They were alone.
She turned slowly, lifted her gaze to his. He held out a hand to her. Keeping her eyes steady on his, she walked toward him.
Quimby Brothers of Beverly Hills specialized in custom men’s suits and apparel. The store was small, but posh, and more than one celebrity frequented the exclusive shop. Their tailors were artists with fabric, their customers wealthy and demanding.
Hardly the sort of establishment that an ex-con from Reseda would ever consider patronizing.
Vincent stared into the full-length mirror in the fitting room, smiled as he tugged at the hem of his jacket. It had taken some fast talking to get Louise to buy him a suit from this joint, but because he was driving her to some stupid fund-raiser next week that everybody who was anybody would be at, she’d finally agreed. Appearances were everything to the old biddy, and Vincent had simply appealed to the woman’s vanity.
“Would you care for a glass of white wine, sir?” the salesman asked and Vincent nearly glanced over his shoulder to see who the stuffy old geezer was talking to.
“Yeah, sure.” Vincent stretched his neck and tugged at the hundred-dollar tie the old guy had picked out to go with the suit and dress shirt. What he really wanted was a cold beer, but what the hell.
He could get used to this, Vincent thought and stared at himself in the mirror. He was a good-looking guy. Maybe he’d pick himself up some high-class broad at one of those fund-raisers. Some lonely widow or divorcée with a truckload of dough. Then he wouldn’t need that bitch Louise anymore.
She’d been harping on him every day that he hadn’t found Melissa and Kevin yet. These things took time, dammit, but what would the lazy broad know about anything that had to do with work? If she wasn’t getting her hair or nails done, she was at lunch or shopping while he did all her dirty work for her.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. He had to pick her up from the hair salon in twenty minutes, so these stuffed suits around here better shake a leg and finish hemming his pants.
Vincent was about to call for the salesman when the man suddenly reappeared with a phone in his hand. “Phone for you, sir.”
Scowling, Vincent took the phone. Probably Louise already bitching at him to come pick her up. He dredged up his most congenial voice. “Vincent Drake here.”
“It’s not positive yet, boss,” the man at the other end of the phone said. “But I think this is your lucky day.”
Smiling at himself in the mirror, Vincent felt the adrenaline rush through his veins as he listened.
Ah, sweet Melissa, he thought, narrowing his eyes darkly as he stared at himself. We’ve found you at last.
Chapter 11
It surprised Melanie that she made it up the porch steps without stumbling. That she took Gabe’s hand without hesitation. He pulled her to him, slipped an arm around her waist and tucked her close.
A full moon broke the tops of the trees while an owl hooted softly from a distant perch. The heady scent of fall leaves drifted softly on the cool night air.
With a sigh, Melanie rested her head on Gabe’s strong chest, listened to the deep, heavy thud of his heart, breathed in the masculine scent of his skin. And felt more at peace than she had her entire life.
It didn’t matter that it couldn’t last. She would just take each moment as it came, and this moment was too precious to waste worrying about tomorrow.
She didn’t want to even think about tomorrow. There was only now. Only tonight. She shivered with anticipation.
“Cold?” He ran his hands up her arms, then over her back. “We can go inside.”
“In a minute.” She turned in his arms, rested the back of her head against his wide chest as she stared out into the darkness. “My head is still spinning from the day.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars is enough to make anyone’s head spin,” he said, resting his chin on the top of her head and wrapping his arms around her. “When that lamp went for seventy-five thousand dollars, I had to push my eyeballs back in their sockets.”
“It’s wasn’t just a ‘lamp,’ Gabe,” she said with a laugh. “I told you it was a signed Tiffany. I thought it would go for around sixty, but Simon was in rare form today. Every time I see him in action, I’m absolutely amazed.”
She felt Gabe go very still, then she turned her head and glanced up at him.
“I hope,” he said dryly, “the action you’re referring to is his ability as an auctioneer.”
