Taking her time, Lil topped off both glasses. "Are you in love with Gage Guthrie?"
"I might be." Deborah glanced back at the basket bursting with roses. "Yes, I think I am."
"And with someone else?"
With her glass cupped in her hand, Deborah pushed away from the table and rose to pace. "Yes. But that's crazy, isn't it?"
Not crazy, Lil thought. Nothing to do with love was ever crazy. And for some, such a situation would be delightful and exciting. Not for Deborah. For Deborah, she understood it would only be painful.
"Are you sure it's love on either side, and not just sex?"
After letting out a long breath, Deborah sat again. "I thought it was just physical. I wanted it to be. But I've thought about it, tried to be honest with myself, and I know it's not. I even get them mixed up in my mind. Not just comparisons, but well, as if I'm trying to make them one man, so it would be simpler." She drank again. "Gage told me he loves me, and I believe him. I don't know what to do."
"Follow your heart," Lil told her. "I know that sounds trite, the truest things often do. Let your mind take a back seat and listen to your heart. It usually makes the right choice."
At eleven, Deborah switched on the late news. She wasn't displeased to see her victory in the Slagerman case as the top story. She watched her own image give a brief statement on the courthouse steps, frowning a bit when Wisner pushed through to ask his usual nonsense about Nemesis.
The news team segued from that into Nemesis's latest exploits—the liquor store robbery he had scotched, the mugger he had captured, the murder he had prevented.
"Busy man," Deborah muttered, and drained the last of the wine. If Mrs. Greenbaum hadn't spent most of the evening with her, Deborah thought, she would have contented herself with one glass of wine rather than half the bottle.
Well, tomorrow was Saturday, she thought with a shrug, as the anchorman reported on the upcoming mayoral debates. She could sleep a little late before she went into the office. Or, if she was lucky, she would uncover something that evening. But she wouldn't get anything done if she continued to sit in front of the television.
She waited long enough to hear the weather report, which promised continuing heat, raging humidity and chances of thunderstorms. Switching off the set, she went to the bedroom to settle at her desk.
She'd left the window open in the vain hope of catching a breeze. The traffic noise was a steady din from five stories down. The heat rose from the street, intensifying on its upward journey. She could all but see it.
Hot nights. Hot needs.
She walked to the window, hoping for a breath of air to ease the aching even the wine hadn't dulled. But it remained, a deep, slow throb. Was he out there? she wondered, then put a hand to her temple. She wasn't even sure which man she was thinking of. And it would be best, she knew, if she thought of neither.
Turning on her desk lamp, she opened a file, then glanced at the phone.
She'd called Gage an hour before, only to be told by the taciturn Frank that Mr. Guthrie was out for the evening. She could hardly call him again, she thought. It would look as though she were checking up on him. Something she had no right to do—especially since she was the one who had asked for the time and space.
That was what she wanted, she assured herself. What she had to have. And thinking of him wouldn't help her find the answers that were buried somewhere in the papers on her desk.
She began to read through them again, making notations on a legal pad. As she worked, time slipped past and thunder muttered in the distance.
He shouldn't have come. He knew it wasn't right. But as he had walked the streets, his steps had taken him closer and closer to her apartment. Draped in shadows, he looked up and saw the light in her window. In the heat-drenched night he waited, telling himself if the light switched off, he would leave. He would go.
But it remained, a pale yet steady beacon.
He wondered if he could convince himself he wanted only to see her, to speak with her. It was true that he needed to find out how much she knew, how close she was. Facts on her computer didn't take in her intuition or her suspicions. The closer she came to answers, the more jeopardy she was in.
Even more than he wanted to love her, he needed to protect her.
But that wasn't why he crossed the street, why he swung himself onto the fire escape and began to climb. What he did he did because he couldn't stop himself.
Through the open window, he saw her. She was seated at a desk, the slant of light directed onto the papers she read through. A pencil moved quickly in her hand.
