by Ava Gray
That’s where he went when he left the hospital. That was what he was doing.
“It’s an old hotel,” he said softly. “Should renovate nicely. I had just enough from the severance package to buy the property. We’ll need a board of directors, and to work on donations for the annual budget. But I’ve registered at WSU for courses in business management, nonprofit focus. I figure by the time we both have our degrees, this place will be ready for us to run it.”
A sob burst out of her, completely uncontrollable. She wasn’t pretty when she cried, but she couldn’t stop it. Tears ran down her cheeks and she buried her face in her hands rather than look at him. It was perfect, just like that stupid song. He knelt before her and wrapped his arms around her, murmuring into her hair, but he didn’t try to stop the noise or staunch her outburst.
Like always, he understood.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate you a little, also.”
“I know that, too.”
“Can’t believe you did this for me.”
“I’d do anything for you.” And she knew he meant it. “Even before you healed me, you gave my life back, a reason for living. I adore you. I worship you. I love you beyond reason.”
Maybe it should be scary to be the center of someone’s world like that, but she needed it. She’d never had it. Gillie hugged him tightly around the neck, rubbing her damp cheek against his. He prickled slightly—and that was Taye. He turned his head and his lips met hers; she tasted her own tears and a hint of fresh sweetness, as if he’d sucked a peppermint. A shudder of reaction worked through her as he deepened the kiss, threading his fingers into her hair.
Long moments later, she broke away, breathing hard. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist all of this. You know me too well.”
“I hoped,” he admitted. “You were starting to scare me.”
“Good. You deserve it. I still kind of want to stab you.”
His eyes were grave. “You can if you want.”
“I might, when you least expect it. But don’t worry . . . I’ll heal you afterward, if I do.”
Taye grinned, tacitly agreeing to her terms. Impossible to stay mad at him. Gillie kissed him again and again, all over his face. Tamped longing swelled within her, adding urgency to her touch. He responded in kind and wrapped his arms around her.
“If you keep touching me like this, I may not want dinner,” she warned.
“Fuck dinner.” He swept her into his arms and carried her into the next room, where the cagey bastard had set up an air mattress and surrounded it in a sea of candles.
“You were sure of yourself.”
“Not really. But it’s best to be prepared.”
“I always wanted my own boy scout.”
“You got him.” As he lay her down on the mattress, he nuzzled her throat with slow, languid kisses. “Tell me you had a new Depo shot.”
“I did.”
“Who were you planning to sleep with?” The jealousy in his tone delighted her.
“I have a thing for my psych professor.”
His jaw dropped, and she laughed softly. Taye shook his head. “As I’ve said before, you’re a wicked, wicked woman, Gillie Flynn.”
“I know. Make love to me?”
His reply came when he worked the T-shirt over her head and then he unfastened his jeans. Gillie tugged his clothes off, and flung them well beyond the circle of candles. The scent of orange cleaner lingered in her nostrils, along with the burning vanilla wax. He must’ve spent so much time here, getting this surprise ready. He’d wanted her to know how serious he was about their future.
They kissed endlessly, tongues touching in hot, sweet little licks. He edged her backward until he hung above her, propped on his arms. Taye had almost as many scars as she did—a matched set. He still didn’t remember anything about his life, and that was fine with her.
“My name is Tyler,” he said, surprising her. “Tyler Golden. I’ve done time.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Me, too. Twelve years. But we’re both free now.”
With a little growl, he pressed his mouth to her shoulder, giving a mock-fierce bite. She fell back on the pillows he’d so thoughtfully provided and opened her arms. Her whole body ached for him, her cunny already slick. It seemed as if it had been so long.
“I’d prefer you to call me Taye, but all my IDs will be in my real name.”
“How did you find out?”
“The bounty hunter tracked me down. Took prints in our apartment in Detroit.” At her astonishment, he smiled. “Told you he was good.”
“Do you have family?”
“I guess. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to see them. I’m sure I was a mess before I fell off the grid.”
“It’s okay. You’ll always have me.”
“Thank God,” he murmured.
Taye licked and nuzzled down to her breast. Damp heat and fluttering caresses feathered around her aureole. She sank her hands into his hair with a moan. He teased her like that for what felt like forever, until at last he took her nipple into his mouth and gave the fierce suction she craved. Gillie arched, breath coming in unsteady gasps, but he showed no mercy; he just changed sides—more teasing, until she twisted on the bed—mad with the desire for him to move lower.
He stopped.
“You bastard.”
“I want to watch you come. If you knew how many times I’ve fantasized about the way you looked . . .”
She knew what he meant: a deserted house, Truth or Dare, a bottle of wine, a ladder-back chair. In retrospect she didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed . . . maybe a little of both. Gillie glanced at his cock. He was so hard, throbbing, with a hint of fluid on the crown, and he shivered at the look.
“Yes,” she said huskily. “I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
Heat flushed through her as he slid down, settling in between her thighs to watch the show. She eased up slightly, letting the pillows take her weight. Her clit hummed but she didn’t go right for it. Instead she ran her thumb between her labia, taking pleasure in how wet he’d gotten her. Taye made a hungry sound against her thigh.
