An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (21 page)

“I wish we'd got more information on the college-professor girlfriend.”

“Newman will have that information.”

I rolled over onto my side at this news. “You found the PI Stevens's girlfriend hired?”

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“Yep.” I could hear the satisfaction across the space between our beds. “Believe it or not, he's
not
retired.”

“He's not?”

“Nope.”

“When are you going to interview him?”

“Tomorrow.”

I felt a pang of disappointment. Clearly I wasn't going to be part of that interview.

As though he read my mind, Jake said, “Newman knows who you are, so I don't think it's a good idea for you to come along until I know what we're dealing with.”

“Right.”

Bedclothes rustled, and the mattress springs squeaked as he propped himself on his elbow, a pale form facing me in the darkness.

“I contacted him on the pretext of hiring him. Once I meet with him, I'll tell him why we want to talk to him. From what Argyle told me, Newman was always a slippery character, always walking a legal fine line. I'm not bringing you into any situation that I'm not sure of.”

“Come on. I'm not—”

“Take it or leave it.” He was adamant. “You either trust me to do what you hired me to do, or you do it yourself.”

“I understand he might bolt if he sees me. Even if he's not our actual burglar, he's obviously got an interest in the bookstore beyond architecture. Beyond that—”

“Anything beyond that is still my call. Right? I'm assuming you hired me because you think I know what I'm doing and not just because you feel sorry for me.”

Astonished at the idea, I said truthfully, “I don't feel sorry for you.”

He lay back on the mattress again. “Good. Because I don't feel sorry for myself. Not everything worked out the way I hoped, but I'm moving forward.”

“Well…great.” I was at a loss. How had we even got on this track? And why did he have to keep making such a point about moving on? It wasn't like I was asking for anything else.
I
was the one who'd said I didn't want to risk… And where the hell did he get that feeling-sorry-for-him stuff?

I was still turning this over and over in my mind when he began to snore very quietly.

I was having another weird dream about Jake and me—something to do with blindfolds and feathers—when someone yelled loudly right next to my ear.

The fragile bubble of that delicious dream burst.

Bewildered and alarmed, I tried to make sense of my surroundings. It was pitch-black, and I was on a lousy mattress in a chilly room that smelled of the damp and the ocean.

“What is it?” I sat up, gasping for breath, heart thundering as though I'd been swimming far, far below the surface. I put a hand to my chest, and I could feel the heavy, frightened pounding of my heart.

Shit. Shit. Not now…

102

Josh Lanyon

“Sorry.” The light blazed on, leaving us both wincing. “Are you okay?” Jake was half out of bed, ready to come to my aid. His eyes looked black, and there were lines carved in his face that hadn't been there when we went to bed. “Sorry. Christ. I didn't mean to startle you.”

No, I could believe that. He was careful and quiet in the way he woke me, careful never to startle me awake. Careful even when I was already awake. I waited for my heart to start that old familiar stagger and reel. It didn't. It slowed, still steady, still regular.

No arrhythmia.

Normal.

Jake was still scrutinizing me with that intense, harrowed gaze. It must have been one hell of a nightmare.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

I quit pressing my hand to my heart—which was probably a large part of what was freaking him out. “Yeah. I am.” And I smiled.

He blinked, sank slowly down on the mattress.

“What did you dream?” I asked.

“I-it doesn't matter.”

I was silent, and he said reluctantly, “I dreamed he shot you. That I didn't move fast enough, and this time he killed you.”

I absorbed that without comment. No question of who
he
was.

“Do you dream that a lot?”

“All the time,” he said bitterly. “Nearly every damn night.” He rubbed his forehead.

I admitted, “I used to dream about it in the hospital. Not at all now.”

Silence.

Jake looked… I'd never seen that bleakness in his eyes. I'd seen wastelands that looked less desolate.

“You saved my life. And you told me not to get on that damn boat. You were very clear about it. 'Don't get on that boat,' is what you said. In words of one syllable, as I recall. I chose to go ahead.”

He didn't answer.

“Do me the courtesy of letting me take credit for my own bad decisions, okay? I take pride in my ability to be as big a screwup as the next guy.”

“Right.”

Seeing the shadows under his eyes, the grooves in his lean face, hurt. For all the times I'd wanted to make a dent in that arrogance, that almighty assurance, I couldn't bear him stricken with regret and self-doubt.

Did he know what I had believed him capable of for those few, terrible seconds? Probably.

“If you'll notice, I didn't waste any time asking for your help.”

“I noticed.”

He sounded…unutterably weary. Maybe dragging Jake into my problems wasn't fair.

Maybe he had already worked out exactly how unfair it was.

I started to ask, but he said, “You're shivering again.”

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“I'm freezing my ass off over here.”

The night wind gusted in, the weighted drapes knocking gently against the wall. I shuddered again and said, “Seriously. Is there room over there for me? I'm cold.”

It seemed like it took him time to translate. He shifted over without comment, lifting the blankets, and I scrambled into the warm sheets beside him. He smelled like soap and sleep and bare skin. He smelled familiar. Not the déjà vu familiar of Guy or Mel. Familiar like…the ache in your chest of homesickness, of longing for harbor after weeks of rough seas or craving a fire's warmth after snow—or wanting back something you should never have given away.

My feet touched his, and I felt him jump. “Christ. You're not kidding.”

“Told you.”

He caught my feet between his and rubbed them briskly. Now
there
was a highly underrated bedroom skill.

“We could always close the window.”

I shook my head. “This is good.”

He handed over a pillow, and I settled carefully on my side, facing him.

“You're playing with fire. You know that, right?”

I moved my head in negation. “Heart patient here, remember?”

That was deliberately misleading. Sex wasn't forbidden—acrobatics, sure—but non-strenuous intimacy was even encouraged. I could see Jake believed me, though. There was a tenderness in his eyes I could feel in my solar plexus.

