Close to You

"Nothing. I . . . nothing. I'm not even positive about the exact date of my birth."

  His head turned slowly to her. His golden gaze raked her features. "Isn't that unusual in this day and age? Don't most people know at least a little about their birth parents?"

  "I've never checked the stats. I only know my parents got me when I was ten months old, or thereabouts, and they were wonderful parents."

  "You didn't try to trace your background?"

  "When I was a teenager, I wanted to run away from home because I was so ill treated." She grimaced wryly as she remembered her melodramatics. "There's nothing there. It's a dead end. Everything about my adoption records has vanished due to clerical error."

  She watched with painful fascination as Teague sipped his champagne. His long fingers caressed the flute. How could she concentrate on a possible murder when Teague sat within touching distance? She recognized a scent and leaned closer to sniff it. Herbal shampoo and warm, clean skin—

  He turned on her so quickly, he caught her with her nose close to his shoulder. "Do you see Oberlin?"

  "See him?" She straightened indignantly. "Like— date him?"

  "No, I mean at the capitol. Do you run into him a lot?"

  "Yes." It was embarrassing to admit it. "All the time. It's almost like he's . . ."

  "Stalking you?"

  "Yes. Damn it." She hated to say the words. "Stalking me."

  Teague lifted his brows.

  "Well, really," she said in disgust. "Two stalkers in two months? Most people never even have one in a lifetime."

  "Yet I watched him in the monitors. He waited for you."

  "No. Gross." She didn't want to believe it. She didn't want this whole thing to start up again. And this time, to know her stalker, to suspect he had killed his wife . . . "Why me?"

  "Good question. Why you? That's what we'll have to find out." He caressed her cheek with his finger. "Okay, look. I don't believe in coincidence, and there are far too many here for my comfort. You've got a problem. You're in danger. I'm not your bodyguard anymore, but I'm not leaving you alone again."

  "What will we tell people when they ask why we're together?" Kate's question hovered in the air above them like a challenge, and thunder roared through the supercharged air.

  Teague finished his champagne in slow, long swallows. He put down his glass. He took hers and placed it beside his. "We'll tell them the truth." His hand encircled her wrist. "We'll tell them we're lovers."

  FOURTEEN

  Her heart seemed to strike the inside of her ribs, then settled into a roaring beat. This was the moment she'd imagined, dreamed of, wished for, and now it came at her unanticipated and unexpected.

  "Did you think that you could cross the threshold of my home and escape unscathed?" Teague's whisper was rough. "I've waited longer for you than for any woman in my life, and now by God I will have you."

  She could scarcely breathe, but when he tugged on her wrist, she followed him.

  They walked through the door into Teague's bedroom. He flipped a switch, and a bedside lamp flicked on, revealing a golden den dominated by a huge rosewood bed with tall square posts. In this room, the air conditioner hummed, the atmosphere was civilized. Yet outside, the storm swept across Austin, sending torrents of rain over the hills, using hail to slash the autumn leaves off the trees. The old-fashioned casement windows rattled in the wind, and beyond the rosewood blinds the panorama of lightning created mad blackand-white still lifes of the branches against a violent sky.

  Some of that wildness and ferocity came with Teague and Kate into the bedroom. They brought it themselves. They carried it within them.

  He shut the door behind them. He turned the key as if he feared intruders when, in fact, they were alone in the house.

  So maybe it was her escape he intended to thwart.

  She touched the side of his face, stroking her fingertips over the hollow of his cheek and down his determined jaw. She didn't want to escape. She was frightened—what woman wouldn't be when she stood on the precipice of a cliff?—but she wasn't going to run.

  Catching her hand, he pressed a kiss on her palm. The scent of him filled her lungs, a scent she would always associate with Teague—clean, warm skin with the faintest hint of sandalwood. Pure distilled sex.

  The silence between them weighed as little as silk yet bound them as tightly, and he watched her with brooding intensity as though seeking . . . something.

  A sign of willingness?

