It was hard to keep her eyes on what she was doing. Jack was kneeling in front of the fireplace, building a fire, massive thigh muscles straining his jeans, broad back outlined in red from the burgeoning flames, exactly like last night. With any luck, it was a sight she’d be seeing all winter—Jack stoking the flames, the firelight dancing across his strong features.
He moved easily, with grace. He knew what he was doing, too. In no time, a perfect fire was blazing.
Caroline stepped back and looked, pleased, at the spread on the big coffee table. She lit four red candles and placed them on the four corners, and thought it looked like a very festive Christmas meal.
The fire had already begun blazing merrily, the warmth seeping into her bones. Jack stood, brushing his hands, looked at the spread and turned to her. “Looks nice.”
“It does, doesn’t it? So I guess we’re all set—oh! Wine. We finished the bottle last night, I’ll go down to the cellar and get another one.”
“I’ll go. You relax on the couch. Any special bottle?”
Her father had always opened a Burgundy at Christmas. “Get a red, a Burgundy. You’ll find a selection on the far wall. The cellar is—”
He had already disappeared, before she had a chance to tell him that the door to the cellar was next to the kitchen door.
It was completely dark outside. Christmas Day had passed, and it was already Christmas night. A day she’d dreaded since Toby’s death was almost over.
There were no sounds at all outside. Usually, she could hear the sound of the odd car driving by, or a dog barking. Now, they could have been the last human beings on the face of the planet, it was so quiet.
Who knew what was happening out there?
She was feeling so good, maybe world peace had broken out. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Only one way to find out. Caroline clicked the remote control on to the local news channel and found snow. CBS, NBC, CNN…snow.
She began clicking through all the channels when suddenly the remote disappeared from her hand and the TV screen went black.
“I’m not ready for the outside world yet,” Jack said, putting the remote down with one hand and wagging a bottle from side to side with the other. “I think we should be doing our celebrating without any interference from all the yahoos and creeps out there.”
“Okay.” He was perfectly right. “TV wasn’t working anyway. We’ll need a cork—”
Somehow, by some magic, he had the corkscrew already in his hand, and Caroline laughed. The cork came out with the cool little pop of a well-aged bottle, and Jack poured them half a glass each while Caroline filled their plates.
Both of them ate with enormous gusto. Sooner than she’d have thought possible, they’d polished everything off, including the cake crumbs. The bottle was almost finished. Caroline had forgotten to put water out, but who needed water when there was excellent wine? The Burgundy was liquid joy. It was exactly the bottle she would have chosen. He had a sophisticated wine sense, her soldier.
Caroline settled back with a happy sigh into Jack’s arm, bare feet curled over the edge of the coffee table. The fire crackled and hissed merrily.
She had no idea what time it was and didn’t care. All she knew was that soon Christmas would be over, and a day she had been dreading with all her heart had been wonderful in many different ways.
She tipped her head back over Jack’s arm and looked up at him, at the man responsible for her wonderful day. “Where were you last Christmas? What were you doing? How did you celebrate?”
Jack finished his wine and put the glass down carefully on a side table. He ran the back of his forefinger along her neck, gently, up and down. “Last Christmas I was on duty all day in Afghanistan, where Christmas doesn’t exist. And if it did, it sure wouldn’t herald a day of peace. The warlords would have been delighted to nail Habib on a Christian holiday. So that was my Christmas and it was more or less par for the course, the same as the other 220 days before it. A tour of duty lasting twelve hours, a meal of stewed goat meat, which is what we ate every day, at the end of it, no wine because it’s a dry country, and reruns of Lost.” He leaned over and kissed her on the ear. “And you? Where were you last Christmas?”
“Here.” Caroline sighed. “With Toby.”
“What did you two do?”
“In the beginning, in the first couple of years after the accident, I tried inviting people over for Christmas. Both of us got depressed on Christmas Day, and I thought having people over would cheer us up.” She stopped, remembering. Remembering how awkwardly people reacted to Toby. How no matter what Christmas feast she cooked up, they would start leaving right after the coffee was served.
