Wrongfully Accused

by Ana Barrons

  She’d never been able to capture Drew in a way he found flattering, though.

  Maybe they could have worked things out, if he hadn’t died. She’d tried to convince him to see a marriage counselor on a few occasions, in the early years, before she understood that Drew didn’t believe he needed help with anything. It had galled him when other representatives didn’t automatically fall into step with what he knew was best for the country. She’d seen that belief in his infallibility as a fundamental weakness in his character. She’d pointed that out once—and he’d never forgiven her for it.

  She drained her glass, went into the kitchen and poured another. What the hell? It was five o’clock somewhere in the world. And yeah, it was a bad idea to drink alone, but no one was watching. The slight buzz from the first glass felt pretty good, and a second glass would just make it better, right?

  As she had many times over the past few days, she thought of Steve, of the friendship they’d shared before he became completely immersed in technology and business and all the money there was to be made on the Internet. Maybe it hadn’t been passionate between them—not after the first several months, anyway—but he’d made her feel needed for the first time in her life. Fresh tears welled up. He’d died so young.

  She was on her third glass of wine, in pursuit of a buzz that would kill some more of the pain, when the doorbell rang, followed by a chorus of loud barking. “Oh, God,” she murmured. There was no way she was up to talking with one of the neighbors. They were sweet, all of them, and they’d filled her freezer with cakes and casseroles, but she needed to be alone. The bell rang again, and she pretended not to hear it—or hear Bruno barking his head off. After a while whoever it was gave up and went away. Kate brought Bruno down to the playroom in the basement and turned on the TV so he wouldn’t go crazy if anyone else came to the door.

  Then she went back upstairs to Drew’s study and sat in the sumptuous leather chair behind his desk. When he was home he used to spend a lot of time in this room, alone. He rarely invited her in. She thought back to finding Joy in here, helping herself to cognac, and wondered how often she’d been at the house when Kate was away. Had Joy and Drew had sex in her bed? The thought elicited a groan of pain, and she buried her head in her arms on the desk.

  “Kate?”

  She jerked her head up. A tall, blond man stood in the darkened doorway, backlit from behind. “Who...?”

  He stepped into the room. “It’s me. Michael Clark. Are you okay?”

  “Michael,” she repeated. Drew’s administrative assistant had always treated her with respect and affection. They’d barely had time to speak at the memorial service. She stood slowly and walked toward him. He opened his arms and enfolded her. “Michael. Oh, God. You must be feeling terrible.”

  He hugged her tightly and ran a hand over her back. “No worse than you, I imagine.”

  He rested his cheek on the top of her head. When had Drew last done that? “I’m here for you, Kate,” he said. “I want you to know that.”

  The sound of clapping made her gasp. She pulled out of Michael’s arms and whirled to find Gabe standing in the doorway, the ice in his gray eyes belying the smile on his face.

  “That was deeply moving,” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked. “Again.”

  “I was going to ask Mr. Clark the same question,” he said.

  “What are you doing in my house?” she snapped.

  “Just looking out for you, Kate,” he said, hands shoved into his khakis as he moved closer, his gaze now trained on Michael.

  “Like hell,” she said.

  “I was. I saw him ring your bell a couple of times, then try the knob, and finally pull out a house key and let himself in. I knew you were home, so I—”

  She turned to Michael. “You have a key?”

  Michael raised his palms. “Drew gave it to me a long time ago. He asked me to pick up some documents while you were out of town.”

  “Oh. He never told me.” Did Joy Stuart also have her own key?

  “Why did you use it today?” Gabe asked. “Your boss didn’t ask you to pick anything up.”

  Michael flushed, but he spoke calmly. “There are files I’ll need to take back to the office. I didn’t realize Kate was home.”

  “Why were you watching my house?” she asked Gabe.

  “I thought you might need protection.”

  She snorted. “The only person I need protection from is you.” She brushed by him on her way out of the room. “Go ahead and take what you need, Michael,” she said over her shoulder. “Can I have a word with you, Gabe?”

  “Thanks, Kate,” Michael said. “I’ll be quick and...uh, let myself out.”

  “Leave the key on the desk,” Gabe said from behind her.

  Kate stalked into the kitchen and went directly to the refrigerator, where she grabbed the bottle of wine she’d been working on. She filled her glass, drank deeply and carried the bottle to the table. Gabe stood silently watching her, arms crossed over his chest. His dark hair flopped over his eyebrows and curled slightly where it brushed his collar. A day’s growth of beard stubbled his hard jaw. He looked big and mean and powerful...and sexy as hell. Bastard.

  “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” he said, eyeing her wineglass. “And I get the sense you’ve been at this for a while.”

  “What do you want?” she asked, emboldened by all the alcohol coursing through her system. “Why do you keep showing up at my house? And don’t give me any more bullshit about protection. You’d like nothing better than for someone to walk in here and blow my head off.” She held up her glass and pretended to study it. “Or maybe you’re hoping I’ll use this to wash down a bottle of tranquilizers.”

  “I came by to apologize.”

