by Debra Cowan
"How's Sam?" She stared out the window, her voice still rocky with emotion.
After she and Mace had broken up, she and Sam had remained friends. Mace had always suffered a brief flare of jealousy about that, and true to form, it bit at him now. "You should know. You still talk to him."
She glanced at him, her eyes bright with suppressed panic. Her voice was measured, as if she were holding on to her temper with an effort. "I just thought—I haven't seen him in a while."
She was making conversation so she wouldn't have to think about the fact that someone was trying to kill her. Garrett, you idiot. Mace gentled his voice, cursing at his stupid ego. "He's fine. He's still working Vice."
"And Linc?"
"He's great, too." They turned right off the highway, onto a paved road, driving past trailers and brick homes. After a couple of miles, Mace slowed and turned left into the private drive leading to Aunt Micki's cabin. They bumped and jolted along the white gravel road. "He works the emergency room at a different hospital every weekend. Says he likes the variety."
She smiled shakily. "I couldn't handle all the … trauma."
"Neither could I."
To Mace's left, the lake glittered invitingly in the late afternoon sun. Fading sunlight filtered through the mix of cedar and oak trees, which were now fully leafed and green.
Despite the warmth of the day, Devon rubbed her arms. "I know Sam's no closer to getting married."
"Neither is Linc."
"He's never forgiven me, has he? For hurting you."
"He's just protective, is all." Mace slanted a glance at her. Regret shadowed her features and he felt his gut tighten in response. "He never understood your fear."
I did, but I couldn't do anything about it. Mace wanted to say the words, but what was the point? "Look, let's just keep personal stuff to a minimum, okay?"
"We're going to be stuck here together for a while," she said wryly. "That's pretty personal."
His gaze swerved to hers. Where was the Devon who used to always accommodate any request, no matter how trite? "Yeah, well. How about let's keep the past in the past? Can you do that?"
Her gaze shifted to his and he thought he saw an instant of refusal. Then she shrugged. "Sure."
They hit a pothole and her arm brushed his. Mace jerked away and Devon turned her head to look out the window. Sensation skimmed along his arm, igniting the barely banked fever in his blood. He clenched his jaw and wheeled the car into his aunt's driveway.
Flicking off the ignition, he barreled out of the car. His chest was tight and his skin prickled with the need to distance himself from her. "Stay here. I'll check it out."
Pulling out his gun, he walked around one side of the cabin, exhaling a deep breath. He checked all around the perimeter and was relieved to find the coast clear. He rounded the last corner of the house and started back toward the car, which sat in the shade of the oaks and pines that bordered the half-circle drive of the rugged stone-and-cedar cabin.
Devon waited next to the car, still pale, but looking more relaxed than he'd seen her in the last couple of days. The picturesque cabin was weathered, but obviously well cared for.
Riotous blooms of pink, purple and white pansies lined the short walk to the one-step porch. Other flowers spilled from pots that were scattered about the weathered plank floor.
Behind Devon, the lake shimmered in late afternoon splendor. Gold diamonds of light shot from the water, splitting into red and silver and amber rays that reached back to the sky.
Mace strode toward her, satisfied that they were alone and no one had been there. With the place situated off the paved road by almost a mile and back in the trees, he would be well able to identify any visitors before they arrived.
He reached the car, trying to ignore how small and fragile Devon looked amid the decades-old trees.
"Is everything all right?" Her voice was thin with fatigue and he noted that the bruise was darker today, more raw looking.
He popped the trunk, trying to ignore the shadows in her eyes and failing. "Everything seems fine. You'll be safe here."
He grabbed her overnight case in one hand and his duffel in the other. Her gaze went to her bag, and for a moment, he thought she would reach for it. He slammed the trunk and moved around her. Without a word, she followed him.
Though she didn't speak, she stayed close enough that he could feel her heat brush his arm, and his gut knotted. He saw the uncertainty that dilated her eyes, but she held herself together.
