The Wild Side

by Isabel Sharpe

  “You okay?” He pried her head off his shoulder, held her chin and smiled tenderly, examining her tight features, enormous eyes. His triumph wilted, along with his smile. Damn. He’d scared her, nearly panicked her.

  She swallowed convulsively; then, to his horror, her face reverted to blankness. Her eyes half-closed, she tipped her head back and pouted like some cheesy Marilyn Monroe impersonator.

  “Oh, Slate,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

  He let her go abruptly, swung around and stalked back toward the path to the house. A huge cedar tilted toward the ocean at the edge of the rock; he leaned his hand on it and glanced back, registering her shock and dismay with a certain amount of satisfaction.

  He wasn’t going to play her gallant lover now. Not after she’d sullied what had been so good between them. Oh, Slate. Kiss me again. He sneered. He didn’t want that woman. Yes, Slate. No, Slate. Whatever you want, Slate. Spending time with that version of Rose was like living with a mirror, all your wants and needs reflected, no chance of penetrating the glass to see what lay on the other side.

  He strode up the path, pushing aside the overgrown grasses and raspberry plants, his body still remembering their moment of true connection. For those few seconds in his arms, Rose had been kissing him for real. Honest, clean passion had arrowed through both of them, exposing who they really were. No fakery. No role-playing.

  He climbed up onto the porch and unwrapped his paintbrush, determined to get back to work as if nothing had happened between them, as if he hadn’t just experienced the most powerful male-female encounter of his life. One thing Slate had in spades was patience. That glimpse into Rose, that small taste of her, had only fueled his desire to explore the rest. Sooner or later, the mirror had to crack.

  ROSE TURNED OVER for the six thousandth time and buried her face in her pillow. She couldn’t sleep. In Boston she’d been a champion insomniac, but here in Maine she’d slept like a rock. Now the worry machine was going full tilt.

  She hadn’t written to her mom this week. Not that her mom would probably notice; she didn’t even recognize her daughter anymore. But the weekly letter made Rose feel she was keeping the link between them alive, in her own mind, anyway. This week she hadn’t written.

  Then there was Melissa. Was she okay? Had she and Tom hit it off? Were they still meeting at her apartment or had they moved to Melissa’s place, where they’d be safer?

  Was the van still parked in front of her apartment? Was Senator Mason in some kind of trouble? Had whoever hired Gel Man and Broken Nose roughed them up for losing her trail? Had the two thugs given up? Were they still looking? Would they find her?

  Rose clenched her fist on the pillow. It was no use. She was worrying as hard as possible about everything she could think of, avoiding the one thing that was really bothering her.

  Slate.

  He was the most complicated, most confusing man she’d ever met. He didn’t respond to anything the way she expected, the way he was supposed to. The very first day she’d tripped over a log half-buried under leaves and moss, and had looked to him for help, figuring he’d love the chance to rush in for the rescue. Rescue was obviously his thing. Look how he’d opened his house to a stranger, a woman in need. For all he knew, he was risking his life to protect her.

  But no. He’d snapped at her to get up, seemed annoyed she’d looked to him in the first place. Okay. Maybe she’d gotten him wrong. So she’d tried another tack, asserted herself, suggested they fix up the dreary house. He’d looked around in shock, as if her boldness appalled him, as if she’d better keep her mouth shut in the future. Then he’d taken charge of the renovation work, barking commands, criticizing her work….

  Sometimes it felt as if he was goading her, deliberately trying to make her lose her temper. Some men were into power issues, trying to make themselves appear more in control by making those around them lose theirs. But Slate didn’t quite fit that mold, either; she didn’t sense he was enjoying trying to make her crazy.

  So what was with this man? He had her completely off balance from the moment she got up in the morning until she fell into bed at night, confused and exhausted. Rose wasn’t used to being off balance. Not around men. Men were her specialty, her area of expertise. She’d never met one she couldn’t get along with, one who didn’t, at the very least, respond to overtures of friendship.

