From the Heart (30 page)

For a moment they stood still, watching each other. She could feel the frustration, the anger in him, as he turned to close the door behind him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She sighed a little because it was nearly the truth. “I'm better. Don't be angry with me, Slade.”

“Don't ask for the impossible.”

“All right.” Needing something to do, she went to the dresser and picked up her brush. “What do we do now?”

“We wait.” Straining against impotence, he jammed his fists in his pockets. “You're to stay in the house, let the servants think you're ill or tired or just plain lazy. You're not to answer the door, or the phone, or see anyone unless I'm with you.”

She slammed the brush back down, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. “I won't be jailed in my own home.”

“Either that or a cell,” he improvised, adding a shrug. “Either way you want it.”

“You can't put me in a cell.”

“Don't bet on it.” Leaning back against the door, he ordered his muscles to relax. “You're going to play this my way, Jess. Starting now.”

Her automatic rebellion was instantly quelled as she remembered those agonizing minutes on the beach. She wasn't only risking her own life, she realized, but his as well. “You're right,” she murmured. “I'm sorry.” Abruptly she whirled around. “I
hate
this! I hate all of it.”

“I told Betsy you didn't want to be disturbed,” he answered calmly. “She's got it into her head that you've caught a touch of David's flu. We'll let her go on thinking it. Why don't you get some sleep?”

“Don't go,” she said quickly as he reached for the doorknob.

“I'll just be down in the library. You need to rest, Jess, you're worn out.”

“I need you,” she corrected and walked to him. “Make love to me, Slade . . . as if we were just a man and a woman who wanted to be together.” Lifting her arms, she circled his neck. “Can't we believe that it's true for just a few hours? Let's give each other the rest of the morning.”

He lifted the back of his hand to her cheek in a gesture they both found uncharacteristic. Slade wondered if she knew that his need was as great as hers—to touch, to lose himself in
lovemaking. So close, he thought as he ran his knuckles over the line of her cheekbone. He'd come so close to losing her.

“Your eyes are shadowed.” His voice was rough with emotion. “You should rest.” But his lips were already lowering to seek hers.

The brush of mouth on mouth—gentle, caring, comforting. Jessica melted against him, overpowered by the tenderness she'd drawn out of him. His hand was still on her face, gliding over her features as if to memorize them. On a sigh, her lips parted, softening under his until he thought he would sink into them.

They had stood there only the night before, locked in an embrace that had been turbulent with passion, almost brutal with desire. The soothing quality of his kiss was no less arousing.

The pulse at the base of her throat beat thickly as Slade's fingertip slid down to it. She needed, he needed. Thinking only of this, he brought his hand to the loose knot of the towel to draw the material from her before he carried her to bed.

Jessica saw his eyes, dark and intense, sweep over her as she began to unbutton his shirt. Then her fingers were trapped between their bodies, his mouth fixed on hers again. The night before, he'd made her soar; now he made her float. Soft kisses, soft words, both unexpected, rained over her. His fingers combed through her damp hair, spreading it out on the pillow, lingering in its silk as if he would touch each individual strand.

Her hands were free again and, trembling, they dealt with the last buttons on his shirt. She felt a quiver race after her exploring hands, heard his incoherent murmur as she worked the rest of his clothes from him. Flesh to heated flesh, they began the journey. Rain began to patter against the windows.

He'd never been a gentle lover—intense, yes, passionate, yes, but never gentle. She unlocked something in him, something giving and tender. No less desperately than the night before, he wanted her, but with the hunger came the sweet calming breath of love. The peaceful emotion guided them both to meet the unspoken needs of the other.
Touch me
here. Let me taste. Look at me.
There was no need for words when hearts and minds were attuned.

He wandered over the body he already knew so well. In the gray, gloomy light he worshiped her with hands, lips, and eyes. Naked, heavy eyed, skin flushed with desire, Jessica lay quietly as he took his gaze over her with the slow intensity she recognized. She was a willing prisoner in the thick, humming world conceived by pleasure and sensation. The rain grew loud, the room dimmer.

Lifting a hand to either side of his face, she drew him back to her. With her tongue, she slowly traced the shape of his mouth, then probed inside to drink up all the tastes of him. Flavors musky and sharp seeped into her, deep into her, until she hungered for more. Desire rose to the next plane.

Not so gentle now, nor so calmly, they sought each other. Kisses became possessive, caresses urgent. Under the sound of the rain she heard his breath shudder. Under the pressure of her hands, she felt his muscles tighten. The liquefying pleasure that had ruled her became a hot, torrid need, catapulting her beyond the gray, insular room into a place of white light and golden fire.

Searing, searching, seducing, his mouth veered down her, over her, until her skin was molten. With a strength only recently discovered, she rolled on top of him to complete a crazed journey of her own. They tangled and untangled in a wildly choreographed dance of passion. The light wasn't white now, but red; the fire flamed blue.

