by Lisa Jackson
She stood near the sink and waited, one foot tapping impatiently, her heart pounding, her mind racing into dangerous territory. What was he doing here? She’d been certain that after the last time—after she’d slapped him and bruised his sensitive male ego—he’d never be back again. It had been over a week ago, but here he was, saying he wanted to talk, when he looked ready to explode. He radiated a tension, that same innate sexuality and restlessness that had attracted her years ago.
He’d aged well, the weathering of his skin and honing of his features adding to his masculinity. He was harder around the edges—tougher. And he was standing in the middle of her kitchen. “What did you want, Max?”
“Answers.”
“Okay, but first I’ll need questions.”
He didn’t miss a beat and his eyes narrowed on her. “Why did you leave?”
She wrapped her arms around herself as if to protect her middle. Or was it her heart? “Why do you care now? It’s been seven years.”
He grabbed a kitchen chair, swung it around and straddled it. Resting his arms on the back, he stared up at her with those sea green eyes she’d always found so erotic. “I didn’t get the letters until a few weeks ago.”
“Letters?” she repeated. “Plural?” Something wasn’t right. “But I only wrote one. What do you mean you didn’t get it?”
“I found them both—the one from you and one from my father—in a file.”
“But—” If Max hadn’t received the note she’d written him, if he hadn’t known that she still cared about him when she’d left town, if...but all that was crazy. Of course he’d known! He had to have. As for the letter from Jonah, what did that have to do with her? “Look, Max, I don’t understand. I wrote you a letter before I left town. I think it explained everything pretty well. And now, after seven years—”
“Why did you leave the letter with my father?” Max demanded, not moving from his chair but looking as if he might spring from it at any moment.
“I didn’t...” Her throat worked soundlessly for a second as she remembered handing over the letter, sealed in an off-white envelope. She felt her legs might suddenly give way. “I—I gave it to my mom to pass on to you.”
The lines around Max’s mouth grew white. “Seems it got detoured. She must’ve given it to Jonah.”
“No, she wouldn’t...” But the words died in her throat. Irene Donahue had always trusted Jonah McKee. He was her employer, her friend, her benefactor and, Skye suspected, the secret love of her life. Oh, God! Skye felt the hot blade of betrayal turn in her gut. Irene should have known better. Oh, Lord, this explained so much. “I wondered why you never called...” She shook her head, not daring to trust him. “Then I heard that less than a year later you were marrying Colleen Wheeler.”
“She was pregnant.”
Pain ripped a hole in Skye’s heart. Pregnant with Max’s child! Colleen had given him what she would never be able to offer—the greatest gift of all.
The skin of his face grew taut over his cheekbones. “I went a little crazy when you left, Skye,” he admitted, standing and kicking the chair out of his path as he crossed the room. The chair banged into the wall. “I didn’t understand how you could just walk away, and one night I went into town and got myself rip-roaring drunk. Colleen was at the Black Anvil. She offered to drive me home. We didn’t make it. I spent the weekend with her, trying to forget you. It didn’t work, of course.” He was close enough to her that she saw the striations of green mixed with the blue of his eyes. “I still thought about you all the time, half the time missing you, the rest of the time cursing the day I’d met you. It didn’t matter, though. Colleen told me she was pregnant and I married her. I thought a child would make things right.” His eyes were dark and desperate, his breath warm as it fanned her face. “Hillary was born about eleven months later.”
Skye could barely breathe. “Eleven, but—”
“Colleen lied.” He snorted at his own foolishness. “It seems I have this problem of trusting women. Believing them. By the time I figured out that she’d tricked me, we were already married and then she really was pregnant.”
Skye stared up at him and her fingers tightened over the hard edge of the counter. Sick inside that anyone would use a precious baby as a ploy, a trap, Skye saw the agony etched on Max’s face, knew that she was responsible for some of that pain. “I—I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” he vowed.
She swallowed hard as he leaned closer, his face looming above hers, the streaks of gold in his brown hair gleaming in the lamplight.
