Dirty Secrets Page 11

  “I’m sorry, Christopher,” Emma said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?” Megan asked from the doorway, taking her headphones off her ears. “Who was that guy that just left?”

  Christopher sighed. “That was the detective working Darrell’s death, honey. I don’t know how to tell you this . . . so I’ll just tell you. Tanya’s dead.”

  Megan’s composure crumbled. “Oh, Daddy, no.” She rushed into his arms, tears coursing down her face, and Christopher rocked her. Emma stood to the side, feeling like a third wheel and ashamed of herself for feeling so. They were grieving. They needed each other. Then Christopher met her eyes over Megan’s head and the sorrow in his gaze made any feelings of isolation disappear. He needs me, too.

  “Let’s go home, Punkin,” Christopher murmured. “You need to sleep.”

  * * *

  Tuesday, March 2, 11:35 p.m.

  As she had the night before, Emma stood at the spare bedroom window, watching for Christopher to appear in his room. The trip back from the lab had been tense, to say the least. Megan, still weeping, had pushed past Emma to climb in the front seat, next to her father. Christopher had opened his mouth to tell Megan to move, but Emma shook her head and took the backseat, listening to Megan’s sniffling the whole way.

  She had no doubt that Megan was devastated over Tanya’s death. According to Christopher, Megan was close to all his students, so she had a real right to her grief. But Emma was equally positive that Megan had seen this as an opportunity to insert herself between Emma and her father, an adolescent attempt to sever a relationship of which the young girl didn’t approve. So while annoyance tickled at the back of Emma’s neck, compassion for the girl overwhelmed. Her life had been turned upside down, as had Emma’s and Christopher’s. But adults had the maturity to deal with such upheaval. A thirteen-year-old girl did not.

  When they’d arrived back at the house Christopher had tucked his daughter into bed, rubbing her back as she cried herself to sleep, and once again Emma had felt out of place. In the way. Christopher and Megan had lost two people they’d loved, two people Emma would never know. Helpless to comfort either of them, Emma made herself a cup of tea and went to her room. Stood at the window. And waited.

  The sounds of the shower running were followed by various soft bumps and thuds as he prepared for bed. Emma stood there, drinking in the sounds after so many months alone, remembering what it felt like to wait for Will as he got ready for bed. Watching as he’d gone through his regular little routine, knowing that in a few minutes Will would be next to her in their bed, holding her tight. She craved that now, that closeness, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone. Craved the feeling of a man’s arms around her. Christopher’s arms.

  Eventually the light switched on in Christopher’s room and once again, he began to pace. But he covered the breadth of his room only once before leaning his forehead against his window, his shoulders sagging. Then heaving. Again and again.

  He was crying. Soundlessly weeping. The sight broke Emma’s heart. Her feet moved and she made no move to stop them. Carefully she opened his bedroom door and slipped inside. He still stood at the window, shirtless, head bowed, his arms crossed hard over his bare chest, the corded muscles of his arms and back clenching with each shuddering breath he drew. She pushed away the tug of desire at the sight of him. He was grieving and with this she was trained to deal. “Christopher.”

  His back went ramrod straight. He kept his face carefully averted. “Did you need something?” The tears had thickened his voice and he cleared his throat.

  “Is Megan all right?”

  “She’s upset, afraid. She’s worried that I might be next.”

  An icy fist gripped her gut. “I’ve thought of that,” Emma replied, her voice certainly more controlled than she felt at the moment. “Haven’t you?”

  “Let them come,” he said with barely restrained fury. “I’d welcome the chance to do to them what they did to Tanya. She was too small to fight back. I’m not.”

  Emma pursed her lips, hard. “Don’t talk like that. Whoever is behind this has killed twice, Christopher. Tanya may not have been able to fight back, but Darrell was a healthy young man. Don’t you think he fought for his life?”

  His shoulders sagged. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”

  “None of this is your fault, Christopher,” she said quietly.

