by Dani Wade
So why did the thought unsettle him?
There were other things that also left him off-kilter. For instance, he’d started to notice little touches around the house—homey touches. A pillow here. A new picture there. Yesterday he’d come across a little clock that had been his mother’s, fully restored, on the mantel in the living room. Whether Willow believed it or not, he did actually prowl the house. Usually in the dark hours of the night.
There it had sat, pretty as you please, right below his eye level. He’d wanted to curse Willow for the memories she’d evoked, but he couldn’t stop himself from walking over to it. Touching the little clock that had been his mother’s had been beyond him, but he had to check for dents, chips in the delicate paint. Any signs of the years of neglect he’d allowed to occur.
All had been well...but not with his soul.
He’d wanted to fire her, but by morning the feeling had passed. She’d be gone at the end of the summer...and he’d be free of the temptation to kiss those freckles on her face. Or spark that redheaded temper so he could see the tension enter her body until it radiated from her.
Until then, he’d stay far, far away.
So why, when he saw her pass by the doorway with a covered plate and a book, did he ask, “Where are you going?”
Her glance his way was too brief for him to get a good look into those glassy green eyes.
“To eat lunch. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
He wasn’t worried—exactly. And her cautious tone would have been funny if he hadn’t been the one to put it there. The word cautious just didn’t seem to describe Willow. Tate saw her as more of a free spirit—a fiery, determined sprite who knew exactly what she wanted and would plow right over anyone in the way...or when the situation warranted, sneak around the boundaries anyone set up for her.
But he had a good view of the rest of her...and the book under her elbow. His heart started pounding out of his control.
“You don’t seem like the horror story type,” he said. The words slipped out before the “business only” side of him could kick in.
She paused, then turned back to him as if she wasn’t quite sure he was speaking to her. She offered a half grin that looked sad on her full lips. “I get that a lot.” She mimicked a high-pitched tone. “What would an innocent-looking thing like you want to read that scary stuff for?” She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I love it, though.”
“Me, too.” More than she would ever know. Yep, this could end up very bad.
“Really?” she asked, her eyes going wide and finally meeting his. “I love it. Horror, mystery, suspense. Anything that keeps me guessing.”
His smile was genuine for once. “You aren’t one of those obnoxious people who guess the ending all the time, are you? And ruin it for everybody else?”
“Of course not. And if I can guess the ending, then the author isn’t trying hard enough.”
He shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t. “What about him?” he asked, nudging his chin toward the book. As he waited for her answer, his stomach did a slow roll that brought on a surge of nausea.
Maybe it was a sign of weakness, but it wasn’t every day that he got to meet one of his fans. Okay, he’d never done it on any day. Except for his agent, and then his editor, Tate had never spoken face-to-face with someone who enjoyed his writing. They were professionals. True fans were a little different.
Willow was his first.
Luckily she didn’t notice anything unusual. “Oh, Adam Tate is one of my favorite authors. He combines historical facts with suspense and supernatural horror elements. All of the books are set in famous places where major events have happened, with all these fascinating details. And he’s pretty accurate, I might add.”
“Oh?”
“Yep...” The smirk on her lips drew his gaze. “I’m a history teacher. Remember?”
“Right!” But Tate was having trouble concentrating.
The excitement on her face was utterly fascinating. Why was he doing this to himself? “And the stories keep you guessing?”
“Definitely.” She frowned, wrinkling her normally smooth forehead. “Tate, are you okay?”
He swallowed against the nausea. “Of course. Why?”
“You look funny.”
Uh-oh. “No. I’m fine.”
He turned back to the table. Reclaiming his seat, he forced himself to keep his gaze trained on his plate.
Luckily, Willow didn’t say anything else. A minute later he heard the door open, then close. He’d probably offended her by abruptly cutting off their conversation. It was the best thing, though—keeping her at arm’s length.
Now he knew he had even more he needed to keep from her. He’d never shared his pen name with anyone except his publisher. Even his parents hadn’t known. Tate hadn’t sought publication until after they had both passed away. Writing was Tate’s one pleasure left in this world—the only indulgence he allowed himself.
Besides, if Willow ever knew the real him, the real secrets he hid, she would hate him. Just like his parents had. And it had been every bit deserved.
He glanced out at the sea crashing on the beach within sight of the house. It was his anchor, his reminder. Not in a good way. Oh no. The sight of it, the sound of it beneath the house’s foundation, was an eternal reminder that pleasure was something he didn’t deserve. Neither was friendship, love or fulfillment. His brother would never have any of those things...so neither would Tate.
He’d been fine with that until Willow came. His parents had never forced him outside of his self-imposed prison—probably because they agreed with him. Oh, they’d never come out and said it. But he knew.
After all, they’d lost two sons that day, all because of his selfish pride. Adam. Then Tate. After that, they’d stayed away more than they were home, though, so Tate hadn’t had to come face-to-face with their accusations often. Murdoch had simply followed in his mother’s footsteps, never questioning Tate’s decision or boundaries.
But Willow did.
