Twice Kissed (29 page)

“Does anything”—she made a wide, sweeping gesture with her arm, encompassing the entire house in that one motion—“anything about this make sense? You know, Walker, if you want me to trust you, you’d damned well better trust me!”

Her green eyes snapped with fire, her cheeks were flushed a bright, indignant hue, and the corners of her mouth drew down into a small pout that he found fascinating. “Do you, Maggie?” he asked, trying to ignore the fact that she still got to him. As no other woman ever had. “Do you trust me?”

“No.” The answer was quick. Emphatic. Cut like a knife. “But I’m trying, damn it. I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna sit around and let the police do this in their own sweet time.”

He felt the first warning of a new kind of trouble. “What do you mean?”

“I worked for a private investigator for a few years, learned the ropes, and I think it’s time I figured out what happened to my sister. Whether you believe me or not, she called out to me, Thane, and it was after she was supposed to be missing.”

“That’s crazy.”

“So I’ve been told. The police, if they dig deep enough, are going to find out that I saw a psychiatrist, not once, but twice. The first time was years ago, after Mitch died and you and Mary Theresa got married; I went to college, but was treated for depression.”

He was surprised. Maggie was one of the sanest, most down-to-earth people he’d ever met in his life.

“And the second time was about a year ago; my marriage was failing, my daughter was becoming estranged, and I felt like I’d fallen into a deep, black hole. The harder I tried to climb out, the farther down I seemed to sink. I clawed until my fingers bled, but I just couldn’t get to the top, wasn’t able to smell fresh air or able to reach the light at the top, so I had to go under a doctor’s care.” She hesitated and he saw a fresh, desolate pain in her eyes.

“And then your husband died?” he ventured, knowing he was prying, probing into painful areas, but unable not to ask a question that had been bothering him ever since he’d seen her again.

She managed a thin smile. “That’s not exactly how it went. Yes, I was depressed, and I was on medication, but the cause of the depression was my marriage. Dean and I had mentally separated, disconnected years before; we were living different lives, completely divided. He was seeing another woman, though he denied it vehemently, and I couldn’t stand it. I filed for divorce.” She rubbed her arms and looked away. “The day he was served, he drank nearly a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, drove outside of the city, and lost control of the car.” She shuddered.

“And died.”

“Not for a while.” Tears gathered in her eyes, and she swallowed hard. The tip of her nose turned red. “No, not Dean McCrae. He hung in there, in a coma, for eleven days, while the rest of us, me, my daughter, his parents and brother and sister-in-law held a vigil, praying for him, talking to him, begging him to survive.” She blinked and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “In the end he gave up. Everything started shutting down, and the doctors told me he was brain-dead. We—well, I—pulled the plug. At the time, his family agreed, but then…” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “…anyway, the upshot was that his parents and brother blame me, my daughter blames me, and we’re all working through a truckload of guilt.” She angled her face upward defiantly, her gaze boring into his so deeply he was certain she could see each and every one of his sins. And there were many. More than anyone would ever guess. Anguish twisted her perfect features and tracks from her tears glistened on her cheeks. “Any further questions, cowboy?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. All his resistance cracked, and as he’d wanted from the first time he’d laid eyes on her again, he dragged her into his arms. She gasped, her eyes widened, and he pressed his anxious lips to hers.

A million reasons to stop this madness crashed through his head. She couldn’t be trusted, she was Mary Theresa’s sister, he’d broken her heart once before, she hated him…but he didn’t care, didn’t give a good goddamn about anything but the touch and feel of her. It was comfort. It was lust. It was heaven.

God, it had been so long. Heat sang through his blood, and his tongue slid past her teeth, searching, touching, mating as she moaned softly, opening to him as if she had no resistance. Thoughts of bare, fragrant skin, rain-washed hair, and hot sex flashed through his mind. He remembered the first time he’d made love to her, how her back arched upward in the rainstorm, how warm and tight she’d been as she’d so willingly offered him her virginity there in the woods, how she’d trembled, just as she did now, fully dressed, in his arms.

In Mary Theresa’s house.

That thought was a dash of ice water.

As if she, too, suddenly realized that they were trespassing, violating a woman who could be dead, her sister, his ex-wife, the very woman who had stood between them before, Maggie struggled to pull away from him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I know it isn’t.” But he didn’t release her, held her fast, and kissed her again. Hard. She seemed to melt for a second, only to push against him again.

“Really, Thane. I—you—we’ve got a job to do. We have to find Mary Theresa, and I can’t be confused about it.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Silently cursing himself, he dropped his arms.

“You
confuse me. And it can’t happen. I—I won’t let it.” She seemed to gather strength as she put some distance between them. But her breathing was ragged, her eyes glazed with the unique passion only they had shared. “Let’s just find Mary Theresa.” She walked to the desk again and picked up her sister’s Rolodex. “I think I’ll borrow this.”

