Standing in the Shadows m&f-2

by Shannon McKenna

  "I'm not going to let you fall through one of those holes, Erin. I won't leave you alone. I won't disappear. Is that understood?"

  She dragged in another tiny breath. "Can't breathe."

  He lifted himself up onto his elbows, still pinning her. "Let me tell you something about Kurt Novak."

  She shook her head. "Please, don't. I don't want to think about—"

  "Tough shit. Look at me."

  She winced, and slowly, reluctantly met his gaze.

  "His dad is a big guy in the Eastern European mafiya. Hungarian. Probably one of the richest men in the world. He arranged to send his boy to college in the States. I imagine the plan was to groom him to go legit, to broaden the power base, but Kurt, well, he was kind of a funny guy. Weird things started to happen at the dorm. It culminated in a girl getting strangled to death during sex."

  Erin squeezed her eyes shut. "Connor, I don't—"

  "Lucky for our boy Kurt, this girl wasn't rich, or the daughter of a politician or a general. Her mom was a widowed research librarian who didn't have the resources to fight the big fight. Or maybe it wasn't luck, maybe Kurt thought it through, at the tender age of nineteen. The thing was hushed up and paid off, and Kurt gets whisked back to Europe, to recover from the unpleasantness on the ski slopes of the Alps."

  She turned her face away, but his hand forced it back until she met his eyes again. "Look at me when I talk to you, Erin."

  How dare he order her. She wanted to say something sharp to put him in his place, but the intensity of his eyes wiped her mind blank.

  "Do you know, if a normal, well-behaved dog starts to chase sheep and brings one down, he'll never stop. He can't forget the thrill, the taste of blood in his mouth."

  "No. I didn't know that," she whispered.

  "Well, why would you? You're a city girl. But anyhow, the dog has an excuse. He's just reverting back to what nature originally programmed him to do. But Novak, he discovered his true passion in life that night. Murdering young women is an expensive vice for him, like fine cocaine. Or collecting priceless Celtic artifacts."

  She shook her head. "It's not possible, Connor. Mueller is—"

  "Do you see why I'm freaked out by this? Please, Erin. Tell me that at least one person gets it. I'm dangling all alone out here. There's a guy loose who gets off on snuffing beautiful girls, and he knows your name. Tell me I have a right to be nervous for you!"

  The desperate appeal in his voice made her want to put her arms around him and agree to anything, if only it would make him feel better. She stopped herself just in time. A nervous giggle escaped her. "I'm not such a prize. Novak could do better than me in the beauty department."

  He looked incredulous. "Huh?"

  "Cindy's the beauty, Erin's the brain," she babbled. "That's what my mother always says. It never occurs to her that it makes Cindy feel stupid and me feel ugly. But she means well. She always means well."

  He frowned. "You are kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding."

  She bit her lip. Her eyes slid away from his.

  "Jesus," he said. "You are gorgeous. You must know that."

  Color flooded into her face. "Please don't be ridiculous."

  "I'm not the ridiculous one." He shifted so that his leg lay between hers. Her skirt was shoved up practically to her bottom.

  "Connor." She stopped, and tried to calm the quiver in her voice. "Don't tell me any more about Novak. I don't want to dwell on violence and evil. I'm trying to think positively. I don't want to know."

  "You can't run away from the truth."

  She shoved at his chest. "I've faced enough ugly truths!"

  "You don't get to decide when it's enough," he said. "None of us gets to decide. You can't control it. Ever."

  "I can try," she snapped.

  "Sure, you can try. But you'll just hurt yourself."

  The bleak look in his eyes made the words she had wanted to say evaporate. Her chest was heaving, as if she'd been running.

  "Please, Erin." His voice was low, impassioned. "I'll try to behave. I won't ruin your life. Just play along with me. Let me do my thing."

  All this protective intensity, all for her. Yearning twisted her heart.

  Connor had faced a lot of harsh truths, and he was still fighting. Still trying heroically to do the right thing. She wanted to grab him and say, Oh yes. Save me from the big bad world. And while you're at it, kiss me senseless. And for God's sake, don't stop there.

