Her eyes skittered to the pillows they’d left jumbled before Novak had called them back to the hospital. ‘Sex,’ she said, her voice going husky, her cheeks going pink.
The erection that had been uncomfortable became painful. ‘Yes. I won’t deny it. I haven’t been celibate, but I’ve never been indiscriminate. And I’ve always been safe.’
‘Good to know,’ she murmured.
‘But it was more than sex, Daphne. It was . . .’ He hated admitting it, but her opinion of him was too important to let it go unspoken. ‘After Jo, I was dead inside for a long time. As time passed, I healed but I was so incredibly alone. The women I’ve known kept the loneliness at bay. For a little while.’
Her eyes flew back to his, darkly turbulent. ‘I find myself terribly conflicted,’ she said. ‘I know lonely, and I never would’ve wanted that for you. But I’m still wishing every woman who’s ever had you to a fiery perdition. And I have no right.’
He might have smiled at her phrasing, but she was dead serious and so was he.
‘I think you believe there are more to wish to perdition than really existed. There haven’t been that many. And none since the day I met you.’
She swallowed hard. ‘What about the bank executive, the flight attendant, the surgeon, the actress?’
All of the women he’d brought as dates to her fundraisers. ‘Nice women, all of them. None of them looking for a relationship any more than I was. They wanted a night out, where they could wear their bling. Not even one nightcap in the bunch.’ He shook his head with a small smile, remembering. ‘They’re all old friends. A few of them actually wished you to a fiery perdition.’
Her brows shot up. ‘Me? Why?’
He lifted a shoulder awkwardly. ‘You were breaking my heart.’
Her lips parted in surprise. ‘Because of Clay?’
‘Yep.’ He trailed a fingertip across her smooth, rosy cheek. ‘You say you don’t have a right to resent anyone who came before. You have every right, just no need. They didn’t matter to me. All of them were a pale imitation of what I’d lost. Of what I want. Which is what I see right now.’ She went statue still, not breathing even though her pulse fluttered wildly at the hollow of her throat. ‘I knew it the moment you walked through Grayson’s front door. You matter, Daphne. You matter to me.’
Her eyes closed, new tears seeping from beneath her eyelids. ‘I’ve waited so long to hear somebody say that to me,’ she whispered, breaking his heart all over again.
Joseph put his laptop on the floor, the search he’d been running forgotten. Threading his fingers through her hair, he pressed his lips to her forehead, her wet cheeks, the corner of her trembling mouth. ‘You matter to me,’ he repeated hoarsely.
Then her hands were gripping the back of his neck and she was on her knees beside him, leaning over him, kissing him with a hunger that wiped every thought from his mind except getting inside her, as fast as possible. He palmed her butt and swung her over so that she straddled him. She hummed against his lips, breaking contact only long enough for them both to gulp a lungful of air before returning to his mouth with a different kind of kiss, this one luscious and full of movement. He ran his hands up and down the backs of her legs, brushing her inner thigh with his thumbs, a little higher, a little closer to where he really wanted to be on each upsweep.
God. He could smell her arousal, all musky and sweet. Unable to wait, he yanked the pretty pink silk pajama bottoms down and plunged two fingers up into her warmth. She was tight and wet and she writhed against him, working herself against his hand.
Abruptly she pulled away from his mouth to stare down into his eyes. ‘Any which way I can have you,’ she whispered. ‘And some ways I haven’t thought of yet.’
It took him a few seconds to realize she was quoting him. He’d said those words. While they were driving up that morning. When he was being blunt. ‘Yeah? So?’
‘Have you thought of them yet?’
‘A few. More than a few. Why?’
She leaned down and nipped his lip, making his pulse roar in his head. ‘Where are your condoms?’
‘One’s in my back pocket.’
‘So get it.’
He pumped his fingers into her more slowly, teasingly. He could press his thumb to her clit and finish her off, but he liked seeing her this way. She glowed. She’s mine. ‘Then I have to take my fingers out of you and I don’t want to.’
