After the Night (27 page)

"Such as?" Alex asked, puzzled.

"Let’s just say that, where Faith is concerned, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. The rock is my family, and the hard place – " he looked around with a sort of angry amusement in his eyes " – is in my pants."

Appalled, Alex stared at him. "My God."

"It must be genetic." That was the only explanation for it, he thought grimly. He had inherited his father’s cock. Put a Devlin woman in front of it, and it got hard. No, not just any Devlin woman; two of them had left him cold. But Faith… Nothing about him was cold if she was anywhere within a country mile.

"You can’t do that to your mother," Alex whispered. "The humiliation would kill her."

"Hell, I know that! That’s why I want Faith to leave, before I do something stupid." He turned to face Alex, that angry amusement still burning in his eyes. "The attraction isn’t all on my side, damn it. It’d be easier if it was. I went to her house the other night to put a proposition to hen If she didn’t want to leave the area, I’d buy a house for her in any town close by, as long as it wasn’t in this parish. That way we could see each other without hurting anyone. There was an old man there, having dinner with her, and I was so jealous, I accused her of having a sugar daddy." He shook his head, and laughed softly at himself. "Can you believe it? The old guy looked as frail as a toothpick, but he was all dressed up like something out of the fifties, and all I could think was that he was trying to get her in bed."

"What old guy?" Alex asked, plainly curious. "Anyone I know?"

"He was from New Orleans. His last name was Pleasant. I was so mad, I don’t remember if she told me his first name. He said he was a business associate."

"Was he?"

Gray shrugged. "Probably. Faith owns a travel agency, and she has a branch in New Orleans."

"She
owns
it?"

"She’s done pretty good for herself, hasn’t she?" There it was again, that damn little twinge of pride. "She started out in Dallas. I don’t know how many branch offices she has, but I have someone gathering information on her. I expect to have a report any day."

"Are you going to try to ruin her business if she doesn’t leave?" Alex asked, but less sharply than Gray had expected.

"No. For one thing, I’m not that big of a bastard. For another, if I did, I could kiss my chances with her goodbye." His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Decide for yourself which reason is the most important."

Alex didn’t smile in return. "This is a hell of a situation. If you’re bound and determined to have her – "

"I am," Gray said, and tossed back the last of the whiskey.

" – then she can’t live here. Noelle would be devastated."

"I’m worried more about Monica than I am Mother."

Alex blinked, as if he hadn’t considered Monica. He probably hadn’t; all of his attention was focused on Noelle. He knew about Monica’s suicide attempt, of course; it hadn’t been possible to keep it quiet, not with all the commotion at Dr. Bogarde’s office. Monica didn’t try to hide the scars, anyway. She was too proud to let herself take the cowardly route of long sleeves or wide bracelets.

"Monica is a lot stronger than she was then," Alex finally said. "But Noelle doesn’t have anything to fall back on. I thought at the beginning, and still do, that she should face up to facts and get on with her life, but if she found out you were having an affair with Faith – no. She couldn’t stand it. She might try suicide herself."

Gray shook his head, amazed that Alex could have known Noelle all these years and still not realized that she was too self-centered to harm herself. The myopia of love allowed him to see only her cool, perfect, unattainable beauty. It was that romantic streak in him, a strange characteristic for a lawyer.

"She has to go," Alex said regretfully.

The fax machine was humming, so Faith didn’t hear the car turn in to the driveway. When the knock rattled the front door, she leaned over to look out the window. She couldn’t see who was standing on the porch, but she could see the gray Jaguar parked behind her car, and she sighed as she went, coffee cup in hand, into the living room to answer the door. It was barely eight-thirty, too early to have to deal with Gray Rouillard.

The first thing she noticed when she opened the door was that he was in a towering rage.

The only other time she had seen him like this was the day he’d come to the shack to tell them Renee had left, and again that night, when he’d had them thrown out. As she looked up into the cold ruthlessness of those dark eyes, the memory of that night flashed in her mind, the stark images reducing her in an instant to the terrified girl she’d been then. Her blood chilled, and she fell back a step as he came inside, letting the screen door slam behind him.

