She had been right about the bedrooms upstairs. There were currently three, with one large enough to divide into two smaller rooms if it became necessary. If he and his future wife had enough children to need the extra room, Beth translated with a tinge of uneasiness.
The master bedroom was the last room he showed her. In spite of its unfinished state, she knew immediately that it was going to be perfect: beautiful, cozy and welcoming, with a breathtaking view. What a great place to lie in bed and stargaze or watch the sun rise … or to forget about the view outside and concentrate on the one inside. On the man inside.
He was leaning against the half wall where the bed would stand. She turned from her place beside the window and faced him as he talked about paint and wallpaper and rugs.
Zachary trailed off in the middle of a description of the deep, rich Colonial crimson that he intended to paint this room and for a long moment simply looked at her. She looked so right here. In spite of the bare flooring, the unpainted Sheetrock, the unfinished air of the room, she looked as if she belonged right here. In his house. In his bedroom. In his life. Was it just an illusion, something that he wanted so much that he made it seem real? Could illusions be that powerful, that enduring?
Slowly he crossed the room, joining her at the window. The sun was already high overhead, but it took little effort to imagine the strong morning rays touching her through this window, setting her red hair afire, warming the cool porcelain of her skin. It took no effort at all to imagine the desire he would feel seeing her like that. It was the same desire he felt now. The same need.
The same hunger.
Nervously she took a step back, then turned away, facing the window and the woods and the mountain again. "You have a gorgeous view here. I can see why you chose this place. It's really—"
He touched her, brushing a strand of her hair back, catching it behind her ear, and her words stopped abruptly. He took advantage of her sudden silence to speak. "I know you didn't come to Sweetwater to see me," he said softly. "I know Sarah somehow coerced you into coming over here. However she did it, I'm grateful. I've missed you, lady."
Slowly he moved his hand from her hair, soft and silky, to her jaw, turning her to face him. Her skin was cool, her muscles tight. But she didn't pull away. He gave her plenty of time to push his hand back or to walk away, but she didn't. She simply stood there, her green eyes dark and heated, and waited for his next move.
He brushed his lips lightly across hers. She tried to remain unresponsive, but he felt the slight shiver that rippled through her. Slowly, deliberately, he touched his mouth to hers again, this time exerting more pressure, this time moistening her lips with his tongue, teasing, tantalizing.
Beth raised her hands to his chest. They hovered there for a moment, close enough to feel his warmth, but not actually touching him. What was she going to do? she wondered dimly. Push him away? Or pull him closer? Then he brought his other hand up, too, cradling her face in his warm, rough palms, and began a third kiss, a real kiss, the kind of kiss that she had dreamed about, the kind of kiss that made her heart thud and her legs go weak and caused her brain to shut down so her body could savor the sensations without the distraction of thought.
And that settled the dilemma of what to do with her hands. Pushing him away was an impossible idea that made her breath catch in her lungs—or was it the kiss that did that? She settled her hands on his chest, her fingers curling around the softness of his shirt, her right palm feeling the soft, rapid beat of his heart.
When he encouraged her with the gentle caresses of his fingers, she opened her mouth to his tongue, and intense satisfaction gave way to intense need. It had been years since she'd been kissed like this. Then some part of her amended that. She had never been kissed like this, not with tender touches and soft sighs and throbbing passion. Not with hunger and need and caring. Not with such frightening sweetness.
Zachary gently drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her, molding her body to his. He could lose himself in just this—touching her, tasting her. He could simply hold her, touch her, glide his hands down the long line of her spine and stroke the gentle curve of her hips, while his tongue explored the dark warmth of her mouth. He could stay like this forever … if not for his body's insistent swelling demand.
He guided her a step back, then another and another, until she was leaning against the broad wooden window frame. Then he shifted against her, letting her feel the strength of his arousal, and he felt her swift intake of air. Reluctantly, calling on every ounce of willpower he possessed, he ended the kiss and raised his head for a long, strengthening breath of air. He didn't move away from her, though. He couldn't give up everything.
Bending his head once more, he pressed a kiss, light and fluttery, to her eyelid, following with another on her other lid. Then he softly commanded, "Look at me, Beth."
She swallowed hard, touched her tongue to her lips, tightened her hold on his shirt, then finally forced her eyes open, forced them to focus on him. His smile was small, secretive, as he read the emotion there. Passion. For him.
"You're a beautiful woman," he murmured, covering her hands with his, gently working her fingers free of the flannel. He raised her hands, palms up, to his mouth for a brief, moist kiss, then clasped them in his own. "I'd like to think that I could make love to you now if the others weren't downstairs," he said with a solemn smile. "But since I don't want to know if I'm wrong, I guess it's lucky that they are there."
Color filled her cheeks, staining them a pale rose. She drew a deep breath—calming herself? Zachary wondered.
Preparing to speak? To tell him that he was wrong?—then let it out all in a rush.
She was flustered, Beth privately acknowledged—a condition as alien to her as the passion she had just experienced. As the need that still made her tremble. As the knowledge that Zachary was right, that if they'd been alone in the house, they would have finished what they'd started. She would have allowed him—no, pleaded with him—to make love to her. Being too practical, she might have regretted it later, but she would have enjoyed it while it happened. She would have reveled in it.
