by Anne Stuart
“I’m trying to change my style.” She had a sudden, horrifying thought. What if he didn’t really want her? What if all his looks, his talk, his kisses and touches were part of a game, part of whatever mysterious agenda he had? What if now that he’d decided to leave he had no interest in her? The possibility made her both cold and hot with shame, made her want to run. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she mumbled, moving toward the end of the bed. “Just forget it.”
He moved quickly, kneeling on the bed and catching her wrist, pulling her back. “Oh, no, I think it’s an excellent idea,” he said. “And I don’t think you get to change your mind.” He shoved the suitcase off the bed, and it hit the marble floor with a bang, startling Roofus, who’d found a comfortable spot to snooze in a far corner. He lifted his massive head, woofed softly, then went back to sleep.
It suddenly felt a lot more real, his hand on her arm, holding her there. He was very strong—he had to be, to carry a woman of her stature up the winding stairs—and she knew a brief moment of fear. “And if I want to leave?” Her voice shook; there was no way she could disguise it.
“You won’t,” he said. And he kissed her, cupping her face with one hand, kissing her with a deep and long and wet kiss, so that she was shaking, drowning.
He slid down on the bed, taking her with him, and she sprawled beside him on the too soft mattress. He was so hot, so strong, so solid beneath her, and it was both frightening and arousing. He stripped off her T-shirt, over her head before she realized what he was doing, and then he reached for the waistband of her jeans. She put her hands on his, to stop him, but he calmly ignored her, stripping the jeans off her, pulling them over her bandaged feet with surprising tenderness.
“Nice underwear,” he said calmly. “Was that for me?”
She was wearing teal silk, the sexiest, most feminine underwear she owned, a skimpy bra and a thong bikini. “Yes,” she said.
“Good. Let’s leave them on for a while.” He pulled off his own T-shirt and sent it sailing across the floor, then reached for his zipper. “I better warn you—I’m not wearing any underwear.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she said faintly. The room was getting steadily lighter with the approach of daylight, and she would have much preferred it to get darker. She turned her head, and heard the sound of him shucking off his jeans, his quiet laugh.
“Are you prudish, Jilly?” he murmured, and the mattress sank beneath his weight as he moved closer to her. “Or just shy?”
She turned back to look at him, keeping her eyes focused on his face. Except that his chest was distractingly gorgeous. She’d never been that impressed with a man’s chest before, or muscles, but Coltrane was an exception. He was strong, muscled and gorgeous.
“No one on this earth would call me shy,” she said, wanting to touch his chest. Keeping her hand beside her, still and unmoving.
“I would,” he said. He took her hand and placed it against his heart.
His skin was hot, and his heart was thumping, loud, steady against her hand. “Your heart is pounding,” she said.
“That’s because I’m aroused. Which you’d know if you could bring yourself to look past my shoulders.”
Of course she did, instinctively. He was most definitely, thoroughly aroused. “Can I leave now?” she asked in a small voice.
“No.”
“All right.”
“No arguments?”
“I don’t really want to leave,” she said.
“I know. That’s why you can’t.” He took her hand and moved it down his chest to his flat stomach, over the rough covering of golden hair, and when he took his hand away she left it there, absorbing the heat and tension in him. “You have some catching up to do. How’s your back? Can you lie on it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why?”
“I have work to do.” He pushed her onto her back on the new mattress, carefully, and she barely noticed the scratches. He loomed over her in the shadows, and she closed her eyes, waiting.
Nothing happened. She opened them again, to see him watching her. “That’s much better,” he murmured. “Now let’s see if I can get you even half as hot as you’ve got me.”
He put his mouth between her breasts, kissing her above the lacy bra, and she felt her heart leap in heated response. Tentatively she reached up and touched the side of his face, his shaggy blond hair, and he made a murmuring sound of approval against her skin as he moved his mouth across the swell of her breast. He covered her other breast with his hand, his long fingers squeezing gently, arousing, so that she felt her nipples harden in the warm room, felt the heat and tightness between her legs.
The skimpy bra had a front clasp, and he undid it, pushing the scant silk aside, and when he put his mouth on her breast she let out a soft cry, wanting him to stop. Her breasts were too sensitive, and the wet pull of his mouth stirred deep, scary feelings inside her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he put his hand over her lips to stop her from saying the words, and some dark, primitive instinct made her take his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them.
The sound he made was so utterly, completely sexual that her arousal deepened still further, and she suddenly felt greedy. She slid down on the bed, ignoring the pain in her back, and caught his face in her hands, kissing him full on the mouth. She wanted him, there was no question of it, and she tried to pull him over her.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
“No, you’re not,” he replied. “But you will be.” He kissed her on the mouth, a slow, drugging kiss, and the feel of his tongue in her mouth was another hot jet of desire spilling through her.
And then he moved, down her body, kissing, tasting, sucking, as he cupped her between her legs, his fingers dancing against the damp silk of her panties.
Sheer instinct made her arch against his hand, and as he slid his fingers inside the silk covering to touch her she bit her lip, afraid to cry out.
