got us here.” Her voice was tart, but Delaney still found herself leaning into him.
“Don’t hear me complaining.” His mouth covered hers in a slow brush, and she felt the curve of that kicked-up corner. “So, are you ready?” She felt his words on her lips, too. Then his hand slid behind her neck. Something so simple. The touch of a man’s warm palm, the gentle press of long, blunt-tipped fingers, the soft heat of masculine lips.
Only it wasn’t simple at all. Because she’d shared kisses before with perfectly attractive, interesting men. None of them had made her knees weak. Until this man, who’d been complicating her life from the moment they’d met two years ago. First professionally. Then personally.
Her better sense knew that marrying him was akin to jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But then he lifted his head, his deep brown eyes focused only on her…her…and her heartbeat skittered. She stopped listening to common sense and followed her heart.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “I’m ready.”
Sam’s smile was slow and all the more sweet because of it. He slid his hand down her arm, finding her hand. Slipped his fingers between hers, palm meeting palm.
They walked over and joined the end of the line.
One hour later, after a service that lasted all of seven minutes, Delaney Townsend and Samson Vega emerged from the shining white double doors, silly smiles on their faces and gold wedding bands on their ring fingers.
Chapter 1
Two years.
The first time since she’d seen Sam in two years, and he was in the arms of another woman.
Not just some witness he was questioning after a crime. Not some elderly woman he was helping to cross the street. It was clichéd, but she’d watched him do that, more than once, as if he were “good guy” personified.
No, this woman with whom he danced was definitely not elderly, and if she were witnessing anything, it was what it felt like to press her temple against Sam’s strong jaw while they swayed together beneath a starlit sky.
Well, wasn’t this just dandy?
Delaney exhaled and paused at the fringe of the crowd spilling from the clearing that was being used as a dance floor. Despite the outdoor setting, she felt hemmed in by too-warm bodies, too-loud music.
And Sam.
She hadn’t let herself think too deeply about how she’d feel seeing him again after all this time. Silly, considering that she was a psychiatrist. Now, like a tongue gingerly approaching a suspect tooth, she probed not only at what she felt seeing Sam, but what she felt seeing him dance closely with another woman.
Tiny red, blue and green lights were strung from the tops of young trees, circling bushes, sprouting from the swaying fronds of palm trees, even though the holiday season was half a year away. They blinked and twinkled, casting the revelers in a surrealistic light.
That’s what it felt like, Delaney decided.
Surreal.
How had their lives come to this?
The question was moot. She knew good and well how.
She glanced over at the main building that loomed against the studded sky. Fortunately, young Alonso was taken care of and was now settled in at the halfway house, Castillo House. She’d said her goodbye, difficult as it had been. Which meant that all Delaney had left to accomplish was this one last…task.
Maybe it was foolish. But to leave without at least speaking with him smacked of cowardice. It might appear that she was still affected by what had happened. And she didn’t want him thinking that way. Even if it were true.
She exhaled again, smoothed first the front of her regrettably wrinkled suit, then the strands of hair that kept slipping free of the pins, and headed into the fray of dancers.
She turned this way and that, moving between and around couples, murmuring an apology when she bumped right into one couple while avoiding another. But her voice was absorbed by the music blaring from the sound system just as surely as the high heels of her pumps sank into the earth, and she was fairly certain that nobody paid any heed at all to her progress through the melee.
That was okay. Having the element of surprise on her side could only be a good thing where Sam was concerned. She was prepared, while he was not. He couldn’t possibly be. A cowardly approach, perhaps, but there you have it.
She sidestepped, avoiding a couple intent on an enthusiastically bad tango, and finally came face-to-face with Sam.
Well, face to back.
She willed away a foolish surge of nervousness. For heaven’s sake, surely she was past the stage of butterflies where he was concerned.
She cleared her throat a little. “Excuse me.” Her voice was swallowed whole by the swell of the female singer and a symphony orchestra. She sighed a little and tried again, shifting when Sam and his partner slowly revolved and Delaney found herself standing behind the other woman. “Excuse me.” She tapped the dark-haired woman’s arm.
Immediately the woman looked around, her eyebrows lifting as she looked over her shoulder.
Sam noticed her then, too. His gaze narrowed on her face, his eyebrows jerking for a moment before drawing together over his hawkish nose. All around their odd little trio, the dancers continued to sway.
Well. She had managed to surprise him. Who knew? “Sorry to interrupt,” she said smoothly. “I just wanted a moment of your time.”
The woman’s head swiveled from Delaney to Sam and back again, and Delaney stuck out her hand, feeling some sympathy for the bemused-looking woman who shook it. “Delaney…Townsend.” She hesitated over the name. She’d have to work on that. She’d only been using it since she’d been in contact with Castillo House—two months, now, when she should have begun using it two years ago.
“Sara Drake,” the other woman murmured.
“Drake?” Delaney looked over at the enormous mission-style house that provided a backdrop along with the trees and lights. “Are you related to Logan Drake?”
“He’s my brother,” Sara confirmed. “But I’m afraid I don’t—”
“What the hell are you doing here, Delaney?” Sam interrupted the exchange.
Meeting his gaze was more difficult than she’d expected. So she looked at the total picture of him. The shining black hair springing back from his forehead, as thick as ever. Why couldn’t the man at least have a receding hairline? Or a paunch instead of a body that looked—as impossible as it ought to be—even harder and stronger than before.
Before.
Which reminded her of the task currently at hand.
She tightened her grip on the strap of her briefcase. She had to raise her voice more than she was comfortable with to be heard above the music. “I’d just like to speak with you. It’ll only take a minute, and you can get back to your dance partner.” She managed a smile at
