“But you and I are strangers. There’s no friendship to get in the way. So maybe he’s afraid that his relationship with his mother and any actions he might have taken regarding her can’t stand up to closer scrutiny.”
Martin nodded, then watched the dog for a time. In twenty-four hours, Hunter had marked the entire yard, dug two holes and broken enough ground-hugging branches off a bush at the back of the house to allow himself to wriggle into its shade. At least he had better manners indoors, or Martin would probably be looking for a new home for him.
When Juliet spoke, her voice was soft, as cool and welcome as a breeze on a hot summer day. “Do you really think Hal is involved in Olivia’s murder?”
He wanted to answer in the negative, but gut instinct held him back. “I don’t know. I think he deserves a closer look. His behavior is odd. Everyone in town likes and respects him, which suggests that he’s a decent guy, so why is he so hostile to us? What sets us apart from everyone else?”
“Our interest in Olivia.”
“His sister excused his behavior as grief over her death. No matter how much he loved her, ten months later, he should have some measure of control.”
“Unless it’s guilt and not grief. But why would a decent guy play any part at all in his own mother’s murder?”
That question had Martin stumped, too. They knew Hal had been in trouble that had required twelve thousand dollars from Olivia to fix, knew that he had expensive tastes which his income probably didn’t cover. But was simple greed reason enough to kill his own mother?
“I went by the courthouse before work. There’s never been an arrest warrant issued for Hal, and he’s never been sued. He’s never married, so there’s no divorce. Other than his condo on Greeley, which is mortgaged, and a one-third share in his mother’s house, which isn’t, he doesn’t own any property in the county. He’s late paying his property taxes every year, but so is half the county.”
She didn’t ask how he knew that that information was public record. Most of the public didn’t.
“We really need his credit report.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide, her expression concerned.
“I don’t want you involved in this. I can get it myself.” He couldn’t put her job at risk. Helping him was one thing. Losing her job and/or getting a criminal record in the process was totally unacceptable.
“How?”
He could make a clandestine, middle-of-the-night visit to the local credit bureau offices. Breaking in and circumventing the inevitable alarm system would be the easy part. Getting the necessary information out of the computer without Juliet’s help would be damn near impossible. Fortunately, he had a better idea. “There’s a woman who works there….”
She gave him a sharp, narrowed look. She knew his plan immediately—probably had already considered it herself.
“It shouldn’t take more than lunch, maybe dinner.” The look on Juliet’s face made him think that maybe breaking in was a better idea, after all. It wasn’t jealousy, possessiveness or anything like that. He could appreciate and deal with those emotions. No, this was uncertainty, insecurity and fear. Sliding his arm around her, he pulled her snug against him. “It would be a sacrifice, having to sit through an entire meal with any woman besides you,” he said, his tone gently teasing, “but, hey, I’m willing to do it just this once.”
Slowly, deliberately, she looked away. “Tell her the things you tell me, give her that grin, and it shouldn’t take more than a simple please.”
“What things? Should I tell her how much I want you? How much I like being with you, talking to you, watching you? Should I tell her about the first time I came to your house, when you were walking down the hall buttoning your dress? How your hair was loose and your feet were bare, and I could see just a little strip of skin all the way to your waist, how it looked so soft and pale and I would have given a year off my life to fasten those buttons for you, to touch you there, to brush my fingers across your skin the way you were doing? Should I tell her that I thought it was the most erotic image I had ever seen in my life?”
As he’d spoken, his voice had gotten thicker, huskier, and she had turned to look at him again. Her expression was soft, her eyes hazy, her lips parted just a little, just enough to tempt him. He leaned toward her, coaxed her to lean toward him and touched his mouth to hers. The heat was instantaneous, consuming. In a flash, the night went from pleasantly warm to unbearably steamy, and the ever-present ache in his groin exploded through his entire body.
He knew nothing about his past, but he knew he had never wanted like this, knew he could never forget a need like this, a kiss like this, a woman like this. The only way to satisfy this hunger was to get close, to crawl right inside her and stay forever. The only way to ease this arousal was in loving her, long and hard, tonight and always. The only way to survive the need was to hold tight to Juliet, to never let her go, to love her forever.
She stroked his tongue with her own as her thin, slender fingers curled with surprising strength around handfuls of his shirt. The soft little whimper that passed from her mouth to his intensified everything—the heat, the swelling, the desire, the pain, the torment. It gave him a sense of incredible power and humbled him tremendously.
His skin tingling with raw need, he freed himself of her mouth one small kiss at a time, then drew a desperate breath. He was shaking, trembling from the pure sweet pleasure of her mouth. “Oh, darlin’, you’re killing me.”
“Come inside.” She said it simply, quietly, her words sending one message, her voice, her eyes, her body promising another. It was the second he wanted—to strip off their clothes and bury himself deep inside her, to thrust and arouse and build and pleasure until his body could endure no more, to come inside her in the most intimate sharing two people could ever achieve.
Her hands were folded together in her lap. He wrapped his fingers around them, able to secure both of her small, delicate hands in one of his. “I don’t have any condoms.”
