Christmas in Whitehorn (11 page)

Chapter Seven

M
ark heard the words but didn't believe them.

"Mark?" Ralph asked. "Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"I'm sorry."

Mark didn't know what he was.
Shocked, maybe.
Stunned.
His chest hurt, as if he couldn't catch his breath.

Dead.
Sylvia was dead. She'd finally found a way to avoid being punished for what she'd done. He'd known she would go to extremes, but this? Was it possible? Had she simply given up or had this been part of a plan?

"I don't know what to say," Ralph admitted. "I didn't want to tell you this over the phone, but—"

"Don't sweat it," Mark told him, finding it difficult to speak. "I'm glad you were the one who called. I gotta go. Give my love to Sal."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Sure."

Mark didn't know if he was lying or not as he hung up the phone.
Dead.
Sylvia was dead. He tried to figure out what, if anything, he was feeling.

His body felt entirely empty. As if everything that had already gone on before had drained him of all emotion. Unfortunately, the space quickly filled. He closed his eyes to block out what had happened before, but the action didn't help. Memories swamped him until he was drowning in the past.

He'd met Sylvia about three months after he'd moved into a new apartment. She'd been his next-door neighbor.
He
still re- called rounding the corner and finding her balancing too many packages while she dug in her purse for her keys that hadn't been there. She'd been a pure
New York
woman cliché – tall, thin, dark hair, dressed in black and beautiful. She'd charmed him with a smile and before he knew what had hit him, he'd been ushering her into his place, pouring wine and spilling his guts about his background while they waited for the locksmith.

She'd been smart – she'd made him laugh. He'd adored her big brown eyes, her full mouth, the way she absently touched him when she'd been reading the paper. He'd been so damn sure she was the one.

While he might have recovered from the relationship, the pain of her betrayal still cut through him like fire. Why hadn't he been able to see through her facade? He'd always thought he was so clever about people – at the department he'd had a reputation for cutting to the heart of someone's motive. But he hadn't sensed anything amiss with Sylvia. Not even for a second.

He'd felt so angry, so betrayed. He'd re- fused her requests that they talk one more time. Before Mark had left
New York
, her attorney had tried to give Mark a letter from Sylvia. Mark had torn it into pieces and handed it back to the attorney with instructions that Sylvia never contact him again.

She hadn't. There had been silence, and now she was gone.

Mark leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Guilt hovered, but he shoved it away.
He
hadn't done anything wrong. So why did he feel as if he'd been emotionally skinned alive?

He rose to his feet and headed for the parking lot. The need to keep moving nearly pushed him to a run. One day Sylvia had been his whole world and the next he'd been in the hospital, fighting for his life. He'd walked away from her without looking back, but always with the expectation he would have to face her again. Now that wouldn't happen.

When he reached his truck, he unlocked the door and slipped inside. He'd told himself he'd done a good job of letting her go. It had been a whole lot easier than he would have
thought,
which made him question whether or not he'd ever loved her. If he had, he was an idiot. If he hadn't, he'd never loved anyone. He didn't like either option. Maybe the truth was something else entirely. Maybe he'd simply allowed himself to forget because it was easier than remembering.

He drove without thinking and found himself at home. An acid rawness burned at his soul. He didn't want to be alone. Not with the pain or the ghosts. He stared at the apartment building. Two halves of a whole, he thought numbly.
Solitude or solace.
It wasn't a difficult choice.

Instead of leaving his truck and walking toward his front door, he headed to Darcy's side of the building and knocked. He didn't bother to analyze why he was here, because he already knew. She was his neighbor and a woman with secrets – could there be a worse combination? Yet there wasn't anyone else he wanted to speak with at that moment. No one else he wanted to see. She was the kind of woman who rescued by instinct and right now he was in some serious need of saving.

She opened the door. Instantly the scent of gingerbread drifted out to greet him. Darcy smiled. There was flour on her cheek and sweater. Her sleeves were pulled up to her elbows, her hair tucked back behind her ears.

"Hi, Mark, what's up?" Her smile faded as she studied him. "I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you look awful. What's wrong?"

She stepped back and he entered her house.

"Someone I know is dead," he said
ab
-
ruptly
.
"A suicide."

Darcy sucked in her breath at the news. "I'm so sorry."

He stared into her eyes. Compassion overruled shock. He shouldn't have come, he realized. She didn't need this particular brand of hell screwing up her life.

But he couldn't force himself to leave.

"I don't know what I feel," he admitted.
"Anger.
Relief.
Maybe guilt.
I don't know. How am I supposed to get closure? How will this ever be okay?" He shook his head. "It won't be. I guess that's the point."

"You're in shock," she said softly. "The mourning will come later and, with it, clarity. As for closure, time is a great healer."

"I don't think so. I don't think it's going to be that easy."

"Oh, it's not easy. Letting go and forgiving are the hardest things in the world."

"I don't want to forgive. Maybe there's something wrong with me. I can't feel hurt or anger or even compassion. Maybe I'm incapable of feeling anything significant. Maybe—"

She stepped close and put her arms around him. "Can you feel that?" she asked.

He held himself completely still. The warmth of her body chased away a chill he hadn't known was there. Her breasts flattened against his chest, while her legs brushed against his. Her hair smelled like vanilla.

