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  "Oh." He's not really doing a good job of soothing me here. I mean, I'm reasonably confident of my skill in bed, but I can't be two girls. Just not physically possible.

  "Do you know why?"

  "Because you're an insatiable manwhore?"

  He laughs out loud. "It definitely feeds the reputation, but no. Because of the distraction."

  I shake my head, not understanding.

  "Oh, baby, don't you get it? Not one of the women who has ever shared my bed is the woman I truly wanted. And rather than share so much intimacy with a woman I didn't really want, I'd bring in a second--or sometimes a third. But with you--oh, God, Jane, don't you know that I only want you in my bed?"

  I exhale, my relief so intense I feel light-headed. He leans toward me and kisses me softly. "Okay?"

  "Very much," I say, and realize that I am grinning like a fool.

  He grins, too, and I see the moment his expression turns mischievous. "Now, to be clear, just because I don't need another woman in my bed doesn't mean that you can't invite one. I mean, if you want to romp naked with one of your girlfriends, possibly with whipped cream ..."

  He trails off, and I smack him lightly in the arm. "You are such a guy."

  "I'm very glad you think so."

  "Oh, I more than think so. I can prove it." I move to straddle him, then stroke my hands over his shirt, tugging it up as I move down his body. It's untucked by the time I reach the waistband of his jeans, and as my fingers go to the button on his fly, my kisses trace the arrow of hair that leads from his abdomen to his cock.

  As I following that trail to heaven, his phone rings in his back pocket. He reaches for it, pulls it out and silences it with a firm touch of a button.

  I smile and ease his zipper down, watching with satisfaction the way the muscles in his lower abs tighten, evidencing his effort to keep control.

  "See?" I say. "This bit of hair, these very nice muscles. Definitely a guy kind of thing."

  "I do appreciate a woman who searches out the evidence."

  I laugh and start to tug his jeans down, gratified when he lifts his hips to help.

  He's wearing black boxer briefs, and I tug them down to reveal his very hard cock. And then, with one quick glance at him, I slowly lick him from balls to tip.

  He arches up, and the sound of his moan fills me up and turns me on. I start to tease the tip, and his damn phone starts to ping, signaling a text.

  "Fuck," he says, then glances at the screen. "Well, shit."

  "What is it?"

  He starts to answer, but the phone rings. "What it is, is that I have to take this call. It's Adele. She texted to say I need to answer. That it's important."

  I lift a brow, wondering what the hell my birth father's ex-wife could be calling about that's so important. "Go ahead," I say. "Don't mind me."

  "Jane ..."

  But I ignore him, drawing his cock into my mouth and fighting a laugh as he groans, "Oh, fuck me," before picking up the phone and managing to croak out, "Yeah, I'm here. What is it?... Actually, no. I'm hosting a party, and at this particular moment I'm having a conversation with Jane ... Very funny. Yes, we're being very civil to each other."

  At that, I gently nip the tip of his cock, making him gasp. As far as Adele knows, Dallas and I still mostly avoid each other.

  "Why did I need to answer the phone?" he asks. "I have guests here."

  It's clear from the conversation that they know each other pretty well, better than I know her, actually. I know that Colin--my birth father--and Dallas repaired their relationship when he was in college, after the kidnapping. That was about the time Colin met and married Adele, and I know Dallas and Adele stayed friends after she and Colin divorced. Apparently, pretty good friends.

  I think--though I don't know for sure--that Dallas has even talked to her a bit about the kidnapping. She's a professional therapist, and I've actually considered seeing her. But the family connection makes it too weird. Probably unethical, too. Plus, I've never really clicked with her. She's always been nice enough, but I still never felt like it would be easy to open up to her.

  Right now, though, Adele is the last person I want to think about, and I wish she'd tell Dallas why she called so he can get off the phone.

  "Yeah," Dallas is saying. "I made plans to have dinner with him later this week. He mentioned that he'd finished some of the remodeling on the house and ... well, of course you're welcome to join us ... Adele, do you really think--fine. Fine, I'll ask and I'll let you know. Was that it?... Okay then, I'll talk to you later. Bye." He tosses the phone aside, then twines his fingers in my hair as I run my tongue over the length of him.