  “I know,” he said bitterly. “But that doesn’t give much comfort to their parents.”

  Tentatively she approached, close enough to smell the soap from his shower. His sagging shoulders straightened as if he’d been electrocuted. Perhaps he had. God only knew her skin was almost painfully sensitized. “You’ll help find the person who did this. That will bring resolution to their parents. Comfort will come. In time.”

  Lightly she ran her hand across his bare back and he sucked in a breath. Gritted his teeth. “Emma. Please. Go away.”

  The muscles in his back quivered under her palm. “Is that what you want?”

  He turned his head then, his face hard, his cheeks streaked. His eyes wet. Yet still they burned. “You know it’s not.”

  Gently she pried free one of his hands. Cupped his palm against her cheek and kissed his hand. Then slid it lower to cup her breast through the modest cotton sleep shirt she wore. Waited, breath pent until his hand took her, greedily kneading, his thumb flicking against her rigid nipple. The breath she held rushed out in a gasp of pleasure.

  “You’re sure this is what you want?” he whispered fiercely.

  “Yes.” She clamped her teeth over her lower lip, biting back the moan that surely would have echoed off the walls. “Please.”

  No sooner had the plea passed her lips than her nightshirt was on the floor and she was in his arms, scooped up effortlessly, held tight against his thundering heart. Then she was laid down on his bed, so reverently she wanted to sigh.

  He stood at the edge of his bed, his bare chest rising and falling with the silent, labored breaths he drew. He stared down, those wonderful blue eyes nearly black with passion. His eyes traveled the length of her body, taking in her breasts, making them tingle in anticipation. He ran a finger down her stomach, lightly, making her nerves quiver and jump. He hooked that finger just inside the elastic band of the plain white cotton panties she wished were lace instead. Then she didn’t care what they were made of because the finger dipped lower, questing.

  Finding. She arched her back, pressing closer to the finger that seemed to know exactly how to touch her, and watched his powerful body shudder. With need. For me.

  She reached up, cupped his rigid erection through his jeans. His head fell backward when she wrapped her fingers around him, touching him for the first time. She leaned up and tugged at the snap of his jeans, then slowly pulled at the tab of his zipper, feeling him throb beneath her fingertips. Then reached inside his briefs. He was hot and hard and silky. Ready. God, he was ready. For me.

  She was touching him. Finally. It was heaven. Hell. And everything in between. A surge of lust barreled through him with the force of a hurricane, snapping his body into motion. Jerkily he pushed his jeans to the floor and yanked her panties down her legs. And stared. She was exquisite. Better than any fantasy his mind had ever conjured, every one of which was tumbling through his mind. He wanted them all, knew he’d have them all. She was here, in his bed, looking up at him with raw hunger that literally brought him to his knees, and he knew which fantasy he’d have first.

  Kneeling by the bed he scooped his arms beneath her back and lifted her, repositioning her. Slipped her smooth thighs over his shoulders. And felt her entire body jolt when he kissed her hot wet heat. Heard her muffled whimper when his tongue delved deep. Felt his own climax inexorably building when she arched and bucked and thrashed beneath his mouth, driving him even deeper. Then her body went completely stiff, her thighs closing hard,
bringing him even closer, and he rode the wave of her orgasm until she collapsed, panting, gasping, her thighs trembling as he feathered kisses across her skin.

  Carefully, very carefully, he stood and clenched his teeth against the vicious need to take her. He’d hurt her if he wasn’t slow, if he wasn’t careful. She was lying limply on his bedspread, one arm flung above her head, her hand open, twitching still. The other hand was fisted against her mouth and her eyes were closed. She looked . . .

  Like every dream he’d ever had. He’d slip into her now, he thought, fighting the urge to thrust himself inside her. He’d gently rock her to another orgasm. Then I’ll let myself come. That’s what I’ll do. He leaned forward, meaning to press a soft kiss to her shoulder, when her eyes opened, dark and brown and turbulent.

