Dancing on the Wind (3 page)

with her the day she had seen it displayed in the window of an antiques shop in

Missouri. She’d nearly broken his neck when she’d slammed on the brakes and

whipped into a parking space in front of the store. The light with its burnished chain

swags, stylish center bowl and classic amber flake glass shades was perfect in her

estimation and just what she’d needed to complete her dining room. She never even

blinked at the outrageous price being asked. She had to have it and it became hers,

lovingly packing it herself for the trip back to the Exchange.

The kitchen was just as neat as the first two rooms but he knew from past

experience anything that could spoil had already been removed from the refrigerator

and pantry. Housekeeping would have seen to that as soon as they’d learned of

Keenan’s death. Likewise any bills she’d owed, anything left pending would be

handled by Agent Affairs with alacrity and efficiency—pending final resolution of her

estate.

There were three bedrooms in the suite that had been her home. On the west side of

the hallway was one bedroom for guests and another used as an office set to either side

of a well-appointed bathroom. On the east side of the hall was the master bedroom and

bath. It was here he dreaded to go but where his footsteps carried him as though he

could not stop their movement.

“By all rights, I should be dead,” he said on a long sigh. “I fucking don’t

understand it.”

A king-sized bed with intricately curled brass headboard and footboard sat along

one wall, the bed was flanked by twin nightstands over which hung copper pendant

lamps with beveled amber glass shades. Two enormous armoires stood beside a forty-

inch-wide cabinet holding a thirty-six-inch plasma TV and a massive collection of

paperback novels. Angled in the corner by the sweep of four windows covered with

cheerful burgundy-and-white-calico curtains was a small desk upon which sat a laptop

computer and brass pharmacy lamp with a green glass shade. In the opposite corner

was a chaise lounge and floor lamp where he knew Keenan had spent many hours

immersed in the trashy romance novels she’d devoured by the gross. Overhead, a

copper and wicker ceiling fan circulated the air with only a small whir of sound. The

fan was on a timer, and when the digital bedside clock registered noon, the speed of the

rotating blades would quicken as the outside spring temperatures rose or fell. At 4 p.m.

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Dancing on the Wind

in the summer time, the blades would start spinning at top speed. In the winter the

reverse blade action would go no higher than medium speed simply to circulate the

warm air.

Fallon stood in the center of the room for a long time, just staring at the bed. The

coverlet matched the curtains and the upholstery on the desk chair and looked as

though he could sink down into its softness and all his cares would disappear, his

troubles would cease to be.

He wished with all his heart that such was possible and before he knew what he

was doing, he shrugged off his suit coat and draped it over the footboard, kicked off his

loafers—wincing as the pain in his right leg flared brutally—then sat down on the edge

of her bed. Five minutes passed as he just sat there gripping the cane then he propped it

against the mattress and swung his legs up with a grunt to stretch out on her bed. He

flung his arm over his head. Lying there on his back, staring up at the punched copper

ceiling that he knew Keenan had paid a small fortune to obtain, he mentally traced the

pattern of one beautiful square, counting the leaves on the cluster of flowers, the petals,

the scrolls running along the edge.

It was her scent that pushed aside all other thoughts and he turned his head on the

pillow, reaching over to pull the coverlet down so he could drag the other pillow to

him. He brought it to his face and inhaled slowly, drawing in the smell of her, the

essence of her presence deep into his lungs, closing his eyes as he breathed in her

perfume. Above him, the fan circled lazily with that soft displacement of air.

“Keenan.” He whispered her name, and it reverberated through his very soul. The

sound of it made him ache. Her loss cut him to the quick.

He had lain beside Keenan many times in this bed. Never had he fallen asleep here

without his body having been eased by hers. He remembered one such sweet time that

brought a quiver to his lips…

That day, she had come to him fresh from a shower with her hair curling damply

around her face. Beautiful beyond anything he could ever have imagined would one

day be his for the simple price of a gentle smile. Her arms had opened to him. For him.

And she had welcomed him inside her body with the same enthusiasm and trust they

had come to need from one another.

“Love me, Fallon,” she asked, and he had.

When he had begun to really love her with all his being, he had no idea. Perhaps it

had been the first time they’d clashed together with an explosion of passion that had

left them both stunned. Perhaps it had been the first time he’d seen her cry, or it might

well have been the day she had challenged his authority and stood her ground—the

only female to have ever done so and lived to remember it.

All he knew was that it had been long before that final time they’d shared her bed.

Their coming together had been slow and gentle—at first. He had taken her into his

arms and tilted her chin up to kiss her, claiming her mouth softly but possessively. She

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

fit so perfectly against him. Her scent enveloped him, drove deep into his soul. His kiss

had deepened at the moment enticement wafted along his senses.

Long, silky arms had wrapped around his neck as she dropped the towel to press

her body to his. She’d brought her legs up to lash them around his hips, and with his

hands cupping her tight little ass, barefoot, he carried her to the bed, never breaking the

dueling of their tongues as they explored each other’s mouth. He had dipped a jean-

clad knee to the mattress and moved them over to the center of the bed to lay her down,

rubbing his crotch against the soft center of her.

She eased her mouth from his and that gentle smile no other woman had ever

bestowed upon him nearly broke his heart as she gazed up at him.

“Strip for me, lineman,” she demanded, sliding her arms and legs from around him.

He was on his knees between her legs, inhaling the scent of her sex calling to him.