  She stared at him. “Come again?”

  “I was out of line yesterday,” he said. “I don’t know why I... Habit, I guess.”

  “Would that be your habit of blaming me for Steve’s death, your habit of never acting civil around me or your habit of hating me?”

  His brows drew together, but he didn’t dispute any of it. She dropped into a wooden chair, her spirit drained. “Damn it,” she said. “It doesn’t work.”

  “What?” Gabe asked

  “The wine. It still hurts.”

  “Losing Husband Number Two?”

  “Losing you,” she whispered.

  Chapter Five

  What the hell? Gabe thought, but he couldn’t ignore the squeezing in his chest. Kate was slumped in a chair, no doubt working on a first-class hangover, although she’d always held her liquor better than most. She was barefooted, her long brown hair snarled, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off over a pair of well-worn jeans—and as striking as she’d been at the funeral in her elegant, formfitting black dress. He rubbed a hand over his face.

  “That sweatshirt looks familiar,” he said to cut through the silence. Why did he feel like a shit all of the sudden?

  She looked down at it, then met his eyes. “It was Steve’s.”

  “It was mine first,” he said, then immediately wished he could take the words back.

  “Oh. I never knew.” She glanced down at the faded letters. “Virginia Tech. Well, I figured, you know, you got it for him when you were at Tech.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She shrugged. “You want it back?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid it’s tainted from touching my skin?”

  “Just forget I mentioned it, okay?”

  “No, seriously.” She pulled it over her head and tossed it to him, leaving her sitting at the kitchen table in low-rise jeans and a red, lacy bra that barely covered her full breasts. “It’s yours again.”

  He caught the sweatshirt, staring at her. Her body had changed little over the years, still as slim and curvy as ever. And every bit as sexy. More so, if he was honest with himself. Like then, his body tightened in response. And l
ike then, he hated himself for it. He tossed the sweatshirt back to her.

  “Cover yourself,” he growled.

  She balled up the sweatshirt and set it on the table, then rose and walked slowly toward him in her bra. “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen,” she said. Her expression had gone from defeated to angry, but the hurt was still in her eyes.

  Gabe felt his cock harden as she moved closer. “Don’t go there, Kate,” he warned.

  She stopped too close to him. He could smell her distinctive scent, minus the perfume. Time hadn’t changed that any more than it had changed her effect on him. “But this is how you like to think of me, isn’t it?” she asked. “As the siren who came on to you that night in your bed?”

  “Stop.” His heart was pounding with a mix of arousal and fear.

  “That relieves you of responsibility for—”

  “I said stop.”

  “—what happened.”

  “I was half-asleep,” he said.

  “You weren’t too tired to roll on top of me.”

  He stopped breathing for a moment. All he could hear was the rush of blood pounding in his temples. When he could take a breath, he leaned into her face and said, “No more.”

  She opened her mouth to speak and Gabe covered it with his hand. Which was a bad move because the feel of her lips on his palm reminded him of how soft they’d felt against his. “Don’t you say another word about that night. Not now, not ever. Do you understand?”

  She pushed his hand away. “You weren’t too tired to pull my tank top over my head. Or slip your—”

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, his control gone. “You want to relive that night? Is that what you want? Okay, let’s go. Let’s get wild.” He pulled her to him and took her mouth roughly. Ah, God, her lips were warm and as intoxicating as the wine. Kate returned his embrace with trembling arms that tightened as their kisses grew more frantic. He speared his tongue deep inside, over and over, dueling with hers while his hands roamed over her back, her ass.

  He eased her back against the counter and unsnapped her bra, then filled his hands with her breasts. Her hips rocked against his, hardening his cock painfully. He bent to pull a hard nipple into his mouth when Kate suddenly gasped and shoved him away. Her lips were swollen and red from his kisses, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered, turning away from her. It was a struggle to catch his breath. What the hell had he been thinking, putting his hands on her? Would he never learn how dangerous that was?

  Behind him, Kate was panting, but mercifully said nothing. He adjusted himself, tucked in his damp, rumpled shirt and ran his fingers through his hair. Fuck. He was no better than a horny teenager. He got the sweatshirt off the table and held it out to her, not looking. After a moment she took it.

  “Why did you come here?” she asked, her voice breathy.

  “I shouldn’t have come.” That was the understatement of the year.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  When he had his breathing more or less under control he turned back to look at her, both relieved and disappointed that she was wearing the sweatshirt. But oh, God, her cheeks were pink, her lips red and swollen from his kisses, her hair wild. She looked like she’d been ravaged. And she didn’t look happy about it.

  He swallowed hard. “I wanted to be the first to tell you. The news will be carrying the story nonstop, and you’re likely to be hounded by the press.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Tell me what?”

  “Al Qaeda didn’t bring your husband’s plane down.”

  Her frown deepened as she stared at him. “Then...what happened?” Same thing she’d asked on that snowy day in December eight years ago, after he got the call from the Maryland State Police. Same confused, innocent look in those big hazel eyes.

  She rubbed her arms as though she were cold. “So...could it have been an accident after all?”

