Night Fever

by Diana Palmer

“Oh, no,” she said with such fervent emotion that he felt ashamed for baiting her. He stared down into her soft eyes, and felt himself being pulled into them. Bedroom eyes. Hazel fires that could burn a man for life. He had no desire to escape them anymore.

  He got up slowly, grinding out the cigar under his shoe. The woods were so quiet that only the bubbling of the creek could be heard above the pounding of Becky’s own heart as he reached for her. She went willingly, her hands flat against his broad chest under his jacket, feeling warm muscle beneath his knit shirt. She could feel his heartbeat, almost as hard and quick as her own. She lifted her face, unnerved by the fierce darkness of his eyes, the hardness of his lean face above her.

  His hands bit in at her waist, holding her against him. He prolonged the look until she felt as if she’d caught a live wire in her hands. “No, don’t look away,” he said roughly when she tried to.

  “I can’t bear it,” she whispered shakily.

  “Yes, you can.” His breathing became audible. “I can almost see your soul.”

  “Rourke,” she ground out.

  “Bite me,” he whispered against her mouth as he took it.

  He’d kissed her before, but this hunger was new. He made her want to bite and claw. He aroused something inside her that he hadn’t been able to touch before. She obeyed him, nipping his lower lip, catching it in her teeth. Her nails scored down his knit shirt and he shuddered.

  “Get it out of the way,” he said huskily. “Touch me…”

  His mouth bit into hers with a ferocity that might have frightened her only a week before. But now she was hungry, as he was—hungry to know him in every way there was, beginning with this way. She tugged at his shirt until the hem came out of his slacks. Her hands fumbled their way under it and up until they tangled in the thicket of curling black hair that covered his warm, hard chest. She moaned at the intimacy of it, her mind scrambling for reason as her body denied the need for it. She moved closer without the urging of his hands, her legs against his, her stomach registering the sudden hardness of him, the urgency of the mouth invading hers.

  “Becky,” he groaned in anguish. His hands slid to the back of her thighs and pulled, lifting her into total contact with his blatant maleness.

  She gasped, but she didn’t protest. She couldn’t. It was like pure electricity bonding them there, sending her into a sensual oblivion that made her tremble in his arms.

  He let her slide to the ground all at once and turned away to lean his hands against a big oak trunk. He dragged her into his lungs and shivered with frustrated desire. It was getting harder and harder to draw back. He couldn’t remember ever having to before, except with his damned fiancée. But Becky wasn’t like her. Becky would give him anything he wanted—right here, right now, standing up if he wanted it that way. She was his for the taking. But she wasn’t that kind of woman and he didn’t want to force her into doing something that would torment her later. He could keep his head, if he just recited points of law until the pain stopped.

  Becky sat down heavily on the stump with her arms wrapped around herself, staring down at the leaf-littered ground. She knew that they were headed for disaster. It was hurting him to deny his need, even though he respected her enough not to ask her to satisfy it. She felt guilty. It certainly wasn’t fair to him to continue a dead-end relationship with her. Friendship wasn’t going to be enough. He’d said he hadn’t been with a woman in a long time, and that fact alone was going to fan the fire until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “You shouldn’t see me again, Rourke,” she said in a barren tone, and without looking at him. “This isn’t going to work.”

  He pushed himself away from the tree and turned to face her. He was pale, but well in command of himself. “Isn’t it? I thought I’d just proved that it would.”

  “It isn’t fair to ask a man to torture himself, just for companionship.” She kept her eyes on the ground. “I’ve got all I can handle right now, you know. Granddad and Clay—and Mack. If it was just myself, principles and all, I don’t think I’d be strong enough to deny you. But…”

  He sat beside her and turned her to face him with gentle hands. “I’m not asking you for anything, Rebecca,” he said softly. “We’ll muddle through.” He smiled crookedly. “I’ve never enjoyed anything as much as I enjoy your company. Except maybe your cooking,” he added ruefully. “I can handle my glands. When it gets too much for me, I’ll say so.”