  She slid her other hand up his arm to his shoulder, opening her body to him.

  He looked down at her, at her jeans, her T-shirt, her flip-flops, and his expression was no less hungry than when she'd worn an evening gown and heels. He flattered her. He frightened her. He personified everything that was dominant in a man, and he left her in no doubt—he wanted to dominate her.

  Yet he moved with care, urging her back against the door, pressing himself against her so that every inch of her knew every inch of him. He rubbed the faint pink scar on her chin where the stitches had been. "Bruises all healed?"

  "I'm fine," she whispered. "Fine . . . all over."

  Heat blazed from him, turning her to liquid gold. Her breasts grew taut. She could no longer support herself, but she didn't need to; he held her upright with his weight.

  Leaning down, he kissed her mouth, her cheeks, closing her eyes with his touch. Without sight to distract her, she experienced each breath as it left his lungs, savored each touch of his lips. She imagined his eyes were shut, too, as he explored her ears, her chin, her throat, and then made his way back to her mouth and kissed her . . . kissed her.

  He tasted her with elusive sips that made her seek him. She wanted more than his gentleness. She wanted his fire.

  Her body stirred restlessly. She slid her fingers along the nape of his neck and into his hair. Catching his lower lip between her teeth, she nipped at him.

  He froze, his body stiff, as if her daring goaded him to the precipice beside her. In that second of stillness, she felt the thumping of his heart against her chest, each long breath as he dragged air into his lungs . . . his erection thrust tight against her belly.

  "Love me," she whispered. Softly she pressed her mouth to his. Deftly she slipped her tongue between his lips.

  Her small provocation created desire that exploded between them . . . but no, that was the boom of thunder. Lightning slashed the sky, over and over, as the storm raged overhead and passion raged between them.

  He thrust his tongue into her mouth, coercing pleasure on her, taking pleasure for himself. The taste of him burst through her senses, Teague and . . . and mint? Toothpaste? He'd been drinking coffee when she came. When had he brushed his teeth?

  As soon as she got here.

  He'd excused himself, gone into the bathroom, and done what people do when they know they are going to have sex.

  She wanted to protest, to say it wasn't fair, but he held her head, slid his thumbs under her chin, and insisted she give him her full attention. Insisted with his tongue and his teeth and his lips. Insisted with the pulse of his hips against hers.

  He overwhelmed her until she had no thought except to meld with him. She wanted to be here, back against the wall. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and have him push into her until they moved together in a primitive dance.

  But Teague seemed to want nothing more than to immerse them in the kiss. His tongue stroked her lips, her teeth, and sang a song of heedless, endless obsession.

  She struggled to answer him in kind, but he imposed his will on her, and she was too mad with delight and desire to fight.

  Fight? Hell, why should she fight when this moment, this now was the greatest passion she'd ever experienced?

  When he lifted his head from hers, she was drunk with need, giddy with lust. When she blindly tried to walk toward the bed, he stopped her with his hands on her shoulders.

  "Wait. I want this first." He slipped his hands under her T-shirt, rested his palms flat against her belly,
and smiled into her eyes. It wasn't a happy smile, or even a triumphant smile. In that curve of his lips she saw torment unleashed and need denied. "I've dreamed of this," he told her. "I have obsessed about this."

  "You're not happy with your dreams?"

  "No."

  "Or your admission?"

  "No."

  "Then you should take your revenge," she whispered, staring boldly into his beautiful dark eyes.

  He sucked in his breath, and the flame in his gaze turned savage. "You're either extremely brave or exceedingly foolish."

  "Or else I trust you." She imitated him, tugging his T-shirt from under his waistband and placing her palms flat on his belly. "I trust you."

  Once again she saw into the dark soul of a predator. But this time, it was she he was hunting, and this time, there was nothing cold in his regard. He wanted her

  with a fire that scorched a brand on her heart and burned everywhere they touched. The loneliness she saw there made her want to weep, and burned her clear down to her bones.

