Night Fever (23 page)

When he turned on the water and took her into the shower, she didn't protest. They bathed each other quietly, without words. He turned off the water and toweled them dry, his hands lingering on her soft body as he dried it, whispering things that made her tremble with desire.

He picked her up then, carried her into the bedroom, and laid her gently on the thick quilted bedspread. He stood over her for a long moment, looking down at her. And for the first time, she looked at him properly, too. He was tan all over—the kind of tan that doesn't come from the sun. Thick hair curled over his broad, muscular chest and down over his flat stomach to his thighs. He was everything a man should be, she thought, finding the courage to look at him intimately and not flinch as his body reacted violently and blatantly to her fixed stare.

He did some staring of his own, letting his eyes slide from her peaked, full breasts, down over her narrow waist and rounded hips to her long, slender legs. She was beautiful nude, he thought—beautiful and desirable. Tomorrow they could pay the piper. Tonight, he was going to make her glad that she was a woman.

He slid down beside her on the bed, arching over her with smiling intent.

“The lights,” she whispered, glancing at the table lamps.

“We made love with them on the first time,” he reminded her. He slid his lean, dark hand down her creamy body, into a place he hadn't had the time or patience to touch before. She gasped and caught his hand, but he shook his head. “You gave yourself to me,” he told her. “It's much too late to set limits, little one.”

“Yes, but…oh!” She arched, shivering, as he touched her and found the key to her fulfillment.

“That's right,” he whispered, his eyes heated with pleasure as he watched her respond to his touch, first shyly, and then with pure abandon, arching, moaning, and writhing under his touch. “That's right, let me satisfy you. I want you to know exactly what I'm going to give you this time. Like that. Yes, little one, like that, like that!”

She cried out and the spasms lifted her helplessly while he watched, his eyes glittering with pride and excitement, until she lay exhausted and trembling, her eyes finding his and widening with shock.

“Did you think you'd reached a climax before?” he whispered. “Now you know you hadn't. But you will, this time. You will, I promise you.”

His mouth eased over her breasts and he began to kiss her lazily, waiting until she was relaxed again and responding to the touch of his warm mouth on her skin. She began to tense. Her nipples budded under his tongue. She moaned jerkily.

He took his sweet time, drawing it out, teasing her body and her mouth with lazy movements that eventually had her racked with frustrated desire. She sobbed, writhing under his tormenting hands, whispering things she knew she was going to be ashamed of, but helpless to stop them under her lips. He laughed while he roused her, glorying in her headlong response, her feverish pleading.

When he had her mindless and in anguish, he moved over her and inside her in one long, slow, downward drive, and she convulsed instantly. He'd never seen it happen so quickly for a woman before.

He drove for his own fulfillment, confident that she was already past hers before he even began. It took him a long time, all the same, and she went with him every step of the way, her own satisfaction wrung out of her time and time again before the one, final thrust that sent him arching above her in a convulsion that tore an agonized groan from his throat. He couldn't remember ever crying out before, but this time the pleasure had all but knocked him unconscious.

He collapsed on her, shivering in the aftermath, too shaken to move, almost too shaken to breathe.

“Baby,” he whispered huskily, rolling onto his side to gather her totally against him and cradle her in his arms. His eyes closed as he held her. “God, I need you, Becky,” he groaned.

She heard him, but she didn't say anything. Rourke wondered if she realized that he'd never admitted to needing anyone in his life, or that saying it all but amounted to a declaration of love from him.

In fact, she didn't. She managed a weary smile and nuzzled her face into his damp throat, kissing him there, tasting salt and cologne and pure man. “I love you,” she whispered sleepily.

His breath stilled in his throat. Nothing had ever sounded so sweet to him before, even if she was saying it to justify giving in to him. His arms contracted. He couldn't stop shaking. “It was never this good,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Never so violent that I thought I might die of it, that I lost control enough to cry out.”

“You tortured me,” she murmured.

“I aroused you to the point of madness,” he corrected, drowsy himself. He wrapped her closer. “That's what made it so good for both of us. I couldn't take long enough with you, the first time. I lost control.”

“So did I,” she confessed. “I wanted you. Oh, I wanted you.” She shivered. “I still want you, even now. Rourke!” she moaned, moving helplessly against him as the fever caught again.

