Millionaire M.D. (13 page)

Winona stopped trying to talk. She was just listening. Hard.

“The complications just keep coming. For one thing, the last thing we want to do is publicly accuse anyone from Asterland or Obersbourg of stealing the jewels. Now that those two countries have finally achieved an uneasy peace, we don't want to fire up tempers again, or risk an international incident. But that means that the investigation into the jewel theft—and Riley Monroe's murder—needs to be done quietly. And tougher than that…” Justin stood up with an impatient sigh and rolled his shoulders.

“…tougher than that…is that the Texas Cattleman's Club has kept the jewels a secret for generations now. For a good
cause. We were able to keep our little expeditions and missions quiet, for the same reason. If we blow our cover, we blow our ability to help people—at least in the private ways we've been able to do in the past. If the truth about the jewels has to come out, then that's the way it is. But we'd rather it didn't get out. It would be different if we were just positive there was a connection between the plane crash and Riley's murder and the jewel theft. We're not. We don't know that. We don't know
anything
for sure. Not right now.”

Finally she could see where he was leading. “Okay. You're obviously telling me this for a reason. What do you need me to do?”

In the intimacy of firelight, his gaze seemed to glow and soften on her face. “Win…I don't like putting you on the spot. But until we sort this out, we need someone we can trust inside the police force. Someone who can help us evaluate what facts go where, help us keep things quiet that don't have to be public. Someone, for that matter, who can brainstorm with us over the clues we've got going…I don't mean that the police chief would be unaware of what we're asking you. But he's not our man, because there'd be nothing but a conflict of interest problem for him. We need someone else. Someone who's judgment we trust. Whose integrity we trust. We need the kind of person who everyone felt we could be comfortably and completely honest with—”

“Justin—?”

“What?”

She surged to her feet.

W
inona wanted to wildly shake her head, as if to make absolutely positive that she'd heard him correctly. “You trust
me?
”

Justin had been pacing back and forth in front of the hearth, but now he stopped still, his brow furrowing. “Of course I trust you. What kind of question is that?” He hesitated. “The only worry I have is about putting you on the spot, Win. It's not fair. There's no reason you should feel obligated to help the Texas Cattleman's Club. This is their problem. My problem. I'm the one who brought your name up, and I should have been thinking about how this could affect you. At the time, the only issue on my mind was coming up with someone whose integrity and judgment I didn't question—and that's how all the guys felt, too. You just seemed the perfect one for us to ask. Everyone said the same thing. We all trust you, we all knew we could be comfortable and honest with…”

He abruptly stopped talking as if distracted by her sudden,
swift charging across the room toward him. Maybe she was just stumbling across the Oriental carpet, but she felt as if she were flying. As if her heart had taken flight and had the power to soar. Toward him.

There seemed to be a lump in her throat the size of…well, the size of wonder. Most of her life, she'd been careful not to react to anything impulsively. It's not as if she could ever completely forget that she'd been a throwaway kid, an abandoned child. She'd always felt that she had to carefully earn other people's regard.

And she had. Winona had long learned to value herself. She knew she was an especially good cop and did a great job with the kids. She knew that she was respected, well liked in the community—and that she'd earned respect. But she hadn't specifically realized that she had Justin's trust and regard in that way.

Someone who she valued.

Someone who she loved—even if she'd been scared witless of allowing that four-letter word to surface in her heart before now.

It mattered. It mattered like she couldn't remember anything, ever, mattering this much before. And when she launched herself into Justin's arms, he responded with a
whoomph.
Possibly he wasn't anticipating a rib-crunching hug at that instant. Possibly he wasn't expecting a hard-ball pitch of a human female from across the room. Possibly he wasn't prepared for the trembling, hard smash of her lips against his.

But it couldn't have taken him three seconds—maybe less—to figure it all out. Before she'd realized how impulsively she'd reacted, his arms had balanced her—against him—and they were both glued in a lip-lock. The fire shimmered. Shadows whispered on the walls. The night seemed to surround them in a special, private silence.

He kissed her, then kissed her again and again, as if years had gone by since the last time. As if he'd only barely sur
vived since those last kisses. As if the taste of her were all he needed to sustain life.

But it wasn't all she needed. Before, she'd thought it was a fluke, the incomprehensible wildness she felt with Justin. The letting-go. The freeing. The need trammeling up and down her nerves like a clattering train, gaining momentum with every motion. Her hands touched, scraped, caressed, clenched. She tilted her head, taking in his last kiss, then leaned into him to give one of her own.

