Vengeance to the Max (7 page)

She nodded, cleared her throat, then squeaked a “Yes.”

He dipped in, put his cheek next to hers where his hand had been, and whispered, “Good. ‘Cause it scares the crap outta me.”

He inched back, then said, “Get in the car,” in a voice that sounded as if he was asking her into his bed.

She grabbed his chin before he could get away and tugged him down until his breath feathered her lips. “Thank you for flying with me.” She pecked his mouth. “Thanks for buying me an egg-n-muffin in the airport.” This time she opened her mouth and stroked her tongue along the seam of his lips. “And thank you for not dumping me on my ass in the slush because I’m acting crappy.” She cupped the back of his head and kissed him hard. It wasn’t sexy or sensual, but he sighed nonetheless.

“What about making you come on the plane? Aren’t ya gonna thank me for that, too?” His words caressed her cheek as he held her hand between their bodies.

“
You
have to thank
me
. I know you did it to take your mind off flying.” But heck, that was okay with her.

He leaned back, his pelvis pressed to her abdomen. “Right. Did the trick, too.”

“Any time, Long. Any time.” Subliminal messages filled their banter. She’d give a little. He’d take a lot. Somewhere along the way, they’d both end up getting it all. At least she’d give it the old college try. She did wonder, though, what
getting it all
really meant. With Cameron, it had been a ring, five years of agony and ecstasy, and a gravestone in a cemetery she hadn’t visited in months because he wasn’t buried there.

Damn.

Witt stepped back, though her hand was still trapped in his. “While we’re driving, you can tell me your plan for finding your husband’s sister.”

Plan?

Deflated, both by his words and her thoughts, Max slithered into the leather seat. He believed in size and comfort where it counted, with seat warmers, thank God. Slamming her door, he paced to the driver’s side. No question of her doing the driving.

She didn’t say anything, hoped that by the time he maneuvered them out of the parking lot and onto the freeway he’d have forgotten the question.

He made a noise, then passed her a map, the folds creased the wrong way to block out their route marked in pink high-lighter.

She raised a brow, but didn’t ask the question.

“Pink’s easier to see than yellow,” he said, without even a crinkle to his lips.

“And you’re so macho that pink doesn’t take away from your masculinity.”

This time he did smile. “Exactly. Been thinking about getting a few pink shirts, too.” With one blunt finger, he tapped the map. “Navigate.”

Navigator? Her job? He
did
hate her driving. The trip to Lines would take a couple of hours, longer with the amount of traffic on the roads due to their morning arrival. What were the chances he wouldn’t bring up
the plan
again?

“Your plan?” he prompted

Damn. Guess the chances weren’t good. “I’ll start at the library and go through the newspapers.”

“Newspapers?” Eyes on the road and the morning commute traffic—which didn’t look one iota different from San Francisco—Witt frowned. “Do a search on the internet before we left?”

“No.”

“Ask your husband for details?”

“He has none.”

Silence inside the car, outside, horns, the chug of engines, the spit of snow, ice and water against the concrete. Finally, “Don’t have a plan, do you?”

“No.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. No plan at all. Only a twenty-eight-year-old high school annual. So how was she going to locate Cameron’s sister in three and a half days?

The Lines Motor Lodge blazed with lights on the overcast day. The cold, crisp air smelled of pine trees and dampness. The parking lot, cleared of snow, was dry beneath Max’s feet.

“I’ll check us in.”

Two rooms or one? After his touch on the plane, Witt would surely get only one. The idea tumbled around in Max’s stomach. She wanted. She was scared. She needed. Her need terrified her.

She stayed by the car door.

“Coming?”

“I’ll wait here.” It was best to let Witt handle the details without her. She might inadvertently say or do something idiotic, like run screaming from the lobby. She’d had sex with the man. He’d slept in her bed, sometimes for most of the night. It wasn’t the same as sharing a bathroom. Bathrooms were more intimate than bedrooms and beds.

He shrugged, crossed the parking lot, threw open the door to the bright interior, and strode to the desk. Her cheeks stung with the cold, but she wouldn’t follow him even for a Jacuzzi tub filled with deliciously scalding water. His blond buzz cut gleamed under the harsh lighting. With his linebacker shoulders, he towered over the clerk. Witt would look great in a skin-tight football uniform, too. Yanking aside his jacket, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. She liked his hands best. Sometimes at night, she dreamed about those hands.

Max sniffled, her nose starting to run with the frigid air. Her lips seemed stuck in a permanent Witt-watching smile. She must look like a besotted idiot.

Witt signed with a flourish, put away his wallet, turned to her, then stopped. With a twinge in her belly, she wondered how he knew she was looking at him. Due to the clouds darkening the sky, she stood in relative shadow beyond the plate glass door. All he should have been able to see was his own reflection. He saw inside her, recognized the longing of a woman who’d been standing on the outside looking in so long she didn’t know how to do it any other way. He’d be thinking to himself that he had his work cut out for him. He’d be wishing she hadn’t had that dream about Cameron, knowing it only served to remind her of the cost of relationships. He’d be thanking God he had a few days to railroad her in whatever direction he wanted her to go.

