by Linda Style
“Everything’s fine, Mabel. I just need to be…somewhere else, and Whitney’s not here. If Charley comes back soon, maybe you can send him over till I get back.”
“Sure thing. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on the place. You better treat that young lady right,” she added.“She’s a keeper.”
Yeah, he’d thought so, too—in moments of madness. “I treat everyone right, Mabel. You know that.”
“Things ain’t always what they seem, you know. Sometimes you gotta keep an open mind.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did Mabel know? In the short time Whitney’d been in Estrade, she and Mabel had become fast friends. An odd combination, but it seemed to work for both of them.
“I will. My mind’s so open it’s a sieve. And thanks, you’re a sweetheart.”
A few minutes later the Sportster rumbled underneath him as he snaked down the switchbacks. The wind whipped his hair across his face, reminding him he’d forgotten his helmet. But there was no time to go back—not if he was going to catch her.
When he’d asked her to leave, he’d acted impulsively out of his own hurt. He hadn’t even allowed her to explain.
Regardless of what it meant to him personally, the whole situation could affect SaraJane’s future. He needed to think straight—with his head, not his heart.
When he reached the inn, he saw her car still there. His body flooded with relief. And thank heaven his folks had gone shopping in Flagstaff and taken SaraJane along. They didn’t need to know. No one needed to know until he could make some sense of it all.
He parked the bike, charged in and took the stairs two at a time. Her door was open.
A suitcase yawned across the bed, and Whitney stood with her back to him, dragging clothing from the drawers. Apparently she hadn’t heard him come in, because when she turned to put something in her suitcase and saw him, she jumped.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Her hair hung loose, framing her face. He nearly crumpled at the sight of her…yet he kept his distance.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you explain.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “My head is clearer now.”
She continued placing folded items neatly in the suitcase, pointedly ignoring him.
He stepped into the room, walked to the bed and slapped the suitcase shut.
“I said I’m sorry.” He shoved his fingers through wind-snarled hair and tried to catch her gaze with his.
“I’m sorry. I should have let you explain.”
She looked away, then sank onto the bed, her shoulders slumped in defeat, hands folded on her lap. Her shoulders heaved upward as she drew a deep breath. Oh, man, it was all he could do to keep from dragging her into his arms.
But hell, he was the one who’d been hurt. Why did he feel such a need to comfort her? Did he have no pride whatsoever?
“Do you want me to explain now?” she asked, turning to face him. Her pale hair fell across her forehead, and she brushed it away, staring at him with those limitless blue eyes—eyes seared with pain.
“Please,” he said softly, sinking to the bed on the opposite side.
When she finished her last shaky sentence, there was nothing left of his tattered heart. If he’d been in the same situation, he would have done exactly the same thing. How could she tell him why she’d come when she’d been given a description of him that rivaled Jack the Ripper’s?
He shook his head. He stood. He paced in front of the bay window. “So let me get this straight,” he said, suddenly wanting more than anything to fix things between them.
“You came here thinking I was your sister’s lover, SaraJane’s father. You believed I was a drug dealer and that I’d kidnapped my own daughter to get her mother to come back…or get the family money. And before SaraJane’s mother, your sister, died, you promised her you’d find SaraJane.” He stopped to breathe.
She nodded and continued for him. “When I saw Luth give you money, I thought he was a part of some drug scheme you ran from the shop, but later when you told me R.J. is SaraJane’s father, I realized I were wrong.” She bowed her head. “So very wrong.”
“And everything else you told me, all the rest of it, is true? Your name. Your profession. The book, all that?”
She nodded, stared out the window beyond him.
“Exactly when did you decide I wasn’t the Manuel Noriega of Estrade?” What about when we made love? Did she believe he was the scum of the earth then? “Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I told you about R.J.?”
She stood, turned toward him and crossed her own arms. “Rhys, after a very short time, I figured something wasn’t right. I knew you couldn’t be the person Morgan had described way before you told me about R.J. But I didn’t know what to do.”
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “When I thought you were SaraJane’s father, I began to think Morgan must’ve lied about you. But I didn’t know why. I needed time to figure it out. To see for myself. I also realized I wanted to get to know SaraJane…in case I couldn’t stay once I told you who I was.” She stopped again, her breath catching.
“And…and then I felt so terrible because I was attracted to you. Yet, I’d made Morgan a promise.” She placed shaky fingers over her mouth, shook her head.“I’d made her so many promises I didn’t keep. I felt so guilty. Guilty because I left her with our parents when she was so young. I felt responsible for what happened to her.”
She took in a few jerky breaths. “I still do. If I hadn’t left…” Her voice cracked, and she waved a hand, unable to speak. “Then…when you told me about R.J., I…I couldn’t think.” She looked away, then back to him.
“But none of it—” she drew another breath “—none of it changed my feelings about you, Rhys.” These last words were barely a whisper. Her shoulders began to shake and she covered her face with her hands.
In the next instant he was at her side, pulling her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her, holding her, soothing her, wanting more than anything to be as close to her as he possibly could.
He felt her relax against him, and he placed soft kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, her tearstained cheeks and lips. “Ah, Whitney, it’s okay,” he whispered. “Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll work things out.”
