by Nancy Gideon
That's when he scooped her up, with her wearing only a ridiculously tiny triangle of lace and silk, and carried her to his bed.
The blanket beneath her was woven, a scratchy wool, but the moment Jack plucked off her bikini panties and bent his head between her thighs, she could have been lying on broken glass and not have cared.
At the first hot touch of his mouth, she nearly lost her mind as quickly as she lost her self-control. Her body dissolved into a million fragments of feeling, each intense and sharp and amazing. Never had she let go so quickly, so completely, with such lack of inhibition. He was still fully dressed right down to his sport coat, shoes, socks and pistol! Even as the spasms worked their way outward from the volcanic core to her fingertips and toes, he was nibbling up the inside of her thighs, along the curve of her quivering belly, to suck at the tips of her breasts that were now so sensitive she writhed with pleasure. She'd known—hadn't she?—right from the start, that being with Jack Chaney would be like no other.
His weight was heavy between the loose sprawl of her legs. He rested on elbows that bracketed the wild tumble of her hair. And he grinned with such smug, wicked satisfaction that she couldn't let him get away with it. She hooked an arm around one of his, a leg around one of his, and neatly flipped him onto his back. As she rose up over him, his smile never faded.
"I am completely at your mercy," he told her. Such a total lie but she loved it.
"Yes, you are. And I mean to have my way with you."
"Be gentle."
She kissed the grin off his face, delving in deep to reach for the hot, silky caverns of his mouth until he groaned in true surrender. Then she sat back upon his hips, now drastically altered in their contour, and began to unbutton his shirt. Pushing it open, she took her time, using her palms to acquaint herself with the sculpted terrain of his smooth chest and ridged abs. He had an amazing body and she wanted more of it. All of it. At her mercy now, and then inside her, soon.
She opened his belt and his trousers, surprised then intrigued to find he was a boxers rather than a briefs man. Neither could have restrained what pulsed to life at the slightest stroke of her fingertips.
"I see we can skip tomorrow's lesson on torture. You already seem quite accomplished in that area." His amused tone was roughened by strain and she delighted in the sense of power that gave her.
"Now who has whom begging uncle?" She released him from the taut hug of cotton to glove him, so hot and smooth and hard, with her hand. The pattern of his breathing hitched and quickened.
"My uncle always told me to be prepared, even when at the mercy of a naked woman." He gestured to the nightstand. "Top drawer," he instructed gruffly.
She reached over to retrieve a box of condoms, absurdly pleased to find it was unopened. As if he'd been waiting just for her. Not true, of course, but she liked thinking it anyway. She tore open the box and ripped into one of the packets. Jack grabbed for it.
"I can do that."
She held it away and purred with a rumble he found sexier than all get-out. "So can I."
So she did. And the act of unrolling latex went beyond one of necessity to a tempting bit of foreplay that had his fingers digging into the tops of her knees in an effort to maintain focus.
"There," she mused, admiring her work with the tease of her hand. "Snug as a bug in a rug."
"Not yet," he growled.
His hands cupped her saucy bottom, lifting, shifting, depositing her squarely atop his erection. She made a gulping sound and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't look nearly so pleased with herself as the breath shuddered from her.
"Now I am," he corrected, angling his hips to adjust the fit to perfection. Then hoisting her up and lowering her by increments to prove it.
"Yes."
The sound hissed from her as her head fell back and her hands clasped over his to squeeze tight. He could just see the silhouette of her breasts, full, proud, beautiful. The rest he had to imagine or tried to until pure, frighteningly fierce sensation engulfed him. She encouraged it, demanded it, that almost out-of-body intensity. She was his only constant, his only reality in a world void of all but hot, spiking physicality.
Strong and bold, she rode them both to a shattering climax then sagged, spent and languid, upon his chest.
He thought he knew every defensive move but at the moment he couldn't seem to save himself from what he was beginning to feel for her. Protective and possessive, but he wouldn't call it committed.