  And hot. God, she was hot. For me. Slowly she moved the hand that covered her mouth. “Christopher.” She mouthed his name, no sound emerging. “Please.”

  And his control snapped. Frantically he pulled her to the middle of the bed, shocked when she dug her heels into the mattress to help him. More shocked when her small hands pulled him down on her, grabbing his buttocks, pulling him closer.

  “Dammit, Emma.” His breath was hot in her ear, his harsh whispers thrilling her. “I need to go slow.”

  She shook her head, her whisper desperate to her own ears. “No, you don’t. I need you now. Now, Christopher.” And she couldn’t stop the small cry of satisfaction when with one hard thrust he was inside her. Filling her. He felt . . . so good.

  He pushed his body above her, his biceps cording as he held himself still. His eyes were closed, his expression . . . reverent. He shuddered once. Then began to move. Slow and hard, his face set with an almost grim resolve.

  She could feel him, every stroke of his hips stirring embers of sensation that had been dormant too long. She arched, drawing him deeper still, and he groaned.

  “I wanted to make this last. But I can’t.” His thrusts took new power and the bedspread scratched her back as the force of his thrusts moved her up the bed. She was climbing again, unbelievably. She’d thought herself emptied after the first climax, but it wasn’t so. The second peak took her by surprise and she cried out, his hand covering her mouth to stifle the sound as she shuddered. His thrusts grew frantic and fast. Then he stiffened, his chest expanding, his teeth bared as he spilled himself deep into her body.

  Then collapsed against her, shaking. “My God,” he breathed. “My God. Emma.”

  She pressed her lips to the side of his neck, hot and sweaty. So strong. And she said nothing. There were simply no words.

  Still shaking, he rolled them to their sides, his hands on her butt, his body still buried deep inside hers. She wondered if, after all those years, it had been what he’d hoped. She didn’t have to wonder long.

  His lips grazed her ear, vibrating gently as he hummed in completion. “That was more than I ever dared to hope for.”

  She said nothing and he leaned back, anxious to see her face. Wondering if he’d hurt her. Afraid he’d see regret in her eyes. But it wasn’t regret. It was awe. And intense satisfaction. The worries he’d harbored, worries that he wouldn’t be able to please her as her husband had, just disappeared. She stared at him, as if stunned. Maybe she’d never come twice before. But Christopher was wise enough not to ask. He’d pleased her and that was all that mattered. And if he had his way, he thought, pulling the blanket around them, he’d please her again before the night was over.

  Chapter 8

  St. Pete, Wednesday, March 3, 1:15 a.m.

  He waited in the shadows of the trees, dreading what was to come, knowing he would be unable to stop it. The crunch of gravel was like ground glass in his gut. Andrews was here. The heavy footsteps behind him stopped and there was a scratch of a match, the flare of a flame. Andrews took a long drag on his cigarette, blew it out.

  “Walker was up at the site today.”

  Nausea rolled through him. “I know.”

  “If Walker doesn’t know now, within days he will. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “I won’t kill him,” he hissed. Vehemently.

  Andrews just chuckled, sending the chill of wet sweat dripping down his back. “You know, for a man who can be tied to two murders . . .” Andrews took another deep drag on the cigarette, making him wish for one of his own. “One phone call from me and you’ll be locked up tight. And Walker would still die if I wanted him to.”

  “If Walker dies, it will all come back to you. Your company will go under.”

  “If Walker dies, yes, that’s probably true, especially now that you killed the Meyer woman.” Cold fury edged Andrews’s voice. “I never told you to kill her. Why did you?”

  “Tanya suspected. I had to.” He was trembling now, the vile memory of choking the life out of Tanya’s body rising above his fear of Andrews. “The night Darrell . . .”

  “The night you killed Darrell Roberts,” Andrews supplied acidly.