She heard her name rip from his lips before they crushed down on hers. Whatever madness he spoke was muffled against her in his urgency. Desire spun into delirium as they came together. There was speed and strength and desperation. Faster and faster they climbed while his mouth clung to hers, swallowing her gasps, mixing them with his own.

Spent, she lay beneath him. His mouth was pressed to her throat, his hands tangled in her hair. The rain drummed against the windows now, hurled by the wind. His body was warm and damp and heavy on hers. A feeling of security drifted over her, followed by a weariness that reached her bones. Slade lifted his head to see her eyes glazed over with fatigue.

“You'll sleep now.” It wasn't a question. He tempered the command with a kiss.

“You'll stay?” The words were thick as she fought off sleep long enough to hear his answer.

“I'll start the fire.” Rising, Slade walked to the white brick hearth and added paper to the kindling. The long match hissed as he struck it. Crouched, he watched the flames lick, then catch.

Minutes passed, but he remained, staring steadily at the fire without seeing it. He knew what was happening to him. No, what had happened to him, Slade corrected. He was in love with a woman he should never have touched. A woman he had no business loving. A woman, he reminded himself grimly, whose life depended on him. Until she was out of danger, he couldn't afford to think of his own feelings, or of their consequences. For her sake, the cop had to come first, the man second.

Straightening, he turned back to her. The shock of the morning had taken its toll in exhaustion, he noted. She lay on her stomach, one hand balled loosely on the pillow. Her hair fanned out, dry now, her face pale beneath its disorder. Her eyes were shadowed, her breathing heavy. The fire brought flickers of light into the room to play over her skin.

She was too small, he thought, too slender, to deal with what had happened; to deal with the threat of what could happen. And how much good would he do her? he asked himself as his eyes passed over her. Love clouded his judgment, slowed his reflexes. If he'd been an instant slower that morning . . . Shaking his head, Slade began to dress. It wouldn't happen again. He'd keep her in the house if he had to chain her. He'd see her through this, keep her safe, and then . . .

Then he'd get out of her life, he promised himself. And get her out of his.

He drew the sheet over her, allowing his hand to linger on her hair briefly before he left the room.

L
ate, late in the morning, while Jessica slept, Slade stood at the library window that faced the garden. Watery sunlight struggled through the clouds to fall on the wet shrubs and grass. Rosebushes were naked and thorny. Fall flowers hung heavy-headed and dripping, their petals scattered. The storm had stripped the leaves away from the trees so that they lay soggy and dull on the ground. The wind had died.

Someone had let Ulysses out. The dog lumbered along on the wet ground, sniffing here and there without any apparent interest. Finding a likely branch, he clamped it between his teeth, then trotted off toward the beach. Hell of a watchdog, Slade thought in disgust. But then, who could blame the dog for not barking at someone he knew—someone he'd seen in the house for years?

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Slade turned away from the window. The waiting was eating at him—another sign that he was losing his objectivity. By rights he should have taken this part of the assignment in his stride. As long as Jessica did what she was told, there was virtually no way for anyone on the outside to get to her. The man who had been in the parlor the night before was running scared and for that reason wouldn't test his luck during the day in a house full of active servants. If everything went according to plan, it was simply a matter of holding tight until the FBI made its move.
If,
Slade thought tightly, everything went according to plan.
Plans had a way of veering off course when the human element was involved.

A glance at his watch told him that Jessica had been asleep for half an hour. With luck, she'd sleep through the day. When she slept, she was safe—and every hour that she was safe brought them closer to the finish.

Idly, he picked up one of the books from a pile he'd begun to organize. She'd have to get someone to take care of this mess, he thought—once her life was settled again. Once her life was settled, he repeated silently, and he was back in New York, away from her. With an oath, he tossed the book aside. Was he ever going to get away from her? he wondered with something uncomfortably close to fear. Oh, he could put the distance between them—miles of distance. All he had to do was to get into his car and head it in the right direction. But how long would it take him to chase her out of his head? That was for tomorrow, he reminded himself and was suddenly, abominably tired. He knew better than to think of tomorrows.

“Slade?”

Turning, he saw Jessica in the doorway. It annoyed him that she was there, infuriated him that her face was still pale, her eyes still shadowed. “What are you doing up?” he demanded. “You look like hell.”

Jessica managed a weak smile. “Thanks. You know how to boost a woman's morale, Sergeant.”

“You're supposed to be resting,” he reminded her.

“I couldn't sleep.”

“Take a pill.”

“I never take pills.” Because her hands were clammy, she linked them together. She wouldn't tell him of the nightmare that had woken her—of the sharp, sweating fear that had had her choking back a scream as she fought off sleep. Nor would Jessica tell him how she had reached for him only to find him gone. “Are you working?”

