by Kate Douglas
I thought of that improbably large cock, recalled how easily I had taken it down my throat.
Desire flooded me with an almost painful intensity. I grabbed the porcelain sink for balance, suddenly caught up in the vivid images that seemed to have suddenly taken over both my sleeping and waking moments.
Last night I'd only been able to focus on his face, on the mysterious, mesmerizing eyes hidden beneath black brows. Why, now, was I almost preternaturally aware of the more earthy aspects of the mystery man, of his scent, his taste, his muscular legs and buttocks, his long, thick cock—the heavy testicles surrounded by a dense forest of rough hair?
Aware of him as if I truly had experienced him?
I trembled, an involuntary shudder that was purely sexual in nature.
Had to be hormones.
The dreams had begun almost a month ago, about the time I'd finished up the Delgado story. At first they'd been vague images, a bit sensual, frightening at times, but nothing definite. Only in the past few days had they grown so distinct, the sensuality more compelling, more erotic.
More demanding.
The eroticism, though, had been garbed in dread and dismay. Passion alone, at least until today, couldn't overshadow the sense of foreboding, the feeling I must pay heed to some undefined warning.
Today's experience had been the unique among the unusual. If the phone hadn't interrupted, I fully believed we might actually have had real, honest-to-god-down-and-dirty sex.
That kind of dream, I figured I could live with.
Of course, since the dreams were usually accompanied by a hot flash, I should have blamed them on too few hormones, too much caffeine and a non-existent sex life.
Then again, if the dreams continued, my sex life wouldn't be so bad. The fantasy, so far, certainly outstripped reality.
Reality often sucks the big one. I have a hard time believing I'm as old as I am. I feel like a twenty-year old most of the time, not forty-eight and starting the change.
All in all, though, life is not bad for this old broad. I’d not only written a potential Pulitzer with my exposé on Delgado, I still looked damned good.
For an old broad.
Putting the dreams aside, I blew myself a reflected kiss in the mirror and pushed the hair back from my face, over my left ear. My earring sparkled beneath the garish fluorescent light. Suddenly recalling an incident in my daydream, I brushed back the hair on my right, exposing my other ear.
My favorite diamond stud was missing.
A foreboding shiver raced along my spine. I pulled my hair back on both sides of my face and stared at my reflection.
Left ear, properly adorned with a diamond.
Right ear naked.
There was a logical reason for the missing stud. A perfectly logical reason.
I just didn't know it yet.
I checked my watch, noted I would barely make it on time and headed out for my meeting with Hawley. I convinced myself I'd probably find the earring on my pillow at home. By the time I sauntered across the street and headed down the block I was feeling kind of cocky.
I shoulda known better. The minute I get cocky, well, that’s when it hits the fan.
I walked into Sallie’s right on time and spotted Martin Hawley already sitting in one of the booths. My breath caught on a sigh and I stared.
The TV spots didn’t do him justice. Neither had my dreams—there was no doubt in my mind this was the man. I might not have been able to recall the distinctive features of his face when I first awoke that morning and I hadn't seen his face at all this afternoon, but here—now—in person, I knew.
The same man invading my thoughts night after fearful night, the same man who'd clenched his fingers in my hair barely half an hour ago and groaned with unspent passion while I sucked on his cock…
That same man was sitting at a booth in Sallie's, staring out the window.
I wondered what he'd been doing—I glanced down at my watch—nineteen minutes ago?
He was something else in person, long narrow face, thick gray eyebrows over dark blue, deep-set eyes, a strong nose with an eagle’s hook.
The face of a predator.
I took a quick look along the length of him, disappointed the table hid the best part, though his legs stretched out, long and lean, into the aisle.
I consoled myself with the fact I'd seen him naked.
Standing there, I imagined those long legs tangled with mine. Suddenly I realized he’d glanced away from the window to study me. There was a brief flash of recognition, a narrowing of the eyes, tightening of the lips. Then it was my turn for the once-over.
