by Elle James
Sandy’s breath caught as she watched her husband greeting his child. “You know, the doctor told me he can hear now. He said we should talk to him.”
“You’ve been doing that all along, haven’t you?”
Sandy laughed. “Yes.”
“Because you talk to everything. The plants, the food, me—even when I’m asleep.”
“I cannot deny that I do,” she said.
Tristan straightened, still looking at her. “San, I don’t know what will happen if I try to make love with you, but I’d like to try.”
She touched his face. “I’ll do anything you need me to do.”
“You may need to be on top. My damn leg won’t hold me up very well.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she said.
Tristan pushed himself up until he could reach her mouth and kissed her with all the abandoned ardor of a man who hadn’t made love with his wife in more than four months.
She felt him harden against her thigh and thought, as she had the last time they’d almost made love, that if he had trouble it would not be with his virility. Her desire swelled inside her until she ached and pulsed with need. With a moan, she slid down into the bed on her side, facing him.
She leaned over to kiss him and he grimaced. “Oh, you’re on your right side,” she said. “That’s your bad side. Here.” She sat up and moved over. “Lie on your back and I’ll do the work.”
His face turned red. “I don’t want it to be like this, San.”
“Like what? You’re injured so I will take over temporarily, because I do love it when you’re above me, my man.”
Tristan opened his mouth to protest again, but Sandy bent down and kissed him. She kept on kissing him as she straddled him, feeling his arousal grow harder. She lifted herself onto her knees and let him be the guide as she slowly and carefully lowered herself onto him.
Being filled by her husband was an exquisite pleasure and a pulse-pounding need. Her muscles contracted around him and he groaned and thrust upward, grasping her around the waist and lifting her, his lean, muscled arms straining to hold her suspended while he searched her face for any trace of pain or discomfort.
“I’m wonderful,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “Let go. I want to feel you. One hundred percent of you.” He did as she asked and she sank down onto him, then began to move.
Tristan made a noise deep in his throat as he took her by the waist again. She moaned in protest, but it was immediately obvious that he wasn’t planning to stop her or slow her down this time.
No, he was controlling the pace, easing them into a deliberately steady rhythm that was not enough for her. She kept trying to rush each thrust, but Tristan held on to her and kept the rhythm steady.
“Tris, let me move,” she murmured.
“Don’t rush it, San. Keep it slow and steady. In and out. In and out. Feel the sensations. You know how we like it best.”
“But it’s been so long. I need—”
Tristan leaned up and pulled Sandy to him, until he could reach her breasts with his mouth.
She touched his cheek. “Tris, don’t forget about the milk,” she said softly.
He took a shaky breath. “I haven’t.” He closed his mouth over her right breast and ran his tongue across her distended nipple.
“Oh!” she cried, trying to breathe normally, trying to keep it steady and failing. Her back arched to push her breast into his mouth. Then she felt him sucking lightly on the tender tip. She gasped and at the same time, his insistent rhythm sped up, until they were moving together, faster and faster.
His thrusts sent her higher and higher until she was sure she was about to explode into a thousand pieces.
Her jagged flashes of pleasure synced with his thrusts. They breathed in tandem and moved in perfect accord.
Then Tristan thrust harder than he had so far, and he touched something so deep within her that she did explode. Thousands of bright stars burst in front of her vision and thousands more popped and sizzled inside her. And everywhere they touched, they singed her with another level of pleasure. She had no concept of anything except the two of them and the culmination of joy they were sharing.
Much later, Tristan’s shoulder moved restlessly under Sandy’s head and she murmured in protest. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. “My arm’s going to sleep. Sorry I’m such a wimp.”
“You are not,” Sandy said, lifting her head enough that he could slide his arm out. She laid her head back down on the pillow. “You’re injured. You’ve hardly had time to recover. That’s not a wimp. That’s a very brave man.” She stretched and yawned, feeling tiny aftershocks of her climaxes. She moaned in languid pleasure.
Tristan stretched, too. Sandy watched him, admiring his lean torso and smooth golden skin. She reached out to touch his chest, but he suddenly froze for an instant, then jackknifed, uttering a cry of pain as he reached for his right leg.
“Tris? What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting up to see what he was doing.
His fingers were gingerly massaging the muscle that was left on the inside of his calf. His face was distorted into a mask of pain. Sandy reached for him, but he shrugged away. He was breathing between clenched teeth and every so often another groan would escape his lips.
She saw the knotted muscles on the inside of his calf. They were bulging and twisted. This was the first time she’d seen the damage the sharks had done. The outside of his calf was horribly disfigured. There was nothing on there but skin pulled over bone and the scars of ugly, uneven stitches.
She pressed her lips together to hold back a moan at what she saw. The muscle that ran along the outside of his right calf had been ripped away by a shark’s sharp teeth. There was no imagining the kind of pain he’d endured, and the physical agony had only been part of his suffering. He’d been plunged into dark, murky water filled with sharks. He’d been lucky not to have been sliced in two by the fish’s sharp teeth.
“Oh, Tris, how did you stand it?”