“I’ve missed you, Skye. I tried not to. Hell, I fought it, but the bald-faced truth of the matter is that I’ve missed you.” Strong arms slipped familiarly around her waist. He drew her close, pressing his lean body against hers, and his lips, full of promise and tenderness, found hers. The kiss was slow and sensual and awakened old emotions in Skye—emotions she’d locked behind closed doors, emotions so intense they frightened her. She knew that kissing him was dangerous, but she couldn’t stop herself.
For so many years she’d dreamed of the day when his lips would find hers again, and though she’d shoved those dreams deep into her subconscious, they had lingered. His body was hard and lean, his muscles straining beneath his jeans and shirt. She closed her eyes and let go.... The world beyond them seemed to mute and blur.
When he lifted his head, she swallowed back a lump in her throat. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said, wishing she could lie to him, throw him out, tell him that she didn’t want him. But she couldn’t. Passion, dark and unwanted, sped through her blood, and though she knew wanting him was crazy, her traitorous body responded, tamping down the warnings screaming through her mind.
His lips crashed down upon hers again, and in one swift movement he lifted her into his arms. He didn’t ask for her acquiescence, just carried her through the living room and beyond the sun porch to the small Victorian bedroom she’d lived in for less than two weeks.
Sweeping in through the open window, a breeze stirred the curtains and starlight gave the room a hazy glow.
Max stopped at the bed and they tumbled together onto the old hand-pieced quilt. Skye let herself go, closing her mind to the doubts and worries that plagued her. The night surrounded them in the darkened bedroom, and as he kissed her eyes, her cheeks and her neck, she felt her skin heat. Tiny impulses of desire swept through her blood, clouding her judgment, making her moan. She felt her shirt being slipped over her head and the magic of his fingers as he caressed her flesh.
His breath was warm, his hands rough and callused as they reached beneath her bra, bringing her breasts over the cups, rubbing hard thumbs over the nipples.
“I wanted to forget you,” he whispered across the proud dark points. Warm, moist air swirled around her nipples and she arched upward, her fingers winding through his hair as she guided his head down toward a straining peak. “But I couldn’t.”
Sensations, hot and wild, streamed through her bloodstream as he unhooked her bra and hungrily suckled her ripe breasts, holding each soft globe between his hands. “I need you, I want you,” he whispered.
His hands slid down her ribs to her waist and lower still. With maddening deliberation, he delved deep beneath the waistband of her jeans. She bucked up to meet him as his fingertips grazed the elastic of her panties and the suddenly damp curls at the apex of her legs.
He pulled off her jeans and stripped her of bra and panties, his hands everywhere, tracing her spine, caressing her buttocks, searching deep in the darkest of warm places. Sweat beaded on her forehead and glimmered on her breasts. Still he suckled, drinking from her, teasing her, while hot hands explored every inch of her.
Skye’s mind was spinning wildly, her breath coming in short gasps. She writhed beneath him as he touched her, and she wanted more of this man who had haunted her dreams and shadowed her days, this man she had loved above all others, the only man to whom she’d given herself body and soul.
She felt a he
at building within her, a hot fire, stoked by his deft fingers. She arched upward at the moment of release, the heavens seeming to rain shooting stars behind her eyes as she cried out his name.
Only then, after she lay sweating on the coverlet, her breathing still rapid, did he guide her hands to the bulge beneath his jeans. Only then did he seek his own release.
Her gaze locked to his, she opened his fly and slid his jeans and shorts off his long, down-covered legs. He wasted no time, but pinned her back on the bedding. Sudden worry shadowed his gaze. “You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“I—I’m not sure about anything anymore,” she admitted, staring up at him, his masculine body all muscle and sinew and tanned skin. She felt a void, hot and dusky, deep within her, a void only he could fill.
“Neither am I.” He gently prodded her knees apart, thrust into her and fused with her body in a sensual rhythm that stole the breath from her lungs. She clung to him as he moved, his tempo quickening with each stroke. Her blood pounded in her temples, the heat within her building until she cried out in final release. She felt as if her soul had fled her body. Again the heavens shattered.
