Within Temptation

by Tanya Holmes

  “What’s wrong with today?”

  “Just look at you,” I said. “Your head’s about to explode.”

  She snapped her arms together. “I don’t care. I want to see him now.”

  “And people in hell want ice water.” I calmly flipped the car into gear, then delivered a look that dared her to test me. “We’re not going today and that’s the end of it.”

  She jerked her head around and glared daggers out of the passenger window. “Fine. Then take me home. Gerard and I can pick up my car tomorrow!”

  “That’s a negative too. You’re liable to rip somebody a new asshole.” I pulled back into traffic. “I’ve got a better idea. Just trust me, okay?”

  SHANNON

  ____________________________

  Trace skidded to a stop. “Had enough?”

  “Again!” Giggling, I adjusted my helmet, then tied my arms back around his waist. “Only this time, go faster.”

  He laughed and gunned the engine. “You asked for it. Hold on.”

  The Harley lurched forward, spewing a white cloud into the wind as we took yet another lap around Miller’s Pond—our sixth. The cold weather had turned the earth into cement, but the bike’s studded tires easily ground the dirt to powder. I rested my head against Trace’s back and squeezed him in gratitude. I’d wanted to scream when he’d refused to take me to Uncle Jackson, but he’d known exactly what I needed—as always.

  Once we’d circled the pond six more times, Trace parked the bike and we settled between a clutch of evergreens. For the next hour, we huddled shoulder-to-shoulder beneath a thick brown quilt, sharing a thermos of hot cocoa. A gray blanket lay under us. We sat in companionable silence, watching nature in all its glory beneath the burnished gold of the setting sun. Black birds flitted from tree to tree while a gaggle of geese pecked the ground. A white-tailed doe and her baby warily approached the icy pond, but when a chainsaw echoed in the distance, the mother lost her nerve and scurried off into the brush. Her skittish fawn followed in hot pursuit.

  “Warm enough?” he asked curling an arm around me.

  I nodded as he polished off the rest of the cocoa.

  He nudged his chin at our surroundings. “Who needs drugs when we’ve got this? Three hours ago you were spitting nails and now….”

  “I’m docile,” I said with a smile.

  Trace grinned and lifted his face to the darkening sky. “It was always magical here.”

  “Like a little slice of heaven.” I breathed in a lungful. “After today’s madness, I needed this. Thanks for dragging me.”

  I inched up to peck his cheek, but things didn’t go as planned. Somehow, my ‘peck’ missed his cheek and landed on the corner of his mouth. This led to a kiss, then another, until our kisses slowly morphed into a carnal feeding frenzy—five and a half mindless minutes of roving hands, seeking lips, probing tongues, and heavy breathing.

  Would I never learn ‘pecks’ were impossible for us?

  Trace was first to pull away. “Shannon,” he breathed. “I’m not up for another palm-pilot episode. We gotta stop.”

  I stared back at him in desperation, breasts heavy, panties wet, my chest pumping as fast as his. Obviously, he’d reached his limit, but I craved what he’d given me up against that wall in his house. With my world falling apart, I needed to forget about hypnosis, my lying family…and my fiancé.

  I needed to get lost in Trace.

  So I kissed him again, only this time taking great care to tease a response out of him. Once I eased back to gauge his reaction, he swallowed and sucked in an unsteady breath, but he didn’t move. Just watched me intently and waited. Rising up, I hesitated before straddling his lap. I felt reckless, wild, and out of control—and I liked it. Loved it, actually.

  He did too.

  The heat in his gaze said it all.

  I gathered my courage and grabbed his jacket lapels, pausing to search his fathomless eyes. When I found what I was looking for, I yanked him in for another kiss. It didn’t take much else. In a split second, I was on my back, tucked beneath the sheltering weight of his powerful body.

  Trace snatched the quilt over us, cocooning me in warmth as his hungry mouth devoured mine. He caught my lower lip, nibbling and sucking, before delving back in for a deeper kiss, making me blind to everything but him.

  By now our pelvises were aligned, with his thick sex lying between my legs. I pressed myself against his erection. He circled his hips in response, grinding into my center, urging me to do the same, his pace slow and unrelenting.

