Til Death Do Us Part (31 page)

“I will not be intimidated into selling McNamara's!”

“Once this person realizes that the scare tactics aren't working, that's when your life will be in real danger.”

He hated the very thought that someone might try to kill Cleo. Already, without meaning to, he'd become emotionally involved with his client. It was something he'd never done before. In the past he'd been too smart to let his personal feelings get in the way of performing his duty.

It wasn't as if he loved Cleo. But he did like her. And he respected and admired her. And he wanted her almost to the point of madness. Once he'd had her, everything would be all right. He could handle liking her, respecting her and admiring her and still do his job. But when it came to keeping her safe, he had to have his mind one hundred percent on protecting her. As long as he felt like a mongrel chasing a bitch in heat, he risked making a mistake. And one mistake on his part could cost Cleo her life.

She glanced at him. He saw her in his peripheral vision.

“I'm glad I married you,” she said. “Having you at my side makes me stronger. I know I'm not alone. You'll help me save McNamara's.”

“I'll do my best,” Roarke said.

“Thank you…Simon.”

Her use of his Christian name created a hard knot of apprehension in his belly. He preferred for her to call him “Roarke”—it kept their relationship on a business level—and despite their discussion about it on their wedding night, she usually used the less intimate name. But when she called him “Simon” in that sexy, raspy voice of hers, it made him want to hear her cry out his name in the throes of passion. Every time she called him “Simon,” he knew it meant something to her—that she was beginning to care for him. And that could be dangerous. For both of them.

R
OARKE OPENED THE
bedroom door for the housekeeper and took the first-aid kit she handed him. “Thanks, Pearl.”

She glanced down at Roarke's skinned and bloody knuckles, then peered across the room, where Cleo sat on the edge of the chaise longue. “Do you need any help?”

“No, thanks.” Cleo removed her scuffed heels, then inspected her ripped panty hose, and realized that beneath the ruined nylon her left leg was badly scraped. “I'll make sure Simon's wounds are tended.”

Pearl gave Cleo a once-over, pausing when their eyes met. “What about your wounds, Cleo Belle? You look pretty battered up to me.”

“I'll take care of my wife,” Roarke said. “She refused to go to the hospital, so she has no choice but to let me examine her and make sure she has no serious injuries.”

“She's always been stubborn,” Pearl told him. “Ever since she was no higher than my knee. Always wanted her own way. Knew what she wanted and figured out how to get it. I've discovered that the only way to handle her when she's being stubborn is with brute force.” Pearl chuckled, apparently remembering times when, as a child, nothing short of physical restraint had saved Cleo from harm.

“I'll keep that in mind.” Glancing at Cleo, Roarke grinned. “If you hear her hollering, you'll know I've had to resort to letting her know who's boss.”

Cleo stuck out her tongue at him. His grin widened.
“Don't listen to Pearl,” Cleo said. “I was an angelic child. I never gave anyone a moment's trouble.”

“Well, now, Mr. Roarke, if you believe that one, I've got some swampland in Florida I'll sell you real cheap.” Pearl laid her pudgy hand on Roarke's arm. “She's as stubborn as the day is long. She might well have the soul of an angel, but as a child she had a mean, stubborn streak. And though she's learned to control it some since she grew up, it still rears its ugly head from time to time. You just watch out for it.”

“I'll do that,” Roarke said.

When Pearl started to leave, Cleo called out to her. “Wait.”

Stopping immediately, the housekeeper glanced over her shoulder at Cleo. “When Aunt Beatrice returns from the bridge party at Mrs. Madden's, tell her that I'll see her at breakfast. There's no point in worrying her about what happened at the plant. I'll tell her in the morning. That way she'll be able to get a good night's sleep tonight.”

“What if, during dinner this evening, Trey mentions the accident at the plant?” Pearl asked.

“Trey had a trip planned to Huntsville this afternoon, so I doubt he'll learn about the accident before I tell him in the morning,” Cleo said.

“I'll do my best to handle things below.” Pearl looked directly at Roarke. “You handle
things
up here.”

“I'll certainly try,” Roarke said, then closed the door behind Pearl when she walked out into the hall.

With the first-aid supplies in his hands, Roarke turned around and watched while Cleo removed her ripped jacket and tossed it on the floor. He clenched his teeth when he saw the two large bruises on her left arm.

He had to find a way to keep Cleo safe from any more plant “accidents.” Although this one hadn't been planned
to injure her, it had. And whoever was creating havoc at McNamara Industries was probably either the same person who had taken a shot at Cleo or was a cohort.

