Dream Man

by Linda Howard

  Dane writhed on the sheet. Oh, God, if she didn’t hurry, he was going to die. The shallow way she was riding him was working the swollen head of his shaft with almost ceaseless pressure. A harsh groan tore from his chest. He wanted to thrust, deep, needed to thrust more than he had ever needed anything, but he refused to let himself do so. There would be times when his needs would take precedence. This time, however, was Marlie’s. He shivered with the intensity of the pleasure. He thought his heart was going to explode; he knew for damn sure his cock was.

  She was very wet now, and her rhythm had become faster. The fitted sheet came loose as he pulled at it. He arched, his body so rigid that his weight was supported only on his heels and his shoulders. A mist swam in front of his eyes.

  “Marlie.” The word was guttural, his voice almost unrecognizable. Despite himself, he was pleading. “Deeper … please. Deeper. Take … the rest … of it.”

  If she heard him, she didn’t respond. She was lost in her own sensual whirlpool, unheeding of everything else. Her hands were braced on his chest, her eyes were closed. Her hips rocked. A breathless sob broke from her lips, and with a convulsive shudder she went down into the swirling depths, her entire body given over to the pleasure racking it.

  The rhythmic tightening of her inner muscles on him blasted the last shred of his control to smithereens. With a harsh, explosive growl he released his death grip on the sheet and grabbed her surging hips, forcing her downward as his own hips slammed upward, pushing his full length into her. He came with the first stroke, his orgasm bursting from him in a powerful stream as he convulsed beneath her, clamping her to him with ruthless, implacable hands, until it was over for both of them and she lay limply on his chest. Their heartbeats pounded together, shaking them from within.

  He felt as if he would never have the strength to move again. She felt as if she were warm wax, melted and poured over him. Neither of them could bear to separate their bodies.

  He trailed his hand up the slender length of her spine, feeling the way she was put together. He didn’t know how many women he had made love to in his lifetime, but he did know that the way he had felt then was nothing compared to how he felt now. There had been no other woman like Marlie; everything about her was new. He had never before been so fascinated by the details of a woman’s body, soft and fragrantly feminine. He had never before concentrated so intensely on a woman, so that he saw every flicker of expression and read every nuance of emotion. From the very beginning he had been aware of her slightest move, his body and senses attuned to her. He couldn’t even remember the name of his last lover; there was only Marlie.

  But as much as he wanted to spend the rest of the day right where he was, the red digital numbers of the clock beside the bed continued to chronicle the silent, relentless stream of time. It was eight-fifteen. He had to shower and shave, eat breakfast, and be downtown at ten.

  “I have to go,” he murmured.

  She didn’t lift her head from his chest. He continued to stroke her spine. “Where?”

  “To the station. We have a meeting with the lieutenant at ten.”

  She didn’t tense, but he felt the stillness that came over her. “About last night?”

  “Yeah. It was him, all right.”

  “I know.” She paused. “What happens now?”

  “We put together all the details we have from both cases, try to find what the victims had in common. Set up a task force to concentrate on this guy. Maybe call in the FBI.”

  She said steadily, “If you need me to go over it again, I will.”

  He knew what that offer could cost her, and he knew she had already braced herself to pay it. She would be met with ridicule, disbelief, and suspicion; that was what she had gotten from him, even though he had been so attracted to her, he could barely think straight. She knew what she was letting herself in for, and was willing to do it anyway.

  He squeezed her. “I don’t want to put you through that.”

  “But you will if you have to.”

  “Yes.”

  To his relief, her feelings weren’t hurt. She accepted the necessity. He smoothed her hair. “There’s something need to tell you,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t want you to read about it in the papers, or see it on the news.”

  She waited, knowing that it was going to be bad. Dane wished that he didn’t have to tell her, but he’d put it off as long as possible. Yesterday she hadn’t been in any shape to watch the news, but today was a different story. He didn’t want her to be alone when she found out.

