by JoAnn Ross
"Isn't it? So, her other choice is to keep on keeping on, knowing that eventually she'd get caught and the man she loved would lose his business, his reputation, and probably all his lifelong friends. And maybe even his children and grandchildren."
"At worst, he'd end up in prison," Nick said.
"Exactly. Like I said, she's never been one to weigh the right and wrong of a decision, and this one didn't look as if it had an easy answer."
"She could always offer to buy her way out of the partnership."
"That was precisely what she did."
"Paying your way out of a jam is the logical thing to do, I suppose."
"Logical if you're a crook, perhaps," she muttered.
Nick loved that her mind didn't work that way. She was smart as a whip, but she was always going to be a black-and-white kind of girl. Having met her mother, he understood why.
Morality, for Kate, had to be a constant, as fixed as the North Star. If you started cutting corners, you'd find yourself drifting. Then forever lost.
Which made it even more amazing that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt before she'd even heard his side of the story.
"Of course, that led to another problem," she said. "The ringleader wouldn't trust a check from her. Or a cashier's check, which, while safer, still could be forged. And they definitely didn't trust a wire transfer."
"No honor among thieves." Sometimes the cliches really were true.
"Exactly. Which is why they wanted cash. A lot of cash. Like the five hundred grand they figured her change of mind was going to cost them."
"Not many people have that much cash beneath their mattress."
"Granted. And she could've had the money wired from her offshore bank. But these days transactions like that have to be reported. No way is some local banker just going to hand over a mid six figures in cash. If she even tried to do that, she'd get the attention of the police—"
"Who'd find all that very odd behavior for a woman whose husband is lying in the hospital in a near coma after a hit-and-run."
"She'd look guilty as sin," Kate agreed. "So, she figured she didn't have any other choice but to go down to the Caymans herself."
"She was still taking a helluva risk bringing it back into the States. If customs had caught her, she'd really have been in hot water."
"She knew that. But she was counting on getting a male agent."
"Upon whom she could use her not inconsiderable charms."
"Exactly."
"Well. That's quite a story. And the really weird thing about it is that I sorta believe it."
"The even weirder thing is that I believe it, too. My mother"—Kate told him nothing he hadn't figured out for himself—"has never exactly been on a first-name basis with the truth ... I do have a request."
"What's that, chère?"
"I realize you're not a cop anymore, but perhaps you know someone, maybe Remy, who can try to work out a deal for her? Maybe give her immunity if she agrees to testify against the guys running the show?"
"I know a few people. I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks. I know I shouldn't be cutting her any slack, but—"
"Like it or not, she's still family," Nick said gently. "And it's not like she killed someone. Besides, you never know. This might be the start of a good thing. Her finding redemption. Sort of like Paul on the road to Damascus."
"Right," Kate scoffed. "My mother has always been able to play just about any role. But a saint is a real stretch."
34
KATE LIKED HER LOFT BACK IN CHICAGO. SHE loved the openness of it. The high ceilings, the view of the lake, the hustle and bustle of the city.
But she would have traded it in a heartbeat for Nick Broussard's gleaming white ketch.
She didn't have to pretend to be impressed with the two staterooms, each with its own head, one with a full tub and shower, the other with a shower; the spacious salon boasting a state-of-the-art entertainment center; or the galley fitted out with a refrigerator-freezer, propane stove, eye-level oven, and a microwave. There was even a stackable washer and dryer.
But the piece de resistance was the diesel fireplace in the main stateroom.
"It's probably overkill," Nick admitted as he turned it on to demonstrate. "But it's also nice on cold, rainy nights."
Like tonight, she thought. "I don't think it's overkill at all."
And wasn't it too easy to imagine herself lying in Nick's arms in that wide, king-size berth while rain tilted the overhead deck and a warm fire blazed.
"It truly is a stunningly beautiful ketch."
She dragged her gaze from the sinfully enticing bed and looked around at the rest of the room. Unlike a lot of boats she'd been on over the years this one had wide windows that allowed the daylight in, avoiding any claustrophobic submarine feeling.
"It must have cost a fortune, though."
She wondered how, on a military salary, he'd been nble to afford it. And was surprised when she didn't experience even a niggling of suspicion.
"Like I said, I got it for a song from a doctor who was having himself a hurricane sale. It helped that I'd sold my thirty-five-footer I was living on when I left San Diego."
"Thirty-five feet is still a nice-size boat."
"She was a dandy," he agreed. "And a long way up from the fifteen-foot sloop I'd picked up at a bargain-basement price from a guy on my old team whose wife decided their growing family needed a minivan more than a sailboat."
"I suppose I can understand that," she murmured as she ran her fingers over a wall. The golden light from the setting sun made the hand-rubbed cherry gleam like polished glass.
"When we left my mother's house, and you told me that the Hulk had been arrested, and we weren't in any more danger, I was seriously considering coming back here and getting very, very drunk," she admitted.
"That's always an option. And I can understand how you'd feel that way," Nick gaid. "But since I have the feeling that I've had a bit more experience in that area than you do, I should warn you that there's a price to be paid."
