Unlawful Contact (23 page)

“
No!
Not yet.” He stood, scooped her into his arms, and carried her across the room until he stood in front of the fireplace. Then he sank to the floor, laid down on his back, and drew her up his body, grasping her hips and guiding her until she straddled his face, her weight resting on her shins, her core hovering just above his mouth.

“Oh, God!” She was breathless, trembling, more aroused than she’d ever been.

“God, what a view!” He steadied her above him, then reached up to unclasp her bra, catching the weight of her breasts in his hands, his fingers teasing her nipples with strokes she felt deep in her belly. And then he unleashed his mouth on her again, and all she could do was surrender.

Marc was in heaven, surrounded by Sophie, his senses full of her. He palmed her breasts, teased the rosy velvet of her nipples, drinking in the flood of warm honey that was her body’s response. He could have kissed her like this forever. It didn’t matter to him that his cock felt like it had rigor mortis or that his balls had probably gone from blue to black or that the Glock he’d tucked into his jeans—and subsequently forgotten—was jabbing him in the small of the back. He wanted to give her every bit of pleasure she could take.

He’d gone slowly with her, searching out what she liked most, gauging her reactions, learning to read her body’s sexual rhythm, and now he was putting that knowledge to good use, drawing out her pleasure, making her wait, giving both of them time to savor it. Then he knew it was time to let her go. He closed his mouth over her clit and suckled her.

She whimpered, her back arching, her breasts pressing more deeply into his hands, her fingers fisting in his hair. “Hunt…oh, God…oh, Hunt!”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever known a woman as sensual and responsive as Sophie. Even when she’d been a virgin and sixteen, she’d been unafraid to give herself over to sexual pleasure. She’d blown him away that night. And she sure wasn’t holding back now, the sounds coming from her throat uninhibited, raw, blatantly sexual.

He drew a hand down, probed her slick entrance with one finger, then two, teasing her.

Her reaction was immediate. “Oh,
yes
…please…please!”

He thrust inside her, stroking her, feeling her inner muscles tighten around his fingers. He suckled her harder, keeping his rhythm steady both inside and out, her cries more frantic, every muscle in her body tense.

Her breath caught and held, her body going stiff as the first tremors washed through her. She exhaled in a shuddering cry, coming against his mouth in a gush of hot nectar, her body shaking with pleasure. He stayed with her, letting her ride it out, the moisture of her orgasm wet on his fingers and lips and tongue. God, he loved her.

Yes, he loved her. He loved everything about her.

Too damn bad for both of them, really, but that’s how it was.

“Hunt.”
She looked down at him, breathless, the longing in her eyes seeming to mirror the hunger inside him. Then she stretched out next to him and lowered her mouth to his in a slow, deep kiss, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

And suddenly he couldn’t get out of his clothes and into her fast enough. He helped her take off his shirt, then pulled a condom out of his pocket, working it onto his erection, while she pulled off his jeans and briefs. Then he eased her beneath him and settled himself between her thighs, his gaze colliding with hers as he slid into her with a single slow thrust.

“Oh, Sophie, honey, I…”
Love you. I love you.

He bit back the words, forced himself to focus only on the physical act of loving her, grinding his pubic bone against her with each hard thrust, the slippery friction driving them both insane. God—
Christ!
—she felt so good. He was hanging on the edge…hanging…holding back, wanting it to be good for her, wanting her, wanting all of her, until with a cry, she gave herself to him, her eyes squeezed shut as the crest of another climax surged through her, carrying him over the edge, his orgasm hot and fast and strong.

And as the pleasure peaked, he saw it all—the man he might have been, the life he might have lived. It was there in her perfect eyes, looking up at him.

S
OPHIE OPENED A
box labeled “Misc.” and found herself digging through a strange assortment of electronics junk—old computer power cords, cell phone chargers, circuit breakers, switch plates, and antenna wires. Did Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings keep everything?

