How would she ever be able to explain to him that she had lied to him for sixteen years, lied by omission? If it became necessary for her to tell him the truth about Anne Marie's parentage, would Morgan ever forgive her for a lifetime of silence?
She sat beside him, but separated herself from him mentally, putting as much distance between them as possible. She didn't dare glance his way for fear he would see the truth in her eyes.
Morgan revved the powerful V12 motor, shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking slot. Bethany sat perfectly still, only the muted sound of her breathing mingling with Morgan's pierced the utter silence within the car. Morgan crossed Montclair Road
as he headed for Forest Park.
They would be home soon. Home and alone together. She couldn't face him. Not now. Not yet. His confession had not only unnerved her, but it had forced her to accept a hard truth. No matter what happened to her, she had to tell Morgan the truth about Anne Marie. Even if by telling him the truth, she destroyed his faith in her and made him hate her. Morgan deserved to know that he had a daughter.
* * *
Chapter 9
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The moment they arrived at her home, Bethany rushed up the stairs, pausing only long enough to make a halfhearted excuse. "I have a terrible headache. I'm going to take something for it and lie down awhile."
Morgan wanted to tell her not to run away, not to run from him. He hadn't meant to upset her, and God knew the last thing he wanted was to ever hurt her again. But he said nothing. Standing at the foot of the stairs, he watched her until she disappeared from view. He didn't doubt that she had a headache, but he knew it wasn't the real reason she'd fled to her room. She wanted to escape from him. He understood if she was still angry with him for making her face the possibility that a dear and trusted friend might be responsible not only for Farraday's murder, but for her present predicament. What Morgan didn't understand was why, when he had explained how much he trusted her, she had suddenly gone deadly still. She hadn't so much as glanced his way during the drive home, and she'd all but run from him the second he pulled into the driveway.
What was it that had Bethany running scared, running from him? His gut instincts told him that her fear had nothing to do with Farraday's murder. No, Bethany's reluctance to face him, her urgent need to get away from him, stemmed from something far more personal. But what?
Why had his statement about her being the only person he'd ever completely trusted upset her so much? Did she realize that, despite everything that had happened between them in the past he had always cared about her and still did? Was it easier for her to believe that he'd never cared, that not once in all their years apart had he had any regrets?
Maybe he'd forced Bethany to examine her own feelings more closely than she wanted to. Neither of them could deny the desire—stronger than ever—that still existed between them. Bethany hadn't changed so much that she had developed a cavalier attitude toward sex. No, if she still wanted him that meant that she still cared about him, perhaps even still loved him.
The thought that Bethany might still love him rattled Morgan. He knew for sure that he didn't deserve her love. He never had. And he wasn't even sure he wanted her love, not if it meant he'd wind up hurting her all over again.
After removing his jacket and tie, he went into the kitchen, opened the pantry door and glanced around. Neither he nor Bethany had eaten a bite since their early-morning coffee, juice and toast. Their salads had just arrived when Bethany ran from the country club and barreled straight into their waiter. She was bound to be starving. Maybe part of her headache was due to hunger. He wasn't much of a cook, but living alone all his adult life, a guy learned how to open cans and heat stuff in the microwave.
* * *
Bethany unbuttoned her yellow silk blouse, slipped it off her shoulders and tossed it into the dirty clothes hamper. Luckily she had ordered her salad dressing on the side, so the spots on her blouse had come from the moisture on the fresh vegetables in her salad and not any oils that could have done permanent damage.
She laughed at herself. Here she was worrying about some stupid blouse that could easily be replaced, when her whole world was crumbling down around her. She was walking on quicksand, and with every step she took, she sank deeper and deeper into the muck. If she wasn't careful, she'd get sucked under and be lost forever.
Opening the medicine cabinet above the sink, she raked through the various bottles until she found the aspirin. Good old reliable aspirin. She hadn't lied when she'd told Morgan she had a headache. Tension throbbed in her temples and shot up the back of her neck.
