Or Nick Thorndike?
Where was he?
Not in the living room, unless he hid somewhere in the shadows. The only available light radiated from a low woodstove fire to her right, its crackle breaking through the insistent drumming of the steady rain outside.
Someone, presumably Nick, had thrown a blanket over her. Comfortable for the first time in a week, she savored the warmth that soothed her aching body.
No. Nick was dangerous. Jamie's latest henchman. She thrust away the blanket, just as distant lightning pierced the living room again to prove she was alone. When the thunder reached her, she sat up. Was Nick asleep, or since she'd been found, was he plotting to return her to Jamie?
Apprehension shivered through her and she rubbed her arms. Maybe he'd left, gone to meet Jamie, to bring him here?
She had to leave, now. Even this late in the evening, she could still disappear and make it look like suicide. Jamie would give up looking for her then. She stood and the couch groaned, echoing her own protesting joints.
She went as still as she could, praying that only she could hear her heart pounding loud enough to wake the dead. After a tense minute, her gaze settled on her coat as it hung from a chair by the fire. She'd have to give up the warm sweater Nick had practically shoved over her head. Too bad. With aching muscles, she peeled it off.
"Where are you going?"
Startled by the commanding voice, she spun around. Nick stood a few feet away. Again, lightning flickered outside and for a half a second gave her a full, stark view of him.
He wore nothing but a pair of rumpled boxer shorts, the wide elastic resting just below his navel. Dusted with dark hair, his thighs spoke of hard exercise. The slanted lightning etched out his strong, sculpted chest, defining the flat nipples that lay in perfect symmetry. His unsmiling, angular features were a far cry from her first sighting of him at Jamie's cigar bar, when his easy good looks were smooth, polished like the top of Jamie's mahogany desk.
"Where are you going?" he repeated, a tired huskiness seeping into his tone.
Her stomach flipped. She'd like nothing better than to wrench her feet free, but they seemed glued to the floor. Her hands shook and his sweatshirt dropped like a stone.
Nick's fingers tapped on lean hips. Was that the remains of a bruise on one knuckle? Tony's bloodied and swollen face had taken a nasty beating just moments before she'd walked in on him and Jamie. Nick had given that beating.
Fear and attraction, the deadly mix, swirled and swayed within her, the longing stealing her breath.
It didn't seem possible that the same man to offer her dry clothes could also be responsible for pounding Tony into a bloodied pulp, but hadn't she already proved, several times in fact, that she was no judge of men?
Her knees threatened to buckle. "I have to leave," she whispered through the semidark. He looked half-asleep and she hoped against hope that maybe she'd awoken him. Maybe he hadn't called Jamie. And, she prayed, maybe he didn't even recognize her?
Over a roll of thunder, she heard something on the front porch bang against the house. Wind flung sheets of rain against the door, attacking it like a barrage of tiny machine guns. Jarring the tattered nerves she'd only just managed to fortify with a deep breath.
"You want to leave in this weather?" He stepped toward her, scanning her half-naked frame with guarded concern. "Do you think that's wise?"
She couldn't look into his face. She didn't want to see any hint of kindness in his eyes. He was a friend of Jamie's. He wasn't kind.
The same primitive heat she'd felt at Jamie's smoky party pushed aside the fear. On some basic, organic level, Nick attracted her like no other man had. She glanced down at herself. Tight jeans and a thin bra that clung to her breasts as if for dear life. Merciful heavens, she should cover herself and get out. "I—I have my coat. I'll be fine outside."
"I can't let you go."
She watched him close in, the strength she'd possessed a moment ago evaporating like water on a hot stove. Nick took her elbow and led her to the couch. "You should put that sweater back on."
She couldn't. All she could manage was to collapse against the cushions and feel the appalling tears of frustration well up in her eyes.
If only she was stronger. But she'd used up all her strength to reach the cliff. And she'd failed there, too.
Exhaustion pounded at her. A week's worth of running had drained her of even the energy to slip on Nick's sweater again. Let him see her half-naked. She didn't care anymore.
