That last word plunged him into a well of sadness. He ground his teeth in painful bitterness. "One moment I had a family, the next I didn't. The police said their car ran off the road and into the river. I just don't believe my dad would have driven drunk, and anyway my mom wouldn't have let him." He vaguely felt Phoebe's capture of his hand, felt her warmth seep into his skin, but only so far.
"God Phoebe, you would have loved them." Despair had been his companion for all these years. His Marine Corps life had helped, but grief had always been with him. He'd never come to terms with his parents' deaths.
Suddenly he grabbed an old piece of crockery on the counter by the sink and threw it at the far wall. He ripped his hand away from Phoebe, embarrassed that he'd acted so violently and not wanting her to be afraid of him.
Throwing the dish, though, had let loose something within him. Damn. Phoebe's here. In my home and I want her. I need her.
His blood racing, heating, he gripped her shoulders, pulling her toward him. She came easily enough and slid her arms around his waist.
"I'm sorry, Marc. It must have been awful for you. I can understand it."
"Can you?" He put some distance between them and tipped up her chin with the edge of his hand. Her green eyes were moist, her sympathy for him obvious.
He pulled the baseball cap off her head along with the ponytail band, loosening her long hair, feeling the soft strands tickle his hands. Trembling fingers threaded through her hair, cupping her head, bringing his lips to hers. It took one soft touch, and he was lost.
"Phoebe," he groaned, tightening his arms around her. His hands molded the shape of her hips and her sweet, round ass. She clutched the waistband of his jeans, slipping her fingers between the denim and his skin at the indentation of his spine. Oh yeah. Deepening the kiss, he claimed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sweeping it across every surface, pulsing it until he could no longer breathe.
Lifting his head, he gasped for air before nudging up her chin and nipping at her neck over to her ear. Her low moans vibrated against his lips, inflaming him. He pulled her belly against his cock, his hands tight on her ass, and he gloried in her grinding response.
He lifted that ass to the kitchen table, ignoring the dust. This put her breasts at eye level, and he cupped them in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples.
There was that ring. He manipulated it up and down, eliciting small gasps and moans from her. "Jesus, that's so fucking hot," he murmured as he pulled her blouse off over her head. He just stopped and stared. Her bra was sheer white, and the nipple ring showed clear as day. Dragging his tongue along one edge of her bra, he licked at the center of her chest and up over the other breast.
Her fingers were at the buttons of his shirt. He stopped what he was doing to give her a chance to open it. She caressed his chest, rubbed her palms against his nipples and leaned in to put her lips on them, then her teeth. She not-so-gently bit the left nub and sucked at it, sweeping her tongue over the tip.
Before she could get to the other one, he opened her bra clasp, swept it off and down her arms, and latched onto her pierced nipple.
He suckled, and she gripped his hair, holding him to her breast. Her head tipped back, the movement thrusting her farther into his mouth.
"Oh God, Marc, you're driving me crazy."
Pulling her hips forward, he worked on the snap of her jeans and yanked them and her panties down to dangle off one ankle. "Lean back, honey," he growled.
He knelt, spread her thighs, and burrowed his tongue over and between her labia. He couldn't wait a moment longer and suckled her clit into his mouth. With her shriek and the pumping of her hips, he could tell she was aroused.
She whimpered and angled toward him. "Oh my God—God—that's so good—please don't stop."
Lifting his lips for a second, he glanced up at her.
Her eyes popped open, and she looked back at him. She snarled, "You bastard. Why…"
He lifted his lips in a crooked grin, and without breaking eye contact he pushed his forefinger into her sheath. Her head dropped back again and she groaned. She was so wet, and soft enough for two fingers. He drove them in, twisting them to massage her vaginal walls, then put his mouth back on her clit. If only they were in a bed.
She was winding up for a climax. He wanted to be inside her steamy, snug body, but she tipped over the edge, grinding herself against his mouth and fingers and clutching his hair. He could feel her inner muscles milking his fingers.
