by Debra Cowan
As though she were helpless to control it, her gaze flicked over his waist and belly and chest, touching him like a whip. Then she gazed at his lips.
His erection throbbed painfully and his muscles burned as he fought the savage need to haul her to him and kiss her until her lips were swollen from his.
She still wanted him.
In spite of breaking their engagement. In spite of requesting another officer. In spite of moving on with her life.
The knowledge ripped at him, shredding an already tenuous control. Her gaze stayed on his lips and his body strained to answer the gut-deep call she made to him. He didn't realize until his boot scraped the wooden floor that he'd even moved. Their connection snapped like a faulty wire.
Realization flooded her face, then horror. In less than a second, the desire, the longing disappeared. She spun and slipped into the bedroom.
Carefully, like a held breath, the door closed. It was a whisper of sound compared to the roar of the storm, which Mace once again became aware of, but he felt it like a crack to the head.
A deep breath rattled out of him and he sank down on the arm of the sofa, stunned. His heart pounded as if he'd just survived a hostage situation.
Her feelings for him hadn't died.
Mace knew her, knew she couldn't have looked at him as if he were the only man who could fill her up if she didn't feel that way about him.
With startling clarity, he realized exactly how she felt. At last he understood the fear that clouded her eyes. She wanted him, but couldn't accept his life, couldn't trust that he would protect her. She was afraid of the feelings she still had for him.
He knew, because he felt the same.
But the realization didn't bring triumph or even satisfaction. Instead, he felt a sense of helpless anger and defeat, because nothing between them had changed.
He closed his eyes and dropped the towel to the floor, rubbing his hand over his face. Man, he wished he hadn't figured that out.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Something woke her. A sound, a movement. She fought her way past the veil of sleep, awareness coming slowly. She was at Micki's cabin. With Mace.
Immediately Devon was flooded with the memory of the look that had passed between them last night. He'd seen how she still wanted him. And she'd felt his gaze on her like a touch, thumbing her nipples to awareness, stroking her body to liquid heat. She had felt vulnerable, exposed, totally at his mercy.
Seeking to escape the image, she opened her eyes—and gasped. Mace leaned against the door frame, wearing only worn, faded jeans and boots. His arms were crossed and he considered her stoically as if he were tracing every inch of skin beneath her Mickey Mouse T-shirt.
He knew she wanted him. Any notion that he might have misinterpreted the look she'd given him last night flew out the window. He definitely knew.
In his hooded blue eyes were memories as potent, as searing as hers. In a flash, she recalled another time—his lips on hers, his tongue stroking her mouth, his large hands gentle on her body, shaping her breasts, urging her nipples into peaked awareness, whispering her name in a ragged pant as they made love in this very room. Two parts of a whole, beats of the same heart.
Her body heated; her skin hummed as though he touched her with those gentle hands. Purely on reflex, she drew the sheet up her body, trying to shield herself from that blazing sapphire gaze, wishing she could shield her emotions as easily.
Without a flicker of emotion on his rugged features, he turned away and closed the bedroom door.
She heard the clomp of his boots across the wooden floor, heard the quiet scoot of the chair as he sat down. Her heart pounded in her chest and sweat peppered her body.
Not only had she revealed to Mace a desire that she hadn't admitted to herself until last night, but she had also discovered exactly what was at stake here.
Not just her life, but her heart. Again.
Last night, during the storm, Devon had known that being alone with Mace in this cabin would be difficult. She had sworn she wouldn't depend on him again, but it had been driven home during that storm exactly how naive that thinking was.
She'd helped him escape a serious injury and he'd said he needed her. For the first time, he had needed her. For an instant, Devon let herself relive the warmth that washed through her at his declaration. In all their time together, he had always been the strong one, the protector.
This new feeling was heady, but also unsettling. There was no getting around it now. They were in this together. For the duration.
* * *
She stalled as long as she could, but eventually she had to face him. With trembling hands and a bone-deep chill she couldn't shake, she opened the door. She wasn't sure what she expected—maybe one of those steel blue glares that could wring a confession from an innocent man—but he didn't even look at her as she walked into the room.
Rain drizzled against the windows and hazy light seeped into the kitchen, gray and heavy, just like her mood. A jumble of emotions assaulted her—betrayal, guilt, panic. Strangely she felt as if they had done something wrong last night, when nothing had happened.
Mace sat at the table, his body tight with control. Anyone else might have thought the crease along his cheek was just part of his chiseled features, but Devon knew the anger it represented. Broad shoulders were stiff and squared against her. He barely acknowledged her as she walked toward him.
He sipped from a thick white mug, his gaze trained straight ahead. "There's coffee."
No shade in his voice hinted at the desire or the memories she'd glimpsed in his eyes only moments ago. He obviously didn't want to dwell on the past any more than she did.
She murmured a thank-you and walked behind him. A small automatic coffeemaker on the counter blinked, indicating the heater was still on. A white ceramic coffee mug waited beside it. She poured herself a cup, noticing that several packets of sweetener lay nearby. Mace drank his coffee black, but he knew how she hated the bitter taste. Had he gotten these for her?
