What the Lady Wants

by Nika Rhone

  “Of course, I’m pleased to hear that Cynthia wasn’t seriously harmed,” Mrs. Westlake said with stiff dignity. “But I have obligations which you can’t possibly understand.”

  “If they keep you from being a decent human being, Meredith, then I don’t want to.”

  “Well!” Her thin nose pointed to the sky, Mrs. Westlake spun and stalked back toward the building, calling imperiously over her shoulder, “Amelia Ann, let’s go. I need to find a way to get you back inside without any of the reporters seeing you like that.”

  Pale, and looking a little bit in awe of the way Mrs. Fordham had just taken her mother to task, Amelia gave Thea a quick hug, whispering, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” before hurrying after her mother.

  “Wow.” Lillian looked just as impressed as Amelia had.

  Mrs. Fordham sniffed, sitting next to Thea on the bumper and slipping her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Nobody messes with my baby.” She pressed a kiss to the side of Thea’s head, frowning when she flinched. “That’s it. You’re going to the hospital. Now.”

  “Okay.” Her head really did hurt. “But, Daddy, could you please go to the police station and check on Doyle? They took him to answer some questions, and he said it was routine and not to worry, but, well, I’m worried.” Especially after witnessing Mrs. Westlake’s ease at casting blame onto unsuspecting scapegoats.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” her father said. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.”

  “You should take my father with you, Mr. Fordham,” Lillian said. “He can get hold of my brother, Peter, and have him liaise between you and the detectives that are questioning Doyle.”

  “Great idea, Lil,” Thea said, feeling relieved. “Thanks.”

  As her father and Lillian put their heads together to make it happen, Thea leaned into her mother, suddenly exhausted. So much had happened in such a short time, she was still having trouble processing it all. But one thing was remarkably clear. With the threat gone, she could finally stop looking over her shoulder and concentrate on her future and the man she knew without any doubt would be in it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  She came to him the next day.

  Doyle opened the door to Thea’s soft knock just after noon. He’d hoped she’d come. Things had been too chaotic at the scene for them to talk, and then she’d gone to one of the ambulances to be checked over while he’d been sequestered with both the local police and the FBI giving statements and answering questions.

  His weapon had been taken as a matter of course for the investigation into Pratt’s death; he’d been questioned by five different people from at least three different agencies, and he was pretty sure he’d only escaped detention in a precinct interrogation room by dint of the combined heavyweight influence of Frank Fordham and Rupert Beaumont. And through it all, not a single person would give him any information about Thea, no matter how many times he asked.

  Needless to say, his mood was less than stellar by the time he got home.

  That had been a few hours after dawn. As predicted, it had been a long night, and it would be an even worse day. Even as he drove through the gates onto the estate, the reporters had been amassing outside. Like locusts, they always knew where to find the next big meal. They’d stay there until they’d sucked the marrow from the bones of this story and then swoop off to their next unsuspecting victim.

  After checking that Red had already taken care of the extra security the estate would require during the siege, and that Thea had been brought home and was still sleeping, Doyle had stumbled back to his cottage and stood under the pounding showerheads for as long as the hot water lasted before falling into bed himself.

  Several long hours of restless sleep later, he pulled on a pair of cotton lounging pants and T-shirt and let the events of the previous evening wash over him. During his multiple recitations, he kept to the facts. Nothing personal had been allowed to intrude. He had his war face on, and none of his roiling emotions had been acknowledged, much less exposed.

  Now, however, his guts twisted as he considered just how close things had come to total disaster. Just how close he’d come to losing the best thing that had ever come into his life before he even realized it. Oh, he’d known he had feelings for Thea. Affection. Admiration. Lust. But he’d been waiting for that damned light bulb.

  Well, he got it in the moment Pratt fired a gun at her and her body dropped to the ground. If it hadn’t been for Simon…he shuddered at what might have been. And what might not have.

