Patrick swore.
Helen jerked up her head. “Did that hurt?” She applied more pressure. “Was it there, or—”
Patrick grabbed her hand, his fingers closing over it like a vise. Roughly, he dragged it away from his chest. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his mouth a flat, hard line.
Helen twisted her hand out of his grasp. “I know you don’t like this, but I have to do it. If your ribs are broken, you have to go to the hospital.”
“They’re not broken.”
“You seem to be having a lot of pain if it’s just bruises.”
“It’s not pain,” he said from between his teeth.
“What do you mean?”
Slowly, Patrick opened his eyes. They were smoky, turbulent, dark. “I mean, you’re not hurting me.”
“You mean—”
He yanked his gaze away from hers. “Just go away, Helen.”
“Why?” she asked, suddenly breathless.
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to do something I’ll regret.”
“Like what?”
Silence.
Helen sucked in her breath. An electric charge leaped between them like a flame, drawing her, pulling her in. Her insides melted, turning to liquid warmth. With a sharp, crystal clarity, she realized that she wanted him. Wanted him badly. Wanted him so much, it actually hurt.
The ache low in her belly throbbed, and suddenly she felt reckless. To hell with tomorrow. To hell with the consequences. Her life—her career—was already in ruins. What did she have left to lose?
Slowly she reached out and laid her palm against his unshaven cheek. His stubble rasped against her hand, and she felt a tiny shiver race through her body. “Like what?” she asked again.
“Nothing,” Patrick muttered.
Deliberately she put her other hand on the pillow, beside his head. Leaning down, she brushed a feather-light kiss across his lips. “Did you mean something like that?” she whispered against his mouth.
“No,” he growled.
“Then what?” Delicately she ran her tongue over his swollen lower lip.
“I meant something more like this.” Patrick clamped his arms around her waist and hauled her against him. Helen gasped as his mouth came down on hers. His kiss was hard and demanding, his lips slanting across hers with a fiery passion that sent waves of heat racing to her core. Their tongues tangled as he plundered her mouth with an urgency, a desperation, that tore at her heart.
He tasted of heat and whiskey, desire and smoke—a heady mixture that was all his own. He filled her senses. The world, the case, the ruin of her career, everything was lost. There was only the feel of his strong arms around her waist, his hands roving over her back. Only the scent of him, the wild sensation of his tongue plunging rhythmically into her mouth.
Helen moaned deep in her throat as Patrick tugged her fully onto the bed. She lay flush against him, her legs tangling with his, her breasts brushing against the muscular wall of his chest. She twisted even closer to him, wanting to feel his strength. It felt right, so right, to wrap her arms around him, to kiss him with all the longing in her soul.
Patrick’s lips slid from her mouth, across her hair. His teeth grated gently against her earlobe, and she shivered in shock and pleasure. He kissed the delicate underside of her jaw, leaving a trail of fire as his mouth slid down her throat and came back up to claim her lips once more.
She’d waited so long for this, Helen realized. To be back here with him, in his arms, in his bed. This was what she’d wanted ever since she’d fled that morning last year, but she’d been too afraid. Too wrapped up in her career and her rules, too frightened of losing everything.
Too afraid of what he made her feel, of the fire that raged inside her when he was near.
He was so beautiful. She ran one of her hands across his chest and up to his shoulder. She kneaded the thickly corded muscles, reveling in his strength, his power, his warmth. Curling her palm around the back of his neck, she buried her fingers in the rough silk of his hair, pulling him even closer, losing herself in his kiss.
Patrick slid his hand across her back and up her side, testing the curve of her waist. He stroked upward, cupping her breast. The heat of his hand burned through the thin fabric of her top. Helen gasped as hot, liquid desire twisted through her. Her nipples hardened with a rush, aching for his intimate touch. When he teasingly circled her nipple with his finger, she arched her back, thrusting against his palm.
“Please,” she whispered brokenly against his mouth. “More.”
Patrick pulled back and lifted his head to look straight at her. His eyes were dark, glittering with heat and desire. But there was more than desire. Deep in his eyes, Helen saw tenderness. She felt it in his touch as he raised his hand to her cheek and dragged his knuckle over her jaw in a rough caress.
“Are you sure?” he said. “I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret”
His sensitivity shook her, making her want him—need him—even more. “I’m sure,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “But are you sure you won’t regret it?”
He didn’t take his eyes from hers. “Never.”
She slid her hand over his hip. “Then what are we waiting for?”
Patrick’s mouth descended on hers once again. This time his kiss was an unmistakable brand of possession. Helen dug her fingers into his hair, responding with all the reckless passion she’d denied herself for so long. She arched against him, loving the feel of his hard body pressed against hers, the sound of his harsh breathing, his urgent touch.
Patrick broke the kiss and slid his lips down her body. Helen shivered with a delicious heat as he kissed the hollow of her shoulder, then the soft swell of her breast. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked gently, tasting her through the thin layer of fabric. Helen twisted upward, desire cresting hard and fast. But she wanted more. She wanted to feel her bare skin against his. To feel the heat of his mouth, the texture of his hands, with no barriers between them.
