Live-In Lover

by Lyn Stone

With one finger, he brushed the other strap free and watched the edge of the lacework cling to her distended nipples.

  Molly reached out and caught his hand. Her tentative smile had flown. “This is where I tell you, trite as it sounds, I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” she whispered. One creamy shoulder lifted in a small shrug. “Really.”

  Damien felt his heart twist. He surrounded her and held her, burying his face in her hair, taking in the clean innocence of her scent. “Don’t you think I know that? I know it as surely as I know how good you are, my darling.”

  “No,” she protested. “I’m not very good, Damien…at sex,” she clarified. “Never was.”

  Another reason to kill Jack Jensen, Damien thought darkly. The sorry excuse for a man had tried to destroy Molly’s pride, her belief in herself as a woman.

  Damien released her, then lifted her in his arms, carried her the few feet to the bed and gently deposited her on it. With his hands on his hips, he looked down at her. Disheveled, all but nude, aroused and sexy beyond belief, Molly peered up at him with uncertainty clouding her eyes. Dispelling that insecurity became his primary goal in life.

  Damien shook his head and smiled. “Nothing I say will convince you how wrong you are about that. I suppose I shall have to show you.”

  Again, that small hesitant laugh he loved. One of her long, slender hands rested on her chest, her fingers toying with the delicate gold chain around her neck. “You shall, Damien? How very proper,” she drawled, her accent pure Scarlett.

  His heated looks must be feeding her confidence a bit, Damien thought with satisfaction. He grinned as he tossed his holstered weapon aside and removed his shirt. Then he sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, removed the rest of his clothing and reached into the pocket of his slacks. “Not very proper at all, my sweet, as you will soon discover.”

  “Ah, is this my down-and-dirty-in-seedy-surroundings treat?” she asked, her voice teasing and sultry as hell.

  “My specialty,” he answered, turning to her. He caught her mouth with his as he donned protection. Much as he would love for Molly to have his child, that was never to be—and they both knew it.

  He’d intended to keep the kiss light, as she seemed to want, to need, but the taste of her overwhelmed him. The sweet mix of her perfume and desire, the silken feel of her skin beneath and next to the slippery satin of that lacy concoction she wore made him too hot to play, to prolong what they both wanted so desperately.

  She met him with an eagerness that matched his, her hands on him everywhere, those long delicate fingers clutching his arms, his shoulders, his back, sliding lower, grasping. Her mouth invited, surrendered, demanded in moves more consummation than kissing.

  Her breasts filled his hands, their rose-colored tips begging for his mouth. He blazed kisses down her neck until he reached them and feasted with a greed that astonished him almost as much as it fueled his hunger. She pleaded for more, her voice a soft mix of need and euphoria.

  With no further thought of delay, Damien levered himself above her and pressed her full length, insinuating himself against the place he most wanted to be. One hand between them, he impatiently unsnapped the teddy she wore and immediately sank into her.

  The ease of entrance and her wordless sound of sheer pleasure reassured him, a bit belatedly, that she was ready. Damien held still and reveled in the ecstatic sensation of being within her, a part of her at last. But when she moved beneath him, restless for completion, Damien gave in to her urgency and his own.

  He withdrew, almost mindless with anticipation, and thrust slowly.

  Her fingers dug into his hips. “Please,” she cried.

  With near superhuman effort, he managed one more lengthy and exhilarating foray, then abandoned himself to the rhythm she sought.

  Furiously he took her then, with no inkling of finesse or propriety or sweetness. He devoured her hot, willing mouth and claimed every available inch of her softness with his hands as he thrust into her again and again.

  Too soon, and not soon enough, she arched against his weight and cried out. Damien exulted in her release even as his own swept over him, through him and into her. She welcomed it with a last rippling shudder that wreaked havoc on his heart.

  Breath shallow, mind numb, and body spent, he held her. “How?” he gasped into the softness of the tumbled curls next to her ear. “How can I ever…let you go?”

  She neither moved nor answered, but he hadn’t expected she would. What more could she say than she had said already? No ties. He’d known almost from the beginning, certainly before this happened.

  As reason returned, Damien turned onto his side, still holding her close. With one hand, he stroked her slender back down to her smooth, rounded hips and rested there. “Are you all right?”

  “This didn’t work, did it?” she asked, sounding worried.

  He sighed against her damp temple and dropped a kiss there. “Not as we thought it might, no. I can’t envision a time when I won’t want you, Molly.”

  “What do we do now?” Her hand rested over his heart.

  He covered it with his, lifted it to his mouth and kissed her palm. “Take what we can have and worry about the future when it gets here.”

  “Plan C, huh?” she whispered, nuzzling his neck with her lips. “Live for the moment?”

  “Definitely a workable plan.” He kissed her soundly, leaving no question about his present intent. Damien wouldn’t trade this particular moment for anything, no matter what the future held for them.

  At two in the morning, Damien’s cell phone chirped. Molly nudged him awake. “Where is it?” she mumbled, then saw he was already feeling the floor beside the bed for his clothes. He straightened his jacket and fished the phone out of the pocket.

  “Perry here,” he answered, his voice gravelly with sleep. He sat up, dragged the sheet across his lap and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Brenda?”

  “What’s wrong?” Molly demanded, on her knees beside him, pulling on her teddy. “What’s happened? Is it Syd?”

  He shushed her with a motion of his hand and frowned as he listened. “Calm down, Brenda, I can’t understand you.” Then he straightened, frowning, alert and holding the phone with both hands. “We’ll be there in ten, fifteen tops.”

