Wife With Amnesia (10 page)

“Pardon me, ma'am. Didn't mean to scare you,” he
said, tipping the cowboy hat he wore. “Nobody was out front, so I came on back.”

“W-what do you want?” Claire asked, her heart pounding as she tried to see beyond the dark sunglasses he wore. She didn't know him, or at least she didn't think she did. Where in the devil was Lori? she wondered. When he didn't answer, another jolt of fear shot through her. “I asked what do you want?”

“I was hoping to buy a cup of coffee. It's my first trip to New Or-leans,” he said the city's name as so many visitors did, exaggerating the last syllable. “I happen to be passing by and saw your shop with all those fancy cakes out front. There's a little nip in the air, and I was hoping to buy a cup of coffee and try a piece of that cheesecake I saw sitting on the counter.”

“I'm sorry. This isn't a retail bakery,” Claire explained and hoped he didn't notice the death grip she had on the icing tube. Somewhere between fifty and sixty, she imagined. But between the hat, sunglasses and salt-and-pepper beard, she couldn't see much of his face. Quit jumping at shadows, she chided. There was no reason to believe the man was anything more than what he appeared to be—a tourist who had mistaken the place for a bakery.

“That mean I can't get myself a piece of that cheesecake?”

“I'm afraid so,” Claire said, but couldn't manage a smile. “Desserts Only isn't licensed for retail sales. We're wholesalers. We sell to the restaurants and coffee shops. There's a coffee shop on the next block that carries our products or you might want to try some of the local restaurants. Gallagher's always has some of our cheesecakes.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'll do that,” he said as he touched a finger to his hat brim.

“Claire, I—”

“Excuse me, ma'am,” the stranger said as Lori came charging through the door with an armload of pastry boxes bearing the company's logo.

“Who was that?” Lori asked as the man exited.

“Some tourist looking for a cup of coffee and cheesecake,” Claire told her. “He said no one was out front, so he came back into the kitchen.”

“Claire, I'm sorry,” Lori said, alarm filling her green eyes. She dumped the empty boxes onto the countertop. “I was in the storeroom getting more boxes and didn't hear anyone come in. But I could have sworn I locked the door after I came in this morning. Matt's going to have my head when he finds out.”

“Then Matt won't find out,” Claire told her. “You work for me, remember?”

“I know. But after what happened…he's right about wanting to make sure that you're safe. Leaving that door unlocked is asking for trouble.”

“Don't worry about it. Besides there was no harm done. If anything, Gallagher's will pick up a new customer.”

“I promise I'll be more careful about locking the door,” Lori said, losing some of her stiffness.

“Good. But while you're still feeling a little bit guilty about leaving that door unlocked, I need a favor,” Claire said.

Lori lifted one perfectly arched blond brow. “The last time you wanted a favor, I ended up working past midnight for a solid week helping you fill orders for a new account. I may as well tell you, I'm not feeling
that
guilty. Besides I've gotten used to having a life that con
sists of more than working twelve-hour days and weekends. I've even managed to meet a nice guy and have a sex life for a change—which I'm not willing to give up just to make extra-calorie-laden desserts for people who don't need them in the first place.”

Claire laughed. “My, my, that was quite a speech.”

“I thought so, too,” Lori said, her lips curving into a grin. “I've been waiting for a chance to use it ever since you came back to work. This is the first time you've given me an opportunity. So what's this favor you need?”

“Don't worry. It's nothing that will require you giving up those nights of hot sex.” And if all went well, Claire told herself silently after Lori agreed to finish the orders and close up the shop for her, tonight she'd be enjoying her own evening of steamy lovemaking with Matt.

 

“Damn,” Matt swore as he turned onto the street where he lived and was met with darkness. His house, like the rest of those on the street, was in darkness, thanks to heavy winds that had downed several power lines. He pulled his car into the driveway and smacked his fist against the steering wheel while silently cursing Delvecchio. It had been the detective's message on his voice mail, advising that he had new info on Dexter, and then being unavailable by phone that had sent Matt down to police headquarters. While Matt was relieved to learn that Dexter was believed to be living in Texas and not New Orleans, the side trip had caused him to be nearly two hours late getting home. And the weather conditions hadn't made the trek home a picnic. He, for one, would be glad when the next two weeks were over and the hurricane season was behind them.

