Within Temptation

by Tanya Holmes

“Well, Doc—my shrink—gave me a list of specific references to look up.” He pointed at the page in my hand. “That says memory repression’s linked to trauma. Emotional trauma. The clinical name is dissociative amnesia.” He threaded his fingers behind his head. “Further on you’ll read about a murder case in the nineties. A woman in Redwood City, California testified against her daddy. She’d forgotten all about the child he’d killed until somethin’ triggered the memory.”

  I glanced up from the reading material. “What are you saying? That I may have witnessed my mother’s murder?”

  “That or somethin’ related to it. Anything’s possible. I mean, this could explain why you don’t remember the whole interrogation Gray gave you. Look on the last page.” He darted a finger. “The child’s name was Eileen. Her daddy raped and murdered her best friend—a little girl named Susan. Both of them were eight-years-old. Eileen saw everything, but get this. She suppressed the memory for twenty years.”

  Curiosity and dread gnawed at me. I pointed to a particular paragraph. “It says here that most of her memories had unrelated triggers.”

  “Right. Sometimes it was words, or a smell…even a picture. But she wasn’t flooded with facts. Things came in trickles until the pieces fell together.”

  “Her father was convicted,” I murmured, still reading.

  “Yup. Murder in the first. After a twenty-year lag.”

  I lifted my eyes to his in amazement. “They returned a guilty verdict the same day they deliberated.”

  “Uh-huh. Her memory was credible enough for the jury.”

  My light of hope doused. I tossed the papers aside like they were worthless. “My memories were credible too, remember? A jury believed me and you went to prison.”

  “But every case is different. Who knows what you’ve forgotten.” His face sobered. “Ever think about hypnosis?”

  I gave my head a decisive shake. “No way.”

  “Why? Doc tried it on me once. Didn’t work. But it doesn’t mean it won’t for you.”

  “I can’t give that kind of control to a stranger.” I studied him for a long moment. “This is totally off topic, but I’m just curious about something. Are your family and friends the only reason you’re doing this? You know, helping me.”

  He took his time responding. “Since we’re veering off the map for a spell, how ‘bout you answer my question first?”

  “Which?”

  “The one I asked at your office.” His eyes pierced me. “Why’d you freak out when Tori and Dee Dee saw us?”

  Not this again. “What the heck does that have to do with—”

  “Everything. If we’re gonna dig into Lilith’s murder, I’ve got to know where your head is at.” When I rolled my eyes, he said, “You stand up for me at the hospital with the whole town looking on, but you sneak into the club under cover of darkness. You show up on my doorstep draped in a hood at night—this after avoiding me for four days. And you bust a gasket when folks see us together. Yet you defend me and Cholly in front of your family.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

  It made perfect sense to me.

  “Of course I stood up for you and Cholly,” I said. “I hate bullies, and as I recall, so do you.”

  “I get that, but it still doesn’t add up—especially the Tori and Dee Dee thing. Why’d you lose it when they saw us?”

  “I didn’t ‘lose it.’” I licked my lips. “Anyway the situations are completely different. My reaction with them was more discretionary than anything else. Mead, I can handle—”

  “Speaking of which, what’s up with that? If I didn’t know better I’d swear you hated each other.”

  “I don’t hate anybody. He’s the one with the problem. He hates Mother and I look like her. It’s a simple case of misdirected animosity.” I gestured. “Anyway, back to your original question. My family is very conscientious about public perception, so they’ve got just as much at stake as I do.”

  “Uh-huh. Which means your secrets are safe with them.”

  I gave a reluctant shrug. “Well, yes. Tori’s the town gossip and Dee Dee is her best friend. So I was concerned.”

  “Concerned?”

  “Let’s look at the facts.” I scooted forward, ticking them off with my fingers. “(1), you went to prison for my mother’s murder. (2), we’re the talk of the town, (3), we’ve been the subject of two—yes two—sleazy tabloid articles—”

  “All that’s true, but—”

  “And (4), I publicly humiliated Eddie and his wife. If anyone has a grudge against us, it’s Dee Dee. Who knows what whoppers she’s already embellished? As for the other stuff, I don’t want to give people—strangers—needless ammunition.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Newsflash: pulling strings all over town for me and Cholly gives them plenty.”

