Driven To Distraction

by Judith Duncan

  Feeling as if she had somehow betrayed him, she again tried to disengage his hand from the bottle. “If you want me out,” she whispered, her voice uneven, “you’re going to have to throw me out.”

  He abruptly let go, and she rested her forehead against the neck of the bottle, relief making her pulse hammer. Composing her expression, she set the bottle on the coffee table and turned back, her heart contracting painfully when she saw the stark lines etched in his face. Sucking in a raspy breath, she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and Tony abruptly bent his head, gouging at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Unable to stand it any longer, she moved onto the sofa, then slipped her arm around him. Whispering his name, she tried to draw him against her. For an instant he resisted, then he let his breath go in a shaky rush and turned his face against her neck.

  Her chest full and tears burning her eyes, Maggie tightened her hold, trying to offer what comfort she could.

  It was a long time later when Tony released an unsteady sigh, then slid his hand under her raincoat. “You’re wet,” he whispered gruffly.

  She swallowed hard and stroked his hair, her voice wobbling a little when she answered, “I was out walking in the rain.” He inhaled unevenly, then relaxed his hold. Without meeting her gaze, he eased her away from him, then slid his hand in the front opening of her raincoat, as if he were cold.

  Untangling herself Maggie stood up and stripped off the damp garment. She tossed it on the coffee table, then reached down and grasped his hand. “Come on,” she whispered unevenly. “You’re going to bed.”

  He stared at her for a split second, then looked away, the muscles in his jaw bunching. Without meeting her gaze again, he slowly got to his feet, as if the effort was more than he could handle. Her own emotions far too close to the surface, Maggie turned and started toward the hall, her chin set with resolve. She was going to take care of him, whether he wanted her to or not.

  Once she got him to the bedroom, she let go of his hand and started straightening the tangle of bedding. A fresh frenzy of nerves unfolded in her belly, and the flutter climbed higher as she smoothed out the sheets. He never spoke, and neither did she; it was almost as if they were two strangers, neither one sure of the other.

  Her whole body stiff with tension, she tossed the comforter onto the bed, then tugged it straight. She heard the rasp of a zipper, then heard him shucking off his jeans as she turned her back to the bed and began picking up some clothes she had swept onto the floor. The bed shifted, and her heart gave a lurch. Closing her eyes, she forced in a deep, steadying breath—one wrong move, and she knew she was going to fall apart.

  Maggie finished folding a T-shirt and placed it on the dresser. Resisting the urge to wipe her hands down the front of her jeans, she turned back toward the bed. Tony was stretched out on his back with one arm draped across his eyes, the sheet covering the lower half of his body. He looked as tense as she felt.

  She hesitated, self-doubt churning through her. Then, drawing up her courage, she went around the end of the bed.

  Her legs feeling like jelly, she sat down beside him, then very carefully combed back his hair. Trying to will away the wild flutter in her throat, she said, her voice catching a little, “Can I get you anything?”

  Without moving his arm, he shook his head, the muscles along his jaw tight. Worried, Maggie went to smooth her fingers along his temple, but Tony caught her wrist, trapping her hand. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then he spoke, his voice low. “Don’t.”

  Maggie stared down at him, a surge of regret making her heart contract. She had never meant to hurt him. But she had been so caught up in her own self-doubts that she had never really looked at things from his point of view. He was right: she hadn’t given them a chance. In all her agonizing over the right or wrong of Tony Parnelli, she had missed one critical fact: nothing was for certain. Nothing. One dead police officer was testament to that. She had been wrestling with all the reasons why she should back away. She had never looked at all the reasons why she should take whatever time she had with him and hold on to it for however long it lasted.

  A nearly unbearable swell of emotion rising in her, she closed her eyes and touched his face with her free hand, trying to communicate by touch alone what she was feeling.

  The muscles in his jaw flexed and he tightened his grip on her hand, as if he was trying to ward off some deep, painful emotion. And Maggie knew it was because of her.

