A Killing Kind of Love: A Dark, Standalone Romantic Suspense (14 page)

She remembered. She remembered every engorged vein and muscle in his body; his long, expert fingers . . . Fire rushed up her throat and she gasped.

“That’s it,” he said when her legs eased looser. “Now sit back, and I’ll take care of you. I’m here, Gina. And all I want to do is make you happy.” His hand moved to her inner thigh, again grazed her pubis, and skirted upward over her belly. He found a nipple, circled it with a slow finger, then leaned to kiss it through the thin cotton of her gown.

She drew in a breath, moistened her lips with a tongue too dry for the task. He’d play with her now. Make her wait. She loved to wait, loved that place before coming.

Abruptly, he pulled his hand back. “Get naked, Gina,” he said. “I want to see your breasts in the moonlight.”

He didn’t help her, instead he sat back, watched her brief struggle to nudity. When she’d tossed the loose cotton shift to the floor, he scanned her body. “Nice. Very nice. Fuller than I remember. Lush.” He touched the tiny birthmark over her right breast, leaned down to kiss it softly, before running his tongue over her nipple. His tongue wasn’t gentle, it was rough and quick, and she gasped from the sting of it. She touched the nipple he’d stroked; it was a small, aching stone. “Stretch out, baby. Open your legs.” He smiled, and his teeth glittered white in the growing light of morning. “A man needs room to work.”

She wanted to resist—she did! But she obeyed, her traitorous body on a deeply disturbing level craving him to oblivion.

She was enraptured by the idea of Adam, the memory of Adam, of what his hands would make her body do.

She wanted to see him in the same way he saw her, naked and open to her. She ran her hand up and over the hard swelling below the undone top button of his jeans and pulled down his zipper. No briefs. He shifted his hips and his erection sprang free. He was hard, long, and magnificent.

Her searing dream come to life. Hers for the taking. She started to pant, her lungs unable to fill, unable to empty. “I remember …” she whispered, too hot to talk.

“It’s all yours,” he answered, his words silky. “Anytime you want it.” He bent over her, licked her lips, then claimed her mouth. His tongue, hot and demanding, took hers, while his hands roamed her body with softness and care, as if he were reading her skin. The contrast of soft hands and plundering mouth made her body pulse and jerk.

She curled her hand around his erection and felt his stomach contract. He lifted his mouth from hers, took her face in his hands. “It’s been too long, baby. Much too long.”

She squeezed his length, and he closed his eyes.

“Hm-m . . . that’s good,” he murmured. “Very good.”

Gina took her hand from him, waited for him to open his eyes, saw they were as glazed and crazed as her own. Adam might use sex for his own ends, but he also enjoyed it, and he let it show. She ran her hand over his clean-shaven face and breathed in his expensive musky scent. Something in her registered: no briefs, clean-shaven. The bastard came to her ready and absolutely sure she was his for the taking.

She didn’t care. She was pathetically grateful.

She stared into his eyes. “Fuck me, Adam. Like you used to.” Was that breathless, needy voice hers? Was it really her asking . . . begging for sex from Adam Dunn, the man she’d spent almost a year hating?

He put his hand on her pubis, cupping it lovingly, then moved a finger until he located her clitoris. Circling it slow and easy, then stroking it luxuriously, he leaned to whisper in her ear. “My pleasure.”

No. The pleasure was hers, all hers. Adam made sure of it.

She might hate herself in the morning, but she’d hate Adam even more.

Camryn’s first thought when she woke was Kylie. Her plan was to make them both breakfast and take some quiet time to explain, as best she could, why Kylie would be staying with her Aunt Cammie from now on, a subject that she’d avoided—for more than a week.

So far, because Kylie had stayed with Camryn before, often for days at a time, she was at home here. She hadn’t felt anything strange about her extended stay. She’d just been her usual happy, joyous self.

Camryn honestly didn’t know where to begin, how to tell a three-year-old girl her mother was never coming back. She knew Paul had told her, “Mommy is away,” but that wasn’t nearly enough. Then there was her insistent—and increasing—questions about when “Daddy?” was coming. Obviously, Camryn had underestimated the bond between Dan and Kylie, or subconsciously denied it. Either way, today she’d at least try to explain the changes in Kylie’s young life.

