Sweeter Than Sin (10 page)

But not tonight.

Slowly, feeling like she’d aged a year in the span of five minutes, she shoved off the railing and eyed the door. In the void where she’d held the pain there was now just a hollow sensation. Sooner or later, those bits and pieces of pain that she refused to deal with were going to come chasing after her, determined to have their merry way with her.

But not tonight.

Her boots echoed hollowly on the wooden floor as she moved to go inside. The broad, muscled plane of Adam’s back was the first thing she saw. He stood at the sink, staring out over the dark backyard.

Her throat went tight and she was overcome by the urge to move to him, press her lips to his shoulder and just slip her arms around him, hug him. Kiss away the misery she sensed lay inside him.

Twenty years ago, she could have gone to him easily. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt the urge to go kissing on the man—but well. Twenty years ago, things had been different. With that span of years between them and so many secrets, she was frozen, though. Unable to go to him, unable to stay silent, she forced herself to say the only thing there was to say. Trite, empty words.

“I’m sorry, Adam.”

Adam turned to look at her, his velvety brown eyes narrowed. Seconds ticked by and then he shrugged. Her mouth went a little dry as the movement had the muscles bared by his tank top doing all sorts of lovely, wonderful things, the tattoos rippling.

Her belly clenched as the image of her going to him danced in her mind. This time, though, it wasn’t comfort she had in mind. She wanted to press her lips against his skin, yeah. Learn his taste, though. Maybe she could comfort him, but she wanted a lot more than that. She wanted to feel him, skin to skin, study each of those tattoos and then learn the feel of his muscles, his body, as he moved above her.

She couldn’t remember the last time a guy’s body had fascinated like this.

Maybe never.

And it was utterly impossible.

Adam looked at her like he didn’t want to be within ten feet of her, and the more she thought about this, about
him,
the worse her headache got.

A heavy sigh escaped him, forcing her thoughts back on-target.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out.

She looked at him just in time to see him crossing his arms over his chest, the muscles in his arms bulging, flexing under that inked skin.

Wary, she rocked back on her heels.

If this was the way he got ready to open up the game of twenty questions, too bad. She wasn’t ready to play.

A sardonic smile curved his lips and he pushed off the counter. “You disappear for twenty years. Nobody knows anything. And then you show back up.… What’s going on, Lana?”

“I can’t really talk about it yet.” Yeah, not much on wasting words, was he? She looked away, swallowing the knot in her throat, wishing she could just explain, just
tell
somebody. But it wasn’t as easy as that. How could she explain anything? Most of
that
night was a fog. The next few days were blurred by the pain from her concussion and fear, adrenaline as she took off running, chased by that quiet, solemn voice.
You can’t stay here.…

The solid memories she
did
have were based on what came before and then almost a week later, when she finally slowed down enough to think.

How could she explain any of that to Adam? How could she explain anything when she didn’t really understand herself?

“I think you need to talk about it; otherwise, I’m going to make a phone call and tell a detective I know that I saw you. That’s going to throw all kinds of wrenches into things,” he said, his voice silky.

Jerking her chin up, she stared at him. “I’m not doing anything
wrong
by being here, you know.”

“No. You just did shit-all wrong by disappearing and letting everybody who cared about you think you were dead. Raped, murdered, who knows!” he snapped. He closed the distance between them, glaring down at her. “You have any idea what your dad went through? Noah?”

*   *   *

Me?

Adam wanted to grab her. Shake her.

He’d always loved her.

Always.

And when she reached out to him, he hadn’t realized in time, hadn’t understood … until it was too late. All this time. Staring at her face, he searched for some sort of sign, some lingering echo of the girl she’d been. That girl who’d been ready to fight the whole damn world and change it.

So little about her was the same. He remembered the vibrancy of her hair, almost painfully. He’d dreamed about that hair, red and rich and beautiful, so often, wrapping it around his fist as he kissed her the way he’d always wanted to. Lying down with her and feeling it across his skin as they slept. Crazy dreams, hurtful dreams, dreams that would never happen.

Now her hair was a soft, quiet brown and it irritated the hell out of him, because he
knew
she’d done it deliberately.

Her eyes were the same … mostly. Sadder and harder, a misty shade of grey, framed by spiky lashes. Her chin was up and she glared at him, all but daring him to do something, say something.

He could think of a lot of things he’d like to do, and that monthlong dry spell of his was catching up to him. He had no problem imagining her naked and spread out under him, but he’d imagined that a hundred times.

What he wanted the most was answers.

And she was quiet.

Her mouth stayed closed, and when he edged closer, all she did was arch a brow.

Daring him.

“Didn’t you think about any of us or were you just that determined to take off with David?” he asked softly.

Something flashed in her eyes and then she shrugged. “If you think you already know what happened, then why should I bother to answer?”

“How about you
tell
me what happened and then I don’t have to speculate?”

She went to turn away.

He caught her arm.

She spun around, fist flying.

He barely managed to block it, and the force she had behind that blow left his arm numb. “What the—”

Instinctively he spun them around and trapped her between his body and the island, his hands trapping her wrists, holding them behind her back. For one long volatile second, they both held their breath.

Then, slowly, she blew out a breath. Her skin was pale, her mouth tight, as she glared at him. She tensed, her skin pale, her mouth tight. “I don’t like it when people touch me,” she warned.

“I noticed.” Her pulse was racing. Bounding against his fingers like a mad thing.
And just what happened?
he wondered. Because the Lana he remembered had
loved
touches. She had been a hugger, even from the time she’d been a kid.

He’d adored her then.

He’d loved her then.

He’d known her when she was just a rough-and-tumble tomboy, only five years old, when she moved in across the street into the little house where her dad had lived until his stroke.

