A MAN TO TRUST

by Justine Davis

  She sighed wearily. "Mine is. Now. And I'd like to be there."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said smartly, snapping off a salute that made her smile, albeit rather weakly.

  She lapsed into a silence that lasted the rest of the trip back to the inn, but it wasn't the same; he didn't sense that aura of emotional shock he'd felt from her before.

  It was quiet and dark when they arrived back at the inn. Since her car was at his house, at her indication he pulled the truck into the garage. Unlike last night, the evening was chilly, for a California summer, anyway, with a touch of unseasonable fog, and when he offered to start the fire that was already neatly laid on the hearth—Dolores had been here, it seemed, and busy as usual—she nodded silently before disappearing into the kitchen.

  When she came back, she was holding two steaming cups. He got up to take one, although he wasn't sure he wanted coffee this late; his sleep had been restless enough lately. Then he smiled when he saw it was hot chocolate. Complete with marshmallow.

  "Perfect. Thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  They were the first words she'd spoken in a long time, and he didn't want her to stop now. She curled up on the sofa, pulling her legs beneath her. He sat down beside her, but not too close, for his own sake as much as for hers.

  "Everything all right?" he asked.

  She avoided the real intent of his question, choosing to take it much more literally. "That storeroom latch finally broke," she said. "Dolores left a note saying the side door won't lock."

  "I'll wedge it shut with something later, and we'll get it fixed in the morning."

  Kelsey nodded; then, suddenly, her eyes widened, as if she had only just realized how … domestic that exchange sounded. For a moment she just stared at him, and he could see the flames reflected in her eyes and wished heartily that they were burning on the inside, as well. She looked away from him hastily, toward the fire, and lapsed once more into silence.

  For a long time, she just stared at the fire. He sipped at the warming chocolate, watching her, aware of a matching heat from a different source building inside him.

  Finally, she looked up at him. "What … do we do now?"

  He thought of all the possible answers to that question and quickly decided that the first three that leaped to mind would probably not be advisable to voice right now. She seemed to read the nature of those answers in his face, because he heard her take a quick breath.

  "I mean … about Melissa," she stammered.

  "I was afraid of that," he muttered under his breath. Then, with a shake of his head, "I don't know how much longer I can keep the lid on this. It may already be blown off, after that stunt Sutter pulled this morning. Mr. Personality may not think he was taken seriously enough, but if the local cops have a brain stem, they'll be taking it very seriously."

  "What will happen now?"

  His mouth twisted. "The whole thing has shifted. Now they're dealing with a violent offender who's losing his grip. Maybe his crack use is getting worse, which makes him even more unpredictable. They're going to know they need to stop him before he spirals out of control. And since he's looking for Melissa, it's only logical that they'll be hot after her, too."

  She was silent for a moment, then, her eyes troubled, she asked, "What will they do when they find out you … knew something and didn't tell them?"

  He shrugged. "Depends."

  He saw worry creep over her face. "You could … get in trouble, couldn't you?"

  Her concern warmed him, but concern wasn't exactly what he wanted from her right now. "Maybe. Not too much, because at the time I had no idea who the boyfriend was, or how far he'd gone."

  "But you knew Melissa had … committed a crime. So did I."

  "Running away?" He shook his head. "Not much of a crime, not anymore."

  "I meant … the things she stole."

  "Oh." He shrugged. "I'm not too worried. Under these circumstances, it's close enough to civil, being family property, crime of opportunity, all that stuff."

  "But I thought…" She let her voice trail off.

  "You thought what?" he asked softly. "That I'd arrest Melissa and drag her home, and then maybe arrest you as an accessory or something?" She flushed brightly, telling him the accuracy of his guess. "Your ideas about cops are from the child you were, Kelsey. Give me a break, all right?"

  She stared up at him, wonder dawning in her eyes. "You should have told the sheriff's office everything right away, but you didn't."

  "Letter of the law? Yes, I should have." He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug as he set down his now empty mug beside hers on the coffee table. "But as long as somebody rounds up Sutter before he hurts anybody, I'll be okay. And they probably will, now that they know how far over the line he is."

  "Why?"

  "Because if they don't, and he hurts somebody—"

  "I meant … why didn't you … tell?"

  He looked straight at her then. He knew the answer, and maybe it was time she knew, too. "You asked me not to."

  "But I didn't even … tell you why."

  "I know."

  "But you still…"

  "Yes."

  "Why?" she repeated.

  He reached out then, tilting her head back with a gentle finger under her chin. "I think you know why, Kelsey."

  He saw her eyes widen again, her lips part, then close again as she bit the lower one, as if to hold back words. He wanted to tell her to say it, whatever it was she was holding back, but he couldn't seem to find enough air to speak. Or the words to say.

  So he kissed her instead.

  He leaned down and took that soft, warm lower lip she'd been nibbling on and nibbled on it himself, much more gently, salving the mock wounds with a stroke of his tongue. To his surprise, she rose to his kiss urgently, taking his mouth as if she'd been hungering for it as he'd been hungering for hers. It shocked him, thrilled him, sent a blast of heat rocketing through him, so hot and fierce and sudden that he groaned under its strength.

