Ultimate Sins (12 page)

Yep, migraine.

And its instigator's name was Linda.

Linda Grandor. Well, Linda Justin-Grandor.

The mayor's daughter. And the newly appointed county attorney's wife.

Too bad Linda didn't have the one saving grace her husband had, which was compassion.

Amelia had once believed Linda's mother, Ruth Anne Justin, had that compassion as well, but there Ruth Anne was behind her daughter, obviously backing her. Linda stood on her doorstep now, dressed in a black wool peacoat and stylish leather boots beneath gray wool slacks with expensive black leather gloves on her hands. A mini me of her mother.

At least, outwardly.

Not that Ruth Anne appeared to be pleased with the situation.

“I'm rather busy, Linda. Ruth Anne,” she assured them both as she blocked the doorway and stared back at them firmly. “You should have called first.”

Ruth Anne's brows lifted, amusement gleaming in her hazel eyes.

That amusement quickly disappeared when Linda's head snapped around in suspicion as though somehow sensing her mother's defection. Flipping her long, silken blond hair over her shoulder, Linda gave her mother a short, imperious glare before turning back to Amelia.

Amelia had already had enough and moved to close the door in their faces.

“That would be ill advised, Amelia,” Linda snapped, pressing a gloved hand flat against the door as Amelia moved to close it.

“I've done a lot of ill-advised things over the years, Linda.” Amelia glanced back at Ruth Anne, her expression hardening at the shame and regret that flickered in the mother's gaze.

“And I'm certain once the FBI realizes this then they'll place you in a cell, where you belong.”

The accusation had Amelia stilling as the cap on her anger began to loosen.

“My God, Linda, that is enough!” her mother demanded, shocked outrage filling her tone.

“I will not—”

“I will damned well not listen to any more,” Amelia decided.

Moving back to slam the door she was caught unaware as Linda suddenly pushed herself inside, her cheeks flushed a harsh red. Anger gleamed in her eyes and curled her fingers into fists.

Hell, she knew Linda, and she knew this wouldn't turn out well. If only she had an ounce of the mercilessness Linda possessed, Amelia thought in resignation as she stood next to Ruth Anne and watched the childish petulance that filled the daughter's face.

“For pity's sake,” Ruth Anne muttered, embarrassment filling her expression. “I'm so sorry about this, Amelia.”

“Why would you dare to apologize to that killer's little bitch?” Linda suddenly snarled, furious. “Tell her why we're here, Mother. Are you frightened of her? You know her and her family for what they are now, you can stop kowtowing to her.”

The moment the words left her lips a dark, heavy shadow shifted, extending from behind Amelia into the foyer as both Linda and Ruth Anne stared behind her in sudden apprehension.

She knew who it was.

“Are you demanding kowtows again, Amelia? And here I thought my kowtows were the only ones you were accepting this week. Shame on you,” Crowe chastised her mockingly.

Amelia felt her own fists clench, her back teeth grinding—she just didn't need this.

“Ruth Anne. Linda.” Dark, rasping, his voice sent a sexual thrill racing up Amelia's spine as the other two women stared back at him speechless.

Neither of them missed the hand that settled on her shoulder, or the possessiveness in the fingers that gripped her lightly.

“We were just leaving, Crowe,” Ruth Anne assured him, the false brightness in her gaze suddenly at odds with the flicker of trepidation in it.

“Mother,” Linda hissed, turning on Ruth Anne with just a hint of nervousness. “We have to—”

“Pick up dinner for your father. I know, dear,” Ruth Anne broke in seamlessly, firmly, as she gripped her daughter's arm and dragged her ruthlessly through the doorway. “We'll visit with Amelia some other time.”

Just what she needed, a later visit.

Amelia made a mental note to ensure her doors remained locked at all times and that Linda and Ruth Anne's names were listed in the do-not-open-for-any-reason file.

“Now, what the hell do you want?” Amelia demanded as she tried to shrug out of Crowe's grip, watching as he gave the door a firm push with a flick of his hand.