  She frowned, unconvinced. “It’s hurting you,” she said. “Don’t you think I know? Rourke, I’m a dinosaur. I wasn’t ever prepared for the real world, and I’ve lived like a recluse all these years. You deserve so much more than me.”

  “Do I?” He framed her face in his hands and kissed her warmly, his smoky breath mingling with hers. “You’ll do, thanks. But we’d better not spend too much time alone, from now on.”

  Her eyes searched his, her heart in them. “Rourke, are you sure?” she whispered.

  He nodded, and his face was solemn. “Oh, yes, I’m sure,” he said fervently. “Now, will you stop agonizing for me and start thinking about seconds of that great pound cake you made for lunch? I’m starving!”

  She laughed. All the tension drained out of her. “Okay.” She put her hand in his and they walked back to the farmhouse, and for the rest of the afternoon, they didn’t mention what had happened in the woods.

  Becky dreamed about it, though. Only in her dreams, they didn’t stop. Rourke laid her down in the leaves and took off her clothes. She lay there, breathless and hungry, watching him take off his own. This part was a little hazy, though, because she’d never seen a naked man. What came next was, too. She’d seen a racy movie once with Maggie, but it had been two bodies under a sheet making loud gasping and moaning sounds and clenching their hands together. She had a feeling that it involved a little more than that. Somewhere in the middle of it, she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Except for Clay’s unusual silence at home, the next few weeks were the happiest of Becky’s whole life. She ate lunch with Rourke whenever his schedule permitted. One sour note sounded when the decorators finished his office in the courthouse and he had to move, with his staff, out of Becky’s building. But he was as somber about it as she was, and he promised her that they’d have just as much time together. She hadn’t believed him, but it was true. He managed to arrange his schedule so that he could take her to lunch at least twice a week. And, as he said, they had the weekends together. It bothered her sometimes that he never invited her to his house. Now that she knew him, she was curious about every aspect of his life. She wanted to see where he lived, the kinds of books he read, the kinds of things he collected, and even the furniture he sat on. They seemed to spend their time sightseeing or just riding. Often she packed a picnic lunch and they drove up to Lake Lanier in Gainesville, or to the Barvarian motif of Helen, GA., up on the Chattahoochee. Once he took her to the Civil War battlefield at Kennesaw, in Cobb County near Marietta. It was great fun, and she was falling deeper and deeper in love with him.

  It touched her that he never said anything about the lack of variety in her clothes. He knew she was on a limited budget. He took her to places that wouldn’t embarrass her, and he made sure that they were never completely alone for long at a time. Since that day in the woods when he’d kissed her so hungrily, there had been little passion in their relationship. Becky missed the sensual pleasure of his touch, but she didn’t want to make things any harder for him than they already were. It was enough that he enjoyed being with her.

  And he did seem to enjoy that, she reflected. They went to a pet shop one weekend and bought him a new dog. It wasn’t a basset hound, because they hadn’t been able to find one. It was, instead, a Scottie. The little bundle of black curly fur was precious. Even Rourke had laughed at his antics, and had immediately named him MacTavish. Despite his busy schedule during court weeks, Rourke had managed time for the dog and Becky. Now when they went on picnics, MacTavish went, to
o.

  Once or twice, when Clay was at home to stay with Granddad, Mack had joined them on sightseeing trips. Mack had been excited about the treat, and had told all his friends at school about it.

  He and Rourke were becoming friends. Mack looked up to the man and listened to what he said with flattering attentiveness. Mack and Clay were still at odds, but Clay was so deep in his own misery these days that he hardly paid attention to anything around him, including Becky’s fascination with the D.A. He was caught in a trap, with no way out. And he’d long since cut his ties with Becky. He told her nothing these days, not even where he was going when he left the house. He treated her like a stranger.

  ATTORNEY J. LINCOLN DAVIS announced his candidacy for district attorney with pomp and fanfare, giving a huge barbecue for the occasion. He even invited Rourke, who told Becky that he didn’t relish becoming the entrée and wouldn’t go near the place.

