Page 38 of Point of Mercy

“And then?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“And then I decided I’d take a chance. Hell, why not? It wasn’t as if I had this terrific life or anything. I came back home and you were gone. Married already.”

“So I was just an alternative to a lonely existence.”

“I wasn’t sure what you were, Heather, but I couldn’t stop myself from coming back.” He threw a dark look to the ceiling as if condemning himself. “I draw the line with married women—always have. But with you, it was hard. I even thought about kidnapping you away from Leonetti, just to talk to you, but…” His jaw slid to the side at the irony of the situation. “I heard you were pregnant.”

“Oh, God, you thought—”

“I didn’t know what to think.”

“Turner.” She reached for him then, took his callused hand in her smaller fingers and squeezed. Torment wound through her soul. He’d thought she was pregnant with Dennis’s child. And why wouldn’t he? “I… I’m so sorry.”

“So am I, Heather.”

“If I’d known you’d come back…”

In the half-light, he stared at her with disbelieving eyes. “What would you have done, Heather? Waited for me?”

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted, realizing that she couldn’t lie ever again. Tears glistened in her eyes and impulsively she threw her arms around the neck of her child’s father. She held him close, refusing to sob for the years they hadn’t shared together, forbidding the tears to drizzle from her eyes. Her lips moved of their own accord, gently kissing his cheek, and his arms wrapped around her—strong and warm and secure.

Without thought, she closed her eyes and tilted her face upward, molding her mouth to his. A tremor ripped through his body, and his kiss became harder, more insistent.

His arms held her possessively and her knees turned weak. Heat rushed through her veins and his mouth explored the hollows of her cheek and her ears. Desire spread through her veins like liquid fire. She trembled as his hands found the hem of her T-shirt and touched her skin. Sucking in her breath, she felt the tips of his fingers scale her ribs and move upward to cup her breast.

“Heather,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, and her legs gave way. Together they tumbled onto the hay-strewn floor of the stall, legs and arms entwined. Dust motes swirled upward and the horse in the stall next door shifted, snorting loudly.

A thousand reasons for stopping him crowded in her mind, but as he lay over her, his rock-hard body fitting against hers,the reasons disappeared and desire, long banked, burst into flame.

As he lifted her shirt over her head, he stared down at her and a small groan escaped him. He pressed his face into the cleft between her breasts and he sighed against her skin. Her nipples grew taut as he removed the rest of her clothes and kissed her flesh, sending shock wave after shock wave of delicious hunger through her.

Her own fingers stripped him of his shirt and trailed in wonder over the hard, sinewy strength of his arms and chest.

Turner’s mouth covered hers as he tore off her slacks and underwear and he kicked off his boots and jeans to lie beside her. She circled his chest with her arms and kissed the sworling mat of hair that hid his nipples. He groaned again and trembled.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he muttered into her hair as he poised himself above her. “I don’t think I can… I can’t stop.”

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, don’t ever stop.”

His mouth slanted over hers and he parted her legs with his knees, hesitating just a second before entering her in one hard thrust.

“Turner, oh, Turner,” she cried. The sounds of the night faded, and Heather, driven by a desire so hot she was certain she was melting inside, moved to meet the rhythm of his strokes. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, his muscles contracting and flexing as she soared higher and higher, like a bird taking flight, rising to some unseen star until the night seemed to explode around them. And Turner, his body drenched in sweat,fell against her, crushing her breasts and breathing as if he’d run a marathon.

“Oh, God, Heather, what’re we doing?” he whispered, kissing her naked chest. Hay and straw stubble poked at her skin and she almost laughed.

“Making up for lost time.” She held him close, kissing his crown, smiling sadly as she noticed the stubborn swirl of light hair at his crown—so like Adam’s. Her throat grew thick and tears once again threatened her eyes as she realized that she was now, and forever would be, a part of his life. His lover. The mother of his child. The woman he alternately hated and made love to. But she would never be his wife, would never be the woman to whom he would turn when he needed compassion or empathy or comfort.

He rolled off her and cradled her head against his shoulder. Together they stared through the darkness up to the rafters. Turner’s voice was still raspy when he said, “This was probably a mistake.”

“Probably.” Her heart felt bruised.

“But not our first.”

“No.”

“And certainly not our last.” He sighed heavily. “You’ve always been a problem for me, Heather,” he admitted. “I’ve never known exactly what to do with you.”

Just love me,she silently cried, but knew her sentiment was foolish, the product of an emotion-wrenching day mixed with the slumberous feel of afterglow. “All I want from you is what you’ve already agreed to do,” she said softly. “You don’t have to worry about anything else.”

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