“That’s it. Touch yourself.” His lips moved on her skin, phantom kisses that sparked her excitement higher.
Up and down, lazy sweeps, and each time, she eased closer to her clitoris. He licked the curve of her inner thigh, just below the crease where it met her ass. Gillie moaned, the need for orgasm building tension. He sat up to watch as she went to work with two fingers; the sight made him hiss as she strummed her body, knowing just how to get there—and fast. She jerked and came and he lowered his head to lick up her juice.
Before she could calm down, he was on her—in her, his whole body shaking. Taye kissed her, and she tasted herself. Tart-sweet, intimate. His tongue took hers, tangled, as he thrust repeatedly, no finesse, just need. Love. Lust. Gillie wrapped her arms around him and then her legs, tilting her hips for deeper penetration. So good. So right. She whispered to him, demand and endearments, urging him faster with her heels against his ass. They shook together, and he growled when he came, teeth clenched, but he never took his eyes off her face.
Afterward, she held him and smoothed his sweat-slick skin, brushing back the chestnut hair, kissing his eyelids and his ears, everything she could reach. The scent of citrus and bergamot mingled with the vanilla candles, creating a pleasant haze. Gillie curled into him with a contented sigh.
“Still want to stab me?” he asked softly.
“I think I’ll let you stab me instead.”
“Thought I just did. Love you so, Gillie-girl. You’re everything,” he said, as he had once before, long ago, but this time, his tone held only happiness.
“I know,” she said. “I’ve always known. Took you a while to figure it out, though. Some people are meant to be together. Sometimes things happen exactly as they must.”
“I’m slow, but adorable. My wife will be the
brains of the operation.”
“. . . Wife?”
He pushed up on one elbow. “Well, yeah. Someday. That wasn’t a proposal. I’ll do it right when the time comes.”
Could hearts explode with joy? She hoped not. Maybe she’d take him to meet her parents and make him ask her father’s permission when they were ready to take that step.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Then Taye rolled her beneath him and showed her exactly how much he adored her. Again. Yeah. Sometimes things worked out exactly as they should.
Turn the page for a special
preview of
DELANEY’S SHADOW
a thrilling new romantic suspense
novel by Ingrid Weaver
Coming August 2011 from Berkley
Sensation!
He came back to her in a dream. Yet even as Delaney sensed his presence in her head, the watchful, grown-up part of her knew he couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. He was the boy of make-believe.
“Max?” Her lips mouthed the name. She hadn’t spoken it aloud since her childhood. It belonged to the past, to the girl who used to sleep in this ribbons-and-bows room, to the days of laughter in the kitchen and bees in the roses and sheets snapping in the sunshine.
She couldn’t remember when he’d first appeared. It seemed as if Max had always been with her, in some corner of her mind. Whenever she’d needed him, he would show up, the skinny little boy with dark hair and a crooked front tooth.
Oh, the times they’d had, the games they’d played. Racing along the lane, their arms extended like airplane wings, they would fix their gazes on the horizon and pretend to soar. Or quietly, so quietly, they would creep past Grandpa’s room to the attic for rainy afternoon treasure hunts. There had been safaris in her grandmother’s garden, elaborate banquets on the playroom floor, and gleeful, giggling slides down the curving oak banister.
But the best times, the very best ones, had been when he’d taken her to their own special world, the place they made up together, where nothing bad happened and nothing ever hurt.
She breathed his name again. Max. He’d been her partner in mischief, her secret confidante, the imaginary friend she had created to become her playmate. The first time she’d insisted on setting a place for Max at dinner, Grandpa had banged his cane on the floor and had told her to quit making up stories or by God she would turn out as flighty as her mother. Grandma had just winked at her and slid an extra plate beside the butter dish.
But then Delaney’s mother had died, and her father had returned for her. They’d moved to the city. She’d tried to bring Max, too, but there hadn’t been a banister or extra plates in the apartment, and Mrs. Joiner said that imaginary friends weren’t allowed at school.
And eventually Delaney had stopped believing. She’d grown up and left Max behind.
Yet if she’d left him behind, how could he be here?
It was a dream, she reminded herself. And unlike the other ones, this dream wasn’t filled with images of twisted metal and death.
Why hadn’t she realized it before? Max would be able to keep the nightmares away. He could do anything.
“Max,” she whispered.
His presence strengthened until the air around him seemed to reach out in a welcoming smile. He stood in the shadow beside the bedroom doorway. A stubborn, wayward lock of hair hid one eye, but the other sparkled in a conspirator’s grin.
What would they do today? Where would they go? What games would they play?
It didn’t matter. As long as he kept her safe from the nightmares.
She had always felt safe with Max.
He shuffled forward, his sneakers making stealthy squeaks against the floor. As usual, he wore jeans that looked a size too large, the denim hanging loosely from his hips. His T-shirt bore a smear from the mud pies she’d made him the morning she’d left Willowbank. He had the same hopeful smile, the same livewire sizzle of energy, that clean, fresh-air feeling of sunshine and summer breezes . . .