The crack of wood against wood seemed overly loud in the entryway as he waited for the door to close before slowly releasing her.

“Does it matter why I'm here?” he asked, a hint of mockery in his voice grating on her already irritated senses.

“Of course it matters. Just as it mattered why they were here.” Flinging her hand toward the door, she managed to jerk out of his hold on her to stalk into the family room.

Heavy dark furniture made the room depressing, even with the shades and curtains open and the balcony doors thrown ajar. The only bright spot was the huge, flat-screen television hanging on the wall across the sleek cherrywood of the desk her mother had used for household accounts.

She paused in the center of the room as Crowe moved past her and began pulling the shades closed over the wide windows.

“It's not dark enough in here yet?” she asked incredulously as he moved to the balcony doors and pulled the shades closed there as well.

“There are still a few reporters hanging around town.” He shrugged as he turned back to her. “I'd hate to give them something more to speculate on.”

It was the look in his eyes.

The amber and brown swirled and shifted, holding her, mesmerizing her as he moved to her, ensnaring her in the brilliant hunger reflected there.

“No.” She barely had time to utter the word before she found herself in his arms.

In that single second the years fell away. She was eighteen again, her body hot and eager for his touch, her sensuality an untouched canvas awaiting each stroke of his fingers.

Those fingers threaded through her hair at the back of her head, clenched in the thick strands, and pulled until her face tilted up to him, leaving her vulnerable to his kiss.

There were no preliminaries.

His lips covered her as he ignored the whispered protests, a part of his conscience growling in outrage.

He would just take this kiss, he assured that snarling inner voice. He would take nothing else.

He needed it.

He needed the taste of her, the feel of her. He needed to know she was safe, living, breathing, and still aching for him.

God knew, he ached for her.

The ice surrounding his soul didn't seem as cold or as unending when she was in his life.

His lips moved over hers, his tongue pressing inside. The taste of her, hot and sweet, exploded against his senses as a whimper fell from her lips. A sound more of pleasure than protest as he felt her arms lift, her fingers digging into his hair. Slender and graceful, her delicate little body arched to him, pressing tight against him, tempting the sexual hunger he fought to rein in.

God yes!

The taste of her alone was an aphrodisiac. The feel of her was pure temptation after years of pent-up need.

Her tongue met his as his lips slanted over hers, a little feminine groan of rising need sounding from her. The sound of it ratcheted his hunger higher, harder.

His lips sipped at hers as her hands pulled at his hair. As though trying to pull him closer, to force his kiss deeper, she tugged the hands full of hair toward her.

She wasn't protesting any longer.

She was demanding more.

She wanted him, needed him with the same hunger he needed her. A hunger raging out of control.

The taste of her sank into his senses like sunlight and a promise. Her tongue twined with his. Lick for lick, touch for touch as their moans met and mingled in the seductively dim light of the room.

Pushing his hand beneath the hem of her sweater, Crowe moved immediately to the front catch of her bra and flicked it open. Pushing the cups back from the rising curves, lust transmitting to a hunger so intense it was all he could to keep his hands from shaking, Crowe fought to rein the hunger in enough to ensure her pleasure, to ensure he didn't hurt her.

A faint little shudder raced up her spine as his hand curved around a swollen breast, his thumb finding and rubbing the tight sensitivity of her nipple.

“Fuck.” Tearing his lips from hers, Crowe eased back just to swing her into his arms. “Come here, sugar elf. We need a bed for this.”

He had to get her to a fucking bed before he ended up taking her on the floor. He was so hard, so ready to fuck, his balls were throbbing in agony.

It felt as though he had waited forever to touch her.

The stairs were taken two at a time as the heated curves of her lips pressed against the base of his neck. The flick of her tongue seared his flesh with sensation.

She was as ready for him as he was for her. There was no longer any need to allow guilt to flay him, to fear she didn't want him. Hell yes she wanted—she wanted with the same driving desperation that he felt.

Pushing into the bedroom Crowe kicked the door closed, pausing only long enough to lock the deadbolt before bearing her to the bed.