  Braced by that realization, she twisted her wrist out of his grasp and stood up, her motions jerky as she kicked off her shoes, then stripped off her wet slacks, angry tears burning her eyes. God, she had been so stupid.

  Tossing her slacks on top of his jeans, she slipped into bed beside him, then slid her arm under his neck. “Come here, love,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Let me hold you.”

  He remained stiff and unmoving for an instant, then he let his breath go and turned into her arms, a tremor coursing through him. Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, she drew his head onto her breast and cradled him against her, tightening her arms around him. She had not worn a bra under her thin cotton sweater, and the rough stubble on his jaw prickled her skin, but she didn’t care. Nothing mattered except that he was letting her hold him.

  Clenching her jaw against the awful ache in her throat, she drew him tighter into her embrace and pressed her cheek against the top of his head, cherishing the hard warmth of his body against hers. She would be content to hold him like this all night long, if he’d let her.

  A cool, damp breeze wafted in through the open window. Maggie drew the sheet up over his shoulders and nestled closer, trying to ward off the chill. Tony stirred and released a heavy sigh, pulling away from her as he rolled onto his back. He rested his arm across his eyes again, and Maggie glanced at him, apprehension warring with concern. She didn’t know if he was withdrawing from her specifically or if he had just retreated deep within himself. Uncertainty made her waver, and she sat up, debating whether she should stay or go. But before she had a chance to make up her mind, he moved his arm and looked at her.

  Even in the half light spilling in from the hallway, Maggie could see the taut set of his jaw and the hard, unwavering expression in his eyes. He stared at her a moment, then spoke, a demanding edge in his tone. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

  Feeling every inch of the distance between them, Maggie looked down, a terrible sense of loss radiating through her. She had really messed things up. Maybe to the point where she couldn’t put them right. The ache in her chest expanded, and she fingered a loose thread in the hem of the sheet, trying to will away the threat of tears.

  With that same insistent tone in his voice, he prompted “Maggie?”

  She tried to clear away the cramp in her throat, but a renewed sense of loss welled up in her and her vision blurred. How could she explain that this wasn’t about sympathy, it was about regret?

  The bed dipped as he shifted his weight, then he grasped her face and pulled her head around, forcing her to look at him. He was propped up on one elbow, watching her with an unwavering stare, the dark stubble accentuating the stern set of his jaw. Compelled by the pressure of his hand, she held his gaze, desolation nearly overwhelming her. Trying to clear her throat, she took a deep, unsteady breath, then forced herself to speak. “I’ve made such a mess of things,” she whispered, her tears finally spilling over. “And I needed to tell you that I’m sorry.”

  He studied her, as if weighing her response, then closed his eyes and released his breath in a rush. Grasping the back of her neck, he dragged her down into a crushing hold, his hand tangling in her damp hair. “God, Maggie,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’d just about given up on you.”

  A sob of relief escaped her, and Maggie slid her arms around him and hung on, not wanting to cry, afraid she was going to. But Tony never gave her the chance. Dragging her beneath him, he spanned her jaw with his hand and tipped her head back, a heated message in his da
rk, intent gaze. Then, leaving his hand as a barrier against his beard, he closed his eyes and covered her mouth in a kiss that decimated her. Another sob escaped her, and Maggie tightened her hold and opened her mouth beneath his, tears slipping down her temple.

  This was more than she had hoped for. And all that she wanted.

  Chapter 9

  Maggie lay with her head on Tony’s shoulder, snuggled deep in his embrace, drifting in a haze of lassitude as she listened to the sound of the rain on the roof. Her whole body sated, she drowsily watched the blind wavering in the breeze that was coming in through the open window, feeling cocooned in the warmth of their shared body heat. Their lovemaking had been fast and wild, her climax shattering, and she’d felt as if her body had exploded into a million little pieces. But now boneless lethargy had set in, and she wasn’t sure she could have moved even if she’d wanted to.