There was a hint of relief in her eyes that his objection was one of common sense and safety rather than lack of desire. “I do. I stopped at the store….”
He had carried in the twenty-five-pound bag of dog food this evening, while she brought the plastic bag with Hunter’s new collar and leash. She’d given no hint that it had contained anything else, certainly not anything as personal, as hopeful or as potentially embarrassing as condoms. He was surprised that she’d found the courage to make such a purchase—and found it incredibly erotic that she had.
Getting to her feet, she stood in the moonlight, slender and lovely, and offered the invitation again. “Come inside.”
Taking her hand, he went.
Chapter Eight
Leaving Hunter to chase imaginary prey, they entered the house. Juliet retrieved the bag she’d tucked in a drawer while Martin locked the door. She led the way to the bedroom, and he followed, his gaze so intent that she could feel it. It made her self-conscious of every step, every sway of her hips, but at the same time, it made her feel graceful. Sensual. Womanly.
“I’m kind of new at this, you know,” Martin said, his grin less than confident, his lack of assurance endearing.
“I think it’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”
He slid the bag from her hand, removed the box inside and left it on the night table, then claimed both of her hands. “There are a few things I’d like you to forget, starting with the bastard in Texas and the incredible sex.”
“What bastard in Texas?”
He backed up until he was sitting on the bed and drew her between his legs. In the dim light from the single lamp burning on the night stand, he raised his hands to the first button at the point of her dress’s V-neck. He slid it open, then moved to the next one, his palms brushing her breasts. He opened it, too, and the next and the next, all the way to her waist, where he stopped.
Just as she’d done last week, he drew his fingertips along the opening to her waist, eas
ing fabric back, exposing skin, stroking. Just as she’d known last week, his heat, rougher skin and stronger hands felt incredibly different from her own tentative touches. Sexier, full of promise and pleasure.
Each time he stroked her, his hands explored a little further, sliding underneath the cotton, brushing the sides of her breasts, teasing her nipples, then covering her, pressing his palms against her flesh, kneading, teasing, massaging. Her legs grew weak, and his touch became both vital and unbearable. Her skin quivered everywhere he touched, the heat so intense that she was damp with it, the sensations so potent that she trembled. If he stopped touching her, she might die. If he didn’t stop, she surely would, an erotic death of pleasure so pure it would destroy her.
He unfastened a few more buttons, slid the dress off her shoulders. It caught on her bent arms, exposing her breasts to his gaze, his deliberate caresses and the sweet torment of his kisses. He kissed her breasts, suckled her nipples, bit and soothed and drew hard on them, sending heat through her body, sending wicked need to pool between her thighs.
“Oh, Martin.”
He pressed his cheek to the warm, shivery skin between her breasts. “You like that?” She heard his smile, felt his tongue making lazy circles. He must know the answer she couldn’t give voice to, must know that her lungs were tight, her every breath needed for things more important than talk. “You like this?”
He slid his hand underneath her skirt, gliding it quickly along her thigh to the heat and moisture that awaited him. Stroking her through the thin cover of her panties, he chuckled softly. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you, darlin’?”
From some wicked place inside, she found the strength to raise her head, to gaze into his intense blue eyes as she feather-stroked her fingers over faded denim and swollen flesh. “No more than you are, sweetheart,” she said with her own husky laugh.
For an instant her boldness surprised him, but when she would have withdrawn her hand, he caught it, spread her fingers over the length of him, pressed her palm hard against him. “Juliet…” His groan made her name barely recognizable. “Please…”
She pulled free of his hand, then stroked him again and again as she claimed his mouth. Tangling his hands in her hair, he took control of the kiss. It was harsh, demanding, greedy. There was no gentleness, no tenderness, just pure passion, pure determination.
Their touches clumsy, their movements frenzied, they stripped off their clothes and fell across the bed. He knelt between her thighs, fumbling with a condom while she tried without success to pull him closer, so close they could never find their way apart again. Then he was there, pressing in, one deep, stretching inch at a time. She thrust against him, wanting more, needing more, none of this slow and easy, but hard and fast and full and now. Oh, please, now.
Her cries were soft, felt rather than heard, but Martin understood. Oh, please, now. Yes, he needed her now. Sliding his hands underneath her, he pushed hard, filling her in one powerful thrust. Her hips cradled his, and her body fitted his as tightly, as heatedly and perfectly as he could have wished. His head told him to remain still, to give her a moment to adjust, but his body insisted he didn’t have a moment. He stroked her, kissed her, moved with her and against her, faster, harder, deeper, and the release he was struggling for built inside him, stronger, stronger, threatening to explode, to destroy him, to—
It washed over him, over and over, racking his body with violent shudders, robbing him of all thoughts, all fears, all needs but this one. Dimly he was aware of her own release, of the tightening of her body around and beneath his, of her trembling and helpless cries. He wanted to comfort her but had no comfort to offer, wanted to soothe her but couldn’t find his voice. All he could do was hold her, kiss her, rock with the tremors that shook her.
