Desultorily she entered the room and saw that Lance had turned out all the lights except one small lamp on the table beside his chair. She spread out one of the blankets on the leather sofa, placed a pillow in the corner of it, and sat down, stretching her legs along the couch and covering them with another blanket.
Lance waited patiently, staring moodily into space, not speaking. He made no effort to turn off the light and Erin couldn't lie down while it was still on. That would make her too vulnerable, too exposed. Trying hard not to look at him, she glanced around the room, an occupation that had filled most of the afternoon.
"There has never been a fire in that fireplace," she remarked idly.
Lance didn't move his head, but his eyes shifted toward her. "What?"
"Did you notice that there has never been a fire in the fireplace? It has a lovely carved wood mantel, the logs are stacked, but there is no soot on the bricks. I can't imagine having a fireplace and never lighting a fire in it."
"That's a very keen observation. Maybe you should have gone into my line of work." She looked across at him to see him smiling at her from his slouched position in the chair. Without having to think about it, she smiled back.
"Do you have a fireplace?" he asked.
"Three."
"Three?"
She laughed at his astonishment. "Yes. I live in my parents' house, the one that I grew up in. When Dad died, Mother wanted to sell it. I begged her to lease it for a while, and she did for several years. Then when I left New York and came back home, I moved into it. It's modest, but very old and full of character. I've redecorated and refurbished it."
"Sounds nice."
"Most people would never give it a second look, but to me it's home. I guess when you've been adopted, it's very important to establish family traditions, things like that.
It's almost an essential part of your life to secure an identity."
They were quiet for a long moment and then Lance asked, "The O'Sheas, they were good to you?"
"They were wonderful parents. No one could have asked for better. Dad was tall and robust. He always seemed huge to me, even after I was grown. He was the gentlest man I've ever known, despite his size. He was a carpenter. Mother is petite, spunky, and has laugh lines around the bluest eyes you've ever seen."
Besides yours,
she added to herself.
He stretched his arms high over his head while he yawned broadly, then raked his fingers through the gilded brown hair. "You'd better get some sleep. Good night," he said as he switched off the light.
"Good night."
She shifted down between the blankets until she was lying on her back, staring into the darkness. She could hear Lance making himself as comfortable as he could in the chair. There was a rustle of covers, a deep sigh, then silence fell over the room.
After long, silent minutes, knowing instinctively that he wasn't asleep, Erin whispered, "Mr. Barrett?"
"Hm?"
She plucked at the blanket with nervous fingers. The darkness lent an intimacy to the situation. Like lovers after . . . "What will happen to my brother when you find him?"
Sounds of him changing his position in the chair reached her out of the darkness. His voice was low, hesitant . . . sad? when he answered, "I don't know. That's beyond my realm of expertise. He embezzled a tremendous amount of money from a national bank. The theft alone would be enough to keep him incarcerated for years.
The federal government gets sticky about someone taking its money."
"He'll have to go to prison," she said without emotion.
It was a mere statement of fact. She hadn't thought of it before now.
"Yes. It may help that his father-in-law is president of the bank. Winslow didn't call in the local police, though we're using some of their men who are trained to find needles in haystacks, so to speak. Maybe if Lyman hasn't spent the money and can return it, he'll only be slapped with a stiff fine and a long probation."
"You don't really think that, do you?"
His voice sounded tired and resigned when he said,
"No." Moments later he said, "In all my years of doing this kind of work, I've never understood the criminal mind."
"My brother is not a criminal!" she cried.
"He committed a crime. By definition that makes him a criminal," he reasoned.
She drew a deep sigh of remorse. "Of course you're right. I'm sorry. What were you saying?"
"Well, it looks to me like he had so much going for him.
Why did he do it? Why did he risk everything? Leave Mrs.
Lyman? It was a dumb, stupid thing to do. He must know we'll catch him."
Erin was surprised to hear the anger in his voice. It was almost as if he wished he didn't have to find Ken. "Melanie will be so terribly hurt by all of this. I don't think she realizes the gravity of the situation."
"She doesn't. She's a sweet kid. We could have set up our base of operation anywhere, you know. We're here partly to protect her. We don't know if Lyman was working alone or if he was involved in something bigger. She may become the innocent victim of someone seeking revenge. Hell, I don't know." His exasperation with the case was all too clear, and Erin felt a pang of contrition for having added to his headaches.
Softly she asked, "What about me? Do you think I'm an unlikely-looking assassin that came in with a sob story to win the affection of a vulnerable girl and then murder her?"
There was a significant pause before he admitted, "It crossed my mind."
"I see," she whispered.