  She wasn't afraid. He would change her. After tonight, she would never be the same. But he wouldn't hurt her. Not physically. Not ever.

  His hands moved beneath her shirt to the back clasp of her bra and popped it open. Grasping one strap, he slid it beneath the sleeve, down her arm, and off her hand. As smoothly as a magician—or a man with far too much experience—he brought her bra through the other sleeve and off.

  He dropped it to the floor. With fierce, golden eyes, he stared at her breasts flattened by the tight T-shirt, at the nipples poking through the thin white material.

  Color rose in his face, and she thought his need would compel him to take her breasts in his hands, in his mouth. In anticipation, her nipples hardened to painful points, and her hands clenched into fists against his skin. She stifled a whimper.

  But he didn't touch her. Not there. Instead he loosened the button on her jeans and dragged down her zipper. The metal rasp sounded loud in the silent room. She might as well have been nude before a tribunal that passed judgment and rendered punishment, for still he said nothing. Still he didn't touch her.

  But she wasn't confined by whatever constraint he had placed on himself. She loosened her fists. She let her hands roam up to brush his male nipples, then down to follow the arrow of hair that pointed at his fly. She struggled to loosen his belt—no guy had ever held himself back long enough to let her undress him, so she had no experience. The button was easier—his jeans were loose as if he'd lost weight in the last few weeks. And when she unzipped his pants, she let her knuckles rub against his erection.

  He flinched.

  "Did I hurt you?" she whispered.

  "Yes, damn you. You hurt me."

  "Maybe that's because you're so aroused that each caress is agony, and waiting for the next caress is greater agony," she whispered huskily, letting her fingers shape him, watching the shifting emotions on his face. "Each pulse of blood in your veins is another moment of need. The air in your lungs burns like fire because nothing can complete you except being inside . . . me."

  He moved so swiftly that before she could say another word, do another thing, his hand slid into the front of her jeans and cupped her.

  She was swollen, tight, needy . . . orgasm swamped her, engulfed her senses with the swiftness of a flash flood. The desire that had clawed within her for so many nights took her, swept her legs out from under her, drowned her in a burst of ardor so powerful colors burst beneath her eyelids and her lungs burned from lack of air. The uproar was everything she wanted . . . and nothing at all.

  It wasn't enough, could never be enough, and she thrust herself against his hand, trying to extend the sensation.

  He laughed, low and exhilarated, and withdrew his hand. "Are you satisfied already, darling? Can you go away now and know you've had all the satisfaction you can find with me?"

  "No." Was he threatening to leave her like this? "God, no."

  "Or is that just the hors d'oeuvre that leaves you hungry for the full meal?" His dark eyes sparked with gold. He was taunting her, making her want more, making her admit all.

  "Please." She sucked air into lungs. "I want everything. I want you."

  He nodded, that pained smile tilting his lips, and shoved her jeans down to her ankles.

  The cool sluice of air-conditioning against her skin brought a semblance of sense, and as he swung her into his arms, she opened her eyes.

  The flip-flops, the jeans dropped off her feet, leaving her in a T-shirt and her tiniest panties -- she'd been wearing mouth-watering underwear every day for no reason except that she prayed she might, might find herself almost naked in Teague's arms.

  She hoped he didn't realize what had been going on in her mind. She certainly hadn't fooled herself.

  He opened the blinds, placed her on the mattress, then stepped back and gazed at her sprawled on his bed. Oh, when he looked at her like that, as if she were a jewel he would possess and keep forever, she could scarcely breathe for hope and . . . love.

  Love.

  What madness had possessed her to fall in love with a man so dangerous that he dealt death with his bare hands and handled weapons with frightening proficiency? He'd said the words when he sent her away that last night—they had nothing in common.

  Except for similar humor and lively curiosity. And they could live together; that was important. She could tease him into trying new foods, and strive ineffectually to work out at his pace . . . and bask in his gaze as he watched her. He made her feel safe, and she made him feel at home. They weren't alike, yet . . . they were. Their minds worked in similar ways, and she loved him with a sharp, hot passion she'd never imagined.

