Stupid, stupid, stupid! He loved her. He truly did. With all his heart. He would never hurt her. Never. And the very fact that he’d torn her bed apart like a lunatic gone berserk should have been proof enough that he’d never get his kicks by scaring her. She was the lunatic, huddling here in the dark, clinging to a pillow. She trusted him. She did. Absolutely. She could strip off naked and walk out there, bold as brass. That was how much she trusted him. Being in his arms had been wonderful. Fantastic, even. What in her wildest imaginings was there to be afraid of? Nothing, absolutely nothing.
She swung out of bed. Stood there, debating. Then she stripped off her shirt. Bare as a newborn baby, she groped her way to the door, then stood there grasping the knob. She would just walk out there. Smiling would be a good idea, of course. And then she would simply say, Heath, I love you. Would you please come back and make love to me? And he would sweep her into his arms, carry her back to the bedroom, and make love to her so gently that she’d never worry for a second about going through the ordeal again.
She tightened her hand on the knob, urging herself to open it. When that didn’t work, she counted, determined to throw the door open on three. At ten, she scuttled back to the bed and searched frantically for her shirt. When she finally found it and got it on, she was panting as if she’d run six miles.
Oh, God. She hated herself. She was a human jellyfish. Lower than low. Despicable. She kept remembering that lost-little-boy look on his face just before he threw away his badge. And then the agony in his expression a few minutes ago as he’d pushed himself away from her. After all the times he’d been there for her when she needed him, the one time he had needed her, she’d let him down.
The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small kitchen. Heath stood at the front window, the handle of a stout porcelain mug hooked by his finger, the steam from the piping hot coffee drifting up to move over his face. Shifting his shoulder against the window frame, he searched the darkness beyond the glass for any sign of movement. He didn’t actually expect company. He’d taken every precaution to cover his tracks in coming here. No one was ever going to find them, not even by helicopter, because they wouldn’t recognize the vehicle.
Standing watch was just something to do. God knew he couldn’t sleep. He was as horny as a three-pronged billy goat and feeling twice as cantankerous. Trapped inside jeans that suddenly felt eight inches short at the inseam and a couple of sizes too small, Old Glory was as rigid as a steel pipe, bent almost double, and throbbing like a son of a bitch. Heath was tempted to strip down to his boxers and let the poor old guy poke through the opening of the fly. If he hadn’t been afraid Meredith or Sammy might catch him, he would have.
Taking a careful sip of the boiling hot coffee, he smiled slightly, picturing himself scrambling frantically for his britches, looking like a maniac who was water-witching the kitchen with a short stick. Well, not short, exactly. Impressively stout.
Not a good plan. Sammy was of tender years, and Meredith would probably drop dead of cardiac arrest. He would just have to suffer. It wasn’t as if it was his first experience with the problem, after all, and he’d lived through it. Hell, how many times? Since knowing Meredith, he’d taken more cold showers than he ever had in his life. He remembered comparing her to Popeye’s girlfriend when he was pissed off and grinned. No resemblance. For a little gal, she had plenty of everything and was perfectly proportioned. A body to die for, in miniature.
Against the glass, he envisioned her, standing before him naked. The longer he stared, the more detailed the image became. Her body gilded by the amber glow cast by the lantern. Her hair falling in tousled, golden-streaked ribbons of rich butterscotch to her alabaster shoulders. Breasts just large enough to fit a man’s cupped palms, the hardened tips the same delicate rose as her parted lips. A waist he could easily encircle with his hands. A thatch of honeyed curls at the apex of her slender thighs. Cute little knees with dimples in them.
The hair stood up at the back of his neck. Knees? He had a vivid imagination, but knees? He blinked. What the hell? And just about then, he heard a tremulous little blowing sound coming from behind him. He whirled, slopped scalding hot coffee over the back of his hand, and swore, ripely and loudly. When he jerked at the burn, he lost his grip on the handle. The mug dive-bombed, hitting the floor in an explosion of sound. Shattering porcelain and hot coffee shot upward like a geyser. Meredith leaped like a startled gazelle.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Moving toward her, Heath swiped at the searing damp spots on his pants. “Honey, did it get you?”