Downing two tablets with a paper cup of water, she closed her eyes momentarily and sighed. If only she could lie down and take a nap. If only she could find forgetfulness in sleep. Forgetfulness and peace.
She walked out of the bathroom, removed her brown gabardine skirt and laid it over the chair at her dressing table. She kicked off her brown leather heels and stripped out of her sheer hose. Wearing nothing but her yellow lace teddy, she lay down atop the beige brocade spread on her bed.
Lying there wide awake, she wondered what Morgan was doing downstairs. She'd been surprised but thankful that he had allowed her to escape so easily. Had he sensed that she needed to be alone? There had been a time when Morgan had known her every mood. But that had been in another lifetime, in a world without secrets between them.
Closing her eyes, Bethany prayed for sleep.
* * *
Morgan stood outside Bethany's bedroom. Hesitating only briefly, he balanced the tray in one hand while he reached down and opened the door. Glancing inside, he saw Bethany stretched out across the big, white, four-poster bed. Soft, pale shadows cloaked the room like a velvet cape. Captured in the blue curtains, in the beige silk bed linen and the fabric-covered chairs, the faint scent of her floral perfume lingered. Sweet. Delicate. Alluring. Like the woman herself.
His gaze moved slowly from the bottoms of Bethany's bare feet up the luscious expanse of her slender, naked legs to the delicate French-cut silk teddy that emphasized her curvaceous hips and tiny waist.
His heart thundered like a wild beast in his chest. His sex hardened instantly. The intensity of his desire for Bethany frightened him. After that first kiss in his mother's garden so many years ago, it had always been this way. Whenever he looked at her. Whenever he touched her. A wanting so deep, so primeval, so possessive that it superseded everything else, rendering him a mindless creature of pure sensation. He hadn't realized back then that no other woman would ever affect him in quite the same way. Only Beth.
He wasn't sure whether to leave the tray for her or take it back downstairs. He didn't want to disturb her rest. God knew she got little enough as it was.
Bethany heard a faint noise. It sounded like someone breathing. Drowsily opening her eyes, she glanced around the room and saw nothing out of place. Lifting her head off the spread, she looked toward the open door. Gasping, she jack-knifed straight up in bed, pulled her knees up and clutched the front of her teddy.
"Sorry," Morgan said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you might be as hungry as I am, so I fixed us some sandwiches."
"Thank you." Curling her feet under her, she crawled to the foot of the bed. She lifted a beige, wool-knit throw off the deacon's bench that spanned the width of the four-poster and wrapped the nubby cloth around her shoulders. "That was very thoughtful of you."
The last thing she had expected was for Morgan to walk into her room and see her practically naked. How long had he been standing in the doorway looking at her? A shudder of pure sensual awareness rippled along her nerve endings.
This room was her private domain, and no man had ever been given permission to enter. It was so like Morgan not to ask permission, to not even consider that he needed to ask. He'd always been a man who did what he pleased, when he pleased.
He walked across the room and placed the tray on the large English pedestal table in front of the overs
ize how windows. Dark clouds once again obscured the sun and cast a gray gloominess on the afternoon light.
Sensing her unease, he kept his back to her. "It's nothing fancy. Just ham and cheese. Dill pickles. I found some kind of low-fat chips in the pantry. And there was iced tea in the refrigerator."
"You shouldn't have bothered bringing the sandwiches up here." Bethany scooted to the edge of the bed. "I would have come downstairs, and we could have eaten in the kitchen."
"Hey, I don't go around fixing lunch and serving it on a silver tray for just anybody, you know." Turning around, Morgan smiled when he looked at her. She sat there on her knees at the edge of the bed, staring at him, her small hand gripping the beige shawl where it crossed her chest. "I wanted to do something to make up for what happened at the country club. I had no idea questioning Seth Renfrew would upset you so much."
"I suppose I overreacted again." Sliding her legs off the bed, she touched the floor with the tips of her toes. "I seem to be doing that a lot lately. My nerves are so on edge that I can't think straight anymore."
"With good reason."
