Shadows At Sunset (21 page)

“I can't do everything,” she said in a quiet voice. “I can't fix things, I can't save things, no matter how hard I try. I can't make my father love Dean more, I can't make him love Rachel-Ann less. Hell, I can't make him love me at all.” Her faint grin was self-mocking. “Not that I care, mind you. Jackson's very good at being charming when he wants something, but I learned years ago just how little that counts for. And that's why he hates me. I'm the one person who sees him for what he is, and nothing he does can fool me.”

“I wouldn't say you're the one person,” Coltrane said. “I'm not particularly deluded about him.”

“And you still work for him? Then you're worse than I thought,” she said.

“Impossible. You think I'm pond scum. Not unlike the stuff that's growing over your abandoned swimming pool.” He said it on purpose, just to test her reaction.

She shuddered visibly. “I don't…like the swimming pool,” she said in a tight voice. “I don't like looking at it, I don't like talking about it. Something horrible happened there, long ago, and it infects the place.”

“Something horrible happened to you?”

“No. Not really. It's something else, something that happened a long time ago, something ugly and cruel. I don't know what it was, and I don't want to know. I just don't like it.”

“Okay,” he said evenly. “So I'm not pond scum. But I know what your father's capable of and I still work for him. What does that make me?”

“A snake,” she said without hesitation. “But not without redemption. I can't let him win. I can't let him hurt Rachel-Ann any more. I don't know what he's done to her over the years, but it sickens me, the way he looks at her, the way he touches her.”

“Do you think he's had sex with her? Do you think he abused her as a child?” It was astonishing how casual, almost clinical he sounded.

“I don't know. Maybe not. But even if he didn't commit physical incest he's committed emotional incest over the years. And she has to break free of him.”

“Isn't that her problem? You spend your life trying to fix everything, trying to save everyone. You even think I'm salvageable which, trust me, I'm not. What about you?”

“Me?” She laughed, entirely without humor. “I don't think I'm perfect. I know what a fucked-up, codependent mess I am. I'm stubborn, judgmental, interfering, afraid of everything under the sun, unresponsive, bad-tempered—”

“What a litany of crimes!” he said softly.

“Don't tell me you disagree. You've said half of those things yourself.”

“I never said you were unresponsive.”

He shouldn't have said that. Not with her sitting on his bed, alone in the huge old house. Not when he was going to leave.

She hesitated, and he wondered if she'd ignore it. “No,” she said finally. “That was my husband. And that's another story. We're trying to save Rachel-Ann.”

“You're trying to save Rachel-Ann, Jilly. I'm trying to get the hell out of here.”

“And you'd just turn her over to him? Just let it happen?” she said in disbelief.

She'd managed to startle him with her insight. “What makes you think I'd turn her over to him?”

“Isn't that what you're doing, by leaving? She needs our help, Coltrane! I thought you cared about her.”

“He's not going to get her. And stop being so melodramatic—it's not your style. What makes you think I care about her?”

“I don't know. Instinct, I guess. Are you in love with her?”

“Jesus Christ, Jillian!” he exploded softly. “What kind of dream world are you living in? Do I look like the kind of man who walks around suffering from unrequited love? Do I look like the kind of man to harbor a secret passion?”

Her grin was wry. “No, I suppose not. Clearly you don't give a shit about anyone in this household.”

“And you care too much.”

“Maybe I do,” she said calmly.

“And maybe you should start putting a little bit of that prodigious energy toward yourself. Have you ever done anything in your entire life that was just for you and not for your damned family or this ruined old house?”

“Of course I have.”

“Name one thing. Even better, prove it. Tell me one thing you want, something that's selfish, greedy and absolutely bad for you. Something everyone will scold you for and shake their heads and say ‘She's just as bad as the rest of her family.' I dare you to. Something weak and indulgent, like an ice-cream sundae. Want do
you
want, Jilly?”

She looked at him across the dawn-swept room, her brown eyes calm and clear. “You,” she said.

C
oltrane was looking at her as if she'd suddenly grown two heads. Jilly couldn't blame him. If there'd been a mirror nearby she would have checked herself. Surely that word hadn't come from her mouth?

After a moment he recovered himself. “They must have given you more pain medication than I thought,” he drawled.

“They didn't give me any painkillers, you idiot. They sent some home with me in case I needed them but I didn't take any.”

“Then why did you zonk out in the car like that?”

The man was dense, and she was tired of being subtle. “Because I was exhausted. I haven't slept in days, mostly thanks to you, and I was too damned tired to stay awake. Besides, I was expecting you to put me to bed and then take advantage of me. You've been trying to since you met me, and there I was, completely vulnerable. And what do you do? Give me a chaste kiss and leave.” She let her thorough disgust come through in her voice.

“You really do think I'm a shit, don't you?”

“Yes. No. I'm not sure,” she said honestly.

“If you feel that way about me why in God's name do you want to go to bed with me?” He'd moved closer to the bed, watching her with an obvious mixture of irritation and interest.

