Where There's Smoke

“Yes, the pain has been all mine. I thank God for that. But at times it’s so crushing that I don’t think I can stand it anymore. There’s no relief from it.” She pressed her fist against her chest. “It hurts so bad. I want my baby back!”

“Shh. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t.” He pulled her to her feet. His arms went around her.

Instinctively, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and she pressed her face against his chest. “I’ll never forget it. But there are parts of it that I can’t remember. Like frames of a motion picture film, segments have been clipped out, and I’m afraid they’re important. I want to remember the missing pieces, but my mind blocks them out. Sometimes I can almost grasp a lost memory, then it eludes me. It’s as if I’m afraid to grasp it. I fear those things I can’t remember.”

“Shh-shh. It’s all right. It’s over and you’re safe.”

The assurances were whispered into her hair before his lips moved to her brow. Lara became aware of how good it felt to be held by someone physically stronger than herself. There had been no one with whom she could share this grief. Not her parents, who implicitly blamed her for everything that had happened, including Ashley’s death. All her friends had deserted her when she made banner headlines for being Clark’s mistress. For years she’d carried this burden alone. It was an unexpected luxury to lean on someone else and, for a few moments, relinquish a portion of the cumbersome weight.

Placing his fingertips beneath her chin, Key tilted her head up and grazed her lips with his. “Don’t cry anymore, Lara.” The raspy words were lightly ground against her mouth. “It’s all right.” Again, his lips rubbed hers. “Don’t cry.”

Then he kissed her, a deep, hot, wet, questing kiss.

Lara’s eyes slowly closed. She swirled in a maelstrom of fluid heat. Her will was voluntarily surrendered, and her mind went on a sensuous ride where nothing mattered except the connection—mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, man to woman. It fulfilled a primal need she wasn’t even aware she possessed.

Her response was instinctual. Her hands clutched him yearningly. She tipped her middle up, a gesture purely feminine, a silent solicitation for intimacy.

As though from a distance she heard his soft curse, then felt his hands moving across her shoulders, down her back, over her hips, drawing her against him, pressing her close. Closer.

It was that sudden and shocking familiarity with his body, or perhaps a self-preserving resurgence of sound judgment, that jolted her out of the sensual mist and into cold reality.

She pushed herself away and turned her back to him. Seeking support, she leaned forward against the counter. She took several deep breaths and vainly tried to disregard the desire rioting through her.

“Take me there.”

He said nothing.

She let go of the counter and faced him. “Take me there. I’ve got to know what happened to my child. I’ve got to see her death certificate, touch the soil in which she’s buried. Grasp… something.”

His face remained impassive.

“That closure, that final goodbye, is essential to one’s survivors. That’s why we have funerals and eulogies and wakes.” Still he said nothing. “Damn you! Say something.”

“You weren’t bullshitting. You really intend to go back.”

“Yes. And you’re going to fly me.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Now why would I do something that dumb?”

“Because you’re smart enough to realize that I’m right. Clark was instrumental in getting Randall assigned to Montesangre. My baby died as a consequence of your brother’s cowardly, political machinations.”

“A debatable point at best,” he said. “So, in order to make your argument more convincing, you decided to throw in some tongue-twisting kisses, right?”

Heat rushed to her face. “One has nothing to do with the other,” she said gruffly.

He made a snide, scoffing sound. “You know, Doc, you’ve just lived up to all my expectations. In fact, you surpassed them.” He whistled long and softly, wagging his hand as though he’d touched something hot. “One little kiss and you’re ready, baby.”

He snickered insultingly as he looked her over, then started toward the door. “Find yourself another sucker. I’ll pass on taking a vacation to a war zone. I’m sure as hell not interested in fucking my dead brother’s leftovers.”

He was so angry, it was a life-threatening risk to drive, yet he pointed the Lincoln toward home and pushed it through the night like a Sherman tank. He was angry with her, but that was nothing new or surprising.

The surprise was that he was angry with himself. He, who never analyzed his actions or apologized for anything he did, was riddled with guilt because he wanted his late brother’s mistress. If circumstances had been different, if she had given him the go-ahead, he’d be tugging off his boots right about now.

Jesus. Didn’t he have any more character than to be craving a piece of the woman who’d caused his brother’s downfall? Jody was right about him after all. Who better to know a child’s character than his mother? He was rotten to the core, just like his old man. Where women were concerned he had no discretion and no conscience. If he did, his cock wouldn’t be hard enough to drive nails, and the taste of Lara Mallory’s mouth wouldn’t still linger on his tongue.

When they were growing up, he and Clark had shared things, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes under parental duress. They swapped sweaters, shaving lotion, skateboards. But they’d never shared women. Not the easy girls at school. Not even whores.

This tacit agreement had evolved out of their adolescence, possibly because romance was one arena in which they didn’t want to compete. As brothers, they were constant subjects of comparison, but they drew the line when it came to sexual aptitude. Key had never wanted a girl that Clark had dated before him, and, although he couldn’t put thoughts into Clark’s head, he figured his brother had felt the same way. That’s why his desire for Lara Mallory was so puzzling and infuriating. It violated one of his own commandments.