by Karen Rose
He chuckled. “You’d look like a kid playing dress-up if you tried to wear Debra’s clothes. She was five-eleven without her shoes on.”
Kristen returned her head to his shoulder, felt his arms tighten around her in response. “I liked your family, Abe. Even Aidan.”
He snorted gently. “Aidan can be a real ass sometimes.”
“Not like you.”
He pulled back to glare down at her. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not like you got mad at me for including cops on the list of suspects. Right?”
He yanked one of her curls. “Hush, or I won’t give you a massage.”
Her brows shot up. “A massage? Really?”
“I was considering it. You’re still tighter than a drum.”
She regarded him intently, thought about having his hands on her shoulders and her back and she wanted to melt. Conversely, she thought about his hands on her… elsewhere… and her stomach clenched. “I trust you, you know?”
His eyes heated with what she’d left unsaid. “I know. It kills me to know, but yeah, I know. Proper massage. No more. But I do want something in return.”
She sucked in one cheek. “What?”
“Tell me about your family. I took you to mine, idiot brother and all. Tell me about yours.”
Kristen sighed. It wasn’t the same, not at all. But again, in the grand scheme of life, what did it really matter? “I grew up on a farm in Kansas a hundred miles from the nearest stoplight. There was just me and my sister, Kara.”
“You said that your sister died in a drunk-driving accident.”
She felt the familiar ache, as if it were yesterday instead of fifteen years ago. “I was sixteen, she was eighteen. Kara always was the wild one. We grew up in a very …” She searched for the right word. “Our house was rigid. My father liked rules. Kara didn’t. When she was eighteen, she took a trip with some friends. They drove into Topeka, hotbed of sin.”
Abe smiled and ruefully she smiled back. “After living on a little farm with wheat as far as the eye could see, even Topeka was like living on the edge.” She sobered, remembering now. “Kara must have gone to some parties. Anyway, my parents got the call from the state police in the middle of the night. Kara was dead.”
He’d sobered as well. “I’m sorry.”
“So was I. On a number of levels. I loved my sister, and I missed her. I still do. But something happened to my parents after she was gone. My father grew more rigid and Mother just wound down. Before, she’d temper his rules. But after Kara died, she just went into this…I don’t know. A dark place. She was never the same again.”
“You must’ve been angry that she didn’t care enough to be there for you.”
Kristen considered it. “I suppose so. I was mad. Plus, my father cracked down even harder on me. You’d’ve thought it was me that was the wild child. He wouldn’t let me leave the house except for school. I missed the football games, prom, everything. But I had a wonderful art teacher in high school who helped me get the work study program in Florence, set me up with a local family. Even asked my father for permission to let me go.”
“He said no.”
Kristen looked up at him. His eyes hadn’t left her face. “He said no.” She shrugged. “So I defied him and went anyway. I was eighteen by then and had saved my money from babysitting before Kara died. Plus, Kara had a nest egg set aside. I knew she’d want me to have it, so I took it and bought a ticket to Italy. One way. I knew I’d eventually have to come home, but I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
“I can’t visualize you as an extemporaneous girl,” Abe said softly.
Kristen thought of the girl she’d been. “Time changes people. Anyway, I came back from Italy and went to college. My father never changed, so I just… left.” It was a partial truth, but all she was able or willing to tell at this point. Maybe ever.
He studied her face and she knew he knew she hadn’t told the whole story, but he didn’t press. “You said your father is still alive. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last month.”
Abe’s brows shot up. “Last month?”
“Yes. My mom is in a nursing home.” Her throat tightened. “She’s in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. She hasn’t recognized me in three years, but I fly back to Kansas once a month to visit her. My dad was there the last time. He usually doesn’t come on my Sundays, but my mom had a bad night and they’d called him in. He left the room when I arrived, so technically I saw him, but we didn’t speak.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. It’s hard to see my mother like that. I enjoyed just watching your mother tonight. Before Kara died, my mom used to love being in her kitchen. After Kara died, she was too depressed. Now she just lies there, wasting away. She hasn’t been my mom since I was sixteen.”
He was quiet a moment. “I used to visit Debra and talk and talk and never know if she heard a word I said.”
Kristen rested her forehead on his chest. “Sometimes,” she said wearily, “I just wish she’d die and then I feel so guilty.”
His chest rose and fell. “Yeah, I used to do the same. And I’d feel guilty, too.”
“On Friday night you said she was in a coma for five years.” Five years was one hell of a long time to watch someone you loved just exist.
“She wasn’t in a coma. She was in a persistent vegetative state. It’s different. Debra was clinically brain-dead from the moment they wheeled her into the ER.”
Kristen hesitated, then blurted it out. “Did you ever consider pulling her life support?”
Another rise and fall of his massive chest. “Only every time I saw her or thought about her. But I couldn’t. As long as she was alive, I just couldn’t. But her parents wanted me to.”
Kristen’s eyes widened. “I thought parents were usually the ones to hold on.”
“Not Debra’s.” His face shadowed. “Her father was suing me for custody when she died. They said she wouldn’t want to go on like that and I knew it was true, but she was alive.”
“And if she was alive there was hope.”
