LAST SEEN...

by Carla Cassidy

  Despite her quietness on the way home, he'd been intensely aware of her in the small confines of the car. Her fragrance, the combination of clean mingling with the evocative scent she wore filled the car. It had been impossible for him not to have been affected by it.

  "Want some help connecting this?" he asked as they pulled into his driveway.

  "If you don't mind. I've already confessed to you that I'm technology-challenged."

  He didn't tell her that connecting it was simple. They got out of the car and went into her house. He carried the sack with the caller identification machine. "The first thing you need to decide is what phone jack you want it hooked up to."

  She frowned thoughtfully as she took off her blazer and laid it across the back of the sofa. "Both times he's called it's been late … minutes after I've gone to bed. Maybe we should put it on the phone jack in my bedroom."

  Adam thought of the bedroom he'd seen the night before, the rumpled bed sheets that had momentarily filled his head with hot visions of lovemaking.

  He steeled himself for the sensual barrage of entering the intimacy of the room where she slept … where she dreamed.

  "Excuse the mess," she said as she entered the room ahead of him and hastily pulled up the bedspread. "After years of being told to make my bed, my secret rebellion is that once I left my parents' home, I stopped."

  "Don't apologize," he replied. "I don't care what your bedroom looks like." Which of course wasn't true. He found everything about the room fascinating and wondered what secrets about her he could glean by looking around. The walls were a light beige and held an array of paintings he guessed were by the woman she'd told him about. A large, intricate dreamcatcher hung on the wall over her bed.

  Although the bed was unmade, the rest of the room was in impeccable order. The only item on the dresser was a wooden jewelry box neatly centered on a sky-blue scarf, letting him know she was a woman who didn't like clutter.

  She slept on the left side of the bed. The nightstand on that side held a small reading lamp, a copy of a newly released mystery paperback, the telephone and a clock radio. The nightstand on the other side of the bed held a stunning array of silk flowers in an earthen vase.

  "Adam?"

  "Oh … sorry." He realized she was waiting for him to get to work. He sat on the edge of her bed to pull the caller ID from its carton, his fingers feeling clumsy and awkward.

  Here, amid the covers where she slept, the scent of her seemed to waft in the air with enough potency to seep into his very pores.

  "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

  "Just stay out of my way," he said more brusquely than he'd intended. If she came too close he was afraid he might grab her and tumble with her to the bed to finish what they had begun last night.

  He was both grateful and disappointed that she did as he bid, moving across the room to lean with her back against the dresser.

  He finally managed to get the caller ID box out of its carton and quickly plugged it into the wall jack and the phone into the back of the box. "That's it," he said.

  She eyed him dubiously. "Are you sure? That seemed terribly easy."

  "Actually, it was all very difficult. Only a man of my expertise and intelligence could have done it and made it look easy." He strove desperately for a lightness of tone to stymie the rising tide of desire that threatened. "I hope you're quite impressed."

  "Oh, I am." She pushed off from the dresser and walked toward him. The look in her eyes, her loose-hipped saunter as she approached where he stood at the side of the bed made his heartbeat quicken.

  She stopped when she stood no more than an inch away from him. "Thank you, Adam. Thank you for hooking up my caller ID box and for going with me to Sycamore Ridge." She leaned into him and he was lost.

  Despite every intention he had to the contrary, his arms wound around her and pulled her tight against him. It was impossible not to kiss her eagerly parted lips, impossible not to fall head-first into a vortex of desire too powerful to avoid.

  Her heart beat with the rhythm of his own … fast … frantic. They tumbled on the bed and Adam had the sensation of drowning, as if he were utterly powerless against the waves of passion that pounded him.

  Her mouth was hungry against his as her hands moved up beneath his shirt to caress the bare skin of his back. It was as if fire resided in the tips of her fingers and Adam was lost in the flames.

  He moved his hands down her back until he got to the bottom of her blouse, then back up again inside her blouse. Her skin was velvety soft and a moan ripped itself loose from deep in his throat.

