Wicked Pleasures (14 page)

He wanted to tell Miss Deveraux that he didn’t care
what Bronte felt, but fact was, he did. Instead, he jerked a
shoulder. “And how should I have gone about this? Approached her
and told her kindly that her life, along with mine, is in danger?
Tell her that years ago we fell in love and got—” He shook the
words out of his mind. “It doesn’t matter. She wouldn’t have
understood and came here on her own free will.”

She blinked. “No, she wouldn’t have understood. But
she’s here now.” He watched her get up and head toward the door.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure there are any logical answers.”

“Maybe I should give up,” he whispered, not really
to Miss Deveraux, but more for himself.

“You’re a fighter. It’s in your blood and bones.”
And she left.

Chapter 8

ROARK LEANED AGAINST the wall outside of Bronte’s
bedroom. He could hear her moving around and his anticipation grew.
The longer he waited, the angrier he became. Not because she took
her time, but feeling the urge to see her annoyed him.

A few minutes later, when the door finally opened,
he didn’t even look at her as she came out of the bedroom, although
he knew she wore the dress he’d given her. He simply stated, “Come
on.”

“Back to the attitude I see,” she mumbled at his
back.

“It never left,” he retorted.

“Where are we going?”

“Miss Deveraux has prepared a meal.” He was thankful
that she didn’t say another word as they made their way into the
dining room and sat down at the table. He knew her silence wouldn’t
last long though. She couldn’t hold her tongue if it killed
her.

“How did you know I love the designer of this
dress?” she asked.

Keeping his gaze on his food, he shoved his mouth
full of peas before he answered. “Call it luck.”

“Is everything that comes out of your mouth vague
and childish?”

He glanced at her. Her beauty caught his breath and
that’s exactly what he was afraid of. Her long ebony hair hung in
ringlets along her bare shoulders. The top of the dress gave ample
view of full breasts. He didn’t have to see the hem to know the
dress stopped above her knee, showing off silken, long legs.

Swallowing the scratchiness in his throat, he knew
she weakened him, yet empowered him. She infuriated him, yet
titillated every sense. Miss Deveraux was mistaken. No woman was
good for him, but why couldn’t he shake his emotions? Jillian and
Bronte shared blood, a birthmark and a resemblance, and the
connection between him and Bronte seemed to burst into flames every
time they looked at one another. That made it even more dangerous.
“I saw you wearing a similar dress and you looked lovely, as you do
now.”

Her gaze slanted. “I haven’t worn…” her eyes
widened. “Wait, almost nine years ago, I’d just graduated college
and was living on bread and water while paying off school loans,
and I was invited to a formal dinner by my new boss. Because I
couldn’t afford a new dress, and I didn’t have credit cards, I took
what cash I had and stopped at a fancy boutique. The black designer
dress was the cheapest and that’s why I bought it. I kept the tags
on and what I remember is, all through dinner I was afraid that I’d
spill something on the material and ruin it. The next day, I
returned it. That’s why I still love the designer because I’m
humbled.” She laughed and it made him smile. “But were you at the
party?”

He shook his head. “No. I was watching when you
arrived home.”

She squinted. “That seems stalkerish.” All humor
left her expression.

“I promise you, I wasn’t stalking you, at least not
in the literal meaning.”

“Then what
were
you doing?” she asked. He
removed his gaze from her. “Well, since you’re not going to answer
that question, I want to talk about Azelda.”

Roark forked a potato and popped the chunk into his
mouth. He took his time in chewing and swallowing before finally
answering, “Can’t we eat in peace? I can do without
indigestion.”

She laughed. “That’s what happens when you stuff
your face like a pig at his slop trowel.”

He lifted his gaze above his steak-speared fork.
“Silence is a virtue. And for some it’s a rare occurrence.”

“Okay, about Azelda. You two know each other well,
or so it seemed.”

“I wouldn’t say we know each other at all,” he
stated. His gaze dropped involuntarily to the neckline of the dress
she wore. The birthmark wasn’t visible with her clothes on, but he
knew what it looked like. He swallowed a bite of his filet mignon
and it got stuck in his constricted throat.