He could smell her. The tauntingly sexy scent she wore reached out to him like an invitation. Or a dare.
He could see only her profile, the curve of her cheek and jaw, the shape of her mouth. Her short blue robe was loosely tied, and he could see the long white column of her throat. As he watched, she lifted a hand to rub at the back of her neck. The robe shifted, sliding up her thighs, parting gently as she crossed her legs and bent over her work again.
Deborah read the same paragraph three times before she realized her concentration had been broken. She rubbed her eyes, intending to begin again. And her whole body stiffened. Heat rushed over her skin. Slowly she turned and saw him.
He was standing inside the window, away from the light. Her heart was hammering—not in shock, she realized. In anticipation.
"Taking a break from crime fighting?" she asked, hoping the sharp tone of her voice would cover her trembling. "According to the eleven-o'clock news, you've been busy."
He hadn't bothered to concentrate. This time, at least this time, he'd needed to come to her whole. "So have you."
"And I still am." She pushed at her hair and discovered her hand wasn't quite steady. "How did you get in?" When he glanced toward the window, she nodded. "I'll have to remember to keep that locked."
"It wouldn't have mattered. Not after I saw you."
Every nerve in her body was on edge. Telling herself it would add more authority, she rose. "I'm not going to let this go on."
"You can't stop it." He stepped toward her. "Neither can I." His gaze shifted to the papers on her desk. "You haven't listened."
"No. I don't intend to. I'll wade through all the lies, navigate all the dead ends until I find the truth. Then I'll finish it." Her stance was tense and watchful. Her eyes challenged him. "If you want to help me, then tell me what you know."
"I know I want you." He hooked a hand in the belt of her robe to hold her still. At that moment, she was his only need, his only quest, his only hunger. "Now. Tonight."
"You have to go." She could do nothing to prevent the shudder of response or the flare of desire. Integrity warred with passion. "You have to leave."
"Do you know how I ache for you?" His voice was harsh as he jerked her against him. "There is no law I wouldn't break, no value I wouldn't sacrifice to have you. Do you understand that kind of need?"
"Yes." It was clawing her. "Yes. It's wrong."
"Right or wrong, it's tonight." With one sweep of his hand, he sent the lamp crashing to the floor. As the room was plunged into darkness, he lifted her into his arms.
"We can't." But her fingers dug hard into his shoulder, negating the denial.
"We will."
Even as she shook her head, his mouth came down on hers, fast and fevered, strong and seductive. The power of it slammed into her, leaving her reeling and rocky—and helpless, helpless to resist her own answering need. Her lips softened without yielding, parted without surrendering. As she tumbled deaf and blind into the kiss, her mind heard what her heart had been trying to tell her.
He pressed her into the mattress, his mouth frantic and impatient as it roamed her face, his hands already tearing at the thin robe that covered her. Beneath it she was just as he'd dreamed. Hot and smooth and fragrant. Stripping off his gloves he let himself feel what he had craved.
Like a river she flowed under his hands. He could have drowned in her. Though he bu
rned to see what he was making his, he contented himself with texture, with taste, with scent. In the hot storm-haunted night, he was relentless.
He was still a shadow, but she knew him. And wanted him. With all reason, all rationality aside, she clung to him, mouth seeking mouth as they rolled over the bed. Desperate to feel him against her, to feel the wild beat of his heart match the wild beat of hers, she pulled at his shirt. There were harshly whispered words against her lips, against her throat, her breast, as she frantically undressed him.
Then he was as vulnerable as she, his skin as slick, his hands as greedy. Thunder rumbled, lightning flickered in the moonless night. The scent of roses and passion hung heavy in the air. She shuddered, mindless with the pleasures he so recklessly showed her.
It was all heat, all ache, all glory. Even as she wept with it, she strained against him, demanding more. Before she could demand, he gave, sending her soaring again. Dark, secret delights. Moans and whispers. Bruising caresses. Insatiable hungers.
