Hidden Desires (8 page)

God, why couldn’t she turn off her desire like a light switch? Why couldn’t her body remember it wasn’t allowed to feel this way? For so many years she’d tried to ignore the betraying sensations of her body. When she’d met that designer in New York last year, she’d been so tempted to accept his offer for dinner. She’d ignored the fluttering of her heart, the dampness of her palms, the sensitivity of her breasts.

Since she was eight years old, since that first time she’d walked into Hattie’s bedroom and seen a strange man violating her mother, she’d promised herself she’d guard her body. She’d let down that guard once, with a man she’d thought loved her, but when that relationship had exploded like fireworks in her face, she’d raised the wall again. Higher this time, so no man could penetrate it.

Why then did Travis seem to scale that wall with such ease?

“Bar food, huh?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and casual. “You’d think with all the money you have in the bank you’d be eating gourmet every night.” He made a disgusted face. “I hate gourmet. Only eat it when I’m having dinner at my mother’s.”

“How is your mom, by the way?”

Rachel suddenly got an image of Travis’s petite, dark-haired mother, remembering how the woman had sat in the front row of the bleachers for every football game Travis had played. Though the Gages had always been wealthy, Travis’s parents would show up at the school dressed casually, eat hot dogs and sip sodas, and cheer their son on. If she remembered correctly, Lauren Gage had also organized every charity and fundraising event Jefferson High had put on, from bake sales to car washes.

A far cry from Rachel’s mother. Hattie had never even stepped foot into that school, skipped every parents’ night to get drunk, and used her daughters’ report cards as drink coasters. Funny how the Gages, the owners of one of the largest software companies in the country, found the time to involve themselves in their son’s life, while Hattie Foster had never spared a single second for her daughters.

“Mom’s doing great, actually,” Travis replied, jarring Rachel from her bitter thoughts. “She just got appointed as the activity director of the country club and she’s having a blast organizing posh parties and ladies’ bridge nights.” He chuckled fondly.

Rachel ignored the envy creeping up her throat. “I don’t get you.” When he arched a brow, she felt compelled to continue. “Instead of spending your days lounging in the country club and enjoying your wealth, you choose to work as a detective. I bet you don’t even cash the checks the department gives you.” A small grin tugged at his delicious mouth. “My checks go directly to charity,” he admitted.

“See?”

“What do you want me to say?” he said with a shrug. “Believe me, I like having money. I don’t have to struggle with bills or groceries, have a housekeeper who cooks and cleans for me, a house that I own and not rent. But money isn’t everything. I have no desire to sit around in a country club, drinking scotch and playing billiards with billionaires and tycoons. I need to feel like I’m doing something worthwhile.”

“Because of your college friend?” She paused, finding the courage to add, “And your wife?” A distant look crossed his features. “Partly, yes.” He let out a breath. “Somebody needs to provide families with closure about their lost loved ones. Somebody needs to save—” He stopped abruptly.

She met his gaze and held it. “So you see yourself as some sort of savior then?” He didn’t answer for a moment, and when he finally spoke, he changed the subject all together. “I talked to Karen Greenley today.”

She frowned, torn between pushing the previous subject and questioning this new one. She finally chose the latter. “Mrs. Greenley? Our old guidance counselor?” He nodded. “Did you know Carrie went to see her every week?”

“No. Carrie never mentioned anything about seeing a counselor.” Rachel paused. “What did she tell you?”

She held her breath, suddenly not wanting to hear Travis’s answer. People told counselors private things, things they didn’t want anyone else to know. What if…what if Carrie had confided in the guidance counselor that she was considering suicide? What if there had never been a BF, never been a trip—had Carrie planned to kill herself all along?

“Carrie volunteered at Chicago General, did you know that?” Travis asked.

She shook her head.

“Mrs. Greenley helped to set her up with the volunteer position at the hospital, as part of the community service required of seniors.”

Rachel felt a spark of confusion. She had no idea where Travis was going with this. “Okay. So Carrie volunteered at the hospital. What else?”

Hesitation entered his eyes, and Rachel’s heart began to pound as dozens of scenarios entered her mind. “Travis, please.”