Desire slammed into him. He might not be able to mourn Sylvia's passing, but he sure could want Darcy. His arousal was instant and nearly painful. Hunger heated his blood until the need to be with her was as compelling and instinctive as drawing in a breath.

Gathering all his strength, he gently untangled her arms from around him and moved away.

"I shouldn't have come here," he told her. "You don't need the complication and I can't be what you want me to be. I'm sorry." He headed for the door.

"Mark? I don't understand."

He turned back to her, glaring. "I'm not feeling especially friendly right now. I want more.
Specifically you."
He ran his fingers through his hair and swore. "I shouldn't have come here," he repeated. "I don't know why I did. I'm sorry."

He reached for the door handle.

"Wait," she called before he could leave. "Just wait."

He froze in place. The sensible part of him, the part that knew he was more than capable of hurting Darcy, told him to keep on walking. If he cared at all about her, he wouldn't be with her now – like this. But the rawness inside of him was stronger. It kept him in place as she turned off the oven and returned to his side. When she took his hand he didn't protest. When she led him into her bedroom, he reached for her.

*

Mark's intense kiss made her burn down to her toes. Darcy clung to him, her own passion flaring in the face of his obvious need. If he'd tried to seduce her, she thought she might have been able to be strong, although maybe not. But his pain, the lost look in his eyes, the way he'd come to her first, had all conspired to make her unable to resist him.

His mouth brushed frantically against hers. She parted for him and he plunged into her, tasting her, tempting her to do the same to him. His hands moved restlessly, rubbing up and down her back, drawing her closer until she pressed against him so tightly she thought she might merge with him and become one.

His need made her want him more. She clung to him as their world began to spin slowly. She touched his face, his shoulders, felt the cool, silky strands of his hair. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath. She felt herself surrendering without a single thought to what this all could mean to her heart.

When he tugged at her sweater, she raised her arms. He pulled off that garment. As he shrugged out of his own shirt, she kicked off her shoes and removed her socks. Before she could take off anything else, he reached for her bra and unfastened the hooks.

His mouth was on her in an instant, sucking her already tight nipples, licking them, making her gasp and beg him never to stop. He cupped her breasts, using his fingers to match the movements of his tongue. She rubbed his bare back, digging into the flexing muscles there, murmuring his name, wishing she had the will to stop him, yet knowing she wouldn't even if she could.

He dropped to his knees and opened the fastening of her jeans. He pulled down the denim, along with her panties,
then
supported her while she stepped out of her clothes. Clasping the curve of her hips, he bent forward and kissed her between her thighs. He touched her most private place with the tip of his tongue, promising her much, while teasing her with the lightest of contacts. She sucked in her breath.

Without saying a word, he rose and led her to the bed. At his urging, she lay on her stomach, her head cradled in her arms.

"Protection?" he asked quietly, whispering the single word in her ear. She shivered as his warm breath tickled her skin.

A little embarrassed at her own boldness, she pointed at the nightstand drawer.

"I bought some a couple of days ago."

He knelt beside her and licked the sensitive skin just below her ear. "I thought we were only going to be friends. Or were they not meant for me?"

She gave a strangled laugh, torn between listening to what he was saying and the nibbling sensation on the lobe of her ear.

"I, ah, thought I might have a moment of weakness. I didn't want to be unprepared. And with the weather as cold as it is, I didn't think you'd want to be running back to your place."

"What kind did you get?"

"Extra large."

He chuckled,
then
grew quiet. One of his hands settled on her rear. He rubbed her skin, circling across to her opposite hip before returning. She felt a puff of breath as her only warning before he bent down and lightly bit the skin on her side.

As he nibbled his way up and down her back she felt herself growing more and more ready. Then he shifted and bit down firmly on her rear, making her shriek.

"Mark! What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

He moved lower, licking his way down her thighs to her knees. His ministrations began to tickle. She squirmed, trying to get away without accidentally kicking him. He held her in place, licking the inside of her knees.

Darcy finally managed to break free and turn onto her back.

"Better," he said, returning his attention to her legs, but this time on the front.

Tension tightened her belly. Her thighs began to tremble. He licked his way up to her tender, willing femininity,
then
kissed her there. She sank back on the bed, grateful for both his skillful touch and the fact that the shadows had faded from his eyes. She wanted to think about what he'd told her, but she couldn't – not with him licking her center and making her breath come in ragged pants.

He slipped one finger inside of her, teasing the place that would soon welcome him. His tongue touched her from above, his finger from below. Both moved in tandem until she knew her release was inevitable as the tide.

"Mark! Please … I want to finish with you inside of me."

"You will," he murmured against her.
"The second time."

She wanted to protest. She wanted to pull him so that he was forced to enter her, filling her, stretching her until she had no choice but to surrender.

The erotic image was a mistake. As the fantasy fully formed, she lost control and slipped over the edge into the glory of her release. Her body arched toward him, carrying her to paradise.

She quivered and gasped until the last whisper of her climax had faded. It was only then that he shifted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pulling off his jeans and briefs. He leaned toward the nightstand, pulled open the drawer and removed a condom. When he was protected, he knelt between her thighs.

For a long time he didn't move. He simply stared at her, studying her face as if memorizing every feature. Darcy didn't mind the attention – there was a kind expression in his eyes and she didn't think he would find her wanting. Finally he leaned close and kissed her neck. He moved lower until he could caress her breasts.