by Anne Stuart
“Now you can open your eyes, Carolyn,” he whispered.
Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him in breathless, heartless silence as he slowly, slowly pushed against her, stretching her, filling her with such fierce deliberation that she was shuddering before he’d even halted.
Her breath was coming in strangled gasps, and she could feel sweat and tears pour down her face. She gripped his shoulders so tightly her hands were numb, and everything was centered around his inexorable invasion, like nothing she had ever felt before.
It was too much, more than she could stand, and she tried to pull away, but he caught her hips with his hands, pinning her against the mattress. “Take me, Carolyn,” he whispered. “You know you can. Don’t be afraid of me. Take me.”
She stopped struggling. She stopped breathing, her heart stopped beating, as he pushed the rest of the way into her, hard, shoving her back across the bed.
She had no idea what she screamed as the first convulsion ripped through her body. It wouldn’t stop, wave after wave of shimmering, smothering, shattering delight that tore her from her body and dissolved her. He covered her mouth with his hand, muffling the noise, as he surged into her, again and again, until he went rigid in her arms, spilling into her tightly clenching body, and she knew she was totally lost.
It was a long time before he moved. His first word was a curse, as he pulled away from her and climbed down from the high bed. “Christ,” he muttered, and through her fog Carolyn could sense his disbelief and sudden, inexplicable anger.
She waited until the bathroom door closed quietly behind him, and then she scrambled off the bed in desperation.
She almost collapsed on the floor, her legs like rubber bands. She caught herself on the edge of the mattress, taking a deep, steadying breath and forcing whatever stray reserves of strength back into her body.
She didn’t have the energy to pull her jeans on. She simply grabbed her nightshirt and yanked it over her head, then headed for the door to the hall. If she ran into anyone she’d come up with an excuse. No one would ever suspect what she’d been doing. Even she couldn’t believe it.
She had to escape, get away from him, away from this room, from the bed, from the sight and smell and feel of him. She felt broken, lost, and shattered, and she had no idea why. She only knew she had to escape before he touched her again.
ALEX STARED AT his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked like holy hell, like death warmed over, like the total son of a bitch that he knew he was. It didn’t matter that she’d almost killed him just a few hours earlier. It didn’t matter that he’d clearly given her the ride of her life. He looked in his bloodshot eyes and knew he’d made a grave, tactical error.
An error he was going to repeat, again and again, if he didn’t get his crazy hormones under control before he left this bathroom. She would be asleep in that bed, curled up like a kid, maybe even sucking her thumb. There’d be dried tears on her pale face, and a smile on her pale mouth, and he wouldn’t be able to leave her alone.
Jesus Fucking Christ, why couldn’t he learn? That hadn’t been a casual roll in the hay, guaranteed to screw her into complacent acceptance. It hadn’t been a nice, lazy fuck to scratch an itch left over from adolescence.
That had been a major, Grade A, megaton, force five, point eight on the Richter scale act of sexual intimacy that was totally unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and he had a pretty damned good idea it had shaken her even more than it had totaled him.
And he didn’t know what the hell to do about it.
He knew what he wanted to do about it. Tie her to the bedstead, lock the door, and screw her until they were both too worn out to think or care or want. He wanted to fuck her so long and hard that by the middle of next week she was still climaxing. He wanted to take her every way he could think of, and even ways that hadn’t yet been invented, and then walk away and never be tempted again.
It wasn’t going to happen. But he was damned if he knew what was.
He couldn’t remember what the hell he’d felt like at seventeen, but he could make a good guess that it was something pretty damned close to what he was feeling now. He was already hard again.
One day at a time, he reminded himself. One night at a time. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, he’d figure out how to repair the damage the little episode would cause. With any luck, he could get rid of her, talk her into going away for a while, leaving him a clear shot with Sally and her family. If he played his cards right, she’d be too embarrassed to be anywhere near him, and that just might overwhelm her feelings of loyalty for Sally enough to get her to take a short vacation. Just long enough for him to do what he came here to do.
He had to find the truth about what happened eighteen years ago, when someone had put a bullet in his back. He wasn’t going to find anything more from Carolyn—if she even knew any more, it was so deeply buried in her subconscious that nothing would ever drag it out.
He was going to have to redirect his efforts.
George and Tessa had been there that night, and George was someone who’d always been skulking around, watching. Maybe he’d seen something.
Warren and Patsy had been there, as well as Patsy’s current boyfriend. Had there been anyone else, watching, waiting for a chance to put an end to the MacDowell hellion? He had to find out, to stop wasting his time with Carolyn Smith when she wasn’t going to give him anything but the best sex of his life.
But it was only a little after two in the morning. They had hours before dawn, hours he could spend wearing down her resistance and getting her to do exactly what he wanted, with no more semivirginal protests or shyness.
Shit. He may have screwed Carolyn Smith with efficient thoroughness, but he had the unpleasant suspicion that he might have screwed himself and his plans even more effectively.