She packed the wires and cords back into the box, closed it, and carried it to the far basement wall where Hunt was stacking boxes that had already been checked. “More junk.”

He glanced down at her, nodded. “Go ahead and put it down there.”

She’d awoken to find him still asleep, all six feet four inches of him stretched out naked beside her, a sheet dragged over one hip. For a while, she’d watched him, her gaze drifting over him—the ridges and valleys of his muscles, the soft curls of his chest hair, that
mouth
.

That mouth had given her the single most explosive climax of her life. Never had she felt so deliciously out of control, so sexually needy, so completely at a man’s mercy. He’d taken her to the brink not once, but twice, the first with his lips and tongue, then with his body, driving into her hard and fast, his gaze seeming to pierce her soul. Then afterwards he’d held her, kissing her until the fire died down and she got chilly and it was time for bed. She’d felt blissfully exhausted, replete—and so deeply in love with him that it had hurt.

Despite all her dire warnings to herself, she’d fallen in love with Marc Hunter.

Or maybe she’d loved him all along.

As she’d watched him sleep, she’d felt a strange surge of protectiveness. Despite the muscles and tattoos, he’d seemed somehow vulnerable. Maybe it was his long eyelashes. Or the lines of fatigue on his face. Or the way he nudged toward her in his sleep, as if he needed to be closer to her. Or maybe it was knowing what he would face if he were caught—a life of isolation, loneliness, deprivation.

Just the thought of it had left her feeling sick.

She’d found herself needing to touch him and had explored his body, savoring the feel of him, watching his body’s response. He’d awoken with a moan, the surprise on his face turning to bliss when she’d taken him into her mouth. He’d watched her give him head, holding her hair back from her face, his breath hissing from between his clenched teeth.

“God, Sophie, you are
too good
at this.”

She’d teased him with her tongue, worked her hand and mouth in tandem up and down his length, loving the hard feel of him, taking her time, enjoying her sense of control. Just as he’d done for her, she’d tried her best to drive him crazy and had felt a thrill when he’d begun to unravel, saying her name over and over again, one big hand fisting in her hair, the other clenched in the sheets. At the last second, he’d lifted her mouth off him and had come in her hand, his head falling back on a groan, his back arching off the bed, ribbons of hot white semen shooting from deep inside him.

They’d lain there for awhile in silence, then he’d made long, slow love to her, every touch so tender and intimate that Sophie had come close to tears. Even though he hadn’t said it, she’d known what he was thinking, had seen it in his eyes.

There’s now. Only now.

Afterward, she’d made omelets, hash browns, and coffee for breakfast, while he’d taken a shower and dressed in jeans and a dark green T-shirt. He’d devoured every bite with such enthusiasm that she’d wished she’d made more. Then it had been her turn for a shower. By the time she’d dried off and dressed in a pair of borrowed jeans and a sweatshirt—she and Mrs. Rawlings were thankfully close in size—he was down here in the basement hard at work.

They’d already gone through almost half of the boxes in this room, searching for anything that might tell them where to look for Megan next—a diary that mentioned childhood friends, videos or photographs of friends or relatives who might have taken her in, favorite places she liked to visit. Instead they’d found old hymnals, mimeographed Sunday school lessons, old clothes and shoes, extra clothes hangers, broken kitchen gadgets, and cheesy Christmas decorations.

Sophie could tell from the occasional frown on his face that he was worried about his sister and niece and more than a little frustrated by their lack of progress, and she couldn’t blame him. The idea that the two overdose victims might somehow be related to Megan’s disappearance was terrifying.

Sophie pushed a heavy box aside, leaving it for Hunt, and found several smaller, dusty boxes tucked behind it. They were taped shut, the tape yellowed with age. She reached down, grabbed the bottom box to pull them out—and shrieked and stumbled backward as something large and black and probably eight-legged darted out from behind the box.

Strong arms caught her. “You okay?”