He must have known. He moved up, covering her mouth with his, and pushed his fingers inside her.
She jerked, startled, but he paid no attention to her instinctive panic, holding her captive with his hand and his mouth, touching, stroking, with his tongue, his fingers, and she was shivering in the darkness.
He lifted his head, staring down at her as he touched her. “Don’t!” she gasped in a choked voice.
“Don’t what?” he said, sounding wickedly amused, as his fingers slid against her.
“Don’t…stop,” she whispered, as the first little shock of pleasure hit her.
“Not an option,” he said, and the second wave hit her, harder.
Her body was spiraling out of control, and it frightened her. When the third orgasm hit her she fought it, freezing.
“Oh, no. You’re not getting away with that,” Coltrane said, pulling away from her. The flimsy panties ripped as he yanked them off her, and he pushed her legs apart, moving between them. “Stop trying to control everything. Sometimes you can just let someone else take charge for a little while.”
He was angry with her, and it should have bothered her, but it didn’t. In the last few minutes they’d gone far past that point.
“What if I’m afraid to give up control?” she whispered.
“I’m not giving you that choice. You’re going to be so out of control you won’t know where your body ends and mine begins. I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll be blind and screaming. You only have one choice.”
She was shivering, but it wasn’t with fear. It was hot, naked anticipation. He was going to give her everything and it was no longer her responsibility. It was his. “What’s my choice?”
“Do I use my cock or my mouth?”
The words should have shocked her. Instead, another ripple of frustrated reaction swept over her body. She felt hot, cold, hungry, so damned hungry.
“Your cock,” she said, sliding her fingers down around the hard, silky length of him. He was damp, ready, and she suddenly wanted to put her mouth on him, to tast
e him, take him.
“Wait…” she said. “I want—”
“Later.” He took her hands and pinned them back against the mattress, looming over her, and she could feel him against her, hard, solid. “There’ll be time for everything later. Right now this is what I need to do.” He pushed forward with his hips, just entering her.
She clutched at him, suddenly desperate. “More!” she cried.
“How much more? This?” He pushed in, a bit more, holding himself still inside her, and she wanted to scream.
“Please!” she cried. “I need…”
Another slow, inexorable inch. “What do you need, Jilly?”
“You.”
He was almost in, and the feel of him inside her, hard and smooth, was a torment, a pleasure so sharp it was almost pain, a need so fierce she couldn’t breathe.
“Me? Or my cock?”
She didn’t know the right answer to end the torment. She only knew the truth. “You,” she said.
He thrust deep, so deep she could almost taste him, and she tried to catch her breath but she couldn’t.
He took her, slow and deep and hard, and this time she couldn’t fight. She clawed at him, trying to hold on to something, but his shoulders were slick with sweat, and she knew there was no safety left.
It went on, endless, deep, forever, and she didn’t want it to stop. She clung for a long moment, and then she let go, completely, her body exploding into a darkness beyond comprehension. Her skin burned, her entire body convulsed around him, and she could hear her voice, sobbing.
And even through the rich darkness of completion, she could feel him give over to it, his body pulsing into her, filling her, giving himself to her, and like a fool she began to cry.
She wasn’t sure what she expected. She didn’t even know whether she expected anything at all, but certainly not what he did. He simply cradled her in his arms, against his still-racing heart, his sweat-damp chest, and held her while she cried, stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, saying not a word. And when her weeping had finally begun to shudder to a halt he kissed her, with such utter sweetness that she began sobbing again.
She thought she heard a soft chuckle from him, but she couldn’t be sure, since he was holding her so securely in his arms. She supposed she ought to move away, but at the moment she couldn’t. If it were up to her the world could have ended there and then, with her wrapped tightly against his body.
“You see,” he whispered a long time later. “Sometimes I’m right. You don’t always have to be responsible for everything.”
“Yes,” she said, hiding her face against his warm, smooth skin.
“That doesn’t make you weak, or vulnerable. Sometimes it’s just nice,” he said, stroking her long, thick hair.
“Yes,” she said.
“But you aren’t going to make the mistake of falling in love with me, are you?”
She moved her head to look up at him, her eyes still swimming with the remnants of her tears. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
She would have thought that would drive him away. She didn’t care—her defenses were long gone and right then there was no gaining them back. She heard his sigh, his muttered curse. And then he began to make love to her all over again, slowly, with infinite gentleness, this time without a word, just kisses, soft, sweet kisses everywhere.
It would have been one thing during the cover of a long dark night. During the brightness of the dawning day it was positively, deliciously decadent. Afterward he carried her into the shower, setting her down on the built-in tiled seat from La Casa’s glory days, and proceeded to wash her with sweet, rose-scented soap. And then he knelt at her feet and used his mouth on her, bracing her legs on his shoulders as the water poured down around them.
They ended up in the swan bed in the bright daylight, and Jilly was past wondering if Dean or Rachel-Ann were going to come wandering in. All she could think about was Coltrane and the wicked, delicious things he was doing to her body. The wicked, delicious things she was doing in return.
