At least, until the night she’d met Patrick.
Helen’s throat tightened as the boom of the surf drifted to her ears, mocking her, making her remember....
She hadn’t even wanted to go to the annual policemen’s charity ball. She’d only gone because Franklin had bought tickets for everyone. She couldn’t refuse; attending such functions was part of her job. But she certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy it.
She went to the ball and sat in a corner sipping white wine and thinking about the assault case she was prosecuting. As often as she could, she discreetly checked her watch. She figured she could leave at eleven, late enough not to offend anyone but still early enough to get some work done at home.
Everything changed when she glanced up and saw Patrick Monaghan looking right at her.
He was leaning against the bar, a bottle of beer dangling from his hand. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, but a black jacket and straight-legged jeans that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his lean hips. Against the stark white of his shirt, his face looked darkly handsome. Even from across the room, there was something dangerously compelling about him.
He smiled at her and lifted his beer in an impromptu toast. Helen dragged her gaze away. For some reason her cheeks were burning. Something low in her belly fluttered oddly.
She looked back toward the bar out of the corner of her eye, but he was gone. A faint feeling of disappointment filtered through her.
“Dance with me?”
The voice was deep and warm and smooth, gliding over her like smoke. She jerked around and saw Patrick standing there. He smiled at her, and she swallowed hard. His smile was as attractive as sin and twice as persuasive.
He held out his hand to her, and before she quite knew what she was doing, she had taken it.
They danced several times. To Helen’s amazement, she started to have fun. Patrick spun her around the dance floor, trying outrageous moves and making her laugh. He flirted with her so extravagantly that she laughed even more. He was funny and charming and definitely a little crazy, and she realized as the evening wore on that she liked him. Liked him a lot.
But she didn’t mean for it to go any further. She didn’t date much anyway—only men she knew she could keep at arm’s length—and even if she had, she would never have gotten involved with a cop, someone who was practically a co-worker. And definitely not one with a reputation like Patrick’s.
At eleven, just as she’d planned, she left.
She walked out to the parking lot, her high heels crunching against gravel. For some reason she half wished she’d stayed a little longer. Danced a few more dances with Patrick. The thought of going home and working just wasn’t so appealing anymore.
The wind picked up, and she clutched her coat close to her body, shivering a little as she rounded the corner of the building. When she caught sight of her car, she stopped short.
Patrick was leaning against the hood, whistling softly. The wind ruffled his black hair. In the moonlight he looked mysterious, a little wicked—and irresistibly handsome.
Looking at him, she felt strangely light-headed. It was just the wine, she told herself. She must have drunk a little more than she’d thought.
He looked up and saw her standing there, and his pewter eyes crinkled in a smile. “Hello, darlin‘.”
“What are you doing on my car?” Helen flushed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. What a stupid question.
But the answer wasn’t what she’d expected.
“Thought you might like to head out to the beach.” Patrick raised his voice over the rattle of the wind in the trees. “You said you like to go there when it’s stormy. How about right now?”
Helen hesitated, and he grinned. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m not going to attack you.”
“I know,” she blurted. She’d heard plenty of gossip about him, but never that he was dangerous. And there was something about his laughing gray eyes that made her feel sure he would never hurt her.
“So how ‘bout it?” He held out his hand.
Helen stared at his outstretched hand. Maybe it was the wine, but suddenly she felt reckless. When was the last time she’d done anything spontaneous? Before tonight, how long had it been since she’d really had any fun? And it was just a walk on the beach, after all....
“Okay.” She reached out and took Patrick’s hand. His palm was warm, and their skin fused, sending tingles of awareness racing through her.
He tugged her toward the car. “Let’s go.”
Helen drove to the beach. She parked the car, and Patrick leaped out, flinging his arms wide.
“I love it out here!” he shouted above the wind.
His exuberance was catching. Helen kicked off her shoes and ran with him along the beach, reveling in the shriek of the wind and the pounding surf. It started to rain and she raised her face to the cool, stinging drops, drinking in the rain’s magic.
They twirled like children, spinning around in circles until they collapsed, dizzy and laughing, onto the wet sand.
Patrick grabbed her hand, still laughing. “Aren’t you glad you came, darlin‘?”
The rain pelted down. She was covered in sand, her dress was ruined, and she was on a beach at midnight with a madman. And it was wonderful. She felt free, really free, for almost the first time in her life.
“Yes!” Laughter bubbled from her lips. “Yes!”
And he kissed her.
Nothing in her limited experience of men had prepared her for that kiss. It was as potent as the strongest whiskey—hot, fierce, dangerous. Desire sang through her veins like fire, and she felt the last icy remnants of control melt away.
The next morning she woke in Patrick’s bed.
She sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts, and looked down at Patrick’s sleeping form. Naked, he was magnificent, sprawling across the tangled sheets like some pagan god. In the air, she could still smell the musky scent of sex.
