His Partner's Wife (31 page)

John reached for his handcuffs. "Melissa Ryan, I'm
placing you under arrest for the murder of Rachel Portman. You have the right
to remain silent…"

She went unresisting. Booking her, talking to the prosecutor
and doing paperwork ate up the rest of the afternoon and a good part of the
evening. John surfaced long enough to call his mother, who picked up the kids at
their after-school day care and went home with them.

"Make sure they do their homework," he said
unnecessarily.

When he was finally free to leave the station, feeling
exhausted and somehow dirty, John still had to detour by the inn again to tell Rachel
Portman's husband that his mistress was under arrest for having murdered his
wife.

Portman reeled and, apparently voiceless, nodded. His eyes
had a curiously blank look that John had seen before: shock and grief mixed
with deep wounds dealt by the knowledge of his own culpability.

"Can I call someone for you, Mr. Portman?"

A man appeared behind him. "I'm Ralph's brother,
Detective."

"Ah. Good." John watched as one of Port Dare's
most prominent businessmen stumbled away. "Keep an eye on him."

"Yes." They shook hands. "I can't
believe…"

Nobody ever could. John wondered if Ralph Portman would ever
be able to forgive himself.

He surfaced from his brooding to realize he was driving to
Natalie's house, not home. It was eight-thirty in the evening. Would she mind?

She came to the door in a pair of leggings and a baggy
sweater, her hair loose and her feet bare. "John!"

"Can I come in?"

"Of course you can!" She backed up. "Is
something wrong?"

"No. I just arrested…" Hell, it would be spread
over the papers tomorrow. He'd already talked to a reporter from the
Sentinel
himself.
"I arrested Ralph Portman's girlfriend. She apparently had more permanent
arrangements in mind."

Natalie gasped. "She killed his wife? Herself?"

"All by her lonesome." He moved his shoulders
restlessly.

Debbie had hated it when she knew he came home straight from
a murder scene or an arrest. "I wonder what you've been touching,"
she had said with a shudder, eyeing his hands as if they dripped blood, as if
he might smear it on her if he touched her.

Shaking away the memory, John asked, "Can we talk about
something else?"

Natalie's face held quick compassion. "Of course we
can. Let's go sit down. Do you want a cup of coffee? Did you have dinner?"

Dinner? He looked blankly at her. He knew he'd skipped
lunch. He hadn't even been aware of dinnertime passing.

"It's not food I want," he said in a voice that
sounded odd even to his ears. "Will you come here?"

She gave him a searching look but came, accepting his need
to hold her in a bruisingly tight grip. He laid his cheek against her head and
breathed in a flowery scent that made him picture a tropical scene: gaudy
flowers and a waterfall and luxuriant vegetation. Hawaii, maybe.

She felt so damned good against him, the swell of breasts
and the hair that spilled over his hands and the length of her thighs against
his. She was taut in the right places, soft in the others, begging his hands to
cup her buttocks and lift her.

He groaned and tugged at her hair. Natalie tipped her face
up willingly and met his mouth with a fierce passion that told him she had
ached these past nights for him just as he had for her.

He kissed her as if he were a starving man offered the staff
of life. He wanted to block out the memory of Rachel Portman's bloody, naked
body, of the vicious selfishness he'd seen, of the torment her husband would
live with forever. Natalie was goodness, decency, a warm, welcoming sexuality.
Plundering her mouth, he prayed she wouldn't imagine blood on his hands.

He lifted his head and said hoarsely, "I need
you."

"Yes." She pressed her open mouth to his throat
and murmured. "Let's go downstairs. To the guest room. So there's no
ghost."

"No ghost," he agreed, and let her tug him with
her.

The room was feminine, with butterflies on the wallpaper and
pale blue carpet and a puffy chenille-covered comforter on a double bed. His
feet would hang over.

He didn't give a damn.

Making love to her tonight was all sensation. John didn't let
himself think, only feel. He skimmed the sweater over her head to find her
braless, her breasts plump and white, the nipples puckered already. His blood
thickened and he groaned, a primal sound. Those breasts in his hands, in his
mouth, sent undiluted pleasure to his groin. There should be words—but he
couldn't let himself think what they should be. She seemed not to mind, giving
small gasps and murmurs he couldn't make out, her breath coming quickly between
parted lips, her fingernails biting into his shoulders as he suckled her
breast.

Perversely, he took his time, when all he wanted was to bury
himself in her slick warmth. She made love to him even as he did to her,
unbuttoning his shirt so that her mouth could move hotly over his chest, her
tongue flicking the nubs of his nipples, her fingers tracing muscles that
hardened at her touch. She tossed his tie aside and tugged his shirt from his
waistband, pushing it off his shoulders.

Into the fog of sexual hunger came the realization that he
wore a gun. Drawing ragged breaths, he pulled back long enough to unhook the
holster from his belt and toss it aside. He tried to do it unobtrusively. The
sight of it would have killed Debbie's interest in sex. But Natalie only
reached for his belt buckle and he groaned and pressed one of her hands to his
erection.