  "That was seriously surreal," he says.

  I lift my head long enough to look at him. "Having a woman go down on you while you talk to her former stepmother? What is it you always say? How you like it fucked up?"

  A shadow seems to cross his face, and I regret the joke.

  "Hey," I say. "I was just being glib. You okay?"

  "I'm great." He tugs my hair, urging me up to him. "Come here."

  "Don't you want--"

  "You. I want you."

  I ease in next to him, trying to find a comfortable position on the floor. "What was so important?"

  He rolls his eyes. "She wants to join me and Colin at dinner next week, but didn't want to include herself without asking. And she said I should invite you, too. Since we're being civil."

  "Oh." I consider that. "Well, I guess I could come. That's the civil thing to do, right?"

  He nods, but he doesn't look happy, and in the back of my head, a few little alarm bells start to tingle. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I'm just incredibly tired." He stands, then picks me up, cradling my naked body against his chest. His jeans are still open and hanging on his hips, and despite our relative nakedness, he heads straight for the door.

  "Time for bed," he says. "And I hope to hell Liam's got Fiona out of the bedroom, because if he hasn't, they're both about to get an eyeful."

  Starry, Starry Night

  I wake alone and stretch out my arm to find Dallas, but find only the cool sheets instead. I sit up, groggy, and peer around the dark room, but he's not here. I frown, then remember the party.

  We'd been so caught up in ourselves that we'd forgotten about the soiree going on downstairs. Maybe he couldn't sleep. Maybe he went down to say goodbye to the last of the guests.

  It's a possibility, but when I go to the balcony and look down at the pool area, I see that all the lights are off, and there's no sign of lingering guests. My first thought is to ring for Archie, but then I remember he's gone. And, anyway, it's four in the morning and even if he were here, I wouldn't want to wake him. Besides, Dallas is only missing from our bed, not from the world. It's his house, and a big one. He must be around here somewhere.

  I know that he fell asleep, because he drifted off before I did, and I'd laid in his arms for at least fifteen minutes, comforted by the sound of his steady breathing, before I'd finally succumbed to sleep as well. But he'd obviously awakened at some time during the night. And when he couldn't fall back asleep, he probably went to another room to read or watch television so as not to wake me.

  I think about going back to sleep--he's certainly entitled to privacy--but it has been a strange night for both of us. I tell myself that I need to check on him, but as I pull on one of his T-shirts and head for the door, I know that's a lie. My motives are selfish; I need to find Dallas for me.

  He's not in his study or in the den. I check the kitchen next--empty--then continue on to the basement room that Deliverance uses as an operations center. I have the code to enter, but when I do, I see that it is empty as well.

  I lock it back up, lean against the closed door, and wonder where to look next.

  I check the garage, because maybe he decided to go out, but his cars are all parked in their slots, and his motorcycle is, too, so he didn't go joyriding down Meadow Lane in the middle of the night.

&
nbsp; I head out to the pool, using my phone as a flashlight to illuminate the deckchairs, but he's not there. I'm certain I'll find him in our cabana, but I lose that bet because he's not there either.

  Finally, I'm out of ideas, and I return to the house to check the alarm system which monitors all the public rooms. Empty. There's also a setting that allows me to see if any of the closed rooms have been recently entered. None.

  I'm about to give up, when I think to switch over to the system that monitors the windows and attic access. And that's when, finally, I find success.

  When Dallas and I were growing up, we used to sneak up to the attic, then climb out through one of the windows so that we could sit on the roof and look out at the Atlantic. Sometimes we'd just talk. Sometimes we'd count falling stars or look for ships on the horizon. When we were older, we held hands, each telling ourselves that it was innocent. A way to make sure we didn't tumble off the roof.

  But it wasn't innocent, not for him and certainly not for me. After our rooftop excursions, I would return to my room, climb into my bed, and slide the hand that had held his between my legs. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I knew it felt good. And I wanted him to be part of that feeling.