It was such a painful contrast to before. To when Christmas at the Lakes’ was a lavish celebration lasting days, often with houseguests, full of food and wine and music and laughter.
“And? Did it work?” He was watching her closely, as if her answer mattered to him.
“Sort of. In the beginning, anyway. Toby—Toby had some control over his movements in the first few years. But then as his physical condition deteriorated, our popularity…waned. The last few years, we just celebrated by ourselves. I always put up a tree, and played some carols, and we watched TV and played chess. Toby is—was a wicked chess player. He always beat the pants off me.”
His hand suddenly tightened around her shoulder, and Caroline looked at him in surprise. The firelight danced in his dark eyes in tiny pinpricks of light. Of heat.
“I can’t play chess worth a damn, but I’d sure like to learn how to, so I can beat the pants off you,” he whispered in a low, purely male growl that had prickles running up and down her spine.
Just like that, desire surged up, like an electric shock she could feel down to her fingertips and toes. It was a miracle her hair didn’t stand on end, like one of those cartoon characters sticking a finger in the electric socket. She’d thought the wine had created heat in her system, but there wasn’t a Burgundy in the world that could stand up to the heat in Jack’s eyes.
Warmth spread throughout her entire body, pooling in her breasts and sheath, which was already wet. He’d barely touched her, hadn’t even kissed her, and her body was readying itself for him.
And he knew. Of course he knew. Those sharp dark eyes missed nothing.
“But then,” he whispered, his arm curling her toward him, “maybe I don’t need to lose at chess to get your pants off.” She was brought up against him, and his mouth covered hers. The kiss was long and languid, his tongue deep in her mouth, stroking hers, in time with the big hand stroking her leg, from her hip down to her ankle, and back again.
On the third pass, his hand slipped under the elastic of her sweatpants to caress her bottom. Oh God, it was wildly exciting, feeling his big, warm hand on her skin, slowly stroking, reaching farther and farther down with his hand until he touched her most sensitive skin, entering her slightly with the tip of one finger. She was slick already, she knew he could feel her arousal. As she could feel his, huge and hot against her stomach. His finger pressed more deeply into her, just as his tongue delved more deeply into her mouth. She could hardly breathe with the excitement, but it didn’t make any difference. Somehow he was breathing for her.
A long finger entered her, stroking the inside walls of her sheath in slow passes. His thumb passed over her clitoris.
Caroline gasped into his mouth and felt him stiffen. In an instant, her sweatpants and panties were off. She barely felt him strip her, she was so taken with his hands and his mouth. One moment she was wearing her soft sweatpants, the next moment, she felt the heat of the fire on her backside.
Somehow his sweat suit had come off, too, though she couldn’t figure out how since he was always touching her.
“Make me go slow,” he whispered into her mouth as he lifted her over him. In a moment, her legs were straddling him, the lips of her sex open over that long, thick hot column. “Put me in yourself.”
“Okay,” she whispered back.
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He was so aroused she found it hard to pull his penis away from his stomach and had to lift herself up on her knees to position herself against the head. She slid along it, testing herself, and felt him exhale heavily into her mouth.
He disengaged his mouth and gently bumped his forehead against hers. She held his penis and swirled herself around the head, feeling him swell against her fingers and against the swollen tissues of her sex.
“Oh, God,” he said, his voice shaky. “Do that again.”
He was sweating lightly. A bead of sweat trailed from his temple down over the high cheekbone to the jaw, where it trembled lightly and disappeared into the thick mat of hair covering his chest.
It wasn’t that hot. What had him trembling and sweating was the self-control he was using, letting her set the pace.
He was deliberately not touching her, his hands fisted on the couch, white-knuckled, as if he didn’t trust himself to use his hands.
