Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

“Please tell me,” she implored, her tone both gentle and full of need. It did him in. It unleashed his hidden truths.

“Annalise, I wanted to find my way back to you. I learned French so I could be with you. If I had to be with you in France, I needed to know the language. I wanted to be able to be with you wherever you were.”

She nodded, listening. Waiting for him to say more.

He gripped her shoulder. “I know how to say I love you and I’ve always loved you, and I want you, and you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I don’t know how to stop loving you. I know how to say a million other things like”—he switched to French—“you came back into my life now, and it’s the same you, the same girl I fell in love with eighteen years ago, but better. You’re strong, and yet more fragile. You’re tough, but terribly vulnerable. And I want to take care of you and love you. Because,” he said, placing a hand on her cheek, with her red hair blowing in the breeze, framed by the concrete strip of Park Avenue and the morning traffic lurching and cruising behind them.

Her tongue darted out, and she licked her lips, anticipation evident in the set of her jaw, the look in her eyes.

He swallowed, saying the last of his piece. “Because I’ve been in love with you forever. I’ve been in love with you for eighteen years. And nearly half of those years, you were married to someone else.”

She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, her shoulders rising and falling.

“And it’s driving me insane,” he said. “I hold the words inside. But every time I’m with you I want to mark you with the truth of how I feel for you. That I love you, I’m in love with you, and I’ve never ever stopped.”

His admission echoed down the avenue, ringing across the entire city. His confession. His whole entire heart.

Trying desperately to read her reaction, to find out if this was a one-way path again, he searched her face. In her worried eyes, he saw fear and uncertainty. He wanted to kick himself. Perhaps he should have waited. Held back until they were on solid ground, far enough along that he knew she loved him, too.

“Michael,” she whispered, and her voice sounded feathery, like it came from another part of her.

Her car pulled up. The driver cut the engine.

“You need to go,” he said, tipping his chin toward the black vehicle.

She wrapped a hand around his bicep. It felt too good. He couldn’t be tricked by the feel of her. “I want to reciprocate. I want to say the same things back to you. But I can’t say that yet. I can’t tell you I’ve been in love with you all through the years and ever since we were young. I can only tell you I feel so much for you now.”

His head understood. But his heart wanted all of her, all the time. Even though he knew that was hardly fair.

“Look, I didn’t say this for you to reciprocate. I said it to be honest. Because it was eating me up. And I want you to know—I love you, and that’s just a fact of my existence.” He waved at the car and shot her a rueful look. “And you need to go. And that’s a fact of yours.”

She placed her fingers on his cheeks and held his face in her hands and kissed him. “I will miss you so much.”

That was all for now, and it had to be enough.

Seconds later, he lifted her suitcase into the trunk and walked in the other direction, not looking back.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


Four months ago

When he heard the siren, Sanders cursed and banged a fist against the steering wheel. With a frustrated motion, he flicked on his blinker and pulled to the shoulder of the highway.

A yawn erupted from his mouth. He was so tired from the drive. So damn exhausted, so many hours spent trying to finish up these last few runs to make the money he needed. Fucking college loans. Goddamn bills. Too many doctor’s appointments for his bad back. They all added up to the need for more greenbacks, so he’d taken on more runs like this one. He’d barely slept on this quick trip to California, and he’d just wanted to get home to Vegas sooner after visiting his sister in the Golden State. As he cut the engine, he peered in his rearview mirror to see the cop open the door of his state trooper sedan and walk toward him.

He should have relied on the tried and true tricks for a long drive.

Gum. Coffee. Loud music.

Any or all of those stay-awake aids. Maybe even tried one of those damn apps his sons were always telling him to use to avoid the speed traps. But smartphones were agony, and he’d always followed the speed limit.

Until now.

Because he wanted to get home to sleep in his own bed next to his wife. So he’d gunned the engine.

He lowered the window. Boots crunched over the gravel on the side of the road.

“Afternoon,” the officer said, his voice cool, his eyes obscured behind aviator shades. “License and registration, please.”