Sinister Intentions & Confiscated Conception Read online

“If this is supposed to be a charming seduction, you’re not doing very well.”

  “Ah, yes, I’m acting ‘Irish’ again.”

  “No. Just like a drill sergeant.”

  “Honest to God, Kit, I didn’t start this. I didn’t say a single negative word. You’re picking the fights, creating the argument.”

  “No—you started it. You presumed.”

  “I ‘presumed.’ Ah, come on, Katherine! Damn!” he swore suddenly, his eyes glued to the road, and Kit looked ahead to see that she was about to smash head-on into a delivery truck. She swerved quickly, coming to a halt on the shoulder of the road. Her hands shaking, she covered her face. If they’d been any closer to the gray granite cliffs of the coast, there would have been nowhere to swerve.

  She couldn’t look at Justin, but she expected his verbal tirade to come lashing against her any second. It didn’t. She hadn’t realized how badly she was trembling until she felt him gently removing her hands from her face, forcing her to look at him with very wide, very frightened blue eyes.

  He smiled and stroked her cheek once with his knuckles. “May I drive, Kit?” he asked softly. “We’re both nervous this morning.” He gave her a rueful smile. “But I’m familiar with the roads, and you’re not.”

  She didn’t answer him. She just opened the door and got out of the car. By the time she had walked around it, he had shifted over in the seat and the motor was humming again.

  He was silent when he pulled back onto the road, and the silence seemed to grow louder and louder, tense and electric. Kit looked down at her folded hands; they were still trembling. And then Justin began to talk.

  “I read your book on Nassau.”

  “You did?” she asked, startled.

  He nodded, his eyes still on the road. “Actually,” he said softly, “I have all of them. I have an associate in New York who sends them to me.”

  “Oh?”

  “I liked them very much.”

  “Well,” Kit murmured, “my things are really rather specialized. They’re for the tourist who has an interest in history, rather than suntanning or gambling.”

  “Oh, I imagine a number of people would really enjoy learning some of the history of what they’re seeing.”

  “Well, I hope so.”

  “Had you been planning to work today?”

  Kit hesitated. “I was going to drive around and try to absorb some local color; then I was going to read.”

  “How about if we get your things into the cottage, drive south to a pub I know for lunch, and then I’ll bring you home again in time to meet Mike when he gets here?”

  He glanced her way quickly, smiling. Kit nodded, suddenly grateful for the casual conversation, the return to normalcy between them. “Lunch sounds nice.”

  As she turned away to look out the window, she saw that the landscape had already changed. They were nearing the coast. The emerald-green fields were gone, and the crags and cliffs were rising, along with the moan of the wind. Mauve flowers were interspersed with ragged tufts of grass that clung to the rocky ground, and the air smelled of salt.

  The cottage lay before them.

  Justin brought the car to a stop. Kit clamped her hands tightly together in her lap and stared at the small house. It hadn’t changed, of course, but she already knew that. She’d seen it yesterday when she had brought Mike here. But this was different. She hadn’t intended to go inside then, and now she was going to stay.

  Justin got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He went up to the door and unlocked it, and Kit thought dimly about the fact that he was opening the door when he had already given her the key.

  All landlords probably had extra keys, but clearly it would never have occurred to him that she might object to him using his own key while she was staying there.

  He walked back to the car and opened the trunk; then, with her suitcase in his hand, he walked around to her.

  “Are you all right, Kit?”

  She nodded.

  “Are the memories of Michael...too strong?”

  She lowered her head, ashamed. She hadn’t been thinking about Michael at all; she had been remembering her last night here.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  To prove her point, she stepped out of the car and started up the walk. She noticed the beautiful wildflowers growing along the front. And then she stepped into the cottage, and it was as if eight years of her life had never been. She knew it so well. The kitchen to the right, the parlor to the left. And the stairs that led to the bedroom.

  Justin was behind her, nudging her slightly. She had to move, so she walked into the parlor.