He couldn't.
Just then, light pushed into the room from the hallway. The mattress gave slightly as Tinker jumped up, his purr revved and running. There was silence for a moment and he'd just started to think that maybe it was just the cat when a quiet voice intruded.
"Mr. Jack, there's a phone call for you."
"I'll be right there, Rose."
The door clicked shut.
"Do you think she saw anything?" came Tessa's agonized whisper.
He couldn't answer. He didn't want to even guess. What had been one of the single most electrifying moments he could remember had shorted out into adult embarrassment. He lifted Tessa from him and rolled to his feet. After a quick jog to the bathroom, he had his clothing together in an instant and was raking his fingers through his hair.
"Get dressed," he told Tessa shortly. He regretted the tone but he was too stressed to be gentle with her feelings. "You can use my shower. I'll get the phone in my study."
Tessa said nothing. She snatched up her discarded belongings and shot into the bathroom with a flash of bare flanks before the door shut behind her.
Cursing softly at the unfortunate turn of events, Jack went down the short hall to his study. He listened to Stan's report without any real enthusiasm because he could see the top of Rose's dark head where she sat on the spiral stairs. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. He had no practice, nothing to go on when it came to children, or women for that matter. He was a straightforward, pull-no-punches kind of guy who never feared telling it like it was to any man. But the thought of explaining away a preteen's first exposure to sex scared the hell out of him. He could ask Constanza to step in, but that would be taking the coward's way out and, though appealing, it wasn't the way he did things. As soon as he hung up from Stan, he took a breath, straightened his jacket and went to take his medicine.
She wouldn't look at him when he sat beside her on the step. While he fumbled with what to say, Rose proved to be the more mature of the two of them, saying matter-of-factly, "Forgive me. I should have knocked first. I will knock first from now on. I did not know that was how it was between you and Miss Tessa."
"Knock first," he agreed, beginning to thank his lucky stars that he was going to get off this easy.
And then she looked at him and he saw the broken heart in that dark, glimmering gaze.
"Will you send me away now?"
He blinked, blindsided. "For what? Opening a door that should have been locked?"
She looked away. He could see from the tears on her cheeks that it was more than just shock or embarrassment that prompted her question. Then she stated plainly, "Because of how things are between you and Miss Tessa. I thought maybe now that she is here, you wouldn't want me to stay."
His jaw dropped at her practical logic. Floundering for the right thing to say, he came up immediately with the wrong thing. "You thought wrong. Miss Tessa is just a paycheck, just like the others. She isn't staying here and she isn't going to replace you."
Her gaze lifted, drenched with hope and gratitude. And something else that made him squirm inside. Love.
"Then you won't send me home?"
"This is your home, Rose. You and your aunt are my responsibility. That isn't going to change. Now, go on and do your schoolwork."
She leaned in to buss a salty kiss against his cheek while he sat frozen. As she scampered down the steps, he was just beginning to think, That wasn't so bad, when he heard a sound above him.
Oh, damn.
Tessa had
passed on the shower. She'd dressed quickly and had come upon his little speech. He couldn't tell from the impassive face she presented if she'd heard every damning word he said. Until she walked right by him without so much as a thanks-for-the-memories.
He should have said something. He should have stopped her. But that fine-tuned instinct for self-preservation finally kicked in, saying, Let it go. Let her go. You don't need this kind of trouble. And while he was arguing with that cautious voice, she vanished below and with her, his apology window of opportunity.
* * *
Dinner was a late, silent and strained affair with the four of them picking at Constanza's flavorful empanadas. Tessa kept her stare on her plate, refusing to acknowledge Jack's covert glances while Rose and Constanza looked between them, seeing more than Jack should have allowed them to.
Let it go, his inner voice kept saying. She knew full well that sex between them was nothing but sex. Stunning, spectacular, mind-sapping sex. But it hadn't meant anything. No promises were made. No gooey words were exchanged that would imply anything except that they were two adults acting upon an attraction to one another. What was wrong with that? Nothing. Then why did he feel that apology bobbing up in his throat to choke him?
