by Julie Kenner
She moaned, an erotic sound of pure pleasure, and arched her back. With her legs, she grabbed hold, locking her ankles behind him as she clutched him around the neck.
Her eyes were closed while she rode him, but Bryce kept his eyes open, wanting to see her face, wanting to watch as her body took him in and as she pushed toward the edge.
He lifted her easily, thrusting her down in a practiced rhythm, impaling her on him, every motion designed to bring her—and him—right to the cusp and over. Her teeth grazed her lips; her eyes glazed with passion. And through it all, he watched her, the flush on her cheeks, the erotic curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collar. But there was nothing delicate about her movements. She matched him thrust for thrust, lifting her body and then slamming back down as the pressure built and built in both of them.
He was close, so very close, but he fought release, wanting to come with her, to feel her body tighten around him and milk him dry. He closed his eyes, fighting the sensations.
But then she gasped, and that was all it took. He was lost, unable to hold back any longer. And when his release came, wave after wave of delirious pleasure, it was so strong it almost knocked him off his feet.
Joan trembled in his arms, the muscles that sheathed him clenching and unclenching as she cried out, a series of small “ohs” and then his name. His name. It sounded so right to hear it drift from her lips.
She melted against him, her legs dropping to the ground to provide some needed balance. His own legs gave out, and he urged her down to the ground, curling her up close against him as they lay there half-naked on the hotel’s oriental tapestry rug.
They lay there, breathing deep, until she tossed her bare leg over his, then leaned up on an elbow to face him. “Well,” she said with a slow grin, “that was a nice first course.”
“First course?” he said.
“Well, appetizer, then.”
He laughed. “In that case, if we’re stuck up here for longer than two hours, I think I may be a dead man.”
“Nah,” she said. “But I guarantee you’ll get quite a workout.”
“Good,” he said. “I haven’t been to the gym in ages.”
Her finger traced a pattern on his chest. “I find that hard to believe.”
Since he went to the gym three times a week, he didn’t argue. “Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve had such a…thorough…workout.”
“Fair enough,” she said. She plucked at her dress, then looked down at her legs, one still clad in a stocking, the other bare. “I’m something of a mess,” she said.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “I think you look beautiful.”
She laughed, a bubbly, delighted sound. “Bryce, you say the sweetest things. But next time,” she added, “I think I’d like to do it naked.”
BY THE TIME Donovan had gotten half a block from the Monteleone, the hostage rescue team was in place and going full force. The area was crawling with activity, lit up like Yankee Stadium, just as he knew it would be. The staging area where the team had set up had a view of the hotel, but wasn’t so close it would spook the gunman.
About fifty meters away, he could see an area that had been set up for the media, and the department liaison was standing in front of the cameras, looking more cool and collected than Donovan ever did on the rare occasions he had to talk to the press.
He waved over a uniformed officer, who tucked a clipboard under his arm and hurried to Donovan’s side. “Where’s Fisk?” The officer pointed toward a cadre of men gathered around the portable com center. A burly fellow Donovan didn’t recognize stepped aside at that moment, revealing Lieutenant Fisk’s wiry frame and prematurely gray hair. Donovan lingered on the sidelines until Fisk finished briefing his team, then meandered up to his academy classmate.
“Donovan,” Fisk said, looking up from an enlarged map of the area. “What brings you down here?”
“I’ve got a friend in there. Thought I’d come make sure you guys were doing your jobs.” His tone was light, and he knew his buddy wouldn’t take offense. Fisk ran the hostage rescue team, and his team was the best in the business.
Fisk’s face darkened. “Your friend was in the kitchen?”
Donovan shook his head. “No, no. She’s fine. She’s in the hotel.”
Fisk’s brow furrowed. “Name?”
“Joan. Joan Benetti.”
Fisk rifled through a few sheets on a clipboard, then lifted a hand, waving over one of his men. “Is this list updated?”
