Shades of Passion

by DePaul, Virna

  “You are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you’ve been so honest with me. And I have to be honest in return. We can’t sleep with each other. It would complicate things. But this...maybe we can have this. And hope that’ll be enough?”

  He didn’t agree with her. She hadn’t been expecting him to. And though she’d said the words, though she’d meant them and knew they had to be said, she didn’t quite believe them herself.

  “Well, here goes...” he said.

  And covered her mouth with his.

  * * *

  KISSING NINA WHITAKER felt fresh.

  New.

  Like he’d never kissed a woman before, and for a man of Simon’s experience, that was saying something. It troubled him at first. Made him hold back. But when she seemed to melt—her mouth parting, her body relaxing into his—he couldn’t hold back anymore.

  Groaning, he opened his mouth, slanting it to get at her better. Deeper. His tongue didn’t so much invade as it took with confidence of its welcome. She’d admitted she wanted him. Hell, she’d initiated and justified this kiss even as she’d warned him he couldn’t have more. That thought grated at him. Spoiled the pleasure he was experiencing more than he wanted to admit. But he forced himself to push his agitation away.

  Here. Now. They could have this, she’d said. And he was going to take advantage of every last second of it.

  God, he’d missed this. The closeness of a woman. Her softness. Her scent. They highlighted his strength and cautioned him to be gentle even as they urged him to let down his defenses. Yet even as he wallowed in the familiar feeling of intimacy, he was acutely aware, once again, that this was different. She felt different. Tasted different. Smelled different.

  Better than anything or anyone he’d ever had before.

  Her tongue tangled with his, rubbing almost shyly against him, and he lowered his hand to the small of her back, urging her closer. Her breasts pressed against his lower chest, and though he’d thought something about her car and then her house didn’t quite fit, that wasn’t true for their bodies. They fit. Divinely.

  He was breathing fast and his skin prickled and he wanted more. He wanted to strip her. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to her bedroom. He wanted inside her. Now.

  “Simon,” she gasped, and he became aware of her hands, not pulling him closer but holding him away. He pulled back. Or tried to. His body didn’t cooperate the way he was expecting it to.

  Not that he could blame it, really.

  His hands had fallen even lower to cup her ass and his lower body was pressed tightly against hers. That warm, sweet juncture between her thighs cradled his erection and without his conscious thought, he was pushing into her, as if he could get through the barriers of their clothing and into her warm moist heat by sheer will. Her eyes were wide. Slightly shocked.

  And he felt that same shock rippling through him.

  Holy fuck. What was this? He’d been planning on enjoying a kiss. He’d been looking forward to challenging her statement that a kiss wouldn’t lead to anything more. But he hadn’t been expecting to be swept away by his own passion for her. Forget passion. By his own need.

  He couldn’t need her. He wouldn’t.

  But he wasn’t an idiot, either.

  Working together was going to be damn difficult. Even more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  Forcibly, he uncurled his hands from her flesh and took a step back.

  He cleared his throat. “You said we can’t sleep together because it’ll complicate things, right?”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  He took a deep breath. Released it. “I think we already hit complicated and dove straight into a fucking mess.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ON MONDAY MORNING, Simon pushed back from the old newspaper articles he was reading and cursed.

  Nina Whitaker wasn’t just rich. She was connected. Well connected.

  She was the daughter of Charles Whitaker, a former governor of South Carolina.

  He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought. Even without the Pacific Heights mansion, she screamed class and pedigree and affluence more than any woman he’d ever met.

  Yet part of him had been surprised. Because of the car she drove. Because of the porn flick she’d been carrying when he’d first met her. But mostly because of what she was trying to accomplish. Why wasn’t she in South Carolina, using her father’s connections to make the differences she sought, he wondered. But he already knew the answer to that.

  First, she’d already accomplished what she wanted in South Carolina. Her MHIT program had started in Charleston and was now firmly established there.

  Second, she was running.

  And with good reason.

  She’d told him about Elizabeth Davenport, her patient who had committed suicide, but Nina hadn’t told him about her sister. The sister who had committed suicide years before her patient had. There hadn’t been the same amount of press coverage there’d been on Elizabeth Davenport’s suicide, likely because, unlike Lester Davenport, Nina’s father had swept everything under the rug. But the brief reference to the event and her sister Rachel’s subsequent obituary hadn’t been difficult for Simon to find, either. All he’d had to do was conduct a search of Nina’s and her father’s names, and it had come up. Anyone who cared to look for it could access information about the tragic event. One article had even included a picture, not of Rachel, but of a teenage Nina, sitting on the stoop of a house, looking scared while police officers and medics talked close by.

  He recalled the photograph he’d seen in her foyer. The picture of her laughing and embracing a girl that looked eerily like her. A girl that had to have been her sister. What had losing that sister cost her? Especially given that her sister hadn’t died because she was sick or murdered, but because she’d chosen to die. Chosen to take her own life, regardless of the fact that Nina had obviously loved her.

  He barely knew Nina, yet it made no difference. His heart ached for her.