  So when she appeared at his door, he didn’t say a word. He just opened his arms and let her walk into them. His face pressed against the top of her head, he breathed in the scent of her, fresh and clean and warm. Alive. Her heart beat powerfully against his chest, answering his own. He gave her strength and comfort and received the same back from her tenfold. This. This was what he wanted, what he saw between Austin and Becca, what he wanted for himself. This sense of homecoming, of belonging.

  “I thought I lost you,” he murmured into her hair.

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

  It was obviously meant to be a joke, but Doyle heard the underlying strain in her tone. He eased her back and looked her in the eye. “No, I’m not.” Aside from the bruise on her cheek, which only emphasized her paleness, there were no outward signs of the ordeal she’d endured. But he, more than most, knew how easily another kind of damage could lurk just below the surface. “Are you okay? Really?”

  “I’m fine. Just some bumps and bruises.” She touched a finger to her abused cheek.

  That stark reminder of his failure to keep her protected was like a knife in Doyle’s gut. “I am so damn sorry. He should have never been able to get close enough to touch you. I screwed up.”

  “Are you kidding? You and Simon are the only reason I’m here right now, and not chained in some bedroom dungeon, being—” Her voice caught.

  Doyle drew her against him again, rocking her gently as she clung to him with every ounce of strength she had. Once her breathing had smoothed out, he asked, “What can I do?”

  She pulled back so she could look at him. “Make me feel safe again.” Her lips brushed his once, twice. Then she kissed him as though all of her emotions needed someplace to escape. It was hot and frantic for a moment before it slowed and became something else, something deeper, touching him on a level so far inside that he thought he might go up in flames.

  And yet…

  He broke the kiss. “Are you sure?”

  Rather than answer, she took his hand and led him to the bedroom where he balked one final time. People reacted to trauma in different ways. Frank had assured him that Pratt hadn’t molested Thea in any way, but it was clear the horror of his threats was still a fresh wound. He wanted to be sure that he was doing the right thing here. For her. For them.

  When he stopped moving, Thea turned and gave him a questioning look before reaching up to caress his stubble-covered cheek. “Please, Brennan. I need you.”

  There was no way in the world he could deny her. Gently, he removed her clothes, cataloguing and kissing every bruise that marred her body, touching every inch of her skin with quiet reverence as though to reassure himself that she was really safe and whole.

  And his.

  With gentle lips he kissed her, sliding a hand in slow circles over her breasts, teasing lazily at the rosy tips that tightened and peaked under his questing fingers. She arched under the attention, a small gusty sound indicating her pleasure at his touch. Then she returned the favor, using her nails to do to his nipples what he’d done to hers, making him suck in a sharp breath at the zing that arced from nipple to groin in response.

  His hands quested lower, finding her already wet and warm and open for him, putting to rest that final worry. The trauma of the evening hadn’t damaged her, hadn’t made her fear a man’s touch, his touch. She wanted him, needed him, just as he needed her, needed to reassure himself that she was his.

&n
bsp; As he slid inside her snug embrace, he looked down at her face, fascinated by the love radiating from her expression. The pace he set was slow, lazy, and meant to show her that this wasn’t about sex. This was about connection, a melding of the two into one. As his excitement stoked higher, he fought to keep his pace slow, but eventually he lost the battle and started to stroke faster.

  He ate the small sounds of pleasure that broke from her lips, until he buried his face in the crook of her neck and let out a muffled shout of his own, feeling her contractions around him as she found her climax with him. He breathed her in with every ragged breath he drew, and knew this was home.

  “I love you.”

  Thea’s hand stilled from where it had been petting along his back, a habit of hers after they made love. Doyle smiled into her neck, knowing he’d caught her off guard. He’d enjoy the moment because he didn’t think there’d be many like them.

  He pulled back until he could look into her eyes. She looked wary, as though she weren’t entirely sure she’d heard him correctly, so he said it again, plainly and clearly. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Her tone was solemn, like she was sharing a secret. Or a promise. He kissed her to seal the vows.

