Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1) (18 page)

Her eyes widened on him. “What?”

“You don’t have any idea, do you?” He struggled to smooth the harshness from his voice, but he’d spent the entire day mentally cursing her out for taking control of a situation that should’ve been his to control, only to suddenly realize he admired her for doing it. Wasn’t that a hell of a loop?

She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“How incredibly strong you are. How many mothers—”

“Any mother in my position would—”

“No. Not any mother.” He hesitated, bringing his voice back under control. “They’d get the police involved, maybe the FBI or a private detective. How many would hike miles in and out of the Grand Canyon, dodge bullets, and keep going without complaint?”

She rubbed her forehead. “God, Keith, how can I complain when Ryker’s...” Her wide eyes grew wider. And wary. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You...” He couldn’t tell her. What kind of a freaking wuss would that make him if he went all soft on her? No, she already saw more in his eyes than he intended to reveal.

She tipped her head, waiting. His throat clogged but he swallowed the lump back down. The angle of the light hit the smooth expanse of her neck, revealing a dark, shadowed bruise from where Shorty tried to strangle her.

Bastard.

He crossed to her and crouched, suddenly needing to touch her more than he needed his next breath. His fingers brushed her cheek then trailed down her neck to trace the purple abrasion at the base of her throat. “Hurt?”

She shook her head.

“You surprise me,” he blurted.

Her lips parted over his admission. Beautiful full lips he’d never seen turn up into a real smile. He’d bet she had a killer one. He stroked his thumb over her bottom lip, wanting to taste her.

He gave himself up to the need and covered her mouth with his own. She tasted of salty tears, of a heartbreak that—damn it—he didn’t know how to heal. He coaxed her lips open further, running his tongue along the seam until her tongue tentatively touched his.

Jeez. A bolt of need surged straight to his groin. He tipped her head back and devoured her mouth.

It still wasn’t enough.

“More,” clamored through his brain.

He didn’t give his conscience a chance to weigh in. He slid his mouth across her cheek to the spot beneath her ear. Damn, she had great ears. He nipped the skin there, tasting her.

She sucked in a breath, fanning the flames of his lust with that soft catchy sound.

“Grace...” He tore his mouth away from her and sought out her eyes.

Bad move.

Her pupils were large and dark against her soft emerald irises. She wet her lips. “This is crazy.”

“Crazy good, or crazy bad?” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand or persuade her that ‘this’ was just a kiss. No, baby, the electricity between them was proof they both knew where they’d end up.

“Good. Bad” She sighed. “Both.”

“I know.”

And since the uncertainty in her eyes was plain as day, he should walk. She wasn’t ready. He had a strict rule about sex. It was exclusively for pleasure. No strings. No messy emotions. Just pure physical release.

With Grace...with Grace it would be...he feared...God, he couldn’t even wrap his thoughts around it. Better not risk it.

Except, what could one more kiss hurt? He cupped the back of her head and drew her to him and suddenly her tongue was in his mouth—and it wasn’t enough.

He slid his hand down her back and around to cup her breast. She sucked in a breath and shivered, letting out a low moan, and hell if that wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.

She groaned. No, wait,
he
groaned. His fingers ached to touch her skin. He grasped the hem of her shirt and rubbed the softness between his fingers, giving her a chance to stop him.

She pulled back, breaking the contact of their mouths, then wrapped her hand around his and guided the shirt over her head. He tossed it on the floor. More important things required his perusal. Like the light purple lace of her bra hugging her perfect breasts.

“Damn, Grace.” His breath left him in a rush. He trailed a finger along the edge of the lace, down the swell of one breast.

Grace fisted a hand in Keith’s t-shirt and pulled him to her. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to think. Heck, she didn’t even want to feel. She just wanted...this. Blessed mind-numbing release.

Call her selfish, call her stupid, she needed what Keith was offering.

She leaned back, he fell across her and took her mouth, rolling to his side and dragging her with him so they lay next to each other on the bed.

He moved his hands to the clasp of her bra and unhooked it in one smooth motion. It fell open, her nipples hardening at the sudden rush of cool air on bare skin. Somehow Keith managed to remove her bra and toss it aside. His mouth lifted from hers, his hand hovering over her breast. The current vibrated between them and made her skin tingle.

“Please,” she whispered, rocking her body against his.

He covered her breast with his hand, teasing her nipple until she couldn’t focus. Blindly, she reached for him and shoved her hands under his shirt to the hard planes of his stomach. She ran her fingers up his chest and reveled in the feel of his muscles clenching beneath her palms.

His mouth replaced his hand on her breast. When his tongue touched her skin, she gasped, wrestling his shirt over his head, where it got stuck on the bridge of his nose.

He chuckled and helped her untangle it from his face, pushing it over his head and to the floor. Their eyes met. Keith’s face went taut, yet the golden depths of his hazel eyes softened several degrees. Gentleness and desire and...his smile faded.

She frowned, her body’s delicious humming dissipating at Keith’s sudden seriousness. The ache in her chest returned and she tried to send it back to that numb place. But, no, it flooded her, clogging her throat.

“Gracie,” Keith whispered, and the lump in her throat grew at the silly, endearing, nickname coming off his lips. “God knows I want you,” he said, “but...are you sure?”

He stared at her as if he could read her soul. She turned her head and squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears gathered behind her lids anyhow.

One of his hands still rested on her breast, the other on the curve of her waist and she desperately wanted to give up to the feelings quivering in her belly.

God, why did he have to make this so hard? She wanted him to be selfish. To just take, not go all noble on her. Keith, noble? The very thought exploded the careful cocoon she’d spun for herself.

