Free True Lies by Ingrid Weaver Page A

eyes pressed stubbornly to her knees. She was so stiff the muscles in her back were cramping. Oh, to let go and trust someone for once in her life. She’d never been able to in the past. Not her parents, not the man who had said that he loved her. She couldn’t even trust her own brother anymore.
    “I know it isn’t any of my business, but you might feel better if you talked about it.”
    “I can’t,” she whispered.
    He was silent for a while. “Is it your brother? Was he the one who damaged your plane?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “I think he passed me on the road. He was driving pretty fast. Did you two have an argument?”
    An argument? If only it were that simple.
    At her continued silence, he sighed. “Okay. You don’t have to answer anything if you don’t want to. But if you want to cry, go ahead. I promise I won’t look.”
    That did it. Helpless to stop them now, Emma felt the tears scald her cheeks. With a muffled groan, she turned to press her face against Bruce’s neck.
    “Shh. It’s okay, Emma.” He rubbed her back in soothing circles. “It'll be all right.”
    No, it wouldn’t be all right, but surrounded by Bruce’s gentle strength like this, she could pretend for a while, couldn’t she? She rubbed her cheek against the coarse fabric of his jacket. His beard tickled her forehead and she nuzzled closer, her nose touching the skin of his throat.
    God, he smelled good. It was the same as the night before, that clean tang of soap overlying the unique scent of masculinity. She inhaled shakily, her tears trickling into his collar.
    He raised his hand to her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Emma?”
    She didn’t want to move. Instead of answering, she brushed her lips over his neck.
    “Emma, you're upset. You don’t know what you're doing.”
    No, he was wrong. She knew exactly what she was doing. She kissed him again, sliding her mouth downward to the place where the pulse beat at the base of his throat. His taste was as unique as his scent. And she wanted to taste more, because she didn’t want to cry.
    His fingers tightened, tipping her head back. “I can’t do this to you,” he said hoarsely.
    It was Bruce’s voice, but not his voice. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. Where was the man who had made her laugh, who had shared his chocolate cheesecake, who had worn that ugly tie? Where was the stranger who had made her quiver with the mere brush of his hand on her cheek? Which one was he now? She frowned at his dark glasses and baseball cap, suddenly impatient. Lifting her hand quickly, she grasped the brim of his cap and flipped it off.
    He jerked. His hair gleamed in the sunlight. The beautiful, pale-streaked locks stirred softly in the breeze from the lake. A loose curl flopped over his forehead. “What are you doing?”
    Recklessly, she grabbed his glasses and dropped them to the dock behind him. They struck the boards with a clatter that echoed through her head. Now the only shadows on his face were the subtle contours of his lean cheeks. Through vision still blurred by her tears, she saw his chameleon features harden into chiseled handsomeness.
    Like a leaf caught helplessly in a high wind, her need for comfort flipped over to another side of need altogether. Her emotions were too raw to control. Fingers trembling, she traced his face, learning the taut texture of his skin and the bristling coarseness of his beard. Her thumb touched the edge of his mouth. She felt him shudder.
    “Emma,” he whispered. “No.”
    “Kiss me, Bruce.”
    His eyes glowed with an intensity that made her lungs heave. He moved with the swiftness of a coiled spring that had suddenly been released as he rose to his knees beside her and fastened his hands on her shoulders.
    “Kiss m—”
    There was no need for her to ask a second time. His mouth covered hers with a solid sureness that stole her breath.
    This was what she needed, she thought as she tipped her head back and felt the firmness