by JoAnn Ross
“Cheers.” He turned toward her, lifting the heavy glass.
Cait refused to acknowledge the toast. “What do you think you’re doing on this flight?”
He lowered the glass without comment and took a sip. “I don’t suppose you’d believe I had a sudden yen for a vacation.”
She shook her head. “Not a chance.”
“Perhaps I’m researching a story.”
She thought about that, eyeing him over the rim of her wineglass. “Better. But I still find it difficult to buy. Especially when you’re supposed to be working on Blythe’s screenplay.”
The answer to the question she’d been asking herself hit her. “That’s how you found out about this trip, isn’t it? From Blythe.”
“Don’t blame her,” he said. “She just happened to mention it in passing. The rest—” he waved his hand, his slight gesture encompassing the plane, their seats, and this unscheduled, impulsive trip—was all my idea.”
“A stupid idea,” she muttered.
“Actually, I thought it was one of my more brilliant ones.”
“Well, it’s not.”
“We needed to talk,” Sloan said. “I had the feeling you’d just keep walking out on me, which is a bit difficult to do at 30,000 feet.”
“Now there’s where you’ve miscalculated. I may not be able to walk out, but there’s no way you can make me listen to anything you have to say.”
To prove her point, she took the headphones from the seatback in front of her, slammed them onto her head and tuned to the soft favorites channel in the hopes the easy listening music would cool her irritation.
Knowing that it was a long flight, Sloan reminded himself that patience was reputed to be a virtue. He shrugged, took out his laptop computer and began to write the opening scene of his screenplay.
Since he’d culled the story of Alexandra and Patrick’s argument at the Hearst beach house the night of the murder from microfilm in the L.A. Times morgue, he’d decided to begin his movie with that and work his way back in time.
Beside him, Cait sat with her head against the back of the seat, eyes closed, ignoring him as if he were invisible.
Dinner—a shellfish tamale, salad and blue corn chips with guacamole—had been served and eaten, trays had been taken away and coffee poured before Cait finally surrendered.
They’d just passed over the Mississippi River when she took off those earphones Sloan was beginning to hate and turned toward him.
“What else did Blythe say?”
“About Alexandra Romanov?”
“No. About me.”
“Ah.”
He leaned back in his seat, crossed his legs at the ankles and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. He thought about asking why, if she honestly didn’t care anything about him, she cared what he knew about her, then decided that he wasn’t up to playing any more games where the delectable Cait Carrigan was concerned.
“Now that you mention it, I seem to recall something about you being about to risk that lovely neck again.”
Cait’s temper flared predictably. “She had no right to tell you about that!”
Sloan shrugged. “She’s worried about you. And for that matter, so am I.”
“Why?”
“She’s your best friend—”
“Not Blythe. I know why she’s concerned. I was referring to you.”
“Oh. Beats me.” He rubbed at the gathering tension at the back of his neck. “I suppose, the appropriate thing for me to say is that as a fellow human being, I’d worry about anyone who was about to set herself up as a target for some psychopathic rapist.”
Cait nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“Perfect sense,” Sloan agreed. He stared past her, out the oval window at the sky that had turned inky black. Inside the cabin the flight crew had dimmed the lights. “The problem is that it’s not the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.”
He tossed off the rest of the cooling coffee and returned the cup to the flight attendant passing by before answering.
“The truth is—” he turned back to her, his whiskey brown eyes holding her reluctant gaze hostage “—you triggered something in me, Cait. From the moment I looked down from the top of Blythe’s gate and saw you standing there, dressed like any red-blooded male’s most erotic fantasy, which, let me tell you, made one helluva contrast with that deadly 9mm pistol you were pointing in my direction.”
“I thought you were a burglar.”
“Makes sense to me.” He leaned closer and treated her to another one of those slow, sensual grins that once again made her pulse leap.
He leaned closer still. Sloan watched the awareness flood into her eyes, understood that she would have run away if only there’d been anywhere to run.
Congratulating himself on arranging this stolen time together, he bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.
When he felt her shudder, he cupped her cheek in his palm.
“You are so sweet,” he murmured against her lips. Although he’d never believed in heaven, Sloan now knew what it tasted like. “You quite literally take my breath away.”
She also made him feel sixteen again. Sixteen and horny, but he decided, for the sake of discretion, not to mention that salient little fact.
“Don’t talk to me that way,” she protested even as she melded into the light kiss. Her soft voice, almost a whisper, could barely be heard over the drone of the jet engines. “I don’t want this.”
“I know.” He could feel the ache deep within every bone of his body. His mouth whispered over hers. “But sometimes what we want—” his fingers trailed up her cheek as his lips continued to pluck seductively at hers “—and what we get are two entirely different things.”
He was doing it again! Cait’s head was spinning, her bones were melting, and her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. This simply had to stop, she told herself weakly. She couldn’t keep putting herself at risk like this.
Because every feminine instinct she possessed told her that in his own way, this man was every bit as hazardous as the Surfer Rapist she’d vowed to apprehend.
Sloan Wyndham was dangerous.