He didn’t answer her. But she felt a lessening of the tension in his body. The cramps were easing. His fingers relaxed and he leaned back against the pillows. When she dared to peer at his face, it appeared almost relaxed, as well.
“It’s stopped hurting?”
He blew out a breath. “It stopped cramping. That’s a big deal.” He let his head fall back against the pillow. His face was pale, but it was no longer a mask of pain. Within seconds, he was breathing softly and evenly. He was asleep.
Sandy smiled and touched the tip of her finger to the lines in the middle of his forehead. She smoothed them out as lightly and carefully as she could, then she leaned over and kissed him just at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t seem to wake up.
She sank down into the bed and settled her head on the pillow. Now that he was no longer in pain, she felt comfortable going to sleep herself.
Tristan was here. She was safe.
Until all hell broke loose.
Chapter Eleven
“What the hell?” Tristan cried, his head filled with what sounded like the howling of the hounds of hell.
“Smoke alarm,” she muttered, groaning as she pushed the covers away. “I’ll reset it.”
“No!” he yelled as he vaulted out of the bed, straightening his right leg carefully. He couldn’t have it cramping again. Not now.
“Sandy!” he shouted to be heard over the siren. “Sandy! Get dressed. The house is on fire!”
“What?” She sat up and squinted.
“There.” He pointed toward the open door to the hall. Eerie orange and yellow reflections danced on the walls.
She got up and grabbed her jeans. “Oh, my God. I didn’t leave the portable stove on, did I?”
“Hurry!” He had his jeans and tennis shoes on. He
grabbed his shirt. “Lee did this.”
“Lee?” Sandy repeated as she pulled on her jeans and stepped into her Skechers flats.
“The man who tried to have me killed. Stay here. I’m going to see how bad the fire is. And stay away from the windows.”
“They’re still out there?”
Just as she spoke, a very loud crack split the air, easy to hear above the blaring siren. She screamed.
“Get down!” Tristan yelled.
Sandy immediately dropped to the floor. “Was that a gunshot?” she asked incredulously. “They set fire to the house and now they’re shooting at us?”
Tristan looked up. The bullet had come in high. It hit just under the crown molding. “Maybe not. That came in really high. Lee may have told them not to kill us.”
“Thoughtful of him,” Sandy said archly.
Tristan smiled. “I think we’ll be okay. The alarm is hooked up to the fire department now, right?”
“No,” she said.
“Damn it, I told you to call them and—”
“I did. They couldn’t get it to work this far out.”
Tristan cursed. “Okay. No problem. Those guys don’t know it’s not hooked up. They’re not going to stay around long with the siren blaring like that, and I’ll bet you Boudreau will open fire any second now.”
He heard something, a lower-pitched blast, still loud enough to overcome the siren. “There he is.” He walked over to the window.
“Tris? What are you doing? Get away from there.”
He didn’t answer. He crouched down in front of the window and pulled the automatic pistol out of his jeans. He’d taken off the specially made magazine, so he couldn’t use it on automatic, but he could let them know he was armed and dangerous.
He opened fire before he could identify anything to aim at. He aimed low, hoping not to kill anyone. The only person he’d ever killed was the unfortunate roughneck he’d dragged with him into the water on the oil rig. And that had been mostly accidental.
A bullet shattered the upper part of the window and slammed into the wall behind him about a foot above their heads. Maybe they weren’t trying to miss them.
“Sandy, lie down on the floor. All the way down.” He didn’t hear her if she answered him because at that instant a reverberating boom split the air.
It was Boudreau’s shotgun. The Cajun had let loose with both barrels. The 12 gauge was an impressive weapon. It’s only disadvantages were its weight and how few rounds it held.
Behind him, he heard Sandy say something, but she wasn’t talking loud enough.
“What?” he shouted as another slug hit the wall barely a foot above his head. He fired back, still unable to see anything except the darkness and an ever-growing cloud of smoke from the fire. He could smell it now.
“Sandy?” he yelled. “Stay put. Boudreau’s out there. This will be over in no time.”
She didn’t answer.
“San?” he called, just as a slug whistled close to his ear. “Damn it! They are shooting to kill. San? Where are you?”
“I’m right here,” she said.
He glanced around and saw her crawling toward the closet.
“Get back behind the bed,” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I need to get the box with all our photos,” she rasped, then coughed. “And all our papers.”
“No! You’re going to get shot.”
“But all our papers will burn up. Our marriage license.”
Another slug whizzed past his ear, too close for comfort. “Damn it, Sandy. Get. Down!”
Boudreau’s shotgun roared again, its low-pitched boom echoing through the air underneath the squeal of the siren.
Tristan ducked below the edge of the window and looked toward Sandy. She was on the floor, crawling back toward the far side of the bed.
At that instant a barrage of gunfire hit the window, sending shattered glass everywhere.
“Cover your head!” he yelled as he closed his eyes and did the same. Once the gunfire ceased, he eased his head up so he could see out. He saw something fiery red, lighting an arc in the darkness. A flare gun. God bless Boudreau.
