A Keeper's Truth (26 page)

“You are
rotten to the core,” I say when he’s done. “There’s an entire pant size in that
bowl.”

“Just for
us.” Bryce grins and we lean over the granite, clutching silver spoons to dive
in.

“Hmm, this
is really, really yummy.”

Within
minutes we’re clashing spoons, playfully fighting over a bit of banana. With a
chuckle Bryce surrenders, scooping the piece onto my spoon and topping it with
whipped cream. “All yours,” he says.

I shove
the entire spoonful into my mouth and hum through cream-covered lips.

“Whipped
cream,” mumbles Bryce, reaching to skim my upper lip with his thumb. My breath
catches and his pupils set fire. A low grumble trembles in his throat as the
tip of his thumb slips between my slightly parted lips, grazing bottom teeth,
and I lick sweet cream from his finger.

His smile
vanishes, the muscles in his jaw locking.

Another
pass of his thumb has me quivering, burning to feel his lips on mine.
Goosebumps prickle my skin, the sudden temperature in contrast to the chill of
ice cream dripping down my wrist from the spoon suspended in midair.

“I could
love you,” he says.

Bryce’s
words echo in the darkness,
love you, love you, love you
 . . .

The spoon
tumbles to the granite, the tinkling on an endless rampage while I plummet
through the black abyss on a slow spiral. Flames lick my neck and face. I see
flashes of my wedding day, the birth of my daughter, holidays with Meyer. The
inferno rips through my insides, devouring everything in its path, leaving
bitter heartbreak to bubble to the surface.

“You have
no right to say that,” I say, pushing away from the island.

Bryce’s
hand drops to the countertop with a thump. “You should be loved.”

“I am
loved—I was. I fell in love, married, and we were happy.” I hurl the
words like they’re objects to inflict pain. “We were supposed to grow old together.”

Bryce
looks away. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The weight
on my chest is so heavy I can hardly stand it. Melted ice cream forms odd
shapes across the countertop, playing games with the unbearable pressure in my
head.

“I have to
go.” I turn for the door.

“Please
don’t.” Bryce steps close. There is no trace of a smile left on his face.

For an
instant guilt shakes me. I’m not the only one to have loved and lost. The
moment passes and I leave, sucking drips of ice cream from my arm as I bound
down the hall. When I reach for my coat, Bryce’s intense stare follows my every
move. I tuck my jacket to my chest, debating how to say goodbye. Vision hazy, I
pull my scarf from the coat rack and reach for the door.

“Wait,”
says Bryce, catching me full stride, his thick arm holding me tight.

As one we
fall back against the elaborate wood trim. My body feels weightless, suspended,
my red heels barely touching the ground. My coat, clutched in one hand, hangs
to the floor. In my head I’m struggling to pull free, to escape, but my body
defies me, snubbing instruction for the feel of Bryce’s body pressed close. The
air around us hums, electrified, intensifying as time ticks on.

“I can’t
let you go,” he whispers. “Not this time. Please don’t go.”

“Free
will,” I say, voice cracking.

He loosens
his grip. “You’re stealing my favorite scarf.”

I look
down to see autumn spun into thick braids: Bryce’s scarf. The sight sends tiny
needles to perforate my rage.

“So I am.”
I wrap the scarf around my neck.

“Stay with
me,” he whispers.

Bryce
gently prods taut muscles, releasing my grip on my coat. It drops to the floor,
and he loosens his hold with the caution of someone expecting a jolt. But I
can’t move. Not while his intoxicating scent combined with sweet cream and wine
coddles live nerve endings and his heart pounds through the back of my knit
sweater.

I close my
eyes as his warm lips touch my neck, every brush pushing heartache further out
of reach.

“Stay.”
His tongue follows the contour of my ear.

A
tempestuous shiver runs through me.

“I can’t.”

Meticulous
fingers unbutton my sweater. “You can,” he says, purring seduction. He places
soft kisses on my neck, behind my ear, filling my head with sexually explicit
imagery. My sweater slips to the floor.

“It’s my
choice.” I stretch—an invitation to taste.

“Um, hmm.”
His mouth explores my skin, and he groans.

The low
rumble in his chest feeds the fever that grows within me with every ragged
breath. I squirm, clinging to the ends of the scarf.

Sweet
mother of . . . this feels . . . oh my.

I surrender.

My bra
hits hardwood and subtle fingers dust over skin that prickles in anticipation.
He caresses me as if reminiscing over every plane and recess, playing beyond
the boundaries of fabric, increasingly brazen with every stroke. His mouth
becomes savage, his heavy breathing creating erotic waves that lap between my
legs. Somewhere in a distant realm of my consciousness screams a voice, my
voice, asking if I’ve lost my mind.

