His Partner's Wife (24 page)

Somehow, it was always John who held her. She didn't know
why; she had no right. He wasn't a father or brother or husband. Stuart's friend,
he had inherited her. She hated the sense that she was an obligation, like a
pet he'd taken in because no one else wanted it.

She rested finally, forehead against the solid wall of
John's chest. Her mind drifted. Was it true that he would trust her with his
life? Was their friendship, then, not as one-sided as she had feared? Did he
need those nightly calls as badly as she did?

He was still murmuring, his voice hoarse. Natalie took a
shuddery breath and drew back. Only reluctantly, it seemed, did he let her go.

She kept her gaze downcast, not wanting to see his
expression or him to see her swollen face. "I need…"

John thrust a paper towel into her hand.

Natalie blew her nose firmly. "I think I need to go
wash my face," she said, and fled.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face over
and over until the blotches paled and her eyes reappeared between puffy lids.
Gripping the sink, the water still running, Natalie looked squarely at herself
in the mirror and winced.

It was lucky she cried so seldom, since she obviously didn't
have a gift for doing it prettily.

On one level, she knew she was examining herself carefully
in the mirror to avoid thinking about John's revelation or John himself.

She didn't succeed for long. He would be waiting out there
for her to reappear. They weren't done, she knew. Even if it was true that he
trusted her integrity, the rest of his department had no reason to feel the
same. Even the others who knew her would have to wonder. If her husband was a
cold-blooded killer and a crook, what did that make her? They'd seen her mourn
at his graveside, but didn't know that her marriage had essentially been over.
How could John shield her?

Once they found the money, which she had no doubt they
would, given their determination, how would she be able to prove she hadn't
known about it? They might not be able to prove in a court of law that she had,
but she was scared nonetheless.

Natalie washed her face one more time, brushed her hair and
went back to the kitchen.

John stood almost where she'd left him, his head hanging,
hands dangling at his sides. At the sound of her footstep, his head shot up.

"Did he sell the heroin?" she asked straight away.

"We don't know."

"Is it … is it the drug dealers he stole from who are
looking for the drugs?"

His expression shifted, and for a moment she thought he
intended to lie. Then he grimaced, rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, and
said bleakly, "The informant insists there were two or maybe three cops.
Stuart was the only one he got a good look at."

Now she gaped. "Two or three? Not just Stuart?"

"It would appear so." His expression had hardened.
"Not necessarily Port Dare officers. He could have hooked up with a county
deputy, maybe." He told her about the men dressed in black SWAT team
uniforms who had raided the powerboat. "To salve his own self-respect, our
guy wanted to believe there were at least three, but I'm guessing from his
uncertainty that it was just Stuart and one other cop. Someone he worked well with."

"But you two were partners," she blurted, and then
regretted immediately what sounded like an accusation.

A muscle jumped in John's cheek. "It has occurred to me
that others will think the same. You're not alone, you know."

"So we'll both be investigated?"

"Eventually." He hesitated. "Unless we figure
out first who he was working with."

"You mean, you and Geoff."

John said nothing for a moment, again seeming to battle with
himself. At last he gave his head a shake and said, "Actually, Hugh's the
one who uncovered the informant."

She absorbed that. Of course, his brothers knew everything.
Taking a breath, Natalie asked, "Do they know you're telling me all
this?"

"They assumed I would."

"They don't have any reason to trust me."

"You mean my brothers?" John shrugged, looking
surprised. "One for all, and all that."

How easily he said that, she marveled. What must it be like,
knowing so effortlessly that you weren't in any mess alone, that your word
would always be accepted, your side of any story believed?

Natalie was friends with her sister, but their relationship
was nothing like the one John had with Hugh and Connor.

Younger, Maryke had never resented their stepfather the way
Natalie did. She was always good natured, malleable, less determined to fight than
Natalie. "Why not just thank him?" she would say, not understanding
her sister's truculence. Natalie had been left feeling alone, as she had felt
ever since.

Until, she realized with slow astonishment, this very
minute. John hadn't doubted her, and had implied that his brothers wouldn't,
either. If John trusted her, they did.

Simple.

"I really didn't know." Natalie felt it needed to
be said once.

He raised his brows. "Of course you didn't. You'd have
left him."

Confession time. "I don't think we'd have been married
much longer, no matter what. I should have told you that from the beginning.
I'm sorry. You took care of me because I was Stuart's wife, and I didn't want
to lose that. But the truth is…" Hesitating, she squeezed her fingers
together and was grateful that she seemed to be cried out.

John was watching her with creases deepening between his
brows. "The truth is…" he prompted, without giving away what he
thought.

She moistened dry lips. "Stuart wanted me but had no
real idea of what marriage involved. The house was always his, and I never felt
like more than a guest." Humiliated at the admission, she said, "I …
I tried so hard to pretend the marriage was more real than it was. But I think
he was getting tired of me, and I was getting tired of pretending." She
breathed at last, finishing starkly, "And then he died, and I didn't want
to tell everybody that we weren't happy together." Natalie searched John's
face for understanding. "It isn't that I didn't grieve, please don't think
that. He was my husband! But the ending was just … just a different kind of
ending than I expected. I felt sad for him more than for myself. I
thought…" Oh, this got harder and harder to say. "I thought it was
somehow my fault that our marriage didn't work better. That maybe I'm not very
good at … at intimacy. You've said the same yourself."

