Never Say Never Again Read online

  Flicking off all the lights but for a small lamp on the bedside table, she nearly rushed the bed, feeling suddenly giddy, excited. As she fairly bounced on top of the mattress, then slid her bare legs under the crisp linen sheet, she felt vibrantly aware of every inch of her skin. Her thighs tingled. Her breasts were slightly swollen. Her heart pounded in her chest. And she couldn’t seem to stop herself from smiling.

  She lay back more fully against the pillows, running her fingers over the smooth bedding. She remembered thinking when the bed was first delivered that it deserved to be broken in properly. Given a baptism of sorts. A night of wild, passionate lovemaking would do the trick.

  The smile slowly vanished.

  Of course, those were the thoughts of the old Bronte O’Brien. The one who would more likely than not have done exactly that.

  But the new Bronte…well, she had learned her lesson in that department. But good.

  For long moments she lay there, staring at where her hand still rested against the top sheet until her eyes lost focus. Her heartbeat slowed. The tingling in her thighs disappeared. And the lightness in her stomach became a leaden weight.

  She didn’t want Connor McCoy, or any other man for that matter, in her bed. Not right now. In fact the prospect of such a possibility made her think that it would be quite some time before she’d ever trust a man enough to let him into her bed.

  She absently reached for the phone, then slowly withdrew her hand. She realized she’d been about to call Kelli. But she couldn’t do that. Right now her best friend was off on her honeymoon in the Poconos with her new husband, David. Connor’s brother.

  She attempted to rub the gathering tension from her forehead. She’d never told Kelli what had happened between her and Thomas. She’d been so…unsure of herself then. So gullible when Thomas had requested they keep what they had together between themselves for the time being. She had thought he was being romantic and found the secrecy had lent a certain mystique to their relationship. Besides, she hadn’t been so sure of what she had been feeling herself. She’d never been in love before. Not in love, love. Not in quite that way. It had been all so new. So unshareable.

  Then, of course, she had learned the truth, and she’d been too ashamed to tell Kelli. No, no, that wasn’t it. She hadn’t been ashamed to tell her friend what had happened. Her pain had been so powerful, so raw, that she hadn’t been able to tell her. She hadn’t been able to tell anyone. She’d been barely able to bear it herself.

  And just as she had shared the joy of her and Thomas’s relationship alone, so she endured the pain from their breakup.

  Pushing herself up on her elbows, she stared down at the silky concoction she wore, hardly able to remember why she’d put it on in the first place. She threw back the sheet, peeled off the silky garments, then stuffed them back into the drawer and pulled out her old standards, which consisted of a ratty old purple T-shirt, and red-and-black plaid boxers that were nearly worn through in the bottom. She made a mental note to herself to pack away all the expensive silks and stow them in the attic. Somehow she didn’t think the Salvation Army would appreciate such a gift.

  Looking toward the door, she switched off the light, then moved to close the only barrier that separated her from one sexy, trouble-with-a-capital-T McCoy. Midstep, her toe slammed against the chair leg with an audible crack.

  CONNOR JERKED INSTANTLY upright. He hadn’t been asleep, but he had been somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Even if he had been out cold, he was certain the muffled noise upstairs, followed by Bronte’s cry, would have awakened him.

  Freeing himself from the twisted sleeping bag, he leapt to his feet, then took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.

  Darkness enveloped him completely. Combined with the unfamiliar environs, he had little choice but to rely on the slight shift in shadows to make his way around. There. An open door. He slid silently inside, making out the empty bed in the dim light filtering through the window behind it. Where was Bronte? A shape shifted and suddenly she was standing in front of him.

  “Connor? What are you doing up here?”

  He blinked at her. “Are you okay? I heard something.”

  “I’m…fine. I just stubbed my stupid toe, that’s all.”

  “Can you turn on a light or something?”

  The shadow before him disappeared. A moment later a small light from her bedside table flicked on.

  Purple. The color of her tattered T-shirt registered before what exactly she had on did. Next came the undeniable shape of her bare breasts beneath the soft material. His breath caught and held in his chest. He held it until he no longer had a choice. The air rushed from him like a low whistle.

  He caught her grimace. “You think this is something, you should have seen what I had on five minutes ago.”

  “Huh?”

  She waved a hand, then crossed her arms. “Never mind.”

  The adrenaline that had rushed through Connor’s system mere moments before slowly dropped. Where he hadn’t felt Bronte’s presence in her living room, it pressed in on him from all sides here. A soft, subtle, sexy scent filled the air. The mission-style bed was covered with rumpled, stark white, soft-looking linens. A small desk was overburdened with files and leather books slanted at haphazard angles. Framed black-and-white photos, he guessed of her family, filled the beige walls. And plants took up nearly every spare inch elsewhere.

  He cleared his throat and glanced at her bare feet, noticing the way she favored one foot over the other. “Are you sure you didn’t break something?”

  She uncrossed her arms. “It would be no less than I deserve, but no. Everything appears to be in working order.”

  “Here…let me take a look.”

