Beckett's Convenient Bride Read online

  Wrong. Trouble had been brewing between them from the first moment he’d seen her clearly, leaning over him to see if she’d killed him or merely broken a few more bones.

  “Honey, don’t you think—” he began when she cut him off.

  “I don’t want to think. Not now…please.”

  That made two of them. Holding her against him, he struggled for objectivity, trying to ignore the perfect alignment of their bodies. “Okay, I can understand that.” Was that his voice? It sounded as if his collar was about two sizes too small. “Just try to think about…”

  About what? Home?

  She didn’t have one.

  Her writing career?

  According to what she’d told him she’d just had three months work wiped out. He didn’t know if that ended her career, or what. He knew about as much about the writing profession as he did about ballet. Less, in fact. His folks had taken him to a performance of Swan Lake when he was twelve years old. He’d liked the girls, been interested in the athletics and had been terrified that one of his buddies would see him there.

  They could talk about family. That had always been his bolthole when he was working a particularly ugly case. As soon as it was over he’d buy a six-pack, head for his folks’ house, using the side gate to reach his mother’s garden, where he could sit and get quietly drunk. Listening to the birds, bugs and tree frogs always reminded him that there were still pockets of sanity left in the world.

  Sometimes he needed reminding.

  So he held her. If she needed an anchor, he could be here for her, at least until she was able to stand alone. Never mind his testosterone overload. It wasn’t this woman in particular. Couldn’t be. He hadn’t known her long enough. No way would he take advantage of any woman just because they happened to be in bed together, sharing a single set of underwear. No way.

  She had no way of knowing that he’d been going through a long, dry spell. Hadn’t had sex since he’d more or less made up his mind to marry Margaret, and as theirs wasn’t that kind of a relationship, he was long overdue some relief. His fault, maybe, for letting her get away with one postponement after another, but then, he hadn’t exactly been in shape for a honeymoon.

  Meanwhile, Kate, his mother, went right on cutting and pasting, humming snatches of wedding music. Of course, she also kept on washing her china plates, drying them and stacking them on a table out in the front hall. None of them could figure out what that was all about.

  “If you’re cold, we could get under the covers,” Kit suggested.

  He stiffened. All over. “Honey, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I mean, it’s late and we have a big day coming up, and besides…”

  “Oh. I forgot about your sort-of Margaret.” Her attempt to laugh was so pathetic it hurt. She said, “I still smell like smoke. Sorry. Forget it. Rotten idea.”

  “Kit—”

  “Go to bed. I’m fine now, I just had a bad dream.”

  Yeah, like he could just forget the whole thing and fall asleep anytime within the next decade. He was determined to make the effort, though.

  And he did. Made the effort to sit up, at least.

  “I just wish you weren’t sort-of engaged,” she said so softly he wasn’t sure he’d heard her at first.

  And he thought, so do I, sweetheart. Oh, God, so do I!

  The truth was, Carson was feeling less and less as if this arrangement with Margaret was going to be anything other than a disaster. Just because they’d known each other all their lives—just because neither of them had anyone else on the string, he’d thought they could make it work for his mother’s sake. They both loved Kate, even if they didn’t love each other. As friends, maybe, but he was beginning to realize that friendly love wasn’t enough. Not when he could feel this way about another woman.

  “I’m not actually engaged,” he said, and then felt like a rotten, opportunistic skunk. “I mean we sort of had this understanding—for my mother’s sake.” Weasel mouth! “Look, I won’t lie to you, Kit, right now I’d like nothing more than to spend the rest of the night—hell, make that the rest of the week—making love to you.”

  Making love? A voice mocked. You mean having sex, don’t you?

  Love didn’t enter into the equation. No way. Too soon. Didn’t make sense, he told himself as the heat of their joined bodies eddied up around them, sweet, musky and enticing.

  “Me, too,” she said so softly he had to lean down to hear her.