  Finally, she was his.

  They dozed for a while and then woke and made love again, this time more playfully. Doyle didn’t tell her he loved her again, but she didn’t need him to. He meant it. She didn’t need to hear it a dozen times a day. All she needed to do was see the look in his eyes.

  After a quick shower, they investigated the contents of his fridge and pulled out the makings for omelets. As he broke eggs into a bowl, he asked, “I’m guessing your parents know you’re here.”

  “Mmhmm.” She finished chewing the bite of cheese she’d snitched. “After last night, I had to tell them where I was going or they might have freaked when they realized I wasn’t anywhere in the house.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “The headache is gone.” She touched the back of her head gingerly. “Mostly, anyway. There’s no concussion, but I still can’t go running for at least a week.”

  There was a flash of molten rage in Doyle’s eyes before he buried it behind a teasing smile. “Well, then I guess we’ll just have to make sure you get your exercise in other ways that won’t jar your pretty head, now, won’t we?”

  Remembering the incredibly tender care he’d taken with her while they’d made love earlier, Thea felt her body tingle in interest. She cleared her throat and redirected the conversation. “Have you checked on Simon and Francine?”

  “I called while you were in the shower. They’re doing okay, although they want to run a few more tests on Francine.”

  “Did they find out what Oliver did to her?”

  “Rohypnol.” Doyle’s tone was hard. “He must have put it in her water glass somehow. She doesn’t remember talking to him but memory loss is one of the side effects. That’s what makes it such an effective date-rape drug. The victims can’t remember anything.”

  “God.” Thea felt sick. “The champagne.”

  “What?”

  “He handed me a glass of champagne, but I put it down while we were walking. If I hadn’t…”

  Doyle pulled her into a hard embrace while they absorbed the implications. If Oliver had managed to drug Thea, she wouldn’t have been able to fight him off long enough for help to arrive.

  “It didn’t happen.” Doyle kissed her forehead before going back to his breakfast preparation.

  Thea nodded, trying to not think about the what-ifs. “What about Simon?”

  “He’s still sedated, but the prognosis is good.” Doyle briskly whisked the eggs as Thea got out a pan and set it on the stove.

  “Thank God.” She still couldn’t get over the fact that Simon got shot because of her. No. For her. “I really owe him.”

  Doyle looked over at her, his expression serious. “So do I.”

  Their gazes held for a long moment, and Thea’s heart sped up as the now familiar arousal built. A little breathless, she turned her attention to the peppers and mushrooms waiting to be chopped.

  She ignored the masculine chuckle as Doyle added seasoning to the eggs and gave them another quick beating. “So, how did Oliver get a gun into the party, anyway? I thought they were supposed to have all that crazy Super Secret Service security.”

  Doyle’s mouth pulled downward. “He took it from Francine. I don’t know if he planned it that way, but taking down your bodyguard was the easiest way for him to get a weapon without having to risk smuggling one in himself. For a twisted bastard, he was pretty damn smart.”

  Thea shuddered, not wanting to remember exactly how twisted he had been. “Dad had the both of them put in private rooms to try and keep the reporters from bothering them. They wouldn’t really try to get into Simon’s hospital room for a story, would they? I mean, he just got out of surgery!”

  “Sweetheart, some of them would get into the operating room for a story if they could.” He tested the heat of the pan, took the cutting board from her, and slid the vegetables into the sizzling oil. “Which reminds me, stay away from the gates today.”

  “I was already warned when I left the house.” She groaned. “God, it’s like we’re under siege by the Mongols.”

  “Close enough.” Stirring the cooking food, he asked, “Have you spoken with Amelia or Lillian?”

  She concentrated on shredding the cheese while Doyle poured the eggs into the pan. “I talked to Lil last night after we left the hospital, but when I tried to call Amelia, it just went to voicemail. Same thing this morning.”

