Dead on the Dance Floor (18 page)

“You must have been angry when he walked out on you—all because of a broken ankle.”

“I was too young to be really angry. Too naive. He was long gone before I ever realized he'd reached the door. But, like I said, it was ages ago. Whatever our differences, Ben gave me my life, and I love my life. Mostly. He brought me down here. I started working in Gordon's studio, and now I manage the place. I'm the heir apparent to own it, when he decides to retire.” She looked at him, grinning. “And now Ben works for me. So…your turn. What about your love life?”

“She left me,” he said lightly.

“Why?”

“I was a workaholic.”

“But you don't seem to be. Not now. In fact, it seems as if you have tons of leisure time.”

He took a long swallow of his own beer. “Not always,” he said, not looking at her. “It's slow right now in the Keys, won't pick up until we're closer to real winter. You know, when all the snowbirds fly down.”

“Oh, right, of course.” She was looking at him, intently. “Were you bitter?”

“Bitter?”

“About being left.”

He stared at his bottle. “No…she was right to leave.”

“Why?”

“I'd let too many things get in the way. I can get obsessive, I'm afraid.”

“An obsessive workaholic,” she murmured, still studying him carefully. “But you are here, whiling away the time with a silly woman who's nervous because of a cat in her backyard.”

He smiled, and this time took care when he smoothed back the straying tendril of her hair. “I can't think of any place I'd rather be right now, or anyone else I'd rather be with.” He was amazed by his own sincerity. Not just because she was beautiful, with the greatest cleavage he'd come across in aeons. Or because of the feel of her hair. Or even the feel of the excitement rising within him. He wanted to have her there, sure, but he also wanted to stand between her and anything that might harm her in any way.

Obsessive?

Oh, yeah, it would be easy to get obsessive over her.

Her eyes remained on his for a long time. It seemed that she was barely breathing. She moistened her lips, and they glistened. Her teeth were tiny and perfect.

“Wow,” she murmured, trying to sound light. “That was one hell of a nice statement. Or a very good line.”

“Want me to back away?”

“I don't know.” He thought her words were honest. Then she seemed to give herself a shake. “I, uh, yes. I guess you should take me home now.”

He stood. “No.”

She frowned. “I'm sorry?”

“I don't think you should go home.”

“Where do you think I
should
go?” she asked.

“I think you should stay here.”

She smiled, then laughed out loud. “Now that really
would
be fraternizing.”

He shook his head. “No. Not the way I mean it. I'm going to back away. You know, emotionally, socially—even physically. But you should still stay here. If you go home, you'll be afraid. The drinks won't help. I've got a great guest bedroom. There's even a separate head. So you should just stay.”

“But…it…I mean…”

“Does anyone check up on you at night?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then just stay. Get some sleep. An honest-to-God good night's sleep.”

“I slept well last night,” she reminded him.

“But was it enough? After this week?”

She still hesitated.

“I bet I even have an extra toothbrush,” he offered.

“Maybe you're right,” she murmured.

“I have a T-shirt you can sleep in, and I promise I'll stay at my end of the boat. First thing, I'll wake you up. Your car is here, so you can drive yourself home. And just think about this,” he added lightly. “No one would ever think anything, should they even recognize your car, because we told Bobby and Doug that I'd be driving you home and your car would be staying here.”

“You have a point there.”

“Well, that's good.”

She looked at him, slightly suspicious again, and bit the bullet. “You were a cop once, weren't you?”

“Yes.”

“You weren't fired for anything criminal, were you?”

He laughed. “Hell no.” Then he couldn't help himself. “I took part in all my criminal activities before I became a cop.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I'm trustworthy. I swear it.”

“I know I just thought about that. I've only known you a few days, but I'm choosing to sleep at your place rather than returning to my own—where I'm afraid of what is probably just a cat in the yard.”

“Hey, I've already slept at your house.”

She laughed. “There you go. True again. Well, then…”

“Well…?”

