Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [104]
“And then your husband died?” he ventured, knowing he was prying, probing into painful areas, but unable not to ask a question that had been bothering him ever since he’d seen her again.
She managed a thin smile. “That’s not exactly how it went. Yes, I was depressed, and I was on medication, but the cause of the depression was my marriage. Dean and I had mentally separated, disconnected years before; we were living different lives, completely divided. He was seeing another woman, though he denied it vehemently, and I couldn’t stand it. I filed for divorce.” She rubbed her arms and looked away. “The day he was served, he drank nearly a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, drove outside of the city, and lost control of the car.” She shuddered.
“And died.”
“Not for a while.” Tears gathered in her eyes, and she swallowed hard. The tip of her nose turned red. “No, not Dean McCrae. He hung in there, in a coma, for eleven days, while the rest of us, me, my daughter, his parents and brother and sister-in-law held a vigil, praying for him, talking to him, begging him to survive.” She blinked and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “In the end he gave up. Everything started shutting down, and the doctors told me he was brain-dead. We—well, I—pulled the plug. At the time, his family agreed, but then…” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “…anyway, the upshot was that his parents and brother blame me, my daughter blames me, and we’re all working through a truckload of guilt.” She angled her face upward defiantly, her gaze boring into his so deeply he was certain she could see each and every one of his sins. And there were many. More than anyone would ever guess. Anguish twisted her perfect features and tracks from her tears glistened on her cheeks. “Any further questions, cowboy?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. All his resistance cracked, and as he’d wanted from the first time he’d laid eyes on her again, he dragged her into his arms. She gasped, her eyes widened, and he pressed his anxious lips to hers.
A million reasons to stop this madness crashed through his head. She couldn’t be trusted, she was Mary Theresa’s sister, he’d broken her heart once before, she hated him…but he didn’t care, didn’t give a good goddamn about anything but the touch and feel of her. It was comfort. It was lust. It was heaven.
God, it had been so long. Heat sang through his blood, and his tongue slid past her teeth, searching, touching, mating as she moaned softly, opening to him as if she had no resistance. Thoughts of bare, fragrant skin, rain-washed hair, and hot sex flashed through his mind. He remembered the first time he’d made love to her, how her back arched upward in the rainstorm, how warm and tight she’d been as she’d so willingly offered him her virginity there in the woods, how she’d trembled, just as she did now, fully dressed, in his arms.
In Mary Theresa’s house.
That thought was a dash of ice water.
As if she, too, suddenly realized that they were trespassing, violating a woman who could be dead, her sister, his ex-wife, the very woman who had stood between them before, Maggie struggled to pull away from him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I know it isn’t.” But he didn’t release her, held her fast, and kissed her again. Hard. She seemed to melt for a second, only to push against him again.
“Really, Thane. I—you—we’ve got a job to do. We have to find Mary Theresa, and I can’t be confused about it.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Silently cursing himself, he dropped his arms.
“You confuse me. And it can’t happen. I—I won’t let it.” She seemed to gather strength as she put some distance between them. But her breathing was ragged, her eyes glazed with the unique passion only they had shared. “Let