He hadn’t bothered with the buttons of his shirt. He simply tore the long-sleeved

checkered shirt from his chest and threw it aside. He worked the fly of his jeans,

snagged down the zipper and dropped to his side, rolled to his back to kick off the

jeans. She laughed at the garment went flying from the foot of the bed.

“You are so rough on your clothes,” she reprimanded on a long sigh.

He had crawled up her then, covering her with his body like a vine, wedging

himself tightly between her spread thighs, nudging her knees farther apart with his

own.

“I’m thinking about being rough on you, baby,” he countered, a growl in his deep

voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She’d plowed her fingers through his hair when he dipped his head to her breast,

drawing her nipple hard into his mouth, suckling on it with enough force to make her

groan. She held him to her as a mother would her infant.

With a fierce rumble reverberating from his chest, he ground against her, letting her

feel the heated erection that was hard and oozing as he dragged it along her thigh.

“This what you want?” he asked, teasing the broad tip at her velvety center.

She pretended to yawn. “I suppose if that’s all you’ve got.”

He had grinned mercilessly at her and rammed himself hard and tight inside her

wet sheath, eliciting a shocked gasp from her. The look she had given him then had

made him feel like a satyr, and he thrust again and again into her as she lifted her legs

to lock them securely around his waist. Her breasts were pressed flat against his chest,

her fingernails digging into his back as he rocked his body against hers. He ran his

hands under her ass and lifted her high for deeper penetration. Beneath them, the

headboard hit the wall time and again. The bed thumped along with their rhythm.

Sweaty flesh slapped against sweaty flesh and he swooped down to slant his mouth

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Dancing on the Wind

brutally over hers, catching the first squeal of release as her climax pulsed like an

exploding star.

After the last spasm had shook them and she lay pressed to his side—her fingers

winding curls in his chest hair—he held her and knew such peace it humbled him.

“Lineman?”

“Yeah?”

She said nothing for a moment then lifted her head to look up at him. When he

tilted his face toward hers, she smiled tremulously.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you.”

“I love you, too,
leanabh
,” he replied, and kissed her forehead.

She gave him a look he would never forget as long as he lived then said, “I will go

to my grave loving you.”

It started as another sharp sting behind his eyes then began to build with intensity

he neither could have stopped nor would have tried to. His chest felt as though a ton of

weight had suddenly been laid upon it. His face grew hot. His throat closed. He made a

sound that wasn’t quite human then he began to shake. The tremor grew, built until he

was shivering violently, the pillow clutched to him as though it were a lifeline tossed to

him upon a raging sea. He heard himself moaning and his grip on the pillow tightened.

He caressed it, stroked it gently—running his hand over the soft fabric—buried his face

in it for a moment, but the scent of her, the presence of her was so overpowering he

could not take it. He pulled back with a gasp, his breath shuddering in his throat. He

exhaled explosively, feeling the heavy weight in his chest, the burning behind his eyes.

He groaned helplessly, mouth open, body vibrating. The burning became tears and he

felt the first slide down his cheek, scalding his flesh.

“Keenan.”

The name was a pitiful, tormented, tortured sound torn from the very depths of

him but it broke the dam of emotions he had held so rigidly in check for the past week.

The flood waters washed over him, submersing him in grief, drowning him in

hopelessness, and he put his head back, howling with pain and sorrow and utter, soul-

shattering despair.

“Keenan!”

This time her name was a scream of denial, of betrayal, of inhuman agony that

ripped from him on a long wave of reverberation. He threw the pillow away from him

with a furious snap, with such force it shook the bed beneath him. He yowled again and

beat his fists savagely into the mattress, arched his back and dug in his heels. His head

whipped from side to side like a man possessed, and still her name continued to pour

from him in crashing waves of piteous anguish.

“Keenan!”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

On the nightstand beside him, the clock’s readout changed to 12 p.m. and the

blades of the fan began to move faster, bringing with them a low whomping sound that

was just loud enough to break through the suffering in which he was being held. The

sound caught his attention and he looked up at the whirling blades, the low, swooshing

sound instantly cutting off his sobbing. His lips parted, fists bunching in the coverlet.

He stared at the blades with his brows drawn together in confusion. Something was

trying to come to him but it was hovering just outside his reach, beyond his ability to

grasp it. Yet it remained there to taunt him. With every revolution of the blades the

feeling grew that there was memory lurking there. If he tried hard enough, he would

recognize it, snatch it up.

Every bone in his body began to ache. Every muscle began to burn and cramp. His

head throbbed. He had trouble drawing air into his lungs. His jaws ached brutally. His

back was an agony unto itself and even the tips of his fingers hurt so badly he had to

release his hold on the coverlet. His vision began to blur, and with the distortion, an

image rose up in his mind—the whirl of blades cutting through the air.

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

Suddenly he was beyond the here and now and entering a place into which no one

else could follow.

He was cold. So cold his lips began to quiver. Blasts of Arctic air were blowing over him to

chill to the marrow of his bones. He felt drained, depleted, destroyed. He felt encased in darkness.

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

He was jostled and his body screamed in protest though he knew he’d not uttered a word,

wasn’t capable of making a sound. He felt fresh tears gathering in his eyes, but this time from the

pain and not the grief. He could barely breathe.

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

A blurry face came into his line of vision. He couldn’t see anything except the hazy white

outline, the shape, but when he heard the man’s voice, he recognized it.

“They put a needle in your lung so you’ll be able to breathe better now, Misha,” the man