When she thought she would surely go mad, he plunged inside her. And it was madness. She gave herself to it, to him, with all her strength, all her eagerness.
"I love you." She wrapped tight around him as the words poured out.
They filled him, even as he filled her. They moved him even as their bodies moved together. He buried his face in her hair. Her nails dug into his back. He felt his own shattering release, then hers as she cried out his name.
He lay in the dark. The roaring in his head gradually subsided until all he heard was the sound of traffic on the street below and Deborah's deep, unsteady breaths. Her arms were no longer tight around him, but had slid off. She was still now, and quiet.
Slowly, unnerved by his own weakness, he shifted from her. She didn't move, didn't speak. In the dark, he touched a hand to her face and found it damp. And he hated that part of him that had caused her grief.
"How long have you known?"
"Not until tonight." Before he could touch her again, she turned away and groped for her robe. "Did you think I wouldn't know when you kissed me? Didn't you realize that no matter how dark it was, no matter how confused you made me, once this happened I would know?"
It wasn't just anger in her voice, but pain. He could have withstood the anger. "No, I didn't think of it."
"Didn't you?" She switched on the bedside lamp and stared at him. "But you're so clever, Gage, so damn clever to have made such a mistake."
He looked at her. Her hair was tumbled, her pale skin still flushed and warm from his hands. There were tears in her eyes, and behind them a bright anger. "Maybe I did know. Maybe I just didn't want to let it matter." He rose and reached for her. "Deborah—"
She slapped him once, then twice. "Damn you, you lied to me. You made me doubt myself, my values. You knew, you had to know I was falling in love with you." With a half-laugh she turned away. "With both of you."
"Please listen." When he touched her on the shoulder, she jerked away.
"It wouldn't be wise to touch me just now."
"All right." He curled his hand into a fist. "I fell in love with you so fast, I couldn't think. All I knew was that I needed you, and that I wanted you to be safe."
"So, you put on your mask and looked out for me. I won't thank you for it. For any of it."
The finality in her voice had panic racing through him. "Deborah, what happened here tonight—"
"Yes, what happened here. You trusted me enough for this." She gestured to the bed. "But not for the rest. Not for the truth."
"No, I didn't. I couldn't because I know how you feel about what I'm doing."
"That's a whole different story, isn't it?" She swiped away tears.
The anger was dying away to misery. "If you knew you had to lie to me, why didn't you just stay away from me?"
He forced himself not to reach for her again. He had lied and, by lying, hurt her. Now he could only offer the truth and hope it would begin to heal. "You're the only thing in four years I haven't been able to overcome. You're the only thing in four years I've needed as much as I've needed to live. I don't expect you to understand or even accept, but I need you to believe me."
"I don't know what to believe. Gage, since I met you I've been torn in two different directions, believing I was falling in love with two different men. But it's just you. I don't know what to do." On a sigh, she shut her eyes. "I don't know what's right."
"I love you, Deborah. Nothing's lighter than that. Give me a chance to show you, time to explain the rest."
"I don't seem to have much choice. Gage, I can't condone—" She opened her eyes and for the first time focused on the long, jagged scars on his chest. Pain slammed into her, all but bringing her to her knees. Dulled with horror, her eyes lifted to his. "They did that to you?" she whispered.
His body stiffened. "I don't want pity, Deborah."
"Be quiet." She moved quickly, going to him, wrapping her arms around him. "Hold me." She shook her head. "No, tighter. I might have lost you all those years ago before I ever had the chance to have you." There were tears in her eyes again as she lifted her head. "I don't know what to do, or what's right. But tonight it's enough that you're here. You'll stay?"
He touched his lips to hers. "As long as you want."
Chapter 8
Deborah always awakened reluctantly. She snuggled into sleep, easily blocking out the honks and gunning engines from the street. A jackhammer was machine-gunning the concrete, but she only yawned and shifted. If she put her mind to it, she could sleep through an atomic bomb.
