by Gayle Wilson
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Copyright
Nothing had changed. Not about this.
Suddenly, kissing Nick was not enough And somehow Abby had forgotten to be careful. Her body had forgotten why it should maintain a distance. Overcome by a more powerful need, it reached for his, seeking the once-familiar contact Needing it. Needing him. She had existed for too long with nothing but memories. Now she had to cling to him, allow his arms to enfold her, embrace her, hold her close, to…
She was aware of the enormity of her mistake as soon as he stiffened, but by then, of course, it was too late. His hands on her shoulders again tightened, this time pushing her away, and obeying, as she had always obeyed him, Abby took a step back.
His hands fell to the bulge of her pregnancy, the palms cupping the unmistakable contour of it.
“What the hell?” Nick said, the question so soft it was almost a whisper. “What the hell is going on?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gayle Wilson is the award-winning author of fourteen novels written for Harlequin. She has lived in Alabama all her life except for the years she followed her army aviator husband—whom she met on a blind date—to a variety of military posts.
Before beginning her writing career, she taught English and world history to gifted high school students in a number of schools around the Birmingham area. Gayle and her husband have one son, who is also a teacher of gifted students. They are blessed with warm and loving Southern families and an ever-growing menagerie of cats and dogs.
You can write to Gayle at P.O. Box 3277,
Hueytown, Alabama 35023
Awards and Nominations:
Harlequin Intrigue
Echoes in the Dark— 1995 Award of Excellence winner, Colorado Romance Writers
1995 Maggie finalist, Georgia Romance Writers
Only a Whisper— 1996 Award of Excellence finalist, Colorado Romance Writers
1996 Holt Medallion finalist, Virginia Romance Writers
1996 National Readers’ Choice Award finalist, Oklahoma Romance Writers
The Redemption of Deke Summers— 1997 Award of Excellence finalist, Colorado Romance Writers
Heart of the Night— 1997 Award of Excellence finalist, Colorado Romance Writers
1997 Holt Medallion finalist, Virginia Romance Writers
Harlequin Historical
The Heart’s Desire— 1994 RITA Award finalist for Best First Book
Never Let Her Go
Gayle Wilson
For Aunt Jenny and Aunt Bess, for “adopting” me, for sharing your love and your wisdom with me for the past thirty years.
I love you both more than you can know.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nick Deandro—The FBI undercover agent had lost his eyesight, his memory—and the woman he loved. Would he lose his life as well?
Abby Sterling—When she was assigned to protect Nick, no one—not even Nick—knew that they shared a past, and the baby she carried.
Rob Andrews—The head of the NOPD Organized Crime Unit hoped Abby would trigger Nick’s memories. She did—but not exactly the ones Rob was after.
Mickey Yates—The man Abby replaced as Nick’s bodyguard. Why was he leaving?
Maggie Thibodeaux—The cook and housekeeper of Nick’s safe house. She seemed to know far too much.
Sheriff Lannie Blanchard—Why was the parish sheriff so interested in the situation at the safe house?
Prologue
He was watching from the shadows when she opened the door of her apartment. From the moment he heard the key in the lock, the feeling of anticipation had been too strong, almost unbearable. Almost uncontrollable. He was, however, a man who valued control, so he forced himself to stay hidden in the darkness. Forced himself to wait, just as he had planned
She had been out running, despite the late-afternoon heat. That was obvious from the black shorts and the gray knit tank top she wore. The top had a semicircle of dampness around its low neck, marked with the sweat he could see glistening on her throat and shoulders and even on the front of her legs.
He studied her body as she bent to untie her shoes, pulling the laces up a little in the first two eyelets. She pushed the shoes off, each in turn, with the toe of the opposite foot and then tugged off her socks, balancing gracefully on one foot and then the other. She walked across the cool wooden floor on bare feet, high-arched and narrow, as shapely as the tanned legs
She turned the air conditioner on high and adjusted the vent upward. Then she stood for a moment in front of the softly chugging window unit, eyes closed in indulgence, letting the cold air blow over her face and neck.
Finally she turned, at the same time unfastening the barrette that confined the mass of blond hair at the nape of her neck. She shook her head a couple of times, the long curls breaking apart and drifting like strands of silk around her neck. A few caught in the perspiration, gleaming there in the low light until she pushed them away with her fingers.
She put the barrette between her teeth and used both hands to hold the sweat-dampened hair high on her head, letting the air reach the back of her neck. The position pushed her breasts into prominence under the tight knit.
Despite the confinement of a sports bra, he could see them clearly through the damp fabric. The nipples had pebbled with the change from the thick outside heat of New Orleans in spring to the relative coolness of the small, dark apartment
She released her hair and, in the same motion, lowered her arms, crossing them over her stomach to catch the hem of her top. She pulled the tank over her head and threw it toward a chair. It missed, sliding off to lie in a pale mound against the ancient wood of the floor, almost lost in the shadows.