She saw him take a breath. “Carrie told Mrs. Greenley that she’d grown close to one of the doctors at the hospital. A surgeon.” He exhaled deeply. “She never mentioned the man’s name, but Mrs. Greenley said she got the feeling Carrie really cared for this man.” Rachel chewed on her lower lip. A doctor? Carrie had never mentioned anything about getting close to a doctor. Hell, she’d never mentioned volunteering at the hospital.

“Rachel, your sister was seventeen. You do realize that if this man was a surgeon, he had to be quite a lot older than her, right?”

She stared at Travis’s face and realized what he was saying. “You think Carrie was sleeping with an older man?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “It’s possible.”

Fury filled her blood. “No, it’s not possible. Carrie wouldn’t…” Her voice cracked. “She wouldn’t do that. She didn’t sleep around, especially with older men. She wasn’t my…” Her voice stopped altogether.

She wasn’t my mother
, she’d been about to say. But no way would she utter that in front of Travis. No way would she admit to the shameful behavior of Hattie Foster.

“I’m not attacking Carrie here,” Travis said in a husky voice. “I’m just considering all angles. If Carrie had fallen in love with an older man, he might have been the one who offered to take her away. And even if they weren’t romantically involved, this doctor could still be BF.” Her anger dissipated. “You’re right. I know you weren’t attacking my sister. I’m sorry.” Travis reached across the table for her hand. When his long fingers stroked her upturned palm, Rachel trembled. God, she didn’t even know what she was feeling anymore. One minute she hated this man, the next she was attracted to him. One minute she was angry with him, the next she felt as though he was the only person who could heal her turmoil.

She stared at him, and for one brief moment, sexual tension sizzled in the air. She moistened her lips, but the air was so hot they quickly dried up again.

“Rachel,” he said.

And then the waitress approached the table with their food, and the sizzling dissolved into the smoky room.

“Looks good,” she managed to say.

They ate quickly and quietly, and once she was done, she pushed her plate away and rubbed her stomach. Bar food wasn’t that bad, she decided. It sure beat cold Chinese leftovers.

“You have ketchup on your chin.”

Her cheeks flushed as she saw the amused smile curving his mouth. She reached for the napkin in front of her, but Travis intercepted her hand. He picked up the napkin and dabbed at her chin, his dark hair tickling her nose as he leaned forward. His shampoo smelled like cherries. A very feminine scent for such a masculine man, yet it made him all the more tempting. She breathed deeply, hoping to brand the aroma into her brain, so that the next time she ate cherries she’d think of Travis.

“There. It’s all gone,” he said, pulling back.

Her nose ached at the loss of his scent. God, was it possible for a nose to ache?

“So, should we go to the hospital tomorrow and try to track down this mysterious surgeon?” Travis asked, acting as if the intimate moment they’d just shared was nothing.

The thought of discussing this mystery, the past, didn’t seem so appealing any longer. “Sure,” she said noncommittally. Her ears perked as the sound system in the bar began playing a loud Rolling Stones number. She smiled. “I love this song.”

Travis looked surprised. “Really?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. Aren’t I allowed to like rock music?” He grinned. “Sure. But I always took you for a soft ballad girl.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Travis.” His eyes took on a smoldering light. “Which only makes me want to get to know you better.” She almost gulped, and the fire she saw burning in his eyes was so hot, her body temperature began to rise.

“Do you want to dance?” he said suddenly.

This time she did gulp. “To this?”

“Why not?”

He wanted to dance with her? But dancing required physical contact. It required bodies meeting, thighs skimming, hands touching.

Before she could answer, Travis was standing up and taking her hand. Her knees felt weak as she followed him onto the dance floor. They were the only ones out there.

Oblivious to the other patrons in the bar, Rachel allowed Travis to wrap his arms around her. “This is a fast song,” she murmured.

“Sounds like a slow one to me.”

Deciding to play along, Rachel tentatively lifted her hands to his shoulders as he pulled her close. The second she felt him, heat seeped through her body. Every inch of him was muscle. Solid. Hard. His chest.

His legs. His hands rested just above her buttocks, drawing little circles over the thin material of her top.

It felt…nice.