"Seth has been more than a friend. He was a godsend when I was looking for an investor so I could open my first boutique." Standing, Bethany eased the beige throw down to cover her hips, tied a knot in the material at her waist and padded silently across the floral area rug overlaying the lush beige carpet. "He's been like a big brother to me and an uncle to Anne Marie. And of course, he's stood by mother through thick and thin."
"I don't doubt that Seth is a good man."
Morgan turned the Provincial accent chair so that it faced the pedestal table. Gripping the wood-trimmed back of the chair with one hand, he held out his other hand to Bethany, inviting her to sit. After seating her, Morgan rounded the table and eased his big body down on the chair opposite her. He handed her a paper napkin, then lifted a glass of tea and offered it to her.
Willing her hand not to tremble, she reached out and took the glass. Their hands touched for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to send a jolt of electric awareness through Bethany. She should ask him to leave. She should tell him that he'd had no right to desecrate the sanctity of her bedroom with his masculine presence.
Glancing over the rim of her glass as she sipped the cool, sweet tea, Bethany noticed that Morgan seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her. His gaze traveled over the room, inspecting each piece of furniture, each lamp, each pillow, each picture on the wall.
Was he as unsure of himself as she was? Was he as afraid of what might happen between them? He knew as well as she that their being alone like this, in her bedroom, with her only partially dressed, was inviting trouble.
"Is that a picture of Anne Marie?" he asked.
"I have a dozen pictures of Anne Marie scattered around the room. Which one are you talking about?" She followed his line of vision to the oil portrait hanging over the mantel on the wall opposite her bed. She drew in her breath on a soft, hushed gasp. "Yes, that's a portrait I had done of her when she was six years old."
Would he see, Bethany wondered, how much Anne Marie looked like him in the portrait? From the steely blue-gray eyes, to the square jaw to the gold of her long hair? And would he notice the small pendant around her neck, the oval diamond sparkling against the ruby red velvet dress?
Scooting back his chair, Morgan stood and walked across the room to inspect the portrait more closely. There was something about the picture that beckoned him. When he stood directly in front of the fireplace, he suddenly realized what it was about the portrait that had caught his eye. Anne Marie was wearing the small diamond pendant necklace that he had given Bethany for her twentieth birthday, only a week before he'd left Birmingham.
Pain hit him square in the gut, as if he'd received a hard blow from a strong fist. How many times had he wondered how different his life might have been if he'd given Bethany an engagement ring instead of the necklace? But the necklace had been as close as he'd come to declaring his feelings for her. He had cared, cared deeply, but not enough to make a lifetime commitment. Not until it had been too late. He'd been such a smug, overconfident, young fool!
Lifting his hand to the canvas, he traced the thin gold chain that circled Anne Marie's neck and fell to her chest. Balling his hand into a fist, he closed his eyes and allowed the memories to wash over him. The way Bethany had looked lying in the middle of his bed, wearing nothing but the necklace. Her arms open wide. Her body accepting his with wild passion. Her heart giving him all her love.
Bethany laid her hand on his back. Morgan tensed at her touch. He hadn't heard her cross the room, her bare feet silent on the thickly cushioned floor.
"You kept the necklace," he said, not turning around. "I'm surprised you didn't throw it away."
"Perhaps I should have. But I didn't." Easing her hand up his back, she squeezed his shoulder. "I gave the necklace to—" she almost said our daughter "—Anne Marie. It's her favorite piece of jewelry."
"Does she know I gave it to you?"
"No, she doesn't know." She had told Anne Marie that her father had given the necklace to her on her twentieth birthday. But Anne Marie didn't know that Morgan was her father.
He swallowed hard. As deep, dark, primitive emotions almost choked him, Morgan turned and grabbed Bethany's upper arms. Damning himself for a fool, he gave himself over to the urgent tide of desire that washed away his common sense.
Instantly recognizing the animal hunger in his eyes, Bethany opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that this couldn't happen, that she didn't want it. But the lie died a silent death on her lips. Temptation burned hot and wild between them, enticement beyond bearing, having grown stronger and stronger each time they had resisted.
