Trust Me Read online

  “But why? It doesn’t make sense. She had just contacted me. Why would she quit and move away without leaving me some kind of a message?” Lindsey’s thoughts were on Emilie and the questions she’d stirred in Lindsey’s mind about Rodrigue.

  “As Rodrigue said, she’s done it before. She’ll be back.”

  “Rodrigue.” She tested the name, looked at Harry to see his reaction to it.

  His face was blank. No, not blank, veiled.

  Harry tapped his finger against his glass. “Rodrigue knows her better than anyone.”

  “Unless he did something to her.” It was the only explanation Lindsey could come up with, and it fit. If her cousin had left knowing that Lindsey was on her way, it had to be for a good reason. An abusive lover would be such a reason.

  “Rodrigue?” Real surprise showed on Harry’s face. He shook his head. “No. Not Rodrigue.”

  There was no doubt in Harry’s response; if anything, there was regret.

  Lindsey frowned, more confused than ever.

  Harry walked to the pass-through that opened the kitchen to the rest of the apartment and set his glass on the marble countertop. “So you are safe here now. No one will bother you.” His foot moved toward the door.

  Feeling numb, Lindsey stared at him. She wasn’t okay. When she closed her eyes, she didn’t see the teen. She saw another room, fuzzy but real. She felt lost and alone, but she wasn’t alone physically. Someone else was in the room—two someones.

  A woman screamed and told Lindsey to run, but she couldn’t.

  She stood trapped, frozen by her own fear. The smell of blood was intense, so real that Lindsey started to gag.

  “I should go back,” she mumbled. Even as she said the words, she knew she couldn’t. There was nothing in Louisiana for her to return to. She’d come to St. Louis to find family, and now, more than ever, she realized just how important it was that she succeed.

  “Go back?” Harry swiveled toward her. “No.”

  His alarm was obvious, and Lindsey warmed inside. Harry didn’t want her to leave.

  She shook her head and brushed her fingers under her eyes. They came back damp. “No. I can’t. Not until I find Karin and know she’s okay. It’s just…I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere, and if I’m not…” She swallowed. She wanted to find Karin, but she wanted Harry to tell her to stay for other reasons too.

  Harry’s shoulders relaxed. He covered the space between them in two quick strides. “You’ve had a rough day. Now isn’t the time to make decisions.”

  His hands were empty, but he made no move to touch her. The image she’d conjured up earlier, of sitting on the couch next to him, his arm around her shoulders, returned. Her heart ached. She wanted to step into his embrace, but he just stood there, gaze intense but hands at his sides.

  Suppressing a surge of disappointment, she walked past him and set the now empty bottle on the counter next to his glass. “No. Probably not. Maybe after some sleep—” She cut her own words off. With sleep came dreams—and nightmares. She didn’t know where the images that had been haunting her had come from, but she knew in her gut sleep wouldn’t take them away. Maybe nothing would take them away, except finding her cousin and knowing she belonged.

  She lifted her chin and tried to look confident. “Or I could go to the police station—make sure they’re working on finding the guy that broke in.”

  “That isn’t necessary.” Harry’s voice was harsh, demanding.

  Surprised, she looked at him.

  His posture was rigid, and his shoulders seemed even broader than usual. She could feel herself shrink backward.

  Harry seemed to notice her shift. He moved forward, took her by the hand, and led her to the couch. Then, her hand still in his, he sat next to her.

  “That isn’t how things are done at Bloody Harry’s. We don’t go to the police.”

  “You don’t?” Her brows lowered. She wasn’t sure what he was telling her.

  “No.” He smiled. “They come to us, like they did today.”

  “Oh. But they left.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “After getting a report from Brett. And”—he smiled and pulled out a cell phone—“a picture of the boy. I took it after you left and sent it to the detective in charge as soon as I heard they had left the bar. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll put in a call. I can have detectives here in an hour if you like.”

  An hour? She searched his face. He seemed 100 percent serious. His concern touched her.

  “No.” She shook her head. Harry had already done so much for her; she couldn’t put him out more. “I don’t need that. I can’t give them a better description than a photo, can I?”

  “I doubt it.” He smiled again, warm and reassuring. “But if it would make you feel better…?” He raised his brows, extending the question.

  “No. I’m fine. I just…” Didn’t want to be alone. The thought of it paralyzed her.

  “Then tomorrow? First thing.” His fingers loosened. He pulled his hand back and stood.

  He was going to leave. She was going to be alone, again.

  For a second, blind panic set in. Then, unaware of what she was even doing, she rose from the couch and took three hurried steps toward him.

  She collided with his chest; her face pressed into his shirt. Her fingers latched on to the material, and she clung to him, feeling like an idiot, but needing this connection, needing to know she had a reason to stay in St. Louis, besides having nowhere else to go.

  Beneath her touch, he stilled. For a second, she didn’t even feel him breathe. She closed her eyes and willed herself somewhere else.

  She was an idiot. She’d known he wanted to leave, but she hadn’t let him. No, she’d bared her soul, shown him how needy she was.

  He wouldn’t walk away now. He would run.

  o0o

  Harry couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His mind was too filled with the scent and feel of Lindsey pressed against his chest.

