Night After Night.... Kristin Gabriel
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“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice raspy with both sleep and desire.
“Hannah was in a few minutes ago and unhooked you from the machine. There’s still some of that sticky gel on your forehead and in your hair. I was trying to wipe it off before it dried.”
A perfectly reasonable explanation. So why did his touch feel more like a seduction than a simple act of kindness? She saw no kindness in his eyes. Only heat and hunger and a stark, raw need that touched something deep inside of her. Something that made her want him even more, if that was possible.
But it didn’t matter how much she wanted him, she couldn’t have him. Not if she finally wanted to break her bad habit of falling too hard and too fast for the wrong kind of man. And Nate Cafferty had Mr. Wrong written over every inch of his sinfully delicious body.
“Please,” she began, her breath catching in her throat as his fingers trailed sensuously over the curve of her cheek and along the length of her jaw.
“Please what?” he whispered huskily.
She swallowed, drumming up every bit of willpower she possessed. “Please…stop. I think all the gel is off.”
To her surprise, he did.
Nate rolled away from her and sat up on his side of the bed. He wiped his fingers on a tissue from the nightstand. Then she heard him take a long, deep breath before reaching for his duffel bag on the floor.
Maybe Harlan was right and she could trust him.
Not that Nate could trust her. He didn’t even know her real name or identity, after all. But what did it really matter? After this sleep study ended, she’d never see the man again.
“Did you know you hog the covers?” Nate asked, pulling his T-shirt off, then tossing it in the bag.
Her mouth went dry at the way the muscles flexed over the width of his bare back and shoulders. “I do not.”
“Do, too,” he countered, glancing back at her with a smile.
Mia knew she should get out of bed, but she didn’t want Nate watching her walk around in her old, grungy nightshirt. The first item on her agenda this morning was a trip to the store to buy new sleepwear.
She looked up to find Nate staring intently at her.
“You know,” he said at last, “you don’t look like a Carleen.”
Mia had almost forgotten she was playing a part. The reminder was as effective as a bucket of ice water on all her forbidden fantasies about Nate.
“It’s a family name,” she improvised. “My grandmother was the youngest of eight girls. Her father’s name was Carl, so they called her Carleen when they realized they wouldn’t have a son to name after him.”
The words just kept tumbling out of her mouth, her tale growing taller by the second. Keep it simple, she admonished herself. The more details she gave him, the more holes he could poke in her story. She couldn’t afford to have him voice any suspicions about her to Dr. Longo.
“That’s interesting,” he said, shifting on the bed to face her. “What about Wimmer? Is that English? German?”
He seemed unusually fascinated with her name. Or did he feel as awkward as Mia and was simply trying to make conversation? Her awkwardness was due to the fact that he was still shirtless. Fortunately, the man seemed oblivious of his effect on her.
“It’s Dutch, actually,” she replied, having no clue as to the origin. “Short for Van De Wimmer. My ancestors changed it when they immigrated to America.”
He stared at her, as if waiting for more. But Mia had already lied enough for one morning. She rolled out of her side of the bed, taking the comforter with her. She wrapped it around her waist, then turned toward him. “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
He nodded, rising to his feet and facing her across the bed. “Same time, same place.”
Acutely aware that she probably didn’t look her best, Mia disappeared inside Graceland to wash up. When she emerged several minutes later, Nate was gone.
Anxious to return home so she could be herself again, Mia quickly packed her overnight bag and then headed for the door. Harlan Longo met her there, looking unusually chipper for so early in the morning.
“How did you sleep, Carleen?”
“Fine,” she lied, not wanting to admit that sharing a bed with Nate had kept her awake most of the night. She’d been all too aware of every breath he’d taken and every movement he’d made as he’d lain beside her in the dark.
“Good.” The older man smiled. “I knew Nate wouldn’t give you any trouble. He’s not the kind of man to take advantage of a woman. At least, not an unwilling woman.”
Those words lingered in her head as she made her way past the moat, the school bus and the chickens down to the front gate to retrieve her car. Instinct told her that Nate didn’t come across many unwilling women in his life. Just like Ian.
Which was reason enough to keep her distance.
NATE KNEW it wouldn’t take long for Harlan to find him. He’d just finished breakfast when his old friend walked into the dining room of the Longo estate.
“Well, how did it go?” Harlan asked, pouring himself a cup of hot tea.
“Not quite as I expected.” Nate tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. “Carleen Wimmer might just be my most intriguing case yet.”
Harlan pulled out a chair and sat down. “I think you’re wrong about her. Carleen doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who would scheme to marry for money. She’s too sweet. Too pretty.”
“That’s how she reels in men like Tobias Hamilton,” Nate replied. “Guys fall for that sweet and innocent act all the time.”
Harlan arched a silver brow. “But not you?”
Nate didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m just doing my job.”
“That’s what concerns me.” Harlan set his teacup on the table. “Look, Nate, I know it’s none of my business, but you’re almost thirty years old. Don’t make the same mistake I did by letting your work become your life. You just might live to regret it.”
The light dimmed in Harlan’s eyes and Nate knew he was thinking about his late wife. Those stupid public allegations about Harlan neglecting her illness had taken their toll. Few people knew that Adele Longo had refused treatment for her terminal illness, preferring to spend her last days at home with her husband.
Nate hadn’t seen either one of them for years, losing contact with his foster parents shortly after his high school graduation, though he gave them all the credit for his making it that far.
His own father had left home when Nate was seven years old and his mother had turned to a whiskey bottle for comfort instead of to her only son. She was a mean drunk—taking out her anger and pain on the easiest target. Nate soon learned that words could hurt more than fists. He’d endured the pain of both, always hoping that one day his mother would realize how much he loved her. That he’d endure anything if she’d just be happy again.
Growing up, he’d spent more and more time on the streets, falling in with a neighborhood gang of tough kids. When he was thirteen years old, his mother had lost her job and they’d been threatened with eviction. So one night, Nate and his gang had burglarized a liquor store. A night that had changed his life forever.
That was the last time he’d seen his mother. She’d come to the police station the next morning, still suffering from the effects of a hangover, to tell him he was as worthless as his no-good father. Then she’d signed the formal papers terminating her parental rights. Oblivious to Nate’s pleas for a second chance, she’d turned him over to the state and left him without a backward glance. Years later, he found out she eventually died of cirrhosis