At the front door, he dropped his bag and skimmed his fingers down the side of the door frame, searching for the indentation where the key was hidden.
Grabbing the piece of metal, he unlocked the door and pushed it open with one booted foot. After a wary glance at him, Devon walked inside. Mace determinedly kept his gaze on her back, allowing it to slide no lower.
Strictly business, he reminded himself.
As he strode toward the front room, which was a combined kitchen and dining area, he felt suddenly trapped. He couldn't recall that the cabin had ever felt so cramped. Suddenly sharing the small space with Devon seemed a daunting, if not downright threatening prospect.
She stopped in the middle of the room where the dining area flowed into the living area. "It looks great."
"Yeah." Mace walked around her and tossed his duffel onto the sofa in front of the fireplace, then walked toward the bedroom with Devon's bag. No way would she be able, to say he'd tried to take advantage of this situation at all.
"Your aunt changed the curtains in this room. I like them."
Mace could hear her, but the words ceased to make sense. Just walking into the bedroom caused his muscles to contract and pulled memories from the scarred depths of his soul. He refused to look at the rustic pine bed and stared instead at a fixed point on the rough log wall.
They'd made love here. Talked here. Fought here. Made plans, shared dreams. A sudden unsteadiness rocked him. His gaze locked on the window as he fought for balance. He managed to keep his gaze away from the bed, noticing that Aunt Micki had changed the curtains and quilt from tomato red to a soothing blue check.
He dropped Devon's bag and turned to find her standing in the doorway. Eyes wide and uncertain, she worried her bottom lip in a way he'd seldom seen her do. Her gaze moved from him to the bed, then darted away, a flush warming her cheeks. She remembered, too.
Pain and regret bored into his middle. He squeezed past her, his thigh touching hers, their chests brushing in the small space. Heat stroked up his body, but he ignored it.
She moved quickly, only a fraction, but enough to break the connection. She gazed into the bedroom, then turned back into the living area. Pain cut his breath for an instant and he clenched his fists. He could feel his control slowly sliding through his fingers.
"What did you mean by what you said in the car?" She stepped out from behind him. "About not being there for my dad?"
He froze, guilt scraping through him. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to see the blame come into her eyes.
"Mace, what did you—"
He turned, clenching his fists. "The night your dad was killed, I was supposed to meet him at your house."
She frowned, shaking her head. "But why? I thought you saw him at the bachelor party."
"He didn't make it. He was working on Martressa's case and he'd gotten some information. But I was late, and by the time I got there … he was dead."
He waited for her to scream at him, to lay some part of the responsibility on him. But her silver-green eyes held pain, not anger. And then comprehension slowly moved through them.
"It wasn't your fault," she said, stepping toward him.
"I was screwing around with the guys, couldn't find my keys. If I'd met your dad when I was supposed to, he wouldn't be dead." His voice was stark; his chest throbbed with the pain of admitting his guilt to her.
"No. That's not right." She shook her head, her voice falling to a whisper. "You might've been killed, t
oo."
He stared at her. He'd expected her to be knocked off her feet by his declaration, and while he could see shock and horror in her eyes, there was no blame.
She walked to him. "It's not your fault. How could you have known—"
"Nobody could've known," he said bitterly. "But I should've been there. He expected me to be there. Why don't you blame me? You should."
"It wasn't your fault."
Her simple statement should've eased his pain, but instead it seemed to throb through him more rawly and viciously.
"That's why you're so determined to get Martressa? To protect me?"
It was a hell of a lot more than a sense of responsibility, Mace suddenly realized, but he would never admit that to Devon. "Yes."
She touched his arm. "I'm so sorry. You've been carrying this around for a year and that breaks my heart. I don't blame you. Neither does Mom. We couldn't have made it without you, Mace. You have to know that."
"All I know is I wasn't there. He expected me and I let him down."
"No."
Her hand still lay on his arm and her touch burned, making Mace want to touch her in return. "Well, thanks."
