Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town

by Suzanne McMinn

  The darkness felt thick with regret. New regret, old regret. It all swam together.

  She went out of the kitchen, through the shadowed hall. Chandelier light flooded the entry, left on for her guests. She flipped the security lock and looked up the sweep of stairs. The click of Cole’s door shutting came to her as she reached the steps. Without giving herself time to think, she ran up the staircase and headed straight for his room. Her knock sounded confident, but when he opened the door, she felt pure nerves.

  “I’m sorry about snapping at you before the tea,” she blurted out. “You were trying to help and I was rude.”

  She waited for him to say something, anything. Her chest felt tight, achy, needy. She didn’t want to feel this way.

  The beaded lamp in the sitting area backlit his face and his expression was hard to read or even see.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly. “I’d be an idiot if I didn’t understand. I don’t want to do anything that will interfere with your business. And I hope that’s not why you were sitting down there eating fifty Moon Pies.”

  “Three,” she corrected. “I only ate three. I was a little stressed out.”

  “There are better ways to relieve stress.”

  There was a sensual tease in his voice. Was he flirting with her? When was the last time a man had flirted with her? Or that she’d flirted with a man?

  Reckless thoughts to be having as she stood here with Cole.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll let you get to bed.” She turned away, but his strong hand appeared on her forearm, bringing her back.

  “Hey.” His eyes burned through the shadows. “Thank you.”

  God, she’d been nothing but rude to him since he’d arrived at Bellefleur and now he was being nice. She felt so, so small.

  “I was wrong, that’s all, and—” And what? Her emotions were a jumbled wreck right now. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

  “And you’re stressed,” he finished for her.

  She lifted her eyes. He was so damn dangerous to her pulse. He’d let go of her arm, but he still stood there, so close, so incredibly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, and if she had a brain in her head she’d already be halfway to her own room.

  “I’ve got something for that,” he said.

  Her heart all but jumped out of her chest before she realized he was turning away to pour her a glass of merlot from the low table in the sitting area. Beyond lay the rosewood half-tester bed, piled high with a down comforter, blankets and pillows. An antiqued white nightstand, its curvaceous lines picked out in gold leaf, sat beside it. Cole’s watch and a pair of eyeglasses rested on a pile of papers. He wore glasses to read, she realized with a jolt. The vision of Cole in those eyeglasses came to her as startlingly sexy.

  It was all too intimate and unnerving. She was in his bedroom now, learning things about him she didn’t want to know. He was a stranger and she should keep it that way.

  And yet somewhere inside her, she knew he was no stranger at all and she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to know the man who had grown out of the boy she’d loved. It was crazy and awful but unbearably true.

  “I can’t—” she started, but he said, “You can,” and he pressed the glass into her hand.

  It would be ungracious to hand it back, to run. Or maybe she just didn’t want to do either of those things.

  “You can sit down,” he said, and there was a twitch of amusement curving his hard lips. “You can relax. You don’t have to be on duty twenty-four/seven, Bryn. It’s not good for you. Take a break. Smell the roses.”

  She almost choked on the sip of wine she’d taken. “Right. And I bet you do that.” Mr. Hotshot Attorney.

  He looked up from pouring his own glass. “I do when I need to.” He came back toward her and took her hand. She was too surprised to stop him when he led her to one of the upholstered chintz chairs. She perched on the seat, as if sitting back would be too huge a commitment. He sat down in the other chair, stretched his long, jean-clad legs. “I drove down to the bayou this evening and just walked around.”

  “You’re comparing smelling the roses to hanging out with alligators?”

  He laughed. “Nothing like the scent of wild muscadine and the feel of marsh grass under my feet to remind me who I am. We lived off the swamps when I was a kid. Between plantation jobs, we’d camp out, live out of our pickup, and cook crawfish and rice over an open fire. We knew how to survive. It wasn’t all bad, though. Those were some of the best times of my life.”

  The spooky realm of the slow-moving bayous had never appealed to Bryn. “I was always afraid of swamp monsters.”

