The Detective's Dilemma (9 page)

“Strong? Like you?”

“Oh, hell no. You deserve far better than me.”

She did laugh then.

Julianna’s laughter seemed loud, almost raucous for a young lady. Had she laughed like that as a debutante?

Perhaps Walker could have noticed her at one of those endless gatherings or picnics, though he had barely touched that part of his family’s life. And by the time she had a season, he’d have begun his training, fleeing the privilege of his family—the privilege they’d lost only a few years later.

If he’d seen her in the crowd of young beauties, would he have asked her to dance? He did dance, on occasion. And he’d escorted several young ladies to lectures in the city. He smiled, thinking of those lectures he’d sat through, aching to be up and doing.

Now he wished he’d met her in that innocent time. They’d talk, and she’d smile at him without suspicion or the haggard fear of a woman pushed to the edge. Although perhaps the very fact that she stood at that edge constituted his attraction.

“I wonder…” She spoke so quietly, he had trouble hearing her.

“What?”

“If we’d met under different circumstances…”

She stood near him, and he glanced up. The woman had to be a mind reader. Their gazes held, and his breath caught. He put down the journal and rose to his feet slowly. She took a step back.

He reached out, moving as slowly as he had when approaching a stray dog. She wouldn’t bite, but she might flee.

“Do you know what they say about widows?” she asked.

Walker had a fair idea but he shook his head.

“We are lecherous women who take our pleasure with other people’s husbands. I, at least, have my terrible reputation based on living with one of my parents’ ex-servants. And now you know the truth of that. He would never touch me.”

She folded her arms and glared at him. “I have missed touching another adult. My baby gives me a sort of affection, but I have missed the skin and taste and bulk of a man.”

“I have never met a lady as direct as you before,” he said.

“Only here and only at this moment.” She raised her chin, challenging him even more. “Only with you, a stranger, nearly.”

He’d enjoyed the fantasy, but the reality? It seemed far too significant.

She narrowed her eyes. “Come now, Mr. Walker, you were all suggestive comments and sly smiles before. Now you’re backing down? Why is that? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Walker…” She fell silent.

“What?” he asked, then berated himself.
No, you fool, don’t talk. Kiss her
.

She shrugged. “I’m tired of being strong. Just a…a few kisses.”

And then she astonished him—how many times in a day? She grabbed his hand and examined it, palm up, then she turned his hand over as if checking it for flaws. Her fingers chilled his skin until she lowered her mouth and pressed her lips to his knuckles. Her lips warmed his skin—heated his whole body.

He gasped with surprise and the startling, fierce hunger that surged through him.

He pulled his hand away—his fingers trembled.

“Strong is good,” he whispered as he grasped her shoulders. “Usually.”

A faint smile showed on her face, briefly, but as he leaned forward, it was replaced by a more serious expression.

Her mouth was warm, soft, and tentative under his. He’d planned to sweep in and grab her up in a strong kiss—to show her passion, because God knew he felt hot and urgent enough, and she’d opened this door. But now her nervous small touches and sounds slowed him. He didn’t plunge his tongue into her mouth, but only teased and gave light pressure.

She twisted in his arms, and he loosened his grasp. She gave a throaty whimper and pushed close. Her breath washed over his neck and jaw, fast puffs of air.

Now,
please.
He went back for more, and deepened the kiss almost at once, putting his arms around her, tightening his hold, pulling her close.

The hours of tension had twisted him tight, and these kisses, the warm, lithe body in his arms, the smell of cinnamon and taste of woman was the cure. He could move her to the sofa, lay her down, slide his body down onto hers. More kisses would be perfect.

He pulled back, ready to pick her up and carry her. Just two or three feet to the sofa—he could manage that. Hell, he’d lie on his back and let her come after him. Again. Yes.

Or maybe…oh yes. The bedroom? His eyes must have shifted in that direction, for she shook her head.

“No.” She sighed. At least she didn’t sound offended, only sad.

“No?”

But a moment later, she’d moved to him, cupped his face with her small hands, drawn him down, and they kissed.

The delicate tastes transformed. All polish had been stripped off, transforming their touches and kisses to raw need. They kissed as if starved for each other, fighting so much heat and hunger. Somehow they’d moved to a wall. He pressed her against it and himself against her. She gave a small whimper, and he backed up. “All right?” he asked.

Her hair had come loose, and a curl traced the line of her cheek. His chest ached at the sight.

“We must stop them…” she whispered. “This isn’t going to help.”

Fulfill desire and give us such bright pleasure, give us fun for once, he wanted to say, but only smiled. “No, it’s not going to give either of us the help we need.”

“That kiss was one of the best I’ve ever…” She pushed at her hair. Her gaze rested on his mouth.

That certainly didn’t make him feel the need to stop. “Shall we try to top it?”

She moistened her reddened lips, and he watched her tongue, fascinated. “Another kiss,” he coaxed. “Ten minutes. No more. I shan’t pressure you for more.”

In answer, she pulled him close and reached up to yank at his jacket.

More kisses that grew deep quickly. And before ten minutes had passed, more clothes followed. Her gown pooled at her feet and then her stays. His vest and shirt followed but he kept his undershirt on.

He wanted to pull off her chemise, but they had returned to kisses and touching, and that must not be interrupted.

He cupped her rear and pulled her against him so their bodies met perfectly then kissed her face, her neck, her throat, and the small indentation above the lace of her chemise. Such an elegant piece of white linen. He ran his fingers over the embroidery and pale blue ribbons. A virginal bit of clothing, yet he felt delirious joy that she was no virgin.

He moved down her body, kissing and stroking. At her breast, he sucked her nipple through the thin cloth, and enjoyed the quiver running through her and the way she grabbed his hair and pulled.

