Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Before the thug could accomplish his purpose, the door burst open, and another man charged into the shop.
She had a split second to see who it was.
The darkly handsome stranger from the charity reception.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d been in formal attire.
Today he had on jeans and a dark tee shirt.
The man in the doorway reacted to the interruption by reaching into his coat, perhaps for a gun, but he never connected with whatever he was going to pull out.
The stranger cracked him in the jaw with a large fist, then pushed him backwards, into the other man.
They both went down in a tangle of arms and legs, pulling some of the clothing from the rack with them, but it wasn’t going to be that easy to get rid of them.
The one on the bottom threw his partner to the side.
When he pulled a semiautomatic from his pocket, Stephanie reacted instinctively.
She kicked out with her high-heeled shoe, catching the guy in his gun hand, making him howl in pain.
She followed the kick by stamping down on the back of his hand, drawing a scream and sending the gun flying.
The bald one had scrambled up and launched himself at the stranger, who was prepared for the move.
He stepped aside, letting baldy crash into the glass of the door.
He made a strangled sound as he bounced back, then reached for the knob, and flung the door open.
He was outside and running down the block before Stephanie realized that the other man was on his feet and trying to get away as her rescuer made a grab for him.
But the thug had the strength of desperation.
He pushed the stranger against the wall, then leaped around him, charging out the door, following his partner down the block.
The man who had come to Stephanie’s aid pushed himself upright, determination is his eyes, and she was afraid he was going after the two men. She grabbed his hand to stop him, and everything changed.
In that moment of contact, the breath whooshed from her lungs, and she stood staring at him—as she had stared when they’d been standing across the room from each other at the plantation house.
Only this was different. Last time there had been thirty feet of space between them.
Now her hand gripped his, and somehow the physical connection had opened a gateway between them.
Images flooded into her mind. She saw a long-ago scene. Two little boys in a restaurant. She knew one of them was . . . Craig. His name was Craig. And the other one was Sam. And their minds were open to each other the way his mind was open to her at this moment.
The other boy was his mirror image. He must be his twin brother. There was a completeness to the two of them, a bond that made her sharply aware of all the unfulfilled longings that permeated her life.
She was just sinking into the long-ago scene when the door of the restaurant where the boys were sitting flew open, and gunmen charged in—like the men who had charged into her shop. Only these guys had assault rifles, and they started shooting.
She felt the seconds of fear, the pain as Sam was hit, and Craig’s utter desolation as his brother slipped away from him.
Gasping, she tried to pull back, but his hold only tightened on her, and she knew he was pulling memories from her mind as she was from his.
More recent memories. The talk with her father where he’d told her that he couldn’t pay off his gambling debts.
Then the look in his eyes when he explained that there was a solution to all their problems. A rich man was interested in marrying her.
A rich man who would take care of their debts and take care of her for the rest of her life.
“He spoke to you first?” she asked her father.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He thought that was more appropriate.”
Was that the real reason, or had he known that he had an advantage with the father that he didn’t have with the daughter?
She found out her suitor was John Reynard, a man she had met at the country club out by Lake Pontchartrain, where she’d gone for a friend’s birthday celebration.
He was another guest at the party, and he’d sat at her table and talked to her.
They’d danced, and she’d known he was interested in her.
He’d asked her out several times, and she’d accepted because she saw no harm in it.
But the idea of his wanting to marry her came as a shock.
“I’m not ready for marriage,” she blurted to her father.
“You’re going to have to change your mind about that.”
“No.”
“I’m in financial trouble.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“You could say it’s my own fault, but I’m not going to go down in disgrace if someone is willing to help me. Besides, John Reynard will make a good husband. He’s rich and well connected. You’ll never want for anything.”
She felt like she was living in the Middle Ages. Women in the twenty-first century married for love, not for the right connections.
Yet she’d long ago secretly given up on love, and maybe that was why she had finally agreed.
