A Stranger's Touch (16 page)

For himself. For Bree.

He’d witnessed the killer’s bloodlust firsthand. In his outrage, Stafford could imagine tearing into Morley—ripping flesh, breaking bones and relishing every minute. Did that make him any different from the killer he pursued?

Stafford reached for the cold tap and cranked it. He grabbed a handful of water and brought it to his lips. It failed to mask the sour taste in his mouth. He scooped up another and slapped it on the back of his neck. The water trickled down his spine, dousing his anger.

Enough thinking for one day. Thinking only got him into trouble. Second guessing himself had given Morley the chance to escape after Tommy Hutchinson’s murder.

Stafford buried his face in the towel, the rough fibers scratching his cheeks and blocking out the light. He had to feel his way through. Get under the killer’s skin. Use every ounce
of his intuitive powers to become what he hated most. A man so focused on his own needs that he destroyed others without blinking.

And Stafford’s first casualty was waiting for him in the next room.

He chucked the towel into the tub and dumped his shirt and boxers into the garbage bin. Then he poked his head around the door.

Maggie was sitting on the bed, just as he’d left her, bundled in her complimentary bathrobe, towels wrapped around her damaged hands. Her hair hung loose and damp around her shoulders. Her face, clean of makeup, was pure china doll.

She looked innocent. Desperate. About a half step away from falling apart. And he knew she was counting on him to keep it all together.

He sagged against the doorjamb, his heart rammed into his throat. He forced it down with a dry swallow and went to her.

“Let’s get you bandaged up again.” Stafford reached for the medical kit and pulled up a chair. He sat facing her, his knees a pair of bookends around hers.

He peeled back the towels. Open wounds scored her flesh like the red, crisscrossing lines of a crazy road map. He tightened his jaw to keep from wincing and placed her hand, palm up, on his lap.

Bad move. The warmth of her, so near to him, made his heart pump even harder and his jeans stretch tight across his groin. He predicted another cold shower in his immediate future.

Doing his best to block out thoughts of his own straining fly, he unzipped the kit. He found the tube of ointment, compressed at the middle so it resembled the hourglass shape of a woman. He removed the cap then squeezed some of the cream into her palm, wishing he could find his own release so easily. Maybe he should spend the
whole night
in the shower.

“Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

Her question came out of nowhere and jarred him. His inner Neanderthal replied with a,
“Wha?”

“Do you have to touch someone to know what’s going on inside them?” Her voice was deep and velvety smooth. Her dark eyes searched his.

He stiffened. “No.” Stafford focused on his doctoring job, spreading the ointment into her palm with his fingertips. “I mean, I can’t read people’s thoughts. It only works on inanimate objects.”

She shifted her weight forward, her hand sliding up his leg. What little blood he had left in his gray matter rushed to parts down under.

“But those times when you say just the right thing to reassure me. It’s like you know what I’m thinking.”

Right. He was there to
reassure
her. To
help
her. Not to seduce her. A driblet of sense trickled back to his brain. He taped up the bandage he’d been working on and moved to her other hand.

“That doesn’t usually happen.” In fact, it never happened. Not since his sister’s death. “But with you, I feel this...” At the risk of sounding as if he possessed a crystal ball, he voiced the word he’d been thinking. “Connection.”

“Me too,” she whispered. “What about that time at the police station? No one told you Davie’s name, but somehow you knew it.”

“I can’t explain.” He secured the second bandage and put the last of the gauze back in the medical kit. “That first time you touched me, your passion was so great that your thoughts and feelings came through to me.”

He felt her gaze on him, probing. “What am I feeling now?”

He took a breath then looked up at her. God, she was beautiful. He cupped her face with his hand, stroking her pale cheek with his thumb. “Guilt.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding, hot against his skin. A tear fell from her closed eyes and trickled down onto his hand, searing him.

