Traceless

by Debra Webb

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  A flare of surprise that she would admit as much caught him off guard. He looked away from her. “I heard screaming from your house and I did what I had to do.” Biggest mistake of my fucking life. “I picked the lock on the front door and rushed through the house until I found your room. I knew which end of the house it was on, so I—”

  “How did you know?”

  He blinked, startled again at her reaction. “What do you mean?”

  “How could you be sure about where my room was?”

  The way his mouth was dehydrating forced him to lick his lips. She watched the movement and wet her own. That his entire body reacted didn’t help his ability to focus here.

  “I’d driven by your house a thousand times.” He shrugged. Sounded mental. So what?

  “Why?”

  His pulse started to hammer, making it hard to catch his breath. “Because I was stupid,” he snapped, hoping to clear his head. “I wanted to get a glimpse of you.” He exhaled a lungful of frustration. “I saw you and Heather climbing out that window one night.” The memories were as vivid in his mind as the night he’d watched them happen. Summertime, hot like now. He would never forget the way Emily had looked in those pink shorts and tank top. “The two of you sneaked to the next block and met up with more friends. I followed you to the theater.”

  He’d kissed her that night. He’d been a class A jerk afterward. As tough as he was, she had been the one girl who’d scared him to death.

  She stood. He barely resisted the impulse to back away when she came closer. Wariness joined the curiosity and rising tension. He didn’t know what was on her mind, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good for him. Nothing ever ended well for him that involved her no matter how badly he wanted it to.

  “You knew where my room was, so you went there.”

  This had gone far enough. “You know what happened next.”

  “She was … bleeding; you … said you tried to help.”

  He jerked his head in confirmation. “I tried to help. She was … ,” he swallowed again, but that tight feeling in his throat wasn’t going away, “ … she was trying to speak. The words were so broken and weak … barely a whisper. I needed to stop the bleeding, but I couldn’t.”

  “The window was open when you came into the room?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if it was open, but it was damn sure unlocked, because you came in that way. Did you open it or was it already open?”

  Emily didn’t have to think about her answer. She hadn’t opened the window. It had already been wide open.

  On some level she’d known that was wrong. Dear God, she’d made a terrible mistake. She fought back the emotions rising inside her so swiftly she could scarcely think.

  Keep going. Get the whole story. “Why did you pick the lock on the front door?” she asked, that point suddenly poking at her. If he’d kicked the door in, his story would have been much more credible. As it was, there had been no sign of breaking and entering other than the probability that he’d entered through her unlocked bedroom window.

  He looked at her funny. Even with so little light here in the barn, his every expression was stark and vivid. “Have you ever tried to kick in a steel door?”

  Steel? “My front door was steel?” She just assumed it was wood.

  He nodded. “So are a lot of residential exterior doors. I learned to pick locks. I could do it in seconds.”

  “Did you close the door when you came in?” He had to have; otherwise Principal Call wouldn’t have still been trying to open it when the police arrived.

  “I don’t think so. I picked the lock and rushed in. I guess it could have closed behind me. I don’t know.”

  There had to be something they’d both missed. “You didn’t see anyone else or hear anything?” Whoever had done this couldn’t have gotten out of the room more than a few moments before Clint came in. Maybe the killer had hidden in Emily’s house and then slipped out the door after Clint came in. The killer could have closed the door … but would he have taken the time to lock it? Blood had been trampled all through the house by the cops and the half a dozen other people who had come into her house that night. The crime scene had been a mess. Mishandled, just like Cathy suggested. The whole case had been mishandled.

  Fury streaked across Clint’s face … the face that only moments before was twisted with agony. “You know damn well I didn’t see anyone else. You sat in that goddamn courtroom every day. You’ve heard all this!”

  She closed her eyes and fought the urge to cry. He was right. “That was before,” she said, forcing her eyes open to meet his, “before I knew you were telling the truth.”

  She didn’t know how she managed to maintain eye contact when her whole body screamed with its own agony just looking at the desolation and fury smoldering behind six feet of sharp-edged, battle-hardened man.

  “My father,” she went on haltingly, “he heard Sylvester Fairgate give you that order. Fairgate threatened that if he ever told anyone he would—”

  Clint held up his hand for her to stop. “I know the kind of tactics he utilized.” His tone was menacing, bitter, his eyes glacial.

  She managed a ragged breath. “My father said he would talk to Ray after church today. He wants to do the right thing.”

  “And this suddenly changes how you feel.”

  That Clint snarled the words at her shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. She hadn’t expected his appreciation or even his understanding. Her father’s refusal to risk his own family to back up Clint’s alibi had cost him ten years—no, eleven years, counting the investigation and trial. He wasn’t going to just say, Thanks and let’s forget the whole thing ever happened.

  “I … yes, it does,” she admitted. “I understand that if you told the truth about that, you were probably telling the truth about the rest.” Facing him this way with the rage building in his eyes was nearly more than she could handle, but she owed him that much. “Maybe you were right when you said I needed someone to blame besides myself.” That she had been that selfish, that much of a coward, deeply pained her. More so than she could adequately articulate.