  Rose couldn’t figure out Slate at all. And in the midst of this bewildering, draining attempt to make their stay together pleasant, she had begun to crack, show temper, show strain. She hadn’t done that since the seventh grade, when Roger Doldens had called her mom a slut. Rose had blackened his eye and borne the brunt of the blame at school and at home. Since then, losing control had become foreign to her.

  Rose thrashed over onto her back and stared up into the darkness. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she had started to want him. Not in her usual fun, affectionate way. Not in her patented take-it-or-leave-it, oh-what-the-hell kind of way. She wanted him. In a hot, wild, desperate way she’d never felt before.

  And it scared the bejeezus out of her.

  Wanting something that much meant either you got it and were ever after afraid of losing it, or you didn’t get it, and you hurt forever. She’d never ever wanted to want anyone or anything this much.

  When he’d kissed her today, she’d gotten one forbidden taste of what it could be like to be with him. In a word: heaven. Then the desire had wound around inside her, slithered and swelled and threatened to squeeze the life out of her, and she’d had to fight. Fight for it to uncoil, release her, so she could escape back to the refuge of not feeling, of simply being. Find a way he could still have the kisses he wanted from her, but without risking, without hurting.

  Immediately, he’d rejected her. As if she disgusted him. As if he’d been caught kissing beauty and she’d turned into the beast right under his lips.

  He knew. He was so tuned in to her feelings, so powerfully perceptive, so much deeper than the men she knew, in empathy, in sensitivity, that he could sense exactly who Rose was, and the exact moment she’d tried to deny him.

  On the rocks today he’d gotten closer to the truth of her than anyone ever had. For the past ten years not one man had ever questioned who she was, whether she was more than she appeared. Not one had ever looked past the positive glow she spun onto him, and tried to find her own inner light.

  God, he frightened her.

  A tear squeezed out from under her tightly closed lids. She dashed it away with her fist and took a savage breath to brace herself back into control.

  An owl whoo-whooed out in the darkness; some animal rustled nearby in a probably terrified response. Rose shuddered, filled with sudden longing for the safety of crowds and electric lights and 9-1-1. In spite of how much she’d come to love the Maine coast, in spite of how she’d discovered unexpected homesickness for the rural Midwestern country of her childhood, this place was creepy as hell at night, especially when she still felt hunted. Too quiet; every little noise jumped out. Too deserted; no one could hear if she screamed.

  A stick cracked out in the woods near the house. Rose started, her nerves by now shredded. Another crack. Then a rustle. Something moving through the woods. Something big.

  Her breathing flew up into her chest. Had they found her? Even here? Were they standing outside, waiting to burst in and start shooting?

  Silence.

  Then the regular snap and rustle of steps, but nearer now. Panic swelled. Rose tried to pull in a calming breath, but it stuttered uselessly into her lungs. Get me out of here. She jumped from the bed and rushed to the door, then stopped, body trembling, leaning her hands against the cool wood.

  She wasn’t going up to Slate now. Not shaky and scared and damn-it-all-to-hell vulnerable. She’d want him to take her in his arms, tell her everything would be fine. He’d probably hand her a gun and tell her to go outside and shoot whatever it was herself.

  She grabbed a flashli
ght and crept to the window, holding her breath, trembling uncontrollably. Please, please… Chances were in wilderness like this the noises were animal, not human. Right?

  Rose lifted the shade a crack and looked out. Moonlight spilled onto the birch trunks, illuminated them to a ghostly glowing white, created stark shadows on the ground.

  Movement. Near the house. She swallowed her panic and lifted the light, then burst into a breathless, relieved chuckle. Not human. Porcupine.

  She slumped against the sill until her relief-weakened body wanted to move again. Okay, Rose. Okay. She turned back into the room, took one step toward her bed and stopped. The tears came. Not gently and beautifully as they did in Boston, but big ugly tears and wracking sobs that sounded like someone choking, being violently sick.

  She dove onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. What were the odds she could hide a half hour of this from Slate in a tiny, uninsulated cabin?

  None. She could hear his steps coming down the stairs, the sharp creak and crack of the pine. She put her hand over her mouth, tried to stop her body shaking.

  He knocked at the door. “Rose, what’s going on?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak, unable to move. The door opened. She heard his exclamation, felt his weight on the bed, his body above her, his arms around her, her name whispered.