He let out a gritty sound. "No, that's not what I said.
I've been frustrated sometimes because I want to know you better than I do, and
you don't make it easy."

"No," she said desolately. "I guess I
don't."

A glow deep in his eyes, John gripped her shoulders again.
"He couldn't possibly have been tired of you."

She tried to interpret his tone, hoping and praying he meant
what she wanted him to. Lowering her gaze to the top button of his shirt, she
said, "I'm not that exciting. I know that. I just wanted… I thought…"
She made a face, finishing in a rush, "Marriage meant having one person
who thought I was. Who
always
would think I was." She stole a shy look. "You
know?"

His mouth had a tender twist. "Stuart was crazy."

Almost fiercely, Natalie said, "Now, I'm glad he
didn't
love
me. I'm glad I already knew I'd made a mistake."

"The son of a bitch didn't deserve you."

The vehemence in John's voice widened her eyes and set her
heart to drumming.

"Thank you." She tried to say it lightly.
"What would I do without you to boost my ego?"

What would she do without him, period? If
he
tired
of her?

He bent his head. His mouth a hairbreadth from hers, he said
softly, with purpose, "Good thing you won't have to find out."

Natalie took that in, understood that he was promising …
what? Eternal friendship? Or love?

Suddenly she couldn't bear to have one and not the other.
Which was why she lifted her mouth to meet his, all her fears scattering.

This was a chance she had to take.

Chapter
11

«
^
»

H
is mouth devoured hers
, his body was hard, demanding. Natalie's mind blurred and
she was instantly filled with urgency as powerful as his. She wound her fingers
in the thick, fiery silk of his hair and kissed John back, her tongue sliding
against his. A low groan started in his chest, and while one of his hands
cradled her nape, his other gripped her hip and pulled her tightly up against
him.

It was all happening so fast. Instead of a timid awakening
of sexual response, she felt a desperate readiness that must have been building
for days. Weeks. When his hips shoved against hers, Natalie's thighs opened to
allow his knee to press between. He lifted her, and shamelessly she rode his
powerful, jean-clad thigh. But it wasn't enough. She wanted
him.

Natalie murmured wordless demands. His groan deepened and
his hand moved from her nape over her collarbone to her breast, where he gently
squeezed and weighed and rubbed. She whimpered, hearing herself in shock. One
kiss, and she was ready to lie down on his kitchen floor if only he would take
her here and now.

Instead he swept her up in his arms so suddenly she shrieked
and grabbed hold. Above her, his face was taut, a flush darkening his
cheekbones and his eyes glittering. She had never seen John McLean be anything
but gentle and patient. Seeing his expression of tense, hot sexual need gave
her a jolt of gratification. This was the face of a man desperate for the woman
in his arms. Her.

He carried her effortlessly up the stairs to his bedroom.
Her feet brushed framed photographs on the walls of the hall, rocking and
tilting them. John's long stride didn't check. She kissed his throat and loved
the vibration she'd awakened.

Natalie had never been in his room. As he carried her the
few steps to the bed, she had a kaleidoscopic impression of white walls and oak
floor, Victorian oak dresser and dizzying circles in vivid colors on a wool
hooked rug that hung on the wall.

At the bed, he paused. Natalie's mouth stilled on his jaw
when she felt his muscles tighten, lock. After a moment, he let her slide
exquisitely down his body, but instead of kissing her again or bearing her down
onto the huge, comforter-covered bed, he looked searchingly at her with eyes
that held a latent glow.

Alarm squeezed her chest. "What?" she whispered.

"Are you sure?" he asked hoarsely.

She didn't want to think. She would rather have been swept
away. Of course she had her share of doubts! No, she wasn't sure. How could she
be, when tomorrow and a month from now were so uncertain, so perilous?

But this very minute, Natalie couldn't bear it if he
stopped, if he was gentlemanly and, while she straightened her clothes and
retreated like the coward she so often was, said,
Fine. No, it's okay. I don't mind.

Was she sure she wanted to do this, whatever her fears?

"Yes." She spoke more strongly than she'd known
she could. "I'm sure."

The sound he made was raw, thankful. In one move he lifted
her, put her on the bed and was on top of her, his mouth seizing hers. These
kisses became less skilled, more frantic, his teeth nipping hard at her lower
lip, hers at his neck, their every breath gasping. She struggled to tug off his
shirt as he was pulling hers over her head. No, he hadn't lost his skill—the
catch of her bra took one flick of his fingers, and he was murmuring a litany
of pleasure as he kissed her breasts, suckled, rubbed.

Arching against his mouth, she cried out. She had never felt
so beautiful, so powerful, so humble and needy.

So loved, and achingly aware of what she had missed all her
life.

His patience snapped, and he rose above her to shed his
khakis and slide her jeans and panties down her legs with that hot light in his
eyes. He kissed his way back up her legs, shaven jaw rough against the soft
skin of her inner thigh, breath molten as it ruffled her curls. He nuzzled only
for a second, groaned and reached for the drawer in the bedside stand.