Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [130]
“What about last night?” Turning, he leaned a shoulder against the mantel and finished his drink in one long gulp.
She tried not to stare at his throat as it worked or notice the crow’s-feet that fanned from the corners of his eyes when he looked at her or how long his legs seemed to be in the shadowy room. She didn’t want to think of his touch or how he smelled or the fact that no one had ever kissed her with the same intensity as Thane had. Not even Dean.
A needle of guilt pricked her heart. She’d married Dean McCrae on the rebound, told herself that she would learn to love him, that what she’d felt for Thane had only been child’s play, first love, the thrill of experimentation and exploration. Nothing more.
But she’d been wrong.
The love she’d felt for this solitary cowboy had never died, damn it, and even now, years later, trapped in a romantic hotel room, it didn’t seem to matter that they were here because of Mary Theresa, that the woman who had once broken them apart now drew them together, that all the pain of the past could oh-so-easily be relieved.
“Don’t be dense, Thane,” she said, finishing her drink and casting caution to the wind by padding barefoot to the bar and pouring herself another stiff shot. “We both know that we can’t ever…that you and I…it’ll never work, and I’m not up for just a quick fling, okay? I’ve got too much on my mind.”
When she turned he was beside her, and though he didn’t touch her, didn’t so much as brush a hand against her shoulder, she could feel him as surely as if they were naked and lying entwined, skin to skin, body pressed against anxious body.
The scotch was already warming her blood.
“I think we should talk about something.”
His tone stopped her cold. “What?”
“There’s something you’ve got to face, Maggie. Something important.”
She took another sip before asking, “And that is?”
“The fact that Mary Theresa may be dead.”
“What?” She nearly dropped her glass. “No way.”
“Think about it. She’s been gone almost a week now without a call or note or word of any kind. No ransom note, no demands, nothing.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t. What—what about her Jeep? Where is it?”
“Maybe stolen. Or with her body.”
“Don’t even talk like this! I won’t believe it. I can’t.”
“Maggie—be reasonable, something’s happened.”
“No.” She shook her head, walked to the windows and stared out at the night. “No.”
“Maggie, listen, you’ve got to prepare yourself,” he said, his voice rough. “She could be gone.”
Tears touched the back of her eyes and she was suddenly angry. At Thane. At Marquise. At the whole damned world. “I know she’s okay.”
“How? Just because you’re twins—”
Whirling, she nearly spilled the remainder of her drink. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You know something? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I couldn’t.” Dear God, could she confide in him now—tell him all the truth? Did she dare? The scotch made her bold, the intimate room engendered the sharing of secrets.
“What?”
“Remember when I told you about the mental telepathy?”
“Not something I’d easily forget.”
“I suppose not.” She fortified herself with another swallow of fiery liquor.
“Something else?”
Oh, God. “You could say so.”
He set his glass on the bar and shoved both hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Leaning his hips against the counter’s edge, he said, “Don’t tell me she’s been sending out messages again.”
“No—I, um, haven’t heard from her since the last time—in the barn.”
“Before I showed up at your ranch in Idaho.”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly as cold as she had been on that very day. She wondered if she could trust him and decided it didn’t matter. It was now or never. Her hands were shaking as she crossed the room, forcing some distance between her body and his. She finished her drink and set her empty glass on the mantel. “The message she sent me that day was horrifying.”
“She asked for your help,” he prodded.
“But there was more to it than that.” She shoved both hands through her hair, dislodging the