by Alicia Scott
She suddenly wondered what it would be like if it was unleashed. And the thought alone made her shiver.
But it wasn’t from fear.
She licked her lips nervously, a low flush of color rising to her cheeks. Crossing her arms in front of her, she searched for her composure.
“So you know who did it now,” she said at last. One hand came down, and began to idly fidget with the various objects on his desk. She found it was easier not to look at him.
“Yes,” Richard said curtly, taking another sip and willing the brandy to burn all consciousness away. It didn’t work. The damn woman was too near, and he could feel it in every overwound nerve ending in his body.
“Doesn’t it help at all?” she inquired, feeling the restlessness gnaw at her stomach. She found herself chewing on her lower lip, seeking some respite from the relentless ache growing deep within her.
Richard simply shrugged, his face impassive.
“What about the money?” she pressed. “We never found the twenty thousand.”
”I doubt Alycia brought it,” he said curtly. “Her cash had already been drained by that point.” “What about what happened with Andy in the tower? He said he’d heard someone, but no one was home.”
“Most likely Jillian didn’t close the door all the way and he heard the draft banging it around.”
“And the third nanny, Mrs. Louis?”
“Overactive imagination combined with dreary atmosphere,” he said flatly. He looked at her a moment with hard blue eyes. “Alycia’s dead, Liz. And I don’t believe in ghosts. It’s over.”
She brought up her chin a notch, forcing herself to meet his gaze squarely. “Is it, Richard?” she challenged softly. “What about you and Blaine?”
“We had a discussion.” Another sip. His hand was trembling slightly, and even as he swore at the weakness, he could not make it stop.
“A discussion?” She lifted a bronze paperweight and traced a long delicate finger around its smooth curves as if to disguise the intensity of her interest.
“We came to a basic understanding,” he admitted with a growl. “We’ll never be the best of friends, but I suppose we’ll muddle through.”
Liz nodded and found herself holding her breath. “And Andy?” she asked quietly.
“He’s mine,” Richard said flatly. “I don’t care if he is or isn’t my biological son. I don’t even want to know. He’s mine in name, and I’m going to raise him that way.” He looked away for a minute, and when he spoke next, his voice was thick even to his own ears. “I want my son back.”
Liz nodded, and felt her heart constrict in her chest. Her own eyes suddenly burned with suspicious moisture.
“I think you two are perfect together,” she whispered. “He idolizes you, you know. Wait until he wakes up tomorrow and hears how you caught a killer.”
Richard nodded, but it wasn’t really Andy’s opinion that weighed heavily on his mind.
“Would you really have confronted a murderer all alone?” she asked abruptly, still seeing him creep into the tower with a gun in hand.
“I’ve been taking care of myself a long time,” he said simply. “And I took precautions.”
Liz could only nod, but the statement didn’t help. Unconsciously, her hands began rubbing her arms, trying to warm herself from the chill she felt inside. If Jillian had glanced over at the wrong moment and seen Richard, she would have shot him. Liz was sure of it.
Losing two loves in one lifetime would have been too much to bear.
Richard watched her from his corner with brooding eyes. Her back was still to him, but he could see her agitation by how she moved. And once more, he felt it sink bitterly into him.
Did she trust him that little? Did she really think he wouldn’t have kept her and Andy safe? His jaw tightened, and his grip on his glass threatened to nearly break the fragile vessel. He came forward, slamming his glass down on the desk as he crossed to her. Brandy sloshed over the edges to splash on his hand, but he didn’t notice, his dark attention focused only on her.
He forcefully turned her around.
“Look at me,” he commanded harshly. “Look at me, Liz.”
But she kept her head down, unable to meet his eyes even as her heart thundered in her chest.
“Is it that hard to believe in me?” he demanded to know, his blue eyes blazing fiercely. “Alycia wouldn’t trust me with the truth, and you wouldn’t trust me to be innocent. Hell, you didn’t even trust me to keep you and Andy safe. Now, damn it, I want to know. Why is it so hard to believe in me? Tell me, Liz. Tell me.”
Her head came up abruptly, and all at once he was struck by the tears coursing down her cheeks and the fire in her eyes.
“Trust you?” she cried out. “Of course I trust you. And I would have told you about the damn diary, but I wanted to read it first. And I don’t think you aren’t capable of keeping Andy and myself safe—for crying out loud, you saved my life twice! But did you ever stop to consider, you thick-headed, stubborn brute, that I might be worried about you? That I might care if you get hurt?”
The words took the wind right out of him. He opened his mouth to say anything, anything at all, but nothing came out. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, the thundering pounding of his heart in his chest as his entire body stiffened at her words.
She cared. She cared!
Once again the emotions washed through him, past demons and present faint hopes warring inside the hollowness of his heart, each seeking dominance. Until once more his jaw tightened and his eyes ached as he searched for an anchor of sanity to cling to.
He didn’t stop to think anymore. His mind was beyond the fierce logic that had dominated his entire life. Instead, he leaned down, and with hungry, desperate lips, he claimed her mouth with his own.