“What?”

“And, while we’re here—” Sitting on the edge of her sister’s chair, she stared into the monitor, flipped a switch, and waited for the computer to hum to life. Once the screen was glowing, she typed with agile fingers and was somehow into Mary Theresa’s calendar.

“How do you know how to access all these things?”

“Mary Theresa isn’t exactly a computer wizard. She’s always used her birth date as her access code. It just so happens to be mine, too.” She managed a fragile smile. “Remember I worked for a—”

“Private investigator, I know. I think it’s starting to haunt me.”

She was still typing, scanning private files, and sending commands. Within a few minutes the printer was spewing out information about the past month of Marquise’s life, addresses and phone numbers of her nearest and dearest, even information on projects she was working on.
“Voilà,”
Maggie finally said, scooping the pages from the printer. “What is it they say—a little knowledge is a dangerous thing?”

“Amen.”

Thane watched as she folded the printed pages and dropped them, along with the Rolodex, into her voluminous purse. As she started to rise from the desk, Thane heard the clank and rattle of the garage door as it engaged. “Listen.”

Maggie’s head snapped up. A huge, relieved grin widened the lips he’d so recently kissed. “She’s home!”

“Maybe.” The sound of an engine rumbled from the area of the garage, and the throb of the bass notes of a heavy-metal tune nearly shook the foundation. The music and engine stopped. Maggie tore down the hallway. She reached the door to the garage as it was flung open.

Wade Pomeranian, his long dark curls tangled and wild, his smile as eager as Maggie’s, strode into the house in five-hundred-dollar snakeskin boots, a long black-leather coat, and a cloud of marijuana smoke.

“Baby!” he cried, a grin cracking his sober features. He wrapped his arms around Maggie and twirled her off her feet. “Oh, God, it’s good to see ya! The police, everyone…they told me…I mean, shit, they all acted like you were dead or…somethin’…” His smile faded, and he set Maggie onto the floor. Looking down the hallway, he demanded, “What the hell is he doin’ here?”

Thane, irritated at the younger man’s display, felt one side of his mouth lift. “You know, that’s funny, Pomeranian,” he drawled, sizing up Marquise’s latest lover. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“I’m not Mary Theresa.”

“Oh, shit, baby, are you fucked up again?” Wade’s dark eyes were suddenly serious as he set Maggie on the floor. He stomped a foot and turned up one hand, clawlike, shaking it toward the ceiling. “I told you to quit takin’ those damned pills.”

“I said I’m not Mary Theresa. I’m her sister. Maggie McCrae.”

For a second he didn’t say a word, just stared at her. Then it finally hit; he recognized the differences. “Oh, fuck!” He took a step backward and looked from Maggie to Thane and back again. “Shit. You…you’re a dead ringer for Marquise!”

“What’re you doing here?” Thane asked.

“I just came for some of my things and I saw your truck outside and then I saw Marquise…well, Maggie…oh, fuck!” He shook his head, and the long curls that fell past his shoulders gleamed under the light. “Jesus. You look so much like her it’s…cosmically weird. Wow.” Slightly recovering, he realized he had no place being in Marquise’s house. He held up his hands as if in surrender. “Look, I’ll just run up and grab my things.”

“Wait a minute.” Maggie hitched her head toward the kitchen. “I want to talk to you.”

“Me?” He was instantly wary. “Why?”

“Because I want to know what happened to my sister.”

“So do I,” he said readily. “But I don’t have a clue. Really.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Come on, let’s talk.”

She flipped on a switch at the entrance to the kitchen. Through the windows dusk was crawling across the land, the sky turning to lavender and the ground, where the snow still covered it, a pale shade of gray.

Though he was reluctant, Wade took a chair at the round, glass-topped table. Maggie ignored the thin layer of dust that had collected on the surface and, as she sat in a chair opposite Pomeranian, moved a crystal vase of dead irises and roses to one side, leaving a trail of faded petals and pollen that scattered over the glass.

“Why are you two”—Pomeranian motioned vaguely toward the cooking island where Thane stood, leaning against the attached eating bar—“y’know, like together?”

“We knew each other a long time ago.” Maggie was more interested in asking the questions than answering them. “Look, please, tell me about Mary Theresa. The police seem to think that she was suicidal—” One of his dark eyebrows arched a little as he sank in the chair, settling low on his back, long legs stretched out, hands folded together, but visible through the glass. His nails were manicured, his hair shiny, his skin swarthy and dark, but flawless. Compared to Thane he was reedy, but he probably photographed well.

“I don’t think Marquise offed herself if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What do you think happened to her?” Thane asked.

