The Ultimate Romantic Suspense Set (8 romantic suspense novels from 8 bestselling authors for 99c)

by Lee Taylor

  I press my face against the side of his head, hugging him. "You have me." The words slip out so I keep going. "You're brave and caring. And you're still sexy. A man any woman would want."

  He squeezes me tight, and then releases me. "You don't have to say anything. I'm okay with it. When I was a famous athlete, people would mob me just to touch me, get my autograph, have me smile at them. I ate it up. Loved it. But now I'm only a guy to feel sorry for."

  "That is so not true." I stroke the side of his face, unable to keep the lump from blocking my throat. We stare at each other, almost unblinking. Who was Zach Spencer? And who is he now?

  Finally he whispers, "What is the truth?"

  "You're a hero and a good friend. Lucas says he'll always remember the moment you said, 'I'm coming with you.' That's when he knew you were his friend, not just a training partner."

  "Fat bit of good I did. I had to be rescued while Lucas pulled Maryanne out of the water."

  I place a finger over his lips. No use talking. I'll comfort him the only way I know. Unbuttoning his shirt, I kiss a trail up and down his chest, savoring his scent, a mixture of soap and a sporty musk that is uniquely Zach.

  He relaxes into my embrace, lightly stroking my back. It's all I can do not to undress and straddle him. His touch sends currents around my waist, and his smile, definitely panty incinerating. But he doesn't wiggle his eyebrows and he doesn't pull me in to crush my lips. Nor does he probe my nipples and squeeze my ass.

  "What do you want?" he asks.

  A bevy of flip remarks spin through my mind. What did we usually do while together? Or at least, we did, before his injury. Now, he's suddenly shy, and it emboldens me.

  Jumping off the sofa, I pull him up with both hands. "Let's go to the bedroom."

  Chapter 5

  Zach's mattress is stiff, hardly comfortable, but it'll do. I shimmy out of my clothes and slide under the crisp sheets, waiting for him to climb in and embrace me.

  I recall the first time we touched. Zach and I had been swimming in a sparkling infinity pool, close to the edge where a cascade of water dropped to the level below. His golden, tan body glistened as he lifted me onto an overflowing ledge and stepped between my thighs. His eyes were as blue as the Aegean sea, and his muscles were corded and firm.

  I untied the string holding up his trunks, while he slipped my bikini bottom to the side. Raw animal lust ignited when he pressed into me. He was aggressive, knew what he wanted, and took without abandon.

  The bed dips, and Zach's hand is on my shoulder. "Vera, you don't have to."

  "I want you. Don't you want me, too?" I move his hand onto my breast, and he immediately fondles it. A melting sensation cascades through my body, causing me to moan and twist as I pull him over me.

  He feathers kisses over my neck "I do want you. I dream about you all the time, but--"

  "No talking." I turn into his kiss and cradle his face. His mouth is relaxed, and his eyes are half-closed. Flicking my tongue across the seam of his lips, I wait for that familiar hum in the back of his throat. His mouth opens, and our tongues wrap lovingly in a slow tango.

  He strokes the side of my neck and presses the kiss deeper. My body softens like warm taffy, conforming to his. I slide my hands under his shirt, my palms tingling over his smooth back. His kisses grow rougher and heavier as he sets my every nerve ablaze. When his thumb rolls over my taut nipple, I almost jolt upright as sizzles of desire pulse at the junction between my legs.

  I throw my neck back, needing more, his skin pressed on mine, and him buried deep inside, as close as two people can possibly be, yet still not enough.

  He lifts his arms as I yank his t-shirt over his head. There's his gorgeous chest with its light sprinkling of hair, and his dark, delicious scent reminding me of a mossy forest after a thunderstorm.

  Ready to be covered by that prime body, I trace the sexy trail between his solid abdominal muscles, lower his shorts and unveil his beautiful cock. Yep, he's pumped, ready and bulging.

  Zach groans and grabs my hand. "Let's not . . . not yet."

  "Wh-what?" I'm afraid to look at his face. The old Zach would have had me impaled and screaming by now. He's obviously aroused, but something bothers him.

  "Sorry." I gaze regretfully at his raging erection. "Am I moving too fast?"