She had been wearing jeans and a chambray shirt, but not for long. She pushed at his long T-shirt in a frenzy, seeking skin, more playground to explore and touch. After his shirt skimmed over his head, Justin seemed to be slower than molasses, as he unbuttoned her blouse, one button at a time, his lips tracking the path from the hollow of her throat to the crest above her breasts, down to the shadow between. And then his hands were inside, his big warm fingers splayed to caress the span of her waist as he pushed the shirt out of his way. His mouth ducked again, this time to the rim of her bra.

Her breath sucked in, like a lost wave, her lungs scrabbling for oxygen that couldn't seem to be found. She saw his eyes opening, then closing, his face aiming toward her for another kiss, this time on her lips again, this time taking her tongue and her teeth in a kiss that started out sweet and ended up wicked.

By the time he'd pushed the shirt off her shoulders, he'd kissed her shoulders awake as if they were erogenous zones in themselves, and then her shirt snagged at the wrists because of the tight wrist buttons. He smiled—clearly liking that her hands were trapped. Within a millisecond he'd found the catch for her bra, and her breasts tumbled into his hands, her heartbeat tumbling just as fast, just as much in his power, and he took advantage by bending down and skimming her tight, vulnerable nipple with the edge of his teeth.

She'd invited this explosion. She wanted it. But when he
surged back up for another wicked kiss—the bad kind, the scary kind, the kind that took her tongue and her breath and tasted all her secrets—she was quivering like a leaf in a wild spring storm. Justin sensed it, lifted his head, studied her face with liquid dark eyes.

“There's nothing we're ever doing, Win, that you don't want.”

“I want this. I want you.”

But now he hesitated as if he meant it. “I need you to be sure you want this. Yeah, I'll stop if you say, but I'm really, really gonna be unhappy if we go any further and you
don't
want this. It's all right. Whatever you want is all right, but I don't think you came here believing we were going to do anything like this.”

“Maybe I didn't expect it. But I know exactly what I want. And it's you.” He didn't get it. Didn't get how much his trust meant to her; his respect. How much something he'd so freely given her, without even having to think, had turned an emotional corner in her heart that simply would never turn back again. She framed his face, kissed him again, this time softer, this time with the “please” buried inside it.

“Well, that's it,” he said hoarsely. “You're in trouble now.”

“Oh? Is that a promise or a warning?”

“A promise,” he said thickly. He pulled off the rest of her shirt. “And I always keep my promises, Win.”

A thrill whispered up her spine, an excitement that both embarrassed and unnerved her. The thing was, she believed him. And suddenly she wasn't so sure of the situation or him—or of herself. He left the lights on, the wood fire blazing, but he was suddenly kissing her in a way that made her walk backward, propelling her out into the dark hall.

“Where are we going?”

“I think making love with you by the fire'd be outstanding—another time. On the pool table might be another terrific
idea. Another time. But the first time, I want you on a big, hard mattress.”

“Um…”

“Cat got your tongue, Winona?”

He was unnerving her, and he knew it. Liked it. She wasn't afraid of anything. Never had been. She'd faced down strung-out kids and brutalizing adults and even, as a child, stood up every time she was afraid—partly because there'd never been any other choice; she'd only had herself to depend on and she'd learned courage from doing just that. But somehow, right then, she was afraid of him.

Not that he'd hurt her.

Never that.

This fear was a curious thing, elemental, sharp. Thrills and adrenaline kept scissoring up her nerves, electrifying her hormones, charging heat through her whole body. She wanted to dive off this cliff. She wanted to soar without a parachute. She wanted this high-speed chase.

She wanted him.

She was just scared. Of something she couldn't name, wasn't sure of. But when she kissed him, the fear ebbed back. And when she kissed him hard, mindlessly, putting her whole self into it, the fear became something so much fun that she never wanted it to go away.

Her shoulder grazed the stucco wall in the hall. Then a doorjamb. There was no way to recognize anything in his bedroom—not just because she'd never been in there, but because he didn't seem to remember to turn on a light. She had a sense of a long narrow room, lots of space, a chill from a window cracked open. She caught scents—sandalwood and leather. She caught sights because of certain objects shining in the darkness—his metal four-poster bed, a mirror over the bureau reflecting the star-spangled night, his shadow and hers moving past it.

The room was part of him. His. But the textures spinning spells around her were his whiskery cheek, his smooth naked
shoulders, the liquid heat pouring off his skin, the silk of his mouth and more of those deep, dark, wicked kisses.

He opened a bedside drawer in the dark, took something out, slammed the drawer. “I'd love your babies, Win. I'd love to make half a dozen with you. But this night, I don't want anyone in this bed—any thought on your mind—but how much trouble you're in. And what I want to do to you.”