“I'll have to throw this suit away. I'm afraid it's ruined.” Gripping her elbow, she lifted her arm, turning it slightly to get a better look at the darkening bruises. “Oh, they look awful, don't they? Like someone hit me really hard a couple of times.”

Slowly, silently, Roarke crossed the room, laid the first-aid supplies at the foot of the chaise longue and removed his sport coat. He tossed the coat onto a nearby chair and reached out for Cleo. Without making a comment or asking permission, he began unbuttoning her blouse. She stared down at his big fingers working the buttons loose. The side of his hand brushed against her breast. Her nipple beaded instantly. She sucked in her breath and looked up at him. Their gazes met and held.

“I—I can unbutton my own blouse,” she told him. But by the time she spoke, he was already pushing her short-sleeved, purple silk blouse off her shoulders.

His big hands felt like fine sandpaper, the palms callused from the physical workouts that kept his body in fighting form. Lifting her arm in one hand, he ran his fingers gently over the bruising, then up to her shoulder and across to her neck.

Her aching body tingled with awareness. She hadn't allowed a man to touch her this intimately since Paine Emerson had seduced her. And not even the girlish love she'd felt for her former fiancé had induced such a strong, physical need.

“If we'd gotten an ice pack on this, it would have helped,” he told her as he ran his hand over her right shoulder and down her arm, inspecting it for damage. “Is it already sore?”

“Yes,” Cleo admitted. “To be honest, I'm sore all over.”

And I'm aching inside, she thought. I can't bear for you to touch me like this, and yet I don't want you to stop.

“It might be even worse in the morning,” he said.

She nodded in agreement, knowing that by morning not only would her body be sore, but after another night of lying next to Roarke, she would be aching with longing.

He undid the closure on her skirt, then eased down the zipper. “Lift your hips up just a little, so we can get your skirt off.”

Her heartbeat roared in her ears as the deafening flood of blood raced through her body. Obeying his command without a word of protest, she lifted her hips. He slipped off her skirt, then pushed up her silk slip. When his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her panty hose, she gasped and looked up at him.

Staring directly into her eyes, he said, “We've got to take these panty hose off so I can take a good look at your leg.”

He took his time removing the hose, all the while stroking her hips and legs with his fingers as he maneuvered the tattered material downward. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of his gentle touch, while at the same time she tried to control her body's reaction. But she could no more stop her breasts from tightening and throbbing and her femininity from moistening and clenching than she could stop the sun from rising in the morning.

Blood had dried and stuck to the nylon along her lower thigh and upper calf, so he took extra precaution, being as gentle as possible. She winced and opened her mouth on a silent cry when he loosened the soiled and shredded panty hose from her scraped flesh.

After throwing the ruined hose on top of her discarded
clothing, Roarke lifted her leg and examined the injury. Without any warning, he scooped her up in his arms, picked up the first-aid kit and headed toward the bathroom.

“What—” She grabbed him around the neck. “I can walk!”

The scent of sweat and dried blood clung to him. Breathing in those warrior odors, Cleo shivered and fought the urge to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Quicker this way,” he said as he sat her down on the vanity stool in the bathroom. “Doesn't look like anything serious. I'll clean these scratches and scraps.” He laid the kit on the vanity and popped open the lid. “Other than having some ugly bruises and being sore for a while, you should be fine.”

“What about you?” Cleo asked, looking at the dried blood on his knuckles. “You must have done that when you rolled me over on top of you and your hands skidded along the concrete floor.”

“I'll make a deal with you, Boss Lady. You be a good girl and let me tend to your wounds, and when I finish, you can tend to mine.”

“You're used to getting your way, aren't you?”

“I'd say that was something we have in common.”

Turning his back to her, he rummaged in the first-aid kit and removed a small bottle of peroxide. Glancing up at him, she immediately saw bloodstains on the back of his shirt. Stains that had darkened a large circle across his shoulder blade and dotted a trail of droplets down to his waist. Her gaze focused momentarily on the hip holster that housed his sleek, deadly Beretta. “Roarke?”

He turned around, peroxide and cotton balls in his hands. “Yeah?”

“Your back has been bleeding.”

“I figured it had.” He poured the peroxide on her scraped leg. “You can take a look at it for me.” Once the peroxide bubbled on her wounds, he blotted the residue off with the cotton swabs. “I don't think this needs to be covered, but I'll check it again in a few hours and see.”

Suddenly she felt quite vulnerable sitting there in her slip, with Roarke hovering over her. He played the role of protective and caring husband to perfection, but Cleo's instincts told her that his attentive actions went far beyond mere acting.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You're welcome. It was my pleasure, Boss Lady.”

