by Kylie Brant
Yet there was nothing in the least angelic about him. He much more resembled a modern day Lucifer, the devil of temptation. Lean, hard and sexily dangerous, he wore only his unbuttoned tuxedo trousers. They rode tantalizingly low on his lean hips, and her heart tripped alarmingly at the sight. She was mesmerized by the ribbon of silky hair that meandered teasingly down past his navel and disappeared in the unfastened pants. She remembered too well the softness of that hair, what it felt like under her wandering fingertips.
She pulled her eyes away with difficulty and turned jerkily to flee to the bathroom. If she stayed much longer she was very much afraid that she would forget how furious she was with him tonight.
Seeing her turn away, Connor felt panic well up. This was his chance to talk to her. But what came out of his mouth wasn’t in the least diplomatic.
“So, have you gotten over your sulking?”
As she froze at his words, he mentally groaned. Obviously that hadn’t been the most sensible way to detain her. He wouldn’t be able to talk sense to her if he got her mad all over again.
When she finally answered, her tone was precise. “I was not,” she stressed, “sulking.”
Connor gave a mental shrug. At least they were communicating. He let amusement creep into his tone. “No?”
Darned if she didn’t feel like smacking him again! Michele strove to respond calmly. “You’re mistaking emotional restraint for sulking. I was merely endeavoring to allow us both the time we needed before discussing your boorish behavior.”
“No time like the present.”
Michele’s eyes widened, then narrowed at his flippancy. “All right,” she agreed, moving toward him until she met him almost nose to nose. “Why don’t we start with you? Would you like to explain what motivated you to behave like such an utter lout tonight?”
She glared at him, their faces close together. One electrically charged moment passed, then another. Finally Connor cleared his throat and asked, “Ahhh . . . could you be more specific?”
Michele ground her teeth. “Fine, Connor, how about if we start with the fact that you intruded into the ladies’ room and put on your Lieutenant Bunko act? Those ladies probably think I’m a felon!”
His lips twitched at the memory. “I think most of those ladies had a very clear idea of what your ‘crime’ was.”
“And then there was what you said to James,” she went on, mastering the barely audible tremble in her voice. “How could you?”
At the hurt so apparent in her eyes, in her voice, Connor knew the time for flippancy was over. He responded simply, “Jealousy.”
Michele gaped at him, but his eyes continued to meet hers steadily. “You . . . I . . . what?” she sputtered in disbelief.
Connor reached toward her and picked up the tie of her robe. He flicked it back and forth. “You heard me, Princess. I was jealous. You must have had a clue, after all.” He slanted a glance at her. “Isn’t that why you paid such close attention to me all evening?”
Despite her earlier anger, Michele was disarmed by his honesty. “No,” she replied softly, with equal candor.
“No?” He cocked a brow at her.
She shook her head and continued bravely. “I wanted you to know how much I wanted to be with you. To show you how much you mean to me.”
Connor squeezed his eyes tightly closed at the sweep of emotion that followed her words. She was so open, so giving, and he didn’t deserve her. And she damn sure didn’t deserve a bastard like him.
“You shouldn’t feel anything for me, Michele. It would be better that way.”
Michele’s lips trembled at his words. She had known, of course, that any indication of her feelings would send him running. But somehow that didn’t make it any easier for her to listen to this.
“I’m not the kind of man you need. Tonight should have shown you that. I don’t fit into that pretty, glittery world we were in for a few hours. That was pretty obvious.”
“Yes,” she whispered, almost to herself. But not the way he thought. He seemed to think that a lack of wealth and a prep-school education were what set him apart from the other men who’d been there tonight. He couldn’t be further from the truth. He was a world unto himself. He immediately drew eyes, and not only the women’s. Men, too, seemed to recognize the air of authority, the hard edge of experience. And the invisible sexuality that radiated from him was impossible for anyone to ignore.
