Secretly Married

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “It’s still there.” Sam’s voice was a low rasp.

  She couldn’t press her spine flatter—not with his hand at her back preventing it. “What?”

  He lowered his head. His hard cheek brushed hers. “Heat.” His breath teased her ear. “Same as before.”

  She squared her shoulders with an effort. “Are you trying to live in the past, Sam? That’s a dangerous endeavor.”

  “Remember the couch incident? Your office. Late that one night. Chinese takeout. A soft leather couch.”

  “Incident.” Her voice was choked. “Lovely. So romantic.”

  “Is that what you get from Do-Wright?” He skimmed his thumb down the vee again, then beyond, gliding over the hard push of her nipple through the thin fabric. “He’s just sweetly romancing you right up the wedding aisle?”

  Her skin burned. Not from his words, but his marauding fingertip. “No, that’s what you did.” She pushed at his shoulders, but he was immovable.

  “Did I romance you, Delaney?”

  She felt the gentle tug of his teeth on her earlobe, and the clouds overhead seemed to whirl. “Sam…”

  “It was hot,” he whispered. “It’s still hot.” His hand was suddenly at the hem of her shirt, drawing it upward. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me to stop, Delaney. Tell me your body isn’t crying for this. For us.”

  She threw back her head, but the words to blast his arrogant assurance wouldn’t rise. His hand at her back pressed her, arching, against him.

  “Nobody will ever fit either one of us better than this.” He cupped her hip, his fingers kneading.

  “Sex.” The word burst from her. “It’s only…oh—” he’d slid down the side zipper of her slacks “—only sex.” Except nothing with Sam had ever been “only.”

  His head dipped. His mouth covered her shoulder where he’d tugged aside the neckline. “Take down your hair.”

  “No.” What was wrong with her? Five minutes ago she’d been defending another man. Another raindrop fell, catching on her cheek. “I don’t want to do this.”

  He suddenly straightened. Pulled his hand from the small of her back. From the edge of her panties. He took a step back.

  His shirt was half-off, his hair ruffled. From the breeze or her fingers?

  He lifted his hands to the sides. “Now what? Your choice, Delaney. Walk away.”

  The way he had? Her eyes suddenly burned.

  This man was one of the most truly dangerous things she’d ever encountered in her life. The first had been a cliff her inebriated brother had driven them off one cold dark night. To her father’s grief, she’d been the one to survive.

  Had she survived Sam?

  Her heart thudded heavily, in tempo with some elemental song that had always played between them. Was there a point in denying it? In continuing to pretend that she could ever be satisfied with the lukewarm emotion inspired by anyone else?

  She was a fool.

  She was an unwanted wife. Thorny and uncompromising.

  But if she didn’t get Sam’s hands back on her, right now, she’d go stark-raving mad. What was survival when her soul yearned for something it had already lost?

  She stepped forward and caught his hand in hers. Guided it down to her breast and pressed it there. Sensation cramped through her, and she lifted her mouth until it found his.

  “This doesn’t change anything.” Her voice was hoarse.

  “I don’t care.”

  His fingers worked between their bodies, and in seconds he’d pulled her shirt over her head. Tossed it to the deck.

  The warm rain fell harder, sliding down her bare shoulders. His hands were even warmer when they covered her bare breasts. Her flesh seemed to swell. She exhaled, a moan in her throat. “Sam—”

  “Take down your hair.” His voice was hoarse now, too. Filled with the same kind of madness she felt.

  She lifted her hands. Her breasts pushed harder against his palms. She fumbled at the twist in her hair. Dragged at the pins, letting them fall. Her hair unrolled, caught by the balmy damp breeze.

  He exhaled, his expression fierce. “Now put your hands on me.”

  Bossy. That’s what he was. Bossy. Controlling.

  She reached for him again, dragged at the hem of his T-shirt and thrust her hands beneath it, feeling the searing heat of his tight flesh, the rasp of silky-crisp chest hair. She slid her hands over his shoulders, taking the shirt with them. Pressed her torso against his.