She jumped at the sound. Her eyes, green and unblinking, were fastened on his face as if she didn’t dare look away.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" he asked very softly, the velvety sound as chilling as a sword sliding
against another blade. He advanced another step, so that he loomed over her, and Faith retreated again. The coffee cup shook in her hand.

For every step he took forward, she took one back, a slow dance that ended when she bumped into the wall, her shoulder blades pressing hard against the Sheetrock as if she could force her way through it. His arms shot out before she could slide sideways, his palms flattening against the wall on either side of her shoulders, imprisoning her within the cage of his arms and body. He leaned down slightly; the top two buttons of his white shirt were open, revealing a wedge of warm olive skin decorated with curly black hair. His pulse throbbed visibly in the hollow at the base of his strong throat, right in front of her eyes. Faith fastened her gaze on that rhythmic movement, desperately seeking to steady herself. She was
not
fourteen. He could
not
throw her out of her own house.

"Well?" he asked, still in that dangerous, purring tone.

His thick wrists were squeezing her shoulders, bared by her sleeveless blouse; his skin was hot against hers. His wide shoulders and broad chest were like a wall in front of her, and his rich, musky male scent made her nostrils flare in automatic delight. Still clasping the coffee cup, holding it like a shield between them, she swallowed and managed to say, "What are you talking about?"

He leaned closer, so close that his stomach brushed against her fingers. "I’m talking about all those questions you’ve been asking. Alex told me last night you’d been to his office. Talking to Alex is one thing, he’ll keep his mouth shut, but guess who I saw this morning. Ed Morgan." Despite the calmness of his tone, she could see the cold fury flickering in his eyes. If he’d been having a roaring fit, she wouldn’t have been half as nervous. In this mood, he was capable of anything, but oddly enough, she didn’t fear him physically. No, if Gray harmed her, the damage would be to her emotions.

"I’m only going to tell you once." He said the words very precisely, leaning down even closer, until his nose was almost touching hers. "Don’t ask any more questions about my father. Your nosiness will only stir up gossip, and hurt
my family again. If that happens, Faith, I
will
run you out of the parish again, by any means necessary. You can take that to the bank. So keep it in mind: I don’t want your pretty mouth even shaping my father’s name."

Wide green eyes stared into chilly dark ones, only a couple of inches apart. Her chin tilted upward, and her mouth, which he thought was pretty, parted as she deliberately tugged on the tiger’s tail, and uttered two words: "Guy Rouillard."

She saw his pupils widen in disbelief, then the chill in his eyes was swallowed by pure fire. Maybe it hadn’t been prudent to provoke him, but watching the result was fascinating. He seemed to expand with fury, dark color running into his face, and if his long hair hadn’t been pulled back and secured, she rather thought it would have lifted from his head.

She had a split second in which to enjoy the entertainment. Then he moved with the blurring speed she had seen before, his hands leaving the wall to clasp hard around her upper arms, and he gave her a teeth-rattling shake. Her grip loosened on the forgotten cup in her hands, and she felt it slip. With a cry she tried to juggle it, but he was too close, and all she could do was knock the falling cup toward herself, rather than let the steaming liquid burn him. The coffee soaked into her thin skirt, plastering it to her right thigh, and splattered over their feet. She cried out again, this time in pain. The cup hit the floor with a crash, breaking off the handle but otherwise remaining intact. Gray jumped back, automatically releasing her, and frantically she pulled the wet fabric away from her stinging thigh.

His dark gaze swept down her, and he said, "Shit," in a rough tone. He grabbed her, pulling her against him, and his hands worked briefly at the back of her waist. Her skirt loosened and dropped to her feet. He lifted her out of the circle of fabric, swinging her up in his arms, and dizzily she clutched his shoulders as the room whirled around her.