How much better would that feel on my cock? "Baby, I want to be inside you."
"Yes, yes." She reached for his snap. "Do you have protection?"
Standing up, he kissed her lips, long and deep and thoroughly. He nodded, pulled a condom out of his pocket, lowered his zipper, and sheathed himself. Then he let her guide him home.
Home. All the way in. He stopped, fully seated within her. Her contractions vibrated around his cock, pulsating and throbbing along his length. He picked her up from the table. He needed her higher. Her jeans and panties dropped to the floor, and he backed her up against the kitchen wall. He palmed the wall to cushion her back then covered her mouth with his and thrust his tongue in matching cadence with his cock.
Her walls squeezed him, milking him until he could hold it back no longer. Seed fired from deep within his balls and burst from him in a scorching torrent. He broke the kiss and lifted his chin, howling with his release.
He was gone, but not so gone that he didn't hear her orgasmic cry. She kept thrusting her hips taking every last ounce from him. There it was again. A desire for no condom.
All there was now was the sounds of their gasps. The scents of sex filled the air. Her head rested on his shoulder, her soft breath wafting over his neck. He pulled out of her so she could drop her feet to the floor again, then guided her toward a kitchen chair.
He helped her put her panties and jeans back on before depositing her on a chair. Striding to the window over the sink again, he disposed of the condom in the wastebasket—still under the sink where his mother had always kept it—and drew his zipper closed.
With the automatic act of buttoning his shirt, the pain came again at the simple, stupid reminder of his past. What had he just done? He'd needed Phoebe so much, her sympathy, her sweetness, her sexiness. And then he'd roughly used her. Up against the damn wall like an animal. He glared out the window to the backyard.
The chair scraped on the old kitchen floor and a hand on the center of his back brought him back to the here and now. He glanced down at her lovely profile as she also gazed out into the yard. Unable to articulate his feelings and certainly not planning to apologize, even if he should, he took her hand and urged her out the back door.
They wandered the perimeter of the yard. The plantings had gone wild over the years. It would take a contingent of gardeners to pull weeds, replant, replace, and mulch. Was it something he could do?
For a moment, his thoughts were lost in the possibilities of coming back home and restoring the house and yard. Phoebe walked silently with him, once in awhile kneeling down to pull what he assumed was a weed. He supposed she needed something to do, since being with him here had become so awkward.
He gazed around the yard, surrounded by trees, surrounded in the private grounds. In the winter with the trees bare of leaves you could see other houses but not now. Thick summer foliage encircled them, sheltering them.
But not quite.
They heard voices on the other side of the fence at the back of the yard.
"Dad, you know I'm old enough to join the business."
"You're not ready, Butch."
Marc glanced at Phoebe. She'd heard that too. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in surprise. At the same time they shook their heads at each other, indicating quiet. It sounded like Butch and his father were arguing.
"All I've ever wanted is to come into the company. I don't know why you haven't let me."
"You don't have the negotiating skills I need." The olde
r man's voice faded in and out. He could be pacing around.
"How would you know? You've never had any faith in me." Butch sounded like a whiny child.
"You dropped out of college. You're just a police officer. What have you done to earn my faith?"
"You don't know what I've done to help you," Butch grumbled.
"What do you mean? What have you done?"
"Never mind. I need to get into the business. I need to make more money. I want Phoebe to marry me. As long as I'm just a police officer…"
Phoebe gasped and immediately put her hand over her mouth. Her gaze flew to Marc's, and he shook his head, put his finger up to his lips, and gave her a "stay" motion.
"That singer? You want to marry her? That trollop?"
"Once she agrees to marry me, she'll get rid of that hair color and settle down. I want what's due me. You owe me, Dad."
"You said that before, Butch. What have you done?" Harold Wilcox barked.
"I'm not saying anything. Not until I'm in the company where I belong!"