  She gathered up every last scrap of her self-control. "Um, maybe I could be more lucid and reasonable about all this if you weren't lying on top of me, squashing me flat and ruining my suit. Do you mind?"

  His face tightened. He lifted himself off of her instantly.

  She kicked off the shoe that still clung to her foot, sat up, and curled her legs up beneath her. Connor hunched on the edge of the bed with his back to her. Silently waiting.

  Her dream flashed through her mind: the way he followed her with such stubborn patience. Never losing sight of her, never giving up. She wanted to drape herself across his broad shoulders and hug him.

  The decision made itself, sudden and irrevocable. "OK," she said.

  He turned his head, his eyes wary. "OK, what?"

  "OK, you can do your thing. If you're serious about trying not to ruin my life, that is. And, urn… thank you for caring."

  He stared at her for a moment. "You're welcome."

  His eyes flicked down over her body. Heat bloomed between her legs again, and she squeezed her thighs together and tried to smooth her hair back. Her blouse was disheveled. He watched her straighten and button and tuck with intense fascination. The longer the silence stretched, the more fraught with meaning it became.

  "So?" She shot for a cheerful, let's-move-on sort of smile, but had no idea if she hit anywhere close to the mark. "Now what?"

  He glanced down at his watch. "You hungry?"

  She had been too worked up to think food, but all she'd eaten all day was a pecan sticky bun. "I could eat something," she admitted.

  "Let's go to the restaurant downstairs. It's got excellent seafood."

  "OK. I'll, urn, just pop into the bathroom and freshen up."

  She was too flustered to pick out what she needed while he watched. She just grabbed the whole suitcase and lugged it into the bathroom. She closed the lid on the toilet, sat down and doubled over, shaking with a silent combination of laughter and tears.

  It was impossible, planning a seduction under these conditions.

  Chapter Seven

  Connor dropped his face into his hands and listened to the water rushing in the sink. He was in deep trouble. Everything about her challenged and aroused him. He wanted to make that practical facade of hers dissolve into molten heat, to hear that cool, sensible voice sobbing with pleasure. Begging for more.

  The bathroom door opened and Erin stepped out. She'd changed into a simple white blouse and a denim skirt that hit her just above her cute, dimpled knees. She laid her suit out on the bed. "This needs to be ironed," she murmured. "I'll, ah, steam it later."

  Her face was flushed and dewy. She'd woven her hair into a loose, swinging braid that reached the small of her back, and she'd reapplied some lip gloss that highlighted the shape of her full, sensual lips.

  Lip gloss was diabolical stuff, calculated to make a guy think about sex. Moist, lush lips, ready for kissing, for licking, for—

  Whoa. Down, boy. He looked away quickly, rubbed his face.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "You look a bit strange."

  He transformed a harsh laugh into a cough. "Headache," he lied.

  "Would you like a painkiller? I've got Excedrin, Advil, and Tylenol."

  "I just need some dinner, that's all."

  "You're sure?" She looked disappointed, that she couldn't solve his problem with one of her pills. How innocent. Solving his problem would be a much bigger job than that. It would involve a long, sweaty night in the saddle, taking him from above, from below, from the b
ack. Deep and hard and prolonged.

  Come to think of it, it would probably take more than one night.

  "Well, then. Let's go get you something to eat," she said briskly. "You probably just have low blood sugar."

  "Yeah, that must be it." He stuck his hand in the pocket of his chinos and tented it out to give his boner some privacy as he disabled the squealer. He played it very cool in the elevator, keeping his dick jammed against his thigh. Once they were seated, had checked out the menu and discussed the relative merits of stuffed or deep-fried prawns, and pan-fried oysters versus au gratin, the conversation lagged.

  Erin finally took matters into her own hands. "Connor, if I ask you a question, do you promise not to get mad?"

  "Nope," he told her. "I can't promise anything of the kind, if I don't know what you're asking."

  Her lips tightened. She ripped open a bag of oyster crackers and nibbled on them.

  He couldn't stand it any more. "OK, fine. Now I'm curious," he said. "You have to tell me now, whether I get mad or not. Out with it."

