A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(123)

She looked towards the door, looked away again quickly when she saw it was he. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said unnecessarily as if she thought she needed to explain her presence in his study—wearing dressing gown and slippers—after three in the morning. “I can’t think why. I ought to be exhausted. I feel exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement these past few days.”

Her words were casual enough, well-chosen and indifferent. But there was something hesitant in her voice. It tried but failed to ring true. Hearing this, he made his way across the room and lowered himself onto the ottoman next to her. It was the sort of gesture he’d never made before. In the past, her place had been on the ottoman, while he sat above her, in the chair or on the sofa.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said, laying his crutches on the floor. “I thought I’d have a brandy.”

“I’ll get it for you.” She began to rise.

He caught her hand, stopped her. “No. It’s all right.” And when she kept her face averted, “Deborah.”

“Yes?”

The single word was calm. Her curly mass of hair hid her face from view. She made a quick movement, like a lifting of her body, and he thought it was prelude to rising and leaving. But instead of doing so, he heard her take a choked breath and realised with a swift dawning of surprise that she was struggling not to cry.

He touched her hair, so tentatively that he knew she couldn’t possibly feel that he had done so. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Deborah—”

“We were friends,” she whispered. “You and I. We were mates. I wanted that back. I thought if I talked to you tonight…but I just couldn’t find it. It’s gone. And I…it hurts so much to know that. If I talk to you, if I see you, I still feel torn. I don’t want that feeling. I can’t face it again.”

Her voice broke. Without a thought, he encircled her shoulders with his arm. It didn’t matter what he said. Truth or lie made no difference. He had to say something to alleviate her pain.

“We’ll survive all this, Deborah. We’ll find our way back. We’ll be what we were. Don’t cry.” Roughly, he kissed the side of her head. She turned into his arms. He held her, stroked her hair, rocked her, said her name. And all at once felt flooded by peace. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “We’ll always be mates. We’ll never lose that. I promise.”

At his words, he felt her arms slip round him. He felt the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest. He felt her heart beating, felt his own heart pounding, and accepted the fact that he had lied to her again. They would never be friends. Friendship was absolutely impossible between them when with so simple a movement—her arms slipping round him—every part of his body lit on fire for her.

Half a dozen admonitions rang out in his head. She was Lynley’s. He had hurt her quite enough already. He was betraying the oldest friendship in his life. There were boundaries between them that couldn’t be crossed. His resolve was acceptance. We aren’t meant to be happy. Life isn’t always fair. He heard each one of them, vowed to leave the room, told himself to release her, and stayed where he was. Just to hold her, just to have her like this for one moment, just to feel her near him, just to catch the scent of her skin. It was enough. He would do nothing else…save touch her hair again, save brush it back from her face.

She lifted her head to look at him. Admonitions, intentions, boundaries, and resolves were shot to oblivion. Their cost was too high. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Just the moment, now, with her.

He touched her cheek, her brow, traced the outline of her lips. She whispered his name, a single word that finally obliterated fear. He wondered how he had ever been afraid to lose himself in the love of this woman. She was himself. He saw that now. He accepted that truth. It was a form of fulfillment. He brought his mouth to hers.



Nothing existed save being in his arms. Nothing mattered save the warmth of his mouth and the taste of his tongue. It was as if only this single moment counted, allowing her life to be defined by his kiss.

He murmured her name, and a sure current passed between them, gathering force from the wellspring of desire. It swept away the past and took in its flow every belief, every intention, every aspect of her life but the knowledge that she wanted him. More than loyalty, more than love, more than the promise of the future, she wanted him. She told herself that this had nothing to do with the Deborah who was Tommy’s, who slept in Tommy’s bed, who would be Tommy’s wife. This had to do only with a settling of accounts, one hour in which she would measure her worth.

“My love,” he whispered. “Without you—”

She drew his mouth back to hers. She bit his lips gently and felt them curve in a smile. She wanted no words. In their place, she wanted only sensation. His mouth on her neck, describing a curve to the hollow of her throat; his hands on her breasts, teasing and caressing, dropping to her waist to the belt of her dressing gown, loosening it, pushing the gown from her shoulders, slipping the thin straps of her nightdress down the length of her arms. She stood. The nightdress slid to the floor. She felt his hand on her thigh.

“Deborah.”

She didn’t want words. She bent to him, kissed him, felt him drawing her down to him, heard her own sigh of pleasure as his mouth found her breast.