Her head was whirling with all he had told her, but it seemed too light to remain on the pillow. She tossed restlessly on the narrow space of the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position that would allow her to drift into a much needed sleep. Finally, annoyed with her insomnia, she lay on her back and flung her arms over her head.
Was it the soft swishing of clothes or the popping of his knees as he crouched down beside the sofa that first alerted her that he was no longer in the chair? She didn't know.
All she knew was that he was suddenly so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. She lay utterly still, not even daring to blink.
"I don't know who you are, or what you are, but you're not an assassin." His voice was husky with emotion, but she barely had time to analyze it before she felt the brush of his lips across hers.
Did a small sigh of pleasure escape her lips? Did she turn her head in a gesture of entreaty? What made his lips linger, hovering over hers for a heartbeat before melting against them and claiming total possession?
The cloak of dar
kness that enveloped them extin
guished the hostility, the wariness, the suspicion, the resentment that had sprung between them. In that black velvet cocoon where no judgments are made and secrets are kept, they lost their identities. The differences between them seemed petty, indeed they ceased to exist. They were only two people, equalized by a need, seeking fulfillment for a longing as puissant as it was indefinable.
Erin's lips were sweet and tender beneath his and parted in anticipation. He tasted, savored, memorized her with his lips and teeth and tongue until she breathlessly sighed his name.
Of their own volition, her arms lowered, and her hands clasped the sides of his head. He trailed hot, fervent kisses along her neck. His hands settled on her rib cage, almost encompassing it with their wide span. Tantalizingly she felt his thumbs move to the undercurves of her breasts and stroke them lightly.
She entwined her fingers in the thick golden hair as his face oscillated between her breasts. Moist breath scorched her skin through her T-shirt. With her help, he removed that last barrier. His fingers delighted in the texture of her skin and sought to explore every inch of it from her neck to her waist.
Then he kissed her, once on each breast. Completely covering the tip with his mouth, he flexed his cheek muscles. As though they were connected by an invisible cord, she felt that sweet tugging on her nipple deep in her womb.
It caused a tiny volcano to erupt inside her, filling her veins with molten lava and bathing her body with its own liquid fire.
"Oh God." His moan was born of the agony of self-denial. He covered her breasts with his palms. His lips came down on hers once again. His ferocious hunger was tempered only by a desire to bring her as much pleasure as he found in the kiss. Though his tongue coaxed her to kiss in a way she had never kissed before, it was a gentle persuasion.
All too soon, he raised his head. She could feel his stare.
His features were indistinguishable in the absolute darkness, but his eyes were powerful even without the benefit of light. She was held immobile and silent under that hypnotizing power.
"This never happened," he rasped. "Do you understand, Erin?" His voice was urgent, compelling her to grasp what his words conveyed. "This never happened.
Do
you understand?"
Dumbly she shook her head "no."
But of course, in the darkness, he couldn't see her.
He had already left the study when she woke up. She opened her eyes slowly and, without moving her head, surveyed the room. It hadn't changed overnight. Everything was exactly as it had been before. Only she was different. All the changes had been within herself.
What had she done? How had it happened? What had she been thinking? Obviously she
hadn't
been thinking or it would never have happened. Had she gone temporarily insane?
Maybe it had been a nightmare. Yes? No.
All right, if it were too pleasant to have been a nightmare, maybe it had been a dream. No. She could still smell elusive traces of Lance's cologne on her skin. Her breasts were slightly abraded where whiskered cheeks had nuzzled her. Her body evidenced too many signs of his intimate embrace. Even now she could recall each nuance of it in vivid detail. It had been no dream.
Her eyes wandered again to the chair where he had slept. The pillow crumpled in the corner still bore the imprint of his head. A feeling of great tenderness welled up inside Erin, and she
caught herself smiling in remem
brances.
The smile vanished when she saw his blanket lying discarded on the floor beside the chair. No doubt he had discarded thoughts of her just as indifferently.
She covered her mouth with a dainty fist. Mortification caused her eyes to squeeze tightly shut when she recalled the abandon with which she had kissed him back. God! He must be basking in self-satisfaction this morning. Surely he would be very pleased with himself. He could have easily seduced her to . . . No!
Another sob rose in her throat and a tear managed to slide past her closed eyelids and roll down her flushed cheek before she buried her face in the pillow.
How had it happened?
She couldn't defend herself by saying that he had plied her with alcohol, or played on her sympathy, or physically forced her to submit to his kisses. He hadn't even wooed her with loving words. He hadn't said anything. He had merely come to her out of the darkness and touched her and kissed her and she had been more than willing to give him even more than he had demanded.