He wasn’t supposed to be someone she trusted with her body. Or her heart. He was supposed to be the same old ‘what’s-in-it-for-me?’ Keith.

If he’d changed...where did that leave her? Because she sure as heck hadn’t. She didn’t want to let go of the past. Some sins just weren’t forgivable, and though her respect—and attraction—to Keith had grown, she wasn’t sure she could absolve him so easily. What would Becca say? Her sister would explode if she knew what Grace was about to do.

She looked into Keith’s turbulent yet oh-so-patient eyes. She needed him, needed to lose herself in something other than heartache for a while. “Please,” she whispered, hating the trembling in her voice. “I hurt so bad. I just want it to go away.”

He touched her cheek, smearing the wetness across to her ear. “We can do that.” One corner of his mouth tipped into a smile as he bent his head to claim her lips.

This time the kiss was greedy and urgent. She welcomed the way it consumed her and left her with nothing else to think about except how their tongues melded, dipped, and explored each other.

Until his mouth hesitantly—reluctantly—lifted. “But not like this,” he whispered against her lips.

She wanted to cry. Throw a damn tantrum. Did Keith want her to beg? Because at this point she would. If necessary, she’d grovel to make this raw, shredded, feeling disappear.

His arms went around her and he tugged her close, her breasts brushing his naked chest. Keith was hugging her. Cradling her. She choked on a sob and buried her face in his neck. It felt good. It felt right. And the acute pain in her heart started to fade.

Who would’ve thought the man who perfected the art of using people would turn out to be so good at being used?

Chapter Eleven

Keith wanted to touch Grace again. The sexy picture she made with the sheet wrapped around her naked torso and her hair spread across the pillow almost shattered his control. But he resisted.

What had he done? Screwed up big time, that’s what.

Allowing himself to get close to Grace was a huge mistake. And yet, knowing that, he still wanted to climb right back in bed next to her. Like being with her was exactly where he belonged.

His hands shook and he forced them deep inside his pockets. Hell, no, he didn’t want to belong. Didn’t want the trappings of a real home and family. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the vivid images that included Grace.

God damn it, he didn’t need that garbage. He looked out for himself. Answered to no one but himself.

And Grace was a complication he didn’t need in his life. Ever.

He reeled from the bed. Come on, King. Get it back together. He had to stop looking at her.

His throat ached and he swallowed in an effort to force some saliva into his mouth. God, he needed a drink. Water. He hadn’t tasted a drop of alcohol in thirteen years.

He strode into the bathroom and flipped the light switch. The harsh fluorescent glare pierced his eyes, blinding him for a brief moment.

Damn, what time was it? He glanced at his wrist, but his watch wasn’t there; he’d taken it off to avoid poking Grace while he’d held her.

Man, her skin was soft. And sexy and—

He shut down the direction of his thoughts and snagged one of the cheap plastic hotel cups from the tray on the counter. The wrapper rustled when he tore it from the cup and tossed it in the trash. He twisted the coldwater knob on the sink and filled his cup, then downed it in one long swallow.

Better? Naw, not really. He shook off the knots in his stomach, tossing the cup back onto the tray. It clattered against the counter and rolled toward the edge. He caught it before it could fall to the floor and righted it on the tray, his arm brushing Grace’s pack and sending it sliding toward the edge.

“Crap.”

He lunged for it, snagging the elastic band on his fingers and halting the pack’s journey before it fell off the counter. The smaller compartment was unzipped and her wallet slipped through the opening and slid toward the damn toilet.

He lobbed the pack aside and grabbed for the wallet, barely managing to catch it before it made a slam-dunk.

“Good save, dumbshit,” he muttered.

He shook his head and tossed the wallet back on the counter. It popped open, a smiling Ryker stared up at him from behind the plastic photo insert. The boy’s bright grin was full of promise and his green eyes so like his mom’s were free of shadows. He was happy.

Happy. What an odd concept.

Tension crawled up Keith’s neck and squeezed. What if he couldn’t save Ryker? How would he live with disappointing Grace?

No, he couldn’t think that way. It wasn’t an option. She’d be devastated.

He would reunite Ryker and Grace. They’d return to their hometown, rebuild their house, and...what? Go on with their lives.

Doing what? He didn’t even know if Grace routinely skipped meals or if that was only stress-related. Did responsibility to Ryker consume her entire life or did she reserve time to kick back and relax with friends?

He flipped the photo of Ryker, suddenly desperate for knowledge of Grace. Another photo of a young woman was behind Ryker’s. She had the same nose as Grace, the same high cheekbones, but where Grace possessed a confidence, a glow, damn the flowery word, this woman looked timid and lost.

Grace’s sister?

He shrugged and hesitated with his finger on the corner of the photo. If he really wanted to know about Grace’s life, he should ask her.

Oh, yeah. That would be easy. Tomorrow morning she’d wake up and no longer want anything to do with him. The focused, determined woman would be back in place. All business, no time for personal questions. No time to learn why he was so attracted to her in the first place.

He turned the photo and came to Grace’s driver’s license. The picture of Grace forced a reluctant grin to his face. Check out that annoyed glare she’d given to the photographer. Nobody looked good on those damn things.

He ran his finger over her name.

Grace Cooper.

Cooper? Had she lie to him about her last name?

No, Mark Stevens had been her husband. Clearly she’d reverted to her maiden name after their divorce.

But, Cooper...why did it sound so familiar? Cooper. Where had he heard the name Grace Cooper before?

A niggling sensation slid up his spine. He flipped down the lid of the toilet and sat, never taking his eyes off Grace’s license.