Erin gathered up the used paper plates and disposable utensils and stuffed them in a plastic trash bag. Lance insisted on helping her wash out the containers of food.
After his crew was finished, not too much had been wasted.
"I guess I'll have to take these dishes over to the neighbor in the morning. She can return them to their owners."
"I guess so," Erin said as she wiped off the counter top with a damp sponge. She didn't want to ask, but had to.
"When will you be leaving?"
Lance didn't answer for a while. He was inordinately busy twisting a tie around the top of the garbage bag and placing it near the back door to be taken out in the morning. "We're shaking down all our stuff tonight. I have a few loose ends to tie up. If not tomorrow, probably the next day. You?"
Erin looked away. She took off the apron she had put around her waist and hung it on a peg in the pantry. "I don't know. I was planning to stay a few days with Melanie, but now . . ." Her voice trailed off to nothing.
When she turned around, he was standing close to her.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently massaged the tense cords of her neck. "You're exhausted," he whispered solicitously. "I've got to gather up some papers in the living room. I'll lock up when I leave. You go on upstairs."
It was a dismissal. She hadn't really known what to expect from him, but she thought it would have been more than a good night one would have given a kid sister.
Just as she reached the door going into the hallway, he said, "Erin?" Her heart thudded with joy, and she whirled around to face him. He wasn't even looking at her. Instead he was staring out the window. "Yes?"
Lance, turnaround!
her heart screamed.
"If you need anything during the night, pick up the red telephone. We won't disconnect it until the morning."
That was it? That was all he had to say?
"Okay," she responded despondently and trudged up the stairs.
She got ready for bed mechanically, taking no interest in what she was doing. When she climbed between the sheets, the bed, the room, the house felt as cold and empty as her heart.
It all makes sense, Erin,
she chided herself. After all, what had she expected? He was on a job. Tomorrow that job would be completed. He would go back to Washington and await his next assignment. Erin O'Shea would probably be mentioned in the dossier he would turn in, and sometimes in the future he might fondly recall her, but he would soon forget their shared passion. His memory of her face would wane.
He had found her mildly amusing during a difficult case. She provided a diversion from the pressures that went with his job.
But how could he dismiss her so summarily? Didn't he even remember what had happened in this room? This bed? The very walls of the small room seemed to echo the garbled, frantic words he had rasped in her ear. To her they had sounded like a love song.
Foolish! Stupid!
she berated herself.
Yet she could still hear him. "Oh, sweet . . . You're ready . . . Perfect, perfect. . . You feel . . . Erin, I'll wait . . . Erin . . . Erin . . . Erin . . ."
IT WAS VERY LATE
when she woke up, probably after mid-night. The house was still and quiet, but she couldn't go back to sleep. After straightening the covers, using the bathroom, and tossing her head on the pillow for a few restless minutes, she decided that she needed a drink of cold water.
Getting out of bed once again, she slipped on a robe, but didn't bother with slippers. Without turning on any lights, she crept down the stairs. At the bottom, she gasped.
The house was on fire!
For a panic-stricken moment, her hand clasped the top of her robe at her throat. Her heart was racing. But as the seconds ticked by, she realized that she was wrong. She didn't smell any smoke and the fire was localized in the paneled study.
On trembling knees, she walked down the dark hallway and looked in the room. There were no lights on, but a fire was burning brightly in the grate of the fireplace, unused until now.
Puzzled, she stepped across the threshold and then came to an abrupt halt. Lance was sprawled in the chair he had slept in once before. An empty glass was held in his dangling hand. A bottle of brandy was on the table at his elbow.
Cautiously she moved farther into the room. He was sleeping soundly. She smiled tenderly to see his eyeglasses resting on the top of his head. His tousled hair shone golden in the firelight.
On silent feet she tiptoed closer, studying his face in repose. Her heart swelled with love. Love?
Yes!
She loved him. And it was gloriously right and painfully wrong. For a million reasons, it was wrong, but at that moment, her reasonable mind's objections were overshadowed, consumed, obliterated by the love that suffused her.
Hoping not to awaken him, she reached out her hand and picked the glasses off his head. He didn't stir. She sat them on the table. His hair was springy and alive as the firelight danced on it. The temptation to touch it was too potent to resist.