Ignore it
, my body
screams.

My skirt
falls and Bryce shifts to the faint rustle of material, his sweater being
pulled over his head. The feel of his bare skin on mine sends me into an
uncontrollable tailspin, my entire body arching against his. My blood boils,
the lace underwear and scarf too much to wear in this heat.

“Don’t,” he
says, stopping me from removing his scarf.

Entangling
his fingers with mine, he pins them to the doorframe, compressing every inch of
our naked bodies. Lace is no longer between us. I push into him, starving to
get closer. He’s hot, hard, and large against my lower back. Bryce moans,
primitive, and my knees buckle in response. His fingers run down my front and
between my slick thighs, the contact making me desperate, needy.

Ah. Oh.
Ohhhhhh
.

Something
Bryce mentioned weeks ago comes to mind, something about Keepers and their
ability to control cell temperature to kill disease. The worry is wiped from my
mind as carnal sounds—embarrassing sounds—fly from my throat, and
his play gets rough, turning the frenzied burn into a rage that pumps on the
borderline of agony. My hands hurt in his, but my protest gets lost in the feel
of his tongue, and when his teeth grab my earlobe, I gasp for air.

Please
is an
inch from my lips when Bryce jacks up my leg and pushes into me.

I cry out.

We move
together, the wood echoing vehement cries of passion. Teeth nip my skin, the
sensation a lightning bolt of pleasure. His body commands and directs, reveling
in the power to shatter me from the inside out.

And if he
stops, I’ll beg.

Don’t
stop. Don’t stop!

He doesn’t
stop.

I push into
him with all my strength. The blaze devours the last of my control, and I
explode, a consuming submission that radiates through my core, vibrating my
extremities. My insides pump, nails dig into Bryce’s hands. And Bryce releases
with a groan, a deep, pulsating heat I feel over my own.

The weight
of his sculpted body falls heavy onto mine as he rides tremors, chest heaving,
his stubble scraping my shoulder.

Our bodies
hold tight to each other, rooted, motionless. Nothing but the sound of
relentless panting fills the air. Slowly my mind climbs from the depths and my
breathing stumbles upon a tenable pace. My legs ache, fatigued from pushing
over two hundred pounds of muscle into the doorframe, and my hands throb
between his and the solid walnut.

Bryce loosens
his grip but he doesn’t let go.

“Stay with
me,” he whispers.

Stay with
me
 . . .
stay with me
 . . .
stay with me
 . . .

I close my
eyes as the realization of what I’ve done sinks in. The world around me begins
to shatter, and my mind, taking control, bellows angst. Emotions erupt, panic
at hand.

Bryce
takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

Worry is
replaced by desire.

“Choose
me, us.” He scoops me into his arms.

I kiss him
back. Hard.

And I
surrender my soul as he carries me to his bed.

I
cover my
eyes, protecting them from the relentless sun that gleams in from the windows
beside my bed. Then drop my arm when I realize the room is piercingly dark. My
head clears. I smell Tess all over me. Thankful she can’t see my corny smile, I
reach for her.

“Tess?”

I’m the
only one in my bed.

I call
out, hoping she’s in the john, but no one answers and the lights are out. Where
is she? She wouldn’t have left, would she? I’d have felt her slip away. Surely
I would have heard her.

“Tess?”

I grunt
and roll over. My hands ache, wanting to touch her. I curse the blackness and
for a split second fantasize Tess is here, her silken hair across my sheets,
mesmerizing green eyes heavy, earth-shattering smile, but in a blink the vision
is gone and I’m in bed alone.

A glutton
for punishment, I inhale deeply, tasting her on my tongue. Muscles tense and
blood pumps heavy through my veins, making me hard and agitated.

Maybe
she’s downstairs.

I spring
from the bed, driving my toes into the plush carpet while I fumble through my
tousled hair, attempting to look half decent, like I didn’t just have the best
night of my life. I give up, I look thoroughly worked over and it’s awesome.

I throw on
some boxers and call for her from the top of the stairs. “Are you in the
gallery?” It’s dark, the lights out. I’m totally confused. She wouldn’t leave,
not without waking me, not without saying goodbye, would she? Why?

I take the
stairs, three at a time, flicking lights on as I go. She’s not in the gallery.
Or the kitchen.

Bloody
hell.

Her coat
is gone and my scarf is back on the coat rack.

She left.

I don’t
understand.

I fall
against the doorframe, thoughts of her all too clear, thoughts of her naked, in
my arms, in my mouth, under my skin. I rub my eyes with the meaty part of my
palms, trying to get control of my body. It wants her, bad. I want her. Now
that I’ve found her, I can’t imagine my life without her. Why would she leave?
Did I do something wrong?