She leaned to whisper in his ear. ‘But then you can put something better in me.’
She laughed breathlessly when he yanked his fingers free and rolled to one hip to reach his back pocket. He fell back on the mattress, ready to unzip his jeans when she stayed his hands. Shit. Don’t make me stop. Please don’t make me stop.
He forced his voice out of his throat. ‘Do I need to stop?’
‘No.’ She moved his hand, grasped the zipper herself. ‘This is mine. Mine to do.’
This was about power. About her taking back what had been stolen from her. By Beckett and Elkhart. By cancer. This was important. He linked his hands behind his head. ‘Just be careful. I, uh, didn’t take the time for shorts.’
She was careful and she was slow. He was ready to beg when she finally got the zipper all the way down, freeing his erection, grasping it in her hand. She squeezed and his hips lifted off the bed. ‘God. Daphne.’
With her other hand she touched his chest, sweeping him with her palm. Learning him. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘Really.’
He wanted to be. He wanted to please her. Wanted to be better than that prick of an ex-husband and any other men who’d touched her since her divorce. Men he hoped he never met because he might do violence. ‘If you could hurry, I’d really like that.’
Her mouth curved. ‘You made me impatient. It’s my turn.’ With agonizing slowness she ripped open the condom wrapper and rolled it down him, her touch feather light. His eyes rolled back in his head.
‘Mother of God. If you don’t hurry, I’m going to take over.’
‘No you won’t.’ She slid off him and he pushed himself up on his elbows to protest. Except she’d shucked her pajama bottoms and was grabbing his jeans. ‘Lift.’ He did and she yanked until he was naked, then got on the bed still wearing her pajama top and crawled toward him. She leaned in, kissing him thoroughly. ‘You won’t take over because you know this is important. For me.’
Her eyes had lost the glaze of passion and were now determined. He wound a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘Yes, I get that. But I want it to be good for both of us and you’re . . . out of the moment. Can I help ease you back in?’
She tilted her head warily. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Straddle my chest like before.’ She did and he had to work hard to keep his hips flat on the mattress. She was open to him, glistening and wet. ‘Scoot closer. Closer.’ He could see the moment she’d figured it out. Her eyes widened and she blushed.
‘Mercy,’ she murmured.
‘No. None.’ He held his breath as she hesitated the last few inches. Then she grabbed the headboard and pulled herself forward until her knees slid off his shoulders and she was pitched forward, her lower legs pressed against his chest for traction. He could have lifted his head, but he waited. Waited . . . Waited until a growl rolled out of him. ‘Daphne.’
Finally she relaxed her body, lowering until she made contact with his mouth and he was back in heaven. Greedily he licked, tasting, feeling each quiver, the rumble of each moan as she rocked against him, finding her own rhythm, and it didn’t take long for the passion to return. Better still, from this angle he could see up her top, getting his first view of her bare breasts. No bra, no lace, nothing between her skin and the silk.
He let out a silent sigh of relief, his worst fears not being the case at all. If they had been, he’d have dealt, but he was relieved as hell he wouldn’t have to. They were fine, beautiful. They were scarred, but part of her. He was looking at all of her.
And they were perky.
When she was eighty, the girls would still be perky.
Even as her words made him smile, he felt curiously like weeping. He didn’t think he would have cared if they hadn’t been perky or the shape hadn’t been so nice. But she did. She would have wanted to spare me the loss of . . . perfection. Because that’s who she was. Thank God she doesn’t have to spare me anything.
It might be a while before she trusted him enough to take off her top. He’d have to show her that the scars didn’t matter. And he had time for that. For now, he was all about making her feel so good that the only anxiety she’d feel was over when they got to do this again.
He reached up, running his finger along one of the places he’d explored while she slept before, lightly caressing her left breast. Now, she froze, her back arched.
Her breath shuddered out. ‘Do that again. Please.’
