Found Wanting (37 page)

Her features had gone taut with stress. "You tell me."

He gave her a grim smile. "I've managed to walk away my whole life. I did it when I found out my partner and wife were having an affair. I was pissed about it, pissed as hell, but I didn't fight back. When Shirley decided to take my kid to live in another state, I let her. I could have dragged her into court to stop her. But I didn't. You know what that says about me?"

She studied him, silent, emotions warring in her gaze. Anxiety. Sympathy. Need.

Stepping closer, Mitch gently stroked the back of his hand over her cheek, noting that she braced against the caress. But she didn't draw back. Progress, definitely.

"I've never fought for what I want," he said, skimming his hand over the top of her shoulder and down her arm, the contact fleeting, aware that she held her breath. "Maybe I didn't know how," he said. "Maybe I was a coward. Maybe I didn't comprehend what I was letting go. But I get it now." He cupped her face, pleased when she didn't pull away. "I look at you, into your eyes, and I get it. You can hold me at bay all you want, Alaina, but there's no way in hell I'm walking away without a fight. Not this time."

* * *

Alaina's chest swelled with emotion, his words bringing a lump to her throat that she couldn't swallow. She drank in his razor-stubbled jaw, his dark, expectant gaze. It stunned her that this was the same man who'd looked at her in fury and mistrust more than a week ago. It stunned her further that they were having this conversation.

And he made it sound easy, as if all she had to do was say yes and fall into his arms and all would be okay. But how could any of it be that easy? They'd known each other less than two weeks under extreme circumstances. That didn't form the foundation of a lasting relationship.

And who knew if she could even tolerate an intimate relationship? She had never made love. She was, in essence, a thirty-two-year-old virgin. Would he still be so adamant about not walking away if it turned out that sex was too traumatic for her or that she hated it?

Yet ... he made her feel things she had long ago decided she would never feel. Anticipation. Longing. She wondered what it would be like to have his hands on her, caressing, demanding. It took all of her willpower not to lean toward him, to invite him to touch, to take. What if she disappointed him? Or he disappointed her?

Which was why it couldn't happen. Too much was at stake, and their circumstances made everything all that much more unclear.

Mitch moved closer, and his body heat seemed to lick at her like flames.

She eased back. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You don't have to say anything," he said, his voice low, hoarse, as if he had his want on a tight leash and all she had to do was say the word, and he would let it loose.

She moistened her lips, struggled to keep track of reason. "There's too much going on right now. I'm not thinking clearly."

"You don't have to think, Alaina. All you have to do is feel."

"I have a lot of emotional baggage."

"And I have a strong back. Let me carry some of it for you."

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"It doesn't matter. I've already settled in."

He had an answer for everything, she thought, shutting her eyes as his thumb grazed her jaw line. Thinking was impossible with him touching her so tenderly, so lovingly. It made her burn with want.

His lips brushed her forehead, her temple, her cheekbone, and she turned her head slightly, rewarded when his mouth sank onto hers. Heat flashed between them, and her pulse stuttered, then began to race. Apprehension fled and, diving in, she slid her palms over his shoulders and hung on.

His muscles bunched under her fingers as his hands moved up into her hair. With a groan, he deepened the kiss, his mouth slanting across hers, urging her lips open so his tongue could explore. Tastes and textures mingled, tangling emotions, short-circuiting her brain. Don't think. Just feel. That's what he'd said. All you have to do is feel.

She let it happen, let herself begin to drown in him. He felt good. So good.

His hand skimmed over the front of her shirt, gently cupped her breast, his thumb massaging the center. Her breath caught, then shuddered out against his mouth, as her nipple hardened. She felt his lips curve in a smile, and then that same hand slipped under the cotton fabric of her shirt, under her silky bra, to caress naked flesh. She went still, held captive by his mouth and his hand, her senses whirling, her head light.

Touch me.

"Breathe," he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her throat.

She dropped her head back, hitching in breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The air seemed too thick, too heavy as his tongue tasted the hollow at the base of her throat, as his lips trailed up the side of her neck, lingered under her ear. She couldn't focus, didn't want to. Her heartbeat seemed to thrum inside her head as he pressed a hand against her lower back, angling her hips into him. She felt the hard heat of him against her hip, felt a wild, answering ache within herself. She moaned with it, and the involuntary sound startled her.

She broke away, alarmed at how easy it would be to lose control with him.

He reached for her, but she backed into the wall, a hand on his chest to hold him off. Panting, shaking, trapped, she met his confused eyes and felt like crying, screaming. "I can't do this," she gasped. "I'm sorry."

His breathing harsh, he touched his tongue to his top lip, as if savoring the lingering taste of her. His face was flushed, but as his eyes cleared, he took a step back, raising his hands in submission. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and her voice broke. "I ... just ... I can't."

Regret came into his eyes, accompanied by anger. "Don't apologize," he said.

