by Debra Cowan
"I want to know if you love him." He stepped up to the couch until only a few inches separated them, until she could feel his heat brush her breasts. Leashed rage vibrated from him. "You should be able to look me in the eye and tell me that. Especially after what we had together."
His breath caressed her cheeks, her lips. She could smell the rain he'd brought in from outside, the fresh scent of his skin and the mint of his toothpaste.
Her gaze shifted to his, then away. The words seemed to come from a distance. "I love—"
"Look at me."
Dragging her gaze to his, she registered the raw pain in his face, the need to know in his eyes. Her chest ached. She wished she could look away from the raw vulnerability on his features. "I love…"
She couldn't say it. In a blinding flash, she admitted to herself that she didn't love Josh. She'd been lying to herself for months, but Mace had seen through her almost immediately.
Stunned by the realization, she blinked, focusing on him. Her gaze roamed his features and snagged on his lips. Desire knotted in her belly, high and sharp. Even though they were separated by the width of the couch, Mace's chest brushed hers. His scent webbed around her, clean and fresh with a hint of coffee.
"Don't—" Her voice broke. "Don't do this."
He edged a fraction closer, relentless. "Tell me."
"You—we shouldn't be talking about this."
"I'm only asking for the truth." A simple request, but one that demanded everything of her.
"The truth is…" Her mouth went dry. His lips were close, close enough to release all those memories she'd fought earlier—his lips on hers, on her skin, on her breasts.
"The truth is?" He shifted so that his arm grazed hers.
She swallowed, need curling deep and low in her abdomen and spreading through her body like warm honey.
"The truth is…" He dipped his head toward her. "You still want me."
"No." The word was dragged from her. She told herself to move away, but something elemental and deep tied her to the floor—a familiarity, a sense of inevitability. "I don't … want … to."
Yet she found herself gripping his arms, curling her fingers around the oak-hard muscles and hanging on even as she heard a dim warning in her mind. She stared into his dark blue eyes, drowning in the past she saw there. Regret and loss and panic merged, but she couldn't tell if they represented what she should walk away from or what she had already lost.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"I want to know." He was solid beneath her fingertips, but she felt a slight tremor rack his body.
She knew she should move away. "We can't—it's impossible to go back."
"Think so?" His blue eyes bored into hers.
It would be so easy. All she had to do was reach for him. She could feel his heat, see the rapid thrumming of his pulse in his throat.
"I guess you're right." He started to turn away.
"No, wait! I…" She didn't know if she could admit what he wanted to hear, but she knew what she wanted. Him.
He arched one dark brow, clearly challenging and she nearly lost her nerve. There was a hard knowledge in his eyes that said he knew she wasn't woman enough to admit the truth. The old Devon wouldn't have been.
Resignation slid across his features and she saw fatigue and a flash of pain.
Sweat slicked her palms. It hadn't worked between them before. What made her think it would work now? Even so, she shifted toward him. "I can admit … I want you."
Her voice was low and her heart was pounding so hard she thought she'd pass out.
But he heard her. Surprise flickered in his eyes, then disappeared. "For how long this time? Until I get shot? Until I'm flat on my back? Until you're afraid again?"
The cruel truth of his words lashed her. She could barely speak and blinked back tears with an effort, but somewhere deep inside flared a small flame of defiance.
He acted as if she could turn her emotions off and on like a light switch, as if she were teasing him. She wasn't. She wouldn't.
She lifted her chin, daring him now. "I want you for right now. That's all I know."
His head came up and hunger fired his eyes.
She knew that hunger, felt the same raw throb in her blood that she saw in the fierce blue of his eyes. Suddenly she had to feel his lips on hers. She wanted him to take away the fear, the uncertainty. She wanted to believe for one minute, for one kiss that they could complete each other.
She moved close enough that her lips brushed his, only a brush. And to Devon it was the way home, a call to her soul.
She curled one hand behind his neck and pulled his head down to her, found his lips.
Warm and moist, they settled over hers unerringly. At first they were hard, almost bruising and closed against her. She tightened her hold on him, slid one hand into his hair to pull him closer.
He held himself rigidly away from her, his arms quivering as he forced her to show him what she wanted.
His resistance inflamed her. She kissed him hungrily, aching for him to respond, starving for him to open to her, to kiss her the way he used to until she could dismiss the warnings of her heart.
He allowed it. And finally he followed her.
His chest was lean and hard against the cushion of her breasts. Her nipples peaked; her breasts throbbed with need for him. His belt buckle dug into her middle, and lower down she felt the insistent pressure of his arousal.
She rose on tiptoe and leaned across the sofa, straining to get closer. Warmth flowed through her like liquid honey. She wanted to feel his mouth in places it had been before, wanted to feel his hands on her.
But he kept his hands at his sides, his mouth slanting over hers with patient finesse. She opened wider for him, drawing his tongue into her mouth, moaning when he stroked the sensitive skin. He shuddered and she felt his muscles jerk beneath her hands.
Her fingers flexed on his shoulders, urging, begging. She wanted him to take her, wanted to make love with him. Her fears of him and the past few days melted under the onslaught of feeling and physical awareness he produced.