Guilt and fear had kept her celibate for twelve long, lonely years. Fear of trusting another man, of caring enough to give herself and being betrayed. And guilt that she might actually find happiness with another man when she had sent her husband to his death. Did she have a right to love, to happiness, even to sexual fulfillment, when her inability to truly give herself to her husband had driven him to suicide? The authorities had called it an accident, but in her heart, Bethany knew the truth.
When Morgan drew her closer, she threw up her arms, wedging them between their bodies in one final attempt to stop the insanity before it went any further. Flattening her palms against the front of his shirt, she felt the harsh, rapid beat of his heart. An all-consuming desire spread through her body like a wildfire through dry kindling, burning away her resistance.
He knew the moment she stopped fighting, the moment she admitted defeat to a passion neither of them could control. He sensed her acceptance of the inevitable. Tightening his hold on her arms, his fingers bit in to her tender flesh. Her moaning gasp alerted him to the damage his strength was capable of doing and he instantly loosened his grip and eased his hands down her arms to her waist.
She stood perfectly still, caught by his mesmerizing stare, while he untied the knot at her waist, pulled the wool throw away from her hips and dropped it on the floor.
"I'm afraid," she admitted, her breath raspy. "I don't know if… It won't change anything. Afterward … we'll still be the same."
"We've fought it long enough, honey," he said. "The longer and harder we've fought against it, the stronger it's become." Lowering his head, his breath feathering across her lips, he closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet, heady aroma that was uniquely Bethany. She shivered when he slipped his arms around her and buried his face against her neck. "The only way to appease the beast is to feed it." He murmured the words against her throat.
Nodding agreement, she tugged at his shoulder holster. Lifting his head, he took both of her hands and laid them flat on his chest. "Unbutton my shirt."
With nervous fingers, she began the task. Morgan removed his holster and laid it on the mantel behind him, then turned and eased his hands around Bethany's hips. Cupping her buttocks he lifted her closer, close enough so that she felt the har
d ridge of his sex straining against the front of his slacks.
Parting his pale blue shirt, she exposed his broad, hairy chest. Bethany trembled as her hands made contact with his skin. He was hard and hot, his chest muscles toned to perfection. She combed her fingers through the thicket of brown curls, seeking and finding his tiny male nipples. He drew in a deep, harsh breath when she raked her nails across the peaked nubs.
"Beth, honey, you're tormenting me." He slipped his hand up inside her lace teddy and kneaded her hip.
Clutching his shoulders, she lowered her head and flicked her tongue across his nipple. The moment her moisture touched his skin, he shivered. Lightning fast, he captured the back of her head in his hand and threaded his fingers through her long dark hair. Curling several sepia strands around his fingers, he pulled them tight, forcing her to turn her face toward his as he swooped down and took her lips. Hot and wet and savage, his mouth conquered hers. All the while he held her head with one hand, he used the other to slip the satin straps of her teddy down her arms and drag the lace garment to her waist.
The moment he freed her breasts from their confinement, he pulled her forward, into his bare chest. She moaned with sheer agonized pleasure as her nipples tightened painfully when they pressed against his hair-roughened chest.
Deepening the kiss, Morgan spread his hand open across the hollow of her back and urged her closer, until the apex of her thighs nestled against his rigid shaft. A sharp, tingling sensation radiated from her breasts to her feminine core, moistening her body in preparation. Her nipples ached with the need to be touched, to be laved, to be suckled.
Morgan jerked the teddy over her hips, allowing it to pool into a yellow lace cloud at her feet. Easing her a few inches away from him, he surveyed her, drinking in every luscious feminine inch of her naked body. He reached out and lifted her round full breasts into his hands, caressing tenderly. Then he rubbed the backs of his thumbs across her nipples. She tossed back her head. Her hair cascaded down across her shoulder blades like a coffee brown waterfall. She sighed, the sound sharp and breathless, wanting more, needing more.
A MAN LIKE MORGAN KANE Page 15