All Night Long

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Obviously he was able to read her mind because the next thing she knew, his warm, strong hands were gliding downward toward the bones that defined the curve of her hips. He flexed his fingers, squeezing gently.

  He was so strong. He could break things with those hands. But he wouldn’t hurt her. She knew that intuitively in every fiber of her being.

  He touched her as though she were made out of silk and moonbeams, making her feel as though she were a rare and magical being, capable of sorcery. She sensed wonder and a deep, clawing need in him. No man had ever made her feel that she could cause him to shudder with desire.

  Excitement and a heretofore undiscovered sense of her own feminine power swept through her, a rush of pure, intense sensation that left her dazed and breathless.

  She let her hands drift down his sides until her thumbs slid just inside the waistband of his jeans. Slowly she moved her fingers to the front where she could feel the hard, shockingly masculine bulge.

  “If I weren’t a tough, seasoned journalist, I would probably succumb to an attack of the vapors right about now,” she said.

  His laugh was rough and sexy. “If it weren’t for my rigorous training, I’d probably be doing the same thing.”

  He scooped her up against his chest. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him. He carried her out of the kitchen, negotiated the narrow hallway with amazing deftness, and put her down on the tumbled bed.

  He paused just long enough to get out of his jeans and briefs and remove a small foil packet from the pocket of his pants. He tore off the top of the packet with his teeth.

  And then he was coming down on top of her, one leg anchoring her thigh so that she was open to his touch.

  He tugged the nightgown up to her waist and higher still until he could pull it off entirely. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the crumpled garment go sailing off into the nearest corner. She didn’t see it hit the floor because she was too utterly focused on the looming shape of Luke as he bent his head to her breast.

  When he took her nipple between his teeth she heard a soft, breathless sigh of pleasure. It took her a moment to realize that she was the one who had made the sound.

  She reached down and enclosed him with her fingers, exploring the length and breadth of him. The fierceness of his erection excited her. She felt him grow even tighter and bigger at her touch.

  His hand moved up the inside of her thigh. She did not know whether to urge him to hurry before she lost this glorious pulsing sensation, or if she wanted him to slow down so that it had time to intensify. Decisions, decisions. She was entering uncharted territory. Her trusty vibrator was home in Glaston Cove in a drawer beside her bed.

  One long finger slid slowly, deeply into her, stroking, prodding and stretching. Another finger followed. She could feel the slick dampness gathering between her legs.

  So far so good. But she knew that without the vibrator this was probably as exciting as it was going to get.

  Not bad, though, she told herself. Not bad at all.

  Luke did something very interesting with his thumb, startling her out of thoughts of her vibrator. Jolted, her body clenched tightly around his invading fingers.

  “Luke?”

  “Mmm?” He nuzzled her belly.

  “Now,” she urged, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Please, yes, now.”

  He did the thing with his thumb again. “There’s no rush.”

  “Yes, there is.” She tried to shake him, but it was like trying to move a large boulder. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re still tight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t hurt me.” She clutched him harder and moved her hips against his hand. “The thing is, I never get this far without—” She broke off. Don’t go there, she thought. Too much information.

  “Let’s see if we can make you a little wetter first.”

  He started to move farther down her body, pausing here and there to drop kisses onto her sensitive skin.

  He reached the inside of her thigh.

  “No, wait,” she gasped. “Come back here.”

  She heard his low, wicked laugh again, and then felt his warm breath and his tongue on her, right there in the place where she usually relied on Big Guy.

  It was all she could do to keep herself from screaming.

  It was too much. He was taking control, demanding a kind of surrender that she had never been able to give any man. It was unthinkable. She barely knew him. How could she trust him with her most intimate responses?

  A moment later the climax rolled through her, as deep and unstoppable as an earthquake.

  She was vaguely aware of Luke shifting his weight, sliding heavily between her legs. He pushed himself deliberately into her, stretching her, filling her completely.

  She was stunned to feel herself coming again. Luke rode the new tremors with her, pounding hard and fast into her body. His back was slick with perspiration, every muscle rigid.

  The ancient bedsprings groaned loudly, rhythmically in protest. The headboard slammed again and again against the wall. Her emotions were in utter, mystifying chaos. She wanted to laugh and was amazed when she felt tears in her eyes. The only thing that mattered was the man in her arms.

  It seemed impossible, but Luke’s hoarse shout of exultant, triumphant release gave her as much pure, unadulterated pleasure and satisfaction as her own climax.

  For a few rare, glittering moments she was not alone.

  Luke gradually drifted back to full awareness. He took his time about it, savoring the feel of Irene’s body curled alongside his own. Her head was cradled on his arm. She had one palm resting on his chest and one foot wedged tantalizingly, intimately between his legs. He felt her flex her toes a few times as though she liked touching him that way.

  A warm, heavy, very bright sensation drifted through him. He could not remember the last time he had felt like this. Maybe never. He shoved a pillow under his head and smiled into the shadows.

  “’Ooh rah,” he mumbled.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” She folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on her hands. “I’ve never actually had that happen with a man.”