He dropped to a crouch and pressed his head to her belly. He ran his fingers up under her petticoat, and then, to his joy, discovered she wore open drawers. She hissed as he stroked her between the legs, enjoyed the swollen slick feel of her and the earthy scent of excited woman. A drunk medical examiner had once told him about the part of a woman that provided her with the most pleasure, and sure enough, as he drew his thumb over it, she gave startled squeaks, pulling his hair, but also rocked and writhed against him.

He pressed two fingers up into her and pushed into her only a few times before she cried out and squeezed his fingers with her hot, tight body. If that had been his cock—he panted at the thought and touched her harder.

“My God,” she groaned. “What are you doing to me? You are… Oh please.”

A few moments later, he pulled his hands from her pussy and stroked down her inner thigh and the impossibly soft skin.

She groaned and dropped down to the floor next to him. He knew his smile showed pure hunger—with a strong dose of smug—but he couldn’t help it.

Julianna made a tsking sound, twisted, and grabbed him. She lay on her back and pulled him onto her body, cradling him between her legs. If they had no clothes on, his aching cock would be inside her now. He moved on her, unable to hold still.

She slid her hand between them and fumbled with his trouser buttons, and he knew that she’d soon have him in hand. Her skin against his. He pulled her into a kiss, and she writhed under him, making them both gasp with hunger.

After a long, hungry kiss, she twisted until he rolled off and lay on his side. “On your back,” she demanded.

He obeyed. She straddled him, her legs wide, knees bent as she rocked against his erection, her core slick and warm against his organ. Just a shift in angle and a shove, and he’d be buried in her heat. He had to close his eyes to the sight of her bright face pulled into concentration, or he’d orgasm too quickly.

When she rose up on her knees, he sighed with disappointment and pushed up into the air. But no, she examined him as if she’d never seen a cock before then had him in hand. She moved her fist up and down, slowly. He watched fascinated. Memorize this, he ordered himself. He pulled in and held the details—her scent, her tousled hair and knowing smile.

“I have missed this,” she spoke to his prick. “I had no notion how much. I wish I could ride you.”

“Be my guest.”

She shook her head. But he forgot words when she bent and tentatively kissed the head of his prick. A moment later, she had her mouth on him and sucked. Both her hands and her mouth worked him with more skill than anything he’d ever encountered. He almost told her so, then realized she wouldn’t think it a compliment. God. It would be a compliment of the highest order. How could anyone so demure and well-bred do such amazing things with her tongue?

Far too soon, the tension wound tight and released. He blasted into orgasm—his body shook and spasmed, and she stroked him while saying words he couldn’t hear over the lasting pleasure.

He eventually heard, “Thank you, Mr. Walker,” and came back to himself. He gave a breathless laugh. “You can call me Caleb. After that. Yes. Call me Caleb.”

She grinned and collapsed half on him, half on the floor. He wiped himself with the tail of his shirt, then dragged her all the way onto his front, her form a comforting weight on him. “Only a moment,” she murmured into his neck. “We can’t waste more time than that.”

“Hmm.” He nuzzled the top of her head. He’d argue that what they’d done had been the least wasteful part of their adventures, but he wanted to hear her breathe and feel the rise and fall of her chest against his, not his own voice. He should have gotten that chemise off her, dammit.

She allowed them several heartbeats before pulling back. With a soft “Beg pardon,” she scurried off to the bedroom, clutching her clothes. What could that mean? Would she come back strange and unhappy? Or wearing that glorious, sated smile?

He rearranged and buttoned his clothes. After a moment, staring at the door where she’d vanished, he picked up her late husband’s book and looked through it again, though most of his attention focused on the other room and the small noises the lady made as she moved about. He heard the rasp of a brush through hair and the rustle of clothing.

When she returned, her hair was neater and her clothes unrumpled.

“Thank you.” She shifted from foot to foot, glanced at the sofa, the floor, and at him. She smiled and blushed.

“Yes. Thank you too.” He laid the book on his lap, almost giddy with relief. No recriminations, no regrets—their stolen time would remain sweet. She settled on the sofa and stared at his crotch.

No, alas, her attention was on the book.

“Have you noticed anything?” she asked.

Playtime had come to an end. One of the swiftest and strongest interludes he’d had with a woman hit like a storm and left him longing for more. He could beg her to let him kiss her again without specifying where—he hadn’t reciprocated her attentions, and that thought made his mouth water. He licked his lips.

A tiny sigh from her—maybe desire still tingled through her as well.

Instead of distracting him, that thought reassured him. He picked up the book and concentrated on the words in front of him. After a few pages, he said, “You said you thought it was mostly his father who hurt James. Do you think there’s a chance that your mother-in-law had anything to do with this?” He flipped back to a page and read aloud, “‘M is sad, again.’”

She shrugged. “I didn’t actually know the details of the abuse until very late in my marriage. I was with child and talking about how excited I felt about our baby. He said something about that he only wished his own family had felt that way. He’d made remarks like that on occasion, and I begged him to tell me what he meant. I knew they were not affectionate parents, but I realized there had to be more. And at last he told me the whole truth. Perhaps because he knew I would protect our child. Perhaps by then he’d already made the decision to take his own life.”

A vague plan must be better than none. Caleb said, “I think I shall pay Mrs. Winthrop a call.”

“Good heavens, Mr. Walker.”

“Caleb,” he corrected.

“Caleb.” She gave him a fleeting smile that almost at once turned back to a scowl. “I would rather you didn’t go see her.”

He drawled, “Hmm. I think we’ve established that I’m no longer your prisoner.”

“And I’m not yours, am I?”