“Follow me home,” she said, taking his hand.
He sat in his car in the far corner of the parking lot and watched the entrance of the Fox amp; Goose, waiting. The door opened and he leaned forward in anticipation. It wasn’t Claire.
She’d said she was meeting her boyfriend-Mitch Bianchi-but she’d refused to share any more information. He’d known she was seeing someone-he made it a point to check up on her whenever possible-but she’d sounded enamored with the asshole. And why had she not brought him by the house for the game? Why was she being so secretive about this relationship? He was a writer-a nothing, like all the other losers she picked. He’d never been threatened by any of them. He understood Claire better than she knew herself. He’d made it a point to study her, learn about her, understand her. She dated men who were her intellectual inferiors. She used them for sex and nothing more. And as long as none of them were a threat to him, he could quench his thirst with other women.
His hands clenched the steering wheel. He hated that she slept with men other than him. He’d wanted to be her first and only. But that would have tipped his hand too soon. It was better this way, watching her from afar. Being there for her when she needed him. And then. . he’d know when the time was right. He’d know when to show her that fate had brought them together. They were meant to be.
He had his girls to keep him from moving on her too soon.
Too soon? It’s been fifteen years!
He didn’t want to kill her. He wanted her, but if he took her he would have to kill her. Instead, he protected her by standing back and not sharing his love. His love would kill Claire, and then he would have nothing left to live for.
She was everything to him.
Until she got serious with another. When she took another man not only to bed, but into her heart, when she opened up her soul. . that was for him, and him alone.
The door opened again and he saw her. She wore the dark jeans, and had added strappy high-heeled shoes and a lacy black tank top that hugged her breasts like a leather glove. Her fair skin was so white, especially against her shiny black hair. To touch her hair, her skin, her breasts. .
His eyes whipped to the man with her, his heartbeat quickening. Mitch Bianchi was not like the rest. He had the same good looks, but was taller, more physical, older than other men Claire had dated. He had an air about him. . a familiar appearance. Did he know this ass-hole? No, he didn’t think so. It was more the way he moved, the way he scanned the parking lot. Maybe he was in security, worked for Rogan-Caruso, though Claire said he was a freelance writer. Odd.
They were talking, then suddenly Claire wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and kissed him. A full-body kiss, up against the side of the building.
No, no, no! This was not good. The jerk had his hands on her ass, then her back, then her hair. What was he going to do? Fuck her right there in public?
He desperately wanted to confront them, arrest them for public indecency, kill them. He should be the one with his hands on Claire, but not up against the wall of some filthy bar. He’d pour rose petals on her bed, treat her like a princess. His princess.
They stopped groping each other and walked-together-toward Claire’s Jeep. She’d been drinking. That’s why she was acting like a slut. She’d been drinking and he was going to take her home. Except that she slid into the driver’s seat. He walked three cars away and got into a rather nondescript American car.
With clenched fists he wrote down the license plate, then followed. Discreetly.
Bianchi followed Claire home. Parked in her driveway behind her Jeep. He was going to screw her. Bastard.
“She’s mine!” he shouted in the safety of his car.
He drove off, angrier than he’d been in a long, long time. He almost stormed into her house. Almost. . to confront her. He wanted too much to kill her.
I sacrificed for you! I protected you! You’re mine!
But he continued up H Street, turned down a side street, and then made another right and headed back downtown.
He’d had these urges before. There was only one solution.
He went on the prowl.
THIRTEEN
As Claire led him across the threshold of her house, Mitch told himself he needed to extricate himself from this situation. When Claire learned the truth she would be hurt and furious, and he didn’t want to pile on any more pain.
She kissed him. Those soulful blue eyes fluttered closed and he lost himself in her lips.
She pulled his polo shirt out of his jeans and ran her soft hands up his chest, her thumbs skimming his nipples, her fingernails digging lightly into his skin.
He pushed her up against the wall, pressed his body against hers, her hands trapped between them. He kissed her, over and over, hard then soft then hard again. His hands were flat against the wall on either side of her head, keeping her aligned where he wanted her.
Mitch tried to tell himself this was just about sex, but that was a lie. He needed Claire like a man needs sustenance. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to think about it. Deep down, under his protective shield, he realized that Claire was as important to him as breathing. He couldn’t not make love to her. Kissing her, holding her, listening to her pleasure as they made love would revitalize him. He’d been functioning on autopilot for so long. Until Tom O’Brien saved his life, Mitch had been on the fast track to burnout.
O’Brien had saved his life, and Claire was saving his soul.
“Claire,” he breathed into her lips. “I don’t know-”
“I want you, Mitch.”
Last time he’d had a battle within himself to stay out of Claire’s bed. He’d resisted, but tonight the battle was over before it had begun. His hand grabbed her hair and he devoured her lips, his teeth skimming along her jaw, his tongue tasting her flesh.
She gasped as his tongue dipped into the hollow of her neck. She wiggled her arms up and pulled off his shirt.
In the dim light of her entryway, she frowned. He tensed. He hadn’t thought about his scars. More lies on top of the ones he’d already told. He was drowning in his own deception.
She ran her finger over an old scar from a bank robbery gone bad ten years ago.
“This looks like it’s from a bullet.”
“It is,” he said. “Friendly fire during basic training.”
She kissed it warmly, then continued the kisses across his chest, her tongue moving in moist circles as she licked him from left to right. Her hands reached under his waistband and squeezed his ass, sending heat up his spine. He wanted her.
Claire was surprised when Mitch pivoted and picked her up as if she weighed next to nothing. His hard muscles pressed against her thin shirt. He had no fat on him, and while he didn’t seem unusually buff with his shirt on, when off? he was hot. She loved how physical he was, how he didn’t treat her like a delicate rosebud, but a desirable woman. She had never shied away from her sexuality, but she rarely found a partner who equaled her passion.
Maybe because she’d never cared about anyone as much as she’d come to care for Mitch.
He glanced around and she realized he had never been to her bedroom. She pointed him down the hallway, then to the right.
They turned the corner into her bedroom and she hit the wall with her hand a couple times until she found the light switch. The two bedside lamps came on, not bright, just enough light to cast shadows across the room, so she could see him and he her. Visual stimulation was almost as powerful as physical stimulation.
Mitch tossed her on the bed with a grin as he followed, holding his body over her as if he were about to do push-ups. He dipped his head toward hers and nipped her bottom lip. Shivers went up and down her nerves. One small bite on her well-kissed lips and she was at his mercy.