Sweeney hadn’t watched the news, just the weather. The local news would probably be full of the murder; such things didn’t happen every day in one of the swank apartment buildings, and Candra was socially prominent, which made her murder even more newsworthy. Sweeney hadn’t wanted to see anything about it, or hear any of the speculation.
All she wanted was to see Richard.
She walked up the street and stood looking up at the town house for several moments. She had been here once, three or four years ago, when she had briefly been in town and had stopped by at Candra’s invitation while a party was in progress. Sweeney had stayed just long enough to pretend to sip some champagne, tell Candra hello, then she escaped.
Light shone through the fantail window above the door. She stared at the window, wondering if he was at home or if the light was on to make people think someone was there.
This was a bad idea. If he was home, surely there were other people with him. Friends would be offering their condolences—or perhaps not, considering the circumstances. But they would definitely be trying to get all the gory details, hot gossip they could share over coffee with other friends the next day.
She wouldn’t have to go in. Just ring the doorbell, tell him . . . tell him something inane, such as she was thinking about him, or offer her sympathy, something like that. Maybe he had staff and didn’t answer the door himself. In that case, she would leave a message. He would know she had been there, and that was the important thing.
She climbed the steps and punched the doorbell, then stuffed her hands back in her pockets, standing with her head down and the night breeze ruffling her hair while she waited for the door to open.
It was jerked open so abruptly she jumped, startled.
Richard loomed over her, glaring. “Where in hell have you been?” he barked.
She blinked. “Walking.”
“Walking,” he repeated in disbelief. “From your apartment?”
“Yeah. I just took a walk and . . . ended up here.”
He stared down at her, his face expressionless but his dark eyes glittering with some unreadable emotion. “Come in,” he said, stepping back so she could pass by him, and after a slight hesitation, she did.
* * *
Sitting in his car thirty yards down the block, Detective Aquino raised his eyebrows, and made note of the woman’s time of arrival. No particular reason why, he thought, just a cop’s general nosiness.
They hadn’t touched, but there had been that indefinable air of connection between them. So Worth had himself a honey; there was no law against it. In fact, after being separated for a year, the man would have had to be a damn saint not to have a lady friend.
What puzzled Aquino was why, in answering all the questions they had asked that day, not once had another woman’s name been mentioned. Worth was a private man—Aquino had gathered that much—but when the issue came up, he had, reluctantly, told them about his wife’s abortion. Having a lady friend was a lot less sensitive than that information. In fact, being involved with another woman would have been another point in his favor, making him even less likely to care what his estranged wife did.
But Worth hadn’t mentioned his friend, and Aquino found that interesting.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
The foyer floor was some kind of dark gray tile, covered by a thick rug in the richest colors Sweeney had ever seen. She would have paused there, but Richard held out his hand, indicating she should precede him, and uncomfortably she did so. His expression was at its most stony, as if he didn’t want her there but was too polite to say so. She jammed her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, feeling like an interloper.
She had felt like an interloper the other time she had been here, too. Of course, then she had been under the strain of trying to socialize—briefly—but she wasn’t any more comfortable this time. Luxury made her nervous. As a child, she had always been the one who spilled the Kool-Aid on the irreplaceable lace tablecloth, or inadvertently smeared paint on a silk blouse, or stepped on a dropped ink pen and cracked it so the ink ran all over a gazillion-dollar rug. Her mother had always put on that dramatic tone of voice and said the world would be safer if she could only keep Paris in a cage, and then she always profusely apologized for the child’s clumsiness. For a while Sweeney had been terrified her mother really would put her in a cage.
She had gotten over that fear, but the fact was she actually had been that accident prone. There was something about expensive stuff that brought out the klutz in her. She walked in the middle of the foyer, staying well away from that beautiful lamp.
The spacious living room was on the right. She went there, with Richard walking silently behind her. She had a vague sense of being herded. She shouldn’t be here; not only was she out of place, but now certainly wasn’t the time. She had presumed too much on their relationship, which was far too new and unformed for her to presume anything.
Despite her unease, Sweeney was, as always, aware of colors, and she immediately noticed that the room was different. Candra had liked a lot of neutral, light tones; everything now was more colorful, more substantial. Nothing looked any cheaper than what it had replaced.
She stood in the middle of the room, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “Sit down,” Richard said.
“I can’t stay.” Damn, she hadn’t gotten any better at social lies. She could hear the bright falseness of her own tone. “I know I shouldn’t be here. This is a private time and I’m intruding—”
“Sit down,” he said again, only this time the words sounded as if he growled them.
She chose a big leather wing chair and perched on the edge of the cushion. There was some sort of statuette on the table next to the chair. She put both hands between her knees so she wouldn’t accidently knock the thing over.
She didn’t like feeling uncomfortable with Richard. She was totally at ease with him in her own apartment, or on neutral territory. Here, for the first time, she was painfully aware of the huge financial gap between them. She had never seen anything snobbish about him, so the distinction had to be within herself, and reverse snobbery was as irrational as the other.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t like the expression on your face.” At least this time his tone was wry, instead of a growl. He was still standing, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.
