she’d believed they were on fairly equal terms. She didn’t like to admit it, but the thought had been there, in the back of her mind, that maybe, just maybe, there could be a relationship between them. No, a friendship. She could never be seriously involved with someone in law enforcement.
But he wasn’t just a cop now. He was a rich cop. His name was probably listed on some social register. People who lived in houses like this usually had roman numerals after their names.
Boyd Fletcher III.
She was just Priscilla Alice O’Roarke, formerly from a backwater town in Georgia that wasn’t even a smudge on the map. True, she had made something of herself, by herself. But you never really pulled out your roots.
Rising, she walked over to toss her cigarette in the fireplace.
She wished he would hurry. She wanted to get out of this house, get back to work. She wanted to forget about the mess her life was suddenly in.
She had to think about herself. Where she was going. How she was going to get through the long days and longer nights until her life was settled again. She didn’t have the time, she couldn’t afford the luxury of exploring her feelings for Boyd. Whatever she had felt, or thought she was feeling, was best ignored.
If ever there were two people more mismatched, she couldn’t imagine them. Perhaps he had stirred something in her, touched something she’d thought could never be touched again. It meant nothing. It only proved that she was alive, still functioning as a human being. As a woman.
It would begin and end there.
The minute whoever was threatening her was caught, they would go their separate ways, back to their separate lives. Whatever closeness they had now was born of necessity. When the necessity passed, they would move apart and forget. Nothing, she reminded herself, lasted forever.
She was standing by the windows when he came back. The light was in her hair, on her face. He had never imagined her there, but somehow, when he looked, when he saw her, he knew he’d wanted her there.
It left him shaken, it left him aching to see how perfectly she fit into his home. Into his life. Into his dreams.
She would argue about that, he thought. She would struggle and fight and run like hell if he gave her the chance. He smiled as he crossed to her. He just wouldn’t give her the chance.
“Cilla.”
Startled, she whirled around. “Oh. I didn’t hear you. I was—”
The words were swallowed by a gasp as he yanked her against him and imprisoned her mouth.
Earthquakes, floods, wild winds. How could she have known that a kiss could be grouped with such devastating natural disasters?
She didn’t want this. She wanted it more than she wanted to breathe. She had to push him away. She pulled him closer. It was wrong, it was madness. It was right, it was beautifully mad.
As she pressed against him, as her mouth answered each frenzied demand, she knew thateverything she had tried to convince herself of only moments before was a lie. What need was there to explore her feelings when they were all swimming to the surface?
She needed him. However much that might terrify her, for now the knowledge and the acceptance flowed through her like wine. It seemed she had waited a lifetime to need like this. To feel like this. Trembling and strong, dazed and clear-eyed, pliant and taut as a wire.
His hands whispered over the leather as he molded her against him. Couldn’t she see how perfectly they fitted? He wanted to hear her say it, to hear her moan it, that she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her.
She did moan as he drew her head back to let his lips race down her throat. The thudding of her pulse heated the fragrance she’d dabbed there. Groaning as it tangled in his senses, he dragged at the snaps of her jacket. Beneath he found nothing but Cilla.
She arched back, her breath catching in her throat as he captured her breasts. At his touch it seemed they filled with some hot, heavy liquid. When
But he wasn’t just a cop now. He was a rich cop. His name was probably listed on some social register. People who lived in houses like this usually had roman numerals after their names.
Boyd Fletcher III.
She was just Priscilla Alice O’Roarke, formerly from a backwater town in Georgia that wasn’t even a smudge on the map. True, she had made something of herself, by herself. But you never really pulled out your roots.
Rising, she walked over to toss her cigarette in the fireplace.
She wished he would hurry. She wanted to get out of this house, get back to work. She wanted to forget about the mess her life was suddenly in.
She had to think about herself. Where she was going. How she was going to get through the long days and longer nights until her life was settled again. She didn’t have the time, she couldn’t afford the luxury of exploring her feelings for Boyd. Whatever she had felt, or thought she was feeling, was best ignored.
If ever there were two people more mismatched, she couldn’t imagine them. Perhaps he had stirred something in her, touched something she’d thought could never be touched again. It meant nothing. It only proved that she was alive, still functioning as a human being. As a woman.
It would begin and end there.
The minute whoever was threatening her was caught, they would go their separate ways, back to their separate lives. Whatever closeness they had now was born of necessity. When the necessity passed, they would move apart and forget. Nothing, she reminded herself, lasted forever.
She was standing by the windows when he came back. The light was in her hair, on her face. He had never imagined her there, but somehow, when he looked, when he saw her, he knew he’d wanted her there.
It left him shaken, it left him aching to see how perfectly she fit into his home. Into his life. Into his dreams.
She would argue about that, he thought. She would struggle and fight and run like hell if he gave her the chance. He smiled as he crossed to her. He just wouldn’t give her the chance.
“Cilla.”
Startled, she whirled around. “Oh. I didn’t hear you. I was—”
The words were swallowed by a gasp as he yanked her against him and imprisoned her mouth.
Earthquakes, floods, wild winds. How could she have known that a kiss could be grouped with such devastating natural disasters?
She didn’t want this. She wanted it more than she wanted to breathe. She had to push him away. She pulled him closer. It was wrong, it was madness. It was right, it was beautifully mad.
As she pressed against him, as her mouth answered each frenzied demand, she knew thateverything she had tried to convince herself of only moments before was a lie. What need was there to explore her feelings when they were all swimming to the surface?
She needed him. However much that might terrify her, for now the knowledge and the acceptance flowed through her like wine. It seemed she had waited a lifetime to need like this. To feel like this. Trembling and strong, dazed and clear-eyed, pliant and taut as a wire.
His hands whispered over the leather as he molded her against him. Couldn’t she see how perfectly they fitted? He wanted to hear her say it, to hear her moan it, that she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her.
She did moan as he drew her head back to let his lips race down her throat. The thudding of her pulse heated the fragrance she’d dabbed there. Groaning as it tangled in his senses, he dragged at the snaps of her jacket. Beneath he found nothing but Cilla.
She arched back, her breath catching in her throat as he captured her breasts. At his touch it seemed they filled with some hot, heavy liquid. When
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