A glance at the clock told her it was seven-thirty. She got out of bed and reached for the robe she’d draped over the baseboard the night before.

She found Kylie and Trent sitting at the kitchen table, Kylie with toast in her hand and peanut butter on her face, her father with coffee and the morning newspaper. Kylie scrambled from her chair and rushed at her like a small, very excited tornado.

“Aunt Cammie,” she said. “I got toast with Tent.”

“Trent,” her dad corrected, then looked up at her. “Morning.”

“You fed her,” she said. It came out sounding like an accusation, or her disappointment showed. So much for her plan.

“I was up. She was up. Seemed logical.”

Of course it was. “Thanks,” she said.

He put down his paper, got up. “Get your coat, kiddo. We might as well check out that park now. Before it rains—again.”

“I need my brella.” She looked at Camryn with a question in her eyes.

“It’s in your closet, sweetheart. In the back. You’ll have to look.”

“I’ll find it. I’m a good finder.” She rushed off, barefooted, hair uncombed.

“Get your boots!” Camryn yelled at her retreating back. “They’re in there, too.”

“Okay.”

And she was gone. Camryn turned to her dad. “I’m sorry you mentioned the park. I was planning some alone-time with Kylie. I need to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“Everything. Her mother particularly.”

“I already did,” he said.

“What?” Camryn, who’d been pouring herself a coffee, spun, coffeepot in hand.

“I spoke to her yesterday and again today. Did the usual thing.” He shrugged. “I said her mommy was in heaven with the angels, and that someday—if she was a really good little girl—she’d see her again. As for the rest . . .” He paused, rubbed at his chin. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Considering Kylie was so young, he was probably right, but it didn’t make Camryn less irritated at his cavalier take-over of what she saw as her role. “And what’s that philosophy? The world according to Trent Derne? Bury the truth and throw away the shovel?”

“There’s worse ways to deal with a problem, Camryn.” Camryn dialed back on her impatience, set the coffeepot back on the counter, and turned on her father. “I didn’t ask you to speak to her, and I wish you hadn’t.”

“Why the hell not? The sooner the better, and the simpler the better. The girl is three years old. A month from now she’ll barely remember her real mother. You’ll be the mother of record. It’s you she’ll remember.” He gave her a quizzical look. “It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? To be a mother?”

Mother of record .
. . God, the phrase made Kylie sound like a land parcel. “Of course, but—”

“Got it, Tent,” Kylie barreled into the room carrying her umbrella. “And socks, too. I got socks on.” She lifted a foot; it was encased in a yellow boot with bumblebees on the toe guard. “Can we go?”

“Sure, honey, but give me a kiss first.”

Kylie wrapped her arms around her and kissed her soundly on the cheek. That done, she leaned back, still holding Camryn tight, and said, “Tent says Mommy’s gone to heaven for a long time.”

She didn’t pose it as a question, but Camryn took it as one. “Yes, she has, sweetheart.”

“She should’ve tooken me.”

“She couldn’t do that, because one of the really big and important angels said you have to wait here for a while.”

“That’s mean.” She sealed her lips. “I’m going to tell my Grampa. He’ll get mad.”

“Grampa already knows, Kylie, and he is mad—very mad, but that angel won’t talk to him.”

Kylie’s face soured even further, then brightened when another idea lit up her thinking. “Then I’ll ask Daddy to talk to the angel. He’s a real good talker.” She thought a minute, then instructed, “You call Daddy, okay?”

Before she could come up with an answer to Kylie’s latest plan, Trent interrupted. “Let’s go, kiddo.” He made a show of looking out the window; the day was clear enough, but the sky held the usual October cloud. “Looks like you were a smart girl,” he said, “getting that umbrella. It’s going to rain for sure. We might have to share. Okay?” Her father gave Kylie one of his rare smiles, which sent an odd, soft jolt through Camryn’s heart. She didn’t remember him smiling at her in that way; she remembered him as distracted and preoccupied—and leaving, always leaving on one of his endless business trips. Now, he was here enjoying Kylie—much as he would his own grandchild. If she could give him one. That stupid errant thought, the first step on a nonsensical guilt trip, had her mentally giving her head a shake. What was, was. And she’d spent the last three months accepting it. She wasn’t stumbling back to Pity City now. “Okay, but I hold it,” Kylie stated.