That was the last they heard of the argument. The conversation seemed to have ended, leaving no one satisfied. Neither Butch nor his father. And certainly not Marc.
He couldn't stop thinking about what Butch had said about helping his father. How had he helped him? It was crazy to make a connection—but did that have something to do with his parents' deaths?
"Thank God I got away from him," Phoebe whispered.
Neither had moved. Marc didn't want to risk being seen. He had no idea if Mr. Wilcox was still out there. He was uncharacteristically frozen in place, his head spinning with questions.
Since he didn't know if he could trust her, he'd never said anything to Phoebe about his suspicions of Butch. Now that he knew she was still in danger from him, he had to trust her.
After not hearing any noise from the other yard, he finally urged her back toward his house. They needed to get inside before he felt perfectly safe. The kitchen, the site of their passionate lovemaking, made him smile a little. As angry and suspicious as he was, he couldn't help it.
"What was Butch talking about? What could he have done to help his father?"
Marc turned to look out through the window again. His mind was spinning with suspicions. He had absolutely no proof at this point that his father hadn't been drunk. He had no proof that their deaths had been anything other than an accident. He had no proof that Butch might have been involved.
But he couldn't get his mind off what he'd heard, and a hunch was not evidence. He shook his head and came back to Phoebe's questions.
"I don't know, but I don't want you anywhere near that guy. I don't like what I'm thinking, and I have no way to prove it."
"Oh my God, Marc, you don't think…" She'd come up behind him and put her hand on his back.
Any other time he'd have welcomed her touch but now he just felt numb. "Harold Wilcox makes a lot of money with the resort. He wouldn't have succeeded without the land along the river where our store had been. Is it possible that Butch did something to help his father? Without his father's knowledge?"
He needed to talk to Butch again at the police station. Try to feel out what had happened with the missing files. But Phoebe's hand was still on his back. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed in their scent of sex. He turned to her and smiled. Taking her face between his palms, he angled it up into a kiss. She responded, her arms around his waist, palms caressing his spine in comforting sweeps.
Reluctantly breaking the kiss, he pulled her in for a hug. "This was amazing, Phoebe. I wish the timing were different. I have to go back to my unit. I don't know what'll happen."
Pressing against him, she laid her head on his chest. "Don't say anything. I don't expect or need any promises. I have my own plans."
He urged her face up and gazed down at her. God. When he was back in Afghanistan, he'd remember her features—how beautiful they were, that funny pink streak in her hair.
He'd come home for a purpose, and that had to be paramount, as much as it hurt. Distractions were not good on a mission. He gave her a gentle kiss, no pressure and no tongue, trying to memorize the feel of her soft lips against his, wanting to remember the delicacy of her body pressed to his hard one.
"I'm going to take you home." He needed to think.
"Why don't you talk to Moira again?"
"I just don't have any hard evidence."
"We can tell her what we heard."
"I will, but I don't want you involved in this. Just watch out for Butch. Stay away from him," he cautioned.
Chapter Fourteen
After dropping her off, Marc went to meet Moira. Phoebe circled around the house, checking all the new locks on the windows and doors. She shivered. Obviously from what they heard, Butch hadn't given up his interest in her. He was a jerk. And scary.
Plopping down on her bed, she lay on her back, her arm draped over her eyes. Her body held Marc's scent and the essence of their lovemaking. It had been really wild sex. Sex standing up, her back against the wall. He'd protected her from injury but had pounded into her.
She curled up into a ball on her side. She'd never forget him and had a feeling he'd forever be the gold standard of erotic memories for her. He had a way of embracing her, kissing her, making her feel things she'd never felt before with a man. She loved his house and had sensed a strong family dynamic. Her adoptive parents loved her—she couldn't deny that. She had them. Marc didn't have his. His emptiness was her emptiness. She understood it.
But they had no future together. He was only home on leave. She intended to be in a larger entertainment market. Their destinies didn't mesh.
