Wisconsin Wedding (Welcome To Tyler, No. 3) by Carla Neggers Page B

narrowed eyes, the touches of gray in his hair. He was a different man from the one Byron had known, neither the eager, determined young man who’d gone off to Southeast Asia after their father nor the broken, potentially explosive man who’d tried, and failed, to come home. This Clifton Pierce Forrester was grown-up, changed by the suffering he’d witnessed and endured, but whole at last. With a photographer’s visual acuity and a brother’s instincts, Byron made his assessment and was confident he was right.
    He also knew his brother was royally pissed off.
    “Cliff,” he said, barely able to say more.
    “Yeah.” Cliff remained rigid and unmoving, performing his own assessment of his younger brother. “You came to Tyler to spy on me. You’ve done it before.”
    Byron neither confirmed nor denied the accusation. “I’d like us to talk, Cliff.”
    “Nora said you called yourself Byron Sanders.”
    “It’s the name I used professionally,” he said with heroic equanimity. “I used to take photographs.”
    Cliff’s hardened face remained expressionless. “Nora asked me if I knew a Byron Sanders. I figured she meant you.”
    “And you said you didn’t.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I wasn’t sure I do know you.”
    Byron nodded. He and Cliff had always, at minimum, been honest with each other. If everything else had changed, the tough honesty between them hadn’t.
    Then Cliff added, in a voice so low his words were almost lost to the wind, “And because you’re my brother.”
    “Nora,” he whispered in the dark of a moonless summer night. “I love the sound of your name.” Slowly, purposefully, he moved his palms across her bare breasts, already inflamed by his touch. “I love the feel of you.” And he kissed her, running his tongue along the sharp edges of her teeth, into the secret corners of her mouth. “I love the taste of you.”
    She was nearly delirious with wanting him. She’d never realized such aching passion was possible, not for her. It made her forget everything but him. Pressing her hands against his strong hips, she drew him to her, moaning at the feel of the rough hairs of his chest against her, the taut muscles of his abdomen, his long, long legs.
    “I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes,” she breathed.
    “There’ll be no going back. We can stop, but you won’t ever be—”
    She smiled. “A virgin again?”
    But he was serious.
    She pressed him harder. “Love me, Byron.”
    Nora awoke sweating and panting—not, in her opinion, a moment too soon. She snatched up the water glass she kept by her bed and took a huge gulp. Water dripped down the sides of her mouth and spilled onto her sheets.
    “Whew,” she said, and laughed a little.
    It had only been a dream. Thank God. She switched on the small pottery lamp on her antique nightstand. She was alone in her brass bed, cozy under her down quilt and Egyptian-cotton sheets. She wasn’t in a musty old tent making love to Byron Sanders.
    Feeling awkward and embarrassed, although there were no witnesses to her dream, she flipped on her radio to a predawn classic jazz program. Benny Goodman’s clarinet playing filled the silence. She fluffed up her pillows and leaned against them, knowing she’d never get back to sleep. She didn’t want to sleep if her subconscious was going to betray her like that again.
    She didn’t want to dream about that man.
    “Dream, my foot,” she muttered.
    Unfortunately, it had been a memory.
    Benny Goodman hit a high, clear, impossible note. Nora threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. It was chilly in her room. Just as well. A good shot of cold air was what she needed. She wasn’t one to turn up the heat until the pipes were in danger of freezing. Not bothering with a robe, she headed for her bathroom down the hall, where she allowed herself the luxury of a space heater. She turned the water on in the tub to let it get good and