  “The monsters aren’t in the swamps, Bryn.”

  The clock on the bed stand across the room ticked in the silence. The window was open, and the heavy breeze sighed in the oaks outside.

  “You never told me about living off the swamps,” she said finally.

  “I didn’t think talking about living out of a pickup and eating crawfish by the bayou was going to impress a girl who’d grown up at Bellefleur.”

  “Were you trying to impress me?”

  “Of course.”

  Damn his lazy charm. She took another sip of the merlot. He looked so relaxed, and she was so…not. “You could have told me some lies about wrestling eight-foot alligators.”

  “Would that have impressed you?”

  “I was always impressed with you, Cole.” Her hazardous admission hung in the humid air between them. But there were things she hadn’t said fifteen years ago and she owed it to him to say them now. “I always knew you’d be a success. I wasn’t surprised to see how far you’ve come. I’d never met anyone like you. You didn’t have rules and boundaries. You made me think I could live that way, too.”

  It was an uncomfortable, scary thought. Her life had always run on some track that had been laid down before she was born, and Cole had made her imagine living outside of that track.

  “Your father would never have let us be together,” he pointed out, and something grim entered his voice.

  She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she knew better. At sixteen, she’d looked at life through rose-colored glasses. She’d thought dreams really did come true. But even if Aimee hadn’t died, her father still wouldn’t have given his blessing for her to be with Cole. And she probably wouldn’t have had the courage to openly rebel.

  “My father had some outdated ideas about proper debutante behavior. He was going to throw a ball for us that summer.”

  “A ball. Like with ballgowns and Scarlett O’Hara dancing?”

  He almost got her to smile. “Hey, it’s tradition. That’s why we were taking dance that summer.” Then… “It never happened.”

  “I never thought about how much your life must have changed after Aimee died,” he said quietly. “Not till I came here and saw you again.”

  “I lost everyone.”

  “You’ve still got your mom.”

  Emotion pricked behind her eyes. “She can’t help you find any answers about Aimee, Cole.”

  A taut beat stretched, then, “Why not?”

  He didn’t sound angry, but he deserved an answer. “My mother had a series of small strokes a few years ago.” She worked to make her voice steady, mechanical. “As a result, she suffered what’s known as vascular dementia. It’s caused by an extensive narrowing of the arteries and blood supply to the brain. She has trouble thinking, reasoning, remembering. Sometimes she doesn’t know who I am.”

  Her throat was damnably thick now.

  “At first we thought she might have Alzheimer’s,” she went on, “and she went through a lot of testing before they figured it out. She’s being treated, but it’s irreversible and it will only get worse. Not many people know about her condition. She was depressed for a long time after Aimee died, so she’d pretty much withdrawn from any type of social life. She lives in one of the cottages on the grounds with a nurse.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother, Bryn.” The symp
athy shining in Cole’s eyes threatened to break her control.

  “You know what’s ironic? My mother is pretty happy now. Most of the time, she either can’t remember Aimee at all or she can’t remember that she died.” If only she could forget, too. “Mr. Brouchard keeps camellias all around the cottage for her. They were always her favorite flowers. All it takes to make her happy now is a camellia.”

  Her voice wobbled and she stopped to clear her throat. “I have to go now.” Her chest hurt, and stupid tears were scorching hot and traitorous behind her eyes. She could not fall apart in front of Cole.

  She got up, ready to run.

  She’d taken only a few steps when she realized the glass of merlot was still in her hand. She turned, meaning to set it down, but he was there. She bumped into him and the merlot sloshed everywhere—his shirt, her top, the heart pine floor. That was going to make a stain if she didn’t get it up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said roughly. There were napkins somewhere. The table. She tried to push past him blindly but he wouldn’t let her.

  “Bryn.”

  He was in her way, all six brooding feet of him.

  “I’ll clean it up,” she said.

  “Forget it, it’s nothing. It’s you I’m worried about.” He reached out, touched her arm.