Then a wash of cold air moved over her and she realized he was gone. She opened her eyes, gripping his biceps to keep her balance. His lips were moist from hers and he was breathing as hard as she.
His skin was flushed, and when he spoke, his voice grated out in a hoarse whisper, "What kind of fool am I?"
Rage and pain crested on his features. He gripped her arms, his mouth pinched and white. She saw it in the blazing blue of his eyes—doubt warring with desire, the need to trust battling the instinct to walk away.
Then his eyes darkened, sharp with the agony of a choice made. He muttered savagely, "I'm not playing this game again."
He released her and turned away, the hurt in his eyes ripping through her soul. "Not ever again."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
She still wanted him. The room shrank in on him, cutting off air, breath, space. He needed to get out of here, away from her. Which he couldn't do.
Hell, he was going to drive himself crazy! No, he corrected, she was driving him crazy. He had to get away from her. She sat on the sofa, where she'd sat without moving for the last ten minutes.
Desperately seeking escape, he walked outside on the porch. He couldn't go far, but he had to have some distance. He stood at the edge of the porch, oblivious to the steady drops of rain that fell on his shoulder, eroding his patience, his sanity, his self-control.
What kind of fool was he? Despite his best efforts and better judgment, Mace had again been drawn in by Devon. He'd let down his guard and he shouldn't have. She'd very nearly brought him to his knees with that kiss, and he should've pushed her away, walked off.
Stop being an idiot and move on, Garrett. She'd made her choice. Now they both had to live with it.
She was with him strictly for protection. He couldn't forget again.
Agony ripped through him and turned
to anger. After she'd walked away from him, he'd thought he would never get over her and he finally had. Even though he might want her physically, he wasn't setting himself up for that kind of rejection again.
They could work together, but they couldn't be together. Never would Mace have believed things between them would revolve around his job. Their personal lives had always been kept separate from his professional one. In the end, his work as a cop had come between them. And now it was the only reason they were linked at all.
The unforgiving irony of the situation hit him like a blow to the gut. Staring out at the dismal gray light, he realized that whatever feelings were between him and Devon didn't matter. He couldn't trust that she wouldn't leave him again.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, sucking in a deep breath against the pain. There was no future with her. Ever.
* * *
Devon laced her fingers together, trying to stem the cold that had wormed into her body the minute Mace had left her alone in the cabin. Just like before, she couldn't warm herself. She bleakly wondered if she'd ever be warm inside again.
She shouldn't have kissed him. She knew it, had known it as it was happening, but she had recklessly disregarded her conscience. All because she'd found her ring. Well, no longer hers, she amended.
And now Mace was paying the price of her weakness. She'd hurt him desperately. She ached at the pain she'd caused him. Kissing him had been purely selfish on her part. She'd wanted only to feel that wonder again, that security.
She rose from the sofa and walked to the front door. Her gaze lit on Mace's gun, lying in the middle of the dining table.
Through the light gingham curtains, she could see the vague shape of Mace's silhouette. He preferred to be out-doors in the rain rather than in here with her. Her gaze returned to the large handgun, which seemed so starkly out of place on the scratched wooden table, in a kitchen smelling of coffee.
The gun was so much a part of him, so foreign to her. Biting at her lip, she stepped toward it. Her father had never allowed her to look at his weapons and she had never asked Mace. She'd never been very curious about the gun, but neither had Mace ever been so free and open with it in front of her.
She stared down at the deadly piece for a long moment. She wanted to be strong and matter-of-fact and handle Mace's life-versus-death job with as much confidence as he did.
She reached out and touched the gun, trailing her fingers over its powerful sleekness. After a moment, she curled her fingers around the weapon and lifted it.
It was heavier than she'd expected. The gray finish flashed dully in the cabin light.
"What are you doing?"
She nearly dropped the gun. Pressing one hand to her chest, she held it out to him with the other. "You scared me to death!"
Mace snatched the weapon from her and gave it a thorough checking. "Damn thing's loaded."
She stared at him, her heart racing, palms sweating.
"Sorry I startled you." He slammed the door with his foot, studying the gun for a few seconds. When he seemed satisfied that everything was all right, he looked at her. "What the hell were you doing?"
She felt foolish now and her skin warmed under his intent regard. "I—I was looking at it."
"Looking at it!" He scowled. "Hell, before, you wouldn't even acknowledge I carried a piece. Now you want to look at it! Now you ask a hundred questions. You have to know everything. I don't get it."
"There's nothing to get," she said coolly, stung by his accusing tone. "I wanted to look, so I looked. I wanted to know, so I—"
"You've never wanted to know! I couldn't even say the word cop around you." He jammed the gun into the waistband of his jeans, turning away.
Anger flared through her. That was how it had always been. Mace would state his case, then walk away. Well, not this time. "Things aren't like they were when we were together."
"You can say that again," he muttered, looking over his shoulder warily. "You never cared before. Why do you now?"
"I always cared." Her voice shook. "Always. I just…"
"You what?" Mace turned back to her, his jaw hard, his eyes flashing. "Didn't like that part of me? Did you hate it?"
