Sea Swept (29 page)

“I can’t get in until you let me go.”

“Good point.” He released her, then surprised her by gently, tenderly brushing his lips over the bruise on her cheek. “Does it hurt?”

Her heart was still flopping. “Maybe a little.” She got inside, deliberately reaching for her seat belt, keeping her moves efficient and casual.

“What happened?” he asked as he slid in beside her.

“Abusive father of three, wife beater, didn’t care for my testimony in family court today. He shoved me. I had my back turned or he’d have gotten a hard knee to the groin, but as it was I was off balance. Did a nosedive—which would have been embarrassing but for the fact that he’s now in lockup and the kids are with their foster family.”

“And the wife?”

“I can’t help her.” Anna let her aching head fall back. “You have to pick your battles.”

He said nothing to that. He’d been thinking the same thing. It was why he’d decided to dump three kids on Ethan and come to see her. He’d made up his mind to tell her about the insurance investigation, the speculations about Seth’s connection to his father, the search that Phillip had instigated for Seth’s mother.

He’d decided to tell her everything, to ask her advice, to get her take. Now he found himself wondering if that was the wisest course—for her, for him, for Seth.

It would wait, he told himself, and rationalized his post-ponement: she’d had a rough time, needed a little attention.

“So, do you get knocked around much in your line of work?”

“Hmm? No.” She laughed a little as he pulled up in
front of her building. “Now and again somebody takes a swing or throws something at you, but mostly it’s just verbal abuse.”

“Fun job.”

“It has its moments.” She took his hand, walked alongside him. “Did you know that television is the tool of the Communist left?”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“I’m here to tell you.” She used her key to check her mail slot, gathered letters and bills and a fashion magazine. “
Sesame Street
is just a front.”

“I always suspected that big yellow bird.”

“Nah, he’s just a shill. The frog’s the mastermind.” She put her finger to her lips as they approached her door. They snuck in together like kids hooking school. “I just didn’t want to have the sisters fussing over me.”

“Mind if I do?”

“That depends on your definition of fussing.”

“We’ll start here.” He slipped his arms around her waist, touched his lips to hers.

“I suppose I could tolerate that.” She helped him deepen the kiss. “What are you doing here, Cam?”

“I had a lot on my mind.” His lips brushed over the bruise again, then lower, to her jawline. “You, mostly. I wanted to see you, be with you, talk to you. Make love to you.”

Her lips curved against his. “All at the same time.”

“Why not? I did have this thought about taking you out to dinner . . . but now I’m thinking maybe we could order pizza.”

“Perfect.” She said it with a sigh. “Why don’t you pour us some wine, and I’ll change?”

“There’s this other thing.” He worked his way over to her ear. “Something I’ve been wanting to do. I’ve been wondering what it would be like to get Miz Spinelli out of one of her dedicated-public-servant suits.”

“Have you?”

“Since the first time I saw you.”

She smiled wickedly. “Now’s your chance.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He brought his mouth back to hers, hungrier now, more possessive. This time her sigh caught on a trembling gasp as he jerked her jacket off her shoulders and trapped her arms. “I’m wanting the hell out of you. Day and night.”

Her voice was throaty now, dark with need. “I guess that makes it handy, since I want the hell out of you too.”

“It doesn’t scare you?”

“Nothing about you and me scares me.”

“And what if I said I want you to let me do anything I want to you? Everything?”

Her heart fluttered to her throat, but her eyes stayed steady. “I’d say who’s stopping you?”

With desire dark and dangerous in his eyes, he skimmed his gaze down, then back to her face. “I wonder what Miz Spinelli wears under these prim little blouses.”

“I don’t think a man like you is going to let a few buttons keep him from finding out.”

“You’re right.” He shifted his hands from her jacket to the crisply pressed cotton of her blouse. And ripped. He watched her eyes go wide and shocked. And aroused. “If you want me to stop, I will. I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

He’d torn her blouse. And it had thrilled her. He waited, watching, for her to say stop or go. And it thrilled her even more. She understood she hadn’t been completely truthful when she’d told him nothing about them scared her. She was afraid of what might be happening to her heart.

