by Cait London
Mitchell sat on the bed, his back to her. Drawn by the flowing muscles of his body, she smoothed his skin and felt the quiver of flesh and heat and desire beneath her fingertips, the tension held there. He wasn’t certain of her yet, only the desire between them.
Then suddenly, he turned, pinning her down full length with his heavy body, framing her face with his hands. “Is this what you really want? Just this?”
She’d traveled through life step by step on the path that had been set for her. She didn’t resent her life, but tonight Mitchell was her choice, just for her, without expectations or commitments. Perhaps she was a rebel, after all. Perhaps she hadn’t known what lurked inside her until Mitchell came back to Madrid. Perhaps tonight would prove the circle fully joined. She reveled in the freedom and the storm and the passion racing through her—passion he could cause by one sultry look, the pulses racing, heating in her body. “Just this.”
He tensed and closed his eyes, then opened them again as he slowly eased aside to draw away the sheet over her body. Lightning flashed again and the hard ridges and planes of his face caught the light and the intensity that darkened and grew as his open hand moved slowly over her body, following the softness, gently trapping her breasts in his hand before moving lower.
“You quiver,” he whispered raggedly. “When I touch you, you tremble and heat.”
She tried to breathe and couldn’t, excitement dancing inside her. She felt like an adventuress about to make her life’s biggest discovery; she was both drawn to it, and afraid, and yet she couldn’t resist. “I know. I can’t help it. I would, if I could.”
“No, you wouldn’t like revealing that much about the woman, would you? You like control as much as I do, only this is something else, isn’t it?” He cupped her intimately, stroking the dampness there slowly.
She arched upward, responding shockingly to that light touch, wanting more. The quickening drew her hands to his arms, her fingers locked to that so-warm flesh, the muscles flowing beneath it. “Mitchell, are you going to play games?”
“No,” he stated honestly, bending to place his lips against hers, to take that first hot, deep kiss that left her breathless and aching.
He meant to claim her, she knew, taking and possessing, but she had plans of her own, circling his shoulders with her arms, turning to him, arching as his mouth moved lower, open and skimming her throat until he found her breast, sweetly tormenting her.
When she cried out, Mitchell moved over her, his face locked in passion, in the truth she wanted between them.
She hadn’t expected him to ease so slowly into her, to be so careful, the trembling of his body telling her of his effort. Then deep inside, rich and fully lodged, he pressed deeper until she held her breath, the exquisite tightening of her body telling her it had been too long…too long.
“Say my name,” he whispered roughly against her throat, nipping gently at her, as his body began to flow with hers.
“Mitchell…” But she was already climbing, burning, crying out, locking him to her.
“Say it again,” he demanded with an arrogance she’d expected.
“No,” she whispered, pushing, testing.
He smiled against her throat and eased slightly away. “I can make you.”
Despite the driving need within her, Uma knew the cost of his control, his body shaking with it, and when he lifted to torment her with those mind-drugging kisses, she gently bit his lip. “Do it, then.”
Minutes later, Mitchell lay heavily upon her, and she stroked his hair, his skin damp and warm and fragrant against hers. He eased slowly aside, those dark eyes slitted, watching her, seeing too deeply. “Well, that was interesting.”
Interesting? Interesting? Her body was still trembling, still remembering his, the pounding fever between them, take and take and give and the pleasure—she’d been tossed into a burning hungry furnace of sexual pleasure, all systems flowing, pulsing, beating…. Interesting?
“So now I know, don’t I?”
“You know how to ruin a moment,” she said tightly.
He toyed with her hair and grinned when she looked away. “Well, then,” he said as his hands began to wander and caress and find just the right places to send her quivering and heating and aching. “Let’s see if I can’t do better this time.”
Who would want to hurt Shelly? That bullet graze at her temple said someone did. Roman had seen enough wounds like that to recognize the scar.
And Mitchell had called, identifying the bullets lodged beneath Shelly’s ivy, and the bullets that had battered the old windmill. So Pete’s likely killer had had Shelly in mind. Why?