And heaven help her, against all reason, she wanted him.
Reckless, she ignored the voice of caution trying to make itself heard in the far reaches of her mist-hazed mind and dragged her hands through his dark hair. Desperate, she forgot all the reasons why this was a fatal mistake and allowed herself to sink deeper and deeper into Sloan’s seductive kiss.
When Cait’s ripe, succulent lips parted on a soft moan, encouraging him to deepen the kiss, Sloan ripped away the little twist of lace that held her hair in that topknot, allowing it to pour over her shoulders, where the spicy scent of it infiltrated its way into his senses like an inhaled drug.
When he finally surrendered her lips, her eyes remained glazed with a reluctant desire she could no longer deny. In his, a flame continued to burn brightly.
“I don’t understand.” She dragged a trembling hand through her tangled hair, then dropped it weakly. Her voice was weak and tattered. She was trembling.
Because he could not remain this close to Cait without touching her, Sloan ran both his wide hands across her shoulders, than down her arms, the gesture meant to soothe, rather than arouse. “Believe me, Cait, you’re not alone there.”
His heart was still beating too fast and too hard. What was it about Cait Carrigan that could tie him into such tight, painful knots?
“I think, when we land in Boston, you should book the next flight home.” Even as Cait said the words, Sloan felt something from her, a lingering desire that told him it was not her first choice.
“Sorry. But I’ve always wanted to see Maine.”
She stiffened at his cocky, I-do-whatever-I-want tone. Reminding herself of the reason for this trip cleared the cobwebs from her mind. “Look, I have work to do in Maine. I can’t allow you to interfere.”
“No problem. I have no intention of interfering in your
work.”
“You already have,” she snapped. Deciding since she’d already gone this far, she may as well admit to the havoc he was causing to her senses, she said, “I can’t think straight if you keep kissing me like that.”
“Fine.” Although his body still ached with unsatiated need, Sloan smiled. He hadn’t expected her to admit to so much so soon. “How about I promise to refrain from kissing you during working hours?”
“No good.” She shook her head, knowing that she’d spend all her time either remembering earlier kisses or anticipating those not yet shared. “You have to stop kissing me. Or at least until after I’ve had my meeting with Charity Prescott.”
She may as well ask the sun to stop rising in the morning. Or the sea to stop its eternal ebb and flow.
“It’s either that, or I’ll have to you run in for obstructing justice.”
Figuring he’d love to see her explain that charge to some rural Maine constable, Sloan decided not to argue. Blythe had already stressed how seriously Cait took her work, something he’d witnessed firsthand during that brief exchange with her mother. If he forced her to choose, Sloan wasn’t certain—at least at this point in their relationship—that he’d end up the winner.
“You drive a hard bargain, Officer.”
She folded her arms across her chest and felt her equilibrium beginning to return. “Take it or leave it.”
Although it was not his first choice, Sloan reminded himself that once she’d had her meeting with Castle Mountain’s lady police chief, all bets were off.
“Lady,” he said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Cait desperately wanted to believe him. Desperately needed to believe him.
As the plane began its descent into Boston’s Logan Airport, she forced her mind back onto her all-important mission and tried, with scant success, to ignore the faint twinges of foreboding caused by the masculine gleam in Sloan’s whiskey-hued eyes.
8
IT WAS NOT AN EASY TRIP. After landing in Boston, Sloan and Cait boarded a commuter jet to Bangor. In Bangor, they found the charter pilot Charity had promised would be waiting to take them to Castle Mountain. There was a ferry, she’d explained to Cait on the phone, however it only ran weekly until the summer tourist season.
It was past midnight when they touched down on the small landing strip and found a driver from the Gaslight Inn waiting. Cait was grateful when the man turned out to be a stereotypical taciturn New Englander. She was so ex-hausted, she was no longer able to think, let alone manage any type of coherent conversation.
The owner of the inn was waiting up as well, although the flannel robe the woman was wearing suggested she’d been awakened by the call from the pilot informing her of Cait and Sloan’s pending arrival. The old-fashioned parlor, which functioned as a lobby, was filled to the brim with Victorian and European furnishings Cait knew she would find delightful, if she weren’t so sleepy.
Sloan was as dead on his feet as Cait. But after having had her head on his shoulders during the flight from Bangor— she’d drifted off immediately after takeoff—and having inhaled her spicy scent at such close range, he was uncomfortably wired.
He declined the obviously sleepy owner’s offer to show them to their rooms, assuring her that they were more than capable of managing on their own.
For once Cait didn’t fight him when he scooped up both their bags. Desperately fighting to keep her eyes open, she dragged herself up the stairs.
The rooms were next door to one another. Sloan stopped at the first door and unlocked it. “Good night.”
“’Night.” She took her carry-on bag and turned to go in, but at the last minute he stopped her.
“Wait a minute. I forgot something.”
Cait glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”
Okay, so he was going to break the rules. But what the hell. He couldn’t help himself. Soft and flushed with sleep, Cait was the most delectable sight he’d ever seen.
