Until Louise showed up. Tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face, every strand of silver hair perfectly in place, her mother-in-law had pleaded with Melanie to come back to her son. She’d already arranged for therapy. She’d promised things would be better. A boy needs his father, Louise had said. Phillip was behaving so badly because he was grieving the recent loss of his own father. Families stayed together always, Louise had said, no matter what.
So Melanie had given in and gone back, hopeful that the therapy would make a difference. And for the next year, it had seemed to.
Then she found the notes from Kathy and confronted him. This time when he’d hit her, she knew she would never go back. She and Kevin would make it on their own. She’d filed for divorce, but Phillip refused to sign any papers. He’d hired his high-price Beverly Hills lawyers to fight her, but she’d hung in. Ten days before their divorce would have been final, Phillip was killed in a boating accident.
Melanie knew that Louise still blamed her for Phillip’s death. She’d pretended to be sweet and loving, had even persuaded her and Kevin to move in with her for a while, then doted on both of them, when all along what she’d really wanted was to take Kevin away, to punish her daughter-in-law and claim her grandson to replace the son she’d lost.
The nightmare should have ended with Phillip’s death, but in fact, it had only begun.
Let Gabe Sinclair think whatever he wanted, she thought, hugging herself tightly. Kevin was all that mattered to her. All that could matter to her.
At the flash of lightning, Melanie jumped, then pulled her robe tightly over her white boxer pajamas and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the thunder to stop shaking the house. When it finally passed, she glanced at Kevin again. He hadn’t even budged. Shaking her head, she smiled at her son, reached to brush a strand of hair off his forehead.
And froze at the sound of a door closing downstairs.
She reached for the lamp beside the bed and pulled the chain. Nothing happened. It had worked only fifteen minutes ago, when she’d turned it off. She moved quickly to the other side of the bed and tried the other lamp. It didn’t work, either.
The power was out.
Her heart pounded furiously as she rushed to the bedroom door and opened it a few inches, listening, waiting. She heard nothing other than the storm now.
It had to be her imagination. Her frightened mind playing tricks on her. But she couldn’t stay up here, wondering if someone was downstairs. She had to know, had to see that everything was all right.
She closed the bedroom door behind her, then quietly inched her way down the hall and the stairs. The darkness engulfed her, and the sound of the rain pummeling the porch roof echoed in the living room.
She went still at another sound, a muffled squeak coming from the kitchen.
A loose shutter, she told herself. Maybe a mouse or a rat. She shuddered at the thought, but prayed that’s all it was. It had to be. Vincent couldn’t have found her here. It couldn’t be him.
Please don’t let it be him.
The hardwood floor was cold on her bare feet, and her hands shook as she moved slowly toward the kitchen. The air felt colder to her when she stepped inside, but she could see that the back door was closed. Thank God, she released the breath she’d been holding, then froze as she stepped in a puddle of cold water.
Even in the darkness, she could see the gleam of water trailing from the back door, across the kitchen floor and leading to…the open basement door.
The fuse boxes were down there. And so was whoever had trailed water across the floor.
They’d also have to come out again, she realized.
Drawing in a long, shaky breath, she reached for the cast-iron frying pan she’d washed this morning and set back on the stove. Her knees felt like warm rubber as she crept across the kitchen and waited. Her heart hammered in her chest.
She heard the sound of footsteps moving up the stairs, saw a faint beam of light. She lifted the frying pan with both hands.
The footsteps were heavy, almost to the top of the stairs. When the beam of light hit the floor in front of her, she swung the frying pan like a baseball bat, made solid contact with a hard, muscular body. She heard his grunt of pain, the earthy swearword.
Lightning flashed as she raised her arms to swing again.
Gabe!
His face was twisted in pain, and he teetered at the top of the basement stairs, his hands clutching the doorjamb. The frying pan clattered to the floor as she reached out and grabbed him before he fell backward.
“Ohmigod, Gabe, I’m so sorry!”
He slumped into her arms, gasping for breath, and she bore the brunt of his weight as she led him into the living room. His clothes and hair were wet, and she felt the dampness seep through her robe. She held him tightly against her, guided him to the sofa in front of the fireplace, and he collapsed onto the cushions with a soft moan.
Oh, dear Lord, what had she done!
The fire he’d built earlier had died, but the embers still glowed a warm orange and cast a soft light into the room. She pushed the fire screen aside and threw two more logs inside, then replaced the screen and hurried back to Gabe. He lay with his head back and his eyes closed, and she thought maybe he’d passed out. Thank God he was breathing!
“Gabe, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
He didn’t answer, and she ran her hands over his dark hair and felt the wetness, but it appeared to be water, not blood. She touched his face, felt the light stubble of an evening beard, then opened his denim jacket. It was soaked, so she tugged it off, no thanks to him, and laid her palms on his broad chest. She felt the heavy beating of his heart, felt the warmth of his body through the soft flannel shirt he wore.
The fire crackled to life behind her, lighting up the room.
“Gabe.” She brought her face close to his. “Wake up. Please wake up.”
He opened his eyes slowly.
Relief poured through her. Thank God, he hadn’t passed out. “Talk to me,” she said softly. “Where did I hit you?”