  "N-no, you're fine." His breathing is rough as he turns onto his back and pulls up his shorts. "I don't want to use you."

  "How? I don't get it." The lack of oxygen in my brain has me blabbering.

  "You know, to feel like I'm a man again, like I have something to prove. I want more."

  "More?" My tongue thickens as the atmosphere gets awkward.

  "I don't want a purely physical relationship. Don't you feel empty when you do this with someone you're not connected to?"

  Actually I do, but I'm not letting him in on it. Sex is a temporary escape, a Band-Aid for the heart. I always knew I wouldn't be marrying. Not with my crazy family history.

  But to feel loved and appreciated, even temporarily, beats being lonely.

  "And you," he keeps talking, "you never spend the entire night. It's always wham-bam-thank-you-dude, I gotta go 'cause my mother's waiting up."

  I clench my jaw and bury my face in the pillow. I'm not ready for all this touchy-feely stuff. Zach's changed, all right. I only meant to comfort him. Maybe I am pitying him.

  "Vera?" He shakes my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

  "Sure, no problem. Let me . . . ah . . . collect my clothes and . . ." I untangle the sheets and search for my bra.

  He averts his eyes. "I understand if you want to leave."

  I'm not going to admit defeat even though he rejected me because, apparently, we're not connected enough. I finish dressing and push my hair from my face. "Actually, I came to cook dinner and hang out with you."

  Zach raises an eyebrow. "You're feeling guilty, aren't you? Did Maryanne talk you into this? What did she say?"

  "She's the one wallowing in guilt, not me!"

  He laughs for the first time, and it's a deep, belly-rumbling laugh. "She feels so bad about my accident. She thinks I deserve a happy ending and that you're the one to give it to me."

  "You think this is funny?" I slap the rock-hard bed with both hands and lift off it.

  "No, no, sorry. I'll take the home-cooked dinner and the hanging out. But I don't want pity sex." He pulls on his shirt and grabs a crutch to heft himself off the bed.

  "You weren't going to get any." I avoid his eyes and busy myself, tucking his sheets back in place. "I have to get groceries. Do you want chicken, beef or seafood?"

  "Nice change of subject, missy. I need a shower and a shave. It's a date?"

  I can't help but smile. The Zach charm is back. I cross to his side and tiptoe to kiss his jaw. "Yes, a date. Be right back."

  He returns a kiss on the side of my head. "And Vera, I appreciate what you tried to do. Very much."

  ***

  The grocery store is crowded. Serious food shoppers don't come in the evening, so I understand why the customers behind me glare at my loaded shopping cart. Zach is a man after all. And all men need the two four-letter F's taken care of. Since he turned me down on the first one, I can make up for it here.

  I load the food onto the belt: chicken, beef strips, shrimp, rice noodles, soy sauce, scallions, garlic, vegetables, banana ketchup, and calamansi juice, for flavoring and a few bottles for drinking. I love the light citrus taste, not as in your face as lemonade.

  Honestly, I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe it's guilt and pity, or something more. I used to resent Zach's attitude, like he just expected things to go right for him, for people to be courteous to him and respect him. Being rich and white automatically put him on the top of the totem pole.

  Then there were the women, scads of women vying for his attention. He was charming with that roguish Aussie accent and those electric blue eyes. What woman wouldn't want to gaze into them? Back then, I wished he knew what it was like to be l
ooked down on, discriminated against, like my Filipino parents were when they came to America, like I was when growing up.

  I pay for the food, bag it in reusable cloth bags and drag everything to my car. If I believed in karma, I would think my bad thoughts caused his accident. The weeks right after his amputation were the hardest. He was on serious pain meds, morphine, and antidepressants. He wouldn't speak to anyone, stared at the ceiling, refusing to move. Everyone thought I was his girlfriend, that I should visit and encourage him. So I held his hand during my breaks and sang while he slept. I'll never forget the day he looked into my eyes and said, "I've decided to live."

