach. Sweet, holy, mother of God. She couldn’t possibly know that he teetered between self-control and self-indulgence or that her lips could be that one small push that would send him reeling in the wrong direction. He was on a very narrow ledge.
He stayed in his chair. No room for touching on the ledge.
“Please,” she pleaded.
What was it Cruz had said? Hang on. With everything you’ve got. He stood up and stepped close. Then he carefully leaned toward her, bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. He heard her quick catch of breath, felt her shiver.
And when she closed her eyes and parted her lips, it didn’t matter how high the damn ledge was, or how hard the landing might be. It only mattered that he touch her.
He kissed her again. When she opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue, he was a lost man. It was everything.
It was not nearly enough.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathless.
“Yikes,” she said.
He bent forward, braced his hands on his thighs and focused on breathing. In through his mouth, out through his nose.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded and straightened up. Any minute his heart would catch up. “Great,” he said, his voice cracking. He could see that her pretty brown eyes were dancing. “Are you laughing at me?” he asked.
“I love the way you kiss,” she said. She reached out and stroked the pad of her thumb over his bottom lip. “I love the way you hold me,” she continued. “Like I’m precious.”
Oh, damn. He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “You are precious. Exquisite. Sexy as hell. And the fact that you don’t know it makes it all the more so.”
She leaned her sweet body into him and when her breasts brushed up against him, he couldn’t hold back a groan.
“Stop that,” he pleaded. “I’m only human.”
She stopped, her big eyes fixed on him. Then, very deliberately, she reached down and stroked him, her finger inside the zipper flap of his dress pants.
He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Take me to bed,” she whispered.
He’d never wanted anything more. “No.” He swallowed hard. “Claire,” he said, desperately hoping that if he started talking he’d figure out something right to say. Something that would make her understand. “It’s not that—”
She pressed her lips against him and when she slipped her tongue in his mouth, he was toast. Deeper. Hotter. He broke away. “Are you sure?” he asked.
She nodded, looking very serious. “Are you sure?” she asked.
He didn’t need to hide the truth any longer. “I’ve been thinking about taking you to my bed for days.”
She cocked her head to the side, considering. “If I hadn’t asked, would you have asked me?”
“No,” he said.
She smiled and slipped her hand into his. She tugged him toward the bedroom. “Then I’m awfully glad I showed great maturity and asked for what I wanted. This is working out pretty well for me.”
Chapter Twelve
She’d been so hot, so wet that Sam thought it was a miracle that he hadn’t come on the first stroke. But by some crazy twist of fate, he’d been able to hold back, to make sure that she’d come first.
His orgasm had been mind-blowing and now he was spent. She lay next to him, on her side, one leg hooked over him, and he stroked her back with his free arm.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Wonderful.”
He stretched, wondering what the hell kind of magic she had. He shouldn’t even be able to move after what they’d shared and now he already wanted her again. He pulled her over his body so that she sat astride him.
“Me? On top?” she squeaked.
He guided himself in, loving the tight squeeze.
“Ooh.” She closed her eyes and smiled.
Ooh. It echoed in his head. He lifted both of her heavy breasts and rubbed a thumb over each nipple. Then again. Her body shook in response. “You like that?” he whispered.
She nodded.
He pulled her forward until he could tug on one nipple with his mouth. He could feel the answering ripple in every one of her muscles. It was heat, it was power, it was perfect.
She was absolutely perfect.
* * *
CLAIRE WOKE UP lying on her side, her butt nestled against Sam’s front. His arm was wrapped around her and his hand splayed across her abdomen. When she shifted, he pulled her tighter against him. “Good morning,” he whispered in her ear.
“Good morning,” she responded, not sure what else needed to be said. Thank you hardly seemed appropriate. It was really swell seemed a little cold. Hope we can do it again, a little presumptuous.
What she really wanted to do was turn in his arms, look into his eyes and tell him that she loved him. She’d known it before, but during the night, when they’d been as close as two people could be and they’d shared the secrets of their bodies, she’d been sure. She’d fallen in love with Sam Vernelli.
And what would she do if he didn’t feel the same way about her?
Had it been love that had brought him to her bed or just lust? She wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t let him know how important the difference was to her.
“I’m hungry,” she said, desperately wanting to think about something regular, something mundane.
“What time is it?” he asked, lifting his head. In the process, he kissed her bare shoulder and, if possible, she felt warmer.
“Almost six,” she said. It was time to get up, otherwise they’d both be late to work. She didn’t usually work on Saturday, but it hadn’t been a usual week and even when she was there, she hadn’t been as productive as she could or should have been. When she’d told Sam in the middle of the night that she intended to work the next day, he’d sighed loudly and then admitted that he intended to work, as well.