  "I just wanted to know about Claude Mueller." Her gaze flicked up, delicately cautious. "Did you, um… do a background check?"

  "My brother Davy ran a check, yeah," he admitted. He braced himself for the lecture.

  She just waited, expectant. "And?"

  "And what?"

  "Tell me what he found. I don't know much about Mueller, either."

  "There's not a lot to tell," he said. "He looks fine on paper. He's got a sickening amount of money. He donates to the arts. He doesn't get out much. He buys lots of museum quality antiquities."

  She looked puzzled. "So even though he checks out, you still—"

  "On paper is not good enough! You've never seen this guy, Erin!"

  "Keep your voice down, please." She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand with her fingertip, light and soothing. Like a kiss. "I was just curious. Please don't get all wound up again."

  "I am not all wound up," he snarled.

  At that fortuitous moment, his steak and prawns and Erin's pan-fried oysters arrived. He was fascinated with her perfect table manners: dabbity-dab with the napkin after every tidy bite. The quintessential good girl. Out of nowhere, he pictured himself crawling under the table. Spreading her legs wide, and pushing aside the gusset of her white cotton panties. Burying his face between her thighs, his tongue licking, lashing, probing, all while she tried to keep her cool and eat her dinner like nothing was out of the ordinary. Oh, yeah. What a perverse, sicko fantasy. It made his mouth water and his cock throb.

  "What's the matter?" she asked. "Don't you like your meal?"

  Nah, just want to dip you in drawn butter like a juicy prawn and then lick you all over. "I'm fine," he muttered. "Food's great."

  She eyed him as she chewed another careful bite. "So, your brother Davy. Is he in law enforcement as well?"

  He sliced off a chunk of steak. "Private investigator," he corrected.

  "Older or younger?"

  "Two years older."

  "Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"

  "Another brother, four years younger. Sean is his name."

  "And where is your family from?" she inquired politely.

  He hesitated, a fried prawn halfway to his mouth. "How much do you know about my family?" he asked. "Did Ed ever talk about me?"

  Her eyes slid away from his, and her color deepened. "Sometimes," she said. "He had theories about all of his colleagues, and he talked about them with Mom. But he never talked about them with me. I just overheard. Or eavesdropped, I suppose I should say."

  "So what was his theory about me?"

  She looked trapped. "Um… once I heard him say that the reason you were so good undercover was because you'd been undercover all your life. But I never knew what he meant by that. And when I asked him, he told me it was none of my damn business."

  He started to grin. "You asked him about me?"

  Her eyelashes swept down. She cut an oyster into perfect quarters and daintily ate one. "I was curious. What did he mean, anyway?"

  He stared down at his steak. "Well, uh, it's a long story."

  She popped another oyster quarter into her lush, sexy mouth and gave him an encouraging smile.

  He took a swig of beer and groped around for a logical beginning place. "Well… my mom died when I was eight, and Davy was ten—"

  Her fork clattered onto her plate. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry," she said. "How awful for you."

  "Yeah, it was bad," he admitted. "The twins were only four—"

  "Twins?" Her eyes widened. "You didn't mention twins."

  "I used to have three brothers," he explained. "Sean had a twin. His name was Kevin. He died ten years ago. Ran his truck off a cliff."

  Her eyes widened in horrified dismay. She lifted her napkin to her mouth. "God, Connor. I didn't mean to bring back painful memories."

  "And I didn't mean to freak you out with a Shakespearean tragedy, either," he said grimly. "I started out wrong. Sorry. Rewind. Let me try this again. So Dad and the four of us lived way out in the hills behind Endicott Falls. Don't know if you're familiar with the area."

  She nodded. "I know Endicott Falls. Cindy goes to college there."

  "I see. So anyhow, when Mom died, my dad went kind of nuts. He was a Vietnam vet, and I don't think the war experience did a lot for his mental stability to begin with. But when he lost her, he lost his grip. He home-schooled us, since the school bus didn't get within twenty miles of our place. Dad's curriculum was very… personalized."

  He stopped, surprised. Usually he avoided talking about his strange childhood. The inevitable stupid questions and snap judgments irritated him. But the glow of interest in Erin's eyes made it easier.