When he kicked off his pants, he had just the presence of
mind to apply protection—he'd been carrying a condom in his wallet since the
moment she'd packed her bags. Their legs tangled, they fell onto the bed,
sinking into the thick comforter. John wrestled his way to the top, holding
back as he explored her belly and the nest of curls and her long white thighs.
He kissed a scar on her knee, her anklebone, her curled toes. When he moved
above her, she waited with parted legs and open arms, the welcome he'd so
desperately needed. He sank home, muffling a guttural shout in the smooth skin
of her throat. Her spasms tore the bonds of his restraint, and he emptied
himself inside her, finding relief and oblivion.

He must have slept briefly, John realized when he surfaced.
The overhead light was still on, and Natalie was curled against him, her lips
parted, her breath even. He looked with pleasure at silky, pale limbs and the
swell of her hip and breasts. Her dark hair tumbled across the pillow and his
arm and partially hid one breast. He was getting hard again when his gaze
intersected his watch.

Damn! It was nine-thirty.

He showed his teeth in a silent grimace. His mother was
still with the kids after patiently spending most of her weekend with them and
making sure each got to their Saturday soccer games. He'd imposed enough. He
had to go.

John eased away from Natalie, watching regretfully as she
stretched, murmured, sighed and snuggled into the comforter. He gently tucked
it around her for warmth. He got dressed, returned the holster to the small of
his back and stood above Natalie for a long moment, aching to climb back in
with her and to hell with his mother and kids.

What would Natalie think when she woke up and he was gone?
That he'd come for a quickie and fled into the night? He could leave her a
note—but that almost seemed worse. "Thanks, I'll call," was
insulting.

He couldn't remember the last time they'd talked. Really
talked. After they made love the first time, life had closed in. Kids, family,
work. Had she been glad to escape his house? She was nice to Maddie and Evan,
but they weren't hers. Given a taste of his messy life, had she concluded she
didn't want to share it?

Did she guess that he
wanted
her to share it? He sure as hell hadn't said so. And
tonight, he wasn't sure he'd spoken ten words. He couldn't remember what he had
or hadn't said, except,
I
need
you.

He swallowed, remembering the way she had walked
unhesitatingly into his arms in response.

"I love you," he said softly, but she slept on.

He made himself back away, step by step, until he bumped
against the door frame. With one last, hungry look, he turned off the light and
left, resetting her alarm system on his way out the front door.

They had to talk. She knew the burdens he carried. When he
said
Marry me,
her answer would tell him whether she was willing to carry
them with him.

The fact that he had no idea whether that answer would be
yes or no scared him to death.

Chapter
14

«
^
»

N
atalie awakened
in the middle of the night, cold. She groped for her bedding
and encountered an unfamiliar texture. For a moment she went completely still
as she struggled with her disorientation to remember where she was. In the
pitch-dark, no digital clock offered a green glow. Her exploring fingers found
a fluffy fabric covering the thick comforter.

At the same instant that she realized she was naked, Natalie
remembered. Hesitantly she reached beside her and found no one. John was gone.

Finally she sat up and turned on the lamp, comforter
clutched to her breast. No note, either, unless he'd left one upstairs. He must
have covered her, or she wouldn't have slept this long—her internal clock told
her it was the middle of the night. Since she'd also been lying atop the
comforter, it was no wonder she'd eventually found her way out from under the
fold he had laid over her.

She thought about going back to sleep here, but it felt so
strange. And she might oversleep without her alarm clock. Eventually she pulled
her baggy sweater on, turned out the lamp and made her way upstairs, turning
lights on and off as she went. The neighbors would wonder, if any were awake to
note her procession through the house.

Sasha sat in the middle of Natalie's bedroom floor, eyeing
her critically. The cat's cool stare made Natalie feel like some kind of
floozy, creeping home in the middle of the night.

"I love him," she told the black cat, who wasn't
impressed.

She brushed her teeth and her hair and slipped between cold
sheets on her side of the bed. She lay very still, reaching out with her
senses, wondering, if there were such a thing as a ghost, whether Stuart would
be one. Did his hidden, ill-gotten money constitute the unfinished business
they always said kept a soul restless?

But she had never seem him except in her memory and didn't
now.

Which left her free to speculate about John. He did have children.
She wasn't bothered that he'd had to slip away tonight. If only it didn't feel
just a little sordid, having a man arrive at eight-thirty at night, not want to
talk or even have a cup of coffee, only to have sex, then sneak out while she
slept.

Would he call tomorrow?

Undoubtedly—he was gentleman enough to do at least that
much. But Natalie dreaded the idea of another stilted conversation that left
her lonelier than if he'd never phoned.

He wanted her, at least, and she was grateful for that much.
He had seemed truly desperate for her tonight. For an instant she wondered if
he had just been hungry for life-affirming sex, or for her in particular, but
in her heart she knew better. All she had to do was remember the look in his
eyes as he said, "I need you."

But as what? An occasional lover? A friend?

He had let her pack and leave his house with no more than,
it seemed, token arguments. He appeared often on the verge of saying things to
her and then stopping himself, as if he had inner conflict. Why? she worried.
Was he sorry he had ever touched her? Did he like her but not love her? Was he
completely uninterested in remarrying, considering the obligation he still felt
to Debbie? Or had Natalie herself frightened him, with her admitted inability
to let anyone close?

She punched her pillow.

And would she be able to ask him any of these questions? Or
would she, uncomfortable with emotional intimacy, be a polite, pleasant
acquaintance on the phone tomorrow?