by Rebecca York
She had never lost her head with a man. She had always been cautious in her relationships. But she had never been this hot and needy. Really, she had been hot and needy since he’d interrupted her in the bedroom the afternoon before.
Now—
Now she suddenly remembered why he’d knocked on her door and why she had kicked him out of the house the last time he’d been here. She also remembered she was wearing little more than a long tee shirt.
Breaking the kiss, she pressed her hands against his shoulders, then watched his gaze come back into focus. He dropped his hands and took one step back, his expression hardening.
“You’re getting out of here.”
Her brain struggled to make sense of the statement. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I rented this house for six months.”
“Staying in this house isn’t a great idea,” he said in a voice that left no room for argument. “I was hired to find out what happened to Esther Knight. She’s dead. Now you’re in danger. Have you made any enemies in town?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to make enemies.”
“Then we’re back to a link with Esther Knight.”
“Or someone who targeted a woman living alone.”
“Either way, a bad guy was staking out your place. I told you I saw a white van hanging around this afternoon. I saw it drive away again tonight.”
“The same van?”
He hesitated. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure. As you said, there are a lot of white vans on the road.” He looked toward the window. “By the way, where are the cops? Didn’t you call them?”
“I asked a neighbor to do it. He threatened to shoot me.”
“Nice guy.”
“We could call the police now,” she said.
“We can do that later. Right now, I’m moving you somewhere safer.”
She tipped her head to one side, trying to wrap her head around his words and the brittle tone of his voice. “Why? Why should you get involved?”
She saw him swallow. He turned away and walked toward the window, looking out into the darkness. His shoulders were hunched, and she could tell from his body language that whatever he had to say wasn’t coming easily. “I don’t want to make the same mistake I did last time,” he finally said.
The answer made her blink. Last time what?”
“Last time I let a woman get harmed because I was too blind to understand what was happening.”
“I think you’d better explain that.”
He nodded, then pivoted to face her. “I used to be a police detective. But when I got married, my wife thought the job was too dangerous. I started a PI business.”
Her fingers went to her lips as the memory of the kiss sizzled through her. “You’re married?” she said in a voice that she couldn’t hold steady.
He kept his gaze even. “Not anymore. A thug I’d put in prison got out and decided to even the score. He kidnapped Mindy. I figured out where he was holding her. The cops and I got her back. But she was . . . pretty traumatized. After that, the marriage was over. We’ve been divorced for more than a year.”
“Oh.”
“But let’s cut the conversation. I’m getting you out of this house. Tonight.”
“Because you feel guilty?” she asked carefully.
“Because I care about you.”
She could remind him that they barely knew each other. But she didn’t do it—for several reasons that she didn’t want to examine too closely. First and foremost, she knew she’d be a fool to send him on his way when he was offering to protect her.
“We could both stay here,” she said.
“We could. But I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours. I need some sleep. And I’ll feel better about getting it if I know the guy who broke in doesn’t know your location.”
“All right.”
“Pack some clothes.”
“Everything?”
“Just enough for a few days,”
“And my work.”
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the Duck Blind Motel.”
“To your room?”
He looked at his watch. “The office is closed. My room will have to do for tonight. Then we’ll think of something else.”
She didn’t want to be locked in a motel room with Zachary Grant. The idea seemed much too intimate. But what he was saying made sense.
He followed her down the hall. When she got to her bedroom, she stopped short. A chair lay on its side. And the bedcovers were hanging off on the floor.
“What happened in here?” she asked.
“He and I got into it. Unfortunately, he shoved me onto the bed and beat it,” he clipped out, and she realized he didn’t want to discuss the details.
Repressing further questions, she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and athletic shoes, then hurriedly packed some clothing. When she returned to the living room, she stuffed the letters back into their mail sack. All she had to do then was put her laptop back into its case.
“Ready?” Zach asked.
“As ready as I will be,” she answered. Following him out of the house, she locked the door, then wondered what good that would do.
A feeling of unreality gripped her as she climbed into his car.
“You got here fast. I guess the motel is pretty close,” she said into the confined space.
“Yes, but we’re not going straight there. I’ve got to make sure nobody is following us.”
She answered with a tight nod, thinking that she’d put herself into this man’s hands. Now she was having second thoughts about her hasty decision.
She tried to relax as he headed for the highway, then took another exit back into town—his attention divided between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.
It was after one in the morning, and there was little traffic on the road. As far as she could tell, there were no white vans—or anybody else—following them.
Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a small, nondescript motel that fronted on Route 50.
His room was at one end. After he’d turned on the light and helped her carry her stuff inside, she looked around at the small space. There was a queen-sized bed, a table and two inexpensive armchairs by the window, a dresser with the requisite television set, and not much else.
