Everywhere She Turns (9 page)

Lifting her gaze to the ceiling, she stared at the cracked plaster.

For two beats she tried to convince herself she’d imagined the sound. Maybe a squirrel had gotten in somehow.

The scuff of hard soles on bare wood jolted her out of denial.

Fear rammed her heart against her sternum.

Cell phone. Pepper spray. She probed in her bag for both, her gaze never leaving the staircase across the room.

Her respiration echoed in the silence.

Someone was up there . . . not her imagination.

Another creak.

She froze.

Shelley’s bedroom.

He was in Shelley’s room!

Blind fury lashed through her, propelled her across the room and up the stairs.

“Don’t you touch my sister’s things!”

The words exploded in the air startling her with the realization that she’d voiced the thought.

She hit the upstairs landing without slowing and lunged into the darkness of the hall toward her sister’s room.

A body plowed into her.

Knocked her backward.

She hit the floor.

The breath whooshed out of her lungs.

The pepper spray slid across the floor. Her death grip on the phone was all that kept it in her hand.

A foot came down right next to her head as the intruder scrambled over her.

The boom of footsteps on the stairs catapulted her upright.

She raced after him.

Definitely a him. Big. Strong. Hard-muscled.

Stumbling down the last two steps in her haste, she landed on all fours on the living room floor.

The back door banged against the wall.

He was getting away!

She staggered up. Ran.

She burst through the door he’d left open. Stumbled around in a circle, searching the darkness.

Where the hell was he?

Peering across the moonlit yard, she got a glimpse of a dark figure as he ducked into the alley.

“Bastard,” she snapped. She fought to catch her breath. If she’d turned the upstairs light on, maybe she would have gotten a glimpse of his face.

Dammit.

Her body started to shake. She was cold. And it was hot as hell, sticky, muggy out here.

The adrenaline was draining away.

She took a deep breath, then another.

Calm down
.

It was over.

He wouldn’t be back.

The scumbag had likely heard about Shelley’s death and
decided to see if there was anything in the house worth taking.

“Piece of shit.”

Catching hold of the railing for support, she climbed the back steps and went inside. She’d see if anything was missing and what had gotten broken, then she would call the police.

For all the good it would do.

Turning on lights as she went, she moved through the kitchen to the living room and up the stairs. At the landing, she switched on the hall light this time.

The consuming quiet pressed in around her, felt creepy.

Call the police now
.

As she eased cautiously toward Shelley’s room, the little voice that had been screaming at her, which in her emotional outburst she had ignored, prompted her to slide her phone open and do what she should have done in the first place.

At the bedroom door, she slid her hand along the wall until she hit the switch. Light flooded the room.

CJ poised her thumb to enter the three digits, then froze.

The window was broken. Glass had spewed across the floor. Shelley’s things were tossed all around the room. But none of that was what held her transfixed, unable to move or even to scream.

On the wall above the bed was a message written in bold crimson swipes:
STAY AND THERE’LL BE TWO DEAD BITCHES
.

The phone slipped from her icy fingers and bounced on the floor.

CJ blinked.

Her lips parted with the sound that burst from her lungs.

She whirled and ran for the stairs.

Plunged downward, barely staying vertical.

She rushed for the door . . . and rammed into a hard chest before she could stop her forward momentum.

The scream died in her throat as her reactions scrambled to catch up with the message her brain was sending.

“CJ, what’s going on?”

Braddock
.

All the hurt, disappointment, regret, anger, and fear folded in on her. She crumpled into his arms.

He was whispering to her. She couldn’t make out the words over her sobs. Strong arms lifted her. He carried her across the room and settled on the sofa with her in his lap, cradled in his arms.

Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. She clung to his strength, to the warmth of his body. She was so cold. So tired. The misery was so overwhelming.

And no matter how vehemently she’d denied it, she’d missed him. It felt good to be in his arms. All those nights they’d talked, just being close to him had warmed her . . . made her want things she’d never dared to want. Made her want to give herself to him and to take all he’d had to offer. Even now he had the power to make her tremble with that same need when she shouldn’t.

She didn’t want to think anymore . . . didn’t want to feel this agony. She wanted to lose herself. Her lips found his. She kissed him with all the emotions churning madly inside her. Wanted to learn every part of him the way she’d dreamed of so many times before.

“Slow down,” he murmured as he tried to draw away.

“Can’t.” She pulled his mouth back to hers, kissed him harder. Her fingers knotted in his shirt, tugged at it until she found naked skin. Hot . . . smooth. She wanted to touch more of him. Wanted him to touch her. She tore at the buttons of her blouse. Her breasts strained against the satin of her bra, begging for attention.

She guided his hand to her breast. He squeezed. She gasped, squirmed in his lap.

Years of frustration and restraint exploded inside her. Watching her drunken mother’s male friends paw at her mother. Holding her sister while she sobbed because some bastard had taken advantage of her when she was wasted. CJ was always the good girl, the one who cleaned up the mess—who did the right thing.

She didn’t want to do the right thing anymore. She wanted to go to that mind-numbing place. To forget everything else.

She wanted Braddock to take her there. She’d dreamed of being with him for months even as she’d tried every tactic she knew to forget him.

