Cole Cameron's Revenge

Faith moved slowly toward the woman. Who are you? she said. Why are you crying for a man who never loved you?

I don't know, the woman sighed. Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll. "I don't know," the woman said again. She raised her head. Faith saw her own face, her own eyes, her own wrenching sorrow...

Panicked, she jerked awake, heart thumping unsteadily as the dream faded. The fire had gone out, leaving the room dark and cold. And somewhere in the distance...

The doorbell was ringing.

Faith jumped to her feet and turned on the nearest lamp. The Limoges clock on the mantel began to chime nine in counterpoint to the bell. Who would drop by this late? Who would come by at all? Nobody came to visit the town pariah.

The bell stopped ringing as she hurried through the house to the front door, switching on lights as she went and hoping the noise wouldn't wake Peter. When she'd last checked, he was sound asleep, his teddy bear in the curve of his arm, his thumb tucked in his mouth. That had almost broken her heart. She hadn't seen him suck his thumb since he was two. He hadn't even done it when Ted

The front door swung open just as she reached it. Faith cried out, stumbled back. A man stood in the opening, silhouetted by the light spilling from the foyer onto the porch. He was big, wide-shouldered...

"I rang the bell," Cole said. He stepped forward; she could see him clearly in the light but it didn't matter. Her pulse was still rocketing.

"You rang the bell and I didn't move fast enough to suit you, so you walked right in?" She spoke sharply, using her defiance as a shield. He'd scared her but she could feel something other than fear, something that had to do with the sight of him and the dream she couldn't remember.

"This is the second time you've broken into this house, Cole. I won't tolerate it again."

He laughed and brushed past her. "What will you do about it?"

Tight-lipped, she watched as he went toward the kitchen with the easy walk of a man who owns the ground beneath his feet. She had no choice except to close the door and follow him. He went to the sink, took a mug from the cabinet and filled it with the coffee she'd made a little while ago.

Her anger went up a notch. "Make yourself at home."

"Thank you." His courteous tone was as false as his smile. "I intend to."

Faith pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "All right, Cole. What do you want?"

He took a sip of coffee. "This is good." He smiled again.

She had an overwhelming desire to slap the smile from his face but instinct told her that she wouldn't get away with hitting him a second time. Instead, she dug her hands into her Dockets and knotted them. "I'm pleased to see you have at least one practical talent."

She knew her face was turning hot. All the more reason to strive for a cool, detached tone.

"Answer the question, please. What do you want?"

You, he thought with a swiftness that was frightening. He'd seen the coolly elegant Faith this morning, the damned near-naked Faith this afternoon, but for reasons he couldn't begin to comprehend, this Faith in her sweatshirt and jeans, her hair loose and tumbling down her back, was the one that made him taut with desire.

He'd spent the last hour in a bar on the outskirts of town, a country gin mill where the bartender would probably have laughed if he'd asked for single malt Scotch. He'd nursed a couple of beers, listened to the saccharine tales of woe pumping out of the juke box, assured himself that what he was about to do was right, that he had no choice ... that he didn't give a damn if his coldly clever sister-in-law liked his plan or not.

And that was the problem. She wasn't his sister-in-law, not in this getup. She was his girl, aged seventeen, all done up in oversize clothes because they'd gone swimming down at the lake one hot afternoon and afterward, the sight of her in her swimsuit, her nipples beaded with cold under the cheap polyester, had threatened to drive him out of his mind.

"Here," he'd said gruffly, and he'd taken his football jersey from the saddlebag on his Harley and handed it to her. "Put it on," he'd said, his voice low and hot, "before I come over there and rip that suit off you." And Faith had blushed and whispered maybe that was what she wanted him to do, even as she pulled on his shirt. He'd come up behind her then and, for the very first time, slid his hands under the jersey and cupped her breasts.

He turned away, cursing himself and the erection he felt straining against his jeans, and filled the cup with more coffee.

"Is Peter asleep?"

"Yes."

"Did he..." In control again, he swung toward her. "Was he upset?"

Her mouth thinned. "He's only a child, Cole. He's too young to know that some people say things just for effect."