"What are you doing?" she cried in alarm as he rapidly carried her into the kitchen. She was confused by the shock of pain, and he was moving too fast for her to get her bearings. Beneath all that, she was acutely aware of her bare
legs draped over his arm, and that she was dressed in only her panties and blouse.

He hooked his foot around a chair leg and pulled the chair away from the table, then carefully set her in it. Turning to the sink, he pulled off several paper towels, folded them into a pad, and wet them under the cold water. The pad was still dripping when he plopped it over her reddened, stinging thigh. She jumped at the chill. Trickles of water ran down her thigh, into the seat of the chair, and soaked into her panties.

"I forgot about the coffee," he muttered. Truth to tell, he hadn’t even noticed it until he’d seen it spilling down her leg. "I’m sorry, Faith. Do you have any tea?" Before she could answer, he was already opening the refrigerator door, and taking out the pitcher of tea that was almost de rigueur in southern kitchens.

He opened and closed cabinet drawers until he found her clean towels. Taking one out, he dropped it into the pitcher of tea, then removed it and carefully squeezed out most of the excess liquid. She watched in bemusement as he took away the pad of paper towels, tossing it into the sink with a sodden plop, and replaced it with the tea-soaked towel. If the water had been cold, the tea was icy. Faith drew in a hissing breath as it, too, ran down her leg to pool beneath her bottom.

"Does it hurt?" Gray asked, going down on his knee beside the chair to smooth the towel over her thigh. His voice was tight with anxiety.

"No," she said bluntly. "It’s cold, and you’re soaking my rear end."

His face was level with hers. At her words, she saw the worry leave his eyes, and the tension ease from his shoulders. He grasped the back of the chair with his left hand, and with wry, faint humor asked, "Did I overreact?"

She pursed her lips. "A tad."

"Your thigh is red. I know you’re burned."

"Only a little. It stings a bit, is all. I doubt it’ll blister." She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to hide the laughter she could feel bubbling in her chest. "I appreciate your concern,
but it certainly didn’t warrant having half my clothes stripped off."

He looked down at her bare legs, and the white cotton underwear barely visible beneath the hem of her blouse. A tremor ran through him. He put his right hand on her uninjured thigh, smoothing his palm over the firm, cool resilience of her flesh, entranced by the silky texture. "I’ve wanted to get your panties wet for a long time," he murmured. "But not with tea."

Her laughter disappeared as if it had never existed. Tension stretched between them, almost palpable in its thickness. Her insides clenched at his words, heat pooling in her loins, her breasts tightening. She felt the dampening of desire, and the admission
You have
trembled on her lips. She bit it back, knowing that voicing the telltale response would cross a boundary over which she didn’t dare pass. Sexual tension emanated from him like a force field, hot and urgent. It would take only that confession, and he would be on her.

She ached with the need to touch him, to press herself against that big, steely body and open her own body to him. Only the instinct for self-preservation kept her silent, and still.

He leaned imperceptibly closer, inhaling her spicy sweet scent. His blood throbbed through his veins, pulsing, swelling. Silently they watched each other, like two adversaries coming face-to-face in a dusty street. He wanted to pull down her panties and bury his face in her lap, the impulse so strong that he shuddered with the effort of resisting it, and wondered what she would do if he gave in. Would she be frightened, would she push him away… or would her legs fall open, and her hands clench in his hair?

His hand flexed on her thigh, his fingers pressing into the silky flesh that had warmed beneath his touch. He saw her pupils dilate, then her lashes droop heavily as she drew in a deep, slow breath that made him acutely aware of her breasts. He shifted his hand a little, and rubbed his thumb back and forth, each sweep moving higher, probing deeper into the cleft of her clenched thighs. He wanted to touch her.

He forgot about Monica, about Guy, about everything but the slow, hot movement of his thumb, closer and closer to the exquisitely tender flesh between her legs, so flimsily protected by the thin layer of cotton. He would slide his thumb under the elastic of the leg opening, and find the furrow of her tightly closed folds. Then he would drag his thumb upward, opening her as he went, until he found the tiny bud at the top of her sex.