by Chevon Gael
"Bastard,” she hissed in a calm, low voice. Then there was nothing but the sound of the shower spray. Calm was unusual. As he discovered earlier, calm was dangerous. Calm meant she was likely thinking of a way to escape. He'd already checked out the room carefully before he brought her in. The bathroom window was no bigger than a prairie gopher hole. There was only one door out of the room. He'd locked the door and hidden the car keys in the portable gun locker Wolfson carried in the trunk of his car. The gun locker was now safely stashed under the bed. And anything lethal, like lamps and televisions were nailed down. He'd removed the one chair and taken the pens out of the desk drawer.
His Catholic upbringing demanded that he not remove the bible as well, but with Tara, you just never knew. Back it went to the office. He was too tired to read, anyway. Unless she intended to assault him with the television remote, he was safe. Now that he thought of it, he should take the remote and put it in the gun locker as well.
He picked up the remote and was just about to pull the metal locker out from under the bed. The water had stopped running. He heard Tara moving around. He slid the gun locker back under the bed and picked up the photos. He didn't have to pretend to be interested in them. He'd almost forgotten what kind of clothes, if you could call them that, she modeled in her photos. But it hadn't prepared him for the sight of her when she opened the bathroom door a few minutes later.
She was stunning.
And irresistible.
And wearing hardly anything at all.
He was in trouble. Big trouble. She padded across the floor toward him. Trouble was getting closer by the second. She stretched out on the bed beside him and held out her arms to him.
"I'm ready to be cuffed now,” she purred.
Was she kidding? Brett rolled off the bed. Tara simply shrugged and stretched out full length across the bedspread.
"What ... are you wearing?” he demanded.
"Sleepwear. It's my business, remember?” She was lying on her side, half propped up on her elbows as if she were waiting for him to take her picture. “I thought I'd model something for you. These,” she threaded her fingers under the delicate straps riding the curves of her hips, “are my new line of thong panties. I call them ‘Satin Embrace.'” She released the straps and they snapped back into place.
Brett's gaze wandered to where the straps attached to a swatch of diamond-shaped satin. The flimsy material followed her bikini line. It wasn't exactly see-through, but it didn't take a lot of imagination to realize that if that diamond were any smaller, the pampered shadow of red curls would be just a memory.
"That thing actually keep you warm?” His mouth was dry and he had to fight with the words to get them out.
"Well, it's more for having someone else keep you warm. Call me anal-retentive, but I like things that match.” Her fingers traced the line from her hips, down the indentation to her waist and up the slope where her breasts were barely restrained by two more satiny diamonds and slender threads. A short, sheer covering of frothy lace was lazily draped over the bikini. Brett wondered for a moment why she even bothered.
He did, however, watch every move her fingers made from showcasing the satin bra to picking at the collar of the cover. He cleared his throat and tried to think of the three C's—cool, collected, controlled. Right now, he was anything but cool. More like humid bordering on stifling. As for collected, all the blood was beginning to collect in one strategic area of his body. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other to take his mind off the discomfort. And forget controlled. He was ten seconds from giving that one away permanently.
"It-it's time for bed now, Tara. I'm tired and..."
"My thoughts exactly, Constable.” She licked her lips and presented a limp wrist for his inspection. “You want to cuff me now?"
"I'd like to give you the option of promising not to run away from me."
"Now, where am I going to go dressed like this? Back to the rear of your boss's car?"
Have you ever had a man in the back seat?
"Don't be coy, Tara. I'm this far from disgracing my badge."
Tara rose from the bed and put her arms around him. He couldn't think of a reason to stop her. He allowed her to run her fingers down his back and lower until she pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Then she removed the hand-cuffs from his other pocket. It took his last ounce of control to keep from flinching when she kneaded his bottom in the process.
"You mean this badge. She flipped open the wallet to where the gold flash rested on display."
"Yeah,” he agreed hoarsely. Brett took the wallet from her grasp and set it on the nightstand.