She didn’t want to reveal any of that to Craig Branson. Or was it Craig Brady? She couldn’t be sure because both names came to her strongly.
But the exchange of information was only part of what was happening between them. She felt his emotions. The emptiness that had consumed him since his brother’s death. It was like the emptiness she had always felt, only she’d had nothing to compare it to.
Below the mental connection was a sexual pull that she had never experienced before in her life.
It was like she must make love with this man—or die. Or perhaps she would die if she made love with him.
That thought was so outrageous that she pushed it from her thoughts. Which wasn’t difficult, because sexual desire was limiting her ability to think.
Craig Branson or Brady pulled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers.
She wanted to push him away. No, that was a lie. She wanted him to show her the pleasure of making love—pleasure that she knew would never be hers with John Reynard.
She tried to drive that last thought from her mind as his lips moved over hers, hungry and insistent.
It was too private to share with anyone, least of all the man who held her in his arms. But she knew he had picked it up and knew he was glad she understood what a mistake it would be to marry Reynard. Not just because . . .
Branson cut the thought off before it could fully form. She was sure that he and Reynard had never met each other before the night of the charity reception, yet he seemed to know a lot about her fiancé.
She tried to hang on to that observation, but her mind was no longer operating in any rational manner.
Feelings had become more important than thoughts. The feel of Craig Branson’s lips against her. The feel of his hands as they stroked up and down her back, then cupped her bottom, pulling her more tightly against the erection straining at the front of his jeans.
He was ready to make love with her. And she was just as ready, yet she knew in some part of her mind that this was going too fast. They had to stop, and she was the one who had to do it.
She wrenched her mouth away from his and pushed at his shoulders.
The move caught him by surprise, because in his mind he was already taking the heated contact to its logical conclusion.
She slipped out of his grasp and put several feet of space between them as she stood panting.
When he reached for her, she shook her head. “Not now.”
He was breathing hard, and his face looked like he’d just touched a live electric wire, but he managed to say, “Why not?”
Now she couldn’t meet his heated gaze. “Is this usually the way you act with a woman you don’t know?”
“You know it isn’t.”
“What happened between us just now?”
“I felt the connection to you. Like the connection to Sam.” He laughed. “Well, I never felt the sexual part with my brother.”
She nodded slowly.
“But you’ve never felt anything like that?” he asked.
“No. What does it mean?”
“You weren’t a twin?”
“No.”
“Then what in the hell just happened?” he asked, revealing he was just as perplexed as she was.
“I don’t know,” she answered.
It seemed he was still trying to come to a logical conclusion when she was sure there was no logic to what had happened. Or, at least, no logic that she had ever encountered.
“I . . .”
Before she could explain that to him, the bell over the shop door jingled, and her head jerked up. Claire stepped into the shop and gave the two of them an appraising look.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice going high and sharp.
“Two men came in here. I don’t know what they wanted, except that they were going to hurt me. Then Mr. . . .”
“Brady,” he supplied, and she knew when he said it that it wasn’t his real name. But for some reason he had decided to use it.
“Mr. Brady came in and fought with them. Then they ran away.”
Claire’s gaze swung to him, her eyes assessing. “That was lucky—your being here. But how did you know what was happening?”
“I was on my way to the poor-boy shop down the street,” the man who had rescued her said. “I noticed them on the street, and they looked out of place. When I saw them come in here, I didn’t think they were planning to buy dresses.”
Claire was still staring at Stephanie and Craig as though she didn’t believe a word of what they were saying. And Stephanie silently acknowledged that they were lying—by implication, at least, about what had happened after the men had left.
Craig turned away and came down on his knees under the rack of dresses. When he stood again, he was holding a gun. “They left this,” he said to Claire.
She sucked in a sharp breath as she saw the weapon. Maybe if Claire hadn’t believed them in the first place, she would now.
“What should I do with it?” Stephanie asked.
“I’ll take it,” Craig said.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Do you want to?”