by Anne Mather
But he had to be gentle. Something told him that if he rushed this—rushed her—he was in danger of destroying everything he had. His body ached, it was true, and he was forced to suffer a painful anticipation. But it would all be worth it in the end.
So he kissed her and caressed her, allowing his tongue to ravish her mouth in a fair imitation of what he hoped to do to another part of her anatomy. But he had to steel himself not to grind his hips against her. Even if he knew it was the only way to ease his throbbing sex.
Taking his life into his own hands, he rolled onto his side, but once again, his balance didn't let him down. Then, with unsteady fingers, he eased her skirt up to her hips and explored the tempting flesh that he'd exposed.
Her response was unexpected. He'd been half-afraid she might object that he was moving too fast, but instead, she wriggled closer and attempted to release the zip that ran down the back of her dress. With exquisite pleasure, he did it for her and eased the dress down to her waist, discovering to his delight that she wasn't wearing a bra.
He already knew her breasts were round and slightly tilted, but the nipples had never looked so swollen before. The areolas were dark and throbbing against his palms, and he couldn't wait to taste the eager buds.
He managed to contain himself until he'd disposed of the dress, however, and then he bent his head and rolled one glorious nipple against his tongue. She caught her breath as he did so, emitting little sounds of pleasure, and he wondered how much more he could stand before seeking his own release.
He withdrew long enough to tear off his shirt and jacket, his eyes tortured by the sight of her long, sexy legs. The briefs she was wearing were made of lace, and they left little to the imagination, and unable to prevent himself, he hooked an unsteady finger under the hem.
Her legs clenched around him, and then steadied, and he wasn't surprised to find that she was wet. As her trembling knees parted, he tugged the briefs away and replaced his searching finger with his tongue.
She went wild then, arching up against him, clutching his shoulders and saying, "Yes, yes, yes," in a strangled voice. If he hadn't known better, he'd have said she'd never had an orgasm before, and her urgency was almost more than he could take.
He knew if he didn't get out of his trousers soon, he'd go mad, and he released the zip and pushed them down his legs. His boots proved a temporary barrier, but at last he managed to kick them off, and his trousers joined his jacket on the floor.
And it was so good to ease himself between her legs, to feel his arousal pulsating against her thigh. It took every ounce of will-power not to finish what he'd started, but he had no intention of hurrying something so unique.
He didn't attempt to remove her garterless stockings. He liked the way they drew attention to her legs. Besides, there was no doubt that as her only attire, they were infinitely sexy, even if he didn't need that kind of stimulation right now.
Her skin was so soft, so smooth; creamy white where his was brown; a perfect foil for the darkness of his flesh. He liked the fine distinction; he liked to see his hands on her. And he couldn't believe he'd given her up for someone else.
His own needs were becoming uncontrollable, and gliding over her body, he abandoned any thought of delaying any longer. He'd reached the limit of his endurance, and there was no doubt that she was ready for him, as she clutched his shoulders and brought his mouth to hers.
Nudging her legs wider, he rubbed his thumb against the swollen nub, and once again she arched against his hand. Dear God, she was so responsive, he thought as he eased himself inside her, and he groaned as he felt himself enfolded in her flesh.
Her intake of breath was barely audible. For one awful moment, he thought he'd hurt her, but although she sighed, it was not a sound of pain. But she was so tight around him, tight and slick and hot. It was as if some superior being had designed them to form two halves of a perfect whole.
She had been made for him; they had been made for each other, a concept, he realised, he'd never considered before. Well, not in living memory, he conceded, aware that this all felt new to him. She hadn't been a virgin, it was true, but he felt sure he must have neglected her in the past.
The idea was inconceivable; he couldn't understand it. Unless he had been impotent with her. Was that why he'd sought a mistress, if indeed that accusation was true? Was that the secret Caitlin had been trying to hide?
But if that had been true, it was true no longer. Indeed, it was an effort to control his raging needs. It was only his determination to make this the most memorable night of her life that was forcing him to steel his hormones now.
Her trembling sob was his undoing. "Oh, Nathan," she breathed, winding her arms about his neck. "Love me— please."
He needed no second bidding. The blood was already pounding through his veins, pooling in that throbbing place between his legs. It was magic, he thought dizzily, his senses reeling pleasurably this time. In shedding all her inhibitions, she'd truly become his wife.
He began to move, slowly at first, not trusting his own intoxicated senses, but even that small withdrawal brought a remonstrance from her. "Don't go," she begged urgently, and he cupped her small buttocks and brought her fully to him. "I won't, I promise," he answered thickly, before burying himself deeper than before.
His passion flared ever stronger, and with it came an awareness of how much he loved this woman he was holding in his arms. What might have begun as a reaction to the limits she'd put upon him, as a need to exert his rights as her husband, had blossomed into a complete submersion of his soul.
He must have loved her before. Dear God, he'd married her, hadn't he? He refused to consider any other reason why he might have done such a thing. Even if it was implicit in Matthew Webster's attitude that there'd been more to it than a love match, he was convinced that the attraction between them must have been there from the beginning. Yet, this feeling felt new—this sense of falling in love completely. She was his wife, his woman; and he was determined that this time he'd make her happy, no matter what.