“You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I was late for Davie. If I had been there—”

His chest tightened, her shame fueling his anger. “Every parent is late sometime. You can’t protect kids every moment of the day. That wouldn’t be good for them. They have to learn how to get along in the world. Use their own resources. The guilty person is the woman who took him. Not you.”

He drew Maggie close and offered what support he could. She wrapped her arms around him, her tears wet on his bare chest, his heart unable to separate her need for comfort with his own desires. As soon as she stopped crying, he’d move away. He had to.

Then her lips brushed against his nipple and a burst of lightning charged through him. She hadn’t meant to do that. It was an innocent move on her part, her lips trembling as she cried. But his body didn’t know that.

He steadied his breathing. She didn’t want him. Not that way. As a friend, as a confessor, perhaps. But not as a lover.

Then her lips moved against his skin again. This time, her intention was clear. Her soft, urgent mouth moved up his neck turning him hard as granite.

Air exploded from his lungs with a growl. He dug his fingers into the thick strands of her hair, holding her head still while he caressed her earlobe with his teeth. When Maggie’s body arched against him, his brain checked out.

She whispered his name. Hearing that almost threw him over the edge. With that one word, he knew she was giving her consent. And dousing him with a bucket of ice water at the same time.

He’d seen it happen before. A susceptible person could easily confuse pain with passion, seek a moment of mind-numbing sex, and end up with big-time regrets. Stafford had made a vow never to take advantage of a woman that way and, so far, he’d been able to let them down gently.

But he knew he couldn’t trust himself with Maggie. He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length. “This isn’t a good idea.”

Maggie’s eyes filled with pain. He realized, at once, what his words had meant to her. “It’s not that I don’t want you. I do. And, if I didn’t have these jeans on, you’d see how much,” he told her, putting on a smile. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You couldn’t. You’re not that kind of man.”

He shook his head at such misguided confidence. “How do you know what kind of man I am?”

“I think you’re a caring person, a man who puts others before himself.”

He felt his own rush of guilt. He had to tell her.
Let her know you’re leaving, then see how caring she thinks you are.

“I’ve seen what you go through during your readings. You couldn’t have faked it. That you would open yourself up to that kind of danger to help me save Davie...it says a lot about you.”

Nice praise. Too bad he didn’t deserve it. “
Danger
is a little strong.”

“I don’t think so. You’re willing to sacrifice yourself to keep others safe. You just proved it. By backing away from me.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. In that moment, he knew he’d made the right decision. Now was the time to tell her. He started to rise from the bed, but she caught his hand.

“Tonight, I don’t want to be safe,” she told him. “Tonight, I want to forget. Please. Help me do that.”

* * *

She couldn’t believe she’d said it. What would he think of her? That she was easy? A woman who slept with any man who came along?

He knew she was divorced, but she had no idea about his ties. He didn’t wear a ring. But that meant nothing. He might have a girlfriend somewhere. A live-in love. Shouldn’t she ask?

No.
She didn’t want to hear the answer. If he had a woman waiting for him, it would change things. And Maggie didn’t want them to change. Not when the touch of him felt so good.

She let her wounded hands explore his upper body—strong arms, broad chest. He could easily take what he wished. And she half wanted him to. To feel that she had no responsibility in what was about to happen.

She closed her eyes and tuned out the world. There would be time for it later. Now,
right now
, she wanted a few moments relief from the pain inside.

Lips grazed against her neck and collarbone. She threw her head back and loosened the tie at her waist, inviting more.

The robe fell to her elbows, pinning her arms to her sides. She tumbled onto the bed and a searing weight pressed on top of her. The teddy bear, trapped beneath her, poked into her ribs. She reached behind, pulled it out from under her, and chucked it across the room, out of the way.

Calloused hands roamed her body. A mouth captured her breast—sucking, licking, softly biting her nipples, sending heat between her legs, making her wet.

She groped around until she found a zipper. Yanking at it produced a low groan. She slipped her fingers through the opening, stroking and teasing.

Air cooled her skin as her robe ripped away. The burning weight moved lower. Hands and lips scorched her flesh as they traveled further and further down.