“Shit, man, I don’t know. Don’t you think I want to find her?”

“Do you?”

“Yes!” Wade’s smooth face twisted into a mask of frustration. “I love her.”

“Is that what it is?” Thane obviously wasn’t convinced.

Maggie shot him a look to shut him up. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“The Wednesday night before she left.” He sighed and glanced out the windows. “We had a fight. Something stupid. I wanted to be interviewed on her show, always had, and she put me off again.” His lips tightened around the corners. “I got pissed, really pissed, and told her we were through.” He snorted, and though his fingers remained laced, his thumbs moved nervously. “So…anyway, she kinda threw me out, and I left. It was about ten, I guess. I went back to my apartment, felt like shit, couldn’t sleep, and called in the morning about six-thirty, but she didn’t pick up, so I figured, ‘fuck it, she knows my number,’ and didn’t even try to reach her for a couple of days. I had a photo shoot in Salt Lake that day, and I looked like shit, because I hadn’t slept a wink, but I got through it and stayed in Utah until Sunday.”

“You didn’t hear from her?”

“No.”

“Didn’t try to call again?”

“The ball was in her court. I figured I’d give her some time to cool down and figure out what she wanted.”

“But you love her,” Thane remarked, his voice bland.

He nodded, his curls bouncing. “I do.”

“I’ll handle this.” Maggie sent Thane a glare guaranteed to make lesser men tremble, and the irreverent son of a gun had the gall to smile at her, turn his palm toward Wade Pomeranian, and lift his eyebrows as if to say, “Your witness, counselor.”

Wade checked his watch. “I’m running a little late.”

“Okay, okay, just bring me up to speed,” Maggie said, irritated and rapidly coming to the conclusion that Thane was correct in his opinion of Mary Theresa’s lover. The guy seemed like a flake. “What do you think happened to Marquise?”

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“As I said, the police seem to think that she might have had some kind of suicide wish.”

He barked out a laugh. “Right, and I told you what I thought. Marquise? No fuckin’ way. She loved life. Always wanted a little more from it, always hatchin’ some scheme to make more money or promote herself, but she wasn’t about to end it. Not her.”

“Then do you think she might’ve been kidnapped?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” He shrugged his slim shoulders. “Don’t know why anyone would do it.”

“Money,” Thane said.

“Or attention,” Maggie added.

“Or maybe some psycho. There are always nutcases runnin’ around. Beats me.” He looked sincere. Well, as sincere as he could in the black getup and professionally coiffed hair.

“Look, I’m outta here. I’m already late.” He flashed a killer smile, one that made him his money modeling. Scooting his chair back, he dropped his feet to the floor, slapped his thighs, and without another word strode out of the room at a sharp clip. His coat billowed behind him, and Maggie was reminded of Batman’s cape.

“How long has Mary Theresa been with him?” she asked.

“Six, maybe eight months.” Thane lifted a shoulder. “Too long.”

She heard Wade stomping around on the second floor, then rapid-fire footsteps as he hurried down the stairs. He didn’t bother to step into the kitchen again, though Maggie, from her position at the table, watched him fly through the door to the garage. His coat sailed behind him as he carried a bundle of clothes toward a sleek navy blue BMW. The door to the garage slammed shut before Maggie saw much more, but she heard the sounds of the garage door cranking open, a keyless lock beeping, a powerful engine firing, loud music blaring, and then everything receding as Wade and his sports car made tracks.

“How was that for a breath of fresh air?” Thane asked, still staring at the door.

“Different,” she said, but realized that Mary Theresa didn’t really have a “type” where men were concerned. None of the men in her life had fit into any kind of mold. Including Thane.

“Come on, I’ll buy you dinner,” Thane offered.

“I’ll take you up on that, but first I need to check into a hotel and rent a car.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the broom closet. Expertly she activated the security system. As the alarm beeped softly, she and Thane hurried outside. The air was frigid, the stars bright, and the few streetlights glowed against the snow-covered terrain.

“Why rent a car?” he asked. “I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

“Don’t you have a ranch or two to run?”

“I have foremen who can handle whatever comes up.”

She hazarded a glance at him as they trudged in the melting path they’d broken earlier. He didn’t belong in this neighborhood of sprawling mansions and tended acres. He looked as out of place as a mustang in a paddock of thoroughbreds, a man who belonged on the windswept plains of Wyoming where he’d been bred. She told herself to stay away from him, that he was dangerous, at least on an emotional level, maybe more. And yet there was something about him, a subtle sexual aura that seemed to smooth out the rough edges, something that caught hold of her and wouldn’t let go. His hawkish nose, deep-set eyes, and untamed hair seemed more appealing than ever. She had only to think of the kiss they’d shared, the kiss she’d wanted so desperately in Mary Theresa’s study, to realize that she wasn’t the least bit immune to him. “I think I need my own vehicle, Thane.”