"Isn't there always a price," she murmured. Then sighed. "And I need to know what Detective Landreaux told you about Tara. But first I want to go to bed."
"You've had a stressful few days. Finding out about your sister dying, coming here, getting shot at, cars blowing up, those troubles with your maman. Wouldn't be any surprise that you'd start to wind down. A nap before dinner will probably do you a lot of good."
"Or, you could make love to me."
"With you," he corrected.
"Whatever," she said as she began to attack his belt buckle. "Just so it ends up with you inside me."
They came together, falling onto the bed, where they tangled the sheets and sent pillows falling onto the floor.
Clothes were torn off, scattered to the four corners of the room. Her sweater landed on a chair, his jeans ended up on top of the TV, followed seconds later by Kate's slacks.
They rolled over the mattress, rough, relentless, tugging at the rest of their clothes, breaths labored, quick gasps turning into low moans.
His hands were everywhere, tangling in her hair, stroking her moist flesh, moving between her legs, where she was hot and wet and ready for him. His teeth scraped against a nipple, causing her to suck in a quick, harsh breath, then moved on to nip at the distended nub between her slick, quaking thighs.
Kate caressed him in turn, reveling in the hard play ofl muscles beneath dark flesh, exalting in a feminine power like nothing she'd ever known as his stony sex swelled to fill her hand.
He was so hot. So hard. His mouth. His hands. His body. Kate touched and tasted and found him magnificent.
The light had gone, but Nick had no trouble seeing her in the glow of the gas fire. Could see himself backlit by the flames reflected in the jet pupils of her catlike eyes.
Nick wanted her. In every way a man could want a woman he was falling in love with. He wanted to pleasure her as he'd never pleasured a
ny other woman. Wanted her to experience delights she'd never felt with any other man.
God help him, he, who'd never wanted to feel tied to anything or anyone, wanted to possess Kate—body, mind, and soul.
He was nearing desperation when he remembered— shit—that, not having had sex since he'd bought The Hoo-Yah, although he'd dutifully kept a rubber with him, he'd never moved any into the bedside drawer.
"The condoms are in the head," he said as he reluctantly extricated himself. "Don't go anywhere."
"I wouldn't think of it. But don't take too long." She flashed him a wicked siren's smile. "Or I may have to start without you."
He retrieved the box in record time and ripped a package open.
She leaned up on her elbows, watching as he stood beside the bed and rolled the latex condom down the length of his erect and straining shaft.
Just looking at her looking at him that way, the lust battering away at him mirrored on her own flushed face, almost had him losing it right then and there.
As if able to read his mind, she went up on her knees, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her mouth against the moist, hot flesh of his stomach.
Then grabbed his hips, pulled him down onto the bed, and straddled him.
"I have a confession," she said, just before she crushed her mouth to his and kissed him. Hard. And deep. And long.
"What's that?" he asked when they finally came up for air. The hot and hungry kiss had wiped every coherent thought from his mind.
"I think you've turned me into a sex addict. All I seem to be able to think about is ripping your clothes off and getting hot and naked with you."
"Don't feel like the Lone Ranger." His hands skimmed down her back. "Because the entire time we were at your mother's, all I could think about was how good you'd feel bucking beneath me on her fancy Oriental rug."
"And isn't that easy for you to say," she complained without heat. "Since I'd be the one with rug burns on my butt."
"I'd have kissed them and made them better."
"If we're ever in that situation, I'll hold you to that. Meanwhile..."
When she wiggled her body against him, Nick imagined he could see the flare of sparks. "Do I still feel good?"
"What the hell do you think?" He pressed her hard against his groin.
A grin tugged at her voluptuous lips. Her long legs were tangled with his. "I think we both feel pretty damn good."
"Me, too. But if you don't want this to end before it begins," he warned, "you're going to have to hold still."
"I'm sorry, Nick." The laughter in her eyes said just the opposite. Not only was she not sorry, she was having a dandy time torturing him. "But I don't think I can do that."
Leaning forward, she skimmed her tongue playfully over first one flat male nipple, then the other, stimulating nerve endings Nick had never known he possessed.
"I'm sorry," she said when his hips bucked at the nip of her teeth. She trailed a fingernail down his torso. "Did I hurt the big brave SEAL?"
"Actually," he managed on a groan as she blew a soft, warm breath against his stomach, causing it to clench, "I think you may just be killing me."
"Don't worry, Nick." She wove her fingers through the crisp, dark hair below his belly. "I promise to be gentle."
She slid down his body, her teeth nipping at the in-sides of his thighs, her hair draped over him, silk tongues of red flame, the same way it had been in all his fantasies. And last night's dreams.
Her scent swam in his senses. Her touch set his blood to boiling.
Nick's breath was gone. His mind reeled.
It was torture.
It was bliss.
When he didn't think he could last another second, he thrust his hands through her tumbled hair and pulled her back astride him, grasping her slender hips with a force he knew would leave bruises.
But even then she insisted on setting the pace as she straddled him, slowly lowering herself over his straining cock, a torturous millimeter at a time.
Her moist feminine folds clutched at him. Released. Clutched again.
Understanding her need for control, Nick decided that if he had to grit his teeth until they flat out crumbled to dust, they'd do this her way.
