BRIDAL JEOPARDY (6 page)

Chapter Six

Craig Branson watched Stephanie’s security detail take off. When the car was out of sight, he crossed to the alley in back of her house and found her car missing.

They were tailing her, and either they had X-ray vision, or they had some other way to know which way she was going.

He clenched his teeth. There was no way to find out about
that
for sure until she came back.

Instead, he used his lock picks and went inside, then focused on the interior of the house, liking the mixture of antiques, comfortable chairs and sofas, and whimsical decorations.

She must like animals, because she had a lot of little ceramic, glass, wood and metal figures on the shelves among her books. He picked up a cat that looked as if it came from Mexico, stroking his fingers over the smooth, painted surface, half hoping that he’d pick up some impression of the woman herself. But he got no mental connection to her by touching any of her things.

He walked upstairs to her bedroom and stepped inside the room, loving the cool blue-and-white color scheme that reminded him of a beach cottage. His eyes zeroed in on the neatly made bed. Had John Reynard slept there with Stephanie? The thought of them naked in bed together made his throat close, and he fought to banish the image from his mind.

He wanted to linger in the bedroom, but he knew that was an invasion of her privacy.

A laugh bubbled inside him. An invasion of her privacy? Like getting into her mind? Well, that contact had invaded his privacy, too. A fair and equal invasion. He wouldn’t start off their relationship by looking through her underwear drawer.

The word
relationship
stopped him. He was making assumptions. But he knew they were valid. They were going to mean something to each other. Really, they already did.

Forcing himself to turn away from the bed, he went back to the living room and sat down in one of the easy chairs to wait for her return.

Forty minutes later, he heard a car pull up outside. When he heard the lock click, his whole body tensed, and he focused like a laser on the door.

Some part of him wondered if he had imagined the intimacy between them in the dress shop. The minute she stepped into the room, he could feel the air crackling between them. If she crossed to him...if he got up and crossed to her...

He ordered himself to put away that thought.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

“It was easy.”

He saw her lick her lips and knew that her mouth must be as dry as his.

The words she spoke weren’t the ones he wanted to hear. “Don’t touch me.”

He felt his gaze sharpen. “Afraid?”

“Yes. You should be, too.”

“Why?”

“Because...” She lifted one shoulder, apparently unwilling to put a warning into words.

He stayed where he was, but he knew that at any second he could change the rules between them by crossing the room to her, and there would be nothing she could do about it.

He felt tension course through him as he asked, “Where were you?”

“Like that’s any of your business,” she shot back.

When he kept his gaze fixed on her, she answered, “Visiting my father.”

“To ask if he was gambling again?”

She answered with a small nod.

“What did he say?”

“He denied it.”

“Which leaves you in an interesting position.”

Probably she’d been considering the same thing. Instead of pursuing that line of thought, she said, “I don’t appreciate finding you in here. Is this how you operate as a detective?”

“You’ve done some research on me?”

“Yes. I suppose you know that John Reynard has men following me around.”

“Yes. I came in here after they took off after you.”

She looked toward the closed venetian blinds. “They’re outside now. How are you going to get out of here?”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.” He cleared his throat. “Did they show up at your father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wonder how they knew where to pick you up?”

She swallowed. “I thought they might have some idea where I was going.”

When he stood, she tensed, obviously bracing for him to come to her and put his hands on her, which was what he’d longed to do since she walked into her house. But he was going to restrain himself, at least for now.

“Maybe we’d better have a look at your car.”

“My car?” she asked, obviously struggling to refocus.

“Yeah.” He stood up and crossed to the door from where she’d just entered. Looking back over his shoulder, he said, “Are you coming?”

Her face was grim as she followed him, staying a few paces back when he crossed the courtyard.

At the alley, he paused and looked around. They seemed to be alone. Quickly he approached her vehicle, stooped down and felt along the edge of the bumper, then continued around the side of the car. When he found what he’d been looking for, he felt a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance.

Turning, he held out a small plastic rectangle.

She took an involuntary step closer. “What is it?”

“A GPS tracking device.”

Her breath caught.

“They used that to follow you. That’s why they could sit out front and wait for you to drive somewhere.”

She shuddered. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Put it back.”

She swallowed hard. “Why?”

“So they’ll think you’re still here, even if you’re not.”

“But...”

He shook his head. “Let’s go back inside.”

She stepped away, giving him room as he entered the courtyard again, then the house.

Inside, they stood in the darkened room, a feeling of anticipation zinging between them.

“Sit down,” she said.

Fine, he thought. If she wanted to postpone the touching part, he’d give her some space—for now. But he could feel the need building inside him and knew that he couldn’t let it go forever. He needed to find out if he’d had some kind of psychotic episode back in her shop.

He canceled that thought. He wasn’t going to try to fool himself. He wasn’t leaving this house without touching her.

But for the moment he lowered himself into the chair where he’d been sitting when she arrived.

She took the sofa, her wary gaze on him.

“Do you believe your father about the gambling?”

“I think so.”

“Which leaves us with the question, why do you think those men showed up at your shop?”

“Do you think you can find out?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.” She dragged in a breath and let it out. “You think the man I’m going to marry is responsible for your brother’s death.”

“You’re not going to marry him,” he answered, punching out the words.

She reared back. “Why not?”

“You know why not.”

He’d issued a challenge. Before she could react, he was out of his chair and across the room. Pulling her to her feet, he wrapped his arms around her.

