Danger in a Red Dress (28 page)

She stepped back to let him inside, and shut the door behind him. And locked it. “With that wound, you shouldn’t be doing this at all,” she said throatily. “So—get on the bed.”

He hesitated, caught between the desire to dominate and the desire to be loved. Love triumphed, and he backed toward the end table, leaned against it, discarded his shoes and socks. . . .

She leaned against the door, her palms flat against the polished wood. “You might as well take it all off.” She held up her bandaged arm. “I’d do it for you but, you know, my wrist . . .”

His shirt slipped easily from his shoulders. He felt foolish when he fumbled with his zipper, wondering where his usual smooth moves had gone. Evaporated, apparently, under the heated gaze of the wide-eyed siren of a nurse.

When he peeled off his underwear, those eyes got wider. “That’s . . . impressive.”

He chuckled, flattered against his will. “The bandage on my thigh or the erection?”

“I’ve seen bandages a lot bigger than that one,” she assured him.

“What about you? You’ve been wounded, too. You should be in bed with me.” He threw back the covers and indicated the smooth, clean expanse of sheets.

For the first time since the evening had begun, she was uncertain. Her lids fluttered down over her blue eyes, and she smoothed her tongue across her lips. “Yes. I suppose I should.” Reaching up, she fiddled with the twisted straps on the gown.

When she dropped one off her shoulder, his knees gave out, and he had to sit down on the bed.

When she dropped the other, he bit back a groan.

Carefully she inched her arms out. For one precarious moment, the silky material clung to her breasts, then slithered down to her waist. The gown caught on her hips. She did a shimmy that sent his blood pressure through the roof.

And the dress fell to the floor.

She was naked. Almost naked. Except for the scrap of red silk some designer was foolish enough to call panties.

He’d been looking at the shape of her nipples underneath that glorious red dress. Being the kind of guy who could multitask, he’d been spilling his guts about his nightmares and, at the same time, speculating about the exact shape and color of her nipples. Now he could see them, round, peach colored, flawless, those very nipples perched on the crests of two of the nicest boobies he’d ever seen.

For the first time since that bullet had torn through his thigh, he was pain-free.

True. He’d seen Hannah naked before. While they were in Balfour House, he had seen her showering, putting on makeup, plucking her eyebrows. Which should have turned him off, because in his experience, there was nothing like that slice of real life to take the blush off the rose.

But no. It hadn’t worked that way with Hannah. He’d seen it all, wanted it all, and been frustrated as hell that he couldn’t touch, feel, smell, love. . . .

Now he realized the truth. The difference between seeing her on a computer monitor and seeing her in person was breathtaking, like seeing a photo of mountains, then seeing the actual Rockies.

And that tiny silk thong gave the whole viewing experience a special zest, like he was getting a tour in a limo.

He took a long breath to calm himself.

But before he had even managed to give her tits his full appreciation, she dropped the panties and stepped out. And walked toward him.

The shape of the body surpassed the beauty of the dress. Mountains became the whole national park.

The woman was blond all the way.

And he was almost dizzy from lack of oxygen.

She leaned over him.

He leaned back.

She smiled, a slow, inviting smile that made him wonder who was seducing whom. In slow motion, he lifted his hand and slid it along her collarbone. The contrast of his tanned copper fingers against her silky pale skin made him frantic to grab, to take.

But he had promised her all the colors of pleasure.

He always kept his promises.

Taking her by the waist, he guided her over the top of him and urged her down, to lie flat on her back on the snowy-white sheets. He looked into those big blue apprehensive eyes. “Let’s see if we can make your dreams come true.”

“What about your dreams?” Her voice quavered a little.

She was afraid. She was taking a chance on him, and he kissed her warmly, deeply, tasting her mouth and finding it as voluptuously sensitive as he had imagined. When he lifted his head, she caught her breath, and slowly, her blue eyes blinked opened. He waited until she had focused, then said, “As long as I’m holding you, all of my dreams have already come true.”

 

Hannah lay with her head on Gabriel’s heaving chest, hearing the thunder of his heart and exulting in the knowledge that, even while he had plied her body with all the skills known to man, she had driven him into a sweet and equal madness.

Even now, when the frenzy was over, he held both arms around her, as if she were a treasure he feared would escape.

She couldn’t fool herself. They didn’t know each other.

But he fulfilled her requirements for a man.

He had never used her. Quite the opposite. When she performed what was nothing more than the right thing to do—yell when someone shot at them—he insisted on repaying her with his hospitality and his care.

He hadn’t lied to her. She knew who he was, and she knew he kept his promises.

She didn’t know if he would stick around, but . . . she stroked his chest.

He kept his promises very well. During their long, leisurely loving, he had touched her with hands filled with magic. He had smiled as he kissed her belly, and he didn’t stop at her belly. He kissed her intimately, his tongue caressing her clitoris, until orgasm lifted her on an ocean swell and carried her to shore. Then . . . then he’d entered her, slowly, carefully, filling her with himself until she was frantic with need. Only when she urged him onward with desperate moaning and clutching hands had he allowed himself the ultimate bliss.

More important, he hadn’t despised her for being illegitimate or for sharing her silly father fantasies or talking about that humiliating, awful meeting with the man who had slept with her mother. Instead, Gabriel had done what he could to put her at ease. In return, he had shared something very special, very real, very personal.

Today, in the shower, she had faced the facts. She had to do something about Carrick Manly and his greedy quest for the fortune. She had to seek help, or she would die and Mrs. Manly would never be avenged.

She knew only one man she could trust.

Gabriel Prescott.

