Playing Dead Part 13

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 s.e.x, 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 a.s.s, 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 s.e.xuality, but she rarely found a partner who equaled her pa.s.sion.

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.

She reached down and unb.u.t.toned his fly, pushing his jeans around his hips.

"This doesn't seem fair," he said. "I'm nearly naked and you're fully clothed."

"Life isn't fair." She pushed at him until she was on top. She pulled his jeans off, then ran her hands up hard, muscular legs. Mitch looked like some sort of Greek G.o.d. His skin was on the olive side, but not so dark that she thought Mediterranean. Whatever the combination of genes, they'd created a perfect specimen.

She ran her fingers up his thighs, skimming over his hard p.e.n.i.s. Her heart was beating so fast-she wanted to jump all over him. But she also wanted to go slow, to savor this connection, a melding with Mitch that she couldn't explain and didn't want to overthink for fear of it disappearing in a puff of smoke.

She swallowed uneasily as her heart flipped. Her life was in total disarray and she was stepping over the line into an area of relationships that, for her, was still unexplored. s.e.x, yes, but this . . . this sense of more scared her. Scared her but she wanted it nonetheless.

"Claire, sweetness, is something wrong?" Mitch touched her chin, pushed it up to look at him, his dark eyes concerned.

She shook her head. "You're gorgeous." Keep it light, keep it flirtatious.

Don't fall too hard, Claire.

Too late.

"You're rather gorgeous yourself." He pulled her up until their lips met. He kissed her softly but consistently, not pushing but not shying away. Her brief melancholy pa.s.sed and she nipped his lip, then skimmed her tongue along his strong, square jawline to his ear, then back again and up the other side.

Mitch sensed something had disturbed Claire, but then she flipped an internal switch and turned more pa.s.sionate, heating up his easy kisses. Her hands didn't stop moving, squeezing his biceps, his triceps, grasping his hands as her mouth moved from his mouth down his neck, down his chest, her tongue skimming his navel as Claire traveled further south.

"G.o.d, Claire."

"Don't you mean G.o.ddess?" she teased, then ran her tongue over his hard c.o.c.k.

"You don't play fair," he said.

"You're right. I don't."

"In that case . . ." Mitch reached down and grabbed Claire under her arms and pulled her right up to him. He kissed her as if it were for the last time. He rolled her over, to give himself better leverage and more control. He pulled off her lacy black tank top and bright pink bra, then filled his hands with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They were perfect. He tasted one, then the other, then back again, until Claire squirmed beneath him.

Mitch loved that Claire wasn't timid in her nakedness, nor did she play games with s.e.x. She took what she wanted and gave back twice as much. He slid off her jeans, only marginally surprised to find a mischievous fairy tattoo-Tinkerbell?-high on her outer right thigh, right below a very s.e.xy bikini line. He kissed it. First an Irish icon on her shoulder, then a fairy on her thigh. Mitch eagerly antic.i.p.ated what else he would discover as he explored.

Claire's defenses fell completely away as Mitch moved his mouth from her outer thigh to her inner thigh, his warm breath caressing her most sensitive spot. She gasped as he nibbled, his mouth moving closer and closer until he pushed his tongue into her and sucked.

Her hands grasped the down comforter as she moaned, "G.o.d, Mitch."

He raised his head and in a husky voice said, "You called?"

"You tease." She reached into her nightstand and felt around until she found a condom. She threw it at Mitch.

Claire wanted to keep it light, but she was spiraling further out of control. She wanted to keep s.e.x with Mitch easy and fun, but it was dark and s.e.xy and needy. She needed him as much as she wanted him.

Their hands and limbs moved constantly, touching, squeezing, caresses hard and soft, teasing and urgent, both fun and all business.

"Claire."

As soon as she looked into Mitch's eyes, he plunged into her. Her eyes closed and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. He didn't move at first, just held himself deep inside her, while he kissed her. Warmly, with a deep affection Claire craved.

"Look at me," Mitch said.

She did. Mitch's chocolate brown eyes stared at her with such intensity, his face revealing a layer of emotion she hadn't seen before.

He started moving inside her. Slowly. Exquisitely. Their hands clasped as they focused on watching the pleasure their bodies generated in each other's eyes.