Connor swallowed hard at her slight sound of agreement. “You belong in that kind of life.” He forestalled her protest, even as she opened her mouth. “Even if you weren’t born to the privileged upbringing I had assumed, everyone can see what kind of woman you are.”
“And what kind is that?” A chill skittered down Michele’s spine in anticipation of his answer.
One hand slid up into the ebony fall of hair she had released earlier. “Classy,” his husky voice whispered. “Refined.” His finger slid in a slow caress down her jawbone. “Elegant. The kind of woman who should have caviar and expensive foreign champagne. Opera, ballet, symphony.” He shrugged. “All that high-brow stuff.” He used the tie on her robe to draw her closer and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. “Me, I’m a simple guy. Give me a pizza, beer and a fast-paced 76er’s game, and I’m happy. You deserve better.”
Michele’s arms crept around his bare waist even as she asked, mystified, “Better than what?”
His lips buried themselves in her hair of their own volition. “Than me,” he muttered.
But he was so wrong, her mind cried out. He had been all the support she needed, all she wanted, for the past few weeks He had made her greedy, wanting more even as she knew how impossible that would be. She would never have enough of him, and she was fiercely, suddenly angry that he could dismiss her so easily. She knew he cared, damn it. Why wouldn’t he admit it? And why, oh, why, would he not let her be the one to decide if that could be enough for her?
When he said nothing else, Michele murmured, “McLain?”
A muffled “Hmm?” was her answer.
“You’re a good cop, aren’t you?”
His head rose slowly, warily, to train those glinting hawk eyes in her direction, but he didn’t answer.
It was surprisingly easy to continue, even with that unwavering stare fixed on her. She had nothing to lose, not when he was ready to let her down anyway. “You must be. You’re awfully young to be a lieutenant.”
“So?”
Michele plowed on. He wasn’t making this easy for her, but she knew the time was coming when he would try to walk out of her life, so she wasn’t going to make it easy on him, either. “So a lot of people had to have faith in you for you to make it as far as you have. They must have believed in you.” A heartbeat pause there. Then she went on, her voice as soft as a butterfly’s kiss. “Trusted you.”
His brows lowered at her words. “What’s your point, Michele?”
“My point—” she kissed his chiseled chin consideringly before dropping a chain of kisses along his jaw “—is that you’re a worthy man, Connor McLain. Worthy of those medals lining your shelf, worthy of the commendations that I’ll bet fill your folder at work.” His quick grimace told her she’d been right about that. “You have so much to give, Connor. Why do you believe that the only thing you have that’s worth giving is in your professional life?”
“Because that’s all there is,” he asserted bleakly. Why couldn’t she just take his word on that? Why did she have to push for more? Want more? And why did she have to make him want the same?
“I won’t make it simple for you to walk away from me,” she whispered fiercely, wanting to shake him. “I love you, Connor. I haven’t asked you for anything. Let me be the judge of what I need in my life.”
He closed his eyes at the tidal wave of emotion that swept over him at her words. Never had he experienced such unqualified acceptance from a woman, and it was heady. But love wasn’t something he could accept from this woman, even if he wanted t
o. He bent his head then and fixed his lips to hers, meaning the kiss to be gentle, a prelude to their inevitable parting. But although it started out that way, he quickly lost control. Their mouths twisted together passionately, lips fierce, tongues wildly mating. When Connor finally pulled away, their breathing was choppy. He scooped a startled Michele up in his arms and strode toward the hallway.
Michele was disoriented by his abrupt breaking off of their kiss. Even more dizzying was finding herself in his arms, clasped against his bare chest. “Connor,” she murmured, one long-fingered hand threading through the long hair at his nape. “Where are you taking me?”
“You wanted a shower, didn’t you?” he questioned huskily, even as they entered the small bathroom. He put her on her feet, but one arm kept her close to him. Michele found that she didn’t mind. She leaned on him, watching bemusedly as he turned on the water and adjusted the temperature.