  He couldn’t help noticing the way her brows rose up on her forehead, drawing his attention to her skin. Stripped of all makeup, her freckles were more prominent. And even sexier. “No, really, I’m fine.”

  He couldn’t resist grinning at her. He’d played this game often with his brothers when they were younger. “I’m not going anywhere until you let me have a look.”

  Her expression shifted from surprised to puzzled. “Used to being in control, aren’t you?” Even as she said the words, she backed up to sit on her bed.

  “Indulge me.”

  He heard her swallow. “It’s…the big one.” She stretched her leg out and wriggled her toes.

  Connor slowly moved forward, taking her lean foot in his hand, resisting the urge to run his fingertip up over her soft instep. “This one?”

  She gasped and tried to pull free of his grasp.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He examined her toe. Did all women take care of their feet as well as Bronte did? He couldn’t say. He’d never really looked at a woman’s feet. Until now.

  “Will I live?” she asked.

  He recognized her attempt at humor, but couldn’t help noticing the breathless quality of her voice as she spoke. He released her foot, the feel of his hand against her skin suddenly unbearably personal…intimate.

  “Oh, God,” he heard her say. “The hell with it. I’ve been thinking so much my head hurts. I don’t want to think anymore.”

  He tried to make sense of her words. “What—”

  Suddenly she was standing before him, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth pressing against his.

  He groaned and jerked her even closer. Mouth crushed to mouth. Hips to hips. Chest to chest.

  Oh, yes. She did taste as good as he remembered. Better, even. He detected a hint of toothpaste on her tongue as she ran it the length of his, but it was more than mint he savored. Desire, passion, need…they were all there in the heat of her mouth. In the unconscious tilt of her pelvis against his. In the frantic movements of her hands as they moved from his hair, to his shoulders, then to his back, exploring, testing, grasping.

  Realizing his own hands were still on her hips, he plunged his thumbs beneath the hem of her baggy T-shirt, breathing in her gasp as he touched h
er quivering stomach. God, she felt like heaven. Silky smooth. Hot. And so damn responsive that he ached just touching the toned stretch of her lower abdomen.

  Slowly, torturously, he inched his way up, groaning when he reached the underside of her breasts. She wasn’t large. She wasn’t small. She fit just perfectly in his palms as he slid his hands over her straining tips.

  Her own hands frenetically tugged at the waist of his jeans. This time it was he who gasped as she worked her hand inside without undoing his zipper, not stopping until her fingers caressed the hard length of him.

  Suddenly she was leaning back toward the bed and he stumbled after her. The mattress gave under the weight of their bodies as she lifted her knees and cradled him tightly between her thighs.

  Connor drew back, a shudder running along his spine as he pushed against her most intimate parts. Dear Lord, he’d never wanted another woman the way he wanted this one wriggling restlessly, passionately beneath him.

  “Please…oh, please, don’t stop….” she whimpered, rocking her hips up to meet his.

  But in an instant of almost solemn insight, Connor knew that he had to do just that. He had to call a stop before things burned out of control. Before he gave himself over to something he feared would be larger than him, larger than the both of them.

  He stilled her head in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. Even as he drew his thumbs along her hairline, reveling in the feel of the short, red strands against his fingers, he began shaking his own head. “I don’t think this is a very good idea, Bronte.”

  She bit so hard on her bottom lip he was afraid she’d draw blood. “So don’t think then. I’m tired of thinking why we shouldn’t be doing this. I just want to let it happen.”

  He pushed from her, knowing that he had to, if for no other reason than the meaning behind her words. Let it happen. He’d never just let anything happen in his life. And he wasn’t about to start now. No matter how much he burned for the provocative woman lying beneath him.

  “I can’t.” He stood up, startled by the way his limbs shook from the effort it took to leave her like that. To deny his own need, her raw desire, was hands down the most difficult thing he had ever done.

  He strode purposefully toward the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps, halting just this side of the entrance. He bounced a fist against the doorjamb. Behind him came the quiet sound of movement, of Bronte more than likely covering herself, recovering from what had just transpired between them. As difficult as it was, he forced himself not to look back at her. “I’m sorry.”

  As he continued out into the hall and down the stairs, he thought he heard her say quietly, “Me, too.”

  5

  “YOU WANT A ROLL OR something from downstairs?”

  It took three full blinks before Bronte brought her assistant, Greg Neff, into focus. She’d been at work for exactly two-and-a-half hours and hadn’t gotten more than five minutes’ work done. She felt…disheveled somehow. Restless. And her demeanor had very little to do with the lack of sleep she’d gotten last night. She’d slept plenty. The only problem was her dreams had been haunted by one very sexy temporary roommate Connor McCoy, her subconscious offering up countless alternative endings to what had almost happened between them last night.

  “Wow, that must have been some daydream,” Greg said, leaning against the doorjamb to her office and crossing his arms.

  Bronte snapped upright, not at all comfortable with his assessment. The last thing she should be doing was dreaming about anyone. Much less Connor McCoy. Either in the day or night.

  Connor had been right in calling a halt to things. No matter the chemistry that existed between them, their inexplicable want of each other, had they…had sex last night, this morning would have looked most decidedly different. And she was sure regret would have factored significantly into that difference.