“You knew the story she’d tell, Roark. You took me
to her so she could fish around in my mind and put thoughts there.
Why can’t you just explain to me what I need to know?” Her voice
was almost pleading.

He laid his fork down and pushed his plate away. He
no longer had an appetite. “Why don’t you tell me what I need to
know?”

A look of confusion marred her delicate features.
“What do you mean? There’s nothing which I’m hiding, or that you’d
need to know.”

“The birthmark,” he pointed a finger, “Are you the
only one in your family that has the spot?”

She brought her hand up to her chest and palmed the
area of interest as her cheeks turned crimson. He knew she recalled
he’d seen her naked breasts in the tub. “If you’d been a decent man
you wouldn’t have seen this one. Then again you did undress me when
you brought me back from the witch’s.”

“I didn’t remove your bra and panties. The damn
birthmark. The curse. This whole situation is on my last nerve.” He
couldn’t control the demanding tone of his voice. As his guard
lowered, vulnerability infuriated him.

“Why such an interest in my birthmark? People are
born with them all of the time.”

He exhaled through his teeth. “True, but not like
that one.”

“You’ve seen one like mine, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.”

She moved from her place at the table and grabbed
the chair closest to him. “Who was it? Is that the link?”

“You wouldn’t know her.” Roark relaxed back and
stretched his legs. He didn’t want to hold her hand through a trip
down memory lane—at least not in the direction of his past with
Jillian.

“I didn’t ask if I know her, Roark.” She lowered her
gaze to her clasped hands. When she looked back at him, sincerity
had her eyes moist. “You want me to know the truth. That’s why you
took me to the witch’s shack. Why can’t you just fill in the
voids?”

“You know the truth, Bronte. You just have to be
ready to accept it. And fact is, I don’t even know some
myself.”

“Why are you always cryptic? Is it that you can’t
tell me the secret?”

“No.” He got up and moved away from the table.
“You’d call me a liar.”

“Did you say I’d call you a liar?” she asked.

“Did I stutter?”

“No, Roark, stuttering is not the trouble you have
with communication.”

He sighed, hoping to release some tension in his
muscles. “What do you know about your ancestors?” he asked.

Her expression remained blank as she answered, “Not
much. They’re all deceased, except my father. He lives in England
with his new wife and daughter.” She bit her bottom lip. “I’m sure
you already know that.”

“The woman you learned about at Azelda’s, Jillian,
she was your father’s great aunt. She died soon after her father.”
His voice sounded eerie even to his own ears. He didn’t like the
past. He swallowed the ache in his chest.

“What did she die of?”

“She died at the hand of an enemy.” He saw a glimpse
of recognition cross her eyes. “Do you understand?”

“Jillian, my relative, your lover, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, she was. She carried the same
birthmark.”

“Who is the enemy?” she asked.

Bronte got up and came to stand beside him—so close
that he could smell her scent and it gave him an instant hard on.
He didn’t want to talk, only feel—after all of these years, he
wanted to feel anything but anger and solitude. Without thought, he
reached out, took her by her shoulders and dragged her against him.
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly, as if she knew what
was coming. Waiting for her rejection, it never came. He lowered
his mouth to hers and his desires awakened. He’d never wanted
anyone like he wanted her.

A moan escaped her, and when her arms looped around
his neck and her breasts pressed against his chest, he knew without
a doubt that his heart still belonged to her. When a wolf found a
partner, they mated for life.

The kiss deepened as their tongues touched and
coupled. She tasted like mint and promise, and he was losing
control. Her willing body made every muscle come alive, but his
cock had already been bone hard, and grew painful as it stretched
his zipper.

He’d allow himself one touch…only one touch.

Dipping one hand inside the top of her dress, with
the other he tugged the material to her waist, exposing her bare
breasts. He palmed the firm mounds and flicked her nipples until
she dropped her head back onto one shoulder. Lifting his head
enough to see her lovely nakedness, his breath caught. “You’re
beautiful.”

