Slow Burn (11 page)

He was behind her as she twisted the key in the lock, and he caught the door when she would have let it fly in his face. She ignored him and started for the stairway.

“Spencer, you've got to realize that you can't run around doing stupid things like you did last night!” he yelled after her.

She paused, her hand on the railing, looking at him. “Stupid things? At least I got Delia arrested! That was more than the rest of you incredibly intelligent people managed to do in over a year.”

She didn't want to hear his answer; she continued up the stairs.

He didn't intend to let her have the last word. She was sure he'd never been up these stairs before, but he followed her, right to her bathroom door.

“Spencer, you might have gotten yourself killed in that graveyard.”

“But I didn't. I had the great and noble David Delgado there to save me, thanks to my grandfather's money.”

“Spencer—”

“Do you mind?” she cried out furiously, stepping into the bathroom and slamming the door.

She heard him swearing, then sitting down on the foot of her bed to wait.

She turned on the water. Hard. Steaming. She stepped out of her jeans and shirt and underwear and tossed them on the floor. She stared at them for a moment, then picked up the lot and crammed them into the small trash basket in the bathroom, knowing that she would never wear any of them again. If David
had
said it, he would have been right. She wasn't cut out for such things. Such places. Her heart went out to the street people, but she hated the dope dealers and the brutal criminals who were trying to tear down the city she had loved all her life. She would do anything she could to set Danny to rest, but she didn't have to like doing it. She admired the young attorney who had dealt with the leering prisoners with such a cool demeanor. She applauded her. But she wasn't like her.

She stood beneath the streaming water, and she let it run and run and run.

She winced when she heard his fist slam against the bathroom door. It wasn't locked; but he didn't open it.

“Spencer! You can't get rid of me that way!” she heard David shouting.

She wrenched the water off in a fury, grabbed an oversize towel and wrapped it around her, then slammed open the bathroom door, totally unsure as to exactly why she was so angry.

He'd moved away from the door and was by the foot of the bed again. He'd worn jeans, and a tailored blue cotton shirt, open at the neck. She knew he was agitated, because she could see a telltale pulse ticking away at his throat. His eyes glittered, still appearing black as coal rather than blue. She stood in the doorway, the towel wrapped around her, still dripping. “Talk, talk, talk! What is it you want to talk about? You were the one who threw me bodily out of your office! Now you want to talk. Why? Am I suddenly making the lot of you—you and all of Danny's cop buddies—look like fools?”

“One more time, Spencer, try to get this. You almost got yourself killed!”

She walked toward him, eyes narrowed, a finger pointed straight at his nose. “Cut the macho crap, David! Danny was a guy, a tough guy, a carry-a-gun guy. And now he's dead. So—”

“All the more reason for you to get out of this and stay the hell out of it! Danny knew what he was up against. He joined the force and he took his chances. What is it with you, Spencer? You won't be happy unless you wind up dead, too?”

She shoved his chest, intending to walk around him to her closet. “Fuck you, David,” she told him succinctly.

She started by him but felt his hand grip her shoulder, pulling her back with angry force. “No! Fuck you, Spencer!” he snapped in return.

And it was then that she lost her towel.

She'd never believed in people just falling into other people's arms. There was some kind of conscious thought involved in every deed performed by man. And it wasn't that she didn't know what she was doing. She did.

For a long moment they were dead silent. She felt the blood race to her cheeks and considered grabbing the wayward towel so she could hide behind it once again. But she felt the heat of David's gaze on her, and it was almost as if she was hypnotized, just as she'd been with Delia. It was as if David were touching her. Her breath seemed caught in her chest. There was something incredibly hot and erotic in that alone; if he touched her, she would melt.

He touched her. He was still angry, explosively so. She wondered if he knew exactly what he was doing.

He did. He knew, all right. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind, David knew this was about one of the most stupid things he'd ever done. But he would be damned if he could stop it. He was suddenly staring at her and she was stark naked. And she was the same wild-haired, high-handed, blue-eyed, perfect little blonde he'd been asinine enough to fall in love with all those years ago. It didn't matter now. Touching her did.

And so he reached out, curled his fingers around her perfect nape, felt the silky softness of that perfect Anglo hair tangle around his fingers. He pulled her close. And he kissed her.

There could be no half measures with Spencer.

Danny Huntington's wife.

Widow.

For a few seconds those thoughts careened through his mind. Then they faded. Maybe his anger had brought him to this; maybe he'd been mad for over a decade. And maybe this would have happened no matter what. A force was there, an energy, a burning frustration, something that had to be appeased. He could strangle her or make love to her. Of course, she could pull away at any minute, shove a knee up into all that energy and frustrated heat….

But she didn't. She didn't really move at first; she was still while his lips moved passionately over hers, while his tongue forced its way between them, tasting and savoring her. Then suddenly he heard a little sound from her, a whimper. And then her fingers were moving into his hair, and all that nakedness was pressing against him while her lips moved hungrily against his own.

It was all over for Spencer Anne Montgomery. Screw everything that had ever come between them. Including Danny.

He didn't think he'd ever been so painfully hard in his life. He wasn't even really aware of where he was, of exactly what he was doing, what steps he was taking. She had always been tall, slim, light. In seconds he had her on the bed and his fly was open, his lips on hers again. His weight was wedged between her thighs.