It was not soft or tender or sweet. It was the kiss of a drowning man overwhelmed by the conflicting passions warring in his soul. It didn’t seek to give, but strove to take all the freshness and sanity she could bring him. And she succumbed to it willingly, opening her mouth to the onslaught, welcoming the plundering thrusts of his tongue. She could taste the brandy on his lips, mixing with the salt of her tears, and she welcomed it all.
Because she loved this man, and she knew no other kind of love than to give everything she had, heart, body and soul. If he needed her, then she would be there for him.
She had failed him once, but in these dark predawn hours, she would not fail him again.
She pressed against him, reveling in the solid heat of his chest, the burning rasp of his beard and the seductive fire of his muscular thigh pressing against her own.
Her robe was in the way, he wanted it gone, all the clothing gone until he could run his hands unrestrained down the lush warmth of her body. Her own hands were busy, tearing at his already loosened shirt, struggling with the buttons. But it was too slow for both of them. They wanted, needed flesh against flesh, heat against heat. With a muffled moan of impatience, he raised his head long enough to forcefully pull his shirt from his body, popping buttons as he went. Next, her robe was pushed to the floor and kicked aside, her T-shirt drawn over her head to follow, while her hands sought out the clasp of his slacks.
Piece after piece their clothing was thrown aside, until there were no barriers whatsoever. And she was so beautiful, his passion-crazed mind recognized. The low shadows of the fire flickered across every gentle indent and rounded curve of her body until she glowed like warm marble, open to his touch. He could feel her hands, running across his chest, tracing the muscular outline of his biceps and the low planes of his pectorals. Every touch left a trail of fire, and he kissed her hungrily to fan the flames.
His mouth was urgent and insistent and she answered with demands of her own, pressing tightly against him. She could feel the light tickling of his chest hair against her tender breasts, and her nipples hardened immediately. Her hands crept behind his neck as she arched into him, wanting him more than she’d ever wanted anything in
her life. Every fiber of her being cried out to him. She wanted his touch, she wanted his taste. She wanted the wonderful feel of him sliding deep inside her and stoking the flames still higher.
She murmured impatiently, her hands dancing across his strong back while one leg came up to hook around his waist. The position brought them closer together, until she could feel the rigid heat of him pressed against her thigh. His hands came to her breasts, kneading them as his tongue dipped into her ear and brought goose bumps to her skin. Then his head came down, and almost lazily, he drew one nipple into his mouth.
She cried out at the impact, feeling the desire rip through her like a sharp knife. Her hands came down, finding him and reveling in the heavy, sculpted feel of his rigid length. She shifted again, bringing him closer to her own heat. He responded by rubbing his pelvis against hers, feeling the moistness of her impatience.
He had to grit his teeth to keep from throwing her down on the floor and taking her immediately, plunging into her deep and strong while the fires in them both exploded into infernos. He was a man of iron control, he would not lose it all now.
His jaw clenched, he ran one hand down across her hips and the gentle sloping of her stomach. Then he dipped it suddenly between her thighs, stroking her even as he took her muffled cries against his mouth, kissing her passionately as she trembled against him.
“Please,” she breathed, her heavy eyes drooping shut from the wonderful feelings his touch evoked. “I want you, Richard. I want you now.”
He didn’t need any other encouragement. With the savage groan of a conqueror, he raised her and then, with slow, muscle-clenching control, eased her down onto his waiting shaft.
She sighed, a deep sound as he slowly penetrated her throbbing body. And then he was inside, fused with her body as he’d already fused with her heart. She opened her eyes, her midnight gaze black with desire.
“I love you, Richard,” she whispered as she raised herself slightly to slide back down his burning length. “I love the feel of you inside me, the sound of your heartbeat against my ear, the taste of your lips on mine. I love your genius, I love your control. I love everything about you. And I trust you with my life.”
He groaned, his eyes closing as her words ricocheted through him. Her soft Carolina voice wove its final spell and stole the last of his control. With a wrenching turn, he carried them to the ground and thrust into her with all the fierce passion of a recluse’s heart. And with every fiery stroke, he showed her all the things he was too afraid to say.
She opened to him as she would always open to him, taking each pounding thrust even as she demanded more, wanting all of him and refusing to let him hold back. And then, with one last final thrust, he felt her arch and climax under him, heard his name wrenched from her lips even as he toppled over the edge with her, burying his head against her neck while shudder after shudder consumed him.
Neither of them spoke for the longest time. Finally, Richard propped himself on his elbows, trying to take some of his weight off her. She shifted slightly for more comfort, wincing.
His face was immediately alert.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked sharply, his whole body tensing.
“No, no,” she assured him. “Just a bit of carpet burn, I’m afraid.” She shifted again, sighing slightly, but her face still carried a warm smile. “I knew there was a reason they made beds,” she teased huskily.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, and she could already see him retreating inside himself. She raised her hand and pressed a finger against his warm lips.
“I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” she told him softly. “And I meant what I said, Richard. I love you.”
