Authors: Lisa Jackson
Water lapped. The wind sighed. Dark desire stole through her veins. She leaned forward. Closing her eyes, she wrapped her fingers around his neck, drew his head down to hers and molded her mouth to his. She parted her lips and he groaned, moved against her, pushing his legs between hers, stretching the seams of her skirt as his tongue plunged past her teeth.
He was hard, and hot, his muscles straining as he kissed her.
Don’t do this, Sam, don’t go this far…you don’t know him…
He found the curve of her neck and nipped.
Inside she pulsed, wanting, feeling the buttons of her blouse slipping open, the air against her bare skin, the feel of his lips and teeth against her breast as his hands slipped beneath the waistband of her skirt, probing, touching, hot fingertips against her bare skin.
She throbbed for him, her fingers scraping off his shirt, her hand on the fly of his jeans as he pulled her onto the deck. He was breathing hard, his hands and lips everywhere, and she couldn’t stop.
A dim thought that he could be the person terrorizing her sizzled through her mind, but was quickly gone, lost in his musky scent and the taste of salt upon his skin. His hands were everywhere, stripping, touching, caressing, finding erotic spots on her body she hadn’t known existed.
“You want me,” he said, as her fingers slid down the tense hard muscles of his arms.
“No…” she could barely get the words out as he unhooked her bra and slid it off her shoulders. “You…you want me.”
“Mmmm.” He kissed her breast, his teeth scraping her
nipple. She writhed. Perspiration covered her skin. “You want me.”
“No—”
“Yes.” He lowered his lips, kissed the other nipple. Harder. Nipping. She arched again, felt the warm moistness between her legs.
Squirming beneath him, hot and wanting, she closed her eyes. Her blood thundered, her body ached for him.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered, one hand sliding beneath her skirt to her calf.
“Oh, God,” she cried, as he kissed her abdomen and his fingers caressed her calf, climbing higher, past her knee, bunching her skirt as his tongue rimmed her navel. She couldn’t breathe, could only arch, anticipating, wanting, pulsing for him.
“Let go, Samantha,” he breathed against her skin and tugged at the waistband of her skirt with his teeth.
She was so hot…so hot…and his hand crept ever upward, blunt fingertips skimming her inner thigh, hot breath warming her abdomen. The back of her throat was dry as a desert and she moved restlessly beneath him.
“Let go, I’m here,” he promised, his words pressed against her skin, her fingers holding his head fast as he reached the elastic of her panties and pushed them to the side, giving him just enough room to probe with his fingers.
“Oooh,” she whispered, clawing his hair. “Ohhhhh, Ty.”
“That’s it, Samantha.”
She moved with him, lifting her hips, gasping for air.
Still touching he lifted his head and found her lips, kissing her hard as his fingers worked their magic. Faster. Deeper. Harder.
“I don’t think…I…I…”
She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, and she ached
for more…so much more. “Ty…Oh, God…Ty…” She moved with him, kissing him, clinging to him, her fingers digging into his bare back as the first explosion came in a blinding rush. She convulsed, but he didn’t stop, kept kneading her, didn’t allow her to relax. The heat built again. Hotter.
“You want me,” he whispered into her ear.
“Yes. Damn it, yes.” She scrabbled at the fly of his jeans, yanked hard. With a series of pops the denim parted. He groaned as her fingers surrounded him. He kicked off his shoes and Levi’s in a swift motion, then pushed her legs apart with his knees.
“You…you want me…” she said, looking up in the darkness, barely able to make out his face in the starlight.
“More than you’ll ever know, darlin’.” His mouth cut off any other thoughts as he thrust hard into her and held her fast, pinning her to the deck with his body, pushing against her, holding her as if he’d never let go. Heat seared through her again and again.
More,
she thought wildly,
I want more
as the tempo increased. His breathing was as shallow as hers, his body straining, muscled thighs pressing hard. She heard a wild moan echoing through the night, not realizing it was her own voice. She collapsed, drained, and he reached beneath her, rotating until she was atop him, her flushed skin cooling as the wind touched it.