  He went blank for a few seconds. “A woman?”

  She smiled and slowly shook her head. “When I’m in the mood, I sometimes get lucky with Big Guy.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but just who is Big Guy?”

  “My vibrator. But I have to say that the experience has never been anywhere near as intense as what just happened. What I get with Big Guy is more like a good sneeze.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that I’m better than a vibrator and a good sneeze?”

  “You are, indeed. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  He grinned. “Be hard not to.”

  “One of my therapists told me that the reason I couldn’t climax with a man was because I had intimacy issues. Something to do with a fear of letting myself get too close emotionally.”

  “Ever been married?” he asked.

  “Right after college, for about a year and a half. My aunt had just died, and I wanted so desperately not to be alone.”

  He traced the outline of her ear with his finger. “I understand.”

  “It didn’t work out. My fault. My little obsession problems were starting to kick in big time back then. Rick tried to be sympathetic, but given my issues with sex, occasional nightmares and my erratic sleep habits, he just sort of burned out. I was on my third therapist. She suggested meds. When I refused to take them, Rick threw up his hands and left. I didn’t blame him. It was a relief for both of us when it ended.”

  “You were in that other zone.” He twisted his fingers gently in her hair. “He couldn’t reach you.”

  “And I couldn’t reach him. Like I said, it wasn’t his fault. I knew I had some work to do before I could be with anyone. I had to get past the past. And I did try. I really did. I’ve seen three more therapists since the divorce.
I finally tried the meds for a while. They helped a little. But I kept coming back to the fact that I wanted answers about what had happened in the past.”

  “Sometimes we don’t get the answers,” he said.

  “I know.” She hesitated. “I suppose that’s why I went into journalism. I couldn’t get answers in my own life, so I got into a line of work that gives me the ideal excuse to look for answers in other places and other lives.”

  “I’m not sure it was a good idea for you to come back here to Dunsley, but speaking from a purely selfish point of view, I’m damn glad you did.”

  She tilted her head a little. “I hated the thought of coming back here, but I think in a way it’s been cathartic.”

  “Even if you don’t end up with all the answers?”

  “I’m wrestling demons here in Dunsley. I may not subdue them, but—”

  “But you’re no longer trying to pretend they don’t exist.”

  “Believe it or not, that feels like progress.”

  When he awoke he was amazed to see the glow of early morning illuminating the world outside the cabin. Irene still slumbered beside him. He knew she had not stirred or felt compelled to leave the bed during the night. He would have sensed such movement.

  What amazed and astounded him was that he had slept just as soundly.

  Twenty-seven

  Hoyt checked his watch in the same nervous, habitual way he did a thousand times a day. The small action never failed to irritate Ryland.

  “I’ve arranged for you to give a short statement to some selected media immediately following the service, sir.” Hoyt handed him a folder. “I also canceled the business club luncheon this afternoon and tonight’s fund-raiser, but we’ll be back on the regular schedule tomorrow.”

  Ryland opened the folder and read the statement. The request for privacy for a grieving father and the promise to introduce the bill to fund more mental health research was precisely what he had expected.

  He closed the folder and looked at Alexa. She sat on the seat across from him, stunning and dramatic in a conservatively cut black suit and veiled hat. She would photograph beautifully today, just as she always did, he thought.

  Pamela had been useful in his campaigns in the past few years, but a presidential candidate required a wife. The voters would never go for an unmarried man in the White House.

  “I’ll want you beside me when I confront the press this morning,” Ryland said to Alexa.

  She folded her gloved hands on her lap. “Of course.”

  He switched his attention back to Hoyt. “Was there any fallout from the story in the Glaston Cove Beacon?”

  “Nothing we can’t counter easily enough with your statement this morning.” Hoyt glanced at his watch again. “The Beacon did hint at an investigation, but—”

  “That’s bullshit,” Ryland snapped. “McPherson isn’t conducting an investigation. I made it clear that I didn’t want one.”

  “Yes, sir, I know, but I’m afraid the Beacon implied that there were some questions about Pamela’s death that were being looked into by the local authorities, or words to that effect.” Hoyt glanced at the folder. “The good news is that no one reads that damn rag. It won’t be a problem.”

  “It better not become one,” Ryland muttered.

  And in all likelihood, it wouldn’t, regardless of Irene Stenson’s interference, he told himself. Sam McPherson understood that it was his job to keep things quiet.

  Nothing like owning an entire town, including the chief of police, he thought. Dunsley was a boring little spot on the map, but he had to admit that occasionally it had its uses.

  The limo glided to a halt in front of the funeral chapel. Ryland examined the scene through the heavily tinted windows. He relaxed when he saw that there were only a small number of media vehicles.

  “I don’t see any sign of Irene Stenson,” Alexa said, sounding relieved. “Everything is going to be fine, Ryland. Stop worrying. As soon as the funeral service is concluded, the press will lose interest in this tragedy.”

  “I agree,” Hoyt said. “Things are under control, sir.”

  “Your father is here,” Alexa said. “He’s just going into the chapel.”