“Could I have that T-shirt now, please?”

“Absolutely.”

 

Midnight.

He took a cruise by her house again.

The car was gone.

He stared at the front, frowning; then his cell phone rang. Absently he picked it up. “Yes?”

“We've got another problem. No, this one is yours.
You've
got a problem. And you owe me for finding out about this one.”

“What do you mean,
I've
got a problem?”

He listened intently.

“So you see what I mean?
You've
got a problem.”

Yeah, he had a problem, but still…Half the trouble lately hadn't been caused by him, and he'd coped anyway.

“Don't forget, don't ever forget, that you're in this up to your neck, my friend,” he said softly. Very softly.

And then he hung up.

He stared at the house again and felt a rise of fury.

Where the hell was she?

H
e hadn't been lying down for more than a few seconds when he heard the tap on his cabin door.

Quinn leaped up. As the captain's quarters on a pleasure craft, the cabin was relatively spacious. Still, reaching the door didn't involve much more than getting off the end of the bed.

She was standing just outside. He'd given her one of his T-shirts, and it looked massive on her. It fell almost to mid-thigh. The shoulders and sleeves hung. Even so, the oversize garment somehow managed to cling to her frame. Her face was scrubbed clean, and that ever-present lock of golden hair was falling softly against her cheek.

“Did I wake you?”

He wondered how just the sound of her voice could be so arousing, something that seemed to reach out and tease his flesh.
Did I wake you?
The words woke everything in him. He was sleeping in an old pair of cutoff corduroys. He was grateful he hadn't opted for a light pair of cotton boxers.

He wanted to answer her, but he didn't trust his voice.

He managed a “no” that sounded more like a growl.

She simply stood there for a moment, her scent sweeping around him, seeming to touch raw, bare flesh, like the sound of her voice.

“Is there something wrong with me?” she asked at last.

“What?” Was she looking for a psychoanalyst, someone to assure her it was natural to have fears about things going bump in the night?

She smiled, lifting her chin, hair falling back in a cascade his fingers itched to touch. “I was curious, thinking there must be something wrong with me.”

He leaned against the doorjamb, braced against himself, doing everything humanly possible to keep from reaching out for her.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Her smile deepened. “Why aren't you trying to come on to me?”

Her words stunned him. He stared at her for a long moment, muscles taut and frozen, on fire inside.

“There's nothing wrong with you. You're incredible. You must know that.”

“Then…?”

“You've been drinking.”

“I'm not drunk.”

“You're not your usual reserved self, either.”

“I may not be the wildest party-goer in the world, but even for me…It was just three beers. I don't think I should be driving, but well, you know, they may suggest that you don't manipulate heavy machinery while under the influence, but I've never seen, ‘Warning! Avoid sex at all costs!' on a beer bottle.”

He wasn't sure whether to laugh, send her right back to the other cabin or drag her into his own as swiftly as humanly possible. He chose none of those options and instead folded his arms over his chest as he smiled at her.

Hell.

Who would ever have imagined that he would be standing in his own boat, trying to talk a beautiful woman out of wanting to have sex with him.

“You don't know me very well,” he told her, then gave into temptation. He reached out, fingers sliding along the velvet tendril of hair as it caressed the delicate line of her cheek. His thumb stroked the softness there as he looked into her eyes.

You don't know me very well.

When had that stopped him before? How many times had he been out in the last year when it seemed like anyone gave a damn how well they knew each other?

Tonight, it mattered. But why?

Hell, she was twenty-eight. Not a kid, not naive.

But that wasn't what was stopping him. Naive didn't always have to do with knowledge. Her eyes held something deeper. Large, expressive, green and deep as a jungle, usually so careful, so reserved, searching. They held fields of right and wrong, dreams unspent, belief in humanity, art and beauty, truth and honesty. There was something about her that he longed to touch, ached to touch, feared to touch. As if she were fragile. She had never done anything like this before in her life, he knew. Once she had danced, touching the clouds. Then she had broken a bone and never reached into the air the same way again. Ben Trudeau had crushed her, years ago, and she hadn't trusted anyone since. He wasn't sure how he knew all this so well, with such certainty, but he did.