Satisfied, he turned his full attention back to her. He reached toward her and untied her robe, pushing it off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His eyes swept her form hungrily; he was suddenly anxious to touch her again, to possess her. Maybe then he would be able to convince himself that she was real.
Michele shuddered as he brought her close again and her achingly taut nipples were caught in his chest hair. Her hands closed on his biceps, and she leaned forward and bit one earlobe teasingly. “That’s right,” she purred with the intimate certainty that came from knowing she was loved, “I’m going to take a shower. The question is, what are you going to do?” She ran one finger down his chest lingeringly before twisting nimbly away and stepped into the shower, closing the door behind her.
She stepped under the spray, a small smile tilting her lips as she raised her face to the warm spray, letting it cascade over her face, soaking her. Connor had seemed frozen at her action, and she wondered in anticipation at his next move. She didn’t have long to wait. The door opened, and her next teasing comment remained unspoken on her lips.
Connor stepped into the small enclosure and pulled the door shut after him. Immediately his presence filled the small space and made Michele totally aware of him. “You forgot the soap,” he said in a gravelly voice, one hand holding a fresh bar out to her. He was still in his tux pants, and Michele laughed, then gasped as he stepped forward and pressed her against the cool tiles.
“I think you forgot something,” she managed to utter as his warm lips branded her neck. “Most people undress to take a shower.”
By this time he was as soaked as she was, and he reached up to wipe his wet hair back from his forehead. “That’s true,” he agreed, a wicked note in his voice, “but I felt it imperative to point out an appalling lack in your bathroom etiquette.”
It was decidedly difficult to try for a casually interested tone when his mouth was diligently attempting to scoop up the rivulets of water cascading down her neck, but Michele did her best. “And you decided to eradicate that void in my education while half-dressed,” she managed in a halfway serious tone.
“But that’s the problem, sweetheart,” he answered, pushing his hips against her. Michele gasped at the feel of the hard ridge of masculinity reined in by the dress pants. “When someone undresses you, it’s common courtesy to return the favor. So I’m here to let you do . . . just . . . that . . . .” His breath hissed out as Michele allowed one curious hand to explore his hardness.
Michele could no more keep from touching him than she could stop breathing. Her eyelids were inexplicably heavy, and she surveyed the picture he made with the water sluicing over him. The trousers, although completely modest when dry, were as erotic as a g-string when soaked as they were now. The wet black pants were molded to him, delineating every muscle in his legs and highlighting with intimate detail each centimeter of his manhood. Michele swallowed. Her hand continued its adventurous exploration and her other hand joined it, then released the zipper slowly.
Connor’s groan sounded ragged in her ear, but she didn’t let that deter her from reaching for him, freeing him from the trousers and cradling him in both hands. She caressed him wonderingly, amazed at the strength and sensuality encased in that velvety hardness. But her musings were cut short as Connor rasped, “Take them off, Michele.”
Her gaze tore away from her hands to mesh with his glittering one. “Undress me,” he begged huskily.
And she complied. The pants were soaked to his skin and had to be peeled down, and Michele did so, an inch at a time. She knelt on the shower floor to aid in her duty, and the stance put her lips on a level with his throbbing staff.
Connor swallowed hard, but his narrowed gaze never left her. Inch by methodical inch the trousers descended, Michele’s hands helping their journey, and her mouth, dear Lord, her mouth was just a fraction away from where he would give a year’s salary to feel it. He was barely aware of stepping out of the pants, because in the next moment his dream came true and those pink lips began tracing his masculinity
Michele explored his strong length with her lips and tongue, licking away the streams of water, an endless task, as the shower continued to provide more. Long minutes passed until Connor couldn’t stand it any longer and with two hard hands pulled her up and fastened his mouth to hers savagely.