“I’m thinking I don’t belong here.” That was the unvarnished truth, whether he liked it or not. She pinned her gaze on a flower arrangement, comforting herself by studying the colors.
He shrugged. “I don’t either.”
Startled, she looked up. “But you own it.”
“I’m an old country boy at heart. This isn’t where I want to be; it’s just a place to live.”
She couldn’t seem to look away from him. His dark eyes were black in the low, soothing light of the lamps, and he wasn’t looking away from her, either. Physical awareness, never far from the surface when she was with him, shimmered through her. Instantly she tried to tamp it down; now wasn’t the time.
“I’ve been with the police all day long,” he said in a low, controlled tone. “I’ve been worried sick about you, but I couldn’t call.”
She said quickly, “I understand. I didn’t expect you to call. And I’m all right. I finally figured out I can crawl into a tub of hot water and soak until the chill is gone.”
“I’d rather you crawl into a hot bed with me whenever you need warming up.”
The words lay between them like a live wire. She felt her insides jolt as if she had actually been shocked, and realization clicked into place. He wasn’t looking at her and thinking she shouldn’t be here; he was watching her with the intense focus of a man who intends to have sex. Here. Now.
She found herself on her feet, pulled there by a tension so acute it was almost painful. Nerves and need warred inside her. With just that blunt statement from him she was aroused, her body readying itself for him. Her brea
sts ached, and without looking down, she knew her nipples had hardened. Liquid heat, sweetly painful, pooled between her legs. She clenched her inner muscles against the pain and found she had only intensified the hurt.
She had accepted, and enjoyed, the force of her attraction to him. She loved those wildly frustrating kisses, the tempting touch of bare skin, the intoxicating blend of feeling on the edge of danger and at the same time utterly safe in his arms. As much as she wanted the completion of actually making love with him, she had also felt comforted by his restraint. Commitment wasn’t easy for her, and what he wanted from her right now was the most basic commitment of all. What she had enjoyed so much in theory was a little scary in reality.
“I think I should go,” she blurted, turning to do exactly that.
His hands closed around her waist, catching her before she could take a step. “I think you should stay.” He pulled her solidly against him, hips to hips, thighs to thighs, nestling the hard ridge of his erection against the softness of her belly. “Don’t you want me?” he murmured, bending his head to nuzzle her temple, and lower to the sensitive hollow just below her ear.
Her breath caught. Want him? She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything or anyone in her life. She was only beginning to realize just how much she did want him, and not only in a physical sense. That was the scariest part about this, acknowledging how emotionally important he was to her. As a child she had loved her family and desperately needed for them to love her in return, but that love hadn’t been forthcoming, and since then she hadn’t allowed herself to be so vulnerable.
But it was too late for caution, she thought wildly. She already loved him. Her body was already melting against his, seeking the heady pleasure he had given her once before.
She couldn’t give him the permission he had asked for, at least not in words. Panic and excitement mingled in a wild rush that closed her throat.
So she slid her hands up his chest and locked them around his neck, going on tiptoe to cradle his erection at the junction of her thighs, and that was all the permission he needed.
His arms closed around her and his mouth covered hers, hard and voracious. His tongue moved deep into her mouth, taking her, shaking her with the sudden awareness that until now he had always held himself back. He wasn’t holding anything back now. Sweeney had the sensation of being crushed and devoured, except he wasn’t hurting her at all, the only pain she felt was the pain of emptiness.
He stripped her jacket down her arms and let it drop to the floor. He delved his hands under her shirt and closed them over her breasts, his palms hot and rough against her tightened nipples. Her whole body arched into his touch, and she heard herself making soft, panting sounds. Everything was spinning out of control, going too fast. “Richard,” she gasped, a weak cry, or a plea, she never knew which.
He jerked her shirt off over her head, and the next second she was lying sprawled on her back on the oversized couch. Ten seconds later she was naked, her shoes and socks gone, her jeans and panties tugged down and off. His hands were on her thighs, pulling them open.
Dazedly she stared at him as he knelt between her legs, one knee on the couch and his other foot planted on the floor, tearing at the fastening of his pants. She felt as if her entire body was throbbing with anticipation, the blood running hot and thick through her veins, gathering in her loins. He leaned over her and she braced her hands on his chest, his heartbeat pounding under her right palm. Their eyes met, hers wide, his fiercely narrowed, and their gazes locked and held as he entered her, thrusting hard and deep.
The pain ambushed her. It was sharp and burning, just as if she were virgin again. She caught her breath on a cry, stiffening beneath him. He muttered an indistinct curse as he withdrew a little and more slowly worked himself back in to the hilt. The pain was only momentary, her body’s reaction to the unaccustomed invasion; his second thrust wrung another cry from her, this time sharp with pleasure.
“God,” he said, his voice stifled, his body held still and tight, as if one more thrust would shatter his control and he wouldn’t stop until he climaxed.
