Ready & Willing (23 page)

She spun around at his touch, her eyes wide, her mouth open, obviously reacting to the cold from his hand that must have permeated her clothes.

“I’m sorry,” he immediately apologized. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have warned you I was going to touch you. I know the cold must be . . . uncomfortable for you.”

Her expression cleared immediately, and she shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s . . .”

“What?” he asked when her voice drifted off without her finishing.

“Nothing,” she replied, a little too quickly. A little too anxiously. “It’s nothing. I just keep forgetting about your . . .” She hesitated, then finished softly, “Condition.”

Nathaniel wished he could forget about it. Though, truth be told, he was starting to get kind of used to the cold, which was something he really didn’t want to do. Because if he was getting used to the cold, it made him think maybe he was getting used to his “condition,” as she’d called it. And maybe he was getting used to his condition because his soul was moving farther and farther away. Just how long did they have, he wondered, before it was gone for good? Audrey had said that as long as Edward’s development didn’t come to fruition, then he was in good shape. But how did she know that for sure?

Oh, right. Because a ghost told her. So, hey, why worry? As if of one mind, they both turned toward the river and strode in that direction. As they walked, Audrey reached for his hand and twined her fingers with his, as if it they were a couple who did that all the time without even thinking about it. She’d done the same thing the other night as they’d left Buck’s. Even after chewing him out for paying the bill, as they’d made their way to the door, she’d slipped her hand into his as if she hadn’t even given conscious thought to doing it. And then, when they’d been in his car, and he’d needed his hand back to shift gears, she’d still kept her fingers circled lightly around his wrist to keep him warm. She’d done it without him even having to ask, because she was a nice person who didn’t want other people to suffer.

Eventually, though, he’d had to drop her off at her house, and she’d had to tell him good night and release his hand to dig her keys out of her bag. That was when the cold had washed over him again, from head to toe, from skin to marrow. She’d apologized for having to leave him, but she’d left him just the same. Not that he’d expected her to come home with him and climb into bed beside him and hold him all night to keep him warm.

Even if he’d found himself wishing she would do just that. Only his desire for that had had little to do with wanting to be warm and everything to do with—

Well. Wanting to be hot. And wanting to make her hot, too. What was remarkable was that he’d wanted that second thing even more than the first. Not that he never put a woman’s pleasure before his own, but neither was it something he consciously strove to achieve. When Nathaniel made love to a woman, he did it in a way that was meant to generate and prolong the passion for both of them equally. There was something about Audrey, though, that made him want to go slowly and put the focus on her. Maybe because he knew it had been so long since she’d made love with anyone. Or maybe it was for another reason he hadn’t let himself think about.

He thought about it now. Thought about being with her in his bed, tracing his fingers over her mouth and cheeks, her neck and shoulders, her breasts and belly. Then moving his hand lower, between her legs, stroking her with exquisite care and attention until she came apart at the seams. He thought about moving his mouth to that part of her, pushing her legs wide and—

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said softly, wrenching him out of what had promised to be a very pleasant fantasy . . . if not a particularly appropriate one for the moment and his current surroundings.

As evidenced by the fact that he’d completely forgotten those surroundings. So much so that he hadn’t even been aware that the two of them had come to a stop at the railing that surrounded the Belvedere and now stood watching the river beyond. The sun had pretty much disappeared from the sky by now, and the cool breeze had picked up. He turned to look at Audrey just as it caught in her hair and tugged a wispy strand free from her braid, nudging it onto her cheek. Telling himself not to do it—and studiously ignoring himself—he lifted a hand to the flyaway tress and tucked it behind her ear. At the same time, she mimicked the gesture, and their fingers brushed against each other, and they both laughed lightly at the collision.

And then, although he honestly, genuinely, truly didn’t plan it, he was dipping his head toward hers, and covering her mouth with his. He brushed his lips lightly across her own, once, twice, three times, four. Then, when she did nothing to discourage him, he cupped her face in both of his hands, tilted her head back, and kissed her again. Longer this time. More eloquently. Deeper. And then Audrey was circling her fingers around his wrists and kissing him back, and heat surged through Nathaniel like nothing he had felt before. It poured into his chest, doused his stomach and groin, then shot up like a volcanic explosion, filling and searing every last inch of him.

And then there was something else there, too, something as gentle and fine as the heat was jagged and fierce. Something unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It was something that tempered the passion with tenderness, and the need with hope. Something that comforted and consoled even as it agitated and aroused.

But before he could identify what it was, both the heat and the something evaporated, and he was enveloped in the bleak, soulless cold that had filled him before. Because Audrey tore her mouth from his, dropped her hands from his wrists, took three giant steps backward and, after gazing at him in horror for a moment, turned away.

Not sure what to do—since, hell, he wasn’t even sure what to feel—he covered the distance between them and, after only a small hesitation, settled his hand gently on her shoulder. She immediately shrugged it off and took another step away, so Nathaniel dropped both hands to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, even though he wasn’t. Not sorry for kissing her, anyway. Not sorry she kissed him back.

When she said nothing in response to his apology, he strode around to her front, and wasn’t much surprised when she dropped her head into her hands to avoid looking at him.

“Audrey, I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just . . .” What? he asked himself. Couldn’t resist her? Wanted to take a chance that maybe she was thinking the same thing he’d been thinking?

Then again, maybe he hadn’t been thinking anything. Maybe he’d only been feeling something. Just what he’d been feeling, though . . .

“Audrey, please say something,” he said. “Even if it’s something like ‘How dare you, you big jerk.’ ”

She dropped her hands at that and looked at him. “How dare
you
?” she echoed. Only she put the emphasis way different than he had and didn’t include the jerk part, which should have made him feel better, but somehow only made him feel worse. “How about ‘How dare
me
?’ ”

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “I’m the one who kissed you. After obviously mixing signals in the worst way.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s the problem, Nathaniel. You didn’t mix the signals at all. I kissed you.”

