Authors: Nora Roberts
“I’ve got a seven-thirty meeting with the prosecutor to go over everything
again. We’ll have an arraignment, bail hearing. I expect they’ll cut Justin and the others loose until trial. I don’t figure he’ll go for a plea straight off. Maybe, once it gets closer, maybe if the lawyers don’t screw it up. The Conroys are just mad enough to go for a civil suit on top of it. I won’t be discouraging that. It’s time the pressure came from the other side.”
“Then you know what you have to do and how to do it. Are they violent?”
“The kid likes to bust things up.”
“I meant could or would they try to hurt you or your friend’s family? Using violence as intimidation.”
“Can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t go there. Money’s Blake’s weapon of choice.”
Abigail considered. “I don’t believe they can have you fired.”
“Don’t you?”
“Objectively, your family is a fixture in the community. Liked and respected. You’re also liked and respected in your own right. I assume as a multigenerational business family, with a key property in the community, your friend and his family are also valued. Their property was damaged through reckless and selfish behavior, so sympathy and outrage will be on their side. Those things are also weapons. Extrapolating from what you’ve said tonight, I’d posit that the Blakes are somewhat feared but not well liked. There are likely many people in the community who’d be pleased if the son is punished for his actions.”
“Extrapolating. Now, how can you use words like that and still manage to make me feel a whole hell of a lot better?”
“Did I?”
This time he laid a hand over hers and left it there. “You were right about the sad. I was, and pissed off, and frustrated, and we’ll have to toss in a dash of feeling sorry for myself. Now I’m down to sorry and mad with a whole fat scoop of looking forward to kicking some ass—legally speaking.”
“That’s good?”
“It’s real good.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I should go.”
“I wish you’d stay.”
He turned her hand over so their fingers linked. “Thank God.”
“We should go to bed.”
“Two minds, one thought.”
“It’s late,” she said, as she rose to gather the tea things. “You’re tired. And, I think, still a little sad. Sex releases endorphins, so for the short term you’d feel …” She trailed off when she turned and found him grinning at her.
“I’m half in love with you,” he told her, “and heading fast toward three-quarters.”
Something inside her burst like sunlight before it flooded away on a rise of panic. “Don’t do that.”
“I don’t think it’s something you do or don’t. It’s something that happens or doesn’t.”
“It’s a mixture of sexual and physical attraction, along with novelty and the tension between mutual interests and conflicts of interest. People often mistake hormonal reaction and certain compatibilities for what they think of as love.”
He continued to smile as he got to his feet, but something about the glint in his eyes had her taking a cautious step back as he walked to her.
He put his hands on her shoulders, lowered his head to brush his lips over hers. He said, “Hush,” and kissed her again. “You don’t want to tell me what I feel or don’t, or I might click back up to pissed off. We don’t want that, do we?”
“No, but—”
“Hush,” he repeated, with his lips whispering against hers. “Pretty Abigail, so full of suspicion and intellect. And nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Nerves,” he repeated, skimming his thumbs along the sides of her
breasts while his mouth continued to toy with hers. Rubbing, brushing, grazing. “When you’re not quite sure what’s next, when you haven’t worked out all the steps, or there’s a little detour. I like the nerves.”
“Why?”
“And I like the curious why.” He tugged her shirt up and off, watching the surprise—and, yeah, just a few nerves—flicker in her eyes. “I like knowing you haven’t figured it—me, this—all out.” His hands glided up her sides, over her breasts, down. “Action and reaction, right? I like your reactions.”
There were nerves, she admitted. They seemed to slither along her skin, under it, coil in her belly, squeeze around her heart to increase the beat. Everything inside her body felt soft, then sharp, loose then tangled. How could she keep up?
“We should go upstairs.”
She felt his lips curve against her throat, and his fingers trail up her back. “Why?” he murmured, and flicked open the catch of her bra. “I like your kitchen.” He shifted his feet, toeing off his shoes. “It’s warm. And efficient. I love the way you feel under my hands. Abigail.”
