GUILTY SECRETS

by Virginia Kantra

  He paused in the act of jerking off one shoe, choking down his automatic protest. "What pills?"

  "My head hurts."

  "That's what the ice pack is for, sweet cakes. You shouldn't take—"

  "—anything stronger than acetaminophen with a head injury," Nell finished for him, smiling. "I know. I've got a bottle in the medicine cabinet. Could you get me two, please?"

  He exhaled in relief. "No problem."

  And it wasn't really.

  He fetched her pills—resisting his professional urge to inventory the contents of her medicine cabinet—and a glass of water and stood over her while she drank.

  "All set?" he asked, taking her empty glass.

  She nodded. "I really do appreciate this," she said in a small voice.

  "It's nothing," he told her, because it was. She deserved better than this. She deserved better than him.

  He unbuttoned his collar and cuffs and lay down beside her, trying not to notice how his weight made her roll toward him. Under the blanket, things shifted in a very interesting way. Her round knees pressed his thigh through the covers.

  Joe stared at the ceiling. Comfort, he told himself. Control.

  Nell stirred. The sheets rustled. Joe held his breath as her hand with its short, neat, nurse's nails settled in the center of his chest. Very tentatively, her cheek came to rest against his shoulder. He swallowed, hard. He could smell her hair, the warm herbal notes of her shampoo and the sharper scent of whatever antiseptic they'd used on her scalp.

  She sighed and slept.

  After a long while, he did, too.

  Nell woke up happy, which was different enough to alert her that something had happened even before she felt the throb in her head and felt Joe, warm and heavy beside her on the bed.

  He was holding her hand.

  She opened her eyes. He really was. Her right hand rested on his chest, and, sometime during the night, he had enclosed it in both of his, lacing his fingers with hers, holding her hand to his heart.

  Tenderness surged inside her. She raised herself on her other elbow, studying him in the gray light that poked around the edges of the shade.

  His face was hard and dark in sleep, his jaw stubbled, his mouth compressed. He looked like a man who lived with pain. Or secrets. Even his body was contained, controlled, his arms folded, his legs straight along the mattress.

  He must be cold, after sleeping on top of the covers all night. Poor guy. At least his skin felt warm enough. Nell slid her hand from his to pull up the blanket at the foot of the bed and noticed something else. Underneath the rough denim of his jeans, he was very aroused.

  She blinked. Well. Wow. That was nice. Of course, morning arousal was common among men. She couldn't take it personally.

  But she looked again anyway. Very nice.

  Excitement uncurled in the pit of her stomach. Her pulse picked up speed. Not that she would do anything about it. Not that he would want her to. She glanced again at the fabric straining over his hips. Would he?

  He'd been so careful with her last night. So kind.

  She swallowed. Leaning more weight on her elbow, she let herself sink into him, greedy for the comfort of his physical presence, real and solid in her bed. She lowered her face until it almost touched his, until she felt his breath skate across her lips.

  She would never have the nerve to do this if he was awake. But he wasn't. There was no one to see, no one to object, if she stole this moment for herself. If she stole one kiss. If this one time, after twenty-two months of nunlike existence, she was a little bit selfish. A little bit bad. Gently, testingly, she fit her mouth to his.

  Warm. His lips were warm and firm, smooth and a little dry. She kissed him again, exploring, experimenting, letting her tongue dab delicately at the corner of his mouth, rubbing her lips over his, losing herself in his male textures, his male tastes. He tasted like sleep and sex and her toothpaste. He tasted delicious.

  His mouth opened wider, and his arm came around to hold her. He angled his head, and the kiss changed, became hotter, wetter, deeper, wilder, a thing of tongues and teeth. He was awake, an active participant. She was no longer in control of their kiss.

  Nell raised her head.

  Joe was watching her, his blue eyes brilliant beneath hooded lids, his hard face flushed, his lips slick from her kisses. His breathing rasped. Her heart pounded.

