by Nancy Gideon
“This is Mac. Leave a message.”
The temptation to spill everything, even to a digital recording, trembled at the capable sound of his voice. She took a breath to steady her nerves.
“I hope I’m interrupting something. Call me at this number when you get this message. Silas, it’s important. I . . . I really need to talk to you. I’m not expecting you to do anything but listen.”
She disconnected before she could indulge in unforgivable weeping, suddenly feeling so alone, so far away from those she loved, that the pain was almost palpable.
A chill had settled in deep with the setting of the sun. That seeping cold rattled through her, from the plunge in temperature, from the depth of her own worries. To ward off one in hopes of placating the other, Brigit kindled a fire in the woodstove, huddling near it until a comforting warmth and light began to fill the empty room.
Weariness washed over her, encouraged by the spreading heat. Perhaps sleep was all she needed to push dreaded decisions back into perspective. She knew from experience how much life could change over the course of an evening. The way it had that night when Silas crouched down to take her and Kendra into his arms.
Don’t be afraid. I will never let anything harm you.
Who was here to say those bold, beautiful words to her now? Her father, who’d held her on his knee to speak of a world of peace and joy and fulfillment? Silas, with his unbendable honor and fierce loyalty? Daniel, with his honeyed promises and fiery passion? All dead or gone. Though she’d never relied upon anything but her own wits and wants, she’d underestimated how powerful it was having someone at her back to protect, if not provide for, her.
Someone whose mere presence created a safe haven of certainty when all else faltered and threatened to fail. Someone to be strong until her own flagging strength returned . . . to provide the sense of comfort she’d experienced at Timba’s, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Giles St. Clair’s heartbeat beneath her ear. To give her respite, the way her whirling thoughts were immediately grounded when his strong arm was about her.
Could he become her harbor until this emotional storm blew over?
Giles didn’t pretend to care about her. She knew exactly where she stood. He didn’t mask lust as anything deeper or more dependable. He made no promises, told no lies to win her compliance. His brutal honesty was equal parts aggravating and refreshing.
He was human. He wasn’t entangled in their intrigues. Everything about him was simple, direct, and unapologetic.
And perhaps exactly what she needed, if just for tonight. Just until she felt strong enough to face her future on her own.
Brigit glanced at the bunk beds with their separating distance. It was lonely being on top. Maybe side by side had more to offer.
In the soft glow of firelight, she washed her face in the cold basin on the counter, changed out of the sexy dress in favor of a T-shirt and knee-length leggings. After a quick dash outside, she slipped under the open sleeping bag on the lower bunk and breathed deep of his earthy scent. And waited nervously, uncertain of a male’s response for the first time in her life.
She heard him come up onto the porch and closed her eyes, her breath suspended. The doorknob didn’t turn. The acrid bite of a match was followed by the burnt odor of a cigarette from the pack he’d purchased at the bar. Her nose crinkled as second thoughts crept in. But she was warm and comfortable, and her own cold, lonely bunk held no appeal.
And maybe, after the night he’d had, he’d welcome her companionable heat as much as she needed his.
And that was all it would be, she told herself.
That’s all it could ever be.
twelve
“How is he, Detective?”
“No change.”
The strength lacing through those discouraging words awed Giles every time they spoke. He’d rarely found such courage outside his own immediate family, and that alone made him feel guilty for his absence.
“As soon as I finish this thing for MacCreedy, I’ll come visit him regularly. Maybe that’ll start the wheels turning and he’ll remember . . .”
“Me,” Charlotte concluded for him.
“I was gonna say the things that’re important to him. Any luck tracing whoever was with him up there in Chicago?”
“No. Suzanna checked with some of her contacts at the facility. No one’s on record as changing his IVs to whatever poison they use to strip away memories. Could have been anyone. Another damned dead end.”
Giles hesitated, needing to ask but afraid to take the first step that might carry him where he didn’t want to go.
“Giles? Something else on your mind?”
Too much, and all of it distressing.
“Could you do me a professional favor?”
“What do you need?”
“Could you see what you can find out about the murder of Clovis Robichaux? It’s a closed case.”
“Sure. Something personal?”
“Yes” was all he had to say. “And could you check to see who’s running Vantour’s bayou action these days? See if it ties in to a Memphis family by the name of Guedry.”
“As in Silas’s sister’s little bastard boyfriend, the one who tried to kill Max?”
“Yeah, like him.” Giles grimaced, but he got over it by asking what he really needed to know. “And run the name St. Clair, Emmett and Boyd.”
“Relatives?”
“Yes.”
“You want everything?” Her tone softened.
“All of it.”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. I appreciate you doing this for me.”
“Don’t be an ass, Giles.”
He smiled at her curt dismissal, but that didn’t ease the heaviness in his chest or how much he didn’t want her to find anything. Which brought up yet another unhappy situation.
“Did your partner and his family leave for vacation on schedule?”
“Two weeks of fun and sun. And hopefully, the son of a bitch will come back with more than just a tan.”
