by Lyn Stone
Ford woke with a start when he heard the door click shut. Silently, he drew his Glock from under the sofa pillow where he’d placed it, rolled to the floor and crept to the other sofa.
Mary was gone. He decided she must have left by the door to the hall, the way they had come in, and he quietly followed.
Just outside the kitchen, he heard her moving around in the dark. Her breathing sounded as though she might have come down with a cold. A small red light blinked on and seconds later, he heard the gurgle of the coffeemaker interspersed with her sniffles.
Ford remained still against the doorframe while his eyes adjusted to the weak moonlight. It defined the huge bay window with its comfortable padded nook made for lounging and enjoying the view. Eventually the faint glow outlined the furniture in the eating area.
He strained to see Mary, who remained a motionless shadow against the counter beside the slowly dripping coffeemaker. Her breathing sounded unsteady, still giving way to those frequent sniffles. Was she crying?
A compulsion to go to her and put his arms around her surged through him again like electric current. He grasped the molding on the doorway to ground himself.
She might not appreciate his sympathy. Hadn’t she sneaked out and come in here so he wouldn’t hear her? Or maybe she would appreciate it too much. Either way, he really didn’t need to get involved with this woman on any personal level. Protesting too much, he thought. Not a good sign.
He heard a long sigh, so forlorn it wrecked his sanity. Before he knew what he was doing, he had crossed the kitchen. She gasped in surprise when he first touched her, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and began to cry in earnest. Oh, Lord, here it came. He had expected this.
Ford said nothing. He lifted her and went to sit on the deep-cushioned seat built in the alcove formed by the bow window.
Mary didn’t weep gently, he noticed. Instead of soft sobs and pretty moans, she sounded furious. He remembered his sister Molly crying like this when Spike Macer had thrown her brand-new book bag in a ditch full of water. The next year when Molly had grown bigger than Spike, she had nailed the bully. Punched him right out without any warning at all. It was a pity that Mary was as big as she was ever going to get.
While she cried, he gazed out at the panoramic view of the foothills, black silhouettes against the moonlit sky.
Stars twinkled, but none of them were the shooting kind. Ford wished anyway. He wished Mary happy and free of danger. He wished he’d never met Nan, who had made him so cynical. He just wished things were different. And that he and Mary were not.
She felt warm against him, her arms more relaxed now and circling his waist. Her bottom snuggled against his lap. Comfortably for her, it seemed. Definitely not so for him.
No point in asking her what the matter was. Everything was the matter. This one day had upended her life. Her privileged, perfect, well-ordered, carefree life. She had suffered his abduction and accusations, her fiancé’s betrayal, and had nearly gotten shot. And all through it, she had kept her cool.
The whole mess was sinking in now. This was perfectly normal. Hell, he’d felt like crying himself at times when things finally wound down.
Only things hadn’t exactly wound down yet, he thought wryly. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? That, in itself, was reason enough for her to cry.
Ford threaded one hand through her silky hair, smoothing the tousled strands, caressing her head, sliding his fingers down to knead the slenderness of her neck, the delicious curve of her back.
The scent of her teased him, an exotic blend of perfume and Mary herself, so elusive it always drew him closer, craving more of it, driving him crazy.
His other hand, which rested on her thigh, just above her knee, seemed to take on a life of its own, smoothing upward toward her hip, exploring the curves through the supple fabric of her loosely fitted slacks. With determination, he forced his hand back to its original position, but not hurriedly enough to miss the replay of sensation beneath his fingers.
Mary shifted and he could feel her breath against his neck. Then her lips. Full-blown desire shot through him, a rush of hot liquid in his veins. His body pulsed with it, even as his brain fought to remain calm and unaffected.
She can’t realize what she’s doing here, he told himself sternly. Don’t take advantage.
He tried to set her away from him, but either she clung too tightly, or caution deserted him. He had no time to decide which as Mary pressed even closer, moving suggestively against him. Her small, firm breasts rubbed enticingly against his chest.
“Please,” she whispered, raising her mouth within reach. Ford covered it with his own, tasting more fully all that he remembered from that first brief kiss at the school. God, how he had wanted to do that, all day long. He delved deeper.
“We can’t,” he gasped when they broke apart for breath.
“We can,” she argued, taking charge of the next kiss herself. Ford surrendered without any fight at all. What could it hurt, just another kiss? She needed kissing. Hell, he needed kissing. Badly.
He felt Mary shift her body, making him loosen his hold on her as she straddled his lap. Her arms slid around his neck and she kissed him again, almost desperately this time, her small tongue exploring the recesses of his mouth, inviting him back into hers.
Ford drew away—a belated attempt to gain some control. “Mary, we’d better think about where this is going—”
“Here,” she whispered, roughly dragging one of his hands between them and placing it on her breast.
In spite of his good intentions, his fingers closed around her and squeezed. Heaven.
She raised herself a little, and somewhere in the back of his brain, Ford thought she had come to her senses. Then he realized she had only done so to bring them more fully in contact The heat of her banished whatever reservations he might have had left.