  Several minutes of this pushed him to the brink again. “No. I won’t take you out here…on the ground.” A breath gushed out of him. He sucked in another and closed his eyes. “Not for your first time—not while you’re still wearin’ his ring.”

  I understood. It wasn’t like I wanted to lose my virginity out here either, yet I refused to leave him unsatisfied again. The hanky story was still fresh in my mind.

  So I ignored his protests and unbuckled his jeans, yanking the rough fabric down until nothing separated us but his cotton boxer briefs and the thin wool of my leggings. I couldn’t see anything beneath the quilt, yet I felt him—hot and impossibly hard.

  “You once told me you could orgasm just by doing this.” I cupped his backside. “Let’s test that theory.”

  He bit his bottom lip when I ground myself into him like he’d shown me. Only now, I could feel his every ridge, and he could feel…me. I rotated my hips once, and again.

  “Shannon, you’re—” He groaned when I repeated the motion. “Fuuuuuck. You’re gonna…you’re gonna make me come.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said in a determined voice.

  Another groan tore from his throat several beats later. “Okay…okay…you win! Shit.”

  Closing his lids briefly, he stilled and dragged in a breath, then another. His body trembled above mine as he fought to compose himself. Half a minute inched by before he spoke.

  “Now here’s the thing,” he rasped as he slowly began rolling his hips against me. “If you want this, there’s a price you’ll have to pay…‘cause I’m gonna mark you.” He tapped a finger against my temple. “Right here. Understand?”

  I shook my head, my lids weighted by the slow-building pleasure.

  Trace gazed down at me, desire raging in his eyes. “I’m about to take you someplace you’ve never been,” he gritted out in between strokes, “and when you come back, you’ll always remember it was me who took you there.”

  With that, he shoved my sweater up, yanked my bra cup down, and sucked my nipple into his mouth. An invisible line of fire burned from my breast to stoke the blaze between my legs, sending me on a pulse-pounding spiral.

  He buried a hand beneath me to tip my pelvis so his erection caressed me right where I needed him. Pleasure seared me like wild fire.

  I gasped, “Trace….”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he breathed. “I love it when you say my name.”

  Lost in the maelstrom, I clung to him as he swirled his tongue around my nipple and drew deeply, tugging at the tight bead. It glistened when he released it and a sigh of cool air breezed over my flesh.

  He cradled my face and locked his gaze with mine. His eyes were like twin flames of golden hazel. “Do you need me, Shannon?” he urged. “Do you?”

  Tears stung. “More than anything.”

  Trace covered my mouth in a soul-stealing kiss as he continued to stroke the same spot between my legs. When I moaned, he fisted my hair, his powerful hips never missing a beat, until the inner tightening began, until the world burned away and I shattered beneath him, crying out his name.

  Moments later, Trace hung above me on unsteady forearms. He gasped and stared deeply into my eyes—his were soft, helpless, and filled with wonder. I’d never seen anything more beautiful. Then his lids trembled shut and he pressed his forehead to mine as his rock-hard penis slowly pulsed against my softness, once, twice, then three more times. Within seconds, a warm dam
pness seeped into the thin fabric covering my stomach.

  As soon as the storm passed he collapsed.

  “Shannon.”

  I hugged him fiercely. “Oh, God, I wanted—”

  “So did I,” he whispered. “So did I.”

  I ran my fingers through his hair and held him close. We lay with him on top of me for what seemed like forever…touching, whispering, kissing, sighing, and breathing each other in.

  Reality was kind. It didn’t invade or taunt. Just kept a respectful distance, giving us ample time to live in the moment.

  Something wonderful had just happened between us, something amazing yet frightening. I closed my eyes and waited for the familiar pang of guilt, but it wasn’t there. Sadness was though, along with a stark fear that had plagued me for some time, a fear I’d finally found the courage to acknowledge.

  I’d fallen in love with Trace Dawson.

  Again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A Maleficent Encounter

  SHANNON

  ____________________________

  Reality’s ‘kindness’ was short-lived. It slammed into me the next morning when Darien called. It struck again when I picked Trace up several hours later. He must have sensed something was wrong; I could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t press the issue, thank God. If he had, I would’ve been forced to tell him the truth. That Darien was on his way home and I had no idea what I was going to do. Given everything that had happened yesterday, I’d tossed and turned all night, weighing the pros and cons, yet every solution came with its own set of consequences.

