If She Only Knew

by Lisa Jackson

  “I brought coffee.” He motioned to her steaming cup, took a sip of his own.

  “And stayed for the show?” Her green eyes glimmered with naughty intrigue and her smile was downright wicked as she placed her hands on her wet hips in mock disgust.

  “I only caught the final act.”

  “How did I do?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Just pretty good?” she teased, not bothering to reach for a towel. She stood dripping, water running down her face and neck, beads drizzling over her breasts and collecting in her hair.

  “Actually,” he said, setting his cup down, and knowing he should be doing anything, anything other than what he was planning. “I think you were good enough for an encore.”

  “Meaning?” she asked, her full lips twitching, one eyebrow arching coyly as her gaze lowered to the waistband of his jeans for just a second. That was it. To hell with everything else.

  “Meaning this.” With an evil grin, he reached forward, grabbed her around the waist and felt her tumble against him. She laughed and he captured her lips in his. Warm and wet, they molded to his as her giggle turned into a sigh. He didn’t need any further encouragement, wouldn’t think of the hundreds of reasons why he couldn’t take the time, couldn’t get involved with her, couldn’t be with her. Now, for the moment, he just wanted to escape. To love her again. His hand slid down the curve of her spine as he pressed hard against her, forcing her to walk backward into the shower.

  His tongue explored her lips and mouth, his fingers kneaded her slick skin and he wanted her with the same desperate ache that he’d always felt whenever she was near. He’d thought he’d killed his need for her years before, but realized now he’d played himself for a fool. He wanted this woman, needed her. Reaching behind him, he scrabbled for the handle of the glass door, pulled it closed, then turned on the spray.

  “Oh!” she cried out and he kissed her harder, felt his pulse leap as he slid his hands over her soft flesh. Warm water splashed over them and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts rising in open invitation. His blood was pounding through his brain, his cock straining against his suddenly wet jeans. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t think, damned the consequences as he kissed the curve of her neck.

  She gasped as the hot water streamed down. “Nick,” she whispered. “Oh, God . . .”

  Her fingers were in his wet hair and she let herself go, forgot for the moment all her doubts, all her fears, all the craziness that was her life. She felt the pulsing spray of hot water against her back, his hard body pressed against her breasts and abdomen, his long jean-covered legs spread and molded to hers. This was madness, ludicrous, and yet she couldn’t stop. Liquid fire swept through her blood, desperate want pounded through her brain and she throbbed deep inside, aching, needing, hurting to feel his touch.

  His arms surrounded her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, imprisoning her close to him, long fingers brushing the cleft of her buttocks. “God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice ragged, his eyes haunted as dewdrops of spray caught on his lashes and ran down his nose.

  “And . . . and I want you,” she admitted as shame burned through her mind. Don’t do this Marla, you’re making a horrible mistake, one you’ll never be able to rectify.

  But his hands were persuasive, his lips demanding as he shifted, turning them so that her shoulders were pressed against the tiles at the back of the shower and the water cascaded over his shoulders. His hair was wet and curled over his forehead, his eyes were a dark, erotic blue and he stared up at her as he lowered himself slowly, cupping her breasts between his hands, pushing them together and kissing first one damp anxious nipple, then the next. She writhed as his breath scraped across the wet, dark buds and she trembled deep inside, burning with the need to feel more of him, all of him.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his thumbs rubbing the tips of her breasts before he pushed them together and buried his face between them. Her legs went weak as he turned his head and, as water tumbled over him, began to suckle. She arched against the tiles as one of his hands slid around her back and held her tight to his face. Cradling his head, holding him close in the hot water, she gave in to the desire that burned in the deepest part of her.

  He kissed and teased and tasted, nipping and sucking at her breasts, the hand at the curve of her spine forcing her closer still.

  “Nick, oh, God, Nick, oh, please . . .” she whispered, her mind spinning wildly, her body aching for even more of him. He breathed against her and moved lower, his tongue sliding over the skin of her abdomen, touching and tracing her belly button as she gasped for air. Then he slid lower, now on his knees, his mouth caressing her slick abdomen.