  His jaw resting against the top of her head, Tony slowly stroked her arm, as if he was there but his mind was somewhere else. Reminded of the tragedy that had brought her to him, and feeling guilty because she had temporarily forgotten his loss, she smoothed her hand up his rib cage. “Spider told me what happened,” she whispered softly. “I’m really sorry, Tony.”

  He released a heavy sigh and gave her shoulder an acknowledging squeeze. There was a brief pause, then he spoke, his tone resigned. “Yeah. Unfortunately, it happens.”

  She raised up on one elbow and looked at him, her expression solemn. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, her tone soft.

  He caught a piece of her hair and rubbed his thumb against it, the light from the hallway casting shadows across his unshaven face. Finally he looked at her, his gaze flat and unreadable. “So is that what this is about? You delivering condolences?”

  Realizing how ready he was to mistrust her motives, Maggie experienced a hollow rush of remorse. She had done that to him. A sick feeling radiating through her, she swallowed against the sudden cramp in her throat. Covering his hand with her own, she shook her head, unable to speak.

  He stared at her for an instant, his expression unsmiling, then he exhaled heavily and caught her arm, pulling her down against him. Brushing her hair back, he pressed a kiss against her forehead, then nestled her head on his shoulder. He continued to rub his fingers up and down her spine, and Maggie knew from the stillness in him that he was staring off into space. Finally he gave her a light squeeze and spoke. “I don’t want you here for the wrong reasons, Maggie,” he said firmly.

  She turned her face against him, then exhaled unevenly. She knew she owed him her honesty, for what it was worth. She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes tight. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, her voice breaking a little. “I’m just a damned mess.”

  She felt him smile against her forehead. She hadn’t been sure how he would respond to her confession, but she definitely had not expected a smile. He gave her neck another reassuring squeeze, then answered, a tinge of amusement in his voice, “Confusion I can handle, Burrows. As long as you don’t keep slamming doors in my face.”

  Experiencing a nearly unbearable swell of emotion, Maggie slipped her arms around him and hugged him hard, trying to control the mounting pressure in her chest. Just like that, he had forgiven her. She had never experienced that kind of generosity in her whole life.

  Pressing her face against his neck, she held him with every ounce of strength she had, trying to tell him by touch alone how grateful she was.

  Tony released a long, uneven sigh, then dragged her up on top of him, enveloping her in a tight embrace. He turned his head and kissed the curve of her neck, clamping her hips flush against his. Then he separated her legs with his knee and settled her more intimately against him, his mouth hot, wet and arousing against the unbearably sensitive hollow of her throat. Maggie clenched her eyes shut, her breathing suddenly ragged, her heart suddenly too big for her chest. Tony caught her knee and drew it up alongside his hip, opening her to him, and she clutched at him as he slowly, so slowly, rubbed himself against her. With one touch, her senses swam out of focus and she was lost in the sensations he aroused in her. Every time was like the first time with him.

  It was slower, sweeter, softer that time around, but for Maggie, twice as devastating. With every touch, every slow stroke of flesh against flesh, it was as if Tony was memorizing every sight, every taste, every sound—every single sensation. The level of intimacy was like nothing she’d ever known before, and by the time they were finished, she didn’t know where his body left off and hers began.

  Now, twenty minutes later, she felt totally cleansed—and closer to him than she’d ever thought possible.

  She was still lying on top of him, and Tony slowly stroked his hand down her head, pulling her hair back behind her ear. Thrusting his fingers along her jaw, he lifted his head and softly kissed her forehead. “Are you okay?” he whispered huskily.

  Without opening her eyes, she nodded and smiled. “Perfect.” He stroked her hair again, and Maggie arched under his touch. She’d had no idea how wonderful it felt just to be petted.

  Finally forcing herself to move, she propped her head on her hand and gazed down at him. Earlier Tony had turned on the small bedside lamp so he could watch her as they made love, and now she studied his face. When she’d moved, he had let his hand drift down to the base of her spine, and he was lying with his eyes closed, slowly caressing a vertebra with his thumb.

