Heather Graham (28 page)

“Really? So if I
asked
you to stay, it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“I just said—”

“What if I was trying to stay with you for your own good? I didn’t tell you, but Gregory wasn’t knocked unconscious by a tree in the bayou.”

“This whole thing is still in the air. You could be arresting Jon at any minute now.”

He set his fork down, drained his tea. Then he stood, and reached for her, drawing her up to her feet and against him. “So don’t get involved with me,” he told her.

“You’re holding me...”

Oh, God, yes, he was holding her. So flush against him that the fabric of her clothing seemed to melt. The full force of his body heat infused her; the extent of his arousal fit against her. His fingers were in her hair, drawing her head back. His lips were just inches from her own.

“Don’t get involved. Just have sex,” he told her.

“I don’t want—”

His mouth. On top of hers. Open, forceful, his tongue inside her deeply, moving, his hands...

She was suddenly off her feet. Moving through the house. It was a blur. She was hiked up around his hips; then she was falling backward into a nest of comfort. His bed. Her limbs seemed to have turned to liquid. She was staring at him, not saying a word. Her dress was shoved up to her waist; she was dimly aware of the sound of his belt being removed.

Then he was swearing, his fingers on the silk panties she wore.

She felt them rip.

She opened her mouth to protest.

But it didn’t matter.

She couldn’t bear waiting. Something hot and molten rushed throughout her limbs and centered between her thighs. Burning, throbbing.

She gasped as he touched her, rubbing her with thumb and forefinger before suddenly thrusting into her. The feeling was so sweetly erotic that she shrieked out then, grasping his shoulders, digging into them, shaking as she fought to catch each fevered pitch of his body as he plunged within her again and again, tempo increasing wildly. Her hunger was as deep as his, the fire that filled her as violent, as passionate. She arched against him, unable to do anything at all but cling to him, feeling nothing except that one spot where he filled her and filled her, where she throbbed so sweetly for release.

She climaxed, crying out with the volatility of the sensation that claimed her, trembling with the force of it, only aware then that they were basically still dressed, that he had seized her up and basically seduced her in less than a handful of seconds.

So much for
thinking
about what their relationship was going to be.

And discussing it—and her position.

Her position was...

Vulnerable.

Oh, God. So vulnerable.

He had just made the earth shake. She was still drifting downward from her high. It didn’t deter him. His lips were on her. His hands. His lips. His kiss. On flesh that was so attuned to every breath...damp. Open...

He rose above her, whispering against her lips.

“Don’t leave. You don’t have to want a relationship. Just sex. Damned good sex.”

“Damn you!” she whispered.

“Don’t leave.”

She refused to answer the demand.

But neither did she manage to rise.

Or depart his house that night.

A
NN AWOKE VERY SLOWLY.

Oddly enough, when she had finally slept, she had slept like a log, completely comfortable, secure, at ease.

He was beside her. She had been certain that no ill could come to her.

She slept so deeply that awakening was hard. Yet she sensed that she should awaken. She opened her eyes.

And nearly screamed aloud.

Someone was watching her.

Someone small.

Oh, God.

She drew the sheets around herself, trying to reconcile herself to the little creature staring at her. A little girl, a very little girl, perhaps four years old, holding a teddy bear, and studying her intently. “You definitely need the
Eye Opener
,” she said gravely.

Ann swallowed, pulling the sheets more tightly about herself and trying to sit up with some kind of dignity.

“Brit!”

Mark suddenly charged back into the room, shiftless, barefoot, but decently clad in a pair of jeans. He came to a halt five feet from the bed, staring from the child to Ann. He ran his fingers distractedly through his hair, obviously and acutely disturbed by the situation.

“Brit!” he repeated, dismayed.

The little girl’s face crumpled. She was aware that she had done something very wrong bursting into the room; she just wasn’t sure what.

“Hi, Brit,” Ann said, trying to give Mark a menacing stare.

“Honey,” Mark said evenly, “can you come out of my room and let Mrs. Marcel wake up on her own.”

Brit nodded gravely but returned her stare to Ann. She hesitantly smiled, then said to Mark, “Who is she?”

“A very nice lady who needed to stay here because she might have been in danger at her own home.”