"Please don't be angry. I should have realized sooner that I wouldn't be able --"

"I'm not angry at you," he cut in, his brow creasing.

Unable to look at him, she covered her face. "It's not you. It's me."

He put his hands, gentle and soothing, on her arms. "Alaina." When she didn't raise her head, he said, "Sweetheart."

Sweetheart. She squeezed her eyes shut as a whole new wave of emotion threatened to buckle her knees. None of this was real. This was never supposed to happen for her. She'd resigned herself to it long ago.

"Please, look at me."

She did, her eyes swimming.

He gave her a comforting albeit strained smile. "I'll admit I'm frustrated as hell. But I'm not angry. Not at you. We're going to get through this, but nothing's going to happen until you're ready." He kissed her on the forehead, the contact quick and chaste. "I'm going to take a cold shower now."

As soon as he was gone, she sagged against the wall, her knees as insubstantial as water. Her heart was still sprinting, and she pressed trembling hands to her too-warm cheeks. She thought of him in the bathroom, stripping out of his clothes, and her mouth went dry as she pictured the hard muscles of his stomach. Hearing the water come on, she imagined how easy it would be to join him, to slide her hands over his naked skin and --

A knock at the door snapped her head around, her heated blood running cold. Mitch had said his partner was coming. What was her name?

She glanced toward the bathroom door, debated interrupting him. Then she spotted his holster hanging from the back of a chair.

She had his gun in her hand when she opened the door.

The woman standing on the other side -- long, wavy red hair in a ponytail, sky blue eyes, freckles, almost-pointed nose -- showed no surprise that Alaina was armed. She wore jeans, a backpack and leather jacket. A plastic grocery bag dangled from one hand.

"Well, hello," the woman said easily, her affable gaze staying direct on Alaina's. "Julia Rafferty. You must be Alaina."

Alaina kept the gun on her, not taking any chances without Mitch to confirm that this woman was indeed his partner. For all she knew, Julia had been replaced by another Layton assassin. She knew she was being paranoid, but she had learned over the years it was better to play it safe. "Are you armed?" she asked.

Julia smiled, unperturbed. "Of course."

"Where?"

"Holster under my left arm."

Alaina plunged her hand inside Julia's jacket, where she flicked the snap on the leather strap and drew the gun out. Squatting, she shoved it under the sofa, then, keeping her gaze and Mitch's gun trained on Julia, she felt for -- and found -- a second weapon strapped to her ankle.

"I was going to tell you about that," Julia said.

"Just waiting for me to ask?"

She gave a shrug. "Figured I'd wait to see how savvy you are."

Alaina set Mitch's gun on the floor and toed it under the couch, keeping Julia's ankle piece, which was smaller and more suited to her hand. "What's in the bag?" Alaina asked, gesturing for Julia to enter the cabin.

"Sandwiches from Mitch's favorite deli. He's partial to pastrami on rye. Where is he, by the way?"

"Shower."

Julia's gaze focused on Alaina's mouth for an instant. "I see."

Self-conscious, Alaina wet her lips, imagined they were swollen from Mitch's kisses. Shoving aside that very distracting memory, she indicated the sofa. "You can sit. He probably won't be long."

Julia moved to the couch. "The place hasn't changed since we were here last," she said.

Alaina wondered about Mitch's relationship with his partner. Had they been lovers? Before she could analyze the pang of jealousy, the shower shut off in the other room. She imagined him stepping out of the tub, water streaming over his smooth, tanned skin. She swallowed, and her mouth was so dry her tongue seemed to stick to the backs of her teeth.

Julia cleared her throat. "I've seen your son."

The statement jerked Alaina's attention away from Mitch, and she focused on his partner, all senses sharpened. "When?"

"Yesterday. He and Keller were playing basketball. He's got a hell of a jump shot."

Alaina thought of Jonah's grace and energy on the court. A natural athlete, the high school basketball coach had said while trying to recruit him for the freshman team. But Jonah had said he was more interested in playing soccer. She'd loved that he'd been able to look beyond the flattery and focus on what he wanted.

Oh, how she missed him. It was an ache in her soul. "How is he?"

"He looks well," Julia said. "Healthy."

The growing tension in Alaina's throat made it dangerous to respond, but Julia didn't seem to notice. "He kicked the bastard's ass on the court," she said, as if relishing that fact.

Alaina relished it, too, and wished she could have seen Layton's face. His competitiveness was well-documented, and being bested by a teenager -- her son, no less -- must have chafed big time.

Mitch entered, rubbing his hair with a towel. He was barefoot, his shirt hanging open, his jeans zipped but unbuttoned. "It's all yours --" He broke off when he saw the gun in Alaina's hand and Julia on the sofa. "Hey, Jules," he said, smiling. "I see you've met Alaina."

Julia grinned. "We were just getting to know each other."

Alaina, tearing her gaze from Mitch's naked chest, lowered the gun. She gave Julia a chagrined look. "Please forgive me," she said.