Moment after moment passed. Her fingers eased their grip on his arms, and the tension eased its grip on his body enough so he could breathe, enough so he could control the twitchy responses of his muscles, enough so he could see her in the lamplight. She was beautiful, her pale face flushed, the delicate pink extending down her throat to the still-swollen tips of her breasts. Her lips were parted, her breathing uneven, but her eyes were clear and free—thank God—of embarrassment, shame or regret.
Her smile faint and packing a punch, she raised her hands to his face. He pressed a kiss to one palm before she evaded his mouth and slid her fingertips across his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, into his hair. They were simple touches, the sort lovers indulged in, the sort she’d never had the courage to try with him. Her hand on his arm was about as intimate as her gestures had gotten before tonight, and he’d been grateful for even that.
After tonight he would always want more.
“See? You didn’t forget.” Her voice was throaty, her smile satisfied.
“No,” he agreed. He’d remembered the mechanics, but not the emotions. Now he was more convinced than ever that there was no woman waiting somewhere for his return. He could never forget this. It was part of his heart, part of his soul, always and forever part of him.
She slid her hands down to his shoulders, across his chest, brushing his nipples and making him shiver. “Again.”
Her command made him grin. It also made his body jerk and start to swell inside her. “Again. What kind of request is that?”
“It’s a demand. An entreaty. A plea.” Her fingers were tickling across his belly now, working between their bodies to touch him where they were joined.
“What happened to sweet, shy, innocent Juliet, who doesn’t do well face-to-face, who blushes when a man looks at her the way he looks at a woman?”
“It’s hard to be shy and innocent when you’re naked and in bed with a man,” she said primly.
“Especially when your fingers are wrapped around his—”
She cut him off with a kiss and yet another intimate caress, her hand sliding lower to cradle him. By the time she let him breathe, he could think, want, need only one thing.
Again.
* * *
Juliet lay on her stomach, supporting her weight on her elbows, her hip pressed snugly against Martin’s, and studied him in the shadowy light. He was on his back, with one arm at his side, the other loosely around her. His head rested on her pillow, his skin was slick with sweat, and his breathing was almost back to normal.
Hers might never be normal again.
She had insisted just this morning that she had experienced incredible sex before, but she’d been wrong. Sex—making love, the romantic in her whispered—with Martin was incredible. Amazing. Exquisite.
He raised his free hand to stroke her cheek. “Why aren’t you married and raising babies?” His tone was lazy, sleepy, a little bewildered. It was sweet of him to think that surely some man in the last fourteen years should have wanted her, but the truth was, none had.
“I never planned to be thirty-four and alone. It just happened.”
“I’m glad it did.” He found the energy to raise his hand where it rested against her and stroked her breast. Odd, how what had made her ache a short while ago was now comfortable and soothing. “I’d like to think you were waiting for me.”
All her life, she agreed. And she would spend the rest of it being grateful for however long she had him.
She forced a smile to lighten her mood. “Maybe you were waiting for me. Maybe that’s why you were coming to Grand Springs and that’s why you had the accident and developed amnesia—to keep you here until I got here. Maybe the fates and the heavens conspired to bring us together.”
“Then it was worth the price. Who needs memories, after all?”
He did. He needed to know that he wasn’t some awful, horrible person not fit to walk the streets free. He needed to know that he deserved to be wanted, that it was all right to be loved.
She rested her arm on his stomach, patted her hand gently on his chest. “Tell me about last night’s dream.”
Immediately his muscles tightened and his features shifted into a scowl. “No.”
“Please, Martin.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“It was enough to convince you that you killed a man. Please.”
He turned his face away from her, then, after a long silence, spoke. “It was just images. Impressions. Feelings. Angry voices. The smells of fear, blood, something burning, someone— Someone dying. And a woman whispering, ‘He’s dead. Oh, my God, you’ve killed him!’ She was talking to me, Juliet.”
As far as she was concerned, it was a bad dream and nothing else. But he saw it as so much more. Truth. Verdict. Damnation.
“You can’t accept it as real until you have proof. You’ll get that proof when you remember.”
“And if it is real? What then?”
If it was real, it would be self-defense or some other form of justified killing. She was convinced of it—but he wasn’t. “Then we’ll deal with it.”
“How? Pretend it didn’t happen? Accept it and forget about it? How do you accept, then forget, that the man you’re sharing a bed with is a killer? How do you pretend—”
She bumped her entire body against his, jarring him into silence. “We’ll deal with it then. Right now I’m not going to worry about something that might not have even happened. Right now I’m going to deal with you.” She was going to turn onto her side and take a long, leisurely look. She knew how he tasted, how he felt, how he moved. Now she wanted to know how he looked. She wanted to see his broad chest, flat belly, lean hips and his long, strong-muscled legs. She wanted to see the part of him she knew most intimately now, wanted to behave like a giggly teenage girl seeing a naked man for the first time and see, examine, appreciate everything.
He was beautiful…which made the scars even uglier. She’d felt them earlier, one thick and raised, the other a smooth line, pale against his tanned chest. Someone had shot him, had tried to kill him, not once but twice. Why? What had he done to deserve such hatred?
“If you want to rub something, darlin’, I can make a suggestion.”
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