She pointed. “A really big spider—”

“I see it. Looks like a black widow.”

“Oh, God! I almost grabbed it!” A cold, greasy feeling slid through her stomach.

Hunt set her upright and walked past her toward the boxes she’d been moving, and she could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “I didn’t know you were arachnophobic.”

“I’m not. The word
phobia
implies there’s something abnormal about my reaction to spiders—horrid little monsters! They deserve to be hated!”

He chuckled, then knelt down. “Oh, she’s a big one, all right. Look at that fat belly.”

Sophie moaned, her stomach turning.

He glanced over at her, a grin on his face. “She’s a lot more frightened of you than you are of her.”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”

But Hunt kept on. “Think about it. This is the end of the line for her, and some part of her tiny spider brain knows it. See how she’s trying to hide?”

Sophie looked away, her skin crawling. “Oh, stop!”

She heard a
thunk
, then Hunt walked by her, holding something—an old boot?—in his hands. A moment later she heard the toilet flush and water running in the sink. Then Hunt reappeared and drew her into his arms.

“It’s okay, sprite. You’re safe now. I saved you from the big, bad spider.” He pulled her against him, ducked down, kissed her hard on the mouth. Then he walked back to the boxes she’d been moving and nudged them with his foot. “Let me just check behind here and see whether…”

Sophie stiffened. “Are there more?”

He shook his head, bent down, and turned the boxes to face her.

And there on the side, scrawled in black marker, was the word
Megan.

M
ARC SET THE
little plaster plate on the table, lay his open hand on top of the tiny handprint in its center, and felt something sharp twist in his chest. The indentations formed by Megan’s fingers barely spanned his palm. He looked at the date etched into the plaster—May 14, 1988. Only a few months after she’d been taken away.

“Isn’t this cute?” Across from him, Sophie held up a Christmas ornament that consisted of a tiny picture frame suspended from a red ribbon. In the center was Megan, giving the camera a shy smile. She was missing a tooth. “How old do you figure she was here? Six? Seven?”

“I don’t know.” His words came out cold, indifferent.

He set the plaster plate down, reached into the box, pulled out a stack of drawings—a very fat goldfish, three bright blue butterflies, the outline of a child’s hand turned into a turkey, a menagerie that must have been Noah’s ark—each one signed by the artist in a child’s simple scrawl: M-E-G-A-N.

“This is hard for you, isn’t it?” Sophie watched him, her gaze soft.

“Yeah.” He’d known it would feel strange to sift through the debris of Megan’s childhood. He just hadn’t expected the experience to dredge up so many memories, so many old feelings, so much shit. He felt like shouting at someone, breaking something, his skin too tight, his fuse short.

“She loves you.”

Marc didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“I read through my notes before coming to interview you. She mentioned you every time I spoke with her—how you helped her get into a good rehab program, how you put money in her commissary account, how you encouraged her when she was going through withdrawal.”

“Yeah, I’m a fucking hero.”

“Megan thinks so.”

“Well, we both know that Megan has issues, don’t we?” Marc set the drawings aside, stood, and walked into the kitchen, pretending to need a drink of water when what he really needed was space—or a chance to live his entire life over again.

Ain’t gonna happen, dumbass.

He turned on the faucet, filled his glass, drank.

“You know what I think is so wonderful about the two of you? Even though you were separated as children and didn’t see each other for almost fifteen years, you still care so much about each other. Megan was only four. It’s amazing that she even remembered you after—”

Marc slammed his glass down. “Stop! Just stop!”

He turned to face Sophie and immediately felt like a dick. She stared at him, a surprised look on her face, the stack of Megan’s drawings in her hands.
Shit.
“I’m sorry, Sophie. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Do you want to tell me what it’s about?”

Not really.
He walked over to the table, pulled out the chair next to her, and sat. Then he took a deep breath, rubbing his face in his hands. “Has Megan ever told you about the night Social Services came to take her away?”