Miserably, she moaned again with the humiliating recollection of how her naked breasts had been plundered by his greedy mouth. No. His mouth had been neither plundering nor greedy. To add to her abasement, each time her mind conjured up the memory, her body ached again with longing.
She mustn't lie here and dwell on it any longer. It would be better to face him with an aloof attitude. It had been nothing more to him than a naughty game in the dark. She wouldn't let him know that it had meant more than that to her. Getting off the couch, she realized her breasts were still bare. She found her T-shirt behind the sofa after a frantic search.
She crept on silent feet toward the door. Listening thoroughly, she couldn't hear anyone else in the house stirring. She left the study and went into the tiny bathroom she had used the night before. She shuddered with embarrassment when she remembered Lance catching her in that awkward position with her shirt raised. In fact, any thought of Lance Barrett brought on a wave of hot sensations.
"Oh, there you are," Melanie said as Erin came out of the bathroom. Her sister-in-law was standing in the doorway of the study.
"Good morning," Erin mumbled, hoping Melanie wouldn't detect some sign of guilt.
She was behaving like a moron! After all, what had actually happened? A little heavy necking; that's all. People did it all the time. She wasn't a candidate for a scarlet letter. Yet.
"I've come to rescue you," Melanie said mysteriously.
"I've persuaded Mike to let you come upstairs and take a long bath. Then you and I will have breakfast together."
"What about General Barrett? Don't you think he'll consider me AWOL?"
"Maybe he won't find out," Melanie trilled. "He's not here. Come on."
Melanie allowed Erin only enough time to pick up her suitcases in the bathroom, offering to carry the larger one herself, before virtually dragging her upstairs and showing her to the small, but comfortable, guest bedroom.
It was furnished in white wicker which contrasted nicely with the apple green walls. The bedspread and curtains were gaily scattered with a daisy pattern. A green and white striped easy chair was placed at an angle in a corner,
"The bathroom's through that door," Melanie said. "I checked everything, but if I've missed something you need, just call me."
"Thank you, Melanie. It's lovely. Really. I'll be down as quickly as I can."
"Don't hurry on my account," Melanie said.
"I'm not. I'm hurrying on Mr. Barrett's account."
Melanie only giggled before she closed the door and left Erin alone.
The bath was heavenly and she reveled in the hot, bubbly, scented water. She convinced herself that she took no special pains with her appearance this morning, but the results of her efforts made it seem otherwise.
She blew-dry her hair, skillfully wielding the hairbrush to produce a style of artful disarray for her dark curls. She chose a khaki skirt and a cotton plaid blouse in muted shades of blue and burgundy. Her Beene Bag shoes were navy kid with stack wood heels. Her only jewelry besides a tailored gold wristwatch and Bart's diamond ring was a pair of small gold loops in her ears. She looked cool, confident, and in perfect control.
That control slipped when she heard Lance Barrett's voice coming from the kitchen as she was descending the stairs. Her heart jumped to her throat and she gripped the banister reflexively when her footsteps faltered.
"Hey, Lance, is that you?'' She recognized Mike's voice.
"Yeah."
"Charlie Higgins is holding on the line for you."
"Be right there."
Erin could hear hurried footsteps as Lance journeyed through the house toward the living room. What would he say to her this morning? What would she say to him? Not for one minute did she believe that he could have forgotten what they had shared in the inky darkness despite his commission for her to do so. How could she ever forget those few precious minutes when she experienced total bliss from a man's embrace? She still felt the impact of his lovemaking like rippling aftershocks to an internal earth-quake.
She had to face him sometime, so it might just as well be now. She took the last few steps down the stairs and then stood poised on the bottom stair where she could see into the living room. Lance held the telephone in the crook between his clefted chin and his shoulder. He was jotting down notes on a tablet.
She had expected him to
look like he had the day before
—gray slacks, dark tie, white shirt, the uniform of all government officials. That was hardly the sight that greeted her eyes.
Lance was clad only in a brief pair of blue running shorts and a pair of running shoes. Nothing else. As he leaned over the desk, writing on the paper that was becoming soggy from the sweat on his hand, he grew impatient with the glasses that continued to slide down his perspiration-beaded nose. In exasperation, he reached up and jerked them off, tossing them onto the desk as he continued to write furiously.
For how long she stood there and stared at him, Erin didn't ever remember, so mesmerized was she by the sym-metrical perfection of his physique. Now she knew why he was in such superior physical condition. If he ran like this every morning—and by the looks of him, it had been no small distance—his secret to that well-honed body was out.
His legs and arms were hard and sinewy. His shoulders were broad and topped an impressive chest that was matted with light brown hair now curled into wet ringlets.
