by Eileen Wilks
He was obviously reluctant, but he answered. "Maggie Stewart – no, it's West now. I almost forgot. Luke married her four days ago."
She blinked. "That's weird."
His chuckle was so soft she felt it more than she heard it. "I guess it is. We aren't exactly the Waltons."
He didn't look upset. His body didn't feel upset, tense with pain or regrets. "How do you feel about Luke marrying her?"
"Worried. I don't think it will work out."
"But you don't … you aren't…" She took a deep breath and got it said. "Are you in love with her?"
"With Maggie?" His eyebrows climbed in obvious surprise. "No. I like her. I thought she would suit me, that I might suit her. She didn't agree, thank God. You suit me." He paused as if he was groping for words. "You're right for me, Claire. I want to be right for you."
How could he melt her with those few words? She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder and held on. "How much time can I have to think this over?"
He was silent for several moments. She didn't mind. She thought she might like to stand here for an hour or a day, just like this, with his arms around her. His cotton shirt was crisp against her cheek, warm from the flesh beneath. He smelled faintly of some minty cologne or aftershave. And of Jacob.
"I can't give you a definite time," he said at last. "Maybe a month. Maybe longer. It depends on whether Murchison tries to weasel out of the deal. If he won't honor his commitment, I'll have to either find another investor, or come up with the money myself."
A month. Could she find any certainty, any rational reason to marry this man in a month? "All right."
He began rubbing her back. "I'll give you as much time as I can." One hand moved to her side, then eased between them to cup her breast. "But I'm hoping you'll still let me court you." His thumb drifted across the tip of her breast.
"Jacob." Laughter bubbled up. "Is that what you're doing – courting me? When Luke was here, you called it negotiating."
The smile started in his eyes, filling them with lazy heat. "I can think of a few other words to use. Will you sleep in my bed, Claire?'
It was, somehow, the most incredibly erotic question she'd ever heard. She shivered. And nodded.
He approved of her decision. He made that clear with his hands, with his mouth, with the low rumble in his chest when she ran her hands over him. He wanted her – wanted her right there, in the office. Right now. Her jacket and blouse were unbuttoned before she came to her senses.
She was breathless when she pointed out that Ada might come in. Or Cosmo.
"Let him get his own girl," Jacob muttered, kissing his way down the slope of her breast.
His target was obvious, and she approved – breathlessly, urgently. But she grabbed his head in both hands, her fingers slipping in the short hair, stopping him. Because in another minute, she might not care who came in and found them. "Jacob. Not here. Not unless your office door has a lock."
"Dammit." He straightened and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward her office. "They won't come in your room if the door is closed. And there's a bed in there."
"So there is." She thought of how alarmed she'd been at the sight of that bed, and smiled.
He tugged her through the door, past her desk and all those plants, stopping at the bed she'd made such a short time before. His smile mixed mischief and sheer, masculine greed. "I've had some interesting thoughts about this bed. Let me show you."
"I've got a few thoughts of my own." She stretched up and nipped lightly at his lower lip. "One problem, though. I don't have any protection. And I don't want to take another chance like we did last night."
"Another chance…" His eyes widened. He tunneled a hand through the hair she'd already mussed thoroughly. "Oh, hell. I won't fail to protect you again." His voice dropped to a husky growl. "I promise, Claire. I'll take care of you."
She believed him. Even if she'd found it in her to doubt the word of a man who never lied, his shock had told her the truth. He'd forgotten. Just like her. Last night he'd been carried beyond control and reason, just as she had been.
The knowledge thrilled her. And terrified her.
* * *
Chapter 10
«^»
The next morning a florist's van tried to deliver a rose to Claire at the West mansion. One perfect rose, blood-red. No card.
North's man intercepted it, of course. Claire never saw the rose. But Jacob had seen her face when he told her about it.
"It was a kid who placed the order," Jackie said. She sat in one of the deep leather chairs in Jacob's office, those long skinny legs crossed at the ankles. "Paid cash. The florist remembered him, gave a decent description – not that it will help much. He was fifteen or sixteen, white, dark hair, baggy jeans, athletic shoes." She shook her head, disgusted. "Sounds like fifty percent of the sophomore student body."
"Maybe a boy placed the order, but it came from Ken." Claire's voice was low and taut. She wasn't sitting, hadn't been able to settle anywhere since the rose arrived. "The rose came from Ken."
"Yeah, it did, but proving it's another matter." Jackie stood. "We'll try to find the kid, see if he can tell us who paid him to order a rose for you, but I have to say, the odds aren't good."
Claire's face was composed, but Jacob could feel the effort she was making to hold on. To hold herself together. He couldn't stand it. "I suppose the Lawrences are sticking to their story."
"They're alibiing their son, yeah. And we haven't been able to place him elsewhere, and Danny doesn't remember the attack, so—"
"I know. I know you can't do anything more than what you've been doing." Claire spoke calmly, but too fast. "But Danny might remember more. The doctor said his memory of the attack could still come back."
Or it might not. Because he couldn't do anything else – and he had to do something – Jacob went to her and put his arm around her waist. "The doctor also said he's going to be okay, even if he never remembers any more. No signs of neurological damage."