Sophie shook her head. “I only know it was after her mother—
your
mother—was arrested for her second DUI.”

Marc remembered that day only too well. “I came home from school to find Mom hurting for booze and Megan sitting in front of the television, still in her pajamas. Mom grabbed whatever cash we had and headed off to the liquor store, leaving the two of us at home like she sometimes did.

“A lot of time passed. Megan got hungry, started crying. I made a box of macaroni and cheese and jelly sandwiches—my specialty at the time. It got late. I tried to put Megan to bed, because she was a little kid and Mom had left me in charge, but Megan wanted to watch cartoons. I got bossy. She got mad and threw a little tantrum. Then the doorbell rang.”

He couldn’t believe he was telling Sophie this. He had never talked about it with anyone, not even the stupid shrink the courts assigned to evaluate him for war-related posttraumatic stress. But now that he had started he couldn’t seem to stop. The memories had been playing in his head like a bad movie ever since he’d opened that first box.

“I should have known better than to answer the door, but when I saw two cops standing out there…”

“You trusted them.”

He nodded. “They had a social worker with them, an older woman. She explained that Mom had done something wrong and was in jail and that we needed to go with the nice police officers. But I was afraid Mom would get out of jail and not know where to find us. I told them we would have to wait till she came home. God, I was an idiot!”

“No, you were a
child
.” Sophie’s voice was soft, sympathetic.

“The social worker explained that it would be a long time before our mom was allowed to come home and that they had come to take care of us. Then one of the officers picked Megan up and started to carry her out of the house. She was afraid and started crying and calling for me. I tried to get her away from him…”

Let her go! Leave her alone! She’s my baby sister!

He could hear his own pathetic shouts and Megan’s frightened crying.

“But they cuffed me—”

“They
cuffed
you? A ten-year-old boy? Oh, Hunt!”

“I was a hellion. I hit the officer who had her, kicked him, bit him. They put me in the back of one squad car, and Megan in the other, still in her pajamas. That night was the last I saw of my sister until after I left the army.”

Sophie watched as Hunt struggled with his emotions. She’d sensed that something was eating at him. From the moment they’d started looking through Megan’s things, he’d lapsed into a thick, dark silence. His face was expressionless as he spoke, but she could feel the emotion beneath—the rage, the sense of loss, the guilt. Images filled her mind, images of a neglected young boy fighting to defend his little sister against those sent to help them. How afraid he must have been, so much responsibility dumped on his ten-year-old shoulders. How helpless he must have felt when they put Megan in that car and drove her away. And the grief of losing his sister, of never seeing her again, of having been the only family nearby when they’d taken her…

Her throat tight, she fought to speak. “That must have been terrifying for both of you.”

“Yeah. Like ice in the gut. I threw up in the squad car.” He stood, took a few steps, faced the drawn curtains as if he were looking out the window, his back to her, both fists clenched. “It turns out my mom had been so hard up for a drink that she’d downed a bottle of peppermint schnapps in the parking lot of the liquor store and had run over some guy on her way back home. She damned near killed him.”

Sophie stood, walked over to him, wrapped her arm around him, resting her head between his shoulders, wanting somehow to comfort him, to reach the boy inside him. “So Megan was brought here—to Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings.”

“Yeah.” His voice sounded flat, empty. “Within a year, the courts had terminated my mother’s parental rights where Megan was concerned. She became Megan Rawlings instead of Megan Hunter. I went from one foster home to the next, too old and too angry and too much trouble to interest adoptive parents.”

“You acted out because you wanted to stay with your mother.”

He turned his head, glanced down at her, a suspicious look on his handsome face. “Yeah. Are you psychic?”

“No. You told me twelve years ago. Remember?” It was obvious from his confused expression that he didn’t. “You said something like, ‘If I’d have been a good kid, they’d have found a home for me and taken me from my mom. No matter what she’s done, she doesn’t deserve that.’ But you didn’t tell me about Megan.”