The shock of the contact made them both gasp. It was like the first time, only more intense. He knew she’d been going to ask him for information about John Reynard. Now she didn’t have to ask. It was in his mind for the taking. His import-export business was a front for bringing illegal goods into the country. He had insinuated himself into New Orleans society to make his place in the city invulnerable. He had men murdered when he thought that was the best course of action.

She moaned when she saw the pictures he’d seen of the man who had been buried in the swamp for twenty years.

“Sorry,” he said when words were almost impossible.

She’d told him she’d visited her father. He hadn’t known how the meeting had affected her. Now he felt her pain and her bewilderment at the way her parent had just treated her.

Was it always like that?
he asked.

Not as bad when my mom was alive.

I’d like to strangle him.

He’s a sad old man.

That’s charitable of you.

The conversation cut off as physical sensations made it difficult to focus on anything besides the two of them, the feel of his body pressed to hers and hers to his. Because both sets of sensations played through each of them.

She felt the insistence of his erection pressing against her middle, and at the same time he felt the way that part of him swelled with blood, making it difficult to form coherent thoughts.

He reached between them, cupping her breast, stroking his thumb across the hardened tip. The feel of her made him ache more painfully, and at the same time he felt her reaction, the pleasure of his cupping and stroking her and the way the sensations shot downward through her body to her center.

She gasped, rocking against him.

That’s the way it is for a woman.

Yes. And for a man.

The overlay of sensations—feeling his own arousal and hers—made it almost impossible to stand as they swayed together, clinging to each other for support.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a headache building, but he ignored it. The only thing he wanted to focus on was the woman in his arms.

He wrapped her more tightly in his embrace, closing his eyes and absorbing every sensation that they shared. He breathed in her delicious feminine scent and knew she was tuning herself to him with all her senses. Each thing they shared was magnified by the intensity of the doubled experience.

They were both breathing hard, and when she rocked her hips against his, he knew that they were heading for the bedroom. Or the sofa, because the bedroom was upstairs—too far away.

He had never felt this open to another human being.

That realization took him totally by surprise, shocking him to the marrow of his bones. All his life he had craved the closeness he had shared with his brother—searched for it—but what he felt now was more than he had experienced with Sam.

The enormity of that recognition was like a blow to his solar plexus. He dropped his hands, staggering away from Stephanie.

“Craig?”

He couldn’t answer her. Not in words and not with his mind. His head was spinning as he backed up, bumping into the wall and pressing his shoulders against the vertical surface to keep his balance.

She took a step toward him, but he managed to raise one hand to ward her away.

“Don’t.” His voice was a harsh croak.

Her face had turned pale. Another woman would have asked what had gone wrong. But she didn’t have to ask because she knew what had happened.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Not your fault.” He might have shaken his head, but the pain in his skull had flared to killer proportions.

Killer?

The thought had formed unbidden, but he knew it was close to the truth.

“You should sit down,” she murmured.

He staggered back to the chair and flopped into the seat, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. For long moments, he struggled for equilibrium.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that she was watching him.

“You came here thinking you knew what to expect,” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You were always looking for what you had with Sam.”

Again he answered in the affirmative.

“You and Sam were young.” She paused, then went on, “And there was no sexual pull between you.”

The statement hung in the air.

“Is it the sexual pull that brought us together?” she asked.

“It’s obviously part of it,” he answered, struggling to think clearly in the aftermath of the emotions that had churned through him.

“What was different about you and Sam?”

He fought to ground himself, to think about his relationship with his brother in a new way. It was a long time ago. Maybe he didn’t remember it exactly as it had been.

Slowly, thinking as he spoke, he said, “We talked with thoughts, but there were other things we could do. Like if we worked together, we could move things with our minds.”

“What do you mean?”

He glanced around the room and settled on the shelves along the opposite wall. “If we wanted to, we could pull a book off a shelf and drop it onto the floor without touching it.”

“You and I could try that,” she said, and he wondered if she was trying to get them on a different track.

“We just met today.”

“No—a couple of days ago at the reception,” she reminded him.

He made a huffing sound. “Yeah. There’s that. But we just danced around each other there.”

“Even so, we knew...something.”

“True. But I don’t think we’re...bonded tightly enough to do any...tricks.”

“I want to try,” she insisted, determination in her voice.

He shrugged. “Okay, you focus on a book you want to pull off the shelf, and I’ll try to help you.”

He watched her turn toward the shelves and look at the titles. “There’s a paperback of
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
That would be appropriate.”

“You liked it when you were a kid?” he asked.

“Yes. Did you?”

“I liked any books that took me away from the real world.”

“Well, that’s something we have in common.”

She walked to the shelves, found the book and pulled it a little way from the line of other books so they could both see it. Then she returned to her seat on the sofa and focused on the book. He could see the deep concentration on her face as she struggled to make something happen, and he tried to help her, giving her what he thought of as extra power. But there was no effect.

He saw sweat break out on her forehead and knew she was working as hard as she could, even though she wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. He kept up the effort to help her, but the effect was the same. Nothing.

She dragged in several breaths and sharpened her features, looking defiantly at him before turning back to the bookshelf.

Again he tried to help her, but it was clear she was only exhausting herself.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “We might be able to do it if we were touching. That was the way Sam and I started out.”

“If we touch, we won’t end up focused on books.”

He sighed. “You’re probably right.”

She took her lower lip between her teeth and then released it. “So why did we...open up to each other when we touched?”