Operation Blind Date

by Justine Davis

  And he didn’t want to go.

  “I know that’s incredibly selfish of me to even think about, but...”

  Her voice trailed off. Teague barely managed not to reach out and take her hand once more. They’d come perilously close to throwing gas on that fire already tonight.

  “It’s not,” he said, keeping both hands wrapped around the mug, a blue-and-green stoneware piece that looked as if it had been handmade. It went with the colors in the apartment. The kind of touch only designers or women seemed to think of; his own small place was utilitarian and safely neutral in color. “It’s only natural.”

  “He seemed nice enough. I could have said yes and gone out with him.”

  Teague ignored the stab in the gut the words gave him.

  “If I hadn’t been so busy with the shop, trying to build it up, I might have.”

  “No other reason not to?”

  Her expression changed, to a worried frown. She shook her head slightly. “I swear, he seemed nice enough.”

  That hadn’t been what he’d meant. And now he felt guilty, for trying to ferret out if there was another man in her life while she was still so worried about her friend.

  Another man?

  Get your head out of your backside, he ordered himself. You’re not in her life, not like that, and you’re not going to be. At least, not until this was resolved. After that? He didn’t want to admit how fiercely he was clinging to that thought.

  “I didn’t get any weird vibe from him that made me say no, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I just wasn’t attracted.”

  He nodded, as if that was what he’d been trying to ask all along. And suddenly he realized he had his answer anyway. He’d been right all along. There couldn’t be anyone serious in her life, or she wouldn’t have even considered going out with someone else. She just wasn’t the type. He wasn’t sure how he knew, why he was so certain, but he was. Laney Adams was a one-at-a-time kind of girl. No playing a wide field for her.

  “Not consciously, anyway,” she said, staring into her own mug now. After a moment she looked up again, meeting his gaze with her own troubled eyes. “God, you don’t think maybe I did? That maybe I sensed something under the surface that some part of me knew he was dangerous, and that’s really why I said no?”

  “It can happen,” he said, keeping his tone carefully even. “Quinn says that’s what instincts often are. That in fact you’re processing information so fast your conscious mind skips a few steps, so what seems like intuitive jumps are really just the end of a lightning-fast thinking process.”

  “But if that’s true, then why would I tell Amber he seemed nice?” Her voice had risen slightly as her tension at the idea ratcheted up.

  “Laney, it takes time to learn to trust those instincts. And in normal, everyday life for most people, unless you’re in dangerous territory, it’s not necessary.”

  “But if I sensed something was wrong about him, and then turned around and told Amber he was okay—”

  “Stop,” he said, sharply. He’d traveled the guilt road too often himself to want to see her careen down it. “You already said it, Laney. If it was there at all, it was subconsciously. You couldn’t act on what you weren’t consciously aware of.”

  “But you do.” It was building; he could hear it in her voice. He couldn’t see her eyes; she was staring down into that mug of coffee as if it held all the answers. He knew because he’d just been doing it himself. “People who are trained, like you, I mean. You act on those instincts.”

  “Trained being the operational word. In your world, you’re trained not to follow them. Instincts, intuition are often ignored for the sake of being polite and civil, or politically correct. Because in your world, your life doesn’t usually depend on it.”

  “But Amber’s did.”

  She was there, full-blown guilt.

  He’d been where she was right now, for so long, it tore at him to see her do this to herself.

  “Don’t go there, Laney.” His voice broke slightly on her name, but he made himself go on. “It’s a damnable place to live.”

  She lifted her head to meet his gaze.

  “It’s not your fault,” he insisted.

  Something changed in her expression then. It shifted, softened somehow. “Your sister wasn’t yours, either.”

  It stunned him that she would think of that, try to ease his long-ago pain in the midst of her own.

  “And I can’t believe your parents really blamed you.”

  His fingers tightened involuntarily around the heavy mug. “I’d promised. To take care of her, look out for her. I was her big brother, it was my job.”

  “And theirs.”

  He couldn’t stop the harsh, compressed sound from escaping. “Well, I abandoned them, too. I abandoned them all, going off to pursue a dream. The dream my mother hated.”

  “Hated? She should have been proud!”

  “That would go against her beliefs, and nothing matters more to her.”

  “Surely your father, at least, was proud?”

  He let out a short, sharp laugh. “He barely spoke to me. I found out later he told his friends he didn’t have a son anymore.”

  “Teague, no. That is all so wrong, so awful. They were wrong. You know that, don’t you?”

  “In my head, yes.” With an effort, he reined the emotions she’d somehow triggered back in. “Don’t go there,” he said again. “You don’t need that nightmare of guilt and self-recriminations. They can take years to cage.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, and the pure empathy in her eyes was more soothing than he ever would have imagined possible.

  “And sometimes they still threaten to break loose, don’t they?”

  “Yes.” There didn’t seem any point in denying the obvious. He hadn’t meant to let it show, but then he hadn’t meant to tell her any of this in the first place. It wasn’t something he easily discussed. It wasn’t something he usually discussed at all.