She pressed closer to him and nuzzled his chest with her breasts. “Is that what makes you a cop? The badge? These cuffs?"
She dangled them in front of him as if she were displaying a couple of gem-studded bracelets. He took those from her as well and placed them on top of his wallet.
"And the oath."
"And that nasty gun. And the attitude.” She punctuated each phrase by nibbling close to his mouth.
"Now I'm not a cop,” he growled before taking possession of her lips. It was a deep, hard kiss, one that showed her who still had control.
"And your oath,” she breathed when she broke the kiss.
"What oath?” he gasped and kissed the silky curve of her earlobe.
"Man the drought—or something..."
He chuckled softly into her ear. “It's 'Maintain le droit,' French for Maintain the Right."
"The right to what?"
"The right to make love to you right here and now."
Tara positively glowed. He looked into her eyes. They were wide with wonder and soft with passion. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Still, as much as he enjoyed having her here in his arms, and as luscious as the idea was, something didn't seem right.
"Sounds like the right thing to me. Just do me one favor, Brett."
"Hmm. Anything, sweetheart"
"Let's do the back seat later."
"As you wish.” And he lowered her onto the bed. He took her on top of him and held her body firmly. She was soft and sexy and ready to burst at her own fragile seams. He spread his legs and rested her between them, then looped his legs firmly over hers, effectively trapping her. She continued to kiss him, first his lips, then his chin, then over to his ear. Then, he spotted her one hand as it slowly moved across to where the cuffs rested on the nightstand. How long would he let her go? He was hard now and he made his impatience known to her by rubbing his crotch into her abdomen. He felt her stiffen and spotted the tell-tale flash of panic in her eyes. Tara wasn't exactly known for her patience. But, at the moment neither was he.
In one smooth motion, he grabbed her buttocks, snapped the cuffs from her grasp and rolled her over onto her stomach. He dangled the cuffs over her head.
"Are these what you want, Tara? I didn't think you had a kinky streak in you."
The smile on her face froze. Then she relaxed a bit under him.
"Are you really...” She left the question unfinished.
"Were you really...” he countered.
She lay silent for a moment. Her eyes couldn't keep still. She was grasping for something to say to him. He rolled off of her.
"Never mind, Tara. I got my answer. By the way, they don't work without the key. You see the key is very small and can be concealed in a tiny capsule that can be swallowed or otherwise hidden in the body. Care to guess where I hid the key?"
Her eyes widened in shock. “You're kidding. You didn't really..."
"No, Tara. I didn't swallow the key."
She rolled away from him, then and clutched one of the pillows. She buried her head and made a noise that told him she was utterly disgusted by the alternative. Brett stripped out of his jeans and T-shirt, threw back the bedspread and climbed in beside her. He tucked the bedspread around her. Then he switched off the light.
"I'm wearing briefs, Tara, but if you still want to sleep on top of the
sheets, I understand.” Then he pressed a kiss to her head and chuckled. “Good night, sweetheart. Pleasant dreams."
Then he rolled over with his back to her, laughing softly into the darkness.
CHAPTER 8
Something stirred inside her. Her consciousness lingered between sleep and awareness. She sensed something warm and comfortable beside her and she instinctively snuggled into it. There was a low rumble against her ear and a rush of warmth next to her skin. She turned toward it, seeking the safety of an embrace. When she found it she sighed in contentment. Whatever dream this was, she didn't want to wake up.
The sudden jolt between her thighs told her this was no dream. Tara opened one eye, then the other. She was greeted by semi-darkness and the gentle cadence of rain against the windows. Or was it her heart pounding between her breasts, ready to erupt? She was lying on her side with Brett's bare leg wedged between hers. And Brett's arm wrapped around her. And his fingers gently resting against her nipples through the sad excuse of the satin negligee. She tried to move and the arm around her tightened. His hand closed around her breasts, sending a pleasurable fire racing through her. She lay silent, wondering if the sound of her rapid pulse was loud enough to wake him.