  A beautiful arrangement of fresh flowers sat on the lace-covered table, and a warm fire burned in the hearth, giving the room a welcoming, lived-in feeling.

  She walked over to the fire and put her hands out to feel the warmth of the low blaze. She was shaking, and she knew it. She prayed that the warmth would calm her, yet she wondered if anything could. Inside, deep inside, she was hot and then cold, and she felt as if she could never be still. She was nervous and excited and afraid, and her throat was bone-dry.

  Justin stood behind the chair, his fingers curled over the back of it. “There’s milk in the refrigerator, along with butter, eggs, bacon and bread. Not much, but a start.”

  “That was thoughtful of you. Food, flowers...a fire. It’s all very nice.”

  “Well,” he admitted, “I ordered the food, but you’ve Molly to thank for the flowers.”

  “Oh. Still, it’s all very kind.”

  “Not presumptuous?”

  Kit nodded, her back to him. “Yes,” she whispered. “Presumptuous, too—but kind. Thank you.”

  “Shall we have something? Tea—?”

  “No!” Kit whirled around in horror. Her eyes met Justin’s just as he realized what he had said, and he smiled, shaking his head.

  “Normal tea, Kit. Irish breakfast tea.”

  She looked down, suddenly embarrassed, and turned to the fire. It cracked and popped, and the room seemed very small. He was silent, and she suddenly felt as if she had to talk.

  “Justin, lunch sounds lovely, and all this is very nice, but we’re missing the whole point, and you just brought it up.”

  “I did?”

  “Justin, eight years ago—God knows why!—someone put something into my tea. Michael went over a cliff, and a young girl was murdered. And now you’re being accused of murder again, and we’re talking about books and flowers.” She spun around to face him close to tears. “I know you didn’t do it, and—”

  She hadn’t really been aware that he had moved. Suddenly he was just there, in front of her, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her chin, and he was lifting it, very gently, staring into her eyes.

  “Kit... Katherine, you mustna’ worry about me. I am innocent, and I want you here, near to me, because someone is a murderer, and I’d not have you hurt. I’ll discover the truth; I promise you that. Kit...”

  “Justin...”

  It was barely a whisper, and it was quickly silenced as he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips met the quivering softness of hers, and their breath mingled with the bittersweet beauty of the kiss. A sudden rush of tenderness had brought him to her, but then it passed and a storm began to rage, stripping away time and pretense and inhibition.

  Justin had been waiting for eight years. For a lifetime.

  Her lips parted beneath his, and his tongue began to delve and probe, to cajole and explore, while his arms, trembling, swept around her, dragging her against him. She was soft and warm, her heart pounding, and through the soft knit of her shirt and the cotton of his shirt he could feel her breasts against his chest. He could feel her nipples harden, and it was as if something inside him soared and exploded. His fingers were in her hair, and it was like silk cascading down around hi
m. He had to let her go. He had to step back, to lift his mouth from hers. He had to put some distance between them or...

  “Oh...”

  It was the softest, most provocative sound he had ever heard. He did draw away, but only an inch, and only for a second. He stared into her eyes and thought of what she had done, and of all that she was still hiding from him, and then those thoughts fled, because only one thing really mattered to him now, and that was raw desire. But it was more, too, because despite all the fever and gut-wrenching need he felt, he could never see her, never touch her, never inhale the sweet scent of her, without being overwhelmed by tenderness.

  And now...

  Her hair was wild and beautiful, a halo to frame the lustrous magic of her eyes. Her neck was slender, and he could see the beat of her pulse, a throbbing that caused him to wet lips that had gone dry, to straighten and feel as if his body had tautened to steel.

  “Lunch.” She merely mouthed the word; there was no sound to it. Her lips were still parted, her immense eyes were still on him, and her mouth was ever so slightly damp and shining from his kiss. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly, and the velvet whisper of her breath fell against his cheek.

  This can’t be right, Kit thought, but she couldn’t move, and she found herself praying that Justin would be as arrogant and confident as she accused him of being. She prayed that he would touch her again.

