Dream Lake (28 page)

Her face changed, her mouth rounding in an O of tender dismay. “Alex, no.”

“I’ll hurt you,” he said ruthlessly. “I’ll turn you into someone we both would hate.” The truth came from the deepest part of his soul.
You’re nothing. You deserve nothing. You have nothing to give anyone except pain.
Knowing that, believing it, was the only way the world made sense.

As Zoë held his gaze, he saw anger gathering on her face. The sight relieved him. It meant she would strike him, reject him. It meant she would be safe.

Her hand came to his cheek. But softly.

Her fingers were gentle against his jaw, her thumb brushing his lower lip as if to erase the razor-edged words. It threw him into hot confusion to realize that her anger wasn’t directed at him. “No,” she murmured, “you’ve twisted it all around. You’re the one who’s been hurt. You’re not trying to protect me. You’re trying to protect yourself.”

He shoved her hand away from him. “It doesn’t matter who the hell I’m trying to protect. The point is, some things are broken too bad to be fixed.”

“Not people.”

“Especially people.”

Seconds passed, sawing deep through the silence.

“If either of us gets hurt,” Zoë said carefully, “it’s still better than never taking a chance.”

“You want to take a chance on something hopeless,” he said in a scornful tone.

She shook her head. “Something hopeful.”

In that moment Alex hated her for what she was trying to do, for making him want to believe her. “Don’t be stupid. Don’t you get what having a relationship with me would do to you?”

“We’re already having the relationship,” she said in exasperation. “We have been for a while.”

Alex seized her, wanting to shake some sense into her. But instead he was gripping her close against his hammering heart, forcing her to stand on her toes. He didn’t kiss her, only held her with his head bent so that he could feel her breath on his face.

“I want you,” she whispered. “And you want me. So take me home and do something about it. Tonight.”

The sound of the kitchen door made him flinch, but he still couldn’t let go of Zoë.

“Oops,” he heard Justine mutter. “Sorry.”

Zoë turned her face toward her cousin. “Justine,” she said, sounding remarkably calm, “you don’t have to drive Emma and me back to the cottage. Alex is going to do it.”

“He is?” Justine asked warily.

Zoë’s warm blue eyes stared up into his. Daring him. Entreating.

All right, then. He had finally reached the point where he didn’t care. He was sick of struggling and needing, and never having. He didn’t give a damn about anything except getting what he wanted.

Alex gave her a single nod.

Against every instinct he possessed.

Twenty

Emma was sleepy and contented on the drive back to Dream Lake, not to mention relieved that Zoë hadn’t been upset by her father’s behavior.

“Of course I wasn’t,” Zoë said with a light laugh. “I know how he is. I’m glad he brought Phyllis, though. I like her.”

“I do, too,” Emma said. A reflective pause. “It must say something good about James, that he can attract a woman like her.”

“Maybe he’s different when he’s away from us,” Zoë said. “Maybe when he’s in Arizona, he’s more positive.”

“I hope so,” Emma said doubtfully.

Alex was quiet, occupied with a fierce inner battle. He knew that he should drop Zoë and Emma off at the cottage and leave at once. He even thought there was a chance he could do that. The odds were seventy–thirty in favor of leaving.

Maybe sixty–forty.

Alex wanted Zoë so badly there was no room left for anything else. He was molten inside, but in the past few minutes his heart had shut down and turned glacier-cold. The difference in temperature, the tension between fire and ice, threatened to crack his chest in a thermal downshock.

The ghost, occupying the backseat next to Emma, was silent. There was no doubt that he’d sensed Alex’s turmoil. He understood something was wrong.

“Alex is coming in for a drink,” Zoë told Emma as they got out of the car.

“Oh, how nice.” Emma linked arms with her granddaughter as they headed to the front door.

“Would you like something, too, Upsie?”

“At this hour? No, no, I’ve had a lovely day, but I’m tired now.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you for driving us, Alex.”

“No problem.”

They went into the house, and Zoë murmured to Alex, “I’ll just be a few minutes. There’s lavender lemonade in the fridge.”

She went into Emma’s room and closed the door.

Lavender lemonade. Alex suspected it would taste like leftover water from a flower vase. But heat was thrumming in his body, turning his skin dry and parching his mouth. He went to the refrigerator, found the pitcher of lemonade, and poured a glass.