Slade frowned, then followed her gaze to the pile of books beside him. “I might as well clear up some of this,” he said with a shrug. “I've got nothing but time now.”

“I could help.” Uncomfortably aware that her movements were jerky, Jessica walked farther into the room. “And don't make one of those snide remarks,” she continued hurriedly. “I
know the library's a disgrace and the finger points at me, but I do have a knack for organizing once I get started. If nothing else I can fetch and carry for you until—”

He cut off her stream of hasty words by putting his hand over hers as she reached for a book. Her skin was ice cold. Instinctively he tightened his grip, wanting to warm her. “Jess, go back to bed. Get some sleep. I'll have Betsy bring you up a tray later.”

“I'm not sick!” The words erupted from her as she yanked her hand away.

“You're going to be,” Slade returned evenly, “if you don't take care of yourself.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” she ordered, enunciating each word carefully. “I don't need a baby sitter.”

“No?” He gave a quick laugh, remembering his early conception of his assignment. “Then tell me, how much sleep have you had in the last two days? When's the last time you've had a meal?”

“I had dinner last night,” she began.

“You pushed your dinner around your plate last night,” he corrected. “Keep it up. You'll pass out and make my job easier.”

“I'm not going to pass out,” she said quietly. Her eyes had darkened, that much more of a contrast to her skin.

Because he wanted to rage at her, Slade withdrew. “I wouldn't count on it but suit yourself,” he said carelessly. “Overall it doesn't matter whether you're conscious or unconscious.” In dismissal, he turned back to the stack of books.

“I'm sorry I'm not as accustomed to this sort of thing as you are,” Jessica began in a tone that started off calm, then became more and more agitated. “It isn't every day I'm investigated by the FBI and shot at by a professional gunman. The next time I'm sure I'll be able to enjoy a banquet after I see a dead body on my property. All in a day's work for you, isn't it, Slade? Killing a man?”

A hard knot lodged in his stomach, another in his chest. Casually, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

Chest heaving with the emotion of her words, she watched him. “Don't you feel
anything
?” Jessica demanded.

He made himself take a long slow drag, made himself speak calmly. “What do you want me to feel? If I'd been slower, I'd be dead.”

Swiftly, she turned away, then pressed her forehead to the window glass. The few clinging raindrops blurred and seemed to multiply until she shut her eyes.
And so would you,
she reminded herself. What he did, he did for you. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I'm sorry.”

“Why?” His voice was as cool as the pane she rested upon. And just as hard. “You were on target again.”

Taking a deep breath, Jessica turned to face him. Yes, the guards were there, but she knew him better now. What he had done that morning hadn't been done coldly. “You hate being reminded that you're just as human as the rest of us, don't you? It infuriates you that you're haunted by feelings, emotions, needs.” Slowly she walked to him. “I wonder if that's why you won't stay with me after we've made love. Are you afraid I'll find a weakness, Slade? A little crack I might be able to widen?”

“Watch how far you go,” he warned softly. “You won't like the trip back.”

“You hate wanting me, don't you?”

In a deliberately controlled movement, Slade crushed out his cigarette. “Yes.”

As she opened her mouth to speak again, the door to the library swung open. Both she and Slade turned to see David stride in. He took a long look at Jessica, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

“You look like hell. Why aren't you in bed?”

“David.” She couldn't control the tremor in her voice or the sudden urge that had her racing into his arms to hug him fiercely. David sent Slade a surprised look over her shoulder as he awkwardly patted her back.

“What's all this? You got a fever? Come on, Jessie.”

Not him,
she thought desperately. Please, God, not David. Through sheer force of will, Jessica controlled the tears that burned in her eyes.

In silence, Slade watched the exchange. Jessica clung to David's thin frame as if it were an anchor while he looked
puzzled, concerned, and embarrassed all at once. Speculating, Slade dipped his hands into his pockets.

“Hey, what's all this? Is she delirious?” David tossed the question at Slade, but managed to nudge Jessica back enough to peer into her face. “You look ready to drop,” he stated and tested her forehead with his palm. “Mom called me at the shop, giving me all kinds of grief about passing on my germs.” Drawing her away, he grimaced at the memory. “That's what you get for coming into my room and shoving that chicken soup down my throat.”

“I'm all right,” she managed. “Just a little tired.”

“Sure, tell that to someone who didn't spend last week flat on his back moaning.”

Jessica wanted to cling to him again, to pour out everything that was inside her. Instead she took a step back, smiled, and hated herself. “I'll be fine. I'm just going to take it easy for a couple of days.”

“Have you called the doctor?”