  "Dad was convinced that the end of civilization was at hand," he went on. "He was preparing us for the breakdown of the world order. So, along with reading and writing and math, it was hand-to-hand combat, social and political history, gardening, hunting, tracking. We learned how to build a lethal bomb out of ordinary stuff. How to dry meat, tan skins, eat grubs, sew up a wound. Everything a guy might need to know after the crash. Survival in the midst of anarchy."

  "That's amazing," she said.

  He dug into his steak. "A social worker came out to check on us once. Dad hid us in the woods, told her he'd sent us to live with his folks in upstate New York. Then he told her what was in store for her after the crash. Traumatized the poor woman. She ran away."

  "What did you and your brothers think of all this?"

  He shrugged. "Dad was a charismatic guy. Very convincing. And we were so isolated, no TV, no radio. Dad didn't want us brainwashed by mass media. For a long time we bought the whole story. But then Davy decided he wanted to go to high school. Told Dad he was going on a recon mission into enemy territory, but he was just desperate to meet some girls." He smiled at the memory; then his smile faded. "That was close to the end for Dad. He had a stroke later that year."

  She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. Electricity sparked, and she jerked her hand back with a soft murmur.

  He stared down at his hand, wishing she had left hers on top of it. "That's probably what Ed was referring to," he said. "Blending in, after growing up on another planet. You learn survival skills quick."

  "So what happened when your father died?" she asked.

  "We buried him out there on the land. I don't think that's legal, but we didn't know that. Davy got a job at the mill. We stuck together until I got through high school, and then Davy joined the Navy and I took over at the mill." He shrugged. "We got on with it."

  "How old were you when he died?"

  "Davy was eighteen, I was sixteen. Kevin and Sean were twelve."

  Erin bit her lip. She was getting teary-eyed. It alarmed him.

  "Look, you don't have to feel sorry for me," he assured her. "It was a strange way to grow up, but not a bad one. It was a beautiful place. I had my brothers for company. I don't regret learn
ing what Dad taught us. If Mom hadn't died, I would've called myself lucky."

  She mopped her eyes, a quick, furtive gesture, and smiled at him. "What was she like?" she asked.

  He thought about it for a moment. "I was really small when she died," he said. "I've lost a lot of details. But I remember her laughing. My dad was a silent, moody type, but she could make him laugh. She was the only one who could. After she died, he never laughed again."

  "How did she…" Her voice trailed off. "Uh, sorry," she murmured. "Never mind. I didn't mean to—"

  "Tubal pregnancy," he said. "We were too far from the hospital. It was January. Three feet of snow. She bled to death."

  She looked down and lifted her napkin to her mouth.

  "I'm OK," he said helplessly. Christ, he hadn't meant to make her cry. "Don't get all worked up. It was almost thirty years ago."

  She sniffed, and looked up at him with a soggy, embarrassed laugh. Her golden brown eyes were swimming with tears.

  He didn't decide to do it, it just happened. He reached out to touch the fine-textured skin of her cheek, capturing the tear on his finger. He lifted his hand to his lips and tasted it.

  A salty drop of distilled compassion.

  The hunger simmering in his body roared up into something huge. She swayed away from him, her tear-bright eyes wide with feminine caution. There was a clatter, a spreading wetness. His hands had clenched on the tablecloth, knocking over a long-stemmed water glass. "Whoa," he muttered. He threw his napkin on top of the puddle. "Sorry about that."

  "It's all right," she whispered.

  They took a time-out, concentrating on the food left on their plates. Forks clinking in the heavy silence made him think of his father. Eamon McCloud had not tolerated frivolous chatter at the table. He had believed in keeping your mouth shut unless you had something relevant to say. Davy was almost as taciturn as Dad had been, but that mandatory silence had been pure hell on Sean, the born chatterbox.

  But Erin hadn't been raised by Eamon McCloud. She didn't know how to cope with enormous silences like he did. She took a deep breath and tried again. "So, what are your brothers like?" she asked brightly.

  Her determination made him smile. "They're unique."