The burnished strands felt like spun silk between her fingers as she brushed away a contrary lock that lay on his forehead. His eyes opened.
For what seemed an eternity they were held in suspended animation. Not daring to breathe and break this mesmerizing spell, they were content to absorb each other with unquenchable eyes.
He didn't move any part of his body except his hand.
He raised it and grasped Erin's hand that was still poised above his head. His fingers closed firm and warm around hers. He brought her hand to his cheek and pressed it against that lean plane. Moving his jaw only slightly, he nuzzled her palm with his mouth until she felt his tongue in its center. Then he was kissing it with a fervor that intimated other love play.
Slowly, as if they were players acting out a dream, he drew her down onto his lap. The glass he was holding in his hand dropped to the rug with a soft thud. Her bottom fit snugly in his lap, her legs draped over his right thigh.
Pushing aside the collar of her robe, he buried his face in the hollow of her neck.
"Erin, if you're a dream, I hope I never wake up." His voice was urgent and hot with desire.
She threw her head back and allowed his seeking lips more access to her throat and chest. "Lance, I'm no dream. I'm all too human. Lance—" His lips voraciously devoured hers. She was crushed against his chest as he encircled her with his arms. The hard drumming of his heart pounded in her ear. Their mouths melted together, fired by a torch that seared their souls.
"You taste like brandy again," she said, nibbling at his lips. "Are you getting hooked on that stuff?"
"I'm hooked on this," he mumbled while doing wonderful things to her ear with his tongue. "And this," he said, raining soft kisses on the features of her face. "And this."
Now he was moving his chin down her chest. "And this,"
he groaned against her breasts. One of his hands cupped her gently. Then he smoothed that hand over her stomach and abdomen and placed his palm over the mound where her lap curved into her thighs. "And this." He pressed his hand against her intimat
ely, molding his hand to the in
tricacies of her body with unerring accuracy.
Her limbs quivered and a fountain bubbled within her, making her moist and pliant with unconstrained longing.
Her body sought more of his, drawing him closer by wrapping her arms around his neck.
He stayed her by gripping both her shoulders and looking deeply into her eyes. "Erin, I want you tonight more than I've ever wanted a woman in my life. But I could never live with myself if I took advantage of you—anyone—when you are as vulnerable as you are right now. Today your emotions have been running high, close to the surface. Are you sure this is what you want?"
For an answer her hands took his and eased them gently off her shoulders. Then she shrugged out of her robe. He drew his breath in sharply when he saw her nightgown. It was the one he had commented on while rifling through her suitcase that first day in this room. The pale blue silk highlighted the opalescence of her skin. The ecru lace that comprised the bodice fit tight across her breasts and left nothing to the imagination.
"Erin—" he choked.
Made courageous by his obvious appreciation, she pulled down the satin strap first off one shoulder, then the other. In a matter of heartbeats, the garment formed a frothy pool of lace around her waist.
He revered her with worshipful eyes. The firelight bathed her body with a golden glow and haloed her hair with shimmering light. She was the most beautiful crea-ture he had ever seen. And the most ethereal. He asked himself again if she was real.
To satisfy his mind that she was, his index finger reached out to brush the pink crest of her breast. He watched in fascination as it responded. Lowering his head he touched the distended nipple with the tip of his tongue.
He heard her sighing his name over the cacophonous cadence of his own heart. As he knew it wouldn't be, one taste of her wasn't enough. His mouth covered the taut peak and drew from her breast a flavor more intoxicating than the brandy.
He stood up, lifting her with him, and as he did, her nightgown floated to the floor. Taking a few steps backward, he eased her down on the rug directly in front of the fireplace.
It surprised him, as it had before, when she watched so unabashedly while he undressed. For the first time in his adult life, he was self-conscious of his body. Her eager hands, clasping him to her when he lay beside her, dispelled any fears that she might not find him appealing.
He kissed her deeply, pressing her malleable body along the hard length of his. The logs popped in the fireplace.
Their music was sweet accompaniment to the love words being exchanged.
Erin had never experienced this sense of helpless surrender, yet she reveled in it. Lance conquered her body, mind, and soul, but there was no protestation from her. His hands and mouth were weapons he wielded with precision, but the conquest was executed with excruciating tenderness.