Caroline circled her hips, dipping slightly so that he entered her maybe an inch, then lifting away. He made a low sound deep in his throat, but didn’t move. He was so hot she could almost see steam rise off him; he was breathing hard, so aroused the penis she was holding was like a bar of steel, but he was still letting her run the show.
Another dip into him, another whimper, and he let his head fall back over the couch, eyes closed.
The visible control he was exerting over himself was so exciting she could feel a rush of moisture well inside her. A drop ran down his penis, and he shuddered.
“Now. Please.” His voice was low and guttural.
Yes. Now.
Holding him by the thick base, Caroline lowered herself slowly onto him, feeling him slide inside her, first the thick head, then the long column. When she stopped, he was fully embedded in her, and she felt his thick, wiry pubic hair against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
While feeling him slide slowly into her, she’d closed her eyes, to savor the feeling. Now she opened them to find his eyes fixed on her, burning bright. Watching them, she leaned forward and lay her lips lightly on his. Everything about his face was hard—the brutal slashes of his cheekbones, the rigid, well-defined jawline, the finely flared nostrils. Everything except his mouth, which looked so hard and yet felt so soft under hers.
Turning her head, she opened his mouth with hers, exploring him with her tongue. At the first touch of her tongue to his, he made a noise deep in his chest, and his penis leaped inside her, swelling impossibly bigger.
Oh, God, this was just so enticing!
Jack Prescott was the strongest man she’d ever met, ever seen. He carried an aura of power with him, strong and durable. She was no match for him in any physical way and yet right now, she felt much more powerful than him.
She felt like the Queen of the World, with a warrior to command, that powerful body humming under hers, ready to do her bidding.
She stroked his tongue again, and when he moved inside her, she bore down on him, so that it was like a stroke. His breath came out in a soundless explosion.
“Do you like that?” Caroline slid her hands into his black hair, curling her fingers a little to tug it. Not enough to hurt him but enough for him to feel the bite of it.
It always surprised her to feel how warm his hair was since it was the color of midnight.
“God, yeah,” he muttered, the tone guttural.
“And this?” She rose a little on her knees, pulling him slightly out of her, then slid back down, using all her weight. “Do you like this?”
“Yeah. Oh yeah.” He was panting and sweating, jaws tightly clenched at an effort to maintain self-control.
Caroline intended to torture him a little, explore these feelings of power over him that were so enticing, even though she knew quite well it was power he willingly ceded. Still, it was heady.
But her plan was starting to backfire. Little tremors were running along the insides of her thighs, her vagina clenched once, twice. The free fall into orgasm was beginning, and she hadn’t even begun to enjoy this feeling of dominance.
No matter, her body was taking over.
She slid up, then down, and felt his trembling. She was trembling herself. “And that?” she whispered, watching him watching her. She felt like she was falling into the dark depths of his eyes.
“Caroline, I can’t—I’m sorry, I have to—”
The hands that had been fisted on the couch came up and fitted themselves on her hips, holding her still as he thrust up inside her, hard.
She winced, and he stopped, panting. His big hands opened, letting her go.
“Can’t touch you now,” he gasped. “Don’t want to hurt you.”
She was going to have to do it herself.
Caroline leaned forward, clasping her hands behind his neck for leverage, and began a slow dance on him, long, lazy strokes as she nipped lightly with her teeth at his earlobe.
The trembling increased, she was so close…
Jack turned his head and caught her mouth with his, moving his hips just enough to match her rhythm. In and out…
He speeded up the strokes, and she met him, rising and falling on him, a flash of heat, then another and suddenly she was coming, milking him hard, sharp contractions so intense they were almost painful.
With a strong jolt, he came, too, the jets of semen so strong they prolonged the climax. They groaned into each other’s mouths, and Caroline felt like she was breathing through him.
It took her a long time finally to settle down, but when the tension finally left her body, she curled forward, nestling her head on his shoulder.