She fell into the kiss, headfirst, a breathless tumble that left her dizzy and weak. Seduction. Though she’d never allowed herself to be seduced—it was unnecessary—her mind recognized the sensation. And her body surrendered to it.
Craving the feel of his skin, his muscles, his bones, she shot her hands under his shirt, found the warm, the solid, the smooth. Her breath caught on a gasp when he hitched her up so she sat on her own kitchen counter. Before the shock of that had fully registered, his mouth closed over her breast.
So hot, so wet, so strong, she let out a quick cry of stunned pleasure. Later she would think the orgasm that shot through her was as much a result of the shock as the sensation. But now it caught her unprepared, left her shuddering and defenseless.
“Brooks.” She wanted to tell him to wait, to wait until she steadied herself, but his mouth was on hers again, taking her under so fast, so deep, she could only shudder and yield.
She’d never been taken before, he realized. Not like this, where her surrender was complete, not when she couldn’t separate some small part of herself to reach for control.
And God, he wanted to take her, to destroy that fascinating and innate control.
He yanked down her zipper and, half lifting her, peeled the jeans away. Giving her no time to recover, he closed his mouth over hers again, swallowing her instinctive protest. He stroked her, teasing and gentle. She was already hot, already wet, already balanced on the edge. He wanted her to ride that, hold that sensation until it overwhelmed and overcame.
He wanted to watch her as she did.
The air, so thick and sweet, made her feel drunk with every breath. The pleasure he brought her was so complete, so absolute, she seemed trapped in it, mired and steeped. He caught her nipple between his teeth, bringing her to an exquisite point just bordering on pain while he stroked that heat higher.
When she thought she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t contain it, everything went bright and free. She heard herself moan, the long, long throaty sound of it as her head dropped heavily on his shoulder.
She wanted to twine around him, curl inside him, but he angled her back, wrapped her trembling legs around his waist. And drove into her.
Fresh shock, fresh pleasure. Hard and fast and furious. A rising flood churning into the wild sweep of a tidal wave. He dragged her through it, drowned her in it, until that violent wave tossed her to the surface. She could only float there, wrecked, until he joined her.
Now, gradually, she felt his heart hammering against hers, and the rags of his breath tearing at her ear. She felt the smooth surface of the counter under her, the dazzle of the kitchen lights against her closed lids.
She needed a moment or two, just a moment or two to find her balance again, then she could—
He shocked her again when he scooped her off the counter, into his arms.
“You don’t have to—”
“Hush,” he said yet again, and carried her upstairs to bed.
S
HE CAME DOWN FIRST IN THE MORNING
and could only stop and stare. She’d left the lights on, a careless waste of energy. But she couldn’t seem to get too worked up about it. Clothes scattered the floor, hers and his.
She studied the counter with a kind of baffled wonder. She’d never understood the appeal for sex in odd or unusual places. What was the point when a bed, even a couch would be more comfortable and conducive? Though she did enjoy sex in the shower on occasion.
Obviously she’d been too narrow in her viewpoint, though she wondered how long it might take before she could perform basic kitchen duties with equanimity.
For now, she started the coffee, then gathered up all the clothes, folded them neatly. By the time Brooks came down—naked—she’d set the kitchen to rights and started breakfast.
“Seem to have left my clothes down here.” Obviously amused, he picked up the jeans she’d folded, put them on. “You didn’t have to get up this early, make breakfast.”
“I like getting up early, and don’t mind making breakfast. You have a difficult day ahead. You’ll feel better if you have a meal. It’s just an omelet and some toast.”
When she turned, he’d pulled on his shirt and was looking at her, just looking at her, with those clever, changeable eyes.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“I …” She turned away to pour the coffee. “I don’t know.”
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist loosely, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “Rounding third and headed for home,” he murmured.
“That’s a baseball term. We’re not playing baseball. I don’t know what that means.”
He turned her around, kissed her mouth lightly. “Yes, you do. It’s nothing to get panicked about.” He rubbed at the tension in her shoulders. “We’ll take it easy. What kind of omelets?”