I wasn’t certain I liked it.
Not that he visually undressed me—nothing that crude. He didn't have to. My heart practically stopped in my chest and I struggled to swallow past the lump in my throat.
The knowing look in his eye gave him away—he'd shared the same dreams I had, experienced the same erotic need that had awakened me on so many mornings.
Where had he been twenty minutes ago? Where had Martin Hawley really been when I'd knelt between his legs and taken him in my mouth?
I shivered with the physical memory of the unfulfilled passion coursing through my body.
No, there was no need for Martin Hawley to demean either of us by something as crude as visually undressing me. I didn't even need one of my infamous hunches to know he'd already seen me naked as a jaybird.
I held my chin high and looked right into those haunting blue eyes. He read me like an open book. When he finished, he knew too damned much.
More of my attitude slipped, along with my confidence. What in the hell was going on here? I walked up to him, surreptitiously checking to make sure I was actually still clothed, introduced myself and scooted across the cracked vinyl seat into the booth.
At least I managed that maneuver without tripping over my own feet. Something about this man made me feel like a gawky teenager and it wasn't just the residual power of the dreams.
"Okay, Hawley," I said, my tone confrontational. "You somehow manage to get through six blocks of San Francisco rush hour traffic in under fifteen minutes, all for a phone number you can get out of the book? What gives?"
He glanced away, then tilted his head and looked me directly in the eye. That bird of prey image hovered between us. He was taking my measure and it was all I could do not to squirm in my seat.
So much for the hard-boiled news reporter.
"I had you investigated," he said. "Nothing personal, you understand, but I had to know if I can trust you."
There really is no answer to an opening like that. I returned his pragmatic stare with one of my own.
Silence stretched between us, taut, filled with the familiar tension of my dreams. He blinked, took a deep breath, obviously reached a conclusion. "I have to trust you." He sounded regretful. He paused, then nailed me with that predator’s stare. "Do you dream, Ms Franklin?"
What the hell? Talk about catching a woman off balance! I knew he didn't expect an answer. My deep blush must have told him all he wanted to know.
He was obviously satisfied with my silence.
He nodded once, a tacit acknowledgment of something shared. Something neither of us appeared willing, or able, to voice. His eyes closed and he bowed his head. For a moment he reminded me of a man in prayer. When he raised his head, his composure had shattered.
"My daughter…" His voice broke; he coughed, cleared his throat. When he spoke again it was a mere whisper of sound. "Melinda...my daughter's life...help me."
I stared at him, speechless. What could I say? Melinda Hawley, his gorgeous, raven-haired daughter, reportedly as sweet and kind as she was beautiful. In danger?
I put my notebook away. Obviously it was making the man nervous.
"I’m listening." I spread my hands out on the table. For one brief moment I felt as if I were surrendering.
He took a sip of coffee, then carefully set the mug back on the table. His fingers cradled the heavy res
taurant pottery as if it were a religious icon. I caught myself staring at those exquisitely long fingers, the neatly trimmed nails...staring and imagining them touching me, slipping in and out of...
"You started this," he said, accusing me. I snapped to attention, his fingers relegated to the back burners of my mind. "My company was hired to audit Delgado’s books after The Bay Reporter ran your exposé. We found discrepancies right away, nothing major, but enough to send up a red flag. About a week into the audit, I got a call. Typical heavy breather, no ID. Before I could hang up, the caller warned me to back off the audit. His voice was disguised. The threat wasn't. It was really quite explicit."
He glanced out the window. A chill raced along my spine and I thought of the call I’d gotten a few nights ago. Heavy breathing, no voice. At the time, I figured it was some guy jacking off on the other end. I'd hung up and forgotten about it. Until now.
"I reported the threat to the DA," Hawley said, his gorgeous hands still wrapped tightly around the mug. "He’d gotten the same call. So had every other member of the auditing team. Every last one of them. We’ve all got unlisted numbers, Ms. Franklin."