  And that was all it took. Because her mouth was there, and so was his, and once they touched, the rest was inevitable. Later he might tell himself that they’d both been needy, if for different reasons, but at that moment, reason was the last thing on his mind. He was driven by sheer, blind lust for a woman he’d been attracted to almost from the first. Which was so absurd he would have laughed if he hadn’t been feeling so damned desperate.

  She tasted the way she smelled, like ripe fruit with a hint of spice. Not smoky at all. Inside, she was warm and needy, and so was he. In twisting around, the shirt she was wearing had ridden up so that her silken body rubbed against his, and she didn’t feel cold at all. Just the opposite.

  She twisted against him, and he groaned without removing his mouth from hers. More than lust—maybe not love, but far more than lust. The thought whipped through his mind and slipped away before he could deny it.

  “Kit…?”

  Kit knew what he was asking. Are you sure?

  “I’m sure,” she said firmly in answer to the unasked question. Or as firmly as she could when she was quaking inside like a bowl of jelly. Not from nerves—well, maybe from nerves, but from something else, too. She had read about the effect of acute desire, but never felt it before, not to this degree. Never even imagined it. Not that she hadn’t done sex, because she had. Three times, in fact. She’d found it messy, uncomfortable and just a little bit boring. Eating popcorn and watching a good movie was far more exciting.

  But the moment she’d touched this man’s hard, dry palm when she’d been trying to pull him to his feet before he slid into the ditch, she’d felt as if every cell in her body had suddenly come alive. Felt a stab of awareness that tickled her in places where she’d never been tickled before. Actually, tickle didn’t exactly describe the sensation, but it was close enough. Too close, considering how terrified she’d been at the time.

  “If you want to back out, you can,” she felt obliged to say, because she had more or less seduced the man. Done her best, at least. “My feelings won’t be hurt. My goodness, I am an adult, after all.”

  “Sure you are,” he mocked softly.

  Kit could have argued, but right now that was the last thing she wanted to do. She sighed as his warm hand closed over her breast. He’d rolled over onto his side and was looking at her, his gaze lingering on the lower part of her body, clad only in the brief cotton underpants she’d worn under her dress. The heat in his eyes seared a pathway, causing her to catch a shuddering breath.

  It would help if he weren’t so beautiful. She couldn’t remember ever thinking of a man’s body as being beautiful. Actually, she hadn’t thought much about men’s bodies at all, other than the normal curiosity of any young woman. Since the age of eighteen she’d been far too busy scrambling to support herself by waiting tables and writing and illustrating the stories that had begun taking shape in her mind back in her closet days.

  Carson Beckett was beautiful. Scars and all. Beautiful from the soles of his high-arched feet with the dusting of dark hair on top, to his beard-shadowed face with the twisty mouth, those incredibly blue eyes and the twin vertical lines that creased his lean cheeks.

  Leaning away, he gave her a worried look. “Kit, you’re not—that is, you’re not a, uh—?”

  “A virgin? Oh, for goodness’ sake, of course not. I’m twenty-five years old, Carson.”

  “Right. I just needed to be sure.”

  The fact that he’d even thought it possible was probably insulting, but with his breath warm on
her hair, his hands making magic circles on her quivering middle, she chose not to be insulted.

  Besides, he’d asked. Some men wouldn’t have been so sensitive. The man who’d taken her virginity hadn’t.

  And then the past was swept away, along with any lingering doubts she might have briefly harbored. She gasped, covering his hand with her own as his fingers hooked under the elastic of her high-cut panties. He kissed her again, sipping like a butterfly, dipping in again and again for the nectar. Frantic with need, she stroked him wherever she could reach, savoring the feel of his lean, taut waist, his narrow hips, and wishing she dared touch him there.

  A small sound—part groan, part whimper, escaped her. As if it were the catalyst he needed, Carson covered her mound with his palm, cupping his fingers between her thighs. The T-shirt was twisted around her, baring her breasts, but wadded uncomfortably under her shoulders. How the devil was she supposed to get rid of her clothes? There was no graceful way to do it now, and she hadn’t had the forethought to remove them before. If there was some sort of protocol to this business of sex, she wished she’d taken time to read the rule book.