“Oh,” Brit said, as if his words made entire sense. “Hi,” she said back now, less hesitant.

Ann smiled.

“Grandpa keeps the
Eye Opener
in the shower, you know. You’ll be okay.”

“Thank you,” Ann said gravely. “I can certainly use—the
Eye Opener
.”

“Coast—soap,” Mark informed her quickly, setting his hands on Brit’s shoulders to lead her out of the room. The door closed behind the two of them.

Ann showered—with Coast.

The child was adorable. Mark didn’t look at all what she had imagined a “Grandpa” to look like; yet he seemed to enjoy the role, and Brit obviously adored him.

Ann grated her teeth in the shower. Being a grandparent—with a grandchild quite at home in his house—seemed to make him more likeable.

She didn’t want to like Mark this morning.

She had wanted him too badly last night.

She had no choice but to slip back into her clothing of the previous day—minus panties—before daring to stick her nose out of the bedroom. She could see through the parlor to the kitchen. Mark’s back and dark head were to her; facing her, she could see a striking young dark-haired, light-eyed man in a knit shirt and jeans sitting across from Mark, and little Brit was up on her knees next to the man who must have been Mark’s son. He resembled his father a great deal.

Brit was happily munching on a glazed donut and telling her father and Mark, “The poor lady! I hope she knows that she’s safe with you, Grandpa, except...”

“Except what, Munchkin?” Mark demanded, tousling her hair.

“Except, we should do something nice for her. We should go out and buy her a nightgown so that she doesn’t have to sleep like that without any clothes on.”

In the whole of her life, Ann had never felt her entire body flush to such a vibrant shade of red. Right at that moment, naturally, Mark’s son looked up, and saw her staring—crimson and frozen—into the kitchen. He stood instantly, drawing Mark to his feet as well.

“Ann,” Mark said. He looked extremely awkward and uncomfortable; then he grinned and threw up his hands. “Ann, please, come in here. I’d like you to meet my son, Michael, and my granddaughter, Brit—you’ve already met.”

“I’m sorry I was so rude,” Brit said. She’d been coached; but she was a sweet little girl, and she was trying hard to say her words just right. “I didn’t know that anybody was sleeping in Grandpa’s room.”

“It’s okay,” Ann said.

“I woke you up.”

“I needed to wake up anyway.”

“Coffee?” Mark asked.

“Sure.” She slid into the seat he had vacated, and smiled at Brit. “Although I did use the
Eye Opener
, and it worked tremendously well.”

Brit smiled happily. “Oh, I knew it would help!”

“How do you do,” Michael LaCrosse said politely. He had a killer smile, a lot like his father’s. “I’m in advertising, and I’m afraid Brit takes it all rather seriously. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand you’re embroiled in one of the hottest murder cases to hit New Orleans in quite some time.”

His honesty was disarming; it seemed that he, too, had decided that there was no way out of an awkward situation except to plunge right into it.

“So it seems,” Ann said. “It’s nice to meet you, too. And your daughter is adorable. And Coast is certainly a fine, eye-opening soap.”

“You know,” Michael said bluntly, “you’re really gorgeous. Even prettier than you appeared in that picture in the paper.”

“Thank you,” Ann told him.

Mark groaned, handing Ann a cup of coffee. “Just swell her head all to pieces there, son, make her more difficult than ever to manage.”

“Manage?” A wicked grin teased Michael’s face, and he smiled at Ann. “You’re managing Mrs. Marcel, Dad?”

“Let me rephrase that,” Mark said. “I’m trying very hard to keep Mrs. Marcel alive, and out of danger.”

“Ah...,” Michael said.

“And by the way, son,” Mark added, “don’t you have a busy day ahead of you?”

“Pretty much so,” Michael agreed pleasantly. “Mrs. Marcel, I’ve been following this closely—through the papers, that is. But you really believe that your ex-husband is innocent, despite all the damning evidence.”

“I know that he’s innocent,” Ann said.

“Michael—” Mark began.

“Then, you know,” Michael said, sitting back comfortably, “my dad is right. You think that Jon Marcel is innocent. So someone else is guilty. To the guilty person, you are a danger because you’re supporting Marcel. You need to be very careful. You most definitely are in a
very
dangerous position.”

“Michael, would you like more coffee?” Mark asked.