With the power out, the garage door opener would be
useless. So he cut off the car's engine. Snatching the flashlight from the car's glove box, he didn't bother with the umbrella before exiting the car. Not that an umbrella would do much good in this downpour, he reasoned, as he dashed across the soggy lawn to the front door.

Scowling at the disarmed security system, water streamed down his face as he shoved his key into the lock. At the idea of Claire all alone during this raging storm, he clenched his fist around the doorknob and shoved the door open. She was probably a bundle of nerves by now, he told himself as he hurried inside the house. And it was all his fault. He'd meant to get home earlier, to draw the drapes and light the hurricane lamps before she got home. Instead, he'd allowed himself to get tangled up at police headquarters and then caught in traffic, and she'd come home to an empty, dark house.

“Claire!” He kicked the door shut behind him and tossed his keys onto the table in the foyer. Ignoring the water dripping from him and the damage his drenched shoes would do to the polished wood floors, he tore through the house in search of his wife. “Claire,” he called out again.

“I'm in the den.”

Using his flashlight to slash through the darkness, he headed down the hallway toward the den. He braced himself, expecting to find her huddled on the couch in the dark—nervous and frightened.

He found her. The room wasn't dark as he'd expected—not completely. There were candles scattered all about the room—on the coffee table, atop the mantel, even in the fireplace's hearth. The flickering flames chased away the darkness and bathed the room in a cozy, warm glow. Instead of the sounds of driving rain and wind beating against the house, he heard the soft strains
of Mozart coming from a portable CD player. And instead of finding Claire curled up in a tight ball as he'd expected, she was lounging on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, one arm draped around a cushion and sipping a glass of wine. She was nervous, Matt decided. He could see it in the way her fingers seemed unable to keep still, the way her eyes chased over him. But what he didn't see was fear—at least not fear of the storm.

“If you don't mind, I could do without the spotlight,” she said, shielding herself with one hand from the beam he'd trained on her.

“Sorry,” Matt said, and clicked off the light. Setting down the flashlight, he moved farther into the room for a closer look. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. But you looked soaked to the skin.”

“Yeah, I am a bit wet,” Matt replied. He took off his jacket, pitched it across a nearby chair and loosened his tie. “Sorry I'm late. I called the shop to let you know I'd gotten tied up, but Lori said you took the afternoon off.”

“That's right. I wanted to do a little shopping, and I thought I'd surprise you by cooking dinner tonight. But I'm afraid unless you like your steak raw, you're out of luck. The wine's good though,” she said as she dipped her finger into the glass, then put it in her mouth and sucked it.

Desire hit Matt—hard and fast. He scrubbed a hand down his face. She hadn't meant to entice him, Matt told himself. There was a freaking storm raging outside, and Claire was terrified of storms. No way did she have a clue of what an arousing sight she made.

“Would you like a glass?” she asked in a voice that sounded like a purr.

“Yeah. Sounds good,” he managed to say. Maybe a
glass of wine, followed by a full bottle of scotch, would dull the giant ache that wanting Claire had become. He started toward the bar.

“I'll get it,” Claire told him and gestured to the wine chilling in the crystal bucket that he'd failed to notice. “Maybe you should get out of those wet things into something more comfortable. I lit some candles in the bathrooms. You're welcome to take one of the ones from the mantel or use your flashlight to go upstairs and change if you'd like.”

“I'm not that wet, my shoes mostly. I'll just dry off a bit,” Matt said, and headed for the bathroom. Once inside the half bath, he toed off the ruined shoes and tossed his socks into the trash. Gripping the porcelain sink, he ducked his head beneath the cold water faucet.