  “Maybe, but I didn’t have a choice. My family forced my hand.”

  “So you’ll fight bullies, but being seen with me is out of the question.”

  “No. That’s what you’re saying. I’m saying the women caught me off guard. I wasn’t….” I let out a frustrated breath. “I wasn’t prepared to deal with them. I’m human.”

  “A fact you keep forgetting. Every day’s not a dress rehearsal,” he told me. “You hit the ground running, and you make mistakes. Everybody does.”

  My twenty-six years of conditioning said otherwise. “That’s not me. I’ve never flown by the seat of my pants. I’m a planner. It’s called grace. Control. It’s who I am.”

  “Control or bondage?” The words struck a raw nerve. Our eyes met. His were soft and teeming with…pity? “Living on edge 24/7 was enough for me,” he continued. “It’s how I had to operate, but I’ve got dreams, and they don’t include worrying about tongue waggers.”

  Now who was the naïve one? “Our past is common knowledge,” I said. “Talk will always lurk somewhere. Why invite it?”

  “You said it yourself. It’s not going anywhere.”

  “Right, but I’ve built a life here. I’ve got a business to run. Colleagues, family, and friends to deal with.” My gaze fell from his. “And you’ve already said you’re not staying. Why should you care what people think? This is my home and I’ve worked too hard to….”

  He inched forward. “To what?”

  Heat crept across my face. Anger brimmed. “To get past my mother’s sleazy legacy,” I answered, my mouth tight.

  All I’d buried threatened to bubble to the surface. A deep ache hit me with sickening force.

  “Shannon?”

  My breath caught when he reached for my hand and brushed his thumb across the back of it. Flesh to flesh, my skin burned. The sensation crawled up my arm, to my heart. I snatched my hand away as silence claimed the room.

  “If you’re not gonna bring it up, then I will.” He stilled, but a muscle in his jaw trembled. “When we were at the club—”

  “Stop it,” I told him. “Nothing happened.”

  “Then why’d you disappear for four days?” When I didn’t answer, he lifted a brow. “Well?”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, you do.” His eyes captured mine. “Are you in love with him?”

  I sat back, suddenly captivated by the threads in my denim skirt. “That’s a rude question.”

  “Yeah, but I’d still like to know.” He draped his arm across the backrest and I felt heat from his fingertips, even though we weren’t touching. “Do y’all plan to have kids?”

  My heart became a live coal in my chest. “Another rude question.”

  “I don’t give a damn. Answer it anyway.”

  I continued staring into my lap. “We haven’t worked it all out. But once we get settled….”

  “How long before that happens?”

  Jaw tight, I hurled a look at him. “I—don’t—know.”

  “Sure you do. A month? Six? A year? Hell, he’s still young and all, but you gotta admit, time’s not on his side—for building
a family, I mean. He’s gotta be pushing fifty at least. Am I wrong?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Trace sighed hard. “Will you just answer the damn question? Are you in love with him or not?”

  “Of course I love him!”

  “No, are you in love?” he pressed. “There’s a difference.”

  “How would you know?”

  “‘Cause I love my mama. I love Cole, Bev, and Cholly. I also love rock-n-roll, the blues, smooth jazz, and my Harley. But I’m not in love with them.”

  My lips thinned. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He just looked at me.

  “Ever said it to another human being?”

  His jaw worked. “Once.”

  “Right.” I harrumphed. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

  I got up, but he tugged me back down, gently.

  “Wait,” he said in a rough whisper.

  His mouth fell silent, but his eyes didn’t. They said what his tongue couldn’t say. And when he dragged his thumb along my palm, everything went torpid and blurry.

  The room shrank—so did the couch. The stillness between us was as taut as the tightrope I’d have to walk to get out of here. Yes, I had to leave—again—before I said something, did something. Before I could no longer deny what we both knew.

