Cravings

by L. Hamilton, M. Davidson, E. Wilks, R York

  They sat across from each other, pushing food around, neither eating much.

  "When I first got here, you said you could help me find the killer," he finally said. "I'd like to see if the cards give me any clues."

  Her shoulders stiffened, but she said, "All right."

  He cleared away the half-empty dishes, and she carefully wiped off the table and dried it, then washed and dried her hands, and he wondered if she was stalling. But finally, she got a deck of cards out of a nearby drawer.

  "We can do a Celtic cross," she said in a strangely detached voice. "Or a seven-card spread."

  "Whatever you think is best."

  She kept her gaze down as she handed him the cards, and their skin touched for the first time since the night before. Quickly he pulled his hand back.

  "You shuffle," she said, her voice tight.

  "How much?"

  "As much as you want. Until you're satisfied."

  He did as she asked, then set the pack down. She turned over the first card and he saw a man poling a small boat with two shrouded figures in the front. A bunch of swords were in the background. The next card said Ace of Wands and showed a disembodied hand holding a branch with leaves. The name was at the top, but the picture was upside down. The next was called the Star and showed a naked woman kneeling by a pool pouring water from two jugs. Next came the five of Cups, featuring a mournful-looking figure.

  Antonia kept her head bent, touching the braille markings on each card as she laid it out, working slowly and carefully.

  When she'd arranged all seven, she sat with her shoulders hunched.

  "What does it mean?" he finally asked.

  She didn't answer, and he felt his heart rate accelerate. Reaching across the table, he cupped her shoulder to get her attention.

  "Just say it," he demanded.

  Slowly she raised her face, and he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

  "What? Am I going to fail? What?" he demanded, giving her shoulder a shake because he couldn't cope with the idea that she was holding back information for his own good.

  Chapter 7

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  "LORD, I don't know," Antonia answered in a barely audible whisper. Then more sharply, her voice cracking, "I don't know! It's all a blur in my mind."

  She stood up abruptly, sending her chair flying. "I'm just going through the motions," she whispered. "I can't tell you a damn thing because the cards have stopped working for me." The last part came out in a sob as she tried to flee from the room. But the chair had landed on its side, with its legs sticking out like a fence. When they tangled in the skirt of her robe, she lost her balance and started to pitch forward.

  Grant was already out of his chair. Surging around the table, he reached for her, and she landed heavily against him, with a small sound of surprise.

  "It's okay. I've got you," he murmured.

  "Let me go," she cried out, the plea thick with anguish.

  When she tried to push away, he gathered her closer. "Don't."

  She was still protesting, but he could barely hear her words above the roaring in his ears. He had forgotten why she was in his arms. The part of his mind that was still functioning told him he should loosen his grip on her. But it had become impossible to break the contact, as though the flowing folds of her robe had magically twined themselves around his legs, holding him where he was.

  She was shaking, and he tried to comfort her, stroking his hands over the silky fabric on her shoulders.

  "It's all right. It's all right," he whispered, not sure of what he meant.

  But the light touch of his hands on silk abraded his fingertips, sending sensual messages through his body. And he found that she wasn't the only one shaking.

  "Grant?" She spoke his name, but the word was muffled against his shoulder.

  Her scent, the feel of her body, the taste of her skin as he pressed his lips to the side of her face had seeped into his senses, driving him beyond reason.

  She raised her head, her eyes still glistening. He knew she couldn't see him, yet he felt the intensity of her gaze.

  One of her hands lifted, and slowly, slowly touched his face, stroking over his cheeks, his brows, his nose, then down to his lips, the light touch holding as surely as a magic spell.

  "I wanted to know what you looked like," she whispered, "So badly. The worst part is that I can't see you smile. Do you ever smile?"

  "There haven't been many reasons to… recently," he answered.

  The look of anguish in her eyes tore at him.

  "I've lost my gift," she said with a terrible finality. "I see the pictures on the cards, but I can't sort out what they mean. It's… gone."

  "No."

  "What would you call it?" she asked in a broken voice.

  "You're upset. By me."

  "By your pain," she said.

  He wanted to transform every drop of her sadness to rays of sunshine. And it hurt to know that nothing he could say would make a difference.

  But there was something he could do to wipe the despair from her face. Telling himself he had no other choice, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Did he mean to give her comfort, or gratify himself? All he knew was that her taste was intoxicating. A heady combination of wisdom and power and sweetness. And he recognized at the instant of contact that one draft would never be enough. Not near enough.

  He was instantly hot and hard and needy. On a surge of hunger, he increased the pressure of his lips on hers, deepening the kiss, drinking in her eager response.

  She murmured something incoherent, sliding her hands up and down his back and into his hair.

  Tensions held too long in check clamored for release. Taking a step back, he brought her with him, leaning against the counter so he could equalize their heights, bringing his straining erection into the cradle of her hips.

  She made a fevered exclamation, rocking her body against his, even as he devoured her mouth, using his tongue, his lips, his teeth.