  He took another step closer, putting his large body directly in her personal space … mere inches from her.

  “Do you have any idea what they did to me in there?”

  The words were low, guttural … animalistic. She should have been afraid … she should have run for her life, but she couldn’t move.

  “I’m sorry.” She was. God, she was.

  “The only way to survive was to learn not to feel.”

  She wanted to back up, to put some distance between them. She couldn’t. Her entire focus was on his face. This close she could distinguish every detail. The scar was more prominent, a shade or two lighter than his skin. The years of agony and torture had carved grooves at the corners of his mouth and creased lines around his eyes. And still he was a remarkably handsome man. Gone was the smooth charm, replaced by a raw sexual energy that bordered on dangerous.

  “The pain was nothing,” he growled, drawing her gaze back to his. The ice blazed now with a white-hot fury that turned those gray eyes pure silver. “Blocking that wasn’t so hard.”

  He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. She pinched her lips together to hold back the cry of fear pressing against her throat. She scolded herself for being afraid. She deserved whatever he did to her. This was her fault … her mistake. A mistake he’d paid dearly for.

  “It was the other that killed the cocky guy you used to know.”

  He didn’t have to elaborate … she knew. Dammit. She knew what they did to young guys in a place like that. Especially one as handsome as Clint.

  “You had a thing for me back then.” He hissed the words, his mouth only centimeters from her temple when she turned away, couldn’t bear to look anymore. “No matter how you denied it publicly, you did; I know you did.”

  “Yes.” Why lie? There had been too many
lies.

  “How do you like me now, Emily?” He seized her chin and forced her to look at him.

  Tears crowded behind her eyes, made her feel stupid and helpless. What did she say to that? That even now, with his fingers biting brutally into her flesh, she wanted him to make her feel the way she used to? He wasn’t the only one who’d lost the ability to feel.

  “You’re the one thing,” he said with such cruelty that she flinched, “that helped me survive all those years alone in that hellhole.”

  Her heart shuddered at the realization that he had every reason to hate her, probably wished she were dead for what she’d done. How could she blame him?

  “Every single night I told myself I would live another day just to make sure I could come back here and prove that you were wrong. To make all the people who put me there look at what they had done to me.”

  He didn’t understand. She had suffered, but not the way he had. “Then make me pay,” she urged, her voice a pitiful warble when she wanted to sound strong. “But you’ll be wasting the effort. My life ended that night the same as Heather’s did … .” She stared straight into those silver slits of fury. “The same as yours did.”

  She watched the battle play out on his face. He wanted her to comprehend the pain he had felt, even if it hurt her. But he wanted something else more. The realization took her breath away … awakened years of suppressed hunger. When his gaze dropped to her lips and his breath hitched, she knew for sure. Her whole being felt a kind of relief at the idea that this part she could make right. This was something she could do.

  Slowly, knowing he would bolt at any sudden moves, she reached up and touched his face … touched that scar that had marred the stark beauty of it, shivered at the stubble that shadowed the lean hollows of his jaws. He flinched but didn’t draw away. She tiptoed but still wasn’t tall enough, so she hung her fingers on the back of his neck and pulled his head down. She pressed her lips to his. His did not yield, making her uncertain of herself, but only for a second. She kissed him until his resistance faded and his lips softened just the tiniest bit. She’d been so afraid she wouldn’t know how to do this right, but his slow surrender gave her courage.

  His arms went around her in a brutal hold. She didn’t fight him, no matter that fear had joined the mix of wild sensations whirling inside her. She had earned whatever punishment he chose to levy.

  The fingers of one hand delved into her hair, held her head still while his mouth plundered hers. That inkling of fear vanished, gave way to the more forceful, hotter feelings of desire and need.

  She wanted Clint Austin.

  Maybe on some level she had always wanted him. And maybe her friends were right; maybe she had waited for him. God knew she’d never wanted anyone else … had never even been kissed by another man. Her body melted against his, desperate for the contact.

  As if he’d suddenly come to his senses, he set her away. “Go.” The single word was ragged with need, torn with uncertainty.

  She had stood back and denied her feelings as a foolish young girl; she would not make the same mistake as a grown woman. “No.”

  Surprise flickered beyond the rage and need. His nostrils flared. As much as she wanted to make him feel again … this wasn’t just for him. She’d waited a long time for this. A trickle of uncertainty undermined her determination. What if she did something wrong? What if the novels she’d read and instinct alone weren’t enough to guide her?

  Not giving herself time for any more second thoughts, she backed up a couple of steps and reached for the buttons of her blouse. This part she knew how to do. Slowly, she released each one, shrugged the fabric free, then let it drop to the ground. The longing that flashed in his eyes stoked hers to a full blaze. She kicked off her sandals, reached behind her, and lowered the zipper of her skirt. It dropped around her ankles and she stepped out of the rumpled ring it made.