  Molly clung to his arm. “What, Damien? Tell me!”

  “Get dressed,” he ordered. “The baby’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Molly cried, hysteria threatening to overtake her. “What do you mean, gone?”

  He steadied her with one hand and scooped up her shirt with the other. “Brenda fell asleep in the living room. She just woke up, went to check on Sydney and found her missing.”

  “The crib!” Molly guessed, clutching at straws. “She climbed out of it. She’s always tried to…”

  He threaded her arms through her sleeves and pulled her shirt together in front. “Yes, well, we had better go and find her, right? Here’s your skirt. Quickly now!”

  While she fumbled with her clothes, Damien hurried into his, not even bothering with his socks. His speed frightened her.

  “Damien? What are you thinking? She’s there, I know it. Nobody could have taken her! The house was locked. Mama wouldn’t go to sleep without locking up—”

  “No, of course not,” he assured her, his voice steady and soothing. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, scaring her with the obvious effort to calm himself. “Get your shoes, Molly. Let’s go!”

  “It’s Jack,” Molly said, shaking uncontrollably as Damien put her in the car. “Jack has her! Oh, Damien—”

  “We don’t know that,” he said, yanking her seat belt across her lap and clicking it closed. “She could have climbed out.”

  He didn’t sound convinced. He didn’t even sound hopeful. Molly covered her face with her hands and struggled to control herself, to believe Syd was safe, asleep in some corner of the house where her mother hadn’t looked. She couldn’t. “Oh, God!”

  The speed wi
th which Damien drove to Clarkston barely registered in her mind, but it had to be less than a quarter hour—the longest she’d ever spent—before they wheeled up to the curb in front of the house. A police car, lights flashing, sat in the driveway.

  Molly released her belt and was out almost before the car stopped. She tore up the walkway and ran straight into her mother’s arms. “Where is she? Where’s my baby?” she screamed, struggling to pull away, to go inside and search.

  Damien grabbed her from behind and held her. “Wait, Molly. Be still! Listen! Brenda, has she been found?”

  “No-ooo,” her mother cried. “The window,” she said, shaking her head. “He cut the screen and broke the glass right over the lock. I didn’t hear it.” She bent double, clutching her stomach and sank to the top step. “I didn’t hear her! I was asleep,” she sobbed. Molly watched her rock back and forth, already well into the desperate nightmare just beginning to grip Molly.

  “Jensen,” Damien spat, and uttered a foul curse. His fingers almost bruised her shoulders as he pushed her down beside her mother on the front steps. “Wait here. I’ll talk to the police.”

  “No use,” Molly mumbled against her mother’s shoulder. Her own heart thundered so loud she couldn’t hear her own words. She wanted to die. Syd, her poor little Sydney, probably already had. Jack hated her, hated them both. Wanted them to die. It was her last coherent thought.

  Damien rushed back out when Brenda called. Molly had crumpled, her shoulders shaking unmercifully. He quickly lifted her, carried her inside and placed her on the sofa. Her pulse felt rapid. Her face and lips pale with shock.

  “Pillows, Brenda!” he instructed. “Let’s get her feet higher than her head.” He propped them on the arm of the sofa and lifted Molly’s hips so her mother could stuff the sofa cushions under her. He dragged the crocheted afghan from the back of the sofa and covered her. “Get her something sweet to drink,” he ordered.

  The chubby cop ran to the kitchen and was back in a flash with a soft drink. Damien shook Molly. “C’mon, darling. We don’t have time for this!”

  “She never falls apart!” Brenda exclaimed, wringing her hands as she knelt by Molly. “Molly’s usually so strong!”

  “Should I call in the FBI?” the cop asked, sounding as distraught as Brenda. Damien wondered if the man had even hit twenty yet. He surely hadn’t seen a crime any more devastating than someone jumping a caution light or running a Stop sign.

  “I am the FBI,” Damien growled. “Get on the horn and get me Detective Mitch Winton, Nashville, main precinct.” He jerked a card out of his wallet. “Call him at home if you have to. Move it, Officer!”

  By the time Molly responded and tried to sit up, Damien was on the phone. “Winton? Perry here. Jensen’s snatched the baby… Yes, I know that! Just find out where the hell he really is, will you? We’ll meet you at Molly’s house within the hour.”

  He punched the button to disconnect and then dialed the Memphis number to reach the agent-in-charge, Michael Duvek. Fortunately, Duvek agreed that Damien should run the investigation since he was already there and familiar with the situation. He promised two more agents would be there no later than six o’clock the next morning.

  “He will call Ford,” Brenda said hopefully. “Won’t he?”

  “Yes,” Damien assured her. “I’m certain he will.” He turned his attention to Molly who hung on his every word. “It will be all right, darling. We’ll find Sydney.”

  She gasped. “What if he’s already—”

  “Don’t say it! Don’t even think it, Molly. He has no reason to hurt the baby,” Damien said, hoping to sooth her enough to ward off the hysteria he could see reforming. It wasn’t working. He shook her, a bit more sharply than he meant to. “Pay attention to me, Molly. Hold it together. Syd’s depending on us now.”

  She nodded, almost frantically, sucked in a deep breath and nodded again. “Fine. I’m okay.” Her face twisted into a grimace of the worst pain Damien had ever witnessed before she covered it and sobbed once. A second later she shook it off. Her eyes blazed green fire and her chin lifted. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go find her.”

  Damien felt his own eyes sting. