Читать книгу In Too Deep - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 12

“Oh, Quinn,” she whispered, her arms coming around him, gently for an instant, then fiercely, as though she expected him to be wrenched away. “You feel so good.”

“So do you, darlin’.” Against Quinn’s feet, hers were like ice. As soon as he touched them, she tried to pull away. “Shh,” he murmured, cradling her cold feet between his much larger ones.

Breathing in the fragrance of her hair, he decided that if he was dreaming he didn’t want to wake up. If he wasn’t dreaming…he sure as hell didn’t want to do the honorable thing and send her away.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to roll her onto her back and to plunge into her soft body. He wanted to know the sounds she made while making love. Instead he held her, feeling her feet warm.

Beneath his hand, the silky fabric of her nightgown slid against his fingers. Soft, but not as soft as her skin at the nape of her neck. He couldn’t have kept his hands from wandering to the swell of her bottom or the sweet curve of her breasts if his life had depended on it. As he did, she somehow snuggled even closer, her breath hot against his cheek.

He buried his face in her hair. Silky. Fragrant as sunshine. In his arms, she was so damn small. Smaller by far than any other woman he had ever held. He shifted against her, absorbing the slide of her body against his, the friction undoing him a bit at a time. Oh, she fit him perfectly.

He pressed his lips against that fragrant hair, then on her cheek. Soft. Then at her jaw. Smooth. Then the other cheek. Silky.

Her small hands were warm through the fabric of his T-shirt; he would have given just about anything to feel them against his bare skin. Through the pounding of his head, he couldn’t decide what the mixed signals meant. She was in his arms, being held so intimately that with a couple of shifts of their clothes, he could be where he wanted—buried in her. Though she held him tightly, offering the comfort of her body, he wondered if she meant to be offering sex, too.

God, he wished his head didn’t hurt so much. He needed to really think this through.

Her fingers eased into his scalp, finding the pressure points and gently massaging them, the movement easing the throb in his head. Instantly, he relaxed, and his head dropped into the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

“Keep that up, darlin’, and I’m yours for life.”

Her soft chuckle vibrated against his cheek. “Promises, promises.”

Though he was too relaxed to move, the realization that he had said, Yours for life? stabbed at him. Where the hell had that thought come from? Who was he kidding? He was a here-and-now kind of man. And she was…definitely a forever kind of woman.

That knowledge didn’t keep him from wanting to kiss her, from wanting this innocent embrace to morph into torrid sex.

“Better?” she whispered, her magic fingers easing the knots out of the tendons in his neck.

“Mmm.” He kissed her neck, then had to test that silky skin with his teeth.

She shuddered then arched beneath him in that timeless gesture of surrender that his own body recognized. He released her skin, then laved the tiny hurt, kissing her neck. He inhaled deeply, loving the floral, musky scent of her.

His arms came around her and he ignored the throbbing in his head to kiss her the way he had been wanting to practically from the moment he had met her.

Her lips were soft beneath his, trembling, and so sweet.

“Darlin’, let me in.”

She sighed, and then he was in, finding her shy tongue with his own. She moaned, or maybe he did, and the sound drove the last coherent thought from his mind. All that was left behind was a need to be connected to her, a need that he’d die for.

The kiss went on and on. Dark. Carnal. More vital than breathing. He pulled her close, sliding his hands across the satiny fabric of her nightgown, pushing the fabric up…until he reached the inside of her thigh. Soft. So…damn…soft.

Barely daring to breath, he lay there, his head pounding and his arousal throbbing…more scared about making that next move than he had ever been. Time stopped except for brush of his thumb against her leg.

From somewhere he found the honor to ask, “Is this what you want?”

“Lying with you?” The beat of a second passed. “Or sex?”

“Either. Both.”

“What I want.” She cupped his cheek with her hand, the tension seeping out of her body. “You’d have to be a decent man and ask me, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s not a single decent thing about what I’m thinking.”

Still, he had his answer. He dredged a little deeper, found his conscience and removed his hand from the inside of her thigh. Wishing that he’d touched her more intimately, he smoothed her nightgown into place. She’d have to be dead not to notice his erection pressing into her belly, but to his relief she didn’t ease away from him. Her body softened even more, though the thrum of arousal continued its hum through him, urging him to ignore his self-control and the headache that had resumed its incessant pounding. He allowed himself a sweep of his hand over the curve of her bottom and imagined how she’d feel naked.

They lay together like that for a long time, her hands continuing to knead the knots of muscle in his back and neck. Her touch became more languid, then ceased altogether. Her breathing became even as her body relaxed against his, and he realized that she had fallen asleep. He didn’t dare let his mind embrace the implications of that. Sleeping together, in his mind, was a thousand times more intimate than sex, required way more trust than sex. And yet she had fallen asleep in his arms as though he could keep her worries at bay. Sighing, he pressed his lips against the smooth skin at her temple and wished he was the kind of man who could do that for her. But he wasn’t.

He must have slept because sometime later he opened his eyes and the room was light, sunshine streaming through the window. He rolled onto his back and stretched, noticing feminine things, frilly things, about the room that he hadn’t noticed last night. A stack of paperback novels on the nightstand caught his attention, along with a small lamp. He had images of her in here inside that tiny pool of light reading and keeping her worries hidden from her family.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he felt the bandage at his hairline and realized his headache was mostly gone. He hoped it stayed that way when he was vertical.

An erotic dream lingered, its focus Lily. He brought one of the pillows to his nose and inhaled deeply, the scent of her making him instantly hard. For a moment he wondered if she had really been in his bed or if he had simply been wishing so hard that it seemed real. His remembered words tore through his brain. I’m yours for life. What kind of idiot was he to ever say such a thing? No one else had wanted him for life, and he was about to delude himself into thinking that she would. Thank God they hadn’t had sex. He didn’t need that kind of grief in his life.

Instead he’d been even more stupid—letting her under his skin with her hidden worries and vulnerabilities that made him wish he was a different kind of man. He needed to reestablish the relationship on a professional level, and fast. Before he hurt her. Because it would come to that. It always did.

He had just met her, didn’t really know her. She worked for him, for Pete’s sake. Making love with her…what in the hell would he call it, if not that? So they hadn’t had sex. Not quite. What they had shared, though, had been a hell of a lot more intimate. He might have sex with the occasional woman, but he didn’t sleep with them. She worked for him. He had to remember that because he didn’t have a damn thing that he could offer her.

Why even think about that, moron? he told himself, yanking on his clothes. Sex without commitment, he was used to. Somehow those words in relation to Lily sounded dirty. What he had felt with her wasn’t. Not even close.

He had nothing to offer her. Not a woman who had been as happily married as she clearly had been. Not a woman with a cute little girl like Annmarie. He’d done that once before—acquired the ready-made family he had been so sure he wanted. One word described that experience. Disaster.

He raked a hand through his hair and went to the window. Thanks to the sunshine, the water in the cove beyond the house sparkled and the islands in the distance rose from the water like mountains. The scene was so idyllic he was tempted to hope for the possibilities that skipped through his mind.

The daydream lasted for about a second. Until the old accusation, so true it hurt, ripped through his head. You’re too damn scared to let anyone love you. However much you’re hurting me…you’re killing yourself. You just don’t know it.

Oh, he knew. His ex-wife had been right on all counts. No way could he risk going there again.

His emotions in turmoil, he glanced around the room to make sure he had all of his things. Shoes in hand, he pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway. To his relief, the door to Annmarie’s room was closed—with any luck, Lily was still asleep. Coward that he was, he didn’t want to face her.

He crept down the stairs. Uncertainty crawled through his gut, reminding him of being a child in a strange house with people he didn’t know, sure that soon he’d be sent somewhere else because he always was. He hated the feeling and reminded himself he was a man, no longer powerless like the scared boy he had once been.

Downstairs, he went through the hallway to the kitchen. As soon as he put on his shoes, escape was within reach. Seconds away.

“Hi, Mr. Quinn,” Annmarie said from the kitchen chair where she was sitting, a coloring book in front of her. “I’m having hot chocolate. Do you want some, too?”

“I…” His gaze darted around the room. “Where’s your mom?”

“Sleeping.” She sighed and took another sip of her hot chocolate, carefully lifting the mug to her lips with both hands. “Everybody is sleeping, ’cept you, me and Sweetie Pie.” Annmarie set the mug down and pointed toward the cat who was on the windowsill, her attention riveted on the bird feeder visible through the window.

“I see.”

“Is your head still hurted, Mr. Quinn?”

“Only a little.” He sat across the table from her and began to put on his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Annmarie put one of the crayons in the box, then select another one.

“I can make hot chocolate all by myself. Uncle Ian showed me. Blowing up the marshmallows is the best part.”

“What?” When he looked up from tying his shoe, she grinned.

“You put ’em in the microwave, and they get real, real big. Uncle Ian says that I can do it by myself, but I have to follow the rules.” She leaned closer to him. “So, Mr. Quinn, you want hot chocolate and marshmallows, don’t you?”

“I do.” Clearly he had lost his mind. What he wanted to do—needed to do—was to leave before anyone else was up. Still, this little girl with her impish smile made him want to linger—to pretend for a few minutes longer that he really could do the family thing.

He followed Annmarie across the kitchen, where she scooted a chair to the counter, filled a cup with water, heated it in the microwave, added chocolate mix and stirred carefully. Then she added a marshmallow and put the cup back in the microwave for ten more seconds, all the while telling him each step and finishing with, “See? Simple, huh?” and handing him the cup with a huge, puffy-white topping, the likes of which he’d never had.

“That’s very grown up,” Quinn told her as they sat back down at the kitchen table.

“I know,” she agreed solemnly. “And, if I don’t get a baby brother or sister soon, it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?” Quinn asked, focusing on the one part of the sentence that kept him from thinking about the very activity that could lead to Annmarie having that sister or brother.

“Well,” Annmarie said, swinging her legs back and forth, her fuzzy pink slippers making her feet look bigger than they were. “If Mommy waits too long, then I’ll be sixteen like Angela.”

“I see.” In fact, he didn’t see anything at all. “Who’s Angela?”

“Thad’s sister,” Annmarie said before returning with laser precision to the topic at hand. “And I asked Mommy why she couldn’t do it like last time, only she said things are different now. We can’t adopt Aunt Rosie’s baby like Mommy did with me because Uncle Ian wouldn’t like it. But he could still be the daddy and Aunt Rosie could still be the auntie.”

Quinn failed to follow the child’s logic even as he was sure things made perfect sense to her.

“So I’ve been thinking. Since Uncle Ian says you have to have a mommy and daddy, all I have to do is find a daddy. Mine died, you know.”

Quinn nodded at her matter-of-fact announcement.

“When you were a little boy, did you have a daddy?”

“No.” The question was as unexpected as everything else about the conversation.

“Oh.” A tiny pucker appeared between her eyebrows. “Did you want one?”

Had anyone else asked the question he would have lied. Instead he found himself telling this child a truth that he would have denied anyone else. “With all my heart.”

She smiled. “Me, too. But mostly I want a baby. This time maybe the baby can grow in my mommy instead of in Aunt Rosie. That should work, don’t you think?”

He didn’t know what to think, but he was sure of one thing. Agreeing with Annmarie in any way at all would likely land him in deep trouble.

“I think—” he glanced at his watch “—it’s getting late.”

“Yep,” Annmarie agreed.

“And I should probably go.”

“Before breakfast?”

He nodded, standing up, and she expelled a big sigh.

When he looked down at her, she said, “Are you sure you don’t want breakfast?” She pointed at the cupboard. “The cereal is way up there. The bowls are over there and, besides, the milk is very heavy.”

“Ah.” Things were beyond her reach, if he understood the problem. How could he leave without helping her out, especially since she had made hot chocolate for him? “Okay. I guess I can have cereal before I go.” He opened the cupboard and found a single box of cereal on the top shelf. Cocoa Puffs. He had been hoping for cornflakes or something similar.

She beamed as he poured cereal into two bowls and got out the milk. Within no time they were munching on cereal as Annmarie continued talking about babies. This time, thankfully, the subject was the cat that lived in Rosie’s greenhouse.

“Where’s my punkin’?” Lily called from the hallway.

Annmarie giggled as dread settled into the pit of Quinn’s stomach. He should have left. He shouldn’t be sitting here waiting for Lily, wanting to see her, wanting, just wanting, all the things he could never have.

Smiling, she came through the doorway an instant later, wrapped in that same thick robe she’d had on when she’d visited during the night. Until now, he hadn’t known it was lavender. The smile remained, but something changed in her eyes when her gaze lit on him. Was she glad to see him or wishing he’d left already?

“I’m having breakfast,” Annmarie returned.

“Cocoa Puffs,” Lily murmured, taking in the contents of the bowl. “Your Saturday treat on—”

“It’s not Saturday?” the child asked.

Lily tousled her hair. “You know it’s not.” She dipped a finger in her daughter’s hot chocolate, then licked off the gooey mess of the marshmallow before turning to Quinn. “I never would have figured you for a hot-chocolate kind of guy.”

He shrugged, images of licking her fingers destroying any hope he had of ignoring the flare of attraction between them. “When in Rome…you know.”

Lily moved away from him, wanting to put her arms around him and discovering that she had used up all her courage a couple of hours ago. Having him watch her with that troubled expression made her opt for pouring a cup of coffee. After adding cream and sugar to it, she sat next to him. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” He touched the bandage at his hairline. Without meeting her eyes he added, “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“I’m done,” Annmarie announced. “Can I give Sweetie Pie my milk now?”

Lily looked at her daughter, then the bowl of cereal-flavored milk she was holding up. “You may. Time to go get dressed, sweetie.”

Annmarie climbed down from her chair, set the bowl of milk on the floor near the window, then lifted the cat from the windowsill and set her in front of the bowl. When Annmarie skipped away, Lily glanced back at Quinn, giving in to her need and resting her hand over the top of his.

“Thanks to you,” she said, “I had the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.”

He grasped her fingers for an instant before letting them go, his gaze far too somber when he met hers.

She didn’t need the Ph.D. after her name to recognize the man was uncomfortable in the extreme. Her sisters had both lamented about awkward morning-afters. Personally, she had never experienced one. Though she had fallen asleep in the man’s arms, this morning didn’t count as a morning after, either.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “You?”

She caught his gaze. “Wishing—” She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Wishing I’d told you I wanted to make love. Wishing I were braver.”

Something in his eyes fractured and his jaw clenched. “I think you’re plenty brave. But the truth is, you don’t know anything about me, and I didn’t expect…didn’t have any way to protect you.”

“From what?”

“Are you crazy? From me. From a possible pregnancy.” He jumped to his feet and glared at her. “Or… For all you know, I could have HIV or—”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Or anything else?”

“No. But that’s not the point, damn it.”

She rose to her feet and took a step toward him. “Then what is?” When he glanced blankly at her, she added, “The point.”

“I’m not one of those strays you’re known for picking up.”

That baffling hurt was back in his eyes. “It never occurred to me that you were.” She took another step toward him.

He retreated a step. “Why in hell—”

“Did I climb into bed with you?” She shrugged, then told him the truth. “I’ve lived my whole life being the good girl, doing what was expected of me.” She took another step toward him and he backed up one. “That was the old me.” She closed the space between them until she could feel the heat from his body though they weren’t touching. “An aneurism in my husband’s brain burst while he was having lunch. Two days later he died.”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn murmured.

She met his gaze. “So am I. But you know what that taught me? Finally? That nothing is sure. That today is all there is. That you’d better grab what you want when you have the chance because tomorrow it could be all gone.” She touched one of the buttons of his shirt with her finger, not quite sure enough of herself to put her arms around him, but aching for him to give her some clue that she’d be welcome if she took that final tiny…huge…step into his arms.

Pretending to be far more courageous than she really was, she looked up and found him watching her with the eyes of a man being tortured. “So, that’s my regret. That I once again took time to think, instead of taking what I wanted. I’m so sick of being a coward.”

“That’s not true,” he said quietly. He held her gaze for a long moment, his eyes deeply searching hers. They held the colors of the earth and ocean and stormy sky, framed with lashes any woman would envy. “Not making love was for the best,” he finally said, glancing up when something behind Lily caught his attention.

She turned around and found Rosie at the doorway and headed for the cupboard where the crackers were kept.

“Good morning,” Lily said.

“Morning,” Rosie returned, reaching into the cupboard. She pulled down a package of soda crackers, then took a bite of one, giving them an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind me.”

“No problem.” He glanced down at Lily and managed to slip from between her and the counter. “I’ve got to go.”

“Cocoa Puffs isn’t much of a breakfast,” Lily said. “Let me make you something.”

“I really do need to…” His gaze caught hers once again.

“Go?” Rosie supplied, looking from him to Lily.

He nodded, pulling keys out of the pocket of his jeans.

“If you can give me about fifteen minutes, I can get dressed and go with you,” Lily said.

“I, uh, need to check with Hilda before going to work.”

“Fine. I thought you might.”

A flush crawled up his cheeks, and Lily realized he was trying to find a tactful way to leave without her. “I think I’d like to go home before going to work.”

“I can take you to work, Lily,” Rosie said, waving one of the crackers. “Another half dozen of these and I’ll be fine.”

A look of pure relief passed over Quinn’s face. “There. A solution. You have a ride to work.” He headed for the door. “See you later.”

“Okay.” Lily watched him leave, one more regret heaping on all the others. She had ignored the possibility that he might not want her the way she wanted him.

“You slept with him, didn’t you?” Rosie accused.

The call came into the payphone near the marina exactly when the man was expecting it—dreading it.

“Is it done?” asked the raspy voice.

“Accidents are dicey things,” he said, watching a float plane land beyond the line of boats. “Not predictable like more traditional methods. This will be a helluva lot easier with the direct approach.” Stealing the keys out of a desk—that had been easy. Pushing a car down a slope at exactly the right time to kill somebody—that was a gamble in anybody’s book.

“No,” was the immediate answer. “So you’re telling me that the status quo hasn’t changed.”

“She’s not dead, if that’s what you mean,” he answered, tired of the stupid game of refusing to name what he’d been hired to do. The chances of anyone listening to a conversation made to a pay phone from a pay phone were slim and none. “You want an accident, that’s going to take time.”

“And expenses on our clock. Mr. Lawrence expects results from you. I expect to read in the paper that a terrible accident has had tragic results. The sooner, the better.”

“And like I said, accidents aren’t that easy.”

“Let me put this another way, so you’ll understand perfectly. Mr. Lawrence is an engineer, did you know that?”

“Get to the point.” So he was an engineer. So what?

“He always ensures there are backup systems and fail safes.”

Which explains why he’s in prison, he nearly retorted.

“If a fail safe is required for this situation,” the voice continued, “you won’t be needing a single dime of the payment that was agreed to. Now, then. Since you seem to be unable or unwilling to think on your own, you will find a way to get close to her, and you will see to it that she’s involved in a very tragic, life-ending accident.”

The line went dead.

He stared across the water. A fail safe? A chill slithered down his spine. He got it. Somebody would kill him if he didn’t kill Lily Jensen Reditch. So far, he hadn’t been able to get close enough, which was only one of the problems with “accidents.”

As for thinking on his own, he already had an employment application in to go to work at the research center. He had enough of a chemistry background to create fire out of water, to even blow up a building. Plus, he knew for a fact he had the party-hearty merchandise a couple of the students wanted—they’d already made a buy from him. Trade drugs for a favor or two—a plan that was already in the works. Think on his own. What the hell did the old guy on the other end of the phone even know?

As the opening movement of Tchaikovsky’s Seventh Symphony swelled from the small CD player on the counter, Max Jamison, aka Jones, sat at the kitchen table waiting for a collect call. Depending on the length of the lineup to use the phone at the prison, the call could come in the next second or the next three to four hours. His gaze swept over the austere apartment he’d rented after arriving here a week after the double wedding of Dahlia Jensen to Jack Trahern, and Rosie Jensen to Ian Stearne. That’s a ceremony he would have liked to have seen, though he wouldn’t have been welcome.

The last time he had seen Dahlia, she’d believed he would kill her. She had shot him instead. Luckily for him, hospital prison wards were easier to escape from than prison cells. And now, unlikely as it seemed, here he was—seeking his revenge. Franklin Lawrence was going to pay for blackmailing him into kidnapping Lily’s sister.

Oh, he had done it, but he’d hated everything about it. After learning that Franklin Lawrence had since issued a contract on Lily, he had headed here.

A pro bono job—and his last. God willing, his sister would never learn that he had spent the last twenty-plus years as a paid assassin. He liked thinking how retirement would be, being with her without the lies about what he did or where he had gone. Enjoying his favorite music on his state-of-the-art system over coffee that had been ground seconds before brewing. Spending time with his niece and nephew.

The few dishes from breakfast had been washed and put away. The double bed that should have been hauled off to the dump ten years ago was made. The floor was swept, the battered furniture dusted. So, waiting was all he could do, just as he had done for much of his adult life.

He suspected that Lily believed Franklin Lawrence wouldn’t still be interested in her now that the trial was over. Max knew better. Men like that—men like him—didn’t let go. Since Lawrence was looking at a life sentence of hard time if his appeal failed, Lily still wasn’t safe. She might be with her family using her married name instead of her maiden name—but she wasn’t safe. Not yet.

Max’s cell phone rang thirty-seven minutes later.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Interesting proposition,” came a gravelly voice on the other end of the line, “assuming you’re J.M.”

“I am.”

“So how does this work?” the man asked.

Max wished for the more secure telephone line he had at his home. “If you agree to the job, I’ll deposit fifty Gs wherever you want. After it’s done, I’ll deposit another fifty.”