“Because you're wicked and selfish and bad to the bone, and I'm tired of being good and noble. You've been sniffing around me like I'm a bitch in heat—I'm offering myself to you.” She tried to sound infinitely practical. Considering that he was looming over her in the shadowed room, and she had the unfortunate habit of reacting to him like an adolescent in the throes of first passion, she was doing a good job. He made her heart pound, her stomach knot, her breasts ache and her skin prickle, all without touching her. And she really, really wanted him to touch her.

“Charmingly put. And what if my motives are entirely evil? What if I've been trying to get you into bed for nefarious purposes that have nothing to do with you?”

She blinked. “I assumed that was the case. I don't tend to drive men wild with passion—you must have some ulterior motive.”

“And you want to sleep with me, anyway?” He'd come up to the edge of the bed, and she looked at him, keeping her gaze calm and steady. The only problem was that her lips were trembling when she tried to smile, and she certainly didn't want to frown at him.

He'd changed since he'd brought her back. He was wearing an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, not his usual style. He looked a lot less civilized without his linen and cotton and Armani. A lot more dangerous.

And a lot more gorgeous.

“Ice-cream sundaes aren't good for you, either. They make you fat, they raise your cholesterol and clog your arteries. That doesn't mean people don't have them.” She heard their prosaic conversation almost from a distance. As if she were one of the ghosts, listening, watching, removed from it all.

“So you want me to sleep with you. Knowing I'm leaving, you want a nice, old-fashioned one-night stand? Not your style, Jilly. Why?”

“I'm trying to change my style.” She had a sudden, horrifying thought. What if he didn't really want her? What if all his looks, his talk, his kisses and touches were part of a game, part of whatever mysterious agenda he had? What if now that he'd decided to leave he had no interest in her? The possibility made her both cold and hot with shame, made her want to run. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she mumbled, moving toward the end of the bed. “Just forget it.”

He moved quickly, kneeling on the bed and catching her wrist, pulling her back. “Oh, no, I think it's an excellent idea,” he said. “And I don't think you get to change your mind.” He shoved the suitcase off the bed, and it hit the marble floor with a bang, startling Roofus, who'd found a comfortable spot to snooze in a far corner. He lifted his massive head, woofed softly, then went back to sleep.

It suddenly felt a lot more real, his hand on her arm, holding her there. He was very strong—he had to be, to carry a woman of her stature up the winding stairs—and she knew a brief moment of fear. “And if I want to leave?” Her voice shook; there was no way she could disguise it.

“You won't,” he said. And he kissed her, cupping her face with one hand, kissing her with a deep and long and wet kiss, so that she was shaking, drowning.

He slid down on the bed, taking her with him, and she sprawled beside him on the too soft mattress. He was so hot, so strong, so solid beneath her, and it was both frightening and arousing. He stripped off her T-shirt, over her head before she realized what he was doing, and then he reached for the waistband of her jeans. She put her hands on his, to stop him, but he calmly ignored her, stripping the jeans off her, pulling them over her bandaged feet with surprising tenderness.

“Nice underwear,” he said calmly. “Was that for me?”

She was wearing teal silk, the sexiest, most feminine underwear she owned, a skimpy bra and a thong bikini. “Yes,” she said.

“Good. Let's leave them on for a while.” He pulled off his own T-shirt and sent it sailing across the floor, then reached for his zipper. “I better warn you—I'm not wearing any underwear.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she said faintly. The room was getting steadily lighter with the approach of daylight, and she would have much preferred it to get darker. She turned her head, and heard the sound of him shucking off his jeans, his quiet laugh.

“Are you prudish, Jilly?” he murmured, and the mattress sank beneath his weight as he moved closer to her. “Or just shy?”

She turned back to look at him, keeping her eyes focused on his face. Except that his chest was distractingly gorgeous. She'd never been that impressed with a man's chest before, or muscles, but Coltrane was an exception. He was strong, muscled and gorgeous.

“No one on this earth would call me shy,” she said, wanting to touch his chest. Keeping her hand beside her, still and unmoving.

“I would,” he said. He took her hand and placed it against his heart.

His skin was hot, and his heart was thumping, loud, steady against her hand. “Your heart is pounding,” she said.

“That's because I'm aroused. Which you'd know if you could bring yourself to look past my shoulders.”

Of course she did, instinctively. He was most definitely, thoroughly aroused. “Can I leave now?” she asked in a small voice.

“No.”

“All right.”

“No arguments?”

“I don't really want to leave,” she said.

“I know. That's why you can't.” He took her hand and moved it down his chest to his flat stomach, over the rough covering of golden hair, and when he took his hand away she left it there, absorbing the heat and tension in him. “You have some catching up to do. How's your back? Can you lie on it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

“I have work to do.” He pushed her onto her back on the new mattress, carefully, and she barely noticed the scratches. He loomed over her in the shadows, and she closed her eyes, waiting.

Nothing happened. She opened them again, to see him watching her. “That's much better,” he murmured. “Now let's see if I can get you even half as hot as you've got me.”