  But with Laney, it seemed different. Many things seemed different.

  “It was more their responsibility than yours,” she said. “They were her parents. They probably blamed themselves. And took it out on you.”

  “My mother has never blamed herself for anything in her life. Responsibility is not her thing.”

  She stared at him. Set down her mug. “I don’t think I’d have liked your parents much.”

  He gave a half shrug. “That’s okay. I didn’t, either.”

  Something flashed in her eyes. He looked away. If she was feeling pity, he didn’t want to see it.

  When he looked up again, she was looking at the battered leather jacket he’d slipped off and laid on the bar. It was indeed in rough shape, scraped here, some odd darker spots there. Spots outlined with tiny holes, where patches had once been sewn. Unit patch, the flag patch and some other, less authorized patches that expressed opinion more than identification.

  “You always wear this?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “A lot.”

  She reached out, fingered a small tear in one arm. “You could get that repaired, so it doesn’t get worse.”

  “No.”

  “Sure. There’s a shoe repair shop in—”

  “I meant I don’t want it repaired.”

  She yanked her hand back as if the sudden edge in his voice had startled her. He let out a compressed breath.

  “It was Drake’s,” he said.

  Understanding flooded her voice. “Oh. No wonder, then.”

  She blinked, and he saw the sudden welling of moisture in her eyes. She nearly jumped when he reached out to her, lifted her chin with a gentle finger.

  “What’s that for?”

  “For him. For you. For all of you.”

  H
is stomach knotted, but not in a bad way. He swallowed tightly. The memories hovered, ready to swoop down, and he had the crazy thought that if he let them she would somehow feel them, as if they were so powerful they would brush her in passing.

  She slipped from the counter-height seat. He noticed it wasn’t much of a reach for her, with those long legs that he tried not to think about too much. And then she blasted that effort to bits when she crossed the two feet between them, pushed the swivel chair around and put her arms around him.

  He nearly dropped the mug to the counter. As it was, it hit with a heavy thud.

  She was holding him, so close her heat was searing him, burning away the remnants of the painful memories that had been stirred up. Her head rested against his chest and he could smell the scent of whatever shampoo she used, something light and faintly citrusy.

  He realized with a little shock his arms were around her in turn. He hadn’t realized he’d done that. And now, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from sliding out of the chair so he could stand and pull her closer.

  He would have sworn he could feel every inch of her, in his mind he could see every inch of her, his suddenly explosive imagination able to supply every detail he’d never seen.

  “If your parents were truly not proud of you, then they were fools,” she said softly.

  He fought for control in a way he hadn’t had to do in years. She was simply returning the favor as it were. He had to remember that that’s all this was, that she didn’t mean anything more by this. Just a kind soul offering comfort and understanding.

  What he couldn’t understand was how this had turned on its head, how his urge to ease her distress had somehow turned into her comforting him.

  And then she kissed him.

  He was sure she’d probably meant it to be a peck on the cheek, but he’d moved to pull her even closer and their lips brushed. The spark was instant, the fuel his imaginings of every hour since he’d met her, and the blaze caught and flared so quickly any thought of control was too late. His mouth was on hers.

  He felt ravenous, a starving man who’d found sustenance at last, a man dying of thirst who had at last found clean, fresh water and a taste of sweetness unlike anything he’d ever known.

  It was a heady brew, and he felt himself slipping further out of control as he deepened the kiss. The more he tasted the more he wanted, and the blaze flashed into an inferno.

  The fierceness of it startled him. Some part of his passion-numbed brain was aware of one crucial thing: she was responding with the same fierceness he was feeling. She was tasting, probing, not tentatively but with an eagerness that took what little breath he had left away.

  If she’d been hesitant, if she’d shown the slightest resistance, he could have pulled back. He would have pulled back. But she didn’t, and restraint was beyond him.

  His hands traced the curves he’d imagined, found he’d been a bit off, her waist nipped in more than he’d thought under the sweater, making the curve to her hip the perfect spot for his hands. He tugged her closer, wanting the feel of her body pressed against him even as he knew it would drive him crazy. And still the kiss went on, deep, fiery, maddening.

  He slid his hands upward, over her taut rib cage, until his fingers encountered the soft, warm flesh of her breasts. This somehow seemed the point of no return. If he did as his body demanded, if he cupped those curves, caressed them, and if she responded with the same intensity as she had to this kiss, he’d be lost. Completely lost.

  Or found.

  And he would be on a path he shouldn’t even be thinking about. And those warning bells were finally loud enough he couldn’t ignore them, or the message they sent. If he went down this path, there’d be no turning back.

  Chapter 21

  Laney felt his hesitation. Thought she understood it. Told herself she should take advantage of it, pull away.

  She didn’t. Couldn’t.

  “Laney.”

  His voice was rough, harsh, and the difference sent another rush of heat through her. She leaned into him, her body suddenly awake and tuned to a fever pitch. She savored the heat of him, the hard, lean strength. Wanted more of it. Wanted more of his mouth, his hands, his body.