  I've loved Dallas Sykes my whole life. And I don't think I ever believed in curses or bad luck until Eli decided to adopt me--just like he and my mother had adopted Dallas--and made us full-blown siblings.

  The attic is easily accessed by a set of stairs behind a door in Dallas's office, and I go there now. As I'd expected, the door is cracked open--I should have noticed it when I peeked in the office earlier--and I climb the stairs slowly, careful to avoid the fifth one, which always creaks.

  As attics go, it's huge, and full of old furniture and boxes of holiday decorations and all the usual things that get stored instead of tossed. My childhood memories are here, but I don't even glance at the boxes with my name printed in my mother's neat handwriting. Instead, I head straight for the open window and the man who I can see sitting on the flat roof where we spent so much time as children.

  "Hey," I say as I climb out next to him. "Hiding from me?"

  I'm joking, but for a moment I think he's going to admit that he is. But then he shakes his head, his smile little more than a contraction of the muscles around his mouth. "Never," he says. "I've just--I've just got a lot of shit running through my head."

  I exhale, a little concerned. A little afraid. For a moment, we both just sit there looking at the ocean, but then I take his hand. I don't look at him, though. I don't think I can say what needs to be said if I'm looking at him.

  "I thought it would be easier," I begin. "Us being together."

  He turns sharply. "What are you talking about?"

  "Together, we're not fighting anymore," I say. "This thing between us. So I thought it would be easier." I lick my lips, hating what I'm about to say, yet knowing that I have to at least put it out there. "But now I'm thinking that we're making it harder on you. Forcing you to see what you'd rather forget."

  I can see from his expression that he doesn't understand me. Or maybe he doesn't want to understand me.

  I draw a breath. "Memories," I say. "Nightmares. I know you're remembering stuff, Dallas. I sleep right beside you. And I'm afraid that all of this--you and me--has made it harder on you."

  "No. Never."

  I glance at him, but don't respond. Instead, I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them, staring out at the ocean beyond. "We had great talks out here as kids. And this was the no bullshit zone, remember? If we talked about something, we told the truth." I hold up my hand and wiggle my pinkie. "You, me, and Liam. We pinkie swore."

  "It's not harder," he says. "You seem to have me confused with someone who has forgotten. I don't remember because I'm with you, Jane." He puts his arm around me, and I lean my head on his shoulder. "But because I'm with you, I want to get past it."

  I sigh and nod, and right then all I want to do is stay quiet and let the moment take us. But I can't, because there's more. "Then tell me what is bothering you."

  "There's nothing--"

  I sit up straight. "Do not even think you can bullshit me. I know you way, way, way too well. You're out here before dawn, so there's a clue. Plus, you held back in the study. That started out a lot wilder than it ended up. And I'm not complaining because it was pretty damn awesome, but it wasn't what you wanted--no, don't deny it. I know you, remember?"

  "Jane." My name sounds like glass, about to break on the sharp edges of his voice.

  "Please, Dallas. Talk to me. Maybe I'm wrong and looking for problems. But I feel like there's something going on with you. Something you're not telling me."

  He says nothing--just sighs and looks out at the night. I'm about to break down into full-blown begging when he finally sighs, then says, "I know we promised each other no more secrets, and I want to live up to that. But there are things ..."

  "Like what she did to you?" I ask when he trails off.

  He drags his fingers through his hair. "That's sure as hell part of it."

  "And the rest of it?"

  "Jane, can we not do this right now--"

  "We need to talk. You need to talk. I know something's bothering you and I'm sorry if I'm pushing, but--"

  "Yes, you are pushing." He turns to me, his eyes dark. "You are most definitely pushing," he repeats, then sighs. "Christ, you always do this. It makes me crazy, like that time when you were in Girl Scouts and--"

  I can't help but laugh.

  He looks at me like I'm insane. "What?"

  "I was just wondering how many couples break down into sibling arguments in the middle of a lovers' quarrel."

  His mouth twitches. "You have a point." He narrows his eyes at me. "I still win the argument, but you have a point."

  "You do not win," I say. "You can't win if you don't finish, and you are so totally avoiding the--"

  "Jane?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Shut up and kiss me."