“Skye!” he yelled hoarsely, as if afraid of losing her. “Skye! Skye! Skye!” He collapsed against her, his weight crushing her breasts, his muscles gleaming with sweat.
She curled up against him as he held her close. Shutting her eyes, she felt safer and more secure than she had in a long, long while. He tossed the coverlet over their bodies and wound her in his arms. Skye sighed happily, drinking in the musky scent of him.
She didn’t think about right or wrong or the consequences the morning would bring. For now, she was content to be held by the only man she’d ever loved and the only man who had broken her heart.
He awoke to the smell of baking bread and perking coffee. Opening one eye, he glanced around Skye’s bedroom and sighed contentedly. It hadn’t been a dream. She’d been here and willing and warm and they’d made love long into the night before Max had drifted into a sleep more sound than he’d experienced in years.
Rubbing a hand over his beard-roughened chin, he climbed out of bed and stepped into his jeans. He found his shirt, wrinkled from being tossed recklessly into a corner, and slipped his arms through the sleeves. Shoving stiff fingers through his unruly hair, he walked through the tangle of rooms until he found her in the kitchen, humming softly, her hair piled on top of her head, though damp tendrils from her recent shower curled around her face and nape. She’d put on a red skirt and oatmeal-colored top. A black jacket was hanging at the ready over the back of a chair, and a cat, green eyes watching him suspiciously, was lurking over a saucer of milk near the back door.
Sensing him watching her, Skye slid him a sexy glance that couldn’t help but arouse him. “So Sleeping Beauty finally awakens.”
He ran a hand around his neck, stretched and listened as his spine popped. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven.” She poured a cup of coffee from the glass carafe warming on the stove.
“I suppose you’ve been up for hours,” he drawled, crossing the room and drawing her into the circle of his arms. After last night he thought he’d be sated, but already, just being around her, he felt as excited as a damned high school kid.
She smiled up at him. “Long enough to run for twenty minutes and shower.”
“Sorry I missed that,” he drawled, his gaze lowering to the collar of her blouse and those gorgeous breasts hidden by the silky fabric. He raised his hand and cupped one soft globe. Skye sucked in her breath.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“You’ve been wrong before.”
“But I’ve got to be at the clinic by eight—” He lifted her into his arms once again and carried her back to bed. The blouse and skirt were discarded quickly to collect in a pool by the bed.
“You’ve got a short commute. Besides, I’ll be quick,” he promised. She closed her eyes as her slip slid to the floor.
Later, she had to hurry to get to the clinic on time. She offered him a cup of coffee and a couple of slices of warm bread from the breadmaker she’d inherited from a college roommate who’d insisted the damn machine was responsible for her ten-pound weight gain. Then she ran out the door, coffee cup in hand.
“Didn’t you forget something?” he asked, and when she turned to ask him what, he folded her into his arms again and kissed her full on the lips. The kiss was warm and sensual and filled with memories of making love. Her heart beat a crazy tattoo and her legs nearly gave way. Coffee sloshed onto the porch as she stumbled backward.
“You’re dangerous to have around, McKee,” she said, drawing in a deep breath.
“So are you, Doc.”
“Don’t forget to lock up when you leave.” She knew her face was flushed with color as she hurried between the laurel hedges on her way to the clinic. Surely the heat would leave her cheeks by the time the rest of the staff showed up. She forced herself to concentrate on the day ahead of her as she unlocked the clinic to be greeted by the familiar smells of antiseptic and perking coffee. The coffee had been on a timer and she refilled her cup in the small room designated as the employee lounge before exchanging her jacket for a white lab coat and settling in at her desk.
She didn’t think about the fact that she was involved with Max again, didn’t dwell on the consequences of falling in love with him. She was older now and wiser; she wouldn’t give her heart so recklessly this time. She couldn’t.
