by Nina Bruhns
With swift motions, he stripped down her shorts and flung off her hoodie. Peeled off her bathing suit. She shivered in the chilly evening air as he wrapped his arms around her and lowered her to the deck, pulling off his own shorts.
“Alex—”
“Don’t talk,” he growled as he spread her legs and drove his cock deep into her.
Hours of being joined had attuned her body to his; it instantly conformed to his contours, to his manner of thrusting, to his rhythm and his roughly whispered commands. And he had learned hers—what made her moan and shiver, what caused goose bumps to blossom on her satin skin, what wicked words in her ear made her juices flow hotter.
Together, their bodies were a perfect conflagration of pleasure. He scythed into her, and the Stormy Lady rocked, the waves of the bay slapping hard against the boat’s sides as they plunged mindlessly toward the oblivion of release.
And for a short time he forgot. The tortures of the past and the uncertainty of the future were lost in the forgetfulness of the present overwhelming pleasure of driving into her again and again and again.
She moaned and held him tight, her gasps a low staccato chant to the primitive mating of their bodies. Her red hair clung to his sweat-slick skin as he buried his face in it, wanting to block out the world around them so only he and she existed.
She cried out and arched her back, her inner muscles tightening around his cock as release pulsed through her. He held back as long as he could, holding back, holding back, until finally he exploded after her in a mind-numbing burst of primal pleasure.
He groaned at the amazing sensation. He groaned at the respite of a mind for once drained of all thought.
And he groaned when the thoughts began slowly to trickle back, and he knew that this amazing, beautiful woman could never truly be his.
TEN
REBEL did great on her recertification dives, as Alex had known she would. He had no problem phoning Quinn afterward to have him fax down a certificate, in case the local authorities asked to see their dive creds.
But to his surprise, Commander Quinn had left New York City for Washington, D.C.
“Really?” he asked Darcy, who’d answered at the penthouse, where his call was forwarded from Quinn’s cell phone. He must be on the plane. “What the fuck?”
“A female cousin of one of our terrorists was murdered down there this morning.” Darcy briefly described the situation. “Quinn thinks there has to be a connection. He took Tara Reeves with him,” she added, doing her best to sound unconcerned, but failing miserably.
Uh-oh. Alex pitied Bobby Lee Quinn if he thought he could pass that by his spirited fiancée without paying a steep toll. Darcy Zimmerman was definitely not the kind of woman you wanted pissed off at you, especially over another woman.
“Marc must be thrilled about that,” he cleverly observed. Marc Lafayette and Tara Reeves had been inseparable since hooking up on the Louisiana op and subsequently marrying. As had Bobby Lee and Darcy, for that matter. This was probably the first time apart for both couples.
“Apparently the lead detective is a woman,” Darcy said, sounding put out. “He thought Tara was the best one to deal with her.”
“No doubt true,” Alex agreed. Tara had been a Louisiana state trooper before joining STORM. “What’s he hoping to find in D.C.?”
“Who knows what Quinn is ever thinking?” she muttered.
Alex chuckled. “You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he said, raising Rebel’s eyebrows across the narrow galley, where she was preparing supper for them. Alex winked at her. “I take it Quinn has no idea what he’s in for when he gets back.”
“Oblivious as always,” Darcy confirmed testily.
“But his instincts are good,” Alex said. “I’m sure he’s onto something in D.C. And trust me, Darce, the way he looks at you, he’s probably totally forgotten Tara is even a woman.”
Darcy let out an unladylike snort, but when she continued, her voice was somewhat mollified. “Anyway. What can I do for you, Zane?”
He explained about the diving cert for Rebel, who’d gone back to banging pots.
“No problem,” Darcy said. “I’ll fax it right away. So . . . how’s everything else going down there?”
It seemed everyone in the universe knew about his thing for Rebel.
“Good,” he said. But something in his voice must have clued her to his inner turmoil.
