by Nina Bruhns
He let her move her hands long enough to pull the bra off completely, but afterwards returned her to the task of holding up her hair, and he returned to her breasts. His fingers moved over her, stroking her, kneading her, pinching the aching crowns until she cried out from the pleasure.
"Take off your shirt," she gasped, craving the sight of him, needing to feel her lover's bare skin next to hers.
Before she could blink, his shirt was off and his hands back on her, dipping down to the edge of her panties.
"I want you naked," he whispered, and tugged them off.
She leaned back into him, rubbing up against his chest, savoring the feel of his coarse hair and the hard ridge of him at her back. Unable to resist, she let her hair fall and reached behind to undo the button of his jeans. Then she felt for the zipper tab.
His tongue licked up her neck. "Do you want me?"
"Yes," she breathed, and pulled at the tab. It took a few tries and several low groans from him before she got the zipper down past the unyielding obstruction in its path to set it free.
"Enough!" he growled, and lifted her hands away. He kissed her palms and placed them behind her neck, arrest-style. But she had other ideas. She reached back to grasp his head, burying her fingers in his raven hair.
Strands of black tumbled about her face as she turned her face to meet his lips. His mouth devoured hers, sweet and demanding. She felt him push his jeans down his thighs.
"Keep watching," he commanded, pinning her with the intensity of his hot-blooded gaze, then with shaking fingers turned her back to face the mirror.
He slid between her legs from behind, long and thick, driving her mad with the need for completion.
His fingers searched her out, testing and probing. The breath caught in her lungs. A fingertip slid over the center of her need and she gasped.
"So wet," he murmured, circling over her. "So hot."
Rough, needy moans filled the air and she had no idea if they were his or her own. It didn't matter. She wanted him now.
"Just for you, Tyree. No one else," she whispered.
"Watch," he commanded one last time.
She pried her eyes open as he raised her up and thrust into her.
She came apart in a shuddering, quaking torrent that ripped through her body like a tornado. Around and around it crashed through her, tossing her emotions about like helpless sparrows.
She didn't know when or how, but suddenly she was lying down and he was on her. In her. Pounding in and out, making the tumult jolt to life all over again. She held on to him for dear life, wrapping his waist with her legs, his neck with her arms, wishing she could as easily capture his heart.
One, two, three more tremendous thrusts, and then his guttural roar echoed through the room, blending with her cry of complete surrender.
The pleasure went on forever, her own heart filling to the brim with the achingly sweet emotion of their minds and bodies becoming one, and all she could think was, how would she ever, ever give this man up?
* * *
Chapter 13
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He felt warm.
Tyree came to that startling realization as he and Clara lay snuggled together in the high four-poster, contemplating the unattractive thought of getting up for supper.
He never felt warm.
He never felt cold, either, for that matter. His body adopted the ambient temperature around him, taking neither comfort nor discomfort in that physiological condition. It simply was.
But there was no mistaking it, a glow of warmth was seeping into him from neck to ankle, wherever Clara's naked body pressed against his.
With a sense of wonderment and a frisson of fear that he had somehow miraculously regained the ability to dream and would wake up the second he moved, he pulled her a tad closer. Which wasn't easy, considering she was already draped over him like a spent sail over a yardarm.
"I don't ever want to leave," she murmured, burrowing closer.
"Me, neither." He would stay here, exactly like this, for all eternity if he could.
She sighed. "Mrs. Yates will be waiting supper, wondering where we are."
"I doubt it." Mrs. Yates wasn't as innocent as she looked. He'd learned that the hard way on many an occasion. "She's probably puttering around in the kitchen rubbing her hands with glee that her plan worked."
Clara lifted her head and peered up at him. "Plan?"
He gave her a wry smile and placed a kiss on her forehead. "I think she set us up."
"Deliberately?"
"Why else would she ask you to stay and install you in my bedroom against strict orders about women on the estate?"
"Because she knew I have a thing for pirates and you have a thing for dressing up like one? Probably figured it was a match made in heaven."
"Hmm."
"Funny how with age comes wisdom."
He barely stopped himself from choking. "Sometimes." He himself was a glaring argument against that theory.
She gazed up at him with all the contentment of a well sated woman. "You don't think we're a match made in heaven?"
Damn. This conversation was veering into dangerous territory. "Sweeting," he said lightly, stroking his hand down her back and over her hip, "I think you're as heavenly as a woman could possibly be."
With that he rolled her under him again and captured her mouth with a long kiss. Hoping she'd forget.
"But you don't think we're a match?" she persisted when he let her up for air.
Damn, damn, damn. "Love—"
"What would you do if I said I wanted to stay? With you, at Rose Cottage?"
He swallowed heavily and buried his nose in the softness of her hair. Breathed in its flowery scent. "You don't mean that."
"But what if I did?"
It was all Tyree could do not to jump up and bellow with rage and smash every piece of furniture in the bungalow to bits. His heart was ready to explode with the unfairness of it all. He thought he'd been living a hell on earth for the past two hundred years, but that hell was nothing, nothing like the one he was living through at this moment. Knowing she might be falling in love with him. And having to trample every hope in her heart that he could reciprocate.
