Shiver (36 page)

“No,” she snapped. With a shrug, Abramowitz retreated back into the den.

After he was out of sight, Marco continued in a soft and urgent voice, “Look, I know this John Romeo, okay? He’s a good guy. You and Tyler will be safe with him.”

“No.” Sam shook her head. The thought of being separated from Marco was making her feel weird. Kind of panicky and—totally resistant to letting it happen. Unreal to think that she now associated being with him with being safe. “I’m not going. We’re not going.”

“I don’t think no’s an option.” Marco’s grip on her hand was warm and strong. It was also, she had little doubt, unbreakable unless and until he wanted to let her go. “Look, Sam—”

He broke off as Tyler called from upstairs, “Mom? Can you come here? I need help.”

Sam kept her eyes fixed on Marco even as she raised her voice to respond to Tyler. “I’ll be right there.”

Marco said, “Everything will be okay, I promise. I need you to trust me on this.”

Sam’s eyes searched his. At what she saw in them, she felt cold all over. “So you really want us to go?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” Sam said, and yanked her hand free from that not-so-unbreakable-after-all grip as Tyler called,
“Mom?”
again.

Without so much as a backward look, conscious of Marco’s eyes on her until she was out of sight, she headed upstairs. She was furiously angry, she realized, and refused to even try to analyze why.

For the next couple of hours, she was busy. She got Tyler to bed without telling him what was getting ready to happen in the morning. That would be because she knew that he would be upset at the idea of leaving “Trey” and she didn’t want to deal with what that might entail, which would almost certainly include but not be limited to his being unable to go to sleep, while her own emotions were in such turmoil. After Tyler was finally asleep, she set out the clothes that they would wear tomorrow, then packed their newly acquired belongings in a trash bag. Not that anybody had said she would be allowed to take said belongings with them, but it didn’t matter; she was determined that she would. Then, finding herself totally wired with sleep the last thing she felt like doing, she went along to the second bathroom and took a long, hot bath. When she emerged from
the bathroom, all rosy and still faintly damp and wrapped in her white bathrobe with her hair twisted into a loose knot on the top of her head, she cast a quick glance down the hall toward Marco’s bedroom. His light, which had been on when she entered the bathroom, was now off.

He had gone to bed. Without even trying to talk to her, to clarify what she’d thought had been building between them, or even to say a private good-bye. Maybe he was hoping to make his good-byes brief and unemotional, and thus was saving them for the rush and confusion of the morning. But, she discovered, she needed more than that.

Sam felt furiously angry all over again. As she stood there in the shadowy hall, glaring at Marco’s dark bedroom door, the reason she was so mad at him hit her.

Once she and Tyler left the town house, they were probably never going to see him again.

Her heart broke at the thought. And the jackass didn’t even seem to care.

Sam couldn’t stand it. No way was she leaving it like this. There was too much unsaid—un-everythinged—between them.

After tonight, she would never get another chance.

Tightening the belt around her waist, shaking her head so the knot of her hair came loose and spilled around her shoulders, she turned, padded down the shadowy hall, and walked through Marco’s open bedroom door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

M
arco was indeed in bed. It took Sam’s eyes a second to adjust to the gloom, but when they did she had no trouble picking out the long, large mound under the covers that was him. If she’d heard snoring, she probably would have killed him there and then and been done with it, but luckily for him she did not. Looking around, she located the switch on the wall, snapped on the light, then blinked at the sudden brightness as a single bedside lamp came on. By its light, she could see him lying on his back with one arm curved beneath his head. He was bare to at least the waist, where the striped blanket that was the top layer of bedclothes ended. Above that, he was all broad shoulders and sinewy muscles and tanned skin against white sheets. Even as she absorbed how absolutely sexy he looked lying there like that she saw that his eyes were open. He was awake and looking at her. That was when the thought hit her that maybe coming into his bedroom like this had been a mistake—okay, coming into his bedroom like this definitely had been a mistake—but she was too mad to care.

“Something wrong?” Sitting up suddenly so that the covers puddled around his hips—he was wearing boxers, and, God, the guy looked good bare-chested!—he reached for the crutches propped beside the bed.

“Oh, yeah.” Sam frowned right back at him. No, scowled was a better word. Then, mindful of Tyler and not wanting to wake him up, and remembering that Abramowitz was downstairs and might even be able to overhear, she closed the door. And locked it, because what she had to say was absolutely private. By the time she strode to the side of his bed, Marco had apparently divined that whatever she wanted did not require him to be up and on crutches, because he’d quit reaching for them and was leaning back against the headboard with his brawny arms folded over his hunky chest, watching her. Planting her fists on her hips, she gave him a ferocious glare and said, “Tomorrow morning, before we leave, you’re going to get up and say goodbye to Tyler. You’ve gone out of your way to make him like you and he’s going to be upset at the idea that we’re leaving you. You’re going to lie to him, do you hear? You’re going to lie and tell him that you’ll be in touch just as soon as all this is over.”

For a moment Marco just looked at her without saying anything. Divining what he was thinking was impossible. She could not read a thing in his face.

“You really think lying to him is a good idea?” he asked mildly.

“Under the circumstances, yes.” By that time Sam was the opposite of mild. She was tense, angry, practically vibrating with hostility. “He has no idea that he’s probably never going to
see you again. If he knew that, it would break his heart.” To her horror, her voice wobbled a little on the last word.

“Sam.” He reached out, caught her hand. “I’m doing my best for you and Tyler here, believe me.”