Using the time to reconnect with his wife and stepson, effectively removing them from his care and his life. Giles tried to see that as a good thing for all involved . . . except him.
“So how’s your favor for Silas going?” He could hear the grin in the detective’s voice. “Are you behaving yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad. You could benefit from a little bad behavior.”
A little bad behavior had gotten him right where he was. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
Charlotte chuckled. “Do that. And take care of yourself. Whoever broke in to the estate is still out there. None of us is safe until we find out what he was after.”
At least that was no mystery to him.
They talked a bit longer about things not as important as those closest to their hearts, then said good night. Leaving Giles with no alternative. He’d have to go into the cabin eventually. Into that small room with that very desirable female with whom he wanted to indulge in bad behavior in the worst possible way.
Because thinking of her, being with her, pushed all the other hurtful things away.
Why the reluctance to use her as selfishly as she was using him? Wasn’t that what a bad guy would do?
He could hear Lou’s voice. “Don’t you recognize him?”
And his mama’s reply as she looked right through him. “I know who he is. And I know what he is.”
He never should have come here. What he’d once held dear was gone. He couldn’t get it back. He wasn’t the son, the brother, the fiancé they’d loved, not anymore. That part of who he was had died along with the man who’d killed his father. He’d traded their love away for that act of retribution.
And neither he nor his father was resting any easier because of it.
Jimmy had been right about that.
No use crying over it now.
He lingered out on the porch for on
e cigarette that ended up being four. As he sent jets of smoke out into the darkness, he let his focus drift back to Brigit MacCreedy, but even those thoughts were far from restful.
Alone, feeling the weighty darkness of his mood and deeds, he let himself replay the scorching encounter in his room. He’d never treated a woman like that, making such angry demands, losing control and all restraint. Only Brigit MacCreedy could push him to the mindless extremes that even now shamed and excited him. Everything about her chafed in passionate opposites. The rise and ebb of her fickle attentions was like a surging tide, undercutting the wall of his best intentions.
What was it about her that got under his skin like a maddening itch?
He needed to be alert and on guard, not constantly distracted by the scent of her hair and flash of her eyes. Because the danger was out there, maybe closer than either of them knew.
And he wasn’t going to put up much of a fight when it arrived if he didn’t get at least a few hours of sleep.
He ground out his final cigarette and entered the cabin, surprised to see the fire burning pleasantly.
Stunned to see the figure curled under his covers.
In that contemplative moment, he wondered why he was struggling so hard against what everyone believed him to be.
A bad guy who would take advantage of what he was offered.
Brigit’s dismay at finding she’d fallen asleep was quickly tempered by the change in her circumstances. She wasn’t alone.
Giles St. Clair was spooned up behind her, his massive size providing a wonderful sense of well-being. Her head was pillowed upon one brawny outflung arm. His other rested in a heavy drape about the curve of her waist. From the snuggly warmth and the slow pace of his breathing, she assumed they’d been lying together for some time. Her question about whether or not he was sleeping was answered by the attentive contour pressed against her thigh through their clothing. Then came the dilemma of whether to stay still and bask in the moment. Or to escalate it.
Brigit stroked her fingers over his to begin circular patterns on the back of his outstretched hand. Such big, powerful hands. He remained unmoving for long minutes. The nudge of his cheek against her hair tempted her to reach back and rub the hard line of his jaw, her nails making a sexy rasp along stubbled skin.
“You smell good,” she whispered, breathing deep to draw in the essence of him. Warm, virile, male. No stale smoke.
“The water wasn’t cold enough.”
His quiet admission made her smile. “Do you want me to remove temptation?”
“No.”
She burrowed in to him with a contented sigh. “This is nice.”
“It is.”
His breath feathered across her ear, eliciting a slight shiver and a deeper hum of longing for more gentle touches and soft words.
She turned onto her back within the secure circle of his arms so she could look up at his features, shadowed by firelight. His pale silvery gaze fixed upon hers with a quiet intensity as he sieved his fingers through her hair, then smoothed the strands with a lingering stroke.
When he came no closer, she cupped the back of his head, drawing him down until his lips touched hers. A light grazing softness lifted away too soon. Instead, he continued to finger-comb and stroke her hair as his mouth brushed delicate tracings along her cheekbones, her brow, her throat, stirring a response that was anxious as well as anticipating.
She’d never had a male flirt with her passions before. The gentle, intimate teasing left her uncomfortably exposed. She arched up for more, trying to latch on to his lips so she could control the moment. Sex was all about control, not this tentative torture of the senses.
“Giles, kiss me,” she petitioned at last. Had she ever called him by his name? Had she ever spoken to any man with such strange breathy urgency?
He lifted up to engage her stare once again, to smile faintly and murmur, “Gladly.”
When his mouth settled slow and firm upon hers, Brigit realized that sex wasn’t what she was having with him. This gradual, searing seduction was something else entirely. Something dangerous in its seeming innocence. Something powerful in its unassuming tenderness.
