by Laura Wright
Grant pulled the covers up to her chin, tucked her in at the sides. “Better.”
“No. So cold.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she wondered bleakly if she could die from the flu. As a teacher, she knew that there were some pretty grim statistics regarding flu deaths.
From ever so far away, she heard the whiz of a jeans zipper. She opened her eyes, saw through fuzzy vision and the dim light from the hall lamp that Grant was removing his clothes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting in bed with you.”
“Grant, I can’t…not tonight…I—”
“Just keep quiet now,” he commanded gently. “You’ll feel better in a second.”
He crawled in beside her, pulled her back into his chest and wrapped a protective arm around her. Anna released a breath. Heat, good and solid seared into her, and she pressed back even further against him. She felt his shaft against her backside, felt it grow thick and hard, but she didn’t care. She was warm and almost comfortable for once.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered.
“Don’t apologize.”
“Being this close to you…”
“It’s all right.” A quick shiver moved through her and she sucked air through her teeth.
His arm tightened around her. “Sleep now, sweetheart.”
The heat and his endearment took hold of her sick body and weary mind and allowed her to relax, allowed her to move into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It was 3:00 a.m. and Grant had just given Anna some more Tylenol and soothed her back to sleep. He was starting to believe that what she had really was a bad case of the flu. He was no doctor, but chills and fever didn’t go hand in hand with pregnancy, surely.
He expected relief to fill him at the realization, but strangely, it didn’t.
Beside him, Anna shuddered. He kissed her hair, then closed his eyes, put his head to the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. But sleep didn’t come. His hand itched. Wanted to move. Wanted to explore. Not in a sexual way, but in an emotional, proprietary way that made him apprehensive as hell.
His hand rested lightly on her rib cage, but quickly slipped lower, until it brushed over her flat belly.
Something close to grief invaded his soul, and he felt confused and ashamed for wanting something he shouldn’t want or have.
But he didn’t pull away.
He fell asleep like that, his chest to her hot back, his erection to her round buttocks and his hand on her belly.
Three
Sunlight bounced off the trees outside the cottage window and lazily crept into her room.
Anna took a deep breath, filled her lungs with the fresh air of reality and subsiding illness and released it, slowly and easily. She felt better. Not one hundred percent, but the fever was gone, she was terrifically hungry and her body no longer ached.
Well, not from the flu, at any rate.
Beside her, a man slept, his big, tan, lean-muscled body tangled in the sheets, his dark brown hair mussed and his chin rough and sexy with shadow.
Anna cuddled into her pillow and smiled. She remembered his heat last night, and the evidence of his desire for her pressing into her lower back. But she also remembered his goodness, his friendship and care. Sure, Grant Ashton could be stubborn and demanding, but he was also the most giving, tender man she had ever known. If he could just let go of Spencer’s hold on him—the past’s hold on him—if he could just let go of his fears, maybe he’d take a chance and embrace her and the life they could have together.
Without consideration, she reached out and brushed her thumb across his mouth. He didn’t stir and she let her fingers move to his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone, then into the light sprinkling of hair on his magnificent chest.
“Keep going and I’ll have to forget how sick you are,” he uttered, his dark lashes pulsating as he forced one eye open.
She laughed softly. “Did I wake you?”
He grinned. “Of course you did.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No you’re not, and neither am I.”
She smiled, looked into his hot eyes and wished she had a permanent place there.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, running a hand up her arm to her shoulder.
“Better.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t I look better?” she teased with a fond smile. “No more pale, gray, drawn—”
“You look sexy is what you look.”
“Really?”
“And if I don’t get out of this bed, I’m going to have to do something about it.”
“Like what?” she asked, laughing.
He grinned. “Don’t press your luck.”
She whipped back the covers, wrapped her leg around his waist and hoisted herself toward him. His hard shaft pressed against her feminine curls and she whispered, “I think I’m pressing my luck.”
His eyes were filled with a red-hot gleam. “You think?”
“I am. I definitely am.”
His hand raked up her thigh, found her backside and squeezed. “You’re crazy, Anna Sheridan.”
“You have no idea.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned in and kissed him. It was a soft, slow kiss that drugged her, made her unable to breathe for a moment. Back and forth her mouth brushed over his until he groaned and tightened his hold on her backside. Heat surged into her core at the slight pain and pleasure he inflicted, and she ground her hips into his erection.
Grant followed her, his lips hardening like the rest of him as he kissed her passionately. He was a man of great passion, but he hid it all too well. There was nothing Anna loved more than when he showed that devilish, roguish side of himself to her and only her.
“Mmmm,” she uttered, her body melting as she stroked his legs with her own.
“I know,” he murmured against her mouth, then swiped her lower lip with his tongue.
“More?”
“Yes.”
His kiss went deep, angled, plundered and she bucked against him, clung to him, wished for more, wished for him to dive inside of her. A shallow swat of dizziness came over her, but she willed it away. After all, she hadn’t eaten for close to twenty-four hours. All she needed was a little sustenance. And Grant was supplying all the nourishment she required.
