Something To Talk About

The silence loomed between them again, silence that screamed with a thousand denials. Then, to her shock, he leaned forward and, light as a dewdrop, he touched his lips to hers.

Hot puffs of desire blew in and out of her. She pressed her lips together to stop the flow. He kissed her again.

She opened her mouth to protest. A mistake. He opened his lips at the same moment. Whether by design or accident, their tongues touched, lightly, hardly more than the flutter of an eyelash. But it hurt. Way down deep somewhere.

They each drew back, startled, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. A gasp, then a shaky sigh escaped her.

“Damn,” he said. “This isn’t… It isn’t enough.”

“I know,” she admitted weakly, hating herself for it.

His broad hand cupped the back of her head. He held her close, then his mouth was on hers, fierce, demanding, wanting, needing…and she was kissing him back the same way.

She entwined a hand into the thick, dark strands and took the kiss farther, deeper. He groaned and lifted her, turning his chair so he could place her on his lap.

“Your knee—”

“It’s okay. Don’t fuss,” he muttered against her mouth.

The kiss went on. Flesh pressed flesh, consumed the warmth, reveled in the close heat of passion barely held in check. His hands swept under her shirt and tank top. His touch was gentle but urgent on her back as he caressed up and down her spine.

When he moved forward, then pressed her breasts upward and dropped kisses along the curving mounds, she caught her breath as ecstasy flooded her. She rained kisses on his head and raked her fingers through his hair, then slipped them under his collar and down his back.

She wanted all barriers gone. With hands that trembled, she fumbled with his shirt buttons. He impatiently yanked it open, then pulled his T-shirt up and laid her hands flat on his chest and pressed them there.

“Touch me,” he whispered, as lost to the moment as she was. “I’ve wanted it since I first saw you. Maybe forever.”

“That makes no sense,” she said, trying to regain some control in the maelstrom.

He lifted his head, his expression grim. “It never does.”

But he didn’t release her hands. Instead he urged her to move them on him. She caressed him eagerly, forgotten pleasure rushing through her at the sensation of rough hair over the smoothness of skin beneath.

He kissed her again, hotly, deeply, his mouth moving over hers, his tongue seeking, demanding, then becoming playful as he enticed her to follow his lead. She didn’t know how long or how far they would have gone, except for the ringing of the phone. Every nerve in her body jumped at the sound.

“Easy,” he said, resting his forehead against hers.

The phone jangled again.

“It might be important.” She wanted him to say it wasn’t.

“Yeah.” He sighed, gently helped her stand, then did the same. “You want to get it?”

She crossed the room and answered.

“This is Jeremy. Uh, will you tell my dad the library called and they have the stuff from the archives he wanted to see?”

She ran a hand through her hair and tried to smooth it into place. “Okay. Do you need to speak with him?”

“No. I’m going to catch a movie on television now.”

They hung up and she delivered the news. The darkness returned to his eyes, displacing the fires of passion.

“Thanks. I guess I’d better wait until tomorrow to go to town.”

“That would be a good idea.”

He studied her for a long minute. “Yeah.” Then he went out the door.

Kate rubbed her fingers over her lips, which still felt hot and needy. Watch it, she warned herself. Just watch it. She went to the door. “What are you doing here, really?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Raindrops splashed his hair and clothing. “Resting.” He hesitated. “I’ll be gone at the end of the month.” It was a promise.

“Good,” she said, and was pretty sure she meant it.

Chapter Four

Jess read the final paragraph of the newspaper article. He slumped into the library chair and absently rubbed his aching leg while he mulled over the report from ten years ago.

There had been no storm, no unusual wind, no sudden change in weather, the day his sister had gone sailing with a local man, Jimmy Herriot, son of Patrick Windom’s sworn enemy. Neither had returned from the excursion alive.

He considered the sparse details, then gave it up as his thoughts went in circles. Question after question chased through his mind. No answers, though.

The police write-up on the case should fill in a few of the blanks. He thought of the local detective who’d been so helpful about finding him a place to stay, Shannon Bannock, smiling that secret woman’s smile as she sent him to her cousin, the reclusive widow. He’d pictured Kate as a hermit of a woman.

Immediately an image of that first meeting sprang to mind—the sight of her in the wet clothing, the heat that had seared him, the slap of cold water from the writhing hose that hadn’t cooled his blood in the least….