She would have reveled in him.
But they weren't alone, and the passion was fading, and the realization was becoming clear that neither of them was in any condition to join their friends downstairs. Zachary looked fine except for that wistful little grin and the arousal that pulled his jeans taut, but she was still unsteady, her lipstick had been kissed away, and her clothes were liberally dusted with sawdust, courtesy of their embrace.
Almost as if he'd read her mind, he gestured for her to move away from the window frame; then he dusted her suede jacket and brushed the worst of the fine particles from her black slacks. Her sweater was a different problem. After fingering the intricate knit for a moment, he ruefully shook his head, then turned away.
She was disappointed, she realized as she turned once more to face the window, brushing away the dust with quick, purposeful strokes. Her breasts were sensitive and aching for the pleasure only he could bring them. But this wasn't the time or the place. She wondered briefly, sadly, if the time would ever come.
Reflected in the glass, she saw Zachary standing in front of the fireplace, gazing down at the cold stone hearth that had never held a fire. One part of her wanted to go to him, to tell him that he'd been wrong, that she did want him, that she would have made love with him. The stronger part knew that would be a mistake, just as the kiss had been. Just as working together was a mistake.
Everything in her life was a mistake, it seemed, and Zachary was the biggest one of all. One that she couldn't correct.
One, she admitted with a defeated little sigh, that she wouldn't correct even if she could.
* * *
Thursday was cold and dreary—a good day to stay inside, Beth thought as she glanced out her office window. That was what she and Zachary had done all day. They had worked, eaten lunch at her desk, discussed the upcoming trial and the jury sel
ection and their list of witnesses.
They hadn't discussed last weekend.
They hadn't discussed Saturday's kiss.
She had been uncomfortable when Zachary came into the office on Monday. She hadn't been able to look him in the eye or to get even remotely close to him. But he'd acted as if nothing had happened between them, as if nothing had changed, and gradually she'd begun to relax. She'd slipped back into her comfortable business-as-usual manner.
Except when she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers.
Except when she sometimes looked up unexpectedly and caught his gaze on her.
Except when she recalled the extent of his arousal, when she occasionally felt again the extent of hers.
Today had been simply business. They had kept busy all day and now were waiting for their last appointment. Then Zachary would leave and return to his motel, and she would stay here and try to work while wondering what he was doing and wishing that, whatever it was, she was doing it with him.
She fingered the report Dr. Newman had asked her to prepare. The more information the psychologist had about the case, the better prepared she would be to assess each potential juror. The assistant prosecutor who was handling Carrie's case had in the past scoffed at the idea of enlisting a psychologist to assist in jury selection. He trusted his own judgment, he had boasted to Beth. Maybe he would change his mind when the jury in this trial accepted Carrie's plea of self-defense.
Taking the file with her, she crossed the room to where Zachary was lying on the sofa, a law book braced against one bent knee. He looked so relaxed, Beth thought a bit jealously, so comfortable in this room where she always had to be on her most professional behavior. She wouldn't dare to kick off her shoes, stretch out on the sofa and work. All it would take was for one person—one partner, one associate, one secretary—to see her that way, and her carefully maintained image would suffer.
"Zachary, do you mind taking a look at this and—" She stopped abruptly and looked more closely at him. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell with long, even breaths. "Zachary?" When there was no response, she bent closer. "Zachary?"
Relaxed? He was asleep. She waited for her natural indignation that her partner had fallen asleep on the job, but it didn't come. In its stead came the realization that soft, smudgy shadows darkened the skin underneath his eyes and that there was a strained, weary look about him. He had seemed unusually tired the last few days, she thought, remembering several times when she'd caught him hiding a yawn, times when she'd had to repeat things to him. But she had simply assumed that he wasn't sleeping well, that maybe working here all week and at his farm all weekend was more than he was used to.
Bending, she removed the book from his loose hold and laid it on the table. Then, returning to her desk, she found the number of the motel where he'd been staying and quickly dialed it. "Can you tell me if Zachary Adams is registered there?" she asked when the desk clerk answered. A moment later, she quietly thanked the man, then hung up.
No, ma'am, we don't have anyone by that name.
Had he chosen to stay at a different motel this week? she wondered. But if that was the case, surely he would have told her. Unless he wasn't staying at a motel at all. Hadn't she encouraged him to take advantage of his time in the city to look for a woman? Maybe he'd found one and was…
Pursing her lips, she shut off that train of thought. If Zachary had been seeing someone else, he never would have kissed her the way he had. Never.
Before she could consider the matter further, the intercom buzzed. "Dr. Newman is here," Loretta announced. "She's on her way in."
The last word was barely out when the door opened and Darla Newman walked through. She was an older woman, probably about her mother's age, Beth estimated, although she couldn't imagine anything else the two women might possibly have in common. Darla was gray-haired and plump, and her face was lined with some sixty years of living. She cared little about opinions, but a great deal about people. She was warm, disarmingly friendly and unfailingly optimistic.
"How are you, Beth?" she asked, offering her hand.