  He shrugged. “They’ve recovered what was left of the fuselage from the water, and found the black box. It’ll take some time to analyze the voice and data recordings.”

  “Nobody from the FBI...or the NTSB...told me about this,” she said, slurring the initials. “They’ve been keeping me informed. Me and Drew’s parents and the other families.”

  “People came to your door today. You didn’t answer. They called from their cell phones and you didn’t pick up.”

  She blinked at him. “How long were you watching the house?”

  “A while.” Long enough to build up the courage to go in. If Michael Clark hadn’t shown up he might have driven away like the coward he was.

  “Well, if it wasn’t al Qaeda, then who did it? Another terrorist group?”

  “None of them took responsibility,” he said. “Which is unusual. Someone usually tries to claim it to show off their ‘cause.’”

  “Then...who?”

  He took a deep breath. “Could’ve been someone with a shit load of money who wanted to eliminate someone on the plane.”

  She nodded absently, hugging herself and staring at the floor. After several seconds she looked up. “You didn’t come here to warn me, Gabe,” she said slowly. “That wouldn’t be like you. You wanted to watch my reaction to the news, didn’t you? See if my pupils dilated, or sweat broke out on my upper lip.”

  Why did things never go as he’d planned with her? This was the perfect segue into his “change of heart” act. No, Kate, I know you’re innocent. Let me help you during this rough time. But he couldn’t pull it off. Maybe if he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t brought back all the memories, all the pain. He’d have to give up the case, all because he couldn’t be in the same room with her without alternately treating her like shit and wanting her so bad it hurt.

  “Busted,” he said. “And since the media is likely to be all over your ass, I’d appreciate you skipping Jeremy’s birthday party on Saturday. He doesn’t need to be dragged into your mess, and neither does the rest of my family.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You son of a bitch. I’ve never missed his birthday, and I’m not going to start now. You can glare at me silently from the corner, like you do every year.”

  He glanced at the open bottle of wine on the table and back to her. “Don’t come drunk,” he said.

  * * *

  “You asshole,” Kate said when the back door closed. “You cruel, arrogant piece of shit.” Her heart pounded as the anger took hold. She grabbed her wineglass off the table and heaved it at the door, enjoying the sound of shattering glass, wishing only that it had shattered against Gabe’s thick skull.

  Al Qaeda didn’t bring your husband’s plane down.

  Then who did? And did Gabe actually think she was somehow involved?

  Footsteps sounded from the corridor and she remembered too late that she’d left Michael Clark in the study. Heat rose to her cheeks. Good Lord. What if he’d come in when she and Gabe were engaged in that...insanity?

  Michael pushed through the door to the kitchen, then stood there, blue eyes wide, taking in first the shattered glass on the floor and then her face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I, uh, had an accident.”

  Michael shot her a knowing look and put his hands on his hips. “I’m going to assume your former brother-in-law pissed you off.”

  “You could say that,” she mumbled. She ran her fingers through a mass of snarls. How must she look? “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  He walked to where she was standing and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Hey, no problem. I’ll help you clean that up.”

  “No... I’ll get it myself. Really. I’m so embarrassed.”

  He lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to look him in the eye. “You’re a wreck, Kate. Why are you here all alone? Where’s your family?”

  “They left,” she said, stepping back. “And I’m fine, seriously.”

  “I think I know just the thing to fix you up,” he said. “And I don’t mean tranquilizers or
psychiatry. Or more wine.”

  “A frontal lobotomy?”

  Michael smiled. “I have this friend...”

  Chapter Six

  The doorbell rang at ten o’clock the following morning. Kate peered through the peephole to make sure the person standing there met Michael’s description. Dark hair, beard, okay. She opened the door, but the man standing in front of her wasn’t at all what she’d expected. He was handsome, around six feet tall and olive-skinned, with a well-trimmed beard and military short hair. Mid-to-late thirties, she figured, and fit—trim and muscular, like someone who spent a lot of time at the gym.

  So this was what aromatherapists looked like these days?

  “Are you...?” At the last moment she remembered to let him give his name, rather than supplying one for him. In case he was actually one of the reporters who’d been clogging the street in front of her house since early that morning.

  “I’m Archer, Michael’s friend,” the man said with the slightest hint of an accent she couldn’t trace. He tipped his head to one side as though studying her. “I know you’re Kate, because Michael said you were beautiful and sad. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” There was something warm and down-to-earth about this man that appealed to her. “Come on in,” she said and stepped aside. The reporters were taking photos of them, and would no doubt try to make something of the good-looking guy she was letting into her house. Well, she wasn’t going to let the vultures rule her life.

  Archer picked up a large folding table off the porch and carried it inside with a tote bag emitting a wonderful lavender scent with a hint of something else.

  “Mostly lavender and rose oil,” he said, as though she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. He glanced at the living room through the arch to his left and the dining room several feet to the right of the long center staircase. “Where would you like me to set it up?”

  “Umm...”

  “Michael said you have a great sunroom with lots of plants. How about if we do it in there?”