Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  Pushing away from the railing, she stepped close to him. A slight wind rustled through the trees, casting moving shadows on his face. Even in the dimness of the porch, his eyes gleamed down at her. She curled a finger into the open placket of his shirt. “Maybe I won’t want you to leave.”

  She lifted her face and he closed the distance, mouth covering hers. She drank him in, the kiss going on and on, soothing away the awful tension of the day, leaving healing warmth in its wake. The wanting remained, lurking beneath the surface, but the need, the growing emotional connection, was stronger.

  When he finally lifted his head, she touched the strong jut of his chin, stubbled under her fingertip. “Stay with me, McMillian.”

  In silent answer he took the keys from her and unlocked the door. She wrapped her fingers around his and drew him through the downstairs rooms and up to her bedroom. Once there, she turned into his arms, accepting the soft ravishment of his kiss with avaricious eagerness. His tie had disappeared earlier in the day, the top two buttons on his dress shirt undone.

  Mouth open, tongue twirling around his, she rubbed his arms, biceps hard and hot under her palms. Excited desire speared through her, setting off a low ache in her belly, between her thighs, but blended with the sexual need was a different emotion, something deeper, truer. Not a need for his body, the pleasure he could bring her, but a need for this man, for the fledgling connection unfolding between them and slowly drawing her to him with thin threads of steel.

  “You don’t know what it meant,” he murmured, pressing damp kisses down her neck, to her collarbone, to her sternum. His lips brushed against her necklace. “This evening, to have you stay with me.”

  She smoothed her fingers over his short hair. “I couldn’t leave you alone with that.”

  “I’m glad.” He spread his hand over her back, supporting her while his lips moved even lower, to where her blouse gaped at the curve of her cleavage. She let her eyes slide closed, hot breath and the warm wet glide of his tongue heating her skin, sending more liquid desire pooling deep within her.

  Urgency driving her, she stepped back and unbuttoned her blouse, letting it fall away under his hungry gaze. She stepped out of her slacks and kicked them aside, watching as he peeled away his own shirt and reached for his belt. She caught his hands, easing them aside, dispatching buckle, button and zipper herself. She slipped the gray pants and navy boxers off together, freeing his erection to her greedy touch.

  She folded her fingers around the hard length of him, his skin smooth and soft. Eyes closing on hissed inhale, he fumbled with her bra, letting it hang on her arms while his hands covered each breast, stroking, squeezing, stoking the flames licking between her thighs. He caught her mouth again and she mimicked the rhythm of his tongue with the slide of her hand on him.

  “I want you, Cee,” he muttered into her mouth, his voice rough and raw with passion and something deeper, something she was afraid to define.

  “I think you have me, McMillian.” She pushed him toward the bed. “So take me.”

  His eyes flared and he spun, pinning her beneath him with an agile pounce. He hooked two fingers in her panties and yanked, tossing them away while she did the same with her lacy bra. With one hand tangled in her hair, holding her gaze beneath his, he dipped a hand between her thighs, sliding two fingers inside her, thumb rubbing across her clit. The combined sensation sent her arching off the bed with a raw moan. God, how could it be so powerful, so good with him, with just the simplest of caresses?

  “You’re wet for me,” he rasped, tightening his hold on her hair. His hand pulsed between her legs, a steady rhythm that still wasn’t enough. She bit her lip and opened further to him.

  “Yes, for you.” She wrapped a hand around him again, slipping her palm up and down, passing her thumb over the head until he groaned. “Take me. Make me yours.”

  He pulled his fingers from her body and left her long enough to extract a condom from his wallet. He sank between her thighs and slid inside, withdrew, thrust deeper. She arched into him, taking him further, harder. Reality narrowed to the joining of their bodies, the wet skate of skin and tongues and moans. Nothing existed but him, the pleasure he created within her, growing, billowing, burning until an intense climax stabbed through her, until he braced against her with two deep thrusts, a groan seeming to rip from his throat.

  He slumped in her arms and she wrapped them about him, his skin damp and hot beneath her fingertips. She buried her face against his throat, blinking back a rush of tears she couldn’t explain.