All finesse was gone, the thought of control laughable. He pressed her against the tiled wall, wanting to brand her with his body. And Michele reveled in it. She couldn’t get close enough; she couldn’t feel enough. His mouth was everywhere and had a direct relation to her ability to stand. His warm avid tongue swirled the droplets from her nipples, then paused to suck deeply, causing Michele to cry out at the sharp sensation. One hand smoothed her flat stomach and tangled in the silky wet hair at the juncture of her thighs. His intemperate desire ignited her own, and she cried out at the exploring finger he sent inside her.
“Connor,” she moaned, almost incoherent with need. But she didn’t have to be more direct, because Connor knew exactly what she wanted. What they both wanted. He placed both hands beneath her bottom and lifted her against the tile. Her legs encircled his waist, and he entered her with a surge that drew a moan from both of them.
“You’re so hot, Michele, so damn tight,” he gasped, his hands at her hips directing their movement. His eyes were slitted open, and he watched in savage enjoyment as Michele reacted in pleasure. Her dark hair lay against her back in a satin ribbon, and her perfect features were twisted in pleasure. She looked like a pagan princess.
Michele’s back arched away from the wall, and he drew one nipple into his mouth. And then it was too much for both of them. He pressed her to the wall again, her legs tight around him, and thrust up inside her again and again until they both cried out in unison.
Long moments later Michele became aware that the water running over them was cold. Connor released her, and she slid slowly to the floor, grateful that he didn’t completely let go of her, because her knees threatened to buckle at any moment. She leaned against him weakly as he soaped his hands and moved them surely, lingeringly over her. Unbelievably, she felt the first stirrings of desire again.
Connor reached around her and shut off the shower, pushing open the door and drawing her out. One large towel was placed around her, and he handed her another for her hair. She blotted the dampness from her head bemusedly as she watched him tousle his own hair dry with a towel and carelessly run a hand through it. Then, without a word, he scooped her up again and walked back to his bedroom. When he deposited her on his bed they made love again silently, each afraid of where words would take them.
* * *
When Michele woke up it was almost dawn, and her teeth were clamped so tightly on her bottom lip she could taste the blood they had drawn there. So cold—she was so cold. Shaking, she reached up with one hand to brush away the tears that had flowed down her cheeks while she slept. And dreamed.
Connor lay on his back, still asleep, and Michele endeavored to still the shaking of her limbs. The blanket was trapped under his hip, and after a
couple of ineffectual tries she stopped trying to free it. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him now, but she had to get warm, had to stop the memories of the dream that even now sent fresh blades of ice down her spine.
She forced herself to move limbs that seemed wooden, taking no orders from her. A scalding shower would be the best thing for her, but she didn’t even leave the bed before Connor’s arm snaked around her waist. Michele sat on the edge of the bed, her breath trapped in her lungs. She didn’t turn to face him; she couldn’t let him see the terror she knew was stamped on her face.
“Michele?” His voice was raspy with sleep, but she didn’t fool herself into thinking that his mind wasn’t alert. She didn’t answer, was unsure if she could. Her throat felt raw, as if the screams she had dreamed had in fact emanated from it.
No explanation was needed, though. Connor pulled her back against his chest and with one long arm swept the blanket around her, cradling her in a warm cocoon. Then, with both arms firmly around her middle, he asked quietly, “What was it?”
“Blood.” She spoke rawly, and both of them reacted to the hoarse, hollow ring of the word. She continued, her voice choked with tears. “Scarlet streamers across a shirt, puddling on a dirty plank floor.” Her voice caught, and when it continued, it had the shaky, plaintive tone of a child. “It runs across the filthy floor and drips through the cracks between the planks.”
Connor frowned fiercely, his arms tightening protectively around her. “It’s all right,” he said savagely. “We’re getting closer. Michele, we’re going to find those children, I promise. We’ll find them before another one gets hurt,” he vowed.
Michele’s head turned then, slowly, wearily, and when she looked over her shoulder into his determined gaze, his jaw clenched at the mirrored emptiness in her eyes. But her next words had him forgetting even that.
“It’s not their blood, Connor. It’s yours.”