Page 34 of Our Little Secret

She knew it in the darkest part of her soul.

Leaning against the washer, she remembered his teeth on the clasp of her lavender bra, a push-up with a clasp in the front. He’d glanced up at her, his hot tongue on her skin, his eyes searching upward as he opened the flimsy piece with his mouth.

Now the scenario repulsed her. “Son of a—”

“Mom?” Marilee’s voice startled Brooke and she looked up sharply. “What’re you doing?”

Her daughter was standing in the doorway half a floor above, backlit by the hall light, the dog at her side.

“I, um, just realized I left a load of towels in the dryer by mistake,” she lied, straightening quickly. “Still damp.” She turned the knob and pushed a button. The ancient dryer, on its last legs, clicked on and began noisily tumbling, towels of various colors flipping past the clear door.

Marilee eyed her. “You—you looked like something was wrong.”

“Well, there is,” she admitted, knowing she couldn’t say differently. “I’m out of work, rear-ended an ass in a Porsche, tripped while running, and I’m worried sick about girls that I know who are missing.” Then she added, “Oh, and on top of all that, my daughter thinks I’m totally out of it, an ogre of a mother.”

“Not an ogre,” Marilee argued. “Just super overprotective. You don’t trust me.”

Brooke disagreed. “I trust you, but . . .” She waggled her head back and forth before admitting, “I’m not too sure about Nick.”

“You don’t even know him!” Crossing her arms around her slim chest, Marilee angled her chin up defensively.

“You’re right. I don’t.” She was making a mess of this.

“But you’re judging him anyway.”

“Okay, okay, so that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

Mollified slightly, Marilee arched an eyebrow and asked, “So I can go?”

“To the dance? Where you can meet him? Yes, of course, as I said, but it wouldn’t hurt if your dad and I met him. Didn’t Dad talk to you about this already?”

“Yeah, but I thought maybe . . . ooh, never mind!” She was shaking her head, her face turning red with fury as she spun on her heel and stormed off.

Shep was left standing at the top of the stairs, his tail wagging slowly.

“I know. Teenagers, eh?” Then Brooke managed a smile. “I guess it’s just you and me,” she said as the dryer bleated and she realized she’d engaged the timer for five minutes instead of fifteen. Another stupid mistake. “Story of my life,” she told the dog and gave the knob another angry twist.

CHAPTER 8

Brooke let out a soft moan.

Gideon was lying on top of her. Naked. Sweating and whispering that he wanted to make love to her, his hard body undulating against hers. She felt the rapture of his touch, wanted him desperately, ached for him there, on the island, with the sound of the surf seeping through the windows. She sighed as his fingers surrounded her nape, tangling in her hair, pulling her close. But in the distance, over the cry of seagulls, she heard another voice . . . a girl’s voice, calling for help.

“We have to go,” she told him, trying to push him away, but he was strong and wouldn’t release her. As she stared into his eyes, she saw evil lurking in their gray depths.

“Brooke,” he whispered, shaking her, “I’ll never let you go . . . Brooke . . .”

“Brooke?” Neal’s voice. Loud. Worried.

Her eyes flew open.

She was in bed, yes, but in Seattle, not on the island.

And with her husband, not Gideon Ross.

Thank God.

“Are you okay?” Warm fingers touched her shoulder.

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