She crossed her arms over herself, trying without much success to hide everything with her splayed hands. “No-o-o. I’m f-fine.”
She’d been trying to whistle. Bless her heart. She was so nervous, he could see her shaking. Just whistle, and goddamned fool that I am, I’ll probably come running. Instead, he had slopped hot coffee all over both of them, and she was standing barefoot in shards of porcelain. If it had been someone other than Meredith, it might have been funny. He could have said something witty, like, “Leave it to me. I could screw up a wet dream without half trying.” And they could have moved past it. But she wasn’t someone else, even though she was trying very hard to be.
That was what got to him, way down deep, knowing what it had cost her to come to him like this. And she thought she had no courage.
“Mommy!” The plaintive cry came from the rear of the house.
Meredith’s eyes went wide with horror. She whirled and bounded across the kitchen to the bedroom. Heath couldn’t pry his gaze from her sweetly rounded backside, the jiggle of those dimpled cheeks mesmerizing him.
She’d been trying to whistle! Son of a bitch. She’d been standing an arm’s length away, offering herself to him, and he’d screwed it up. The sweetest gift anyone had ever tried to give him, and he’d totally screwed it up! He wanted to run after her. As a matter of fact, he felt as if he were attached to her by invisible strings. But Sammy was wailing. He had to go settle her down first.
He let himself into the small bedroom then moved toward her bed in the semidarkness. “Hey, sweetcakes? What’s the matter?”
As he sat on the edge of the mattress, Sammy rose onto her knees and hugged his neck. She’d been trying to whistle, he thought as he gathered the child close. He needed to get his ass in there before she changed her mind, or even worse, started to think he found her undesirable.
“I heard a loud noise,” Sammy said groggily.
“I’m sorry, honey. I dropped my coffee cup. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Now I’m scared.”
Please, Sammy, don’t be scared. Give me a break, all right? “You are, huh? There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweet cakes. Goliath and I are both here, and we’ll keep you safe.”
She patted his hair with a little hand. “I love you, Heef.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart. Great big, as far as my arms will stretch.”
“That’s lots.”
“It sure is.” He rubbed her back for a moment, the entire time his brain screaming at him to dump the kid and go find Meredith. Before the mood fizzled. Before she covered that gorgeous body with clothing and buried it under a pile of blankets and vowed never to humiliate herself like that again. “I love you and your mommy a whole lot.”
“Heef?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you tell me a story?”
No! Not on your life. No how, no way! “What kind of story, honey?”
“Cin’erella.”
Cinderella had mice in her attic, went for a ride in a squash, wore glass slippers, fell in love, the end. Heath sighed and moved his fingers through her baby-fine curls. The writing was on the wall. At times, fatherhood was going to be a real bitch. But, hey, how long could a story take. Right? He’d just tell her a shortened version.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a beautiful girl named Cinderella who wanted to go to the dance.”
“You forgot the mean,
wicket stick mother and the ugly stick sisters! And she di’n’t want to go to a dance. It was a boil ball.”
“A what?”
She leaned back and peered at him through the shadows. “Your mommy died and di’n’t never tell you this story, huh?”
He knew someone else who was in perilous danger of losing her life at an early age. “My memory’s rusty, for sure. A boil ball?”
“Yup. At the tassle where the king lives. He gots a crown and he has a boil ball so the prince can pick a boil bride.”
“Royal, you mean?”
“That’s what I said, boil.”
It took Heath thirty-five minutes to get the story told to Sammy’s exacting specifications.