Tristan heard more gunfire, but it wasn’t aimed toward the house this time. They were shooting at Boudreau. Another flare erupted and lit up in the dark.
In the red light, Tristan saw two moving shadows. He opened fire, forgetting his plan to try to avoid killing anyone. These people were shooting at them. They deserved what they got.
He saw the flare stop suddenly and heard a man scream. The flare had hit him square in the torso.
He fired again. “Shoot another one, Boudreau,” he muttered. “I need to see.” As if he’d heard him, Boudreau fired another flare that lit up the area with eerie red light. Tristan saw a moving shadow bending over, probably checking on his buddy. He aimed and fired and the shadow went down.
Tristan realized he was holding his breath. He blew it out and took a deep breath to replace it. But instead of clean, refreshing air, harsh smoke filled his lungs, throwing him into a painful coughing fit.
By the time he caught his breath, he heard the crunch of footsteps outside the window. He stiffened and aimed his weapon, wondering why he could suddenly hear. Then he realized the siren had stopped. The battery must have run down.
“Tristan!”
It was Boudreau, standing at the window. “Boudreau!” he yelled, triggering another coughing fit. He heard Sandy coughing behind him, too. “Are they down?”
Boudreau nodded. “One dead. One wounded. One running for the truck they came in. Let’s go. The house is going up.”
“What?”
“You got to get out of there. You’re inhaling smoke. Where’s your wife?”
“Behind the bed. Sandy?” he called.
“Get her. That fire’s out of control.”
Tristan turned away from the window. “Sandy, let’s go. We’ve got to climb out the window. Boudreau will help you.” He backed toward the door to the hall.
“Where are you going?” Sandy asked.
“Go to the window, San. I’ll be right behind you.”
He ran out of the bedroom and saw exactly what Boudreau was talking about. The whole front of the house was painted with an odd red-yellow color, swirled about with black. Fire and smoke.
He’d been absolutely right when he’d told Sandy there was no time to save belongings. But he had to grab one thing. The flash drive that held the incriminating satellite phone conversations. That was why Lee had resorted to fire. He was determined to destroy any evidence of his involvement.
Shoving the nursery door open, he jerked the blue mobile down from over the bed. As he hurried back to the master bedroom, he felt around on the plastic decoration until he found what he was looking for. A blue rhinestone-studded flash drive in the shape of a baseball glove. He tossed the plastic mobile onto the floor and put the flash drive in his pocket.
Back in the bedroom, Sandy had barely moved. She was trying to get her feet under her, hanging on to a bedpost for balance.
He held out his hand. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. Boudreau’s taken care of the bad guys.”
She didn’t answer. She was almost passed out from the smoke. He pulled her to her feet. “Okay,” she wheezed. “I’m fine now.” But she was panting for air.
He held out his hand and Sandy took it, squeezing tightly. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m right here.”
The shallow breaths became coughs. Once she started coughing she couldn’t stop, not even long enough to catch her breath.
“Tristan, let’s go.” Boudreau’s head was turned, checking out the area around them. “You got to get her out of there. She’s got too much smoke in her lungs.”
Tristan took a breath to answer, but all he breathed in was smoke. He started coughing, too.
“Maintenant. You both got to be breathing clean air—now!”
Sandy had quit trying. Her limbs were limp. She was exhausted from coughing and from lack of oxygen. He wrapped his arm around her waist to guide her.
“Try to climb up on the windowsill, San. Boudreau, help me. My leg’s about to give out on me.”
“Sit her up on the sill,” Boudreau said.
Tristan managed to lift her by balancing most of his weight on his left leg.
“Do it...myself,” she muttered between coughs.
“Okay, Boudreau. Pull her out. She’s exhausted.”
Boudreau’s large hands caught her by the waist and lifted her out through the window.
“Got her!” he called.
Tristan managed to climb through the window, but when he let go and landed on the ground his leg gave way and he fell. His calf muscle cramped and he could do nothing but roll on the grass and massage the knots until the pain eased up.
“Get up, you,” Boudreau whispered. “The guy who ran for the truck’s coming back. And there’s a second man coming behind him.”
“Take Sandy and run to my Jeep,” Tristan said, massaging the muscle.
“Non! C’est impossible. They shot out your tires first thing.
“Sandy’s car, then.” Tristan pushed himself to his feet.
“They’re between us and her car. We’d have a shoot-out in the open and she’s in no shape to run.” Boudreau kept an eye out for anyone approaching as he talked. “Now get up!” he snapped.
“And do what?” Tristan shot back. “Sounds to me like we’re trapped here.”
“We’ve got to find cover. Somebody’s gonna notice the smoke and the fire department will come. Meanwhile, we got to hide. Head for the cabin.”
Tristan helped Sandy to her feet and held on to her as she had another coughing fit.
“That’s a surefire trap. They’ll follow us and block the path.”
“Oui, but, cher, we know the swamp. They don’t.”
A spate of gunfire sounded. Boudreau looked at Tristan and nodded toward the path to the dock, then he headed for the corner of the building. He planned to draw the pursuers’ fire while Tristan and Sandy made it into the vines and branches that would hide them from view.