He raised his cup to take a sip. A little of his coffee sloshed out of the half-empty cup and he carefully placed the mug back on the table, methodically wiping at the small puddle with a paper napkin. "I should have listened," he muttered, as much to himself as to me. "We went on with the audit, no more threats, business as usual. Until last night."
Even choked with emotion, Martin Hawley remained the predator. Frustrated, momentarily impotent, his taut frame still radiated power. Energy danced in the air between us.
"They’ve got Melinda." His shoulders tensed, straining at the expensive suit. "Either I convince the DA to call off the investigation or they’re going to let her die. She’s buried somewhere—somewhere they said I’ll never find her. The bastards are pumping in barely enough oxygen to keep her alive. I either," he paused, closed his eyes to whatever demons haunted him, then took a deep breath. "I either adjust the audit or they cut off her air. It’s as simple as that."
Suddenly his broad shoulders slumped and his hands trembled. He was losing the iron control that’d been holding him together, exhausting the rage giving him strength. Without thinking I reached across the chipped Formica table and covered his hand with my own.
It happened again. The same burst of energy, the elemental shock of contact I'd experienced in my dreams. The reaction was instantaneous—suddenly my nipples were tight and hard, my breasts sensitive to every seam and stitch in my bra, my utilitarian nylon panties, wet.
I blinked, refocused, found my bearings once more. But I left my hand there, covering his, and wondered if he noticed anything at all.
"Mr. Hawley, I have no idea what I can offer that will help save your daughter, but whatever you need from me..."
He shuddered. For a brief moment my heart soared. He's feeling the same thing I am!
Then I felt like a total jerk. Worry was making him shiver, not any overwhelming lust for an old broad with hormone problems.
My opinion of the man underwent a rapid change. I’d never had a kid but he obviously loved his and I could tell his daughter's abduction tore him apart. All his money and power couldn’t save him from this terrible pain.
He rolled his hand under mine, grasped my fingers firmly in his. "You know more about Delgado than anyone." He squeezed my hand for emphasis. "You’ve been inside his operation. Whitaker was afraid you’d end up on Delgado’s hit list because of your story, but he was glad you were working on it. He said his hands were tied because of regulations. Yours aren’t."
Hawley released my hand, making his point. I’d known the pudgy little DA for years and was actually pretty fond of the guy. He could be a real jerk, but he took his job seriously. Sometimes Billy Whitaker got frustrated enough to break rules. I’ve always admired a person who’ll put his job on the line for the sake of justice.
"I think Delgado’s got Melinda down by the docks." Hawley linked his fingers. The joints cracked. He looked down at his hands as if surprised by the sound, then sighed loudly, a great whoosh of breath encompassing the emotions I knew he struggled to control.
"I heard a tape of her voice, crying, begging me for help. She called me Daddy. She hasn't called me Daddy since she was a little girl, back when her mother was still alive. God, don't let those be the last words I hear from her!"
Rubbing his hand roughly across his face, Hawley ruthlessly continued. "I may have heard a foghorn in the background. I’m not sure..." He tightened his right hand into a fist. "I'm just not sure!" He pounded the table in frustration. "I’ve got to find her. She’s all I have left..."
I thought of his money, his beautiful offices, that gorgeous home in Tiburon overlooking the city, the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge...
"You’ve been there, Ms. Franklin. You're going to help me search Delgado’s warehouses."
Right. At your command.
I had no choice, really. I hadn't had a choice from the beginning. A beginning that had started with those odd, unnerving, erotic dreams.
We went back to my office and I shoved the research notes on near death experiences out of the way. Lately it seemed everything I wrote was about death, even when the people lived to tell about it.
I closed the door; thankful once again I rated more than a cube after all my years on staff, and pulled a thick stack of folders and a half-empty bottle of good Irish whiskey out of the filing cabinet. Without a word, Martin handed me a couple of paper cups from the water dispenser near the window. I splashed a healthy shot of booze into each one.