He enfolded her as tightly as he could without breaking any bones and groaned as she moved against him, rhythmically riding the waves of pure pleasure.
Mary released his neck and rapidly drew her sweater over her head, returning her mouth to his with hardly a pause. With one hand, she unsnapped her bra and shrugged out of it. Her urgency fed his own, and his already proved ravenous.
This was all wrong. He had to douse this fire between them before things went too far. Hell, they had already gone too far, but he had to salvage what he could. She would hate him for this in the morning. He would hate himself.
“Mary,” he whispered against her ear, “we have to stop now.”
“No,” she argued, breathless, branding the word against his lips as she found them. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest nearly as fast as she’d bared her own.
Words flashed through his mind. Welcome words. When a woman says no, she means no. Thank God.
Chapter 6
Ford’s breath came so fast he couldn’t speak. The feel of her bare softness against him undid him completely. He couldn’t deny Mary any more than he could himself.
She pushed him back against the wide floral cushion and trailed hot, openmouthed kisses from his neck down to his belly. Her lips were hot, driving him mad, while her hands worked at his belt buckle. Then he felt the zipper slide down, the release of pressure a relief and also a stimulant to his overwhelming arousal.
She rose to her knees beside him, a goddess bathed in the blue-gray light of a waning moon, silvery hair catching what light there was. “Beautiful,” Ford whispered.
Mary turned from him for a second and sat down, her hip brushing his. As he smoothed one hand over her back, he heard the swish of fabric as she removed the rest of her clothes.
Then she twisted around and lay fully on top of him, her entire length melding with his as though they were one body. “Please!” she whispered into his mouth.
Ford lifted her into position, thrust into her immediately and devoured her cry of pleasure.
It had to be a dream, he thought briefly as he grasped her hi
ps and held them. Nothing real had ever been this good, this perfect. If he could freeze one moment in time, real or not, it would be this one. His mind recorded it, indelibly, even as he began to move.
She met his every thrust—offering, giving, demanding, taking—until suddenly her body contracted around him, pulsed and shuddered so violently, he thought he might lose his mind. He held back until she peaked and he felt his own rush threaten. At the critical instant, with the last, small vestige of reason he possessed, Ford quickly withdrew and spent himself outside her body.
Long moments, filled with gasps and building regret, followed as they lay still. He could not make himself release her. His arms felt boneless, but his muscles seemed locked in place.
Finally she broke his hold on her and moved away to one side. Wordlessly, she gathered up her clothes, stood and backed away from the window seat where he lay unmoving, watching.
“Mary?”
“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything.”
On soundless feet, she left him there, lying in the moonlight, wondering what the devil he was supposed to do now.
Following her back into that den with those big, wide sofas sure wasn’t an option. He’d compound his error to hell and gone, no doubt about it.
But he knew she’d had what she needed and was ready to distance herself. Unhappy as that made him, it was the smartest move for both of them, so he let it stand.
Never in his life had he fooled around with a subject on a case. Breaking the rules of the job didn’t bother him nearly as much as breaking one of his own. He needed a clear head, and this kind of distraction could get somebody killed.
He also had a sneaking feeling that what he and Mary had just done could never be classified as “fooling around.” That implied short-term fun and games. This was short-term, all right—not destined to last any longer than this one occasion—but the experience went so far beyond fun and games, it scared the ever-living hell out of him.
No, it couldn’t happen again, he wouldn’t let it. First thing tomorrow, he would make that very clear.
Exhausted and moving like molasses, Ford finally got up. He discovered a small bathroom just off the kitchen and reluctantly showered away Mary’s perfume and the scent of their lovemaking. No sense driving himself any crazier than he already was, he reasoned.
He dressed, poured himself a cup of the coffee Mary had abandoned, and dragged out one of the Windsor chairs that flanked the table. The sun would be up in about two hours.
As much as the events of it troubled him, Ford hated to let go of the night.
Mary dreaded facing Ford. What had she been thinking, flinging herself at an FBI agent, especially one she barely knew? She hadn’t been thinking at all. That was the problem.
What in the world could she say to him that would explain her bizarre behavior last night? She shuddered at what he must be thinking of her. Probably not much worse than she was thinking of herself.
She hugged the sofa pillow between her chest and updrawn knees, wishing she could just curl into a ball and die.
How could she go into that kitchen and face him? He might be sitting there wearing a devilish smirk, expecting more of last night’s activities. Or he could be lying nude, right where she had left him, God forbid.
That particular image of him seemed permanently embedded in her brain. Would she ever be able to forget it? Not likely.
She knew why she’d done it, of course. Jim’s affair. His not wanting her. Well, at least Ford had wanted her. Or maybe he’d just pitied her. “Oh, God!” she moaned, looking up toward the ceiling. “Please don’t let him do that! I’d rather he thought me a nympho or something!”