  “The Westlakes and Davenports are probably circling the wagons and doing intensive damage control.” Thea thought he was probably right. It was just too bad that it would be Charles that everyone would be trying to insulate from the evening’s events. Amelia, as always, would merely be an afterthought.

  Thea wanted to go see her, make sure she was holding up okay, but the media presence would be even worse outside the Westlake home than her own. She’d simply have to wait for Mellie to return one of her dozen or so texts, which had all amounted to the same plea: Call me.

  “I still can’t believe it was Oliver.” Thea wrapped her arms around herself against a sudden inner chill as the horror of the previous night threatened to break through the walls holding it at bay.

  Sliding the pan off the burner, Doyle wrapped his arms around her as well, tucking her in tight to his strong, hard body in a protective hug. Thea relished the feeling of safety in addition to the heat he threw off.

  “He seemed so nice. So normal.” That was the scariest part. “I thought we were, well, not friends, but at least colleagues in trying to give Mellie the wedding she deserved.”

  “Which just fed into his fantasy.” His arms tightened around her when she stiffened. “It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. Nothing you did made him think or act the way he did. He was either a sociopath or just plain nuts, but no matter what, none of this was your fault.”

  In her brain, she knew that. But her heart would take a little more time to convince. “I gave him cookies.” It was a stupid thing to say, but the sense of betrayal was still too immense to put into better words.

  Doyle stilled for a second. “Rosa’s cookies? The ones with honey drizzled on top?”

  “Um…” She struggled to remember. “Maybe. Why? Is it important?”

  “Not really. It just explains something.” Before she could ask what, he continued. “Kirsten did a quick computer check and matched the postmarks on all the letters to cities recently visited by Senator Davenport and his son.”

  “And his son’s personal assistant.”

  Doyle nodded. “If Pratt didn’t leave any kind of journals or other evidence about his plans, at least the police will have something solid to tie Pratt to everything that happened.”

  Because there was a body in the morgue that couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. Thea hadn’t considered the possi
bility that without those letters, they didn’t have a shred of evidence to support their claim that Oliver had been trying to kidnap her other than her word. Suddenly, Doyle’s night at the police station took on an ominous undertone.

  Panicked, she pulled back so she could see Doyle’s face. “Are you going to be in trouble for shooting him? You know that Dad will get his lawyers right on this. If you need—” Her words tumbled to a halt as he pressed his fingers to her lips.

  “Relax. I’m not in any trouble. There’ll be an investigation because there was a death, but I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be, either. It was a justifiable shooting. If they were going to arrest me, they would have done it last night.”

  Slowly, Thea nodded, the anxiety fading under his assurances. “I’m still sorry you had to be the one to kill him.”

  “I’m not.” The words were flat, but his eyes burned with emotion. Thea wondered at that. Then she remembered the two letters that Doyle had refused to let her read. Whatever they had said, they’d convinced Doyle that Oliver deserved killing. She shuddered, glad she’d never have to find out exactly what had been waiting for her at the house Oliver had arranged to be her prison.

  Sitting down at the table with their jointly prepared meal, the edginess and hurt slid away, and a strange sense of rightness settled over her. She could see herself doing this every day, sitting down to breakfast with the man she loved, both of them going off to work, and then meeting back over another meal at the end of the day. It was a perfect rhythm. It was the perfect man.

  “You’re thinking heavy thoughts over there,” Doyle said, rubbing his bare foot along hers under the table. She grinned.

  “No, happy thoughts.”

  “About us, I hope.”

  Us. It was silly to get such a rush from that little word, but she couldn’t help it. She gave him a sweet smile in reply, and they dug into their food with ravenous appetites. It was as they lingered over their coffee that Doyle oh-so-casually asked, “Do you think you could be comfortable living here?”

  The world froze as the implication of that simple question sank in. “With you?”