“This.” His hand cupped her nape, sliding into her unbound hair. He bent his head. The touch of his lips on hers was as soft as dandelion fuzz, as brief as a heartbeat. Cait knew she was in deep, deep trouble when the light kiss caused her blood to thrum.
She was looking up at him with confusion and, dammit, Sloan thought, that painfully seductive, reluctant desire shining in her emerald eyes. It would be so easy, he mused. A few more lingering kisses, a tender touch here—his gaze skimmed over her breasts—another there—her hips—some seductive words, and she’d fall into his hands like a succulent, ripe plum.
But then what?
As impossible as it seemed, Sloan Wyndham, a man infamous for his hot, short, hit-and-run relationships, suddenly found himself wanting more. Much, much more.
He smiled. At her, at himself, at this ridiculous situation. “Good night.”
She was pressing her fingers against her still parted lips, as if trying to hold in the heat. “’Night.” She turned and disappeared into the room.
When she closed the door behind her, Sloan heard the click of the lock and realized that he hadn’t known it was possible to feel both regret and relief at the same time.
After a frustrating night spent tossing and turning, staring up at the ceiling, imagining Cait warm and oh, so inviting in his bed, Sloan rose early and took a solitary walk along the rock-strewn beach.
The day had dawned cold and foggy, preventing him from seeing more than a few feet in front of him. But that didn’t stop Sloan from sensing her approach. It was as if he possessed some type of internal radar that alerted him when-ever Cait Carrigan came into kissing range.
“We need to talk.” She was wearing a hooded, crimson jacket every bit as assertive as her tone.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“We had a deal,” she ground out, refusing to acknowledge his easy greeting. Her hands were jammed deep into her pockets, but from the fire in her eyes and the steel in her tone he suspected if she pulled them out, they’d be curled into fists. “You broke the rules last night.”
“What rules were those?”
She threw her chin up in a way that told him unequivocally that she wasn’t buying his innocent act for a second. “I distinctly recall you promising not to kiss me until I finished my business with the police chief.”
“Perhaps you were dreaming.”
“Not likely.”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe that I thought I was dreaming.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t think so, but it was worth a try.” He shrugged, then extended his arms, wrists together. “I give up. You may as well throw the cuffs on me again and drag me in, Officer. Because it seems I have no choice but to plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court.”
Didn’t he take anything seriously?
“This case is important to me, dammit!” Her shout scattered some gulls that had been wading in the surf at the edge of the rocky shore, searching out clams. “It’s my ticket to what I’ve been working toward for years. I don’t have the time or the inclination to get involved in a relationship!”
The long lonely night spent fantasizing about making love to Cait took its toll. Sloan’s own temper sparked as well. “Tough. Because don’t look now, lady, but you’re already involved. All the way up to that fragrant neck.”
Unfortunately, the words were all too true. Her irritation deflated, like air seeping out of a balloon. Cait shook her head and looked away.
“I really don’t want this.”
Another shrug. “Neither did I, in the beginning.”
She gave him a sharp look, studied his open expression and decided he was telling the truth. “You make it sound as if we’re nothing more than puppets with Fate pulling the strings.”
Aptly put, Sloan decided, thinking over this past week.
“People have choices, Sloan,” Cait said when he didn’t answer.
She saw it every day in her work. Human beings had been created with a f
ree will that made them choose to be either one of the good guys or one of the bad guys. These days, unfortunately, more and more people seemed to be taking the low road.
“Events don’t happen in a vacuum,” she insisted. “We have ultimate control over our lives.”
“I used to think that.” He met her earnest gaze with an unwavering one of his own. “I’m not sure I do anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve always known what I wanted.”
He didn’t doubt her for a minute. But he did think if Cait actually believed she could turn her back on whatever it was that was happening between them, she was fooling herself.
“And if wants change?” he suggested quietly.
“Mine won’t.” Even as she said it, Cait knew it was a lie. Because heaven help her, she was starting to want Sloan. Too much for her own good.
“Want to know what I want?” he asked.
“No.” She jammed her hands deeper into her pockets and turned away again, staring out at the bank of soft gray fog.
“Too bad. Because I’m going to tell you anyway.”
He came up behind her, put his arms around her waist and drew her back against him. The sea air was damp and cold. She tried to concentrate on the chill even as the heat emanating from his body seeped seductively into her bones.
“I want to go back to the inn, carry you upstairs, light a fire in the stone fireplace, and spend a very long time undressing you. Piece by piece. Beginning with that red as sin coat and ending with whatever little scrap of silk and lace I suspect you’re wearing beneath those jeans.”
“Dammit, Sloan—”
“And then,” he continued, as if he hadn’t even heard her faint complaint, “I want to touch you, Cait. All over. And I want to taste you. Everywhere.”
Heaven help her, that was precisely what she wanted him to do! It was the same thing he’d done last night in her unbelievably erotic dream that had left her hot and shaken and, dammit, wanting this morning.
“Sloan—” His name came out on a ragged protest.
He turned her in his arms, looked down into her upturned face and knew he was not alone in these unruly feelings. “And then I want you to touch me. Everywhere. And taste me, all over.