“I want you, too,” he groaned. “But we can't. My God, you're much too new to this for an all-night session. I'd hurt you, sweetheart.”

“You never called me sweetheart before.”

“I never made love to you before,” he whispered at her ear, kissing it gently. He frowned as a sudden nagging thought invaded his mind. “Becky,” he added unsteadily.

“What?” she whispered softly.

His lips slid down her cheek. “I didn't use anything,” he breathed into her lips.

Three things happened at once. She jerked back to reality with a start as she realized that neither of them had been rational enough to take precautions. Rourke lifted his head, came wide awake at his own words, and realized the same thing. And the phone rang, stridently and starkly.

He stared down at Becky's shocked face, scowled, and reached over to pick up the receiver.

“Kilpatrick,” he said huskily. He listened for a minute, during which his face changed, paled. He looked at Becky with faint horror. “Yes. Yes, I understand. I'll be over first thing in the morning. That's right. Yes, it was. Good night.”

“What is it?” she asked, sitting upright with dawning fear in her eyes.

He didn't know how to say it, especially after what had just happened. He didn't want to say it. But there was no way to avoid it now.

“They've just picked Clay up,” he said quietly. “He's been charged with three counts of felony possession of cocaine, including one count of possession with intent to distribute. He's also been charged with aggravated assault.”

“Aggravated assault? What's that?” she whispered blankly.

“In this instance, attempted murder,” he said flatly. “The police searched his girlfriend's car. They found some of the plastic explosives that was used to blow up my car,” he said through his teeth. “They found it in a toolbox she said belongs to Clay. They think he planted the bomb under my hood.”

Becky got to her feet shakily. She started toward her clothes, but she never made it. She passed out in a heap at Rourke's feet.

W
hen Becky came to, Rourke was dressed and leaning over her with a jigger of scotch, his expression one of anguished concern.

She pushed the glass away and sat up. Her clothes were on the bed beside her. With a furious blush, she turned away and began to dress with fumbling, clumsy fingers. When she had her things on again, she stood on wobbly legs, barely comprehending where she was. She didn't really care what condition she was in, anyway. The world had just come down and hit her on the head.

“It will kill Granddad,” she whispered.

“No, it won't,” he replied. “He's tougher than you think. Come on, Becky. I'll take you home.”

She pushed back her disheveled hair and walked into the living room, flushing as she put her shoes back on and picked up her sweater from the floor. She couldn't bring herself to look at the carpet where they'd made love.

Becky turned back to Rourke with a pathetic kind of pride. “How did they catch Clay?” she asked, quite aware that he was holding something back.

He'd promised not to betray Mack's trust. That only left him one alternative, to take all the blame. “I told them,” he replied, adding coldly, “Clay let something slip one day while I was at the house. He was overheard.” That was true, even if he hadn't been the one who'd overheard him.

She closed her eyes, almost in tears. “Was that why you took me out, why you spent time with me?”

“Do you really need to ask me that, after tonight?” he demanded shortly, remembering his own voice whispering how desperately he wanted her, needed her.

But Becky was thinking about Clay's arrest, not Kilpatrick's whispered endearments, which he probably hadn't meant anyway. She'd read and heard that men would say anything to get a woman into bed.

“No,” she said with quiet defeat. “I don't need to ask.”

She turned and went out the door. Kilpatrick followed her, locking up. Her attitude bothered him. She wasn't acting like the Becky he knew.

“Those charges,” she said when they were in the car and headed back to the farm. “They're felony counts, aren't they? And drug dealing carries a minimum of ten years and some awful fine, doesn't it?”

“You don't have to worry about it tonight,” he replied tersely. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. Clay's being processed now, and you won't be able to get a bail bondsman until he's arraigned and bail is set.”

“He isn't at the juvenile detection center?” she asked huskily.

“God, I hate to have to tell you this,” he replied after a minute. “Becky, these charges are major felony counts. I didn't have any choice. I have to prosecute him as an adult.”

“No!” she burst out, tears rolling down her pale cheeks, making her freckles stand out violently. “No, you can't! Rourke, you can't, he's just a boy! You can't do this to him!”

