by Brenna Todd
She grimaced, but didn't say a word.
"Sorry," he muttered, and tried not to jostle the ankle as he carried her through the guesthouse to its only bedroom. Setting her on top of the bed he'd slept in—the one he'd lost sleep in because of her— he reached for one of the pillows and propped her foot on it. Then he found the bedside lamp, turning it on and casting the room in a rosy glow.
He sat down on the bed, his thigh all too near hers. She hiked up the gown and bent at the waist, craning her neck to see the ankle. Her gaze lifted and connected with his. "The stockings...uh, they make it impossible to tell anything."
"Yes."
It amused him to see the color rise in her cheeks. Another novelty.
She glanced down again. Waite couldn't look away from the sight of her hand snaking under the gown to unfasten her garter, then roll down the stocking and take it off.
Waite's throat went dry. With his hand, he circled her ankle, intent on gauging the extent of her injury, but unable to concentrate because of the myriad emotions fighting for control inside him.
He had scolded her for pushing him aside when the book pitched off the shelf, but in truth what she had done was as selfless and caring as what he'd witnessed at the 101 Ranch. That type of behavior from this woman confused the hell out of him. He tried to think of the day she'd told him she'd used him to get to J.B. Tried to remember her very words, her face, the ice in her gaze... but he couldn't conjure up those pictures. They were hazy, yellowed at the edges.. .like old photographs. Waite could only see her clearly as she'd looked after he'd kissed her at the creek, trembling as she clasped her shirt in her fist, telling him not to call her Della.
And he felt the same heat of arousal he'd felt then. He felt her clinging to him, touching him.
"Waite..."
Her voice was low and whispery, and he suddenly realized he was no longer ministering to an injury, but was stroking her satiny skin with his thumbs. He lifted his head and saw immediately that she knew what was going on inside him. Her feelings were just as transparent. The look in her eyes told of longing... desire...She scooted toward him on the bed and rested her hand on his thigh. "I want you, too. I feel as if I've wanted you forever. It's crazy, but—"
"But it's not right," he said, his jaw set, his gut tight. "You're not mine."
"But...I have the feeling it would be more right than anything I've ever done. I...Ijust know." She slid her hand higher on his leg. Lifting her other hand to his jaw, she stroked his skin as he had hers.
Blood pounded through his veins and his body hardened. Not mine to take, he thought, even as he turned to press his mouth against her palm.
He heard her breath quicken and remembered the glorious taste of her mouth two days ago. The kiss that never should have been. "Della..." he said, his voice raw.
"No. Please." She obliterated the distance between them, sealing their mouths together and wrapping her arms around him. Waite groaned and lowered her to the bed. "Don't call me that. I can't bear it."
He rose up, giving her a sharp look that conveyed uneasiness, and Erin could have kicked herself for what she'd said. She brought him back to her, angled her mouth over his, boldly sweeping her tongue over his lips and then inside. Don't think, she pleaded silently. Don't think. Just... love me.
He touched her breast, and Erin groaned. Drowning in his kiss, she forgot everything else, felt nothing but his mouth, the thunderous beat of his heart next to hers.
Her hands slid inside his jacket, and she tugged at the stiff fabric of his shirt until it came free of his pants. His skin beneath it was hot, firm, and deliriously hard to the sensitive pads of her fingertips. He scrambled to get out of his jacket and then the shirt, tossing them both across the bed.
Erin drank in the sight of his bare chest. She'd touched but hadn't had the chance to look. She raised herself up to work at the fastenings at the back of her gown, wanting to feel his muscled, bare skin against hers.
"No," he said, plucking her hands away. "Let me do it."
He made quick work of it, then brushed the silky fabric from her shoulders. It pooled at her waist.
The brassiere she wore would have been frowned at by a man from her time. It was black, but not lacy or sexy, low-cut or alluring. Though it was stiff and utilitarian by modern standards, it lit a fire in Waite's eyes. Erin didn't know why exactly that gave her such a thrill; she only knew that the way he looked at her made desire surge through her bloodstream, creating an aching need.