  She gasped as his hands slid down her backside and he kissed the curls at the juncture of her legs. “Let go, darlin’,” he said, his breath fanning her sensitive skin, her legs parting to allow him to touch her, kiss her, explore her.

  She could barely breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel. All of her senses tingled as he opened her, tasted her, his hands kneading her buttocks, his tongue playing sweet magic, his breath swirling hot within her, the water misting around them.

  “That’s my girl,” he said as the first spasm hit and her mind shattered. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to tell him she loved him, but she was forced against the wall of the shower, her hands flung outward, her fingers stiff as they scraped the wall, searching for something, anything to clutch.

  He moved a shoulder, hooked her knee over it and gained deeper access. Her heel pressed into his back. Dear God. Sweet, sweet torment and glorious torture were her companions. It was as if her whole being were centered deep inside her. “Come on, darlin’,” he breathed into her as he maneuvered her other leg over his opposing shoulder and kissed her deep, touched her so intimately tears rolled down her cheeks and she couldn’t find her breath.

  A low, raspy, animal sound escaped from her throat. “Nick, o-o-o-oh, Nick . . .”

  “Let go, darlin’ . . .”

  She bucked. Again. And again. Something deep inside broke and tears ran down her face, mingling with the shower’s hot spray. “Oh, please . . .”

  In one swift movement, he swung her legs over his head and straightened. “Nick, I—”

  “Shh.” He lifted her from her feet, turned off the water and dripping puddles on the carpet carried her into the bedroom where he placed her on the rumpled covers of her bed. “Now, Marla . . .” he said, determination edging his voice, the expression on his face serious, the need in his eyes naked. “Make love to me.”

  Swallowing hard, knowing she was about to cross a bridge that would surely crumble behind her, she reached up and found the buckle of his belt. With unsteady fingers she unhooked the sodden leather strap, let it fall free and caught the button at the waistband of his jeans. She tugged. His fly opened with a quick series of pops. Swallowing hard, with renewed determination, she pushed the heavy, sodden denim over his hips. He kicked the jeans onto the floor and she caught her first glimpse of his naked body.

  Tough sinew.

  Stringent muscles.

  Coarse hair.

  All male.

  Strong muscles stretched as he gently pushed her back on the bed, kissed the dewy drops of moisture from her breasts, then stared deep into her eyes.

  “Tell me you want me.”

  She licked her lips. “I . . . I want you.” Oh, Nick, if you only knew, she thought, throbbing with a raw, hungry passion that burned through her.

  “Tell me you’ll never regret this.”

  “I won’t.” It was a lie. She’d regret it the moment it was over. But she didn’t give a damn.

  “Neither will I,” he said, then covered her mouth with his.

  Strong knees nudged her legs apart and she trembled. Ached. Yearned for the feel of him. His thick erection brushed over her abdomen and she tingled, her skin on fire, her breathing difficult. “I’ve wanted to do this from the moment I saw you again,�
�� he whispered, kissing the side of her cheek. “Even though you were bruised and hurting, I wanted you as badly as I ever did.”

  “And . . . and I wanted you,” she admitted, guilt boring deep in her heart as she let her fingers explore the ridges and planes of his shoulders and arms.

  Slowly, watching her reaction, he nudged at her between her legs and she gasped. Sweat beaded his brow, strain pulled at the muscles of his face as he settled over her, braced on his elbows. She ran her fingers down the smooth muscles of his back, traced the ridge of his spine and he kissed her again. Hard. He nudged again and she quivered, arching upward, wanting the feel of him inside her.

  “Oh, lady.” With one slow thrust, he delved deep.

  Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and mouth as he withdrew so slowly she thought she would die. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back. Then he thrust again, covered her mouth with his and gave into the need deep in his soul.

