Safe in Your Arms

by RaeAnne Thayne

  “Thank you for…everything,” Elizabeth murmured when the limo driver pulled up to his house. “Your help has meant so much to me. I…can’t find the words.”

  He gazed at her soft mouth and sleek, elegant hair. He wanted to touch both of them. To rumple that hair a little, to smear that lipstick again. Too bad he wasn’t particularly crazy about having an audience, even a driver who was trying his best to pretend he wasn’t listening.

  “You’re welcome,” Beau said gruffly. He started to open the door but paused, his fingers on the handle.

  Something about the situation didn’t sit right with him. Call him a redneck chauvinist pig—Gracie sure did often enough—but he decided he didn’t at all enjoy being delivered to his door like some sixteen-year-old girl after the prom.

  Forget this. He grabbed her elbow and gave a little yank. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  She looked puzzled. “Mr. Parker can take me.”

  “So can I. Come on.”

  “Don’t be silly! It’s at least an hour from your house to mine, by the time we catch the ferry.”

  “I’ve got time. Come on.” He tugged again on her arm, enough that her slippery dress made her slither a little across the seat toward him.

  She looked at him as if he’d just reached over and given her ear a wet willie. “Wh-why?”

  He shrugged. “Okay, so I’m old-fashioned, but I figure a man should drive his own date home. It’s one of those unwritten rules, like never burping in public and always wearing clean underwear just in case you’re in an accident.”

  She gaped at him and Beau saw that Anthony had given up all pretense of ignoring their interplay and had turned around to follow it better. Beau met the man’s gaze and Anthony grinned at him.

  “This is not a date,” she finally said, her voice strangled.

  “Close enough. I want to drive you home, Elizabeth. Let me, okay? Look at it this way, if I take you home, you can give our friend Mr. Parker here an early night of it.”

  She gazed back at the driver, clearly torn. He smiled at her helpfully, and she drew a ragged-sounding breath and stepped out of the limo.

  “I still think you’re crazy, but all right. Thank you, Anthony. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

  The driver chortled. “Oh, I will. You can be sure of that. Good night, miss.”

  With a wave Beau shut the door, then he and Elizabeth both watched the limo pull back out into the deserted street. He had probably sounded like a complete jerk, insisting on taking her home like that, but he was suddenly fiercely glad their evening didn’t have to end yet.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said after a moment. “I think I’ll change out of the monkey suit first. You mind?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  The rain had stopped, but the night air still pressed in on them, moist and cool and scented with autumn.

  “Your yard is lovely,” Elizabeth said as they made their way up the wet brick sidewalk. “You must have a wonderful gardening service.”

  “No gardeners. Just me.”

  In the moonlight he could see the surprise in her eyes. “You did all this?”

  “I’m strictly about maintenance. Most of the fancy stuff was here when I bought the place and it comes back every year. I just mow and try to keep the weeds out of the flowers.”

  She gazed at the beds, at the late-blooming lilies and asters and Michaelmas daisies. She had been too nervous when she and Tony arrived earlier to pay much attention but now she saw the neat rows of flowers, the carefully pruned shrubs, the whimsical little stone toad she was suddenly sure had been a gift. Beau Riley wasn’t the sort of man to pick out stone lawn ornaments, no matter how charming they might be.

  “It’s lovely. Truly lovely.”

  “I enjoy it. Helps with the stress, you know? Yanking weeds is better than busting heads at work. It helps me keep my job.”

  What an interesting mix of contrasts he was. He worked at a tough, demoralizing, often violent job, then came home and nurtured such beauty here.

  They reached the door and he quickly unlocked it and ushered her inside. As she moved past him into the little entryway, she could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the outdoors scent of his aftershave. Her stomach fluttered and she had to force herself to step away and keep walking in the direction he pointed, through a doorway into a living area dominated by a large TV and stereo system.

  Beau cleared his throat. “It shouldn’t take me long to change. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, then. I’ll be back in a minute.” He headed down a hallway leading to what she assumed was a bedroom. Alone in the room, she studied her surroundings, trying to gather more clues as to what made Beau Riley tick.

  The room was neat, comfortable, with a plump, tweedy couch and a massive forest-green recliner. This must be the room he preferred, judging by the sparse furnishings she’d noticed earlier in the living room.

  Too unsettled to sit, she wandered around the room studying his space. He had a large CD collection, mostly classic rock and country music with some jazz thrown in. His DVD collection seemed to run to the shoot-’em-up action flick but she was surprised to see a healthy mix of classics—several Alfred Hitchcock movies, some old Humphrey Bogart and even a couple Cary Grant romantic comedies.

  On a bookshelf dominated by mysteries, she found two framed pictures—a candid that looked fairly recent of Grace Dugan, her new baby and her stepdaughter Emma. They were sitting on a beach somewhere, Emma leaning across her lap, all of them mugging for the camera. They all looked so happy together it made her chest ache.

  The second picture was of a dark-eyed girl with long, glossy braids and a bright smile. Marisa. It had to be. Something sad and painful tugged at her heart for a life snuffed out too soon. Beau must have truly loved her, to name his boat after her and keep this reminder close.

