Intimate Strangers (6 page)

She managed to stop herself from slamming into him, but only because she stiffened her arms and stopped her own forward momentum. Her open palms flattened against the wall of his chest, a too sturdy surface that made her think of steel encased in heated silk.

She gritted her teeth, her senses reeling as she registered the flex and flow of solid muscles and the seductive warmth of his skin. She trembled as he held her firmly in place. And even though she couldn’t see his facial expression in the dark, she knew Nicholas Benteen was furious with her.

He muttered a low, grit–filled word. She flinched and tried to duck to one side, but his grasp on her wrists didn’t ease. If anything, his hold tightened.

Feeling faint, Hannah told herself that she was just hungry. And once he knew, he might even offer to feed her. This was about hunger—for food—and nothing else. She didn’t want to have sex with the man, she wanted food. Liar, her conscience shouted. She swayed against him, unprepared for the scorching need that suffused every centimeter of her body as wave after wave of heat rolled off his large frame and slammed into her.

"Hannah?"

She moaned, closing her eyes in the aftermath of the way he said her name in that low rough voice of his. She breathed shallowly. She felt as though she’d been running wind sprints for the last hour. Her nerves tightened into knots, her throat closed, and her brain short–circuited.

"Hannah?" This time he sounded irritated.

"Yes?" The word slowly spilled out of her as she lost her battle for perspective and poise. If anything, her senses heightened and she just grew more aware of him—the heat emanating from his body, the sound of his steady breathing, the alluring scent of his skin—as he towered over her in the dark living room.

"Explain yourself."

Her fingers flexed against the wall of muscle. "I’m hungry."

He swore.

Hannah carefully withdrew her hands. She wanted to blame him for rattling her emotions, for making her want insane things that would only cause more problems between them. But she didn’t. She’d never been a coward, and she didn’t plan to start acting like one now.

"I was looking for the kitchen. I haven’t…"

"Am I supposed to believe you?"

"It’s the truth. I told you before, I don’t lie."

"You didn’t use the intercom."

"I saw no reason to bother you, Mr. Benteen. I just wanted something to eat."

"My name is Nicholas. Use it. And for the record, you bother me, Hannah Cassidy. You bother me a whole hell of a lot, and I don’t think that particular fact is going to change anytime soon."

"I apologize, but I’m really hungry."

Right on cue, her stomach gurgled. Loudly.

** ** **

He spanned her waist with his hands, his fingertips meeting as he brought her closer. She felt his strength, then the shudder that ripped through him. She held her breath, conscious of her naked body beneath the silk shirt. She drew little comfort from the fact that the garment covered her from throat to knees. Wearing it now felt oddly intimate—too intimate given the current charged circumstances.

The breath she’d been holding escaped her in a warm rush. His hands tightened at her waist. He reeled her into him, molding her to his strength with unexpectedly gentle hands. And then she felt the hard length of his sex pressing against her belly.

She finally remembered to breathe. Lifting her head to look up at him, she saw nothing more than the shadowed outline of his broad–shouldered upper body.

"I really am sorry," she managed, the words too soft, too breathless.

"Don’t apologize." He slid his hands lower, cupping her buttocks, lifting her, rocking her back and forth so that her pelvis stroked the ridge of flesh trapped between them. "I shouldn’t be touching you like this." His muttered words sounded like a warning—a strained voice of sanity barely contained within a maelstrom of need and shock.

Hannah ached, frissons of desire spiraling through her body to create a craving for this man that boggled her mind. He cradled her even closer, smoothing her legs around his waist. She almost thanked him. Under her own power, she would have been sprawled on the floor at his feet, a concert composed of pure sensation taking place in her body.

She slipped her arms around his neck, seeking stability and something more. She experienced the sudden realization that Nicholas Benteen made a joke of the caution that had always marked her relationships with men. Always. Until now. Now, however, sensual hunger shimmered inside her like streaks of incandescent flame.

"I don’t even know you," she whispered, more as a reminder to herself than to him. "How… why… I…" Her voice trailed off. Yes, she’d just pointed out the obvious, but she didn’t know what else to say, how else to resist a man so able to shatter her common sense.