He put his mouth between her breasts, kissing her above the lacy bra, and she felt her heart leap in heated response. Tentatively she reached up and touched the side of his face, his shaggy blond hair, and he made a murmuring sound of approval against her skin as he moved his mouth across the swell of her breast. He covered her other breast with his hand, his long fingers squeezing gently, arousing, so that she felt her nipples harden in the warm room, felt the heat and tightness between her legs.

The skimpy bra had a front clasp, and he undid it, pushing the scant silk aside, and when he put his mouth on her breast she let out a soft cry, wanting him to stop. Her breasts were too sensitive, and the wet pull of his mouth stirred deep, scary feelings inside her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he put his hand over her lips to stop her from saying the words, and some dark, primitive instinct made her take his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them.

The sound he made was so utterly, completely sexual that her arousal deepened still further, and she suddenly felt greedy. She slid down on the bed, ignoring the pain in her back, and caught his face in her hands, kissing him full on the mouth. She wanted him, there was no question of it, and she tried to pull him over her.

“I'm ready,” she whispered.

“No, you're not,” he replied. “But you will be.” He kissed her on the mouth, a slow, drugging kiss, and the feel of his tongue in her mouth was another hot jet of desire spilling through her.

And then he moved, down her body, kissing, tasting, sucking, as he cupped her between her legs, his fingers dancing against the damp silk of her panties.

Sheer instinct made her arch against his hand, and as he slid his fingers inside the silk covering to touch her she bit her lip, afraid to cry out.

He must have known. He moved up, covering her mouth with his, and pushed his fingers inside her.

She jerked, startled, but he paid no attention to her instinctive panic, holding her captive with his hand and his mouth, touching, stroking, with his tongue, his fingers, and she was shivering in the darkness.

He lifted his head, staring down at her as he touched her. “Don't!” she gasped in a choked voice.

“Don't what?” he said, sounding wickedly amused, as his fingers slid against her.

“Don't…stop,” she whispered, as the first little shock of pleasure hit her.

“Not an option,” he said, and the second wave hit her, harder.

Her body was spiraling out of control, and it frightened her. When the third orgasm hit her she fought it, freezing.

“Oh, no. You're not getting away with that,” Coltrane said, pulling away from her. The flimsy panties ripped as he yanked them off her, and he pushed her legs apart, moving between them. “Stop trying to control everything. Sometimes you can just let someone else take charge for a little while.”

He was angry with her, and it should have bothered her, but it didn't. In the last few minutes they'd gone far past that point.

“What if I'm afraid to give up control?” she whispered.

“I'm not giving you that choice. You're going to be so out of control you won't know where your body ends and mine begins. I'm going to make you come so hard you'll be blind and screaming. You only have one choice.”

She was shivering, but it wasn't with fear. It was hot, naked anticipation. He was going to give her everything and it was no longer her responsibility. It was his. “What's my choice?”

“Do I use my cock or my mouth?”

The words should have shocked her. Instead, another ripple of frustrated reaction swept over her body. She felt hot, cold, hungry, so damned hungry.

“Your cock,” she said, sliding her fingers down around the hard, silky length of him. He was damp, ready, and she suddenly wanted to put her mouth on him, to taste him, take him.

“Wait…” she said. “I want—”

“Later.” He took her hands and pinned them back against the mattress, looming over her, and she could feel him against her, hard, solid. “There'll be time for everything later. Right now this is what I need to do.” He pushed forward with his hips, just entering her.

She clutched at him, suddenly desperate. “More!” she cried.

“How much more? This?” He pushed in, a bit more, holding himself still inside her, and she wanted to scream.

“Please!” she cried. “I need…”

Another slow, inexorable inch. “What do you need, Jilly?”

“You.”

He was almost in, and the feel of him inside her, hard and smooth, was a torment, a pleasure so sharp it was almost pain, a need so fierce she couldn't breathe.

“Me? Or my cock?”

She didn't know the right answer to end the torment. She only knew the truth. “You,” she said.

He thrust deep, so deep she could almost taste him, and she tried to catch her breath but she couldn't.

He took her, slow and deep and hard, and this time she couldn't fight. She clawed at him, trying to hold on to something, but his shoulders were slick with sweat, and she knew there was no safety left.

It went on, endless, deep, forever, and she didn't want it to stop. She clung for a long moment, and then she let go, completely, her body exploding into a darkness beyond comprehension. Her skin burned, her entire body convulsed around him, and she could hear her voice, sobbing.

And even through the rich darkness of completion, she could feel him give over to it, his body pulsing into her, filling her, giving himself to her, and like a fool she began to cry.

She wasn't sure what she expected. She didn't even know whether she expected anything at all, but certainly not what he did. He simply cradled her in his arms, against his still-racing heart, his sweat-damp chest, and held her while she cried, stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, saying not a word. And when her weeping had finally begun to shudder to a halt he kissed her, with such utter sweetness that she began sobbing again.