  The kiss, that seemed to last not long enough, ended as she pulled slightly away from him and began unbuttoning her blouse.

  Someplace in the dark recesses of his mind a small voice whispered a warning, but at that moment her blouse fell open and the sight of her perfect breasts clad only in a pale pink lace bra stifled the tiny voice.

  Moments later she was in his arms once again, this time her blouse and lacy bra on the floor next to his shirt. His hand cupped one of her breasts, his thumb raking over her turgid nipple.

  His mouth kissed down her jawline, lingered in the sweet hollow of her throat, then moved to capture one of her nipples.

  She gasped and her fingernails bit into his back. He teased her with his tongue, laying first one then the other breast.

  He pressed his hips against hers and she arched up to meet him, the friction of her jeans against his half stimulating and half tormenting.

  It wasn't until her fingers touched the top button at the waistband of his jeans that he suffered a single moment of clear, rational thought

  He grabbed her hand and groaned, not moving a muscle for a long moment. She froze as well. The room was silent except for their rapid, open-mouthed breathing. "Adam?" she finally said.

  How he didn't want to halt what had been about to happen. How desperately he wished he could make love to her and not worry about any consequence. "Breanna … we need to talk."

  She looked at him incredulously. "Now? I mean … it can't wait?" Apparently the expression on his face answered her question. She moved away from him and reached down to grab her blouse, a frown of worry furrowing her brow.

  He didn't answer for a moment, but instead got up from the bed and grabbed his shirt. He pulled it on, then looked at her, trying not to notice that her breasts were fully visible through the sheer white material.

  "Adam … what is it?" she asked.

  He averted his gaze and drew a hand heavily across his jaw, wondering how in the hell to tell her who he was and what had brought him to Cherokee Corners. It suddenly struck him that not only did he have to confess who he was, but he was the one who was going to tell her that the man she had married and divorced, the man who was Maggie's father, was dead.

  * * *

  She had no idea what was going on, but dread raked through her as she waited for Adam to talk to her. Her heart still pounded with the memory of his kisses, his sweet touch. Her body still experienced the languid warmth of imminent lovemaking. What could he have to tell her that was so important it had caused him to stop what they had been about to do?

  "Why don't we go downstairs," he said, his gaze still not meeting hers.

  "All right," she agreed, disquieted by the fact that whatever he had to tell her, he didn't want to do it in her bedroom.

  He followed her down the stairs to the living room where she sat anxiously on the edge of the sofa and he remained standing by the fireplace hearth.

  She felt oddly disconnected, as if half of her was still upstairs in his arms and the other half was waiting for a shoe to drop soundly on her head. She just couldn't imagine what form the shoe would take.

  He rubbed a hand across his lower jaw, a gesture that had become familiar to her in the brief time she'd known him. It indicated deep thought … and stress. She wanted to scream at him to speak, wanted to demand he tell her what was so important it had interrupted their lovemaking. />
  He drew a deep breath and looked at her, his eyes a dark, slate blue. "Remember I told you that my parents died when I was eleven and I was raised by an aunt and uncle?"

  She nodded with bewilderment.

  He moved from the fireplace to the opposite side of the sofa and sank down wearily, as if the weight of the world had crashed down onto his shoulders.

  "Adam?" She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. "What is it? Tell me."

  "The people who raised me were Kurt's parents."

  For a long moment his words didn't compute. Kurt? Why was he talking about Kurt? When the connection was made, it crashed through her with a thunderous roar. She jerked her hand back from him and jumped to her feet, myriad emotions ripping through her.

  Confusion was the emotion most readily identified, but just beneath the surface simmered a stir of anger along with an overwhelming sense of betrayal. "You're Kurt's cousin?"

  He nodded and a rolling dread poured through her with a nauseating intensity. "What are you doing here? What do you want? Why in the hell are you here? And why didn't you tell me who you were from the very beginning?"