He was jealous, she realized, and couldn’t help but feel a tug of pleasure at the thought. “Simon and I are just friends,” she said simply. “We’ve worked together on several projects, attended a lot of the same charity functions. I’m not his type.”
“Sweetheart, you’re every man’s type,” Gabe said firmly, then lifted his dark brows. “Oh. You mean he’s gay.”
She laughed at the absurdity of that thought. “Good grief, no. Simon Grill loves women. Your standard model, all-American playboy.”
She turned, reached up and touched Gabe’s cheek. It was rough with the faint stubble of beard, and she felt a tingle all the way from her fingertips down to her toes. She watched his eyes narrow and darken, saw the hunger rise.
He pulled her close, lowered his head to hers, lightly brushed his mouth against hers. Need hummed through her veins.
“I don’t want to talk about Simon,” he whispered, then nibbled on the corner of her mouth.
“Who?”
She felt his smile, then his lips covered hers in an all-consuming, mind-bending, swirling hot kiss. When he pulled away, Melanie felt herself sway toward him.
“Come inside with me,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
He took her hand, led her inside, then up the stairs, into the bedroom where they had first made love. Except for a large feather bed in the middle of the hardwood floor, the room was empty, most of the contents sold at the auction. Moonbeams streamed through the lace curtains on the windows and spilled across the walls like liquid silver.
Melanie’s breath caught at the beauty of it, and when Gabe slid his hands through her hair and tilted her face up, she simply forgot to breathe.
His lips touched hers with such tenderness she felt tears come to her eyes. She’d never been treated with such care before, as if she were the most delicate flower, or the most fragile glass.
But underneath the softness, emotions simmered and strained. Underneath the gentleness, passion cried out, demanded to be released.
She moaned, curled her fingers into the cotton of his shirt, but still he took his sweet, sweet time. Kissed her with a touch that was as light as a feather, but potent as black rum.
He slid his tongue over her lips, then inside to taste her more fully. She shuddered, opened to him, met the slow, steady dance of his mouth with her own. He tasted like sparkling champagne and caramel apple and hot desire.
She had to have her hands on him, his hands on her, or she’d die.
And then, as if he’d read her mind, his large, rough hands started to move. Down her back, over her hips, across the curve of her rear, where they tightened and pulled her intimately against his arousal. Heat poured through her veins and spread through her entire body like liquid fire. She trembled at his touch, slid her palms up his chest, over his strong shoulders. On a moan, he slanted his mouth harder against hers, deepened the kiss. Need coiled tightly inside her as if it were a fierce, living beast waiting to be released. It shocked her, this need, stunned her, made her heart hammer in her chest and her head spin with sensations too intense to control.
She jerked away, her breathing ragged, her pulse pounding in her temple as she lifted her gaze to his. Desire tightened his face and strong jaw, and the raw, primal need in his dark eyes sent a thrill skipping over her skin.
The room seemed to close around them as he waited, his breathing labored, his long, muscled body tense.
Holding his gaze with her own, Melanie took a step back, then reached for the hem of her sweater.
&nbs
p; Gabe’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Blood pumped through his veins, hot and wild. He watched her pull her sweater over her head and had to remind himself to breathe. Black lace encased her high, firm breasts, shadows played over her smooth, pale skin, moonlight shimmered in her silky hair.
Her skirt slid down her long, curvy legs and pooled around her delicate ankles and feet. Still holding his gaze with hers, she stepped from the skirt.
More black lace, a mere sliver, stretched like a sultry smile from hip to hip.
The heat in his blood burst into flames.
He took a step toward her, stopped when she smiled slowly and shook her head.
“Your turn,” she murmured.
Need ripped through his gut at her soft command. He fumbled blindly at the buttons on his shirt, felt one pop, heard the tiny bounce, then the roll of plastic on the hardwood floor. The sound echoed in the room.