Because he knew she wasn't the kind of woman who indulged in casual sex. He knew it the first time he kissed her. He'd known it by the way she blushed when he'd grabbed a feel of her firmly toned thigh in her mother's car. And, dammit, he'd known it when she said his name in that smoky voice, all husky with desire and the unspoken plea of, Don't touch unless you mean business. He wasn't in the commitment business anymore. And if she knew why, she wouldn't have said his name like that. She would know why he couldn't act on the part of him that wanted to speak those promises. He'd allowed one of his feet to cross his permanently drawn line of uninvolvement when he started working her case. But that was still work, not personal. If he moved that other foot, everything would change, and he wasn't ready for that. He might never be ready for that.
Tessa excused herself from the table as soon as politely possible. Jack watched her go, even now mesmerized by the sophisticated swing of her hips and tormented by his memory of how they'd looked all sleek and buck naked. He put his palms to the table's edge, about to push off and go after her, when Rose spoke up from beside him.
"Mr. Jack, you need to go over my homework."
He looked from the inviting path to Tessa's bedroom to the expectant expression regarding him. Here was his obligation, right here at his table. This was all he had time for, all the room he had available in the jealousy guarded corridors leading to his heart. Rose had wiggled into a small nook that he refused to recognize. He couldn't afford to give Tessa the same opportunity. If he didn't admit to it, he didn't have to claim those emotions. Then they couldn't hurt him. That was his mantra. He'd been repeating it for years.
But tonight, it sucked.
* * *
He'd listened dutifully to a dissertation on global warming and softly spoken prayers, asking blessings upon him that he knew he didn't deserve. He tucked Rose in and whispered good-night and, as soon as he closed the door, he started looking for Tessa. The apology needed to be spoken, for the brusque words he'd spoken, for the feelings that had been hurt, to make clear the boundaries of their what could only be purely physical relationship.
But he couldn't find her.
Her room was empty. There was no sign of her outside or in any of the public rooms of the house. He checked the security monitors. No sign of an unwise exit. With concern edging toward panic, he was about to take another turn around the place to check out the trainee quarters, when he smelled smoke from a hopefully friendly fire. He followed it, surprised when it led to the stairs spiraling up to his rooms. Bracing for whatever lay in store for him, he began to climb.
A fire crackled invitingly in the stone hearth. It provided the only light in the vaulted room but he could see her clearly in the big leather chair, wrapped in the bearskin rug. A brief fantasy of her naked beneath it was quickly extinguished when she spoke in a cool, professional tone.
"I think it's best I leave before things get too complicated."
"I thought we went over this."
"That was … before."
Before they'd had stunning, spectacular, mind-sapping sex.
"Things don't have to change," was his rather lame argument coming from his typically male point of view.
"They already have, Jack. How much do I owe you?"
Guilt writhed. "If this is about what you heard me saying to Rose—"
Then she let him completely off the hook … for everything.
"It's not. I've decided not to pursue my father's case anymore."
He stood there, totally speechless. That was the one thing he'd never expected to hear her say. And instead of slipping the hook gratefully to swim frantically away from the dangers of the net, he grabbed on to the line, refusing to be shaken off.
"Tessa, we know your father didn't commit suicide."
"It doesn't matter."
Her spiritless tone alarmed him, made him push the issue. "Stan has the video from your building. Your mother is going over it. If she spots Allen, the first domino goes over. I think I know how he got into your father's office. Russell is checking it out for me tonight. If we can make the money trail between the payoff account set up in your father's name and O'Casey's kid's treatment fund and link them back to Martinez—"
She spoke again in the same flat voice. "It doesn't matter, Jack."
"Why doesn't it matter? You don't care that someone killed your father and the murderer just got away? What about your father's reputation?"
"I don't care. Not if bringing the killer to justice only damages it more."