He took her in ways she hadn’t even thought of, and she lost count of how many times, or when one session blended into another. It was a blur of heat and passion, sex and love, and when she took control, taking him in her mouth, she climaxed from the sheer pleasure she was giving him.
And they slept. Sweaty, sticky, exhausted, they slept the day away, tucked up safely in the swan bed, while the ghosts kept watch over them.
There was nothing to be afraid of, Rachel-Ann told herself when she pulled into the driveway at La Casa de Sombras. Jackson’s monolithic G-Wagen was nowhere in sight, neither was her brother’s Lexus. Her own car was still there, as well as Jilly’s Corvette, and she parked Coltrane’s Range Rover in the stall beside it.
She slid out, looking around her nervously, half afraid something might jump out at her. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the ghosts who frightened her this time. She wasn’t sure if they’d ever frighten her again. They were the ones who told her to run last night, who tried to save her. She had a great deal more to fear from the living.
The house was quiet, still, deserted. The living room was just as she’d last seen it, before she’d run. The glass coffee table was smashed on the floor, broken dishes and glasses all around. No one had cleaned anything up.
And she wasn’t going to, either. She was going upstairs, pack as much as she could carry and run, before anyone tried to stop her.
Jilly would lecture her. She’d be sure Rachel-Ann was getting involved in another disastrous relationship, the first step on the inevitable downward spiral into drugs and alcohol, and Rachel-Ann wasn’t in the mood to argue or explain. She didn’t quite understand herself the difference with Rico.
But it was very different, and both too new and too old to be dissected. Some things you just take on faith. Her future with Rico was one of those things. The details would sort themselves out eventually. Right now, for the first time since she could remember, she felt alive. Hopeful. Strong.
Coltrane might be around there, as well, unless Dean had given him a ride someplace. She didn’t want to see him, either. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, the worry and disapproval almost a match to Jilly’s. She’d been fully prepared to sleep with him when she’d first heard about him, and then he turned around and acted like a stern older brother….
Older brother. The words echoed in her head. Or maybe they were the voices of the ghosts, she could never be sure. Older brother. He’s your brother. He knows who you are.
She sat down, hard, on the sofa that Dean had abandoned last night, staring at the rubble on the floor. Her brother. That’s who the ghosts meant, when they’d warned her. Dean wasn’t looking out for her—not Dean with his one-track mind. Dean loved her, but he was unlikely to do anything about it, much less stand up to Jackson.
It was Coltrane who was looking out for her. Coltrane, her long-lost brother, who must have known all along.
She heard the voices then, drifting down the stairs, and for a moment she froze, listening for the ghosts. But in a moment she recognized Jilly’s voice, unexpectedly husky with laughter. And Coltrane’s response.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think. She jumped up, raced out of the living room and up the stairs, storming into Jilly’s room without knocking.
Coltrane stood silhouetted against the window, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else. Jilly was sitting on the bed, wrapped in a sheet, looking like…
Looking like exactly what she was. A woman who’d just had the best sex of her life. A woman in love.
Her sister, and her brother. One by blood, one by heart. Coltrane was looking across the room at Rachel-Ann, an enigmatic expression on his face. In his green eyes, just like her own green eyes, she saw that she’d been a fool not to see it before.
“You’re my brother, aren’t you?” she said abruptly. Almost from a distance she could hear Jilly’s indrawn gasp of breath.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rachel-Ann. He�
�s no relation to us.”
“No, thank God, or you’d obviously have a lot to answer for,” Rachel-Ann said in a controlled voice. “He’s only related to me. Aren’t you?”
She half expected him to deny it. He glanced at Jilly, who was sitting in the middle of the bed, the sheet wrapped tight around her, that blissed-out expression vanished in the cold light of day.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m your brother.”
22
Jilly sat in the huge, swan-shaped bed, frozen, watching them. How had she missed the obvious? They were so much alike, and she’d never even guessed.
“What are you doing here, Rachel-Ann?” Coltrane demanded. “I thought you’d have enough sense to keep miles away from this place.”
“I’ve never been known for my good sense,” Rachel-Ann retorted. “Why was I supposed to stay away? So I wouldn’t figure it out and tell Jilly? Well, guess what? I figured it out, and Jilly knows. Forget about me—what are you doing here? Did you come here to find me?”
Coltrane moved away from the window. He didn’t even glance at Jilly, huddled beneath the sheets in a knot of pain and betrayal. “I didn’t know you existed until I saw you,” he said slowly. “I came to L.A. to find out what happened to my mother. Our mother. She died out here, over thirty years ago. My father told me she was murdered.”
“Your father?” Rachel-Ann echoed. “We don’t have the same father?”
“No.”
A spasm of fear crossed Rachel-Ann’s pale face, and Jilly wanted to move, to comfort her, to protect her. But she was trapped inside her own sense of betrayal.
“Does Jackson know who you are? Why you’re here?” Rachel-Ann demanded hoarsely.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s the reason I’m here,” Coltrane said in a cool, emotionless voice. “My mother lived here with him and a bunch of others in the late sixties, and he killed her. He murdered my mother. Your mother. I came here to find the truth. And to make him pay.”