  Marla arched upward, catching his rhythm, moving with him, as each thrust was harder than the last, deeper, more forceful. She clung to him, barely able to breathe as the first light of dawn pierced the window, coloring the bed and canopy with shades of gold.

  Nick held her close, his breathing raspy and shallow, matching her own gasps as he made love to her. Liquid heat swirled deep inside, her mind spun crazily, and she held fast to him, loved him, rose to meet each of his strokes, gave herself up to him, body and soul. Faster. Faster. Spinning wildly. She closed her eyes and couldn’t find her breath as the first wondrous, mind-splintering spasm hit.

  His hoarse cry came a heartbeat before her own. “Marla . . . oh, love . . . damn you, damn us, . . . damn it all . . .”

  The world shattered behind her eyes. He threw back his head and held her as if he’d never let go, his body straining hard before he fell against her, his weight welcome, his face buried in the crook of her neck. “I knew . . .” he said, gasping, his fingers stroking her hair as his wet chest hair rubbed against her breasts. “I knew it would be like this with you.”

  “Like before?” she asked, barely able to force the question, for she wasn’t sure that they’d been lovers long ago, that she really was Marla Amhurst Cahill.

  “No, not like before.” He raised himself on his elbows and stared down at her with those laser blue eyes. He drew in a long, deep breath and traced the curve of her jaw with one thumb. “Better. So much better.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she teased, inwardly pleased, wishing she believed him.

  He laughed. “Just to one.”

  “Liar.”

  “Not me.” His eyes were intense and he kissed her again. “Now,” he slapped her gently on the buttocks, and glanced around the room. “As much as I’d like to lie here all day with you, I think we’d better get up before the rest of the house does.”

  She groaned, but as her mind cleared, she knew he was right. They were pressing their luck and there was no time to waste. “I have so much to tell you,” she admitted worrying her lip. “So much . . .”

  “Well, darlin’, that makes two of us. Come on.”

  “The old man’s dead,” he said from his favorite phone booth just down the hill from the rich bastard’s house. The fog was peeling away, sun shining and the coffee shop across the street was just opening up.

  “What? How do you know this?”

  There was an edge of panic in the guy’s voice. Good.

  “I offed him. I got tired of waiting.”

  “Damn it, I told you to lay off.”

  “You said we had to wait until he kicked off. Well, the old fart kicked.”

  “The police will be all over us!”

  “They’ll never know. The Doc put Amhurst on oxygen last night. I took him off.”

  “Christ, this messes everything up.” The rich bastard was panicking, his voice rising an octave.

  “Speeds everything up you mean. And you should be glad. He changed his will once, didn’t he, cut Marla out, then had second thoughts in order to get him a grandson? Why wouldn’t he again? This way the kid inherits.”

  “He couldn’t have changed it again, you moron! He wasn’t in his right mind.”

  “Says who?” he threw back, seeing red at the insult.

  “Look, if anyone suspects—”

  “No one does. The way it stands now, the kid inherits, you get the bucks and you pay me. Pronto.” His eyes narrowed as he smelled the other guy trying to squirm out of their agreement.

  “There’s still the problem of Marla.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Now wait a minute. I’m not sure—”

  “She’ll be dead by nightfall.”

  “No, it’s too risky. Not on the same day her father dies.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’ll look like an accident. That’s what you wanted. Right? This was your fuckin’ idea.”

  “No. Now listen. Wait a few days, okay. Until things calm down. And don’t call me back on this cell. Do you hear me? I hired you to do a job and you’ll be paid, but I’m still calling the shots.”

  “Like hell.”

  “I’m warning you—”

  He laughed and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Relax, amigo, this is your lucky day.” Then he hung up and started for his Jeep. His blood was on fire as he lit up. Killing Conrad Amhurst had been too easy and just a means to an end.

  It was Marla he wanted. But then it always had been.