She must
have been overwhelmed and needed space.

The sun
hasn’t risen but I can’t go back to sleep. I need a distraction. I’m restless.
I’ve got to move, to burn, to pound something. On my flight to the basement, to
the gym, I stop short at my cell on the kitchen buffet. I want to call her,
hear her voice, see her again.

After a
delusional moment, I joggle my head clear. I can’t call her this early. I have
to be patient. Cool. The cell practically leaps into my hand. I put it back
down.

“Christ, I
can at least wait until morning.”

A couple
of deep breaths help me muster focus, but the smell of Tess, of sweet sweat
encouraging the flow of testosterone takes over and my focus survives all of
three minutes.

This
woman—this amazing woman—has turned me inside out.

Twenty
hours later
I am going stir crazy. I’ve lost count of the
number of messages I’ve left for Tess, not one returned. I lay in bed, toiling
over each and every detail of our night together, plagued with guilt. Her every
word, every expression, tortures me. What have I done? I’ve blown it, that’s
what I’ve done. I found her, finally found the woman of my dreams, and I messed
up. She wasn’t ready. Maybe she didn’t hear me say she couldn’t get pregnant,
that Keepers choose when to reproduce. Maybe I should’ve been clearer. I
shouldn’t have . . . What was I thinking?

“I wasn’t
thinking, and that’s the problem.” The dark is a silent audience.

What
happened to all my control? For months I’ve managed to keep my paws to myself,
and the one time I get her alone, the first time she lets me in, I screw up.

I thought
she wanted me, needed me to prove how I feel about her in more than just words.
Maybe I was wrong.

“Fuck,” I
shout, hoping to dissolve the bitter taste of regret. It’s a vulgar word, a
term I never use. Instead of making me feel better, it pricks like a thorn,
making me miserable and conjuring images of her naked body pressed to mine, the
feel of her touch. I moan and the smell of her fills my lungs. I roll onto the
other side of the bed with a boner from hell.

Next to
wanting Tess, the only thing I want is some sleep, a reprieve from visions of
our future, our past, and the mind-boggling lust destined to overtake me. I
grab the clock and throw it across the room, tired and frustrated.

Some way,
somehow, I’ve got to get Tess to talk to me. I’ll plead for another chance, beg
for forgiveness.

She’ll
give me another chance.

She’s got
to.

Eight
hours later
I’m swiping at icicles, pacing at her front door.
I can’t imagine she’d tolerate twenty minutes of ringing, so she’s either not
home or she’s much more upset with me than I thought. I shimmy the flowers
through the door handle. My boots leave tracks in the new-fallen snow as I trek
to the back of the house to peek in the garage. Her car is not there.

I think my
persistence might be making matters worse. I need to back off. It’s not going
to help if she thinks I’m out of control, stalking her, suffocating her. Maybe
she just needs time. I can give her that.

Ten hours,
twenty-four
minutes, and nineteen seconds have passed since my
last shot at reaching Tess. My cell is in pieces across the kitchen floor. I’m
pacing like a madman. I can’t even bring myself to think about Valentine’s
anymore. The most amazing date of my life is now nothing but an over-analyzed
blur. Moments lumped into categories I’ve literally written on paper, blocked
into squares with titles like
freaked her out
,
worried her
,
aroused
her
,
made her smile that smile
.

There’s a
bang at the door.

“Would you
like me to get that, sir?”

I abandon
my list. “I’ve got it, Clause, thank you.”

I know who
it is.

I open the
door and a bouquet of white daises is thrust into my chest, the force sending
me reeling back.

“What the
hell did you do to her?” roars Thomas.

I stare at
the flowers strewn across the floor. There aren’t words to say what I did to
her.

“Speak,
Bryce. Tell me before I lose what little control I have over my temper.”

“I don’t
know what happened.” I lean against the door jam.

Thomas
points at the mess on the floor. “You gave her flowers. What did you do that
requires groveling?”

“None of
your business. And how did you—”

“None of
my business, are you fucking kidding me? None of my business?” He takes a few
steps, boots mashing delicate white petals. “She’s gone, Bryce. Gone!”

“What do
you mean? Gone where?”

Thomas
holds the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger like mother does,
squeezing his eyes shut with a malevolent grunt.

“She left.
She packed Abby’s and her stuff and took off.”

I try to
absorb this.

“She
wouldn’t just leave.”

The
umpteen times she’s stormed out on me blend together to form an abominable
picture. Her need to run from me is innate, a product of her history, our
history, a natural defense.

“Shit, I
should’ve known. I—I didn’t think she’d . . .”