The first words she heard herself saying were, “We can’t both sleep in that bed.”
“I can sleep in a chair,” he shot back, crossing the room and pulling one of the chairs around to face the other.
His back was to her, and she watched the tight set of his shoulders, wondering what to say now. She’d always been better at writing than talking. And lately she wasn’t doing too well at that, either.
Still with his back to her, he cleared his throat. “Dear Esther,” he said, and she wondered if she’d heard him right.
“Dear Esther,” he said again. “I find myself in rather a strange situation. I’m in a motel room with a woman I’m very attracted to. But we don’t know each other real well. And I know she’s nervous about what I might do. That’s my fault—because I kissed her, which I know I shouldn’t have done. But I was worried about her when someone broke into her house, and when I saw that she was okay, I hugged her. And that turned into a kiss. But now I’d like to convince her that I’m not going to step out of line.” He paused for several heartbeats, then said, “Signed, worried in St. Stephens.”
She stood there, watching his tense stance. He had just revealed a lot to her. Stuff he’d probably found hard to say. But he’d found a way to say it. And now she had to answer him.
She licked her dry lips, then began, “Dear Worried in St. Stephens, uh . . . telling her what you’re thinking makes all the difference. I know it’s difficult to say personal stuff to a woman you don’t know well. But you did it. And that takes away the worry about being alone with you.”
She heard him heave a deep sigh. When he didn’
t turn back to face her, she walked to the bed, straightened the covers and took off her shoes. Keeping her sweatpants and tee shirt on, she lay down.
When he started toward the chairs, she said, “You need to sleep. You’re not going to be very comfortable over there.”
He turned to face her, his gaze questioning.
“This bed is pretty wide. I think we can manage.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
She watched him turn off the light, then kick off his shoes. The mattress shifted. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, she slid him a look. He was lying on the far edge of the bed, still wearing the clothing he’d pulled on before rushing to her house.
He looked stiff and uncomfortable. But she wasn’t going to invite him to get undressed. Instead, she focused on trying to get some sleep—which she was sure she would never be able to do because she was too aware of the man lying next to her.
Dear Esther, she thought. Is it possible for a man and a woman who are attracted to each other to share the same bed and not end up making love? Signed, curious in St. Stephens.
Dear curious, she answered her own question. Of course it’s possible for a man and a woman who are attracted to each other to be in close proximity and agree not to engage in hanky-panky.
Hanky-panky. That was a nice old-fashioned term. Still it got her thinking that all she’d have to do was move her arm a little and her hand would brush Zachary’s. That brought a wave of heat sweeping over her body, and she knew she was in trouble.
She’d told him to get into bed with her. Now she had to keep her cool. On the other side of the mattress, he shifted uncomfortably, and she wondered if he was having the same problem. When she found herself staring at the front of his chinos to try and see if he had an erection, she clamped her teeth together, wondering what she had been thinking when she’d invited him to bed.
She’d sentenced herself to lying here for the rest of the night, hot and needy and wondering if she was the only one suffering. But some time during the next hour, she drifted off to sleep. And some time later, a low, choking sound woke her again.
Chapter Five
Instantly, alarmed by the sound of distress, Amanda pressed her back against the mattress, trying to figure out where she was and why.
It was dark, with only a narrow shaft of light coming in between the curtains, and it took a moment for her fogged brain to remember that she was in a motel room bed—and why there was a man lying next to her.
His body jerked, and she shifted toward him. “Zachary?”
He didn’t answer. He appeared to be asleep. But his head moved from side to side on the pillow, and she knew that he was in the grip of a nightmare.
“It’s all right. Zachary, wake up.”
When he didn’t answer, she slid over and laid a hand on his warm, muscular shoulder.
She knew immediately that she’d made a big mistake. He was still in the grip of a nightmare, but his instincts took over instantly. Flipping her to her back, he came down heavily on top of her, his big body pressing hers into the mattress.
Instinctively, she flailed against the weight of his chest pressed to hers. At the same time, she tried to let him know where he was and whom he was with.
“Zachary! It’s Amanda. We’re in your hotel room. Please . . . Zachary, you’re scaring me,” she gasped. At first nothing happened. Then she sensed a change in him.
One minute he was on top of her. In the next, his weight lifted. But she sensed him hovering over her, looking down at her in the darkness.
“Amanda?”
“Yes.”
She saw him drag a hand through his hair. “Christ. What the hell am I doing? I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “But you . . . frightened me.”
“Oh Christ,” he repeated. “I’m sorry,” His raw tone told her he hated what he’d just done.
“What happened?” she asked, making an effort to speak normally.
He heaved a sigh. “The guy. The kidnapper. I was trying to stop him from getting away. Then you woke me up—only he wasn’t here. And you were.”