And that was a problem?
he wondered.

Oh, yeah,
he immediately answered himself. It doubtless was for a woman who wore a wedding ring that hadn’t been given to her by the guy that kissed her.

“Audrey,” he began.

“Nathaniel,” she said at the same time.

Being a gentleman—yeah, right—he deferred to her. “Go ahead.”

“That shouldn’t have happened,” she said plainly.

“Maybe,” he replied softly. “Maybe not. No matter what, though, Audrey, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Says you.”

“Says anyone who would have knowledge of the situation.” She started to say something else, but this time, he plunged on, striving to keep his tone gentle. “You still wear a wedding ring, and it’s admirable that you’re still bound to the vows it represents. But one of those vows was ’til death do you part. And, Audrey, Sean is dead.”

Tears sprang to her eyes at that, and Nathaniel cursed himself for not being gentle enough. But what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? There was no good way to remind a woman that the man she used to love, the man she continued to love, was dead. But he didn’t want her to feel guilty for something she shouldn’t feel guilty about. She really hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t even been unfaithful to her husband’s memory. No one said she had to stop loving Sean, even if she started to care for someone else.

And Nathaniel, God help him, was hoping she had begun to care for him. Because he was beginning to care very much for her. No, he didn’t know how far this thing between them would go. He didn’t even know if it was borne of anything other than the fact that he knew she was the only one who could help him reclaim his soul. All he knew was that, since meeting Audrey, there was something there that he hadn’t experienced with anyone else. He was feeling things for her he hadn’t felt for anyone else. And maybe, just maybe, whatever it was would grow into something neither of them had expected, but that both of them welcomed. Because as much as it surprised him to realize it, he wouldn’t object to having someone like Audrey Magill in his life.

No, not someone like Audrey Magill. Audrey Magill herself. Because if he was experiencing and feeling things he hadn’t experienced or felt before, it was due to her. And something told him that even after they recovered his soul—and please, for the sake of all that was good and soulful, let them recover his soul—there would still be a bond between them.

“I know Sean is dead,” she said. “Believe me, Nathaniel, no one knows that better than I do.”

“Audrey, I didn’t mean—”

But she cut him off before he could explain. “But this . . . this . . .” She waved her hand anxiously between the two of them to illustrate what she couldn’t find a word for. “Whatever this is, it feels . . .” She expelled a restless sound, then her entire body slumped forward. “It feels . . .”

“Wrong?” he finished halfheartedly for her.

She shook her head, looking even more wounded than before. “No. That’s just it. It doesn’t feel wrong.”

Heat filled his belly again, that same false-but-somehow-not-false heat that had overcome him before. “I don’t get it then. If it doesn’t feel wrong, what’s the problem?”

A single tear slipped from her eye, but she swiped it away so quickly, Nathaniel was almost able to convince himself he never saw it. Almost.

“That
is
the problem,” she said softly. “That it doesn’t feel wrong.” And then, before he had a chance to say anything more—not that he honestly had any idea what to say—she hurried on, “I’ll go talk to Leo tomorrow. And I’ll let you know what he says. In the meantime, see what your detective can find out about Nicholas Pearson.” She finally looked him in the eye, but only long enough to look away again. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.

And then, without another word, she fled.

Eleven

AUDREY HADN’T VISITED SEAN’S PRECINCT FOR
nearly three years, not since collecting his effects from his locker and formally thanking his fellow officers for the scholarship fund they’d set up in his name. She’d stayed in touch with some of them for a while after his death, but there was only one she had spoken to with any regularity . . . even if that regularity had become more and more irregular over the years. Leo Rubens had been Sean’s partner since before Audrey met him, and the two had shared the same sort of bond that was legendary among uniformed police officers. They’d been friends both on and off the force, and, in many ways, had been closer than they were to their respective wives. Audrey had never really socialized with Leo’s wife Janet outside gatherings of their foursome, but she’d liked her. And she still sent birthday cards to the Rubens kids, Jacob and Lucy, even though she hadn’t seen either of them for more than a year.

As she stood on the steps of the precinct, shoring up her nerve to enter, she tried to remember the last time she’d physically spoken to Leo. It must have been on the phone, but she honestly couldn’t remember when it might have been, or under what circumstances. Probably, she had needed to know something about Sean’s benefits. Or maybe there had been some new development in the case against the man who had killed him, a man who was serving a life sentence in Eddyville, but whose conviction was under continuous appeal. She hadn’t seen Leo face-to-face for a long, long time.

But she’d called before coming today to make sure Leo still worked here, and she’d made it a point to come early enough that he should still be at his desk. She’d stopped short of calling him to ask when would be the best time to see him, because . . .

Actually, she wasn’t sure why she’d stopped short of doing that. Just, every time she’d punched the Rubenses’ number into her telephone, she hadn’t been able to hit that last seven that would have connected her. She’d needed more time to prepare herself, she’d told herself. Or she hadn’t wanted to call them so late in the day. Or so early in the day. Or at lunchtime. Or at suppertime. Or at any other time. It wasn’t because she still felt guilty about the kiss she’d shared with Nathaniel.

There. She’d made herself think about it again. Not that that was such a difficult thing to do since, in the thirty-seven hours, forty-eight minutes and—she checked her watch—twenty-two seconds since that kiss had happened, there had been times when she hadn’t been able to think about anything else. And not just during those times when she was avoiding Nathaniel’s phone calls, of which there had been more than a few. And it wasn’t just the memory of the kiss she kept trying to bury. It was the feeling that had come over her while she was kissing him. And the feelings she’d had afterward. Because kissing Nathaniel, before during
and
after, had made her feel . . .