  He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles one at a time, his smoldering eyes telegraphing a bold promise of something dark and forbidden. Oddly enough, in that instant I realized Darien had never looked at me this way.

  “Know what I wish right now?” he said in a raw voice.

  I stared back at him helplessly.

  “That this hand was your mouth.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  No Quarter Given

  SHANNON

  ____________________________

  I shot to my feet and collected my things in a panic, but he uncoiled from the sofa right after me. And the awareness was swift.

  I felt him at my back when I grabbed my scarf. I felt him in my blood when he sighed my name. I felt him in my bones when his breath kissed my neck.

  Six feet and several inches of imposing heat flowed out of him, making me weak…dizzy. Except for the trembling, I couldn’t move. Nothing seemed to work—my arms, my brain…everything froze.

  The scarf slipped from my useless hands to the floor, forgotten.

  “Stay,” he whispered, looming behind me.

  Fear squeezed my throat. “I-I can’t.”

  “Stay.”

  My eyes fluttered shut as he kneaded my shoulders. The weight of his hands, strong, yet gentle, made me melt.

  His fingers slid down my arms to lace with mine. “Why’d you disappear on me?” he asked, his voice deep and raspy.

  I couldn’t form a thought, much less a reply.

  “Why?” he asked again.

  My tongue finally unglued. “Something came up at the—”

  “You’re lying,” he murmured into my hair.

  “No, I….”

  “Stop.” When he tied our hands beneath my ribcage, I went boneless, and the back of my head rested against his chest. “You ran because you feel what I feel. That’s why you’re trying to run now. Admit it.”

  I hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.

  “See,” he breathed, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  I was trembling wholesale. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I can’t help it.” He buried his face in my neck, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. “My reaction to you is…. Damn. What’s that fancy word of yours?” He sucked my earlobe and whispered, “‘Visceral,’ right?”

  He turned me around and I could feel him gazing down at the top of my head. Looking at him wasn’t an option. If I did, I’d be lost. So I studied the floor planks, noting the contrast between the pale wood and his golden skin. Brown hair dusted his toes, and his feet were twice as large as mine.

  The beginning notes of Nat King Cole’s “Nature Boy” filled the silence. He nudged my chin up with a finger, and what I saw stole my breath. His eyes burned. Instinct made me back away until a wall appeared out of nowhere, and just as he’d done at the garage, he moved in on me. His muscles expanded when he rested his forearm above my head to box me in. Unlike the wall at my back, the wall of muscle in front of me didn’t hold me steady, and the more I stared at it, the weaker I became.

  Trace touched my mouth with his fingertip, pressing past the barrier of my lips until my teeth parted. My breath rushed in on a gasp as he penetrated and explored. All the while, he stared down at me, his intent sure. Before I could stop myself, I’d sucked and drawn his finger in deeper. He swore softly and his nostrils flared. After I realized what I’d done, I shamefully jerked my head away, dislodging him, but the seductive taste and feel of him remained.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  I obeyed, giving in to the carnal awareness whittling my breath down to short, audible pants. My heart stopped once he lifted his glistening finger and sucked it into his mouth. He kept his eyes trained on me while he lowered his hand to my lips and reverently painted his wetness across them. His chest expanded when I sampled his gift: warmth, sweetness, and fire. That’s how he tasted. Like heaven and hell, darkness and light.

  He hadn’t kissed me, yet I knew his touch. Hadn’t swept his tongue inside, yet I knew his taste. Hadn’t done anything except toy with my mouth, but in my imagination he’d done everything and then some. Heat scalded my loins, made me ache so badly I wanted to cry, and like clockwork, the rain came, salving the blaze with a weepy dampness familiar to every woman.

  “Please, j-just let me leave,” I begged

  He shook his head as if to say, No mercy.

  I couldn’t breathe. “Trace…I’m scared.”

  “I know.” He slowly cradled my jaw. “Me too.”