  He jumped at the sharpness in her voice and stood, his hands out as if to appeal to her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he said. He drew another heavy sigh. "I wanted to get to know you and was afraid you wouldn't give me the chance if you knew who I was."

  Dropping his hands to his sides, he sat back down and patted the sofa next to him. "Please, Breanna, give me a chance to explain."

  She didn't want to hear what he had to say. He'd lied to her, perhaps not outright, but through omission by not telling her immediately of his relationship to Kurt. Knowing now who he was changed everything she'd thought about him, tainted every moment she'd spent with him. "You haven't told me why you're here," she said. She didn't move from her standing position, refused to sit next to a man whose actions were now all in question.

  "I'm here because I promised Kurt I'd look in on you and Maggie and make sure you both were all right." His gaze seemed to caress her and in their depths she saw a sadness she didn't understand. "I made the promise to Kurt moments before be died."

  The shock of his words forced her to sink back down on the edge of the sofa. "Before he died?" she echoed the words faintly.

  "Two weeks ago Kurt died from injuries he sustained in a motorcycle accident."

  He fell silent, as if to allow his words to sink in. Dead. Kurt was dead. How was that possible? She'd always somehow believed that Kurt was the kind of man who ran too fast through life for death to ever catch up with him.

  She was surprised to feel a sudden sting of tears as she thought of the man she had married and divorced.

  A well of grief swept through her, not for herself, but for Maggie, who would now never have the opportunity to have any kind of a relationship with her father.

  It was also grief for Kurt. Even though he had walked out on her and told her he didn't care about having a relationship with his child, someplace deep in Breanna's heart she'd hoped he'd change his mind, but death had stolen that possibility away.

  He'd missed out on knowing the wonder and delight of his daughter. She drew a deep breath and quickly swiped at the tears that had fallen.

  "His last wish was that I come out here to Cherokee Corners and check on you and Maggie," Adam continued.

  She embraced a new anger as she gazed at him. "Fine. You're here. You've checked. And as you can see we're both just fine." Her sense of betrayal emerged as she stood once again. She'd trusted him and once again she realized her trust in a man had been sadly misplaced. Bitterness ripped through her. "Tell me something, Adam. Was it the way you and Kurt were raised that made you both want to bed a half-breed?"

  He gasped and his eyes widened in shock. He jumped up from the sofa. "Don't talk that way," he exclaimed.

  "Why not? That's the way your cousin spoke to me." She stopped herself from going back to that time, back to the hurtful things Kurt had said to her. She didn't want to go back there. "Just go, Adam," she said wearily. "You've done what you promised Kurt you would do. Your mission is complete."

  "Not exactly," he said, not moving from his position. "There's the matter of Kurt's parents. Aunt Anita and Uncle Edward don't know about Maggie yet, but I'm sure…"

  Breanna held up a hand to stop him. "Anita and Edward? Anita and Edward Randolf are Kurt's parents?"

  He nodded and once again shock ripped through her. She knew who Anita and Edward Randolf were … she'd read articles about the dynamic millionaire and his wife. They were high-society, benefactors of the arts and a variety of charities in Kansas City.

  "Kurt told me his parents were dead," she said numbly. He'd told her a lot of things about his parents, none of it good. "He told me they died in a car accident the year before I met him." God help her, she didn't know what to believe about anything and anyone … especially Adam Spencer.

  "They're alive and grieving the passing of their only son. Knowing about Maggie would help ease some of their pain."

  Breanna felt as if she'd been cast into a dark, fathomless sea where nothing was familiar and as it should be. Kurt was dead … his parents were alive… Adam was his cousin and now each and every one of Adam's actions since she'd met him took on new meaning.

  Again she reached for the anger as she thought of Adam's kisses … his caresses. He'd made her think he cared about her, but he'd obviously had ulterior motives. He didn't want her. He wanted Maggie for his grieving aunt and uncle. And everything she knew about the Randolfs frightened her.