Beth shook hands with her, her fingers gliding across powdery-smooth skin. "I'm fine, Darla. You?"
"I can't complain. I'm running on a tight schedule today, though—had an emergency call from one of my patients—so if you'll call your associate, we can get right to work."
With a faint smile, Beth gestured toward the couch. "I don't think he'll be joining us."
The doctor put her briefcase down, then looked curiously at Zachary. "He doesn't look like the typical stuffed shirt who holds such appeal for your partners. Are you sure he works here?"
"Actually, he doesn't. He's just helping with this case." At Darla's questioning look, she felt compelled to continue. "He went to school with our client, and he's handled a few things for her parents, and…" She gestured awkwardly. "It doesn't really matter."
"He's nice-looking."
Even though she didn't need confirmation, Beth glanced at him before silently agreeing. He certainly was that. And Darla was right, too, about the stuffy part. In his wheat-colored jeans and blue plaid shirt, he bore no resemblance to the other men in the office. But he could, she reminded herself. The suit he'd worn to Carrie's preliminary hearing had proved that.
"Okay, let's let Sleeping Beauty snooze and get down to business." Darla seated herself in front of Beth's chair and pulled a pair of glasses from her briefcase. "Did you prepare the report I asked for?"
Obediently, Beth handed it to her.
The doctor scanned the notes while Beth waited silently. She knew better than to interrupt Darla's concentration. If the woman had questions, she would ask them when she was ready. If she had comments, she would make those, too.
It didn't take long. In only a few minutes Darla closed the file and removed her glasses. "Interesting family. Too bad your client had to resort to murder to get anyone's attention."
"If they had come to you, could you have helped them?"
"I don't know. Men like Delbert Lewis are usually resistant to outside interference. They don't believe they have a problem. They think it's all right to knock their wives around. It gives them a sense of power. Lewis may not have been a very strong man in character, but physically, he could beat and control and terrorize his wife, and that made him stronger than she was. Never mind that she was a thin, frail woman. He could still feel superior to her."
"So he wouldn't have accepted your help," Beth said thoughtfully. "What about Carrie? Could you have convinced her that her life was in danger? That she could build a life for herself and her kids away from him?"
"She knew her life was in danger for a long, long time, Beth. She didn't just suddenly reach that realization a month ago, when she killed him. She had lived with that fear longer than you and I can imagine. As far as her leaving him…" The doctor sighed softly. "It may sound strange, but most abused wives don't want out of the marriage. Most of them still love their husbands, even after all the beatings, all the broken bones, all the degradation and humiliation. They simply want the abuse to stop. They want to stop being afraid. They want a normal marriage and a normal life with their husbands."
"And those who do leave?"
"You're the one in the legal profession. You probably know the answer to that better than I."
She did. Too many women who left abusive husbands and went into hiding got found. For too many of them the abuse continued. For far too many it ended in death.
Darla slid the file, along with her glasses, into her attaché, then stood up. "I'll go over this again and do some reading of my own over the next week."
"Thanks. We'll see you in court a week from Monday." Beth politely got to her feet as the doctor left, then sank into her seat again when the door closed once more. Her natural inclination was to turn her thoughts to Zachary once more, but she used every bit of her self-discipline to channel her energy toward work instead. There would be plenty of time to think about Zachar
y later. When she was alone in her big, empty condo. Alone in her big, empty bed. Lying between those black sheets that had caught Zachary's fancy. Remembering the way he'd kissed her last weekend.
For a long, drawn-out moment, the only sound in the room was a soft, stifled, frustrated groan.
* * *
Zachary came awake slowly. His first thought was that he was still fully dressed. His second was that he needed at least twelve more hours of sleep to feel human. He stretched slowly and started to roll over, then realized where he was: on a couch, not a bed. In Beth's office, not his house.
The room was dark except for the lamp on her desk. She sat there working, a stack of papers and a yellow pad in front of her, her glasses slipping down her nose. Behind her, the sky outside was black. He should have been on the road hours ago, he thought, squinting to make out the numbers on his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. That meant it would be midnight before he got home, which meant he would get maybe five hours of sleep before he had to get up again, which meant…
He didn't want to think about how tired he would be in the morning. He didn't want to wonder how long he could function like this, adding the stress of a six-hour commute to already-long days. But he couldn't consider quitting.
Slowly he sat up, stretched, then reached for his shoes. Noticing he was awake, Beth pushed everything away and came to sit on the low table in front of him. She seemed more serious than usual, and he wondered why. Had something happened to Carrie, to their case? Had he talked in his sleep? Had he somehow offended her by falling asleep here?
"You must have been tired," she remarked evenly. "You've been asleep for at least five hours."
He knew his responding grin was unsteady, that it was threatening to slip away any second now. "What can I say besides it won't happen again?"
"It's all right. You still look half asleep. Tell me where you're staying and I'll give you a ride tonight. You don't need to be driving like this."
Why did he have the funny feeling that she already knew where he was staying? Had she called the motel where he'd spent the first three weeks and found out he wasn't registered? Did she know his money was about to run out? Did she think that he was about to run out, too, leaving her to finish this case alone? Was that what displeased her?
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