Strong hips moved beneath her. Big hands covered her breasts, kneading and moving. She caught his rhythm, pushing down on his shoulders with her palms, breathing in the fresh moist air of the lake, the heat in her building again.
The wind tore at her hair and she looked down into the dark, secretive eyes of this man who had become her lover, this man she barely knew, and her fingers clenched in his shoulder muscles.
He drew in a quick sharp breath and then stiffened within her, the cords of his neck straining, his mouth drawn back as he released. Samantha spasmed, her entire body convulsing as she fell against him, lost to the night, lost to the world, lost to this man she knew better than to trust.
God help me.
What have I done?
As the first rays of light streamed through the tiny porthole over the bed, Ty Wheeler called himself every kind of fool.
Samantha was lying tangled in the sheets, her dark red hair mussed, her eyes closed, her breathing regular. Sometime last night, he’d carried her to the berth. They’d made love long into the morning hours and he had short, lightning-swift images of her body, supple and lean, lying beneath him or straddling him. She’d been playful and sexy and coy as hell, a lover like no other. His skin sheened with perspiration at the thought of her, the taste of her, the pure, raw, animal she was.
And after it all, they’d both fallen asleep exhausted.
Ty had sworn to himself he wouldn’t get involved, that he had to remain objective, and yet he’d thrown caution to the winds last night and ended up in bed with her. Now, as he heated water on a hot plate, he called himself the worst kind of idiot.
She stirred, moving her lips and sighing in her sleep, and he craved her all over again.
One green eye slitted open. “What’re you staring at?” she asked, stretching lazily, pushing one fist over her head until she touched the wall.
“You.”
“And I must look like hell.” She propped up on one elbow, careful to keep the coverlet over her breasts. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
Groaning, she said, “And we’re awake…why?”
“Because we’re in the middle of the lake and people on the shore, people who might see us are getting up. I’m making coffee.”
“Strong coffee, I hope.” she qualified.
“Guaranteed to put hair on your chest.”
“Just what I need,” she muttered.
He winked at her. “Believe me, your chest is just fine.”
“Yeah, well, about that…about last night…I think we should talk about it.”
“Women always do.”
“We have our reasons.” She shook her head. “I mean we need to discuss the fact that we didn’t exactly engage in safe sex, and I don’t know much about you. For all I know you could have a wife and a dozen kids tucked away somewhere.”
“There are no children, no wife, and not even a fiancée in my life. I haven’t been involved with a woman for over a year, and I’m clean. Believe it or not, I am usually a lot more careful myself.”
“Me too.”
“What about you?” he asked, and was surprised that it mattered, that he cared if she was in a relationship of any kind.
“I did have a boyfriend until about half a year ago, but
when I moved to New Orleans, things fell apart.” She sighed and stared up at him with those incredible green eyes. “We went to Mexico together last month, but nothing came of it. He wanted to get back together, but it didn’t happen.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very.” She tilted her head to the side. “Now, was I dreaming, or did you say you made me coffee?”
“That I did. It’s instant. I can make it as strong as you want.”
“Good enough.”
“Then I think we’d better head back.” The “galley” was little more than a hot plate in this single room. He pulled out a jar of Folgers crystals and added steaming water to two cups.
“Ty—?”
“Yeah?” Pausing, he looked over his shoulder. She was still holding the blankets around herself, her shoulders bare, looking sexy as hell.
“I just want you to know that I don’t usually…” She glanced around the tiny cabin before meeting his eyes again. “…I’m not a woman who sleeps with men I don’t really know.” She shoved her hair from her face with one hand. “I don’t know what got into me last night.”
“You found me irresistible,” he said, and flashed her that devastating, irreverent smile before measuring coffee into two paper cups.
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said sarcastically but couldn’t deny the truth therein. She’d acted completely out of character—or had she? There had always been a part of her that had wanted to walk close to the edge, take a step on the wild side, be more like her brother. Peter had never played by the rules. Never.
And it had cost him.
Once their mother had died and he no longer had a source of income, he’d disappeared, only surfacing occasionally,
usually broke and full of wild tales about his life that Sam didn’t believe. No one could con a person better than her brother.