His jaw tautened and he didn't look at her again. “I can't change the rules. He broke the law. He has to pay for it.”

“He didn't try to kill you. I know he didn't. He's not a monster. He's just a boy who didn't have any advantages, who didn't have a father to help him grow up. You can't put him away for life!”

“It isn't up to me,” he tried to reason with her.

“You could tell them he's not guilty,” she said frantically. “You could refuse to prosecute him!”

“They've got hard evidence, dammit! What do you want me to do, overlook it? Turn my back and let him loose?”

The icy cut of his tone sobered her. She took deep breaths until she got herself together. She stared out the window, shivering. “You knew they were going to arrest him tonight, didn't you, Rourke?” she asked. “You knew before we left the farm.”

“I knew they were going to try,” he was wearily. He lit a cigar and opened the window. He'd never realized how it was going to feel when he had Clay in jail. He hadn't realized how it was going to hurt when Becky thought of her brother before she thought of him. Clay was accused of trying to kill him, but it was Clay that Becky was worried about. The fact that the bomb might have killed him didn't seem to bother her.

“Doesn't it matter that he tried to kill me?” he asked after a minute.

“Yes,” she said with unnatural calm, her own pain making her strike out blindly. “He should have tried harder.”

He felt the shock of those words like a physical blow. He didn't say another word. He smoked his cigar and drove.

When he pulled up at the farmhouse door, Becky got out and started toward the porch without saying anything. It wasn't until she saw him beside her that she realized he'd parked the car and cut off the engine.

“Where are you going?” she asked coldly.

“I'm going with you,” he replied doggedly, his eyes narrow on her face. “You may need help with your grandfather.”

That had occurred to her, too, but she didn't want Rourke's help and she said so.

“Hate me, if it helps,” he said, staring down at her without flinching. “But I'm coming in.”

She turned and unlocked the door.

She didn't have to tell anyone what had happened. Granddad was on the floor, groaning and clutching his chest, and Mack was bending over him with a tiny white pill.

“It was on the news about Clay,” Mack said, tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked helplessly at Rourke instead of Becky. “Granddad had a spell and fell down. I can't get the pill in him!”

“Oh, no,” Becky whimpered. “Oh, no!”

Rourke took her by the arms and eased her gently down on the sofa. He had a feeling she was at the end of her rope.

He knelt beside Mack and took the pill from him. “Come on, Mr. Cullen,” he said quietly, lifting the old man and propping him against his knee. “Come on, you have to have your medicine.”

“Let me die,” the old man groaned.

“Like hell I will,” Rourke said gruffly. “Come on. Get this under your tongue.”

Granddad opened his eyes and glared at Rourke even as he grimaced with the pain. “Damn you!” he whispered.

“Damn me, by all means, but take the pill. Here.”

Amazingly, the old man did as he was told. He took the small pill and tucked it under his tongue, grimacing with even the slight movement of his hand that was required. Rourke didn't move him immediately. He asked Mack to fetch a cushion, and he elevated the old man's head and chest.

“Just lie there and breathe,” Kilpatrick said curtly. “I'll phone for an ambulance.”

“Don't need that,” Granddad gasped. “It will pass.”

“You and I both know that it should have passed already,” Rourke said, meeting the tired, pain-filled eyes. “Nitroglycerin acts instantly. My uncle had angina pectoris.”

“I won't go!”

“Hell, yes, you will,” Kilpatrick said doggedly. He walked to the phone and lifted the receiver.

Becky was numb—so numb that she couldn't even protest. An ambulance and a hospital bill were nothing. What was the fine for narcotics possession—something like fifty thousand dollars? Compared to that, the hospital and ambulance together were chicken feed. She'd have to sell the farm and her car and have her wages garnisheed to even afford a lawyer for Clay, much less absorb the fine and Granddad's doctor bill. She began to laugh hysterically.

“I'm sorry, Becky.” The voice came from a long way off. She felt the sting of a hand on her cheek and sat erect, holding her face.

Rourke was kneeling just in front of her. “Hang on,” he said quietly. “Everything will be all right. Don't start worrying about it tonight. I'll take care of it.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, and at the moment she meant it.

“I know,” he said softly, humoring her. “Just sit there and try not to think.”

He got to his feet, pausing to put a comforting arm around Mack before he went back to sit beside Granddad.

