and hers—came physical sensations that walked a line between pain and pleasure. He scrambled to explain it to himself and could come up with nothing beyond the violence of the encounter.
“Gabriella.”
In the darkness, he couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need sight to know what she looked like. Dark-blond hair cut short. Light eyes. A delicate nose. Tempting lips that drew him with an intensity he had never felt before—much less imagined. He lowered his head, and as his mouth touched hers, he was caught by a blaze of need that radiated to every cell of his body.
They had just met. Met? Not exactly. In his haste to protect himself from another mob attack, he had struck first without knowing who she was.
Yet they’d gone from strangers to intimates in seconds. Without understanding why it had happened, he wanted her. Right here. Right now. Out in the open.
And she wanted him. He knew it by the way her lips moved over his and by the desire reverberating through her mind. Those signals were as clear to him as their shared memories.
He gathered her close, rocking on the weedy grass, frustrated by the layers of clothing separating them. He wanted her naked. In a bed. This would have to do.
Those heated thoughts and the pain pounding through his brain almost wiped out his ability to think, but not quite. Somewhere in his consciousness, he understood that what they were doing was dangerous. That knowledge was as sharp and insistent as the desire binding them together. And the pain in his head.
And she understood, too. He felt her wrench her mouth away, felt her push at his shoulder to free herself.
“No,” she gasped. “We can’t.”
Strange as it sounded, in that frantic moment, he knew he had come close to having his brain explode.
Oh, come on!
Even as he dismissed that notion, he rolled away from her, panting, his head spinning. Still, he was as aware of her as he was of himself. He heard her breath coming fast and sharp. Felt the beating of her heart, although that should be impossible.
He couldn’t label what had happened. Not the psychic … exchange of information. Or the swell of desire. Or the conviction that they skated on the edge of disaster.
Not yet. Maybe never. He was too shaken by the whole encounter. And the worst part was that he knew what she always struggled to conceal—how alone she felt. And she knew the same thing about him.
Both of them had learned to bury that innermost truth but not when someone had invaded your mind.
Invasion? Was that the right word? What the hell had happened?
She broke into his thoughts, speaking in a shaky voice.
“Luke Buckley,” she said. They were meeting for the first time, but she knew his name. “The man who rented Cypress Cottage.”
“Yes,” he answered, knowing her mom could have told her that much. But that didn’t account for her absolute conviction that it was him.
And, unfortunately, she zeroed in on a fact that he needed to keep hidden. “That’s not your real name. You’re …”
“Don’t say it.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
He clenched his teeth. The whole situation was so damned weird that he wanted to shout a string of curses, if that wouldn’t have made things worse.
This wasn’t the way he would have wanted to meet anyone. Particularly not this woman who—what? Who had connected with him in ways that he still could hardly believe.
He heard himself say, “We have to talk.”
He was sure she wanted to refuse, for a whole host of reasons, starting with the way he’d thrown her to the ground, but she answered with a small sound that signaled acquiescence.
The wind had picked up, and a few fat drops of rain began to fall.
“We’d better get inside before it starts to pour. Come to my cottage.”
She dragged in a breath. “You’ve got to be kidding. You just attacked me on my own property.”
“And you know why,” he said again.
He understood she was still making up her mind as more drops plopped down.
“You left the plantation house,” he said. “Because you were afraid to be there alone in the dark.”
She didn’t bother denying it or asking how he knew. It was the same way she knew that he’d changed his name when he fled to Lafayette, Louisiana.
“I was going to Water Iris, not to you,” she answered in a strained voice.
“You might as well come to Cypress. I’ve got some battery lights.”
She looked toward his cottage. “They’re not on.”
“They can be.”
Luke waited while Gabriella made up her mind. He knew she had to be going over the scene between them. His throwing her to the ground and fastening his hands around her neck. The opening of their minds to a level of intimacy that should have been impossible. The pressure building inside each of their heads. And the sexual need that had overwhelmed them.
That might turn out to be the final factor that sent her running from him. But perhaps she was pretending it hadn’t happened because she finally said, “All right.”
Wordlessly, he started for Cypress, and she followed a few paces behind him.
FROM THE SHADOWS, George Camden watched and listened, his hands clenched as he cursed the way his excellent plans had just gotten screwed up.
When he’d heard the thunder, he’d thought the storm would give him some cover when he broke into the mansion again so he could grab Gabriella. Then he’d watched her come out of the house and thought, what luck.
He’d been on his way toward her when Luke Buckley had tackled her. There was something strange about him, although George hadn’t figured it out yet. But it looked as if the guy had started to assault her, then changed his mind. Yeah, assault had turned into a pretty heated scene.
He laughed. That was an interesting development.
Too bad the guy had stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.
But why?
He’d heard them talking. It had been a strange conversation, as if George was only hearing part of it. Which could have been true from the way the wind was howling. Maybe it had carried away words spoken softly, but he had caught that Luke Buckley wasn’t his real name. Interesting.
Did they know each other or not? Part of the time it had sounded as if they did—then not so much.
Or maybe the mom had given the daughter an earful about the renter.