  She nearly strangled on embarrassment. After you'd practically inhaled a man in his sleep, what did you say?

  She cleared her throat. "Good morning."

  He smiled slowly. "Yeah, it is."

  Heat clutched her. "I thought you were asleep," she mumbled.

  "Was that it?" His eyes gleamed. "I wondered."

  "Well." She struggled to regroup. Her body was heavy with languor, hollow with desire. "I should get up. I have to be at work in—" she twisted her neck to look at the clock "—less than an hour."

  "No, you don't." Joe toyed with the ends of her hair. "Gorgeous George told you to stay home today."

  "Unfortunately, George—Jim," she corrected herself crossly, "—didn't volunteer to cover my shift."

  "He didn't. Your other friends did. Parker, Morales and Nguyen."

  She narrowed her eyes. "I don't remember that."

  "You got hit on the head. I'm surprised you remember anything."

  He had a point.

  She lay there, trying not to make a big deal out of the fact that her breasts were squashed against his chest and he was still really aroused.

  "So, I guess you still have to get up, huh?" she asked.

  His eyes laughed at her. "I can't believe you would give me a straight line like that. I am up."

  She shivered. Yes, he was. "I meant, to go to work."

  "I'm not going anywhere," he said huskily. She knew better.

  An optimist in other ways, Nell had no illusions about how this scenario played out. The people she loved always left. At least, they always left her.

  But Joe had cared enough to bring her home. To fix her soup. To spend the night. That was something.

  And if he stayed even another hour… Her blood beat with the possibilities. That could be something else.

  She moistened her lips, aware he watched the movement of her tongue.

  Stretching a fraction of an inch, she touched her lips to his jaw. She feathered kisses to the side of his mouth, the rise of his cheekbone, the corner of his eye.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair to hold her still. "Nell… Do you know what you're doing?"

  Her nerves jumped. Bad question. If she thought about what she was doing, she might never have the guts to go through with it.

  She had condoms in her bedside table. After two-and-a-half years, were they still any good?

  Was she?

  Nipping his chin, she fused her mouth to his until he kissed her back, hard. Until his tongue pushed into her mouth and his hips thrust upward from the bed.

  Triumphant, breathless, she pulled back and asked him, "What do you think?"

  "I think you're killing me," he said, and reached for her again.

  She crawled on top of him, which was awkward because the blankets were in the way, but he helped her, shoving, tugging until she straddled his body, nothing between them but their clothes. His jeans felt rough, exciting, against the soft inner skin of her thighs. His chest was hot and solid against her breasts. Her nipples tightened. She rubbed against him. He was hot and solid all over, and he kept on kissing her, his mouth warm and urgent, as his hands stroked up her sides and found her breasts through the thin cotton T-shirt she wore. He weighed them, shaped them, and she shivered because it felt so good, because he felt so good, thick and eager against her.

  The ridge of his arousal pressed against her stomach. She squirmed to get a better fit between their bodies, pushing his hands aside when he tried again to help, struggling with his zipper and her panties on her own.

  Finally he was free. She touched him. He was hot and hard, smooth
and sleek, and hers. Hers for the taking.

  She was panting, dizzy and dry mouthed with triumph and fear, as she covered him for her own protection, as she eased herself over him and onto him. She caught her breath.

  Nell was a nurse. She saw male bodies all the time, examined them, diagnosed them, treated them, but always holding herself separate, never truly touching, never touched.

  Joe touched her. He filled her, stretched her, steadied her, his breathing deep and slow, as she took him. She moved on him with exquisite slowness, his pleasure hers, his powerful male body hers, until his hands came down on her hips, and he gripped her and moved her to his own rhythm.

  Her concentration skipped. She thought she could, if she wanted, hold herself aloof from him and from what their two bodies were making together. Only a little apart, a little in control, in possession of her senses and herself.

  Her blood pounded in her head. He hadn't even taken off his shirt. Neither of them had. Maybe this wasn't such a good—

  Joe rocked up, into her, making her gasp, making her clench on him and moan. She grabbed his shoulders as he worked her, deeper, faster, overtaking her pace, stealing her breath.