Her bottom was nestled in the cove of his thighs. At least one part of him was already awake. He was hot and hard and penetrating through his cotton briefs. So much so that the warm, wet tip of his erection breached the fabric barrier and rested insistently against her back.
She opened her eyes fully, trying to remember when she had climbed into bed beside him last night. Or had he taken the liberty of tucking the sheets up around her? How long had it been, she asked herself. How long since she lay with a man like this, without fear, without expectation? Never. Part of her, a very large part she realized, wanted to linger here with him. The other part knew what would happen if she did. And she couldn't do this right now.
She tried to ease herself out of the circle of his embrace. Instantly his legs locked around hers, his arms tightened to render her immobile.
"Where are you going?” He growled into her ear. His voice echoed in the darkness, sleepy yet still authoritative.
"Bathroom,” she sighed. “Don't worry, I won't try anything funny."
He loosened his hold on her. “You can be funny all you want, sweetheart. Just don't be stupid."
Tara ignored the warning and climbed out of bed. When she finished in the bathroom, she opened the door to find Brett still in bed.
"You getting up?"
"No. It's six-thirty. Come back to bed."
"But you said you'd take me..."
"When I'm ready. I'm not ready. Besides, it's not safe on the Trans Canada when there's a storm like this. The car's nothing but a rolling lightning rod."
"What storm?” A low rumble in the distance answered her question. “Oh."
"Come back to bed, Tara. I promise to behave myself.” He threw back the sheets in invitation. “If you will."
Tara looked at the empty space beside Brett and wondered if Eve felt the same way when offered her temptation. “If I will what? Behave? It's not me I'm worried about.” How else could she put it to him? Gee, Constable Brett, I'd like to climb into bed with you, but you woke up with a raging hard-on and I don't think I can trust myself.
Brett yawned and fluffed the sheets over his head. “It's gone."
"What's gone?"
"Whatever it is you're afraid of. It comes and goes half a dozen times during the night. It's a perfectly normal occurrence. But you've slept with a man before, so you should know."
He was doing it again, taking control of the situation. She was totally flustered and losing her focus. She closed her eyes and tried to think of exactly how to explain her hesitation without embarrassing herself further.
"If it will make you feel comfortable, why don't you put something else on and come back to bed. We both know why you climbed into that skimpy whatchamacallit. And I appreciate the effort, honest. In fact, I was mighty tempted to divest you of your strings and little patches, but I have a job to do. So do us both a favor and make my job as easy as possible."
A flash of lightning signaled the end of the conversation. Tara walked over to Brett's side of the bed and waded through his pile of clothes on the floor. She pulled his T-shirt on over her negligee, then climbed in beside him.
"Better,” he murmured and tucked the covers up around her. “Now, we can talk or we can sleep. In a couple hours we'll get some breakfast, okay?"
Tara allowed him to put his arms around her again. She snuggled next to him and discovered he was as true as his word. There were a few inches less of him to snuggle up to.
They must have dozed off for a while. The next thing she knew, Brett was shaking her awake. She turned toward his side of the bed to find it empty. He stood over her, jeans and shoes on and a fresh T-shirt.
"Breakfast, sleeping beauty."
Tara stretched and threw back the sheets. Her nose picked up the aroma of coffee. “Food!"
"Breakfast in bed. Shove over.” With that, he sat on the bed next to her and set a plastic tray on her lap.
She felt better after she ate. Brett finished well ahead of her. She also discovered he'd showered and shaved while she was asleep.
"Time to talk,” he announced and took the tray from her.
"About what?"
His scowl told her that the time for games and deception had ended. And he reinforced his mood by giving her a final warning. “Either you come clean right now or I take you back to the States, daughter or no daughter, Carter or not. I'm out of time and patience. I want you to tell me what you're involved in."
Tara stared at the rain-streaked window. She was cornered and she knew it. She had one card left to play. If it meant telling him the truth about Patrick and throwing herself on his mercy, so be it.