She laughed. “Hmm. Somehow, I think not. Record time, Zane. What did you do to her?”
Incredibly, he felt his cheeks warm. “Not a thing,” he said, turning so Rebel couldn’t see his face.
“She’s standing right there, isn’t she?” Amusement danced in Darcy’s voice.
“Yes. But I really don’t—”
“Oh, my freaking gawd,” she exclaimed. “You’ve slept with her! Already? It’s been, what, three hours since you got there?”
“Nine, for chrissake. And—”
“What about this Montana character she’s been dating? Are they going to find his body in some back alley?”
“Fuck, no! Jesus, Darce!” How the hell did everyone know all the gory details of his love life? Goddamn it! The body in that back alley was going to be Kick’s. “I have to go now.”
“Rainie always said you two belonged together,” she said with a certain perverse glee. “Apparently Commander Bridger thinks so, too. Your Rebel must have made quite an impression on him when they met on the Louisiana op.”
Alex’s jaw dropped. Commander Bridger was a legend, with a reputation for knowing everything about every single operator employed by STORM. Obviously well-earned.
Darcy continued, “When Bridger heard you’d been sent to Norfolk, he wanted you to ask Special Agent Haywood if she’d consider quitting the FBI and joining us. He’s looking for a new head of Victim Family Services.”
Alex’s eyes went to Rebel, where she was fussing with something on the cooktop. “Is that so,” he choked out. WTF. Did the Commander have the hots for his woman, too?
“Take my advice, Zane,” Darcy said. “Don’t fight the inevitable. Just go with it.”
The phone clicked off and he was left staring in consternation at Rebel’s back. Was it just him, or had everyone gone completely off their meds?
“Interesting conversation,” Rebel ventured from the stove.
His gaze snapped up. She’d turned around and was leaning her butt against the counter, regarding him with crossed arms.
“Fucking insane conversation,” he corrected.
“About . . . ?”
He choked again on a swallow. “You, actually.”
Her mouth thinned. “Oh?”
“STORM Command wants me to recruit you.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Me?”
With difficulty, he gathered his wits. “You.”
“And you find that insane?”
“Damn straight.” At the scowl that crossed her face, he backpedaled. “I mean, you’d be great, but I know how much you love the Bureau. You wouldn’t want to quit.” She didn’t say anything to that. “Would you . . . ?”
She turned back to whatever she was cooking. “Of course not. You’re right. I can’t ever imagine leaving the FBI.”
He got the distinct feeling he was missing something here. But he was still too flustered over what Darcy had suggested, and couldn’t think about it right now.
Rising from the table, he took the two strides over to Rebel. He gently pushed aside her mane of copper hair and kissed her neck. “Mmm. You smell good.”
“It’s the stir-fry.”
It wasn’t, but his stomach seized that moment to rumble loudly. “What can I do?” he asked, peering over her head at the preparations for supper.
“Nothing,” she said, and ducked out from his arms to reach for the plates. “Just pour the wine and enjoy the meal.”
It might have been his massively guilty conscience, but he imagined just a shade of “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shal
l die,” about her muttered order.
“Angel—”
She thrust the plates into his hands. “Okay. Set the table, then.” She turned away to dish up the rice.
He did as she asked. Then swiped a hand over his mouth and wondered just what the hell he was going to do about the colossal mess he’d made of this whole affair, not to mention his whole damned life, in—yes, fuck it, Darcy was right—fucking record time.
GINA came awake with a gasp. She stiffened in alarm.
Where was she?
She realized she was lying on her side, in a cozy bed. The fleecy fabric of sweatpants caressed her legs and a soft T-shirt hugged her chest. Along with . . . a body. She cracked open an eyelid. And met the enquiring gaze of a pair of golden cat eyes. Gregg’s ginger tabby was curled up in her arms, tucked against her breasts, its furry head resting on the pillow just below her chin. She sagged in relief. The sleepy cat reached up and gave her jaw a lick, started purring, then closed its eyes and went back to sleep in mid-purr.