  She wanted it all. Now.

  This was insane, this so wasn’t her. She didn’t do this, didn’t get swept up with a man she barely knew, didn’t have to fight off thoughts of leaping into bed with him three days after meeting him.

  But then, she’d never, ever had a man make her feel like this. As if the decision were out of her hands, as if fate and nature and biology had all conspired to make this happen and it was useless to fight it.

  And as if she would regret it her entire life if she stopped now.

  She ran her hands over him, wanting to learn him as he was learning her. She slipped up under the edge of his sweater, nearly gasping at the feel of him, smooth skin over taut muscle, and savoring the way he sucked in his breath at her touch.

  She’d always laughed at the idea of sex as an imperative. A nice fantasy, but hardly day-to-day reality. She wasn’t laughing now. She was burning up. Being consumed. Feeling as if she would die if she didn’t have him.

  When he tugged at her shirt she let him, when it got tangled, she helped him. She heard the low, very male sound he made when it dropped to the floor, saw the heat in his eyes when he cupped her breasts so they swelled over the top of her lacy bra. And she swore if she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get that sweater off him she would have unhooked the bra herself.

  When the sweater was gone and she got her first real look at him her knees nearly gave out. He was as beautiful as she’d known he would be from that glimpse she’d gotten before. Solid, broad shoulders, narrow waist and that flat stomach she’d been touching with such eagerness. A faint dusting of hair graced the center of his chest, narrowed as it trailed down his belly. Her suddenly overactive imagination supplied the rest of the image, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to see, to touch, in a mad, hot, insane way that was the most consuming thing she’d ever felt.

  Somehow, they wound up on the floor. She felt the softness of the throw rug at her back. It wouldn’t have surprised her if she’d fallen, but he’d managed to ease her down gently, even as she clutched at him, fingers digging into those shoulders.

  She couldn’t reach his mouth just then, so she pressed her lips to his neck, trailing kisses down the strong corded muscle to the hollow of his throat. She felt him suck in another deep breath so she lingered there, kissing, tasting. But her hands strayed farther, reaching the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button, then the zipper.

  And then freezing when she realized what her fingers had encountered, realized just how aroused he was in turn. It made her shiver, not in fear but in anticipation. She traced the rigid flesh through the soft, worn denim.

  “Laney.”

  It was all he said, but it came as if it were ripped from him. And the sound of it, the deep, rough tension of it, was all she needed to hear.

  All thought fled as his thumbs brushed over her nipples. It wasn’t a firm, demanding stroke, just a light caress, but it didn’t matter. Sensation swept through her as if it had been his mouth on that aroused flesh. And at that thought, her body clenched with the need for it to be just that, for his mouth to be on her.

  She moaned under the pressure that was building, arched beneath him, reaching, asking, pleading. He answered. He lowered his head, kissed the swell of her breasts. He reached behind her, managed to unhook her bra, quickly enough that she didn’t go mad, yet not so easily it made her wonder where he’d gotten all the practice.

  And then his mouth was there, his tongue circling, flicking until she nearly screamed. She arched again, twisting, straining to get closer. Vaguely realized he’d unzipped her, as well. With his mouth still teasing her nipp
le, his fingers slipped lower. She only realized how completely she was responding to him, how suddenly the arousal had swamped her, when he finally reached his goal and stroked her.

  The ferocity of her own response to just this stunned her; if it was like this now, what on earth would it be like when they were actually joined, when he was inside her?

  On the thought she echoed his action, sliding her hand farther, tracing the path of that arrow of hair.

  “Stop.”

  The harsh command barely penetrated the haze. She couldn’t really have heard that. Who would want to stop this?

  It was more forceful this time. “Laney, stop.”

  Teague would, apparently. Still caught up in the whirling sensations, she looked up at him in puzzlement.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

  He closed his eyes. She saw his jaw clench for a moment. Then he opened them again. His hands were safely at her shoulders now, holding her as he pulled away slightly. It was all she could do not to whimper plaintively at his retreat.

  “We can’t do this,” he said.

  He didn’t sound like he meant it. She frowned, still spinning a little, and off balance from his quick withdrawal. She felt cold without his heat, although the room was perfectly warm.

  “Why?” she asked simply.

  “You want a list?” he asked, his voice steadier now.

  “If you’re going to stop now, I may need it,” she said. She knew she sounded a bit sharp, but she was reeling a little.

  “You’re vulnerable right now. You’re hurting. You’re not thinking straight.”

  For some reason this list irked her. She scrambled to her feet. “Have you taken up mind reading, or did you just decide you know better than I do how I feel?”

  “You want cold, hard facts?” he asked, getting up as well. “You’re a client. You barely know me. And...I’m not prepared.”

  She had the odd sensation of feeling her cheeks heat when she would have thought they couldn’t, she was already so flushed.

  “I won’t always be a client. And I know more about you than you probably realize. I know what kind of person you are, what kind of man you are.”