  When she pushed at his chest, he thought his heart would stop.

  His hand clamped around her shoulder, holding her where she was. She covered the hand, stroking her fingers against his. To soften her rejection?

  When she started to speak, her voice was thin and breathy. "Grant, this is going too fast. I mean—I want to be naked when we make love. I want to feel my breasts pressed to your bare chest. I want you inside me when I come."

  "Jesus!"

  She gulped, then made an attempt at a laugh. "I'm telling you all that because if I keep standing here with that wonderfully hard penis wedged between my legs, I'm going to explode."

  "The explosion could be mutual," he managed.

  "Maybe we can hold off for a couple of minutes."

  When she knit her fingers with his, he clasped her hand.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Not far. I don't think I can walk far."

  "You've got that right."

  She led him into a small, comfortably furnished room. Stopping when they reached a thick oriental rug, she turned to face him. The intensely sexual look on her face scorched him as she yanked down the zipper on her robe. Tossing it out of the way, she rugged the tee shirt she was wearing over her head, then skimmed her panties down her legs.

  He had never experienced anything so erotic as the sight of her standing naked and glorious in the center of the rug.

  "You are so beautiful."

  "Probably I'm starting to sag…" she tried to say. The sentence ended in a gasp as he reached to capture the fullness of her breasts, lifting them in his hands, then stroking his thumbs across her hardened nipples. She stood with her eyes closed as he caressed her, her breath fast and shaky.

  "You, too. I want you naked, too," she murmured.

  Her hands reached out, connected with his midsection, and lowered to his waist, where she slid open his belt buckle, then lowered the fly of his jeans so she could reach inside and push his briefs out of the way. When she took his swollen cock i
n her hand, he made a strangled sound.

  "God, your erection feels so good," she murmured, stroking his length, exploring his size and shape with her hands. In danger of free-falling over the edge of a cliff, he lifted her hand away, bringing it to his mouth, kissing the hollow of her palm.

  Barely able to breathe, he wrenched off his shirt before kicking away his pants and shoes.

  When he pulled her naked body against his, both of them cried out. He held tight for a long moment, trying to catch his breath, then moved her in his arms so that her breasts slid across the hair on his chest.

  She made small, urgent sounds as her hands ran up and down his back, over his buttocks, cupping him, gathering him to her. And when she spoke, her voice trembled. "Grant, I can't wait any longer."

  Tugging him down to the rug, she rolled to her back as she pulled him down on top of her.

  He found the slick folds of her sex with his free hand, found her hot and wet and ready for him.

  "Come inside me. Quickly," she begged, her legs moving restlessly against his. "Deep inside me."

  There was no way he could deny her throaty invitation.

  When he slid into her, she made a small, sobbing sound.

  "Did I hurt you?" he asked urgently.

  "No. Oh, no. It's just that I wanted you so much."

  Her face was turned toward his, and he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her as he began to move inside her.

  She clasped him to her, matching the rise and fall of his hips, her frank sensual enjoyment making it impossible for him to hold anything back.

  He came like an explosive device detonating, calling out her name, even as he felt her inner muscles contract around him and her nails dig into his shoulders.

  He drifted for long moments, feeling more relaxed and content than he had in years, his eyes closed, soothed by the feel of her hand stroking through his hair and over the damp skin of his back.

  With his eyes closed, he thought that Marcy had come back to him, and he smiled. Then he realized she didn't smell the way he remembered.

  The realization brought a spurt of panic, and he rolled to his side. When he tried to scramble to his feet, a woman's hand flailed out, scrabbled against his side, then clamped around his wrist.

  "Grant, it's all right," she said.

  "No."

  "Were you planning to make love with me, then walk away?" she asked in a voice he knew she was struggling to hold steady.

  The frank question was like a blow to the chest.

  "I wasn't planning anything," he said.

  Her mouth twisted. "I guess not. You touched me, and it was like being on a runaway train."

  "Yeah."

  He watched her swallow.

  "I think it was meant to be," she said. "But I think you still can't accept that. I mean, you can't accept the concept of being happy again."

  He didn't answer because he didn't have a comeback.

  He watched her fingers press against the rug fibers as she said. "Do what you have to. But don't pretend that wasn't…" she paused, then said softly, "wonderful."

  "It didn't last long," he answered with the first thing that came into his head.

  "Because we were both too turned on to wait. But it was what we both needed." Again she paused. "Well, at least I did. I've been aching to finish what we started last night."

  "Are you always so blunt?" he asked.

  "No. I'm never this blunt. With clients, if I have bad news, I try to soften it."

  "And with me?"

  "With you, the stakes are too high to play around. Either you're going to stay with me—or you're going to convince yourself you made a mistake. I want you to stay. Very much. Not just for great sex. For everything we could give each other. But after Billy left me, I realized I couldn't count on having the things other women take for granted."

  It was a relief to turn the spotlight away from himself. "This has nothing to do with your being blind!"