The fire had died down, leaving the large bedroom in darkness. He should lock the door—he’d been a fool not to take care of that little detail before he put his hands on her. Warren was entirely capable of showing up with a bottle of scotch and a tedious desire to go over things one more time. While Alex wasn’t sure he would have minded, it might have put a damper on Carolyn’s already shaky ardor.
He started toward the door and then stopped, suddenly aware that things had changed. The bed was empty. The room was empty. Carolyn had taken her clothes and bolted.
Relief, he told himself. He was feeling relief. She’d run away before things could get any more complicated. He was already far too vulnerable, too caught up in her clear blue eyes and pale mouth, in her long silky hair and her inexpert, absolutely lovely body. He had no doubt whatsoever he’d have been able to perform for the rest of the night with admirable inventiveness and still manage to keep himself aloof. But it was much easier not to be tempted.
So where had she run to? He doubted she’d gone back to the foldout bed in the library—right now she’d be scared shitless of facing him, and she wouldn’t want to go anywhere he’d find her. She was probably in the shower, scrubbing all traces of sex from her pristine body. She was probably crying.
Of course, she wasn’t the kind of woman who usually succumbed to tears. She cried when she came, when she had no control of her body or her emotions. The rest of the time her emotions were held coolly in check.
But he was willing to bet anything she was standing in a shower somewhere in this house and crying. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
He’d figure out how to deal with it tomorrow when he came face-to-face with her again. His instincts were practically infallible—he’d know how to handle it when he saw her. Maybe a faint leer and a pat on the butt would be the most effective way of getting rid of her. That, and he could tell Sally about it.
Sally wouldn’t give a shit. She’d let the teenaged Alex MacDowell torment Carolyn without doing a damned t
hing about it. If it would keep her long-lost son by her side, she would be willing to sacrifice Carolyn a thousand times over. And Carolyn knew it, whether she admitted it or not.
Maybe Carolyn would already be gone. Maybe he’d wander down to breakfast and be greeted with the news that Carolyn had gone to visit college friends. He wouldn’t be surprised. She was brave, she was strong, she was determined. But he’d ripped away every defense she owned.
He stretched out on the bed. He could smell the rich scent of sex and sweat and Carolyn. He wanted her back, wanted her with a need so powerful it made him shake.
Thank God she’d run away.
CAROLYN WAS IN the shower, crying. She was covered with the feel of his lovemaking, the marks he’d left. There were traces of blood on her neck and throat, from his mouth, from hers. She could see the marks on her hips where he’d held her. She could still feel him, inside her, and she doubted the feeling would ever go away.
No one could hear her. The shower was off of the exercise room that no one, with the occasional exception of George, ever used. She could howl to her heart’s content, and no one would come looking for her. No one would worry about her.
She’d told herself when she turned twenty that she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself any longer, and she’d kept that promise, until Alexander MacDowell had returned and reminded her of everything she wanted and could never have. A family. A real mother.
And the love of Alexander MacDowell.
She tilted her head back, letting the heavy streams of hot water sluice down over her face, through her hair, wanting it to wash the taste of him from her mouth, wanting it to wash her tears away along with the touch and the scent of him. Wanting it to swirl down the drain, out of her life, until she could pretend that it had never happened.
It wasn’t as if she’d never had sex before. She had, occasionally, and usually enjoyed it. It wasn’t as if she’d never had an orgasm before. She was a normal, healthy young woman, perfectly capable of seeing to her own needs if she wasn’t involved with someone.
And yet it had been nothing, nothing, like what had happened tonight in the bedroom up under the eaves. It was compelling, frightening, a tantalizing taste of something so powerful and profound that she wanted to pull the covers up over her head and hide until he left.
The hot water was endless, pouring down over her, but there still wasn’t enough to wash him away. She knew it, with a bleak desperation. He would cling to her skin, stay in her blood, until she had no choice but to run away from it, from him. And from the only family she had ever known.
She turned off the shower, standing motionless in the tiled stall as the steam settled around her in enveloping clouds. She pushed her hair back away from her face, squaring her shoulders. She’d figure a way out of this mess. If she had to leave, for a day or two, just to get her bearings back, then she would.
But she wouldn’t let him touch her again. That had been a mistake of such monumental proportions that it still boggled her mind. She’d dreamed of Alexander MacDowell, willingly and unwillingly, for most of her life. There was just too much history between them to make sex a reasonable alternative.
She would have been much better off sleeping with an imposter. She’d been so certain he was lying, and she’d hated him, but she’d responded to him against her will.
Maybe she’d simply been reacting to the buried longing she’d always felt for Alex. Or maybe he simply knew how to be seductive.
It didn’t matter. She knew, to her eternal regret, just how seductive he could be. How very dangerous. He’d told her she could consider it penance, for trying to kill him.
Surely penance wasn’t supposed to be so painfully sweet?
She wrapped herself in one of the thick robes, stepping into the small, well-equipped gym. There was a low, padded table in one corner that had once been used for physical therapy when Sally had broken her hip. It would be comfortable enough for a few hours’ sleep. No one would think to look for her in here, unless George decided he needed some early-morning calisthenics.
