After the Night (28 page)

If she let him touch her, she’d be his. He’d have her then.

His thumb brushed elastic. And she moved, her hand clamping down over his and tugging it away from her thigh. "No," she whispered.

Frustration roared through him like a brush fire. A sound very much like a growl rumbled in his throat as physical instincts fought for supremacy over thought. His brain won, but barely. He was sweating, shaking with the need to have her. His erection strained painfully against the restriction of his pants.

"No," she said again, as if the original refusal needed reinforcing, and perhaps it did.

Slowly he turned his hand, so that his fingers meshed with hers. "Then hold my hand for a minute."

She did, clinging tightly to him, feeling his fingers twitch and flex as if reaching for something. His other hand was clamped around the slat of the chairback, his knuckles white from the pressure.

After a moment of unknown duration, time suspended as their gazes locked and lust shimmered between them, the terrible tension in him began to fade. He winced and shifted position, stretching his leg out. He freed his hand to reach down and make an adjustment, the furrow between his brows smoothing out as he made himself more comfortable.

She cleared her throat, uncertain what to say, if anything.

He rose stiffly to his feet. The thick ridge in his pants was unmistakable, but he was in control now. He plucked the hand towel from its rack and draped it over her thighs, removing temptation from sight, if not proximity.

After a minute he said in a quiet voice, "Are you certain you’re not hurt?"

"Yes." She too spoke quietly, as if a too loud noise would
shatter their control and send them tumbling over the precipice she had barely managed to avoid. The hunger hadn’t been one-sided. "It’s a minor burn. I probably won’t even feel it tomorrow." The stinging had completely vanished, soothed away by the cold, wet tea.

"All right." He looked down at her, and lifted his hand as if he would smooth her hair, but then let it fall back to his side. He couldn’t safely allow himself to touch her just yet. "Now, tell me why you’ve been asking all those questions about Dad."

She looked up at him, the dark fire of her hair spilling down her back. She wanted to tell him what she suspected, that his father was dead, but found that the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t do it. She had to believe he knew nothing about it, that he had nothing to do with his father’s death, because she loved him and it would break her heart otherwise. And because she loved him, she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. She had deliberately tilted the falling coffee cup towards herself to keep him from suffering a minor scald; how could she now tell him that the father he loved was probably dead, murdered?

So instead she told him what was both the truth in substance and a lie in intent, murmuring, "He was my past, too. I can barely remember when he wasn’t there, but I never really knew him. He was always kind when he saw me, which wasn’t often, but then I lost my mother because of him. Do you think I’m not curious about the kind of person he was? That I shouldn’t try to fill in the gaps, to make sense of what happened?"

"Good luck," he growled. "I thought I knew him better than anyone else on earth, and I still can’t make sense of it." He paused. "If you have any more questions about him, ask
me,
because I meant what I said. I don’t want to get rough with you, Faith, but I’ll do what’s necessary to protect my family. Remember that."

Since he’d offered… But, no, it was hardly the time to prolong this encounter by firing questions at him, with her sitting there half-naked, and Gray a sexual powder keg, primed and ready to explode. So she merely looked at him in silence, and after a moment his mouth quirked with a
smile. "I’m not hearing any promises, am I? Think about it, baby. Don’t make it any tougher on yourself than it has to be. Just keep quiet, and behave yourself."

"Like a good little girl?"

"Like a smart woman," he corrected. Again his hand moved toward her, and again the movement was aborted. She could sense that he wanted to stay, wanted to continue what he had begun, but she had refused him and he was forcing himself to accept her decision – for now. Every time they met, the battle would be joined again, and the temptation to give in would be just that much stronger for having been denied.

"I’m going to go," he said.

"All right."

He didn’t move. Then: "I don’t want to."

"Do it anyway."

He chuckled. "You’re a hard woman, Faith Devlin."

"Hardy."

"I didn’t know him. He isn’t real to me. Did you love him?"

"Yes."
But not the way I love you. Never like that.

His dark eyes glittered, and this time he did touch her, his hand cupping her cheek. "You’ll always be a Devlin to me, with that red hair and your witch’s eyes." He bent, and moved his mouth warmly against hers in a brief kiss. Then he was gone, and when the door closed behind him, Faith sagged back in the chair with relief.

She felt as if a storm had entered the room and tossed her around. Her heart was still pounding, and her muscles felt like spaghetti noodles. Those few moments had been among the most erotic of her life, and all he had done was touch her leg. If he had actually made love to her, she would have totally lost control of herself. She was frightened by the intensity of the desire he could arouse with a look, a brief touch, even the delicious muskiness of his male scent.

You’ll always be a Devlin to me.

Not the greatest of recommendations. She could only suppose that he meant he’d never be able to forget her background, her heritage, that nothing she did would ever change his mind about her.

And I’ll always love you,
she whispered to him in her mind.
Always.

Just a touch on her leg, and he’d been almost ready to come, Gray thought wryly. God, if he ever actually got inside her, his heart would probably explode from the strain.

His hands were shaking as he drove, a common reaction if he spent more than a minute in Faith’s company. It would be easier if she didn’t respond to him the way she did; she might hold herself still, she might be able to say no, but that hot, languorous look was still in her eyes. He knew all the signs. Her breathing deepened, her breasts rising round and full, her nipples peaking. Though he hadn’t kissed her until that light peck on the lips as he was leaving, because he couldn’t resist the urge any longer, her mouth had been red and swollen. A delicate flush had glowed under her translucent skin.

He wanted her. He had to make her leave. He wanted her. The opposing needs were driving him crazy.