Cleo stood on weak, trembly legs, wanting nothing more than to fall into Roarke's strong arms. “Now it's my turn to play nursemaid and see to your injuries.”

He unbuttoned his soiled shirt, revealing his broad, hairy chest. Cleo watched, tantalized, as he removed the shirt and tossed it on the floor. He turned his back to her and waited. She grimaced when she saw the raw, red scrape across his right shoulder blade.

“Well, what does it look like?” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned when he saw the dismay on her face. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh, no, not bad at all. Just bloody.” Forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand and not on Roarke's incredible physique, Cleo picked up the peroxide bottle and doused his wounds. The excess liquid ran down his back, dribbling onto his slacks. “Damn!” Grabbing several cotton balls, Cleo swabbed at the trickling peroxide dampening his waist.

“What were you trying to do—give me a bath in that stuff?” he asked jokingly, then turned around and held
up his scuffed knuckles. “Just dab these with a little peroxide.”

He had to know how nervous she was, and had probably guessed the reason. She felt foolish overreacting to a man's gentle touch and the sight of his partial nudity. It wasn't as if this was the first time he'd touched her or the first time she'd seen him without his shirt. He slept in nothing but his pajama bottoms every night. But this was the first time she had given herself over to the pure sensual pleasure of sight and touch.

Cleo cleaned his knuckles quickly, then recapped the peroxide bottle and closed the first-aid kit. “There. I think we'll both live.”

She whirled around, prepared to leave the bathroom and escape Roarke's nearness. In her haste, she didn't notice that he had eased toward her, and when she turned, she brushed against his bare chest. Throwing up her hands in surprise, she froze to the spot. Roarke grasped her hands and laid them on his chest.

She felt the steady beat of his heart. Her hands quivered. Her stomach fluttered. She swallowed hard.

His gaze traveled from her flushed face, down her throat and over the rise of her breasts, which pressed up above the lace on the bodice of her lavender slip.

“You're a lovely woman, Cleo Belle.” He slipped his hand behind her head and grasped her neck.

She stared at him, hypnotized by the look in his piercing blue eyes. Of their volition, her fingers threaded through the thick, dark hair curling over the center of his muscular chest. She opened her mouth to speak. To tell him that he was a handsome man. That it was a pleasure just to look at him. But before she could utter one word, Roarke tightened his hold around the back of her neck,
pressed her face upward and swooped his head down, capturing her mouth in a hot, wet kiss.

She gave in to the slow, damp, heated desire spreading through her like sweet honey over warm bread. As he deepened the kiss, she responded wildly, gripping his shoulders and pressing her body intimately to his. His sex pulsed against her. Her femininity tightened and released, then tightened again in greater awareness and stronger need.

Just when she thought she couldn't bear another moment of this tortured arousal, Roarke clutched her buttocks in his big hands and lifted her up and into his hardness. She cried out from the sheer agonized pleasure, the sound muffled by his lips on hers, his mouth devouring hers.

On the precipice, ready to plunge headlong into mindless sensuality, Cleo mumbled a complaint when Roarke ended their kiss and released her. When she continued clinging to him, he stepped backward. Her fingertips grazed his chest, then she retreated, lowering her arms and gazing up at him questioningly.

“Six days isn't long,” he said, his deep voice calm and controlled.

“Six days?” Her mind couldn't seem to focus, refusing to comprehend the meaning of his words.

“We were married eight days ago today. In six days we will be married two weeks.”

“Oh.” Realization dawned.

“Have you changed your mind about waiting the full two weeks?” he asked. “I…I don't…”

“You're in charge of this marriage, Boss Lady. I follow your orders.”

“Yes, I know. I'm just not sure if we should—”

“Think about it and let me know,” he told her. “I'm
going to go change into a pair of jeans, then make a call to Morgan Kane at Dundee's.”

“You're going to call Mr. Kane this evening?”

“Yes. After the incident today, I don't want to delay bringing him in. If I can get in touch with him now, he can be here by breakfast in the morning.”

“I see. Well…yes, of course. By all means, go call Mr. Kane.”

For some odd reason she felt as if Roarke had deliberately thrown a bucket of ice water on her. Was he toying with her? Tempting her?

Had he taken Pearl's suggestions to heart and used
brute force?
Had the kiss been intended to show her that he, and not she, was really the boss of their marriage? Damn the man! She'd show him who was boss. If he thought she couldn't last six more days without his lovemaking, then he was wrong. She'd lived through a week of sleeping beside him, longing for him to reach out and take her, dreaming of what it would be like to belong to him. She could wait another six days. But while they were waiting, she was going to make him suffer as much as she did.