  “Lunch.” His voice faltered, and the rich baritone was husky, but at least he managed to give substance to the word.

  His lips against hers, the flagrant foray his tongue had made deep into her mouth, had stolen breath and sanity from her. She could still feel his body against hers, and she thought she would die if he didn’t touch her again.

  And then he did.

  He smiled, slowly, ruefully, and stretched out his arm, his fingers lacing into the hair at her nape, pulling her toward him. He brushed a kiss against the top of her head and whispered, “Who are we kidding?”

  And then his touch was no longer gentle. His finger caught her chin and lifted it, and when his lips seared hers again she nearly cried out at the intensity of the hunger, the need, he aroused in her. She clung to him, eager to meet and savor each thrust of his tongue, to luxuriate in the strength of her passion for him.

  She felt his hand sliding beneath her shirt to the bare flesh of her midriff. Her skin seemed to burn with his touch. Then his hand covered her breast, his fingers teasing over the lacy fabric of her bra, then slipping beneath it, too. His thumb coursed over her nipple, and she leaned against him, hungering for more of his kiss, of his touch.

  Then he drew them both down to the soft hearth rug, and as he placed her there, he spread her hair out around her, smiling. And then she missed his kiss, missed that ardent pressure of lips against hers. He had drawn back and begun stripping away his tailored shirt, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

  “There’s nothing between us now, Kit. No drug, no force—and no pretense.”

  She nodded, because she couldn’t speak. And because his shirt was gone and she had to put her hand out, had to place her palm against the rippling muscle and crisp black hair on his chest. She had to move her fingers in fascination over his flesh, his nipples, his ribs, until he grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips. He kissed them and suckled them, and she inhaled sharply. He was wrong, she thought. She was drugged; no force on earth could affect her more potently than the sight and feel of him.

  Groaning, he quickly kicked his shoes and socks away, then hurriedly shimmied out of his jeans and briefs. And then he looked at her with amazement, as if he couldn’t believe she was still clothed when he was entirely naked.

  Magnificently naked, she thought, and she couldn’t even tell him that just the sight of him was enough to paralyze her. His body was sleek and muscled, lean and fascinating. And his desire for her was completely evident. He wasn’t even blushing, while she was sure she was turning a dozen shades of red.

  “Katherine...?”

  It was both a question and a reproach, but it was spoken with tenderness and humor—and hunger. No one else ever said her name quite that way, in that deep, haunting tenor and with that trace of a lilt that proclaimed him Ireland’s own. Her name became a sensual caress on his lips.

  And then he touched her again.

  He slipped off her boots, then arrogantly stripped away her skirt and stockings and panties with one sweeping gesture. His hands against the flesh of her thighs were hot, and she gasped for breath as she reveled in the sensation. He pulled her up to lift the shirt over her head, but suddenly he became fascinated with her kneecap. And his kiss didn’t stop there. It grazed against her inner thigh, and she was suddenly neither silent nor still, but whispering his name urgently, fumbling out of her shirt and moving into his arms.

  His fingers found the hook of her bra, and her breasts fell into his hands like a gift of ripe fruit. His kisses tarried there while she wrapped her arms around him and nipped his shoulders with a shuddering, quivering rapture. This couldn’t be true. It felt so good to be here, to be in his arms, to give herself up to sensual fires raging through her....

  She felt as if this was the most beautiful moment she would ever know in her life. It was as if they had both been deprived forever.

  Justin marveled at the silkiness of her hair, the way it fell over his flesh and caressed him. He savored the taste of her flesh, the rounded weight of her breasts, the supple shape of her calves and her thighs, and the sensual curve of her hips.

  To him, their lovemaking was like a miracle, as she wound her long legs around him and stared at him with eyes that were both sultry and innocent. She shivered and gasped and wet her lips, closing her eyes with the depth of her passion, and closing her body around him as he thrust into her. He felt sheathed in silk, hot and wet, sheathed in her body. Her eyes met his, matching his urgency, matching his need. And that honesty had cost her, he knew, and that made the moment even more beautiful.

