Superstition (44 page)

“I know.” There was, quite simply, no other answer she could give.

His hand left her breast to slide around her back. When she felt the slight tug at her nape and heard the unmistakable sound of her zipper being lowered, she shivered. Cool air caressed her spine. She could feel his knuckles pressing against the first tender curve of her butt, just below where the zipper ended. The zipper gaped, and his hand slipped inside to glide warm and flat up her bare back. The sensation made her breath catch. In deference to the heat, she was wearing a simple linen shift—easy on, easy off—with little kitten-heeled slides and no hose. His mouth crawled around the base of her throat, his hand stroked down her spine—and she opened her eyes and gave a little shake of her head in an effort to clear it and stepped back, away from him. For a moment, as her hands lingered on his broad shoulders, on his strong arms, she was conscious of a tiny sliver of uncertainty about what she was doing.

This was Joe—but the truth was, she reminded herself, she didn’t really know this man at all.

“Nicky.” His voice was husky, his face hard and dark with desire. But he wasn’t trying to keep her. If she wanted to go, he would let her go. Whatever else he was, whatever he might have done or been, he had never been less than protective of her. The knowledge chased away her last lingering doubt. The look in his eyes—it made her dizzy. Heat shimmered in the air between them, pure chemistry, but something more, too. Something that she’d been edging toward but now, under the circumstances, didn’t want to face. Not yet.

She dropped her arms, gave a delicate shrug, and let her dress slither down her body to her ankles. His eyes blazed at her, heavy-lidded no longer. They seemed to scorch her as they followed the path of the dress in a quick, comprehensive sweep. Her undies were pretty, delicate things, thin coffee-colored nylon and lace. She looked good in them, she knew, and she could tell he thought so, too.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and reached for her. Stepping out of the puddle of citrine linen around her feet, she slid her hands up under his shirt as he pulled her close. His waist felt warm and smooth. The muscles beneath were taut and sleek, resilient, contracting when she stroked them. Her hands moved up over his chest, over a wide, firm expanse of hair-roughened skin. She was still reveling in the feel of him when he made a slight choked sound that caused her to look up.

For a second, no longer, as her hands stroked over the honed contours of his chest, his eyes gleamed hotly at her. Then he kissed her. He let go of her once more to pull his T-shirt over his head. Nicky had just a moment to absorb the splendor of his wide shoulders, his muscled arms and chest, the triangle of black hair that tapered down over washboard abs to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans, before he scooped her up into his arms and started walking and kissing her at the same time.

Twining her arms around his neck, dazzled by the easy strength with which he carried her, she let her head fall against the firm pillow of his shoulder and kissed him as if kissing him was the one thing she most wanted to do in life.

Her shoes fell off, one at a time. They each hit the hardwood floor with a small clatter. She didn’t hear, or notice that they were gone.

She was so bedazzled that she didn’t even notice that they were in his bedroom until he kicked the door shut behind them.

That sound was loud enough to get her attention. Her eyes opened in reaction.

The living room had been well and warmly lit. The bedroom was dark and cool. Mini-blinds over a single window were striped with slivers of moonlight. A small air conditioner purred busily. Her eyes found an easy chair in the far corner, and then, as Joe lifted his mouth from hers and rested a knee on something, she realized that they had reached his bed. He hadn’t actually slept in it for a while, she remembered, as she realized that the bed was made. At least, she felt the soft, smooth thickness of what appeared to be a light-colored comforter beneath her back, and as far as she could see, the pillows looked tidy, so she assumed it was made. Then he came down beside her. The mattress sank beneath his weight, tipping her toward him, and she lost all awareness of everything except him.