  He generally thought of psychologists and psychiatrists as bleeding hearts and, given Nina’s background, it was probably truer than normal. She’d made excuses for Lester Davenport’s actions, writing them off as grief over losing his daughter. It was a grief she and her family were intimately acquainted with and explained why she’d been so reluctant to cause Davenport trouble without concrete proof he’d left that letter for her. Hell, she hadn’t wanted to cause him trouble even assuming he had left the letter. She’d suffered tragedy early on in her life and it was no wonder she was trying to make positive changes for those suffering from mental illness. With that kind of emotion driving her, how could she possibly see that her well-meaning compassion and yearning to help a disadvantaged group of citizens could be dangerous? To other civilians. To cops. To herself.

  And just what was he going to do about that?

  He was still contemplating the question when she walked into the SIG detective pit. His gaze took her in hungrily, but the visual stimulation wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her again. Explore her body, inside and out.

  “Detective Granger,” she greeted him, her voice breathless.

  He looked up in time to catch her blushing and he knew immediately she was remembering the kiss they’d shared. He didn’t have to remember. It hadn’t left his mind for one freaking second. She must have seen the rush of desire that washed over him because she glanced away and shifted uncomfortably.

  “Am I—” She cleared her throat. “Am I dressed appropriately?” She wore heather-gray slacks, a purple-and-black top and a purple sweater. Black ballet flats with a jaunty ribbon completed the elegant package. “We didn’t really talk about it, but I assumed slacks would be fine. Do I pass muster?”

  Right. As if his gaze had been roving her body simply to assess her clothes rather than to appreciate the woman underneath. But whatever. He could give her that illusion. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his chest. “You loo
k fine,” he said, and thought, No truer words have ever been spoken. She looked amazing. And he needed to stop thinking about how great she looked—how much better she’d look if they’d just made love—and focus on the day ahead. “Have a seat. I’d like to go over some things before we head out.”

  She nodded and took a step toward the chair beside his desk. Before she could sit, however, two men walked into the room. Commander Stevens and Gil Archer.

  Lana’s father.

  Simon couldn’t help it. He stiffened, something that Nina obviously noticed.

  Her features grew quizzical and she turned to face the other men. They were about the same age, fit despite their graying hair and both wore suits. The only striking difference between them was that Gil was a few inches shorter than Stevens.

  Commander Stevens held out his hand. “Good morning, Dr. Whitaker. It’s good to see you. Do you have any questions I can answer before you and Detective Granger head out today?”

  Nina glanced at Simon. “We were just about to sit down and discuss what he has in store for me.” Her gaze shifted to Gil Archer, who was just holding out his hand to Simon.

  “It’s good to see you again, Simon,” he said quietly.

  “Likewise, sir,” Simon said, though he could barely speak past the lump in his throat. Gil Archer had always been unfailingly polite to Simon, before, during and after Simon’s personal relationship with Lana. He’d never said anything to make him think that he blamed Simon for his daughter’s death, but it didn’t matter. Even during the best of times, when Simon knew he wasn’t to blame for what had happened, he had trouble remembering that when in her parents’ company. He didn’t see them often, but because Stevens and Archer were old friends, it happened on occasion. At least Lana’s mother wasn’t here. The last time he’d seen her, she’d vacillated between being catatonic and sobbing over the loss of her daughter. Of course, that had been at Lana’s funeral...

  Aware that Nina’s gaze was bouncing back and forth between them, Simon cleared his throat. “Mr. Gil Archer, this is Dr. Nina Whitaker.”

  Archer nodded and smiled. “Of course. Dr. Whitaker.” He held out his hand, cradling Nina’s when she placed it in his. “You’re the psychiatrist Stevens has been telling me so much about. Not to mention that I read about you in the paper. Commendable work helping Simon find that little girl. Rebecca Hyatt’s grandfather is a member of my golfing club. Very appreciative. And very wealthy. We both donate considerable amounts of money to worthy causes each year. Between you and me, I’m sure he’d be happy to donate funds to the proposed program Stevens will be considering. If it moves forward, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nina said mildly. “That would be wonderful. And do you feel the same way, sir?”

  Archer glanced at Stevens and laughed appreciatively. “Watch out, Stevens. This one will have you agreeing to a number of things before you know it.” He turned back to Nina. “Do I feel the same way? I believe I do. My daughter, Lana, was a psychiatrist and I couldn’t have been more proud of her. Funny,” he said, tilting his head. “You even look a little like her. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

  Simon shifted uneasily. He’d thought the same thing when he’d first met Nina, but oddly enough, he’d stopped seeing the resemblance since then. At some point, he’d stopped comparing her to Lana. In fact, he realized suddenly, he’d stopped thinking of Lana altogether. At least, he’d stopped torturing himself with thoughts of her like he usually did. Mostly what he’d been thinking about the past few days had been her. Nina. The kiss they’d shared. And how much he wanted to kiss her again.

  Instead of agreeing with Archer, Simon said, “It was good seeing you, sir. Commander. But as Nina said, we were just sitting down to get started.”

  “Right. Right,” Archer said. “I suppose we should get going. I was just checking with Stevens here to see if he had any recommendations. We’re a little short-staffed at work and getting bigger and bigger contracts every day. If you’re ever interested in extra pocket change, Simon, or know someone who is, just let me know.”