  Evidently Carson had read it. Sliding one hand under the elastic and the other against her hips, he lifted her and slid her panties down her bare legs. Tossing them away, he kissed the arch of her bare foot and she nearly screamed.

  Next he eased the shirt over her head and discarded it. Clasping her face between his hands, he searched her eyes in the indirect light as if to read any lingering doubts there. It was all she could do not to beg him to get on with it. Not to blurt out words she knew instinctively he didn’t want to hear. If she hadn’t been certain before this—and she hadn’t, because there’d been too much else crowded into the past two days—she knew now that she could never get enough of this man. The taste of him, the feel of him—the way he tried to protect her even when she suspected that all he wanted was to be rid of her and her problems, that had nothing to do with him.

  If that wasn’t love, it was too close for comfort.

  And if this was all she could ever have of him, then she would take it and live on the memory.

  “Kit? Where are you, sweetheart? Don’t disappear on me now.”

  “I’m right here,” she breathed.

  “If you don’t want this, then say so. I’ll live. Might be a while before I can walk upright, but I’ll survive.”

  If she didn’t want it? She was little more than a molten puddle of liquid desire, couldn’t he tell? “Do you have a thingee?” she asked, trying to sound suave and experienced.

  He leaned up onto one elbow and stared at her. “A what?”

  “You know—a condom.” Oh, lord, woman, don’t blush now!

  He collapsed onto the pillow, and for a minute she thought he was laughing. But then he slipped out of bed, retrieved his wallet from the khakis he’d tossed across the chair, and within seconds he was back again.

  But not before she’d had time to enjoy the view. Men were built so different from women. Their hips cupped in on the sides. Hers, even as skinny as she was, went out. Like a snake that had just swallowed an egg. Make that one egg and two raisins, because she had breasts. They might be small, but they were all her own.

  Lifting the cover, he eased back underneath. “Honey, I don’t want to rush you, but…”

  She laughed, and if there was a slight edge of hysteria in the sound, then it was hardly any wonder. If she’d written the story of everything that had happened these past forty-eight hours and tried to sell it to a publisher, they’d have laughed her off the planet.

  “Go ahead, rush me,” she said, opening her arms.

  He came down to her then, holding his weight up on both arms while he searched her face once more, as if needing to reassure himself that she hadn’t changed her mind. Not in a millions years, she wanted to tell him, but had sense enough for once to keep quiet.

  He said, “I’m so hungry for you I’m afraid I might hurt you. It’s, uh—been awhile for me.”

  “Me, too. I won’t break.” As if to prove it, she pulled him down on top of her. He began to kiss her again, parting her lips, thrusting—taking all she had to give and hungrily demanding more. Then he nibbled a trail down the side of her throat, paving the way with his hands until he reached her breasts.

  At the hot rasp of his tongue on her nipple, an explosion of pleasure so sharp it was almost pain streaked through her. Searching with her fingertips, she combed through the crisp hair on his chest until she encountered the twin nubs of hardened flesh.

  A shudder racked his body. “Sweetheart, I’m on a short fuse, and it’s burning fast.”

  It was all she could do not to cry out her own fierce need as, easing her thighs apart, he positioned himself between them, the hair-roughened texture of his skin strangely exciting against her sensitive inner thighs. Unable to stop herself, she reached down between their bodies and touched him there. Lightning stabbed her again as her hand closed around hot steel, sheathed in velvet.

  She snatched her hand away, and then she felt him brush against her entrance. She was embarrassingly wet. Had he noticed? Why was he hesitating? She was about to explode and he hadn’t even entered her yet. Was it possible for a woman to climax before a man was even inside her? Never in her wildest dreams. Certainly not in her limited experience.

  And then he pushed inside her and she bit back a scream. Colors—she saw it in colors, like a pulsating rainbow magnified a thousand times. Frantically, she sought words to describe it, because she was a writer, after all, and words were her tools.