He could step away. He should. He had to, no matter how painful it would be, because it was the right thing to do. But then she spoke again.

“I know you well enough,” she told him, the words soft and her eyes openly on his, emerald, sparkling with the strangest glimmer, a hint of tears.

She was still standing at least an inch away. Maybe not even an inch, but they weren't actually touching. And yet he had never felt so sensually caressed before in his life. Her eyes stroked him. That scent of woman and subtle perfume swirled in the air as if it were tangible, and the warmth she emitted seemed to supplely wrap his flesh, then reach down with a grip of steel to sweep boldly right around his sex.

She wasn't even touching him, he reminded himself.

He should make one last stand. Remind her that she had been drinking.

“Quinn?” she asked tentatively.

Ah, hell. He wasn't that noble.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She'd aroused him to the point of pain. He felt almost like a teenage kid in the back of a Chevy. He fought the fury wrestling within, pulled her tight against him. Now they were touching, her breasts crushed to him. He felt her ribs against the muscles of his chest, the flatness of her belly, the flare of her hips, the length of her legs. Her body was wicked, her scent pure sin, and, God help him, he was a sinner.

But he just held her for a moment, his breath hot over the top of her head, his chin brushing the softness of her hair. For a moment, he felt her heart beat. Felt the ragged rise and fall of her breath. Then he pulled away, lifted her chin and touched her lips with his own.

Her lips were wicked, too. Full, sensual. Seducing rather than giving, drawing him into a hot wet duel of tongues that took flight in an instant explosion of teased hunger. Her very kiss evoked visions beyond, hinted of deeper pleasure. How could a mouth that was so taut at times melt into the pure exotic?

They were touching.

The clothing between them was suddenly unbearable.

He drew away, long enough to try the buttons on the shirt, then rip half of them off with total impatience.

Hell. It was his shirt.

Shirt gone.

He couldn't shed his cutoffs fast enough.

Their clothing lay on the floor. Her eyes touched his as she slipped back into his arms.

Immense as a field of emeralds, green fire, alive, not hiding, and yet…

That vulnerability. The look that told him, despite her words, the feel of her flesh, that those things were there.
Something deeper.
A need for honesty, a giving that demanded some kind of honor in the midst of excess and desperation and pure instinctive drive and need.

Then they were really touching. Flesh on flesh. Fire and softness, supple vibrancy and heat. Tongues locked again in some desperate dance. His hands all over her. Breasts full and rounded, waist narrow, hips nicely flaring into a roundness of inspiration. He moved back, not breathing, he was so eager for her mouth. He thanked God that the cabin was small; one step, and he could simply fall against the bed, bringing her down.

Good Lord, but she was erotic, and he was drowning in her. Waves lapped against the boat, rocking them into each other in what began a carnal rhythm. He felt her fingers raking his shoulders, back, chest.

Now he was being touched. Really, really touched.

The length of her rubbed against him, evoking a groan that ground roughly from his lips. She was beneath him, and he was seeking to know everything about her. He was burning in all the fires of both heaven and hell, and glorying in the pain. He tasted the curve of her throat, devoured the fullness of her breasts, reveled in the womanliness of her midriff and abdomen, let passion flow as he brought his attentions ever lower, turned them ever more intimate. Her movements were somehow beyond erotic and passionate. He was half-dying in pure sensuality, and still there seemed to be grace and beauty in every twist and cry. Her fingers dug into his flesh, evoking greater arousal. The taste of her seemed to cause novas to explode in his head. He rose over her, straddled her, met her eyes again, emerald burning in the night. Lips parted, damp, breath coming so quickly, a look of astonished pleasure, almost awe, something that touched manhood, then went beyond ego, the body, and touched his soul. Her arms wrapped around him. Her eyes closed.