His voice was quiet. He didn't deserve such forgiveness, couldn't even give it to himself, yet she was offering it to him.
He looked into her eyes, those lovely eyes, thinking he should recognize them, but they were older, wiser now, regarding him with a strength he had never expected to see there. Another facet to a woman he'd thought he already knew.
His throat tightened and he fought the urge to move closer to her, to hold her. He turned away and walked to the refrigerator, opening the door to find it empty except for ice in the top compartment.
Heading back through the cabin to bring in the groceries they'd picked up, he threw her a look over his shoulder. "You take the bedroom. I'll take the couch."
"That couch is barely long enough for you—" She held up a hand at his flat stare. "All right."
He unloaded groceries as she puttered around the living area, picking up a book, moving a quilt, pacing, sitting down only to rise in a few seconds. He didn't look at her, yet he felt every movement as if she danced across his nerves.
They circled and dodged each other as if they were boxers in their respective corners waiting for the bell. After a quick dinner of sandwiches and soup, each retired to a separate part of the cabin.
Mace sat at the table next to the window and pulled out a deck of cards he always kept for stakeouts or situations like this. He played solitaire and kept an eye on the road. She read a book.
Outside the sky shifted to darkness, as if to reflect their mood. The vivid orange-and-red sunset became a green-and-purple bruise of color against the metal sky. Clouds boiled in from the south, picking up speed and turning black with the advent of a storm.
Except for the occasional drum of thunder in the distance, all was silent. Mace, his senses on alert, could hear the crinkle of every page Devon turned, the soft give of the sofa as she shifted periodically.
He could still smell the clean freshness of her from across the room. And her engagement ring, which he'd carried since that day she'd come to the station—was it only yesterday?—dug into his thigh, a dull, grinding reminder that she'd walked away.
Wind swept through the grove, trees rattling in sudden turmoil. Mace studied the night sky, which had an eerie half light, half darkness as if the clouds were being lit from behind by the approaching storm. Trees shuddered from the force of the wind, bending nearly to the ground during a particularly strong gust.
He glanced over at Devon and saw that she stared out at the storm as well.
"Looks like a dandy." He laid down the cards.
She placed her book facedown on the sofa.
He pushed away from the table and rose as the first raindrops splattered the window. He reached for the knob. "I'd better move Aunt Micki's chairs and those flowerpots on the edge of the porch."
"I'll help."
Mace opened the door. Wind howled through the trees, rattling the windows and knocking the porch chairs into the wall. A fierce gust of rain-driven wind stung his face and he faltered. Devon grabbed the wall to steady herself before she stepped outside.
The wind lulled, as though taking a breath, and he rushed to the edge of the porch, pulling back one of the wooden, ladder-back chairs. Wind tore at him and rain splattered his shirt.
He stacked the two wooden chairs atop each other, shoving them toward the door. Devon had grabbed the rocker and pushed it inside.
She reached for one of the terra-cotta pots overflowing with pansies. Tugging the heavy container toward her, she backed toward the wall. Short dark hair whipped about her face and even in the darkness he could see dark patches of wetness forming on her jeans and T-shirt.
He called above the noise, "The wind's pulling up the tarp on the boat. I'll tie it down again."
He sprinted off the porch, stopping first to roll up the windows on the car, then heading for the boat that rested beside the cabin. By the time he reached it, Devon was there as well.
He grabbed one side of the flapping plastic and she grabbed the other. He tugged, but the heavy material caught on the motor. The wind flapped the tarp into his face and against his legs. Working against the force of the wind, he wrestled with the plastic. From the corner of his eye, he could just see Devon. A flash of pink pinpointed her location. Together they tugged and wrestled the tarp back into place.
Mace slipped a piece of rope through the tarp holes and tied it more securely this time. Wind pummeled him. He shouted for Devon to go inside, but the wind drowned his words. She didn't even look up. She was soaked, her hair and clothes pasted to her skin.