  Why didn’t he have any other pictures? Nieces, nephews, siblings? He never talked about his family, she realized suddenly. She knew he grew up in a small town in Georgia but the rest of his past was a mystery. Why was he so private? Was he hiding something or did he simply prefer not to talk about himself?

  He came back into the room just as she was setting the framed photograph back on the shelf. Beau in worn Levi’s and a navy cotton golf shirt was even more devastating than Beau in formalwear.

  He noticed her fingers lingering on the framed picture, and she thought she saw a spasm of emotion twist his features.

  “You miss her, don’t you?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. It probably sounds strange to you. I mean, she wasn’t even my kid. But we were close. The three of us did a lot together.”

  He crossed the room and picked up the photograph. “Kids are great, you know?” he said after a moment with a wistful smile that made her want to cry. “They love you no matter what. There’s something addictive about having a kid in your life, someone who thinks you’re the greatest thing since juice boxes. That’s what I miss.”

  I think you’re the greatest. She couldn’t say the words, so she just smiled in response.

  After a pause she gathered the nerve to ask the question she’d wondered about earlier. “Beau, why don’t you have any family pictures?”

  His smile slipped away and his eyes turned wintry as he carefully set Marisa’s picture back on the shelf. “I don’t have any family.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry I p-pried.” Her face burned at his short answer and at the stammer that slipped out, but Beau didn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t have a lot of real good childhood memories. I was an only child and my parents both died the year I turned six. After that, I went to live with my grandmother. She wasn’t a real warm person and I left as soon as I could. We didn’t stay in touch.”

  What kind of trauma and grief had he left out of that casual summation?

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and touched his hand.r />
  He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I always had plenty of good food and a clean bed to sleep in. That’s a hell of a lot more than many of the kids I see on the job, so I have nothing to complain about.”

  Children needed so much more than food and a clean bed. She thought of her own childhood, of the love and nurturing care she received from Luisa. She had to pray he had a Luisa of his own.

  “How did your parents die?” The instant she asked the question, she knew it was a terrible mistake. His mouth hardened into a tight line and his eyes were shuttered once more.

  He didn’t answer for a long, drawn-out moment, until she felt heat scorch her cheeks and she wanted to crawl under his couch cushions.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s really none of my business.”

  He studied her for several more seconds, then he sighed. “It’s not you. I just don’t like to talk about my parents. They’re a touchy subject.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again and focused on the berber weave of his carpet, unable to meet his gaze. When would she ever learn to keep her blasted mouth shut? Anyone with common sense would have figured out this was a topic he wasn’t interested in discussing. But not her. She pushed and pushed, even when all the signs clearly said Back Off.

  All she could do now was pray the evening would end soon before she could do anything else idiotic.

  “Will you take me home now?”

  He tilted his head. “Is that what you really want?”

  “Yes.” More than she wanted to take another breath.

  He leaned against the bookshelf and crossed his arms. “Too bad,” he murmured. In the last minute or so his green eyes had warmed considerably and she wasn’t completely sure whether that fact should make her relieved or apprehensive.

  “Why is it…too bad?”

  “Because what I really want is to kiss you again.”

  His words seemed to hover between them like a swarm of stirred-up honeybees. She stared at him in shock, heat curling through her, replacing her embarrassment.

  How did he do that? Switch gears on her so fast he left her head spinning? “I don’t think that’s, um, such a great idea.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He paused, then grinned at her. “Let’s do it, anyway.”

  Before she could protest, he stepped forward and kissed her, his mouth hard and hot on hers. Their kiss earlier on the terrace had been slow, sweet, gentle. This was anything but. This one was wild, passionate. Urgent.

  While he seared her with his mouth, his hands held her tightly, pressing her against the length of his body.

  Any lingering embarrassment shriveled up and blew away. She didn’t have room for embarrassment, not when she could barely breathe under the overwhelming weight of her emotions.

  Oh, she loved this man. The fierceness of it still shook her. She loved him no matter what his secrets. She wanted to kiss him and hold him and take the burden of his pain.

  She threw herself with enthusiasm into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck, curving into his heat.

  He made a raw, aroused sound in his throat and leaned closer, pressing her back until she bumped against the wall. He caged her in with his arms and his body, looming over her until her world became only him, only his scent and his taste and his strength.

  He kissed her until she thought her bones would dissolve, until her brain turned to mush and her body became only a pulsing, sighing, quivering mass of need.

  They were both gasping for air when he finally lifted his head. She managed to pry open her eyes and found him gazing at her, raw hunger in his green eyes.

  “I’d better stop and take you home while I still can.”

  She gazed at him, her aching nipples brushing against his chest through their clothes with each tortured breath. Yes. That would be the smart thing, for him to take her home.

  But for once in her life she was tired of trying so blasted hard to be smart. She wanted to burn away, to stay wrapped up in this heat that didn’t need words from her.

  A clock somewhere in the room ticked on as she gazed at his strong masculine features for another moment, then she gathered her courage and leaned forward the few inches that separated them.