He loved her in ways before unimagined. Kneeling at the gate of her womanhood, he stroked her, kissed her, coaxed her to the edge of fulfillment, but then led her back before she slipped over the brink, only to heighten her passion again and again.
Her hands wandered over his large frame with wondrous curiosity. She watched the hard muscles under her fingertips twitch with unleashed desire as she leisurely explored them. His nipples became aroused under her delicate manipulation. Shyness overcame her as her hand lowered beyond the point of his navel that nestled in silky, golden hair.
His whole body went rigid with anticipation. He waited.
Then his pent-up breath was released in a long shuddering sigh when she timidly touched him.
"Yes, Erin. Touch me. Don't ever be afraid of me.
Never. Touch me. Touch me . . ."
His uneven words imbued her with confidence and a need to return the bliss he had given her. She grew bolder and closed her hands around him in a way she hoped was pleasing. The pulsating force she felt beneath her fingers and his gasping endearments were proof enough that her temerity was rewarded.
Covering her hands with his own, he held her against him and whispered thickly, "You weave a magic I've never known before, Erin. You are . . . you . . ."
He couldn't finish. Their fusion was sweet, swift, and absolute. A moment later while they lay still, savoring the depth of their embrace, he raised his head and looked deeply into her slumberous eyes.
"You are the magic."
"Hey, sleepyhead."
Erin stirred against the warm body next to hers and mumbled a protest. She slid her thigh over the hairy leg beside her.
"We'd better get up," Lance said close to her ear. His action belied his words as he nibbled her earlobe lazily.
"No," Erin muttered into her pillow as she snuggled closer to him, brushing his chest with her breasts.
"Have you forgotten that I'm a very important man around here?" His hand couldn't resist an inquisitive re-search of that soft cushion of flesh that came to life under his playful fingers. "My men are depending on me for leadership. I can't lie in bed with an insatiable broad all day."
She slapped him on his firm buttock. "Who's insatiable?" she asked, raising her head slightly to nuzzle his neck. Her knee inched higher up his thigh and she got the expected" response. He rolled her over and kissed her ex-pansively, drinking her mouth like a man dying of thirst.
Just when she was becoming liquid and pliable in his arms, he released her lips and rested his forehead against hers.
"You'd tempt a saint, Erin O'Shea, but dammit, I do have to get up. It's almost eight o'clock." He swung his legs over the side of the bed. They had moved to the guest bedroom sometime during the night. Lance pulled on a pair of daringly sexy underwear.
Erin, her skin naked and glowing with the aftermath of a night of love, scooted over to the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his flat abdomen.
"Lance," she whined, "do you have to get up so early?"
Errantly, her hands smoothed over the taut muscles of his hips and down the backs of his legs. The sensitive skin inside his thighs was tormented by trailing fingertips. Her breasts pressed against him with a shocking intimacy.
"Erin—" he broke off with a startled intake of breath when he felt the tip of her tongue on his bare skin. Trying to regain some measure of his slipping control, he threatened in a severe voice. "Erin, you're asking for it."
She looked up at him triumphantly and nodded. "Um-hum." Gradually she lowered the fragile cloth that was straining its limits.
He tried to suppress the smile that broke across his chisled lips. "You know what my motto is?"
She shook her head, brushing him with her hair. "No.
What?"
"Always give the people what they want." The mattress sank under his weight as he fell across it and hungrily gathered her into his arms.
HE LEFT HER DROWSING
in bed while he showered, shaved, and dressed. He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.
"I'll go brew some coffee."
Her eyes were filled with love as she nodded and said,
"I'll be down shortly."
When he pulled the door closed behind him, Erin stretched like a contented feline and then burrowed her head into the pillow Lance had used, breathing deeply of his scent that still clung to the linens.
Was love always like this? Did everyone else in the whole world know about this exquisite thrill that rocketed through her veins and electrified each nerve of her body?
Could her heart stand to swell any larger with love for this man?
Last night had gone beyond even her wildest fantasies of what loving a man could mean. Their physical intimacies had not been tainted by inhibition or shame. The tempo was varied, one time being fierce and ravenous, the next leisurely and tender, postponing the crescendo until it, of its own accord, crashed around them.