  “Ansel Vinick killed himself Friday night.”

  The breath she had been holding leaked out in a sigh. So much pain, she thought sadly.

  “That’s three,” she said. “In one week, he’s killed three people.”

  “We’ll catch him,” Dane assured her, though they both knew it was far from a sure thing. He looked at the clock again. Eight-twenty.

  He rolled with her until he was on top, then gently disconnected their bodies. “Want to shower with me?”

  She looked at the clock, too. “No, I’ll cook breakfast. It’ll be ready when you’re finished.”

  “Okay. Thanks, honey.”

  Amused at how quickly he had accepted her offer to cook for him, she dressed and went into the kitchen. She usually ate simply, cereal and fruit, but a man his size would probably need more than that. She put on a pot of coffee, then hauled out her seldom-used waffle iron. While it was heating she stirred up the batter from a package mix. How much would he eat? She couldn’t finish one, but suspected he could put two or even three away with no trouble.

  She could hear the shower running, hear him whistling. The coffee maker was hissing and popping in the manner peculiar to coffee makers. She was cooking his breakfast. The domesticity of it stunned her, and her arms dropped to her sides. She had never cooked breakfast, cooked any meal, for another person in her life.

  For six years she had worked to build a safe, secure, ordinary, and solitary life. In one week, though, her life had been totally changed, and she was still struggling to find her balance. Safe, secure, and ordinary had gone by the wayside; now, evidently, her solitude was also gone. It wasn’t something she had chafed against; she had enjoyed being able to do things at her own pace, to sit up all night reading if she chose, to eat whatever she desired at the moment. Before Gleen, she had very much wanted a relationship, marriage, children. After Gleen, however, she had wanted only to be left in peace.

  Instead, there was a man in her shower. Not just any man, but Dane Hollister: grim, rough, frighteningly intense, a police detective who never went anywhere unarmed—and who was the most generous man she’d ever met. He gave of himself in a way she’d never expected, given the hostility of their first few encounters. He had come to her without hesitation, after her despairing cry for help on Friday night, and since then she had seen only tenderness in him. She had been attracted to him before, but had fallen in love with him because of his unhesitating generosity. She had needed him, so he had been there. It was as simple as that.

  She heard the shower cut off, then water running in the basin as he shaved. She finished the preparations for breakfast: a dusting of powdered sugar on the waffles, fresh strawberries, and syrup that she had heated in the microwave. She was pouring the coffee when he came into the kitchen. He wore only a pair of pants, and she went weak in the knees at the sight of that broad, muscular chest. His hair was damp and his face was freshly scraped, with two small nicks decorating his jaw. She inhaled deeply, drawing in his moist, soapy, slightly musky male scent.

  He smiled when he saw the meal awaiting him. “Waffles,” he said appreciatively. “I was expecting cereal.”

  She laughed. “That’s what I usually eat.”

  “I usually grab a doughnut, or a fast-food biscuit.” He sat down and began eating with obvious relish.

  She clicked her tongue reprovingly. “All that fat and cholesterol.”

  “That’s what Trammell says.”r />
  “How long have you been partners?” She hadn’t been around Trammell much, but she had liked him. He reminded her of a panther, sleek and exotic, with the same kind of supple, dangerous strength.

  “Nine years. We were on patrol together before we made detective, which we did at the same time.” Dane set to work on the waffles with obvious zeal.

  “That’s longer than a lot of marriages last.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but if I’d had to sleep with him, it wouldn’t have lasted a day.”

  “Have you ever been married?” She bit her lip as soon as the question was out. Her own privacy had been at such a premium for most of her life that she seldom asked any personal question. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  “Why?” He shrugged. “I don’t care if you ask. I’ve never been married, never been engaged.” He cleared his throat, evidently feeling that called for some explanation. “But I’m heterosexual.”

  “I noticed,” she said dryly.

