by Cindi Myers
He shaped his hand to her breast and dragged his thumb over the distended nipple, eliciting a gasp. “You’re really special, did you know that?” Then, not waiting for an answer, he bent his head and covered her breast with his mouth.
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the heat and light he sent coursing through her. Waves of feeling she’d almost forgotten could exist washed over her. He turned his attention to her other breast, then moved lower, trailing kisses along her ribs and across her abdomen.
She arched to him and felt him smile against the curve of her thigh and press her down into the mattress. “Don’t be impatient,” he said.
“I feel as if we’ve waited so long,” she said.
“We can wait a little longer. It will be worth it.” As if to prove his point, he ran his tongue along the sensitive folds of her sex. She bit back a moan and felt him smile again. He was normally so solemn; she liked the idea that she could make him smile this way.
* * *
ONE OF PATRICK’S former supervisors had labeled him single-minded—so intently focused on one task he failed to notice anything else. The man hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but Patrick saw this talent for intense concentration as a gift sometimes.
At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to focus all his senses on the woman in his arms—on the silken feel of the skin of her thighs, on the intoxicating scent of her, on her sweet taste on his tongue. For these few minutes or hours he could lose himself in her, devote his full attention to pleasuring her and receiving pleasure in return.
She sighed and shifted beneath him, arching to him, a sweet offering and a silent plea. He rested his hand on her stomach, a gentling gesture. He was so tempted to bring her to release right away, but that would be cheating them both. Instead, he left her wanting, and moved away from her.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He smiled and removed his boxers, his erection straining toward her. If she’d had any doubts about how much he wanted her, surely that would be erased now. He dug in the suitcase until he found the box of condoms. Whatever else the two thugs who attacked them had been up to, at least one of them had planned on getting lucky.
She sat up and reached out her hand. “Let me,” she said.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Even her gaze on him was enough to make him lose focus; at her touch he might go off like a rocket, spoiling this for them both.
He carefully rolled on the condom, then knelt on the bed beside her. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, caressing her breast. She was so petite and perfectly proportioned.
“Flattery will get you everywhere. Now come here, handsome.” She reached for him and he moved between her legs. He didn’t ask if she was sure or if she was ready; the answers to those questions were clear in her actions.
He was a man who lived his life by control. His survival and the survival of those he was assigned to protect relied on his vigilance. He had to always be on guard, aware, in charge. But with Stacy he was able to surrender, to lose himself in passion and pleasure.
She responded with similar abandon, opening to him fully, then wrapping her legs around him to keep him close, meeting him thrust for thrust. And all the while she looked into his eyes, holding him with her gaze, letting him see all her emotions—an offering as intimate and intense as the giving of her body.
He waited for her, feeling the tension within her build, doing whatever he could to coax her to her release. When at last she came with a loud cry he followed her quickly over the edge, holding her close, rocking together with her, moving as one, unable to tell where his pounding heart ended and hers began.
When at last he withdrew to lie beside her, she shocked him by bursting into sobs.
“Stacy, what is it?” He bent over her, alarmed. “Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” She shook her head and tried to push him away. “I’m just being stupid, I—”
“You’re not stupid.” He pulled several tissues from the box by the bed and handed them to her. “What’s happened to upset you?” he asked. “I really want to know.”
“It wasn’t you, I promise.” She blew her nose. “I’m such a mess.”
Maybe this was grief over her husband, finally hitting her. Or a memory of something else—the human mind was a funny thing, and emotions could sneak up on people. “Maybe it would help to talk about it,” he said.
She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a fresh tissue, then looked up at him through a fringe of lashes glittering with tears. “Being with you, just now, was so wonderful. I was afraid no man would ever want to touch me like that again.” Her voice broke on a fresh sob.
He caressed her cheek. “It was wonderful for me, too. I’ve wanted you from that first night at the hotel.”
She turned away from his touch, her shoulders hunched, and refused to look at him. “My husband—Sammy—hadn’t touched me for at least two years. He told me no man would want a woman like me, that that was why my father had to sell me to the Giardinos, because he knew no other man would want me.”
“If he wasn’t already dead I’d make him wish he was.” Patrick closed his eyes against a surge of anger, the rage a physical thing that heated his blood and shook him. “He was lying. And he was a fool.” He took a deep breath, struggling for calm. Sammy was gone now; there was nothing Patrick could do to hurt him. He needed to focus on Stacy. He gathered her close and kissed her—he kissed the top of her head and the side of her face and the tip of her nose before lingering at her lips, trying to tell her without words how worthy she was of all the love her monster of a husband had denied her.
She began crying again, the tears flowing silently down her cheeks. He tasted them, salty and sweet, the taste of his own mixed emotions of regret and longing.
He pulled her down beside him and held her, the covers pulled up over them, her head cradled against his chest, until her tears were spent, and she sighed again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s not the reaction a man wants after making love to a woman.”
