Chapter Nineteen

For about five minutes Daniel couldn’t move. But, after a while, he became concerned because Cleo wasn’t moving either.

“Cleo?” He lifted a hand to touch her temple. Her riot of hair was damp with sweat. His fingers followed a strand to the end, where a chain lay against her collarbone, stuck to her damp flesh.

“Hmmm?” she asked vaguely.

“You okay?”

“You could say that.”

He didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want to break the mood, but he had to deal with the rubber. He kissed her long and deep and tender, in case this was it. In case it was their last kiss. In case she jumped to her feet and darted away, which would be very like Cleo. And then he slipped away from her, her body imprinted upon his where cool air met hot flesh.

He took care of business, then turned off the fog machine, the absence of the rhythmic drone plunging the room into an ear-ringing silence. Then he dropped backward on the bed, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his rising and falling chest. Would she join him? Or would she leave?

She joined him.

The bed dipped as she settled herself beside him, curling up next to him, her breast pressed against his rib cage, one leg draped across his knees, her foot tucked under his ankle. He brought his arm from behind his head and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she let out a deep breath and snuggled closer.

His fingers once again finding the chain around her neck. He followed it until he reached a small ring. “Does this have any significance?”

She was quiet a moment. “No,” she finally said.

He might not know anything about Cleo’s life-her past, her plans for the future-but he knew a lie when he heard one.

Maybe she could read minds, because at that very moment she slid over him, on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips. Then she stretched, reaching past him to blow out the candles on the headboard, leaving only one flame burning in the corner of the room. “Where are the rubbers?” she whispered.

He groped the surface of the bedside table, his fingers coming into contact with the packet. He peeled it open, but before he could pull out the latex, she took it from him.

“I don’t think I’m ready,” he said, hoping he didn’t have to go into some lengthy explanation of how it takes a guy a little while to get wound up again. At that very moment, he realized he was ready.

With her knees clasped against his hips, her bottom resting on his thighs, she wrapped her hand around him. His breath caught. She began with the condom, struggling to unroll it.

“Here. I’ll do it.”

“I want to.”

“You’re not pushing hard enough. You aren’t going to hurt me.”

She shoved harder, the latex finally sliding into place. And then, before it even entered his mind to do anything, she came down on him, her hands gripping his waist.

“Don’t move,” she commanded.

She slid her hands up his ribs to his shoulders, following with her body until they were chest to chest.

“Just stay in me like this.”

Stay in me like this, stay in me like this. Her words echoed in his brain.

Her voice had the rhythmic cadence of a hypnotist’s, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if that was what she was doing-hypnotizing him.

“How long can you stay like this, without moving?” she whispered, her breath against his ear.

“I never tried it.”

His head hummed. His heart thudded. His breathing quickened.

And he held on.

She pushed herself upright, her hands braced against his belly. It felt as if she were devouring him, imprinting him. She began tracing patterns on his chest, her fingers circling his nipples, the palms of her hands sliding down his ribs, not lightly, but as if she were trying to memorize the very structure of his muscles, his bones.

“Cleo,” he gasped. He couldn’t lie still anymore.

“Shh. Don’t move.”

He hung on a little longer, until she began to move for him. She pulled herself away, and just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, she came down on him. Hard.

He pushed her to her back then followed her over. His mouth found hers while he slipped the crook of his arm under her leg, pulling her knee to her chest, thrusting into her again, never wanting the moment to end, holding himself back, holding, holding.

He felt the tendons in her legs go hard. He felt a quiver run through her as she contracted around him. She took him with her, milking him dry, until he lay a wasted man in her arms, his breathing ragged, his heart pounding in his head.

Mind-blowing.

Five minutes later, she asked, “Did I hurt you?”

He laughed, and felt the sound reverberate between their tangled bodies. He pressed a firm kiss against her damp brow. “Where did you learn something like that?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were wrong. He felt her withdraw. Not physically, but mentally, like a door had slammed in his face.

She would leave.

His mind got ahead of logic, racing blindly into tomorrow, wondering what he could do to make her stay.

“Where did I learn something like that?” she asked airily, their bodies unable to get any closer, their minds unable to get any farther apart. “From one of my many lovers.”

He made a sound of frustration. He rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed, tossing the used rubber into the wastebasket. Then he lay back down beside her. Close, but not touching.

“You haven’t had many lovers,” he said, sensing she was lying again, hoping she was lying again.

“No?”

“No.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Except that I’m a con artist. Isn’t that what you called me? And if I’m a con artist, then it would probably stand to reason that I’ve slept with a lot of men.”

“Come on, Cleo. Don’t start this.”

“Are you actually trying to give me some redeeming qualities, qualities that two hours ago I didn’t have? Wow. Sex certainly changes everything. It can make saints out of sinners.” Her anger was building, pulsating in the small room. “Two hours ago I was the lowest lowlife in Egypt, Missouri. But now that you’ve had sex with me, well, I must not be the lowlife you thought I was.”

Is that what he’d done? Is that what had really happened here?

She rolled off the mattress and began to dress.

He slid across the bed, snatched his shorts off the floor. “What about you?” He buttoned and zipped. “You’ve done nothing but lie since you got here-even before you got here, with that blind stunt. You and your phony séances and all that spooky barn crap.” He brought up his hands to cup her face.

The chain around her neck caught the light. He linked his fingers around it, lifting the ring to her face. “What about this? You lied about this not a half hour ago.”

She shoved at his chest and pulled back at the same time. The necklace snapped. The ring went flying.

Daniel heard it hit the wall and fall with a ping to the wooden floor.

She didn’t take her eyes from his. “Do you want the truth?” She jabbed at his chest, at the very spot her lips had recently kissed. “I’ll give you the truth. That necklace? It belonged to my fiancé. But he’s not alive anymore. You wanna know why? Because I killed him. Oh, not on purpose, but it was my fault.”

She was crying now, but he doubted she knew it. “That was four years ago, and I hadn’t had sex with anyone until you.” The last word was spat from her mouth, as if it were something vile.

Sweet Jesus. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she pushed him away.

“You’ve touched me enough,” she said. “Don’t touch me anymore.”

He put up both hands. “Okay, okay.”

She jerked open the bedroom door. Harsh light from the hallway hit him in the face, casting her in shadow. But enough light fell over the contours of her cheek for him to see the wetness there, for him to see that her lips were swollen from his kisses.