  “I’m fine,” she said desperately. “I’m worried about the floor. I can’t afford to have it refinished if that makes a stain.” Then that was it, she was crying like a baby. Over a floor.

  She pushed past him and this time she made it to the stack of napkins on the table. She knelt on the floor, and damn him, he was right there, helping her. They sopped up the wine and she tried to stop crying but it was as if she’d opened some floodgate and couldn’t shut it back. He didn’t say anything, just wiped up the floor, then took her hand and lifted her to her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered after she’d put the wet napkins in the trash. She just needed to get the heck out of Dodge, and yet leaving was the last thing she wanted to do. It was nonsensical and frightening, and yet still she didn’t move. “I’m just a little stressed about money right now and—” She squeezed her eyes shut against the unbearable compassion in his gaze.

  “You’re not crying about the floor, Bryn.” She felt him thumb away one of the hot tears on her cheek, then he pulled her into his arms. “You’re doing too much and you’re doing it alone.”

  He was right, she wasn’t crying about the floor. It was all the intense feelings of the past few days, spinning together in one huge maelstrom of emotion. He was stroking her back soothingly, and it was comfort, nothing but comfort. Then she opened her eyes and saw the truth beyond the controlled consolation of his embrace.

  A truth that crackled between them as if it were alive. He wasn’t touching her any differently, but it suddenly seemed shockingly intimate.

  All her aching need was his aching need, too. All the pain, all the heartache, all the guilt, they’d shared it all along. They’d both lost so much. And tonight, the things that had torn them apart didn’t seem to matter as much as what pulled them together.

  Her room seemed far away and utterly lonely and she knew why she didn’t want to leave. And if she was kidding herself about why she was going to stay, she didn’t want to know.

  “Maybe you should go,” he said, and there was a shake to his voice. “Because I’m—”

  “I don’t want—”

  “—not sure I can handle it if you don’t.”

  “—to be alone.”

  “Bryn—”

  She kissed him.

  Chapter 10

  Cole closed his eyes, dizzy with pleasure at the sensation of Bryn’s tongue sweeping inside his mouth, sweetly, delicately, claiming his sanity. This was wrong, so wrong, had to be wrong. But he’d longed for her from the instant he’d laid eyes on her again at Bellefleur.

  Hell, before he came back to Bellefleur. And he couldn’t remember why this was so wrong….

  His fingers were running through her hair, down her back, and she was kissing him as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Her body pressed against him, setting off shockwaves of desire inside him. Hunger and passion and hope were all there for the taking, and he took it, pulled her up into his arms, carried her to the half-tester bed in two long strides, then strode back long enough to kick the door shut. And he stood there, barely breathing, the bang of his heart against the wall of his chest hurting him. Everything inside him hurt. And she was hurting, too. She sat there on the bed, staring up at him with desperate eyes, wide and haunted and wet.

  “Bryn—”

  “I don’t want to be alone,” she said again, this time in a broken whisper. “I need this tonight.”

  She needed this. Not him. This. But when she reached for him, there was no way he wasn’t going to respond. He had to kiss her again or everything inside him was going to tear apart. He tumbled back onto the bed with her and when he kissed her, he didn’t hurt anymore. He didn’t feel pulled thin by grief or on fire from bitterness.

  Her hands skimmed down his back, dragging him closer, and nothing else existed. Just her mouth and her hands and her low, unbearably sexy moan as he slipped his hand between them and touched her breast through her shirt. She pulled away just long enough to grab the hem of her T-shirt and pull it over her head, then greedily, needily, her mouth claimed him again. He could feel her naked breasts pushing against his chest and he was nearly mindless.

  He slipped beside her, pulling her over top of him. Her eyes were close, softly shining in the low lamplight, and she was more beautiful than he could believe. Her mouth was full and wet and her hands…her hands were tearing apart the clasp of his pants. He’d never wanted any woman this way before, and as she tugged down the zipper on his jeans, he was instantly, totally, frenetically lost. She reached for his shirt now, and he helped her tear it off.