She didn’t stop to pick it up. Instead, she moved out of his sight, going farther into the interior of the apartment. He leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath, feeling the roughness of the bricks behind his head.
At least it was another sensation. A different one. A distraction Something else to think about besides the hard ache in his groin An ache that never seemed to go away, never seemed even to diminish anymore. Especially if he allowed himself to think about her.
He heard the water turn on, and he visualized it running, saw steam rising to fill the rust-stained tub in her tiny bathroom. In his mind’s eye he watched her strip off the rest of the sodden garments, holding on, just as she always did, to the freestanding lavatory as she bent to remove her shorts and panties.
She would drop those on the black-and-white ceramictile floor with the same carelessness she had displayed when she threw the tank top at the chair. After she had undressed, she would stand there nude, examining her face in the age-clouded mirror, perhaps holding her hair up again to get it off the heat and dampness of her neck. And when she did, her bare breasts would lift, pushing upward in small peaks, just as they had before.
Fighting the undeniable power that image had over his body, Nick Deandro allowed his eyes to move around the dim, cluttered kitchen he was standing in. The sink was full of dishes. There was a mug beside it that had held her morning coffee, and probably still did, he guesse
d, black and cold now. A box of cereal was out on the table, just as she’d left it this morning, in a hurry because she was late She was always late.
Neatness wasn’t her strongest attribute, Nick acknowledged ruefully, smiling a little at the understatement. But she had so many others that one weakness really wasn’t important. Not important to him. But then, he had never believed she would become important. Not like this. Not this…obsession.
No one who knew him would have believed it either. Slender, blond and slightly vulnerable weren’t things that Nick Deandro had ever before been attracted to in a woman. Anyone who knew him could vouch for that. So this had surprised him. Taken him unaware and unprepared. Not only that it had happened between them, but how strong it was. Almost fierce. And he knew it had surprised her as well.
She was probably in the tub by now. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine that. Not resisting the picture forming in his mind. After all, it didn’t do any good to resist. He had tried that a lot before he’d called her the first time.
She had been surprised by his call. He had clearly heard the shock in her voice. Of course, she had been thinking that it was something official. Something important. That had been in her tone as well, briskly businesslike and professional.
What he had been thinking, as he held the car phone against his ear, driving through the thick steam of a Delta night, had been anything but professional. Anything but.
And what had happened when he’d showed up here that first night…He still had a hard time believing the strength of the immediate chemistry between them. Something they both had felt. Apparently the open animosity had only been an aspect of the heat that flared between them. So strong it had overpowered all the cautions. When she had opened the door that first night and moved into his arms, he knew that nothing about this assignment would be anything like the others he had worked. And it hadn’t been, of course.
The quick visit he had planned wasn’t going to happen, he admitted. Not tonight. Out of control, he thought again as his fingers fell to the buttons that fastened his aged jeans.
He took his loafers off, exactly as she had discarded her running shoes, and by that time he had the jeans undone. He pushed them and his briefs down and stepped out of both, and then, reaching over his shoulder, jerked off the navy polo he was wearing and dropped it on top of the pile.
She wouldn’t fuss about them or pick them up, folding them into neatness. He would give her that. And a whole lot more besides, he thought, grinning at the one-track-minded direction of his thoughts.
He needed to think of something that might distract him. Because if he didn’t, he admitted, this was going to be short and sweet. Incredibly sweet, he knew from experience, but maybe as incredibly short as well.
But she had never complained about that. Or about anything. Of course, exhaustion and satiation don’t lend themselves to conversation. It was usually real quiet when they were through.
She hadn’t closed the bathroom door, and despite the omnipresent and oppressive humidity, there was a whiff of steam in the hallway, drifting through the dark air toward him, like heat waves shimmered from the asphalt of a summer road.
He could even smell whatever she had put into the water. It was familiar. This was the way her skin smelled as he made slow, endless love to her. Then, the scent rose from her body, just as it did now from the bath.
She had been dipping her cloth in the hot water and languidly squeezing the liquid out of it, letting it stream down over her breast. Her head was back against the rim of the tub, but she was watching the water run over the skin of her shoulder and trickle off the end of the rose-brown nipple.
She had pinned her hair loosely out of the way on top of her head, and the gathered curls gleamed silver-gilt in the low light. Some of the strands were again caught in the moisture that covered her throat, but this time she ignored them.
Nick hadn’t made any noise. He was sure of that, moving carefully down the dark hallway on bare feet. Suddenly, however, she glanced up from whatever solitary game she was playing, seeming to sense his presence.