“What
do
you want to do to me?” she asked weakly.

“Love you. Like I've wanted to love you for a long, long time.”

She felt a keening inside. A caving in. Maybe he didn't mean it. A grown-up woman should know better than to believe a man's words of passion…but she did believe him. She felt the truth in his eyes, felt the emotion in his touch and his voice. And that was the last coherent thought she had.

The rest of their clothes peeled off, pushed off. Jeans, socks. Cold air rushed on her bare skin, raising gooseflesh, but then his tongue and mouth covered that gooseflesh, searing kisses everywhere, anywhere. Her elbow, her ribs, the insides of her thighs…oh my, no one had ever kissed the insides of her thighs.

It was payback time. She rolled on top of him, letting him know who was in charge now. In response, she heard his throaty laughter in the darkness, more whispered love words, the hint of more wicked promises glinting in those eyes. He was delighted with her. That's what he'd have her believe. That he cherished, exulted in her letting loose and losing control.

Her being abandoned.

With him.

Finally they were both completely naked. He pulled her hands over her head, stretching them, so that the feeling of length to length was exquisitely intimate, breast to chest, belly to belly, her pelvis rocking against his aching hardness. The thrill wasn't so much fun now. Need started biting at her
heels, want gnawing at the lonesome, empty place inside her. “Justin. Come to me,” she said urgently.

“I don't want you to forget this.”

“I couldn't forget this in a hundred million years.”

“I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and think, aw hell, I'm not sure this was such a good idea.”

“There's no way I'll regret this. I promise.”

“I want this right for you, Winona. I mean it. We can make it right. The two of us—we can make anything right. I know you're not used to the idea of us being together—”

Holy horsefeathers…and they said women talked. She swiveled around and then bent down, thinking that words alone seemed to be completely failing to communicate to him, so she simply had to try another way. She stroked him, then cupped, then leaned even closer. Her caress was tentative because she knew perfectly well this wasn't her personal preference and she wasn't comfortable with it. She understood men liked it; it just wasn't the sort of thing that personally sizzled her toenails. But with Justin…

With Justin, none of the old rules seemed to apply. Different things were true with him, because she didn't seem to be herself. This wasn't just about herself. It was about love. And giving. And the more she tasted, and stroked, and learned him, the more inspired she became by his body's intense and volatile response to her. She heard him groan. Then she heard him growl. She gestured with a hand, trying to say, this was her party and she'd do what she wanted to…but, of course, it was dark, and he likely couldn't see the gesture.

When she failed to respond to his verbal entreaties, though, she suddenly found herself lifted in midair and smooshed into that nice, big, hard mattress again. She vaguely remembered thinking the room was cool before. Now she wondered if his furnace wasn't disastrously malfunctioning. Heaven knew there was a blazing conflagration in his eyes.

“Did you want this over before we even got started?” he demanded.

“Well, no. But I was having a good time. And since I'm the guest, I think you should do the polite thing and let me do what I want.”

“How about if I let you do what you want for the next ten years, but I get my way tonight?”

“Hmm. Well, on the surface, that sounds like a pretty good deal…but the more I'm with you, Justin, the more I'm getting the impression that possibly I could get my way all the time.”

“Oh, all right,” he agreed. And kissed her. Then took her. She couldn't have been more ready for him, yet she was still snug, the fit still tight, and he speared slowly inside that soft, private nest, easing in until his shaft was completely inside her. Colors of sensation washed behind her closed eyes. Sparks of fire seemed to ignite along her nerve endings.

“Justin…” The teasing was gone from her voice. Her belly was filled with him now, yet only ached more fiercely, seeking completion.

As he did. He began a rocking cadence that shook the bed, the room, her universe…whether she rode him or he rode her, Winona could neither keep straight nor cared, but this was a galloping song, a rhythmic race as pagan and pure as exhilaration and joy. “I love you, Win. Love you,” he whispered, and then tipped her over the edge into oblivion.

In the dark, afterward, it seemed hours before her lungs could remember that complicated task about inhaling and exhaling. She didn't want to breathe normally. She didn't feel normal. She hooked up on an elbow and just looked at her lover in the dark, savoring everything she saw. The lustrous dampness on his skin, so like hers. The dark satisfaction in his eyes, that had to be reflected in hers. His mouth, as swollen from her kisses as hers was from his.

He lay there, wasted, at least until he opened an eye and realized that she was wide-awake and studying him. She felt
fingertips grazing her jaw. “Did I tell you how beautiful you are?”