He covered her hands with his.
“Your chest? I hit you in the chest?”
He nodded.
She brushed his hands away and unbuttoned his shirt, gasped at the bright welt she saw through the sprinkling of dark, coarse hair. Tenderly she touched her fingertips to his chest. His skin was hot, his muscles like steel. She stared, tried to remind herself that she’d injured the man, and she certainly shouldn’t be ogling him. Heat crept up through her fingers, her arms, then pooled low in her belly.
She pulled her hands away, but he took them and put them back. “That feels good,” he murmured roughly.
It certainly did, she thought. Too damn good. And not the kind of good she’d intended. Her skin suddenly felt tight and hot, her breasts achy. And still she couldn’t remove her hands from his skin. He had the smell of the storm on him, and his own masculine scent that stirred her insides.
“What were you doing down in the basement?” she whispered, trying desperately to hold onto reality.
“Turning…power…back on.”
The storm raged outside, and a roll of thunder made her press closer to him, hold tighter. “Why did you come back?”
“To apologize…for being a jackass.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
She had no idea when her robe had come undone, and it hardly seemed to matter at the moment. Her body was flush with his, her breasts pressed against his solid chest, one long curvy leg lined up with his. She was practically lying on top of him.
God help her, still she couldn’t move.
It felt like slow motion, like a dream. Her limbs were heavy, her body drugged. She supposed it was an aftereffect of all the adrenaline she’d had pumping through her only minutes before, but it hardly mattered. Only the warm, safe feel of Gabe’s body under hers mattered.
It had been so long since she’d felt safe, even longer since she’d felt desire.
&n
bsp; “Melanie,” he said raggedly, “God, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” she repeated dimly. “For earlier?”
“No. For now.”
His mouth swooped up and caught hers. Consumed her. She didn’t know when she’d ever felt such intense passion from someone else, or from herself. But she clung to him, her emotions raw and wild and out of control. His arms came around her, dragged her against him, while his lips devoured her hungrily. She answered, as greedy as him, raked her hands over his chest, his face, his scalp.
He moaned deep in his throat, slid his hands under her pajama top, covered her breasts with his large, rough hands. She sucked in a breath at his touch, wanted those hands on her, everywhere, at the same time.
The lightning struck again, only this time, with the thunder came reality. What was she thinking? How could she be doing this? Making love with a stranger!
Gasping, she pulled away, tugged her robe tightly around her and eased away from Gabe. His eyes were glazed and confused as he looked at her. He sighed heavily and dropped his head back against the sofa.
The fire crackled behind them.
“I—I’m sorry. That was my fault.” She rose from the sofa on wobbly knees. “But it was a mistake. It can’t happen again.”
“Melanie—”
He started to reach for her, but she backed away. “It can’t, Gabe. I’m only going to be here for a few days. In spite of what you think of me, this really isn’t something that I do.”
“Dammit, Melanie,” Gabe ground out. “I know that. I was angry earlier, frustrated because you won’t let me help you.”
“You can’t help,” she whispered. “No one can.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said tightly.
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. I’m not going to lie and tell you that I didn’t enjoy what just happened between us, because I did. But you have to promise that it won’t happen again. If it does, I’ll have to leave.”
He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “Promise me.”
Eyes narrowed, he pressed his lips tightly together. “Fine.”
She relaxed then, drew in a deep breath. “I’ve got to get back to Kevin. Good night.”
She had already started for the stairs when she stopped suddenly, then slowly turned back around.
“Rae is a friend of mine, Gabe,” she said softly. “A woman friend, as in Raina.”
She turned again, but not before she saw his eyes close, not before she heard him sigh.
“Melanie.”
She hesitated at the base of the stairs and looked over her shoulder.
“I lied.” He stared at her, the light of the fire dancing in his dark eyes. “I’m not sorry about kissing you.”
Her hand tightened on the banister. She could go back to him, forget her brave little speech about how it could never happen again and for just one night let herself feel.
And hate herself in the morning. She drew in a slow breath to give herself strength, wished to God that she could have met this man under different circumstances.
But she hadn’t, and nothing in the world could change that.
“I’m going to be here a few more days,” she said evenly. “It will be easier for both of us to just forget about this.”
His eyes narrowed. “Can you?”
“Yes,” she lied.
The fire played on the hard angles of his face as he watched her. “I’ll let myself out in a little while, when the storm eases up.”
She nodded, then turned and hurried back upstairs before she changed her mind.
“It’s been six weeks, Vincent.”
Louise Van Camp lifted her cold, imperious gaze from the fluffy white poodle on her lap and looked sharply at Vincent. Her long, sleek sheath was Christian Dior, stark white, a sharp contrast against the royal-blue velvet sofa where she sat as straight and stiff as one of the polished silver candlesticks on the living-room mantel.
“Yes, ma’am.” Vincent’s impulse had been to tell the old biddy that he not only knew how to count days, but he could even tell the time, too. But, as always, he’d bit back his first impulse and taken the more diplomatic route. Louise paid him too much money for him to tell her what he really thought of her snobby airs and holier-than-thou attitude. The woman had never worked a day in her life. Her husband had been a stinkin’ rich, influential judge, and when the old geezer kicked the bucket, she’d become a stinkin’ rich widow who thought she was better than everybody else.