She reached for the handle of the truck’s door, but he placed a hand near her head, holding the door closed. “Do you? Why?”

“I want my independence.”

One seductive eyebrow raised. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to depend on you.”

“I’m pretty damned dependable.”

“But not honest,” she said, turning and leaning her buttocks against the pickup’s dirty fender.

“You don’t think so?”

“Call it feminine intuition, or a gut feeling, or even say that it’s because I believe in the old adage of once burned twice shy, but the bottom line is this: I think, no, I suspect would be a better word, that there’s still something you’re not telling me, Thane. Something important. And it has to do with my sister. You didn’t leave your ranch in Wyoming, drive all the way to Idaho to shanghai me back to Denver unless you had a reason, a stronger one than that you wanted me to vouch for you with the authorities.”

“No?” He didn’t deny it.

“So spill it.”

“You won’t believe that I just wanted to see you again.”

Her heart caught. But only for a second. “Don’t even start that with me, okay?” She held her hands on either side of her head, as if in surrender. “You’ve been divorced a long time. If you wanted to see me again, you could have called.”

“You were married.”

She shook her head. He wasn’t going to fool her, sweet-talk her, or, God forbid, seduce her into believing a lie. “That wasn’t it, either. There’s something else going on with you,” she insisted, her eyes searching the ranch-tough blades of his face. “Something big.”

“You’re such a damned skeptic.”

“I wonder why?” she tossed back, only to have his arms surround her and his lips crash down on hers again. Hot. Wet. Demanding. She should have been ready for the onslaught to her senses, should have expected him to kiss her, but even if she’d been forewarned, she wouldn’t have stopped him. As his tongue plunged into her mouth, she opened it eagerly. The thrill of his touch, the mystery surrounding him, the fact that he wanted her again was all so damned heady that she couldn’t stop. She kissed him back, her arms winding around his neck as if of their own accord, her heart pounding, her skin tingling, her own tongue tasting and dipping.

It’s just because it’s been so long since a man has kissed you, touched you, held you as if he couldn’t help himself,
she tried to tell herself, but despite the fact that it had been over a year since she’d made love to a man and that was only because Dean had been so insistent, she knew that there was more to her reaction than pure physical lust.

This was Thane who was holding her, Thane who was kissing her, Thane who was acting as if he couldn’t resist her. Thane’s face pressed feverishly to hers, his lips moving far too sensually against hers. She trembled.

Groaning, he settled into the juncture of her parted legs, his jeans-clad thighs inside of hers, his erection hard against her lower abdomen.

God, she wanted him. Here in the cold night air, her spine pushed up against the door of his truck, her breasts flattened against the pressure of his chest, she wanted him. Heat throbbed deep inside her, and her blood tingled as his hand slid inside her jacket to cup her breast. Beneath her sweater her nipples hardened, and her knees grew weak. If not for the support of the truck, she would have sagged into the snow, drawing him with her, wanting nothing more than the feel of his naked body driving into hers.

“This is insane,” she murmured into his open mouth.

He lifted his head, and she stared into eyes as dark and dusky as the night. “It’s always been this way with you, Maggie. Always.”

“Oh, right.” Her head was starting to spin. “Even when you were with Mary Theresa. You know, Thane, she always came between you and me.”

“Not true,” he said, his gaze focusing on her lips again. “In fact she used to say the same thing about you.”

“What? That I came between you and her?”

His gaze lifted to hers, and the lust she saw burning in their midnight blue depths caused the breath at the back of her throat to stop. “Not only that you came between us, but that I fantasized that she was you.”

“No—don’t even say it.” She didn’t believe him. Wouldn’t.

His mouth tightened, and he released her slowly, stepped away. “The damned thing of it was that she was right. Every night when we went to bed, I thought of you, Maggie.” He stared up at the shimmering heavens and shook his head as if at his own folly. “Every damned night.”

“I—I don’t think we should be discussing this. Not here. Not now.” She didn’t dare believe him.

“Not ever,” he agreed, reaching around her and opening the door. White lines of irritation edged his lips. “Get in the truck. We’ll grab something to eat.” When she started to protest, he amended, “Yeah, yeah, I know. Right after I get you checked into a hotel and you find yourself a goddamned rental car.”

“And I talk to Becca.”

“Whatever.”

As she climbed into the truck, he swung the door shut behind her and, muttering under his breath about “mule-headed, stubborn, pain-in-the-ass women,” found his way to the driver’s side. He fired up the engine, threw the truck into reverse and managed to crank up the radio in one smooth motion. By the time the pickup rolled into the street and he’d jammed the gearshift lever into first, Maggie was finally able to breathe again.