“Yes. Then Debra’s mother had a heart attack. Her father said seeing Debra like that year after year was killing her. He was desperate. I didn’t know what to do, but I just couldn’t do what he wanted. He filed for custody a month before Debra got an infection and died on her own. Her parents and I didn’t part on what you’d call friendly terms.”
“I guess not.”
He sighed. “Debra and Ruth were cousins. That’s how we met. Sean and Ruth set me up with Debra on a surprise blind date.”
That was important for some reason, Kristen thought and searched her brain for a connection, nodding when she found it. “That’s what Ruth was talking about the other night when she was here. Her mother invited Debra’s parents to the christening.”
Abe smiled ruefully. “Very good. Now if you can think of what I’m supposed to say when I see them, I’ll be really impressed. But that’s enough angst for one night.” He stood up, letting her body slide against his until her feet hit the floor. He pressed his lips to her forehead, held them there for three hard beats of her heart. Then he pushed her gently toward her bedroom. “One massage. Then I’ll get a lousy night’s sleep on your sofa.”
“It’s uncomfortable?”
“No.” He sounded regretfully amused, walking behind her. “I will be.”
She stopped short, her whole body stiffening. He came closer and his heat burned her back. “I’m sorry.” And she was. He would be, too, when the time finally came.
He pushed her curls off her neck and brushed his lips against her skin. She shuddered. “Don’t be,” he murmured. “I meant what I said. One day at a time. That’s what we’ll do.”
She gathered up her courage. “You’ll be … disappointed.”
His breath was warm against her skin. “I don’t think so. But don’t worry about that now. Right now I’m going to get those knots out of your back and you’re g
oing to sleep like a baby.” He gave her another little shove. “You have my personal guarantee.”
She stopped next to her bed. Plucked at her blouse uncertainly. Felt like a fool. She was thirty-one years old, for God’s sake.
“Whatever makes you most comfortable,” he murmured. “You said you trust me.”
She drew a deep breath and lay facedown on her bed, her clothes intact. “I do.” More than any man I’ve ever known.
“Scoot over a little,” he said and sat down at her hip. “I have to confess up front. I learned how to do massages for Debra. It kept her muscles from atrophying, and the hospice never had the staff to do it as often as needed to be done.”
She tensed when he put his hands on her, but he said nothing, just started working her muscles with methodical skill until she began to relax. “Mmm. You’re so good at this.”
He still said nothing, just continued working the muscles on either side of her spine and she sighed. And wondered how it would feel to have his hands directly on her skin.
His hands paused. “It would feel much better, I think,” he murmured, his voice warm and husky. “Take off your shirt.”
Once again, she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. She should feel threatened that this man was able to draw her very thoughts into the open, but she wasn’t. “Turn around.” She stripped off her blouse, hesitated at her bra. That would stay. She resettled herself on her stomach. “Okay.” Then waited expectantly for the first feel of his hands on her bare flesh. She sucked in a breath when he touched her, let it out on a long sigh. He was right. It was much better.
“You have a very pretty back,” he said softly and she shivered. Hard.
“Cold?”
“No.” Not even close. She was warm wherever he touched her and everywhere he didn’t. Her breasts grew sensitized within the confines of her plain cotton bra and her pulse throbbed between her legs with an almost painful pressure. She arched her back, pressing her pelvis into the mattress.
He paused. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Not like he meant anyway. It was more like an ache. An ache only he could take away. I want him to touch me.
Abe stopped abruptly. She hadn’t meant the words to be heard. He knew that. But he’d heard them nevertheless. She wanted him to touch her, and right here, right now, he could think of little else. But he’d promised her a proper massage. Nothing more. Even though he could just see the plump curve of her breast. Even though her spine dipped enticing-ly at the waist of her wool slacks. Even though right now he was harder and more ready than he thought he’d ever been before.
Drawing on every ounce of self-control, he pulled the quilt from the foot of her bed and covered her with it. She was almost asleep while he suspected he would do little sleeping tonight. He stood up. Watched her draw deep even breaths. Noted the way her dark lashes lay on her creamy skin like fans. He bent down and kissed her cheek.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. He started to straighten, but her hand shot out and clamped over his wrist with surprising strength.
She half rolled to look up at him, her green eyes intense. “Don’t go.” His eyes, damn them, dipped lower, taking in her breasts, silently cursing the utilitarian white bra that hid them from his view. He needed to get out of here. Now.
He shook his head. “I’ll sleep on the floor outside your door. You’ll be safe.”
“Don’t go.” Her grip tightened. “Please.”
“Kristen, I …” He exhaled, and gently pried her fingers from his wrist. “You need to sleep. And I can’t stay here. I promised you.”
“I know.” She grabbed a handful of his shirt, swung up, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her free hand captured his, and she brought his palm to her lips.
And he couldn’t contain the groan. “Kristen, let me go. Now.”
“No.” She took his hand, placed it over her heart which pounded. “You can’t possibly understand … I never thought I’d ever feel this way.” She looked up and her eyes weren’t afraid or wary or hurt. They were alive and bewitching. Compelling. Not taking her eyes from his, she moved his hand inch by inch until his palm covered white cotton. Covered his hand with her own, pressing his fingers until he held her breast cupped in his hand. “It’s you,” she breathed, so softly he almost didn’t hear. Dropping her hand to her lap, her eyes slid closed.