Jesus Christ, why didn’t he do something? “What’re you waiting for?” Her voice was thick with need.

Those dark, dark eyes clashed with hers. She saw the desire there. He wanted her . . . no matter that he hesitated.

“You don’t want to do this,” he murmured.

A blast of fury ignited in her belly. “You don’t know a damned thing about what I want.” She tugged his polo up and off. Just looking at all that bare skin and toned muscles made her want to taste him. To lick him all over just to prove she was every bit the woman her sister had been.

She had needs, too. Plunging her fingers into his hair, she pulled his face close to hers. “Now fuck me, Braddock. Maybe I’ll find out why my sister thought you were so goddamned amazing.”

The words prodded the reaction she’d wanted.

He threw her down on the sofa, tore open her slacks, and stripped them from her legs. Looming above her, he stared at her panties a long moment, clearly surprised by the frilly, sexy underwear beneath all those conservative clothes she wore.

What the hell had he expected? She was a woman, too. Just because she didn’t screw every man she met, like her sister, didn’t make her less of a woman.

Then he ripped those lacy panties from her body. Anticipation roared inside her.

He kneed his way between her thighs. Wrenched open his trousers . . . and hesitated. “Changed your mind yet?”

“Shut up and do it.” She shoved his trousers and boxers down his hips. Her pulse skipped as his fully aroused penis nudged her belly.

He grabbed her hips, lifted her, then pushed fully inside with one determined thrust.

She cried out with the pleasure of it. Forgot all else as she wrapped her legs around his and instinctively ground her pelvis against his. She’d waited so long for this . . .

He moved, the slightest retreat before plunging in again. Her
muscles clamped around him. He growled. She took that as her cue and began that rhythmic flexing that was as primal and instinctive as breathing.

Felt good.

She traced his muscled chest with her hungry fingers. Smoothed her hands over his back while he thrust over and over . . . stretching her . . . filling her . . . and driving her closer and closer to the edge.

That spiraling sensation started, sweeping her up into a whirlwind of pure pleasure. She dug her nails into his back, screamed with the ecstasy of her first orgasm in so damned long. So, so damned long.

He stopped, his penis deep inside her as every inch of her body pulsed with the remnants of the bliss coursing through her.

She moaned as the fight drained out of her along with the sensations . . . fading . . . fading . . .

His hand slid between their bodies. She tensed. He touched her. A gasp escaped her lips. The pad of his thumb pressed hard against her clitoris. Her eyes flew open and she braced to push him away.

“Not yet,” he muttered thickly. “You haven’t seen amazing yet.”

His cock throbbed inside her, but it was his fingers that were driving her out of her mind. Slow, steady circles, right there on that place where millions of nerve endings were concentrated. Then he started to move again. Slowly at first, then faster. His hands moved beneath her hips, lifted her into him so he could drive move deeply.

Her muscles clenched with the beginnings of another climax.

He thrust harder, faster.

She curled her knees forward, wanting more of him . . . wanting all he had to give. This time she didn’t close her eyes. She wanted to see his face, the face that had haunted her dreams so many times.

And then she started to come again. Her eyes drifted shut as her body reacted to the building climax. The sensations burst
inside her, the waves stronger this time, washing over her entire body. Again and again.

He came, too.

Three . . . four final, deep thrusts. His lips found hers. The kiss went on and on.

When he stopped, he lifted his mouth from hers to look into her eyes.

She saw the regret in his and everything inside her went cold.

Reality crashed around her.

What the hell had she done?

He pulled out, righted his trousers, and stumbled off the sofa.

She snatched up her slacks, jerked them on. Tried to pull her blouse back together to cover herself.
Dear God. What have I done?

His gaze collided with hers and she recognized that she’d said the words aloud.

She turned away, couldn’t look at him. Her face burned with embarrassment.

And she had no one to blame but herself.

“What . . .” He cleared his throat. “What had you running down the stairs?”

That he could back away and move on to business as if they hadn’t just done
it
sent renewed fury firing through her veins.

The blood . . . the words . . . Shelley’s things . . .

Oh, God
. CJ grappled for her composure. “Upstairs. There . . .”
Pull it together, think rationally
. “Someone broke in. Left a message on the bedroom wall.”

“Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

While he was upstairs, she grabbed her ripped panties from the floor. Half the buttons were missing from her blouse. She had to be losing her mind.

What the hell had she been thinking?

She hadn’t. That was the point. Months ago, when she’d thought he was so charming and trustworthy, she’d been certain that they would begin a real relationship. The idea of making love with him had teased her dreams, made her yearn for
that moment. She’d been drawn to him on every level—ones she hadn’t even known existed before being kissed by him. Then she’d discovered that he was no different from all the rest. She’d tried to forget him completely, but Shelley just kept bringing him up.

Even now, with Shelley dead, Braddock was still an integral part of what was left.

Maybe that was the reason CJ had lost total control tonight. She’d needed a mindless outlet, but mostly she’d needed him. He’d just happened to walk through the door before she regained her senses.

CJ’s fingers stilled in their efforts to tidy her hair. She hadn’t heard him knock; she’d just rushed down the stairs and found him in her living room.

She walked over to the door, turned the knob. Unlocked. His car was parked on the street.

Had she left it unlocked when she came in?