If he came anywhere near her he’d regret it.
She curled up on the foam mattress, pulling the terrycloth robe around her. Her wet hair spread out on the plastic cover, and she shut her eyes, tucking her hand beneath her face. She’d figure out how to deal with things tomorrow. For the rest of the night, at least, she was safe.
Chapter Twelve
CAROLYN GAVE UP trying to sleep at five a.m. The house was blessedly still and silent—the MacDowells as a rule slept late, and Constanza and Ruben didn’t leave their apartment until after eight. She resisted the impulse to head back into the shower. If she hadn’t washed Alexander MacDowell from her body, then it would only take time to wear him away. She could be patient.
She dressed hurriedly, finger-combed her tangled, still-damp hair, and went in search of coffee. The state-of-the-art machine was already set to do its thing, and within minutes she had a mug of rich Indonesian coffee.
She wandered over to the breakfast nook that no one ever used, looking out over the winter-dead gardens and the fields that sloped down toward the Connecticut River. The late-spring snow had vanished as suddenly as it had come, and there was even a blush of rose on the bare trees.
She drained her mug, then refilled it. She was going to need all the caffeine she could get this morning, and anything else that would help her get through the day. And figure out how she was going to deal with the reality of Alex MacDowell.
The house felt different. For so many months there had just been the four of them-—Ruben and Constanza in their self-contained apartment; Sally in her hospital bed, slowly dying; Carolyn in the room upstairs, Alex’s old room. Alex’s old bed, which she’d finally shared with him.
Now there wasn’t a spare room in the rambling house. Each bed was filled with MacDowells. Some she loved, some she tolerated, some she casually despised. There were too many MacDowells in the house, and she had to get away.
The French doors to Sally’s rooms were shut, the curtains drawn. Carolyn didn’t even bother to knock quietly. She opened the door, slipping inside, inhaling the unmistakable hospital smell as her eyes sought out the huddled shape of Sally MacDowell lying in her bed.
“It’s about time you came in here,” Sally said in a remarkably strong voice. “I heard the noise in the kitchen and I figured it had to be you. No one else in this family ever gets up before sunrise if they can help it. And none of them are capable of making their own coffee.”
“It’s past sunrise. The sun comes up early this time of year,” she said calmly, moving closer to the bed, grateful for the subdued lighting. She couldn’t have handled anything glaring at that moment. “And Constanza had the coffee set. All I had to do was push a button.”
Sally snorted. “I doubt the rest of that bunch could do that much. Except maybe Alex. He would have had to learn to take care of himself during those lost years.” She peered at her through the dim light. “Come and sit by me, Carolyn. I haven’t seen enough of you the last few days. I can’t sleep, despite all the damned drugs they keep pumping through my system. I need someone to talk to.”
“You have a houseful of family,” she said, taking the chair by the bed.
“It’s your family, too. I suppose it’s a waste of time to ask you to get me a cup of that coffee. It smells divine.”
“You haven’t been allowed caffeine for five years, Aunt Sally,” she said.
“It’s not my heart that’s going to kill me—we all know that. I don’t see why I can’t indulge myself for the last few months.”
Carolyn didn’t quite see why either, but it was a waste of time arguing with the medical people. “Sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’d better take it away . . .” She started to rise, but Sally’s strong voice stopped her.
“You stay put, young lady,” she said. She squinted a
t her. “You look like holy hell.”
Carolyn laughed. “So do you.”
Aunt Sally chuckled. “That’s one of the many things I love about you, Carolyn. You’ll always tell me the truth, won’t you? The others lie to me, say what they think will make me feel better. But you’re honest.”
“For what it’s worth.”
“Anyway, I have every excuse to look like hell. I’m seventy-eight years old and dying. You’re thirty-one, healthy, and beautiful. You shouldn’t look like someone ran you over with a tractor trailer.”
Instinctively she put a hand to her face. “I don’t really, do I?”
“No. As a matter of fact, you look like a woman who’s just spent the night with a lover. Did you?”
“No.” It was an honest answer, even if it skirted the edges a bit.
“You’re not still seeing Bob, are you?”
“His name was Rob,” Carolyn said patiently. “And no, we broke that off months ago.”
“That’s good. I never liked him. He was too nice for you.”
Carolyn found she could still laugh. “You don’t think I deserve someone nice? Thanks a lot.”
“You deserve someone strong enough to take you on. A lot of people think you’re a sweet, shy young woman, but they don’t know you like I know you. Deep inside, you have the heart of a warrior. You would have ended up eating Bob alive.”
“Rob.”
“Whatever. You need a real man, Carolyn. If you ever allowed yourself to find one, I’d give you my blessing.”
“And what’s a real man? One who’ll keep me barefoot and pregnant? Or one that’ll just slap me around when I get mouthy?”
“You’re not going to end up trailer trash, Carolyn. You didn’t come from it, you won’t end up there.”
Carolyn stared at her in shock. “Where did I come from, Aunt Sally?”
