He laughed and it came out like a snarl. “You should be.”
“You’re Kieran Roarke. I’m not afraid of Kieran Roarke.”
His muscles unclenched. His arms hung at his sides. He slid down the wall until he crouched on the floor, his shoulders slumping forward. “But who’s Kieran Roarke?”
A rustle of silk. A whiff of jasmine. And she was on the floor beside him. Her cool, delicate fingers brushed the hair from his eyes. “He’s a man of courage and integrity. He’s the father of my child.”
Anxiety pumped another load of adrenaline into his system, and his head shot up. “Michael. Where’s Michael?”
“He’s safe in his bed…thanks to you.” Her light fingers pressed against his temples. “You saved our lives in that bathroom, and you saved my life at Columbella House. That’s the Kieran Roarke I know.”
“And the one who just tried to kill you?” He closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath through his flared nostrils.
“That’s an aberration. A stumbling block on the way to your full recovery.”
“Helluva stumbling block. I’d call that a boulder.”
She half-laughed, half-sobbed, and he opened his eyes, his gaze zeroing in on the red marks on her neck. The evidence of his brutality punched him in the gut.
He raised one finger, willing it to hold steady as he traced a pinkish welt on her throat. Her pulse jumped beneath the pad of his finger.
“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Shh.”
He kissed her fingertips and cinched her wrist with two fingers. Then he pressed his lips against the palm of her hand. He stretched out his legs and pulled her into his lap.
She straddled him, the hem of her skimpy nightgown hitching up to her shapely thighs. She wound her arms around his neck, shifting slightly toward him, so close he could see a small pulse beat in her lower lip.
The steady throb hypnotized him, and his own lips tingled with anticipation. He wanted to draw her nearer, thread his hands through her hair and bring her in for a kiss. But his fear of touching her head or the back of her neck paralyzed him.
He shrugged his shoulders off the wall, leaning forward. She got the hint and pulled him toward her. When their lips met, a fire ignited in his body and sizzled along every nerve ending.
She parted her mouth and sighed into his. With his hands still at his sides, he tilted his head, angling to seal his lips across hers. He wouldn’t make love to her. He couldn’t, even though his lower body raged against the common sense that prevailed in his head.
As he deepened the kiss, a bright light blazed through the window. He blinked.
Devon gasped and slid from his lap. “The sensor lights.”
Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and dragged his jeans from the back of the couch. He hopped on one foot and then the other, stuffing his legs into the pants. He reached beneath the couch for the.45 and shivered. Could he be trusted with this weapon in the dead of night when the nightmares took possession of him body and soul?
“Wait here.” He crowded Devon away from the front door.
He charged onto the porch, weapon drawn. A skittering noise near the bushes bordering one side of the house drew his attention. He landed on the grass, the damp blades sticking to his bare feet, jabbing between his toes.
Leveling the gun in front of him with two hands, he swung it toward the rattling twigs. Then he took aim at…an opossum.
The rat-like marsupial glared at him, its beady eyes iridescent in the floodlights. Its nose twitched once before it burrowed into the bushes, probably heading for the sand dunes beyond the tract of houses.
“What is it, Kieran?” Devon had thrown on a terry cloth robe, hiding all her silky temptations. She hovered on the porch, legs crossed and one foot on top of the other.
“An opossum.”
“Ugh. I hate those things. At least we know the lights work.”
A window next door scraped open and a voice yelled into the night. “Turn off those damned lights or I’ll call the cops.”
Devon giggled, and Kieran ducked back inside the house, pulling her with him.
“The lights work, and your mom has sensitive neighbors. That should be enough to ward off any intruders.” He shoved the loaded weapon beneath the couch. “Now get back to bed and try to get some sleep.”
Dropping her eyelashes, she tugged at the sash around her waist. “D-do you need company? I know you’re not going back to sleep.”
“One of us better be wide awake and alert for Michael tomorrow.”
“Are you feeling okay, Kieran? Could you use an ibuprofen, aspirin, a drink?”
“I’ll settle for an old movie. How about you? Is your neck okay?”
She twisted her head from side to side. “Seems to be in working order.”
“Good night, then.” He settled on the couch as Devon marched toward the hallway, her gait stiff. He whispered to her ramrod straight back. “I’m sorry…my love.”
DEVON STRETCHED AND squinted at the sunshine sneaking through the gap between her bedroom curtains. Once inside, the rays had taken up residence in a thin line that pointed an accusing finger at her bed. Her head lolled to the side, and she swiped at the alarm clock, its numbers facing away from her.
She huffed out a breath and rubbed the sleep from the corners of her eyes. Michael had never allowed her to sleep this late before. He’d come charging into her bedroom, full of some scheme or plan for the day.
Of course, that was before Granny Del’s murder. Granny Del, the bank robber’s widow. Her pulse picked up to a rapid staccato beat. Even after Mrs. Del Vecchio’s murder, Michael never slept this late.
She scrambled out of bed and dragged her ratty robe over her nightgown. While wearing her sexiest nightie, she’d failed miserably at seducing Kieran last night, so she might as well be warm and comfortable.
She twisted the handle of the door, which she’d left ajar last night. Had Kieran shut her door in some misguided attempt to protect her from him? Even when he’d had his hands around her throat, she’d known he could never hurt her.
Pots and pans clanged and wisps of steam carried buttery smells throughout the house. She turned the corner and surveyed the kitchen, the sink piled with dirty dishes, batter dripping a bumpy path down the cabinet door.
Michael, standing on a chair at the counter, turned to wave floury fingers in her direction.
Kieran lifted the lid of the waffle iron and speared a fluffy, golden sphere. He dropped it onto a plate piled with identical mates and gave Michael a high five. “Another perfect waffle.”
“I hope your cooking is better than your cleaning.” She braced her knuckles on her hips.
“Cleaning?” Kieran waved a hand at the sink. “We’re master chefs. We don’t worry about cleaning.”
“I suppose I can strike a deal with you.” She approached Michael and dabbed a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “What’s on the menu?”
Kieran pointed his fork at the steaming plate. “Waffles-chocolate chip or blueberry.”
“Mmm, sounds yummy. I can definitely clean up in exchange for a few waffles.” She grabbed some plates from the cupboard, throwing a sidelong glance at Kieran. If he had stayed awake the rest of the night, he didn’t look any worse for it. Sure, black stubble dotted his chin and his longish hair stuck out at odd angles, but he’d always looked best as his rugged, natural self. Although he cleaned up pretty nicely, too.
He took the plates from her hands, brushing her fingers with his. “Are you still tired? Thought I’d let you sleep in.”
“I appreciate it.” She shook her head, dislodging the visions of Kieran from her brain. He didn’t want her. He’d made that clear last night…after the kiss. After his terrifying sleepwalking incident.
Did he think he could tell her what to do for her own good? She had her own plans, and they didn’t include tiptoeing around the man she loved because of a few bad dreams.
Did she still love him?
She watched him return to Michael. He gave that twisted grin as he scooped his son from the chair and carried