As if he could sense her thoughts, Patrick hooked his hands in the hem of her top and yanked it over her head, sending it flying across the room. The wisp of satin and lace beneath it followed, and then his lips and tongue were on her body and the world spun out of control.
Sensation swirled through her. Heat. Wanting. Desire—blazing and urgent, unlike anything she’d ever felt. She heard herself moan as she dug her fingernails into his back, and Patrick made a harsh sound of need.
He ran his hand under her skirt and between her thighs, cupping her, even as his lips tugged at her breast. Helen almost came off the bed. She arched upward against his hand, her heart thudding out of control. Patrick slid his fingers into her panties, slowly, surely, teasing her slick folds. The coil of aching longing within her almost exploded.
“Patrick...please...I can’t....”
She cried out in instinctive protest as he withdrew his hand, but he found the zipper to her skirt and dragged it down over her hips, taking her panties with it. Tossing them aside, he leaned over and grabbed something out of a drawer.
A second later, he came to her in a rush of heat and strength. Her hips surged upward, seeking his strength, but he paused and lifted his head to look into her eyes.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She wanted him too badly to wait.
She grabbed his shoulders and dragged him down to her, even as she pushed herself up to meet him, opening for him. A groan exploded from his lips as he plunged into her with one long, deep thrust, and then he kissed her, his tongue delving rhythmically into her mouth.
Patrick was steel and wildfire and heat within her, blazing with a reckless passion. His dark, pagan beauty thrilled her. Through the haze of her own desire, Helen watched as he flung back his head, his neck cording with tension. She wrapped her legs about his hips, pulling him deeper, farther, closer.
And then the coil of desire within her burst into a thousand pieces, and she fell over the edge. With one final thrust, Patrick joined her. H
e called her name hoarsely and buried his face against her neck as he shuddered with a release that shattered them both.
Patrick tightened his arm around Helen’s waist, pulling her a little closer. She curled against him, one of her legs thrown over his thighs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her silky hair brushed his shoulder. He felt the sweat cooling against his skin as his heartbeat gradually slowed and his breathing came back to normal.
Making love with Helen had been every bit as incredible, as explosive, as he remembered—and more. She was so passionate. So beautiful. So completely unlike any other woman he’d ever been with.
She was his. Finally. And he never wanted to let her go.
He ran a possessive hand over the curve of her waist and across her hip. His fingers slipped into the nest of dark blond curls at the junction of her thighs.
Helen gave a breathless laugh and tilted back her head to look into his eyes. “Better be careful what you’re doing there.”
Her husky voice sent a bolt of need straight to his groin, and he leaned over to kiss her thoroughly, exploring her beautiful mouth. She made a soft noise of satisfaction, and he pulled back just a little. “Careful?” he asked. “Why?”
Helen smiled against his mouth. “Because if you don’t stop, I might end up taking advantage of an injured man—again.”
“Injured? Who’s injured? I feel better than I have in years.”
Helen looked at him from under her lashes, her blue eyes sparkling. “You do, do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then maybe you should start hiring guys to beat you up more often.”
He grinned. “You think that’s why I’m feeling so good?”
She shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips. “What else could it be?”
He pretended to think about it, and she punched him lightly in the ribs. He groaned. “Hey!”
“That’s for being ungallant,” she teased.
“Ungallant?” He tried to look innocent. “Who, me?”
Laughter bubbled from Helen’s lips, a sound of pure, undiluted happiness. Patrick felt his heart expand. Seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, made him realize how badly he wanted her to be happy—with him.
He wanted her to stay in his arms. In his bed. Wanted her to stay...in his life.
Abruptly, his muscles tensed. In his life? What was he thinking? He hadn’t wanted that from any woman—hadn’t allowed himself to want it—since his divorce.
And he shouldn’t be thinking about that now, of all times. Not now, when he finally had Helen in his arms. For now he should concentrate on enjoying the moment. After all, who knew how long it would last?
Last year Helen hadn’t even hung around the next morning. It wasn’t too likely that now he was a murder suspect and had gotten her fired from her job, she was suddenly going to want to stick around.
Helen pushed herself up on one elbow and leaned over to cup his cheek. Her eyes were serious, her laughter gone. “What’s wrong?”
He managed a smile. “Nothing.”
“Is it the case?”
“Yeah,” he lied.
“Shh.” She laid her hand over his lips, and he saw anguish in her eyes. “Don’t. Let’s not think about it. Not tonight.”
He kissed her fingers. “Okay.”
Helen replaced her hand with her lips, kissing him with a hopeless passion that sent desire racing through him once again. She twined her arms around his neck, whispering against his mouth. “Just make love to me, Patrick. Make me forget.”
A helpless groan escaped his lips as she found him with her hands, stroking and caressing him until he knew he had to bury himself inside her or die. As she straddled his thighs and guided him into her tight, moist depths, he closed his eyes with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain.