The watchful, grown-up part of her stirred once more, but she kept her mind focused on Max. He was a part of the past that it didn’t hurt to remember, part of the days of innocence, when life stretched out before her in endless possibilities, and pain was no worse than a skinned knee. Sleep hadn’t been something she dreaded then.
She splayed her fingers, reaching toward him. “Let’s play, Max.”
His image wavered.
“No, Max. Stay!”
Like a shadow glimpsed on the edge of vision, like the dream he was, the little boy faded.
She fought the return of consciousness. “Not yet,” she urged. “Not yet.”
Through the open window came the cheerful lilt of a robin, as persistent as an alarm clock. Against her closed eyelids, Delaney could feel the tentative warmth of sunrise.
The presence that was Max trembled, then silently flickered out.
Sighing, Delaney rolled to her back and opened her eyes.
Something was wrong. Where was the shelf with her dolls? What had happened to the lacy canopy that sheltered her bed?
It took a few moments for her brain to catch up with her senses. Books lined the shelf, not toys, and a dieffenbachia filled the corner where there had once been a rocking horse. The dolls and the lace were gone. They had been packed up decades ago, along with her fairy-tale books and her frilly socks. The canopy bed had been replaced by a cherry wood four-poster. A matching, grown-up-sized dresser stood beside the plant. Her grandmother had redecorated the house when she’d converted the front half into a bed-and-breakfast.
Delaney sat up and raked her hair off her face. Instead of the typical sleep-tangled lengths, she felt stubby chunks slide between her fingers. There was another one of those moments of puzzlement. What had happened to her hair? She slipped her hand beneath the neckline of her nightgown. Scar tissue ridges as fine as stretched crepe paper slid beneath her palm. The burns no longer hurt. She could barely feel her own touch.
Full wakefulness hit her, bringing a spurt of panic. It had been more than six months since the accident. The changes to her life were so enormous, she still had trouble absorbing the full scope of them. She understood what had happened to her body, just as she was aware of what had happened to her husband. The doctors at the clinic had explained it. So had the police. But it wasn’t the same as knowing.
Maybe today would be the day that she actually remembered.
After all, she had remembered Max, hadn’t she?
Ah, Max. She’d had such a vivid imagination when she’d been a child; her make-believe friend would have been able to help her.
Too bad she’d grown up and was beyond all that.
“Those muffins smell delicious, Delaney, but you know I don’t expect you to cook.”
“I like to cook, Grandma, and besides, I have to do something to earn my keep.” Delaney picked up a quilted potholder and started transferring the muffins from the cooling rack to the napkin-lined basket she’d prepared. “These are apple oatmeal. I left out the walnuts in case any of your guests have sensitivities to nuts.”
“No one alerted me about any allergies, but I’m glad you left out the nuts anyway. There always seems to be one piece that gets under my dentures. It’s so annoying. It isn’t very good for business, either, since for some reason the customers don’t like seeing me take out my teeth at the table and give the underside a good swipe with my thumb. Seems to spoil their appetite.”
Delaney rolled her eyes at her grandmother’s humor. “I can’t imagine why.”
At seventy-two, Helen Wainright had the same twinkle in her gaze that she’d had at fifty, although her long, once-blonde hair was totally white now. Today she had styled it in what she called her Katharine Hepburn poof. It suited her. She had the kind of presence that would have dominated a stage if she’d chosen to pursue acting. But Helen’s passion was people—she would have balked at the separation between performer an
d audience. Besides, Delaney couldn’t picture her assuming a role. She was far too honest to be anyone other than herself.
Helen pointed to the basket. “I hope you’re going to have some yourself. You made more than enough.”
“Maybe later.”
“You should eat more, honey. You’re too thin.”
“Haven’t you heard?” She transferred the last muffin to the basket and covered them with another napkin. “There’s no such thing as being too rich or too thin.”
“If that were the case, you’d be turning cartwheels out in the yard instead of baking muffins and looking as if you haven’t slept in a week.”
“Grandma, I always look like this before my coffee kicks in.”
“The weariness I see has nothing to do with caffeine addiction.” She motioned toward the stools that were tucked beside the work island in the center of the kitchen. “Sit.”
“The muffins will get cold.”
“I can heat them up.”
Delaney glanced at the swinging door that led to the dining room. The low murmur of voices came through the wood panels. “But your guests—”
“They’ve got yogurt and a fruit platter. That should hold them for a while. Please, Delaney. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine. Really.” She crossed the floor and perched on the nearest stool. “Please, don’t worry.”
Helen took the stool beside her and reached for her hand. There was a breath of hesitation as her fingers closed over the patches of new skin. She recovered quickly, turning the motion into an affectionate pat instead of a squeeze. “Leave the cleanup for when Phoebe comes in.”
“I made the mess. I can manage.”
“It’s what I pay her for. The girl’s already lazy enough. No point spoiling her.”
Delaney did another eye-roll. From what she’d seen, her grandmother treated the college student she’d hired for the summer more like another granddaughter than an employee. “You’re not fooling anyone with that tough talk, you know.”