Gina smiled and stroked her fingers through its silky fur, loving the sensation of having her arms around the soft, warm, living creature.
Which was when she noticed the other warm living creature in the bed. Not so soft.
An impossibly large male body was spooned against her back, one arm slung casually over her waist, his leg between her knees, pinning her to the bed.
She went rigid.
“Relax,” he murmured. “You’ll annoy Penny.” When she didn’t move a muscle, he said, “The cat.”
She licked her lips and swallowed. “What are you doing, Gregg?”
“Getting some much-needed sleep,” he returned. “I suggest you do the same.”
A noise of incredulity made it past her fear-tightened throat.
“You know, this is getting pretty old,” he said, sounding worn out. “Like I’ve said about a hundred times, if I were going to hurt you, don’t you think I’d have done it by now?”
“No. You like to torment me,” she squeezed out. “You always have.”
He sighed. The heat of his breath stirred the hairs on the top of her head. “Only sexually. And you used to like it when I did.”
She didn’t want to be reminded of their sex games. He had an obsession about controlling her. And yes, she’d enjoyed it. Then. But now . . . An involuntary shudder racked through her. “The thought disgusts me.”
“I know.” His fingertips started to brush over her abdomen, then halted. “I get it. After what they did to you—”
“Shut up!” she cried, startling the cat so badly it jumped up and scampered off the bed. “Don’t you dare talk to me about that!” She didn’t want his sympathy. Or his pity. She didn’t want anything from him, including his touch. She moved to follow the cat off the bed.
His arm clamped tighter around her. “We both need sleep, Gina. There’s only one bed. I need you to stay.”
She tried to pull away. “I don’t want to. I’ll sleep in the chair.”
“No. You have to get over your fear of me. I’m not going to hurt you. We’ve been through this. I thought you believed me.”
Her gaze lighted on the small, incongruous bouquet of yellow roses and forget-me-nots sitting in a vase on the dresser—the flowers she’d bought with him in mind—which he’d plucked from the sidewalk after killing the men who’d intended to abduct her. A part of her wanted to, but . . .
“I don’t know what to believe,” she confessed, and stopped struggling against his hold. Tears welled in her eyes. He’d always been so damn bossy. And she was so tired of fighting. Fighting him, fighting her fears, fighting to stay alive. Fighting the guilt that had consumed her every day since she’d consented to do her terrorist captors’ bidding in order to stay alive.
“Hush, it’s okay,” his deep voice soothed.
Just as that other deep voice had once done. The Voice had helped her through the worst day of her captivity. She wanted so badly to believe there was someone else who wanted to help her, too. Was it possible?
His big hand brushed over her arm. “I swear to you, Gina, I’m going to get whoever did this to you. To us.” She felt the whisper of a kiss behind her ear. “Trust me. For God’s sake, please, just trust me.”
His plea touched some small, carefully guarded, boarded-up place in her heart. Either that, or on some level she understood she could never win against him. Against her will, the steel coil of tension within her slowly unwound and she sagged back against his solid frame. But she still couldn’t let it go completely. “I trusted you before, and look where it got me.”
His nose burrowed deeper in her hair. “Me, as well. But they messed with the wrong man if they think they’ll get away with it. Work with me, sweet thing. Help me find the real traitor. It would be so much easier to do this together.”
The feel of his firm, muscular body pressed up head-to-toe against hers must have been short-circuiting her brain, because she was actually starting to believe him.
Besides, it wasn’t like he’d let her leave. At this point, what did she have to lose?
“I’m probably insane,” she said with a sigh. “But all right. I’ll go along with you. I’ll help.”
“Thank God.” He pressed his body a fraction closer.
“For now. But when this is over, I never want to see you again. Understood?”
He went still for a long moment. Then he said, “Okay. If that’s how you want it.”
“It is,” she assured him.