“I’d rather you be honest with me than pretend,” he said.
“That’s one of the things I like about you. You don’t lie, even when lying would be more convenient.”
“You’ve had enough of lies. Including all the ones Sammy told you. Don’t believe him.”
“I try. But sometimes it’s hard.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe when this is all over it would be a good idea for you to talk to someone. A counselor. I could give you a name.”
“Yeah. That probably would be a good idea.” She snuggled down more tightly against him. “Thank you, for everything.”
“Try to get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Maybe I’ll get to see Carlo.”
“Maybe you will.” And maybe he’d figure out a way to say goodbye that wouldn’t end up hurting them both.
* * *
POUNDING ON THE door woke them. The room was pitch-black and Patrick groped for his phone on the bedside table. The display showed 5:00 a.m.
“Who is it?” Stacy sat up beside him, the covers clutched to her chin.
Patrick reached for his pants as the pounding repeated. “Open up!” a deep voice demanded. “This is the police.”
Chapter Eleven
Stacy stared at the door, heart pounding. Could she possible have heard them right? “What are the police doing here?” she whispered to Patrick.
“I don’t know.” He zipped his pants and pulled on a shirt. “Hold on. I’m coming!” he called.
“I’d better get dressed, too,” Stacy said. She looked around for the shirt she’d discarded last night, but realized Patrick was wearing it.
“Better stay put,” he said, as the pounding rattled the door fram
e again.
“Open up or we’re coming in!”
Patrick jerked open the door and a beefy uniformed officer all but fell inside. Patrick stepped back, keeping his hands in clear view. “Can I help you?” he asked.
A second, older officer followed the first one inside. “Are you driving the black sedan parked in front of this room?” he asked.
“Is something wrong with the car?” Patrick asked.
The older cop’s eyes narrowed. “I need to see some ID, Mr....”
“United States Marshal Patrick Thompson.” He handed over his credentials.
The officer’s eyebrows rose as he studied the ID. He glanced at Stacy. “And this woman is?”
“A material witness in a federal case.”
The officer took in the single bed, clothes scattered around it. “Riiight,” he said, drawing out the word.
Stacy felt her face heat, then bristled. She’d done nothing to be ashamed of—the police were the ones who ought to be ashamed, barging in on them this way.
“We’re going to need the two of you to come with us down to the station for questioning about the murder of two men on County Road 7N yesterday afternoon,” the older officer said. He returned Patrick’s ID to him.
“I killed those men,” Patrick said. “They ambushed us in the canyon and attempted to kidnap this woman.”
The younger officer spoke up for the first time. “Why didn’t you report this to our office?”
“This is a federal case. I reported it to my office and they’re sending investigators. How did you find out about it?” Patrick’s face was impassive, but Stacy felt the temperature in the room drop a few degrees at his chilly tone.
“A couple out snowshoeing stumbled on the bodies,” the older officer said. “Then the hotel owner called to report a couple suspicious customers.” He glanced at Stacy again. She pulled the covers more tightly around her neck—not because she was ashamed, but because the draft from the open door was freezing.
The officer turned back to Patrick. “If you’ll both get dressed and come with us, I’m sure we can get this all sorted out.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said a commanding voice from behind the officers.
The police moved aside to reveal a slender man in a dark suit and overcoat. He flashed an ID badge. “Special Investigator Tim Sullivan,” he said. He nodded to Patrick, then to Stacy, as if he found naked women in the beds of his coworkers every day of the week.
“Agent Sullivan...” the older officer began.
“Thank you for your help, officers,” Sullivan said. “We can handle things from here. We promise to send your office a full report of our investigation.”
“The crime occurred in our jurisdiction,” the younger officer protested. “I believe—”
“I believe you don’t want to be charged with interfering with a federal case.”
Agent Sullivan’s tone, as much as his words, made the officer blanch. He turned to his companion. “We’ll be going now.”
“Good.”
When the door had closed behind the two officers, Agent Sullivan turned and regarded Patrick and Stacy. “I think, Marshal Thompson, you might have a little explaining to do.”
“And I think you two should continue your discussion outside,” Stacy said, “so that I can get dressed.”
Sullivan tilted his head, as if considering the question. Stacy was sure he was about to make an off-color remark, but the glower on Patrick’s face apparently made him think better of it. “Of course,” he said. He glanced at Patrick’s bare feet and unbuttoned shirt. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Patrick retrieved his shoes, then fished a clean pair of socks from the suitcase and sat on the side of the bed to put them on. Stacy studied his back, trying to read his thoughts in the tension there. “What happens now?” she asked.
“Maybe he’s learned something about the whereabouts of the ranch, or Carlo.” He drew up one leg and began tying the laces of his shoe.