He hated the old bat, but he loved her money.
“And what, pray tell,” Louise said coolly, “besides buying new clothes and bothering my maids, have you been doing to earn the obscene amount of money I pay you?”
Vincent took in the huge diamonds sparkling on Louise’s wrinkled hands and earlobes, the solid gold ashtray on the coffee table that she refused to let anyone use, the ruby-and-diamond collar on that stupid mutt of hers. And she thought that what she paid him was obscene? He ground his back teeth together, careful to keep his expression calm and concerned, and once again went with the second, more sensible reply.
“I’ve been monitoring all of Melissa’s old contacts,” he said evenly. “Especially in the antique business. I also have a man watching that friend of hers, Raina Williams, now Raina Sarbanes. We’ll know immediately if she turns up there.”
It had taken a little digging to find the Sarbanes woman, but door-to-door inquiries of Melissa’s high school friends had all come back to the name Raina Williams. More digging had traced the woman to Greece, where she’d married and divorced, then to Italy, and now she was in Boston. It had been a long, intensive, as well as expensive search, but worth it. It appeared that Melissa and Raina had not seen each other in years, and though it was a long shot that they had reconnected, Vincent was leaving no stone unturned. If there was any chance that Melissa would show up at her old friend’s door, then they’d be waiting for her.
Louise pressed her thin lips together and stroked her dog’s head. “Six weeks and that’s all you’ve got? This Raina woman?”
Vincent carefully reminded himself to breathe slowly. There was too much at stake to blow the sweet deal he had going with the Van Camp broad. He’d take his anger out later on someone else. He thought of that cute little cocktail waitress at the Kitty Kat Lounge who’d been giving him the eye. Maybe it was time for the two of them to get…close.
That thought composed him enough to calmly continue. “I’m working on establishing a contact in the Boston phone company,” he said in his best reassuring tone. “If the women have made any calls to each other, then we should be able to track her down from the Sarbanes’s woman’s phone records.”
“I don’t like the sound of the word ‘should,’ Vincent. I’m not paying you for ‘should.’ I want results.” Louise narrowed her cold eyes. “I want my grandson.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He dropped his gaze respectfully, but inside, his stomach twisted with fury.
For every “Yes, ma’am” that he was forced to placate Louise with, for every “I’m sorry, Mrs. Van Camp,” Vincent intended to make Melissa pay dearly.
His blood heated at the thought, his palms itched. His groin tightened and swelled.
This time when he found the bitch, and he would find her, he would teach her a lesson she would never forget. As long as Louise had her grandson back, Vincent doubted that the old woman would care what happened to her daughter-in-law.
He planned on a long, slow, let’s-get-to-know-each-other with Melissa when he brought her back. And if she fought, so much the better. He liked a woman who resisted. Tears and pleading made him feel strong and powerful. Virile.
Afraid that he would become visibly aroused, Vincent snapped his attention back to Louise. “I’ll find Melissa and your grandson, Mrs. Van Camp. I promise.”
“See that you do,” she said with a sniff. “And be quick about it. A new semester starts at the academy just after the first of the year. Every male Van Camp has attende
d that school for the past fifty years, and I intend for Kevin to be there as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You may go now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Vincent backed away, then turned, narrowing his eyes. The need to smash something overwhelmed him. Anger and frustration squeezed his chest like a vise.
Melissa had been smart this time. Very smart. But she’d trip up somewhere, make a mistake, and then he’d find her. He’d had a soft spot for her, he knew. Those big gray eyes of hers and that killer body had clouded his thinking. He’d been too gentle with her the last time he’d brought her back from Northern California, too forgiving. She obviously hadn’t taken him seriously when he’d told her she better behave.
She would this time, he thought with a slow smile. This time when he found her, he wouldn’t be gentle and he wouldn’t be forgiving.
Chapter 5
Gabe opened his eyes at seven-thirty the next morning, then slammed them shut again with a groan as he realized he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Damn. Last thing he remembered he’d been staring into the fire, listening to the rain on the roof.
Waiting for his body to calm down after that mistake—as Melanie had called it.
A mistake that contained all the heat and power of a lightning bolt. He wouldn’t be surprised if his eyebrows were singed.
And she wanted him to forget about it.
Sure he would. When snowshoes became the fashion in hell.
He sat slowly, rubbed his hands over his face, then raked his fingers through his hair. With a groan, he cranked his neck to the left, then to the right, until it gave a good, solid crack. Much better, he thought, then winced as he rubbed his chest. Thank God she hadn’t hit him a few inches higher with that frying pan. He’d have had a broken nose for sure, instead of just the wind knocked out of him.
But then, those lips of hers had packed quite a wallop as well. He wasn’t sure which was more lethal, her mouth or that cast-iron pan.
The smell of bacon frying seeped through the fog of sleep in his brain, and he dragged the incredible smell deep into his lungs. Obviously Melanie was already up, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d gotten any more sleep last night than he had. His pride hoped like hell she hadn’t.
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