  She wanted him to look at her exactly this way … as if he could eat her alive. It was all she’d dreamed of at one time. She would listen to Heather’s stories about how it was between her and Keith, and Emily would fantasize about Clint doing those same things to her. The thought of his mouth on her skin had made her shiver; it did the same now. She released the front hook of the demibra she wore and allowed it to glide down and off. Only her panties remained.

  The tension visibly building in him made her unashamed of her near nakedness, gave her the courage to take a moment to simply admire the man. She liked what she was doing to him. He was breathless, that innate sexual energy humming from his powerful body. She’d been right; he was bigger than before. Those broad shoulders, bare in deference to the muggy heat this morning, had filled out with hard, lean muscle. His stomach looked equally rigid and gorgeously rippled, making her sweat, and she hadn’t even touched that part of him yet. The faded jeans clung to the lean lines of his narrow hips and long legs. She looked at his crotch; he was aroused and it showed. That he studied her breasts so conscientiously made her quiver in anticipation, made her hot skin feel too tight.

  When he continued to stand perfectly still, she moved toward him. He watched her, his eyes guarded as if he expected a battle. She smiled, unexpectedly thrilled at her power over him. In her mind he’d always been the one with the power. When she stood as close as possible, she inhaled deeply, loving the earthy sweet smell of his damp skin. It was so damned hot in here, but it felt so good.

  She walked all the way around him, touched each scar on his back with her fingers first, then with her lips. He shuddered each time her mouth landed against his skin. The salty taste and smooth texture made her hunger for more. Made her body vibrate with need. When she came around in front of him again, the desperation in his eyes was different. It wasn’t about the past … it was about now … about her.

  Then she knew exactly what she wanted. To prove she could make him feel again. To prove she could feel again. To finally know what it was to be a woman in every sense of the word. Her fingers closed on the snap of his jeans. Her heart thumped hard, making her light-headed and clumsy. A simple button shouldn’t have been so difficult to dislodge.

  He touched her. Finally. He closed his hand over one breast. She gasped, felt the tingle in her stomach and lower, much lower. It felt so good. She renewed her efforts to open his jeans. Had to touch him there. She wanted to know every part of him … to taste and smell him … all of him. She was like a kid at Christmas, couldn’t wait to see what came next.

  Pushing her hand away from his fly, he dropped to his knees. She cried out when his mouth closed over that same breast he’d measured with urgent fingers. His mouth was equally urgent; he sucked hard. Her fingers delved into his hair, needing to encourage him. Silky, thick hair, but her senses could not stay focused on one place. The feel of his tongue on her nipple, of his lips curved around her … had her tingling all over. He kissed his way to the other breast, giving it the same treatment as the first. She watched, unable to take her eyes off the way he looked, the sculpted features of his face.

  He clamped one arm around her waist to hold her steady against his chest, pulled her legs around him, and lowered her to the ground, coming down on top of her. The friction and weight of his chest against the damp flesh he’d tormented with his mouth had her desperate for more. His fingers tangled in her panties, ripped them from her body. She trembled, felt herself moisten in anticipation of what came next. She denied the tiny flare of fear vying for her attention.

  Just when she thought the tension could go no higher, his gaze collided with hers. The tortured look she saw there made her want to cry … made her want to cradle him against her body, inside her body, until the pain and emptiness were gone.

  She had to touch his face. He shuddered and hesitation edged into his stark gaze. He went up on all fours, taking his weight off her, pulling away.

  No way. She twisted her fingers in his hair and jerked his face down to hers. “I started this; you’ll finish it.”

  His lips flatted with a deter
mination of his own. Good. Maybe if he was pissed off, he’d do what she wanted him to.

  He manacled her wrist, yanked her hand from his hair, but ensured their lips remained no more than a scarce whisper apart. “Make me,” he growled.

  Okay. She would. This wasn’t some unfamiliar foreign language … this was as natural as breathing. The last of her inhibitions fled as she yanked her hand free of his hold and wrenched his fly open the rest of the way. He groaned. Using her hands and then her bare feet, she shoved the worn, soft denim over his hips. With no briefs in the way, his full erection brushed against her inner thigh. She gasped, suffered another instant of uncertainty. In spite of that trepidation, the heat of his arousal ignited a new ache, this one deep within her womb. He didn’t move a muscle even as she lifted her hips in anticipation. She arched upward, rubbed against that solid erection, just barely endured the sweet fiery shock of contact without screaming from the pleasure of it. She’d never known anything could feel so wonderful.

  He still didn’t move … but it cost him. The price was etched in the stony features of his face.

  She was this close to shattering into a million needy pieces at nothing more than the feel of him against her skin. She would be damned if she would fall apart alone. With a fortitude she hadn’t known existed, she braced one hand on his shoulder and closed the other around his erection; longing speared through her at the feel of smooth, hot skin stretched taut over hardened muscle. For a moment or two she lost herself to exploring the size and sleekness of him. She lifted her hips again, guiding that hard tip to the spot that burned so insistently. When he didn’t thrust, she did, forcing him inside, but only a mere inch. She made a sound too desperate to describe at the exquisite pressure of initial penetration, however shallow. She panted, felt herself stretching to accommodate him. She wanted more.