His breath was warm against my face as he said, “You know, you can take off your shirt.

I'm not afraid of a few scars.”

“Take it off? It's all that's saving me from hypothermia.”

He made a derisive sound, reaching over me to turn off the lamp. “You really are full of shit, you know.”

“I know.”

In the safe darkness, we moved into each other's arms, his hold protective and careful.

“Are you still in a lot of pain?”

I shook my head. “No. Coughing isn't a lot of fun. Or sneezing. Or laughing.”

Not that I'd been laughing a lot of late.

His hands moved over my back. “I can count your ribs.”

“It's the new math.”

He continued to rub my back—small, soothing movements—and I stopped feeling self-conscious about my shoulder blades and ribs. It felt…nice. Nice to be held again. Nice to be touched by someone who wasn't a doctor or a nurse or a therapist. I hadn't even let myself consider how much I was missing this. How much I missed Jake.

I shifted, getting comfortable, and he moved to accommodate the sharps and angles of my body. “The worst thing is, I like to sleep on my side, and I can't right now.”

It made sleep difficult. Usually. Usually it made sleep difficult, but right now, finally warm and relaxing beneath that light touch, I was getting drowsy again.

He said softly, “This is the first time you've let me hold you since…”

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Josh Lanyon

It took me time to answer. “It's not that I don't want it. It's that I want it too much.”

“That's not the problem you think it is.”

“I wish that were true.”

It seemed he had no response to that. I was sliding into sleep when his lips brushed my forehead. He whispered, “I never met a more obstinate son of a bitch than you, baby.”

* * * * *

I raised my head, mumbled, “What are you doing?”

He paused the proceedings long enough to utter, “If you don't know, I must not be doing it correctly.”

I gulped a laugh, dropped my head back on the spongy pillow, and then, as he resumed, caught my breath. “
Jesus
.”

“Mmm?”

“Don't stop.” And that was a definite plea.

He spared another breath to order, “Lie back and take it easy, then.”

It was only too easy to take. And keep on taking. Not fair to Jake, though it seemed a bit late for protest, even if I'd had it in me. I arched, instinctively pushing into that wet heat.

Whimpered as he sucked harder. Dizzily, I thought that with that mouth action, he should have played the clarinet. His lips were tight, velvety, warm, all at the same time. Talk about embouchure. He sucked and pulled my cock like he was playing a slow, sweet piece of music.

Instead of producing warm waves of sound, lilting shocks of pleasure rolled through me from the tips of my toes to the prickling ends of my hair. Oh yeah, he was most definitely playing my song.

And in a minute I'd be singing along so loud, they would hear me out at sea. Me and the mermaids. Fireworks danced behind my eyelids, the muscles of my legs tightened, and all the will in the world couldn't keep my hips from thrusting hard in this extremity of pleasure.

The percussion section in my chest was going a mile a minute, and I didn't care, didn't care if I blasted into pieces, flew apart, as the crescendo swept through me, and I surged up and shot long jets, the silvery extended notes of pleasure that went on and on, and Jake took it all, swallowed it down verse and chorus.

I sank into the peaceful release, closed my eyes, and drifted away like music on the breeze.

* * * * *

My eyes flew open. I'd fallen into a much-deeper sleep than I'd intended; I'd meant to close my eyes for a few minutes and then give Jake relief of his own for that blissful and unexpected release. He was already dressed again, looking remarkably fresh and uncrinkled in body, soul, and outerwear.

“What time is it?”

“Eight. If we're going to get in to see Hale again, we ought to get over there early.”

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“Right.” I yawned so widely, my jaw cracked. I sat up, remembering my first awakening. I threw Jake an uncertain look. He was looking through his wallet. He looked like always. Which was reassuring. And disappointing.

But that was what I wanted, right? Anything else would have felt like pressure, wouldn't it?

I pushed up from the mattress and went into the bathroom to shower, barely looking at my reflection—when I remembered that I hadn't weighed myself. Hadn't weighed, hadn't taken my temperature. My heart rate was okay—at least until I realized I didn't have my morning meds either.

“Jake.”

He looked up quickly at my tone as I stepped out of the bathroom. “What's wrong?”

I explained what was wrong, getting more breathless and panicky by the second, not helped by the fact that he had turned away and was opening and closing the battered dresser drawers. What the fuck was he looking for in the middle of my medical emergency? Gideon's Bible?

About to acidly inquire, I stopped as he pulled out a phone book, flipped through it, and said, “Phone your doctor and tell him to call a prescription in to Rite Aid. I'll go pick it up while you finish dressing.”

There.

Simple. Easy. Why all the uproar? I sat down on the foot of the bed and put my face in my hands.

“Now what?” He crossed to the bed. Stood over me.

I couldn't answer. I was literally mute with relief—and embarrassment at how obviously I'd come unglued.

“Adrien?”

“Nothing.” I jumped up and went back in the bathroom, locked the door.

“Don't lock the door,” Jake ordered clearly on the other side.

I bit back the immediate and stupid comment that sprang to mind, and unlocked the door. I splashed cold water on my face, got myself under control, and exited the bathroom.

Back to the room, Jake stood gazing out the window at the ocean. He glanced around without comment.

I phoned my doctor, and Jake went to get my prescription. I took my shower and dressed, and when he arrived back at the hotel, we went to breakfast like calm, civilized folk.

In contrast to the night before, we had remarkably little to talk about over the oatmeal and scrambled eggs. He seemed preoccupied.

After breakfast we walked back across the parking lot to Sea View Manor.

At the front desk we asked after Dan Hale, and the silver-haired receptionist got a certain pained look on her face.

“Are you family?”

“No,” I answered. “We were here visiting yesterday.”