Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

He had even managed, with perfect logic, to talk her into taking off part of her own clothing, and she had felt relaxed enough with him to do it. He couldn't have arranged for her to snag her panty hose, but he had been quick to take advantage of it. Just her panty hose, just her shoes… it had all felt so casual, so relaxed, and had set the stage for her to lose all her clothes.

He had further softened her with wine, though she couldn't use even that to excuse herself. She hadn't been tipsy. He had seen to that, carefully feeding her, not giving her any grounds on which she could later excuse herself, or accuse him. She had been sober but wanned by the wine and his care, his touch. She remembered the brush of his bare feet against hers while they danced, and her toes curled, her nipples tightened.

What could be more romantic than a hot sax and a slow dance on a balcony in New Orleans on a rainy summer night? She had been completely in his arms then, under his spell, so subtly aroused she had been almost at fever pitch and hadn't even realized it. She remembered the fleeting contact with his erection while they danced, and knew now it hadn't been accidental. He had teased her with it, letting her surreptitiously seek out another brief touch, making her feel everything was still casual while subtly intensifying her arousal.

He had orchestrated every touch, gentling her, bringing her to the point where she not only would accept him sexually but was eager for the act. He hadn't put one step wrong; he hadn't grabbed her breasts or shoved his hand between her legs, moves that would have startled her into pulling away. She didn't know why having his hands on her bottom hadn't warned her, but all her alarms had been silent. Maybe she had already been past the point of no return. He had bypassed all the usual foreplay, except for those wonderful kisses; when he was ready, he had simply tossed her skirt up and taken her, except that the

entire day had been foreplay and she had been more than ready for him, climaxing with embarrassing speed.

The memory of it had her face hot, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. Damn it! One night with him had turned her into a sex kitten, evidently. She wanted him. Still. Now. The man knew more about sex, and women, than should be legal. He had been so sure of himself, and of her, that he had put on a condom even before asking her to dance. She should be grateful for that, at least, because she had been so far gone that the thought of protection had never crossed her mind, and she was a nurse, for God's sake. She hadn't thought of pregnancy or disease, only of completing the act for which her body was clamoring.

He had certainly destroyed another of her assumptions, because she had always thought people who claimed to be swept away by passion were exaggerating to cover their own stupidity and carelessness. Now she was the newest member of the Stupid and Careless Club.

So much for her vaunted caution and self-control; Marc Chastain just hadn't gotten his hands on her, yet. Well, now he had, and now she knew that she had no caution or self-control where he was concerned. There were so many levels of foolishness to her behavior that she could scarcely believe what she had done. She had gone straight from her father's grave to a stranger's bed. She didn't think she could have made it through the ordeal of the past few days without Marc's aid, but he was still, essentially, a stranger. She didn't know anything about him except that he was a cop, he could seduce a statue, and he had screwed her brains out.

The deliberate crudity of the thought didn't make her feel better, it made her feel like crying. If she thought he had been wildly attracted to her from the beginning, she would still be embarrassed by having slept with him, still be mortified by her carelessness, but she wouldn't have run like a scared rabbit. But he hadn't been attracted to her, in fact, he had taken an instant dislike to her. Lying in the cool of the early morning, pinned to the mattress by his muscular arm, all she could remember was when she had first met him, and she knew she hadn't been mistaken. So, if he disliked her so much, why had he immediately launched his seduction tactics? The awful possibility that occurred to her was what sent her running. Maybe he was guilty of nothing more than horniness. Maybe he had made love to her casually but not maliciously, taking the opportunity when it presented itself. Maybe. She didn't believe it. For one thing, he hadn't left anything to chance, not even the condoms. He had set out to take her and accomplished his aim with ridiculous ease. His actions bespoke a deliberation that frightened her, and hurt her beyond measure.

Given his immediate dislike, what if his entire seduction campaign had been aimed at taking her down a peg? Screw her, use her, walk away from her.

One of the residents at the hospital had even said something like that to her, after she had turned down his invitation for the third time. "One of these days, some slick stud is going to get your panties off," he had said, sneering, "and when he gets through with you and walks off, you'll find out you're not any better than the rest of us."

She didn't imagine studs came any slicker than Marc Chastain.

She winced, wishing she would stop thinking in those awful puns.

Now she thought of an even worse possibility. What if his actions had been motivated by pity ?

She groaned, covering her eyes. Great. Just great. She was that most pitiable of creatures, a mercy fuck. Karen rolled her head and looked at the blinking light on the answering machine. She didn't have to listen to the messages; she could walk over there and erase them. She wouldn't have to hear that dark velvet drawl again or, worse, not hear it. Maybe he had just said to hell with it and walked away, and there was no message from him to erase.