  It's dark by the time I arrive at his apartment. Zach insists on bringing the groceries in even though he isn't wearing his prosthesis. He hops with a crutch and hooks his fingers through the bag handles. His hair is still wet from the shower and his cologne is fresh, but not overpowering. He seems happy to see me, thanking me profusely, his eyes and smile following me around the kitchen. The old Zach wouldn't have been so transparent. He would have been too busy checking his smartphone to unpack groceries. And he definitely would have preferred sex over companionship.

  I direct him to boil water while I stir-fry the sliced meat and chopped vegetables with the shrimp. Today I'm making pancit bihon, a quick and easy dish with long, thin rice noodles. I like mine spicy-sweet and a little sour, so I flavor it with soy sauce, fish sauce, and calamansi juice along with a teaspoon of Tabasco sauce. Right before serving, I brown minced garlic in hot oil, sprinkle it on top of the plate, and garnish with chopped peanuts and cilantro on the side. Maybe I'm not that traditional, but Zach likes everything I dish up for him.

  We share the meal and chat like old friends and, just for a moment, I think about the little blond boy who played with me among his mother's orchids.

  How different things might have been had my father not plunged a knife into his mother's throat.

  Chapter 6

  "Papa, can you hear me? What should I do about Zach?" I light a candle and look out my bedroom window. In the clear night sky, the stars twinkle above the tree line. "I can't get closer to him only to have him turn around and hate me, but I can't stand the thought of never seeing him again."

  The flame of the candle glows brighter. I sit at the foot of my bed and close my eyes. Papa used to tuck me in. He'd say, "Hun-Hun, no matter what, we'll always be together. We're family. Everything will work out at the end."

  "No, Papa," I address the flickering candle. "Mama doesn't believe in happy endings. You promised we'd be together, but you left. You stole Mama's heart, her one shot at love, and all your promises were lies."

  A voice echoes from the past. "Take care of Rey, Rod, and Mama. I love you, Hun-Hun."

  "I love you, too," I mumble and blow out the candle.

  Lying in bed, I sing Papa's favorite songs. Usually, I drift off immediately, but tonight my heartbeat accelerates instead of calming.

  "Papa? Why does everything hurt when I think of Zach?"

  I hug my pillow and sing myself a lullaby, pretending Zach is in my arms. Not big Zach, but the little blond boy with the sad blue eyes. I stroke his silky hair and wipe tears from his sun-kissed cheeks. I tell him his mother loves him, and that he'll be with her one day.

  The prepaid cell phone jingles, waking me. A text message says, "I'm listening to you sing."

  What? I duck beneath the window-sill and pull the curtains shut. The neighbor's dogs are quiet. Could someone be out there?

  "Who are you?" I text back.

  "Anak, I miss you." He calls me daughter, and my hands start shaking. An old Sunday school teacher once told me angels carry messages to people in Heaven. Maybe this is Papa's way of answering back.

  Another text rolls in. "Tell your mother I love her."

  Yeah, right. The thing with men is that sweet words too often mean nothing.

  I text. "Why did you kill Mrs. Spencer?"

  "I didn't kill Lilli. Her husband did."

  Zach's father killed his mother? Should I believe this? I run through the theories Owen suggested. If the messenger is Zach's ex-girlfriend, why would she want me to believe my father was innocent and let me off the hook? If it were the real killer, why reopen the investigation when everyone had pegged my father guilty?

  My thumbs tap the screen. "Why would he kill her?"

  "He was jealous."

  A chill runs down my spine. Usually the husband is guilty, if . . . if his wife were cheating.

  I text back. "Of you?"

  Oh, God. Please don't let my father be her lover.

  "No, not me. I was innocent."

  My heart is palpitating and sweat dots my forehead. If Zach's father framed my father . . . Oh, what will I do about Zach?

  There's a question I've been dying to ask. "Why did you jump?"

  "To protect someone."

  "Who? The real killer?"

  "No. My brother."

  "What does Tito Louie have to do with any of this?"

  "Ask him or your mother."

  "Can't talk to Mama. You broke her heart." There. I let him know what he did to her.

  I wait, but he doesn't message back, so I text again. "What do you want me to do?"

  There's no reply. I save all the messages and forward them to my email for Owen to investigate. My skin tingles, as if tiny spiders bury under each pore. I flip on the light and look around the room. Empty, no one here.