"Get dressed." He threw the sweater at her. "I'm taking you to the crisis center in Saint John."
She snapped her head up, ignoring the wind battering the house and moaning an even sadder tone than she felt herself. No, the center for abused women was out of the question. Calling on the fact she'd had the strength to carry out a dangerous plan, she lifted her chin. "No, you're not."
Nick blinked in disbelief. "Why the hell not?"
Because crisis centers and safe houses weren't safe enough for her. No doubt Jamie was already discreetly checking them out. He had connections at the police station, didn't he?
"How do you know where the center is?" Maybe if she could get Nick to admit he was a police officer, she could remind him of why he became one in the first place….
He shrugged. To her horror, she knew he wasn't about to admit he knew where the center was. Or that he was a police officer at all. "I'd drop you off at the hospital. They'd know who to call. Aren't there pamphlets and such in the women's washroom?"
She shut her eyes. Another failure. "I can't go to the center. Please don't take me there."
The couch sagged and she opened her eyes in time to see Nick settle beside her. He threw the afghan heaped between them onto the back cushion.
He seemed to acquiesce. "Look, running outside in this weather won't help you, but the women at the crisis center will."
He reached for her arm, but held back, his hand hovering above her tingling skin. His voice softened, the warm timbre sliding over her like a hot, silken bath. "I promise I won't take you anywhere you don't want to go. But I think you should go into Saint John and find someone to help you, okay? Someone you can trust?"
She stared into his dark brown eyes. Flickers of light from the woodstove danced in them, giving him a devilish look so contradictory to his voice. God help her, she felt the stirring attraction again, deep inside of her. In a few seconds, the unwanted urges would lambaste her at full, hot force, and his kind words would do nothing to help her fight back.
Why must he sound so compassionate? Didn't he know the thin thread holding together her courage and self-discipline was already stretched taut?
"I can't go there." Please, she begged silently. Please don't touch me….
He parted his smooth lips. The action softened his tired features into a gentle look so different from the cop who didn't mind lining his own pockets with what she now realized was Jamie's illegal wealth. Right now, he was nothing like the man who didn't care what laws he broke, as long as he got rich.
"In the morning." His voice was marked with a quiet concern she wanted to believe was real.
She sagged away from him, afraid that the heat smoldering inside her would burst into flame. Oh, how good a genuine compassion would be. How good it would feel to trust him…and fall into his arms…and forget what had happened.
Swallowing, she glanced down Nick's frame. Firelight delivered a golden sheen to his chiseled muscles, a sheen that was surely as warm to the touch as it was to her eyes. A ragged scar puckered the smooth, inward dip near his shoulder. Over the smell of the wood fire, she caught his personal scent—musk, sharpened with the faint tang of citrus. The delicious fragrance hiked up her heart rate.
Even as she inhaled deeply, she steeled herself against the attraction. Not now, not when failure lured her into that bland void of giving up. "I won't go to the crisis center. Just let me leave. I won't be a bother…."
He glanced out the window, in time for another series of d
istant lightning strikes. Seconds later, thunder crashed against the house, rebounding on her drum-tight nerves. His mouth turned grim as he shook his head. "Not until the storm's over. I'm sorry."
He sounded sorry. He really did. But as much as she ached to believe him, she couldn't. She had only a few minutes before she'd lose all confidence. Standing up, she shoved down the attraction and forced her fear to give her strength. "You can't keep me here."
Quick as the lightning outside, he pulled her back down. She landed with a thud, teetering toward his big frame enough for him to steady her with his warm hand. His voice turned sharp. "Don't be foolish. You just tried to kill yourself, woman, and you think I'm going to let you walk out of here?"
She went rigid. Immediately, he loosened his hold on her, but still kept his fingers wrapped around her elbow. As the silent moments passed, his thumb caressed the smooth skin of her inner arm. Such an intimate gesture, hard to fortify herself against the pleasure of it.