By the time Heath could go find Meredith, she had lighted the lantern and was sitting cross-legged on the bed, dabbing at her shins with a cotton ball and hydrogen peroxide, which he guessed she’d found in the medicine cabinet. When she heard him entering the bedroom, she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and wedged the tails of her shirt tightly between clamped thighs. He nearly wept. Hope springing eternal, and all of that, he closed the door and locked it before he moved toward her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come running faster, sweetheart.” God, he was so sorry. “But I was telling Sammy a story.”
She smiled slightly, her face flushed crimson. “That’s all right. I’m just disinfecting a couple of nicks before I call it a night.” Her lashes fell to shadow her eyes. “It was a really dumb thing to do, anyway. Bad timing. Bad stage set. Bad everything.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Was that him? He sounded like a choir boy whose voice was changing. “It was perfect timing. And I particularly loved the props.”
Her face flushed an even deeper shade of crimson. She bent forward, pretending to be intent on her shins.
“Here, let me.” As he knelt before her, she gave such a start that he could have sworn he saw daylight between her fanny and the mattress. He curled his hand around a slender ankle, the texture of her skin reminding him of satin. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing!” She tugged, trying to free her foot. “I can get it. Really.”
“I insist.” The foot first, then the slender shapely calf, then the dimpled knee. He was going to kiss and nibble every sweet inch, straight up the inside of that silken thigh to the cache of honey-colored curls she was trying so frantically to hide. He plucked the cotton ball from her fingers, dabbing carefully at the two little spots. “No slivers that I see.”
“No.”
He lifted her slender foot, pretending to check the sole for pricks. Like hell. He had the side vision of a horse. The shirttails parted slightly. “Hmm.”
“Are there fragments?”
He lifted her foot just a little higher. Perfect. “Hmm.”
She leaned forward slightly to look. “How many are there?”
Dozens. Beautiful little corkscrew curls. Oh, yeah. “Not many.” He dabbed at her heel like a blind man. “There. No fragments, I don’t think. Just little glimpses of pink.”
“Glimpses?”
“Spots!” he amended quickly, tossing the cotton ball in the general direction of the nightstand. He ran his thumb along her instep. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your feet are?”
“My feet?”
“God, yes. I’ve never seen such a perfect—foot.” He bent to kiss the inside depression just below the protrusion of her anklebone. “Cute toes with little pink tips.”
He suckled the big one, then nipped its tender underside. “You are so sweet.”
She tugged and tucked her shirt, trying to hide the triangle of curls, which was nigh unto impossible with her leg hiked in the air. Those curls gleamed in the lantern light like a treasure trove of tiny gold nuggets.
“Heath?” she said in a squeaky voice. “You’re embarrassing me to death. I need a bath, and I’m sure my feet smell.”
He went to work on the next toe over, speaking to her between nibbles. “Sweetheart, don’t you know that civilized man has been deprived of the natural feminine scent?”
“The what?”
“Soap and deodorant and perfume and powder. All that junk disguises a woman’s natural essence, which a man finds extremely arousing.”
“You’re aroused by my smelly feet?” She jerked her leg again. “Please, don’t suck my toes. Oh, my God—not the bottoms. I walk on them. I—that tickles!” She tugged again and gave a startled giggle. “Stop! It—oh, lands!—that feels so—oh, please, I’m so embarrassed. Heath?”
“I’m stopping.”
He kissed and nibbled his way up her calf, pretending he didn’t notice when she made fists in his hair, the desperate grip of her fingers making his scalp sting. He didn’t care if she snatched him bald, just as long as she kept her hands in his hair and nowhere near those shirttails.
“Wh—what are you doing now?”
Dumb questions inspired dumb answers. “Nothing.”
He reached her knee and propped her calf on his shoulder, anchoring it there with the grip of his hand. With her leg up and nearly straightened, he was afforded the most glorious view that God had ever created, prettier than sunrise or sunset and everything in between. He concentrated on the bend of her leg—the backside, of course, so he had to lift her leg just a little higher—lightly nipping the sensitive flesh then soothing it with tickling strokes of his tongue. She jerked as if he’d stuck her with a pin.
