Necessary Secrets Page 15

  But nowadays she had only her pension and a ranch-campground that would break even in the fall but not before she sent some of her herd to slaughter. She’d used her own savings to rent the come-along and jacks that they would need to straighten the line shack. She had to start being frugal.

  “Two hundred!”

  Sylvie jerked her head around. Billy Shoemaker, a young hotshot car dealer with more money than brains, held up his numbered card. Billy’s girlfriend, a mother twice over, was pregnant again, but from what Marg told her, she wanted to redo the nursery. Something to keep her busy in case the kids didn’t.

  She swallowed and lifted her card. “Two twenty-five.”

  “Three hundred!”

  Good grief, what was Billy doing? Playing philanthropist to drum up more business for himself?

  Sagging, she dropped her card into her decreasing lap. She’d find another crib someplace else.

  “Five hundred.” Jon scooped up the card and held it high for the auctioneer to see. Then turned to glare at Billy Shoemaker.

  Panic flared in her. “What are you doing? I can’t afford that much!”

  “But I can. And I’m not letting junior-car-dealer-of-the-year steal that crib from you. He needs to save his money for those big buck suits he wears selling tractors to cash-strapped farmers.” He grinned boldly at her.

  Her breath left her in one short burst at the thought of his gorgeous smile. She had never seen him so cheerful yet determined.

  “Sold!” The auctioneer wasted no time. He’d barely given Billy Shoemaker a chance before he banged his gavel down.

  Sylvie’s heart pounded. She wanted to hug Jon. No, she wanted to climb into his lap and kiss him hard on his grinning mouth until they were both senseless. Right that very minute.

  But the knot in her stomach tightened and she reined in the lustful thought. She couldn’t be falling for Jon, could she? The emotion of the moment only sidetracked her. Emotion and a heck of a lot of guilt, especially if she considered Jon’s words earlier this evening about how she should be taking care of herself and not let emotions get the better of her.

  So true. The last time—the only time—she’d let emotions take over her sensibility, a Cahill man had died.

  She wouldn’t—God, she couldn’t—risk Jon. Not even one scrap of him.

  Her hand strayed to her growing abdomen. Jon caught the movement.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His smile slipped away, leaving a residue of what seemed like her own hungry emotions. No, it was just a reflection in his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he finally answered. “You look a bit done in. Want to call it a night? Or is there something else you’d like to bid on?”

  The desire to kiss him flared again. She shook her head to throw it off. “Nothing. If I win anything in the silent auction, they’ll call me.”

  Jon leaned behind her to sweep her shawl over her shoulders. His fingers rested on her arm for a moment. Only a shawl as thin as this one would permit his bold heat to penetrate her. She tugged the light material together, and he released his hand. Her voice cracked. “I’m ready.”

  They sat there a moment. She was waiting for him to move. Around them swirled the auctioneer’s swift calling. Earlier Jon had dragged his seat around the table, closer to her, but he didn’t move.

  His eyes were a different color. Not the piercing blue she’d learned to fortify herself against, but darker, aching, hungrier.

  Not for her. Please not for her. They’d just bought a crib for her baby. The one that was, right now, fluttering a wild, swift rhythm against her full bladder, in time with the auctioneer’s vocal cadence.

  He couldn’t be considering sex with her. He wouldn’t be if he knew the truth. She’d been a coward that night in the truck, abandoning her training and her common sense.

  Jon knew none of that. She could tell in his eyes the only thing he knew.

  He knew he wanted her.

  And she knew she wanted him.

  Jon’s pants dug into his groin. He’d tried several methods to ease the discomfort, walking out to bring the truck around to the back of the hall, loading the crib with one of the volunteer’s help. Even in the truck driving home, he shifted a lot. Nothing worked.

  Sylvie’s face had glowed when he’d secured the top bid. She’d kept staring at him with eyes a melting pot of feelings.

  He had to get them home before he found it impossible to drive and was forced to pull over and finish what his mind kept previewing over and over.