When he shut off the tap and toweled his face, he felt he had regained some measure of control. No way had Claire been coming on to him, he told himself as he shoved his fingers through his hair. He'd promised not to push her. And damn it, he wasn't going to seduce her either, not when the lie—because it was a lie if only by omission—stood between them. Maybe it was time to tell her the truth. He wanted to tell her the truth, he admitted. And he would have told her, too, if he hadn't looked up in the mirror at that moment and seen Claire standing at the door, holding the glass of wine in her hand.

With the candle flickering on the table behind her, the meringue-colored dress she wore was practically transparent, revealing the wispy pieces of lace beneath it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he beat back the need that shuddered through him. He wanted her. Wanted her so badly he could taste it. And the desire that he'd kept on such a tight leash during the past five weeks threatened to snap. For a moment he debated going back outside into
the storm so that the cold, driving rain could cool the hot need sluicing through his veins.

“Matt, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he managed to choke out the word. He opened his eyes, but refused to allow himself to look at her again. If he looked, he would want. And if he wanted, he would—

She touched his shoulder, and her fingers might as well have been a brand. “You were gone so long, I started to worry. I have your wine.”

“Thanks,” he said. Turning around, he took the wine from her and drained the glass, barely tasting it. “I think I'll get a refill,” he told her, and hurried from the small room before he did something they would both regret.

He'd promised her, promised himself not to push for more than she was ready to give. She was nervous because of the storm. She'd had a little wine for courage. He would not take advantage of her. Ruthlessly Matt yanked on the reins of his control while he poured wine he didn't want into his glass.

“I could use a refill myself,” she said in a throaty voice, and held out her glass.

“Sure,” he all but growled. He walked over to where she sat on the floor in front of the fireplace. The flames from the candles danced, catching the gold fire in her hair and illuminating the pearl-like smoothness of her skin. It also reminded him of how little she wore beneath that dress. Gripping the neck of the bottle, Matt began to refill her glass. He glanced at her and the kittenish smile she gave him nearly brought him to his knees. He sucked in a sharp breath and sent wine sloshing over the glass and onto her dress.

“Yikes! It's cold,” she said, laughing up at him.

“Damn! I'm sorry.” Yanking the towel from around
the wine bottle, he knelt beside her and began dabbing the front of her dress.

“Matt, it's okay.” When he continued to blot at the stain, she caught his hand, held it against her breast. “I said it's okay.”

The air backed up into his lungs. For a moment he couldn't think. He forgot how to breathe. “I'd better get a wet towel to clean the rest of that wine before the stain sets in and ruins your dress.”

“I don't care about the dress.” She held his hand when he started to pull away. “Will you kiss me, Matt?”

He clenched his free hand into a fist at his side to stop himself from hauling her up against him and feeding the empty ache he'd lived with for so many months. “I don't think that's a good idea, Red.”

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. “Why not?”

“Because if I kiss you, I can't promise I'll stop with just a kiss.”

She dropped the hand she'd used to restrain him. Reaching up, she framed his face between her palms. “I don't want you to stop with just a kiss,” she told him, and brushed her lips against his.

Matt drew back, looked into her eyes. “Be sure, Claire. Be very sure this is what you want.”

Catching the ends of the tie that still dangled around his neck, she pulled him to her and whispered against his mouth, “The only thing I'm sure of is that I want to make love with you. You're what I want, Matt.”

His heart slammed against his chest. Groaning, Matt slid his hands into her hair and crushed his mouth to hers. She tasted of wine and apples and sweet, sweet Claire. He fed on her lips, swallowed her gasps. And the more he took, the more she gave. And the more she gave, the more he wanted. He pressed her against the pillows that
she'd thrown onto the floor, moved his knee between her thighs. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him down against her body, he ground his mouth into hers.

“I want to touch you,” she told him, yanking his shirt from his pants. “And I want to feel your hands on me.”

Matt growled, sat up on his knees. He flung off his shirt, tossed it in a corner. And then Claire's hands were on him, touching him, stoking the fire that was burning in his blood. And while she combed her fingers through the hair on his chest, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, Matt reached behind her, unzipped the dress. The need to have Claire naked beneath him, to sheathe himself in her wet heat and hear her say she loved him was so fierce it stunned Matt, made his insides shake. He eased her away from him and rid her of the dress.