With a sigh, she pressed her head against his shoulder and let him lead. She’d never danced with a man before, never had the urge to, but swaying there with Travis felt wonderful. Her eyelids fluttered closed and for a moment she allowed herself to forget. She forgot about her childhood, her sister, her pain.

Nothing existed. Only Travis. It was incredible. So incredible to let it all go.

“Gage?”

The loud male voice jarred her out of her reverie. She opened her eyes and almost collapsed when she saw the familiar face.

“Frankie?” Travis said. She noticed his eyes looked a little glazed, as if he were just as affected by their dance as she was.

Frankie Delacorte grinned. “I knew it was you. I was standing over at the bar and glanced over, and I thought, hey, that’s Travis Gage.”

Rachel heard the slurring of Frankie’s voice and suspected he’d consumed more than a little alcohol tonight. She wished she could crawl into a hole and disappear. Frankie Delacorte had been a linebacker on their high school football team, a friend of Travis’s, she knew. Although fifteen years had passed, the man was as beefy as ever, tall and broad, only he now boasted an impressive potbelly.

“It’s good to see you,” Travis said casually. The edge to his tone told her that Frankie Delacorte was the last person he wanted to see. That only confused her, as she’d always thought Travis and Frankie were close.

She shifted so that all Frankie could see was her profile. He hadn’t seemed to recognize her yet and she prayed that he wouldn’t. Back in high school, Frankie had been a jerk, the first person to taunt her and Carrie about their mother. He’d once humiliated the sisters in front of the entire school, when he’d called them trash in the cafeteria and thrown his lunch at them.

“Who’s the fox?” Frankie teased, stepping toward Rachel.

With reluctance, she turned to face the man who’d once made her life miserable.

His eyes widened, his jaw looked about to hit the floor. “Rachel Foster?” She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s me,” she said lightly, hoping the conversation would end there.

But it didn’t.

“No kidding. Fast Foster! I didn’t even recognize you.”

Fast Foster. The awful nickname hit her like a spray of bullets, causing her eyes to sting. No, she would not cry. She would not give this jerk the satisfaction.

“Apologize to the lady,” Travis ordered, his voice low and ominous.

Rachel forced herself not to look at Travis, fearing the pity and disgust she’d see in his eyes. He had to remember the Fast Foster days. And a part of him had to wonder if any of the rumors were true.

Frankie guffawed. “What lady? All I see is the easy daughter of the town slut.” He reached out and pinched Rachel’s bottom, still laughing.

The tears spilled out of Rachel’s eyes at the same time Frankie went flying across the room. She blinked. Saw that Travis had pushed the man against the wall and was holding him by the collar. No matter how much she despised Frankie, she despised violence more. Rushing over to the two men, she touched Travis’s arm. “Travis, stop.”

He didn’t even glance at her. She saw the tight line of his mouth, the hardness of his jaw, and couldn’t decide if he looked attractive or menacing. She knew better than to throw herself in the middle of two brawling men, so she took a step back.

“I can have you thrown in jail for sexual assault, you hear that, Delacorte?” Travis spat out. He reached inside his coat and pulled out his badge. “See this, you slime? This badge means you don’t get to put your hands on any woman. Now you can either apologize to Rachel or spend the night behind bars. The choice is yours.”

Face red, Frankie’s fearful eyes darted toward Rachel. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Travis slammed him against the wall. “She didn’t hear you,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry!” Frankie cried.

Travis released his hold and pushed the man away. “Now get out of here. I don’t want to see your face.”

With hurried steps, Frankie nodded and dashed out of the bar, disappearing through the front doors.

Rachel stayed quiet as she watched Travis return his badge to his pocket. He raked his fingers through his dark hair before turning to look at her. Sheer, unadulterated fury glimmered in his whiskey-colored eyes, and she could almost see his pulse thudding against his corded neck, almost feel the tension bunching in his powerful biceps and clenched fists. He still looked ready to pounce, angry, alert, but worse than that, he appeared sympathetic. No, not sympathy. Pity. Of course, he only pitied her. That’s why he’d come to the defense of pathetic Rachel Foster.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, banishing all the wet tears still splotched across her cheeks. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured before spinning on her heel and walking back to their table.