She looked at him then. Firelight reflected brightly on the tears tracing down her cheeks. She said the final words as if they tore the heart and soul from her.
"Not if he was guilty."
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
"Of what?" Jack demanded.
Tessa looked up miserably, his gorgeous, frowning face swimming in front of her eyes. "I don't know, Jack. And I don't want to find out."
Jack reached out to pull over one of the chairs, angling it so that when he sat, they were knee to knee. He leaned forward but stopped just short of touching her. His intense expression held no sympathy, no softness, as he said, "Yes, you do."
She started to shake her head.
"Yes, you do, Tessa," he argued firmly. "You can't stand not knowing. That's why you've been beating yourself up out here both mentally and physically, trying to prepare yourself for what you'll find out. Stan told me you were tougher than you looked. Hell, you're tougher than me. I would have backed down long ago."
A ghost of a smile moved her lips. "No, you wouldn't."
He smiled back, a warm, encouraging smile that gave off more heat than the fire. "No, I wouldn't. We're warriors, you and I. Lone wolves who get a scent then can't be shaken from it no matter where it leads. No matter how much it hurts you to follow."
"You mean, no matter who it hurts."
"Sometimes that happens."
Through her own pain and unhappiness, she caught a glimmer of something bleak and soul-crushing in his dark eyes, a brief hint of what worked deep inside Jack Chaney. Before she could pursue it, he placed his hands on her knees. Large, engulfing hands that could deal out death and desire with equal adeptness. And compassion, she was surprised to note.
He didn't have to be here like this, trying to help her through her pain. He could have agreed with her wish to back away if he truly was eager to return to his old hermit lifestyle. He would have if he was the man she'd believed him to be when she arrived. That man wouldn't have held her to still her nightmares as if she were Rose in need of his comfort. He wouldn't have circled his battered truck on the off-ramp to face down those who would harm her. He wouldn't have taken her problems to his family's door, invited her to his table … to
his bed. A paycheck, he'd called her. But that wasn't how he was looking at her at this moment through dark, compelling eyes. He wouldn't have allowed himself to get this close, physically or emotionally, if she meant nothing to him at all. He'd once told her the money didn't matter and she knew now that that was true. What did? What did matter to him?
She knew why he'd told Rose what he had. To reassure her. To comfort her the only way he could. Some barrier prevented him from reaching out to her more personally, with love. Tessa understood that barrier. She'd lived behind it all her life. And finally, she couldn't stand crouching behind it anymore.
"He was a bad father," she admitted at last, the truth escaping not in an emotional rush but with a resigned sigh.
Jack said nothing, prompting her to continue with the light press of his fingertips.
"He didn't love me. I don't know why. That's the worst part. I never knew exactly what I did that made me so impossible to love. I thought maybe he only had so much to give and he poured it all on my mother. He adored her. Everything he did was for her and, for some reason, she never appreciated it. The more he did for her, the more she distanced herself. Then my brothers came along and he had no trouble caring about them."
She closed her eyes against the image of Robert D' Angelo bending to scoop up his boys, hugging them tight, pressing kisses atop their heads. Yet when she came close for the longed-for embrace, he pulled back, not slightly like Jack, but completely, moving himself both body and heart out of her reach. And for a little girl, who couldn't fathom the unfairness of it, that rejection scored upon her fragile sense of self, whittling it down to next to nothing. It hadn't made sense then, it didn't make sense now. But it still had the power to cut sharp teeth upon the ragged edges of her spirit.
"I stopped wondering why he didn't care and started concentrating on what I could do to earn his approval. I took up his profession, trying to make him proud. I gave up my own ambitions to help him achieve his, just to earn his respect. I worked so hard, Jack, but it was never enough, never enough for him to just hug me and say, 'Good job, Tessa.' He wasn't stingy with his praise until it came to me. He made me feel as if I'd never be quite up to the standard he used to measure the rest of the world."