“I—oh, my—you—oh, dear.”
He moved to her silken inner thigh, teasing and kissing until she began to tremble. “You are so sweet, Merry, so incredibly, wonderfully sweet. I want to taste every inch of you.”
“D—do you really think this is a good idea?”
It was the best idea he’d ever had, even if he did end up bald. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Oh—well, yes. No! What are you?—where are you?—not so high!”
“I won’t go too high.”
“You won’t?”
“Absolutely not.”
He raised his shoulder, forcing her leg higher. She gasped and fell back, her tightly fisted hands tugging his head forward in a direct line to goal. She immediately started to shove, of course, but she was too late. She bleated like an orphaned fawn when he nuzzled those curls.
“No! This is—don’t! Heath?”
He settled his mouth over glistening sweetness and delved deep with his tongue. She bucked with her hips, he presumed to escape, but succeeding only in thrusting herself more firmly to his mouth. He drew gently, finding the tender flange with his tongue, laving it with light strokes that made her body jerk.
“Oh, my gaw—ww—d!” she cried.
“Shhh,” he managed to say without drawing away. “Sammy’ll hear.”
She gasped at the rush of his hot breath and the vibration of his voice. Her reaction was so satisfying, he considered serenading her with the recurring chorus and all the verses of “God Bless America.” Sure as hell, if he did, Sammy would wake up, though, and he didn’t want to get stuck telling any more stories.
He settled for a low-pitched vibrant sound of appreciation. “Mmm—mm-mm.”
Her entire body convulsed. “Oh, my God—oh, my God—oh, my God.”
She hooked her leg over his shoulder to catch him under the arm with her heel, as if she were afraid he might get away. Now, they were getting somewhere. Her hands stopped shoving and jerked him closer, and she arched her hips in unmistakable invitation, even though she kept whispering, “You can’t! Oh, Heath, you can’t!”
He could, and he would. And he did. Until she sobbed and her body convulsed in the throes of pleasure. And even then, he stayed to tease her to climax twice more. Only when she lay limp and trembling did he rise to kneel on the mattress edge, where he unfastened her shirt and then his own, kissing her belly and her ribs between buttons. She watched him with unmistakable wariness as he removed his gun, wrapping the belt around the holster before he laid it on the nightstand.<
br />
He nearly said, “Don’t even think it.” But that would have been defensive, not comforting. Instead, he said, “It’s a semiautomatic, sweetheart, and fires with every pull of the trigger. No sick games, I promise.”
“I know that, Heath. No matter what kind of gun you have, I know better.”
Yes, she knew better. And yet she didn’t, a part of her simply reacting. Earlier this evening, her admission of that had made him furious. Now he just felt sad. No one should have to live through what she had, especially not someone gentle like her. He kicked off his boots, then peeled off his shirt, jeans, and boxers. Old Glory sprang up like the high end of a seesaw.
Looking into her eyes, he could tell that seeing the gun had upset her. He moved over her to kiss her breasts, determined to take all the time needed to reassure her and rekindle her need. She clutched frantically at his shoulders when she felt his hardness nudging against her center. He gently removed her shirt, then bent to lave her nipples with teasing strokes of his tongue. Almost instantly, her tender flesh responded, swelling and thrusting in eager rigidity. He captured one peak between his teeth, rolling it to make it even harder and tormenting it with drags of his tongue. Then he switched to the other breast until she moaned and arched, begging for the hard pull of his mouth.
“Heath?”
“I’m here, honey.” He gave her what she wanted, suckling each nipple to make her mindless as he coaxed her thighs apart to accommodate his hips. Once in position, he rose above her, trying to tell by her expression if she was ready. Her features were drawn, her pupils dilated—whether from passion or fear, he wasn’t sure. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re not afraid, are you?” Please, God, don’t let her say yes. “I’ll stop if you want.”
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