  “Mr. Webb’s flight from Phoenix was on time,” Hoyt said. “I checked earlier.”

  Ryland watched his father, distinguished in a gray suit, make his way into the church.

  A volatile mix of anger, resentment and, yes, plain old fear churned through him, the same poisonous elixir that he always experienced when Victor Webb was in the vicinity. He could not remember a time when he had not felt the intense pressure to live up to his father’s demands and expectations. Nothing was ever good enough for the old bastard.

  The sooner Victor went back to Phoenix, the better, Ryland thought. Whatever happened, he had to make certain that the sonofabitch did not discover the blackmail problem. Victor would be furious, and when he was furious, there was hell to pay.

  Ryland’s fingers clenched around the folder. He had to find the blackmailer and get rid of him before his father found out what was going on. In the meantime he had no choice but to continue making those damned payments into that mysterious offshore account.

  One thing was certain. When he did finally succeed in identifying the blackmailer, the extortionist was a dead man. Or a dead woman.

  He watched Victor disappear into the chapel. There had been, he reflected, a number of convenient deaths over the years: his wife, the Stensons and now Pamela. Each tragedy had helped him manage a potentially difficult situation. Why not another one?

  He was momentarily dazed by his own daring. Get rid of Victor?

  For years he had relied not only on the old man’s money, but also on Victor’s connections and his uncanny ability to assess an opponent’s weaknesses. Victor had always been his real campaign manager, the strategist, the power behind the throne.

  I’m fifty-three years old, Ryland thought. I don’t need the bastard anymore. I can run my own life.

  He felt as if he were having an epiphany.

  Money would not be a problem. He was Victor’s sole heir. Besides, Alexa was rich in her own right.

  He did not need his father. What a liberating thought.

  The door of the limo opened. Ryland assumed an expression that was appropriate for a father who had just lost a troubled daughter to drugs and alcohol and followed Alexa out of the car.

  Victor Webb watched his firstborn son walk slowly, somberly toward the front of the chapel. Anger and a fierce regret clawed at his insides. Years ago he had made a terrible mistake, and now there was no going back.

  On the outside, Ryland appeared to be all that a man could want in a son. Victor had showered him with everything required to achieve that goal. He had given Ryland a world-class education, money and connections. Victor knew that his greatest dream, that of founding a powerful dynasty that would last for generations, was on the brink of being realized.

  But he also knew now that his worst fears had proven true. In spite of everything he had done to forge his son’s character, it was clear that Ryland lacked the strength of will required to overcome the cracks at his core. Deep down inside where it mattered, Ryland was weak.

  He had, indeed, made a grave mistake back at the beginning, Victor thought. He had two sons. He had chosen to give everything to the wrong one.

  Twenty-eight

  I spoke with Dr. Van Dyke yesterday. She informed me that you haven’t returned any of her calls.” The Old Man looked at Luke across the width of the library. “She says you appear to be refusing to face your issues. You may be in some kind of denial, she says.”

  Luke came to a halt in front of the hearth and rested one arm on the carved oak mantel. He looked at the shelves full of heavy tomes and scientific papers that surrounded him. Every volume, journal and article in the extensive collection concerned the subject of wine making. Viticulture and enology were matters of great passion for everyone in the family except him.


  It wasn’t that he had not tried to follow in his father’s footsteps. At various times in his life, including six months ago, he had made serious attempts to develop the kind of enthusiasm and all-consuming interest in wine making that drove his father and Gordon Foote and the others. But he had failed. In the end, he had always followed his own path, first into academia, then into the Marines and now into The Project.

  He had known from the moment he and Irene arrived at the sprawling complex that housed the Elena Creek Vineyards cellars, wine-tasting facilities and reception rooms that sooner or later his father was going to corner him and raise the subject of Dr. Van Dyke.

  He and Jason and Hackett referred to their father as the Old Man, but the term was in respectful recognition of John Danner’s status as the eldest male in the family, not a comment on his advanced age.

  The Old Man was, in fact, only in his late sixties. He had the hard, ageless face of a hawk, and thanks to a disciplined exercise regimen, some good genes and Vicki’s strict attention to his diet, he possessed the physique and stamina of a much younger man.

  Dressed in an elegantly tailored tuxedo, as he was tonight, with a glass of very good Elena Creek Vineyards cabernet in his hand, the Old Man looked as if he had been born prosperous, Luke thought. The truth was that he and Gordon Foote had fought their way up every rung of the ladder of success.

  “I’ve been a little busy,” Luke said.

  John’s heavy silver-gray brows bunched together in a watchful frown. “With Irene Stenson?”

  “And the lodge,” Luke said. He paused a beat. “Also, I’m doing a little writing.”

  John ignored the reference to the lodge and the writing. “Irene is an interesting woman,” he said. “She seems intelligent. Quick. Rather striking.”

  “I see you noticed the dress,” Luke said. “She looks good in it, doesn’t she? Must be all that Pilates training.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind.”

  John snorted softly. “Jason tells me she’s a reporter and that she has a troubled past.”

  Note to self, Luke thought. Strangle youngest brother at earliest convenience.