She jerked her hand away like the warmth of his skin burned her. “You know what? I don’t care. I just don’t want you to hurt Tyler any more than can be helped.” She gave him another of those fierce looks. “So you’re going to lie to him, and later on when he asks about you I’m going to keep on coming up with excuses about why you haven’t been in touch until eventually he forgets all about you. Which he absolutely will do, although it’s going to be a little rough on him until then.”

“I wasn’t going to let you guys go without saying good-bye, you know. And I will be in touch, just as soon as I can.” He was still being mild, and that mildness killed her. Caused her actual, physical pain in the region of her heart. Because, she realized, it meant that he didn’t care that he wouldn’t see them anymore. Not nearly as much as Tyler would. And not anywhere in the same universe as much as she did.

“What are we talking about, letters from prison? Or, that’s right, Groves said you’d made a sweetheart deal with the government that’ll probably put you in witness protection for the rest of your life. So are you saying the plan is to give us a shout-out from your new secret life? Get real: you won’t.” Afraid she might be revealing too much about the pain that she was so unexpectedly experiencing, Sam broke off and turned away, throwing the rest at him over her shoulder. “All you have to do is lie to Tyler tomorrow. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Sam, wait. Come back here. Damn it.” Lunging after her as she stalked toward the door, he grabbed the trailing skirt of her robe and yanked. Caught by surprise, Sam stumbled backward and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Immediately his arm snaked around her waist, capturing her, hauling her back against him, holding her in place with her back against his chest. She was all too conscious of how nearly naked he was, and the knowledge made her pulse quicken. He felt warm and solid, muscular and overwhelmingly masculine. The scent of him—the faintest whiff of soap and toothpaste and man—was so familiar that it scared her. Her hands found his forearm, curled around it as if she would sink her nails into the firm, hair-roughened flesh in an effort to make him let go, but she didn’t. Pride kept her stiffly resistant in his hold, but she made no attempt to get away.

“What?” She turned her head to glare at him, and found that his face was just inches from hers. His dark eyes were so close that she could see herself reflected in them. His broad shoulders curved around her, solid as a wall and breathtakingly sexy. She could see the smooth texture of his skin, and the slight yellowing of his bruises, and the tiny lines around his eyes and each individual whisker in the new stubble that darkened his jaw.

Bruises and all, he was so handsome that just looking at him made her pulse quicken. Their eyes held, and a sizzling tension seemed to shimmer in the air. Chemistry, she identified it instantly, but then she realized that the sexual attraction that blazed between them didn’t tell the whole tale. In the brief time she’d known him he had become incredibly important to her,
someone whom she’d come to feel that she could confide in and seek advice from and depend on. A friend.

More than a friend.

You should have known better,
she told herself savagely even as the ache in her heart at the idea that she was never going to see him again intensified times about a thousand.
How many times do you have to get the rug pulled out from under you before you realize that the only person you can depend on is yourself?

He was watching her. His eyes were dark and intent. His mouth—what was she doing looking at his mouth?—was way too close to her own.

“Have a little faith in me,” he said as he had once before. His hand came up to slide along her jaw, a little abrasive, very warm, keeping her face turned to his. Then, even as she glared at him some more, he leaned forward and kissed her. Softly, tenderly, devastatingly. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. Her body started to tighten and throb. For a moment, a hard-won moment, she let him ply her lips with his but didn’t respond, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to pull her mouth free of his, to jump up and leave the room and banish him permanently from her mind. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was, she discovered, weak where he was concerned. Her blood heated and her bones liquefied and she gave in to temptation, gave in to the hunger he roused in her and that she could no longer resist. Slowly, slowly, she closed her eyes and slid a hand behind his head and kissed him back. The instant she surrendered he deepened the kiss. Electricity shot through her, making her
shiver, making her burn. It was then that she knew that this was why she had come marching into his bedroom. This was why she had shaken her hair loose, why she had locked his door, why she was naked beneath her robe. This was what she’d been seeking, what she wanted, what she craved.

I’ve fallen in love with him.
The thought was terrifying. As soon as she had it, as soon as she knew, she would have pulled back if she could have. But it was too late, impossible to do, because she was already lost in the hot sweet elixir of his kisses, of his hands sliding beneath the edges of her robe, of her own passion.

When his hand found her bare breast, covering it, caressing it, hard and warm and yet exquisitely gentle, the bolt of excitement that shot through her made her dizzy.

Oh, no. Oh, no.
Panic beat in her breast like the fluttery wings of a frightened bird.
You need to stop this
now,
because you’re going to get badly hurt.
She knew it with an icy clarity that managed to surface even through the flash fire of arousal that was hotter than anything she had ever imagined. But the sad truth was, she wanted his hands on her too much. She wanted him too much.

She was going to go with it, and to hell with the consequences.

“You okay?” He must have sensed her agitation, because he gave her a chance, she had to give him that. He broke off the kiss, stilled his caressing hand on her breast, asked the question in a husky voice that, funnily enough, just ratcheted up the level of her desire. Because he asked, she opened her eyes
and looked at him. So there the opportunity was: she still could have stopped, still could have stood up and walked away. But his eyes as she met them were hot and dark with passion, and his face was hard with wanting her, and she could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing feathering across her lips. Instead of saying
forget this,
or shoving his hand off her breast, or even turning her face from his, she went all light-headed and shivery with longing and nodded her head
yes
in reply. And that was when she understood: she was going to do this because if she didn’t she would regret not doing it every single moment for the rest of her life.