  Right. It felt so right.

  Then he began to move, and it felt even more right. She was acutely aware of every inch of her flesh—and of his.

  His eyes were closed, his face harsh, almost masklike. His shoulders were trembling, and she sensed he was fighting against the inevitable. She didn’t want to fight, she wanted to let it happen. Let it wash over her, like an enormous neon-colored surf.

  Teeth bared in a grimace, he thrust harder, quicker. She thought he spoke her name, but then the bonds of pleasure began tightening around her, lifting her up, tearing her apart. A chorus of angels could have shouted her name and she wouldn’t have heeded. She tried to grasp his shoulders, but her hands slid off his sweat-slick flesh. She tried to meet his thrusts, but her timing was off, and then it was too late because she was drowning, drowning…

  Somewhere inside her head, a voice whispered caution, but she was beyond heeding. Eons beyond. Wrapped in the arms of the man she loved—the man who had to feel more than mere lust for her, because Fate wouldn’t be so cruel, Kit slept. And dreamed.

  Twelve

  It was barely light outside when Carson awoke. One moment he was deeply asleep, the next instant he was wide-awake, partly due to training, partly due to his own nature. He had an agenda that couldn’t wait any longer.

  Quietly, he checked his cell phone to be sure the battery had recharged overnight. It was too early to call home, but by the time he showered and dressed, and slipped outside to see what the machines had in the way of breakfast, enough time would have passed. He had other calls to make first.

  He managed to get as far as the door some ten minutes later before Kit began to stir. Turning, he gazed down at the woman who had come to mean too much to him at a time when he didn’t have room for another woman in his life. He hated to leave her. Even with the note, she might misunderstand. But a man had to do what a man had to do. What sage had said that? Someone good at rationalizing, obviously.

  A few minutes later he sat in the front seat of the Yukon, sipping an orange-flavored drink that bore little resemblance to any known citrus fruit while he punched in a number that was not on automatic dial.

  “Moose? Beckett here. Look, I’m sorry to—” He listened for a moment, then broke into the litany. “Yeah, I caught it, too, thanks to Mac. Not too bad, though. Twenty-four hours and I’m back in fighting form.” Sure he was. “Listen, I need you to check out a guy for me. I’
m in North Carolina, in—” He glanced at the highway map and filled in the vital information. “Sheriff and two deputies. I need a line on one of the deputies, a guy by the name of Junius Mooney. Right. He’s a new-hire deputy, been here about six months from what I understand. I don’t know where he came from, and I’m not particularly eager to start asking around, if you know what I mean.”

  After answering a few more questions, Carson clicked off and moved to his next call. Punching in the automatic dial number, he glanced toward the closed door of unit 8. No sign of activity yet. She needed her sleep. He needed her to sleep.

  Deliberately fire-walling all thought of the past several hours, he waited for someone to catch the phone. His mother would still be asleep, but the nurse would be up.

  So, evidently, was his father. “Hi, Pop? Listen, how’s Mom?” A few minutes later he said, “No, I’m not back home yet—still in North Carolina. What I want to know is—no, I haven’t heard from Margaret, but—” He broke off and listened for perhaps a full minute.

  Ah, jeez. “Did she say where she could be reached?”

  Well, that was that, he thought a few minutes later, after promising to check back and let his folks know what his plans were.

  At this point, he hadn’t a clue. All he knew was that he couldn’t leave Kit here alone. Couldn’t leave her at all until this mess was cleared up. He had no obligation and even less legal authority, but as long as she was vulnerable, he couldn’t walk away.

  Which presented a whole new set of problems.

  Inside the motel room, Kit opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to wrap her mind around events of the immediate past. The one thing that impressed her above all else was a certain feeling of…hollowness. Emptiness, as if something she’d briefly possessed had been snatched away.

  She flexed her ankles, still stiff from wobbling around on those designer shoes, the designer being the Marquis de Sade. Sliding her legs over the edge of the bed, she sat up, glancing toward the open bathroom door.