  He was there, touching her, inside her, with her, and she was so damn tired of being good and in control and alone that she let herself be with him. Let herself go with him. Let herself go.

  Her muscles tightened. Her mind blanked.

  His fingers bit into her rear as he thrust up. Pleasure slammed into her, hard. Again. Her body shimmered and shuddered. She came apart, crying out, and collapsed on his chest. Dimly, she was aware of him moving, thrusting, convulsing under her.

  She clutched his shoulders and turned her face into his neck, embarrassed because she'd made noise and hadn't shaved her legs in ages and grateful because she wasn't alone.

  That was so good he almost didn't need a cigarette.

  Joe stroked Nell's hair and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the bed to stop heaving and his heartbeat to return to normal. Wondering how soon he could get up and check his jacket pockets. He was pretty sure he'd smoked all three of his cigarettes yesterday, and he hadn't been home to restock.

  But a guy needed something to hold on to after his world had tilted on its axis.

  Nell exhaled softly against his neck. Briefly, he considered holding on to her, but it was too soon for that. He was still destroyed from the first time. He ran his hand down her back, over her shirt. Next time, he was going to get her naked. Next time…

  He drifted, idly rubbing the warm, firm curve of her butt. Her smooth thighs still straddled his hips. Her warm, damp sex nestled against him. His own body stirred in response. Maybe it wasn't too soon?

  It wouldn't take much to roll her over, to push his way back into her round, tight body, to feel her stretch and pulse around him as he banged her into the headboard…

  No. Head-banging sex with a woman who had a concussion was probably a bad idea. In fact, any kind of sex was probably on the list of Things to Avoid.

  Joe scowled at a crack in the ceiling, trying to ignore the temptation of Nell's full, soft breasts pressed against his side. At least it hadn't been all his idea.

  Which had to be the lamest excuse since, "It was only one drink."

  Maybe he hadn't been able to control his response to her, but he was responsible for his actions now.

  He needed to get up. Get out. Before he forgot all his good intentions and took advantage of her again. Before he took her, round, tight, wet… Damn.

  "Is there a drugstore around here?" he asked.

  Nell raised her head from his shoulder. "What?"

  "A drugstore. I figured I'd go grab a paper and some cigarettes," he said, trying for casual and instead sounding like the kind of creep who rolled off a woman and immediately started looking for the nearest exit.

  Which, come to think of it, pretty much described him before Nell.

  "Maybe pick up some bagels for breakfast," he added. There. That made it clear he was coming back.

  She sat up, folding her long, smooth legs under her, crossing her arms over her breasts. Her really nice breasts. "I'd prefer it if you don't smoke in my apartment."

  He rolled away from her before he changed his mind and pulled her under him. "Not a problem," he said, reaching for his shoes. There was an open box of condoms in her nightstand, almost full. "I'm quitting."

  "Then why do you need cigarettes?"

  Joe stared at the box, the open box, the box with the expiration date stamped on the side, and felt his stomach implode. "I don't."

  It was okay. He breathed. The box was good for another seven months. They were safe.

  But the scare made him think. What was he doing? Suppose he'd gotten her pregnant? He was living his life one day at a time. Nell was a woman who deserved hopes, house plans and dreams of babies. She didn't need a guy like him in her life.

  And he didn't know what to do with a woman like her.

  "I see," Nell said, in that tone of voice a woman used when she really meant she was blind and you were a moron.

  Joe stood. "Look, I'm not doing a good job of explaining."

  Nell pulled on her robe and tied it around her with short, jerky movements. "Have I asked you for an explanation?"

  This was not going well.

  He followed Nell across the room. "No, but you're entitled to one."

  "Why?" She kept departing from his script. Her eyes were bright with tears or temper. God, he hoped it was temper.