  He’d known he couldn’t stay here, known he had to think of a way to get out of his earlier promise, and he’d thought he had.

  But now…

  Her fingers bunched the material of his shirt. Her hair tickled his chin. And her scent… It was the hardest of all to resist. Spring flowers, warm sun, and carefree days.

  Vampires knew none of those things. One season was much like the next, cloaked by the night, dark and dismal.

  And despite the fact that he was half human—could walk in the day—Harry had taken the vampire life for his own.

  He’d never walked in a field of flowers or enjoyed a picnic on a spring day.

  He’d never spent a carefree afternoon, not even as a child. He’d always known his life was meant to be dark and lonely.

  “I’m…” Lindsey’s hand flattened against his chest. She pushed against him, widening the space between them.

  His eyes caught hers. She was sad and afraid…alone, he realized. As alone as he.

  His hand moved over hers, and he caught her fingers, stopping her from moving away farther.

  “You’re what?” he asked. His voice was low and gruff. He barely recognized it.

  “I—” She couldn’t seem to go on.

  But that was fine. Harry didn’t want her to. Words would just remind him of why she was here.

  He leaned forward and caught her lips with his own.

  Her lips moved across his, tentative at first, like the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Her hand was still on his chest, flat and holding him at bay. He moved his hands behind her back and gathered her up against him.

  She tasted of the beer she’d just consumed, but beyond the ale’s bitter tinge was a sweetness he found hard to trust. He opened his eyes and stared down into her face.

  High cheekbones and full lips. Eyes that when open were as blue as any sky could possibly be.

  She looked so much like the female he had sworn to kill. Too much.

  He closed his eyes then, blocking out he
r image, trying to block out his memories too.

  Marie Jean. Just as beautiful, Lindsey’s double, to be exact.

  His body tightened, and his nostrils flared.

  He shouldn’t be here.

  His eyes closed, he didn’t see Lindsey lean toward him, didn’t know she was going to kiss him back, until she did.

  The pressure of her lips was stronger this time, more confident. Her hand moved to his shoulder, and her fingers wound through his hair.

  Despite his doubts, his mouth opened to hers, and her tongue flitted inside.

  Sweet. So damn sweet.

  Marie Jean couldn’t taste this sweet; she couldn’t feel this warm. Marie Jean and this woman were as far apart as winter to spring, as death from first breath.

  And despite whatever the two might have in common—blood, face, history—he couldn’t stop himself from wanting this woman, Lindsey, right now.

  He had lost the battle.

  With a groan, he pulled Lindsey closer and gave up the fight.

  o0o

  Harry’s arm slid under Lindsey’s legs. He pulled her into his arms and carried her back to the couch. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth tighter against her own.

  For a moment, she’d thought she’d lost him, thought whatever secrets he kept inside had won, but then he’d reached for her, and she’d known that finally, she wouldn’t be alone.

  At least not tonight.

  His fingers stroked her back, comforting and reassuring. She laid her hands on his chest and felt the muscles beneath his starched cotton shirt.

  He breathed into her ear, soft and warm. A shiver danced down her spine, and the tips of her breasts hardened. His tongue darted out and flicked against her skin.

  She tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck. His tongue trailed lower, down the column of her throat to the tiny pulse at its base.

  She could feel her heart beating. The sound of it drowned out all other noise. She inhaled through her nose and tightened her grip on his shirt as if he might at any moment change his mind and try to pull away.

  As if sensing her fear, he murmured against her skin, familiar but foreign—French.

  Her core tightened, and she wiggled on his lap.

  “More,” she whispered, not caring what he said, just wanting to hear the sexy gravel in his voice again. “Tell me more.”

  He murmured again, this time louder and more clear.

  Beautiful and sweet, he’d called her.

  She’d never felt either.

  She wasn’t tall, and she definitely wasn’t willowy—the things that, in her mind, men wanted.

  And sweet? She wasn’t even sure what that was supposed to mean, but coming from Harry, in an accent that sounded so real she would have sworn he was a native Frenchman, she embraced both, even believed both for now.

  He tucked a length of her hair behind her ear and nibbled on her lobe. New frissons shot through her. Her back arched, and her legs curled toward her chest.

  She groped at his shirt, finding the buttons and slipping each through its opening. She needed to touch his skin, to feel his warmth, to taste him as he was tasting her.

  His shirt open, she jerked it down his shoulders. His mouth on hers, he finished what she had started, jerking the shirt off his body and tossing it onto the floor.

  Naked from the waist up, he pulled her close again.

  Her own shirt and bra felt tight and confining. She longed to be free of them.

  His hands ran up her sides, his thumbs caressing the undersides of her breasts. She wiggled again, willing him to unsnap the back closure and free her from the garment’s unwelcome limits.

  Her hands roamed over his chest. His skin was smooth and the muscles beneath it hard. Even at the bar, dressed in a suit, it was obvious his shoulders were broad and his body muscled, but unclothed he was even more impressive. She ran her fingers down his abs, admiring each ridge of muscle.

  His hand moved to her back, and her bra fell forward. Relieved and excited, she pulled his face down to hers and traced the inner cup of his ear with her tongue.

