What was she doing? Before she could come up with an answer to that question, he started to unbutton his shirt. He took her hand and urged her to assist him. He prompted and teased until she got lost in the task. Together they shoved it off his shoulders and arms. He peeled off the undershirt and her body quivered. He had the most gorgeous body. The boots, the socks, the jeans and boxers, all landed on the floor.The musky smell of hard, masculine muscle triggered another surge of sheer desperation.
He started those slow, sweet kisses again, smoothed his palms over her skin so softly as if she was as fragile as glass and he feared breaking her. More of that confusing tension distracted her. This was ...
Stop. Sarah closed her eyes, just feel.
He whispered sweet words. Told her over and over how beautiful she was as he explored every curve and hollow of her body. She followed his example, touching, learning ... tasting.
And then she stopped thinking at all.
27
2312 Beauchamp Road, 11:09 p.m.
From the mudroom door, Jerald watched his daughter preparing a late-night snack in the kitchen. Hadn’t she said that she had dinner with her friends after the grief session?
Agony pierced him.
He did not want to believe this was possible. Sarah Newton hadn’t become her mother. She hadn’t killed anyone.
Each time new evidence emerged or new research was released on any type of genetic connection, he rushed to digest it. Each time, his worry deepened.
What had he done?
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Watched his daughter skillfully peel and slice the apple, the knife far larger than necessary for the task.
Could she have inherited his weaknesses? This nightmare he had lived with for so, so long?
His teeth clenched. Surely fate would not be that cruel.
For years he had been free. He had struggled, but he’d overcome the urges for the most part.
Every day his daughter had grown into a more intelligent, more beautiful young woman, and he had been certain that it wouldn’t happen to her.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
Lynda insisted she was afraid of her own daughter. That something was very, very wrong with her. Jerald had told himself that his wife exaggerated. That she was wrong. That her jealousy of his relationship with their daughter was the motive for her insinuations.
He closed his eyes a moment. Who was he kidding? He knew. Damn it. He knew.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
He opened his eyes, met his beautiful daughter’s worried gaze.
“Are you all right?” She placed the knife on the counter.
He nodded, stepped into the kitchen. “Would you like some of your mother’s lobster bisque? It was”—he pressed his fingertips to his lips and kissed them—“perfetto.”
Jerri Lynn giggled. “No, thank you. Just an apple.” She popped a chunk into her mouth.
He needed to confront her with his concerns. His anguish surged again. He had dreaded this moment from the time she’d taken her first breath fresh from her mother’s womb.
His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers as he strolled to the kitchen island and propped a hip against it. “You’ve been going out at night.”
She paused in her chewing, then continued. “It’s no big deal. Just having fun.”
“Your philosophy professor left a message for me.” Maybe Lynda had been right. Perhaps they should have sent her away to school. But he just hadn’t been able to let her go.
Her fingers stilled on the next chunk of apple. “Really?”