The hiss of a zipper, the slide of denim, the drop of boots. And all the while she watched, her breasts rising and falling with her deep breaths, her hands moving restlessly over the curve of her hips and flat stomach. Like a warm, silk scarf, her gaze slid over his body, touched his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his belly, then dropped lower. Stopped. Her gray eyes molten.
She might as well have hit him with the frying pan again. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Pleasure swelled and pounded in his veins at the sight of her hungry eyes. He couldn’t have been more aroused if she were actually touching him. He’d never experienced anything like this before. The wild beat of his heart felt like tribal drums awakening dark primal needs.
When she caught her bottom lip between her straight white teeth, then drew in a slow, deep breath, his control broke.
His hand snaked out and dragged her against him.
His mouth covered hers, hard and deep. She met him with the same urgency, wound her arms around his neck as they came together in a frantic meeting of lips and tongue. Her breasts crushed against his chest, and she rose on tiptoe, squirming against him in her need to be closer. He cupped her rear end, squeezed hard, then turned so his body took the impact as they fell onto the feather bed. She landed on top of him with a small gasp, her hair brushing over his shoulders and chest like a curtain of velvet.
She was as greedy for him as he was for her. While her hands rushed over his chest, her mouth moved over his neck, tasting, nipping. Her fingernails raked through the hair on his chest, then her lips nibbled on the tiny nubs of his nipples. He closed his eyes on a groan, then sucked in a sharp breath when her mouth moved lower down his chest, across his belly…
He jerked up on an oath, grabbed her shoulders and rolled her onto her back, desperate to touch her, to be inside her.
Her hair fanned out around her face in dark, shimmering waves, her eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with desire, stared up at him.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “So beautiful.”
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Please touch me.”
He wanted to, needed to, everywhere at once. He blazed kisses down the long, slender column of her throat, tasted the wild pulse at the base of her neck, dipped his tongue into the cove beneath her collarbone. Her skin was as warm and sweet as the fresh apple cider they’d had this morning, as heady as the champagne they’d had this evening. He was drowning in her, and still he couldn’t get enough.
Her breath came in short gasps as he moved between the valley of her breasts. He cupped the soft lace-covered flesh in his hands, circled the pebbled tips of her nipples with his callused thumbs, watched the pleasure darken her eyes. When he flicked open the front clasp of her bra and pushed the lace aside, she squirmed under his touch, whimpering helplessly as he slowly caressed her, cried out when his mouth closed tightly over one beaded nipple.
She surged upward at the strong pull of his mouth and lips, and the sensation of her fingernails raking over his scalp sent jolts of erotic pleasure dancing over his skin. The last threads of his control stretched taut, and he knew he couldn’t wait much longer.
He lifted his head, watched her body writhe under him, thought he might go insane if he didn’t have her soon. “Melanie.” His hands slid down to her rib cage and tightened. “Open your eyes.”
“Hmm?”
His control stretched even tighter when she raised her arms over her head and arched her back. “Open your eyes,” he said roughly. “Look at me.”
Her eyes slitted open and through the haze of desire, she met his gaze.
His work-roughened hands slid down the satin-smooth skin of her flat belly, skimmed her hips, then caressed the soft inside flesh of her thighs. She quivered under his touch, then inhaled deeply when he slid his fingers under the thin strap of lace covering her silky triangle of dark curls.
She kept her eyes locked with his.
He slipped one finger into the hot, moist folds of her body, lightly stroked the sensitive skin, watched her twist her hands into the downy softness of the feather bed as she bowed her body upward and rolled her hips.
The last thread of his control snapped.
He needed, desperately needed, to be inside her.
He made a sound in his throat, something deep and guttural, and he yanked the lace down her hips. He moved between her legs and was sheathed deep inside her in one hard thrust. She shuddered at the joining, wrapped her long legs around his waist and took him deeper still. Her hands slid over the tightly bunched muscles of his shoulders and arms, sweat beaded his brow as he moved with an urgency that bordered on madness. She met him thrust for thrust, strained against him, trembled, then cried out as she shuddered fiercely. Her release rippled through him like a shock wave. He rode it to its peak, then, with a deep groan, he toppled off the edge himself.