“Three-cheese with some spinach and peppers.”
“Sounds great. I’ll get the toast.”
He moved so easily around her kitchen, as if he belonged there. Panic tickled up her throat again. “I’m not—” How did people put it? “I’m not built for this.”
“For what?”
“For any of this.”
“I am.” He popped bread in the toaster, leaned on the counter. “I wasn’t sure about that, until you. But I’m built for all of this. From my point of view, so are you. So, we’ll see.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
He studied her, nodding slowly. “Maybe not on all the details. Maybe not. But I’m looking at you, Abigail, I’m listening to you, and where it counts, you’re who I think you are.”
“That’s not …” She nearly told him that wasn’t her real name. How could she become this involved, this reckless? “That’s not something you can know.”
“I know that’s not what you were going to say. I’m good at reading people. It comes with the territory. I know you’re scared of something, or someone. You’ve taken a hard hit or two along the way, and done what you can to shield up. Can’t blame you for it.”
Light poured in the window at his back, shot a nimbus around his hair. Dark hair, still tumbled from the night, from her hands.
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“You’ve got a lot of secrets behind your eyes, and a hell of a lot of weight on your shoulders. I’m going to keep believing that one day you’re going to share those secrets and that weight with me, and we’ll figure out the rest once you do.”
She only shook her head, turned away to put the omelets on plates. “We shouldn’t be talking about this, especially now. You’ll be late for your meeting, and I have two new contracts to work on.”
“Congratulations. Why don’t I pick something up for dinner tonight?”
“I have the lasagna.”
“Even better.”
She put the plates down when the toast popped, then sat with a jerk of temper. “I didn’t invite you.”
“We’re past that.”
“I don’t know how to be past that.”
He brought the toast over, set a slice on her plate as he took his seat. “This looks great.”
“You change the subject, or you agree rather than debate. Because you’re so certain you’ll get your way in the end.”
“You’re good at reading people, too.” He took a bite of omelet. “Tastes great. You could make a living.”
“You’re frustrating.”
“I know it, but I make up for it by being so good-looking.”
She didn’t want to smile but couldn’t help it. “You’re not that good-looking.”
He laughed and ate his breakfast.
When he’d gone, she considered her options.
She couldn’t tell him, of course, but hypothetically, what were the probable results if she did?
She was wanted for questioning in the murders of two U.S. Marshals. As a law enforcement official, he’d be obligated to turn her in. It was
highly doubtful she’d live to give testimony. The Volkovs would find a way to get to her and eliminate her, most likely through one of their law enforcement plants.
But, hypothetically again, if Brooks believed her, and believed her life would be forfeit should he do his duty, he would be less inclined to fulfill that duty.
She tried to imagine being able to talk to him about John and Terry, about Julie, and everything that had happened since those horrible nights. She simply couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t theorize on how it might feel to be able to talk to him, to anyone, to share the burden.
He was kind, she thought, and dedicated to justice, to doing the right thing for the right reasons. In many ways, in basic, vital ways, he reminded her of John.
If she told him, if he believed her, he might be, like John, driven to protect her, to help her. And wouldn’t that put his life at risk?
Yet another reason to keep her own counsel, to go on as she’d gone on for a dozen years.
But everything had already changed, she reminded herself. Everything wasn’t as it had been. He’d done that; she’d allowed it.
So if she told him, because the balance had already shifted, she would have to be prepared to go, to run again, change her name again—whether he believed her or not.
Therefore, logically, rationally, she couldn’t tell him. Their relationship would gradually lessen in intensity until the balance shifted back again. Until her life was back to what it had been.
Her conclusions should have made her feel more confident, more calm and certain. Instead, they left her unhappy and unsettled.
T
HE MORNING BUSINESS WENT PRETTY MUCH THE WAY
Brooks had figured, with a few extra points for the good guys.
He’d expected Justin and his idiot pals to make bail, and had calculated the judge would set it high enough to sting a little. He set it high enough to sting a lot.