WHERE TIGERS PROWL

by Karin Story

  She sat up and pushed at his shirt with one hand, while she tugged at the snap on his jeans with the other.

  He pulled the gun from the back waistband of his jeans and set it on the bedside table. But even the sight of it didn't dampen the aching need in her. He rose slowly to his feet, wincing, then slid his arms out of his shirt. She felt a niggle of guilt that she'd forgotten about his leg and his ribs. They had to be killing him. But when he jerked down his jeans and his erection sprang free, everything fled her thoughts except an overwhelming surge of x-rated desire.

  Standing with the firelight reflecting off his body, he looked every inch the god she'd thought him to be the morning Jerry had broken into the house. Was that just two days ago?

  His skin, underneath all the cuts and bruises, was golden; his muscles well-defined. The fire's red glow highlighted all his injuries, and it was as if some angry artist had taken up a brush and painted a raging portrait on his body. Underlying all that were the large, patchy burn scars on his chest and abdomen. She wondered again how he'd gotten them. Wondered what kind of a past had made this man.

  She rose to her knees on the bed in front of him and reached for his penis. It was smooth as silk…yet rigid and full in her hand. His eyes closed and he groaned. She reveled in the power she had over him as she stroked him with her hand, and teased the tip of him against her breasts until his body shook.

  "Mare," he whispered, his voice a tortured, breathless version of its usual self. His mouth moved over hers once more; his tongue delved into her, seeking out every hidden corner. His hand smoothed over her hip and came to rest between her legs. Then his body tensed. "Shit." He stared down at her, agony in his gaze. "I don't have any protection."

  Her breath caught in her throat at the obvious expression of pain on his face. A warm burst of emotion started in her heart and spread out to her limbs until she was nearly dizzy from it. "In my wallet. In my pack downstairs by the kitchen door. I think I have some."

  "Please," his voice shook, "don't tease me about this."

  She smiled. "I'm not. It's been a while, but…well," she shrugged, "I'm a modern woman."

  He stared at her, then a slow grin curved his mouth. "Is there anything you don't have in that pack?" He kissed her, and it was full of promise and desire. "Don't move."

  The sight of his sculpted backside disappearing out the door left her breathless. The fullness in her heart was still there and it ebbed through her body until she felt so replete she thought she might burst.

  Knowing her heart was treading into dangerous territory, and before she had time to think too much about just what exactly she was feeling…or doing…she rose to her feet and padded over to the fire to stir up the logs.

  When Tom returned less than a minute later, he strode up behind her. His arms curved around her, and his hand slid up to fondle a breast.

  "You moved," he whispered.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, feeling the swollen length of him burning against the small of her back. His fingers traced over her breasts, her stomach, and down into the curls that guarded her intimate places.

  She was so wet his fingers slipped between her legs with ease.

  His tongue teased her earlobe, and she bucked against him as a shiver of desire ran through her body and ended at a pulsing point deep inside her.

  "Please," she whispered. "Here. Now."

  With a low, throaty growl, he bent her forward over the arm of one of the big leather chairs next to the fire.

  The leather was no soft, supple suede, but rather a masculine, full-grain cowhide. It was warm from the fire and slightly rough against her sensitized breasts. She propped herself on her hands willingly, only knowing that if she didn't have him inside her soon, she might implode.

  His two fingers, which had been inside her, pulled out. He slid them slowly, slowly up her backside, until she was damp all over and writhing in desperation.

  "Please."

  Then he was there, the head of his shaft hard and throbbing, pushing, slowly, at the entrance to her aching folds.

  Too slowly.

  "Please," she sobbed, beyond pride. Only knowing that something momentous was happening, that she was poised on the brink of heaven and hell and this man behind her was her destiny.

  He thrust into her with one powerful, deep move, burying himself to the hilt. "Ahh, God!" he groaned.

  Her body arched at the shock and sheer glory of it, and she cried out.

  His hands smoothed down her spine, then over her bottom, cupping it, holding her in place as he pulled out, then thrust into her again. Farther, harder.

  Her vision blurred as exquisite pleasure washed over her. She leaned back into him, meeting him as he took her again and again, until her body suddenly, violently, convulsed in ecstasy.

  He rode her hard through the waves, giving and giving of himself until she was sated. And only then did he call out her name and shudder with his own release.

  Maris dragged in deep breath after deep breath. Her heart thundered inside her chest, and she felt so physically and emotionally drained she could barely move. Didn't want to move.

  Tom leaned against her back, his own breathing ragged. They were both slippery with sweat from the passion and the heat of the fire.

  His large, callused hand massaged her neck and back, and a new shiver of pleasure swept through her. It was only tarnished when he withdrew from her.

  She tightened, not wanting him to leave, and feeling empty without him when he did.

  He continued to stroke her back, and then her bottom. She arched to meet his hand.

  "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are draped across that chair with your bottom in the air?" he said in a thick voice. He pressed a hot kiss against it as if to emphasize his point.

  Then his arms were around her waist, pulling her up, turning her around, and holding her against him. Her legs were putty.

  With a groan, he swept her up in his arms and limped over to the bed.

  "Put me down. You're hurting yourself," she said.

