In Your Wildest Dreams (43 page)

Reaching the brick walkway to her room, they turned off the street and headed into the shadowy garden area. "And
I'm
glad I took matters into my own hands. Do I need to point out that we found all this new information by going to the very first place on Melody's list?" "Dumb luck."

She stopped, turning to face him, looking incredulous. "Would it kill you to ever give me credit for
anything?'

He peered into her eyes, a warm deep blue beneath the lamps lighting the path. She was so damn beautiful, so much more than he'd even seen in the beginning. It was tearing him apart.
Everything
about this situation was tearing him apart. "No," he said softly. "You're right. Goin' to Antonio's turned out to be a smart move,
chère."

"Thank you," she whispered before starting to head deeper down the path. He followed behind, watching the sway of her hips, thinking,
Why? Why do I have to want her so bad? Why does she have to turn me inside out?
His heart felt like it was going to beat right through his chest.

She was a few steps from her door when he grabbed her hand and spun her toward him. "I'm sorry, Stephanie. About this morning. About how things turned out." He shook his head. He owed her more than this, but it was
something
anyway, and it was all he had to give. "I never meant for things to get
...
so outta hand."

The look in her eyes told him what he already knew— the words were woefully inadequate. They'd never talked about what was growing between them, but for him to deny altogether that something
had
grown was just shitty.

And yet admitting it was
...
impossible. Because it was breaking a vow to Becky, a vow he couldn't let go of. He owed
her
a hell of a lot more than he could ever repay, too. And she'd loved him more than life. Sex with another woman, that was okay. But
love
!
He swallowed back everything he knew he wanted with Stephanie because he'd
never
escape the guilt if he let himself have it all.

She stood there looking like the perfect sex kitten, waiting for him to say more. And he wasn't saying it.

The night air seemed to thicken, until she finally whispered, "I hate you."

She snatched her hand from his, and he grabbed it back—he couldn't let her go, not like this. "Don't say that,
beb"

"Why do you even care?"

He swallowed back the unspeakable truth once more and said, "I don't want you to hate me."

"Well, you don't want me to love you, either, so what exactly is it that you
do
want, Jake?"

He stood looking at her, her eyes wild and beautiful, her chest heaving.

/ just want you. I don't want to call it love, or need, or give it any name at all. I want it to be easy, and good, like before. I don't want words to mess it up.

"Mon Dieu,
Stephanie," he uttered softly. He might not want to think he needed this woman, but there was no other way to describe what rumbled inside him, what yearned to get out, what yearned to take her in. He couldn't contain it a minute longer.

Lifting his hands to her face, he gave her a hard, slow kiss that ran through him like hot lava—especially when she began to kiss him back, firm and hungry.

Her fingernails clawed at his chest through his shirt and his breath came in heavy, rolling waves as his arms closed around her, pulling her to where he was hard for her. More desperate kisses followed, so rough he knew they were bruising each other's mouths, but he didn't care. Just had to have her. Had to feel her against him. They moved together in that timeless rhythm they always found with such ease.

He gathered the short hem of her dress in his hands so she could feel him better, closer, and at first, when he felt her bare flesh, he thought she'd left off panties. But then he realized she was wearing a thong—the other pair he'd bought for her. He kissed her even more brutally, wanted to make her feel everything there was to feel.

Her arms locked tight around his neck, and he never wanted the punishing kisses to stop—it was as if they gave him life, kept his heart beating, helped him breathe. Vague, distant street sounds filtered into their ragged breaths as he moved one hand to her breast, making her whimper against his mouth. More of her, he had to have more. He reached inside the open collar of her dress, freeing her breast from the black lace that held it, letting his touch close warm and firm over her softness, her beaded nipple jutting into his palm. Impulsively breaking their kiss, he dipped his head there for one brisk lick, her nipple sweet and turgid on his tongue.

"God, oh God, oh God," she murmured, her voice trembling. When he lifted his head from her chest, she lowered her hands to the front of his shirt, grabbed onto the placket, and yanked it apart. Buttons clicked and clattered to the bricks at their feet as she clawed her fingernails into his chest until he groaned.

They moved in perfect unison below, everything going quieter now, but just as passionate. He looked at her in the moonlight before kissing her again, and she kissed him back as ravenously as if she hadn't been kissed in years.

He knew she would come soon, just from the way they moved, and he pushed himself stiff against her. She met the pressure, and he pulled her tight, tight, to his body until she was whimpering, "Oh, oh, oh ..."

Her hot cry of release followed, her head dropping back, eyes falling shut. He listened to her breathe as she rode it out—and then—Peter, Paul, and Mary—he was coming, too.
"Merde,"
he moaned, too late to stop it, nothing to do but drive himself against her sweet, soft body and give himself up to the shock of pleasure he hadn't seen coming.

He rested his head against her shoulder for a moment after, even as his legs threatened to fold beneath him.

When finally he looked down at her, she was staring blankly, sadly, at his chest, as if she couldn't quite believe what they'd done. He shut his eyes against her pain—he couldn't quite believe it, either. "I'm so sorry," he said.

She pushed away from his embrace, hurrying to pull her dress together in front. "So am I," she said, still not looking at him.