But here, in physical love, she knew she could match him.

“I want everything. All.”

His blood leaped. Still, he kept his touch light, teasing, running the back of his hand above the slick white material of her demi-cut bra. “Miz Spinelli.” He drawled it while his fingers slipped beneath the polished satin to rub against her stiffened nipple. “How much can you take?”

His light tugs had heat spiraling through her system.
Already the air was thick. “I think we’re about to find out.”

Slowly, his eyes on her face, he backed her against the wall. “Let’s start here. Brace yourself,” he murmured, and his hand shot under her skirt and tore aside the lacy swatch she wore beneath. Her breath exploded out, and she nearly laughed. Then he plunged his fingers into her, lancing that hard, rough shock of pleasure through her unprepared system. The orgasm ripped through her, emptying her mind, stealing her breath. When her knees gave way, he simply held her against the wall.

“Take more.” He was desperate to watch her take more, to see the shocked excitement capture her face, to see those gorgeous eyes go wild and blind.

She gripped his shoulders for balance. With her head tipped back he could see the pulse in her throat beat madly and was compelled to taste just there. She moaned against him, moved against him, her breath hitching when he yanked the jacket and what was left of her blouse away.

She was helpless, staggered. The assault on her senses left her limbs shuddering and her heart hammering. She said his name, tried to, but it caught on a gasp as he spun her around. Her damp palms pressed to the wall.

He tore at the button of her skirt. She felt it give way, shivering as the material slid over her hips and pooled at her feet. His hands were on her breasts, molding, sliding from satin to flesh and back again. Then he tore that as well, and she gloried in the sound of the delicate material rending.

His teeth nipped into her shoulder. And his hands—oh, his hands were everywhere, driving her toward madness, then beyond. Rough palms against smooth skin, clever fingers pressing, sliding.

The breath that had torn ragged through her lips began to slow. Pleasure was thick, and midnight dark. She felt herself slipping into some erotic half-world where there was only sensation.

Slick, stunning, and sinful.

The wall was smooth and cool; his hands were not. The contrasts were unbearably arousing.

When he spun her around again, her eyes were dazzled by the sunlight. He was still fully dressed and she was naked. She found it exquisitely erotic, and could say nothing as he slowly lifted her arms above her head, bracketed her wrists with one hand.

Watching her, he combed his hand roughly through her hair to scatter pins. “I want more.” He could barely speak. “Tell me you want more.”

“Yes, I want more.”

He pressed his body to hers, soft cotton, rough denim against damp flesh. And the kiss he took from her left her mind spinning.

Then his mouth went to work on her quivering body.

He wanted all the tastes of her, the dark honey of her mouth, the damp silk of her breasts. There was the creamy taste of her belly, the polished satin of her thighs.

Then the heat, the furnace flood of it as he licked his way between them.

Everything. All, was all he could think. Then more.

Her hands gripped his hair, pressing his face closer as she climbed to peak. It was her cry, the half scream, that broke the final link on his control. It had to be now.

He freed himself, then pressed against her. “I need to fill you.” He panted the words out. “I want you to watch me when I do.”

He drove into her where they stood, and their twin groans tangled in the air.

Afterward, he carried her to bed, lay down beside her. She curled up against him like a child, a gesture he found surprisingly sweet. He watched her sleep, thirty minutes, then a hour. He couldn’t stop touching her—a hand through her hair, fingertips over the bruise on her face, a stroke over the curve of her shoulder.

Had he said he had something inside of him for her? He began to worry just what that something might be. He’d never felt compelled to stay with a woman after sex.
Had never felt the need to just look at her while she slept, or to touch only for the sake of touching and not to arouse.

He wondered what odd and slippery level they’d reached.

Then she stirred, sighed, and her eyes fluttered open and focused on him. When she smiled, his heart quite simply turned over in his chest.

“Hi. Did I fall asleep?”

“Looked like it to me.” He searched for some glib remark, something light and frivolous, but all he could find to say was her name. “Anna.” And he lowered his mouth to hers. Tenderly, softly, lovingly.