No, she didn’t want him to think that. What she really wanted was for Ford to acquire a sudden, permanent case of selective amnesia. She’d like to have one, too. Okay, she had gone off the deep end last night, but possibly only to her way of thinking. Was she a prude? Maybe it wasn’t all that unusual, after all. People had sex all the time, didn’t they? Not sex equal to that, of course. If they did, nobody would ever get to work in the mornings, Mary thought with a protracted sigh.
The pillow went sailing as Mary uncurled herself. “I might as well get this over with,” she mumbled to herself. “Damn.”
She would just march in there, make a pot of coffee and act as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Diving into shark-infested waters would be preferable, and she’d done just enough of that to know how unpleasant it was. Not that she had much choice in that activity or this one. Better to jump right in and have done with it.
Her dad had always promised her that the dread was the worst part. Mary hoped that applied here, but the problem was, Dad had been dead wrong on more than one occasion.
Ford looked up as she entered. He sat at the table, one of her grandmother’s mugs in front of him. “Coffee’s ready,” he announced, his face as expressionless as a newscaster reporting on the stock market.
“Good,” she replied succinctly, heading for the pot.
“Mary—”
“Don’t talk about it.” She kept her back to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice her shaking hands as she poured. “You want another cup?”
His chair scraped back against the tiles. “What I want is to get something straight here.”
“Everything’s straight!” she said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I went a little crazy, okay? No harm done. Please, just forget it.”
His large hands cupped her shoulders from behind—his body was so close—and she could feel the heat building. “You weren’t crazy, Mary. It was all the tension yesterday. And the shooting. God knows you had enough going on around you to—”
“Leave it alone!” she demanded, trying to shrug out of his grasp. “Can’t you see I’m embarrassed?” She covered her face with one hand and shook her head. “To have done what I did. And with you, of all people. I’m mortified.”
He released her and backed off. “‘Mortified?’ I see. Well, okay.” He sounded insulted. Gravely so.
Mary turned around then, nearly reaching for him before she thought better of it “Oh, I—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“No?” he asked, wearing a defensive look. “Well, this is a first for me. I don’t believe I’ve ever mortified anybody before.”
She bit her lips together and felt tears forming. “I’m sorry.”
He exhaled a curse and stuffed his hands in his back pockets as he turned away from her. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. That was uncalled for. We’ll forget it, like you said. Never happened, okay?”
“All right,” she whispered, clasping her hands together to keep them still. And off him. “Thank you, Ford.”
“Hey, no problem,” he replied with blatantly fake cheerfulness. She darted a look at him and noticed he was fiddling with something on the kitchen island, his movements abrupt, maybe a little angry. His words sounded that way, too. “You want to scout out the food? I’ll get the can opener.” In three strides, he left the room as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Who could blame him? Mary felt terrible. Not only had she used Ford in the worst way, now she had hurt his feelings. Her ill-chosen words haunted her the whole time she plundered the pantry for something to feed him.
But she was mortified, no denying that. Not because she had made love to Ford in particular, but because she had thrown herself at a virtual stranger. And loved every mindreeling second of it. That was the truly bad part. Deep down, even with all the resulting self-reproach and embarrassment, she couldn’t make herself wish it had never happened.
“What you got there?” he asked, making her jump. “Tell me it’s not more asparagus!”
She glanced down at the can she was holding. Pearl onions. Her arms curled inward, clutching the can to her chest as she peered up at him and then hastily looked down to avoid his eyes. “Ford, it’s just that I don’t know you. That’s what makes it so—not bad, exactly, but—awkward. But in spite of everything, l
ast night was—it was wonderful. I want you to know that.”
He expelled a harsh breath. “Look, Mary, you just said—”
“We’d forget it, I know. We will, but I just wanted to tell you so you’d know.”
He brushed one long finger down the curve of her cheek and tipped up her chin. Then he took the can of onions from her hands and replaced it on the shelf. “I thought so, too,” he said, his eyes searching hers.
The moment ended as suddenly as if someone had slammed a door between them. He severed the connection by looking past her at the rows of cans. “How about finding us some fruit or something, unless you meant to make martinis for breakfast?”
Ford’s willingness to dismiss what had happened between them alleviated some of her chagrin, but it also pricked her pride a little. He could forget it just like that? No problem, he’d said. But in the back of her mind, Mary knew Ford had been affected by what had happened between them.
She also knew that it could all too easily happen again if they were not careful. It would simplify matters if they could blame the tension, adrenaline, and being thrown together as they were. But that had only heightened the already monumental physical magnetism between them. If they had met anywhere else, under normal circumstances, the attraction would have been there. Avoidance would have been easier in that case. Now, unfortunately, it was next to impossible.
Obviously, neither of them wanted a relationship with the other. Ford was the antithesis of what she wanted in a man. And she knew instinctively that he felt the same way about her. They would need to be very careful until they could go their separate ways.
When she realized she had unconsciously selected a tin of smoked oysters, Mary quickly shoved them to the very back of the shelf and out of sight. Oysters, he didn’t need.
Ford hurried back into the kitchen. If he hadn’t, he would have kissed her. Next thing they knew, they’d be repeating last night, right there against the canned goods.