They would both probably fall asleep at their desks by mid-afternoon. Not much sleeping had gotten done last night. They’d made love three times and each time had been more perfect than the time before. But now, reality could not be ignored.
Sam sat up in bed and she was once again stunned at the sheer beauty, the sheer masculine perfection, of his body. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, flat stomach. She was glad the sheet covered the rest. She couldn’t be held responsible when faced with such temptation.
“How hungry are you?” he asked, his eyes on her breasts.
She shrugged. “I could maybe wait fifteen minutes.”
He pushed her back onto the starched white sheets and covered her body with his. “Fifteen minutes,” he growled. “I need more time than that.”
“I suppose,” she said, arching when his fingers found her. “That I could always nibble on you.”
The color drained out of his face.
And later when she nibbled and licked and did all kinds of delicious things to his body, she forgot about being hungry. She simply thought about the pure joy and splendor of being held in Sam Vernelli’s arms and the pure power of seeing him fall to pieces.
* * *
CLAIRE WAS HALFWAY through her omelet when she f
lipped a page of the paper and saw the article. Chicago Cop Dies. She skimmed the story, her eyes moving fast.
It was horrible. A cop had made a routine traffic stop. He’d approached the vehicle and the suspect had shot him. He’d died at the scene.
The suspect had been caught just blocks away, but what comfort was that to the dead man’s family? He was survived by a wife and two children.
Claire picked up her coffee, but her hand was shaking and some of it spilled and spread across the newspaper. Sam could be taken from her. Cops responded to all kinds of crises every day. One minute they were walking, talking, having a bagel and a cup of coffee. The next, they were chasing bad guys.
Serving the people. Protecting them.
And never coming back.
Who protected the police officer? Who would protect Sam?
“Sam,” she said, her voice quiet.
“Yeah?” he said, setting his own coffee down. He was reading the comics.
“I just want you to know,” she said, “that last night was wonderful.”
He smiled at her. “I already cooked you breakfast.”
“I mean it,” she said, impatient with his teasing. He needed to understand. “I want you to know that you made me happy. Happier than I may have ever been,” she admitted.
He studied her, no longer smiling. “What was it like?” he asked, finally. “What was it like after Tessa died?”
She thought it might be the first time she’d heard him say Tessa’s name that it hadn’t seemed to be wrenched out of his soul.
That had to mean something, didn’t it?
“Quiet. Very lonely,” she said.
“How so?”
She shrugged. “I think losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent. They felt like failures because they hadn’t been able to protect Tessa. That’s what parents are supposed to do—they’re supposed to love and protect their children.”
“So they focused on protecting you?”
“Almost to the point of wrapping me in cotton.”
“What about the loving?”
He was good at spotting missing information. “I think they were afraid to love me,” she said. “Because if they loved me that much and something happened, they knew they couldn’t stand it. It would be more than they could bear. So they settled for protecting me.”
He reached for her hand. His skin was warm and she could feel calluses on his palm. “I’m so sorry, Claire,” he said.
“I was angry for a long time. Angry at them. Even angry at Tessa.” She looked him in the eye. He needed to know it all. “When I was with my friends, I called her Saint Tessa. Because she was so wonderful, you know. She must have been to be loved so much.”
She stopped, unable to go on. He must be disgusted with her.
He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the top of her hand. “You were so young,” he said. “Too young to process it all. You were wallowing in your own grief—grief for a life that changed when she died.”
She could feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes. “I stopped hating her at some point. Then I became obsessed with avenging her death. That’s why I came to see you that night. I’m sorry. I made it seem like it was all about you, but really it was all about me. I’d spent years being jealous of a dead woman.”
“Oh, honey,” he said. He moved quickly. He squatted next to her chair and wrapped his big, strong arms around her.
She pressed her face into his shirt. “You don’t think I’m horrible?”
“I already told you. I think you’re amazing.”
She lifted her face up. He kissed the tip of her nose.
When the doorbell rang neither one of them moved. It rang again and Sam stood up. “If it’s someone selling something, I’m going to shoot them.”
He went to the door and pulled back the shade.
Oh, holy hell. Lucille and Gregory Fontaine, Claire’s parents, stood on his porch.
He hadn’t seen them for eleven years but he’d have recognized them anywhere. They carried the same general air of disdain that he remembered, the same austere look.
He didn’t want to open the door. It was funny, really. He faced bad guys every day, but he didn’t know if he had the strength to do this. None of the bad guys made him feel like a gawky twenty-one-year-old kid again whose heart had been ripped out.
He opened the door. They stared at him. “Mrs. Fontaine. Mr. Fontaine,” he said, his lips feeling stiff.