Sweeney hooked her legs around his waist, tilting her pelvis up to take him deeper inside. Her breath came in short, choppy pants. He felt so thick and hard inside her she thought she couldn’t bear it if he moved, and yet she thought she would explode if he didn’t. She felt hot, glowing, the heat boiling through her veins. She tightened her inner muscles around him, trying to pull him deeper. His entire body flexed, and with a guttural sound he surged forward, plunging so deep she almost screamed; then he held himself motionless once more. She arched upward, her nails digging into his chest muscles. “Damn you,” she choked. “Do it!”
He caught her wrists in his hands and peeled them off his chest, slamming them down to the cushion and anchoring them over her head. He leaned over her, sweat gleaming on his face, and in the fierce dark depths of his eyes she saw his control shatter.
He took her then with powerful thrusts that made her entire body shudder under the impact. His grip on her hands arched her into him, lifted her for him. With each inward thrust the heat and tension inside her increased, her loins throbbing, her hips rocking back and forth and taking everything he had to give her. She climaxed hard and fast, sobbing and crying out, and without mercy he rode her through it, so that the tension began rebuilding as soon as the spasms ended. His big body stiffened over her, then he shuddered and bucked from the force of his own orgasm.
In the silence afterward, she heard her own breathing, rapid and jerky. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it thudding against her rib cage. Every muscle in her felt like butter, mushy and helpless. He lay heavily on her, crushing her into the couch, and she could happily have lain there forever. The pleasure she’d had with him before didn’t compare to actually making love. She felt exhilarated, and exhausted, as if she could move mountains if only she could manage to move herself, but at the moment, she wanted nothing more than to just lie there with Richard’s weight on her, feeling the tremor in those powerful muscles, and know that she had been enough for him, that he was satisfied.
This was, she realized, what women had always felt at these times, with the men they loved. It was sweeter than she had imagined, in those brief, rare moments when she had allowed herself to think of what she might be missing in her solitary state.
Richard lifted his head. His dark hair was black with sweat, his face stark with triumph and possessiveness and a very male satisfaction. “Are you okay?” His voice was low and rough.
She swallowed. “You tell me,” she managed to say “I haven’t had much practice.”
A quick grin lit the hard places of his face. “I’d say you’re damn wonderful.” He released her wrists to balance his weight on his elbows, framing her face with his hands and kissing her with slow, deep deliberation, mimicking with his tongue the small strokes between her legs that kept him semierect and inside her. She quivered beneath him, her swollen inner tissues almost too sensitive to bear even that gentle stimulation.
He knew, and withdrew from her so gently she wanted to weep. He drew back on his knees and restored his pants to rough order, then stood and scooped her up. She lay draped in his arms like a naked offering, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her out of the living room and up the stairs. “I hope you can stay the night,” he murmured, “because I’m not even close to being through with you.”
“No . . . Candra’s bed—”
“She never slept in this bed,” he reassured her, gentle but implacable. “Or in this room. I had the house renovated and redecorated.” He shouldered open a set of double doors and carried her across a large expanse of gleaming hardwood floors, strewn with rugs the colors of jewels, to a bed that looked large enough to sleep six. He let her legs drop, so that she was standing, but kept her clamped to his side as he bent and stripped back the covers.
Her knees wobbled. “I need to wash,” she said. She needed to find a robe, or a towel, or ev
en a couple of washcloths she could hold over strategic places. She had never felt more naked than she did right now, or more aware of her body.
He stiffened. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly. “I didn’t wear a rubber.”
They stared at each other, and Sweeney became acutely aware of the wetness between her legs. She did some fast counting. “I think we’re safe. It’s been almost three weeks since my last period.” She had a brief moment of insanity, a flash of regret that the timing hadn’t been better—or worse. At the moment she couldn’t decide which it would be.
He opened a drawer in the bedside table and took out a box of condoms, placing it on the tabletop. He extracted one from the box. “We both need a shower. The bathroom’s through there.” He turned her and pointed her in the direction of two white louvered doors.
He intended to shower with her. He intended to do more than that, considering the condom in his hand. Sweeney’s heartbeat speeded up as she walked to the bathroom with as much poise as she could muster, though she could feel her cheeks heating. By the time they reached the bathroom, he had shed all his clothes except for his pants and shorts, leaving them strewn in a trail from bed to bath.
She stopped in the doorway. His bathroom was bigger than her bedroom. A square whirlpool tub sat directly in front of her, with thick white towels stacked on the ceramic tile ledge beside it, next to a crystal container filled with small, round, multicolored soaps. To the right a glass door opened into a large shower. The floor was laid with glossy tiles in a soft, rosy brown color that seemed to glow under the bright lights. To the left was a small private enclosure for the toilet, and at her left hand stretched a long, long double vanity in some sort of shiny, rich brown. Gold faucets arched over the bowls. Thick, soft rugs were spread in front of the shower and bathtub.