As always, he was still hard inside her, even after his climax. She lay still. Any movement with him inside her would abrade her supersensitive skin, on the razor’s edge of an arousal so strong it was painful.
He somehow understood. He didn’t move, didn’t try to press up inside her, didn’t try to start making love again. The only thing he did was reach for the afghan thrown across the back of the couch and fold it gently around her, then wrap his arms around her back.
She settled more deeply against him, lax and warm.
Though Caroline was boneless with pleasure, she was keenly aware of everything. The sharp smells of sex mingling with the rich smell of woodsmoke. Her breasts and belly rubbing against the hair-roughened hard muscles of his chest and stomach each time they breathed. His soft hair tickling her cheek. The taste of salt on her lips.
Above all, she was aware of some giant emotion swelling inside her, big and bright and new.
It took her several minutes before she realized it was happiness.
Twelve
Summerville
It had taken him all day Sunday to cross the fucking continent, and when he finally landed in Seattle in the middle of a snowstorm, Deaver had only taken the first step toward getting his diamonds back.
He had two new identities—Frank Dawson, farm machinery sales rep out of Iowa and Darrell Butler, FBI Special Agent. Both of them were shallow identities, but Deaver wasn’t expecting to use either one for more than a week, two tops.
It was Dawson’s passport that would get him to the Caymans. Once he got his diamonds back, he’d drive down to Tijuana, ditch the rental SUV, then fly one way to Grand Cayman Airport. Even after paying Drake, he still had enough to lie low for a while. And once he had his diamonds in his hands, he would contemplate Drake’s offer.
It had stunned him, that he knew about the diamonds, but then Drake wasn’t a millionaire many times over because he was stupid. He was a dealer, sure, but his main commodity wasn’t guns or fake ID, though he did a thriving trade in them. No, the main thing he sold was information, and it flowed to him, wherever he was, like a river to the sea.
That system of information extended to a network that crisscrossed the States. Half an hour after landing, Deaver was at a warehouse outside Seattle, the meeting having been set up by Drake. Deaver got every single thing he’d paid for, in excellent working condition and
with extra ammo thrown in for goodwill.
Three hours after that, he was pulling into Summerville. He’d called ahead for a room at a Holiday Inn in Darrell Butler’s name and said he was arriving late. He had something to do before checking in.
A downloaded map of Summerville lying on the passenger seat helped him to find Caroline Lake’s house. It was in the rich part of town, old stone-and-brick mansions set on ample grounds.
He drove by slowly, carefully studying the house. It was one of the nicest ones in this part of town—large but graceful. There was no wall, just an upward slope of what might have been lawn but now was an expanse of snow, split by a walkway. Someone had shoveled the snow off the walkway and the drive.
Ten minutes later, he drove by again, trying to see whether there was an external security system, but the light from the streetlamps wasn’t enough to be able to tell whether the windows were alarmed or what kind of lock was on the front door. That would require close scrutiny, and he’d have to leave tracks in the snow. If Prescott was in there, he’d notice immediately.
The only thing he could tell with certainly was that there were no security cameras.
So maybe the beautiful Miss Lake was the trusting sort.
It was a thought. Jack Prescott was a tough man to break. Trusting little Caroline Lake was going to be the hammer that would smash him.
This was good. A plan was forming.
Satisfied that he had done all he could for the moment, Deaver drove off to his hotel.
Tomorrow the endgame began.
On Monday morning, Caroline peered out at the sky, trying to gauge what to expect. It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but the sky was a sullen dark gray, even though it was eight in the morning.
Would it snow today? She hadn’t been able to listen to the forecasts because the TV and the radio were both still on the blink. She could check the Internet, but her computer was up in her room and by the time she powered it up and Googled the weather, she’d be running late.
Whether it snowed or not was out of her control. She needed to drive to work, and that was that. Plus, Jack wanted to get going on whatever it was he needed to do today. He was already in his denim jacket, ready to go.
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