Closer Than She Thinks

by Meryl Sawyer

  “I—I just came out for a moment to avoid Ravelle.”

  Jake sat down beside her. Even in the darkness, he radiated a virility that drew her like a magnet. She was grateful he couldn’t read her mind and know what she’d been thinking.

  “What did your father have to say?”

  She permitted herself a sigh, knowing Jake would understand. “He didn’t know what to do about me, but he cared. He never believed I stole Phoebe’s baby.” She pressed her lips together for a moment, then added, “He wanted me to talk to her, so I did.”

  “Really? Tonight?”

  “Yes. Phoebe was surprisingly”—she searched for the word—“understanding. She claims she’s divorcing Clay—”

  “Didn’t Clay tell you he was the one who wanted the divorce?”

  “Yes. I don’t care whose idea it is. It’s not my business.”

  Jake was sitting beside her, his long legs stretched out from beneath his priest’s robe. He studied her for a moment, his expression concealed by the darkness and the mask he was wearing. She realized her mask was still on her forehead. She must look very silly.

  “Phoebe told me she’s starting over, getting a new life without Clay.”

  “Who’s she involved with?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jake leaned closer, and a sliver of light from the spots on the gazebo highlighted his black mask. “Women don’t leave their husbands without someone in the wings.”

  The hair on her neck bristled. “Wait a minute—”

  “Ditto for men,” he told her. “Spouses stay in relationships unless they have someone they would rather be with—men or women. That’s what divorce attorneys will tell you.”

  Alyssa was silent for a moment, reluctant to admit Jake might be correct. “Phoebe just said she was starting over. It’s possible she’s doing this on her own.”

  “Possible, but not likely.”

  Alyssa had to admit she was having difficulty imagining Phoebe out on her own. She didn’t have a career the way Alyssa did. Someone might be encouraging her.

  Jake pulled her into his arms, hearing what she didn’t say, understanding her frustration, her anxiety. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She mumbled her consent and Jake guided her out of the gazebo and down the path that led around the side of the house.

  “Isn’t it shorter to go through the house?” she asked.

  “The door to the back study is locked.” He took her down the used brick path to the porte cochere on the side of the house. The overhang was a vestige of the turn of the century in the Garden District when automobiles pulled up along the side of the house to unload passengers.

  “Is Phoebe all your father wanted to talk to you about?” Jake asked as he handed the parking valet his claim ticket.

  “He says he’s proud of me.”

  Jake kept a silent curse to himself. It was easy to be proud of Alyssa now that she was a success. Where had Gordon LeCroix been when Alyssa had needed him? The same place Max Williams had been. Absent fathers. Both had decided to reappear in their children’s lives.

  Jake didn’t know what to say. He’d never been good at situations like this. He’d known his mother loved him, but she’d rarely expressed it in so many words. He’d never told her what she meant to him. He’d always believed she knew. Now, he wondered, and cursed himself because it was too late.

  “Let’s have a quiet dinner somewhere,” he said, opening the Porsche’s door for her.

  “I need to check on Aunt Thee.” Alyssa pulled off the headpiece of her nun’s habit and mask. Her tousled hair hung in loose waves down to her shoulders.

  Twenty minutes later, he was astounded to find a parking place near the French Quarter town house Alyssa shared with her aunt. He parked and locked the car, then took Alyssa’s arm to walk her up the street.

  “Shawn,” Alyssa called softly once they were inside the town house.

  The male nurse came down the stairs, his raised finger in front of his lips. “I just checked on her. She’s still asleep.”

  “I’ll just go in and give her a kiss.”

  Jake walked softly into the upstairs bedroom behind Alyssa. Jake stopped just inside the doorway and watched. Alyssa tiptoed toward the bed where the shadowy form of her aunt was barely visible beneath a fluffy comforter.

  “I love you, Aunt Thee,” she whispered. “Thank you for all you did for me.”

  “Are we having fun yet?”

  She laughed and gazed up at the stars. They were on Jake’s roof terrace, having opted for bringing home pizza from Mama Rosa’s Slice of Italy rather than wait for a table at a restaurant. Benson sat between them, silently begging for anchovies.

  “How many nights a week do you eat pizza?” she asked.

  “Hey! Benson makes me do it.” He stroked the retriever’s back. “Don’t you, boy?”

  She cocked her head, picking up a sound. “Is that your telephone?”

  Jake pushed back from the table and stood up. “Maybe it’s Sanchez. He should have reported in by now.”

  Alyssa cleaned up the table, and tossed the pizza box into the trash chute that went into a bin in the garage. She wandered across the terrace, Benson at her heels, marveling at how the potted trees and containers filled with flowers created an amazing garden in the middle of the Warehouse District. At the edge of the roof, a brick wall as high as her waist kept anyone from falling off. She peered over the side to the lighted street below where people were coming and going from the restaurants and art galleries that stayed open late on Saturday nights.

  She’d changed out of the nun’s habit into a pale blue gauze dress and sandals. It might be fun to take Benson for a walk and check out some of the galleries. As if sensing she was thinking about him, Benson nuzzled her leg.

  “It wasn’t Sanchez,” Jake said, coming up behind her. He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck just below her ear.