Adam had loved her when she went from tomboy to coltish teenager, even when he’d been too old—already in high school when she was just in middle school—and because he knew it wasn’t right he’d avoided her, putting a sad light in her eyes when he acted annoyed when she came over. Bit by bit she’d pulled away, and he hated it, but he knew it wasn’t right for him to want her the way he had.

But that age difference wouldn’t have made a difference forever.

And it hadn’t stopped him from noticing everything.

The way she threw her arms around her father’s neck when he got home from work. The way she hugged her friends. The way she hugged Adam’s parents when she saw them. The way she hugged her boyfriend or a teacher she liked.

The way she’d rested her hand on David Sutter’s shoulder one day after school. It wasn’t the kind of touch a girl gave a guy she liked. Adam had known that then. It was the kind of touch a person gave a wild animal, the kind you gave to a scared child:
Calm down; everything is okay.… I’ll take care of you.
The slim girl, all of five feet four, with the heart of a giant.

Adam had seen it, even if nobody else had. David had been in trouble, and Lana had known. She’d reached out, ready to help.

Three weeks after that, both of them were gone.

Twenty years later, she was in front of Adam, yet again, and everything was different, but her eyes were the same and his heart still raced as she looked at him, but she didn’t like being touched.

“Why?”

She stared at him like he’d spoken another language.

Lowering his brows, he dipped his head and demanded, “Why? You used to touch
everybody
. What happened? Where did you go and why did you let everybody think you were dead?”

“I already told you, I’m not ready to talk about it ye—
hey
!”

He let go of her so abruptly, she lost balance. Guilt punched him, but he shoved it aside as he started to pace. From the corner of his eye he watched her. “Do you know where your dad has been the past year?”

Something in her flickered.

She knows—

Adam stopped pacing and turned to face her, readied himself to hear at least some small truth.

Then she shrugged and glanced past him. “No. You said he wasn’t across the street anymore. When did he move?”

Liar.
Adam kept it behind his teeth. Then he shrugged. She knew. Somehow she knew. But how?

He figured he’d keep this close to his chest … and he’d watch her.

Since she wasn’t going to give him any answers, he’d have to find them for himself.

Easily he said, “I lost track of him.” Then he turned around. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can sleep. You look exhausted.”

He could practically feel the daggers she glared into his back.

“Hasn’t anybody ever told you that’s the last thing you should say to a woman?”

“Oh, sure. But since when did I ever listen to that sort of thing?”

He bypassed the little guest room he should give her. It was on the first floor, quiet … close to the door.

He wanted her upstairs. Where he’d hear if she tried to leave. Not that he’d be able to stop her, but at least he’d
know
.

*   *   *

He’d never sleep.

Adam knew it, as sure as he knew his own name.

Sleep was an elusive thing for him, something he’d chased after for the longest time, until he realized that the harder he chased it, the harder it was to catch. But he did need to rest, his dragging, tired body screaming at him to just
stop
.

Not entirely trusting himself to stay upstairs, just twenty feet or so from the room where Lana slept, he settled down on the couch, his gaze locked on the ceiling over his head.

Now she was maybe thirty feet away, but she was separated from him by a flight of stairs and the solid construction of the floor.

Far enough, he thought, that he wouldn’t be tempted to go and open the door, stare at her as she slept just to convince himself this was real. That he hadn’t started hallucinating again.

He’d done that before, back when he quit drinking—cold turkey is a dangerous thing for a hard-core alcoholic and the DTs had come on hard, followed by freaky-ass hallucinations that were yet another deterrent. That wasn’t the only time he’d ever had that pleasure, though. Sometimes he’d go two or three days without sleep, and that was when it hit him really hard. He’d thought for a minute down by the river that he was doing it again. Hallucinating, imagining that he was seeing what he wanted to see, just because he did want it so bad and he was so fucking tired.

But then he had reached out, grabbed her glasses and felt the satin smoothness of her skin and the shock of it went through him like a jolt of pure electricity. He might as well have shoved his hand into a transformer or something, it was so powerful, and it managed to clear the fog of exhaustion from his head.

She’d been
real
.

She’d said his name.

And now she was in his house, in the bed over his head.

She was in that bed, too. That bedroom had a creaky, noisy floor, and if she’d been walking around he’d have heard every single step. Now the only sounds he heard in the still, quiet house was the occasional sound she made as she shifted in the bed.

Where have you been?
He wanted to demand she tell him, but he knew Lana, or he
had
known her. Demands had never worked well with her and he doubted that had changed. If he pushed her now, she’d just shut down. If he pushed too hard, she might disappear again.

He heard a faint squeak and closed his eyes as a cold sweat broke out over his forehead. Every time she moved, he had a vision of her shifting on that bed, her sleek, pale body spread across the mattress. Did she still have those freckles? Was her hair still as silky as it had always been?

And even though he knew it was a dye job, he was all but burning to strip her naked and find out for certain, preferably by settling between her legs and studying the curls between her thighs.

Right before he took the things he’d never had the right to take before.

Things he didn’t have a right to take now.

Swearing, he reached down and pressed the flat of his hand to his erection.

“You like to torture yourself,” he muttered.

Under his hand, his cock pulsed, throbbed. But this was Lana. Whether he wanted to think about her like this or not, it was going to happen. Eyes wide open, he focused on the ceiling and freed the button of his jeans. It was this
now
or walk around hobbled until he gave in. Dragging the zipper down, he winced as he freed his dick, his flesh painfully sensitive.

When he closed his hand around his shaft it pulsed, almost viciously. Dragging his palm up, then down, he let himself pretend, even if it was never going to happen, that it wasn’t his hand.

It was Lana.

Riding him, her sleek thighs gripping as she slid up and down, her hair spilling down around them, hiding them in the darkness, while those sexy glasses perched on the tip of her nose.