“Hello, Sam.” Lucille Fontaine offered a brief smile. “You’re looking well.”
The woman he remembered had always had impeccable manners, too. Just one day after they’d laid Tessa’s coffin in the cold ground, Lucille Fontaine had been at her desk, writing thank-you notes. He’d barely been able to lift his head up and she’d been taking care of social niceties.
“I’ve recently learned that we owe you a great deal of gratitude,” she added.
“Yes, thank you for taking care of Claire, Sam,” Gregory Fontaine said.
What was it Claire had yelled before rolls had started flying in the bistro? That she didn’t need or want anybody taking care of her ever again. “I didn’t do all that much, sir. Claire’s pretty good at taking care of herself.”
“Yes, well, that may be open for debate. We’re grateful all the same,” Gregory said.
If he knew Sam had had his daughter naked last night, he might not be so appreciative. He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Claire. Her face was pale.
“Hello, Claire,” Lucille said. She didn’t reach for her daughter. Gregory looked somewhere over Claire’s shoulder and nodded.
Claire stepped forward and gave each parent a quick, awkward hug. Then she stepped back, close to Sam. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“We saw Nadine at a church dinner with her parents.” Lucille’s tone, while still pleasant, held the undertone of censure. “I overheard her saying something to her mother. When I questioned her, she reluctantly told us everything.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Claire apologized. “I’m sorry. But I’m fine. Truly. Everything is fine.”
Her father, his face turning red, said a couple words not normally used in polite conversation.
Lucille looked a little embarrassed but didn’t look like she disagreed. “You had a dead woman in your apartment, Claire. Everything is not fine.”
Her father pulled what looked like airline tickets out of the inside pocket of his six-hundred-dollar suit. “We have less than an hour to catch our plane.” The man handed Claire one of the tickets. Sam leaned over to read it. It was a ticket for travel from Chicago to Omaha, Nebraska, and it was made out in Claire’s name. A one-way ticket.
Claire had said that they had settled for protecting her. What the hell would she do? Would she go?
Claire could still be in danger. The note gnawed at him. Who was the sick bastard who had written that?
The thief? If Sandy Bird hadn’t been the thief, then someone still walked the streets, someone who wanted to scare Claire for sure, maybe even hurt her.
Sam would die first.
And take the bastard with him.
“You’re not safe here,” Lucille said. “For God’s sake, Claire, you could have been killed.”
Like Tessa. The unsaid words hung in the air.
Claire’s whole body shook and without thinking, Sam wrapped an arm around her.
“I’m sorry you found out from Nadine,” Claire said. She sounded truly miserable. “I wanted to call you. I really did. I should have. I just knew you’d be so worried.”
“We can talk about that when we get home,” Gregory Fontaine said, looking at his watch. “I have a board meeting on Monday that I can’t miss.”
Claire held out the ticket and Sam could see the fine tremor in her hand. “Father.” She stopped. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. “Dad, I’m not going. I’m sorry. I won’t do it.”
Her father’s head jerked up and her moth
er made a sound like she’d been sucker punched in the stomach. Sam remembered what Claire had told him the night he’d thrown her in the car at Pete Mission’s house. Something about just recently beginning to say no and not always doing what she was told.
No wonder it had been so hard if that was the kind of reaction she got every time she dared to disagree.
Lucille Fontaine stepped forward. “Claire, how can you do this to us? How can you make us go through this again?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her father added, his tone harsh. “We’re not here to discuss it. You’re getting on that plane. We told you we didn’t want you coming to Chicago, but you wouldn’t listen to reason. It didn’t even matter that we weren’t going to provide any financial support. You had your mind made up. Well, now, I’ve got my mind made up. Get in the car, Claire.”
Didn’t they remember that she was up for the design award? They couldn’t expect her to leave before that. Was it possible that she hadn’t told them? Or did they just not care? Sam tried to quickly sort it out, but none of it made any sense. All he knew was that it felt way wrong.
He felt Claire take a deep breath. “But—” she began.
“How can you be so selfish?” Gregory Fontaine interrupted his daughter.
That did it.
“Actually,” Sam said, looking her father right in the eye. “It’s not Claire being selfish. It’s me. You see, we’re engaged. And I don’t want my fiancée in Nebraska.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Engaged?”
Claire had never heard her father use quite that tone of voice. It sounded like it came all the way from his toes.
Sam moved quickly, ushering everyone from the foyer to the living room. He pointed them toward chairs. Claire thought her mother looked like she needed one—she was the same color as the classic beige linen suit she wore.
What the heck had Sam been thinking?
Engaged? Oh, for goodness’ sake, now what were they going to say?
She realized, very quickly, that she wasn’t going to have to say much. Sam intended to do the talking.