  “What are you thinking about? Not the money, I hope. I can pay you—”

  “The crib is yours, Sylvie. A gift.” She didn’t need to know his thoughts. They’d scare her. Heaven knew they were scaring the hell out of him.

  He forced a harsh review of why he was really here. Because she knew Rick’s last moments. Because she knew Rick better than he did.

  Because she kept secrets.

  That’s why he was here. Nothing else, especially not because he was beginning to give a damn about Sylvie, when he shouldn’t.

  “You’re so quiet,” she said.

  A blurring answer slid from his lips. “Just sorting out my mental agenda. It won’t be long before I have to head back to Toronto. I’ve really never had a job where I didn’t work shift and I actually lived where I worked.”

  “Oh.” She paused, leaving him to berate himself for the cold answer.

  She stared out the passenger window. “And you’re finding it stressful?”

  He laughed, knowing the laugh came out forced. “No, the opposite. I haven’t had to think much. You and Lawrence make the decisions. Purley, Michael and I do the work. It’s a pretty simple life-style.”

  “Oh.” Her expression slackened. “I imagine it’s boring compared to the excitement of fighting crime in a big city. Don’t you cops get high on all the adrenaline?”

  By this time, they’d reached the ranch’s driveway. “What have you been watching on TV?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I spent five months in Bosnia. Since then, I’ve been running a ranch and a campground. I don’t have time to watch TV. And I haven’t read any of those cop books, either.” She lifted her shoulders indifferently. “There’s got to be some reason for guys like you to become police officers. You wouldn’t be the first guy who lived on adrenaline. I know some soldiers like that.”

  “Did Rick?”

  She waited until he’d shut off the motor and removed the keys before she unbuckled her seat belt. When she spoke, her voice had turned softer. “You didn’t really know Rick, did you?”

  He wanted to swear, but caught the nasty word in time. No, he didn’t know Rick. Sure they talked, e-mailed, tried to squeeze Christmas vacations in once in a while, but with no parents to meet with every summer, they didn’t…couldn’t find the time or space. Sylvie knew Rick. Intimately. Jon forced his mind to acknowledge the gut-wrenching fact that his baby brother had had something he couldn’t have.

  Knowing Sylvie intimately wouldn’t be ethical. And above all else, the man inside of him, the cop, the uncle of her baby, they all wanted to be ethical, damn it. “We tried to get together when we could.”

  “But Rick and I spent Christmas in Bosnia,” she finished for him.

  Yeah. When Rick had called to tell him he was going to Bosnia, and would be there until the spring, Jon knew the chances of an unmarried, orphaned soldier getting leave at Christmas would be slim. Many others had families, small kids who deserved to have their moms and dads there when they opened their presents.

  Jon looked over to her, his heart thumping hard inside of him. “So, what did Rick do at Christmas?”

  “Worked. We both did. We’d had rations delivered the day before along with some care packages from the Legion and the Red Cross. We wanted to make sure that everyone had a present to open on Christmas Day.” Her voice cracked, and she blinked several times.

  His own eyes burned. He’d sent Rick a small package, at the prompting of a female
officer who’d heard about him. The parcel hadn’t been much, some of Rick’s favorite chocolate bars and a sweatshirt that bore the Toronto Police logo. The female officer donated a magazine, boxer briefs, socks and some microwave popcorn. He’d been a bit embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of those.

  His throat hurt. “Did he get my parcel?”

  Sylvie frowned. “Yes. He wore a sweatshirt with a cop logo on it Christmas Day. Someone had sent him a box of microwave popcorn, which we ate Christmas evening after I did guard duty. It’s traditional for all of the officers and sergeants to do the duties that day, so the junior ranks could enjoy Christmas. It was quiet all over camp, so we just kicked back at the QM stores and had a few beers.”

  One question lingered on Jon’s mind. Did Rick enjoy Christmas with Sylvie making love?

  Did Jon want to know that?

  The crib looked beautiful, despite sitting square in the middle of the room, bare as desert bones, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes.