Tate turned back to his plate, trying to concentrate on the food. Normally it wasn’t a problem. Willow was a great cook. Most of the food was simple and hearty, but delicious. Today, though, too many thoughts distracted him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement out the window. A movement that didn’t belong to the normal sway of the sea grass and barren tree limbs. Turning his head, he caught sight of a slim figure crossing the sand toward the water.
No!
Willow carried her plate and book, along with what looked like a small blanket. So benign. So innocent. Walking right into dangerous territory.
Tate stood, his heart pumping as fear tried to take hold. Don’t go near the water. Don’t get any closer.
To his relief, she spread the small blanket well away from the water line. But his heart didn’t stop racing, even though she picked up her paperback and started to read. Every so often she’d put some food in her mouth. Tate’s lunch sat forgotten and cold on the table. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, afraid of what might happen if he moved away.
Twenty minutes later, just as he’d come to accept that she was okay, she set the book on top of the already-finished plate.
She’ll pack up and come inside. She has to.
Only she didn’t. Leaving her stuff there, she dug her bare feet into the sand as she stood. Stretched. Tate’s hands curled into fists.
Don’t. Don’t do it.
Defying his mental commands with just as much attitude as she showed when defying his verbal ones, she took step after step toward the water’s edge. Tate pressed his palms tight against the glass, not sure whether he was actually yelling or if the sound was simply reverberating in his head.
Completely oblivious to his shouts and banging on the window, Willow paused to inspect something in the sand before continuing forw
ard. His voice went hoarse with the strain. He was caught in a slow-motion nightmare despite the daylight.
As her delicate toes met the edge of the rushing water, images flashed through Tate’s mind of a young man built strong and utterly familiar with that beach. A young man who rushed the waves as Tate watched from this very window twenty years ago. He had run against the tide until knee-deep, then dived under the incoming waves, seeking the exercise that would cool his anger.
His strong-armed stroke through the choppy sea had been Tate’s last glimpse of his brother.
As Tate stood at that same window, his body replayed the terror and fear that had filled him in those last moments of his brother’s life. He couldn’t block it out, couldn’t ignore it. He simply pressed the heels of his hands hard against the glass as he endured. Sweat broke out on his brow. His stomach churned. Desperately his mind sought a way out of the maelstrom. And then it came to him. A whisper at first. A tendril of peace that grew until it formed a hazy wall between him and the tragedy in his mind.
The feel of a woman. A body close against his, the contradiction of contentment and excitement when waking wrapped around Willow. In this memory there was no dread, there was no pain. Nothing had ever done that for him before. No one had ever done that.
A different kind of adrenaline rushed against the current inside him, redirecting the river of pain in his memories. Building, turning the tide to an energy Tate didn’t want to acknowledge, but truly couldn’t resist.
Suddenly he was running out of the house and through the rough sand to Willow. The feel of the grains against the soles of his feet brought back thoughts of another panicked run to the water’s edge. Forcefully he blanked his mind and focused on the woman knee-deep in the water ahead of him.
He had to reach her. He would reach her. He would save her.
His low growl carried to her on the wind. Just as he reached the water’s edge, she glanced over her shoulder. Surprise opened her features but couldn’t save her. Her sudden surge deeper into the water was no match for his long stride.
Somehow he found his arms around her waist. Without further thought he lifted her, draping her waist across his shoulder. His instincts brought his arms across her thighs, pinning her to him. On the outer edge of his consciousness he could hear her protests, but they didn’t register. All he knew was that he had to get her away from the water.
And he had to be close to her.
He slashed back out of the surf. He stomped back across the sand. Now the memories couldn’t reach him. His emotions were too strong. He embraced the surge of adrenaline and desire, letting it overtake his primal mind and crowd out the painful images that lurked in the shadows.
He followed a different wave this time, the wave of instinct that drove him to her. He carried her through the door and into the kitchen. Deft movements pulled her back upright and plopped her bottom onto the marble top of the kitchen island.
He recognized the look on her face as one that many a professor over the years had adopted. A what the hell do you think you’re doing? expression that many people get when working with freshmen at college. Only this time Tate was the one in for the reprimand.
“What the heck was that?” Willow demanded.
Honestly he thought she showed remarkable restraint, but language wasn’t a working function of his brain at the moment. He couldn’t talk about this right now. Instead he acted.
He buried his hands in that thick auburn hair and pulled her forward until their mouths met. Her body went still against his. Not stiff, but still, expectant, waiting for what was to come. As if she had been waiting for this moment just as much as he had.
Deep inside Tate searched for a thread of restraint, but it was now out of his reach. His mouth opened over hers, his tongue plunging deep. Taking what he wanted, taking what he needed. No more words. Only every ounce of what she could make him feel.
Six
Willow’s rational brain demanded an explanation. After all, this was the least professional behavior that she could imagine. Being slung over her boss’s shoulder like he was a caveman carrying her back to his cave was completely inappropriate.
If utterly thrilling.