  A soft cry rose in her throat. It was drowned out by the cry of birds still diving for the seeds that Sam had tossed. His arm behind her back was an iron railing of its own. She was barely aware of the rain when he lifted her against him, pushed her back once more against the glass. And too acutely aware of his belt buckle digging into her stomach.

  Neither made a move to find dryer ground. Her hands fairly attacked his belt buckle and the button fly beneath it. He’d always worn the same kind of jeans. Used to tease her over her impatience at unfastening the buttons. Now she slid her fingers into his waist and yanked. The jeans popped open.

  Sam laughed soundlessly against her neck. But his laughter turned to a groan when her trembling fingers delved beneath the denim. He exhaled roughly, then his own hands were as busy as hers. Ridding his jeans once and for all. Sliding her narrow pants down, over her thighs, off her feet, then tossing them aside.

  “Those are silk,” she said faintly.

  He reached for her. “You’re silkier.” His mouth found her hip bone.

  Her throat was tight, her need a hiss between her teeth. On the verge of begging, she gasped when he tore her panties and rose, then slid his hands around her thighs and lifted her, even as his weight pinned her against the door.

  “Now?” His eyes were hot. Bossy, yes, but even now, he’d stop.

  She buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Now.”

  “Look at me,” he insisted.

  Delaney twined her arms tighter around his shoulders, burying her face deeper. Her mouth opened against him, tasting raindrops and warm, hard flesh. She writhed against him, need streaking through her.

  “Look at me.” His voice was rougher, his hands like irons on her, pressing her back against the window, preventing her from moving against him, when moving and taking was all she wanted.

  An agony of frustration coiled in her.

  She pushed her fingers through his hair. Would have pulled if it weren’t so short.

  Begging was not beyond her, after all. “Please.”

  “Look…at…me.”

  She threw back her head, her gaze racing over his face. A man she knew, yet didn’t. A man who’d been part of her but had held himself apart. “Did you start this just to torment me?”

  Between narrowed lashes his eyes gleamed rich brown. The bruise high on his cheekbone made him look even more darkly dangerous. “I want you to look at my face and know who I am.”

  Edgy tremors quaked deep inside her. No arguments came to her lips. No bristling emotion against his bottom-line attitude. She’d always fallen prey to the blinding chemistry between them. Even after all this time, nothing had changed.

  “I know who you are, Sam. I’ve always known.” She sounded as if she’d just run a marathon. “Now. Please.” She pressed her forehead against his jaw, her hands cradling his head. “Please.”

  He exhaled sharply, and he took her.

  She cried out, wrapped her legs around his hard hips. The glass behind her shook. She didn’t care. It had been so long.

  The rain fell harder. Her hands slipped over his wet skin. Everything inside her tightened.

  Sam groaned and suddenly moved, carrying her to the cushioned chaise. His mouth covered hers and he thrust clear to the heart of her.

  She had the faintest thought that they were giving the seagulls quite an eyeful.

  Then she couldn’t think anymore.

  She could only feel.

  The warm rain. Sam.

  And unbearable pleasure as their worl
d splintered around them.

  Chapter 8

  Delaney woke to the feel of a blast furnace against her back and the warmth of sunshine on her face. The moment she moved, Sam slid his arm over her waist, his hand an instinctive arrow straight to her breast.

  Hardly daring to breathe, she turned her head.

  His hooded gaze met hers.

  She’d told him nothing would change, yet she felt herself having to cling to that belief. The past was over. It couldn’t be undone. Not the bad, nor the good.

  And there had been good.

  Until the blame had set in, eating them alive.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, spreading it out across the pillow. “Stop thinking so hard.”

  She couldn’t bear the weight of his gaze and looked away. Through the sliding glass door she could see the lumps of their clothing still heaped on the deck. “It’s when I stop thinking that things get so messed up.” She covered her mouth with her fingers for a moment. She could no more stop thinking than she could stop wanting what wasn’t meant to be. “I didn’t know about the divorce, Sam. I swear it. I’m sorry.”