He collapsed over her, his breathing hoarse and heavy, then rolled to his side and took her with him.
He kissed her cheek, her eyes, her throat.
“Stay,” he whispered raggedly. “You and Kevin. Please stay.”
He felt her hesitation, heard her slow intake of breath. His chest tightened with dread.
She touched his cheek with her fingertips, then took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes.
“Yes,” she said softly. “We’ll stay.”
Melanie woke slowly, refusing to open her eyes and give up the last, delicious vestiges of sleep. With a sigh, she pulled the warm, fluffy comforter up higher over her exposed shoulder, then turned her cheek and burrowed into the downy softness of the feather bed. She breathed in the masculine scent that lingered there. Gabe’s scent. She slid her arm out to reach for him, but felt only cool cotton instead.
That’s when the smell of coffee hit her.
Rolling to her back, she stretched languidly. Her body ached in places she didn’t know a person could ache, but she was too contented to care. Every inch of her felt absolutely, completely, totally satisfied. Reluctantly she opened her eyes.
The bright sun reflected off the shiny hardwood floor where their clothes were still scattered. Remembering how those clothes got there, she smiled. Remembering what happened afterward, she shivered.
And smiled again.
Curling her fingers into the feather bed, she felt her smile dip as she remembered more than making love. He’d asked her to stay and she’d said yes. The decision terrified as much as it thrilled her.
Her answer had been impulsive, but she’d thought carefully about it in the early-morning hours when Gabe had been sleeping and she’d lain beside him, wide-awake, and simply watched him. She’d left California two months ago, covered her tracks well. She had a new name, Bloomfield County was a small town.
She’d be careful, live a quiet life, maybe even work for the center. No one would question her there. She and Kevin would be as safe here as they would anywhere, she reasoned. Time would be on their side. And at seventy-four, time was something that Louise didn’t have as much of as Melanie and Kevin did. The day would come when they would no longer have t
o look over their shoulder or be afraid of the shadows.
The sound of pans rattling downstairs brought Melanie out of her thoughts. Gabe. She wasn’t certain what their future was. He’d never told her that he loved her, but she knew that he cared for her and Kevin very much. He would never hurt them, that she was certain of. For now, that was all she needed. To feel safe.
She knew it was time to tell him the truth.
With a heavy sigh she sat, dragged a hand through her tousled hair, then reached for her wristwatch lying on the floor beside the bed. Good heavens! It was almost ten-thirty. Kevin was supposed to be home soon. If she wanted to talk to Gabe before her son returned, she had better hurry.
She had so much to tell him.
Gabe poured himself a cup of coffee, then went to the refrigerator in search of food. He pulled out eggs, bacon and ham, set them on the counter, then found potatoes and bread and added them to his cache.
He was hungry enough to eat a bear. Two bears.
He’d been grinning like a fool since he’d woken up a little while ago, had even caught himself whistling when he’d measured out the coffee grounds into the basket of the coffeepot.
They weren’t leaving. We’ll stay, she’d said.
He pulled a knife and spatula out of the drawer and set them on the counter, then glanced up at the ceiling when he heard the sound of the upstairs shower running. The image of Melanie naked, her skin glistening and covered with soap brought a sharp tug in his groin. He thought about joining her, not only because he already wanted to make love with her again, but because he simply wanted to hold her, to hear her say it again in the light of day: We’ll stay.
With Ian and Cara due to bring Kevin back anytime, though, Gabe thought it might not be such a great idea to disturb her shower. They’d have tonight, he thought, and the night after that.
And all the nights after that.
His throat went dry at the significance of that thought. What it meant, where they were headed.
Except he didn’t know where they were headed. She said she’d stay, but Lord knew the woman was unpredictable. She could change her mind. One day he might just wake up and she and Kevin would be gone. The thought made his gut twist.
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