“I want to believe you,” he said suddenly, the words torn from him. “But I hate the thought of being so weak again. Perhaps now you think you love me, but what about tomorrow, Liz? What about the day after that?”
She looked at him, wishing she had the right words and knowing there were none. At long last, she could only shrug. “I would give you a guarantee,” she said softly, “but in love there are none. I know I loved Nick with all my heart and soul. And I know we married and promised each other forever, and looked ahead to a beautiful future, growing old side by side. But one afternoon, forever became simply two years, and rather than grow old together, I held him in my arms as he died. But I wouldn’t trade those two years for anything, Richard. That’s love.”
He laughed, a hollow sound. “You’re right. That’s a far cry from a guarantee.”
She frowned, growing impatient and frustrated. Unexpectedly, she balled her hand into a fist and hit him squarely in the chest. “What do you want from me, Richard?” she demanded angrily. “I’m lying here naked by your side telling you that I love you and that I plan on loving you for the rest of my life. And you’re looking for a money-back guarantee? For crying out loud, Richard, I’m not a set of knives!”
He smiled, a strangely bitter and wistful smile. “No,” he said. “You’re not.”
She sighed, feeling the tears begin to prickle in her eyes once more. What had she been expecting? She knew who he was, what he was about. She’d given him her love, knowing there was a good chance it wouldn’t be returned. He was a badly scarred man, with a right to keep his heart locked away. Yet, somehow, she’d expected her words to evoke some deeper response, to melt the ice he’d built around his heart.
And then they would live happily ever after, right?
The tears were coming thicker now, and she knew if she didn’t leave, she would only embarrass herself further. As briskly as possible, she pulled herself to her feet.
“It’s been a long night,” she said, the words husky. “I should be going.”
She wouldn’t look at him as she found her robe and shrugged it on. She waited for him to say something, for him to do something—anything. But minute lapsed into minute without him moving, and the silence cut her to the quick.
She couldn’t help it anymore. The tears were streaming down her face and all at once she felt pure anger mixed with pain. She wanted to love him, and she wanted to curse him for not having the courage to love her back.
Abruptly, she turned away, heading for the door as the sobs consumed her. And she knew deep inside that once she opened these doors, she wouldn’t be returning. She needed someone who was willing to love her, and if he couldn’t do that, then it would be emotional suicide for her to stay and live in the shadows of a futile dream.
She clutched the doorknob, and felt the tears stream down her face all the harder.
“Alycia never cried,” Richard said from behind her. “In all the time I knew her, she never cried. Not in anger, and certainly not in pain. She was the one that hurt me, and I was never sure if I affected her at all.”
“I don’t understand,” Liz said at last, the words waterlogged.
She could feel him come up behind her, and then there was the soft touch of his hands upon her shoulders. Slowly, he turned her around to look at her with intent eyes.
“I’ve never had the power to hurt anyone before,” he said softly. “I’ve never made anyone cry. And when I see you like this, it fills me with the most awful feeling, and all I know is that I don’t want to make you cry again. I think I love you, Liz.”
If he’d been expecting cries of joy, it wasn’t what he received. Instead, she balled her hand into a fist and hit him once again, the tears flowing even faster.
“I don’t want your damn pity,” she cried out. “I don’t want you to say silly words so I’ll stop crying and you’ll stop feeling guilty. I want you to love me, love me. As in be there for me forever. As in hold me close and let me inside you. As in let’s grow old together and be seventy sitting in the library debating Wuthering Heights. That’s what I want.”
He smiled, and for the first time, she saw a softening of his eyes. “I think that’s what I mean, sweetheart. All along, the only love I’ve known is one-sided. But now, for the first time, I realize that while there are
no guarantees for me, there are none for you, either. And even as I protect myself, I hurt you. As so it’s much more logical if we both just give in to the madness, and love each other, because that’s certainly better than hurting each other. Does that make sense?”
She looked at him with suspicious eyes. “I think so,” she mumbled, sniffling. He smiled again tenderly, and wiped the tears from her cheek with his callused thumb.
“Help me, Liz,” he said softly. “Teach me all about love, and help me build a new life with you and Andy and Blaine and even Mrs. Pram. And I promise you I will make each day worthwhile, and we will grow old together and debate Wuthering Heights at seventy in the library.”
“If Heathcliff had been this smart, Wuthering Heights would have had a less tragic ending,” Liz managed to say, and then a smile began creeping around her mouth, too. “I love you, Richard.”
“I love you, too, Liz.”
“Want to debate classical literature?”
“Actually, I was more interested in that earlier theory you had regarding beds.”
“Beds?”
“Yes, you seemed to imply that beds were more suitable for lovemaking than the floor.”
She smiled fully, her midnight eyes clear and bright. “Then, of course, there’s the matter of desks.”
“And couches,” he observed, taking her hand.
“What about fireplaces and beaches and kitchen counters?”
“Sweetheart, we’ll just have to see.”
* * * * *
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8732-7
At the Midnight Hour
Copyright © 1995 by Lisa Baumgartner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.