  With an audible exhale, McMillian rolled to his back, taking her with him. Celia ran a finger down his stomach, tracing the line of his abs. Muscles jumped beneath her touch and she smiled against his ribcage.

  “What are you doing?” His voice, lazy and drowsy, rumbled at her ear.

  She pressed a kiss to the small scar below his nipple. “You’ll laugh.”

  His hand ran up her back, sifting through her hair. “What?”

  “Nothing important.” Satiated and flushed with contentment, she levered up on an elbow to study him. Eyes closed, he rested against her pillows, her decidedly feminine floral sheets making him appear even more masculine, more virile. She was happy, here with him like this, and she squashed the tiny tremor of fear the realization aroused.

  Being happy frightened her, because it never lasted.

  He opened his eyes and smiled. The dark depths of his blue eyes were clear and warm, and the flutter kicked off in her chest by that expression took her breath. She swallowed and averted her gaze, her heart thudding a heavy beat. This was scary. This felt real, because she could see a line of nights like these—filled with laughter and lovemaking, sharing secrets and kisses—stretching into the future.

  She gnawed at her bottom lip. He’d said he wanted to get to know her, that he wanted more. They weren’t all about the sex any longer.

  And she found herself wanting all those things too.

  He smoothed a finger up her cheek, tucked her hair behind her ear. “That’s a contemplative expression if I ever saw one.”

  She smiled, smothering the doubts, not wanting them to intrude on this interlude with him. She trailed a finger along the line of his ribs. “Just making a memory.”

  “About?” He stroked her throat, danced a fingertip along her clavicle.

  “You. This.” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Us.”

  A hand at her nape, he pulled her down, feathering his lips across hers. She curved a hand along his jaw and kissed him back. Afterward, she subsided onto her pillow, staring at the ceiling, hugging the warmth of their connection to her.

  He rolled to his side, resting his weight on an elbow. Above the sheet, he traced the length of her chain, rolled the button onto the pad of his finger. She closed her eyes, knowing what he saw—a button from an Air Force dress uniform, the silver surface worn from being constantly touched for more than thirty years, traces of tarnish along the design. A sigh worked through her.

  “It was my father’s,” she said, her voice quiet in the still room. “He went to Vietnam before I was born. He was killed when I was four months old.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sincerity colored his tone.

  When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her with that same intensely clear gaze. She shook her head, ignoring the sudden tightness of her throat. “Don’t be. I never knew him.”

  “Bullshit, Cee.” He replaced the button carefully against her skin. “Or this wouldn’t be around your neck every day.”

  She shifted to rest against the headboard. His hair brushed her shoulder, and she threaded her fingers in her lap. “When I was little, I used to pretend it was all a mistake, that he’d come home, and I’d have a real daddy, you know? We’d be a real family—not that we weren’t, Mama and Cis and I—but we’d be more of a family. There were a lot of men in Mama’s life, men who didn’t stay.”

  “Like your sister’s father?”

  “Yeah.” Her attempt at a s
mile hurt. “Like him. He wasn’t around long enough for Mama to tell him she was pregnant. I was older before I figured out she wanted it that way. She pushed them away before they had a chance to hurt her.”

  His thumb rubbed her upper arm. “You don’t have to push me away, Cee.”

  “I don’t want to. That’s what scares the hell out of me, McMillian.”

  He moved, leaning over her, his face close to hers, the warm strength of his hands holding her shoulders. “If it’s any consolation, I’m scared shitless too.”

  Shaky laughter bubbled to her lips. She wrapped her arms around his waist and tugged him down, their mouths meeting, clinging, meshing.

  She traced her hands up his spine and whispered against his mouth. “I really like being with you, McMillian.”

  He chuckled and rolled to lie against the pillows, keeping her against his side. “It’s mutual, baby.”

  Her eyes burning from weariness, but still feeling too keyed up to sleep, she curved a hand around his rib cage. “What will you do? If you are the father?”

  Tension tightened the line of his body, but he slowly relaxed under her touch. “I don’t know. Deal with it, the best I can.”