  He leaned into her, pressing her back against the cushions of the, sofa. She didn't resist, didn't protest, and he felt her uncurl her legs to stretch out beneath him, felt the tingling begin as she was once more pressed full length against him.

  He probed deeply with his tongue, savoring the sweetness of her, loving the taste and feel of the intimacy, feeling his body tighten and surge to fullness at the thought of the intimacy that it had been denied for so long. And her welcome only stoked the fires higher and hotter; when she sighed and let her tongue dance with his in a twirling, stroking movement, he felt the shiver down to his toes.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping her head and holding it as he deepened the kiss even more, feeling his pulse kick up one more notch as she seemed to undulate beneath him, her curved, warm body stroking his in one rippling motion. Convulsively he pressed his hips downward, increasing the pressure of his arousal against her belly, and when she lifted herself in response, he nearly gasped aloud.

  Then he felt her hands sliding down his back, felt her fingers pressing against his hips, as if to urge him even closer. He shuddered, wishing more than anything to have her do that when they were both naked and he was buried deep inside her.

  He did gasp aloud at that thought, and his fingers flexed involuntarily. As if he'd only now remembered what else they could be doing, he reached to cup her breasts, lifting them slightly, then lowering himself to feel them against his chest. She rewarded him with a tiny sound of pleasure and an arching of her back that pushed her harder against him and made him groan anew. She rubbed herself against him; he felt the softness of her breasts against his chest and filling his hands, and his own flesh hardened even more.

  He wanted more, more of those soft little sounds she made. He raised himself slightly, just enough so that his fingers could find her nipples. They were already tight and hard, and this evidence of her arousal made him feel primitively masculine in a way he'd never known before. Perhaps because he knew s
he was so wary, the fact that she was responding in spite of it fired him beyond resisting.

  He plucked at the taut peaks until she made that sound again, and then again, and again. And still it was not enough. He wanted more, he wanted her as hot and needy as he was feeling, wanted to touch and stroke and taste every inch of her, and to have her do it in turn to him, until nothing else mattered.

  He'd wanted before, he thought vaguely through the blazing heat, even since Ellie, but it had been a general awareness of need, not this fierce, aching wanting for one single woman. He'd wanted before, but that was a pale, inadequate word for what he was feeling now.

  And stopping would be pure hell. But in mere moments it would be even worse. With an effort, he lifted his head.

  "Kelsey," he whispered, all too aware of his own rigid flesh caught between them, pressing against her, knowing she had to be aware of it, too. The truth was, he was so hard that if she touched him again right now, even through his jeans, as she had last night, he was sure he would go off like some hormonally poisoned sixteen-year-old.

  "If we're stopping, tell me now." His voice was a rasping, harsh sound, but he couldn't help it. "I'm already half out of my mind."

  "Stopping?"

  She said it thickly, as it she were in the same heated, mind-fogging place he was in. And as if it were the last thing on earth she wanted to do.

  And it was certainly the last thing he wanted, yet he felt compelled to make sure, cursing himself all the while for not simply taking her implied answer and granting his body's sole wish.

  "You walked away last night." He ground it out. "If you feel the same way—"

  "But you're not the same man you were last night," she said softly.

  He stared at her. She was looking at him as if she knew exactly what he'd been through last night, as if she knew every step of the battle he'd fought to come to terms with what he'd denied was festering just below the surface for so long. Had she really guessed so much from what little he'd said when he so stumblingly tried to apologize to her for the way he'd shouted and ended up instead spilling things he'd never told anyone?

  Or was it simply that she had once walked a similar path herself?

  "And I don't think I'm the same woman," she added softly. "You were right. What I thought… I had some old … childhood ideas I was lugging around. I'm sorry I hung them on you. That wasn't fair."

  "And now?" he asked, his throat tight.

  She smiled, a soft curving of her mouth that managed to be ancient and brand-new, alluring and innocent, welcoming and shy, all at the same time.

  "Now," she whispered, "there's nothing at all childlike about what I'm feeling. And I want to go on feeling it."

  Cruz closed his eyes and let out a harsh breath of relief.

  Then he felt her hands cupping his face, and he opened them again. She was looking up at him, the firelight dancing again in her eyes. But this time it was matched by a glow from within.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Had she known? Kelsey wondered dazedly. Had her body somehow known it would be like this? Was that why she had been drawn to this man from the first time she saw him, even though she'd never dared act on the feelings?

  Somehow she had gotten the idea, from her few brief encounters, that when it came to sex, men were rather … limited in their approach. If they didn't go at it rather wildly, in what she'd always thought a parody of passion, they went at it mechanically, concerned only about their own release. Or if they cared anything about their partner's pleasure, it was almost as mechanical, a sort of duty they felt they had to accomplish before they could move on to their real goal, their own pleasure.

  But it had taken only a few minutes with Cruz to convince her that she'd been wrong. Very wrong.

  He was tender, unfailingly gentle and considerate. Things she knew little about. But mixed with that was an undeniable edge, an intensity that made her feel, when he looked down at her now, not just as if she were the only woman in the world, but as if it didn't matter that there were millions who were more attractive than she was, that it wouldn't matter if they were lining up at his door, he would still be looking at her in the same way.