She thrust out her arms and met with solid flesh. “No.” She didn’t want it nice.

A hissed order demanded her silence. Hands slipped under her hips, raising her, parting her thighs. Fingers tangled in her curls, searching between the folds. A moist, hot tongue slid into her.

A burst of color exploded across her eyelids. She cried out, her body bucking, throbbing. She told him what she wanted. Demanded it. In the ugliest way she knew.

For a moment, everything went still. Then the weight on her evaporated. She shivered.

“Maggie, look at me.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to think.

Fingers traced a lazy figure eight on her hip. A warm breath tickled her ear. “I want to
make love
to you. You know that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tears seeped out the sides of her eyes and trickled into her ears. She wanted to be taken. Ravaged. Ripped. Torn.
Love
was the last thing she deserved.

She flipped over, straddled slim hips and brought herself down. Hard. Her scream bounced off the walls and left her ears ringing.

Gripping the headboard, she thrust. Up and down she rode, on a penis slick with her own juices. The breadth and length of it filled her, chafed her, burned her inside. She cried, shrieked, moaned and growled, until her throat was raw.

A hand clapped around her neck and forced her to bend. The body beneath her strained upwards, until lips touched lips.

A kiss. Tender. Just the slightest of touches. But it hurt the most. The burning between her thighs was nothing. The pain of being kissed as though she were a priceless work of art was unbearable. It tore at her heart, as seed spilled into her, as fingers teased her into another climax.

She collapsed onto the mattress, the pillow at her head absorbing her sobs. Only then did she open her eyes.

Chapter Twelve

S
tafford flopped back onto the bed, his skin sticking to the sheets, the sweet smell of mingled perspiration evaporating. Along with his erection.

What the hell just happened?

During his first encounter with Maggie, he’d felt as though he’d been hit with a baseball bat. This time, it was a freight train. He could hardly believe they’d made love.

Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe those weren’t the right words for what they’d done.

Partway through the act, he’d felt as if he wasn’t even there. At least, for her. He’d become a prop. An inanimate object. A wham, bam, thank you, Sam.

Not that he had any objections to a little meaningless fun. But what they’d done sure as hell wasn’t amusing. And without a condom.

Shit.
It felt great at the time. Now, it just felt stupid.

He prayed she was on the Pill. Someone as pragmatic as Maggie wouldn’t have sex without taking precautions. Normally. But
normal
hardly described their relationship.

And if she became pregnant...

The thought of fatherhood usually scared him spitless. Bring another child, another potential victim into the world? Not him. No way.

Where was that familiar, scared feeling now?

He listened for her breathing. Slow. Steady. Probably, pretending to sleep. And he’d leave her to it. He should have left her alone in the first place. Recriminations sat like a half-ton boulder on his chest. What he did was way out of line. He took advantage of the situation. Of her emotional state. Even though she’d wanted sex, he shouldn’t have let it happen.

And, man, she’d wanted it. That petite, athlete’s body was everything he’d dreamed it would be—taut lines, gentle curves, and a pair of legs perfect for wrapping around a man while he buried himself inside her.

Unfortunately, that man wasn’t going to be him. Not anymore.

She’d let him know that plain and clear when she’d turned away, curled onto her side and cocooned herself in the sheets, forming a cotton blockade. Like he hadn’t already seen everything she owned. Hadn’t already tasted it.

Now, a ten-inch gap stretched between their bodies, wide as the Grand Canyon and final as a nosedive into that steep-sided gorge. She’d given him his ticket out. Sealed it with a kiss and shoved him away. He should have been relieved, the happy recipient of a quick roll, sans strings.

Instead, he felt like a lost soul staggering through a desert, the promise of water a distant memory. Alone and empty.

Gently, he pulled the top cover over her shoulder and pushed himself out of bed. His foot kicked something and he stumbled.

The teddy bear.

He bent to pick it up. As soon as his fingers touched the furry material, the floral wallpaper slanted and disappeared.