  Sliding her hand down his arms, she tangled her fingers with his. “I’ll be there, if you want me to.”

  “I want you to.” Turning his head, he brushed his mouth across her forehead. She settled more firmly into his side and let the steady thrum of his heartbeat soothe her into an uneasy sleep.

  —

  Tom woke, lying on his stomach, surrounded by soft sheets and Celia’s clean scent. Residual pleasure and contentment lingered in him and he smiled into the pillow.

  I’ll be there, if you want me to.

  The intensity with which he craved that support, craved her, speared through him all over again. However, she wasn’t here now. He was alone in the bed. He shifted to his back, the sunlight streaming in at the window indicating it was well after dawn.

  The rushing of the shower filtered through the bathroom door. He rolled from the bed and followed the sounds of water and Celia’s quiet humming. In the bath, steam rose in lazy curlicues and the frosted glass door blurred the lines of Celia’s nude body. An eagerness beyond mere sexual wanting settled in him.

  He slid the shower door aside. Water streamed over Celia’s body in a shimmering fall. Her gaze met his, a smile curving her lips. Sultry passion flared in her eyes.

  “Good morning.” She slicked dripping hair away from her face.

  Resting a hand on either side of her head, he leaned in and kissed her. “Now it’s a good morning, even if I did wake up without you.”

  “I went for a run.” She laid her palms flat against his pecs. “You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. The last couple of days have been rough.”

  “You make it better.” Zings of pleasure shot out from the soft caress of her fingers on his damp skin. He leaned in again to take her mouth in a wet, open kiss. On a quiet moan, she slid her hands up, winding her arms around his neck and pressing into him, the slick globes of her breasts gliding against his chest. Parting her lips further, she gently sucked his tongue deeper into her mouth. Renewed desire slammed into him. With a low growl, he backed her into the wall.

  She moaned again, a low sound of approval. He caught her chin in one hand, holding her under his kiss until he lifted his mouth from hers long enough to whisper, “Mine.”

  “Yours.” She murmured the affirmation into his mouth, arching into him. He slipped his other hand between them, down the wet surface of her stomach, sifting his fingers through the curls between her thighs and skimmed two fingers along the damp cleft of her sex. She gasped and he caught the sweet intake of breath with his lips.

  “Open to me.”

  She complied, thighs falling apart, allowing him greater access. Water fell about them, sheeting on heated skin, caressing. He stroked her, circling her clit, delving a pair of fingers into her clenching wetness. Another muffled moan rewarded him. She sagged against the wall, holding onto him with fingers that dug into his muscles.

  “I love the way you kiss me,” she breathed. He trailed his mouth down her neck, suckling, nipping. She bit her lip, a raw groan slipping free. “Love the way you touch me.”

  He twisted his fingers inside her, driving higher, sweeping his thumb across her clit in tiny circles. “I love how you respond to me.”

  “Because it’s you.” She threw her head back, offering him more of her throat. “God, McMillian, I want you inside me.”

  “Not this time, baby.” He deepened his thrusts, keeping up the rhythm between her thighs. Being with her kept the uncertainties surrounding Jessie’s death, his possible paternity at bay, but even more, the need to pleasure her, to return in this small way the simple peace she’d brought to his life, consumed him. In this one moment, isolated from the world, she was his. And he was hers. “Let me.”

  A ragged sigh puffed from between her lips. Letting his other hand slip to caress and tease at her breast, he closed his teeth on her neck in a light, scraping pressure. She grabbed for his shoulders. “McMillian…”

  Muscles contracted around his fingers, heat spreading along his nerves as the orgasm took her body. She cried out, nails abrading his skin, and he continued touching, thrusting, kissing, tweaking, until the small tremors died away and she slumped into his embrace, face pressed to his throat. A warm tightness took his chest, squeezing his heart and lungs in a weird pleasure-pain. Smoothing wet, tangled hair from her face, he cupped her jaw and lifted. Her lashes rose, eyes filled with lazy satiation and a reaffirmation of her promise from the previous night. He dipped his head to take her mouth once more, but in a softer kiss permeated with tenderness.