And God help him, he couldn’t say no. Gently he pushed her back against the bed and joined her there, his hand now freely exploring, his thumb seeking out the hard tip that the white cotton couldn’t hide. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered and bent to kiss her lips. Her hand came up and smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck so he deepened the kiss and felt her sigh. He moved his hand to her other breast and she arched to meet him. She was fluid grace and intoxicating innocence all at once and he knew whatever her past, whatever had turned her from the impulsive, spontaneous girl she’d once been to the wary woman he’d met just five days before, what she was feeling now was brand new. He bent his head to her breast and kissed her through her bra and her gasp made him feel proud, like he’d done something totally remarkable. And maybe he had.
She pulled his head closer and he opened his mouth, tonguing her stiff nipple, wishing there was nothing between his mouth and her skin. Then her hand left his head, tugged at the cotton and there wasn’t. He drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked.
And she moaned his name. His pounding heart exploded. He wanted her. Wanted her naked, wanted to feel her sheathed around him. Wanted to feel her tighten, convulsing, his name on her lips. Before he realized his intentions, his hand was sliding lower, his fingers questing, finding. Claiming.
A startled little gasp surprised him and he raised his head. Confused panic warred with the passion in her eyes. “Sshh,” he soothed. “It’s just my hand. That’s all. I’ll stop.”
Her eyes narrowed and her hand once again covered his, keeping him from making good on his offer. “No, you won’t.”
His lips quirked. She’d taken the reins. Good for her. “Whatever you say, lady.”
“Don’t call me lady.” Then she closed her eyes, her lips pressed together. Her hand fell away from his, clutching the quilt. She frowned, focusing so hard he had to smile. He rubbed the heel of his hand across the hard bone of her pubis, watched her face change, soften, watched pleasure chase the frown away. She was beautiful like this, discovering her own capacity for passion. He fondled her through her slacks, saying nothing, showing her how good she could feel. Her eyes flew open and in them he saw amazement and urgency.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He gritted his teeth against the sudden surge of his own body. Not now. This time is Kristen’s. “I won’t.” He didn’t, and she moved her hips, lifting against his hand, her breath coming in hard pants. She braced one foot on the mattress so she could push harder and then her body froze. Her hand dropped the quilt and clamped over his, pressing, pressing, and Abe knew he’d never seen anything sexier than Kristen caught up in climax. She slumped back, still panting. His body hurt, his erection straining for release. But even the power of his own need was nothing compared to the look in her eyes when her lashes lifted.
“I did it.” It was an awed whisper. “I really did it.”
He had to smile despite the throbbing in his groin. “Yes, you did.”
“Thank you.” It was more than simple gratitude. This was a watershed moment in her life and he was humbled to have shared it with her. He could only hope she had another, more advanced watershed moment very soon. He wasn’t sure his body could stand the strain of watching her again without participating a little more actively.
He tugged her bra up to cover her breast and pushed the tousled curls away from her face. “You’re welcome.”
She shuddered out a breath. “You didn’t …”
He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “I didn’t. But it’s okay.”
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”
He laid a finger against her
lips. “Be quiet. I’m fine.”
“Abe …” Tears filled her eyes and her breath hitched. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Sshh.” He gathered her in his arms, settling her on his lap for the second time that evening. He’d half expected this response, but still her tears tore at his heart. She pressed her cheek against his chest and her shoulders shook.
“I was so afraid.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Of me?”
She shook her head. “Not you. That I’d never …” She lifted a shoulder. “You know.”
He knew and he silently cursed whoever had made her lose confidence in her own body, who’d hurt her so badly that she’d all but buried whoever she’d once been.
Hurt her. What a pathetic euphemism that was. He was a cop, he’d seen everything and still he had trouble saying the word he knew she’d never forget. Rape. She’d been raped. He made himself think the word, forced himself to stay calm when what he really wanted to do was find out who’d done it and tear his guts out with his bare hands, and felt a flash of respect, gratitude to the killer who’d already removed one rapist from the planet. It was wrong to feel that way, but at the moment, if he knew who’d hurt the woman in his arms, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t capable of cold-blooded retribution murder himself.
“Do you want to talk about it now?” he asked quietly and her body tensed.
She shook her head again, more vehemently this time. “No, not now. Not now.”
Abe hugged her close. “Then sleep.”
Monday, February 23, 1:30 P.M.
He’d lost control before, with Conti. That couldn’t, wouldn’t happen again. Not that the beast didn’t deserve it, and a lot more. But it was dangerous. He’d left evidence behind on Conti’s body, of that he was certain, but apart from dipping the man in a vat of lye, he didn’t know how to rectify the situation. What was, was.
You could have just buried him and left his family to wonder, he thought. But that would have robbed him of precious closure. The world knew that Conti had been punished for his crimes against Paula Garcia, her unborn son, the American justice system, and last but far from least, Kristen Mayhew. Perhaps now the scum that paraded through her court would think twice before publicly defaming her name.