“Jane,” he said softly. A warning, a reminder.
“I don’t care,” she whispered in answer.
He let out a ragged sigh and then his fingers slid into her hair, holding her steady before his mouth found hers.
The kiss was featherlight at first, gentle, soothing. She gripped his bare forearms, palms tickled by the light smattering of hair there, and found herself falling into him the way she’d always feared.
And when he deepened the kiss? When his tongue came out to trace the crease of her lips and urged her to open to him fully? She dove, not fell. She wrapped her arms around his neck, let out a needy sound that echoed in the stillness around them, and met his tongue with her own.
Desperation was what followed. Heated, passionate, long-withheld desire that had always hung between them but never been acted upon. And now the dam broke, pressure too much, and she dug her nails into his shoulders. He moaned in response, such a lovely vibration that rolled through her body and made her ache. Oh, how she ached for him. For this. For everything.
She wanted everything and that recognition sank in beyond the pleasure of his touch and the desire that sparked between them. She couldn’t want everything. That was far too dangerous.
Slowly she pulled away. He let her, though they stayed in each other’s arms, staring at each other in the flickering lamplight. At last she set a palm on his chest and pushed back, freeing herself from his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything about that apology. He simply let out a long sigh and shoved a hand through his hair, mussing the dark, thick locks. “I’m going to help you, Jane. I’ll help you find her.”
She swallowed. “How?”
“Let me put on a shirt and we’ll figure it out,” he said as he walked past her out of the parlor.
She turned back to the window and set her palms against the cool glass. She wanted the shock of the temperature to give her purchase, but it didn’t. Ripley had kissed her and it opened a floodgate she feared she wasn’t strong enough to close. One that would end in heartache.
She already had enough of that thinking about Nora and wondering where she would sleep tonight. Was she afraid? Alone? Or with someone who would hurt her?
“Oh God,” she whispered.
All those things were why she needed to stop focusing on Ripley and get her mind where it belonged: Nora. There was no future in anything else.
CHAPTER 4
Ripley stood at his armoire, shirt crumpled in his fist, trying to calm the racing of his heart. He hadn’t intended to kiss Jane when he made his argument against her belief that she was somehow the cause of her sister’s current problems. But then she’d looked up at him, dark blue eyes rimmed with more tears, cheeks flushed with emotion and need. All he’d wanted to do was hold her. Like she was his.
But she wasn’t. Jane didn’t belong to anyone. She made certain of it. Her independence was a shield. A wall. He wasn’t certain he was strong enough to climb it. He’d tried once, years ago by asking her if she ever considered finding someone to be with permanently. To love. Her quick dismissal of that notion while she held his gaze let him know she wouldn’t entertain any overtures. He’d respected that and never brought it up again, sticking to their friendship even though it ached.
But she needed help. She needed a friend rather than just another man who panted over her and took advantage. He needed to be that friend.
He slung the shirt over his head, buttoned it and rolled the sleeves. With each movement, he took a deep breath, refocused on what she needed not what he wanted when her warmth seeped into him like the sun cutting through winter clouds.
When he returned to the parlor, she was still at the window, but she was no longer looking out onto the street. She held the letter in her hand and was reading it over and over.
He crossed to her and slipped it away gently. She looked up at him and his heart stuttered yet again, but this time he maintained control.
“Come, you need to eat,” he said.
She blinked. “Eat?”
He laughed at the utter confusion on her face. “Yes. Food. It’s called supper.”
To his relief, she smiled at the quip. “Oh, is that what fancy gentlemen call it?” she asked, even as she followed him down the hallway, into the kitchen at the back of building.
He motioned to a rough wooden chair at the small table in the room and she took it, watching as he gathered what he’d planned to eat for the night. He had stew leftover from the previous evening and he put the pot on the fire to warm as he cut a few slabs of bread from a loaf and hunks of cheese to join it.
“I don’t think you’ll find it fancy now,” he said with a little smile as he poured her a glass of red wine to join the meal.
“It smells divine, though,” she said. “I’m more shocked to see you cooking. I never pictured it.”