  He pulled his shirt off and she saw again the rippling muscles of his stomach, the toned shoulders, the broad chest, and the smooth, bronze skin. At the gym, he'd been posing. Now he had no thought of letting her admire him. He was concerned with nothing more than undressing, and as rapidly as possible. He dropped his pants and underwear into a heap at his feet, and her breath locked desperately in her chest.

  His narrow hips were made to fit between her legs, his muscled thighs would move him in an endless rhythm . . . but his cock would never fit inside her. Either the two other guys she'd slept with were puny, or Teague was overendowed and just plain scary.

  "It's all right." He must have had to soothe other women at other times, for he put one knee on the bed beside her and with his palm he petted her arm. Catching her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers, then turned it and kissed her wrist. His lips lingered over her pulse. "You were meant for me, and I will make this so good for you you'll"—he smiled a buccaneer's smile, as if he knew he was politically incorrect but was unable to resist—"you'll beg me to take you."

  Yes. Politically incorrect . . . and probably true.

  Her gaze skimmed him as he rose above her on the bed.

  Definitely true. Her body prepared itself for another one of those bone-wracking orgasms, and he had done nothing except undress and smile.

  "Do you know why I haven't taken off your shirt and panties?" With his thumb, he circled one nipple, but he looked into her eyes.

  No. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  "I want to draw this out as long as possible. I want this to be as hot and sweet as your coffee. I want to steal your mind away"—bending down, he spoke against her lips— "for so long that when you think of love, you think of me."

  "Of love?" Had he read her mind?

  "No two people will ever make love like we do."

  Making love. Oh. Of course.

  She closed her eyes against his heated gaze, not wanting him to read her thoughts or the reckless longing in her soul. A man like him bestowed boundless pleasure. He did not love. She would do well to remember that.

  He cupped her breasts, holding them as if he relished their weight. Now his lips encircled one T-shirted nipple, and he suckled strongly, bringing her into his mouth with a skill that made her h
eels dig into the mattress and her back arch. When he relented, he blew on the damp cotton, and the cool breeze felt like sin personified. When he stripped off the shirt, he inhaled long and slow, and she found herself peeking beneath her lids.

  As he gazed at her breasts, his stony expression revealed nothing. Then his gaze shifted to hers, and she saw it—a fierce exultation that made her feel proud and threatened at the same time. If he gave in to that savagery, she would be ravaged like a pirate's captive.

  Worse, she would like it.

  Outside the storm clamored, wanting to sweep everything from its path.

  Inside, he caught her breasts in his hands and tasted them, one after the other, his wet mouth against her bare skin, until the storm within her gathered strength and she cried out and tried to get away.

  He didn't let her. He held her trapped in his arms, doing with her as he wished, sucking, nibbling, kissing, and when he had finished he pushed his knee between her legs and settled himself there. Catching her thighs in his hands, he opened her widely. His weight pressed her into the mattress, holding her down, keeping her helpless . . . except for her hands, which selfishly roamed his torso.

  Selfish, because she touched him not to please him, but to please herself.

  She didn't know whether to struggle or to submit, but she knew one thing for sure. "For this to work, I have to be naked, too." Her thong still formed a barrier between them.

  The head of his penis probed at her, finding the right place, pressing against the nest between her thighs.

  "Not yet." His voice was a husky taunt. "I want you insane with need. That way when I push my way into you, you'll be damp and open, and each time I pull out, your body will cling to me, reluctant to give me up. . . ."

  Not yet? His every word made the knifepoint of need twist tighter within her.

  He knew it, too. Every move he made, every word he spoke was deliberate, chosen to fan her desire. His domination made her want to submit to him; he wanted more than submission. He wanted mad impatience, desperate fever.

  He probed her again, a firm imprint that stretched the cloth over her clitoris and made her squirm against him, trying to get as close as possible. Trying to lure him inside.