Page 67 of Deadline

“Yes. And drugs and alcohol aren’t the solution.”

He whipped his head toward her and snapped, “What the fuck do you know about it?”

She recoiled as though he’d struck her.

Realizing what he’d said, he muttered an expletive and reached for her, catching her hand as she shot off the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Applying only light pressure so as not to frighten her, he brought her around to face him. He looked directly into her eyes, silently appealing for forgiveness and, short of that, understanding. She remained unmoving.

“Please don’t look at me like that.” Then he closed his eyes and raised her hand to his mouth. He kissed the inside of her wrist, whispering repeatedly against her pulse, “I’m sorry.” Bending his head low over her hand, he kissed the base of her thumb, and finally pressed his lips into her palm, hoarsely whispering, “Don’t be afraid of me. Please.” He touched his tongue to the hollow of her hand.

She made a small sound that brought his head up. Her expression had turned into one of confusion and indecision. She was breathing lightly and rapidly through her lips.

Caution and conscience kept him from dragging her down to him.

Caution and conscience be damned.

He pulled on her hand, gently but inexorably, until she was again sitting on the edge of the bed. Wide-eyed, she watched him as his fingertips explored the features of her face. Brows, cheekbones, nose, lips, jawline, and chin. He memorized them by touch.

Since she allowed that, he brushed her hair aside and nuzzled her neck until he felt the warmth of her skin against his lips. “I wouldn’t…I couldn’t ever hurt you. Believe that.” He planted a tender kiss on the side of her neck. Then another.

Her head tipped back. Taking that as encouragement, his kisses on her neck became more fervent. By the time they reached her ear, there was intent behind them, and she responded. Tension escaped her on a sigh. Her body settled, ever so slightly shifting closer to him. Tentatively she placed her hands on his shoulders.

He eased his head back and looked into her eyes. “I’m not him, Amelia. I’m not like him. I swear to you, I’m not. I have it under control.”

“I’m not afraid you’ll lose control.” Her voice was low and husky, and he wished it was something he could touch, stroke, taste. “I’m afraid I will.”

With a rasped curse, he cupped her head between his hands and claimed a kiss that was unapologetically deep from the start. There was no buildup to the intimacy, because he’d been thinking about making love to her mouth from the moment he saw her in the courtroom.

She didn’t shy away, but kissed him back in kind, with heat, her fingers alternately kneading his shoulders and tugging handfuls of his hair. Her unrestraint was as much a surprise as it was a delight.

He lowered her back onto the bed, where the kiss grew hungrier. As their mouths feasted on each other, he angled his body above hers. The sheet had become displaced, so there was nothing between the sensitized tip of his erection and her soft pajama bottoms. The contact caused a low groan to vibrate in his throat.

Amelia rubbed against him seductively, each movement sweetly feminine and small but breath stealing. He wasn’t as subtle. His hands roved selfishly and impatiently, greedy for the feel of her skin. He pushed his hand into the loose waistband of her pajama bottoms and caressed the curve of her hip. In response, her thighs shifted, separated. He fit himself into the notch.

When the doorbell rang, he was in such a fog of lust that it didn’t at first register with him what it was. When it rang a second time, they jerked apart and stared at each other, breathing loudly, sharing incredulity over someone’s ill timing. Blistering the walls of the room with a scorching curse, he rolled off her.

She scrambled off the bed and yanked her clothing back into place. “It must be Stef.”

“Or Bernie.” He snatched his gym shorts from the chair beside the bed and pulled them on. “I invited him for breakfast, but, Christ, it’s barely dawn.”

He went to the window that overlooked the front of the house, expecting to see a familiar person below. He didn’t. When he turned back to Amelia, she must have read the foreboding in his expression, because her hand moved to the base of her throat.

“What?”

“It’s the police.”

Chapter 12

Quickly, she checked on the boys, but they had slept through the ringing of the doorbell. By the time she got downstairs, Dawson was admitting a uniformed officer and a man in plainclothes into the house and saying to them, “She’s here.”

They introduced themselves as deputies from the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office in Savannah. Saint Nelda’s Island didn’t have a police force of its own. To Amelia’s knowledge, there had never been a need for one.

The uniformed man was young, so cleanly shaven that his cheeks were abraded. The tops of his ears turned red when he looked beyond Dawson’s bare torso and took in her dishevelment.

It was clear to her that he was the junior official of the pair, probably serving as a chauffeur to the other man, who introduced himself as Deputy Tucker, a detective for the sheriff’s office. He was potbellied, ruddy-faced, and all-business.

Amelia asked him why he was looking for her.