She gifted him with a soft, swift smile. "I need to remember that, don't I?"
Claire's cousin had been awake for several hours yesterday – long enough to see her, talk to her, when Jacob took her to the hospital. Long enough to talk to the sergeant, too. But the last thing Danny remembered was turning on the TV after coming back from his meeting. He'd seemed almost as frustrated by his failure as Jacob was.
Jackie's expression turned speculative as she eyed the two of them. Then she grinned. "Well, they do say that even the darkest clouds have a silver lining. Guess I'd better be going."
"Thanks for your time," Jacob said. "I'll walk you to the door."
"I think I can find it by myself. You two get back to work – or whatever you've got in mind for the rest of the day." She smirked at them. "Have fun."
"I think she's on to us," Claire murmured when her friend was gone.
"Does that bother you?"
Her surprise was quick and obvious. "No, of course not. Though I expect I'll get a phone call later, followed by a merciless interrogation."
"I guess cops are born nosy."
An imp of mischief danced in her eyes. She turned fully into Jacob's arms, looping her arms around his neck. "She'll want to know if you're good in bed."
His hands moved lazily over her. "And what will you tell her?"
"Oh, that you're adequate." Her smile was impish. "I might add that on a scale of tingles to explosion, you're nuclear meltdown."
"I melted you twice last night." He remembered the sudden, stunned shock on her face when he'd sent her crashing over the peak the first time, with his hands.
"So you did." Her smile widened. "Like I said, adequate."
"I know a challenge when I hear one." Because he also remembered the way her face and her muscles had smoothed out after making love, going limp and easy, he ran his bands up her sides to tease the sides of he breasts.
He'd made her forget about Lawrence and fear and everything else for a w
hile last night. He could do it again. He rubbed his thumb across her nipple, and felt it harden.
Her lashes lowered demurely. "Why, Mr. West. You do have eccentric ideas about what constitutes proper office behavior."
"I prefer to be on an informal footing with my staff. I think I mentioned that." He brushed her lips with his while his thumb teased the tip of her breast. "Especially when I'm about to do something highly informal to—"
The phone rang. She jolted slightly and started to move away.
He tightened his hold. "Ada will get it."
"She's at the grocery store."
"Cosmo, then."
"This is Sunday, remember? And, no, we can't just let it ring. Not after what we learned about Murchison this morning."
He grimaced. The information broker's report that he'd ordered through North had arrived early that morning, before the florist's van showed up. The information in it wasn't good. Laura Murchison had started playing "hide the money" months before her husband caught on, and she'd managed to tuck away enough that it was highly unlikely her husband would be able to meet his commitment on the Tristar deal.
Jacob had made some phone calls, putting feelers out for an investor to replace Murchison, but things were coming to a head quickly on the takeover. Chances were, he'd have to front the money himself. Not that he had two million sitting around. He'd have to get an increase on his line of credit … which would be easy enough if the trust was going to be dissolved.
He'd promised Claire a month to make her decision. He wouldn't go back on that. But he was going to have to do some pretty fancy juggling over the next thirty days. "I suppose I'd better answer it." Frustrated, he turned her loose, stalked over to this desk and grabbed the receiver. "Yes?"
The man on the other end was one of the business contacts he'd called that morning. He tried to focus on the conversation, but it was difficult. Claire was moving restlessly, pacing to the window, staring outside.
She seemed to reach some decision. She moved quickly away from the window – and right out of the office. Heading for the front door, from the sound of it.
Jacob spoke quickly. "I'll have to get back to you, Charles." He tossed the phone on a chair and raced after her, catching her just this side of the front door. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Her eyebrows snapped down. "Out. For a walk. Right here on the grounds, under the noses of those men you hired."
The immediate tension eased out in a long breath. The fear remained. "Claire, the rose proves one thing. Lawrence knows where you are. You don't leave the house – not even to walk on the grounds – without me or Cosmo."
She shook her head. "You don't get it. You're the one who shouldn't leave the house alone. Ken has never threatened me."
"You're afraid of him."
"Oh, yes. But that's an emotional reaction, not a reasoned one. He's never hurt me physically, never threatened to."
"You don't call waving a gun in your face a threat?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "I suppose that little detail was in your report on me? Never mind – of course it was. He scared me badly that night, yes. He was completely irrational. But he didn't hurt me physically. He wanted to kill the man he thought I'd been with, not me."
"After he shot Warren, he came after you. If your friend hadn't shot him—"
"He probably would have shot her. Yes, I know. But I don't think, even then, that he intended to hurt me. He wanted to make me go with him, make me stay with him."
Furious, alarmed, he dropped his hands and paced away. Had she loved Lawrence so much she still couldn't see him for what he was? "Good God, woman! The man abused you. He went after you with a gun—"
"Ken was never abusive. I would have left him a lot quicker if he had been. He didn't even have a temper. He was too … flat."
He stopped, scowling. "What do you mean?"
"It's hard to describe. The man I thought I'd known drained away a little at a time into the black hole of his delusion. Eventually he didn't feel anything strongly, not anger nor happiness, nothing. Until the only thing he cared about was me."