Waves of utter shame broke over her. What had she done? She’d only had a few glasses of wine—surely that wasn’t enough to make her lose control. But how could she have gone to bed with a man she’d only known for one night? And a man with a reputation like Patrick’s? Everyone knew his wife had divorced him. Gossip had it he’d been playing around behind her back. Since then, he hadn’t stayed with one woman for more than a few weeks.
And she had gone to bed with him. She’d lost control. Completely. Utterly. Oh, God, if anyone found out....
She’s just like her mother. The ugly words from all those years ago echoed back to her.
She gathered her things and fled.
As she stared out the window, Helen’s chest tightened. Ever since that night, she’d kept control. Tried to forget Patrick, forget the things he’d made her feel. But now he was back in her life, making her remember...making her want.
Helen’s gaze flickered to the bedroom door. Patrick was just on the other side of that wall. Only a few feet away.
For a long moment she stared at the door, and then she balled her hands into fists and marched back over to her bed. She climbed under the covers and yanked them up to her chin.
“I’m not like my mother.” Her voice cracked. “I’m in control.”
The rich, warm smell of coffee tickled Helen’s nose as she drifted awake. She yawned and stretched, wincing slightly at the soreness in her muscles, and flipped over to look at her clock.
A china cup and saucer blocked it from her view. Steam curled up from the top of the cup, and she frowned. What the—
She bolted upright and saw the bedroom door silently closing. “Patrick?”
He pushed the door back open and smiled at her. “Morning.”
Helen stared at him. He looked sleepy, beautiful, and wholly, undeniably male. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and he was wearing nothing but his jeans. She gulped at the sight of his sculpted chest muscles and flat washboard stomach, dusted with finely curling black hair. Something deep inside her jolted to awar
eness, making warmth bloom through her belly.
She fought back the feeling and struggled to keep her gaze on Patrick’s face. “What were you doing in here?”
“Bringing you coffee.”
“But—” She glanced at the china cup and shoved her hands through her hair. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Almost six.”
“I never would have taken you for an early riser.”
“I’m not. But I know you are. And after last night, I figured you could use a good strong cup of coffee first thing.”
Helen’s mind spun. “You dragged yourself out of bed at the crack of dawn just so you could make me coffee?”
He shrugged. “You would have woken me when you got up anyway.”
The warmth in her stomach spread through her limbs. She felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you.”
He looked into her eyes, and his voice deepened to the texture of gravel—rough, caressing. “Anytime.”
Helen’s heart hammered. With an effort she tore her eyes from his and cleared her throat. “But I don’t actually drink coffee until I’m back from my morning run.”
“You want to run this morning?”
“I run every morning.”
Patrick’s eyes darkened with concern. “You sure you want to go today? How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Helen climbed out of bed, grimacing as her feet hit the floor. “Maybe a little stiff. But I’m sure I want to run today. I always do my best thinking on my morning run.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
She walked over to her dresser and opened one of her drawers. “Think you can keep up with me, Monaghan?”
He grinned. “Sure I can.”
“Five miles?”
“Okay.” He slid his hand absently over his stomach. “But we’ll have to go to my place first so I can change.”
She froze. The thought of going to his apartment—of returning to a place so filled with dangerous memories—sent a touch of panic racing through her body.
“No,” she said. “No, we can’t go there.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You want me to run in my jeans?”
“You go change. I’ll meet you at Centennial Park.”
“My car’s still out on South Commercial.”
“I’ll drop you off,” she said. “You can pick up your car, go home and change, and meet me at the park.”
“We already talked about this last night. For now, we’d better stick together.”
Helen jammed her hands onto her hips. “I think I can handle being on my own for half an hour. I don’t need a keeper.”
Patrick pushed himself away from the door and looked at her closely. His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she snapped.
Patrick took a step toward her. His eyes didn’t look sleepy anymore, and the teasing light was gone. Helen had the terrible feeling that he saw past her defenses, past her walls, and right into the most secret parts of her mind...and her heart.
“You don’t want to go to my apartment,” he said.
Helen shrugged and looked away.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“I just don’t.” She tossed her clothes onto her rumpled bed and folded her arms across her chest.
Patrick took another step closer. “It’s because of what happened between us last year, isn’t it? You’re afraid.”
She snorted. “Afraid of what?”
“Maybe you’re afraid to remember that the ice you surround yourself with can be melted.”
“No!” Her voice was a little too loud, and she hoped Patrick didn’t hear the panic in it. “No, I’m not afraid.”
“You’re not? Prove it.”
She was trapped. Clenching her fists, she dug her fingernails into her palms. “Fine. We’ll go to your apartment. Now get the hell out of my room so I can change.”
“Sure thing.” He turned and headed out of her room. “I’ll meet you in the hall in ten minutes.”
Helen banged the door shut behind him.
The first fingers of dawn were just streaking over the eastern horizon. Helen’s heart pounded as she strode up the steps to Patrick’s building. Patrick unlocked the front door and held it open. Dragging in a breath, she plunged inside.