Waite intensified the ache. Clasping her shoulders in his strong hands, he lowered his head until his lips and tongue glided along the tops of her breasts. Erin urgently laced her fingers through his hair, holding his dark head close as he licked and sucked her exposed flesh. When his mouth moved lower and he kissed her through the bra, Erin caught her breath. She fumbled for the catch in the back. He shook his head, mumbling something Erin couldn't make out, then delivered torturous caresses through the cloth, rubbing, stroking, kissing her until she thought madness was certainly close at hand.
"Waite... please."
Giving in to her plea, he reached around, unclasped the bra and drew it off her. Then he pulled her into his arms, pressing her bare breasts to his chest as his mouth locked onto hers again.
Erin discovered that she could willingly let go of the rest of the world for passion. The knowledge shook her a bit, but she didn't allow it to stop her from pouring herself into the kiss...giving him everything she was, everything she wanted to give him.
"God..." he whispered against her skin, the fever in his blood at the boiling point. He hauled her closer. His hands on her hips, he pressed her tight against his arousal, wanting, needing, to be inside her.
Guilt should have cut him to shreds, but oddly, he hadn't felt its piercing edge.
Mine. It was the only thought in his head as his lips captured her earlobe, his tongue washing it as his hands skimmed down to her breasts again. "You're mine tonight."
Her palms bracketed his face and she nodded. "That makes you mine, as well. But not just for tonight. I know there's more because I saw you... before I came here..."
He rose up to look at her. "What—?"
"No. Not now. Don't ask now." Then she was kissing him again, stealing the question from his lips just as surely as she stole his breath away when she reached for the buttons of his trousers. Impossibly, his arousal strengthened. Her fingers brushed over him, and he knew he was close to losing all control.
He pushed her hands away and shucked off his trousers, his shoes and his socks, then came back to her. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" he asked, removing her gown completely and pitching it on top of his discarded clothing. His hands slid up her legs, blazing a trail for the mouth that followed in their wake, stringing hot, erotic kisses over her skin.
"Yes. God, yes. Because you're doing the same to me. Oh, Waite..." She fell backward when his tongue moistened the skin around and beneath her garter. She felt him unfasten it, sweep the silk down, then quickly dispatch the rest of her undergarments until there was nothing between them but her secrets and some seventy-odd years.
He moved up from her thigh, and Erin gasped when she felt his intimate kiss. Slowly she began to unravel—her heart, nerves, her very soul—as he laved her most sensitive place with his tongue. Sending up silent prayers, she trembled under his ministrations, struggled toward release.
It shattered her when it finally came, and she sobbed his name aloud, gripping his shoulders as she shuddered again and again with the powerful orgasm.
He climbed her body, fusing her mouth with his, his hands kneading her hair. "Sweet... so sweet to hear my name on your lips again... like this..."
"Not again, Waite. This is the first time for us." He went still, but Erin gave him no time for questions. She reached down between them, stroked his hard length with her fingers. "Come inside, Waite. For the first time."
Her touch set him on fire, obliterating the need to know the meaning of her crypt
ic remark, and he slipped inside her. Slowly at first, as though time were their personal possession, he moved within her, tasting impatience on her lips, urgency in her movements. Still he paced his thrusts, wanting to prolong the intimacy, feeling truly alive for the first time in years.
But need outpaced him. Her hands were all over him—his shoulders, the small of his back, his thighs—racing, skimming, prodding, pushing him toward the final crest. Holding her gaze with his, her hair still tangled in his hands, he saw how close she was to release. With every ounce of fortitude he had, Waite held his own pleasure back, urging her to the peak. And when she cried out, he withdrew from her body, using every ounce of self-control to avoid the risk of making her pregnant. Then, tightening their embrace, listening to her soft, soughing breath at his ear and feeling her body cradle the length of him as it had when he'd been inside, he found his own release.