Rain drove down in stinging splinters, not cool and soothing, but lukewarm, heavy. He moved to the bow of the boat and motioned for her to go inside. The rumbling of the storm obliterated their words, its force dragging at their movements.
Lightning cracked and a searing heat spread from the ground. The odor of sulfur burned the air. Mace looked up and frowned just as Devon moved toward him, horror cresting her features.
She screamed, but her voice disappeared in the vicious sweep of wind. She lunged toward him, pushing at his head.
He ducked instinctively just as a heavy piece of wood struck his shoulder and bounced off. Pain burned through his back and he glanced over his shoulder to see the wind tear through the trees like a giant jaw, snapping the thick lumber like toothpicks.
"Go!" he yelled, snagging her wrist and tugging her toward the porch.
She bolted under the eaves and toward the door. He followed, glancing back to where the broken limbs now cartwheeled into the woods beyond the cabin. He could easily have been knocked senseless by the flying debris.
They rushed into the cabin, water streaming from their clothes.
He slammed the door shut and they were immediately immersed in stillness. The storm pounded the cabin, but inside he could hear only the rasp of their heavy breathing and the slow drip of water from their clothes. When he could breathe, Mace looked at her. She was soaking wet, her dark hair plastered to her head, her eyes huge.
"That was close," he panted. "Thanks."
"You're—welcome."
"I never saw it coming. Good thing you were there."
"Yes." She paused, a strange unfamiliar light coming into her eyes, as though she'd realized something. Studying him, she massaged her side.
He ran a hand down his rain-drenched face. "You okay?"
"Yes. You?" She rubbed her hands down her arms, sluicing water from her body.
"Fine."
His attention zeroed in on her. Her short dark hair was slicked to her head, highlighting her delicate, vulnerable features. Mace shook his own head and sent droplets of water flying. His clothes were sticky with the heat that persisted in spite of the storm. Dev's slender legs, bared by her shorts, gleamed with water.
Unable to help himself, he found his gaze traveling over her flat belly to
her taut midriff, where her T-shirt stuck to her as if painted on. Her chest rose and fell rapidly and her breasts, perfect for his hand, were gloved by the wet garment. Her nipples peaked and she crossed her arms.
He dragged his gaze from her. Even so, he was still painfully aware of her body, and heat pooled low in his belly.
He strode past the kitchen table and opened the closet behind the chair. Pulling out two towels, he tossed one to her.
"Thanks." She moved a few steps into the living area and, he followed, toweling his wet hair.
He tried not to notice the way the water sheened her skin to polished velvet or rendered the material of her shirt virtually transparent. Every detail of her body was visible, right down to the lace inset of her bra.
He swallowed and looked away, blotting his arms dry. Muted sounds of the storm reached them, but the small room was uncomfortably quiet.
Devon stepped toward the bedroom, leaving a puddle of water where she'd stood. "We look like drowned rats," she said laughingly.
He grinned, though it was painful. "Speak for yourself." She smiled, one of the first genuine smiles he'd seen her give in the last two days, and he wished she hadn't. It only turned the knife of regret harder, deeper.
"Well, I'd better get into some dry clothes."
"Yeah." He leaned down to dig through his duffel for a dry T-shirt and pair of jeans.
A few seconds later, the skin on the back of his neck prickled. Only then did he realize that she hadn't gone into the bedroom.
He turned, towel in hand, soaked clothes forgotten.
She stared at him with a mixture of hunger and longing so intense that his body tightened and he grew hard. Her eyes were a sharp green—just as they'd looked in times past when they'd made love. Nothing coy or teasing, just raw, desperate need.
He knew he could reach for her now and she'd come to him. Knew she would surrender to the desire she was feeling. Mace's body responded with lightning-quick reflex. His blood heated and a primal instinct to take her, claim her fired his blood.
He went completely still, like an animal sensing danger. His knees nearly buckled at the intensity of her gaze. He read wariness in her eyes and confusion. The moment would pass, he realized with painful disappointment. Then he silently begged for it to pass quickly.