  His mouth tempted her, and she ran her finger along his bottom lip. “How about you?”

  His eyes still closed, he responded with a wry smile. “I think I blew a valve.”

  There was something about his smile that struck her as forced, and Maggie considered him, her expression sober. Knowing she was going to have to be the one to broach the tragedy that had happened early that morning, she began fondling his tousled hair. Keeping her expression neutral, she asked, “Just how bad was it at the hospital?”

  His whole body stiffened and he tried to push her away, but Maggie had her arms around him before he could roll free. Grasping the back of his head, she held him to her. “Just talk to me, Tony,” she whispered against his hair. “Tell me about him. You can’t shut everything up as if nothing happened.”

  He remained stiff and unyielding for several seconds, then released his pent-up breath in a rush. Turning his face against her neck, he held on to her, as if trying to absorb something from her. Finally he eased his hold and pulled away. “I need a cigarette,” he said, his voice taut.

  Not sure what was going on, Maggie let him go. His back to her, he got out of bed and pulled on his jeans. Not bothering to do up the zipper, he left the bedroom. Tucking the sheet around her, Maggie sat up and locked her arms around her upraised knees. Her expression stark, she stared at the empty doorway, debating whether she should go after him or not. She was running on gut reaction as far as he was concerned. And maybe that was absolutely the worst thing for him right now.

  She was still sitting there, trying to figure out what she should do, when Tony came back into the room with a lighted cigarette, a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray grasped in one hand. His face devoid of expression, he picked up a chair and swung it around to face the bed. Still without looking at her, he sat down and propped his feet on the mattress, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. Balancing the ashtray on one thigh, he knocked off the ash, his face etched with strain.

  Maggie watched, hurting down to her soul for him. Trying to ease the tense silence, she said, “So when did you start smoking?”

  He finally looked at her, a small smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “When I was about twelve.”

  She gave him a stare that she’d often used on her kids. “Don’t play games with me, Antonio.”

  A glimmer of real amusement appeared in his eyes. Finally he answered, “All right, Warden. I quit about eight years ago. This is the first time I fell off the wagon since, okay?”

  She raised her hand in an arresting gesture. “Hey. You don’t
have to make excuses to me. They’re your lungs.”

  He continued to stare at her, the glint intensifying. “Fine. Now do you want to tell me about the cigarette burn I saw on the dresser in your bedroom?”

  “No,” she answered, staring back at him. “I don’t.”

  Amusement still hovered around his mouth as he gave his head a little shake. “I didn’t think so.” He took another drag on the cigarette, and Maggie watched him, her arms still locked around her sheet-draped knees.

  The smile fading, Tony looked down and rolled the lighted end of his cigarette along the lip of the ashtray, his expression shuttered. A frown appeared, and Maggie knew he was wrestling with some very deep feelings. Then without lifting his head, he started to talk.

  He told her about the first case he and Pete Layden were assigned to, how they both eventually worked undercover, how the stress finally got to Pete and how he had started drinking. He told her about how he’d finally talked his partner into getting some help, and why he had decided to leave the force.

  It was a long story, and Maggie didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t offer any comments; she just listened, knowing that’s what he needed from her right then. After crushing out his second cigarette, he told her how Pete had finally realized that the undercover work and the whole dirty drug scene were screwing with his mind, and he had finally asked to be taken off the drug squad.

  It was at this point that Tony stopped talking, and Maggie watched him, wishing with all her heart that there was some way she could make it easier for him. He was slouched in the chair, one leg cocked across the other knee, and there was so much strain in his face that it made her heart ache just to look at him. A cool breeze wafted in through the window, and she tucked the sheet tighter around herself, then rested her arm on her upraised knee as she solemnly assessed him. Somehow they had to get through the rest of it. Somehow.

  She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “So how come he was out there alone last night?”