They had made love before... but this was different. Then it had been carnal, almost impersonal. He'd offered her his heart, but she had refused to accept anything other than his body. But this time...
He rose up on his elbows, and gently brushed his thumbs over her closed eyelids. His throat tight with emotion, he searched his soul for the guilt that should have been there, but stumbled into another emotion—love.
I love her... again, he thought, stunned by the realization.
ERIN'S EYES FLUTERED open, and guilt flooded in. He would have walked away—if she hadn't pushed him into it, sanctioned it, told him it was right for her...She swallowed and lowered her gaze.
He caught her chin with two fingers and nudged her to look at him again. "Don't, Della. No regrets. For some strange reason, I'm not sorry right now that we did this. I probably will be with the morning light, but—"
"No!" Her denial was powerful, strident. "Just... trust me on this one. You have no reason to feel sorry or guilty. No reason at all."
His brows drew together over confused black eyes, and Erin wanted to grab hold of him and never let go. She wanted to keep him within her heart, within her grasp, forever.
"You can't shoulder the entire responsibility for this. I wanted you...God, how I wanted you."
And I wanted you, she thought. Too much.
She still did... and always would. Pain gripped her heart. She'd never known it would hurt so much to lose a love, because she'd never truly felt this way before. And never would again, she thought sadly.
"I...shouldn't have followed you here..."
Waite's mouth tightened, and he rolled onto his back. She knew he was thinking about J.B.—his partner, his friend—and was torturing himself for no reason.
"You didn't betray him," she said quietly, and he turned to look at her again. She laced her fingers with his and brought them to her mouth for a soft kiss. "I'm not her, Waite. I'm not his wife."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"DAMN IT, DELLA!" He sprang up, flinging her hand away, then moved quickly toward their clothes. "Here. Get dressed."
"If s true, Waite. I'm not her. Don't tell me you haven't wondered about it sometimes, because I've seen how suspicious you've been of me. I know you've—"
"I said, get dressed, Della."
He had gone from blistering passion to sweet affection and now to cold anger. Erin wanted to cry. She scrambled over to him, wincing at the pain in her ankle. "No! Listen to me, Waite. Tell me you haven't noticed some of the differences. Tell me you didn't question what I did for that cowboy at the 101. How could Della have known about that?"
"You said you heard a doctor describing it... at a party."
"Well, I lied."
He narrowed his eyes at her, then turned his back, shrugging into his shirt. "I know you did. You've never been to Europe with J.B."
"I haven't? Oh. Well, there. You see? I'm not her and you know it!" God, it felt good getting this off her chest. Better than she had expected. And she couldn't continue the charade with Waite any longer. Not after what they had just shared. She simply couldn't abide lying to him anymore. And she wouldn't allow him to be eaten up with guilt for something he hadn't done.
"No." He dragged his slacks up muscular legs, then fastened the buttons at his fly. "What I know is that I wanted to believe you weren't you. I wanted it because, for the past two days, I've wanted to sleep with you again. So I convinced myself of it for about two seconds outside this guesthouse. But that's crazy, Della. We both know that's crazy."
Erin smiled at the way doubt had crept into his words. "Okay," she said. "Explain how I know CPR."
"CPwhat?"
"Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. CPR. What I performed on the cowboy at the 101. Della wouldn't know how to do it—Della or anyone else from this time period couldn't know. Because it won't come into being until sometime in the 1960s."
His expression went flat, his dark eyes considering her with a look Erin interpreted easily: She's lost her mind. "Time period?" he repeated tentatively.
Hadn't she known she would get this reaction if she told anyone living in 1925? "I know it sounds crazy, Waits. Impossible. Don't you think I've thought the same thing? But it's true. Della is dead. I saw her murdered in the tunnel by a man with a beard."