  He could do this, could face the unthinkable, as long as he had her.

  Breaking the kiss, eyes clenched against a wave of hot emotion and cold fear, he wrapped her close. Against his chest, her still-thundering heart thudded in a heavy, reassuring rhythm. He clung to that pulse like a lifeline in deadly seas.

  Twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow, he’d know if he faced his greatest nightmare all over again.

  By this time tomorrow, he’d know whether or not he’d fathered a child he could do nothing to protect.

  —

  “Gentlemen, thank you for coming.” Ignoring Cook’s icy look, Tom closed the conference room door and indicated the chairs around the polished table. Beyond the room, activity stirred in the offices: phones ringing, low conversations, the muted buzz from the television playing the local station’s midmorning newsbreak. “Ms. St. John will join us shortly.”

  “I won’t lie, Tom.” Sheriff Stanton Reed pulled out a chair. “I’m not happy about your hijacking this case.”

  Tom shrugged, not deigning to sit. Cook remained standing also, his shoulders set in a tight line. “What hijacking? I merely had Ms. St. John explore another line of thought than your investigators.”

  Relaxed in a chair, Tick Calvert rested his chin on his hand. “Word games. You’re poaching and you know it.”

  “Considering I’ll be prosecuting Jessica’s killer, I wouldn’t call it poaching.”

  “Prosecuting yourself. Interesting concept.” Cook folded his arms over his chest. “Kind of like being told to go fu—”

  “All right.” Reed held up a quelling hand and shot a hard look at Cook. “That’s enough. I’m all for cooperation, Tom, and I’m open to what you have to share with us. I’m also not opposed Celia’s rejoining the investigation.”

  “And what are you planning to offer in the way of sharing?”

  Reed and Calvert exchanged a look. “We have some interesting DNA results.”

  “So do we.” Celia spoke from the doorway. Tom glanced around at her. She looked calm and cool, her hair twisted into a sleek chignon, a navy pinstriped suit hugging her body. He remembered their hands tangling the night before and his palm tingled as a rush of well-being spread through him. “Who wants to go first?”


  “The deceased baby from Tuesday?” Cook tugged a chair away from the table with a tight, frustrated movement. “Jessica Grady wasn’t the mother.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ there.” Celia crossed the room and took the chair across from him. She lifted her chin, a challenging expression on her face.

  “But there are similarities in DNA between the baby and the placental remains in Ms. Grady’s uterus.”

  Tom frowned. “Similarities?”

  “The babies share some of the same genetic material,” Cook explained. “Ford believes they’re related in some way. Siblings, with the same father, or cousins, maybe.”

  “Well.” Celia tapped the faxed report in front of her. “That father is definitely not Mr. McMillian.”

  She met Tom’s gaze and he saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. Finally able to completely relax, he pulled a chair away from the table and sat before his suddenly weak knees put him on the floor.

  “We got a hit from the national database on our John Doe suspect’s prints.” Cook’s steady, icy voice pulled Tom’s attention back.

  Celia leaned forward, excitement spiking on her face. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Danny Blanton.” Tick pulled a folder from the small stack he’d brought. “He’s from Hamilton County, Florida. Has a list of priors a mile long, mostly small-time stuff.”

  “So, what are we saying?” Celia frowned. “He escalated to kidnapping?”

  Tick smiled and shook his head. “He’s associated with a bunch down there out of Taylor County that I remember from my days with the bureau’s Organized Crime section. His main function seemed to be as a courier or a runner for them.”

  “Are we talking the mob here?” Tom asked.

  Tick shook his head. “Dixie Mafia. These boys in Florida had loose ties to the Reeses and Hollowell up here. You can’t tell me there aren’t still people they’re associated with around here. And you know they’d be into anything with money attached.”

  Celia arched an eyebrow. “Like money laundering?”

  Tick laughed. “Definitely. Prostitution, drugs, gambling. You name it, they’ve done it. Less organized than the traditional mob, but they’re definitely still around.”