The sleep had cleared from her eyes when he drew away, but he couldn’t read them. She breathed in once, slowly, then out again. “What was that?”

“Damned if I know.” Both of them eased back cautiously. “I think we’d better order that pizza.”

Relief and disappointment warred inside her. Anna put all her effort into supporting the relief. “Good idea. The number’s right next to the kitchen phone. If you don’t mind calling it in, I’d like to grab a quick shower, get some clothes on.”

“All right.” With casual intimacy he stroked a hand over her hip. “What do you want on it?”

“All I can get.” She waited while he laughed and was pleased that he rolled out of bed first. She needed another minute.

“I’ll pour the wine.”

“Terrific.” The minute she was alone, she turned her face into the pillow and let out a muffled scream of frustration. Steps back? she thought, furious with herself. Where did she get the idiotic idea she could take a few steps back? She was over her head in love with him.

My fault, she reminded herself, my problem. Sitting up, she pressed a hand to her traitorous heart. And my little secret, she decided.

• • •

S
HE FELT BETTER when she was dressed and had a light shield of makeup in place. She’d given herself a good talking-to in the shower. Maybe she was in love with him. It didn’t have to be a bad thing. People fell in and out of love all the time, and the wise ones, the steady ones, enjoyed the ride.

She could be wise and steady.

She certainly wasn’t looking for happily ever after, a white knight, a Prince Charming. Anna had outgrown fairy tales long ago, and all of her innocence had cemented into reality on the side of a deserted road at the age of twelve.

She’d learned to make herself happy because for too many years following the rape it had seemed she was helpless to do anything but make herself and everyone near her miserable.

She’d survived the worst. There was no doubt she could survive a slightly dented heart.

In any case, she’d never been in love before—she had skirted around it, breezed over it, wriggled under it, but had never before run headlong into it. It could be a marvelous adventure, certainly a learning experience.

And any woman who found herself a lover like Cameron Quinn had plenty of blessings to count.

So she was smiling when she came into the living room and found Cam, sipping wine, staring at the cover of her latest fashion magazine. He’d put music on. Eric Clapton was pleading with Laylah.

When she came up behind him and pecked a kiss on the back of his neck, she didn’t expect his jolt of surprise.

It was guilt, plain and simple, and he hated it. He nearly bobbled the wine and had to fight to keep his face composed.

The pouty face on the cover of the magazine in his hand was a certain long-stemmed French model named Martine.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” She raised an eyebrow as she looked at the magazine in his hands. “Absorbed with this summer’s new pastels, were you?”

“Just passing the time. Pizza should be along in a
minute.” He started to set the magazine down, wanted sincerely to bury it under the sofa cushions, but she was nipping it out of his hand.

“I used to hate her.”

His throat was uncomfortably dry. “Huh?”

“Well, not Martine the Magnificent exactly. Models like her. Slim and blond and perfect. I was always too round and too brunette. This,” she added, giving her wet, curling hair a tug, “made me insane as a teenager. I tried everything imaginable to straighten it.”

“I love your hair.” He wished she’d turn the damn magazine facedown. “You’re twice as beautiful as she is. There’s no comparison.”

Her smile came quick and warm around the edges. “That’s very sweet.”

“I mean it.” He said it almost desperately—but thought it best not to add that he’d seen both of them naked and knew what he was talking about.

“Very sweet. Still, I wanted so badly to be slim and blond and hipless.”

“You’re real.” He couldn’t stop himself. He took the magazine and tossed it over his shoulder. “She’s not.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Enjoying herself, she cocked her head. “Seems to me you race-around-the-world types usually go for the supermodels—they look so good draped over a man’s arm.”

“I barely know her.”

“Who?”

Jesus, he was losing it. “Anybody. There’s the pizza,” he said with great relief. “Your wine’s on the counter. I’ll get the food.”

“Fine.” Without a clue as to what was suddenly making him so edgy, she wandered to the kitchen for her drink.

Cam saw that the magazine had fallen faceup so it appeared that Martine was aiming those killer blue eyes right at him. It brought back the memory of a scored cheek and a spitting female. He cast a wary glance at Anna. It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.