  As a prelude and promise of what was to come, his breath caressed me even before his mouth did. The moment his lips whispered against mine, I froze, my body rigid with anticipation and fear. Yet, dazed surprise came when he made contact. For such a big man, he had a gentleness about him that made me tremble. I’d expected his kiss to be voracious and demanding, but it was soft, probing, and achingly tender.

  Trace became the potter, and I was his clay. He sucked my lips, testing and tasting, until I’d unfolded like a rose beneath the sun’s command.

  Even as my body welded with his, some distant part of me still waited for the defenses to come, waited for an inner alarm to steer me away from this all-consuming fire. Guilt should have reared up by now, but it was as absent from my mind as the man whose ring I wore.

  Trace made love to my mouth. His passion bled into me in degrees, and soon our tender, exploratory kisses turned feverish and desperate. He kissed my cheeks and my eyes, only to plunder my lips again, and what he gave, I gave back, tongue for tongue, breath for breath.

  His arms swept around to enfold me into his hard body. Was he lifting me? Oh, God, he was. He anchored me to the wall as I hooked my heels around his back, and raked my fingers through his hair. Blood boiled between my legs when he pressed himself there. Pipe-hard, he rocked against me with a slow, tortuous rhythm.

  Desire overshadowed me in dark waves as he covered my breast with his hand and rasped my nipple to life. He tore his mouth from mine, dipping lower to capture the stiff peak he’d aroused. Sensation burned across my chest and bathed my loins as he nursed on me through my blouse. The damp heat bled into the fabric, and I cried out in a desperate whimper.

  “It’s all right,” he soothed.

  He brought his lips up to mine for a long, drugging kiss. Next thing I knew, he’d pulled back to peel off his shirt, just ripped the thing over his head. Dizzy with need, I trembled when he snaked his hand beneath my shirt, under my bra, and covered my naked breast. My nipple, still wet from his mouth, puckered against his palm. He trailed his thumb from the edge to the center, circling my areola until he’d worried it into a painf
ul nub.

  “These are all I think about anymore,” he rasped, his eyes welded to mine. “I imagine how they’ll taste. Then I torture myself with wondering what color they are.” He bit his bottom lip. “Which is it? Brown? Or pink?”

  My breath stopped once his other hand flicked each button until my blouse fell open. One swift tug later, he’d unhooked the front clasp of my bra and pushed the cups aside.

  Trace smiled. “Pink. I knew it.” A muscle in his jaw pumped. “God, I could look at these all night.” He leaned his forehead against mine and continued to stare down at them. Embarrassed, I tried to cover myself. “Naw,” he said. “Let me see you.”

  Cupping me, he tortured the damp peak with his thumb, then his lips did a slow dance down my neck to my breast. My mind went blank as he suckled my nipple, drawing so hard on it that my sex clenched in pleasure. He plucked every nuance with an expertise that left me breathless, and once he covered my mouth again, his lips were soft, warm, and wet.

  “Has he ever made you feel like this?” Trace asked.

  I couldn’t lie. Not to him. “No.”

  “He ever make you come?”

  A flash-fire bled over my face. “What?”

  “An orgasm. He ever give you one?”

  I slowly shook my head ‘no.’

  “Good,” he whispered.

  “But we can’t—”

  As if from a distance, I felt him raise my skirt, felt him tug my tights halfway down my legs, felt his fingers make a slow descent to stroke me through the thin cotton of my panties. The way his lips worshipped my mouth, the way his hand played me like a fiddle, the way he moved my panties aside and greeted my wet flesh, shoved me to the brink and back. He stroked one spot, that glorious bundle of nerves, over and over with thumb and forefinger, until I stiffened, until I cried his name, until I begged him to put me out of my misery.

  “Time to fly,” he whispered into my mouth.

  Two strokes later, I did just that. Trace took me to the cliff, tossed me over the edge, and my body exploded in a burst of flames. He was right there, cradling me through it all. Every convulsion was met with a kiss. Every moan earned another caress, every sigh a word of encouragement, until I wilted against him.