He complied, gently taking a breast in each hand, tracing his finger across them lightly. Then he pulled her clit into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could and she came apart. Crying out, she jerked against him and he could hear the headboard creak behind him.
She hung there for a minute, breathing hard, trembling. Then she eased back until she straddled his pecs and looked down at his face. She didn’t say anything, just sat there, staring.
‘Daphne?’ he whispered.
Her eyes closed. ‘I thought I’d lost it all. All the feeling.’
‘You didn’t try to see for yourself?’
‘I was too afraid to. All these years and I was afraid to know.’
‘Now you do.’
She opened her eyes and he saw contentment and relief. ‘Thank you, Joseph.’
He grinned despite the throbbing in his groin. ‘You’re welcome.’
She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Wow. All for me?’
‘Yeah, all for you. But you don’t have to feel—’
She cut him off with a look. ‘You aren’t about to say “obligated”, are you? ’Cause that would make me damn mad.’
He had been, but he shook his head. ‘I was going to say “intimidated”.’
She shook her head, a smile on her face. ‘Can we say full of himself?’
He opened his mouth to return the volley, but she was sliding down his body. Then it was his turn to glaze over when she took him in.
All in one stroke, so smooth. Deep. He groaned and lifted his hips, unable to control their movement. Her breathing shattered and she began to move, fluidly, like she’d done this a million times. She fell forward to grip his shoulders and . . . rode him.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he told himself to thank Maggie, the next time he saw her, for teaching Daphne to ride. And then he didn’t think at all, giving himself over to the friction, the tightness of her body gripping him, the pleasure of it all.
‘Feels so good,’ he groaned. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘I won’t. I can’t.’
I can’t. He liked that. He tried to make it last, but even though he’d had her once that night, he was starved. He gripped her hips and pulled her down on him, harder and faster until he bowed, his heels digging into the mattress, his head flung back. She came this time on a quiet moan that was all he needed to hear.
He closed his eyes and followed, letting himself fall.
She melted onto his chest, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other right over his heart. He wrapped his arms around her, unwilling to let her go.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured into her hair.
She patted his heart. ‘You’re very, very welcome.’
Seconds stretched into minutes. He knew she wasn’t asleep because her forefinger traced lazy circles around his nipple and lightly fussed with the hair on his chest. He had enough energy to press a kiss to the top of her head.
‘Daphne, why the wigs? There’s nothing wrong with your hair.’
‘I hate it,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Too wild. Won’t behave. Stupid chemo.’
Like waves on a wind-tossed sea. He ran his fingers through the misbehaving locks, enjoying the haphazard way they winged this way and that, as well as the knowledge that he was seeing a Daphne that no one else got to see. Mine alone. ‘What was it like before?’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘Smooth and pretty,’ she said, awake now. ‘But I lost it all. I hated the surgeries, the reconstruction. I hated losing my breasts, but to look in the mirror and be bald . . . I think I hated that more.’
‘So you started wearing the wigs then.’
‘Yes. And I found they did more than hide my bald head. They let me be someone else. For twelve years I’d had Nadine saying an Elkhart does not do this or that. Elkharts don’t swear, they are not loud, they wear respectable clothing. I wanted to do the opposite, so I looked for the biggest, Dolly Parton-est wig I could find and wore it to every single divorce settlement meeting. Nadine was appalled. Appalled, I tell you. It was worth every penny.’
He smiled at the smug satisfaction in her voice. ‘I bet it was. But why did you keep wearing them? Once your hair grew back, I mean.’
‘At first, because I hated the new color.’
‘It changed?’
‘Did it ever. Before the chemo my hair was like cornsilk, white blonde and smooth. When it came back in, it was reddish-brown, this really ugly, muddy color, and really curly. Much curlier than this. And coarse. I’d read about the possibility of color changes so I expected it to be different, but not like that. I cried all the time. Finally Mama and Maggie told me to just keep wearing the wigs. So I did. Eventually it lightened a little, enough to color it blonde. Over time, it got better, softer. Like it is now.’