As his lips fed on hers, Anna could feel his heart beating inside his chest, could feel that rapid pulse against her breasts. She wondered if he wanted to be inside her, too, wanted to taste her, wanted to go faster and slower and have more and more.
Then he suddenly left her mouth and dipped his head, found her breast. Anna gulped for air as he flicked his tongue back and forth over her nipple. Her breasts ached, her core ached. Her heart slammed in her ribs, and her inner thighs and feminine hair were wet with need.
Grant rolled onto her, and his hand slipped between her legs as his mouth found hers once again. Her hips stiffened and rose as his fingers found her, stroked the bundle of nerves at her core where she burned desperately. Anna had always thought of herself as passive and cautious both in bed and out, but Grant made her wriggle and squirm and participate in her own pleasure, demand and accept, and love her femaleness.
He slipped a finger inside her and she gasped, her legs jerking, the muscles in her thighs flexing. He used the wetness of her body to slip in and out and slowly circle over the swollen bud at her center.
She looked up. He was watching her, his green eyes glittering rabid fire. She knew those eyes, and God help her, she loved the man behind them. If only he felt…
Her thoughts died as he plunged two fingers inside her, deep, all the way to the knuckle. Her hips thrust, her hands fisted around the wrinkled sheets. White-hot strands of energy ripped through her, and she cried out, heat and pulse and fireworks erupting within her.
“Anna, sweetheart,” Grant said soothingly as he held her tightly. “I’m desperate here.”
Her body pulsed, weak from hunger, weak fr
om delicious torture. And yet, she wanted more. “Come inside me,” she whispered, her breathing ragged, her hand moving down his torso, searching for his shaft.
“No.”
“What?”
“Another time.”
“Grant…”
He kissed her, eased her hand from his throbbing penis. “Anna, last night and this morning was about you, making you feel good. Okay?”
“No, not okay.”
He sat up. “There’ll be plenty of time…”
Anna wanted to say, “Bull” to that. There would not be plenty of time. Maybe a few more nights, a couple of glorious weeks. Who knew for sure? He was going back home soon, back to his life.
She watched him slip on his jeans and shirt, his jaw working with the unleashed passion she knew flooded every cell of his being. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I have an appointment.”
“With who?”
“One of Spencer’s employees.”
Shock slammed into her. “You’re going to San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
She sighed, feeling a nagging sense of worry replace the ardor from a moment ago. “Grant, why can’t you let the police handle this?”
“Because I can’t.”
“What if you get in trouble—?”
He walked over to her, looking determined and impatient. “Listen, Anna, I can’t do a damn thing until I’m cleared of this murder.”
“Like what? Go back home?”
“Yes.”
A sharp stab of pain entered her heart. “How about making love to me again? Is that on hold, too?”
His jaw tightened. “I told you what that was about. You’re just getting over the flu.”
She bypassed his lame excuses and got straight to the heart of the matter. “Why do you need to do this? You’ve been cleared of Spencer’s murder.”
“No, I haven’t. I have the cops watching me, and, sure, my brothers and sisters have been great, but I see how they look at me sometimes—or try not to look at me.”
“That’s ridiculous. They’re all wonderful to you.”
“They’re only ninety-five percent sure I’m innocent.”
“I don’t agree. That sketch the police showed us and the whole blackmailing thing, it’s cast a new light on this investigation.”
“Not a new light, but maybe a different one. It’s just something I’ve got to do, okay?” And with that, he leaned down and kissed her.
For a few sweet seconds, he remained close to her face, waiting for her to return his kiss or smile or give him some sign that she supported him and understood.
Anna would always support him and he knew it. She smiled, reached up and touched his face. “Good luck. I hope you find something of value.”
The tension vanished from his eyes, and he kissed her once more. “When can I see you again?”
“Tonight?” she said.
He grinned. “What happened to me giving you some space?”
Yes, what had happened to that self-preserving notion? It had gone out the window the minute he’d climbed into bed naked, his warm, strong body next to her weak and shivering one. “I never wanted the space. I was doing it for you.”
“Well, stop it already,” he admonished playfully.
She couldn’t help herself, she laughed. She was weak and careless, and practically asking for her heart to be broken, but this was Grant and she loved him. How was she supposed to ignore that fact no matter how little time was left? “So, tonight? Dinner?”
“You sure you’re up to it?”
“I’m sure.”
“Why don’t I bring something—”
“No.” She sat up, the sheet to her breasts. “I feel more energetic than I have in three days. I want to cook.”
He smiled. “I love your cooking.”
And I love you.
“I’ll be back by six,” he said, dropping one last kiss on her mouth before heading out the door.
Anna threw off the covers, her head a little heavy and her body still pulsing from climax and a wonderful, though strange, night and morning that had ended far too soon. She sent good thoughts with Grant as she heard the front door close, and hoped he found nothing more today than his way back to her.