Her eyes closed and her bottom lip trembled. A
vision of Jillian flashed in his mind. He pulled back so quick that
she lost her balance and he caught her, stabilized her, but quickly
removed his hand. Her questioning glare shot straight through him.
He’d almost permitted himself to fall back into vulnerability.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He rubbed the back of his knuckles across his moist
mouth, wishing he could wipe away the memory of her kiss. “We will
make love, Bronte. In good time…”

As if she realized for the first time what had just
occurred, she took a step back, rage lit her eyes. “Who do you
think you are? Do you believe that you have all of the control?
I’ll never allow a man, or anyone for that matter, have power over
me! You can keep me hostage, but you can’t make me want you.”

Her cold words drilled him with reality. He didn’t
have to tell her the truth, and she didn’t have to remember.
“You’re right, sweetheart. I can’t make you want me. That’s why
you’re free to leave.” He turned on heel and stomped toward the
door.

Before his hand made it on the knob, she said,
“What? What did you say?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “You heard me.
I’ll let Miss Deveraux know so she can arrange for your
transportation.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving. No worries. You’ll never have to see
me again.” And he stormed out of the room before he changed his
mind.

He burst out of the house and into a fast run. The
need to get away overcame him and he didn’t stop until he came to
the family cemetery where his parents were buried. He hadn’t
visited in a while. Tired and frustrated, he dropped to his knees.
His mind ached and he was at a loss.

Not sure how long he’d
knelt by his father’s tombstone, he heard a noise and started to
turn when he felt the dull thump against the side of his head. A
pain ripped through him, and before he knew he was in danger, he
couldn’t do anything to defend himself…

Chapter 9

BRONTE AWOKE WITH a start. Her heart was racing and
her palms were sweaty as she quickly scanned her surroundings.
She was home!

Wiping moisture from her brow, she paced her heavy
breathing. Her sleep had been restless and packed with images of
Roark. He had come to her clearly; he’d been standing in the middle
of a field dotted with red wildflowers. As she’d drifted away from
him in her dream, he’d watched her, and the further she got, the
faster the flowers melted until they formed a puddle of blood. He’d
reached out to her and she realized that he needed her. She’d
started toward him, but no matter how fast, or how hard she moved,
she couldn’t get close. Finally, he’d disappeared.

Climbing from bed, she went to her closet and
blindly grabbed the first thing her hand touched. Pulling on the
thin sundress, she went into the bathroom to brush her hair and
teeth.

Nothing felt the same and silence loomed over her
like a dark cloud of loneliness.

Why wasn’t she happy being home? The feeling of
sadness washed over her.

She had arrived at two A.M. Miss Deveraux had
arranged for transportation, just as Roark had promised. Bronte had
blindfolded her eyes, as requested, and was brought home.

Last night, she’d debated whether she should call
Gage and speak to him about the events, but all she’d wanted to do
was fall asleep. She knew he’d demand that she call the police, and
he wouldn’t understand when she’d refuse. Who’d believe her
story?

Making her way into the kitchen, she placed a kettle
of water on the stove and went to the window, peering outside into
the sunlight. On most weekdays, she’d already be in the office,
sitting at her desk, head hung over a manuscript. She guessed she’d
have to face work again. Why didn’t it feel as important?

Laughter grabbed her attention. Young boys played
football in the yard across the lot. One of them had short blonde
hair, the other, the younger of the two, had longer black hair and
olive complexion. He reminded her of what Roark’s child would look
like.

She swallowed the bitter taste in the back of her
throat. How could she even think about such nonsense? A baby with
Roark? She wasn’t even sure she hadn’t dreamt the last few days.
Yet, that couldn’t be possible.

Her time with Roark was over. She had to push him
out of her mind.

Opening the cabinet door, she reached for the box of
tea bags from the top shelf.

“Bronte.”

She paused.

Had she heard someone say her name? Turning, she
jumped in alarm, the box dropped from her hand and the tea bags
scattered all over the floor. “Miss Deveraux! What are you doing
here?