Does it matter, Devon? she asked herself. They had only to coexist peacefully for a few days. They weren't picking up where they'd left off a year ago.
Sipping her coffee, she remained at the counter, her gaze roaming to him in spite of herself. His thick black hair curled like silk over the collar of his denim button-down shirt. He had rolled back the cuffs and pushed up the sleeves, revealing corded forearms that were dusted lightly with dark hair.
His hands closed tightly around his own cup of coffee, dwarfing the porcelain mug. Against the pale ceramic, his fingers were dark and lean, and evoked the memory of those gentle hands against the ivory of her skin.
"How's your shoulder?"
He shifted as if uncomfortable. "Fine."
He suddenly scooted back from the table and rose. She edged next to the refrigerator, giving him ample room to reach the sink and place his cereal bowl there.
At her quick movement, he eyed her drolly. "How's your head?"
"Better. I didn't need a painkiller this morning."
He grunted noncommittally and sipped at his coffee.
After last night, she wanted there to be no mistake about where they stood. He had correctly interpreted her look and would be completely justified in thinking that she had changed her mind about him, about them.
But no matter how much her heart ached or her body softened for him, they couldn't go back.
He walked to the window and looked outside, his shoulders sagging for an instant. She realized that this confinement was just as difficult for him, probably more so because he was used to being outdoors. Rain slicked the windows, fell in steady, thrumming sheets.
He turned and pulled a chair over to him. At the abrupt movement, Devon jumped.
He glanced at her, his features carved and tense. Anger drew his body taut. Thinking only to distance herself from him, to try and make the best of an awkward situation, Devon sidled past the refrigerator an
d headed for the sofa.
"You don't have to be so damn skittish," he growled. "I'm not going to jump your bones."
"I know that." Anger flared, then vanished. She moved over to the couch, wishing he couldn't read her so well, wishing this were over, wishing for an instant that she'd never ID'd those two men.
Agony pinched her insides. She and Mace were supposed to be on the same side. Instead, thanks to her, they were tiptoeing around each other as if they were two strangers who had made love last night and were now searching for the quickest escape.
She squared her shoulders, refusing to feel this way for the duration of their time together. She and Mace hadn't made love. She had said nothing that she needed to apologize for. Now if she could just forget about the raw naked need that she'd allowed Mace to glimpse…
* * *
She wanted him and it was killing her. No matter how she tried to disguise or escape the fact, Devon wanted him.
The realization spurred a burst of anger in Mace. She was the one who'd rejected him. And now she was edging around him as if he were a sniper poised to fire.
He was tired of the denials, the distance, the damn past rising up like a snarling tiger every time things eased somewhat between them.
He couldn't operate effectively if his nerves were scraped raw like this all the time. Walking over to the counter, he opened the cabinet and searched through their stash of groceries. Finding the bag of chocolate caramels, he walked over to Devon and held one out to her, silently extending a truce.
Her gaze rose to his, solemn and uncertain. "I love those."
"I know." He'd automatically picked them up at the grocery store, but hadn't realized it until they'd arrived here.
He hadn't forgotten that desperate look of desire she'd given him last night, but they had to find some neutral ground. If he had to ply her with candy, so be it.
She stared at the caramel on his outstretched palm, regret and apology merging on her features. For a moment, he thought she would refuse. Then she reached out.
Her nails scored his palm lightly, a ghost of a touch as she took the candy. She smiled, flashing the deep dimples that had captivated him in the first place. "Thank you."
She didn't love Josh Van Horn. Mace knew it with every throbbing part of him, and the knowledge nagged like a toothache. It was none of his business. He told himself he didn't care. And even though he called himself all kinds of a fool, he knew that before the day was over, he'd get her to admit it.
* * *
She couldn't slip again and let Mace see how he affected her. Things had gone well for a while. Well as defined by neither of them snapping at the other.
Mace had been polite, if not at ease, and Devon wondered how much of that was attributable to the case and how much to her.
He seemed determined to forget the look that had passed between them last night. And she was just as determined. So she didn't let herself get too comfortable with his friendly act.
Leashed tension still ran through his body, giving his high cheekbones a wicked crest and making the crease in his cheeks slightly less devastating when he smiled.
The rain drummed against the windows, scraping against nerves already drawn taut by enforced closeness and confinement. Drip by steady drip, Devon counted the minutes until she wanted to scream. The book didn't hold her attention. Every slight move that Mace made caused her to look over her shoulder.
She wanted to ignore the big man who sat at the kitchen table patiently, silently watching her. She'd caught his speculative gaze on her several times, and now he didn't even look away.
She could read nothing in his eyes, but still she knew he wanted something. What?
For the fourth or fifth time, she rose from the couch and paced to the fireplace, fingering the lace doily that stretched across the mantel.
For the fourth or fifth time, she turned and moved back to the couch, running a finger around the top edge of the lamp shade.