“Please,” she whispered.

His lips found hers again. Locked in a taste of lava and honey, all that had come before along with all that would come next. His tongue teased, entered, thrust, drove and swept.

His body locked with hers, as well, his sex teasing, entering, thrusting, driving in, deep, deeper. Her legs wound around his hips. The waves lapped at the sides of the boat. The master bunk rocked and within her, he felt as if a tidal wave were sweeping over them, as if the ragged violence of a storm at sea were surging through him, into her, allowing them to touch as no one else ever had.

No one moved quite like a dancer, he discovered.

No one else had such flexibility.

No one could create such a raw sense of instinctive desire and need, nor fulfill it with such shattering finesse.

Their bodies were both sheened in a fine, sweet film of sweat. Muscles flexed, tautened, twisted. Breathing came in a rasp of sound as high as the wind, and sounds, ancient, carnal, came keening from them both. He was aware of her face, her beautiful face, eyes half-closed, lashes sweeping her cheeks. He was aware of the length of her, of himself, and then, of that intimate part of himself, as if everything around him was a wrap of hot, liquid silk, while his true self existed in only one spot, rigid as steel, the only true part of his being.

And then that exploding wave of pleasure, as if the ocean itself had erupted, as if the boat were rocking in a perfect storm, pitching, catapulting, shaking over and over again, and finally, after aeons, drifting into calmer waters, edging into the sand, catching there.

He lay draped over her, pulling her into his arms. His words caressed her forehead as he said, “Miss Mackay, I can assure you, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. In fact, I don't think I've ever known anyone quite so right in my life.”

She twisted slightly, eyes rising to his with that slight glint of vulnerability in them again, a hesitancy now, along with something so soft, trusting and awed that it awoke a new wave of sensation in him. Strange, but that simple look made him want to believe in his own invulnerability and strength.

She didn't speak, only touched his cheek, as if she were seeking words. “You really are quite awesome yourself,” she whispered. “And honestly, I'm not drunk.”

He smiled. “I know.”

She nuzzled against him. “It's been so long…. I didn't even remember.”

“It hasn't been that long for me, and there's nothing like you in my memory,” he assured her.

She rolled slightly, looking at him a bit skeptically. “Really? Or is that something you say to everyone? I'm usually pretty good at spotting lines. I get to hear quite a lot of them, hanging around at Suede.”

He shook his head. “It's not a line. But…there is a bit of a problem.”

She drew the sheet up around her, as if his simple statement had brought out something defensive in her once again.

“What?” she murmured.

“I would definitely call this fraternization.”

She smiled. “I'm afraid so.”

“Can you lose your job?”

“Technically? Yes.”

“That's serious.”

“Indeed,” she said gravely. She touched his face. Ran her fingers down his chest, then lower. She had the most elegant fingers.

Elegant…and talented.

“It's so serious that, well, just in case there are repercussions…I wouldn't mind fraternizing again. So I can really enjoy what I might get in trouble for.”

“My dear Miss Mackay,” he said very somberly. “We can fraternize all night, if that's what you want.”

Her lips curved, her lashes fell, then rose. “That's what I want,” she said very softly.

“The way you say it, there's absolutely nothing else I can do but my very best to fulfill your every desire,” he assured her.

And when he kissed her again, he felt the rise of the ocean once more, the lapping of the waves, and the sheer, erotic beauty of the power and passion of a storm at sea.

 

When she first heard the knock on the cabin door, Shannon felt panic set in. She felt almost like a little kid. Caught.

Like Quinn had said, this was definitely fraternization.

At her side, he bounded out of the bunk, found his shorts and slipped them on. He looked back to note the panic in her eyes.

“Hey, it's all right. I do know people who have nothing to do with the studio, and they seldom search the boat when they visit.” With a smile, he left her.