Velvet Ropes

by Patricia Rosemoor

  Not the Dermot she knew…but the one he’d been long before she’d ever met him…the gang member who’d put a rival in a coma…the one who had surfaced to beat her rapist bloody.

  The attacker came at Dermot again, and he not only blocked the kick, but grabbed and twisted the man’s leg so he yelped and flipped over, hip smacking the cement sidewalk hard. He rolled into the fog—so thick now that you could barely see several yards in any direction—and before Stella could blink, skull-face came back into view, knife in his hand.

  Heart pounding, she drew her gun from the holster and yelled, “Stop right there. Drop your weapon and take off the damn mask! You’re under arrest!”

  Skull-face took one look at the weapon in her hand, then turned and fled.

  Stella aimed, took a deep breath and cursed. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t shoot a man in the back. She lowered her aim to his leg, but before she could make up her mind to squeeze the trigger, her attacker disappeared into the fog.

  Going after him would be an exercise in futility, she knew, so she holstered her gun and swore. “Damn it!”

  “Are you all right?”

  She glanced at Dermot. “I’m fine,” she said tightly, trying not to sound defensive.

  “I thought he had you.”

  The trouble was, so did she.

  DERMOT FIGURED that once they were inside his apartment, Stella would come down off her adrenaline high and be herself. Only it wasn’t happening. She was acting weird around him, as if he’d done something wrong. He wanted in the worst way to take her in his arms and hold her, to tell her everything would be all right. But he didn’t think she was in any mood for it.

  Staring out the window into the fog-shrouded street, Stella said, “I never expected you to be out tonight.”

  “Stark’s one criminal lawyer with a lot of clout. He called in a favor.”

  “That’s good. Real good.” She tossed her jacket over a chair, then removed her holster and weapon. “Otherwise you might not have made bail.”

  Her tone was cool, matter-of-fact, as if she hadn’t almost lost her life out on the street. This was her cop demeanor, he guessed, plucked out of her resources to protect her. Lucky for her, he’d arrived when he had. He didn’t want to visualize what might have happened if he hadn’t.

  Personally, despite the fact the guy had gotten away, Dermot was relieved that Stella wasn’t hurt this time. This time he’d gotten to her before anything terrible could happen. That was something.

  “So tell me exactly what went down,” he said.

  “I guess he must’ve followed me from the club. And probably from home before that. Since they impounded your car, I had to go home to get mine.”

  As she spoke, she became more restless and paced the living area. She seemed wired and determined to hide any emotion she might be feeling.

  “You had no idea you were being followed?” Dermot asked.

  “I must’ve been too distracted with the case. Anyhow, I left the car in the garage, and by the time I got to your front door, he was waiting for me.” She laughed, the sound bitter. “I thought he was just some homeless guy bedding down in your doorway for the night.”

  Dermot watched her closely. She didn’t seem to be in shock. She wasn’t exactly angry, either. But something was going on. Disappointment, he supposed.

  “So you didn’t get a look at his face?” he asked.

  “Afraid not. I tried to get the mask off but I just couldn’t do it.”

  She shook her head and sounded as though she was blaming herself. Figuring the thwarted cop in her wouldn’t let her relax, Dermot couldn’t help himself. Against his better judgment, he tried to still her pacing by putting his arms around her.

  She pushed him away. “Don’t.”

  “Did I do something to make you angry?”

  “Of course not. You did all the right things. You saved my life. Again.”

  It hit Dermot then—it wasn’t simply that the bad guy had gotten away from her, but that he had stepped in. While he felt relieved and vindicated by the way the incident had played out, she wasn’t taking having her life saved too well.

  “Any guesses about your attacker’s identity?” he asked, trying to get her away from negative thoughts. Maybe he could involve her in the details. “Manny Santos?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. The bastard didn’t use a normal voice, but still, it didn’t sound like Manny. Plus this guy was bulkier than Manny. And to tell the truth…it simply doesn’t fit. The vibes were wrong. Manny had the usual bravado, but he also had some hesitation—some fear—left in him. Not this guy. He was a cold-blooded killer if I ever met one.”

  “We need to make an official report.”

  Her voice was even tighter when she said, “Which means we would need to tell everything, starting with the threatening note Manny Santos left for me. Which would then get Logan into trouble since he called in a favor to have the prints pulled and matched. He’s just back on the force. And now I gave him that note about Tony’s death to have analyzed.” Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know if I can do it—screw up his career like that.”

  Or her own, Dermot thought, considering repercussions that went way beyond the job.

  Undoubtedly it had never occurred to Stella that helping him would put her in danger. He knew he hadn’t taken the danger factor into consideration or he never would have agreed to let her back into his life.

  Big mistake. But then he’d made so many mistakes in his life…

  Suddenly Stella gasped. “Dermot, your arm—it’s bleeding.”

  He glanced down. Crimson stained his clothing. “So I am.”

  “Take off your jacket.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, shrugging the material off his shoulder, wincing when the pain got to him.

  “Here, let me.”