  He grinned, his hazel gaze moving warmly over her. “For the record, I’m thirty-four. My folks live in Fort Lauderdale, and I have three brothers and two sisters, all of whom are married and have contributed to the population growth. Between the five of them, I have eighteen nieces and nephews, ranging in age from two to nineteen. When we all get together for holidays, it’s a zoo. All of them live in Florida, though we’re scattered all over the state. There are also the uncles and aunts and cousins, but we won’t go into them.” He watched her carefully as he outlined his large family, knowing that someone who had lived as Marlie had might find even the thought of all those relatives alarming. He had never before wanted to include any of his women friends in his private life, but everything was different with her. He hadn’t yet decided how it was different, but he accepted that it was.

  Marlie tried to imagine that kind of extended family, but couldn’t. She had always been forced to keep relationships of any kind at a minimum, and though in the past six years that limitation hadn’t been necessary, still she had clung to it, reluctant to let herself be vulnerable in any way.

  “My mother died in a fire when I was three,” she said. “Lightning struck our house. I don’t remember anything about it except this loud crack, louder than anything you can imagine, and even the air seemed to dissolve. A white light blotted out everything. A neighbor got me out of the house, and I was only slightly burned. My mother was in the part of the house that took the direct hit.”

  “Thunderstorms must make you nervous,” he commented.

  “They should, but they don’t. I’ve never been frightened of them, not even immediately afterwards.” She had had all of her waffle that she wanted, so she laid her fork down and picked up her coffee cup. “Lightning does some funny things. Dr. Ewell theorized that the enormous jolt of electricity somehow altered or enhanced my normal mental processes, making me more sensitive to the electrical energy given off by others. I was supposedly normal before, but afterward I became difficult, easily upset.”

  “Maybe because you’d lost your mother.”

  “Maybe. Who knows? I could have had the ability before, but simply wasn’t old enough to make myself understood. From what I was told, my mother was a quiet, serene sort of person, so maybe her presence kept me calm. At any rate, my father had a difficult time trying to raise me. The more frustrated and angry he became, the more I felt it. I had no idea of how to block him out. We were both very unhappy people.

  “I was the area weirdo. When I started school I didn’t make any friends, but that was okay with me because it was just too exhausting. Then I found some toddler who had wandered off, and it was in the newspapers, and Dr. Ewell came to talk to my father. I went to the Institute to be tested, liked the peace and quiet of it, and stayed. My father and I were both relieved.”

  “Where is he now?” Dane asked.

  “Dead. He visited me regularly for a while, but it was uncomfortable for both of us. The visits became further and further apart. He remarried when I was fourteen, I think, and moved to South Dakota. I met his wife only once. She was nice enough, but very uneasy with me. She had two children from her first marriage, but she and Dad didn’t have any. He died of a massive stroke when I was twenty.”

  “No other relatives?”

  “A few aunts and uncles, and some cousins I’ve never met.”

  She had essentially been alone since she’d been a child, he thought. No snuggling, no hugging. No giggling sleep-overs with friends during her teen years. He wondered if she had ever really been a child, if she had ever played. Probably not. There was something very adult about Marlie, a mental maturity that went far beyond her years. But despite her unorthodox childhood and, by necessity, very austere lifestyle, she was amazingly normal. Almost any eccentricity could have been justified by her upbringing, but she didn’t have any oddball habits or quirks.

  Unless he counted picking up the thought waves of a serial killer.

  He looked at the clock, and took one last sip of coffee. “I have to go, honey. This was great. What are we having for supper?”

  Caught between amusement, hope, and absolute terror that he evidently planned to stay with her again, all she could do was start laughing. “You’ve just finished breakfast,” she said between giggles.

  He pinched her chin. “Even in the Rubaiyat, old Omar listed food first.”

  “I thought the wine came first.”

  “Tells us a lot about him, doesn’t it?” He winked at her and went into the bedroom to finish dressing, and Marlie began clearing the table. She felt giddy. He was coming back that night.

