Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [81]
As he drove ever south, she poured them each a cup of coffee from the thermos and handed him a mug. “You haven’t explained the situation with Mary Theresa,” she reminded him, sipping from the hot, strong coffee.
“It began as a simple case of mistaken identity, you know that.”
She’d heard this much but never had believed it.
“She showed up at my place, that old barn converted into living quarters just out of Rio Verde.”
She remembered, though she’d only visited him once.
“I’d been drinking—hell, that’s putting it lightly—I was on a bender. Decided that you and I were through after the scene in the restaurant, so I went out and tied one on. Nearly passed out on the bed, then she—though I thought it was you—let herself in.”
“And you couldn’t tell the difference?” Even after all these years, Maggie still felt a stab of betrayal that sliced deep into her heart.
His lips tightened until they showed white over his teeth. “Nope.”
“Thanks for stroking my female ego.”
“You wanted the truth.”
Amen, she thought, no matter what the cost. “Am I getting it?”
“In spades. It was late. Dark. I didn’t bother locking the door.” He snorted, his face a mask of self-derision. “So I’m passed out in the bed and she shows up smelling like you, tasting like you, looking like you. As I said, the only light was the moonlight streaming through the open blinds.”
“And you couldn’t help yourself.”
“I thought she was you, damn it,” he admitted, remembering waking up to find Maggie next to him, her body warm and willing, her lips and tongue hungry. There had been something different about her, something he’d sensed, but she wore her hair in a ponytail and in the poor light he saw no hint of makeup, no trace of the pinup girl Mary Theresa was always trying to portray. “At least I did at first.”
“Maggie?” he’d whispered, his body already responding, his erection hard and stiff, his mind still groggy.
“Shh. I’m here,” she’d answered, and kissed him with wet and wild abandon. That had been the end of any resistance on his part.
He’d stripped the rubber band from her hair, started touching her breasts, thrilled that they seemed larger in his hands. The kissing was different, more anxious and desperate. At the time, his brain still soaked in scotch, he was vaguely aware that there was a slight change, but he chalked it up to the length of time they’d been apart, the ache between his legs that had kept him up at night. Her touch had ignited him. His erection had been hard, his blood instantly white-hot.
He’d made love to her, not once, but over and over that night. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d convinced himself that they would never be together again, that by the light of dawn, Maggie would leave him forever.
It wasn’t until she slipped from the bed that he sensed his mistake. “What’s this?” she’d asked, rubbing a finger over the scar he bore on his left shoulder.
“You remember, I told you about it…my old man did that the night that I nearly—”
“Oh, right.” She slid quickly off the bed, and Thane sensed the change in her.
With one eye open, he watched her dress, and a sick realization needled through the painful clouds in his mind. The scotch had worn off and aside from a blistering headache, he was able to think again. As she wound her hair into a ponytail, he noticed the difference and, at first, telling himself he was out of his mind, he lay on the wrinkled sheets, opened both damned eyes and stared up at her.
She zipped her shorts and the tiny prickle of apprehension he felt turned to a needle of dread. With bone-chilling certainty he watched as her left hand adjusted the zipper tab and slid the button through its hole.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice dead and filled with all of the suspicions