It was tart and light, wonderfully cool. He drank deeply, sitting on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. The ghost was nowhere in sight.

A heavy mass of emotion had gathered inside, and he struggled to separate it into identifiable parts. Lust, first and foremost. Anger. Maybe a trace of fear, but it was so mixed up with the anger that he couldn’t be sure. And worse than anything was a terrible knifing tenderness he’d never felt for anyone in his life.

The women he’d been with in the past, including Darcy, had all been experienced, confident, seasoned. With Zoë it would be different. The familiar terms for sex … nailing, boning, banging … did not apply. She would expect him to be gentle … gentlemanly … God help him, he’d have to figure out how to fake that.

The bedroom door opened and closed quietly. Zoë had slipped off her high heels. She walked toward him in that damned black dress, the gathered fabric hugging every luxurious curve. Alex didn’t move from the bar stool. A tightening feeling spread over him, the lust threatening to annihilate him, and her along with him.

“She’s asleep now,” Zoë whispered, coming to stand in front of him. Her smile was tremulous. He reached out and touched the pure line of her throat, pale as moonglow. His fingertips trailed softly downward to her collarbone. The light touch drew a shiver from deep within her.

He pulled her closer between his spread thighs and gripped one strap of her dress, dragging it down a few inches. Pressing his mouth to the side of her neck, he kissed the smooth skin, working his way down. Gently he bit the fine, firm muscle at the top of her shoulder. A gasp escaped her. He could feel a blush in her, burning its way to the surface. For a moment it was enough just to hold her like this, to savor the female form caught between his thighs, the veil of her hair sliding against his face and neck.

“You know this is a mistake,” he said gruffly, lifting his head.

“I don’t care.”

He sank his hand into her hair and kissed her, opening her mouth with his, searching aggressively with his tongue, then caressing in softer, deeper strokes. She tensed against him, a sound caught in her throat, her hands groping around his shoulders.

He had never known such intense need, more than could be satisfied in ten lifetimes. He wanted to spread her out like a feast, kiss and taste every part of her. Reaching behind her, he found the hidden zipper of the dress, and it gave way with a metallic hiss. His hand slipped inside the shadowed opening, fingers spreading across the satiny warmth of her back. The pleasure of touching her shot through him. His mouth traveled over her throat, and he breathed her name, rubbing the syllables into her skin with his lips and tongue—

A harsh caterwaul came from behind him. Startled, he nearly jumped out of his shoes. He turned to see the big, baleful cat glaring at him.

Zoë pulled away from Alex, her eyes wide. Seeing the cat, she laughed breathlessly. “I’m sorry. Poor Byron.” She bent to pet the Persian.

“Poor
Byron
?” Alex asked incredulously.

“He’s insecure,” she explained. “I think he needs reassurance.”

Alex gave the cat a narrow-eyed glance. “I think he needs to be drop-kicked from the front doorstep.” His attention was diverted as Zoë held up the gaping front of her dress with one hand.

“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she said. “He’ll settle down in a few minutes.”

Following Zoë, Alex turned and closed the door in the cat’s face. After a moment of silence, they heard a drawn-out yowl, accompanied by scratching.

Zoë gave Alex an apologetic glance. “He’ll be quiet if we leave the door open.”

There was no way he was letting a cat watch while he had sex. “Zoë, do you know what the word ‘cockblocked’ means?”

“No.”

“It’s what your cat is trying to do to me.”

“I’ll give him some catnip,” Zoë said in a moment of inspiration. Opening the door, she paused at the threshold and told him, “Don’t change your mind while I’m gone.”

“I can’t change my mind,” he said darkly. “I’ve already lost it.”

Zoë put a spoonful of dried catnip into a brown paper grocery bag, and set it sideways on the kitchen floor. Byron purred and arched against her hand, pleased to have her attention focused on him. “Be a good boy and stay in here, okay?” Zoë whispered.

The cat sniffed at the grocery bag and crept in. The paper crackled and sagged as Byron executed a slow roll inside.

Returning to the bedroom, Zoë closed the door.

Alex had taken off his shoes and was sitting on the edge of the bed, which was covered with a flowered duvet. He looked big and vaguely dangerous in the confines of her bedroom. The glow from the lamp played over the hard perfection of his features, the gleaming black layers of his hair.