He quashed the embers of warmth in his body and soul, and forced himself to say, "I couldn't let you stay."
She went very still under him.
He battled the impulse to crush her to him and tell her he hadn't meant it, that it was all a mistake, that there was nothing on earth he wanted more than for her to stay with him. Instead, he remained silent.
Unless a miracle happened, he'd be disappearing soon. Dead for real, forever. Gone to some unknown destiny in yet another unknown dimension. Hopefully to meet up with Sully once again. So he could beat the living crap out of him.
Clara gave him a peck on the cheek and said unevenly, "I understand."
She didn't. There was not a chance she could even begin to understand. But what could he do? He didn't blame her for not believing in his undead state. No sane living person would. But then how could he possibly explain what was about to happen to him? Why he had to break her heart, and his own, while every fiber of his being screamed in protest?
He could lie.
Or he could simply pretend that all the hideous things she was thinking about him were actually true.
Live up to his reputation. Become the greedy, heartless, womanizing Blackbeard of Magnolia Cove everyone thought him to be. He sighed heavily. He'd tried that once, the afternoon in the cemetery, without much success.
Besides, he probably didn't need to convince her any more than he had just done. And until he was able to break this wretched curse and figure out a way to stay with her, he knew he must not try to redeem himself in her eyes. For her sake. Because there was no guarantee he would succeed. In fact, chances were depressingly slim that in two short days he could find a way to alter the laws of the universe and redirect the hand of fate.
* * *
Tyree wa
s once more fairly certain Clara would never speak to him again in this lifetime. Mrs. Yates shot him an inquiring look as the two women prepared supper, referring, he was sure, to Clara's unrelentingly cheerful demeanor while she pointedly ignored him leaning there against the kitchen counter.
Luckily, he was saved by Jake Santee, who phoned just before they were to sit down to eat. The arson inspector asked for Clara, and Tyree wondered briefly how he'd gotten the phone number. But her first words, "I was afraid of that," knocked the question right from his mind.
"You aren't going to believe it," she said after she'd hung up from the five-minute conversation, the whole while Tyree wanting to yank the receiver from her hand and demand to know what was going on. Patience had never been one of his virtues.
"So tell us," he gritted out, the little he possessed having long since fled. He hadn't liked her tone of voice talking to Santee, all soft and feminine and hanging on to his every word. Almost as if she were flirting with the man.
"The house that burned today on Angel Island," she announced. "Our guy got another Thom Bowden painting."
"So our theory's really been proven," he said with satisfaction. "Now someone can contact other painting owners and hopefully prevent any more fires."
"But guess what, that's not all. The people owned a Davey Scraggs diary, too. And it's missing!"
That snapped him to full attention. "You're kidding."
"The owner is all upset. It was his prize possession because it mentioned an incident involving one of his ancestors. A rather interesting passage according to Jake."
He swallowed a sneer at her use of the inspector's first name. "Is that so?" he managed.
"Remember the cabin boy? The one on the Sea Sprite who fell overboard? Well, he was the ancestor."
"I had no idea he married," Tyree mumbled, flicking imaginary crumbs off the counter as he considered this newest development.
He felt Clara stare at him. "Who? The cabin boy?"
He nodded. "I tried to keep track of everyone." He crossed his arms. "So what did Jake want from you?"
"He wanted to know if I've heard about any other Davey Scraggs diaries out there. They're going back to the other fire victims, too, to ask if they had one."
He frowned. "Yeah?"
"What do you think it all means?" asked Mrs. Yates, setting the supper dishes on the table.
"That the arsonist is after more than just the paintings?" Tyree mused. "Or perhaps… What if his real objective is actually Davey's journals?"
Clara looked at him incredulously. "As in, he's not setting the fires to cover up stealing the paintings, he's really taking the paintings to cover up stealing the diaries?"
"Or she."
She snorted. "Right. Isn't that a bit David Mamet for Magnolia Cove?"
"Maybe," he said with a half smile.
"Besides, he didn't take the diary from the Pryce-Simmons house," she reminded him. "You said he threw it in a corner."
"He threw it? Why would he do that?" Mrs. Yates asked.
Tyree pursed his lips. "He was angry."
"Over what?"
They all contemplated the steaming supper dishes, but none made a move to serve up the food.
"Same reason he was angry enough to set the fires," Clara said.
"The book wasn't what he expected to find."
"Right. And if that was the case, what exactly had he expected to find?" she asked.
Tyree's eyes met hers. "A different book?"
"Or … a different diary?"
He nodded slowly as things clicked into place. "Aye. That makes sense. The question is, which one? And why?"
* * *
"We need to find out how many of those journals there are left and who has them," Tyree said, pacing back and forth while Clara finished up the supper dishes. Mrs. Yates had left for her quilting circle, so they were alone in the kitchen.