“Oh, Rhys. I want that. I want to work things out so very much.”
He did, too. He didn’t know what he meant about everything being okay, except that he would do whatever he could to ensure it did. Most of all, he couldn’t stand to see her hurting like this. He wanted her to be as she’d always been—happy and excited about life, and desiring him as much as he desired her.
His mouth sought hers and when she returned his kiss, his whole body sprang to alertness. Realizing where they were, he took her by the hand and whispered, “Let’s go for a ride.”
He placed his leather jacket around her shoulders and grabbed one of his father’s for himself. “You okay without a helmet? I forgot mine but we won’t go far. Okay?” She nodded. Outside, he got on the bike, extended a hand to help her on and put both her arms around his waist, holding his hands over hers for a moment before they took off.
***
The wind dried Whitney’s tears as she held on to Rhys, her hands clamped around his hard stomach, her cheek flat against his back, her insides still shaking. He took the curves with ease and in the bright afternoon sun, the fall air seemed almost warm. An Indian-summer day, perfect for a ride.
Except she kept thinking about what Rhys had said.
How would everything be okay? What was the solution? Did he forgive her for being dishonest with him, for lying and sneaking around behind his back?
How could he forgive that? She could hardly forgive herself. And what about his parents? She’d deceived them, too.
But he’d told her everything would be okay and she needed to believe him.
They climbed to the top of the crest and another road appeared to the right. She recognized it as the one they’d taken to Rhys
’s house. Rumbling into the drive, he pressed a button on the front of the bike, waited till the garage door slid open, then drove inside, underneath the house since the garage was built into the mountainside.
He pressed the button again and she heard the door slide down behind them. After helping her off the bike, he dropped the stand to secure it.
She glanced around. They were surrounded by motorcycles of all kinds, old, new, parts and pieces. But Rhys hustled her up the stairs, shrugging out of his coat along the way.
They stopped in the middle of the stairwell, and he pulled her to him to slowly slide the jacket off her shoulders and then he held her tightly, a captive in his embrace. She felt the raw power in his body, saw the naked desire in his eyes…and everything vanished but her awareness of him.
She was intoxicated—by his scent, his touch, his burning sexuality, and she wanted him. God, how she wanted him.
His breathing deepened and he pressed her closer, his body hot and hard against hers. She shuddered at the contact and a low moan tore from her throat. His mouth touched hers and irrepressible need exploded within her. She moved to put her arms around his neck, and he scooped her up and carried her into his bedroom.
Gently placing her on the king-size bed, he bent over her, his mouth claiming hers, his tongue plunging, sending shivers of desire through her. He drew back, exhaling raggedly, stopping only long enough to remove his boots.
She shrugged off the jacket and reached for him, and he came to her. His hands cupped her face, his mouth sought hers, only this time slowly, tenderly, and she felt as if she were going to fly apart. Never had anyone touched her so deeply. Never had she wanted to give herself so completely.
Her whole world narrowed to this unequivocal moment in time, this supreme moment in Rhys’s arms. Nothing else mattered.
***
After their lovemaking, Rhys held Whitney cradled in his arms, slowly drawing his fingertips up and down her spine. He liked the way she curled into him, her face nestled at the base of his throat. He listened to her breathing grow slow and deep, a hypnotic contented sound that lulled him into slumber.
A short time later, he awoke before her and sat for a long time in the soft leather chair next to the bed, staring at her, wondering where they went from here.
He decided to let her sleep before he took her home and before he picked up SaraJane. They had to talk. But right now he was satisfied just to look at her.
She was so beautiful. So passionate, matching his nearly insatiable passion, move for move, with her own. And he’d loved every second.
But as much as he relished the passion, he’d felt something more. Need. She needed him.
She needed him as much as he needed her—whether she knew it or not. The thought made his chest expand with something he’d believed long dead.
No, he wasn’t mistaking sex for love. He knew love when he saw it. He’d just been too goddamn bullheaded to admit it before now.
What he didn’t know was what to do about it.
He rubbed the late-afternoon stubble on his chin. She’d never once said she cared about him. And while he hoped he was right about her feelings, it wasn’t enough.
***
The scent of pine carried by the wind through the open window. Whitney hiked up the masculine sheets to cover her naked body. Outside, dark clouds scudded above the pines. It felt as though she’d only slept for a few minutes, but the encroaching darkness made her wonder.
Rhys had disappeared from the bed the way he had that night in Phoenix, but he couldn’t leave, he had to drive her back to the inn. Satisfied, she plumped the pillows behind her head, noticing her clothes neatly folded across the cedar chest in front of the footboard.
She happily remembered their urgency in removing those clothes only a short time ago.
Feeling a rush of warmth, she hugged herself, pulled the blankets close, wanting to savor the pleasure they’d shared.
Glancing around Rhys’s bedroom, she smiled. The heavy oak furniture with clean straight lines was strong, straightforward and solid. Just like Rhys. And like the rest of his home, warm and inviting, and she believed she could get very used to being here.