  She took the lead this time, kissing him fiercely, tangling the fingers of one hand in his hair while her other hand pressed against his chest.

  His heart raced against her fingers, his breathing was ragged and shallow, and she reveled in it. He was close to the edge, she could feel it, and she wanted to push and push until he toppled over, taking her with him.

  Finally he yanked his mouth away. “Whoa. I don’t think my eyes will ever uncross again.”

  She laughed, empowered by his response and happier than she ever remembered feeling.

  “Good. If your eyes are crossed it won’t be safe for you to drive me home and I’ll have no choice but to stay.”

  He stilled, those eyes turning watchful. “Is that really what you want? To stay?”

  Okay. Decision time here. No more fooling around. All the reasons she should leave rushed through her mind, all those scaredy-cat things like playing it safe and protecting her heart. They were nothing, though—less than nothing—compared to the giant tidal wave of need crashing over her.

  She wanted this, wanted him. And for once she decided she would follow Leigh Sheffield’s example and take what she wanted. She smiled at him, a come-on-baby-light-my-fire kind of smile, then stepped forward and kissed him again.

  She kept her eyes open this time, as Beau did, and she saw surprise flit across his gaze, then a fierce desire that made her insides tremble with anticipation.

  He gave another of those low, growly sounds, and the next thing she knew, he was lifting her in his arms, formal gown and all, and carrying her through the house.

  His bedroom was large, masculine, with dark oak furniture, a skylight letting in moonbeams and a huge bed covered in a patchwork quilt of black and deep purple. She caught only a glimpse of the vibrant colors before he laid her down on it.

  “I don’t think I can be gentle. Not the first time,” he warned, sending her stomach fluttering at the idea that they might actually do this more than once!

  “I’ll try,” he went on, “but I want you too damn much.”

  She had no idea how to respond to such a statement, and she wasn’t sure she could find any words anyway, so she gripped his knit shirt and pulled him down to her.

  She kept hold of his shirt while he kissed her for long, drugging moments, until all she could think about was finding a way to get closer. With one quick movement, she pulled the shirt over his head. After a startled moment he helped her get it off and tossed the thing on the floor. She swallowed at all those rippling muscles bared to her view.

  Tina would have been impressed. A definite hottie.

  “Your turn,” he growled.

  She stood to take off her gown then realized she had a slight problem. “I, um, need a little help getting out of this. I can’t reach the…the thingy.” For a terrible moment she couldn’t think of the right word.

  “The zipper?” he supplied helpfully.

  She nodded and hoped he would blame her inarticulate state on flustered desire, which wasn’t exactly far off the mark.

  He grinned. “You’re in luck. I have to admit, I’m considered something of a zipper expert. Big ones, little ones, stuck ones. I can do them all. Want to see?”

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d said that made him laugh, but the sound of it rolled over her, around her. She was startled to realize she found his laughter every bit as arousing as his kiss.

  He reached behind her and quickly unzipped the gown. The slick material slithered past her hips and pooled at her feet, leaving her in only her mother’s diamond necklace and her unmentionables.

  He muttered a strangled oath, and she turned around and found him gazing at her like he was dying of thirst and she w
as a long, tall glass of lemonade.

  “Do you have any idea how incredible you look right now?”

  She shook her head, heat flaring in her cheeks.

  “Come here,” he commanded. He led her to a bureau that was topped by a large rectangular mirror.

  He stood behind her and pointed to the reflection. “Look at that,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You, Elizabeth Quinn, are the sexiest thing I have ever seen.”

  She blushed at his words but peeked at her reflected image. She didn’t see anything all that spectacular. She was too skinny, she didn’t have much in the chest department and she had bony knees.

  Still, the black strapless bra and matching panties and garters were nice. She had a secret weakness for frothy, feminine lingerie, even though nobody ever saw it but her.

  What she did find erotic was the reflected image of Beau looming behind her looking completely, darkly male, his chest bare and his jeans riding low on his hips.

  She licked her lips, heat curling through her insides, and met his gaze in the mirror. With their gazes still locked, he reached around their bodies with one hand and cupped her breast through the lace of her bra then flicked his thumb over her nipple. It instantly hardened into a tight, aching bud. He glanced down as his thumb caressed her slowly.

  Before she even realized it, he had unclasped the front catch of her bra, freeing her to his gaze and to his touch. For several agonizing, intense moments they stood that way, the solid strength of his body at her back while his hands teased and explored.

  Her lips parted and she forgot to breathe as wet heat soaked through her. Now that was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen, his big hand cupping her, caressing her nipples while his eyes watched her like a hungry predator.

  The fierceness of her response to him was exquisitely painful. She arched her head back and he lowered his mouth, his gaze locked again with hers in the mirror, and nuzzled her neck.

  Finally she couldn’t stand the slow torment another instant. She turned in his arms and kissed him deeply, her hands clasped around his neck and their naked skin brushing together. With a groan, he lowered her to the bed, then quickly removed the rest of their clothing.