  Stella’s whole demeanor changed. As she carefully slid his jacket off his arm, her expression was filled with more than worry for him. The vibes he got from her were potent, maybe a little scary for her, because she was trying to hide whatever she was feeling.

  When she looked down, she sucked in her breath. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  It did look pretty bad—worse than it felt. He moved his arm, and the blood pooled wider.

  Even so, he said, “I have a first-aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch. I’ve had a lot worse.”

  But the assurance didn’t make her look any less pale.

  The next thing Dermot knew, Stella was unbuttoning his shirt and he was forgetting about his arm. Other parts of him were taking precedence. He watched her hands work—nice hands with short nails polished a buff color. Her fingers brushed his chest and his erection hardened.

  “Do you think we should just cut it off?” she asked.

  Dermot started. “Cut what off?”

  “The sleeve. What did you think I meant?”

  He squirmed a little. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “Sit still. Let’s get the good arm free first, then.”

  There was a lot of touching in the process, and despite the cut’s throbbing, Dermot didn’t complain. All he could think about was having her hands all over him.

  Chest…abs…lower.

  After freeing his good arm, Stella leaned in too close for his comfort as she passed the material around his back. Her heat pressed against him and her scent was so enticing he felt tortured.

  A good torture. A great torture. He wanted more.

  She carefully peeled the shirtsleeve down the wounded arm. He tried not to let on that the action vibrated his flesh with pain, but from the looks of her expression—her forehead pulled into a frown—Stella knew.

  She gently lifted his arm to shoulder height and handed him the bloody shirt. “Keep the arm up above your heart and apply as much pressure as you can stand with that shirt, to help stop the bleeding. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Any towels you don’t mind losing?”

>   Doing as she instructed with the shirt, Dermot winced. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Take whatever you need.”

  She nodded. “I only wish there was something I could do to make it better.”

  Despite the wave of pain coursing through his arm from the applied pressure, he couldn’t take his eyes off Stella as she crossed to the bathroom. He’d never before wanted a woman so much that it hurt.

  And he could think of only one way she could make that hurt better.

  AFTER GETTING THE SUPPLIES she needed, Stella spent a few minutes in the bathroom simply pulling herself together. So many emotions were rushing through her, she didn’t know which to address first.

  She wanted Dermot and, no fool, she knew he wanted her, at least for the moment. Maybe his playing her protector had turned him on.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Exactly what she’d feared. He was still seeing her as someone who had to be protected. She wasn’t a victim anymore, and she didn’t want his pity.

  She wanted his love.

  And then there was the actual attack. What had started as a warning two days before had turned deadly serious.

  She must be making someone very nervous—nothing else made sense.

  If only Detectives Norelli and Walker respected her, she could work with them on the case, give them everything she knew, see if they had something that would fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle. But she could lay it all out for them and they might do nothing. They had such contempt for her, they probably would do nothing.

  So what were her choices?

  As Stella left the bathroom with arms loaded, she figured she had to tell someone in the department what was going on, while keeping Logan out of it. Maybe Mack.

  After she took care of Dermot.

  His arm was still raised, the elbow resting on the back of his chair, but he’d stopped applying pressure. The bloody rag sat on the nearby counter.

  His eyebrows shot up when he saw her armload. “Are you sure you left anything in the bathroom?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to bleed to death?” she snapped in return.

  “Touché. However, the bleeding has already stopped.”

  “Good. But keep the arm raised till we’re done here.”

  Setting everything on the counter, she took a couple of the hand towels and threw them in the sink where she sprayed them with warm water. Then she began wiping the blood off Dermot. He didn’t even wince when she cleaned around the wound, but when she wiped a smear of blood off his chest, he sucked in his gut, which showed off his abs.

  Freezing for a second, Stella couldn’t help but stare at the magnificent sight.

  “The arm?” he reminded her. “I can’t hold it up all night.”

  “Right.”

  Flushing with warmth, she wiped down his arm with a clean, wet towel and then opened the first-aid kit. Finding an antiseptic pad, she ripped open the packet.

  “This is going to hurt you more than it will me, right?” he joked.

  Stella swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

  He didn’t so much as flinch when she dabbed antiseptic across the opening. Years of practice being macho? she wondered. Quickly cleaning the cut, she concentrated on what she was doing rather than on him. She didn’t want to look at his face to see the pain she’d caused him.

  Two minutes and three adhesive strips holding the wound closed later, and she let him lower his arm.

  “Keep an eye on that wound. If it starts to look red and puffy, you’ll have to get a professional to take care of it. You really could use a tetanus shot.”

  He shook his head. “Had one a couple of years ago.”

  “And don’t do anything too strenuous.”

  “Like fight off another attacker?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Yeah, like that.” She turned back to the counter and busied herself cleaning up the mess.

  “Stella, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Turn away from me. I don’t get it. I helped you out. So what?”

  She whipped around to face him. “I’m the cop.”

  “And you’re a tough one.”