It wasn't the noise that had her opening her groggy eyes. It was the faint and glorious scent of brewing coffee.
Ten-thirty, she noted, peering at the clock. Ten-thirty! Deborah struggled to sit up and discovered she was alone in bed.
Gage, she thought, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Had he ordered breakfast again? Eggs Benedict? Belgian waffles? Strawberries and champagne? God, what she would have given for a simple cup of black coffee and a stale doughnut.
Pushing herself from the bed, she reached down for her robe, which was lying in a heap on the floor. Beneath it was a swatch of black cloth. She picked it up, then lowered herself to the bed again.
A mask. She balled the material in her hand. So, it hadn't been a dream. It was real, all of it. He had come to her in the night, loved her in the night. Both of her fantasies. The charming businessman, the arrogant stranger in black. They were one man, one lover.
On a low groan, she buried her face in her hands. What was she going to do? How the hell was she going to handle this? As a woman? As a D.A.?
God, she loved him. And by loving him, she betrayed her principles. If she revealed his secret, she betrayed her heart.
And how could she love him without understanding him?
Yet she did, and there was no way she could take back her heart.
They had to talk, she decided. Calmly and sensibly. She could only pray she would find the strength and the right words. It wouldn't be enough to tell him she disapproved. He already knew it. It wouldn't be enough to tell him she was afraid. That would only prompt him to reassure. Somehow, she had to find the words to convince him that the path he had taken was not only dangerous, but wrong.
Deborah braced herself, prepared.
When the phone rang, she muttered an oath. Struggling into her robe, she climbed across the bed to snatch up the receiver.
"…Deborah's sister." Cilia's voice held both amusement and curiosity. "And how are you?"
"Fine, thanks," Gage said. "Deborah's still sleeping. Would you like me to—"
"I'm right here." Sighing, Deborah pushed at her tousled hair. "Hello, Cilia."
"Hi."
"Goodbye, Cilia." Deborah heard Gage set the phone on the hook. There was a moment of humming silence.
"Ah…I guess I called at a bad time."
"No. I was just getting up. Isn't it a bit early in Denver?"
"With three kids, this is the middle of the day.
Bryant, take that basketball outside. Out! No dribbling in the kitchen. Deb?"
"Yes?"
"Sorry. Anyway, Boyd checked out those names, and I thought you'd like the information right away."
"That's great." She picked up a pen.
"I'll let Boyd fill you in." The phone rattled. "No, I'll take him. Keenan, don't put that in your mouth. Good grief, Boyd, what's all over his face?" There was some giggling, a crash as the receiver hit the kitchen floor and the sound of running feet.
"Deb?"
"Congratulations, Captain Fletcher."
"Thanks. I guess Cilia's been bragging again. How's it going?"
She looked down at the mask she still held in her hand. "I'm not at all sure." Shaking off the mood, she smiled into the phone. "Things sound normal out there."
"Nothing's ever normal out here. Hey, Allison, don't let that dog—" There was another crash and a flurry of barking. "Too late."
Yes, it sounded perfectly normal. "Boyd, I appreciate you moving so fast on this."
"No problem. It sounded important."
"It is."
"Well, it isn't much. George P. Drummond was a plumber, owned his own business—"
"Was?" Deborah interrupted.
"Yeah. He died three years ago. Natural causes. He was eighty-two and had no connection with a Solar Corporation or any other."
She shut her eyes. "And the other?"
"Charles R. Meyers. High school science teacher and football coach. Deceased five years. They were both clean as a whistle."
"And the Solar Corporation?"
"We can't find much so far. The address you gave Cilia was nonexistent."
"I should have guessed. Every time I turn a corner on this, I run into a dead end."
"I know the feeling. I'll do some more digging. Sorry I can't be more helpful."
"But you have been."
"Two dead guys and a phony address? Not much. Deborah, we've been following the papers out here. Can you tell me if this business has anything to do with your masked phantom?''
Books by Nora Roberts Page 378