"No! No." She looked down, hesitant about continuing, but she wanted him to know. "I've always cared, I just couldn't handle it. I didn't want to talk about your job because I had this idea that if we didn't, then things would be all right. You'd be all right. And so would we."
His eyes widened. "Go on."
Stunned at the genuine interest in his voice, she took a deep breath. "When I thought you were shot, I lost it. I'd always thought I was so much stronger than my mom," she said derisively. "At least she made it through twelve years of marriage. I didn't even make it through our engagement."
Mace stared at her, stunned by the admission and the bitterness directed at herself. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but she wasn't. And the fault wasn't entirely her own. He'd played the part of the big protector, keeping his little woman safe by not acknowledging to her the realities of his job. And they'd both paid for it.
She gave him a shaky smile. "My parents loved each other, but my mom couldn't live with the fear, so we didn't live with my dad. They couldn't give each other up and it was torture for both of them. I was determined never to have a marriage like that."
He shook his head, trying to comprehend this news. "You never said anything about this."
"I know." She glanced away. "I didn't want to acknowledge it. To me, that was the same as giving the fear power over me. And actually, it controlled me all along. I know it sounds childish, but I thought if I didn't acknowledge your job, then the threat would disappear."
Mace nodded, the fierceness in his eyes easing somewhat.
"Crazy, huh? You never needed me the way I needed you, so it was easy to convince myself that you didn't need to talk about your job."
He cocked his head. "And I followed up on that by 'protecting' you from it. Just like your dad did for all those years."
"Yes. Yes, exactly. But that's wrong. At least for me. I've definitely learned that since … I remembered about Dad. Only by getting things out in the open, knowing what I have to face, can I learn to admit my fears."
Wonder eased across his features and he stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. "Well, I'll be."
"You look … amazed."
"I am." His eyebrows lifted and he gave a small laugh. "You know, I thought I knew everything about you, Dev, but looks like I don't know much."
She flushed, stunned by the frank interest in his eyes, as if he were really seeing her, really paying attention.
His gaze traced her features and settled on her lips. Then he looked away, reaching behind him. His blue eyes measured her before he held the gun out to her. In his large hand, it looked small and less intimidating. "Go ahead."
"No." She shook her head, but her gaze stayed riveted on the weapon.
He reached out and opened her palm, laying the heavy gun in it. "It's all right, Devon. You can touch it. You can look at it anytime you want. Just make sure the safety is on or that it's not loaded."
She eyed it apprehensively, holding it out to him. He gently pushed it back toward her. "Ask me anything you want."
She grimaced. "I don't know if this is a good idea."
"You might need to know," he said quietly, reminding her of the danger she still faced.
She didn't like hearing that, but she couldn't deny it. "Show me."
He clicked a button and a thin rectangular box fell into his hand. "This is a clip. It holds the ammunition." He slid back the top part of the gun. "This is the chamber, where the ammo goes. It's empty, now."
She nodded, her hands shaking.
"What's the safety?"
"This little button." He flipped a miniature switch on the side of the gun. "There. Now it's locked so it can't fire."
She nodded, her stomach still fluttering.
He gently pushed her hand down and to one side
so that the gun pointed toward the window. "Don't ever point a gun at anyone unless you intend to use it."
"Oh." She forced herself to hold it, to examine it even though the shaking in her hands had moved down to her legs. "Is this the same kind of gun they used on Dad?"
"No, that was a .38. A different caliber bullet."
She swallowed, her stomach knotting. A faint hint of queasiness rolled through her, but she fought it down.
"They're powerful weapons," he said quietly, his presence calming her despite what had happened between them only a while ago. "You need to understand them, respect them."
"They frighten me."
"Respect is simply a healthy fear, Dev."
He was telling her that it was all right to be afraid. Was he sometimes afraid, too? He'd said so, in the car coming down to the lake.
"If you want me to teach you how to use it, I will."
"No. At least not yet." The gun felt foreign and large in her hand. She couldn't imagine firing it, couldn't imagine aiming it at another human being. She gingerly held it out toward Mace. "Here."
"Anything else you want to know?" He took it from her and checked the safety in what she recognized as an automatic gesture before tucking it in the small of his back.
"No. Thanks."
He nodded curtly and turned toward the refrigerator. Now that she'd held the gun, sweat dampened her palms. Her fear of the weapon seemed to draw a stark contrast between her and Mace. This weapon was part of his life, not part of hers.
Tension threaded the air between them again.
His life was played out in guns and violence and the, dark side of humankind. No matter that he fought evil men with the only things he could, it was still a far cry from her gentle life of teaching and the sheltered upbringing she'd experienced.
Why had she thought, even for a moment, that she could be strong enough?
As arousing as it had been, that kiss had reawakened her feelings of inadequacy, her fear that she could never be the kind of woman Mace needed. The kiss that she had initiated.
Even during the brief instruction about the gun, Devon had noted the bleakness in Mace's gaze, the grim light that made his blue eyes sharp with pain. And she knew she had to do something to ease the uncomfortable silence between them.