  He bent his arm, propping his head up on his hand. “I believe you.”

  “The attorney I used was a patient. I know it was stupid,” she said hurriedly at his telling expression, “but he needed so badly to prove to himself that he was competent. He’d been fired so many—”

  “Jeez, Delaney.” He rolled on his back, laying his arm over his eyes.

  The movement threw his abs into sharp definition and the blanket over his hips perilously dipped. Realizing her gaze was lingering, she quickly looked down at the sheet, tucking it around herself. The last thing she needed was to be caught drooling over her estranged husband’s most excellent physique.

  “Do you think you can save the world one patient at a time?” His voice had gone tight, reminiscent of so many similar times. “It’s not up to you to solve their every problem.”

  She clutched the sheet to her and sat up. “I know that.” How easy they fell into their usual pattern. “But not every patient of mine has a physiological problem. Sometimes it’s circumstances. Surroundings—”

  “Like Alonso?” His voice went terse.

  “Yes, like Alonso. He’s trying so hard, Sam. He’s doing well in school again. He’s not drinking. Or smoking. Anything.”

  “Then why bring him here if he’s so perfect?”

  “Because he needs a home away from his old gang. You know how hard it is to break free from that life. And with his mother gone now—”

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t just try to adopt him yourself.” Sam threw back the sheet and climbed out of bed. “Then you’d have the kid you really want with no pregnancy at all.”

  She felt as if he’d slapped her. She quickly looked down. Not because Sam exhibited any modesty but because the display of all that bare flesh just seemed to hone the edge of her pain. “I wanted our baby, Sam.”

  She heard the rustle of denim, the snap of his jeans. “Right.” His voice was grim. “All your actions were evidence of that. Wouldn’t take time out of your schedule to buy maternity clothes. Wouldn’t cut back on your hours even though the OB was warning you about your blood pressure.”

  She pleated the sheet between her fingers. And he’d only married her because of the baby. They’d been adults, but they’d acted as foolishly as teenagers, and in the end he’d blamed her for everything.

  No more than she’d blamed herself.

  “We’re talking about Alonso,” she managed after a long moment. “What he needs. And you just said it. I’m not an…an appropriate parental figure.” She forged on despite his expression. Despite the fact that she felt mired in sucking mud. “I work too many hours. That’s not what Alonso needs. It’d be wonderful if he had a real family. But that’s not going to happen. And what Annie and Logan are doing at Castillo House is the next best thing. It is a perfect fit for him.” She unconsciously leaned toward him, willing him to understand this at least.

  “He’s the only kid there still on probation for anything.” His face was hard, the bruise on his cheekbone pronounced.

  “For only two more months! Other than that, he’s no different from any of those children. Troubled pasts of one sort or another. Homeless, bereaving. Unwitting victims to violence and destruction. Castillo House gives them a new start. A place to grow. Is it so wrong that I want that for a fifteen-year-old boy?”

  “You sound like a walking brochure for the place. And he’s not just any fifteen-year-old.”

  “I know.” He was the reason she and Sam had ever met. And he was inextricably woven into the event that had been their final finish.

  “And if it doesn’t work out for him here? Turnabout is a place out of time, Delaney. He’s used to the streets of New York.”

  Relief made it easier to talk. At least he’d left the topic of their lost baby. “Then I’ll find another program for him. And another. I won’t give up on him, Sam. I can’t.”

  “Why? Why is he so damned important? You have to know that helping him doesn’t change what happened to Randy.”

  “Because it’s what I do, Sam. I help people. You do, too, just in a different way.”

  “But that doesn’t entail traipsing across the entire country.”

  “Sometimes it does.” She’d spent months searching for the right place for Alonso. “He was living in a halfway house with men twice his age or better. That was the best Social Services could do for him. But what he is is a kid who’s lost both his parents.”