Taking a big breath, she slid out of his arms. She leaned her elbows against the mattress and looked into his troubled face. And she said, “I have something to tell you.”

 

The next morning Hannah was still asleep when Gabriel unlocked the door and limped into the living room.

Daniel sat at the coffee table, eating and watching CNN on his laptop. At the sight of Gabriel, his dark handsome face lit up in a grin. “Been getting any?”

“Shut up.”

“Because it’s been a long drought around here, and you’ve been grumpy enough to have a dwarf named after you.”

Gabriel sat down, helped himself to a slice of the double-meat, double-cheese, all-the-vegetables, thin-crust pizza and repeated, “Shut up.”

“Better eat up. You’ll need your energy for when you go back in there.”

“Shut . . . up.”

“Tell me why I should.”

“Because I need you to fucking find out who shot at us.”

Daniel straightened, offended. “I’ve got the organization working on it, but whoever it is, he isn’t letting out any information.”

“Look. She told me some stuff that . . .” That Gabriel didn’t know whether to believe. That he didn’t want to believe, but that explained so much.

“What did she tell you, boss?” Daniel sounded more than curious. He sounded as forlorn as Gabriel felt.

Gabriel felt as if his soul had been ripped in half.

Was Carrick the villain Hannah painted him to be? A man who would kill his own mother for a fortune?

Or was Hannah the grand manipulator, telling the story to stake claim to her innocence?

Either way, Gabriel lost something very precious to him.

“She’s good, isn’t she? I knew she wasn’t guilty.” Daniel sounded satisfied.

Gabriel wanted Carrick to be a good man. He needed Carrick to be part of his family.

And he wanted Hannah to be the woman of his dreams.

He couldn’t have both.

Did he believe his brother Carrick, or did he believe his lover, Hannah?

One of them was a liar and a murderer. The other was much wronged.

Finishing his slice, he wiped his face and hands and stood up. “If you want to be sure about Hannah, we need to know who did the shooting and why. Now.”

Daniel pulled up his e-mail program. “I’ll make it a code one.”

“You do that.” Gabriel headed back into the bedroom.

THIRTY-ONE

The click of the door brought her out of the nightmare. She sat up, covered with sweat, her heart hammering.

Gabriel stood there, his back against the door, dressed in a pair of jeans and, as far as she could tell, nothing else. He ran his gaze over her and smiled as if he liked her naked and disheveled. “I’m going to take a shower. Want to help me?”

“I think I’d better wake a little bit more.” She rubbed her head fretfully. She wanted to sit here and
think
about what the dream was trying to tell her.
Something important . . . something so dreadful . . .

“Did I wear you out?”

“I’m fine.”

He sauntered over and sat beside her, a smug beast of a man. His fingers drifted down her breastbone, and he watched as if fascinated by the contrast of colors and textures. “You always say that when actually . . .” He took a long breath and shifted his gaze to her face. “Dr. Bellota was right. You were exhausted, and I spent all night making love to you. I really did wear you out.”

She tugged the covers up. “You’re the one who was shot through the thigh. I was just . . . barely shot.”

“Bellota says I’m a disgustingly healthy animal, and he wishes all his patients recovered as quickly as I do.” Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m
fine
.” Man, he was irritating.

“I’ll be out in five minutes,” he promised.

“Don’t get your leg wet.” She ought to help him wrap it, but her dream . . . something about Carrick’s eyes . . .

Gabriel made a face. “Ten minutes. I’ll be out in ten minutes. Then we can nap together.”

She didn’t want to nap. She wanted to remember that dream—the dream that even now was drifting away from her. . . .

He headed toward the bathroom, and she watched him, the man she had trusted with the truth. He looked strong, healthy. He walked with almost no limp. His recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, and still, she had dreamed he had died, that he had turned into Carrick. Then . . . then . . . “Damn it!” she muttered.

The whole thing was muddled in her mind, the message lost in Gabriel’s arrival.

But maybe it was a warning. Certainly she should find where Carrick was, to discover what he was doing. She should make sure he couldn’t find her and hurt Gabriel, because . . . because her subconscious abruptly hummed with anxiety.

Flinging back the covers, she leaped to the desk. She opened Gabriel’s laptop and typed
Carrick Manly
into the search engine.

She got a hit right away, a new interview in
Oui-Gee
magazine, a periodical that catered to the people interested in the occult. She clicked on the article and found herself staring back at an artfully posed photo of Carrick with his dimples in full bloom.

He was handsome—she had to give him that. That was why he’d managed to extend his fifteen minutes of fame into an hour. And in a way, she was glad, because while he was in the public eye, she could follow his movements. She could be safe.

She scanned the interview. He talked about losing his mother, of course, and how all the signs had pointed to the danger of having a celebration in that particular house on that particular Halloween. As always, he was a figure of tragedy and high drama, recounting the tale of Nathan Manly and the lost fortune. But this time, down at the bottom, the interviewer asked him about the good luck of finding his half brothers. He assured the interviewer that family was so important to him, he had hired a security firm to locate them. Not surprisingly, precognition had made him hire a very special man, Gabriel Prescott, and Gabriel had turned out to be his brother, too!

Stunned, breathless, Hannah read the interview again. And again.

And in case she didn’t believe the printed word, there was a small photo of Carrick and Gabriel, sitting at a table in a restaurant, sandwiches before them, talking intently.

The image imprinted itself on Hannah’s retina.

She slammed the laptop closed.

It wasn’t possible.
It could not be possible.

But it was. That was what she’d been dreaming. Gabriel had turned into Carrick—because Gabriel had the same green eyes.