Erin's eyes shamelessly followed the growth pattern of that hair Over a corded rib cage and a flat, taut stomach into the elastic waistband of his shorts. It was disconcerting that his deep tan showed no lines of demarcation. Even more unsettling was the full evidence of his sex beneath the tight, damp shorts.
"No, I think that should do it," he was saying crisply.
"If I need anything else, I'll call. Thanks, Charlie. I owe you one."
He hung up the telephone and continued to scratch the pen across the paper for a few seconds before he straightened up.
He almost did a double take when he saw her watching him from the staircase. Then his eyes boldly traveled the length of her body and back up again. For a flickering moment their eyes met and locked and Erin's breath caught in her throat. She was perplexed when he looked away quickly. Where was the smug, knowing jeer she had expected?
Bravely she entered the room and stood in front of the desk. Finally, he raised his eyes and looked at her with a blank, unreadable face. "You're up early."
"So are you," she said. "Do you always start the day this way?" she asked, indicating with a nod of her head his postrunning condition.
"I try to get in several miles each day, yes." Why were his sentences so abrupt? He wasn't engaging in conversation with her, he was answering her question out of politeness. His eyes told her nothing she wanted desperately to know.
"Wasn't it cold outside?"
His shrugging shoulders set all sorts of muscles into play, and Erin strove to tear her eyes away from his chest.
"Sometimes it is when I start out, but I warm up fast enough. I had on a jacket. I left it out on the porch. The boys across the street said that Mike needed me."
He wiped the sweat out of his eyebrows with the back of his hand and attempted to dry it on his shorts. His movement was mechanical, for it was obvious that his mind was on something else.
"You'll be glad to know that your identity has been confirmed."
He said the words offhandedly, as if they weren't really important. She looked at him in surprise, but the rigid planes of his face remained intact. "I called a cohort in Houston last night and he got right on it. What he couldn't do last night, he followed through with this morning. We know everything there is to know about you, Miss O'Shea."
His reverting back to the formal means of address hurt her to the quick. Last night, just before he returned to his chair, he had whispered her name in the darkness and the sound of it coming from his lips had thrilled her. He didn't even remember.
"We know that your garbage is picked up on Tuesday and Friday. I hope you remembered to put it out before you left."
Was that supposed to be a joke? She didn't think so because he wasn't smiling. He wasn't looking at her either.
His eyes darted around the room, studying first one object then another. If he looked at her at all, it was with a brief and sweeping glance. Since she had come in the room, he hadn't once met her eyes.
"You, of course, are free to go," he said matter-of-factly.
Why was he acting as though nothing had happened between them? Why didn't he smile, or tease, or torment?
Why didn't he beg her forgiveness? Why didn't he do
something?
"I'm sorry if I have inconvenienced you."
Perhaps if he hadn't said that last sentence, she would have left and remained fo
rever bewildered by the enigmat
ic man she had once met in San Francisco. It was that casual dismissal that infuriated her. Her puzzlement turned into boiling anger and she lashed out at him.
"I guess everything you did was in the line of duty!"
He knew immediately to what she was referring, and Erin saw immediately that her anger was contagious. "Exactly," he said precisely.
Yesterday she had stormed at him for treating her with such abuse, but he hadn't even begun. Little did she know what degradation he had planned for her. Her eyes shone like burning coals as she glared at him.
"You—" she started.
"Mrs. Lyman is ready for you to come to breakfast.
She's cooked up something special," Mike said, grinning as he came into the room.
He had interrupted Erin's well-chosen epithet and she felt robbed of the opportunity to blister the ears of Mr.
Lance Barrett and shake his impregnable indifference.
"We're not here to eat," Lance snapped to the hapless Mike and his grin dissolved under the cold blue eyes.
"No, sir," he said quickly. "Only she's been cooking all this stuff and said . . ." He licked his lips nervously.
Lance's stare hadn't relented one iota. Mike whipped the napkin out of his belt and asked, "Is there something you need me to do, Lance?"
Lance released a deep breath with a whooshing sound as he raked agitated fingers through the hair that was still sweat-plastered to his head. "No. Go on and eat breakfast. I'm going across the street to clean up. Then I need to make some phone calls to the main bureau, but if you need me, call. It shouldn't take me more than an hour."
With that, he came from behind the desk and stalked out of the room without once glancing in Erin's direction.
She stood immobile for a moment, stunned and angry, until Mike said abashedly, "Mrs. Lyman is waiting for you. I think I've had enough." He had been intimidated by Lance's overbearing attitude.
Lance Barrett had that kind of effect on people.
MELANIE PROVED
to be an accomplished cook, but all the while Erin was eating the sumptuous food Melanie had prepared, she was contemplating her future plans. She didn't know what to do.