I divided the folders into two piles and put one of the stacks in front of him. By now we were on a first name basis and when he thanked me I liked the way my name rolled off his tongue.
He didn't mention the dreams again. He didn't have to. They hovered between us, silent specters hanging motionless in the shadows, their presence a clear reminder of passion, of life, of what we shared. Somehow, we had prepared for this moment. Knowing that gave me a burst of confidence, renewed my sense of self.
Martin grabbed a chair and sorted through the papers, sipping slowly at his whiskey. I did the same. Somewhere, buried in six months of research, was a clue that might lead us to Melinda.
* * * * *
We'd been at it a couple of hours and the half bottle of whiskey was long gone when my sixth sense kicked in. I held up a page of notes about an old granary, belonging, in a roundabout manner, to Delgado. I’d actually been inside; at least until one of Delgado’s henchmen realized I was a reporter and escorted me out the door.
"I’ve got a feeling about this one," I said, unwilling to explain how my hunches so often pan out. Martin looked over my notes and shrugged his shoulders. It was already dark outside, and sitting here wasn’t helping us find Melinda.
"Okay," he said. He reached for the phone and called Whitaker. The DA wasn’t in, but Martin left a message on the machine telling him where we were headed and why. I slipped into the restroom and changed into an old pair of running shoes and pulled a dark sweatshirt over my blouse. I held up the sweatpants, then tossed them aside.
My slacks were raw silk and linen, expensive as hell, but so dark a gray they'd look almost black. Besides, they did a lot more for my figure than the sweats. So did the cute little bikini panties I switched into.
I tossed the plain white nylon underpants into my briefcase, snapped the clasp shut and brushed my hands along my hips, unable to suppress a grin. Perfect attire for the well-dressed cat burglar, especially one accompanied by someone as sexy and sensual as Martin Hawley.
Then I thought of Melinda, buried God knows where, and my grin faded. I skipped fresh lipstick as penance. I did run a brush through my hair, though I felt guilty as hell primping even that much.
It took us about twenty minutes to reach the docks. I parked my faded Toyota in deep shadows near an overpass. We were less than a block from our destination, an old concrete an
d brick warehouse built back in the twenties. I’d heard stories about this place, how it had been used to hide smuggled booze during prohibition.
It stood like a towering monolith here at the edge of the city, marking that no-man’s land between the buildings and the bay. We had no proof Melinda was anywhere near but my senses were buzzing and Martin followed me without question.
Fog shrouded the warehouse with a blanket thick enough to trap the glow of the single streetlight at the corner. The structure itself was completely dark, its windows boarded over. The stench of diesel fuel and rotting fish warred with the tang of salt. Here in the shadows, silence folded in upon itself. Our footsteps sounded strangely out of place as I led Martin across the cracked, rubbish-strewn parking lot.
He followed me without question until I stopped, turned and shrugged my shoulders. My senses were still alive and buzzing, but the solid wall of brick and concrete in front of us offered little hope of entrance. I wasn't about to announce our presence by heading around to the dock side, where the clang of metal and occasional shout announced others were awake this night.
The only entrance visible from this side, a rusting staircase that wound up and around the building before disappearing into the fog, was obviously too far corroded to bear our weight.
Martin glanced up at the rusted metal then suddenly leaned over and kissed me. Shock brought my heart to a standstill, stopped my breath and coiled like a deep, smoldering fire in my womb. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood up on my toes.
My mouth opened for his. His tongue stroked my lips and my teeth, finally found its way inside to tease and tickle my mouth and tongue. I pressed my hips forward until I found him, his erection long and hard against his belly. I forgot fear, forgot every reason we were here in the warehouse district, not home in my bed exploring this strange connection.
He scattered warm little kisses along my chin, down my throat. I arched my back, bared my throat to give him access. Finally, with a soft little sigh I hoped was regret, he stopped. Holding my jaw in both hands, he stared deep into my eyes.