"And I don’t know you. So where does that leave us?"

She smoothed her fingertips up the center of his chest and then across to his upper arms. Wonder flowed through her as she touched him. Muscles that reinforced his physical prowess flexed beneath her fingertips yet again, and his heat swamped her senses.

"Answer me, Hannah."

"In an extremely awkward situation?" she suggested on a tired sigh.

He released a harsh breath, and then he rested his chin atop her head. "That’s one way of putting it, I suppose."

"I really didn’t want to bother you. It’s just that I didn’t have time for lunch or supper, and all I’ve had to eat in the last twenty–four hours is an energy bar."

"Bad planning."

His hands moved from her waist to bracket her hips. He held her still, lowering his head and nuzzling the side of her neck with his parted lips. He didn’t frighten her. Instead, he seduced her with gentleness.

She didn’t fight him, and not because she lacked the will or the strength. She simply sensed that their bodies felt compelled to communicate on a totally different level, a non–verbal exchange that was older than time.

"You’re right, Nicholas," she agreed belatedly.

"I usually am," he remarked, his sharp tone unexpected and jarring. He suddenly released her.

Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor with a thud. His steadying hand kept her from falling on her nose. An instant later, he seized her hand and dragged her through the darkness to the kitchen.

Hannah heard the click of a wall switch. She blinked in surprise as bright light flooded the room.

He was the first thing—the only thing—she saw. Dragging her gaze from the powerful lines of his massive body wasn’t an option. Speech didn’t seem possible, either. So, she gave in and scanned his broad shoulders and hair–dusted chest. Moving lower, she took in navy pajama bottoms that rode low on his narrow hips, revealed a flat, muscled belly, cradled the potent evidence of his sex, and clung to his long, muscular legs.

Hannah inhaled shallowly. Then, she exhaled just as shallowly. Nicholas Benteen personified every erotic fantasy she’d ever had about the perfect lover. She forced herself to meet his eyes. Only then did she register the set of his jaw and the frank sexual appraisal in his slate–colored eyes. The latter prompted her to take a backward step, but the granite edge of a countertop brought her up short.

All the while, Nicholas simply watched her.

"Say something, Hannah."

She stared at him for a long moment before she said, "I feel like my brain has taken a leave of absence. Look, we shouldn’t… I mean… you make me feel as though…"

"Do you really want to pursue this particular topic?" he asked.

Hannah shook her head. "Probably not a great idea," she agreed.

She felt his gaze sweep over her like a consuming tide, reminding her that she wore nothing other than a man’s silk shirt that she’d found in the guestroom closet. His shirt? Of course.

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. His eyes dipped beneath her chin to focus on her chest. She glanced down, saw what had drawn his attention, and dropped her arms to her sides. The shirt billowed free to flow loosely over her slender figure.

Hannah straightened and crossed the kitchen, her entire body still clamoring with sensitivity. Suddenly angry with the entire situation, she gave herself a short lecture on the merits of clear–headed behavior.

While Nicholas played lord of the manor and took a chair at the head of the kitchen table, Hannah paused in front of the refrigerator and glanced at him.

"Help yourself," he said as he watched her.

She heard encouragement, but nothing more, so she inclined her head. "Thank you."

She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand as she carried a container of milk, a loaf of bread, a few condiments, and a plastic–covered platter of sliced turkey to the table. Before she settled into the chair opposite him, she paused. He didn’t disappoint her.

"Plates are in the upper cupboard to the left of the sink, utensils in the drawer next to the dishwasher, and glasses are right behind you."

She nodded, collecting the various items she needed. Under his steady gaze, Hannah made a thick turkey sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and peeled and sectioned an orange from the bowl in the center of the table. His silent study of her wore on her nerves, but she still managed to concentrate on filling her empty stomach. She didn’t taste anything she ate, she simply refueled her body. She met his gaze after pushing aside her empty plate and drinking the last of her milk. "It’s official. I’ll live."

He half–smiled, but he said nothing.

"Do you cook for yourself, or do you have a housekeeper?" she asked.