As a performer, she'd have to travel on tour. He wouldn't want to tromp around after her. Striving for a career in the music business made her realize some of the relationships she'd be giving up. But success was the one goal she'd wanted her whole life, and she was confident she'd achieve it. It was right around the corner. Singing was her destiny. Wasn't it? She'd never seen herself as depending on a man to give her life meaning. No family. No children.
A tear trailed down her cheek. What was the point of crying? A performer's life was a lonely one. She'd miss Moira and Davey. And Marc.
Damn it! Get off the bed, and do something constructive. Go after what you've always wanted.
She had a show tonight to get through, but now she could make plans to move to Chicago and work on breaking into the clubs.
***
Three hours later, Phoebe strolled through the back door of Marietty's. For tonight's performance, she'd donned a black satin pencil skirt that fell just below her kneecaps and a lacy red bustier topped by a black-sequined bolero jacket.
Checking her makeup in the bathroom mirror, she added a bit more lip gloss, fluffed her hair, and waited for her musical cue.
She hoped Marc wouldn't be out there tonight. She didn't think she could concentrate. The sight of him, the memory of what they'd done that afternoon, would be too clear in her mind. The flutterings of sexual arousal had already begun. She had to redirect them to enhance her performance.
After the first show was over, she tottered backstage in her sky-high black pumps. She just wanted to sit down for a few minutes. She hadn't realized how emotionally exhausted she was.
Before she could lower herself to a chair, something came over her head and all the way down to her waist, hemming in her arms. An arm around her middle held her still, a hand over her mouth kept her from screaming. But she could kick and wriggle. It did her no good. She was also hampered by her tight skirt, but she felt the seams give in her struggles to use every part of her body for freedom.
It did her no good.
She couldn't breathe. The cloth over her face terrified her. One minute she fought like a crazy person, the next she woke up in a confined black space. Car engine. Smell of gasoline. Movement.
Then she became aware of pain in her knees and her shoulder. She lay on her side, her hands bound behind her back. Trying to move h
er feet, she realized her ankles were restrained too. She was trapped in the trunk of a car.
The motion of the car made her sick, her stomach roiling and pitching. Bouncing around, she had no way of protecting her head or her body.
I'm going to die.
She'd do whatever it took to not let that happen. Not knowing who had her or where they were going didn't help, though.
It felt like they were driving uphill. She was thrown against the opening of the trunk. She couldn't even begin to imagine where they might be. She had no way of knowing how long she'd been out cold.
Finally they came to a stop. She stilled and waited. This was it. Whoever it was intended to kill her. Why else would they kidnap her and treat her so roughly?
Down deep inside, she feared death, but she also had to face the reality that he or they would rape her. There was no way of knowing how many there were.
The trunk opened. She looked up desperately at the outline of a man. Just one, it looked like. He reached in and hauled her out, roughly scraping her legs in the process. She felt the hot sting of skin opening and blood trickling out.
"You don't look so good right now, do you bitch?"
That voice. Her head felt wooly, but she recognized the voice. "Butch," she whispered brokenly. Where were they? She heard the roar of rushing water. Birch Falls?
He brutally yanked her arms, dragging her up higher over the rocks, up the side of the falls. At the very top he shoved her onto the ground. She cracked her elbow and sobbed.
"Shut the fuck up."
"Let me go. Why are you doing this, Butch?"
He leaned over her prone body and slapped her. "You thought you were too good to marry me, did you? Well when I'm through with you, you'll be begging me. For your life. I wouldn't marry you now, no matter how you beg me."
"Butch, let me go. I won't tell anyone about this." It probably wouldn't work, but she had to try everything.
"You'll be sorry you didn't accept my proposal. I'll be rich, and our company will run the town."
"Is your dad here?" She frantically looked around for another person. Surely Mr. Wilcox wouldn't have anything to do with this.
The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) Page 11