She found her skirt. Wrinkled beyond repair. Too bad. Mentally chastising herself, she scrambled into her clothes. She couldn’t even blame her actions on the wine. Yes, she’d been tired, and strung tight, relieved to find him on her porch, but to just throw all her good judgment, brains and morals out the window wasn’t like her. They’d never discussed past lovers, safe sex, the emotional ties that being sexually involved with someone brings. If one of her listeners were to call in and admit that they’d fallen into bed with a near stranger on a
dare,
by playing some silly kids’ game not unlike spin the bottle, Dr. Sam would have read that caller the riot act.
She’d just stood and zipped her skirt when Ty turned, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. “Here you go, Sunshine,” he said, handing her a cup. “Now, I think I’d better go topside and we’d better shove off. Oh—one more thing.” He touched the rim of his cup to hers, as if toasting. “Here’s to Truth or Dare.” Laughter danced in his eyes, and she felt a tug on her heart.
He took a sip and started for the stairs. “Maybe next time we can play Post Office.”
“Or Spin the Bottle.”
“Or Doctor.”
“You know them all,” she accused as she followed him to the deck, where the wind had kicked up and only a few rays of sunlight had pierced the thick cover of clouds. Ty worked quickly, pulling up anchor, unfurling the sails and guiding the sloop across the gray water. The ride was rougher this morning, coffee sloshed as Sam tried to drink it and maintain balance. She recognized the shoreline of Cambrai
as they approached, smiled as she picked out her house with its sun-bleached dock, stately live oaks and vibrant bougainvillea trailing across the roofline over the verandah. “So tell me about your book,” she said, as he slowed and lowered the sails. “What did you tell Melanie it was?
The Horse Whisperer
meets—”
“’
—Silence Of The Lambs.
It was a joke. Actually I’m writing about some cases I dealt with as a cop.”
“You were a police officer?” she asked, surprised. “In one of my former lifetimes.”
“So your book is actually true crime?” He hesitated. “More like fiction based on fact.” Easing the craft into shallower water, he frowned, and she sensed there was something he wasn’t telling her, something secret. “So, how’s it coming?”
“Okay, I guess. I’ve come across a couple of obstacles, but I’m working through them.”
Vague. “Where were you a cop?” she asked.
“Texas.”
“A Ranger?”
“Detective. Grab that line, would you?” He motioned to a coil of rope, and he set out the bumpers so that the sloop wouldn’t scrape against the wood of the dock, then tied up. “I’ll walk you inside.”
“You don’t have to. I’m fine. This is my house, and it’s broad daylight.”
“I’d just feel better about it,” he said, and was already striding toward the back porch, not listening to any arguments she could come up with. The French doors were unlocked, just as they’d left them, the alarm system not activated. Samantha hadn’t thought about it the night before, had been too caught up in Ty and hadn’t really expected to be gone for any length of time.
She’d been wrong, she realized too late.
Charon was hiding beneath a dining-room chair, and there was something odd about the house…something that didn’t feel right.
Samantha’s scalp prickled. “Maybe I’m just tired, but I think…I mean I feel that someone’s been in here.” She caught a glimpse of herself in the beveled glass mirror over the sideboard, saw her disheveled image, realized she’d only had a few hours’ sleep. “Maybe I’m imagining things.”
Ty caught her glance in the glass. His eyes were dark; his beard-shadowed jaw suddenly rock-hard. “Let’s check.”
Telling herself she was overreacting, she checked the first floor and found nothing wrong, not one thing out of place, and yet the house had a different smell, the atmosphere seemed off. They climbed the stairs together, the floorboards creaking, the fans whirring as she stepped into her bedroom.
She sensed something wasn’t quite right…that there was something amiss, but no one was in the bedroom, nor her bath. They checked every room and closet, but the house was empty. Still.
“I guess I’m imagining things,” she said, unconvinced as they walked downstairs again and Charon slid from beneath the dining-room table.
“You’ll be okay?” Ty asked.
“Yes. Of course.” This was her house, damn it, and she wasn’t going to feel unsafe in her own home.
“Keep your doors locked, your alarm on.”
“Okay, I will,” she promised as they walked outside. The day was clearer, the clouds beginning to thin, heat intensifying and shimmering across the water.