"Murdered-"
His eyes widened, and Erin hurried on. "The locket... it somehow brought me back to this time from mine. I don't know how, of course, but I know that the locket was somehow responsible. That and the portrait of Della. I touched it and my locket at the same time, and bang! I wound up here. Don't you see? That's why I've been so crazy to get my locket back... so I can go home. If s my ticket home."
He shook his head, clearly stunned, then lowered himself to the edge of the bed. "And home is... another time? The 1960s?"
"Nineties. The 1990s. You don't believe a word of this, do you?"
He stared at her for a long moment. "I believe that you're either lying again—but why you would create such a convoluted, unbelievable tale I'll never know—or that fall in the tunnel caused more damage than a simple case of amnesia."
"I made that up."
"The fall."
"No, the amnesia. Because I kept slipping up, Waite. I couldn't answer questions about Della's past because I didn't know her past. But until I got the locket back, I couldn't risk anyone finding out I wasn't Della."
"Because...?"
"Because J.B. would ship me to an asylum, that's why. He threatened to do that because I went into the tunnels with another man—the man who must have murdered the real Della. It seems Della has been pushing J.B. for years and he's just about had enough of her. I guess locking her up in a padded room would solve all his problems with her. What do you think he'd do if I tried to convince him I wasn't his wife? He'd have all the evidence he needed for the commitment papers, wouldn't he? And then where would I be? Even farther from my locket, right?"
Waite put his head in his hands and sighed loudly. "Oh, God, Della."
"No." She moved next to him on the bed, peeling his hands away from his face. "Erin. Erin Sawyer." She touched his face, turning it toward hers, then kissed him... softly, gently.
"I've never been married to J.B., and I was not your lover all those years ago, Waite. You didn't betray your friend and business partner tonight. And I won't let you feel guilty about it when it just isn't true."
His lips were cold at first, unmoving. But Erin didn't give up easily. She attacked his disbelief, his hesitancy, by pouring every ounce of love she had for the man into her kiss. Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she scooted into his lap, then wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Waite..." she whispered against his mouth, his cheek, his nose, then his mouth again. "I couldn't let you continue to believe I'm her. I don't know why I'm here... why I look so much like a woman I'd never known about... or even why I witnessed her murder. But I do know one thing. It's the only thing, in fact, that I'm certain about right now."
"Wh-what?"
Erin took great pleasure in his stutter. She also took pleasure in the rapid beating of his heart as she touched
him... caressed his awakening arousal against her thigh.
"I know that since the moment I first saw you at the party, I've been knocked out by you. Attracted, compelled, smitten, lovesick—whatever you want to call it." She stroked his cheek, smiling. "There's something between us.. .something good, Waite. Something I think you feel, too," she whispered. "Good, not immoral. If you can believe nothing else, believe in that." She kissed his bottom lip, then tugged it inside her mouth.
A low groan issued from his throat, and he pulled her hard against his chest, taking her down with him to the bed again. The kiss was wild and unruly; all animal lust and excitement. Erin gloried in it, grasping fistfuls of his hair, pressing into him as though she could never get close enough... and could never let him get away. She tried to ignore the pang of sorrow that hit her at that last thought. She'd asked him to believe in what they felt for each other, but it was all so temporary. Fleeting... impermanent. A single moment out of time.
Waite tore off his clothes again, and, bracing himself above her, he joined their bodies a second time. But instead of the pleasure she'd hoped to see, there was agony in his expression. It tore at her heart. Tears, not of joy but of grief, gathered in her eyes.
"I'm...sorry," Waite whispered into her hair when it was over. He rose up on his elbows, gazing down at her for a moment before shaking his head sadly. "Oh, God. I want to believe you're someone else. You don't know how much, but—"
"It's enough," she said, and blinked back more tears. It was all she had, for now.
THEY HAD FALLEN ASLEEP in each other's aims. Erin didn't know what had woken her, but she did know she couldn't stay wrapped in Wake's warmth all night, however much she wished she could.
Carefully extricating herself from his embrace, she left the bed, glancing one last time at the man as he slept.