"Sorry." His thumb continued to work its magic. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Look, you're a whole lot safer here than out there. I won't hurt you. I promise. I'm a—"
He cut off his own words. Was he about to admit he was a cop? She held her breath, hoping for the chance to remind him of his calling. Instead, he brushed his fingers up and down her elbow, adding to the electricity already surging into her shoulder and beyond.
As if to taunt her with her own vulnerability, her breasts tingled. When his gaze dropped to the sheer cups, her nipples budded hard. Damn them for showing the tender underbelly of her response to this man.
She tried to shake off the attraction. Everything about this situation screamed bad news in her head, and yet her body ached to the bone from a week of running. It wanted comfort. It needed the comfort only a man could provide.
Why Nick? The man who could deliver her to Jamie?
But who had promised she'd be safe, in a way she could believe was genuine.
This attraction was strictly physical, until now, when she sensed a contradictory sincerity in him. Maybe she wanted to believe he wasn't all bad, simply to justify this crazy attraction.
Nick's hand trailed up her arm, stroking her bare shoulder before brushing his knuckles up her neck. She shut her eyes. Her lips parted and a soft moan escaped, foreign even to her own ears. Heat surged into her breasts, filling them to overflowing before pouring its molten honey into the empty mold of her womanhood.
Dear heaven, she wasn't strong enough to resist this attraction. Not with Nick so close. It didn't matter to her body that he could easily do to her what he'd done to Tony DiPetri. Or worse, kill her. Her betraying body simply didn't care. All it wanted was the fleeting pleasure of his touch.
And her mind, the only sane part of her, gave up and shut down in absolute exhaustion.
* * *
Her skin was so silky. Nick battled the urge to pull his hand away, but his fingers were already addicted to the satin they found.
Here, on his couch, during the storm that had stolen the electricity, the same storm he was determined to ignore, he fought the temptation of her skin.
She was warm. Despite the rain outside, the woodstove kept the house toasty dry. He'd banked the fire nicely after Helen had fallen asleep. Then he'd dropped onto the cot in his study under the stairs and lay there, his mind full of his suspension and murder…and her.
Now, as his bruised knuckles brushed up her neck to her tender ear, he realized how little time his undercover work had allowed for recreation. The abstinence hadn't bothered him before. He'd accepted the fact he was a loner ages ago.
He couldn't even remember when he'd last made love to a woman. And adding to the building frustration was the knowledge that his suspension would leave him with plenty of vacant time to linger on his past self-denial.
She leaned her head toward his hand, her moist, generous lips parting just as her eyelids drifted shut. Her groan danced over his wrist. Each and every hair on his arms stood erect, anticipating the pure pleasure that would course through him, straight to his groin.
He toyed with her bra strap, afraid to inhale in case with it would come the reality of this terrible mistake. He didn't want to listen to his conscience. He needed this brief encounter. More than anything.
With his suspension, his life would be impotent. At least he could be of use here, giving them both a taste of pleasure.
He slid his fingers under the strap and with a gentle tug, pulled her close. With careful precision, he angled his head to touch his lips to hers.
She moaned and softened against him. He slid his other hand around her waist and drew her even closer. Hard nipples scraped against his bare chest as he ran his hand just under the waistband of her jeans.
She welcomed his tongue into her mouth. A growl rumbling deep in his chest vocalized the need to plunge himself into her.
When his hands found the clasp of her bra, he released it and peeled the thin material away. He brushed his palms over her nipples, evoking another moan from her.
Her head tilted back, exposing a tender throat. Delicious.
He stopped a second before another guttural expletive rose inside of him. She was giving herself to him. Freely. This beautiful, desperate woman…who had just tried to commit suicide.
His nostrils flared, drawing in warmth and musk and the unique scent of a woman in need of a man.
Lightning forked jaggedly, illuminating her expression and branding it in his mind. Eyes shut and her face slackened with pleasure, she looked as she had when she'd fainted out on the cliff.