  She gripped the wall with both hands. The touch of his lips, even on her neck, elicited reactions she’d come to expect, even anticipate. Her nipples constricted, her heart beat in uneven lurches, a sensation of heat and fullness built between her thighs.

  “What are we doing about birth control?” he asked.

  “What do you mean we?”

  “The mouse in my pocket wants to know.”

  She felt the thrust of his erection against her buttocks. He spun her around so they were nose-to-nose. He cupped her bottom and hoisted her up against his arousal—just in case she hadn’t already gotten the message.

  “I’m on the pill,” she confessed.

  “For how long?”

  “A-ah … years.”

  “Years?” His outrage echoed across the rooftops. “Years? You’ve been holding out on me.”

  His lips captured hers in a fierce, hot kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth, commanding hers to respond. She couldn’t resist melting into him, allowing his strong arms to lock her against him. After the emotional roller coaster she’d been on for the last few days, it felt so right to push it all aside and live in the moment.

  She succumbed to the forceful domination of his lips, his body. Arching against him, savoring the heat and hardness of his erection, she kissed him with the kind of passion she’d never known with a man. This was the way it was supposed to be, she told herself as she inhaled his rich, musky scent and allowed herself this night of pleasure.

  He lifted her skirt up and had her panties down to her knees in one swift movement. She stepped out of them and kicked off her sandals. He unhooked his belt and let his pants drop. His penis sprang forward, fully erect. He was so masculine, so heart-stoppingly male.

  His hand cupped her between the thighs, and he stroked her with expert precision. Oh, my. She was afraid she was going to climax before he was inside her.

  He braced her against the wall and nuzzled her with the velvet smooth tip of his penis. She was slick, ready for him. His hot, hard length penetrated her with a single, powerful thrust.
Arousal, strong and demanding, throbbed in every nerve ending in her body. Unexpectedly, he froze.

  “Why are you stopping?”

  “I’m giving you some of your own medicine.” His voice was gritty, a shade shy of a whisper. “You’ve been torturing me for weeks.”

  She would have laughed except every inch of her body was aching with frustration. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Swear you’ll let me make love to you as often as I want.”

  Uh-oh. This sounded like trouble. His insolent smile made it plain he’d wait until hell froze over—or he got what he wanted—whichever came first.

  “All right. I swear it. Come on.”

  He delved deeper, then pulled back only to thrust forward again, using his body like an exquisite weapon of torture. Picking up the pace, he hammered against her. With each thrust, she lifted her hips to meet his. For the next few minutes, nothing on earth mattered except the relentless pounding of his body against hers.

  Unexpectedly something released deep within the very core of her being, reverberating through her with a convulsive shudder. For half a heartbeat, she saw stars. A few seconds later Jake followed, throwing back his head with a moan so deep it almost sounded as if he were in pain.

  She rested her head against his shoulder. They were both breathing like racehorses, their skin damp, their hearts slamming against the walls of their chests. It was a full minute before the world returned, and she realized Benson was barking at them, his tail wagging.

  “He thinks it’s some kind of a game,” Jake told her, his voice a little raw. “He’s never seen sex up close and personal before.”

  She had to ask, “What about the other women?”

  He pulled back and looked at her with eyes still smoldering with lust. “I didn’t care enough about them to bring them home.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “Now, where were we?” Jake asked.

  He’d carried her inside, and they were sprawled across his unmade bed. Benson had positioned himself on the bench at the foot of the bed, enjoying the show. The room was dark and much cooler than it had been outside. In the background she heard soft music playing on the stereo.

  “We were discussing corporate strategies,” she said, all innocence.

  “No, we weren’t.” The weight of his body was on the bed, but his hip and leg had her anchored in place. “Remember your promise.”

  “Promise?”

  “You’re welching on me?” He could have convinced the toughest jury he shocked beyond belief.

  “Of course, not. Refresh my memory.”

  They were both naked now, although she couldn’t remember how or when they’d taken off the rest of their clothes. The hair on his chest and his emerging beard rasped her tender skin, but she didn’t complain. It was a powerfully erotic sensation, and she wiggled a little just to feel the enticing prickle.

  “You promised I could make love to you as often as I wanted, and you’d be my sex slave.”

  “Wait! You never mentioned becoming a sex slave.”

  “What about the first part?”

  “I vaguely recall … saying something.”

  “Okay, so show me.”

  She reached up and pulled his head down, intending to give him a quick kiss, then come up with some clever remark. She thought she’d given it her all when they’d been out on the terrace, but she was mistaken. In a second, the heat returned, and with it came her obsessive desire to feel him inside her again, to have the erotic experience all over again.

  Both hands on his shoulders, she pushed him back. “I get to be on top.”

  “Hold it. Sex slaves don’t call the shots.”

  “Being a sex slave wasn’t part of the deal, and you know it.”

  He considered it a moment, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. “It’s still my turn. What happened outside was rushed. I’m better than that.”

  Better? She doubted she would survive any better sex, but refused to feed his ego by telling him so. “No way.”