From the window in the garage’s upstairs office, Roman looked out into the night, the lightning bolts spearing almost straight into the ground, the thunder rattling the windows he had just replaced. He rubbed his bare chest and the ache in it, then shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.
I had a daughter—have a daughter, he corrected, and he hadn’t been around; he didn’t know anything about what he’d missed or how to be a father. A wash of leaves swished across the glass and he thought of the color of Shelly’s hair, like fiery autumn, golds and reds overlaying rich browns. It moved silkily, freely, just as her body did.
Shelly had the long, clean lines of the Lamborghini he’d just sold, and she was just as classy.
The laundry she’d done for him, hung pressed and neat on a standing rack, his underclothing folded neatly on a chair. She’d survived by cleaning and hard work and ironing until she couldn’t move.
Every time he saw her drag herself to the ironing board, he wanted to pick her up in his arms and rock her. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t touch her; he’d ruined her. She deserved better than a life of hardship, a daughter who had her father’s rebellious blood and a mother who had disowned her.
And just what did he have to offer? Fixing up her place a little here and there, and no cash to hand over to her, nothing to give her or Dani?
He couldn’t go back and undo the harm he’d done by reaching out for something he’d hadn’t had—tenderness, understanding, and maybe even on that night, love. Roman took in the darkened, spacious single room he had finished cleaning. Unfinished wood scrubbed clean and disinfected, the walls no more than planks, the room held the smell of bleach and of old oil. A hot plate and some bargain pots and pans served for the kitchen, the used refrigerator chugging nearby. The thrift shop bed and mattress he’d used at Mitchell’s was comfortable enough, so was the chair near the desk—or rather, the long, low shelf serving as a desk. He’d taken the luxurious recliner that was Mitchell’s offering, along with enough borrowed money for a starting bank account. The tiny bathroom’s fixtures’ gray stain had finally come off.
Downstairs was a mix of used mechanics tools and machines that probably needed repair. An ex-boxer who Roman had helped through rough times had done well with the Lamborghini money, loading the requested parts into a truck and hauling them to Madrid.
Along with the junk was a wrecked Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200 Evolution that had been used for scavenger parts by an unskilled hand. It was just about the only thing Roman could give Dani, if he could coax it back into life. Not exactly a college scholarship or a good start in life, but it was what he knew.
So here he was, just as broken down and pitiful as the garage. Maybe they were a good fit, the wrecked bike and himself, two has-beens.
He studied the row of old posters, Alberto Vargas calendar girls, carefully tacked to the walls. As a boy, he’d drooled over the pictures and they’d caused more than a little discomfort. “Well, dolls, here we are. Not much, huh?”
He studied the slender curved bodies and long legs of the 1940s paintings, and thought how much they resembled Shelly’s. He shook his head and mocked himself for dreaming of her posed and seductive…and that wasn’t going to happen.
Roman frowned when lightning flashed and he saw the small figure dressed in a yellow slicker bent against the slashing rain and wind. A
bolt seemed to shoot straight into the ground near the person and she froze—her face pale and terrified.
Shelly!
NINE
Roman cursed as he hurried down the stairs, his bad knee aching. There was probably only one reason Shelly would be out on a night like this—Dani.
He hurried outside into the slashing rain and crossed the street. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, her long hair whipping wildly around her. Roman wrapped one arm around her shoulders and hauled her back across the street, pushing into the garage. He slammed the door behind them. “What’s going on?”
Was that rain, or was it tears falling from her lashes? He couldn’t bear to think of her crying—and she’d probably already had her share of it because of him. Her lips moved and no sound came. Then the whisper: “I can’t find Dani. I was getting ready for bed and I didn’t think she’d be out on a night like this. I went into her room, just to check on her…I think she might have gotten so angry with me this afternoon for riding with you that she might have run away. I…I knew it would happen, sooner or later. She doesn’t like rules and I—”
“You tried, Shelly.” Roman knew his daughter’s rebellious attitude all too well. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”
She looked as if she might collapse. Roman shook her gently. “Shelly, listen to me. I want you to go upstairs and make some coffee and drink it. I want you to wait here for me. Will you?”