His mouth was hard and hot and urgent as it found hers, and his hands were, too, sliding over her body, stroking her, finding and caressing her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She quivered, trembled, pressed herself close, her hands and mouth as greedy for him as he was for her. They were in a hurry, both of them, pulling at each other’s clothes until they were naked. She felt the moist heat of his mouth on her breasts, on her nipples, and moaned. His hand slid between her thighs, working its magic until she gasped and squirmed with pleasure and came arching up off the bed. Just as she thought she was going to climax, had to climax, he stopped what he was doing and kissed her mouth again, leaving her trembling and dizzy and empty, and she slid her hands down his warm back, over the firm, round contours of his butt, lightly scoring his skin with her nails, as a kind of tender punishment.

“Jesus,” he said, his voice so low and hoarse that it was almost a groan. His thighs, rough with hair and warm and strong, slid between hers. Then he pushed inside her, and he was huge and hot and she was on fire, burning up, melting as he moved in and out, thrusting deep and fast, taking her with him on a wild, hot ride that had her clinging to him and crying out and climaxing at last in a shattering series of fast, furious explosions that sent her rocketing away to some mysterious Technicolor universe where she had never been before.

“Nicky,” he groaned against her neck, then drove into her quivering body with a fierce, deep thrust that sent her over the edge one more time as he found his own release. “Oh, God,
Nicky
.”

Afterward, all she could do was breathe. She was limp with exhaustion and sated with pleasure and totally mindless.

But not for long. The thing about reality is that there’s no escaping it, even after some truly mind-blowing sex. So after her mind returned from orbit and her body calmed down a little, she was left to face the situation she had put herself in—which was, in a nutshell, the fact that she was naked in bed with Joe.

Her eyes were accustomed to the dark by this time, and the tiny slices of moonlight filtering through the mini-blinds helped, too. She could see him fairly well. He was lying flat on his back beside her, staring up at the ceiling, one arm tucked beneath his head. The set of his jaw looked grim. The hard line of his mouth looked grim. In fact, everything about his expression looked grim, and she realized once again that she didn’t know this man at all.

Which was not an especially comforting thought to have when she was curled naked against his side with a hand splayed across his chest, a thigh curved over his thigh, and his arm around her shoulders.

To say nothing of the fact that just beyond him, on the night table, rested his shiny black gun.

He was a dirty cop, an accused murderer, who had been involved in drug deals.

As far as new boyfriends went, none of the above was particularly promising. Taken as a whole, it was downright scary. She’d always made safe choices before: doctors, lawyers, accountants.

Boring maybe, but safe.

Never in her wildest dreams had she ever pictured herself getting naked and horizontal with someone who was not certifiably one of the good guys.

But here she was.

His eyes cut her way. Nicky almost jumped.

“If your eyes get any bigger, they’re going to pop right out of your head.” His voice was dry. He pulled his arm from beneath her and rolled out of bed. Nicky got an eyeful of tight, round butt and a lean, muscular back, and then he turned to face her and she got the full Monty. Of course, everything was veiled by shadow, but even without a clear view, it was obvious that what she was looking at was a very impressive package.

Then she realized that he was looking at her, too. The set of his jaw and mouth was still grim, but there was something about his eyes. . . .

Clearly, grim or not, he liked what he saw.

“So-o,” she said, because he wasn’t talking and it seemed somebody should. She sat up, tucking her legs beneath her as gracefully as she could and resisting the urge to wrap up in the tangled sheet—the comforter and pillows had hit the floor long since—only by reminding herself that such a display of modesty might make her look less than in control of herself, him, and the situation, which, since she wasn’t, was an excellent illusion to maintain. Besides, it was dark. Reasonably dark. “What happens now?”

Without answering, he reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed. Nicky barely swallowed a squeak as the action threw a soft circle of light over the place where she was sitting. His eyes moved over her, touching on all pertinent areas, and she watched them darken and heat. He stood there, casually naked, and she couldn’t help but look, too. He was lean and muscular, and so hot that her heartbeat speeded up even though seconds before she would have sworn that she was so sated that there was no possible way she could ever be in the mood again, and she realized that whatever she might now know about him, the physical attraction between them was so strong that she wasn’t just going to be able to turn her back on him and walk away.

