Tall, Dark And Wanted. Morgan Hayes
that accentuated the extraordinary bone structure beneath. Mitch was reminded of all the photos he’d seen of Molly’s mother. And when he looked at the seductive curve of Molly’s slightly parted lips, full and still moist, it was as though the years hadn’t passed, as though it was only yesterday that he’d tasted that tantalizing mouth.
Reaching out to brush back a stray wisp of dark hair, he touched her cheek. So soft. Like silk. He could still remember the feel of her skin…its softness against his, the supple curves of her body molding into his, the eager heat of her passion melding with his until he’d hardly known where his longing had begun and hers ended….
“Come on, Molly,” he murmured again, trying like hell to push the torrid memories back. “If you can hear me, you’ve gotta snap out of this. You’re scaring me, honey. Do you hear me? Molly?”
He leaned even closer to her, not sure what to do next, but knowing that he had to get her off the cold, hard kitchen floor. And that was when he smelled her—subtle traces of jasmine mingling with that intoxicating scent that was undeniably and forever Molly. The years melted away…they were in her father’s house, in Molly’s bedroom. She’d lit candles, while old Elton John tunes played on her stereo. She’d been bolder that night than she’d ever been, knowing her father was working midnight shift at the precinct. In twelve years, Mitch had never forgotten the tantalizing smile that had played on her lips when she’d shed the short, silk kimono, letting it fall to the floor as she stood naked before him, her skin glowing in the candlelight, her dark hair tumbling over her tanned shoulders and the shadows playing along each seductive curve, while he lay on her bed…waiting.
It was the last time they’d made love, one week before fall semester started, the night before he’d had to return to Boston. The last time he’d ever seen Molly…
“Molly, please…” he begged her again, but this time he slid his arms beneath her and gently lifted her delicate body from the floor. “Please, honey…”
God, she had to be all right, Mitch prayed. She had to be.
Chapter Three
Molly was aware of the pain first. The dull throb stemmed from the base of her skull and spiked upward. Then she felt the heat—a radiating warmth against her left cheek—and she could hear the low crackle of fire in the hearth.
The memories came together like scattered pieces of a puzzle. She’d walked through the house, seen Mitch’s sketches on the coffee table, moved down the hall with her gun drawn, and finally there had been the blow and the blinding pain. Silently, she cursed herself. Yes, she’d certainly done a good job of walking directly into someone’s trap.
Sabatini’s trap? It had to be. She pushed back the instantaneous surge of panic. His men must have gotten to Mitch first, then had probably left her for dead.
But…the last thing she remembered was the cold, ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor. Even without opening her eyes, she knew she was on the leather sofa she’d seen in the living room. Why would Sabatini’s men move her?
“How do you feel?”
In twelve years…no, in a million years, she’d never forget his voice. Its deep, resonant tone slipped through the silence, smoothing out the sharper edges of her pain and wrapping itself around her like a lover’s embrace.
The only thing more seductive than that was the sight of him.
Mitch sat less than three feet away, perched on the edge of the coffee table. He leaned forward with his elbows braced against his knees. His forehead creased and those dark eyes narrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern.
Molly blinked several times, gradually bringing him into focus. She had to be dreaming.
It wasn’t the Mitch of the photos she’d seen over the years—always dressed to the nines in hopelessly crisp suits and expensive ties as he endured the limelight his success garnered, or even donning a hard hat at some groundbreaking event for a new Drake construction, still wearing what appeared to be an Armani.
No, this was the Mitch of Molly’s memories, of twelve years of recurring dreams and fantasies. That rugged handsomeness, that overwhelming masculinity, dressed in a rumpled denim shirt over a sparkling white T tucked into a faded pair of jeans…
And his hair…It was cropped short. The mustache and beard were gone as well. The warm glow of the fire softened his sharp features—the square chin, the strong jaw-line, those chiseled lips and that perfect nose with the smallest of clefts at the tip. But it was his eyes that riveted her and seemed to have stolen her ability to speak as she watched them reflect the flames’ dancing light.
This was the Mitch she knew, the Mitch she’d made love to and believed would be with her forever. This was the Mitch she’d kissed goodbye as she saw him off to college twelve years ago. This was the Mitch who had smiled as he’d driven off to Boston, and out of her life….
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She managed a nod, but her eyes never left his.
“Talk to me, Molly,” he prompted again, the lines of worry etching even deeper. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been clubbed over the head.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. The simple act sent another shot of pain searing through her.
“I thought I was going to have to drive you to a hospital.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, and attempted to sit up. But the effort was more than she’d anticipated. Her vision blurred again and dizziness swept over her.
She should have expected Mitch to reach for her then—strong hands grasping her, guiding her up and then lingering on her shoulders as though assuring himself that she was all right. More than that, however, Molly should have expected the almost instant physical reaction her body had to his touch.
“I’m fine,” she said again, brushing his hands away.
He backed off, but only briefly. From the coffee table he picked up an ice pack and settled onto the sofa next to her. She could smell the faint trace of aftershave on him—something she’d not smelled in years, and yet it seemed as familiar as yesterday. She fought back the memories.
“How long have I been out?”
“Not long. Fifteen minutes…maybe twenty.”
He reached behind her, attempting to settle the ice pack against the tender and throbbing source of her pain. Molly winced and reflexively reached up to take the pack from his grasp.
“I told you I’m fine.”
She heard the release of his breath before she saw him shake his head.
“How could I forget?” he asked, a frown quivering at the corners of his mouth. “Just as stubborn as your old man.”
She watched him lift a hand and run his fingers through the short-cropped hair, as though he expected to find long locks of black hair still there.
“So I guess I have you to thank for this goose egg?” Molly bit her lower lip as she eased the pack against the injury, feeling the initial burn of the ice.
“What do you expect when you come creeping through the dark? And with a gun drawn, no less?”
Molly caught his quick nod to where her Glock lay on the coffee table. She cringed at the idea that she’d so easily lost her on-duty weapon. Yes, she’d certainly messed up. If it had happened in the line of duty, the incident would have been written up in a heartbeat.
“I did knock,” she said.
“Yeah, well, you should have announced yourself.” There was a definite edge to his tone. But the anger wasn’t at her, Molly realized then. It was more at himself, for having struck her the way he had. And judging by the residual dizziness and the pain hammering through her head, it must have been a damned good