"The suitcase,” she pointed to where it lay closed on the floor.
"What about it?"
"The envelope. There's a locket in the bottom. Open it."
At last! Brett congratulated himself on his efforts and raged that he hadn't come right out and strong-armed her before now. He opened the suitcase, pulled out the envelope and sat down beside her. He bypassed the photos and let the locket slide out into his hand. It was cheaply made of heart-shaped metal with a faded gold tone covering. He allowed Tara to unsnap the tricky lock. Then he opened it. He turned to Tara and questioned her.
"Baby pictures?"
"They're mine. They're all I have left. Please don't take them.” That wispy little voice begged him so artfully, so convincingly and over what, a couple of pictures? She'd have done better to be sacrificing herself over something really naughty, like a few kilos of cocaine, some guns or at least a sack full of gems. He handed the locket back to her and went digging.
"Why would I take them? I don't get it. You broke the law by driving around with stolen license plates, which you stole by the way, so don't bother to deny it because we both know it's true. You vandalized my car, stole a truck and lied to me. All because of a locket? Am I missing something here?"
Tara sat beside him unmoved by his tirade. She was far more interested in looking at the pictures inside the locket. She reverently cradled it in her hand, then snapped it shut.
"You don't have children,” she began. “You can't understand what it's like for me or any mother who can't be with her child. And when that child is in danger, you'll do anything, break any law, lie to anyone, to protect your baby. This is why I have to keep my appointment with the judge tomorrow."
Brett was truly alarmed now. How was Kerry in danger? Were Rachel and Carter anything other than the loving family they appeared to be? It didn't make sense.
"Tara, tell me how you think Kerry is in danger and I'll try to help you."
Tara snapped her head toward him, her eyes round with confusion. “My God,” she breathed. “You mean Carter didn't tell you? With all you've found out about me, you don't know about Patrick?"
Finally out of patience, Brett pounced on the name. “Are you going to marry this Patrick tomorrow so you can stay in this country? Is that it?"
Tara collapsed on the bed beside him. She lay facedown on the bedspread and Brett could see her shoulders shaking as she sobbed silently. The truth was out at last. A desperate woman in a desperate situation chose a desperate way out. He placed his hand gently on her back. To his utter amazement, Tara rolled over on her back and started to laugh. A high-pitched, hysterical laughter of someone who'd just relieved herself of an enormous burden.
Or was it? She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and pointed at him.
"You-you think that-that Patrick and I ... that he ... Constable Brett, Patrick is my son."
Minutes passed before she calmed down. Before he could make sense of her confession. Before the world stopped and started spinning backward. Her son! Suddenly some of this mess made sense. She sat across from him cross-legged on the bed. She had passed the locket back to him and he observed it carefully. At first he'd thought the pictures belonged to Kerry. The coloring and face shape were the same. He handed the locket back to her. He got up and went to the bathroom. He returned with a glass of water and sat back down beside her.
"Okay, Tara. From the beginning. Take a deep breath and try to give me just the facts."
"I was seventeen when Roman DeMarco saw me in a fashion show at a mall in Wilmette outside of Chicago. I had a mediocre modeling contract, enough to get me into college. I'd done some catalogue layouts, some local magazines. Roman's girlfriend at the time saw some lingerie in a store where I was modeling. He bought the lingerie, but not for her. I was just a kid, naïve. Suddenly this slick looking guy with the Porsche was sending me bouquets of roses everyday, taking me out for champagne dinners, giving me diamond bracelets. I was so overwhelmed. He was prince charming. I was a kid from nothing, struggling to pay for school. I told him I had dreams. He told me I didn't have to work. He had tons of money, all the time. He said he had several businesses. He was smart and handsome, too good to be true. It was. I married him when I turned eighteen, eloped, really. Rachel didn't approve, of course. Nine months later, Patrick was born. But the fairy tale had already fallen apart."