  It did no good. Immediately after his announcement, Davis began to court the press. His initial jab was at Rourke—that he was easing up on drug dealers and that he hadn’t made any progress in his investigation into the grammar school child’s death from crack cocaine. Drugs became Davis’s platform, and Rourke his whipping boy. Rourke characteristically ignored every barb and kept right on doing his job. He was frustrated by his own lack of progress in the Dennis boy’s death. His investigators and the police together hadn’t yet been able to link the Harris boys to the elementary school trafficking in drugs.

  He’d long since forgotten his earlier motive in dating Becky, which had been to keep tabs on Clay. He was more enchanted with her by the day, and although she mentioned her brother from time to time, it was never anything serious.

  Mack, however, had confided something to him that he hadn’t even told Becky.

  It happened one weekend while he was at the farm. Rourke had gone to watch Mack run his trains while he waited for Becky. Mack had gotten up suddenly, peeked out into the hall, and quietly closed the door. He sat back down beside Rourke.

  “I can’t tell Becky,” he said after a minute, fiddling with a tiny rail joiner while he spoke. “She’s worried enough already. But I have to tell somebody.” He looked up, his thin face drawn with worry. “Mr. Kilpatrick, Clay tried to get me to tell him who might buy drugs at my school. I wouldn’t, and he got real mad.” He bit his lip painfully. “He’s my brother. I love him, even if he is a rat. It’s just, I don’t want any more kids to die.” He put the rail joiner down. “He doesn’t talk to me or anything, but I heard him talking to Son Harris on the phone. He’s supposed to meet them at the Quick-Shop parking lot next Friday night at midnight. It’s something big and Clay sounded like he didn’t want to do it. I heard him try to back out.” Tears formed in his eyes. “He’s my brother! I don’t want to hurt him, but it sounded like Son was threatening him.”

  Rourke pulled the boy into his arms and held him tight while he cried. He didn’t know much about children, but he was learning fast. This one had a big heart and a lot of courage. He didn’t want to sell out his brother, but he was afraid for him.

  “I’ll do what I can for Clay,” he told Mack quietly, producing a handkerchief to dry the boy’s eyes with rough tenderness. “And nobody, especially not Becky, will ever know where I got the information. Fair enough?”

  Mack nodded. “Did I do the right thing?” he asked miserably. “I feel like a stool pigeon.”

  “Mack, doing the right thing takes a lot of courage sometimes. It’s hard to choose between a member of your own family and a principle. But if these pushers keep up what they’re doing, more kids are going to die. That’s a fact. The Harrises are responsible for most of the junk going into the schools. If I can put them away, a lot of innocent lives will be spared the anguish of addiction. I’ll give your brother the best deal I can. If you’re right, and the Harris boys have threatened him to keep him on the payroll, I may be able to offer him a plea-bargain in return for his testimony. We’ll see. Is that fair enough?”

  “I guess. But I still feel like a jerk,” he muttered.

  Rourke sighed heavily. “How do you think I feel when I help send somebody to the electric chair, Mack?” he asked quietly. “Even if he’s guilty as sin?”

  “Do you really have to do that?” the boy asked.

  “Once or twice in the past seven years, yes, I have,” he replied. “It never gets easy. It never should. Anyone is capable of murder, given the right incentive.”

  Mack didn’t understand that, but he nodded. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him, but it hurt to think that his betrayal might send his brother to jail.

  Rourke made it back into the living room before Becky reappeared, so she knew nothing about their conversation. But he had thought of nothing else all week.

  He sat at his desk with a stack of file folders in front of him, all cases that had to be dealt with by him or his associates. He and his secretary went crazy trying to get them all calendared, subpoenaing witnesses and making sure they showed up in court, getting briefs together. It was a nightmare of paperwork and meticulous detail that sometimes paid off handsomely. And sometimes it was a hopeless confusion of misplaced witnesses and hung juries and overzealous defense attorneys. Kilpatrick sat among the ruins of his late lunch, a cigar standing in two inches of cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup, with the phone ringing off the hook and appointments overlapping. And he thought with malicious delight that J. Lincoln Davis would deserve this job.