And in between those bouts of ecstasy, they shared their innermost fears, dreams, and philosophies. Childhoods were reminisced, and vignettes from adolescent years were laughed over. Trivia was made vastly important. Each was voracious for knowledge of the other.
In everything he did, Erin felt Lance's love. Each look, each touch transmitted the emotion, though it hadn't been spoken in so mundane a form as language.
As she hopped from the bed, her eagerness to see him again renewing her recently expended energy, she knew his declaration of love was only a matter of time. He wouldn't let her sift out of his life now. Somehow they would manage two diverse life-styles, two separate careers. They would work it out. They had to.
Lance. Lance Barrett. Lawrence Barrett. She loved the name and shouted it to the walls of the tile shower over the whishing sound of water.
She put on a pair of black wool slacks, but feeling utterly feminine and wanting to look it, topped them with a pink georgette blouse. Lace inserts flanked the collar and allowed a tantalizing g
limpse of her creamy skin under
neath. She dabbed a provocative fragrance behind her ears and down her throat, the
n impulsively scented the cleav
age between her breasts. They were still tingling with remembered caresses.
Downstairs she spoke to Mike, who was helping a telephone company representative disconnect the red telephone. He looked at her and smiled, saying a cheerful good morning. Did he know where Lance had spent the night? Did she care if he knew? No! The aroma of fresh perked coffee led her toward the kitchen. Lance was standing at the counter buttering slices of toast.
She went up behind him and put her arms around his waist. "Good morning, Mr. Barrett," she chimed primly.
Her hand slipped under his belt.
"Good morning, Miss O'Shea. I trust you had a restful night." He settled his bottom against her middle.
She giggled. "Not exactly restful, but most pleasant, thank you." She added on a low, seductive note, "For everything." Her hand separated the front of his shirt under his trousers and touched his warm vibrance with fingers not lacking in boldness.
The knife he was using clattered to the counter top.
"Miss O'Shea, perhaps I should warn . . . ahhh, Erin . . . warn you it's against the law to acc—accost an agent of the federal government." The unsteadiness of his voice matched his labored breathing.
"Is it?" she taunted.
"Yes." He drew a sharp breath. "Oh hell," he said through clenched teeth. "And you'd better stop what you're doing or—"
"Or what?" she challenged.
He spun around to face her. Placing a strong arm behind her back he drew her against him until she could feel the results of her teasing. His eyes gleamed with desire as he growled, "Or you know what." Then he kissed her fully, but quickly, on the mouth and pushed her away from him. He raked her with his eyes appraisingly.
"How can you look so angelic when I know that under that pure, innocent exterior beats the heart of a consummate wanton?"
She placed her fists on her hips, a gesture that pulled the fabric of her blouse tight across her breasts in a revealing, evocative display. "What a dastardly thing to say," she said haughtily. "I'll have you know—"
"What?"
"I'll have you know," she smiled mischievously, "that you are absolutely right." She raised her face toward his descending lips, but the doorbell peeled loudly.
"You have been saved by the bell, Miss O'Shea, from a fate worse than death."
"Damn."
"Go see who it is. Mike is busy and I need to get this toast finished. For some reason I have quite an appetite this morning."
"You have quite an appetite for a lot of things." She winked lasciviously.
He swatted her playfully on the bottom as he shooed her out of the kitchen.
She was still smiling abstractedly when she pulled open the front door.
"Bart!"
she shrieked when she saw her fiance standing across the threshold.
"Hi, sugar," he said shyly. "I didn't mean to startle you.
I didn't expect you to answer the door."
Erin had gone drastically pale and her heart had lurched up to her throat. She hadn't even thought of Bart in hours. Days? Certainly not since last night. Seeing him standing here now was an unpleasant shock.
"Baby, I know what hell you've been through, but I'm tired. Can I come in?"
She was still too stunned to think rationally, but she answered, "Oh—of course. I'm sorry. It—I'm just surprised to see you, that's all."
He came in the hallway and seemed to dwarf the house.
His presence was overwhelming, oxygen consuming. Erin couldn't take in enough precious air and found herself gulping, trying to fill her constricted lungs.