When it was over, Helen collapsed against him, her body still shaking with the force of her release. Patrick held her tight, cradling her against his chest. Her breathing slowed and deepened, her muscles relaxed, as she drifted into sleep.
Patrick stared down at her peacefully sleeping face. No matter what happened tomorrow, he was glad she was here with him now. Here, curled up in his arms, as warm and trusting as a child....
The thought made his throat tighten, and he pulled her even closer. As if holding her now, tonight, could somehow make up for what he’d lost, for the dream that Jessica had destroyed. He knew it couldn‘t—not really—but he wouldn’t think about that. Not tonight. For tonight, he’d think only about the woman in his arms.
For tonight, he’d let himself pretend he still believed in dreams.
Chapter 12
Golden light filtered across Helen’s face as she blinked her eyes open. It was morning—and she was in Patrick’s bed. Warmth flooded through her, and a secret smile slid across her lips.
Behind her, she heard the steady rasp of Patrick’s breathing. He was curled around her, one heavy arm flung across her hip. His hand rested possessively on her stomach. In the air, on the sheets, she smelled the musky scent of their lovemaking.
A shiver of pleasure ran through her body, and she pressed herself a little closer to Patrick’s warm chest. Last night had been wonderful. It had been good between them—so good that the memory made her heart beat faster, her breath come quick and shallow.
Last night, she’d been reckless and wild. For the first time in her life, she was following her emotions, her intuition, rather than her logic. She was breaking the rules she’d followed all her life—and it was wonderful.
She felt free. Free to dress in clothes she wouldn’t have been caught dead in a week ago. Free to attack a thug with her shoe instead of dutifully calling the police to report an assault. Free to take control of her life instead of being ruled by fear.
And she was free to make sweet love with Patrick Monaghan—even though she knew whatever was between them couldn’t last forever. Even though she knew Patrick wasn’t looking for a real relationship, only something temporary, something where he didn’t have to make any promises.
She’s just like her mother....
The faint echo of memory floated through her mind. Helen pushed it fiercely away. She wouldn’t think about her mother. She wouldn’t think about her past or her future. Her carefully constructed life, her career, everything was in ruins.
For now, she would just concentrate on getting through one day at a time.
Just like her mother. Just like her mother.
The whisper was louder this time. Helen shook her head, trying to block it out, but the words chased themselves around and around in her mind, twisting through her until her heart was pounding and her palms were slick with sweat.
She knew from long experience that there was almost no way to stop it. No way, except to go running...or to bury herself in her work. In a career she no longer had.
Black despair flooded up inside her, but she forced it back. She wasn’t going to give up yet. Not while she still had any fight left in her body.
But if she had any hope of winning, she’d better get moving. She couldn’t lie around in bed all day.
Biting her lip, she pushed at Patrick’s arm. He mumbled something and tugged her closer, pulling her back against his broad chest. For a moment she was tempted—more than tempted—to give in to him, but the whisper deep in her mind stopped her before she could.
Gritting her teeth, she rolled away from Patrick and slid out of bed. After the warmth of Patrick’s body, of the bed, the air felt cold against her skin. Temptation struck again, temptation to dive back under the covers, but resolutely she turned away.
On tiptoe, she headed into the shower and turned on the tap full-blast. The hot water sluiced over her body, stinging her tender skin. The sensation reminded her of just why her skin was tender, of Patrick’s hands and mouth on her body, of the incredible feel of him moving inside her. She closed her eyes, letting the water rain down on her. Why was it that making love with him hadn’t cured the ache of need deep inside her? How w
as it possible that this morning, the ache was even worse?
Fiercely, she shook her head, spattering droplets of water against the shower curtain. She should be thinking about the case, not about Patrick. Forcing her mind away from him, she picked up the bar of soap. The case, she told herself firmly. She had to think about the case.
As she scrubbed herself clean, she ran over the information Sue had given her last night at the bar. About the man with the brown car. About Jamie Lee’s sister—who lived in Seattle.
Her stomach lurched with the knowledge of what she had to do.
Seattle.
Today—whether she liked it or not—she’d be going home.
Patrick came awake slowly, conscious of a feeling of deep satisfaction. His ribs throbbed and the pain nagged at him, but the bed was warm and Helen’s elusive scent lingered on the pillow. He breathed in deeply, and a smile slid across his bruised face. He reached for her—wanting to tug her into his arms and kiss her awake—but she wasn’t there.
Patrick stretched his arm out a little farther. Instead of touching her warm, soft skin, his hand slid over sheets that were cold and empty. He opened his eyes and jerked upright.
She was gone.
“Helen?” he shouted.
Silence.
He leaped out of bed and strode naked out from behind the screens. The bathroom door was open, and the light was off. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the main living area.
And she hadn’t left a note.
Fear and anger pounded through his body, and he squeezed his hands into fists. Dammit, where was she? Had something happened to her? Or had she just walked out on him again?
He was stalking toward the bed to grab his clothes when he heard the rasp of a key in his front door. The series of dead bolts clicked.
He dove for his gun. Shielding himself behind the couch, he aimed the gun at the door.
The door swung open, and Helen walked in.
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 18