“We may have to get creative,” he said. “Not being forewarned, I don’t have any kind of protection for you.”

“I bought some just in case,” she admitted.

One of his brows arched. “You were pretty sure I’d end up at your place.”

“Not sure,” she said. “Just optimistic.”

“Bring them to me.” The raw velvet of his voice caused the back of her neck to prickle in excitement.

Zoë went to the tiny bathroom and closed the door. After undressing and slipping into a soft pink robe, she found the box of condoms, and returned to the bed.

Alex’s gaze traveled slowly over the robe, down to her exposed ankles and bare feet, and back to her flushed face. Taking the box from her, he opened it, took out a packet, and set it on the night table. To her surprise, Alex took out another packet and set it beside the first. She blinked and felt her face turn hot. Sending her a pointed glance, Alex put a third packet on the nightstand.

Zoë couldn’t hold back an airless giggle. “Now
you’re
being optimistic,” she said.

“No,” came his measured reply, “I’m sure.”

She thought with private amusement that there were situations in which a touch of male arrogance was not necessarily a bad thing.

Alex set aside the box and stood. He unbuttoned his charcoal gray shirt and let it drop to the floor. His vee-neck undershirt was crisp white against tanned skin. Tentatively Zoë reached for the hem of the tee, the bleached cotton holding the warmth and salty-clean scent of his body. She pulled it upward, and he moved to help her. As the undershirt was stripped away, his body was revealed, elegant in its spare, hard strength. For a split second, she wondered if he would be gentle enough, careful enough. It had been so long since she’d been intimate with anyone.

He focused on her, taking in her dazed expression. “Worried?” he asked quietly, his hands coming to her arms, caressing over the robe.

“No, I …” She gave him an unsteady smile. “I just want to remind you that I’m not very skilled.”

“I got it covered,” he said. Pulling her closer, he nuzzled against her hair, the heat of his breath sinking to her scalp.

Yes. That much she knew. The awareness of his experience sent a nervous flutter through her stomach.

Alex drew her to the bed and lay beside her. His callused hand came to the side of her face, warmth and roughness cradling her cheek. He kissed her, slow and insatiable, the taste of him sweet and edged with lemonade tartness. She opened eagerly to the flavor and rolled to press closer to him, trembling in excitement at the feel of the hard masculine form all along hers. Her hands wandered over the arousing textures of him, the silky-coarse hair on his chest, the sleek hardness of his shoulders, the shaven bristle of his jaw.

He nuzzled beneath her jaw and worked his way to the hollow behind her ear, and touched his tongue to her earlobe. Shivering, she turned to find his lips with hers. More of those dizzying wholemouthed kisses, a little deeper, rougher.

Heat had accumulated beneath the pink robe. She wriggled to be free of the confining fabric, she was smoldering, suffocating. Clumsy with desire, she fumbled at the fabric belt. The knot defied her efforts, tightening adamantly until she began to wrench at it in frustration.

Lifting his head, Alex saw what she wanted. “I’ll do it,” he said, reaching for the belt. “Lie still.”

Zoë rolled to her back, gasping. Heat had gathered in her mouth and at the roots of her hair, and between all her fingers and toes. Everywhere. She clenched her thighs against a simmer of wetness. She had never wanted anything as much as she wanted him inside her … she was anxious and aroused, lost in the middle of a dream that might end too soon.

“Alex,” she said desperately, “you don’t have to bother with doing a lot of extra stuff.”

“What stuff?” he asked, busy with the belt of her robe.

She couldn’t prevent a moan of relief as the garment loosened. “Foreplay. I don’t need any right now. Because I’m ready.”

His hands stilled. He looked down at her flushed face, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Zoë. Do I ever go into the kitchen and tell you how to make a soufflé?”

“No.”

“That’s right. Because that’s your area of expertise. And this is mine.”

“If I were a soufflé,” she said, struggling to pull her arms from the robe, “I would be overdone by now.”

“Trust me, you’re not—oh,
God
.” The sides of the robe had fallen apart, revealing the abundant pink and white curves of her body. Looking down at her, Alex shook his head slowly. “This is dangerous. This is how people die.”