“They won’t pull you off the case, will they?”
He stilled. “Maybe they should.”
“No!” She leaned forward and rested one hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve broken pretty much every rule and behaved unprofessionally. They’d be justified in pulling me off the case.”
“I won’t let them,” she said. “Not when we’ve come so far. You know me and you know the case. I trust you.”
He turned his head to meet her gaze at last. “We’ve crossed the line. You’re not just a stranger I’m duty bound to protect.”
“Does that mean you’ll be any less committed to keeping me safe or helping me?”
“It means I’ve lost my objectivity. That could affect my judgment.”
“I won’t let them take you away from me. I won’t.”
He turned his back to her again and finished tying his shoe. “That could be up to Sullivan.” He straightened. “You’d better get dressed.” He walked out the door, not looking at her again.
* * *
SULLIVAN STOOD IN the light from a single bulb that illuminated the stairwell several doors down from the room. Patrick moved toward him, zipping up his coat as he did so.
“You look like someone dragged you through the mud.” Sullivan nodded at a smear of dirt on the sleeve of the jacket.
“Those two in the canyon ambushed us. I thought I’d sneak up behind them and they moved in and tried to kidnap Stacy.”
“And you shot them.”
“Yes.”
“How gallant.”
“I was doing my job. You would have done the same.”
“Maybe.”
“How did you end up here?” Patrick asked. “Your timing is uncanny, by the way. The local cops were ready to haul us off to jail.”
“We had someone monitoring the scanner. They heard the call go out.”
“You must have been close.”
“We were at that convenience store. Nobody knows anything about anyone named Marne.”
“What about the surveillance tapes?”
“What do you know—the machine had a malfunction and stopped working for half the day yesterday.”
Patrick grunted and shoved both hands in his coat pockets. Neither man spoke for a long moment. An eighteen-wheeler sped by on the highway, Jake brakes rattling as it headed down the grade.
“Want to tell me what’s going on with you and the Giardino woman?” Sullivan asked.
“No.” He blew out a breath. “I know I screwed up. It just...happened.”
“Sometimes it does. Is it going to affect your ability to do your job?”
“No.” He faced the other man, surprised at the sympathy he found there. “I’m not some besotted schoolboy. I know how to handle myself.”
“What about her?” He tipped his head toward the hotel room. “Women sometimes read more into these things.”
“Stacy’s concerned for her son. She knows what happened between us.... She knows there’s no future there.”
“Does she?”
“She’s a lot stronger than she looks. Stronger than anyone I’ve known. Are you going to report us?”
“I don’t work for the U.S. Marshal’s office, do I?” His gaze slid past Patrick to the walkway beyond. “Hello, Mrs. Giardino. How are you doing?”
She nodded and stopped close, but not too close, to Patrick. “Have you found out anything about my son?”
“Maybe we should go inside to discuss this. Where it’s warmer.”
They trooped silently back to the room. In the men’s absence, Stacy had made the bed and picked up the scattered clothes. Patrick relaxed a little. Not having the evidence of their indiscretion staring them all in the face helped a little. Stacy sat on the side of t
he bed and the two men took the chairs at the table. “Have you found my son?” she asked. “Have you found Carlo?”
Sullivan shook his head. “Marshal Thompson asked us to locate a ranch that belongs to Abel Giardino. We’ve found a place we think might be his and we’ve put it under surveillance.”
“What have you seen? Have you seen a child?”
“We’ve only been watching the place a few hours at this point, and so far there’s been nothing to see.”
“Where is this place?” Stacy asked. “Can we go there?”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Patrick said. “If they are holding Carlo and we go busting in, they might harm him—or carry him away to an even more remote location.”
“As long as there aren’t any signs that the boy is in danger, it’s best to watch and figure out when to make our move,” Sullivan said. “The first step is to verify that Carlo is even there.”
“That’s all you can tell me?” she asked. “We have to wait?”
“Maybe we’ll know more later this morning, when people on the ranch wake up and start moving about. One of our spotters might see something then.”
“You’ll let me know right away?”
“We’ll let you know as soon as it’s safe to do so.”
Patrick wanted to reach out, to squeeze her hand and offer her some sort of comfort. But with Sullivan looking on, he didn’t dare. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” he asked.
“We did learn more about the wills,” Sullivan said. “Both Sam’s and Sam Junior’s.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through it. “We were able to get a judge to unseal the documents and they proved very interesting.”
“How interesting?” Patrick asked. The hair on the back of his neck rose, a sure sign that the information was going to be good.
“Both Sammy and his father left everything to Carlo. But it’s tied up in a complicated trust. The manager of the trust directs the distribution of the money until Carlo is twenty-one.”
“Who’s the manager of the trust?” Stacy asked.
“You are.” Sullivan closed the notebook and replaced it in his pocket. “You didn’t know?”