And, while she was being honest, she might as well admit that the attraction went deeper than the mere physical—which left her exactly where?

“So, what happens now?” she asked again.

His lips compressed and his eyes narrowed. “We get dressed and get on with our lives.” He was already on the move, rounding the foot of the bed, scooping up his jeans as he went. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she said, but he was out the door by that time. If he heard, he didn’t reply.

Nicky scowled after him, scooted off the bed, and grabbed the sheet to twine around herself. Under the circumstances, she didn’t need his attitude. And she didn’t understand.
She
was the one who should be doing the whole hate-yourself-in-the-morning thing, not him.

Unless . . .

He
wasn’t
guilty, and was just too damned stupid, stubborn, or macho (which was basically the same thing as the first two options combined) to tell her so.

The thing was, he had always made her feel safe.

Nicky paused in the act of stomping after him to consider. Her gaze touched on her panties, peeking out from under the comforter, which was now on the floor. Glancing around, she discovered her bra crumpled near the nightstand. The position of both was silent testimony to the urgency with which they had been discarded. She and Joe had been so hot for each other that they’d come together in what was practically a fever. For him to be so prickly and standoffish after such really great sex was a definite red flag. The question was, a red flag indicating what? Picking up her undies, she headed for the bathroom. They were going to talk this out, whether he liked it or not. That being the case, she preferred not to initiate the conversation while she was wrapped in a sheet and still all flushed and sweaty with sex.

Grimacing at the giant daisies on the glass doors of the tub enclosure, Nicky took the fastest shower on record, toweled herself dry, put on her bra and panties, brushed her hair, and, with an encouraging grimace at her own reflection, left the bathroom. He wasn’t in the living room, she was glad to see as she reached it, so she was able to step into her dress without an audience. Zipping it up in a hurry, she walked barefoot into the only other place he could possibly be: the kitchen.

Sure enough, he was leaning against the counter at the far end of the small, galley-style kitchen, smoking a cigarette. Just beyond him, beady little black eyes glinted at her through the glass in the back door, and after an instant’s surprise, Nicky realized that she must be looking at the pig she’d seen Joe with on TV. Since, at the moment, she was far more interested in the man himself, she ignored the pet in favor of focusing on Joe. He was fully dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt he had discarded earlier, and like her, he was barefoot. His jaw was dark with five o’clock shadow, his hair was tousled, and he radiated attitude.

Now she was prepared to deal with it.

“Okay,” she said, skirting the table that seemed to serve as both desk and eating area. “Now we talk.”

He pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

“Hell, yeah, it was good for me.” The falsely hearty tone grated. “How about you?” Then his mouth twisted and his voice returned to normal. “That what you had in mind?”

Nicky ignored what she recognized as a blatant attempt at provocation. Stopping in front of him, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the same direct look she would give any potentially difficult interview subject.

“This is where you tell me
your
side of the story.” Joe stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and took a long drag. He exhaled before answering, and the smoke curled around his head.

“What makes you think there is a
my side of the story
?”

“Isn’t there?” The smell of smoke tickled Nicky’s nostrils. Ordinarily, she hated the smell—but this was Joe.

“No, Pollyanna, there isn’t.”

Her eyes challenged him. “So all that stuff is true.”

“Hey, I’m not admitting to a thing. The charges were dropped, remember? I sure don’t want to get them reinstated.”

“They were dropped due to a technicality.”

He shrugged. “Worked for me.”

“Don’t you want to clear your name?”

“Not particularly.”

“CNN is going to say that you took bribes from drug dealers to let them stay in business.”

“I have no control over CNN. It can say whatever it wants.”

“If it’s not true, we can stop them. Or at least run a story giving your version of events.”

“There is no
my version of events
. I’ve got nothing to say.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? What if I don’t have a different version of events? What if their version of events is the only one there is?”