Her mouth was sweet with the hickory taste of coffee and a touch of mint. He stroked it hard with his tongue, reaching down with his hand to find the warm center of her. His palm brushed over a soft field of pubic hair. He didn't have to see it to know it was blond. His fingers sought her. Found her hot, damp. Touched, stroked, deeper. All the while his lips were on hers, sounds catching in her throat, in his mouth. It was strange. He'd wanted her so badly, needed her so badly, that he hadn't even allowed himself to think about it. But beyond the fevered force of pure, gut-wrenching desire, instinct had stepped in. This had to be good for her. She wasn't forgetting this one.

He suddenly shoved himself against her body. There was only so much you could forget. And so much you had no choice but to remember, even after more than a decade. She had been worth remembering. She had perfect breasts, full, firm, with large pink nipples, hard now. He laved one. Tasted it, teased it with his tongue. Kept his rhythmic touch moving within her. Sucked on her nipple. Heard her crying out, felt her fingers tearing into his hair.

He moved lower, lifting her hips. His tongue replaced his fingers. She was gasping, crying out words that were incomprehensible, or which he chose to ignore. She tensed against him, straining, then ceased to fight him. He felt the sudden surge of her body, the slight easing of those fingers in his hair. She came with a wicked shudder, and he rose over her then, blanketing her with his body, driving into her with all the wild, hard desire that touching Spencer had always evoked. Eliciting it all over again in Spencer with the sheer force of his passion, the near desperate desire that washed over him.

Then it was quick. Her fingers digging into his shoulders, her body moving with his. The world seemed all but wiped out except for the need for surcease, and for Spencer. Slick now, still so damned slim, soft, almost angelic, except for the way she moved.

He seemed to erupt rather than climax. Maybe that was what happened when someone stayed in your dreams all your life. The whole damned world seemed to blacken briefly. Consciousness returning, he admitted to himself that it was the best sex he'd ever had. Moments later, while his heart was still pounding and he was gasping for breath, satisfaction was making him feel warmer and more content than he could remember being in a decade.

Sex was sex, he argued with himself. He'd had some damned good sex over the years since he'd parted ways with Spencer Anne Montgomery. Even in a world where everyone was being careful, he'd had some damned good sex.

But nothing like Spencer.
Because he'd never gotten over her. Never would. And now he was entangling himself like a foolish fly caught in a web all over again, just because of some idiotic loyalty to Sly and his obsession with her. And any idea of careful sex, responsible sex, had flown out of his head, along with any sensible questions, like, Just what in God's name are you doing here, Delgado?

How quick the deed, how painful the repercussions.

It wasn't as if she shoved him aside or anything so obvious. But she went from lying next to him, gasping for breath, her heart pounding, perfect one-hundred-percent-Anglo flesh sheened and damp and still touching his, to turning away. Suddenly she was sitting on the side of the bed, her slim back to him, and shaking slightly. He couldn't see her face, but he knew that silent tears were running down her cheeks.

He was lying in Danny's bed; his head was on Danny's pillow. In Danny's room. Danny's house.

He almost screamed aloud. But he didn't.

Instead he rose from the bed and fixed his clothing. She didn't move; she wasn't even shaking anymore; she was just sitting there. He wished he could say something, but he didn't know what. He felt guilty enough himself.

But she was crying. Because she'd slept with him. No, they hadn't slept, they hadn't even dozed. She'd fallen into bed with him. His fault. He'd followed her up here. Her fault. She hadn't thrown him out fast enough. Oh, bull, it was his fault.

And now she was crying, hiding it from him, but crying anyway. Was she crying because he wasn't Danny and she wished he was?

Or because he wasn't Danny and she had been glad of it? As her shoulders rose and fell, his temper snapped. “Quit it, Spencer.”

“Quit what?”

“Crying.”

“I'm not crying.”

“You didn't do anything terrible.”

“I didn't say I did.”

So she thought he was the bad guy here, huh? “I didn't do anything terrible either, Spencer. Danny is dead. You didn't betray him, and neither did I. We're all grown-up now, and you've been alone a long time. People have needs.”

“Would you stop!” she exploded suddenly, rising and staring at him. She was still naked. Still Spencer.

Still perfect.

All that blond hair still wild, those beautiful blue eyes huge. Body a little flushed, flesh a rosy hue, breasts swollen, nipples still hard…

And cheeks dampened with her tears.

She felt his eyes then and realized that he was dressed while she wasn't. She strode across the room for the fallen towel, wiping the tears from her cheeks before she reached for the towel, and wrapped it around herself. “I want you out of here—now. I'm not blaming you for anything—”

“You sure as hell better not!” he snapped, grabbing her arm and forcing her to face him.

“David, I'm asking you to get out of here.”

“Spencer, it's a damned good thing I've got an ego or you'd make me feel like a two-bit whore myself. What is this, the same old story with you year after year? You want something you're not supposed to want, something from the wrong side of the tracks, so you think you can just take it and then throw it away? You need a little dirt in your pristine life and I'm it? You can't admit it, though—”

“Stop it! I was your best friend's wife!” she cried.

She was hurting, and he knew that, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

“Just what the hell do you want, Spencer?” he suddenly snapped out. “A little erotic interlude? How do you like it? Quick, out of sight, as down and dirty as you can get in ten minutes?”

She inhaled sharply. He knew she was raising a hand to slap him, and he could have stopped her, but he didn't. Maybe he was as bad as she was, because he wanted to feel the sting of her hand on his cheek, wanted to take that with him when he turned away.

What was wrong with him? Maybe he was angry because she had been able to give only so much, and if he was going to have any of her, he wanted it all.

He'd never had it all. He hadn't had it ten years ago, and he couldn't have it now.