  "Baby, I'd go through a world of hurt to have you naked in my arms. You're like a fine wine, so smooth and heady that a man doesn't realize he's desperately drunk until the room starts spinning and he's beyond reason."

  He cradled her against him, wrapping his long legs around hers, and pulling her into his heat.

  They lay in silence, their hearts beating in rhythm, until their breathing slowed. A delicious peace settled over Maris. She sighed.

  "You okay?" he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek.

  "Mm-hmm." She smiled. Then concern swept over her as she realized just how their lovemaking had probably affected his battered body. She turned her head so she could see his face, and placed a hand against his cheek. "Are you?"

  His slow, contented smile sent her insides up in flames, and fanned the smoldering glow in her heart as well. "Oh, yeah."

  God, when he was like this, he was a dream come true—the kind of man any woman would die for. Yet she couldn't help notice the shadowed expression in his eyes, as if some deep-down demon were already creeping back in on him.

  Quickly, she leaned up to kiss him, wanting to hold onto this side of him as long as she could before real life came stomping back in.

  He rolled her onto her back and propped himself up on his good arm so he was looking down at her. He toyed with one of her damp ringlets of hair, curling it round the end of his finger.

  The way he was looking at her, like she was the only woman in the world, the only thing of importance in the world, caused emotional meltdown inside her. She caught his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. "Tom, I—"

  He pressed a finger against her lips. His eyes were as dark gold as amber. "Let's not say anything to each other tonight that we might regret later."

  Her chest constricted and she closed her eyes to the influx of pain that battered at the wall of her heart. She took a deep breath. Opened her eyes. Then gave him the briefest of
nods.

  He swallowed her cry with a kiss. Then proceeded to draw her back into the dark, erotic fantasy world to which only he knew the entrance.

  But even as she spread herself open and took him into her yet again, even as he brought her to wave after wave of mind-blowing climax, even as he marked her in every imaginable way as his…

  She knew that for now and always, whether he wanted to hear it or not, she'd lost her heart and soul to this man with the tiger's eyes and the gentle heart.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  Tom prowled the house and found nothing at all to indicate that May and Genny were anything but who Maris had said they were

  Then, hidden underneath a bank ledger in the desk drawer in the study, he came across an old .38 Smith and Wesson police service revolver A full box of ammo sat next to it. What would a nutty old lady like May be doing with this? A small jab of suspicion tried to take root, but a faded picture hanging over the desk offered the explanation. A jowly, stone-faced police officer glared back at him from behind yellowed glass. A gold plaque at the bottom of the frame said: Sergeant Samuel Mulcahey, Brooklyn PD. Awarded this day, June 5, 1977 for meritorious service above and beyond the call of duty.

  With a nod to the formidable man on the wall, he tucked the gun back into its hiding place, and closed the drawer.

  Tom booted up the computer in the study and tried to focus his mind on running a search on the Internet for information about the Long Island murder victim and any missing persons info he could turn up. He filled several pages with notes, but couldn't concentrate.

  A mantle clock somewhere in the house struck two. Then three.

  Finally, he leaned against one of the tall carved bookshelves in May's study and wrapped his fingers more tightly around the blue stoneware mug he held. He took a gulp of the still hot coffee he'd found in the pot in the kitchen, hoping the caffeine would help him think.

  He should be gone. He'd had his coat and boots on and had started out the door at one point. But the vision of Maris in his arms, Maris baring her body and soul to him, Maris crying out in pleasure, meeting him thrust for thrust, climax for climax as he filled her, had kept him from doing it.

  That and the fact that he'd dragged her into this godawful mess. The guard at the morgue had seen up close and personal that she wasn't a victim, but rather, was aiding and abetting him. If only she'd kept her mouth shut and stayed hidden, she'd probably be home safe in her bed right now.

  But then she wouldn't have been in your bed.

  The thought blindsided him.

  Damn it! He couldn't think that way. He'd been a fool for giving in to his need upstairs. That had been a class-A screw up from a practical point of view, and he had too much at risk here not to be practical.

  Maris was obviously an innocent. She was only in this predicament because of some reckless, kind-hearted drive she had to help. And damn, she was reckless. She acted first and thought later, which could cost them both their lives. She could be dangerous to keep around.

  But he also couldn't ignore the fact that for better or worse, she was strapped to him now.

  Early in the evening, he'd fully intended to leave her. But after what happened upstairs, in spite of his big words about how he couldn't make her any promises, he'd taken her body willingly. And he had to admit, he'd allowed himself to wallow in her trust for a while. But his selfishness had torn her up inside. He'd seen the crushed look in her eyes when he hadn't let her finish her sentence, even though he was afraid he knew exactly what she'd been about to say. He'd even craved to hear it, in a way.

  And now, because of that…he felt like he owed her the decency of not sneaking off in the night. She was his responsibility. He had to find a place for her to stay that was safe until he had some answers.

  Son of a bitch.

  It was a clusterfuck no matter which way he turned. He was trapped as surely as a wild animal in a cage. His cage just happened to have unruly chestnut curls, a sassy tongue, and a backside that would give the Pope a hard-on.