  “Yeah, like you would know. I really can take care of myself.” She wanted to believe she could have overcome skull-face if Dermot hadn’t shown. “I’m not a victim anymore.”

  Dermot backed off slightly. “Whoever said you were?”

  She remained tight-lipped.

  “Is that the problem? You’re offended because you think I believe you can’t take care of yourself?”

  “I’m not offended.”

  “And I don’t believe it. The part about your not being able to take care of yourself, that is. I’m certain that if I hadn’t shown up, you would have beaten the guy to a bloody pulp. And cuffed him and taken him in.”

  His words making her feel a little better, Stella said, “I didn’t have any cuffs on me. I left them upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?” He looked quite interested in that information.

  “Where you’re going to sleep tonight.”

  He responded with a grin that made her stomach flutter.

  “Alone.”

  He grinned harder.

  “I mean it,” she choked out. “Go on upstairs. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

  Dermot got off the seat and winced. “I could use some help.”

  Stella was at his side in a flash, putting her arm around his back. His very naked back. Her mouth went dry. And suddenly she realized he was looking down at her with a hungry expression.

  “Liar,” she said softly, the breath catching in her throat.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  What could she do about it when his arm snaked around her waist and pulled her close? Her pulse beat rapidly in her throat.

  “Say good-night here,” she said.

  “Another good-night kiss?” He shut out any further objections by covering her mouth with his.

  Part of Stella wanted to push Dermot away, but another part wanted to pull him closer. The second part—the part that had loved him all along—won. The part that felt disappointed in herself—in needing to be rescued yet again—quieted. She would take that shortcoming out and examine it when she was alone.

  For now she had Dermot.

  She had his lips on her mouth, on her neck, in her hair. She had his hands along her spine, around her hips, under her bottom.

  Stella’s senses sang with an aliveness she’d never before felt. She could have been killed tonight—they both could have—without her ever knowing Dermot in the way a woman could know a man. But here was her chance. No doubt danger had pushed him beyond whatever he thought appropriate. He seemed as eager to prove he was alive as she.

  That was it, she thought—a taste of danger was making them reckless.

  He pulled her up into him and danced her around to the spiral staircase. She thought he would let her go and push her up the stairs and fling her onto the bed, but he did none of these things.

  Instead he pressed her back into the steel rail and hooked both hands under her short-sleeved sweater. His hands were hard against her soft flesh. He kneaded her waist, then slid both hands down inside her slacks.

  “Take them off,” he murmured into her mouth.

  “Here?”

  “Now.”

  Dermot didn’t stop stroking her, but kept up a rhythm that set her nerve endings on fire. It was going to happen, she thought. The very thing she’d dreamed of for so long.

  Then, if she had to die, she could die happy.

  She did as he commanded and unzipped her slacks. No, she wouldn’t die, and neither would he. What they would do was celebrate life at least for this one night. As her slacks slid down her legs to pool at her ankles, he dipped one hand into the front of her panties.

  Stella gasped when his fingers found her, hot and wet and eager for his touch. A spiraling sensation began deep within her. She managed to kick away both slacks and shoes a
nd opened to him more fully. He plunged two fingers in deep, his thumb strumming a tune on her most sensitive part that she could almost hear in her head.

  “Oh, yes,” she gasped, rocking her hips so his fingers slid in and out of her.

  “Touch me,” he murmured.

  He didn’t have to urge her harder. Her hands did what he wanted, smoothing bared shoulder muscle, stroking his back, splaying across his abs. She undid his trousers and went exploring on her own, touching him so lightly with her fingertips that he groaned and shifted so he filled her hand.

  She wanted him filling other places.

  Jerking down his pants, she lay back against the stairs and pulled until he was within tasting distance. She took him in her mouth and slid her lips down his shaft. He tensed immediately and tangled his fingers in her hair, and she could tell he was fighting giving in to release. She nipped him lightly, then sucked.

  Dermot groaned and the next thing she knew, his hands were under her arms, lifting her up several stairs so they were face to face. She pushed her panties halfway down her thighs, and he somehow managed to slide inside her. The fit was tight—both the undergarment and her. She hadn’t been with anyone in a while…yet she didn’t hesitate to lift her hips and urge him in farther.

  He rocked into her, and the spiral staircase rocked with them, creaking as it moved. An odd sensation, she thought hazily, watching his tense expression through slitted eyes. He balanced himself over her and watched her back. She slipped her hands between them so she could struggle out of her sweater, then her bra.

  Cupping her own breasts, she pushed them together and arched her back so the mounds of flesh and tightened nipples thrust toward his face.

  He suckled her then, and within seconds her body tightened to fever pitch.

  “Now,” she murmured.

  He released her breast. “Yes, now!”

  Then Dermot kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Stella felt him spasm inside her with a release of hot, smooth fluid.

  She couldn’t get enough of him…or of it.

  The little death…the only kind she was willing to allow….

  FUZZY-HEADED and delightfully boneless, Stella awakened practically with first light. She and Dermot had made love several times the night before, the last time in his bed. In the end, they’d shared.