The curse he'd held back spilled out of his mouth.
What the hell was happening? In his frustration and anger at his world, he was taking advantage of a sick, helpless woman, who, only hours earlier, had been ready to end her life.
What was he thinking?
He hadn't been thinking. He'd been caught up with urges he'd denied his body for too long. He'd let the impotent anger of his failure at work take over what was left of his good sense. Then he'd twisted the logic to suit himself, believing she needed him to make love to her.
No damn way. He wasn't doing her any favors. He was adding to her problems. Adding to his own as well, considering he should be acting more like a police officer and less like a sex-starved teenager.
He was no better than that scum Jamie Cooms. Making love to this woman was no different than Cooms taking advantage of the poor addicts he sold drugs to.
His heart hammering in his throat, he pushed himself away. Breath burst from his lungs, hot and hard like his body. He should tell her to leave, except wouldn't she finish off what she'd started on the cliff?
But he couldn't finish what he'd started here.
Gently shoving her down, Nick settled in beside her, closest to the back of the couch, while evidence of his arousal thrust into her back. He pulled the afghan over both of them.
"Go to sleep." His words sounded so harsh and cold, and he touched his lips contritely to the back of her hacked off hair and wondered again who had done such a terrible thing to her.
Because he was no better than that bastard.
* * *
A distant ringing drilled into Nick's subconscious, stopping and starting until he shook his head and opened his gritty eyes.
He was alone on the couch, clutching one of the sofa's throw pillows, staring at the far wall of his living room while sunlight streamed in an eastern window.
The ringing rattled his nerves again. The phone. He staggered upright and reached for it.
"Yeah?"
"Good morning."
His partner, Mark Rowlands. Make that his ex-partner. Nick glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. He drew in a sharp breath and threw a hasty glance around the room.
Where was she?
"I said good morning."
Shaking his head, he answered, "It's my day off, jerk. I'm suspended, remember?"
Mark fell silent and Nick regretted his outburst. But Mark should know his style. Work alone, l
ive alone. Do his own thing.
"The chief wants you to clear out your desk and your locker. He needs them for the auxiliary officer he's called in. He's really pissed on this one, Nick. Saint John's chief called him, saying his mayor's not pleased they've spent thousands on an undercover operation that's shot to hell."
"Sorry." He barely paid attention. The sweatshirt he'd offered the woman lay neatly folded on the arm of the couch. Still holding the cordless phone to his ear, he peeked into his study. Where was she?
The cliff.
He swore into the phone. "I gotta go. Clean out my locker, will you?"
"Want me to come over and cook your breakfast, too?"
"Look, I'll call you back, okay?" Panic surged inside him. "I have to do something. Quick!"
He hung up and roared into his study to throw on the pants he'd peeled off the night before. Tearing shirtless and sockless into the living room, he grabbed his jacket. When he glanced down at the floor of the hall closet, he discovered his rubber boots were gone. Damn.
He wasted precious seconds struggling to shove his feet into his sneakers, but within the minute, he was out the door and around the house.
The edge of the cliff was empty. He tore into the woods, sprinting at top speed toward the tip of the cove. Wet branches slapped at him. Panting, he sucked in the smell of the forest after a cleansing rain.
He skidded to a stop at the cliff. In front of him were her sneakers and socks.
Please God, let her be safe.
Holding his breath, he peered over the edge. Caught on a jagged rock was the sweater he'd seen her tear in two.
His gaze darted back and forth, but he saw nothing else. No rubber boots, nothing. He pivoted and slammed into the thicket to his right, scanning all the time for signs she'd cut through the dense woods to the curve of the cliff facing directly into the Bay of Fundy. When he reached the drop-off, he stooped and leaned over. He could see the entire sunny coastline for miles.
No one.
Where is she?
Another expletive rising in him, he returned to the end of the trail. The ledge below him was untouched. No footprints in the wet sand that filled and smoothed the shallow crevices.
Trust No One Page 3