  “. . . and so I pretended to be asleep and when he came in I tried to fake him out, act like I didn’t know what was going on, that I hadn’t been in his office,” Marla said as she sat on the couch in the sitting room. Nick had lit the fire and stood with his back to the flames, his empty coffee cup in his hands, his eyes drilling into hers. They’d drained the coffeepot as the house began to stir. The cook was already rattling around in the kitchen and soon Cissy would wake for school. “I found several things in his desk. There was a gun. I took it and hid it under the mattress in my room. Then . . . then there was a Rolodex card with Kylie Paris’s address and phone number. I’ve got it as well. And a statement from a hospital for Marla Cahill’s hysterectomy. Full hysterectomy,” she said, a million thoughts running through her mind as the caffeine jolted her bloodstream. “It was dated three years ago.”

  Nick regarded her with wary eyes. “So either you’re not Marla or the baby isn’t yours.”

  “James is mine,” she stated without a waver of hesitation. No matter what else happened, she knew unerringly that she’d given birth to her baby. She took a sip from her tepid coffee, draining the cup before adding, “And somehow Dr. Robertson is in on this. He didn’t want me to see Marla’s medical records, though the operation was done in Los Angeles at a private hospital, not at Bayview. But there must be some note, or cross reference. For whatever reason he wouldn’t let me have even a passing glance at the folder.”

  “Get the address to Kylie’s apartment and we’ll go there,” Nick said as he rubbed the stubble darkening his jaw and Marla remembered the feel of its scratchy texture against her own skin less than a half hour before.

  “What about the gun?” She shivered as she thought of the cold, deadly weapon.

  “Keep it hidden for now. Out of Alex’s hands. Will the maid find it?”

  “I don’t think so, not even if she changes the sheets.”

  “Good.” He started for the foyer.

  “I won’t leave without the baby, Nick. I can’t take a chance that Alex will somehow try to kidnap his own son.”

  “From his house?”

  “Anywhere.” Marla was adamant. Firm. Above all else she’d protect her child. “And we have to see that Cissy’s safe, too.”

  “From Alex?”

  “And whoever else.” Her stomach curdled when she thought of the man who was supposed to be her husband. Nick had already explained about the dwindling finances of Cahill Limited, Pam Delacroix’s intention of writing a book, and Julie Delacroix Johnson�
��s involvement with Alex. Marla had learned how Alex had let Donald Favier take the blame for the scandal, then paid everyone to keep their mouths shut. He could even be behind Charles Biggs’ death and the attempts on her life.

  She had every reason to feel fear. For herself. For her son. For Nick. “You don’t know the hatred on his face. The way he threatened me.”

  “Then we’ll take James with us,” Nick agreed.

  “And we’ll wait until Cissy’s at school. I think she’ll be safe there,” Marla said, thinking ahead. “For some reason I don’t think she’s a part of this. Whatever it is, it has to do with the baby. And me.”

  Nick’s eyes locked with hers. “Because of the will.”

  “What?” She didn’t like where his thoughts were leading.

  “The baby is at the center of all this because he’s going to inherit the bulk of Conrad Amhurst’s estate,” Nick said, and she felt the knell of doom peal in her heart.

  “This is worse than I thought.” She set her empty cup on the table. “If you’re right, then James is safe until Dad—Conrad dies. And after that . . .”

  “He’s as expendable as you are,” Nick said, finishing her grisly thought.

  “Let’s get him up.” She shot to her feet. She had to get out of this house. Now! She couldn’t stand another minute in this elegant death trap. “We’ll take Cissy with us and drop her off at school and we’ll find a safe place to keep James until we can sort all this out.”

  “We can go to Oregon. I have a place there.”

  “Would it be safe?”

  “Probably not,” he admitted, frowning as somewhere on a floor above, footsteps could be heard. “I do have a watch dog of sorts, but I doubt if Tough Guy would deter too many people.”

  To Marla it sounded like heaven. Peaceful. Safe. At least within this horrid, complicated and terrifying nightmare, she’d found Nick. If nothing else, she knew what it was like to love someone. To care. “Someday,” she said hoarsely, “I’d like to see it.”

  “Someday you will,” he promised, but she didn’t know if she could believe him.