Chapter Eleven
“Looks like Stone means business.” Jenner slapped a copy of The Rimrock Review onto the surface of Max’s desk—his father’s old desk—in the corner office of the McKee Enterprises office building. Bold black headlines announced that the sheriffs department was looking into the death of Jonah McKee as a possible homicide.
Suddenly cold inside, Max skimmed the article. The sheriff, Hammond Polk, was quoted as saying that the investigation was taking a new direction in light of new evidence. A five-year-old picture of Jonah, retrieved from the archives of The Rimrock Review, accompanied the piece. Max stared at the grainy black-and-white photo and frowned. His father was looking straight into the camera, his snowy hair combed, his smile as phony as a three-dollar bill. “Son of a bitch.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Jenner said, tossing the offending paper into a trash can near the credenza. “But as mean a bastard as the old man was, he didn’t deserve to die. If someone actually did kill him, I think the culprit should be strung up.”
“You don’t believe it, do you?” Max asked, surprised at his younger brother’s attitude.
“Looks like we don’t have much choice.”
That much was true. Hammond Polk wasn’t perhaps overly zealous, but he knew his duty. He wouldn’t have reopened the investigation without evidence. Max glanced at the files stacked on the corner of his desk—files of deals that weren’t exactly on the up-and-up and files Max was going over because, in many cases, he wanted to renegotiate the deals into fairer terms for the other parties. “Dad sure made his share of enemies,” he observed.
“Yeah, but who hated the old man enough to run him off the road?” Jenner rubbed his jaw.
“That won’t be easy to find out,” Max allowed. “A lot of people borrowed from him during the recession, hoping to get back on their feet. When things didn’t turn around right away and they defaulted, McKee Enterprises had the right to demand their assets.”
Jenner’s eyes darkened a shade and the corners of his mouth twisted into an unhappy smile. “So you finally figured out he wasn’t a saint.”
“I’ve known it for a long time,” Max admitted as he leaned back in the old molded-oak chair, making it creak. His father’s chair. “Not when I was first hired. Hell, I trusted him completely. But it didn’t take long to discover that everything wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. Some of the deals didn’t smell so good.”
“But you went along with them.”
Max shook his head and remem
bered the furious argument he’d had with his father. Jonah had been in a rage that his son, an “upstart” in the business, would dare question his authority. “Not once I found out what was going on. I raised holy hell and Jonah, believe it or not, agreed to change his tactics. He didn’t, of course, but as far as I can tell, Dad never did anything illegal. Although there were a few cases that weren’t ethical. At least not in my book.”
“Such as?”
“The Donner water rights.” Max’s guts twisted a little as he remembered Fred Donner’s ashen face when the wiry rancher had come to Max, explaining the circumstances, calling Jonah every name in the book because he’d been forced to sell the family homestead at a fraction of its value. Without significant amounts of water, the arid land had become useless. But Donner was only one. “Ned Jansen’s copper mine. Slim Purcell’s racehorse. Betty Landsburg’s rooming house. The town’s full of buildings that Dad bought for a song when the owners hit upon hard times. Usually Dad—well, McKee Enterprises—would lend them enough money to fix up the place or pay the back taxes, but then, soon as they were delinquent in their payments, he’d snap up the property and lease it back to the original owners, making a profit for the company.
“In some cases—Len Marchant’s old bakery is a good example—the land and buildings were close to being condemned and the owners were glad to get out from under heavy mortgages, but more often than not, the owners thought that McKee Enterprises, and Jonah in particular, had fleeced them.”
“That’s only the half of it.” Restless, Jenner walked to the window and stared through the glass, past the slow-paced traffic on the streets of Rimrock to the Blue Mountains in the distance. “No tellin’ how many husbands and fathers would have liked to strangle him for foolin’ around with their wives and daughters.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if he was trying to erase a particularly painful memory. “It’s a wonder to me why Ma even cares. He stepped out on her so often I bet she lost track.” Squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, he added, “You know, I don’t blame Stone with startin’ with the family. We all had a bone to pick with Jonah.”