Her eyes widened in shock, the expanding black of the pupils almost swallowing the rim of emerald green that surrounded them, and she began to scramble out of the water. A small flood of it lurched over the side of the tub to puddle on the tile before recognition clicked in.
“God, Nick,” she said. The gasping inhalation she had taken whooshed out in relief. “You scared me to death.” She took another breath, shock easing.
The hand that had been holding the washcloth suddenly raised and threw it. It didn’t come close to hitting him, landing instead with a sodden splat somewhere in the hallway behind him.
“Nice shot,” he said. His eyes were examining the slim perfection of her body.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her arms had automatically crossed over her chest, the gesture protective and modest, yet somehow provocative at the same time.
Nick grinned in response. “Too late,” he said. “I’ve already seen it all. All of you.”
She smiled at him finally, apparently appreciating how ridiculous had been the urge to hide her body from his eyes. She certainly knew he had seen it all. Not frequently enough, however, that he didn’t enjoy looking. Not often enough that it wasn’t still exciting to him.
Her eyes moved downward to that excitement, and then came quickly back to his face. Her smile had changed. It was softer, somehow. Maybe anticipating. He knew he sure as hell was.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Is that what you’re here for? To play?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “If you’re not too tired.”
“I’m not too tired. Hungry,” she said, “but not too tired.”
He nodded. “We could order out.”
“Cheap date,” she chided, amusement rich in her voice.
“Want me to wash your back?” His question was slightly suggestive, intended to be, but she didn’t respond to the tone.
“If you can find the cloth. It’s somewhere in the hall.”
Nick didn’t even look around. Instead, he stepped into the room, and suddenly the tiny bathroom seemed smaller. He was a big man, and he seemed to fill up all the space.
His father’s family were Sicilian, but Nick’s maternal ancestors had been tall, blond and Nordic. The combination made for an unusual mix of features, but not one that he could ever remember anyone complaining about.
He was almost six foot two, and there wasn’t a bit of fat in any of those inches, not even around the middle where men his age usually put on a little weight. That he hadn’t was also unusual for a man who spent so many hours sitting behind a desk. He worked out, but not enough, he knew, to justify that flat belly.
That was another undeserved gift of his heredity, just like the contrast between the pale blue eyes and the gleaming, raven’s wing hair. Black Irish, people usually guessed, despite the strong, almost roman nose and the olive skin, covered now with a fine dew of perspiration and nothing else.
It was at least ten degrees hotter in the bathroom than it had been in the hallway. Hotter and wetter. Which wasn’t a bad combination, Nick acknowledged. Not in this situation.
Her eyes had followed his movement into the room, and they were still directed up at him now, holding his as he stood beside the tub, looking down at her. Her body was completely revealed by the transparency of the cloudy water, and he reacted. The hard rush of desire was almost as overpowering as the sense of anticipation had been when he had heard her key turn in the lock.
“You want to join me?” she invited.
“I don’t think I’d fit,” he denied, but it was tempting as hell. She was tempting. She had been from the beginning. Far more temptation than he had been prepared to resist.
“We could find out,” she suggested softly.
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said.
&nb
sp; “You usually do.”
She smiled at him again, the slow seductive one At some point in the conversation, she had uncrossed her arms, willing now to have him look at her.
He supposed she was over the initial shock that he was here when she hadn’t been expecting him. Here where he sure as hell shouldn’t be. But he’d worry about that later. And based on previous experiences, it would probably not be until much later.
He knelt beside the tub, and her eyes followed him, focused on his face. He put his left hand into the water, surprised at how hot it was. It seemed they had been talking a long time, but the steam was still drifting off the surface. Still fragrant.
He cupped a handful and held it out over her chest, tilting his big hand until the moisture ran out of it onto her breast. It was the same mindless game she had been playing when he’d come into the room. Except it wasn’t, of course. It was a much different game now that there were two players involved.
And suddenly her eyes reflected that. He lowered his hand, and with his thumb he traced the path the spill of water had taken. The thick pad slid across the moisture, finding no resistance over the slick skin. When he reached the darker tip of her breast, he used the side of his thumb to push the nipple down and then back up.
He heard the small breath she took, liked hearing it, and so he repeated the motion. Down and then up. “Good?” he asked softly, watching her eyes.
“Yes,” she breathed. Her hand lifted, bringing droplets of water up with it. They fell like tears on his forearm. She put her fingers over his, holding them, and the abrasive movement of his thumb hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she whispered. She guided his hand, pushing it open over her breast, the small, perfect globe fitting into his palm as if it had been made for him to hold. He tightened his fingers and watched her eyes close slowly and her lips part, the breath again sighing out between them.