The entrance hall was clean but a little shabby, just as she remembered. Her feet echoed against worn linoleum as she followed Patrick down the hall to his door.
He unlocked three dead bolts and pushed it open. “Come on in.”
Helen’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to follow him inside. Patrick closed the door and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly across an old leather armchair.
He turned back to her, and her breath caught. Memory flashed through her like lightning, trailing streamers of desire. This was exactly what had happened before. He’d turned and braced his arm against the wall, and then he‘d—
“Helen?” Patrick’s deep voice brought her crashing back to the present. “Are you all right?”
She gulped. “No, I....” Her voice trailed off as she stared into his eyes.
The concern in his eyes faded into heat, heat and some emotion she couldn’t identify. Helen moistened her lips, her heartbeat suddenly racing out of control.
Patrick stepped slowly toward her. He planted his hand against the door, bracing himself as he lowered his head. Her lips parted, her stomach turning to liquid heat. She felt his warm breath on her face, saw his eyes darken to the color of smoke.
She knew she should open her mouth to say no, should push him away, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only stand there, her bones melting, waiting....
And then his lips were on hers, testing, teasing, claiming her with a kiss of quicksilver fire. Heat exploded deep in the pit of her stomach, skidding through her body.
Helen wrapped her arms around his neck. She plowed her fingers into his hair, tangling them in the black, silky depths. Patrick slowly pushed her back against the door. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding past her lips to twine with hers.
She made a sound of pleasure deep in her throat at the taste of him—it was like wind and rain and fire. Patrick wrapped his arm around her hips and pulled her even closer. His strength was magnetic, compelling. She pressed herself against him, wanting to feel every contour of his hard, muscular body.
Her head fell back as he traced a line of kisses across her jaw and down her throat. The rasp of his unshaven jaw against her skin was erotic. She shuddered with pleasure, her hands clenching in his hair as he traced her collarbone with his tongue.
Patrick lifted his head and looked into her eyes, his lips less than an inch from hers. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze fell to her mouth, and his eyes darkened.
She tightened her arms around his neck, pulling his head back down to hers. This time the gentleness was gone from his kiss. His mouth slanted across hers, hard and demanding. He kissed her with a fierce, possessive passion that told her unmistakably that she was his. She moved her hips instinctively against his, and a groan exploded from his lips, a groan of pure masculine frustration and need.
Suddenly the telephone rang. The sound pierced through the haze that clouded Helen’s thoughts, dragging her up from the smoky depths of desire.
Patrick lifted his head from hers, his eyes almost black. “Ignore it,” he rasped. “They’ll call back.”
For one wild moment she almost listened to him, but then the telephone rang again. The sound was like a knife, slicing away the last clinging remnants of whatever insanity had gripped her. She pushed away from Patrick with a little cry, wrenched open the door, and fled.
Adrenaline pumped through her body as she ran into the lobby, slammed her way through the door, and charged out into the chill morning rain. Ignoring her car, she raced down the street, her heart pounding with shame and fury and the tattered remains of desire, trying to outrun the knowledge of her own weakne
ss.
“Helen!” Patrick shouted.
She didn’t look over her shoulder, just kept running.
“Helen, stop!”
She put on a burst of speed. Her lungs burned, and she gulped for air. She wasn’t a sprinter, but she prayed she could outrun him.
Footsteps pounded behind her. A hand closed over her arm, yanking her to a halt. Patrick. Desperately, she tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but he held on. To her horror, she found that the warmth of his fingers was almost welcome against her wet, chilled skin..
Hot tears of shame clogged her eyes. “Let me go,” she insisted. “Just let me go.”
“I can’t.” Patrick’s voice was flat. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone, darlin‘.”
“Darling? Is that what I am?” She raised her hand to dash away a wet strand of hair that was stuck to her cheek. “Me and how many other women?”
His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about? Other women? Okay, I admit I haven’t lived like a monk. But—”
She suppressed the urge to stamp her foot like a child. “I don’t care how many other women you’ve slept with, Monaghan. But I’m not going to be one of them. You can’t just sleep with me and toss me away.”
“Toss you away? What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who crawled out of my bed and took off without a word.”
She gasped in fury. “Are you telling me that if I’d stayed, you would have been happy to have me there in the morning? That you wanted more than just—”
“You never bothered to find out what I wanted,” he said harshly. “You didn’t even give me a chance.”
“A chance?” She glared at him. “I knew too much about you, Monaghan. Love ‘em and leave ’em, that’s your specialty.”
“I never made anyone any promises.”
“No?” Helen balled her cold, wet hands into fists and jammed them onto her hips. “Not even to your wife?”
Pure, cold rage slid over his face, turning his eyes to ice. “Leave her out of this.”
“Why? You said you never made anyone any promises. What would you call a marriage vow? Just how many times did you break that vow before she threw you out?”
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 11