"Bart, how . . . ? Why . . . ?" She couldn't form a coherent sentence.
"Honey, I'm a little put out with you. Why didn't you tell me the mess your brother was tangled up in? Hell, I'm a good troubleshooter. Maybe I could have helped. I read about the whole thing in the Houston paper yesterday.
The name just seemed to jump out at me. I tied up a few pressing business matters and then had Jim fly me out here late last night."
She knew that Ken's death had precipitated the story of the embezzlement to come out. It had been picked up by the national news services. Something that unusual couldn't be kept quiet forever. Of course Bart, who perused several newspapers each day, would have seen the story and remembered her brother's name. He had wasted no time having his pilot fly his Lear jet to San Francisco.
"Why didn't you let me know about this and help you, sugar?"
"I just didn't," Erin said sharply. When she saw his wounded look, she softened toward him. None of this was his fault. "I'm sorry, Bart. I didn't mean to snap at you.
The last few days have been very trying."
"I know, baby. But I'm here now. You don't have to worry about a thing." He put a heavy arm around her shoulder and drew her close to him. He pressed her head against his chest in a comforting gesture and patted the dark curls. "I sure have missed you." His voice had taken on a quality that Erin recognized.
She fought down the sudden repulsion that gripped her.
But when he tilted her head back with a finger under her chin, she didn't resist. This wasn't the time or the place to tell him that it was over between them, that she was in love with someone else.
His kiss that started with almost paternal tenderness, deepened and became possessive. She was encompassed in his arms and held against his bulk. It wasn't that Bart was fat. But his muscles weren't honed down to a wiry steeliness. He didn't have that sinewy strength and leanness of a . . . runner. Of Lance. No one looked or felt like Lance.
Lance. Lance. She had to tell Bart about Lance.
Couldn't he taste Lance on her lips? Didn't he discern by her reluctant lips that she wanted to be kissing someone else?
She was gasping for air when Bart finally released her.
"I've been waiting for a week for that," he said happily.
Someone behind them cleared his throat, and Erin whirled around to see Lance leaning negligently in the doorway. His casual pose was deceptive. His blue eyes reflected a glacial sheen and his chin was tilted with the arrogance that had characterized him the first day she met him. His jaw resembled an iron trap clamped shut.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your . . . friend, Miss O'Shea?" he drawled.
She tried to catch his eyes, to plead with him for understanding and patience, but he ignored her. His eyes were riveted on Bart.
"Uh . . . Bart Stanton, this is Lance Barrett with the Treasury Department. Lance was in charge of Ken's case."
"Pleasure, Mr. Barrett," Bart said heartily and crossed the distance between them to pump Lance's hand with his usual exuberance.
"Stanton," Lance said curtly.
Bart must have noticed the rebuff, for he withdrew his hand and planted a shrewd, if puzzled, glance at Lance.
"There was an unusual turn of events in this case, wasn't there, Mr. Barrett?" Bart asked him conversationally.
"Are all your cases this interesting?"
"No. This one was particularly . . . stimulating." Lance leveled a sardonic gaze on Erin, who blushed to the roots of her hair. His choice of words left their interpretation wide open for speculation.
In self-defense she cried out, "I wish both of you would stop referring to my brother as a 'case'! He's dead." She buried her face in her hands to hide the hurt she felt over Lance's harsh and cruel words. Why was he behaving like this? A cold stone seemed to have replaced the heart that had beat against her breasts with strong passion.
Bart embraced her again. "I'm sorry, sweetheart.
You're right." He patted her shoulder solicitously. "I'd like to meet your sister-in-law. Melanie? Is that it?"
Erin raised her head in sudden desperation. "She
. . . she's not here. She left last night after the funeral."
"Left? What do you mean? She just left you here alone?"
Erin darted a panicked, beseeching glance at Lance.
"Yes." When she saw that Bart was about to speak again, she interrupted hurriedly. "Her parents are horrible people, Bart. She wanted to get away from them for a while.
I didn't blame her for leaving."
"Well, I wish I'd known you were here alone. I would have come on over late last night when we first got in."
Her knees went weak with the thought of Bart arriving while she and Lance were lying naked in each other's arms in front of the fireplace. She gripped the edge of the hall table for support.