“I can’t. Dani—”
“I’ll bring her back,” Roman promised softly and hoped that he could. Madrid hadn’t changed much in eighteen years and the old hangouts still looked the same. For example, that barn just outside of town. He’d seen Jace’s motorcycle and others, the kid parked there, along with cars painted with stripes and cut low to the ground, and high big-tire pickups.
“I’ll go with you. I’m her mother—”
“And I’m her father. Let me do this, Shelly. Just go upstairs and make that coffee and drink it. You won’t be any good to her if you’re in shock or catch pneumonia.” Roman pushed open the sliding door and walked back to rev up his bike. He knew the machine he’d rebuilt, and tonight would push them both to the top of their limits. “Close that after me.”
“You don’t have a shirt or a raincoat. It’s terrible outside—” Shelly stripped off her yellow slicker and handed it to him. “Here.”
Roman jerked on the slicker and then stopped, his mouth drying at the sight of Shelly’s body. Her light cotton nightgown was damp, clinging to her, molding every curve. She was his Lamborghini and his Vargas calendar girl all rolled into one sweet package.
And she was real…he reached for her, dragged her into his arms, and took her mouth, and in the next heartbeat, that wild, sweet heat poured out of her as her arms wrapped around his neck. Then she stepped back, breathing hard, her breasts taut and peaked against the material.
He revved the motor and put on his helmet and knew he’d never forget the sight of her standing there, holding her arms in front of her, pleading with him to find her—their—daughter. Then Roman soared out into the storm, leaning into it, and prayed Dani would be all right. The storm, a raging wind and cold rain, slashed at him, the headlight barely burning through the sheets of rain.
Roman glanced at the old deserted motel near the highway, carports linking the four units. In disrepair, it hadn’t been used for years. Walter Whiteford had purchased it for his wife, because she loved the old European roses growing there. Madrid’s rumors said that Bonnie and Clyde, on the run after a holdup and a shootout, had once stayed in the old motel.
The buildings served as a marker to Roman, just a few more miles to where Dani might be—was it too late? Had she left Madrid?
He’d find her. He had to. Roman couldn’t let Dani travel down the same road as he had—
He battled the wind, rounded a corner, skidded and righted, and settled into the storm, fearing for Dani. A lightning bolt shot straight down into the field beside the road. If she were riding behind Jace on a night like this—
The old barn had lights, and he didn’t expect the door to open. But when it did, pushed aside by two youths, Roman drove inside. Jace’s motorcycle was there, and so were the other teenage toughs and the girls, all smoking and drinking beer and settling in for the night.
Roman tried to bank the anger inside him, a father’s rage that his daughter would be hanging her arms around a surly punk kid. But then he’d been a punk too, right here, with the same kind of friends. He let the bike idle beneath him, ignoring the ache in his knee caused by his cold, damp jeans and the stress of the ride. “So, Dani. How’s it going?”
She nodded, watching him with those painted eyes, the defiance locked into her chin. “Just peachy. A little old to be out tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, tossing his remarks back at him. “I thought you might be getting cozy with Mom.”
He saw no reason to coddle her. She looked like she’d taken enough torment and had become hard because of it. If he guessed right, she understood straight talking better than anything wrapped in candy. “A little hard to do that when she’s worried about you.”
“Big Daddy,” Dani scoffed. “Being nice to get to my mother. I went all through that for years. She didn’t have what it took to hold my old man and you’ll be on your way soon enough.”
He had something she would want very much and he played it. “Hop on, kid, and we’ll talk about your old man when we get back to your mother.”
Dani was just a young girl again, stepping from behind her hard mask for a moment. “You knew him?”
“That’s for your mother to say.”