“All right,” he said, and if she didn’t know better, she would swear he sounded . . . hurt.
But of course, that was impossible. Men like Gregg van Halen didn’t get hurt. They only hurt others.
She had to remember that. In case she was ever tempted to feel anything for the man again. Anything other than hate and mistrust.
SARAH glanced at her watch then checked herself in the mirror one last time. She’d put on one of her best dresses for her “date” with Wade Montana, a knee-length, scoop-necked number in clingy teal with cap sleeves. She’d taken extra care with her makeup so her hazel eyes popped green, and fluffed her hair into a sexy, just-out-of-bed disarray that hopefully made one overlook its ordinary brown color.
Pretty darn hot for an old broad, she thought with a wry smile.
Not that forty-five was old. Some days she felt ancient, but everyone said forty-five was the new thirty-three. Who was she to argue?
The doorbell rang and she opened it to find Wade leaning negligently against one of the pillars that held up the townhouse’s portico roof. He held a wine bottle-shaped paper bag in his hand, which he started to lift with a smile, then stopped at the sight of her and whistled approvingly.
“Damn, Detective, you look dynamite.”
She looked over his latest-style black suit with black shirt and tie, and grinned back at him. Seemed the aliens only came out at night. “And you look very Men in Black. Do we have time for a glass of whatever that is?” She indicated the bag and swung the door wide for him to come in.
“Absolutely.” He sauntered in, brushing a kiss on her cheek as he passed.
She led him to the living room wet bar and handed him a bottle opener while she got out two crystal glasses. He poured a splash in each while she studied him. His brown hair was short but stylish; his ski-tan gave him an athletic, all-American look, as did his square jaw and clear blue eyes. No doubt about it: Wade Montana sure didn’t look like a lying jerk. He looked like the kind of man every woman dreamed of taking home to mama.
“Did I miss a spot of shaving cream?” he asked, his eyes sparkling knowingly.
“Not that I can see. But I could be persuaded to take a closer look,” she said, accepting the wineglass. “I am a detective, you know.”
The corner of his lip curved. “Please. By all means.”
Holding his gaze, she lifted her hand and slowly ran the backs of her fingers over the smooth hollow of his cheek and along his jaw, then trailed them across his chin and above h
is upper lip. She drew their tips down over his mouth, picking up moisture from his bottom lip as they caught on it.
He let out a soft groan. “Are you trying to seduce me, Detective?”
She gave him a little smile as she lowered her hand and sipped her wine. “Is it working?”
His gaze followed the movement. “Take a wild guess.”
She let her own gaze drift down to the front of his pants. Her smile widened. An unbidden thrill spun through her. “I guess it is.”
He took a step toward her. But anticipating the move, she turned and strolled to the center of the room. Instead of following, he went over to the bookshelves, tucking his free hand into his trouser pocket. She had to give him points for being a gentleman. Or maybe he just enjoyed the chase as much as she did.
He perused the spines of her books, sipping his wine. He pulled one out, examined the cover, and raised an enquiring brow as he turned the book for her to see. It was an erotic romance novel. Two men and a woman, all nude, were sharing a moment on the cover.
She smiled. “What can I say. Every woman’s fantasy.”
“Really.”
“You’ve never fantasized about being with two women?”
He replaced the book. “God forbid,” he said turning back with a wicked grin. “It’s hard enough to please one woman, let alone two.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she told him with a laugh.
He strolled up to her. “And you’re sexy as hell. I may have to do something about that.”
“What, before dinner?”
She could see he was torn—the man in him that wanted sex versus the agent that wanted information. Who would win?
“You’re right. The night is young,” he said, brimming with just the right touch of amused frustration.
Poor baby.
She finished her wine, then reached out to cup his jaw. And kissed him. A measured, open-mouthed kiss, delivered with an edge of need she couldn’t quite disguise. A low groan rumbled from his throat. She pulled away before he could step into her and deepen the kiss.
