Undone by Moonlight. Wendy Etherington
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“I’d threaten to hold your pain meds hostage, but you’d probably dip into the whiskey bottle again.”
“I think I’ll lay off the whiskey for a while.”
“Wise idea. You can’t go home, somebody tried to kill you.”
“A bump on the head isn’t a near-death experience.”
“But whoever hit you and the guy you chased is out there. What if he comes looking for you?”
Devin laid his hand on his side, where he usually carried his pistol. By the expression on his face, she could tell he wasn’t happy by its absence.
“Us regular folks can’t carry a gun in the city,” she reminded him.
“They took my badge, too.”
There was a world of frustration in those five simple words. Though he wasn’t big on sharing, she knew he defined himself by his job. The possibility of losing it was no doubt terrifying.
Counting on rejection, but past caring, she grasped his hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you get it back.”
He looked, not at her, but their joined hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to handle this alone.”
“Why?”
His gaze moved to hers. “It’s my problem.”
“There’s no weakness in accepting help from a friend,” she said gently, sensing he was on the verge of bolting.
“And we’re friends.”
“Aren’t we?”
His bright green eyes stood out starkly from his tanned skin. People of Irish and Italian decent really should mate more often if this was the result. Her friends thought he was gorgeous, but dark and rough. She saw him as wounded and lonely. He spoke to her on an elemental level, and deeper feelings were undeniably lurking.
Feelings he seemed determined to ignore or deny.
“I thought so,” she said finally to his question about friendship.
“Are we more than friends?”
Her heart gave a swift kick to her ribs. “Pardon me?”
“We didn’t …” He trailed off and clearly struggled to continue. She wondered if he was even aware he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “I mean, I didn’t … do anything with you last night, did I?”
There’d been some clumsy passes, of course, but they, unfortunately, meant nothing. Was that what he was talking about? In his case, thing could mean something as monumental as having a conversation for more than two minutes. “Do what kind of thing?”
“I woke up naked.”
Her face turned pink. “I thought you’d be more comfortable out of your clothes.” He did more for a black T-shirt and jeans than anybody she knew, but the view beneath the cotton was exponentially better. Not that she’d looked. For long. She cleared her throat. “I was expecting some kind of undergarment, actually. Do you always …?”
“No. I need to do laundry.”
“Ah. And the scar on your hip?”
“I got stabbed.”
He gave the explanation with the same casual tone that most people used for “I think I’ll have fries with my burger,” intriguing and mystifying her more than ever.
And he was still caressing her hand. She inched toward him. Yes, he was injured, confused, weak and needy—even if he didn’t want to admit he was. It would be wrong, very wrong, to take advantage of him in his current state.
And yet her libido was also needy and it was whispering seductively about the possibility of this being her one and only opportunity with him. She’d been crushing on him for six months. Other than the head wound plus alcohol fiasco of the night before, he seemed determined not to make the first move. Any move, actually.
Yet, somewhere, somewhere way deep down, she sensed he needed her with the same intensity.
Texans were nothing if not determined and resilient. She certainly knew how to take control. And she had a much better weapon than a firearm.
Before her conscience could talk sense into her, or he could think quickly enough to shove her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.
Desperate as the move was, it was worth the reward.
He crushed her against him, bracing his hand at the back of her head to hold her in place as he drove his tongue past her lips. Her senses ignited, and he fanned the flames, consuming her like a man starved for air.
Finally was all she could think. Finally he’d let go of the tight rein he held on his control.
She embraced his heat, his aggression and need. Everything about him enticed her to learn more, to be drawn further into the inferno. Why was he so determined to be alone? What had made him so cynical and stony? Why did she want so badly to find out if anything soft lingered beneath?
As the thought occurred, his touch turned gentle. His hand, braced at the small of her back, slid around her waist, glided down her hip. If he tugged the ties of her robe, she’d be standing before him in nothing but panties and a camisole, but he seemed more interested in her mouth.
Dreams she’d had alone in her bed, in the dead of night rushed back. How often had she woken in a sweat, so sure he’d been with her between the sheets, positive she smelled his cologne on her skin, only to find herself alone and aching instead?
Fantasies never lived up to their impossible promises, yet she continued to hope and wonder. Now she finally had him.
I dream of you day and night.
Had he felt the same? Had he longed for her, too? Would this disastrous frame-up bring them together in a way their past connections hadn’t been able to?
He pushed her away roughly and suddenly, and she glimpsed the fire in his eyes seconds before he spun with a muttered “sorry” before he stalked down the hall, slamming the door behind him.
Breathing hard, Calla stood rigid where he’d left her. Most of her questions were still frustratingly unanswered. She knew he wanted her, but he refused to give into that need. She intended to find out why.
Because friendship was far from the only thing she wanted.
“OKAY, GIRLS,” CALLA said to her best buds via her laptop’s video link. “I’ve got a serious problem here.”
“Let me guess,” Victoria began, then sipped from a coffee mug while the window at her back exhibited a collection of Manhattan high-rises. “Antonio’s in a bad mood.”
Shelby, the Swiss Alps at her back, frowned, her normally golden-hazel eyes dark with concern. “Is he okay, Calla? Why didn’t he come to the wedding?”
“It’s a big, damn mess.”
Calla told her friends the abbreviated version of assault, frame-up and suspension. “We’ve got to help him.”
“Certainly we will,” Shelby said immediately.
“Does he want us to help him?” Victoria asked. “Antonio doesn’t seem like the needy type.”
“He needs us,” Calla insisted, though she knew Victoria was right. “He’s concussed and suspended.”
“And angry, I’ll bet,” Victoria added.
Calla bit her lip. “Actually, he raced out of here, slamming the door behind him, about five minutes ago.” She paused, taking care not to look her friends’ directly in the eye. “Course that might have been because I kissed him.”
“Well, that would—”