He turned on the light beside the bed. Although the bulb was low, they both blinked in the sudden illumination.
“You mean the man who kidnapped your wife?” she asked.
“Yeah. I guess what happened tonight brought it all back. I was dreaming about him, but it was pretty mixed up. In the dream, he’d kidnapped you, and I was frantic to find you.”
“Oh,” she breathed, thinking about how she’d figured into his unconscious.
“Then I did. He and I were fighting. Only you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. My bed, to be exact. And I was going after you—not him.”
The look of remorse clouding his features and the anguish in his voice tore at her. Her fingers stroked up and down his arm, but he pulled away from her and flopped to his back, pressing his hand to his forehead.
“I convinced you it was okay to stay here with me. Now I’m afraid I misled you.”
“Could you clarify that?”
“I’m dangerous,” he muttered.
“No.”
“What do you mean—no. I attacked you.”
“Well, you started to. But you didn’t do any damage. You stopped as soon as you knew it was me.”
“Thank God!” He turned his head toward her. “Why aren’t you climbing out of this bed and running screaming in the other direction?”
“Because I know you’re a good man, Zachary Grant—whether you want to admit it or not.”
“Oh yeah, how do you know?”
“Because I’m a trained psychologist. I’m a good judge of character.”
He made a dismissive sound. “But you didn’t much like finding me snooping in your room.”
She hoped the light wasn’t bright enough to reveal the stain that spread across her cheeks. “Not at the time. But when I thought about it, I realized you were doing your job—as you saw it. You wanted information about me, and you took an opportunity that presented itself.”
“You’ve sure changed your mind.”
It sounded like he was determined to make her say something negative about him. If so, he was going to be disappointed. Into the small bedroom, she said, “If you were an insensitive jerk, you wouldn’t be having nightmares about your wife’s kidnapping. You would have gotten over it.”
He snorted. “Former wife.”
She realized that words weren’t going to make him feel better. He had an answer for every argument she put forth. Stretching out her arm, she found his hand and clasped it. That was the only place they touched, just a few inches of his warm skin against hers, yet she felt as though she’d bridged a continental gulf.
Neither of them spoke. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, but she didn’t think he’d believe her. He’d been through a terrible experience. People were shaped by the things that happened to them. His wife had reacted one way. He’d reacted another.
He’d been hurt and scared and guilty. With her training, she was sure she could help him. If he would let her. Which she knew wasn’t a sure thing.
But that wasn’t her only motivation. There was something for her here, too. She sensed that he could help her. They hadn’t known each other long. Still, there was something about her relationship with him that was different from any man she’d met before in her life. Was it because he was the most frankly sexual man she’d ever been with?
She sighed. Or because she found him so appealing? She remembered lecturing him about relationships. Well, they seemed to have one. And she wanted to explore that. She wanted to find out what they meant to each other and what they might mean. For now she lay with him in bed, their fingers barely touching. It was such a minimal contact, yet she sensed its importance—to both of them.
###
In the darkness of the motel bedroom, Amanda’s role had seemed clear. In the morning she wasn’t quite certain of
where she stood with Zachary—or where she wanted to stand.
She was pretending to be asleep when she felt the mattress shift. Through slitted eyes, she saw him standing beside the bed, then walking rapidly to the bathroom. Through the closed door, she heard him getting dressed. Then he vacated the bathroom and exited the room—she assumed to give her some privacy while she got up.
She wanted to tell him that they should just act normally. But she was too off-balance to know what normal was. Instead, she focused on the simple tasks of getting dressed.
She had just emerged from the bathroom when he came back into the room and closed the door, which meant he must have been waiting right outside.
“Hi,” she said.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to pick us up some breakfast. And take care of some other stuff. Don’t worry if I don’t come right back. Put the chain on the door, and don’t let anyone but me in.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“Something easy. A fast-food breakfast sandwich.”
“I can handle that.”
After setting the chain and making the bed, she got out her computer and some letters. But she hardly got any work done in the hour he was gone.
She kept looking toward the door. And she leaped up when he knocked. As she opened the door, he came in, carrying bags with a familiar logo.
Quickly she cleared the table of her work, and they both sat down.
After he’d unpacked egg and bacon sandwich muffins, orange juice and strong coffee, they both ate in silence for several minutes.
“Is this your usual breakfast?” she asked.
“I never got over liking eggs and bacon, even when the health gurus said they were bad for you.”
“Me too.”
They grinned at each other, sharing their secret passion for cholesterol before going back to the food.
When she looked up again, she saw him turning a Styrofoam cup between his hands.
“What?”
“We should talk business,” he said.
“Oh?” she said, hearing the catch in her own voice.
“I stopped by the police station and reported the incident last night. They’re aware of the situation. They’re willing to swing by your house periodically.”