  She was incapable of holding back. She had to touch him, had to run her fingers along his back, had to cling to him while he moved within her, filling her with pleasure so intense that she could scarcely bear it. She kept her eyes on him, because she had to see his face—taut, teeth clenched, muscles straining. His eyes, too, were burning with the heat of his desire. Then her vision blurred, because he kissed her. His tongue filled her mouth as his body filled hers, and then the molten pleasure burst through her. Volatile shudders swept through her with the force of her release, and she moaned his name aloud as he joined her at the peak.

  It was long minutes before he pulled away from her. They were both damp from the passion they had generated, and she flushed slightly, but she didn’t look away from him. She merely smiled shyly and stroked his cheek.

  He caught her hand, kissed the back, then held it against his cheek. “Promise me one thing, Katherine.”

  “What?” she asked hoarsely.

  “That you’ll not run away again. Promise me. Swear to it. Because I’ll find you this time, you know.”

  She smiled at him. She was afraid that she was going to cry because it had been so good between them, and because it was still so good to be here with him, both of them naked and comfortable and not at all afraid.

  “I swear it,” she vowed. But he was staring at her so intently that she was a little bit nervous, and she murmured, “Do you...do you still want to go to lunch?”

  He didn’t laugh; he only kissed her lips. “What is it? A loaf of bread, a jug of wine—and thou?” He smiled. “Nay, lass, it’s not lunch I want. I want time. Time with you. All the time that I’ve lost.”

  There was nothing for her to say—because all she wanted was him.

  Chapter 7

  Justin lay on the bed, his bronzed torso very dark against the crisp white of the sheets. His fingers were idly laced behind his head, and he was leaning
comfortably against two plump pillows. His lashes fell over half-closed eyes that appeared lazy, but were in truth narrowed in speculation. He hardened himself against emotion as he watched Kit.

  It had been a week since they had first come here to the cottage. A week in which they had spent nearly all their time together. Discreetly, of course, since she did have a young son. And they both had work that couldn’t be ignored. But not a day had passed in which they hadn’t seen one another, hadn’t given in to the strength of the feelings that lay between them.

  It had been a week of discovery. By silent agreement, nothing ugly and nothing frightening—and certainly nothing painful—had been discussed. Even when he had shown Kit the bolts on the door and explained the window catches, neither of them had mentioned the reason why it was so important for her to keep everything locked. Nor did they do so when he showed her the instant-dial lines on the phone: one instantly rang his house, a second got Constable Liam O’Grady’s office, a third would reach Barney Canail, and as a last safeguard, a fourth contacted Jamie Jameson.

  They hadn’t talked about the past, only the present. Kit had made no confessions, nor had she even intimated that she might need to confess, and that made Justin angry.

  At times he felt wearily resigned, so he watched her, as he was doing now. It hadn’t been so long, he told himself. Not really. They’d seen each other daily, but only twice had they had a chance to throw caution and discretion to the winds and give in to their desire.

  And now they had tonight.

  Mike was away on a school field trip. It had been difficult for Kit to let him go, Justin knew, and he had felt a few twinges himself. But not only was Douglas Johnston in charge of the group, Molly had gone along with them, and so had Barney Canail, who had left his deputy in charge of his department.

  So they were alone. Completely alone. And again, by tacit agreement, they had planned a quiet evening, a domestic evening, just like an old married couple. He’d brought flowers and wine, while Kit had prepared a wonderful beef Wellington with parslied potatoes and a green salad, and they’d eaten by candlelight. Dinner had been wonderfully romantic, their knees touching beneath the table, one of her stockinged feet occasionally brushing over his ankle, his fingers curling over hers where they lay on top of the tablecloth. She had laughed a lot, but nervously, filling him with desire. Vivaldi had played softly on the stereo, and they had discussed movies and plays and music, and been delighted by both their shared likes and the spirit of their disputes.