You Must Remember This Part 3. Marilyn Pappano
some point at least eighteen and a half years ago but probably not more than thirty-three years ago. That’s more than a fourteen-year span. Not much help, is it?”
Martin was shaking his head when the other man spoke for the first time. “I don’t remember you. I’ve been here every time those doors opened for a service. I’ve known every family who worshiped here. I’ve been to every wedding, every christening and every funeral, but I don’t remember you.”
“He was a boy, Henry,” Emma said. “Maybe he’s changed.”
Henry stubbornly shook his head. “You look faintly familiar—it’s something about your eyes—but no. You weren’t a regular here, not even a semiregular.”
His very certainty gave Juliet cause to hope, and she said so to Martin once they’d said their goodbyes and reached the car. He gave her a flat, disappointed look. “Then you’re an incurable optimist, darlin’, because he didn’t leave room for hope.”
“What is the one physical feature that doesn’t change with age?” When he didn’t offer an answer, she did. “You can gain weight or lose it. You can straighten a crooked nose or put a crook in a straight one. You can cover a high forehead, reshape cheekbones, reconstruct jaws and straighten teeth. You can make your nose bigger or smaller, and you can change the way your ears lie in relation to your head. You can cut, curl, color or shave your hair. But the only thing you can do to your eyes is a tuck on the lids or change the color with contacts. Henry said there’s something familiar about your eyes.” She smiled. “They are your best feature.”
“They are, huh? And here I thought you were more interested in my—” He finished the sentence in a whisper, his mouth pressed to her ear, making her shiver and squirm before he kissed her mouth. It was the same sort of kiss he’d given her before work this morning, the sort that made her forget everything, including her name.
Sitting back in his seat, he fastened the seat belt. “How about stopping by my apartment? You can keep me company while I clean up.”
For a moment she looked blankly at him, her mind still occupied with sensations and not processing information. Finally, giving herself a mental shake, she started the car and pulled into the street.
His apartment was quiet, dimly lit and still full of the day’s warmth even though outside the temperature had begun its usual evening slide. Juliet wandered around the single large room, half her attention directed to the bathroom, where Martin was in the shower. Naked. Washing, touching himself. Such a simple, everyday task. Such erotic images. They left her throat dry and sent an edgy, dissatisfied feeling through her.
If she were bold, she would take off her clothes and be waiting in his bed when he came out. If she were brash and bold, she wouldn’t wait for him to come out but would shed her clothes and join him in the shower. She would take the soap from him, work up a lather in her hands and rub them over his body. She would tease and torment them both until they couldn’t stand any more, and then she would take him, first in her mouth, in a sinfully wicked kiss, then in her body, right there in the tub, with the water beating on them and around them, until—
Catching her breath on a groan, she stopped in front of one window and stared out sightlessly, all too aware of her body’s needs, of the tightness in her chest, of the tension deep in her belly. She had indulged in a few fantasies before—what woman hadn’t?—but the fantasy of Martin was more appealing, more enticing, than the reality of any other man she’d known. He wasn’t even in the room, but her breasts were swollen, her nipples achy, her muscles trembly. The man embodied pure, raw sexual fantasy, and he was a danger—
His arm wrapped around her from behind, and his fingers slid between buttons to stroke her midriff. He hadn’t made a sound crossing the room, but she could feel him now, could smell him—warm, damp, aroused, masculine. He came closer, until his legs brushed hers, until his erection was pressed against her bottom. Moving his hand lower, he worked a few buttons loose, then slid his hand inside her dress, his fingers leaving a damp, quivering trail across her belly, beneath the elastic band of her panties, probing between her thighs.
She gasped when he touched her, when he found her hot, damp and craving his attention. When he slid his fingers inside her, whatever sound she might have made was lost in the flood of sensation. He stroked deep inside her, then outside, concentrating his touches where her response was most powerful, his talented fingers drawing her closer and closer, coaxing her to feel more, to want more, demand more.
She clenched her fingers, then flattened them against the cool glass pane. She was so hot, so desperate, able to breathe now only in soft gasps that threatened tears, and still he tormented her, robbing her of everything but need, aching, killing need. It became unbearable, but she bore it, became painful, but she loved it, until finally, her body quivering, her back arched, with one great rush, with one writhing, whimpering shudder, she collapsed against him. She trusted him to hold her, to keep her on her feet, and he did. He wrapped his arms around her waist, held her tightly against him and spoke for the first time. “Hey, darlin’.”
Chapter Nine
Maxwell Brown’s house sat on the highest hill in Grand Springs, a monument to money, ego and the determination to succeed. With its Mediterranean styling, lush grounds and elaborate security fence, it would have looked more at home in the Caribbean or on one of the tiny exclusive islands between Miami and Miami Beach, but even high in the Rockies, it was beautiful. Both the house and the grounds were brightly lit in the night. No one would ever slip in there unnoticed. No doubt, there were perimeter alarms, motion-sensitive detectors and burglar alarms all over the place.
“What a great place to live.”
Martin glanced at Juliet, who was staring up at the house from their place on the dark street. Frankly, he couldn’t imagine her in a place like this, maybe because he identified her so strongly with her neat little green house. Oddly enough, though, he could see himself living in a place like this. Maybe…
Damn, how he hated that word.
She smiled at his fierce look. “Feeling cranky? You should have taken me up on my offer.”
Tension born of frustration was immediately replaced by tension of a sexual nature. Back in his apartment, once she’d found the strength to lift her head from his shoulder, once she’d been able to speak coherently, she had made him several offers—to take off her clothes, to take him to bed, to do things to him that he might never have had done to him before. She’d offered earthy, lusty promises, made all the more indecent by her utterly innocent face, and he had been tempted, heaven help him, more than ever before. But the condoms were at her house. She hadn’t minded, but he had. No matter how urgent the desire, he couldn’t risk her future, maybe even her life, not even for the most incredible lovemaking that existed.
So he had torn himself away from her, dragged on clothes that she’d kept trying to remove and made himself a promise. Later. He could have her later. The prospect was enough to give him some measure of control.
“Exactly what kind of business is Maxwell Brown in?”
He looked back at the house. “He used to be a stockbroker. Now he’s into a little of everything. He owns both residential and commercial rental property. He has a construction company, a trucking company and a couple of car dealerships. He owns an interest in the mall, one of the banks and in the commuter airline out at the airport. He’s also part-owner of the Squaw Creek Lodge.”
“So he’s a respectable businessman whose interests are diversified. But you still have this feeling.”
“I know it sounds silly—”
“Not at all. I work three days a week with people who get paid for heeding their ‘feelings’—only they call them hunches. Instincts.”
He gestured toward the endless wrought-iron fence that circled the property. “I know there’s money in business, but look at that house. There’s no mortgage on it. The fence alone cost more than most houses in town. Grand Springs