The last word had come out in a burst of naked emotion. The fear was there – trapped behind her eyes, quivering in the unsteady hand that brushed her hair back.
She turned away, her head down so that the fall of shiny hair screened her face. "Of course, that was obsession, not love. But his feelings seemed genuine. Maybe they were, at first. He changed so much. So much."
Jacob had a sick, hollow feeling. "You loved him."
"Or thought I did." She swung into motion again, reminding him of Luke with her restlessness. "I wanted to help him. If he'd turned vicious, if I'd had any idea I was in danger – but he never threatened me. Even when I tried to leave him." Her laugh held no amusement. "He was devoted to me."
He selected his words as carefully as if he were wading through a minefield. "Most women would find that appealing."
"It was. At first. He was so romantic, so sure of himself … but that was part of his condition, that tremendous confidence." She paused, finding the strength from somewhere to smile with dark amusement. "His self-assurance was not exactly reality-based, as my therapist used to say. You know about that, too. I suppose. That I saw a therapist for a couple of months before the trial."
He felt the urge to apologize again. "I didn't see any of your therapist's records. North asked if I wanted them. I told him no."
"That's something, I guess."
For a long moment, she fell silent. Sunshine streamed through the window to set her hair ablaze; she stood straight and strong beneath the weight of her memories, her posture stating clearly that she wasn't interested in pity. Yet something about the graceful line of her spine struck him as fragile. Breakable, in spite of her strength.
"He used to reason with me," she said abruptly.
The sick feeling grew worse. "About what?"
"My men. All the men he was convinced were my lovers. He thought that I was the one with the problem, you see. That I was some kind of nymphomaniac, only I didn't remember the things I did. He'd explain it to me carefully, how I blocked out the memories because I felt guilty for betraying him. He was so gentle, so reasonable … and determined, utterly determined, to help me."
She tilted her face up. Her skin looked shocky-pale next to the bright clamor of her hair. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear all this – the long, sad story of my love affair with a madman. I know better than to dump all this on you, I just—"
"No." He couldn't keep himself from going to her, taking her hand. "For God's sake, don't apologize. You're right. I hate hearing this. I hate it because it hurts you, but I need to know, to understand."
Her hand trembled, then closed around his. "More facts, Jacob?"
He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles. "I want to help. I don't know how."
"You've helped." She turned to him, put her arms around him. "You're still helping."
"I'm glad." He stroked her hair, offering what comfort he could.
But Jacob wasn't comforted.
He had thought Claire wanted reason and control from him. She didn't. Lawrence had reasoned with her, and she shuddered even now, six years later, when she remembered it. As for his control – he lost it. Every time he put his hands on her, he acted like a man drunk with passion, blind with his need for her. She seemed to like that, judging by the way she responded. But sex alone wouldn't bind her to him. He needed more.
Of course, she still needed Jacob's protection. That much, he could and would gladly give her, but sooner or later, Ken Lawrence would be stopped, locked away again. Then what? He wanted – badly – to marry her, but even that wouldn't be enough. Jacob knew only too well how temporary those vows could be. What could he give her to make her want to stay?
He couldn't think of a damned thing.
Late that night, Claire woke to the peaceful sound of rain on the roof … and the feel of an empty bed beside her.
Jacob's
bed. It wasn't supposed to be empty. She opened her eyes and saw him standing near the window. His naked body was a lighter shade of darkness against the rain-blackened night. He looked strong, unreachable.
Then lightning lit the clouds and the night – and his face. And she saw the sorrow there, old and deep.
She tossed back the covers and eased out of bed.
He didn't turn. "Go back to bed, Claire. I didn't mean to wake you."
She padded over to him and put her arms around him. His flesh was chilled. He'd been standing here for some time. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." His hand, smoothing down her back to her bottom, may have been meant as a distraction.
"Are you worried about the Tristar deal?" He was in a serious bind, and she knew it. She ought to either agree to marry him, or release him to find someone else.
She couldn't do either one.
"No. Quit worrying." He drifted his hand around the curve of one cheek, his fingers light and teasing.
She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold night air. "I will if you will." She looped her arms around his neck. "You're supposed to be a puddle of limp goo, you know. After the meltdown practice we put in earlier, you should be. So how come you aren't sleeping the sleep of the exhausted?"
"Limp goo?" He smiled. "As opposed to strong, manly goo?"
He made her smile. She couldn't help it, but she wasn't going to let him distract her, either. "Something is bothering you." She touched his cheek. "Can't you tell me what it is?'
He looked away. "It's the rain. I've always hated rain."
"Why?"
He didn't answer for so long she thought he wasn't going to. When he did speak, his voice was so low she wouldn't have been able to hear him if she hadn't been standing so close. "It was raining the day my mother died. I was waiting for her, waiting by the window. Watching the rain. She was late, and I was mad at her."
She swallowed. "Jacob."
"We were supposed to go to Six Rags, but it was raining and she was late, and I knew I was going to miss out on what we'd planned. But still I waited … when someone finally came, it was in a police car."