  By the time Friday arrived, Rourke had tipped off a contact in the local police department about the meet in the parking lot—a man he knew he could trust not to be bought. He put his investigator wise just as a precaution, and then went to pick up Becky.

  Clay was there. The family was just finishing supper, and Clay looked thinner than ever and nervous. He glanced at Rourke warily, his whole demeanor antagonistic and baiting.

  “You back again?” he chided as he got up from the table, ignoring Becky’s furious glare. “Why don’t you just move in?”

  “I’m considering it,” Rourke said imperturbably, smoking his cigar with casual indifference to Clay’s behavior. “It seems to me that Becky could do with a little more help than she gets around here.”

  Clay flushed. He stared to say something, but decided against it. He threw up his hands and went out the back door, slamming it viciously behind him.

  “You’ve got no call to bait my grandson,” Granddad said hotly.

  “I don’t?” Rourke said innocently. “Or have you already forgotten who threw the first punch?”

  Granddad got up from the table with visible effort. He didn’t look at Rourke. “I’m going to bed, Becky. I don’t feel well.”

  “Do you want me to stay home with you?” Becky asked worriedly. “Will you be all right?”

  For God’s sake, stop it, Rourke wanted to rage. Stop letting yourself be used like this! But he couldn’t interfere. She had every right to care about her family. That loving concern was part of her.

  Granddad glanced at her, and then at Rourke. He’d have loved to say that he needed her to stay. But the look on her face even as she offered stopped him. “No. I’m just a little puny today. Mack and I will play checkers, won’t we?” he asked the boy.

  Mack smiled wanly. “Sure we will. You have a good time, Becky.”

  “I’ll be home early,” she promised. She got her sweater, because it was chilly for late spring, and pulled it around her shoulders. She was wearing the old flowered shirtwaist dress with low-heeled shoes and a pink sweater, her hair flowing down to her shoulders. She felt very young when she was with Kilpatrick, despite the fact that he was only twelve years her senior. Tonight he seemed preoccupied, and he hadn’t yet mentioned where they were going.

  He’d phoned earlier to tell her that he wouldn’t be able to get there until after supper, because he had some last-minute work to finish. When he showed up, he was wearing jeans, a checked shirt, and boots. He looked much more casual than she was used to seeing
him even when they went on picnics.

  “I’ve been helping my neighbor move,” he explained as he put her into the white T-bird. “I promised him a month ago that I’d be available when he was ready, and tonight he called in the marker. I hope you aren’t too disappointed about dinner.”

  “I’m not disappointed at all,” she said gently. “I’m amazed that you haven’t run off screaming long before now, having to look at me every day.”

  He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not about to tell you,” she laughed. “Where are we going?”

  “To my place,” he said. “I thought you might like to see where I live.”

  Her eyes searched his profile, and she wondered if he was feeling the need for a little physical closeness as keenly as she felt it. She ached to lie in his arms and make love with him—an unashamed reaction to the emotional state she was in. She loved him. It was the most natural thing in the world to want to be intimate with him, but she wanted him to make a commitment, to say that he cared about her, to start talking about a future, before she took that giant step. He’d never said anything about marriage or a permanent relationship, but she knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. And he seemed to care about her, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

  He pulled into a long driveway that led off a quiet suburban street into a garage. The house was brick, very elegant, and had a garden out back, complete with fountain and birdbaths. She imagined that in the daylight, the house looked striking against that manicured lawn and the tall hedges that lined the property and protected it from the prying eyes of neighbors on both sides.

  He unlocked the door inside the garage and led her into a thickly carpeted den. Beyond it was a formal living room, a dining room, and a hall.

  “It’s huge,” she remarked slowly.

  “Much too big for me,” he agreed, “but it’s been home for a long time. Hello, MacTavish!” he greeted the Scottie, who came running, barking enthusiastically as he jumped on Kilpatrick’s jeans-clad leg.