Ducking behind some large oaks, where they’d be shielded from the road, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him to her again, desperate for his kiss.
“Maddy.” She could tell by the way he’d spoken her name that he was trying to persuade her to slow down. He obviously hoped to discourage her, to talk her out of what she wanted to do. But it wouldn’t work.
“Don’t ruin it,” she said. “Just kiss me and keep kissing me—”
Burying his hands in her hair, he backed her up against the tree as his mouth met hers. She reveled in its warmth, the solidity of his larger body, the pressure of his erection, his need answering hers. His arms around her felt so satisfying, she couldn’t think about anything else. Except the craving to feel him inside her, to let him carry her away from all thought and memory.
She began fumbling with his pants.
“Maddy, wait.”
“Don’t talk,” she whispered.
“But you’re going to make it too difficult to stop. It’s been a long time for me. Do you understand?”
“I don’t want to stop.” She silenced him with another kiss, the kind that promised him she wouldn’t refuse at the last minute.
She felt the change in him when he gave up his struggle to resist. He lifted her skirt and his fingers grazed her bare thighs.
She shivered, almost too sensitive to withstand even such light contact. But she kept kissing him. She was afraid if she stopped, he would, too. Then they might reconsider.
“Is this what you want?” he asked.
“Yes.” She moaned when he touched her.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he whispered as they fumbled with their clothing. But his voice sounded ragged, desperate—as desperate as she was—and she wasn’t about to stop him. Not now. He’d already taken a condom from his wallet. While he opened it, she felt the velvety softness of him in her palm and experienced a thrill of satisfaction as his muscles jumped in response.
“God, I hope you don’t regret this,” he said.
“Just make the pain go away,” she begged. Then she slid her panties to one side and stared into his eyes, eyes that were stormy and intense as he lifted her up and buried himself inside her.
Chapter Thirteen
It was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Despite the cool, overcast weather, Hunter could feel the quiver in his muscles from bearing her weight, the sweat on his back, her chest rising and falling against his own as they recovered from the physical strain and the emotional intensity.
“You okay?” he murmured.
She nodded, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She was busy adjusting her clothes. “My office is on the way home. We’ll stop there and check for outbound flights. If we can get you on a plane today, we’ll go home and grab your guitar and your computer.” She hesitated. “Or…maybe we should wait for your luggage.”
“You can send it on when it arrives,” he said, as eager to leave Mississippi as she was to see him go. They couldn’t continue on as if nothing had happened. If he stayed, he’d remember the feel of her every time he looked at her. And he’d want her again.
“I’ll do that.” She seemed relieved that he’d let her off so easily.
He fastened his pants. “I’ll return your money before I leave.”
“No, I—this was my fault. You deserve the week’s pay.”
“That’s okay.” He hadn’t really done anything yet. If he couldn’t help Madeline resolve the questions that were tormenting her, he at least wanted to leave her no worse off than he’d found her. It was bad enough that he’d just broken one of his cardinal rules and had sex with a client. “I don’t need it. I’ll write you a check.”
She didn’t answer. Careful not to even brush hands for fear the passion that had ignited between them would start up again, they walked back to the car. But there was a truck parked behind the Corolla. And a man was peering into it.
A moment later, he came toward them.
“Oh, God,” Madeline said, her step faltering.
“What?” Hunter murmured.
“I recognize that walk.”
“Who is it?”
“Mike Metzger. He’s back.”
Madeline was so shaken from the frenzy that had just occurred, she wasn’t sure she could face Mike. It’d been five years since she’d seen him, even longer since she’d become convinced he was her father’s killer.
When he spotted them crossing the field to the highway, he shaded his eyes. She hoped that when he recognized her, he’d get right back in his vehicle and drive away. But he didn’t. He met them about fifteen feet from the road.
Guilt over her brazen behavior, and embarrassment at being caught with her hair mussed and her clothes wrinkled, roiled through her. She felt as if anyone looking on would be able to tell exactly what she and Hunter had been doing behind those oak trees and didn’t relish the idea of her greatest enemy being privy to that knowledge. But guilt and embarrassment were only a small part of what she felt. A chilling apprehension crawled through her, inspired by Mike’s hateful glare and made worse by the fact that he no longer resembled the seemingly harmless, straggly haired stoner he’d once been. Judging by the ropy muscles bulging beneath his clothes, he’d spent much of the past five years weight-training. He had several white supremacy tattoos to go along with the added weight.
“What are you doing in Stillwater?” she asked, refusing to show her fear.
“I live in Stillwater, no thanks to you.”
“Why’d you stop here?”
“When I saw your car, I thought someone was broken down.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
“No one’s keeping you from leaving.”
His dark eyes flicked Hunter’s way. “Who’s this?”
Hunter stood close enough that she could smell the aftershave she’d breathed in when she’d buried her nose in his neck—and that brought back the very recent and vivid memories of what they’d done. “He’s a—” she fought to steady her voice “—a private detective from California.”
“A P.I.?” There was no mistaking the panicky edge in Mike’s voice. “God, you don’t give up, do you?”
“I want the truth, Mike.”
“That’s fine, as long as your so-called truth has nothing to do with me. I didn’t touch your lousy selfrighteous hypocritical father!”