  Since that's something we don't have to argue about, I do, and it's long and hot and tender and sweet all rolled up in the perfect rooftop kiss.

  I sigh and curl against him as he slides his arm around my shoulders. "I don't want to have secrets," he says softly. "And I'm trying my damnedest not to. But some things I have to work through first. Does that make sense?"

  I nod. "Yeah. It does."

  "Good."

  We sit like that for a while, just holding each other, wrapped in the dark of the night.

  "We've got this right?" I finally ask, my voice a whisper, my eyes on the ocean that churns in front of us.

  "Yeah," he says, pulling me closer. "We've totally got this."

  What the Butler Saw

  I wake up curled against Dallas and think that there's really no place I'd rather be and nothing else I will ever need. Except for coffee.

  I definitely need coffee.

  "Good morning." His hair is deliciously mussed, and there's a very obvious invitation in his eyes. An invitation that he backs up with the slow trailing of his fingers up and down my bare arm.

  "Don't even think about it," I tease. "The only way you're getting any this morning is if I get some coffee."

  "I can do that." He stretches, yawns, then sits up on the side of the bed, giving me a very nice view of his well-muscled back and broad, strong shoulders.

  "Mmmm," I say, and he peers at me over his shoulder.

  "Something on your mind?"

  "Just enjoying the view."

  His eyes graze over me, bare except for the spread of black satin draped over my calf. "I know exactly what you mean." He leans down and kisses me gently. "Give me a minute to go down to the kitchen," he says as he stands. He grabs a pair of sweatpants from where he'd left them over the arm of a chair a day or so ago, then tugs them on.

  "And this is why I have a Keurig in my bedroom."

  "I'm not the addict you are." He flashes a wolfish grin. "You're all the buzz I need."

  I counter by thr
owing a pillow at him. "Go," I say, pulling the sheet up to my neck and then pointing toward the door. "No looking or touching until I'm properly caffeinated."

  He inclines his head in a subservient bow. "As you wish."

  I roll my eyes, but I'm still smiling after he's gone. And when he taps lightly on the door a few minutes later, I say in my most authoritative voice, "Enter."

  Except it's not him. It's Archie. And he's carrying a tray with a coffeepot.

  The sheet, thank God, is still under my chin--I'd been planning on tormenting Dallas a little upon his return. But that fact barely makes a dent in my overall level of mortification.

  Archie, however, is his usual professional self.

  He crosses the room without even rattling the cups and sets the tray down on the bedside table. "Shall I pour?"

  "I--um." I struggle to answer, not really certain how to act in this situation. As I'm fumbling, Dallas comes in through the open door. He's carrying two mugs, and he didn't bother with a tray.

  "Thanks," I say wryly. "But you're a little late."

  His eyes meet mine, and I honestly can't tell if that's an apology or amusement coloring his expression. Probably a little of both.

  "I didn't intend to disturb you so early," Archie says smoothly. "But you have a guest. Mr. Martin."

  He's looking at Dallas, but I'm the one who replies. "Mr. Martin? Bill? My Bill?"

  "Yours?" Dallas says sharply, then looks as though he wishes he'd bitten his tongue instead.

  "Miss Jane's ex-husband, yes," Archie says.

  "Oh," I say, peering around the room for clothes, then remembering they are across the hall in the study. And mostly ruined. Thankfully, I'd ordered a few things on line during our four days of bliss--including my now-destroyed skirt--and that new wardrobe is downstairs in my old bedroom. "Well, I just need to get dressed and--"

  "He's here to see Dallas, actually. I've put him in the first floor den," he adds. "With coffee and orange juice."

  "Right. Well, I'll go see what he wants," Dallas says, looking as though he'd rather do anything but.

  As I watch, he pulls on a pair of khakis that Archie hands him from the closet, then matches them with a loose knit shirt and loafers. He's gone from looking like he just woke up to someone who could model for GQ in approximately twelve seconds. And when he takes the next step and smooths his sex-mussed hair, then rolls back his shoulders and stands tall, he looks like a man who could run an empire.