His jeans, still damp from last night, lay in a rumpled heap on the floor, and she stooped to pick them up. Shaking them out, she draped them over the back of the couch. As she did so, something fell from his pocket.
Devon grabbed the object before it slid between the cushions of the couch. Her hand closed over it and her heartbeat stuttered. It couldn't be.
Her breath lodged in her chest. She opened her hand and saw the oval-cut solitaire. Her engagement ring.
She turned toward him, her vision blurring as pain pulsed through her. She could barely breathe. Her chest ached and the ring seared into her palm.
He looked up then, frowning slightly before his gaze shifted to her hand.
He rose slowly and profound pain ravaged his eyes before his features hardened into a stern mask. Legs apart, hands rolled into fists, he stood as though braced against a brutal wind.
Gray light seeped into the room. Rain drummed steadily on the wooden roof, the rasp of their breathing the only other sound. Beneath it all hummed a low vibrato of tension—constant, steady, swelling. Just like the rain.
A memory unfolded. The push of his body into hers. The stroke of lean hands on bare skin. Making love with Mace on this couch during another storm.
No! Devon shoved away the memory and whirled, jamming the ring back into the pocket of his jeans.
"Dammit, go take a nap or something!"
"I'm not sleepy!" She paced to the fireplace.
He thrust a hand into his dark hair, but his smooth voice belied the impatient gesture. "Well, there are other, more pleasant things than sleeping to do in the rain."
His voice drifted over her like silky heat. She couldn't believe he had voiced what she'd just remembered, especially after she'd found the ring.
Even from this distance, she could read the hunger in his blue eyes; they glowed like a searing summer sky and were defiant with the same memory she'd just experienced.
They were here, sprawled in naked abandon on the couch. The steady, building rhythm of the rain translated to the rhythm of their bodies as they moved and thrust and met each other, heightening, sharpening the pleasure.
The rain pattered on, mirroring the beat of her heart, the kick of her pulse as she and Mace climbed higher and higher. The memory ached in her heart. And she could read that same ache in Mace's eyes.
"Don't." She wanted to sound commanding; instead her words sounded like a plea.
He strode across the room and halted in front of her, only inches away. "Why, Devon?"
"There's no sense in talking about this."
"Why this Josh guy? Why him? What is it about him?"
"Mace, don't start this." She turned away, intent on reaching the opposite end of the sofa and putting some distance between them.
He snagged her arm, not tightly, but firmly enough so that she couldn't tug away. "Answer me. You owe me that."
"No, I don't." It ripped at her heart to say the words, but she saw no need to dredge up old hurt. "There's nothing between us anymore, Mace."
"And whose fault is that?"
She couldn't deny it, but neither would she apologize. She'd failed him and she still wasn't strong enough to share his life. She looked away.
"Devon."
"Don't do this, Mace. There's no point. We still have to be here together for a while and this won't help."
"Why in the hell are you with him?" Regret for what they'd lost boiled through him; he couldn't contain his temper any longer. "Why? You don't love him."
"I do—"
"Tell me. I want to hear you say it."
Her heart ached. Why did he have to do this? She could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that he wouldn't let it rest, despite the tortured look in his eyes. So she squared her shoulders. "I do."
"No, you don't," he said softly, triumphantly. "Otherwise you couldn't have looked at me the way you did last night."
There was no way she was admitting to that. His blue eyes seared right through her soul and she knew it didn't matter whether she denied or
admitted it. He knew. He'd always known.
She looked away. "We're practically engaged."
"Engaged, hell! You don't love him."
"I do." Still she couldn't bring herself to face him, to acknowledge that the agony, the loss in his blue eyes mirrored that of her soul.
"We've been through a lot of things, Dev. I never thought you'd lie to me."
Her head whipped around and pain ached in her heart. "I'm not … lying." Was she?
"You are," he said firmly.
He was so confident that for an instant she wanted to slap him. But she looked him full in the face, seeing the same pain and need and regret that she felt.
"Tell me the truth," he coaxed quietly.
"I … I do love Josh." Panic knotted her stomach. "Just in a different way."
"Maybe you have to tell yourself that so you can bear for him to touch you, but I know better."
Her eyes widened. "Stop!"
"That's it, isn't it?"
She stiffened and tried to pull away. "I'm not going to discuss this with you."
"You damn well are. You stood right there last night and looked at me as if you were going to crawl all over me, as if you wanted to get inside me."
"That was a mistake."
"Do you ever look at him like that? Does he know how to touch you until your knees buckle with the want? Can he make you cry when he's deep inside—"
"Stop it." She faced him, her chest heaving, her face pale except for twin slashes of color on her cheeks. "Just stop."
"You can't ignore that there's still something between us, and you hate that, don't you?"
"You need a woman!" She whirled away from him. "You're lonesome or looking for sex—"
"Lonesome don't come close," he snarled, snagging her elbow to spin her around. "Not since you left. There's still something between us, whether you want it or not. And we're going to deal with it."
"How?" she yelled, gripping the back of the sofa. "You're going to bully me until I cave and tell you what you want to hear?"