  “How’d Maria die?” His question was grudging.

  “Uterine cancer. She was underinsured. I found out that Alonso was taking care of her once she became bedridden.”

  He ran his hand down his face, muffling an oath.

  “He needs a home, Samson. I believe Annie and Logan will care for him. Provide the structure and security he needs. And Betty Weathers is the therapist they’ve got in-house. Have you met her? I have. A few times before we came here. She’s top-notch. I think that being on this island—this place out of time—will allow him to find his own footing without danger of bad influences pulling him astray.”

  Sam listened to her impassioned voice. Watched her fierce expression. He’d always known it. That when she cared, when she believed in something—someone—nothing stood in her way for long.

  But she hadn’t believed in them. Not the marriage they’d had and certainly not in him. Not when the chips were down. When his entire precinct was whispering behind his back. When suspicion and accusation turned his way.

  He’d spent half his lifetime—since he’d gone into law enforcement—fighting against the stigma of his heritage. Hell, it was Danté’s first arrest that had driven Sam from one coast to the other. He’d gone as far as he could to distance himself. So he knew what it meant to cross the country in search of change. But it had still caught up to him, and he couldn’t have shared it with the one person who’d ever really mattered. Because she’d been lying in a hospital bed, recovering from the miscarriage caused by an accident that he should have been man enough to prevent.

  She hadn’t believed in him, and she hadn’t even known about his father. About what Danté was.

  Her eyes were soft, serious. Her pale blond hair tumbled against her slender shoulders, and her soft lips looked rosy and swollen. She looked as if she’d spent the night making love, and he damned the fact that the sight moved him.

  There weren’t enough hours in the day to satisfy his craving where she was concerned. “I’ve got to get to the station,” he said abruptly.

  Her eyes flickered. She glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Did a double take.

  At least she hadn’t been clock watching.

  She scrambled off the bed, dragging the sheet with her. “I missed the morning ferry, didn’t I?”

  He went still. Of course. Sex, as she’d said, wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t steer her far from the course she’d set for hers
elf.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “Dandy. And the second run?”

  “Around three. Maybe four depending on Diego’s mood.”

  She swept up the sheet more fully. “I need a shower.”

  And he knew better than to suggest she share his.

  He could persuade her to agree, but he’d be the one to have to live with the memory of it when she was long gone.

  So he kept his mouth clamped shut as she hurried from the room with a rustle of sheeting. She turned back at the last minute. “You’re not going to leave before I’m cleaned up, are you?”

  That nasty trust thing again. But not unmerited. He’d considered doing just that. “You’ve got ten minutes,” he said evenly.

  She nodded and disappeared across the hall. He heard the door to his guest room close.

  She made it in less than ten minutes. He was watering his plants when he heard the flap of her ugly pink sandals, and she appeared. Her hair was wet, pulled back again in a snug knot at the nape of her neck. She’d darkened her lashes and smeared gloss across her lips. Despite all that, and even though her suit—the one she’d arrived in—was a little wrinkled, she looked sleek and cool and very Delaney.

  “I can drive you out to Castillo House or you can hang at Maisy’s Place. She has an outdoor restaurant. The chef’s pretty good.”

  “Castillo House.”

  He knew she had to be hungry by now, even after the midnight snack they’d shared. “Wouldn’t want to pass up a chance to spend more time with your favorite delinquent.”

  Her eyes frosted. “Even after what I’ve told you, you say that.”

  “I remember taking him in for breaking and entering.”

  Her lips firmed. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  He tipped the last of the water out over some green thing that Etta had promised him would live forever no matter how badly he treated it, and left the watering can on the hall table. “I am.”

  She stood pointedly near the door, then followed him outside. The sun was shining again, as if the rain from the previous day had never happened.

  In fact, it was a postcard-perfect day. The kind that drew an increasing number of tourists to their little island. The shops in town could use the dollars, but often it meant a few more headaches for Sam. With strangers to the island tended to come mischief.