Her slim hands were clutching him now, digging into his shoulders, her nails raking his flesh, as she sought her own release. He loved the feel of her hands on him, he loved the feel of her all around him, and he loved being so deep inside her, he felt as if he were touching her soul.
He was certain no other woman had ever made him feel like this. For all he had no reason for trusting his instincts, he was convinced that the pleasure he was experiencing was a first. But how could that be, when their marriage wasn't new? Oh, God, he didn't want to think of that now.
He wanted to tell her how he felt. He wanted to share his charged emotions with her, and lifting his head, he looked into drowned indigo eyes. "I love you," he said simply.
"Whatever I've done in the past, you have to believe me. I may have hurt you before, but I'll never hurt you again."
Caitlin gazed at him tremulously. "Do—do you mean that?" she ventured, and he drew her hand down to where their bodies joined.
"Believe it," he said hoarsely. "This is our new beginning. And I'll never let you go again."
She cupped his face with her hands, and the touch of those soft fingers stroking the roughened skin of his jaw-line, brushing across his mouth, was more than he could stand.
"Oh, God," he groaned, feeling his body convulsing, and her choking cry sent him hurtling over the brink.
He was half-afraid he had climaxed too soon, but her shuddering body reassured him on that score. He could feel her own convulsions rippling through her muscles as his body spilled its bounty into her womb…
The awareness that she was crying came to him from a great distance.
He hadn't had a female cry over him in years—not since he was fourteen and he'd made out with Marcie Kenyon behind the courthouse. Of course, he'd known it hadn't been Marcie's first time, however much she'd tried to tell him it was. She'd been putting out for years, but he let her think that he believed her because it had suited him
to do so. It had saved him having to admit it was his first time, as well.
But this was different. This wasn't Marcie's ugly sobbing. He wouldn't have known she was crying at all, if it wasn't for the dampness against his neck. Of course, he thought uneasily. He should have worn a rubber. Were those tremulous sighs an indication that she wasn't on the pill?
"Hey," he said, lifting his head, wondering if it was something more fundamental, and she gave a half-apologetic sniff.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's the matter with me. Except—except I never knew it could be so—so good." She offered him a half-tearful smile, and then hid behind the heel of the hand she scrubbed across her swollen eyelids. "Thank you," she said unsteadily. "Thank you, Nathan."
Nathan?
He blinked. Why the hell was she calling him Nathan? That wasn't his name. It was his brother's name, for God's sake! But how did she know that? Did she know Nathan, as well? He scowled. His name was Jake. Yes, that was it: Jake Connor. He was nothing like his brother—well, he hoped not anyway.
And yet…
His head was throbbing abominably, and through the haze of pain that was dulling his senses, he stared at the woman beside him with tormented eyes. He felt a surge of apprehension. She was familiar—yet not familiar. Goddammit, where was he? And more to the point, what had he done?
Forcing himself not to panic, he quickly glanced around him. He was on a bed, of course, but he had known that. But whose bed was it? He didn't recognise it. Nor the room around him—though he felt he should.
"Are you all right, Nathan?"
There she went again, calling him by his brother's name, her soft hands like silk against his jaw. Her body was still moulded to his; God, he was still joined to her. And if the way he was feeling was anything to go by, the sex had been good.
Oh, yes. He closed his eyes for a moment, as the images his thoughts evoked caused him to harden inside her. It had been good; better than good, it had been bloody fantastic. Hot and strong and exciting, and achingly sweet.
He opened his eyes and looked at her again. His lips parted to tell her she'd made a mistake, that whatever she'd thought, he wasn't Nathan, but that he'd be more than happy to continue to take his place. Despite the fact that her nose was red and those drop-dead blue eyes were still rimmed with tears, she was so beautiful. He thought so anyway. He'd always thought so. Ever since his brother had shown him her picture, right after the wedding.
Their wedding…
He swallowed.
He knew who she was.
She was Caitlin.
Caitlin Wolfe.
His brother's wife.
17
What the hell was he going to do now?
Studying the remains of the whisky in his glass, Nathan's eyes were dark with anger and resentment. He should never have come back to Prescott; he should never have allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He had played right into the old man's hands, and whichever way he turned, he had the ignominy of knowing that Jacob was watching him.
It wasn't as if he and his father had ever been the best of friends. From the time he was old enough to understand, he'd had a certain contempt for him, but it wasn't until his brother had spilled the beans about their parentage that his feelings had been given some focus.
And now Jacob had him exactly where he wanted him. By revealing what he had planned to do, he had made his father an unwilling accessory after the fact. And there was no way Jacob was going to let him get away with it. Between his father's contempt and Carl's anger, he'd be lucky if he got out of this alive.
He scowled. It was all Lisa's fault, he decided resentfully. If she'd never introduced him to Carl Walker, he wouldn't now be in this mess. It was her fault that he'd started gambling again; her fault that he'd gotten in over his head.
He hadn't intended it to be that way. Okay, so he'd had some losses in the past, but in those days his father had al-ways been there to bail him out. Only when he married Caitlin, his father had washed his hands of him. He couldn't condone his son marrying Matthew Webster's daughter just so he could get his hands on Webster's company.