  Who I wanted wasn’t the question. My heart had already chosen Trace, but my brain—haunted by twenty-six years of conditioning—had other ideas.

  When we finally arrived at my godfather’s house, Eddie Gray’s belligerent greeting from the doorway was a welcomed distraction.

  “Y’all best get the fuck off my daddy’s property.”

  Trace was first out of the car. He approached his old nemesis with a smile. “And if I refuse?” he said over the noise bleeding from a TV inside. “Oh, by the way. Congrats. I hear your wife just hatched another gremlin.”

  Eddie moved to lunge, but Trace shoved him back.

  Knowing Trace wouldn’t throw a punch, I stepped between them, but Eddie was a different story. I braced the pig’s chest. “Keep this up and I’ll make sure you don’t work anywhere in this state or beyond. That’s the last thing you need with another mouth to feed.”

  Eddie’s nostrils flared. “Hidin’ behind the lady’s skirts again, Dawson?”

  Trace chuckled. “Naw, I just made a resolution to avoid bullshit, but I can break it one last time if you want. You know where I live. We can finish this discussion whenever you like. Hell, I figure if you’d wanted to settle stuff, you’d’ve come by long ago. But you’re a pussy, Eddie. Always have been.”

  As the two men traded barbs, I called out to my godfather. “Uncle Jackson. You can either talk to the prosecutor’s office or me. The choice is yours.”

  The sound of rebel yells, gunfire and bugles evaporated with the audible click of a TV remote. “Let ‘em by,” came the rusty voice from the darkness inside. “Go back to the hospital, boy. Tell Dee Dee I got held up.”

  Eddie yelled, “But Daddy—”

  “Go on now. Leave. Come back in an hour.”

  Eyes shooting fire, Eddie glowered at us for a few seconds, then muttered a curse before storming down the steps to climb into his mangy pickup truck.

  He peeled off in a cloud of gravel.

  Trace said nothing as he took my hand and led the way up the stairs. I switched on my phone’s voice record app, then discreetly tucked it into my breast pocket.

  Once inside, we went down a short hallway to the master suite. Jackson Gray had retained ownership of this three-bedroom rambler, staying here whenever he visited from Roanoke.

  Like the rest of the house, his bedroom hadn’t been cleaned in months. A horrible stench hit me like a fist. It smelled of rotted food, trash, and body odor. Soiled dishes were stacked on every available surface. Trash overflowed the receptacle. Clothes lay in piles.

  Mouth agape, I took in the fetid surroundings. A king-sized bed dominated the left side. Its posts and frame looked to be made of the same mahogany as the floor and walls. Three bay windows lay hidden behind drawn wooden shutters, and the lack of natural lighting made the room feel like a crypt.

  The loud flush of a toilet gave me a start. My godfather shuffled out of an adjoining bathroom wearing a baggy tan robe and scuffed leather slippers. Looking haggard, if not emaciated, Sheriff Gray ambled past us on unsteady feet. He’d lost a quarter of his body weight. His face was skull-like with deep-socketed eyes. And, dear God, he was drunk. The gamy scent that trailed him confirmed my suspicions. He smelled of Vick’s Vapor Rub, unwashed flesh, and booze. He looked like the room—unkempt and in dire need of a scrub brush.

  He didn’t seem surprised that we’d come. If anything, he acted indifferent. I hadn’t seen him in more than six months, and as appearances went, his had changed for the worst. Silver hair spiked his pale crown. His moss-green eyes had turned so gray they almost matched the shaggy pelt of hair that peeked through the V of his robe.

  He climbed on the mattress. “Sears warned me you’d come. Surprised to see you with him, though.” He pointed me toward a seat. Trace he ignored.

  Dirty clothes littered the chair by his bed. I brushed them to the floor with my purse and sat, trying to keep the revulsion from my expression.