  His body tightened, and he shoved her shirt and bra over her head and tossed them onto the floor. She shifted on his lap so she straddled him and stared down into his face.

  With the lights on, she had nowhere to hide. She felt bold and brazen, braver than she’d ever felt before, and as his gaze moved from her face down her neck to her breasts, she didn’t move, didn’t try to cover herself. She pulled her shoulders back farther and luxuriated in his attention.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured again, this time in English. “I understand why my—” He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together as if in pain.

  “What?” She leaned forward and cupped his face in her hands. His eyes opened, and she was reminded of his secrets, whatever they were. Pain and confusion hung heavy in his eyes. “What? Tell me.”

  For a moment, he didn’t move; then he inhaled in one strong breath, and slowly his face relaxed. When he looked back at her, both the pain and the confusion were gone.

  “Not now.” Then he pulled her mouth back to his.

  His kiss was harder this time, filled with passion and intent. His fingers pressed against her scalp, holding her face in place.

  Not that she wanted to move, unless it was to get closer still. She opened her mouth to his tongue and clasped her hands around his neck.

  He slid her to the side so she fell onto the cushion beside them. His arm still holding her against him, he found the top button of her shorts and pulled them free.

  Wearing only her baby blue panties, she lay on the couch, excitement building inside her. He was above her now. A hand on each side of her face, he stared down at her.

  She ran her fingers over his chest, again marveling at the strength he kept hidden beneath his clothes.

  “I’m glad you stayed,” he murmured.

  She nodded. She was too.

  “And that you trust me.”

  She did. She wouldn’t be lying here on this couch with him if she didn’t.

  She moved her hand lower until she found the waistband of his pants. Then, her eyes on his, she undid the clasp. She felt the material give, felt his swollen sex pop free of its confines. Slowly, she worked the material lower until it was past his hips. He kicked off the last of his clothing and stood before her, naked.

  Gloriously naked. The light from the kitchen shone from behind, illuminating every astounding square inch of the man in front of her. Her core tightened, and her breasts ached.

  She hooked her thumb in the waist of her panties and tugged them down until one hip was bare.

  She wanted him inside her now.

  He bent at the waist and stroked the length of her body with one hand. She lay there, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid any action on her part would bring this impossible-to-believe moment to an end.

  When his fingers touched the silky cloth covering her sex, he paused and knelt beside her. One quick tug and she was naked too.

  He stroked the inside of her thigh, slow and confident, until she was wet and aching. She wiggled lower, willing him to touch her, more, deeper.

  With a smile, he ran his fingers over her folds, separating them and stroking more—until heat built inside her, and she knew she was going to orgasm from the touch of his fingers alone. She gasped and grabbed his hand, not sure what she wanted him to do but knowing she was at this moment completely at his mercy.

  Gently, he pushed her back so she lay flat on the couch, open and every inch of her fully visible. Then he swirled his finger over the nub of her sex and swirled again. Continued until her fingers clawed at the cushions and her body flushed.

  When she thought she could take it no more, when she was sure she would explode without him inside her, he grabbed her by the hips and entered her with one thrust. The movement was rough and hard and everything she had wanted.

  He pulled out and moved forward again, hard, fast, and withou
t apology. Her body tightened and tightened more. So tight she could hardly think. She lost track of time and place and everything but the pleasure of being with Harry.

  He was big and bold and everything she had never thought she would have.

  He lowered his face to her neck and nibbled on her skin. The sensation was slight but shocking, and her entire body reacted, tightened until tremors shot through her, sent her spiraling higher and higher until there was nowhere left to go.

  Her world burst, her climax shattering inside her, her reality expanding until it was all-encompassing. Then slowly she fell, floating back to earth, back to Harry and the warm comfort of his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Marie Jean

  November 12, 1840

  St. Louis

  Damn everything. Rodrigue was up. Marie Jean was not in the mood for a fight.

  Standing in the foyer of their mansion, she tugged her gloves from her fingers and dropped them onto the brass plate that sat on the hall tree for that purpose.

  Her maid, Monique, was standing in the shadows.

  “Is my bath ready?” she asked, purposely refusing to notice the light burning in the parlor to her left.

  “Oui, but the master. He asked to speak to you when you returned.”

  “Is it warm?”

  The young brunette bobbed a curtsy. “Of course.”

  “And Daniel will see that it stays that way.” Rodrigue’s voice was close, less than a few feet from where Marie Jean stood. “Tell him to bring more coal.”

  The maid, milquetoast that she was, bobbed another curtsy, snuck an unsure look at Marie Jean, and scurried away.

  Marie Jean pressed her lips together and gathered her skirt before walking toward the stairs.

  “We need to talk.” There was steel in Rodrigue’s voice.

  Marie Jean paused. She was tired and in need of restorative sleep. May first was only a few days away, and her sister’s oldest son’s wife had given birth to a girl one week earlier. Being the dedicated aunt that she was, she planned a visit.

  “Now would be good.”

  She could hear Rodrigue turn and pad barefoot back into the parlor.

  She flicked her tongue over one canine, smoothed her skirt, and followed.