  The rumble of a car in the garage brought him to full alert. He set down the coffee mug, closed his hand around the butt of the 9mm, which he'd brought downstairs with him, and slipped behind the study door.

  He heard the door between the garage and kitchen open.

  "Lordy, lordy, I'm tired," he heard May say with a yawn.

  "Go on up to bed then, dear. Your shoulder will act up again if you don't get some rest." Genny's placid, even tone.

  "I believe I will. Wake me if anything exciting happens." May giggled.

  He heard the creak of stairs.

  All was silent.

  Then from the other side of the door where he was hidden…"You can come out now. Maybelle's gone to bed. There's no reason to hide."

  He sucked in a slow, controlled breath. If it weren't for her reassuring, maternal voice, Maris's stepmother might be downright creepy. He slipped the gun back into his jeans, pulled his flannel shirt down over it, then stepped out into view.

  Genny, looking totally unruffled and amazingly awake considering it was three-thirty in the morning, motioned him toward the kitchen.

  Tom watched the gentle sway of her denim skirt as she walked away. She was tall, nearly six feet he'd guess, and her long, dark gray braid swished from side to side against her back. She looked regal, and with her slightly bronzed skin tone, he could definitely see traces of the Cherokee heritage Maris had told him about.

  The round kitchen table was covered with a blindingly bright red and purple checked cloth. She pulled out a chair for him. He sank into it, feeling strangely unsettled, like he was being mind-manipulated again. He shook his head and forced himself to stay clear.

  She poured coffee into two stoneware mugs, rummaged through the cabinet above the stove, pulled down a bottle of Jack Daniels, and poured a generous dram into both coffees. Then she set one in front of him, and sipped from the other as she lowered herself into a chair across from him.

  "I'm sure you neither slept nor took the herbs I left for you. So when all else fails, I find that a little southern whiskey warms the insides."

  He stared at the dark brew in the mug, then at her.

  She smiled, her teeth even and white. Tanned crow's feet creased her face. "If I were going to poison you I don't believe I would have poured myself some, too, would I have?" She raised her mug and sipped again at the spiked coffee. "Go on. Drink. Without sleep you need something to fortify you."

  Meeting her gaze in challenge, he picked up his own mug and downed a couple of healthy swallows. His eyes watered as the hot coffee and the burning whiskey scalded his throat and settled like a small lump of flame in his stomach. It began to work almost immediately, spreading out through his veins like magma. By the time he'd finished half the mug, the fire had simmered into a nice warm glow.

  "Now then," Genny set her coffee down and took his good hand in hers, "I may be able to help you if you'll let me."

  "How?"

  "You're feeling lost, confused. Not sure where to turn or how you came to be here."

  "How do you know any of that?" He tried to pull his hand away, but she didn't let go.

  "I could be mysterious and remind you that I just 'know' things. But this time it's a little more practical than that. I'm simply a keen observer."

  At his raised eyebrows, she smiled again. "In the car I heard Maris say that the guard at the morgue knew you and wanted to kill you. The way she said it and the way you responded implied to me that you possibly don't know who you are, nor why the man would want you dead. You wear no jewelry, you carry no wallet—"

  He started to speak, but she held up a hand. "Like I said, I'm a good observer. There's no wallet in your back pocket where a man would typically carry one, nor do you have any identification in the pocket of Jerry Spengler's coat you're borrowing. It was hanging on the chair in the hall and I looked while you were hiding behind the door in the study. The fact that you don't even have your own clothin
g is another indicator that you're not in your element."

  He leaned back in his chair and drew in a shaky breath. Genny had the nasty habit of being able to fluster him, and he didn't damn well like it.

  "Don't look so shocked, love. Do you really think I'd entrust Maris's life to you without trying to find out something about who you are? Maris is as dear as any daughter could possibly be to me. I don't want to see her hurt. But," she patted his hand, "I can see in your eyes that she's become important to you, probably more important than you're willing to admit right now, and you'll do everything in your power not to harm her."

  His stomach clenched, and he thought again of Maris upstairs, bent over that chair. Christ. He swiped at a trickle of sweat on his forehead with the back of his arm and took another drink of coffee, hoping it would jar him back to reality.

  But after first one swallow, then another, he blinked his eyes and discovered he was still sitting across the brightly colored table from the woman who seemed to be able to see inside his soul.

  She watched him patiently, her dark eyes sparkling as if she'd seen something in him that he didn't know about. Then she rose from the table, retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniels and this time skipped the coffee and poured half his mug full of the straight stuff.

  "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

  She laughed at that, the sound earthy and mellow like a song carried on a breeze. "You're a big strong man. I'm sure you can hold your liquor just fine. However, you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, and while I don't normally condone drowning one's troubles in the bottle, it does indeed have its time and place."

  She sat back down, this time in the chair next to him, and met his gaze head on. "Now, will you let me help you if I can?"

  He took a gulp of the straight whiskey and this time it felt like white-hot flame going down. "How?"

  "Meditation."

  He narrowed his eyes at that…although it didn't sound as odd as it might have fifteen minutes and a couple of rounds of whiskey ago. "I'm not into new-age hocus-pocus."