‘Then why keep wearing the wigs?’
‘Some of it’s convenience. It takes a lot of work to get this hair the way I want it to look for court, and sometimes it doesn’t behave at all. The wigs are a lot faster and that gives me more time for riding in the morning.’
His brows lifted. ‘I like riding in the morning.’
She frowned, then snickered when she caught his innuendo. ‘I bet you do.’
‘If convenience is some of it, what’s the rest?’
She lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. ‘By the time it started to come back in, I was in law school and people were used to seeing me in the wigs. If I took them off, they would know I’d been wearing one all along. I didn’t want the questions. I didn’t want to call any attention to myself.’
He blinked in disbelief. ‘Daphne, you wore a neon green miniskirt and Dolly Parton hair the day I met you. You love calling attention to yourself. But maybe you just like to control the kind of attention you draw.’
Her eyes widened, startled. ‘I hadn’t thought about it that way. I guess that’s true. But it still looks like I stuck my finger into a light socket.’
‘It does not. In fact, the curls are gone now that it’s dry, which is too bad because I liked them. I guess I’ll just have to think of ways to keep you all wet.’
She smiled. ‘I have every confidence in your creativity.’
‘Daphne, your hair is beautiful because it’s yours. It wouldn’t matter to me how it looked. You might wish it looked different, more like it did before, and I understand that. But to me, every misbehaving wave is proof that you’re still here. Same goes for the scars. You fought cancer and you won. They’re like . . . badges of courage.’
She pushed up on her elbow to study his face, her eyes soft. ‘You’re a sentimental fool, aren’t you?’
‘Just telling the truth.’
‘We’ll see how you feel come summer,’ she said with a yawn. ‘The humidity makes these “badges of courage” so damn frizzy, I turn into Bozo the Clown.’
She was already thinking about summer. His heart squeezed hard. The last time he’d planned more than a few weeks out with any woman had been Jo.
I’m happy. How long had it been since he’d thought those two words? Same answer. Not since Jo. I’m holding on to this one. Nobody will take her away from me. Not Beckett, not
Doug, not Millhouse. Nobody.
He stroked her back until her breathing evened out and she fell asleep. Then he slid out from underneath her, covering her up. He pulled on his jeans and plucked his laptop from the floor.
On his screen were the results of the search he’d started for Wilson Beckett’s death certificate before he and Daphne had gotten so pleasantly distracted.
But what the results said was that there was no death certificate for Wilson Beckett in the county or state records. He ran the search again, with the same result.
On one hand, this was no surprise because Beckett wasn’t dead. Any certificate in the system would have been a fake. But the lack of its existence in the official system raised a different set of questions – where had FBI Agent Claudia Baker obtained the proof of Beckett’s death? And who’d created it to begin with? And if the death certificate didn’t exist, did Agent Claudia Baker?
With a sigh, Joseph typed a quick email to Bo asking him to request the service record of Special Agent Claudia Baker, calling in favors if he had to. Joseph had requested it himself, but he didn’t expect an answer till morning. Bo should have connections that could access personnel records 24/7. Crossing his fingers, he hit send.
I sure as hell hope Baker’s real. Because if she wasn’t . . . it was going to get very hairy. Because they’d be right back to the question of motive again. Beckett faking his own death had a clear payoff. But who would have motive to fake a federal agent? And what the hell could that motive be?
Wheeling, West Virginia, Thursday, December 5, 12.30 A.M.
Joseph took his laptop into his own hotel room and quietly closed the adjoining door before dialing Grayson on his cell phone. It was answered on the first ring.
‘Joseph,’ Grayson said. ‘What’s happened? How are Daphne and Ford?’
‘Daphne’s okay. Finally went to sleep. Ford’s okay, physically. Deacon’s with him. Daphne told Ford about Kim and he was about like you’d expect. He shut down. Shut her out.’