“She would
and she did,” seethes Thomas. “I warned you. I told you she wasn’t ready. I
said this would happen and you didn’t listen. You wanted what you always want,
to get laid.”

“It’s not
like that. We have something—”

“Bullshit,
Bryce. That’s how you play. Did you finally get what you wanted? Is that why
she left? Did you push her too far?” What he can’t see in my eyes he can read
in my head. “Fuck,” he spits.

This can’t
be happening. Our night together, it wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t just leave.

“How do
you know she’s packed and left town? Maybe she’s just out for the day.”

“She hasn’t
returned my calls and her car’s been gone since yesterday,” says Thomas,
pulling a hand through thick curls, one of many physical features that set us
apart. “And I wanted to know what the hell was going on.”

I stare at
him. “Unbelievable. You broke into her house?”

“Don’t you
dare lecture me on ethics. Her luggage is gone, along with most of their
clothes. She doesn’t plan on returning anytime soon.”

“I need to
find her,” I mumble in shock.

“You’ve
done enough. Go away. Eventually she’ll come home and I’ll be here for her.
I’ll make her happy. I’ll keep her safe.”

I glare at
my brother. As if I could move and leave Tess. As if I could forget.

“I have to
find her.” A thought prickles. “She could be in danger. If he followed her, if
the lost soul—”

“He didn’t.
Why on earth would he go after her?”

“You know
why.”

Thomas
swipes an invisible irritant, dismissing the comment. “It was random. He had
his fun, his fill with the
MacKinnen
girl. There’s no
reason for him to pursue Tess. He split.”

I think
about this for a moment.

“Thomas,
why would he ransack her house?”

Thomas
shrugs. “She piqued his interest in the café. Maybe he was attracted to her,
liked her, and lost it when he got to the house and saw she had a husband and
kid. I’m sure that’s it. It sucks that Sonia was killed, but it proves the
douche got what he wanted and moved on.”

Thomas
might be right, but still, I need to find Tess, just in case. But where would
she go? Would she go back to Florida?

“She must
have gone to stay with her in-laws.”

“Bryce,
not everyone runs to their mommy and daddy. You don’t know
her, so don’t
even try to act like you do.”

“Where
else would she go?” I say as Thomas looks away, stepping toward the open door.
I reach for him and sense it immediately. “Tess isn’t in Florida. Why Paris,
Thomas?”

Thomas
jerks forward, easily releasing my grasp. “Her brother is there. And his
girlfriend just left him.”

I would
remember Tess mentioning this. She talked about Stephen less than twenty-four
hours ago, at dinner. I study Thomas, prodding the sudden blockade in his mind.
“How do you . . .?”

Thomas
turns quickly. “It’s irrelevant,” he says. “Leave her be.”

I feel it,
but can’t believe it. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“Shut up.
Of course I did. I wanted to know where she went.”

This is
the kind of behavior that gets Thomas into trouble. He’s impulsive, intrusive.

“It’s bad
enough you broke into her house, but to read her email—”

“Just
leave her alone.” He kicks the doorframe.

“I need to
find her.”

“You need
to fuck off.” His hands ball into fists. “She’ll come home when she’s ready.
And when she does, you’ll be long gone.”

That is
enough
.

“I’m in
love with her, Thomas.”

“Bullshit!”

“It’s not.
I didn’t intend to hurt you, I would never—”

“Stay away
from her or I’ll—”

“You’ll
what?” I yell back. “You can’t keep me away from her. And you have no right to
try.”

Thomas
kicks the door again. “She is mine,” he growls. He turns and storms out,
slamming the door behind him.

I should
follow him. I should set him straight right now. I should knock his self-serving
block off and finish this argument once and for all. I should, but I don’t.

I slam the
door.

I need to
find Tess. Now.

Eleven
hours ago
Thomas stomped out of here, and I locked myself in
my office on a quest. I’m crashing from an adrenaline high mixed with limited
shut-eye, yet I can’t pry myself from the chair. I’ve called airlines, hotels,
rental car companies, and when hysteria set in I pulled friends and family into
the frenzy. All my talents as a Keeper, all my connections, and I can’t find Tess
or her brother Stephen.

Something
is wrong. Seriously wrong. I feel it in my bones.

My new
phone rings and I dive for it. “Tess?”

“Son,
please sit.” My father’s tone has me frantic before my ass even hits the floor.
“I have yet to locate your lady’s brother, but,” he pauses, hesitant, “there is
a Jane Doe at
Pitie-Salpetriere
.”

I swallow
the silence in one lump.

“It could
be anyone.” My hands are trembling. My father wouldn’t call me with this news
if he didn’t think . . .