"Damn it." She said the words aloud. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." The repetition didn't help. She had to face the truth she had been trying hard to avoid, but her own inability to stop thinking about him made avoidance impossible. She had done something far more stupid than sleeping with him; sometime during the past three days, she had fallen in love with him.

She had told herself it was only because he was being so helpful at a time when she really needed it, but her heart had given a big thump every time she saw him. She had told herself it was just his voice, that marvelous, deliciously male voice, that attracted her. She had told herself a lot of things, but the truth was her insides had jolted in primitive recognition the first time she had seen him. Call it chemistry, call it biology—hell, call it voodoo—for whatever reason, she had gravitated to him like a nail to a magnet, and everything he had done after that had only intensified her feelings. How could she not love him? He had fed her, sheltered her with his own body, warmed her; such simple, even primitive actions, things a caveman might have done for his cavewoman of choice when he wanted to get under her bearskin with her. Funny that they were as effective now as they had been thousands of years ago.

She couldn't put her finger on any one moment when her initial feelings had crystallized into something more serious, but neither could she discount what she was feeling. It was real, it was fierce, it was terrifying—and it was painful.

If all he had wanted was casual sex to while away a rainy night, then he shouldn't have been so damn courteous and gallant, she thought furiously, tears stinging her eyes. And if he disliked her so much that he had deliberately tried to make her care, so her hurt would be worse—

She didn't know what to do. She didn't have the experience to deal with this kind of situation. She had never loved a man before, never let herself even get close to loving one. It was ironic that she had just decided to begin giving men more of a chance in the romance field, and then Marc had come in under her radar and laid her flat, quite literally.

She should have stayed and faced him. It would have been the smart, dignified thing to do. Just lay it all out, like an adult—no game playing, just honest talk.

Well, it was too late to act like an adult. The least she could do now was apologize for her behavior and let him worry about his own.

The blinking light on the answering machine was driving her crazy. Swearing, tears burning her eyes again, she stalked over to the machine and punched the play button.

There was a hang-up, then a recorded message trying to sell her cleaning products, three more hangups, a message from Piper saying, "God, Karen, I'm so sorry about your father. Why didn't you call?" The

next message was an aluminum siding salesman, then another hang-up, and all at once a deep, furious voice: "God damn it, Karen—" He stopped, and when he spoke again, it sounded as if his teeth were clenched. "What the hell did you mean, running away like that? You call me the fucking minute you get home, or by God I'll—"

She didn't get to hear the rest of the threat, because he slammed down the phone. Her knees went weak, and she grabbed the edge of the desk for support. No velvet in his voice now; all she could hear was steely rage. The force of it took her aback. She hadn't expected rage. Disgruntlement, maybe, but she had expected the phone call to be something along the lines of "Are you all right? Running away wasn't necessary." She had expected him to check on her, nothing more, and the very mildness of his response would make her feel even more cowardly for running.

She hadn't heard him curse before—those perfect manners again. She hadn't been naive enough to think he didn't swear at all; she had heard him, though he had been speaking French. He was a cop, after all, and under the courtesy was a toughness that in normal circumstances would have made her keep as far away from him as possible. Her father had been a tough man, too. But she had needed Marc, and she had never in her life felt safer than she had with him. It wasn't just the pistol in his belt holster, it was the man himself, big and confident, with his hard, glittering eyes. He was tough, all right, and she didn't doubt he could be mean when the situation warranted.

With her, however, he had been gentle. Courteous. He had used sex words in bed with her, of course; she closed her eyes as she remembered some of the things he had said, and done. Arousal curled low and warm inside her, making her squeeze her legs together. She shivered and groaned aloud. Just as she had the first time he called, she rewound the tape and played his message again. She winced as the force of his fury hit her ears. She had run from him as if he were a rapist, insulting him after he had gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf, regardless of what his private opinion of her was. Being a cop, he would also have tried to catch her, to make certain nothing was wrong. She hadn't even had the courtesy to answer his page. No wonder he was furious; she was furious with herself. Yes, she'd had a rough few days, a rough year , but she couldn't excuse herself on those grounds. She couldn't excuse herself at all.

She picked up the phone and dialed before she could do something else childish, such as chicken out.

"This is Chastain. Leave a message."

Voice mail. Damn voice mail. Karen clenched her teeth. He deserved a personal apology, deserved the chance to swear at her some more, but it might take her days to catch him in the office. "This is Karen. I'm at home. I'm sorry for running out on you this morning. It was childish of me, and I—I don't have any excuse. I thought—never mind. I acted like an idiot, and I'm sorry." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. She bit her lip and hung up. The pit of her stomach felt cold. Maybe he would call so he could tell her she was a jerk and an idiot, but likely she would never hear from him again.