by Karen Rose
She blinked. “What? Who?”
“Mike.” He said the name like it was a curse. “For touching you. He touched you.”
Her knees wobbled, relief making her dizzy. That she flattened her palms against his chest might have been for balance, but it wasn’t. He felt so good. So hard. And sensitive, his muscles shifting and jumping under her touch. The fire in his eyes blazed.
He liked this. She closed her eyes, overcome. He liked this. He wanted this.
He wants me. She slid her hands higher until she could link them behind his neck, emboldened at the shudder that shook him. “I have one question,” she whispered.
When she opened her eyes, she found he’d closed his, allowing her to look her fill. Tom Hunter was the most beautiful man she’d ever known. And he was holding her, hands on her sides, their bodies separate. Sweetly awkward, like a middle school dance. She wished he’d go higher or lower, but for now this was safe. For now this was enough.
He’d tensed again, though. Leaning up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, making him swallow, his hands tightening their grip.
“What changed?” she asked. “I need to know that I didn’t guilt you into this. I need to know that this is what you really want.”
He yanked at her then, pulling her flush against him. The breath rushed out of her on a moan, because he was hard everywhere. God, oh God.
Everywhere. She tightened her hold around his neck, lifting on her toes again to perfect the fit. “Yeah,” she breathed, “I guess this is what you really want.”
“It is.”
Please don’t be a dream. But she didn’t want to let him go long enough to pinch herself, so she wriggled closer, drawing a strangled groan from deep in his chest. Then his lips were on hers again, and this time there was no gentleness. Just raw want.
She could fall into this so easily. Too easily. But she pulled away, needing to know.
“What changed?” she whispered against his mouth.
“Everything and nothing. I wanted you. Wanted this.”
“Then what—”
He interrupted her with another kiss, hard and fast. Then his lips curved. She could feel his smile and it lightened her spirit. “What changed was me. Someone helped me take a good look at myself,” he murmured. “Showed me how I look at you.” His hands were on her back, roaming up and down restlessly. “Someone made me realize that I was being a fool and paying more attention to a calendar than to my own heart.”
Liza was going to bake that someone Dream Bars forever. “How do you look at me?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Indulge me. I’m . . .” Needy. Fragile. Vulnerable as hell. “I need to know.”
He pulled back far enough to meet her gaze, and in his she saw the truth laid bare. “I look at you like you’re the only thing I need to be happy. Is that enou—”
She pulled his head down and kissed him the way she’d always dreamed, hard and lush and a little indecent. Their mouths fit perfectly, their bodies aligning in just the right way.
Then his hands dipped lower, cupping her butt and lifting her off her toes like she weighed nothing at all. In three strides, he had her up against the wall, her legs wrapped around his hips.
He dropped his head to the curve of her shoulder and breathed her in. “Is this okay?”
She could feel him pulsing into her, and he was exactly how she’d fantasized. “Tell me this is real.”
He straightened, resting his forehead on hers. “It’s real. I promise.”
She took a moment to absorb the rush of emotions, the thrum of lust. “Then it’s better than okay. So much better.” And then she kissed him again.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, MAY 28, 7:05 P.M.
It really shouldn’t be this easy, DJ thought as he walked into Miss Stephanie Stack’s kitchen. She’d left her door unlocked.
People really should be more careful. Especially since she was now living alone. Her Facebook status was “Single,” and it was a new thing. An hour ago, she’d posted that she was planning to spend the evening “blissfully alone,” watching the TV shows that her ex had sneered at, then taking a bath with a glass of wine.
The soft sound of a laugh track floated through the air as he crept to the doorway to the living room. She was sitting on her sofa, watching TV, her back to him. On the table beside her were a half-empty package of Oreo cookies, a mostly empty glass of white wine, and a half-empty wine bottle. It appeared Miss Stephanie was getting a head start on the booze portion of the evening.
She was playing a game on her laptop. That her laptop was on would make this easier still.
He assumed that she’d have her class roster somewhere on her computer. Depending on where it was stored, he might not need her involvement at all. If it was part of a password-protected school-owned software package, he’d need to keep her around. If her list was a simple Word document on her hard drive, her assistance would not be necessary.
He’d planned for this, planned to keep her alive in case he needed her password. He had precut lengths of duct tape fixed to his jeans and his silenced pistol in his gloved hand.
A bandana obscured his face, except for his eyes. One of Smythe’s ball caps covered his newly bald head. He wasn’t giving the cops any more photos of him. The carpeted floor quieted the sound of his footsteps as he approached.
Miss Stephanie cried out once when he put the barrel of his gun to her temple, but he stifled what would have been a scream by slapping one of the pieces of tape over her mouth.
“Get up,” he said quietly.
She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide and petrified. She didn’t move, frozen in place. She was young, maybe in her midtwenties, with strawberry blond hair piled atop her head.
With his left hand, he took her laptop from her, placing it on the cushion at the end of the sofa. “Stand up. I don’t want to hurt you,” he lied. “Do what I say and I won’t.”