  She wondered how he usually conducted his affairs. Was he satisfied with spending a night together every now and then, maybe just the weekends? Or would he come by every night, spend time with her, make love, and then go home to his own house? She didn’t know what to expect. There was a very satisfied air about him that led her to think he was very pleased with the personal outcome of the weekend, but perhaps that was just sexual satiation. She wasn’t experienced enough to tell the difference, assuming there was one. Despite his kindness, his tenderness, even his passion, despite the fact that she had fallen headlong in love with him, she was aware that she really didn’t know him.

  He was shrugging into his shoulder holster as he came out of the bedroom. “I forgot that I don’t have a jacket here,” he said, frowning. “I’ll have to stop by my house to get one, so I have to run.” He bent down to kiss her. “’Bye, honey. I don’t know how long this will take.”

  She put her hands on his chest and lifted herself on tiptoe for another kiss. “I have to do my grocery shopping, if you want anything at all to eat. If I’m not here, that’s where I’ll be.”

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close, forcing her hips against his. His mouth settled on hers for a kiss so hard and hungry that she went limp in his arms, shivering with delight. His hands sought her breasts, and rubbed between her legs. He forced her back against the cabinets and swiftly lifted her up onto them, pushing his hips between her spread thighs. She clung to his heavy shoulders, feeling the leather of the holster beneath her palms.

  He tore his mouth away with a groan. “God Almighty. We can’t do this. I don’t have time.” Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his eyes had that heavylidded, intent look that nearly made her beg him to stay. But she of all people knew the price of duty, and she forced herself to release him.

  “Go,” she said. “Now.”

  He stepped back, wincing as he reached down to adjust himself. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but it may take several hours. Do you have an extra house key?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Let me have it.”

  No hesitation or uncertainty for him, she thought as she jumped off the countertop and hurried to her purse. She gave him the extra key, and he slipped it onto his key ring. He started to reach for her, for another kiss, but caught himself in time. “Later,” he said, winking at her, and headed for the door.

&nb
sp; When he was gone, Marlie collapsed on the couch and tried to take stock of her life. She was wary, even frightened, of what was happening, but nothing on earth could have stopped her from plunging into the experience. For the first time in her life, she was in love, and it was wonderful.

  To Dane’s surprise, the chief of police was present at the meeting. Rodger Champlin, tall, white-haired, and stooped from too many years behind a desk, was nevertheless a career policeman who had come up through the ranks, and he had over forty years of service under his belt. He was a sly old dog who had managed to stay abreast of the flood of new technologies involved in police work, rather than stubbornly clinging to the outmoded ways he had learned in his youth.

  Bonness’s cramped office wasn’t big enough to hold everyone, so they went into a conference room and closed the door. Ivan was there, his lined face and bloodshot eyes evidence that he had been up all night. All the detectives were there, most of them obviously puzzled by this Sunday morning meeting, especially one that involved the chief.

  Bonness was drinking coffee as if it were all that kept him going. From the looks of him, he hadn’t slept much, if at all, and the hand holding the coffee cup trembled slightly from caffeine overload.

  Everyone got his own cup of coffee and settled into his chosen seat. Dane decided to stand, and propped himself against the wall.

  Bonness looked down at the sheaf of papers on the table before him, and sighed. He was obviously reluctant to begin, as if officially putting it in words would make it more real.

  “People, we have a big problem,” he said. “We only have two cases to compare, but the similarities are so overwhelming that we’re pretty certain we have a serial murderer operating in Orlando.”

  Dead silence filled the room as the detectives exchanged glances.

  “We were alerted to the possibility,” he said, without going into specifics, “which is why we’re able to get on it so fast.” He passed some of the papers to the detective seated to his right, Mac Stroud. “Take one and pass it down. These are the files on Nadine Vinick and Jacqueline Sheets. Read both of them carefully. Mrs. Vinick was murdered a week ago Friday, Ms. Sheets was killed this past Friday night.”