Instead of emotionally removing herself from the act by closing her eyes, she kept her burning gaze on his, maintaining a connection that went beyond that of their bodies, that was much more complex than merely what fit where.
She lifted herself up again, her hot, damp flesh—oh, Jesus—just brushing the swollen tip of his cock.
"You like that," she said with a knowing smile as it leaped to attention beneath her stroking touch.
"Like doesn't begin to describe it," he managed in a strangled tone as he struggled not to swallow his tongue.
She was every temptress ever born: Eve, Delilah, Salome stripping off her seven veils to win the head of the Baptist. Nick couldn't imagine any male ever denying this woman anything.
And although he knew she'd deny it for fear of not appearing tough enough, she was also the most caring, emotionally generous woman he'd ever met.
And even if neither one of them was prepared to admit it out loud yet, she was his.
As he was hers.
His fists grabbed up handfuls of tangled sheet.
Her body grew hotter. Wetter.
"But as good as it is, anytime you want to go a little deeper . . . oh, mon Dieu," he moaned as she lowered herself again, her inner muscles tightening. Milking him. "That's it, chère."
He'd never begged for a woman in his life. Never had the need to. But he'd beg, plead, hell, he'd go out naked onto the dock and howl at the goddamn moon if she'd only finish him off before he exploded.
"You're so big," she said in a breathless little "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" Marilyn Monroe voice that, even as fake as it was, inflamed him further. "I don't know how I can possibly take such a—"
"You can." Pressing his heels against the mattress, he lifted his hips up, straining to fill her. "I promise."
He dug his fingers into either side of her waist and felt her tremble with anticipation. "Have I ever lied to you?"
"Not that I know of." Devil woman that she'd become, she reached between them and took him in her hand. "Then again, SEALs are trained to lie." She was enjoying it. Enjoying her power. Enjoying him.
"Only to the enemy. And believe me, sweetheart, I'm feeling really friendly toward you."
"Ditto." Her curved fingers stroked him, from root to tip. Then back down again.
"But in the interest of honesty," he said, groaning, at the point where he could no longer decide whether to beg her or curse her, "if you keep pumping me like that, we're either going to have a launch any second, or you're going to kill me."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to do that. Because I have plans for you, Nick Broussard."
She finally took him all the way in, hot, soft female against hotter, hard male.
Then she began to move, meeting him thrust for thrust as he surged upward and into her again and again.
Harder.
Deeper.
In.
Out.
Faster.
His stomach clenched. His thighs actually trembled, which was a first for him. But he didn't have time to think about it as the explosive climax shot up his spine, blinding him as Kate drove them both over that dark edge.
35
"WELL," KATE SAID. SHE WAS COLLAPSED UPON his chest, her lips buried in his throat, her legs splayed on either side of his thighs.
She felt drained.
Boneless.
Glorious.
"That should've done it," she said.
"Done what?"
She arched her back and nearly purred like a cat as Nick trailed a lazy hand down her back.
"Gotten you out of my system."
"Ah." He nuzzled her neck. "And did it?"
Because he felt so good—too good—she rolled over onto her side. "It should have," she hedged.
He braced himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. "But?"
"You've gotten under my skin. And, I think, in my blood." And, dammit, her heart. "Sort of like a virus."
"Well, that's complimentary." The warm amusement in his eyes suggested he hadn't taken offense.
"I didn't want this," she insisted tightly after he'd returned to bed after dispensing with the condom. "I didn't need it. I've got too much on my plate and the timing—"
"Sucks." He ran a palm over her shoulder.
"Yeah. It does."
"But that doesn't seem to matter, does it?"
"No." Amazingly, even after that hideous meeting with her mother, Kate felt better, happier even, than she'd ever felt in her life. "Do you believe in fate?"
"Honestly?" Nick's stroking touch moved down her arm, his fingers linking with hers. "I'm not sure." He lifted their joined hands and nibbled on her knuckles. "Having been in situations where any chance of survival looked damn iffy, I definitely believe in luck."
"I know the feeling. But fate's somehow different. I mean, think about it. Six months ago, you were in Afghanistan. I was in Chicago. There was no way we should've met."
"None at all," he agreed.
"Yet here were are. Together—"
"Naked—"
"As two jaybirds," she said. She caught his wrist and moved his hand between them, sighing happily when his fingers cupped her breasts. "That seems sorta like fate."
"Or luck."
"Luck works for me." She twined her arms around his neck.
He cupped her butt again. Drew her closer. "So, what would you say to getting lucky again?"
She laughed, feeling ridiculously and uncharacteristically carefree. "I'd say mais, yeah, cher!"
"So," she said, much, much later, after he finally shared what he'd been keeping from her while they fixed supper in the galley, "when you told me you had some loose ends to clear up after your father's death, the particular end you were talking about was the fact that you don't believe he killed himself?"
"I know damn well he didn't," he said.
Kate, whose culinary skills pretty much boiled down to being able to dial a phone for takeout, was fascinated by his swift economy of movement as he cut some leafy-green celery, green pepper, onion, and shallots into perfect little squares.