The officer glanced over it and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Fisk looked up at Donovan. “We’ve evacuated the building. Your friend’s not on the list.”
“Impossible,” Donovan said. “I talked to her myself less than an hour ago.”
“If she’s in there,” Fisk said, “she’s in the penthouse. There’s a private elevator to that floor, and we decided not to evacuate. Under the circumstances, it was just too risky.”
Donovan licked his lips. He had no idea what Joan would be doing at the penthouse at the Monteleone, but that had to be where she was. “What about her friend? Angie Tate. She clocked out before the gunman arrived. Has anyone heard from her?”
“Tate?” Fisk repeated. He tilted his head down, looking at Donovan from under bushy eyebrows. “Angela Tate?”
A finger of dread eased down between Donovan’s shoulder blades. “Yeah. That’s her.”
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Fisk said. “She’s one of the hostages.”
7
FISK HAD TO GO make some statement to the media and oversee the rest of his team, so it was a while before Donovan was able to get his friend alone again to find out the details.
“I decided not to tell Joan,” he said. “There’s no sense worrying her when she can’t do a damn thing where she is.”
Fisk nodded. “I agree.”
“Good,” Donovan said. “Because I told her a little white lie.”
Fisk’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
Donovan shrugged, feeling a little guilty, but not much. He knew Joan. She took things to heart. Plus, she was a sweet kid and she didn’t deserve to spend God knows how long trapped in a hotel room worrying about what was going on below. “I just called Joanie’s cell phone,” he admitted. “I told her everything is under control, that we’ve confirmed the hostages are safe, and that we’re doing the negotiating thing, but that takes a while. I told her it looks real positive and none of our psych guys expect the perp to hurt anyone.”
Fisk just stared at him. “You told her that?”
“Yup.”
After a second, Fisk nodded. “Well, considering my plan is to get everyone out unharmed, I can’t chew you out too much.” He half grinned. “Even if your announcement was premature.” Fisk tapped his clipboard. “You said she’s Angela Tate’s friend?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re sending an officer to Tate’s sister’s apartment. I’ll make sure the officer recommends discretion to the sister, just in case she talks to Joan over a cell phone.”
“Thanks,” Donovan said. “I appreciate it.” He looked around at the scene. “So who is negotiating?” Donovan asked. The team always had one negotiator take the lead in any hostage situation.
“Wilson,” Fisk said. “But nobody’s talking right now. Our guy is spooked. We’re letting him take his time. Meanwhile, we’re trying to confirm the snipers and the other gunmen.” Donovan must have frowned, because Fisk went on. “So far, we’ve got no indication there’s anyone but him down there.” Fisk shrugged. “Not that it matters. One gunman or twenty, our initial strategy isn’t going to change much. But the snipers…”
Donovan nodded. “We need to know.”
“Exactly.” Fisk sucked down some coffee from a cardboard cup, then made a face. “Shit’s ice-cold.” He shook his head, getting back on topic. “Point is, we haven’t got any confirmation on the snipers. But nothing to confirm they’re not there, either.”
; “Can I help?”
Fisk laughed. “I don’t think the homicides in this city have ground to a halt because of a hostage situation. Don’t worry. We’ve got it under control.”
Donovan nodded. He knew that the team was on top of it. And the truth was, now was not the time to be making waves by jumping into the middle of an investigation that wasn’t in his job description. He was too new to homicide—fresh off of sex crimes—to be making waves.
Fisk nodded toward the news vans littering the area. “We haven’t released the hostage list to the media yet,” he said. “We’re contacting relatives first.”
“Makes sense,” Donovan said.
“We’re waiting to release the identity of the penthouse occupant, too,” Fisk said. He frowned. “Considering the media frenzy, though, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t do it sooner—before some overeager reporter grabs onto the story and runs.”