"I'm sure Jake and Captain Sullivan are on it," Clara said. After the brief thaw inspired by Santee's phone call, she'd reverted to her earlier cool treatment.
He felt a burst of panic. He had to get her back. And he had to figure out what the arsonist was really up to. The problem was, he had no earthly idea how to do either, and each one depended upon the other.
"They don't have our resources," he argued. If he could get her to work on tracking the diaries with him, maybe he could break down her resolve to keep him at arm's length. And at least get back in her good graces.
"Our resources?" She wrung out the sponge in the sink with what he considered unnecessary force. "I'm sure you meant your resources. I have nothing to do with this, nor do I wish to."
He reached for her. "Clara, love—"
She brandished the wet sponge like a weapon. "Don't. From the first second I saw you, I've been acting like a fool, but this is where it ends."
His chest tightened. Plucking the sponge from her fingers, he tossed it into the sink and grasped her shoulders. "Please, don't say that. I don't want to lose you. Not like this."
"You've made it clear what you want, and it's not the kind of relationship I'm interested in."
He couldn't argue. It wasn't what he wanted, either. But what could he do to convince her? Anything he said would only land him deeper in the mire. Anything he did would simply convince her he only lusted after her body. Which was true enough. But he lusted after all of her. Not just the physical part.
"You're wrong," he said, and with effortless ease scooped her up and hoisted her over his shoulder.
For a second she froze, then started kicking the air and pounding his back with her fists. "Put me down you great marauding oaf!" she cried.
"Nay," he answered with equanimity, and headed for the stairs, making a quick detour through the living room to pick up her pile of work. "Right now, I need your mind. And I mean to have it."
"This is so not funny, Tyree! Put me down this instant!"
"Not a chance." If things weren't so serious, he might have grinned. This could be fun under other circumstances.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded.
He bounded up the stairs. "My office. First we have to find out where Davey's other journals are, and then we're going to go and talk with their owners."
The fists stilled and in an acerbic voice she asked, "How are you going to go talk to them if you're invisible?"
This time he did grin. She was mocking him. But he didn't care. "I'm not. You are."
"That's what you think," she spat out as he set her down in the middle of the oriental rug in his office.
He turned the old-fashioned skeleton key in the lock and deposited it in his jeans pocket—the front one—and dared her with a look.
She glared back. "This is kidnapping, you know."
"And your point is?"
"You're unbelievable," she muttered, flinging her hands out.
"Don't forget obnoxious and impossible."
"What do you want from me?"
Now, there was a trick question if ever he heard one. And the bravely veiled hurt in her voice was enough to bring him back to reality.
"Just relax and work on your article," he said. "I brought your stuff." He handed her the pile of books and papers from the living room. "Or, you could read through the rest of our diary and see if there's anything that might be relevant."
She looked at him uncertainly. "Really?"
He hiked a shoulder. "But only if you want to help."
He could tell she didn't want to be curious, but she couldn't help it. It was her nature. "All right, fine," she grudgingly relented. "I'll do it. But only because it could help my article."
Play it cool, he told himself. Don't give her a big hug. Not even a kiss on the forehead.
"Good," he said. "Let me know if you find anything." And in a supreme effort at self-control he took his seat at the computer and for the next two hours pretended to ignore her.
All in a good cause.
* * *
Clara tried to concentrate. Honestly
. But it was rough going when he was sitting in the same room. Tyree was working the keyboard like a man possessed, leaning in to examine the screen, letting out little sounds of impatience, occasionally grunting in satisfaction as he punched the Print button and the printer spit out some hard-earned bit of information.
She didn't want to be involved with any more of Tyree's schemes. She didn't want to be involved with Tyree. He'd hurt her so badly she could hardly stand to be in the same room with him.
Her own fault. She'd known all along he was a heartache waiting to happen. The worst part was she couldn't blame him. He'd always told her he wasn't in the market for a relationship. Next time, she'd listen to herself. And follow the rules.
Rule Number One: Stay away from handsome men in eye patches.
She just wished she didn't still want him so much. Or like him so much. No question, he was an insufferable Neanderthal. But every time he did something stupid, it always seemed to be in order to get close to her. How could a woman fault a man for desiring her that much?
However, bed was as far as he wanted to go. And for Clara, that simply wasn't enough.
The pain of his rejection swept over her again. Her mother had always said nothing good came of throwing yourself at a man. Boy, was she right. Tyree was the first man she'd ever done that with, and you could be damn sure it would be the last time she'd ever, ever make that mistake. Far too humiliating.
It did have one good effect, though. Her determination to win the Adventure Magazine writing contest doubled. A year-long trip around the world would go a long way to making her forget her hurt and embarrassment, and hopefully put an end to these impossible feelings that had crept into her heart while she wasn't looking.
With a renewed sense of purpose, she opened the diary and began to read. It didn't take very long to reach the part where Scraggs recorded what had happened at the Moon and Palmetto on that fateful night when Fouquet and St. James took each other's lives. She followed the action with fascinated interest, noting that Davey's version agreed even down to the smallest details with what Tyree had told her.