It was selfish, she knew, but she didn’t care. She wanted him safe, his body, his mind and his soul, and she truly worried that if he found something new digging around in Spencer’s company it might only damage him further.
“You have his eyes.”
If he heard that one more time, Grant thought darkly, shifting in his seat, he was going to put his fist through a wall. As if having the same eyes as his father would be all that strange. Of course, maybe the comment was more of a cover-up for deeper thoughts, tricky questions about what else the two men had in common, comments that couldn’t be said while trying to remain polite.
“Not the expression, mind you, but the color.”
Across from Grant, sitting behind a thin mahogany desk in a very small windowless office on the top floor of Ashton-Lattimer Corporation, was a man in his late thirties with a hook nose and deeply-set blue eyes who yesterday had agreed to meet with Spencer’s eldest child. He’d been the only employee who’d agreed to see Grant.
Young Pritchard patted his thinning hair and gave Grant a tight-lipped smile.
“The expression?” Grant repeated.
“Well, you do have the seriousness of the late Mr. Ashton, but…well, the arrogance isn’t there.”
Spencer, arrogant? Grant mentally rolled his eyes. What he needed was information he’d never heard before. Maybe an offhanded remark about a worker who had a grudge, or something to hold over Spencer’s head, something the police missed in their formal interviews.
“You know,” Young said, leaning forward as though he had something delicate to discuss, “he spoke of his firstborn, his eldest boy many a time.”
“Is that right?” Grant said tightly, not sure he really gave a damn.
“Of course, I always thought he was talking about Caroline’s boy.” He shook his head. “Who could’ve guessed…”
“Spencer was a walking enigma,” Grant said. “Though I doubt he was talking about me. I’m sure it was Eli or Cole.”
Those small blue eyes narrowed. “You have a sister, don’t you? A twin.”
“That’s right.” Grant paused. He didn’t talk about Grace very much, and was surprised that Spencer had mentioned her.
“Then he was talking about you. Fairly recently actually. Kind of ‘off the cuff’ one day. Mirror images, he’d said, but nothing alike.”
A muscle worked in Grant’s jaw.
“Actually,” the man continued, “he called her a chip off the old block, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.”
What a shocker, Grant thought sarcastically.
This was going nowhere. He wanted answers, clues to who had hired that sketch artist, who’d paid the kid to frame Grant, and who the hell had been blackmailing Spencer and why. He’d made a mistake in coming here. Odds were this clown only wanted to check out another one of Spencer’s many children, and Grant was not about to act the part of a circus freak.
“Is there anything more you can tell me?” he asked Young.
The man had the good sense to look guilty. “No, afraid not. Sorry about that.”
Grant stood up, shook Young’s hand and said generously, “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Good luck to you, Grant. And sorry about your father.”
“Yeah,” was all Grant could muster.
Five minutes later, he stepped into the elevator and rode it down to the ground floor. He knew that Detective Ryland was outside, parked far enough away to see his comings and goings and to follow him back to Napa—after he’d sent one of his flunkies to question the employees about Grant Ashton’s visit.
Anger and frustration seeped into his bones. He had no information and an unwanted escort for the drive back. He wanted to jump on a plane hea
ded east, home to Nebraska where he belonged. Back to what he knew and understood. Back to a place that was simple and had family he’d always known and cared for. Yes, that sounded good.
Yet, then again…
A woman crept into his mind. And a little boy, too.
Even if he had the choice, he just couldn’t leave them. Not yet.
The wind off the Bay blasted him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He spotted the detective trying his damnedest to look invisible in his unmarked car and gave him a quick wave.
She’d walked into town, to the small market with the freshest produce. On her kitchen counter sat beautiful greens, tomatoes, basil and garlic for pesto, chicken and a basket of apples.
It was a homey sight that made her smile.
Back in her cramped apartment and nonexistent kitchen in San Francisco, she’d tried to make a home for herself and for Jack, a place that felt warm and inviting despite its size. And she’d succeeded to some degree. Decorations and familiar knickknacks filled the space, but that hadn’t been enough. With her fulltime teaching job, life had been pretty hectic, and homemade meals had been few and far between. They’d had pizza once a week and take-out Chinese on Fridays, while Anna had scrambled to invent something exciting out of pasta and cream of mushroom soup for the remaining three nights.
The life of a working mother wasn’t easy or idle, but in her case, it was survival.
But happily the weekends would come along, and she’d have Jack all to herself, playing, singing, reading and cooking him those homemade meals.
Anna took out twelve perfectly shaped green apples and began coring and peeling them. She flipped on a little light jazz, looked down at her boy, who was contentedly reading on the floor, and smiled. Life in Napa had been wonderfully different, and she knew she had to savor every moment. Since being here, she’d chopped and minced and baked and stewed to her heart’s content. Sure, she missed teaching, but she was teaching her son every day and there was nothing that compared to that.
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby.”
His eyebrows raised. “Book?”