“David—”

The annoyance in her tone pleased him. “It's great having the situation reversed,” he told Slade. “She did nothing but nag for two weeks. Have you?” he demanded of Jessica again.

“When I need one, I'll call one. Why aren't you at the shop?”

“Don't worry, I'm heading right back.” David shot her a grin, relieved by the question and the brisk tone. That was more like Jessica. “After Mom called and read me the riot act, I wanted to check on you. The deliveries went out yesterday without any problem. Traffic's been light, but I've made enough sales to earn my keep.” He gave her hair a quick tug. “I don't want to see you in the shop until next week, babe. Michael and I can handle it. In fact, you look like you could use a vacation.”

“If you tell me how terrible I look again, you're not going to get that raise you've been hinting about.”

“That's what happens when you work for a woman,” he told Slade. Turning, David headed back for the door. “Mom says for you two to come in to lunch. This time
you're
getting
the chicken soup.” With a satisfied grin tossed over his shoulder, he left them.

The moment the door closed, Jessica pressed both hands to her mouth. What ran through her wasn't pain, not even an ache, but a bloodless kind of hurt that left her numb in the vital areas of heart and mind. She didn't move or make any sound. For a moment she felt that she had simply ceased to exist.

“Not David.” Her own whispered words jolted her. With them came a torrent of emotion.
“Not David!”
she repeated, whirling on Slade. “I won't believe it. Nothing you can say will make me believe he'd do anything to hurt me. He isn't capable, any more than Michael is.”

“In a couple of days it'll be over.” Slade kept his tone neutral. “Then you'll know one way or the other.”

“I know
now
!” Spinning around, she dashed for the door. Slade's hand clamped down on hers on the handle.

“You're not going after him,” he said evenly. When she tried to jerk free, he took her by the shoulders with more gentleness than he was feeling. He hated to see her like this, tormented, desperate—hating knowing it was him she would turn against. But he had no choice. “You're not going after him,” he said again, spacing the words precisely. “Unless I have your word, I'll cuff you to the bed and lock you in.” He narrowed his eyes as her hand struggled beneath his. “I mean it, Jess.”

She didn't turn against him, but to him. And that, Slade discovered, was worse. “Not David,” she murmured, crumpling into his arms. “Slade, I can't bear it. I think I could stand anything but knowing either one of them was involved with what—with what happened this morning.”

She seemed so fragile. He was almost afraid she would shatter if he applied the least pressure. What do I do with her now? he wondered as he laid his cheek on her hair. He knew how to handle her when she was furious. He could even manage her when she dissolved into stormy tears. But what did he do when she was simply limp and totally dependent on him? She was asking him for reassurance he couldn't give, emotion he was terrified to offer.

“Jess, don't do this to yourself. Block it out, a couple of
days.” He tilted up her chin until their eyes met. He saw trust, and a plea. “Let me take care of you,” he heard himself say. “I want to take care of you.” He wasn't aware of moving until his lips found hers. Her vulnerability undermined him. To keep her from harm, to shield her from hurt, seemed his only purpose. “Think of me,” he murmured, unconsciously speaking the thoughts that raced around in his head. “Only think of me.” Slade drew her closer, changing the angle for more soft, nibbling kisses. “Tell me you want me. Let me hear you say it.”

“Yes, I want you.” Breathless and pliant, she allowed him to give and to take while she remained passive. For the moment Jessica had no strength to offer anything but surrender in return, but it was enough for both of them. In his arms she could almost forget the nightmare, and the reality.

He took her hands and buried his lips in the palm of one, then the other. It surprised her enough to steady rather than arouse her. Slade wasn't a man for endearments, or for typically romantic gestures. Even as the tingle ran up her arms, it occurred to Jessica that her weakness, her despair, only made his difficult job impossible. He'd been wiser than he knew to ask her to think of him. Drawing on her reserves of strength, she straightened her shoulders and smiled at him.

“Betsy has a nasty temper when she has to keep meals waiting.”

Gratified, he answered the smile. “Hungry?”

“Yes,” she lied.

 

Jessica managed to eat a little, though the food threatened to stick in her throat. Knowing Slade watched her, she made an effort to appear as though she were enjoying the meal. She talked—rambled—about anything but what was foremost on her mind. Too many topics of conversation could lead back to the shop, to David, to Michael. To the man in the grove. Jessica found herself fighting the inclination to look out the window. To look out only reminded her that she was imprisoned in her own home.

“Tell me about your family,” she demanded, almost desperately.

Deciding that it would be better to go along with her
pretense than insist she eat or rest, Slade passed her cream for the coffee she was allowing to grow cold. “My mother's a quiet woman—the kind of person who talks only when she has something to say. She likes little things like the figure I bought in your shop and fussy glass. She plays the piano—started taking lessons again last year. The only thing she ever insisted on was that Janice and I learn to play.”