He opened the door, and the moment passed. Reaching her in three strides, he extended his hand. “Your key.” He held an identical card key in his other hand.

Two rooms, or one? She was afraid to sound dumb by asking.

After an infinitesimal pause, he said, “You’re two-eighteen. I’m next door.”

She found her voice then. “Separate rooms?”

With raised brow, he said, “Figured you’d prefer that.”

That he assumed without asking miffed her. Okay, okay, so she was being contrary. She was a woman, it was her right. Then again, maybe
he
didn’t want to share a room. “How do you know what I prefer?” she snapped at him.

A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Know lots of things you prefer.”

Her cheeks flamed, and her mouth went dry. She’d liked every damn thing he’d done to her and everything she’d done to him. “So why... ?” She let the question hang in the air. Dammit, if he was going to get separate rooms, he had to at least explain.

“You’re not ready for anything else.”

They’d done it all! What else was there? Well, there was tying up and... The outside air was cold, but his attitude made her downright hot under the collar. “I beg to differ.”

“In a bed, you’d have to be on top, wouldn’t you?”

Ohmygod, how did he know she felt most comfortable on top? Was it once again something written all over her face? “What’s wrong with being on top? I happen to think it’s a great position.” And she hadn’t been on top
every
time they’d been together.

That smile again. His eyes twinkled. “One of my favorites.” He shrugged. “But for you it’s not a position, it’s a state of mind.”

“What does that mean?” She knew exactly what it meant.

“Trust. You’re not there yet.”

She wanted to stamp her foot like a child. “What about that talk we had?” She’d vowed she’d trust him. She’d
told
him that. And she really had been trying. Why couldn’t he tell? She took a step forward, stabbed her finger in the middle of his solid chest. “I called it
making love
. What more do you want?”

His gaze hardened, the twinkle abruptly winking out.

“You always throw me a bone after a crisis, Max.”

It wasn’t a bone. It was heartfelt, straight from her gut. She opened her mouth.

He didn’t give her a chance. “I want more than a bone picked clean by your guilt.”

Was he right? Was guilt her only driver? Or was it fear that he’d leave her if she didn’t give him something? No. That wasn’t true. “I want to room with you, Witt. Honest, I do.” She’d only had those one or two doubts about it.

He laughed, shook his head, then stared her down. “Share a room? I want to share your bed, our bodies, love. Not be your roommate for five days.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” She wanted to give him what he needed, wanted to put aside her fears. For him. She’d ended up saying the wrong thing. Again. “I really—”

He shut her up with his mouth on hers. Then he murmured, “One of these days, sweetheart, you’ll be ready and we’ll both know there’s no one standing between us.

So that was it. Cameron. From the moment she’d called Witt two days ago and asked for his help, everything they’d said to each other had been about Cameron in one way or another. Cameron had even intruded on those few exquisite moments on the plane.

“It won’t always be like this, I swear it.” She wouldn’t think about exactly how she’d keep that promise, but her eyes ached and her heart suddenly beat too quickly in her chest.

His big hand cupping her jaw, Witt stroked her lower lip. “Wouldn’t be hanging around if I didn’t believe that was true.” He grabbed her hand. “Now come on. Wanna see your room so I can imagine you lying in your bed while I’m whacking off tonight.”

She slugged his arm. “I can’t believe you said that.” But the idea titillated enough to turn her gooey on the inside.

* * * * *

Max avoided slamming the door to room two-eighteen—barely. She made it down the short hallway next to the bathroom into the main room, to the connecting door. The door to Witt’s room. Right next to her own. All she had to do was knock... Maybe that’s what he was hoping for, some sort of power play on his part. The thought had ticked her off as soon as she saw that door, after which she’d promptly tossed Witt out of her room.

Sliding down the wall next to that door, she landed on her rear end with a thump. The room smelled of Pinesol when she’d been expecting the scent of stinky socks, old cigarettes, or stale male sweat. Pleasant, clean. She closed her eyes and tried not to hear the sound of Witt’s movements through the crack of the door.

The truth was, Witt didn’t make power plays. She did. But boy, did that door between them bring home what she was missing.

Cameron’s laughter floated around the room. “Reverse psychology and you fell for it. The man’s going to make you beg.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I beg for anything.” A cold day in hell was right around the corner. She reached up to unlock her side, in case Witt tried it.

Cameron laughed again, harder, making the walls vibrate, the thin beige curtains ripple, and the edge of the burnt orange bedspread flutter. The room stank of his peppermints.

“And you were the one who told him that I liked to be on top, weren’t you?” If she couldn’t yell at Witt, at least she could take her frustration out on Cameron.

“I didn’t have to tell him. He’s got you pegged.”

Her fingers curled into the shaggy orange carpet which had probably been installed when Cameron lived in Lines. At least it felt clean to the touch. “I don’t
have
to be on top.”

Cameron snorted next to her ear. Over that, she heard the sound of Witt’s TV switching on.

“Right. Control is your middle name, Max. On top, in control, at all times.” He’d once told her she didn’t know how to make love either. “You have sex, you don’t make love.”

Hearing it again still had the power to hurt. “You never complained when you were alive.”

“I thought I could change you.”