  Pocket change? For the most part, Archer paid big bucks, which was why so many cops had signed on with his firm after taking early-retirement packages.

  “Gil runs one of the biggest security firms in the city,” Commander Stevens explained to Nina.

  “I do, but as I said, I’m a big supporter of mental health professionals. In fact, I’m on the Board of Directors of the San Francisco Golf Club and we’re sponsoring an upcoming fundraiser to raise funds for those with mental illness. I believe you’ll be attending, Simon?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Perhaps, Dr. Whitaker, you can join us, as well? Maybe you can even be a featured speaker, talk about this extra training you’re proposing, so we can waive the entry fee? Shall I send you an invitation?”

  She nodded and smiled, but was probably just being polite. Any idiot could see she’d stiffened up ever since Gil Archer had told her she looked like his daughter and had turned to Simon for confirmation.

  Stevens and Archer left, and Nina finally sat down.

  Her gaze rested heavily on him, but he tried to ignore it as he took his own chair. “So, have you done a ride along before?”

  She paused, then nodded. “I have. In Charleston. Not over the course of several days, the way I’m going to do here. But I did a day here and there.”

  “Did anything interesting happen?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. Some traffic stops. Nothing terribly dramatic.”

  And had that disappointed her? he wondered. Had she been craving excitement? Adventure? Was that what this was really about? But no, she hadn’t been any more thrilled with this partnership than he’d been. And despite their kiss, or maybe because of it, she probably still wasn’t.

  “We’ll head over to SFPD where you can watch some of the intake procedures. We’ll also keep track of specific calls and respond to the most interesting ones. We’ll just be observers. Patrol will handle the action. I know you’ve got a job to do, but so do I. The main thing we’re going to be focused on is your safety. You’re not going to do anything to endanger yourself. Is that clear?”

  She raised a brow. “I had no plans to do so, so that’s comforting.”

  “I just want to make it clear—this isn’t about you trying to save anyone.”

  Now she frowned. “The program I’m advocating is all about preventing harm and saving lives, but I wasn’t planning on diving in front of a bullet for anyone today. Not even you.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  “Then whom, exactly, are you worried about? And what makes you think I’d endanger myself to help a total stranger?”

  When he didn’t immediately answer, her gaze flickered down to his desk and the papers there. He knew the instant she figured out what they were—old press coverage of her sister’s suicide—when her face paled. He didn’t like the flash of pain on her expression and immediately wanted to shove the papers into the trash. Away from her view. But he forced himself not to. He had a point to make. An important one. Her past was painful, but it was best he knew about it. Best she knew he knew about it.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said softly. “About Elizabeth Davenport, too.”

  “But?” she asked snappishly.

  “But a woman on a crusade is a dangerous thing. That’s why we need to discuss these things now. Before we hit the road.”

  She said nothing else. She refused to say anything else. And he refused to give in to his sudden urge to shift guiltily, as if he’d done something wrong. To counter the feeling, he went on the offensive.

  “You told me about Elizabeth. Don’t you think you should have told me about your sister, too?”

  Her eyes widened. “Why? The only reason I told you about Beth was the threatening note. It was relevant. Rachel’s death...isn’t relevant to anything at all.”

  She was lying. He knew it and so did she. Something like that would b
e relevant to everything she did, but before he could respond, she stood. “Besides, telling you would have been too easy. It would have deprived you of the pleasure of doing your little detective thing, right? I knew you’d look into it anyway and find out yourself.”

  But her last words didn’t ring true. She’d been truly blindsided by the fact he’d dug up information on her sister. Or maybe she’d just been blindsided by the fact he was making her talk about it.

  “My little detective thing, huh?” he asked softly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s really nothing little about me.” She blushed and he’d bet she had to forcibly stop her gaze from dropping to his crotch. Not so much to admire him, but to put a curse on him. “Besides, sounds like rationalization to me.”

  “I’m nothing if not rational. Believe me, your warnings are unnecessary. I don’t have a death wish and I don’t plan on endangering myself to help strangers in some misguided attempt to save my dead sister. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “Great. Then how about you tell me something now?”

  “What is it?” he asked warily.

  “Who in your past endangered herself to help others? Your mother? Your sister? No, your girlfriend.” He stiffened and she nodded. “Was she a psychiatrist? Is that why you hate my profession so much?”

  “Yes, she was my girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend, but still. And yes, she was a psychiatrist. And while hate is too strong a word, I admit I’m leery of those in your profession because she died and she didn’t have to. She was murdered by a serial killer she was trying to help.”

  “Let me guess. We’re talking about Gil Archer’s daughter. Lana. The one he said I look like.”

  “We’re talking about Lana, yes. And as to whether you look like her?” He studied her while she held herself stiffly. “You’re both blonde. Pretty. But different,” he finished lamely.

  “Yeah. I’m alive. But apparently I’m paying for her mistakes. You grew to distrust her, so now you distrust me. You distrust all psychiatrists. You probably distrust anyone with a mental health issue. Heck, anyone with anything you perceive as a weakness at all. So how do you handle your own weaknesses? Or do you simply expect yourself to be Superman?”