  She didn't really know when she'd gotten out of her clothes. She was hardly aware of her own nudity, except for the heat that blazed in his eyes when he looked at her, warming her as much as the fire crackling on the hearth. But she was very much aware of his as he stood beside the sofa and shoved off his jeans and briefs. She wished she had the courage to ask him to simply let her look at him; she didn't think she'd ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

  And he'd never hesitated when, with a shyness that was almost painful, she mentioned the condoms she kept on hand for when she encountered a runaway whose education in that area had been sadly neglected. He'd simply gone to retrieve the box and then apologized for not thinking of it himself, saying with a sincerity that made her quiver inside that he was long out of practice, words that only thrilled her more; she'd sensed somehow that he was not a man for casual sex, and this proof only made her more certain that she'd chosen the right man to end her own loneliness.

  She watched him come back, watched him cross the room in steady, even strides. She'd always known he was strong, known there was great power coiled in his body, but now that she'd glimpsed how beautifully he was put together, how one muscular plane blended so flawlessly into the next, how every part of him melded together to form a tightly knit, perfect whole, she wished she was an artist like him, so that she could capture those strong, powerful lines on paper. All of them, including the most male parts, fully aroused and incredibly potent-looking. For her. That was the most wondrous thing of all, that a man like this wanted her.

  But then that body was beside her again, those fine artist's hands moving over her, and she couldn't think at all. He was touching her in ways she'd never been touched, erasing the memories of other, less caring touches. He was caressing her with his hands, then his mouth, in ways that made her see all her past experience for what it was, blind fumbling with men who had been wrong simply because they weren't Cruz.

  But the thing that affected her most, the thing that sent her heart racing nearly out of control, that set the blood to hammering in her ears and the heat pooling low and deep and golden inside her, was the barely restrained hunger with which he did it all, as if he'd been waiting as long as she had for this. As if he'd been waiting for her.

  It was a heady sensation, and despite the lingering fear that she was a fool to believe in anything so ethereal as this, she cast her reservations aside and let herself dare the rapids; once in her life, she thought amid the whirling sensations, just once, she would take the prize without thought of what would happen tomorrow, without worrying about losing it, without thinking about the pain she would feel when it was gone.

  Then his mouth was at her breast again, his tongue teasing her nipple with quick, hot flicks, until she felt as if he'd seared a pathway from that taut peak to the hot place inside her that was crying out its own emptiness. She shivered at the feeling. For her, sex had always been more about closeness than about physical pleasure; she had never literally ached to have a man inside her before. But now it was both; she ached for this man, and the fact thrilled her even as it frightened her.

  When he moved over her at last, she barely held back a glad cry. She felt the hot probe of his body seeking hers and surprised herself yet again with the urge to reach down and guide him, to bring him home to her more quickly. But then he did it himself, and she felt the blunt, rigid flesh pressing into her.

  He was going too slow, it was driving her mad, and she began to lift herself, to urge him on. But then he stopped altogether, his eyes closed, and a qualm of uncertainty struck her; had he not finally dealt with the ghost of his wife? Was he thinking of her even now?

  "Cruz," she said, urgently, before she could stop herself.

  His eyes came open. "I'm … sorry, Kelsey. It's just th
at … it's been a very long time for me, and I … want you so much…"

  There was no trace of haunted memory in his eyes and nothing less than raging hunger in his voice. Joy surged through Kelsey in a swell that washed away her last remaining apprehensions.

  "I want you, too," she whispered, letting her hands slide down his back, slowly, until she reached his narrow hips and exerted a gentle pressure, urging him closer, urging him to complete the joining her body was screaming for.

  He groaned, and his head lolled back, the cords of his neck standing out strongly. "God, I've wanted you to do that, now, when we're like this…"

  Then he pressed forward, sliding into her in one long, smooth motion, until his hips were tight against her. The ease of it told Kelsey just how ready she was, for it was an exquisitely tight fit, yet there was no pain, only a marvelous sensation of stretching and fullness. And the empty place she'd only now realized existed was filled, and she knew in that instant that only this man could ever fill it.

  He began to move, slowly, measuring his length in her again and again. Kelsey rose to meet him, moaning his name when he surged into the depths of her and nearly crying out at the loss when he withdrew. When she realized, by the tension that strung his lean body wire-tight, by the sweat beading up on his forehead and the trembling in his arms as he braced himself over her, that he was forcing himself to go slowly, much more slowly than he wanted to, she clutched at him again.

  In her urgency, her hands had slipped downward, and she realized her fingers were digging into the taut muscles of his buttocks. Embarrassed even as she realized that embarrassment in these circumstances was absurd, she started to move her hands. But in that same instant Cruz hissed out a "Yesss!" even as the muscles beneath her hands flexed as he drove himself deeper and harder into her, exactly what she'd wanted but been unable to voice.

  She cried out his name, and he stopped. "No!" she protested.

  "Not … too rough?" He ground out the question between harsh breaths.