Somewhere she'd lost a shoe, he thought, as he removed the other and tossed it to the floor before straightening.

“Undress,” he said, his fingers going to the buttons of his shirt as his voice rasped with the harsh demand.

Vulnerability shadowed her gaze, but her fingers went to the clasp of her pants as he shed his shirt.

She eased the material over her hips as he tore his boots from his feet. Shedding his jeans, he groaned as the sweater came over her head and fell to the side of the bed a second later, along with the bra he'd unclipped downstairs.

Clad in nothing but black silk panties, the long strands of her hair fanning around her face and shoulders like a dark halo, she seemed surrounded by innocence.

Hard-tipped breasts, swollen and flushed, teased him with the candy-pink promise of her tight nipples. Silken skin sheened with the lightest glimmer of perspiration made her look damned lickable, and there, between her thighs, the black silk of those panties glistened with the evidence of her juices spilling from her sex.

It had been forever since he'd seen her like this, laid out for him, tempting him. Forever since he'd touched her.

His gaze licked over her, from the dampness of her panties to the tight peaks of her nipples.

Then he stared down at the band of her panties again, drawn by a slight shadow peeking out, drawing his interest.

“Take the panties off,” he demanded, his gaze moving to her face as she hesitated.

Her eyes flicked to his heavy erection as her fingers clenched in the blankets beneath her. A pink flush of hunger filled her face, washing down her neck and to her already tempting breasts as her gaze lifted to his almost shyly.

Amelia, shy: Even as a virgin she hadn't hesitated to give him whatever he demanded of her. Hell, just six weeks before she had nearly allowed him to have her on that damned counter in the kitchen.

Why hadn't he noticed this then?

His gaze lowered to that shadow again.

Had she actually had her soft flesh inked? And if she had, why was she hesitant to let him see it?

Moving, he stretched out on the bed beside her, his fingers going to the band of her panties. Before he could push the elasticized silk lower, her hand was there to stop him.

She covered the shadow with her fingers as she drew her lower lip between her teeth indecisively.

“You know I'm going to see what it is,” he told her softly. “Why are you trying to hide it?”

A frown edged at her brow. “You weren't supposed to pay attention to it.”

He had to laugh a bit at that. “Baby, anything that's touched your sweet flesh has great interest to me, especially if it's permanent. I'm a damned jealous man, remember?”

So jealous, it had been all she could do to keep him from revealing their affair each weekend, seven years before.

“Just turn the lights out,” she demanded, her brow wrinkling as he pushed at her hand.

Crowe only shook his head before catching her wrist in his hand and pulling it effortlessly over her head, along with the other wrist, and holding them captive.

He didn't glance back up at her, but let his fingers stroke the silken flesh above the band of her panties.

“When did you have it done?” he asked. The thought of the mark below the material had his dick aching with greater intensity.

“The day before I married—” A hard breath eased from her lips as his fingers touched the dampness of her panties before she could utter that despicable name.

A moan whispered from her lips instead as he gazed from the moisture-soaked crotch of her panties back to the edge of that intriguing little shadow.

God, he was dying to see it, yet a part of him was terrified of what it could be.

She had gotten a tattoo the day before she married. He knew there wasn't a chance the inked brand had any significance to Stoner Wright. What then had been so important to her?

Slowly, his gaze trained on the area, Crowe pulled the band of her panties lower, his breath catching, his jaw locking at the first sight of his wily, impossibly imaginative Amelia.

How long it must have taken to complete that tattoo. But she had done it. There, inked on her delicate flesh, sat a pretty, forlorn little fairy, chin propped on delicate arms that lay across her knees, glaring out at the world. Daring the watcher, determined in her stubborn refusal to relent—

Or daring them to breach the silken material of her panties.

“My fairy-girl,” he whispered, brushing his fingers over the colorful little tattoo. “Always mine.”

“That wasn't for you,” she protested unconvincingly, though the slight moan in her voice as his finger trailed to her thigh spoiled the power of the statement. “I liked fairies before you ever called me that.”