Alarmed, she pushed him an arm’s length away, panting in confusion. He didn’t press or withdraw, merely waiting with the patient concentration that had her trembling as he asked, “Tell me, goddess. Yes or no?”
No. She should tell him no and lunge away from this precipice while she could. Except it was already too late. The taste of him was on her lips, the scent of him twining about her reason. Her desperate need of him made her vulnerable. The foreign lack of boundaries offered no place to hide from her own weaknesses and yearnings.
Even as her mind said no, her fingers were tightening in his shirt. Her elbows were unlocking to lower him to her.
She swallowed her panic and whispered, “Yes,” as she lost herself to his kiss.
Sweet and stirringly thorough. A whisper of shared breath. A leisurely slide of warmth. A tug at the fullness of her lower lip. Sampling each curve and swell and tasty hollow until her lips parted to invite him in. To invite him to take anything he wanted for as long as he wanted as long as the dizzying pleasure continued.
And they were both still fully dressed.
Another first for her. She’d never really kissed a clothed man before. It made everything seem so unsettlingly . . . personal.
“We’d be warmer skin to skin.”
He grinned at her husky words. “That we would.”
He released her to turn and sit up, shucking off his shirt before bending down to pull off shoes and socks. Drawn by the enticing play of muscle across his back and shoulders, Brigit rose up to chart both with her palms, with her lips. Needing to be closer, she wiggled out of her T-shirt to press against him, flattening her breasts to that rock-solid plane as her arms tightened about his bare torso.
He captured her hands, lifting them for a scattering of kisses over fingers and palms before simply holding them crushed in his. She took a startled breath.
Thought wasn’t something that had played a part in her coupling with the males of her species. It had been fast, furious, and finished. This was different. Her heart pounded madly, leaving her aroused, afraid, because the gradual pace gave her time to consider each move, each consequence of what was happening between them. She had time to absorb his strength, to relish the sensation of his hands cupped about hers, making her feel small and cherished and safe.
And terrified.
“This is a mistake.”
He stopped massaging her hands but didn’t turn at the sound of her hoarse words.
“What is, goddess?”
“What we’re doing. The way we’re doing it.”
“What’s your objection?” he murmured as his lips brushed over the tense row of her knuckles. The tender gesture had her quivering with unexplored desires.
“It’s—it’s taking too long.”
“That’s not a complaint I’ve heard before.” He twisted about so he could see her, quiet amusement on his face. “Did you have someplace you needed to be?”
Pride prickled up to cover her embarrassment. “Don’t laugh at me.”
The levity dropped away, replaced by the probing attentiveness. “I’m not laughing, love. Tell me what you want.”
She hedged. “What are my choices?”
Her pulse gave a quick hop at the slow unfurling of his smile. “I could lay you down and have you screaming in three minutes, or I could take my time.”
“What’s the difference?”
“About two hours and a lot more screaming.”
A hot erotic chill raced across her skin. “I don’t scream.”
He showed his teeth with a confidence that brought hot dampness to pool between her thighs. “You will.” He reached up to rub his knuckles beneath the slight quiver of her jaw, letting his thumb glide over her cheek. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
Afraid of him? Of an insignificant human who could offer
her nothing beyond the next hundred and seventeen minutes? Ridiculous.
She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of herself, of her own strange response to him. Rather than let him see it, she’d do what she always did and brazen her way through it. “Use the time wisely.”
He grinned. “I will.”
Beginning with a deep, soul-stirring kiss.
His palms circled her shoulders and slid down the sleek length of her arms, exciting an impatient shiver. He hadn’t touched or glanced at breasts she considered spectacular. Men honed in on them with a greedy fixation, unable to resist burying their faces in the plump bounty. She arched her back so that beaded nipples grazed Giles’s chest, eager to provoke him, but he stroked the sensitive underside of her arms, finally lifting them to rest atop his shoulders while he continued to hold her gaze captive.
“Did I tell you my mother is a fantastic cook?”
A bemused smile. “You want to tell me this now?” Brigit wasn’t expecting two hours of conversation. That would have her screaming.
“She said the secret was in the roux.” His hands skimmed down the sides of her torso, thumbs lightly brushing the outer curve of her bosom to excite an achy fullness. Her breath quickened.
“What’s the secret?”
“Timing and persistence. It’s all about controlling the temperature, keeping things hot enough to simmer without coming to a boil.” He leaned in to suckle lightly on the side of her neck until she moaned softly. Her head rolled back helplessly to offer a taut arch for his tongue to travel. She clasped the back of his head, kneading his close-cropped hair restlessly.
“To thicken properly,” he continued in a low, sultry murmur, “it needs constant attention, so there’s no scorching.”
“Scorching is bad?” she asked, her tone already ragged as she directed his head lower.
“Very bad. It ruins the taste. And it’s all about that rich, creamy flavor.”
She drew a quick breath as his tongue circled first one tight peak, then the other, pausing for a maddeningly brief time to pull at the tender tips.
“The trick is not to linger in one place too long. Everything needs to be stirred so there are no hot spots.”