Claire gasped from the intensity of their coupling. Here and now wasn't only about s.e.x and mutual pleasure. It was as if they'd become one person, their hearts beating in rhythm, their bodies completely in tune with each other. She'd never had this sense of completeness with anyone. l.u.s.t was turning into something else, the more she both wanted and feared.

The slow tempo of their lovemaking increased. Bit by bit, together, by unspoken consent, their bodies moved faster. Sweat glistened on their skin as they held back in order to make the finale more powerful. Claire wrapped her legs around Mitch's thighs, to urge him to go deeper, to be even closer to him. With every thrust, she shook. With every grunt deep in his chest, she gasped.

Mitch licked his lips as he watched the waves of pleasure on Claire's flushed face. He loved how Claire gave herself so completely to him without holding back. She was as physical in bed as he, loved the foreplay, wasn't afraid to touch him anywhere and everywhere. As if reading his mind, her hands pulled from his and wrapped around his neck, over his head, down to his shoulders where her nails cut erotically into his back when he adjusted his position to rub against her in just the way she liked.

Foreplay was the time for teasing and games; now was the time for focus. For love. To show Claire that this wasn't an isolated moment in time. That they had something together that they didn't have apart.

Her hands moved down to his a.s.s and squeezed as her body tensed beneath him, her breathing quick, sounds escaping her throat that hit him deep in his c.o.c.k. They were slick with sweat, their bodies raw and exposed, as Mitch positioned his hands under Claire's beautiful a.s.s and pushed her as far as she would go. Her o.r.g.a.s.m came with several high-pitched moans, and he followed with a loud groan.

He lay on top of her for a minute, panting. Then he pulled her into an embrace, side by side. He kissed her all over her face and shoulders and neck, not wanting to pull out, but knowing he had to break the spell. He wanted this time, this raw exposure, between him and Claire. He brushed her hair off her face. She was looking at him, her blue eyes bright and satisfied and warm. Mitch drank in that content, blissful expression on Claire's face. He wanted to make her happy, protect her from the pain she lived with day in and day out. They had found each other, and together they had something too powerful to ignore.

Even though half of it was built on a lie.

Mitch knew he'd fallen in love, and fallen hard.

FOURTEEN.

Claire couldn't sleep. Mitch's even breathing was soothing, and she was lulled into a comfortable drowsiness, but she still couldn't cross over to the other side.

She watched Mitch while he slept, sprawled comfortably across her bed on his stomach. Too good to be true, but here he was, in the flesh. Her body still remembered just how good he was, and he was in her bed, generating about a thousand watts of heat. Maybe that's why she couldn't sleep, she was too hot. He wore his boxers and had only the sheet draped over his legs. Neelix was curled between his feet. Mitch was a good sport about her cat.

The bullet wound he'd gotten while in the military hadn't made it to his back. In the faint light she saw another scar, lower on his back, above his left kidney. And another scar on his arm. That one was new-it still bore a reddish appearance. She'd seen it many times before; it was on his forearm. He'd never told her what it was from, and she'd never asked.

Now, she wanted to know everything about him. They had time. She wanted to savor each moment and every revelation about Mitch.

Carefully, so she didn't disturb him, Claire slid out of bed. Her hair was still damp from their midnight shower. After the intense first time, playful s.e.x in the shower was a welcome diversion from her thoughts-her feelings-about Mitch. But now sleep wouldn't come and those thoughts and fears came back.

Bill Kamanski used to brew her hot tea when she hadn't been able to sleep after the trial. Sometimes it had worked.

She made the tea as quietly as possible using only the stove light for illumination.

She'd have preferred to stay in bed with Mitch and block out the real world, but Claire didn't have the luxury of avoiding her responsibilities. She had to follow up on her contacts for the Holman arson investigation and check her office e-mail to see if she had a new a.s.signment waiting.

But in all honesty, her job was the last thing on her mind. She had a trail to follow. Professor Don Collier hadn't returned her call, but she didn't know if he'd even received it. Maybe he hadn't even been on campus yesterday.