Which was a laugh when you considered that that was exactly what Jacob himself had done. He hadn't thought twice about marrying Iris Varley to get control of her father's mill. He had a bloody nerve complaining about his behaviour. He'd only been following Daddy's example, after all.
But that was all water under the bridge now, and when he'd first met Carl Walker, he'd never imagined that one day he'd have anything to fear. On the contrary, Carl could be courtesy itself when he chose to, and he'd assumed Carl was being friendly because of his association with Lisa.
How naive could you get?
He acknowledged now that he had been pretty stupid right from the start. Men like Walker didn't do people favours unless you had something they wanted. But he'd been itching to get even with Matthew Webster and his sidekick, and when Carl had come up with the South American deal, it had seemed like manna from heaven.
Of course, he'd known Carl was into drugs—selling them, that is, not snorting them. But until Carl had broached the subject, he hadn't given a lot of thought as to his suppliers. It wasn't until later, when he'd mentioned that Webster's had won the contract for a dam to be built on the Magdalena River in Colombia, the question he'd never asked had been answered.
The plan was so simple, he'd been amazed no one else had ever thought of it. Or perhaps they had, but they hadn't had the means or the contacts to pull it off. Carl had everything: an organisation already set up and running in Bogotá, and contacts who would do anything for the right price.
It was Carl who had suggested the deal. Matthew Webster might have thought he was clever, stopping his son-in-law from having any involvement in the financial dealings of the company, but with his help, Carl was able to ensure that the cement company, who got the contract for supplying the dam project, submitted invoices for hundreds of tons of raw materials that were never supplied. Instead of which, the money received went into a numbered bank account in Bogotá.
The original idea had been to split the profits, only when it came right down to it, Carl had proved to be less scrupulous than Nathan had thought. Instead of getting a healthy boost to the crappy salary Webster paid him, he'd found himself faced with exposure. If he didn't do what Carl told him, he'd arrange for his father-in-law to find out what was going on.
That was why he'd agreed to carry the stuff into the country. He'd been shit-scared that first time, and only the thought of what would happen if his luck ran out kept him going. But he didn't have the nerve to go on doing it, and he'd also known that Carl was never going to let him off the hook. God knew what else he might be compelled to do to save his reputation. With the threat of a prison sentence hanging over his head, he was vulnerable.
When he'd come up with the idea of switching places with Jake, it had seemed impossible. But the more he'd thought about it, the more feasible the idea had become. He had nothing left to keep him in England. His job was on the line, and his relationship with his wife was just a sham. On top of that, Lisa was beginning to bug him. She'd never lost sight of the idea that he'd promised her marriage once his use for Caitlin was over.
As if.
For a moment, the memory of the satisfaction he'd felt at the thought of duping Lisa, too, swept over him. She thought he was a loser. She'd never said as much, but he'd known, and he'd derived a great deal of pleasure from imagining how she was going to feel when she found out the truth. Of course, he'd expected it to take a little time before she'd discovered what had happened. But he knew better than to think that Jake would fool her for long.
If he even tried.
He hunched his shoulders, his good mood soon giving way to melancholy. Trust Jake to fuck everything up by losing his memory. For Christ's sake, why hadn't he died in the crash?
But he hadn't, and he was left to try and rescue the situation. The only person he'd really succeeded in fooling was
Jake himself. Of course, if Jake had carried that case to London, Nathan would have made sure the Customs knew about it. Jake might be a hotshot defender, but he'd have had a hard time explaining why he was carrying drugs in his bag, particularly with his history. And they'd been hidden so cleverly, he doubted anyone would have noticed without fair warning. If Jake had decided to open the case, there would have been nothing for him to see.
Which was exactly what he'd planned; that and the fact that Jake was carrying his passport instead of his own. He'd known that sooner or later Jake would have managed to prove his identity, but that didn't give him an excuse for carrying cocaine.
With a bit of luck, Jake would have been tied up in London for some considerable time, and by then, Nathan had intended to be long gone. And he would have been, too, if he hadn't been so bloody nosy. It was partly the fear that Carl might too quickly have found out what had happened that had brought him back.
Of course, he could board the next plane to England with Jake's passport, and trust Carl would believe him if he could think of some reason for the delay. But he'd be back where he started, always supposing that Carl did buy his story. And if he didn't, they'd probably fish his body out of the Thames.
And to cap it all, he had his father on his back, asking awkward questions, wanting to know the truth. If he left now, there was no guarantee that the old bastard wouldn't put the authorities onto him. As soon as he'd found out that Jake was innocent of any crime, he'd been urging him to go and put things straight.
He poured himself another slug of whisky, feeling his mood darkening with the day. Why did his father always take Jake's side against him? It wasn't as if his brother had shown any love for the old man.
But ever since Jake came back from 'Vietnam, Jacob had made him out to be some kind of hero. And why? He hadn't done anything particularly heroic that he could see. Lots of guys had come back from 'Nam without the habit, but Jake had come back so fucked up he'd fallen apart.