  "I don't want you telling them about Maggie. Maggie and I are doing just fine. We don't need them in our lives…" Her heart hardened with anger … with fear.

  "Breanna…" he protested.

  "And I want you out of here now." She walked to the front door and opened it. "Get out, Adam. We have nothing more to say to each other."

  He stood, obviously reluctantly. "I have a lot more to say," he countered. "I need you to know that I regret not telling you the truth the night that I met you in your driveway. I need you to know that no matter what you're thinking now, I didn't mean to hurt you. That's why I couldn't make love to you … not without you knowing the truth."

  "Gee, I'm glad you cleared it all up. Thanks," she said coolly. "And now, get out."

  He advanced toward the door and she stepped aside to allow him to pass. She didn't look at him, found that it hurt too much.

  He stopped directly in front of her and she knew he wanted her to look at him, wanted her to see the appeal in his eyes. Exhaustion overwhelmed her … sheer mental exhaustion. "Please…" she said softly without raising her gaze from the floor. "Please … just go."

  She held her breath and expelled it only when he walked out the front door. She closed the door after him and leaned on it heavily, tears once again burning hot in her eyes.

  Too much … her head ached from trying to wrap around all the information she'd learned. And most of that information had been positively stunning.

  She shoved off from the door, locked it, then went back to the sofa and sank down on the cushions. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest, as if the cushioned softness could staunch the ache in her heart.

  Kurt was dead. The love she'd once believed she had for him was long gone, banished beneath the weight of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises. But just because she didn't love him anymore didn't mean she didn't grieve over his death.

  She'd always held out a tiny modicum of hope that eventually Kurt would grow up and be a man, take responsibility not for her, but for their daughter. The crushing of that hope was painful.

  The information that Kurt's parents were not only alive and well, but were the renowned businessman Edward Randolf and his wife, Anita, filled her with fear.

  Over the nine months that she had known Kurt, he had occasionally spoken about his parents. He'd told her that they had been people who worshipped their money, who liked to possess things, but had little use f
or people.

  On the day he'd left her, he'd mentioned that it was a good thing his parents were dead because they'd never stand for a half-breed raising their grandkid.

  It was the memory of these words that now stirred a fear deep in her soul. The Randolfs had enough money to get what they wanted and if they decided they wanted Maggie, she had a feeling they'd find a way to get her. This thought was so terrifying, she shoved it away as more team flowed.

  Instead, she thought of Adam, who had come here with a specific purpose in mind and had woven his way into her life under false pretenses.

  In just three short days, he'd made her care for him, made her believe that she could trust him as she'd never trusted a man, other than her father, before. She'd trusted him so much she'd been willing … eager to make love with him, share an intimacy she'd guarded intensely since Kurt's defection.

  It had all been lies. He was in her life not because he cared about her, but because he'd been doing a duty, fulfilling a promise to a dead man. He was in her life because he wanted to give his grieving aunt and uncle the gift of her daughter.

  She swiped at her cheeks, bitterness filling her. Four days ago her life had seemed so uncomplicated. She worked her job, assured that Maggie was well cared for by a loving nanny. On her days off she spent time with her daughter and her family and the biggest worry she had was whether she'd ever be able to get Maggie to try something other than chicken nuggets when they ate out.

  She closed her eyes, wishing away the disturbing phone calls, the news that Kurt's parents were alive and most of all, Adam Spencer.

  The ringing of the phone awakened her. She grabbed up the receiver next to the sofa and sat up. "Hello?"

  "Bree, it's Clay."

  "Hi," she said and attempted to shake off her sleep. "What's up?"

  "I just wanted you to know that I dusted the cradle thoroughly for prints and it yielded nothing. I would guess that the perp wore gloves."

  "Thanks, Clay. I can't say I'm surprised." Although she was bitterly disappointed. It would have been nice had Clay been able to lift prints and the mystery of the phone caller had been solved.