  Better to be edgy and achy with need than to be physically satisfied and sorry.

  She eyed her assistant. Greg was only a few years younger than she was, and reminded her of herself when she’d been in her first year of law school, all full of ambition and conviction. She hadn’t considered it before, but she supposed that was part of the reason she’d chosen him. “I wasn’t daydreaming,” she objected. “This case is…well, a little more complicated than I thought.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bronte moved to stick her pencil into the holder and missed. Another try drove it home, causing the already over-stuffed holder to bulge. There was no reason for her to believe he knew exactly what had happened last night. Or, more importantly, what hadn’t happened. No. Greg had been with her back when she and Thomas were still a couple. He probably thought her distance had something to do with him.

  The concept made her stomach tighten.

  “Speaking of complicated cases, you wouldn’t happen to know what I did with the Pryka file, would you?”

  Greg grimaced. “You didn’t do anything. Dennis Burns did.”

  Her gaze snapped to his face. “So what was reported in the papers is true. He’s got the case, doesn’t he?”

  She sighed, then dropped her head into her hands. She’d tried getting through to the senior U.S. attorney, Bernie Leighton, no fewer than three more times this morning. Twice via the inter-office phone system, once in person. All three times she’d been told he was scheduled to begin a tedious trial that morning and his assistant had said he might be popping in from time to time, but not to expect anything.

  She had decided not to leave a message. What she needed to discuss with him could only be done one-on-one.

  Greg frowned. “Judging by the way Mr. Burns slipped in here before you got in this morning and lifted the file from your desk, I’d chance a yes.”

  She looked at him. “Did you check up on it?” She rolled her eyes. “Stupid question. So tell me, what’s the word around the office? Have I officially lost the case?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Not yet anyway. Rumor has it Dennis is only a hairbreadth away from winning it though.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Hey, just part of my job. You don’t work. I don’t work. If you know what I mean.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She briefly closed her eyes, wondering just what kind of fancy footwork it was going to take to get the Pryka case—and, by extension, the Robbins case—back on her desk. She’d spent the past four months building a case against Leonid Pryka. Had burned plenty of hours convincing Melissa Robbins that testifying against her former boyfriend was the best thing to do, the honorable thing to do after the thirty-three-year-old bombshell had discovered protective custody wasn’t going to be a week at an exclusive spa complete with amenities and wanted to leave. And now with Connor’s suspected involvement in the case…

  She pressed her fingertips against her closed eyelids until she saw stars, then sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that roll. But I could do with some hot water for more tea.” She dangled her empty cup by its handle and he took it from her.

  “Two cups. Boy, that must have been some night last night.”

  She realized Greg wasn’t going to let this go unless she offered up something. Their mornings were generally categorized by playful chitchat. To divert from that routine now would be more than telling; it could prove devastating, given Greg’s tenacious curiosity. She shifted in her chair. “Yes, last night was something,” she said, calling up a smile.

  Taking in her expression, he sat on the edge of her desk. “Care to share?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come on, Bron, I share my dates with you.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Ooo, low blow.”

  She leaned back in her chair and gripped the arms. “I thought that was the way you liked them.” Slowly, her smile vanished. “Anyway, my date last night wasn’t with a person. It was with the Macmillan case.”

  He stood up. “You call that a date?”

  “I didn’t. You did.”

 
“Things are probably pretty screwed right now, what with the lead witness in the Pryka case turning up dead.”

  “Probably is about the word for it.” She closed the file in front of her, then slanted him a look. “Where, exactly, is Dennis right now?”

  “You mean the pipsqueak weasel?”

  Bronte laughed. “Yep, that would be him.”

  “Oh, I’d say he left his office about a half hour ago, taking off on some all-fire important meeting. This according to his assistant, of course.”

  “Of course. And the Pryka case file…”

  Greg’s grin widened. “Sitting smack dab in the middle of his desk.”

  Bronte couldn’t help smiling back. “And what would it take to have that file back on my desk?”

  “A simple please ought to do it.”

  “Please.”

  “You got it. You sure you don’t want a roll along with the water for your tea? They may still have some bear claws left.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Pivoting her chair away from her desk, Bronte stared blindly through the window. The truth was, she couldn’t have eaten a doughnut if she’d tried. She simply wasn’t hungry because she had already eaten. And eaten. And eaten.

  When she’d initially awakened that morning, it had taken her a full ten minutes to remember what had gone on the night before. That there had actually been a man in her town house. And it hadn’t involved sex.

  Well, she could say one thing for Connor McCoy. He sure knew when and how to make an exit. Her initial reaction to finding him gone in the morning had been one of abandonment, of disappointment that he hadn’t stuck around to say thank you. Or at least goodbye.

  But that had passed when she found the heavenly buffet he’d laid out on her kitchen table.

  She didn’t know how he’d done all the running around so early in the morning without waking her, but the tantalizing array of eggs, pancakes, sausage, hash browns, crab cakes, croissants, doughnuts and a special tray of a variety of teas had made her feel like she’d woken up in the wrong house. She’d never had that much food in her house at one time.