She finally obeyed, her body shaking like a leaf, her pleas muffled by the tape. Stowing his gun under one arm, he quickly taped her wrists behind her back, then pushed her to sit and restrained her feet.
He took a seat at the end of the sofa, gun in hand once again. Her laptop was new and shiny and weighed next to nothing as he rested it on his knees and opened her hard drive.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her start to wiggle, like she was planning an escape.
Sorry, sweetheart. It wasn’t her fault, of course. She was simply a teacher to the wrong kid. That wasn’t going to stop him from using her to get what he needed, though.
What he needed was access to Kowalski’s weapons stash, so what he needed was Kowalski’s—Excuse me, Anthony Ward’s—home address.
He pointed his gun at her face. “Don’t even think about it.”
She sagged, tears running down her cheeks and over the duct tape.
He typed roster into the laptop’s search box, but got nothing. Student yielded too much, but information gave him the file that he needed.
“Ward, Ward, Ward,” he muttered to himself. Anthony Ward Jr. was at the bottom.
Parents: Anthony (real estate developer) and Angelina (homemaker).
Allergies: None known.
Health concerns: None known.
Favorite color: Green.
Pets: Rottweiler named Lucky.
Well, that was particularly useful information. He needed to be prepared to drug the dog when he got there. Just in case.
And, finally, the pièce de résistance: Anthony Jr.’s home phone number and address.
DJ laughed, genuinely amused. “You can’t make this shit up.” He glanced at Miss Stephanie. “They live in Granite Bay, less than five miles from where I’ve been staying.”
He took a photo of her screen with his phone,
then closed the document and set the computer aside. Her nostrils flared as she watched him stand, hope flickering in her eyes.
“Sorry,” he murmured. Because he really was. She hadn’t spied on him like Mrs. Ellis had, or fought him like Mr. Smythe had. Or betrayed him like Nurse Gaynor had.
Or escaped and thrived like Gideon and Mercy had.
Stephanie Stack was just a first-grade teacher, who’d begun to shake her head, her “No, no, no” muffled by the tape.
At least he could make it quick. No need to make her suffer. He fired twice, checked her pulse, then went in search of something to drug Kowalski’s guard dog. Five minutes later, he had a six-month-old bottle of oxycodone and a pound of hamburger.
Finally something had gone to plan.
TWENTY-FOUR
GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, MAY 28, 7:30 P.M.
Tom ended the kiss and rested his cheek on the top of Liza’s head. His heart was pounding like it would come out of his chest. He felt giddy with relief and tightened his arms around her. It was like he’d been underground for years and had finally emerged to breathe fresh air.
She shifted her hips, and he groaned because, most of all, he was horny as hell. His body had been in stasis for so long. He’d desired her many times since they’d moved to Sacramento, but not like this. Not with this clawing, desperate need, like a raging river after the collapse of a dam.
“I want you,” he whispered and she made a noise so close to a whimper that his fingers flexed, digging into the firm muscles of her ass. “You have an amazing ass.”
She laughed. “Thank you. I must admit to having ogled yours a time or two.”
“Only a time or two?”
“A million times, or two,” she murmured.
His lips curved and he kissed her hair. “There are things I want to do with you—” He groaned again when she shivered hard, her hips lifting so that she was pressing against his erection. “Wait. Just . . . wait. I need to think.”
“No thinking. Time for doing.” She released her hold on his neck, slipping her fingers between them and unbuttoning three buttons before his brain reconnected to his mouth.
He gave her a short, hard kiss before turning from the wall where they’d been leaning.
“First door on the left,” she said huskily, then hummed when his feet stopped walking, his hips grinding against her of their own volition. “Mmm. You liked that.”
Tom didn’t think he was going to make it. “After,” he choked out.
She looked up at him with a frown. And a little hurt. “After what?”
“I think we should talk. Don’t you?”
Her lower lip poked out and he wanted to bite it. Just like he had every time she’d pouted since she was seventeen years old.
Now he could, so he did, tugging gently on her full lip with his teeth before following it up with a kiss that made her sigh dreamily. “You feel me,” he whispered against her now-upturned lips. “You know I want you. That I want this. But I want to do this right.”
She sighed again, put-upon. “Dudley Do-Right,” she muttered. “Fine.” She wriggled her hips again, trying to slide from his hold, but he was having none of that.
“Don’t go.” He punctuated his plea with another kiss. “Please.”
He lowered them both to the sofa until he sat with his head back against the cushion and she straddled him on her knees, his hands rubbing up and down her thighs restlessly.
She smiled down at him, her expression wicked. “I could talk like this for a while.”
He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his face. “I need to say a few things. I need you to hear me.”
She drew a breath and let it out, then sat back on his lap. “All right. I’m listening.”
“You said that you’ve . . .” He felt his cheeks heat, and his eyes narrowed because she was grinning at him like the spitfire she was. “What?” he demanded.