It seemed to take forever for the ambulance to come. Rourke let the paramedics in and waited while they did the necessary things before they loaded Granddad into the ambulance and sped away toward Curry Station General.

“Somebody has to go with him,” Becky protested weakly.

“You can go and see him in the morning. I've told the paramedics the circumstances and they'll inform your family doctor. You need rest,” he said firmly. “Go to bed.”

“Mack,” she managed as Rourke got her to her feet.

“I'll take care of Mack. Get in there.”

She went into the bedroom and put on her gown, too ashamed to look at herself as she did it, because she didn't want to see the faint marks Rourke had left on her. She thought she'd die of shame every time she remembered what she'd let him do. And she deserved to, she told herself angrily. Stupid woman. Why hadn't she realized that he was only seeing her to get to Clay? Granddad had even warned her, but had she listened? No! She was too flattered by his attention. All he'd wanted was Clay's head in a noose, and she'd given it to him, fool that she was. Her brother was going to be in jail for the rest of his life, and it would be her fault.

She cried until her eyes and nose were red. Then she slept. By the time Rourke went in to see about her, she was sound asleep, her long hair spread out on her pillow.

He looked down at her with aching tenderness.
Such a gentle, sweet woman to be so passionate and generous in bed,
he thought, sighing. She was everything he'd ever wanted in a woman. But it was going to take some work to convince her of that after tonight. He shook his head, foreseeing anguish ahead.

He closed her bedroom door and went back to get Mack to bed.

“Stop brooding,” he told the boy, hugging him. “You probably saved his life, although I don't expect you to believe that now. Will you and Becky be all right if I leave? I want to make sure your grandfather's settled and stable. I'll phone if there are any complications.”

“You don't have to do that,” Mack said.

Rourke put his lean hands on Mack's thin shoulders, and looked down at him with quiet determination. “Mack, Becky's the only family I have now. She hates my guts, and maybe I deserved it, but I can't leave her to face this alone.'

Mack nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

Rourke shrugged. “Lock the door after me. Then go to sleep. No late movies. Becky's going to need all the help she can get in the morning.”

“I'll help all I can. Good night, Mr. Kilpatrick.”

“Good night.”

Rourke walked out to his car and lit another cigar, feeling tired and wounded. It had been one hell of a night, and it was just beginning.

He went by the hospital to make sure that Granddad was settled and spoke to the attending physician.

“I can't tell you how he'll do,” the doctor said curtly. “He's old and he doesn't have much strength left. If he makes it past the next seventy-two hours, there's hope. But I'll need to run tests and keep him in for several days, and that's going to hurt Becky's budget. The old man is too young for Medicare, and he doesn't have any hospitalization insurance.”

“I'll take care of the bill,” Rourke said easily. “Or the major part of it,” he added with a grin. “Enough to make Becky think she's holding up her end.”

The doctor stared at him. “You're the district attorney, aren't you?”

Rourke nodded.

“I heard on the news that Becky's brother was arrested. You'll be prosecuting him, I guess?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Tough break for you. For the whole family. Those Cullens are tough, and the old man's as honest as a dollar. So is Becky. I'm sorry for them.”

“So am I,” Rourke said quietly. “Becky will be in tomorrow to see about her grandfather. Tonight, she's had just about all she can take.”

“I can imagine. Yes, I can imagine she has.”

And he doesn't know half of it,
Rourke thought. He drove back home with his heart feeling like lead in his chest. Of all the damned stupid things to do, he hadn't taken any precautions—none at all. Neither had Becky. Now she had the threat of pregnancy to add to all this, because he'd lost his head and given in to his need of her.

The fact that she'd given in, too didn't help his conscience. She'd hate them both when she woke up. She'd hate him most of all because she thought he was using her to get to Clay. That might have been true in the beginning, but not now. He'd made love to her because he loved her, because he wanted the oneness that came from two souls joining. It had been the most exquisite experience of his life, and he'd told Becky that he loved her. She'd said she loved him, too, but maybe she'd only said it to appease her conscience, to assuage her guilt at giving in to desire. Women were odd creatures—they needed excuses for having sex. He'd never needed one, but this time he had an extreme one—he was crazy about her.