  She straddled him, taking care not to touch his erection and smiled inwardly at his startled expression. She bent over just far enough for her breasts to graze the dark whorl of hair feathering across his chest. Her nipples, already hard, tingled, and a low moan escaped her lips. She kept rubbing, a shocking heat invading her body.

  Edging forward, she silently encouraged him to taste her breasts. He got the message and took one nipple between his lips. The sweet suction and the rasp of his tongue over her beaded nipple sent a lancing jolt of desire down to her groin.

  She tried to reposition herself to take advantage of his fully erect penis, but he wasn’t having any of it.

  “Don’t rush me.”

  He began to kiss her other breast as his hand stole between her legs. She cautioned herself not to make a sound, but another little moan came out as he began to stroke her. She squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself she couldn’t possibly be on the verge of another orgasm.

  “Like that, huh?”

  She heard the triumphant smile in his voice. Responding was out of the question even if she could have come up with some witty remark. She was close, so close. Her body was trembling, the vibration coming from deep within, the way it had not so long ago.

  He guided the tip of his erection into her, then put both hands on her hips and brought her down hard. She gasped, impaled, afraid if she moved she would instantly climax.

  “Come, on, baby. Ride me. Ride me hard.”

  She did what she was told, and found she had more self-control than she had thought. They moved together, in perfect sync, like dancers hearing their own tune. This time he came first with a rough growl and an upward buck of his hips. Within a few seconds, a ripple of unadulterated pleasure became a white-hot upheaval of satisfaction.

  She pitched forward, and he caught her in his arms. It was a moment before she realized Benson was standing on all fours on the bench, barking, his tail thumping against the bedpost. She rolled to one side, a little embarrassed at her wanton behavior. She stared up at the loft’s ceiling with its open beams and shadowy recesses.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “Outside,” came the hoarse response. “You don’t need them.”

  “I have to go home.”

  “No, you don’t. Thee’s still asleep.” He pulled her close and she nestled against his shoulder. “I guess we should talk.”

  “Talk?” She was so exhausted she could hardly get out the word. Snuggling seemed like a better idea.

  “That’s what smart men do after sex. I read it in Cosmo.”

  She couldn’t help giggling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You reading Cosmo. It’s hard to imagine.”

  “Hey, I was stranded in a Japanese hotel. The only magazine I could find in English was Cosmopolitan. Read it cover to cover.” He nuzzled her ear. “Know what it said? Women hate men who roll over and go to sleep after sex. True?”

  “M-m-m, I guess.” She snuggled closer, closing her eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”

  He said something about bringing in another armoire so she could have closet space in his loft. Closet space, she thought as she drifted off. He was thinking in terms of a permanent relationship. She liked the idea, more than liked it actually.

  The br-ring—br-ring of the telephone awakened them. Jake levered himself into an upright position and picked up the telephone on the stand beside the bed. Alyssa lay flat on her back, trying to muster the strength to get up, find her clothes, and get dressed to go home. Jake listened and muttered a few words before hanging up.

  “Sanchez is flying in this morning. He wants to talk to me in person.”

  It took a minute for the words to register. What couldn’t Sanchez say over the telephone?

  Jake was waiting outside the Million-Aire terminal when TriTech’s Gulfstream landed. From pockmarks in the tarmac minute tendrils of steam ros
e, a reminder of the predawn rain shower. The private jet taxied to a stop, and the ground crew rolled up a ramp. Sanchez hurried down the steps, his Tumi duffel slung over one shoulder.

  It hadn’t taken much to convince Alyssa to go home to her aunt. He’d promised to come over later with a full report. The minute Sanchez was within earshot, Jake asked, “What did you find out?”

  “I was right. Gracie Harper did talk to her husband. Claude said she accepted twenty thousand dollars—in cash—to hand the baby over to a man.”

  “Is Harper willing to testify about it?”

  Sanchez’s dark eyes narrowed. “No. He has IRS problems, so he’s living in Mexico. Even if he did return, he wouldn’t want to incriminate himself. There’s no statute of limitations on kidnapping.”

  “But if he didn’t take the baby—”

  “He was an accomplice. Not only did he know about it before the fact, he placed the call to Alyssa’s apartment and pretended he was Clay Duvall.”

  Jake halted, his hand on the detective’s arm. “They deliberately framed Alyssa? Shit! Who’s the son-of-a-bitch?”

  “Phoebe Duvall made the arrangements.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Jake had always thought Phoebe was a little off.

  “Harper claims his wife would never have taken the baby from its mother unless the mother consented. Apparently, Gracie always felt guilty about what she’d done.”

  “But not guilty enough to take the money and hand over the baby to the black market.” He thought a moment, then added, “Why did Phoebe do it? Because Clay wasn’t the father, and she didn’t want him to find out. Right?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Even if Claude Harper won’t testify, we can try to locate the baby. Finding him will clear Alyssa.”

  Sanchez didn’t reply.

  Jake started walking again, verbalizing his thoughts as he moved. “Phoebe has to know who took little Patrick. I’ll make her tell me.”

  “She arranged for the baby’s father to take it. He’s the one who put up the money.”

  “Makes sense. Wait. Wouldn’t someone have noticed a family who unexpected turned up with an infant? The case was all over television and the papers.”