But the anger and determination on his face when he reached her in the water had nothing to do with his being her employer. Frankly, the emotions on his face had been so intense as to scare her.
Then he carried her back here and kissed her more thoroughly than she’d ever been kissed before. She should have resisted. But all too quickly the feel of his mouth against hers drowned out all logical thought. Until the only thing left was her body’s desire to pull him closer. Her mouth’s desire to take all that he was willing to give.
Suddenly she felt the light scrape of his nails down her back through her thin shirt. Shivers radiated out from the contact. Without permission, she began to squirm on the marble countertop. Tentatively she stroked her tongue over his.
With a low growly noise, Tate clutched her closer. Her breasts crushed against his chest. His firm hold allowed him to rub against the front of her body. Somehow her knees had parted and Tate now stood between them. The ache at the apex of her thighs told Willow she wanted him closer, then closer still.
No thoughts intruded on the fiery lick of passion. No recriminations nor regrets. Only the driving need for this man, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Willow wasn’t led by her passions. Instead her brain normally ruled the roost, yet somehow in this moment it had taken a permanent vacation.
The whole lower half of her body throbbed. No matter what was going on here, she only wanted to experience the feel of Tate against her once more. And the feel of him inside her for the first time.
He must have wanted the same, because suddenly there was a whoosh of fabric and her thin cotton top was cast aside. Clad in only her underclothes and a light skirt, Willow should have felt self-conscious. Instead she was all too glad when Tate’s strong hands explored her heated skin. She clutched him closer as his fingers roughly explored the muscles in her back before making deft work of her bra clasp.
Only then did he allow even a hint of space between them. Their moans filled the kitchen as Tate slid her bra up so he could massage the firm mounds of her breasts. The feel was exquisite, causing her nipples to tighten. Greedy, she wanted more, but couldn’t find the words to ask.
Tate seemed to be in too much of a hurry to ask, too. Just as he had with her shirt, he burrowed his hand beneath her skirt. The rough glide of his calloused fingertips against her thighs made her gasp. Sparks radiated from the point of touch to sensitize the skin all over her body. He didn’t slow down until he found his way blocked by the elastic edge of her panties.
Then he stilled. The only sound in the room was the mingling of their harsh gasps for air. Though how Willow could hear even that over the pounding of her blood in her ears was a miracle. The last thing she wanted was to face reality, but the longer Tate refused to move, the more self-consciousness crept in. The more Willow became aware what she was doing was a big mistake.
Tilting her head back, she forced her eyelids to open. The face before hers was a frozen picture of anguish and need. Tate’s classic dark features were a study in the struggle he obviously felt. Suddenly his jaw clenched hard. Down below, his fingers dug into the sensitive juncture between her thighs.
After long moments, he finally tilted his head down. When his eyes opened, she gasped at the intensity of the passion within their dark depths. Even as his mouth returned to hers, blotting out reality, his fingers grasped her panties and tore them with a harsh tug.
Her core melted as he jerked her forward to the edge. The V of her legs left her exposed and vulnerable. Not for long. She felt a vague fumbling between them, then Tate stepped forward those last few inches. His big body forced her legs even farther apart, but there was no time to feel vulnerable. Instead a determined exploration of his
fingers gave way to blunt pressure at her core. Her body resisted for long moments, moments that reminded her just how long it had been since she’d accepted anyone into her body this way. A slight pumping motion helped him gain headway, spreading her juices over the smooth head of him.
One hand snaked behind her, pulling her closer, gaining him access. He buried the other in her hair. His mouth covered hers, his thrusting tongue mimicking the movements of his lower body. Willow’s mind overloaded on bliss. The repeated thrusts conquered every inch of her passage, stretching her tight. Friction sparked electricity that tingled in her nipples and tight nub. She cried out with every stroke, her hands clutching his biceps. Urging him closer, faster, harder.
His entire body pressed up and then back. The feel of him saturated her consciousness from her thighs to her palms to her breasts. She sucked his hot, masculine scent deep into her lungs. Each thrust brought him close enough for her to press her lips against his neck and taste the steamy essence of the Tate he’d hidden from her all this time.
With a roar, he ground against her. The hard pulse of him inside her caused her own ecstasy to explode. They strained against each other, draining every last ounce of pleasure they could draw from the connection.
Until neither of them could do anything but gasp and groan.
Only long moments later did Willow become aware of the change in Tate’s body. He stiffened, and a half groan, half self-deprecating choke came from his throat.
Reality had returned in an instant.
Unfortunately it found Willow with her naked bottom on her employer’s kitchen island and no dignified way to extract herself from this situation. Because that wasn’t a sound someone made when they were happy and satisfied. Oh no. At least he hadn’t removed all of her clothes, so she had that small dignity.
“That was incredible...” Tate groaned.
What? Just as Willow relaxed, he went on. “Incredibly stupid.”
All the tension of the last few minutes coalesced into a ball of nerves setting up a protest inside her stomach. Without thought, Willow pushed hard at his arms. Tate released her immediately, not trying to contain her. He backed up willingly, with no protest.