  He swiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “I tried to get him out of the lab, tried to get him to go drinking with me, but he insisted he had to work. And if he worked, Tanya would be with him. It’s Walker’s rule. Nobody works alone. I needed to get her out of there, so that night before she went to the lab I made her dinner. She’s allergic . . .” Dammit. Was. “She was allergic to cinnamon. It made her nauseous. I made spicy chili, added the cinnamon in so she wouldn’t taste it, but she did anyway. I told her she was imagining it. When she called me to come get her later that night she told me she knew what it felt like when she ate cinnamon. I denied it again. I told her I didn’t even keep cinnamon in my kitchen. But Sunday, Harris came to the lab, proved Darrell had been murdered. Tanya came to my apartment, went straight to the kitchen.”

  “Where she found the cinnamon because you were too stupid to throw it away.”

  Stupid was exactly what he’d been. “Yes. She remembered me asking questions about Darrell’s work. She was so angry. She accused me of poisoning her, too. She said she was going to Harris with what she knew. I didn’t have any choice. I killed her.” He gritted his teeth. “But no more. I can’t do it again. Not Walker.”

  “No, we won’t kill Walker. We’ll just convince him it’s in his best interest to forget about all of this. You’ll see that his new girlfriend disappears. Make it look like she went home. Then make sure Walker knows she didn’t. If he cooperates, his girlfriend will be the only one who disappears. If he doesn’t, that pretty little girl of his will be next.”

  * * *

  Wednesday, March 3, 5:15 a.m.

  Emma opened one eye to squint at the alarm clock next to Christopher’s bed. It would be dawn soon. She needed to be getting back to her own bed before his daughter woke up. Gingerly she swung her legs over the side of the bed, only to be pulled back, his arm snaking around her waist.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. “Stay a little longer. Please.”

  He’d snuggled up against her, his lips grazing her hip. His eyes were closed but he was very much awake. “That’s what you said the last time I tried to get up.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smug smile. “It worked, too.”

  She had to smile back. “That it did.” It worked. She worked. It hadn’t been until after she’d climaxed in his arms that she’d admitted that she’d been afraid her body wouldn’t function. That she’d never again feel that incredible rush, that explosion of feeling. But feel it she had. Several times during the night, as a matter of fact. But now it was morning and they had to face the ramifications of what they’d done. Sobering, she frowned slightly. “Christopher, what happened here—”

  She was silenced by his fingertips on her lips. He sat up and she averted her eyes from his chest, every square inch of which she’d savored during the night. He was too tempting, she knew. A look would become a kiss, which would become a caress. And she wasn’t ce
rtain her body would allow any more of what would follow that. She was sore, inside and out. Even so, she wanted more.

  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he warned, his voice low, his blue eyes intense.

  Gently she pulled his hand away from her mouth, entwining their fingers. “I wasn’t going to because I’m not. I needed you last night and I think you needed me.”

  “I did. I do.”

  She brought their joined hands to her lips. “What I was going to say is that we shouldn’t assume that what happened here last night . . . well, it may be the start of something permanent and it may not. Either way, this has been a night I’ll never forget. You gave me back myself, Christopher. For that I’m grateful.”

  He let out a heavy breath. “Are you finished?”

  He was hurt. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. “Yes, but—”

  “Emma, please. I know this is happening fast for you. I know you didn’t come down here with the intent of sleeping with me, but I’m damn glad you did. Last night may have been the first time, but it won’t be the last. Wherever we end up.”

  “Will you be able to live with whatever happens? Even if it’s not permanent?”

  He threaded his fingers through her hair and pulled her against him for a soft kiss. “Whatever happens, we will have had the dance, Emma.”

  “That song again. It was years before I could listen to it without wondering where you were. I thought I’d scared you away because I’d danced too close . . .”

  He pulled back far enough for her to see his grimace. “I gave up a whole music category,” he said darkly and she chuckled. “It’s true. It was like some cosmic bad joke. Every time I’d let the radio station land on a country station, that song was playing. And I’d think of you, and wonder if you were happy. I wanted you to be happy, Em,” he whispered. “Wherever you were.”