  She gave in to her need, sat up and burrowed against him, relaxed into the tears.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He whispered the words over and over, enveloping her with his strength, stroking her back with warm, calming hands. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me.”

  She nodded into his chest, pressing closer, absorbing his scent and his hard male comfort. It would be okay. She was okay. She was safe.

  As long as he never let go.

  8

  RILEY FINISHED THE COAT of spar urethane protecting the warm, reddish-brown stain on Leo’s dresser and stepped back to look. Nice piece. Beautiful symmetry, clean lines.

  He pictured Leo taking out clothes for his skinny little body and frowned. Something wasn’t quite right. The dresser was beautiful: elegant design, flawless workmanship. But Leo was six years old. Imagined next to his nephew’s helter-skelter energy, the piece suddenly looked rigid, stern…and a little too adult.

  So what, then? What would make it more suitable, more…whimsical maybe, for a six-year-old?

  Riley glared at the dresser. How the hell would he know? His brain did logic and intuition, cunning and deceit. He didn’t do whimsical. Leo would forgive him, of course, but Riley wanted to do this right. He adored his nephew, loved the time they spent together, but always sensed uneasily that Leo was carefully on his best behavior. The way Riley had been when his overly venerable uncle Norman took him anywhere as a kid. This dresser would only reinforce Leo’s impression, reinforce the boy-man contrast when Riley desperately wanted to break it down.

  Damned if he knew how to fix either the dresser or their relationship, but damned if he’d give up trying. The kid needed a man. And Riley probably needed him.

  He crossed his arms and stared at the dresser. What? Colorful paint? Stencils? Stickers? Maybe he should ask his sister. Except she was distracted, worried about Leo, who hadn’t been feeling well. How she managed being a single parent, he hadn’t a clue.

  A picture of Melissa shot into his mind, as pictures of her had been doing regularly since he met her. Laughing and rolling her eyes when her weird fascination with ice didn’t turn out to be quite what she’d hoped. Melissa would know, too. She’d probably be able to suggest thirty things off the top of her head—how to fix the dresser and the outings with his nephew. She had this incredible directness about her; she seemed so tapped into life, to joy, to energy. Next to her he felt like…a dresser. Rigid, stern and a little too adult.

  His shop phone rang. He gave one last scowl at the dresser and picked it up.

  “What’s taking so damn long, Riley?”

  Riley rolled his eyes. Captain Watson didn’t even bother identifying himself. “Excuse me?”

  “Her apartment is the size of a closet, for crissake. I’ve got other cases to spend time on. I can’t wait all month for this.”

  Riley wrestled back a surge of anger before it found its way into his voice, noting the underlying panic in Watson’s usually confident nasal tone. “If it’s there, I’ll find it.”

  “It’s got to be there. This Rose chick still hasn’t given anything away? Hasn’t told you anything?”

  “No.” Riley gave a small, satisfied smile. As he suspected, the captain didn’t know Rose had disappeared. “Rose doesn’t know what she has. I’m sure of it.”

  Watson swore obscenely. “Fat lot of good that does us. The chief is ready to fry my balls in lard.”

  Riley raised an eyebrow. Since when did someone as cocky as Watson admit to worrying over the chief’s displeasure? “Having to be in the apartment with her there makes this a slow job. You want it done faster? Get a warrant and send your guys in. Rip the place apart.”

  “And risk whoever’s turned traitor getting his hands on it? That portrait would be out of our jurisdiction in a heartbeat. Just get the damn job done.” Watson slammed down the phone.

  Interesting. Riley immediately dialed Ted Barker’s number.

  “Ted Barker, FBI.”

  Riley’s lips twitched. The guy probably had FBI tattooed on his privates.

  “Riley Anderson. Watson just called me, sounding a little too antsy about finding the portrait.”

  “Really.”

  Something about the way Ted Barker, FBI, said the word made it sound as if he wasn’t entirely surprised. Riley’s instincts kicked in big time. Something stank around Charles Watson, and the Feds could smell it.

  “We want you to stop searching, Anderson.”