Donovan shook his head, not understanding. “The penthouse? What story? I thought you said Joan was safe. If there’s—”
“No, no. We have no reason to believe there’s any risk to anyone remaining in the penthouse. I just meant that considering who she’s with, it’s going to be big news.”
Donovan blinked. “Why? Who’s she with?”
“Bryce Worthington,” Fisk said.
Donovan let out a low whistle. Fisk was right. The media was going to be all over that. “That’s why you didn’t evacuate the penthouse,” he said. “Worthington.”
Fisk nodded. “A man in his position must have a lot of enemies. If there are snipers, I don’t want him walking out into the middle of them.”
Donovan nodded. Intellectually, he agreed with Fisk’s assessment. More importantly, his gut told him that Worthington’s existence at the scene of a hostage crisis was more than just coincidence.
He prayed that as long as Worthington and Joan stayed inside, fifteen floors away from the gunman and his snipers, they’d be safe. As safe as possible, anyway.
No matter what, though, the media was going to be all over this. As for Joan, he couldn’t help but wonder if the press would focus on the singular question running through Donovan’s head—what the hell was a girl like Joanie doing with the likes of Worthington?
CLIVE BALANCED the rifle across his knees, keeping his handgun ready at the same time. He’d ushered his hostages into the dining room, and now he was at one of the tables, his gaze surveying the seven cowering insurance policies. Their eyes were bloodshot, their faces drawn and scared. Clive didn’t care. He needed to get out of here, and it was their own fault, anyway.
They’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they were stupid enough not to fight back. He wasn’t even going to kill them, and they still didn’t fight. He would have fought. That’s what you had to do. You had to fight for survival. That’s why he was going after Worthington. Payback. For him, and for Emily.
She’d fought. Oh, yeah. She’d fought. But without the insurance, it wasn’t a battle she could win.
Now Clive was fighting for her.
But damned if his plan hadn’t gotten all screwed up. Now he had to focus. Focus hard. He had to get out of this mess alive. He needed another shot at Worthington, and if he got caught, the bastard would get off, never paying for his crimes.
With a sigh, he let his gaze drift over the huddled hostages. The police had evacuated the building hours ago, setting up a perimeter and treating him with kid gloves. As long as he was stuck, at least his hostages were keeping him alive. As long as the cops thought he might blow one of their brains out, they wouldn’t rush the hotel with guns blazing.
That, at least, gave Clive time to work up a plan.
The cops would, however, keep calling him every hour asking for his demands. Right now, it was almost two in the morning. They’d be calling again soon.
Two minutes. Three. The phone at the hostess station rang. Right on the money.
Clive got up, keeping his gun trained on the hostages as he crossed the room. He picked up the handset. “Yeah?”
“Are you ready to talk terms?”
“I told you already,” he whispered, knowing that would make it more difficult for them to identify his voice. “We got nothing to talk about.”
“Will you release just one hostage then? A show of good faith.”
Clive squinted, looking at the hostages huddled together in the dark. He’d ripped the tablecloths into strips to bind their wrists and ankles. As long as they were there and quiet, they were insurance. He wasn’t about to let one go. “I’ll talk it over with my team,” he whispered.
“Can we talk to the hostages again?”
Clive ran a hand through his hair. During their first call, he’d had each hostage shout their name into the phone, just so the cops knew he was serious. He wasn’t going through that nonsense again.
“No,” he said. “But they’re alive. Listen.” He held the phone out. “Say something to the nice policemen.”
The hostages shouted, their voices filling the thick silence. Clive waved the gun, then made a slicing noise across his throat. They shut up.
“Hostages,” he whispered. “Just like you asked for.”
He heard a murmur on the other end of the line, as if someone was talking with their hand over the microphone. Then the contact officer came back on the line. “We’ll call you again in an hour.”
“Fine,” he said. “Do anything else, though, and I start killing these people.”
CRAZY. That’s what it was. That despite the situation she was in—stuck in a hotel where a madman was holding hostages—Joan could actually feel…well, wonderful. Stiff and sore and spent…but absolutely wonderful.