  As a child, I’d ridden in his big squad car—me, with little girl’s eyes. Him, with a holstered gun, silver badge, and brass buttons adorning his barrel-chested frame. He’d been larger than life in that uniform, an invincible force that could do no wrong, but this wasn’t the indomitable man whose shoulders I’d ridden. This was a defeated shadow, a mortal who was not long for this world.

  Sheriff Jackson Gray was dying.

  Whatever latent anger I’d carried up until now vanished. Shock and soul-deep sadness had taken its place. I ached to throw my arms around him, to hold him and tell him I loved him, but this wasn’t the time for that. This was the time for answers. There was too much at stake.

  I would have to save the grieving for another day.

  Trace stood behind me. His hands curled over the backrest, so hard I could actually feel the tension in his grip. “You’ve been here all this time, haven’t you, old man?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  I cleared my throat and ignored the sorrow squeezing my heart. “So what’s with the Roanoke phone number I’ve been calling?”

  “It’s an answering service,” Uncle Jackson said. His gaze skipped between Trace and me. “As y’all can see, my time is short.” He sat back, folded his bony arms across his sunken chest, and flashed a tilted smile chock-full of dark yellow teeth. “Prostate cancer. That’s why I’m holed up here. Spending my last days doing what I love. Watching TV and drinking. Living as I please, in peace. Now if you got questions, feel free to ask, but I don’t have to answer them.”

  “You hypnotized me,” I said, trying to deliver my words with some semblance of calm. “I know it, and so do you. If you want peace, you’ll talk. You’ll right this wrong and meet Jesus with a clear conscience. Otherwise, you’ll not get rid of me. As I’m sure you’ve seen, I’m very tenacious.”

  Trace rounded my chair. His eyes glittered with animosity. He snatched the hypnosis tape from his peacoat and shook the cassette before the sheriff’s suspicious eyes. “The proof’s right here.” He stuffed the tape back into his pocket, patted it. “We also paid Valene Campbell a visit. She says you strong-armed her into keeping mum about Shannon.”

  Uncle Jackson erupted into a coughing fit until he’d hacked up a glob of green phlegm, which he spat into one of the many filthy glasses on his nightstand. The sight turned my stomach. Trace squeezed my shoulder when the sheriff grabbed a flask from a robe pocket. Three swallows later, h
e burped into his sleeve, then stared hard at the place where Trace’s hand rested.

  I quirked a brow, daring him to comment. “Just tell me the truth. I don’t want to sit here all day.”

  “Everything I done, I done for good reason.”

  “So you admit it?” I asked, amazed.

  He plucked a tissue from a Kleenex box on the bed and mopped his nose in a brisk gesture. “What the hell? I got nothing to lose,” he said with a huff. “‘Cause if you tell anybody, I’ll just deny it. Nobody’d believe you. Not after your shameful escapades with this murdering scum. They’ll just think you’ve lost your mind. All the mess you been stirring up. Your little trip to Cheltenham Manor. The accusations against your family. Siding with Dawson against my boy—”

  “Your boy is a knuckle-draggin’ ape,” Trace barked. “You framed me to get revenge on my family, you gutless prick.”

  Uncle Jackson sneered. The stroke he’d suffered two years ago had ravaged the nerves on the right side of his face, making his smiles—on the rare occasions he gave them—appear frightfully cartoonish. “You’re as stupid as ever,” he said.

  “What’s the truth?” I asked. “That’s assuming you even know the meaning of the word anymore.”

  He glared first at Trace, then back at me, his angry eyes steady. “You think I’d risk my career for a grudge? Not damn likely.” He burped into his fist. “Your daddy was my best friend, Shannon. Since high school. I stepped in when some stupid jocks tried to kick his ass. A strange alliance, considering our class differences, but Harrison Bradford grew to be the best friend I ever had. He was there when I went MIA in Nam. He made the calls. To congressmen. Senators. Hell, I pay my debts. What I done for you, I done for him.”

  “How do lies honor my father’s memory?” I asked.

  He wheezed a breath. “You had a diary and you drew lotsa pictures.” His expression grew sad. “We ended up burning everything.”

  “For God’s sake, why?” I demanded.

  “I had no choice,” Uncle Jackson said. His voice crackled with phlegm. “Your prints were on the murder weapon.”