  Sylvie swallowed the lump in her throat. She was going to have the most beautiful baby in the world, she just knew it, and in a few months he’d be sleeping here, waiting to turn his mother’s already crazy world upside down.

  As if agreeing, he moved against her, grazing one of her sore muscles.

  “Ooh.” She gently rubbed the area and smiled a watery smile at Jon. “He’s stretching. Must be doing warm-ups for tonight’s calisthenics.”

  Jon stared down at her hand, his expression hungry.

  “Here.” Gee, did she have to sound so breathy and shy? “Feel him. I think of him as a boy and, let me say, he’s an active one.” She grabbed a fistful of her thin shirt. She’d been ready to pull it up when she stopped.

  No. Not after what she’d done in her office. Exposing her belly didn’t feel proper all of a sudden. And yet Jon’s expression remained riveted to her.

  She stretched the shirt taut across her belly and pressed his hand heavily against her skin.

  He was warm. She hadn’t been cool since she fainted in June, but Jon, he was warmer than she was.

  And so close. He’d stepped into her comfort zone with his palm flat over the thin material of her shirt. She glanced over to the window, thankful she’d pulled the curtains closed earlier in the evening.

  She turned her attention back to Jon. He watched her closely, his fingers pushing ever so carefully against the tiny hardness, a smile flitting over his smooth lips when the baby moved again. She caught his throat bobbing, his eyes blink, once, three, four times—too rapidly for her to count.

  His gaze slipped from her face, down her neck, to settle for too short a time on her blossoming cleavage. Her breasts answered in that burning way she’d begun to realize always happened when Jon cast an intense, smoldering expression her way.

  Below, his fingers were splayed across her belly. When they roamed down, the hem of the blouse fell out and over his hand, as if it recognized the extent of the intimacy and insisted on offering the privacy Jon’s touch deserved.

  His hand moved upward.

  She shifted closer to him, shocking herself when her hips thrust themselves toward him, so close she couldn’t mistake the hard scrape of his jeans on her belly.

  She was crazy to do this, yet…

  Jon moved his hand upward. When he reached the warm lace that covered her breasts, he stopped. “Sylvie—”

  “No.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Don’t tell me how wrong this is.” With her knees rubbery and threatening to buckle at any second, she gripped Jon’s thick biceps, appreciating how strong he was, how big, how much his own hand had begun to shake slightly against her breasts. How close he was to her racing heart.

  His eyes darkened and he wet his lips. “I wasn’t planning to say anything of the kind. But I can’t keep my hand still much longer. I want you to tell me you’re comfortable with this.”

  “Comfortable?” She let a breathy giggle escape. “I wouldn’t call what I’m feeling ‘comfortable.’”

  She felt his jeans press into her and she knew then that her words had aroused him. Good. A surge of control shot through her. Jon had dictated much of her life in the past few weeks, and she’d had no choice in obeying his common sense. But now he’d relinquished control to her, and the heady lure of it pulled her in.

  She could do something she’d ached to do for weeks.

  Make love to Jonathon Cahill. Before he exercised that common sense of his and stopped them both.

  Chapter 12

  Jon’s hand shook like those aspen trees around the campground when the hot, dry winds blew down on them. Any words he’d had now lodged in his throat. What had he planned to say? That he didn’t want to make love to her?

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Her hand settled on his hip, her belly pressing against the more obvious answer to his internal question.

  Jon had never made love to a pregnant woman before. His ex-wife and he had stopped touching each other months before she announced she was pregnant and leaving.

  Hell, he’d be leaving soon himself.

  Without the truth about Rick? Could he? The answer didn’t seem to want to form in his mind. Instead, another clear question focused there. Did those answers even matter anymore?

  His hand, impatient at the wait, roamed up to explore the lacy, well-filled bra. Her nipple prodded bluntly against the tips of his fingers. He nearly burst with need, right then and there.

  She ground herself into his arousal, slowly, with the determination she was noted for.

