Second excerpt, The Man in Black

Later the same evening. Melissa had gone to the Gulch with Jo but Jo is going to spend the night with Charlie, her new male friend. Lawton offers to drive Melissa home. En route they have a disagreement. He feels he is too old and wrong for her and tries to convince her of this during the drive. She is upset and hurt, feeling he is rejecting her.


They made the rest of the trip in total stony silence. When they reached the apartments, she sprang out of the truck before he came to a complete stop. She hit the ground running and fled desperately for the door. But when she got there, she couldn't find her key.
Melissa dug frantically in her purse, hearing the somber tattoo of Lawton's boot heels coming closer. Without looking, she knew the instant he stepped up on the stoop beside her. Although he didn't speak, she felt his presence.
"Go away," she said. "Just go away and leave me alone."
"As soon as you're safe inside," he replied. "What's wrong--lose your key?"
How could he sound so casual, almost conversational? He's just torn me to pieces, but he doesn't feel a thing!
"No...it's in here somewhere." She fought the tears that trembled at the edge of spilling, weeping with rage, pain and humiliation. Her hands shook, stirring the contents of her purse into a disorderly goulash.
"Here." His voice suddenly softer, almost gentle, Lawton drew a penlight out of his shirt pocket and shone it down into the purse, which he steadied with his other hand. Her key ring, with a horseshoe souvenir from Graveyard Gulch, appeared right on top. He lifted it out with only a slight flourish. In a moment, the door swung open. He reached inside to flip a light switch.
"You girls ought to leave a light on. Makes it easier to find your way in, a little nicer to come home to."
Although Lawton obviously waited for her to go in, Melissa stood, wooden and numb, misery gradually overcoming her anger. He was going to turn around and walk away, out of her life with a finality almost as complete as death. How could she bear it? Dreams without even a shred of hope would be useless, completely empty.
"Don't just stand there." A tone close to pleading charged his voice. "Go on in."
She looked up at him. His black-clad form blended into the night, leaving his face etched in the light spilling through the open door, a primitive carving in ancient ivory. She tried to memorize his face, absorb its likeness and make it an indelible part of herself.
Melissa had never before encountered a man like him and she suspected she never would again. But he didn't want her. His rejection had to be her fault, some failing or lack on her part that made her undesirable. Little wonder he scorned her. Hadn't she constantly appeared naïve, juvenile, and gauche? But even rejection did not destroy her longing. She could even still believe he needed her.
"Don't look at me like that." His words emerged in a hoarse whisper. His hands came out of the dark and grasped her shoulders. He spun her around and pushed her, stumbling, through the door. Following her in, he kicked it shut behind him.
Melissa stopped and stood swaying, dizzy with the abruptness of his actions. He turned her again, this time to bring her to him, in motions as swift and smooth as the way he drew his gun.
His arms encircled her like two bands of steel, crushing her, fusing her to his hard, lean length. Buckle, buttons, even bones seemed to imprint into her flesh. She could not move, could scarcely breathe.
He reached up and tangled his fingers into her hair to drag her head back and then his lips smashed down over hers. The world tilted and whirled, spinning out of control. With her lips sealed to his and her nose almost flattened against his rough cheek, her lungs began to ache for air. But even that need seemed insignificant when every sense focused on the man, the feel and scent and taste of him.
Lawton met none of the resistance he expected. Almost at once, Melissa's body became pliable and yielding, melting against his. Her lips also yielded, going soft and parting beneath the pressure of his kiss, denying him nothing. When a distant voice of sanity reminded him he had to be hurting her, he responded ruthlessly; that was the intent.
Long moments later, by sheer force of will, he loosened his clasp and dragged his mouth free of hers. She made a small sound of protest. She lifted her arms, no longer pinned to her sides by his embrace and reached for him. He moved his hands again to her shoulders, stiffening his arms to push her away.
Her eyes opened, black in the dim light, heavy with confusion and arousal. Her lips trembled, rosy and pouting from the pressure of his kiss.
"Why..." she began. "Don't...don't go. Please."
She reached again, straining against the restraint of his stiffened arms.
"Oh, for crying out loud. What does it take to convince you?"
Looking up at him with huge stunned eyes, she didn't answer. With a growl, half frustration and half despair, he lifted her, swinging her clear of the floor and into his arms. He crossed the room in two long strides to drop her limp body on the couch. Then he lay down, half covering her, and again slanted his mouth over hers. Beneath his weight, her body seemed to soften as if to absorb him.
Hard and heated with need, he became oblivious to anything but the warm, soft female body beneath him. With a single sharp slashing pull, he unfastened the snaps down the front of her ruffle-trimmed western blouse. While the clasp of her brassiere did not yield to an experimental tug, a second, harder jerk parted it.
She trembled slightly as he cupped her bared breasts, but she made no protest. Her skin looked alabaster white except for the soft rosy bud at the tip of each small, exquisitely formed breast. So soft. Sweet. Warm. Yielding. Still, a tiny part of him held back, waiting for the expected whimper, the first flinch of fear or protest.
But none came.
He shifted, moving more fully over her. Their belt buckles grated in a metallic clash. At the sound, he stopped short, jarred back to awareness. His hands stilled, and he tore his lips away from hers. Drawing a deep breath, Lawton dragged himself up and away standing in a single, savage twist. "Damn it, no!"
He would not give in however great his need. Maybe it was what she wanted, but he would not take her like that. Something about her drew and moved him as nothing had in years, more years than he cared to count, but that did not make right something so utterly wrong. Still, it would be so easy, with his whole body screaming its need, with her welcoming warmth spread before him like an offering. But he wasn't going to do it.
Why hadn't she gotten scared, cried or resisted? The realization of what he had almost done crashed over him, bringing a wave of sick disgust. Why had she shown no trace of resistance, no reluctance, no single iota of unwillingness? He'd damn near raped her, and she'd simply offered herself to him, totally, openly, even lovingly.
Though he'd sensed no artifice in the welcome of her body, he could not accept it. Drawing another harsh, deep breath, he began to straighten his clothes. He breathed carefully, evenly, fighting for a measure of calm. Afraid to see in her eyes the fear and pain her body had not expressed, he could not look at Melissa.
He had to get away. He had no room for any other thought. As he stalked toward the door, he noted the dark arc left by his boot heel on the pale, ivory surface. It stood out like a bruise, accusing. In that trivial sign, he saw an ultimate condemnation of his abominable behavior.