Her gaze fell to a photo on the dresser. She could tell even from a distance that it was like the one she’d seen earlier in his desk drawer. The one of Rhys and his son.
She couldn’t imagine what Rhys must’ve gone through having a son whose mind had been poisoned against him. But the very thought of R.J. made her stomach lurch.
R.J. was SaraJane’s father, and he was in jail for murder.
And Rhys believed in his son. He’d never give up on him—even if it resulted in his losing the business. Knowing what his business meant to him, she had to admire the strength of his love.
Yet the possibility of R.J.’s being acquitted sent an icy shiver up her spine. What would happen to SaraJane then? Even if she and Rhys worked things out between them, that didn’t solve the bigger problem.
Rhys had said everything would be okay, and she needed to believe him.
“Hi.” Rhys appeared in the doorway, a steaming mug in his hands. He was barefoot and wore faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that hung unbuttoned in the front and just looking at him started her pulse racing.
“I made some cocoa,” he said, ambling over. He set the mug on the night table beside the empty foil packet, reminding her that in spite of their heated passion, they had indeed practiced safe sex. Rhys brushed the packet into the wastebasket.
“Marshmallow?” He drew out a tiny zip baggie from the pocket of his flannel shirt.
“Only if they’re miniatures.” She held out her hand and he emptied the bag into it.
“SaraJane likes them, too,” he said. “Guess I’ll need to replenish the supply.”
The mention of routine things brought a somber expression to Rhys’s face. Had that small thought triggered another host of questions? Such as, Where do we go from here?
She didn’t want to think about that right now. She didn’t want any intrusions on their happiness, even if that happiness was fleeting.
Which, she knew, all happiness was.
Maintaining the spell he had on her, Rhys sat on the bed, his hip touching hers. He leaned an arm on either side of her and brushed her lips with a velvety kiss.
Her pulse quickened at his touch, and she knew it wouldn’t take more than two seconds of that to send her into another frenzy of passion. She brought her arms up to circle his neck and the sheet slipped down.
Rhys pulled back, swept her with a languid gaze, his pupils dilated. He ran a fingertip over one nipple, then the other. She shivered.
“You’re cold,” he whispered, his voice low, sexy.
“I know a good way to warm us both up,” she said, pressing her body against his, startled by the contact of her taut nipples and his bare chest.
His eyes sparkled as he bent forward to nibble on her lower lip and then her earlobe. “I never cooled down,” he murmured.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RHYS STOOD FOR A MOMENT at SaraJane’s bedroom door, watching her sleep. So pure, so sweet, and innocent.
So vulnerable.
The first time he’d seen her, she was little more than a year old, all pink and pretty and smelling of wet diapers, and he’d been struck by an overwhelming surge of protectiveness. He had the same feeling right now, and it had never been more intense.
Man, what a day. He left the door ajar and went to the kitchen, where he chucked a couple of ice cubes into a glass and splashed some vodka on top. Drink in hand, he moved out onto the deck and leaned against the redwood railing.
The sky was pitch-black, with only a few stars winking above the treetops. The wind roared through the pines like a freight train, and he gave an involuntary shiver. A storm was brewing.
Damn, his muscles ached. He rolled his shoulders, easing the stiffness. Rhys had put off thinking about Whitney’s revelation, but now that he’d taken her back to the inn and he was a
lone, he could no longer avoid it.
On one hand, he was relieved to know the reason for her recent withdrawal; on the other hand, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget the lies. Realistically, he understood she’d had no other choice. She’d believed her niece was living with a drug dealer, someone who’d abused her. Considering that, how could she tell him who she was?
But he should’ve recognized something wasn’t right from the beginning, and now that he knew, it was as obvious as the resemblance between SaraJane and Whitney.
What wasn’t obvious was whether the things Whitney had learned about his son and her sister were true. That R.J. was a drug dealer, that he’d treated her sister badly and kidnapped SaraJane. But regardless of everything he’d heard, he had to give his son the benefit of the doubt.
And he had to get some distance from Whitney. He should have done that immediately, but somehow she’d penetrated his barrier. Even though they’d planned to talk, to work things out, they’d made love instead. He’d allowed himself to get emotionally involved, and it had influenced his thinking.
He let out a snort.
After all these years, Gannon, you haven’t changed. He was still trying for the goddamn brass ring—only this time it was platinum.
But what he should be thinking about was what exactly was Whitney after? What was her plan now that she no longer saw him as the ultimate villain? He grinned, thinking about the afternoon, coming back into his bedroom and seeing Whitney stretched out on his bed as if that was where she’d always belonged.
The image was stamped indelibly in his mind—how she’d looked waiting for him, anticipating. And such fire inside. Who knew?
He would have.
He’d known it every time his gaze caught hers and she looked back at him with those transparent blue eyes—eyes that told him there was more than lust in her heart. And he felt the same.
He loved her. Admitted it, for whatever good it might do.
He brought the glass to his lips, refusing to think about the obstacles. Problem was, he had to think about them if he wanted solutions.
SaraJane was safe. They both only wanted the best for the child. So, that aside, the biggest difficulty, as he saw it, was that Whitney had another life, a life that she intended to return to when she was finished with her research.