"I prefer my privacy," he reminded her.

"I’m a train wreck in the kitchen," she confessed with a faint smile, humor lighting her eyes. "My mother claims I’m her only failure among her daughters."

He gave her a considering look, something shifting behind those steady eyes. She paled under his scrutiny. Silence stretched tautly between them.

Nicholas finally said, "I assume you have other… talents."

She grinned, thinking of her students. "I like to think so."

"You aren’t married?"

She shook her head. "Nope. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Have you ever been married?"

He shrugged, but the gesture was anything but careless. "I’m not much of a catch."

Surprised by his comment, Hannah suspected this wasn’t the time to tell him that he was wrong. Nicholas Benteen might be a complex man, but he possessed an appeal that defied explanation. In fact, she was surprised that some female wasn’t already in residence with him.

"I guess living out in the boondocks puts a major crimp in your social life." Hannah noticed the hint of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Be careful," she teased. "I almost caught you."

Wariness sparked in his steely eyes. "At what?"

"You were about to smile."

"What exactly led you to my doorstep?"

She loved the chagrin she heard in his voice. "I began with Sean’s old letters. His return address turned out to be your post office box in town. My last four letters to Sean were marked refused, rather than no forwarding address available. I finally reasoned that, if I could locate you, then I could probably find Sean."

"Flimsy."

She felt a moment of triumph. "It worked, didn’t it?"

"Finish your story."

"Complete anonymity isn’t possible any longer," she continued. "Public records make it relatively easy to locate almost anyone. I started with driver’s licenses, car registrations, that sort of thing. I assumed you were a property owner, so once I persuaded the postmaster to tell me who paid the rent on the post office box, it was a simple matter of more research, which I conducted by studying the county land and tax records. I also contacted the utility companies. The internet usually streamlines the process, but I found a virtual maze of dummy corporations. That tweaked my curiosity even more. In the end, it took me about a week during my spare time, a lot of patience, and no small amount of convoluted thinking. There’s still tons of stuff I don’t know, of course, but none of what I did is rocket science. Finding Sean’s still the real problem. He’s completely off the grid, invisible, so you’re still my best resource."

"It’ll remain a problem, Hanna."

"That’s up to you, but I don’t plan to give up until I find him."

She paused for a long moment, searching for a crack in Nicholas Benteen’s demeanor. What she saw, however, was an unfathomable gaze, a neutral facial expression, and a broad naked chest. She exhaled ever so softly, aroused yet again by a man who seemed to embody the rigors of what she assumed had been a complex and dangerous past. She also wished she understood the depth of her attraction to him.

Hannah still needed his help to find Sean, so she told him the truth—the why of her trip to northern Nevada, the why of her stubborn determination. "My mother needs to see Sean. I don’t intend to fail her." Her throat closed, and she couldn’t say anything more.

Hannah stood, carried her plate and glass to the sink, and then returned the milk and other items to the refrigerator. After filling the sink with warm, soapy water, she felt Nicholas at her side, a dishtowel in his hand. She slowly reached out, careful not to touch him as she accepted the small towel.

Once she closed her fingers over the edge of the towel, he slowly tugged her forward, his own grip firm on the edge of the towel, his expression intent. She looked up, amazed by the tenderness in his eyes.

He lifted his free hand to smooth a stray lock of hair away from her cheek. He tucked the silky lock behind her ear and then curved his broad palm against the side of her head. Wide–eyed, she continued to stare up at him, breath frozen in her chest even as her senses burst to life.

Nicholas frowned.

Hannah lost her grip on the towel. It landed on her bare feet, but she made no move to retrieve it. She doubted she could have moved at all. And, truth be told, she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk disturbing the charged currents of awareness arcing between them or the sense of expectation she felt.

He trailed his fingertips across her cheek before stroking the fullness of her lower lip with his knuckles. She stopped breathing. He kept doing that to her respiration, she realized. She’d be breathing one second, and then not breathing. She felt the tremor that ran through his hand. She reached up, slipped her fingers into the warmth of his broad palm, and pressed his knuckles back against her lips, instinct driving her.