  I'm just about to flick off my light when there's a knock at my door, and Mama says, "What are you doing up? How late did you come in?"

  Obviously I can't talk to her about the fishy text messages or about Zach and my investigations. Maybe we can talk about life in the Philippines and touch on Papa. But then, she has a new boyfriend, a long distance relationship with a man she recently met online.

  I open the door. "Couldn't sleep either. Let's talk over hot chocolate."

  "Sure, I have to check my email first." She shuffles in her slippers to the kitchen and wakes her laptop.

  "How come you don't get a smartphone?" I ask. "Then you can message him all the time."

  "Screen's too small. Besides, I don't want to be too available." She chuckles with that dry 'heh, heh,' that drives me batty.

  "What do you know about him?" I'm suddenly suspicious. Why is she emailing him so late at night?

  She doesn't answer. Her eyes are locked onto her laptop, and she types intently with a silly smile on her face. I drag myself to the cupboard and take out the hot chocolate powder. Her laptop makes jingling noises, so I gather she's instant messaging. What if? Would she have told a stranger about my father?

  After the chocolate is ready, I pour her a mug and walk behind her, but she slaps the laptop shut. All I saw was the blank head and shoulders of a person who hadn't uploaded a picture.

  Her eyes dart evasively as she takes the mug from me.

  "Is this relationship serious?" I ask.

  "Of course not."

  "What do you talk about?" I set my chocolate on the table and pull the creamer from the refrigerator. "Extra cream?"

  "No, gotta watch my cholesterol." She huffs and eyes her laptop. I bet she's dying to get back on.

  I pull my chair next to her. "Were you messaging Tito Louie?"

  She rolls her eyes and blows into the mug. "I don't have anything to say to him."

  "Seeing as he's Papa's only living relative, I thought you'd invite him over more often."

  "Why'd I want to do that for? He's an old grouch."

  I take a sip and lick the cream from my lips. "How come every time you see him, you're all smiles? He probably thinks he's your favorite relative."

  "There's manners and respect." She sniffs and sloshes the chocolate onto the table. "Were you at a man's place again? Coming in so late."

  It's just like Mama to deflect, but I refuse to turn this into an examination of my social life.

  "Why do you think Papa was so close to Tito Louie when they were ten years apart?" I put my feet on
the chair and rest my elbows on my knees.

  "Vera, sit like a lady. When are you getting married?" Mama scowls, jutting out her lower lip. "If you were married, I wouldn't have to worry so much."

  I sip the velvety bittersweet liquid and inhale the dark chocolate scent. Since she brings up marriage, I might as well probe her feelings on the matter. "I've always wondered how a woman knows when she wants to get married."

  Mama runs her fingers through her hair, something she does when she's nervous or avoiding an uncomfortable topic, which is often. "She just does."

  "Like you and Papa? Was there some sort of spark? Were you in love?"

  "Things were not the same back in my day." She coughs into a napkin and blows her nose. "I think you're right. I am coming down with the flu."

  "I'm sure love existed back then." I can be a persistent pest when I want to be.

  "We had to do the responsible thing. You were on the way already." Mama sets her mug on the table with a thump and pushes her chair away. "Now that I know you're safely home, I'm going back to sleep."

  "W-wait. You don't want to know who I was with?" I'm not giving up. Somehow, I have to figure out the connection between Papa, Tito Louie, and Zach's mother.

  "Well, yes." She stifles a yawn and puts on the concerned mother face.

  "I went to see Zach. You remember him?"

  "The guy who lost his leg?"

  "Sure, but didn't you used to like him? You were always flattering him and fawning over his medals."

  "M'iha, I was being polite. I never thought of him as husband material." She plays with her hair. "Why are you still hanging out with him?"

  Because there's something about him needing me that makes me feel gooey inside. Maybe I have the caring gene because I took care of my brothers after Papa died, becoming a second mother to them while Mama worked.

  I clasp my hands on the table. "Did you know he's Lillian Spencer's son?"

  Mama's eyebrows knit for a second before her hands start to tremble and the light of recognition sharpens her gaze. She sits up straighter. "Who told you about her?"