  Riley tensed. “Why?”

  “We’re closing in on the police link to Allston. We believe he’s hanging back right now, waiting for you to find the portrait for him. If you stop looking, someone will get nervous enough to make a mistake.”

  Riley clenched the phone to his ear. That meant—

  “So you won’t need to go on any more…dates.” Ted Barker, FBI, coughed politely. The man had probably never been laid in his life. “We’ll be in touch if we need you further.”

  Riley hung up the phone, muscles resisting his commands as if they wanted to move in slow motion. So that was it. Dismissed. His part in the operation was over. Not surprising. He was more surprised the Feds had let him and Slate share their territory even for the few days they had. Probably to keep Watson happy while they checked him out. If Watson was the leak to Allston, he’d have needed Riley to get the portrait to him before the cops and/or Feds got hold of it legally and kept it away from Allston. Now the Feds would sit back and wait for their pale-eyed mouse with the thinning hair and penchant for grease to blunder in their maze. With Allston undoubtedly leaning hard, undoubtedly wishing he’d never bribed Senator Mason with the portrait in the first place, Watson was starting to sound desperate enough to do just that.

  So. Riley had done his part. Melissa might be disappointed to miss the rest of her adventure, but they’d had fun. Maybe she’d learned enough about what she was after so she wouldn’t mind. Maybe she’d find someone else. Riley could easily come up with some plausible excuse for discontinuing their affair. That was his job. He could go back to his other cases now. Move along. Clear his mind.

  Refocus. He took his brushes over to his workbench and jabbed them into a jar of paint thinner. Truth to tell, he was a little relieved not to have to deceive her anymore. Melissa had been getting pretty insistent about wanting him to climax during their trysts. He didn’t like the idea of mixing business with sex. Would have felt somehow he’d crossed the line into taking advantage of his position if he allowed himself more pleasure than he already took seeing her sexuality blossom under his fingers. Now he wouldn’t have to fight that battle.

  He held up a brush to check the bristles and
noticed it shaking. Strange. He picked up another in his other hand. Same thing. Riley took a deep breath, knowing what was coming, and waited for the denied emotion to hit him, like the idiot surfing in a hurricane waits in stunned acceptance for the tidal wave to overtake him.

  Damn. The brushes landed back in the jar of paint thinner with tuneful plops. Riley backed up until he felt the wall behind him, then slid down to a squat, laced his fingers and bent his head. He was full of it. Way, way full of it.

  He wanted her. He still wanted her. He wanted her more than ever because now he had no convenient reason to see her. Because one call from Ted Never-Gets-Laid Barker had ripped away the pretense, the pathetic sheltering excuse he hid behind, and exposed his need. He wanted her. Not just her body. Her. To talk to, to touch, to laugh with. He didn’t care if they got naked or not.

  Their date the night before had been a near total catastrophe. From his sudden nightmarish need to unburden himself about his past, which she understandably wanted no part of, to the horrendous moment when he realized all he wanted to do was hold her tight, to make love to her the slow, tender, simple way, to protect her from any and all men who might hurt her if she continued this sexual charade. All that to the near disastrous ending, when his emotion made him careless and she’d caught him going through Rose’s things.

  Riley shut his eyes, remembering his horror, the massive energy required to hide it, the fear that he’d blown his cover. And the creeping, deep-down suspicion that he feared breaking their twisted, tenuous association even more. His feelings for her were becoming a hell of a lot more than professional.

  Melissa only wanted sex. To experiment with him as if he were unidentified matter in a petri dish. He gave a bitter laugh. Too bad Slate wasn’t here to slap sense into him, and stop him from behaving like a combination outraged virgin and puppy-love schoolboy.

  Regroup. Reexamine. Turn the same facts around another way and reinterpret them. He got up from his crouch and mounted the stairs, from the airless basement into the breezy light of his first floor. He still didn’t believe a woman like Melissa could be happy with sex for the sake of sex. Maybe he could ride that part out, give her the fling she wanted, then prove it to her. Surrender to this crazy longing and make love to her the way he wanted. Show her what should really be between a man and a woman, give her more pleasure than all the kinky devices in the world.