“Fair enough,” Trent said and reached for her hand. Camryn kissed Kylie’s head, then pulled up her hood. “Run along, sweetheart. We’ll talk later.”

She watched them walk up the long driveway toward the street. The park, with its large beach area and colorful playground, was about three blocks away.

Although Camryn’s house was on the lakefront, her shore area, rimmed with tall grass, was small and rocky; a dock jutted into the lake with not so much as a canoe tied to it. But the old Craftsman-style house on the property was a jewel—and a work in progress. Its state of disrepair, and the strange fact that the house, constructed with its porch facing away from the lake, hadn’t been built to take advantage of its lakefront location, gave it a price she could afford. It wasn’t a large house, but the upper floor, about half the size of the main floor, provided her a private bed and bath and loft with enough working space to run her business, and she adored its wide eaves and exposed rafters.

She’d have to make some changes to the main floor for Kylie’s sake, but that would be a joy. She watched her dad and Kylie walk the long path to the street, holding hands.

She was about to close the door behind them when she saw a FedEx truck turn into the driveway. Pulling her robe tighter against the morning chill, she waited. Most likely it was that purchase order she’d requested from Holland’s Antiques for the Lalique “Serpent” vase. Maybe even a check.

“Camryn Bruce?” the delivery man said from the first step.

“Uh-huh.”

She signed for the envelope and went back into the house, determined to finally get that cup of coffee.

Coffee in hand, she sat at the table and opened the envelope. Her breath caught in her throat and she immediately put her free hand at its base and told herself to get a grip. This wasn’t unexpected.

The papers in the envelope—all Washington-state legal— told her she was a free woman. Craig had taken care of everything, as he’d said he would. The divorce was uncontested, neither of them wanted anything from the other, and Washington, being a no-fault divorce state, simply acknowledged the “marriage was irretrievably broken.”

All Camryn had to do was sign and she’d erase five years of marriage. Too bad she couldn’t do the same to her guilt and sense of failure. She’d hurt Craig, used him, and she still felt lousy about it. He was right; she’d wanted a child more than she’d wanted him. She’d been unfair to him and unfair to their marriage vows.

I have my child now, not in the way I’d planned, but as precious as if she’d come from my own womb. But I’m sorry I hurt you, Craig. You were my . . . friend.

She was brushing tears from her eyes when the doorbell crackled. Or buzzed. Or whatever. There really wasn’t a description for the sound, other than aurally painful. She kept meaning to have it fixed—but somehow it stayed low on the list of things to do. She got up immediately to stop whoever it was on the other side of her door from ringing it again.

She looked through the glass, frowned, and again tugged at the belt on her robe, pulling it even tighter. God, she hadn’t even brushed her hair!

It was Dan Lambert, carrying a very large bag.

If Camryn hadn’t known what to say to Kylie about her mother and all the changes she could expect, she was even less sure what to say to the man Kylie hadn’t stopped talking about since she’d brought her home.

The man threatening to take her away, and a man who had a troubling effect on Camryn’s logic and determination—and something else she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, name.

She opened the door. “I don’t remember telling you where I lived,” she said, at the same time registering how relaxed and confident he looked standing outside her door at a too-early time in the morning. And while he looked rugged and ready for the day in jeans and a tan windbreaker, she looked frowsy—probably irritated, which she was—and incapable of thinking past downing her first cup of coffee.

“You’re in the phone book.”

“Yes, along with my telephone number.” She eyed him. “I thought you’d gone back to California.”

“I did. Now I’m here.”

“Here, where?”

“A motel in Kenmore—for the time being.”

She let out a breath, because other than a curse, it was all she could come up with.

“We have things to settle,” he said. “I thought it best we do it face to face.” He looked past her. “And I’d like to see Kylie. I brought some of her things from the house. She’ll want them.”

“She’s with my father. At the park.” She didn’t open the door. “You can leave them with me. I’ll make sure she gets them.”

“This is only part of it. The rest of it—the bigger toys and some clothes—are in the truck. And her car. She loves her car.” He waited, and it was obvious he intended to wait for as long as it took.

Damn!
She opened the door wider. “I’ll take that.” She reached for the bag. “You get the rest.”