He ran one hand back through his hair. "I never meant to hurt you, Stephanie."

Only then did she glance up. "You still are."

After which she rushed to her door, dug her keys out, and stuck one in the lock.

"Stephanie, please, let me ..." He shook his head, so damn confused he didn't even know what he meant to say.

She stopped on the threshold and looked back. "Let you what?"

"Apologize?" He held his hands out in front of him. "It doesn't help," she said, disappearing inside to slam the door.

He heard the lock turn and felt like a jerk. She had every right to hate him. He almost hated himself.

A shame,
a little voice whispered in his ear as he walked up the street toward his truck.
Just when you were starting to like yourself again.

You
lie in bed at the bayou house. Cool white sheets cover you; the fan turns overhead. The window across the room is open, as always, but everything is cool—cooler than you've ever felt it here. Brisk and refreshing, like you imagine the first day of spring must feel someplace farther north. An old Sinatra album plays across the room, Old Blue Eyes crooning "Violets for Your Furs." But you 're not alone.

She crawls toward you from the foot of the bed, her face hidden by a white
Mardi Gras
mask—white sequins outline her eyes, and soft, downy white feathers curve around her face, so that you see only lush pink lips. She licks them, as if she knows you're watching them. You want to kiss her.

Long white gloves rise to her forearms and a white corset of satin and lace pushes her breasts high and curves down over her hips. Snow white garters stretch to sheer white stockings below. No panties.

"You runnin' around without panties again?" you ask. You know this is a dream, and you're thinking if she

answers the right way, it will prove this is
her.
You
know
it's her, you always have, but still you're looking, reaching, for that little bit of confirmation. And if this is a dream, you should be able to control it, so you will her to answer.

But instead she only smiles with those pretty pink lips, like she has a secret. You know this is a dream, but it doesn't seem to be yours to create.

They never have been,
a voice whispers in your ear.

She straddles you, and you hiss in your breath, ready to embrace her, but suddenly she is stretching your arm up against the headboard, tying you to the bed.

As she ties your other wrist with a shiny white scarf, you wonder if this is punishment. But as she bends to rain kisses across your chest, you understand: This is a reward. Something she's giving you. Making it so none of the decisions here are yours, putting you at her mercy.

She kisses her way down your stomach, her lips leaving a trail of cool sensation when the fan blows over their path. Then she peers up at you, her eyes mysterious and playful and oh-so-blue through the mask, and you tremble because she's pulling the sheets down now, hovering above your erection, smiling at you as if to tease.

Her gloved hands run up your length, one after the other, caressing you with her silken touch, and your body convulses beneath her, making you pull at the satin ties, wishing you could touch her, hold her. Gift or not, it's not as easy as you thought to take without giving.

She no longer smiles when she lowers herself onto you, bringing your bodies together in that ultimate union. A low groan leaves you and everything inside you contracts.

She looks into your eyes as she makes love to you. You can't look away, don't even want to. You read what's in her gaze and you're not afraid of it. You can't not feel it, too. And you can't hide it. She sees it. She knows.

She's waiting for you to say it. It's a dream, but you know she's waiting for you to tell her what's in your heart.

Yet, still, you can't—the fear is back, that quickly. It's so hard to need someone this way. The last time you needed someone like this, you lost her.

So you simply say, "I'm sorry."

And in an instant, she's gone, and you're alone. Music no longer plays, and drenching deep summer heat pours in the window to fill the room.

Chapter 24

Jake stayed in bed late the next morning suffering a familiar feeling of not wanting to face the day. Sleep was easier.

But Shondra had risen early and returned from another trip to the market with ingredients for pancakes, and when he smelled them cooking, he couldn't bring himself to disappoint her, so he'd dragged himself up and into a pair of jeans he found on the floor, entering the kitchen with a forced smile.

Now she was gone again—off to buy Scruff a leash so she could take him outside without worrying he'd run into traffic—so he'd made himself shower and put on clean clothes and now sat by the phone in the living room, the local phone directory open in his lap. He supposed being prodded to get out of bed had motivated him a
little
.

He dialed the number for
Les Couleurs
and a woman answered.

"Hello," he said, putting on his best good ol' country boy voice, "I'm hopin' you can help me. Would Robert Nicholson by chance be there this mornin'?"

"No, I'm afraid he's not, but this is his wife. Can I leave him a message?"

"I'm an old buddy o' his from way back, in town for a few days, and was hopin' to get together. Wouldn't be anyplace I could reach him right now, would he? My schedule's kinda strapped after today."

"I'm not really sure of his plans today, but you might be able to catch him at home. Let me give you the number."

After hanging up, he tried Nicholson at home, but the answering machine picked up. He'd hoped Nicholson's wife might give him some other places to try, damn it, or a cell number.

Looked like he was back to the stakeout plan. Truth was, though, he wasn't sure he could pull it off. He was so tired the last couple of days, wrung out and on the verge of slipping back into a depression that seemed to come and go at will. A stakeout would mean getting up awful damn early, and he wasn't even sure he could talk himself into getting out of bed if the alarm went off in the middle of the night.