Hot mug of tea in hand, Claire made a small detour into her makeshift office and turned on her screen, glancing through the doorway to her bed, where Mitch hadn't moved. The screen didn't shine on the bed, so she hoped she wouldn't wake him. Gently, she tapped the keys and brought up the UCD website. A few clicks later she learned that Collier's first Thursday cla.s.s was criminal law at eight a.m., and lasted ninety minutes. If she rushed out by seven in the morning, she'd make it to Davis in time, even with traffic. She glanced at the clock. 2:30. Now that she had a set plan, she might be able to get a couple hours' sleep.

She looked for her notepad to jot down the time and location of Collier's cla.s.s. She picked it up and saw a folded piece of paper protruding from underneath her keyboard with a bright green sticky note with CLAIRE written in large block letters.

Someone had been in her house.

Blood rushed to her head as she unfolded the note with shaking hands. An overwhelming sense of violation hit her.

In the odd light of the computer monitor, she read the letter.

Dad. He hadn't signed it, but she immediately knew her father had been here. Not only from the small block letters he used, but from the way he addressed her.

Claire Beth, it began.

Short for Claire Elizabeth. Her dad was the only one who sometimes called her Claire Beth.

She glanced at the narrow wall where she'd hung a picture of her and her dad. She blinked, at first seeing it, then realizing it was missing.

She stared at the letter, her ears ringing. Her father had been here.

Claire Beth, I wish I had approached you at another time and place, but my opportunity was limited. I understand why you don't believe me. If I had been in your shoes then, at fourteen, walking in on what you did, I would probably feel the same way. And please believe me, I would have done anything to have spared you sitting through the trial.

The pain you've endured all these years tears my heart. It shows in your eyes. You once enjoyed every moment of the day. Now, all I see are barriers and skepticism. How I wish I could change the past, change everything that happened.

I did not kill Lydia or Chase Taverton. I am not a killer, Claire, and I will prove it to you. Somewhere a killer walks free and he is the proof of my innocence. I believe the way to find him is through Chase Taverton.

I didn't want to get you involved. I only wanted to find Oliver because he has the information about Taverton that could exonerate me.

Oliver believes that Taverton was the target, not your mother. I don't know exactly what he found, but it was big. He called me the week before I was transferred to Section B and said as soon as he tracked down a man named Frank Lowe, he'd have the evidence he needed. All Oliver told me about Lowe was that Taverton had cut a plea with him and he disappeared right after Taverton was murdered. I have no idea who Lowe is, but Oliver believes he can clear my name.

Find Oliver or find Frank Lowe.

I can face death if I know, in my heart, that you believe in my innocence. Until then, I'm in hiding. The police aren't going to reopen this case without clear evidence I'm innocent. Even then, I don't know what's going to happen. But I have to fight. This is my last chance. This is my stand.

Consider this, Claire Beth, because I have thought of it every day and every night for the last fifteen years. When you came home that day and heard your mother with a man, they were alive and in the bedroom. Twenty minutes later, I came in and they were dead, killed with the revolver I kept in my nightstand drawer. You know I never carried my .357 with me. I always kept that gun in my drawer. I taught you to use that gun. I taught your mother how to use that gun. It never left the house.

If you believe that, believe that I didn't premeditate murder, then you know that I am innocent.

What continues to haunt me every day of my life is that I know you almost died that day. I know I didn't kill anyone, but my gun was used. That tells me that the killer spent time in the house. He took my revolver, and hid. Waiting for the right time to kill Taverton and your mother. Taverton was the target. I'm certain of that.

You're a grown woman. A beautiful, smart woman. You work for one of the best security companies in the country. Help me. You're my only hope. Be careful! Someone framed me and if they know you're looking into the case, your life is on the line. I would never put you in danger if I could avoid it, but you're my only chance.

I love you.

Claire read the note three times. She'd ignored him, pretended he didn't exist. It was much easier to think that he was guilty and she was doing the best she could.

Her father's written plea was far more compelling than his restraint at trial. She felt emotion in this letter. Fifteen years earlier, he had seemed to exist on autopilot.

Oliver was dead. Where was Frank Lowe? How could she prove her father was innocent?

"Working late?"

She jumped and pivoted in her chair. Mitch sat up in her bed watching her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she said.

"It's nearly three. You need sleep, sweetheart." He patted the spot next to him.