She hadn’t agreed to stop asking questions. She hadn’t argued with him, but he was beginning to realize that her silence masked a streak of stubbornness as wide as the Grand Canyon. She might not fight, but she definitely resisted. As a girl, Faith had too often been beaten down by life, when she had been helpless to make her own decisions. Now that she could decide her own course, she let very little sway her from it. That single-mindedness was probably the main reason why, at the young age of twenty-six, she owned her own business.

Given that, it wasn’t likely he would be able to convince her to leave. And since he sure as hell couldn’t trust his own good sense to keep him away from her, he foresaw some rocky days ahead.

Monica’s hands were shaking as she opened the door to Alex’s office and smiled at Andrea. She managed to keep her voice steady and cheerful, though, as she said, "I hope he’s in. I was in town, and thought of something I wanted to ask him."

"It’s your lucky day," Andrea said, smiling. She had known Monica since babyhood. "He came in about five minutes ago. He’s washing up, but he’ll be out in a minute. Go on in and have a seat."

Washing up, of course, was a polite way of saying he was in the bathroom. It was what Mama would say, Monica thought, if she alluded to a bathroom at all. In thirty-two years, she couldn’t remember her mother in any way acknowledging the real function of a toilet. Physical reality had to be hidden if possible, and ignored if not. Try as she might, Monica couldn’t imagine her mother having sex, though she and Gray were proof that it had happened at least twice. And as for visiting an obstetrician, and the indignity of having a baby – the wonder was that Mama hadn’t locked Daddy out of the bedroom after Gray was born, rather than go through that again.

Monica avoided the leather sofa and walked over to the window, to look out at the courthouse square. The fresh blooms of spring were rapidly giving way to the lush, heavy foliage of full summer. Time moved relentlessly onward, the earth and plants going through their cycles oblivious to the puny humans who were so caught up in their own grandeur that they thought they affected everything.

Alex entered the room, smiling as he saw her. "What brings you here today?" He’d had dinner with them the night before, so any business would have been discussed then.

Monica looked at that lean, good-looking face, the kind gray eyes, and her throat went dry. She had been trying for a week to work up enough courage to talk to him. She had actually made it as far as his office, but now her voice had failed her.

He frowned at the misery in her dark eyes. "What is it, dear?" he asked softly, closing the door and coming over to take her hand.

She sucked in a deep breath. Sometimes she thought she was crazy, that those times with Alex existed only in her imagination. There was never any hint of it in his eyes, or his manner, when they were together during normal times. He was just Alex, as he had always been, a sturdy shoulder to
lean on, quietly stepping in to take on as much of the weight as he could, until she and Gray had been able to manage. It really was as if those furtive moments existed between two other people, between Daddy and Mama, coming together in borrowed flesh.

This was
Alex,
she reminded herself. He wouldn’t leave. His love and support didn’t depend on whether or not she slept with him. She had been a convenience for him, that was all, an outlet for his pent-up emotions.

That was what logic told her. Emotionally, however, she was terrified. One father had already left her, his love for her not strong enough to hold him against the lure of screwing Renee Devlin. She couldn’t bear it if she lost Alex, too.

But then there was Michael. Sweet, sexy Michael. If she didn’t seize her chance now, she might lose
him
forever, and of the choice between the two men, there was no choice at all. Michael was her heart, the very blood moving through her body.

"Monica?" Alex prodded, gray eyes darkening with worry.

She gulped. She had to tell him. She closed her eyes and blurted it out. "I’m going to marry Michael McFane."

There was silence for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, waiting with dread. But the seconds ticked past, and still Alex didn’t say anything, and finally the stress became so acute that she couldn’t stand it any longer and opened her eyes.

He was smiling at her, fond exasperation on his face. "Congratulations," he said, then chuckled. "What did you expect me to say?"

Stunned, she stared at him. "I – I don’t know."

"I’m happy for you, dear. Neither you nor Gray have shown any inclination to get married, and I’ve worried about that. The sheriff is a good, steady man."

She wet her lips. "Mama won’t like it."

He paused, considering that for a moment. "Probably not, but don’t let that stop you. You deserve happiness, Monica."

"I don’t want to upset her."

"There are some things she needs to face, and some things
she shouldn’t have to. In this case, marry Michael, and be as happy as possible. Believe me, this won’t upset her half as much as hearing about Faith Devlin."

Faith Devlin? Monica blinked. "What about her?" Since Mama already knew the woman had moved back to Pres-cott, Alex’s statement didn’t make sense.

"Gray hasn’t told you?" He seemed surprised.

"Evidently not. Told me what?"

He sighed. "She’s been asking questions around town – about Guy. Personal questions. If she isn’t stopped, she’ll stir everything up again, and that will hurt Noelle far more than your marriage."

Monica felt as if she’d been slapped. Faith Devlin was asking around town about her father? The very thought outraged her. Wasn’t it enough that her slut of a mother had taken her daddy away, and she’d never seen him again? Her face flushed with anger. "What sort of questions has she been asking? My God, what business is it of hers?"

"Personal questions, what sort of person he was, things like that. She came here yesterday, because she’d heard I was Guy’s best friend. Talking to me is one thing, but Gray found out this morning that she’d been pestering Ed Morgan with questions, too."

"She’s been asking
Ed Morgan
about Daddy?" Monica cried. "The man’s the biggest gossip in town!"

"Gray took care of it," Alex said soothingly, and patted her hand. "You know Gray. He had Ed stuttering and back-stepping within ten seconds."

Gray in a temper
was
a fearsome sight, with those dark eyes turning so cold and deadly. She couldn’t imagine Ed Morgan withstanding him for even ten seconds. The notion entertained her for a brief moment, but then was pushed aside by her indignation at Faith Devlin’s gall.