Ann grinned, staring down into her coffee. She met Michael’s sparkling eyes and thought that she liked him very much.

And she felt an even greater warmth where Mark was concerned, and a tremendous sympathy for him. Theirs must have been a very warm family; he and his wife had raised a charming and intelligent son. Something special remained in the relationship between father and son now, and he spoke very well for them both.

“I do know that I need to be very careful,” Ann assured him.

“Good,” Michael said. “Yeah, Dad, a little more coffee, then Brit and I have to get going. We’ve got to pick up Mommy at the dentist’s, and head for camp.”

“Swimming camp,” Brit said happily.

“That’s wonderful,” Ann assured her.

“Do you like to swim?”

“I love to.”

“Maybe we’d better get her a bathing suit, too,” Brit said worriedly.

Ann felt color rush to her face again. “I—I have a bathing suit, Brit, but thank you very much, anyway.” She swallowed down her coffee and stood. “Actually, I’ve got to get going myself.”

“Give me a minute,” Mark said.

“I can call a cab—”

“Give me a minute,” he insisted firmly.

“All right,” she agreed. Michael and Brit stood. Mark left the kitchen for the bedroom to finish dressing. “He is trying to keep you alive,” Michael said.

“I think he still believes that Jon is guilty,” Ann told him.

“Well, he must have some faith in your judgment because he is very worried where you’re concerned. It’s hard to be a cop and go against the evidence, you know. He’s trying. They’re not going to charge Marcel yet, you know.”

Ann arched a brow. “It’s a definite decision?”

Michael nodded. “For now.” He hesitated. “You’ve got to be really careful if you’re right. And you’ve got to convince Jon Marcel of the same.”

“I will. Thank you very much.”

He smiled, then raised his voice. “Dad, bye—Brit and I are out of here!”

But as Michael called out, Mark appeared, a short-sleeved, cotton tailored shirt tucked into his jeans, sneakers on his feet. “I get a hug from my girl first,” he said, sweeping Brit into his arms. The little girl giggled delightedly, hugging her grandfather fiercely in return. He set her down. “Give your mom a hug for me, too. Tell her that we’re on for dinner next week.”

“I will, Grandpa.” She hesitated just a second, then slipped her arms around Ann, hugging her. Ann instinctively hugged her back, crouching down to the balls of her feet to be on Brit’s level.

“It was lovely to meet you, Miss Brit LaCrosse.”

“And we will go swimming?”

“Sure.”

“When?”

“When?” Ann repeated. Brit’s eyes were huge and very blue and worried as they gazed into hers. Ann had forgotten how persistent and exacting young children could be.

“Brit—” her dad began.

“No, no, it’s all right,” Ann said quickly. “Brit, I’m not quite sure yet. But soon, I hope.”

“You won’t forget?”

“I won’t forget. I promise. It’s a date. A real date, honest to God.”

Brit seemed quite happy with that. Ann rose. They all walked out together, Mark locking up the house as they went. Michael and Brit took off in a sturdy silver Volvo; Mark ushered Ann into his car and turned the key in the ignition. “Where to?” he asked her.

“I’ve really got to get home,” she told him.

He drove to her house. She was surprised when he stopped the car, but kept the motor humming.

“You’re not coming up?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got a court reporter meeting me at the hospital to get a deposition from Jon. I’ll wait here until you’ve gotten in. Come out on the balcony and wave down to me that you’re all right, that the closets are empty of thugs. Then lock up the balcony and don’t let anyone in unless you know who it is for sure, and that it’s someone you trust completely.”

“Don’t let anyone in but you?” she teased.

He nodded, somewhat amused. “Exactly,” he informed her.

“I’ll probably be coming to the hospital this afternoon,” she said. “And I’m going to have to get by the car place to pick up a new key.”

“Take taxis for now—I’ll send someone out to my place to collect your things from the cabin today. You’ll have your key back then. By the way, how did you get into your house when we came back from the bayou?”

“Key under the mat,” she admitted.

He groaned. “Make sure you keep your bolts locked when you’re in the house, huh?”

“I will.”

“I’ll put new locks in for you as soon as possible.”

“But no one bothered with the key—”

“How do you know that? How do you know that your key was exactly as you had left it under the mat?”