They’d moved to the sofa, and she was lying across it, her feet in Bryce’s lap. She was still in the dress, but she’d taken off the stray stocking, and now he was gently stroking her legs, the touch keeping her body humming. Warm and comfortable, she stretched like a cat, practically purring with satisfaction. “Wonderful,” she murmured. “I feel absolutely wonderful.”
Bryce chuckled. “I’d like to think it was all me, but I know that phone call from Donovan helped.”
Joan tilted her head, smiling at him. “It just lifts a huge weight knowing that everything is okay. That those poor people are going to be fine, and all we’re doing is waiting for the negotiators to do their job for them to get their happy ending.”
Donovan’s call had gone a long way toward easing both her guilt for having such a wonderful time with Bryce, and her fear that somehow the horrible situation below them would trickle up the stairs.
“I know,” he said as he scooted toward her, so that her thighs were now resting on his legs. Then he reached out and stroked her cheek, the rough pads of his fingers exceedingly gentle.
His hands had surprised her. She’d expected the soft, manicured hands of a man who spent his life behind a desk, counting his dollars from afar. But his fingers were rough, his hands calloused, and the dichotomy was unbelievably erotic. She closed her eyes, soaking up his touch.
“Now we wait,” he said. “Think you can handle waiting here, all alone, with me?”
There was a tease in his voice, and she answered just as playfully. “Well, I don’t know….”
“I’ll make it easy on you,” Bryce said. “Just pretend that we’re snowed in at a villa in the Swiss Alps having a decadent time.”
“Well, the decadent part I can handle. But the rest…” She laughed. “I’m not sure my imagination is that good. I mean, it’s close to a hundred degrees outside, and I’ve never even been out of the country, much less to the Alps.”
“Really?” A flash of surprise crossed his face. “In your business, I would have thought you made frequent trips to London and Paris.”
Joan stifled a frown. Already she was caught in her own lie. “I’m looking forward to that part of the business, actually, but I just, uh, came on board recently. I joined forces with Ronnie because of my academic expertise in the area.” Even as she
spoke she cursed herself. She should just come clean. After all, it wasn’t as if he could kick her out. But she’d already told him she co-owned the store, and surely a business owner would have more experience than her résumé showed.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting. So you have a Ph.D.?”
“Yeah,” she said, digging her hole deeper and hoping he wouldn’t ask her any more questions since she knew neither the ins and outs of getting a Ph.D. nor the proper lingo for joining a partnership. Buying in? Getting hired? Coming on board had seemed as good a guess as any. Hopefully she hadn’t completely blown it.
“And Ronnie?”
“Oh, she’s fabulous at everything. She grew up in the business. She can practically sniff out rare books. You should see some of the treasures she’s found at ratty old flea markets.”
“Really? I love ratty old flea markets myself.”
She frowned. “You do?” She loved them, too, but somehow digging around amidst the junk searching for a jewel wasn’t an activity she would have placed in the top ten of A Billionaire’s Favorite Things to Do. Then again, she never would have pictured a man like Bryce Worthington in sweatpants, but she had to admit she liked what she saw.
“I hit a few flea markets now and then. You should see some of the pieces I’ve collected over the years.” His mouth twitched. “I even have a wall hanging made from old Texas license plates. Very retro chic.” He leaned in, almost as if he was sharing an investment tip. “I paid twenty bucks at a flea market in Kyle. A steal.”
“Kyle?”
“A small town outside of Austin. I’m from Texas.”
“Oh,” she said. The realization that he lived somewhere else depressed her at the same time that it erased her guilt. There was no chance that anything permanent would ever develop between the two of them, so while they were tossed together by fate, she could be anyone she wanted to be. And at the moment, she wanted to be a well-read academic knowledgeable about all things erotic. “So what are you doing in Manhattan? The deposition? The gallery opening?”