  She raised her face toward him, and the illusion of her sight was so strong that he wanted to turn away from her piercing gaze.

  "I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty about walking away from a blind lady. You came here thinking you were going to rip out the throat of the man who murdered your wife and then kill yourself," she said, finally stating what neither one of them had yet discussed. "But I hope I've given you a choice. I hope you can admit that you might have something to live for."

  He struggled for breath, wondering what he might say if he managed to fill his lungs.

  "I want you to make the right choice," she added softly.

  "We've known each other less than a day."

  "I know. But that doesn't mean we haven't…" She turned her hands palms up. "I want to say bonded. Is that the right word?"

  "Don't you dare say that!" he fairly shouted. "I bonded with someone. With my wife." He looked around the room, feeling the walls closing in on him. "I have to go out."

  Snatching up his clothing, he ran from the room, ran from the woman who had seduced him into forgetting his marriage vows—into forgetting his purpose.

  ANTONIA felt around the rug and found her robe, then her panties. After she'd pulled them on, she remembered she'd been wearing a tee shirt, too, and searched until she found it.

  After putting herself back together, she stood. But her legs were unsteady, and she sat down heavily on the sofa. When she was feeling more in control, she walked out of the room and up the stairs, hardly daring to think about what had happened. She had made love with Grant, and the emotional and physical joy had been more than she had dreamed were possible.

  But he hadn't accepted what their joining meant.

  She thought back over what she had said. Maybe she had been too blunt. Maybe she should have pretended she didn't know exactly why he had come to Sea Gate.

  Pretended? No. She would have been lying, and she wasn't going to lie to him.

  So she took a shower, then came back down and began to clean the kitchen.

  She was in the middle of loading the dishwasher, when a knock at the door made her heart leap.

  Was Grant back? Had he come to his senses?

  On her way to the front hall, she realized Grant probably wouldn't have knocked.

  "Yes?" she called out through the closed door.

  "It's Charlie Hastings, ma'am."

  "From the real estate company?"

  "Yes."

  Wondering what he wanted, she pulled open the door and aimed her gaze toward where the man's face should be. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm going around town, telling people what they can expect to get for their property—should they be interested in selling."

  "I'm not."

  "Are you positive? This is a pretty large house, for someone on her own."

  "But I run a bed and breakfast in the summer."

  "Well then, I could advise you on modernizing."

  "I'm fine," she said, wondering why he'd picked today of all days to come around with his offer—until she thought about the man staying at her house. Obviously the town would be interested in Grant. Probably they'd be wondering what was going on in the house with the two of them alone here.

  As she thought about what she and her houseguest had been doing less than an hour ago, she felt her cheeks heat, then hoped Hastings wasn't studying her face.

  "I could take a look around," he said, and she flashed on the scene in the den. Had she and Grant left any telltale evidence?

  She was thinking the real estate agent might shoulder his way into the hall when she heard booted steps just before another voice said, "The lady told you she's not interested."

  Antonia recognized the boots and the authoritative tone. It was Scott Wright. He must have been doing one of his drive-bys, seen Charlie, and decided it was his duty to stop.

  "I was just trying to be helpful," Charlie answered, addressing the cop. Somehow they had both made it into the front hall.

  "She said she doesn't need your assistanc
e," Scott answered, moving closer to her. She could feel his breath against the top of her hair, and she wondered which man she least wanted in the house. She decided it was the cop.

  "Uh, maybe I would like an opinion on modernizing my kitchen," she allowed.

  She could practically hear Officer Wright bristling. "It sounded like he was bothering you," he said.

  "I'm fine."

  When the pushy lawman had left, she wished she could just tell Charlie to forget it. But she'd trapped herself now. "The kitchen is a little outdated. Maybe you can make some suggestions for quick fixes."

  "Of course."

  She led the way back down the hall, then waited, hearing the real estate agent walk around the room. When he opened the refrigerator door, she wondered if there were any spills inside.

  But her mind was going down a different path as well. Maybe being alone in the house with this man wasn't such a good idea.

  She didn't know she'd shaken her head until he asked, "Did you have a problem?"

  "Uh no."

  Just then, the doorbell rang.

  "I'd better answer that," she said quickly, wondering who it was this time.

  The man who called out to her was another familiar voice. Dwayne Shipley. Relieved that she was no longer going to be alone with Charlie, she opened the door.

  "Ms. Delarosa? I had some time, and I thought I'd look at that loose paneling you wanted me to take care of. And see what else needs doing, like that wall socket in the pantry."

  "Yes. I appreciate it," she said, thinking that her house was turning into Newark Airport. "What other small-town busybody was going to show up with an excuse to look around?"

  She was leading Dwayne down the hall, when she stopped short, remembering where the paneling was. In the room where she and Grant had made love. Not long ago.

  "Maybe you should just do that socket," she said.

  "And you wanted some painting done in some of the upstairs rooms. The off-season is a good time to take care of that."

  "I've got a guest now."

  "Grant Marshall," he said promptly.