  Sweat trickled down his back. He had to get them onto the bed, and soon. Yet Sylvie appeared in no rush to move anywhere, except closer to him. And the sweet, delaying pleasure tempted him.

  She was in control, not him. Holy cow, he’d never been seduced before. Some of the women he’d known intimately may have suggested the seduction, but he always, always took over, fully in charge and fully satisfied at the end. And he always made sure they were, too.

  Sylvie had other plans, however, and his body willingly accommodated the change in the status quo.

  Her head tilted back and her eyelids drifted shut and she stretched upward to meet his lips.

  He stole the moment to study her, until soft, slightly pouty lips swept across his. Her tongue danced across the edge of his teeth, asking for an invitation to enter. She tasted like the cheesecake she’d had for dessert. Rich, creamy sweetness with a tang.

  Abruptly she ended the light brush of a kiss. With a slight smile she led him into her bedroom. His hand, now free from her blouse, felt cold and decidedly empty.

  The bedroom door clicked shut behind him. In front, Sylvie drew her blouse over her head. He watched as it floated to the floor. Reaching behind her, she released her bra and it followed her blouse downward. Then, for a flash, hesitation—and that damned strange innocence—swept across her features.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Seems the last time I did this—” she paused “—you flatly refused me.”

  What was wrong with him? “You were standing in front of the window. Besides, you stripped off for a different reason, didn’t you?”

  “I wanted to feel something.” Her tongue flicked over her lips. “Anything but despair.”

  She waited. Mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of her bare breasts, he could hardly find his raspy voice. “And tonight? Do you still feel the same way?”

  Her sigh ended in a laugh. Then, with eyelids half-shut, she shook her head. “Not in the least. But I do want something. Someone. You.”

  Coming up closer to him, she reached for his hair, brushing back the one lock that always fell forward. Her breasts lifted up with her arm to barely touch his shirt. He shut his eyes to the straining need inside of him. She had no idea of the sweet torture she inflicted.

  He fumbled with the waistband of her skirt, and once he’d slipped it over her rounded belly, it collapsed to the floor. The urge to drop to his knees and press his mouth against her bare
skin swelled in him, but he reined it in hard. It was too soon.

  A pair of high-cut black panties, similar to the snowy ones, curved up over her hips.

  She’d begun to unfasten his shirt. Good thing, he admitted to himself. He might not have managed the buttons. He would rather have torn the shirt apart than have fumbled with them. The need inside of him tightened, like a coil spring compressed beyond measure, waiting to explode.

  Once she’d freed him of his shirt, she focused on his jeans. Her slight smile hinted of how much she enjoyed the control she wielded. He was thankful for it, as well. If not for such control, he’d have long since pressed her into her bed and thrust himself into her, with his jeans pooled at his knees. He’d have their first lovemaking over far too soon for either of them.

  He stepped out of the jeans—and the boxers she’d just shoved down his legs. He expected her to study him, or stay down there, but she, with half-closed eyes, straightened and guided him to her bed. With a shy smile, she pushed him back onto the soft, enveloping duvet.

  And then she crawled between his legs.

  He couldn’t stand much more of this torture. His breath tight in his lungs, he waited for her to…do anything to him. Instead, she hovered over the part of him that needed her the most.

  “Sylvie—” He grated out the warning as he reached for her.

  “Shh.” She crawled up further and settled herself down on him. She still wore those insane panties! He should just rip them off….

  She stilled his hand when he lifted it. Her warm breasts scrubbed his chest hair as she leaned over him.

  Her kiss was featherlight, as quick as a heartbeat and bore that trademark innocence. If he didn’t know better—

  “Let me do this,” she whispered. “I’ve behaved myself for weeks for you and this baby. I’ve drunk all that milk you poured for me at each meal. I’ve hardly lifted a finger and I don’t do anything for myself anymore. I feel like I’m not myself half the time and the other half I feel like a breeding cow. I don’t want to talk or think or be anyone other than this person I am now. So please,” she brushed her lips over his again. “Please let me be this person now. Just for tonight.”