“She’s not going,” Jace stated, stepping forward with a few of his buddies.
“What’s she worth to you?” Roman asked as he stripped off the slicker and buttoned Dani into it.
“Gimpy Guy. Think you can take all of us?”
Roman hoped that Jace’s pride was more in his motorcycle than in keeping any girl. “I think I can probably make those junk piles you have purr. They’re needing a real mechanic. It’s a trade-off. Come around the shop and we’ll talk. But not tonight.”
“We were cutting out tonight…headed for the coast,” Dani said softly as she swung behind him, strapping on the helmet he handed her. “Then the storm came up.”
Roman watched Jace hesitate between getting his bike tooled and taking the girl he’d probably ruin and leave. Was he any better?
He nodded to Jace, who nodded back and said, “See you, dude. Later, Dani.”
He wanted his family together and safe, Roman thought as he fought the wind and Dani, wearing the raincoat, folded herself close to his back. He feared each bolt striking the ground, the rushing streams of water crossing the road that could toss them off the bike. He knew the fear that Shelly must have felt, raising Dani alone, the responsibility of having a young life depend on her. Dani was a part of him that would go on, the best part, and she had to be protected. By the time they reached the garage, it was hailing, the icy pellets hitting his bare chest and arms.
“Inside,” he yelled as the storm crashed around them, and pushed her into the entrance door.
Shelly was at the top of the stairs, wearing his cotton shirt over her nightgown. She looked almost as young as their daughter. “Dani!”
“Stay put,” he ordered as Dani hunched beside him, black makeup streaming down her face. “Dani and I are going to have a little talk.”
He read the fear in Shelly’s eyes and shook his head. He spoke quietly to Dani. “See that bike in the corner, kid, or what’s left of it? I know how to make motors purr, and that one is yours if you’ll cool it with your mother tonight. You don’t need to ride behind any guy. You can ride your own bike. Pink, I thought. A real sassy pink, with a helmet to match. Stick around and I’ll show you how to rebuild it.”
Dani scanned the machine. “It’s a pile of junk,” she scoffed, but Roman caught the excitement, recognized it—she saw the beauty of a finely tuned machine in those boxes ju
st as he had.
“Uh-huh. So was the one I ride—it was a beauty before some rich dude was showing off and slammed it into a brick wall. I had some down time with my knee, and rebuilding her helped. It takes a real mechanic to love a good piece of machinery back to life, someone with talent. But then, she’s your baby and you understand her every rumble. You can feel her purr beneath you, know her limits and her strengths. This Sportster is a good machine.”
Dani considered the parts carefully lined up on the garage floor. “You might know what you’re talking about. You ride okay, I guess.”
“Thanks. So can you.”
Sure, bribe her into the much needed time. He watched Dani weigh her options, and saw the fear. He prayed she’d have enough sense to bend her pride—he hadn’t.
“What’s the deal? How do you know my father?” she demanded, and he recognized that one-track stubborn streak as his own, too.
“Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”
Shelly fought tears as Dani and Roman slowly ascended the stairs—Dani because she was reluctant to face her mother, and Roman because he was soaked through, aching and favoring his injured leg. They were so much alike—mulish, rebellious, passionate, and strong. It had cost him tonight to ride into the storm, but he had—for their daughter. He shot Shelly a look that said it was up to her and reached for a towel, roughly mopping it over Dani’s head and face. He flipped open the raincoat and jerked it from her, tossing it aside. “We’re here for a little while. You can use the bathroom and soap to wipe that mess off your face.”
When Dani sulked into the bathroom, Roman spoke quietly to Shelly as he dried himself with the same towel and jerked on a black long-sleeved T-shirt. “I told her I knew her father. The rest and how much you want to tell Dani is up to you.”
Shelly gripped his arm. “But—”
“Up to you,” Roman repeated as Dani returned. He went to the hot plate and poured the coffee, sipping it as he watched Shelly and Dani.
“He said he knows my father,” Dani stated abruptly. “Who was he?”