  Then she pulled off him and he could have died before he realized she’d stood to draw off her shorts. She stood there, naked but for sheer black panties, all silvery smooth skin and big, aching eyes, like a dream, a ghost, but when she came back to him, sweeping off his jeans and underwear, so bold and ravenous, she was no ghost, no dream, she was real. They fell back onto the bed again and he gave in to her, ravaging her with his mouth, his teeth. His hands possessed her and he was shocked at the strength of the need they shared. He shifted her to his side, pulled over her and forced himself to slow down, tear his mouth off hers, when all he wanted was more and more.

  The smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, the feel of her unbelievable—naked—body. More, more, more.

  More Bryn.

  Somewhere very far in the back of his consciousness the word wrong came back and he knew he should say something, remind her why they shouldn’t do this, but emotion filled his throat and blood drummed in his head.

  She watched him in that long, tender moment and then she reached between them and touched him. He was so far gone, beyond lost, on some other planet where Bryn and this bonfire she’d started in his veins were all that mattered. He trailed scorching kisses down her throat, taking her breasts in each hand, tracing circles around her taut peaks with his tongue. She moved restlessly, urgently against him, and his hands caressed their way lower, sliding inside the sheer panties to cup her hot, damp core, then thrusting inside. She urged him on, grinding her hips to push herself into his palm, gasping as he stroked her. Her head fell back against the bed and she sighed raggedly, rocking into him. Then she slayed him by coming in soft, remarkable shudders, responding instantly to his touch, a cry sliding out of her mouth that he swallowed with a kiss.

  Heart thundering, he took in her flushed face, tangled, damp hair, and wide, hungry eyes, was nearly undone when she encircled again his own hot, desperate need. She pulled him into her, wrapping her legs around him, gripping him so tightly. She kissed him again, hard, and he drove inside her, not about to deny her anything. She was slick and ready and not stopping.

  She rocked beneath him
and heat sang in his blood. Her legs and arms grasped him wildly, not letting him slow down, demanding more, and when she shuddered in his arms again, he could no longer think at all. His body drove into her one last time as he followed her into that perfect, sweet oblivion.

  He lay there with her, eyes closed, feeling as if his cellular structure had been fragmented and he was left limp and lost and trembling. Bryn lay beneath him, her breaths quick against his skin, her arms still clinging to him as if he were her lifeline. He didn’t want her ever to stop clinging to him, and that scared him to death. He couldn’t stop thinking. He knew, he just knew, she was going to regret this.

  And he knew he wasn’t.

  The distant, insistent chime from the front door broke through the whispery heaviness of the house. It took a Herculean effort for Bryn to move her sated, heavy limbs. She didn’t want to move.

  She rolled away from Cole, and his arms pulled her back.

  “Bryn, wait.”

  If she turned, if she looked at him right now, she’d never be able to do what she had to do. Get up. Go. Get on with her life. What they’d just done hadn’t changed anything. It had been sex, just sex. A release from all the tension.

  “I have to go,” she said quietly. “I have guests. The security lock is switched. I have to let them in.” That she had even done this stupid thing when she had guests returning any minute rubbed in the sheer power she’d let Cole have over her senses.

  She got up, cold, shivering, and she told herself not to think about being naked. So she was naked. So was he. She had all the same body parts as any other woman, and hell, he’d seen her naked before. It was no big deal. She pulled on her clothes with shaking, weak fingers, her body still in some kind of trembling aftermath of extremely powerful sex. Cole. She’d had sex with Cole. She’d gone stark, raving, straitjacket mad.

  And it was a big deal. She didn’t jump in the sack on a casual basis. That wasn’t her. Frankly, she didn’t jump in the sack at all. She’d had a few hopeless relationships in college, then her father’s death and Bellefleur had taken over her life. And she’d settled for a comfortable friendship with Drake. Then Cole had come back and it had taken her just over twenty-four hours to take up where they’d left off. They hadn’t even used protection, she realized with a jolt. Her impetuous stupidity around Cole knew no bounds.