  "Well, because you…" He fumbled, which surprised him. He'd always been able to talk his way out of—or into—almost anything. He was an Irishman born with the gift of blarney, a reporter with a knack for words, a man who had his lines down pat, from "Let me buy you a drink" to "I'll call you."

  He tried again. "Because we…"

  "Were intimate?"

  Stupid word. "Intimate" didn't begin to describe how great it had felt to stay with her, to sleep with her, to wake up with her sweet and hot beside him.

  But he nodded, relieved they were getting somewhere. "Yeah."

  "Don't worry about it. We weren't that intimate." She stalked to her dresser and pulled clean underwear from a drawer. "You never even took off your pants."

  Temper, definitely. And hurt, which neither of them deserved. She'd been hurt enough, and he was trying harder than he'd ever tried in his life to make this work.

  He opened his arms, dropped them to his sides. "What do you want from me?"

  She swallowed. "Honesty, for starters. If you want to go, go. You don't need to make up some stupid excuse about buying a newspaper."

  Joe shook his head. "I'm not leaving. You need somebody to stay with you for twenty-four hours."

  That didn't come out the way he meant it. It sounded like he was staying with her on doctor's orders instead of because he wanted to.

  But it worked, because she gave him one of those long, cool looks of hers and said, "Yes, of course. Thank you. I'm going to shower now. You do what you want."

  Victory, Joe thought as he watched her walk away. So why did he feel like such a loser?

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  The trouble with getting what you asked for was that you were supposed to be satisfied.

  Nell cranked off the hot water and reached for a towel. But she wasn't. Satisfied. Not by a long shot.

  She squeezed the water from her hair, wincing at the pain in her scalp. She'd asked Joe to be honest with her. The least she could do was be honest with herself.

  Physically, well… She looked in the mirror at her body, the body she tended and mostly ignored, the body that had been calling attention to itself all morning with aches and tugs and twinges, and took inventory. Her head still pounded. That was concussion. Her nipples stood at attention. That could be cold. Her lips were swollen, she had a string of red marks on each hip that would probably turn into bruises, and every muscle in her body felt grateful. That was Joe, Joe and most definitely J
oe.

  But emotionally…

  Nell sighed and patted herself dry with the towel, gently because her skin was still sensitized. She couldn't blame Joe for her discontent. He'd done his best to meet her demands.

  It wasn't his fault that, after a lifetime of settling for less than she wanted, she suddenly didn't want to settle anymore.

  His dark, frustrated face swam between her and the mirror. What do you want from me?

  Her heart squeezed. She wanted too much.

  She went into her bedroom to finish dressing. Joe wasn't there. Even his shoes were gone from under her bed.

  She could be adult about this. All she had to do was convince him she was fine, and he could go, his responsibilities discharged. Her hands trembled as she pulled on her jeans.

  Even though the swelling had gone down, she didn't want to tug a sweater over her head. She was buttoning her blouse when she heard an unfamiliar ring. Not her phone and not her pager.

  Someone must be calling Joe. His editor, his mother, his brother, a friend.

  She wasn't interested. She certainly wasn't jealous.

  She walked—slowly, to demonstrate her lack of interest—into the kitchen, where Joe was pouring a cup of coffee with one hand and holding his cell phone to his ear with the other.

  "I appreciate the heads up," he said into the phone.

  Nell removed another mug from the cupboard, grateful for a distraction to bridge the morning-after awkwardness.

  Joe held up the pot and she nodded. He poured, still speaking into his cell phone. "Will he give her another day?"

  His mouth compressed. "Fine, I'll ask him myself."

  She added milk to her cup, aware she was eavesdropping and uncertain what to do about it. It was her kitchen. It was her coffee.

  "No, I'll be here." Joe slid the pot back into the coffeemaker with unnecessary force. "We both know she didn't have anything to do with it." Nell's heart thumped. A pause, while he paced. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. You, too."

  Frowning, he disconnected the call.

  Nell wrapped both hands around her mug and sipped, trying to rein in her nerves, her needs and her curiosity. "Who was that?"