She swept her thumbs over his cheeks. “You’re blushing. It’s sweet.”
He rolled his eyes. “I am not sweet.”
“Oh, okay. You are mean.” She folded her hands in her lap, demurely waiting. Except for her eyes, which danced with an amusement that he hadn’t seen in a very long time.
I love you. He startled, not sure when “wanting her” and “longing for her” had become “loving her.” But the words were true. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. But he held the three words back. Not yet. He needed to say other things first. Important things.
“You said that you’ve loved me since you were seventeen.”
She abruptly sobered, his intent finally seeming to register. “I did.”
“I . . .”
She smiled ruefully. “You don’t have to say it, Tom. I’d rather you wait until you know it’s true than just say words back to me.”
“But that’s just it. I have loved you that long.”
Her smile dropped away, her expression instantly wary. “But?”
“It wasn’t like yours. Not then. Then, when I was twenty and you were seventeen, I knew I liked you. I knew I felt something for you.” He huffed an awkward laugh. “I wanted you?”
A new smile bloomed. Sheer delight. “You did? Back then?”
“I did. But you were seventeen and you were grieving and I would never have taken advantage of you that way.”
She traced his lower lip with her fingertip. “I know. But I have to say that knowing you wanted to is an ego boost.”
He winced. “I never meant to make you feel . . . less.”
“I know that, too.” She drew a deep breath and braced her shoulders. “And then?”
“Then you joined the army and I was pissed off.”
“I remember that.”
“You were eighteen and I’d planned something . . .” He felt himself blushing again, his embarrassment made worse by the way she was watching him with wide eyes.
“Something?” she prompted. “Something . . . sexual?”
“God,” he groaned. “Yes. I figured you were eighteen and I was still twenty and that I wasn’t going to be a pervert if I made a move. But then you said you were going away. That you’d already signed up. You didn’t tell me you were planning to do that.”
That final sentence came out more accusingly than he’d wanted it to. She winced now. “I’m sorry. If I’d known . . .”
“Yeah, well,” he grumbled. “I figured that you wouldn’t have done that if you’d felt anything, so I stowed it. Told myself we were friends. That you were like my sister.”
She looked horrified. “Shit.”
He laughed. “I never managed to convince myself of the sister part.”
“That’s good, at least. But the friend part stuck, huh?”
“It did. When you’d come home on leave, it was hard. I was hard,” he said ruefully. “I’d have to leave the room and go off by myself and say, ‘Just a friend,’ over and over until I was ready to come back out and be . . . well, presentable.”
She grinned again, her gaze dropping to his groin, where he was still hard as a rock and raring to go. “Oh? And did those moments alone involve anything else? Like . . . y’know, relief? And are you almost done talking?”
“Behave, brat.” He shook his head, but fondly. “When I was closer to twenty, yes, those little getaways sometimes involved me getting relief. As I got older, I got better at keeping you compartmentalized in the ‘friend’ box in my brain.”
She was serious again. “You’re good at compartmentalizing your emotions,” she murmured. “That’s how you survived an abusive father. I get that.”
For a moment he could only stare. Then he chided himself for being so surprised. She’d always known him better than anyone else. “I think you’re right.”
“The distance didn’t help. You graduated and g
ot drafted to Boston and I was deployed.”
“I worried about you all the time,” he confessed. “Those Skype calls were some of the only times I thought I could breathe.”
“And the other times?”
“When I was on the basketball court. In front of a crowd. Then everything else went away. But then, when you’d come home, I’d keep saying, friend, friend, friend. I knew it wasn’t true deep down, but over time it became a kind of truth. You know?”
“I know.” She hesitated. “And then you met Tory.”
He nodded. “She was bright and happy and, well, there. With me.”
“She made you happy,” Liza said, without an iota of envy or anger.
“She really did.”
Her fingertips brushed down his jawline. “I’m glad you had her. I’m glad she made you happy. I hope you can believe that I’ve never been glad that she died.”
“I know,” he said without hesitation. “You couldn’t. It wouldn’t be you.”
Her smile was tremulous. “I must say, though, the day you met her was not my favorite day.”
He remembered the flash of hurt in her eyes. How could he have missed it? How could he have compartmentalized his feelings to such a degree that he’d been so clueless? “I guess not.”
“I got off the call with you and went to the PX and got an entire quart of ice cream and ate it all myself.”
“Rocky road?”
She made a face. “No. It was mint chocolate chip. One of my friends found me eating it and weaseled some of the story out of me. She encouraged me to get serious with Fritz.”
So they had arrived at act two of the program. “Fritz.”
Her smile was sad. “Friedrich was his given name. His mom loved Little Women. Her favorite character was Jo, who ends up married to Friedrich, who she calls Fritz. He had such a nice family. My Fritz, not the book Fritz.”
Tom swallowed, trying to loosen the clench of his jaw.
“He was my Fritz,” she said quietly. “He was kind and I did love him.”
Tom swallowed again. “I know.”