Nora Roberts - Private scandals

"Go inside, Deanna."

"I'm going with you." She opened the door, climbed in and slammed it shut. He wasn't the only one who could slice flesh with a look. "If my man's going to go make a fool of himself, I'm going to be there. Got a problem with that?"

Finn slammed the door and turned the key. "Hell no."

The best Deanna could hope for now was that Marshall wouldn't be home.

The wind had picked up and held a fresh threat of snow. It raced through Finn's hair, sent it flying around his face as he stalked up to Marshall's door. He had only one thing on his mind and, like a skilled reporter, easily blocked out all distractions: Deanna's mumbled curses, the occasional swish of tires on the street, the numbing chill in the air.

"He's not worth it," Deanna said for the hundredth time. "He's just not worth your making a scene."

"I have no intention of making a scene. I'm going to talk to him, and he's going to listen. And then, unless I'm very much mistaken, you'll never see or hear from him again."

He had been wanting a confrontation since the day Deanna had rushed out of the CBC Building in tears, and into his arms. Finn could already feel the grim satisfaction of pleasure postponed.

Deanna saw his eyes slit like a predator's as the door opened. Her stomach clenched and she had one wild thought: to jump between them.

But Finn didn't lunge, as she'd been half terrified he would. He simply strolled across the threshold and into the foyer.

"I don't believe I invited you in." Marshall ran a finger over the black tie of his tuxedo. "And I'm afraid I'm on my way out."

"We'll make this as quick as possible, since I don't believe Deanna's comfortable being here."

"Deanna's always welcome in my home," Marshall said stiffly. "You are not."

"What you don't seem to understand is that we're a team. When you threaten her, you threaten me. I don't react well to threats, Dr. Pike."

"My conversation with Deanna was personal." "Wrong again." Finn stepped closer. The feral gleam in his eyes had Marshall stepping back. "If you come near her again, if you ever put your hands on her again, I'll bury you, in every way you can imagine."

"There are laws to protect a man against a physical attack in his own home."

"I have better ways of dealing with you. Angela's file on you made very interesting reading, Pike."

Marshall's eyes slid to Deanna. "She doesn't have the file. She destroyed it."

"No, Deanna doesn't have it. But you don't know what I have, do you?"

Marshall's attention snapped back to Finn. "You have no right—"

"I've got the First Amendment. Steer clear, Pike, way clear. Or I'll break you in half with it."

"You bastard." Fear of exposure propelled Marshall forward. He swung out, more in panic than design. Finn easily avoided the blow and followed it by one punishing fist to the midsection.

It was over in seconds. Deanna had done no more than squeak in response. Marshall had done no more than moan. And Finn, she realized as she gaped, had made no sound at all.

Then he crouched down, impossibly graceful and smooth. "Listen carefully. Don't ever come near Deanna again. Don't call, don't write, don't send a telegram. Are you getting this?" He was satisfied when Marshall blinked. "That should conclude our little interview." He stepped back to where Deanna still stood, openmouthed, on the stoop. Quietly, he shut the door. "Let's go."

Her legs were jelly. She had to lock her knees to keep from swaying. "Good God, Finn. Good God."

"We're going to have to reheat dinner," he said as he guided her to the car.

"You just — I mean you—" She didn't know what she meant. "We can't just leave him there."

"Of course we can. He doesn't need paramedics, Deanna. I only wrinkled his tux and bruised his ego."

"You hit him." Once she was seated, strapped in, she pressed both hands to her mouth.

His black mood had passed. He felt almost sunny as he drove fast through the windswept night. "Not exactly my style, but since he swung first, it worked for me."

She turned her head away. She couldn't explain, couldn't believe what she was feeling. The way he'd sliced Marshall with words. Sharp and cold as a sword. Then he'd shifted his body aside, graceful as a dancer. She hadn't seen the blow coming any more than Marshall had. He'd moved so fast, so stunningly. She pressed a hand to her stomach and bit back a little moan.

"Pull over," she said in a muffled voice. "Right now."

He did, terrified she was about to be sick, disgusted because he hadn't reined in his temper long enough to make her stay home. "Take it easy, Deanna. I'm sorry you had to see that, but—"

Whatever else he'd intended to say was lost as she lunged at him. In one fluid move, she tore off her seat belt and whipped toward him. Her mouth was hot and wet and hungry. Through his shock, and instant arousal, he felt the violent thud of her heart.

And her hands. Jesus. Her hands.

Cars sped by them. He could only groan as she dived deeper into his mouth, her tongue greedy, her teeth vicious.

Both of them were panting for air when she leaned back.

"Well," he managed, but his mind was wiped as clean as glass. "Well."

"I'm not proud of it." She flopped back in her seat, face flushed, eyes bright. "I don't approve of intimidation or fighting. I absolutely don't. Oh God." With a half laugh, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her body was vibrating like an overheated engine. Intellect, she discovered, could be completely overpowered by glands. "I'm going to explode. Drive fast, will you?"

"Yeah." His aching hand trembled a bit as he turned the key again. Then, as he punched the accelerator, he started to grin. The grin became a hard, deep-throated laugh. "Deanna, I'm crazy about you."

She had to curl her fingers into fists to keep herself from tearing at his clothes. "We're both crazy," she decided. "Drive faster."

Marshall comforted himself as best he could, pampering his bruised stomach muscles, taking a painkiller. Shame and fury had driven him out of the house. He opted for a drink first, then two, before keeping his date at the opera.

He hadn't thought he'd enjoy the music, or the company. But both had soothed him. He was a civilized man, he reminded himself. A respected man. He would not be intimidated by some grandstanding reporter like Finn Riley. He would simply bide his time, calmly.

Enchanted by the diva's final aria, he still felt peaceful when he pulled in to his driveway, even though his stomach ached dully. Another dose of painkiller would take the edge off, he knew. Fury and frustration had been eased by Mozart's music. Humming lightly, Marshall set the security on his car. If Deanna had the file, and he could no longer be sure, he would convince her to return it to him. But he'd wait until Riley was away on assignment.

They would talk, he promised himself, and finally set the past behind them. As Angela was behind them.

His eyes gleamed as he reached for his keys. He thought he sensed a movement to his left. He had time to turn, time to understand. He didn't have time to scream.

Finn was watching Deanna sleep when the phone rang. They'd started on each other in the foyer, worked their way up the steps. Halfway up they'd decided, tactically, that they'd made it far enough.

It made him grin to remember how she'd torn at his clothes. Attacked him, he thought smugly. Of course, he'd been a willing victim, but she'd shown surprising energy, and amazing resilience. He almost thought it a shame he hadn't dealt so satisfactorily with Pike before.

He dismissed all thoughts of Pike as he settled back, pleasantly aroused when Deanna curled her body against his.

He wouldn't wake her, though it was very tempting to do so. He was too relieved that she no longer tossed and turned or awakened quaking as she had for several nights after Angela's murder. Instead, he simply enjoyed the way her body fit to his.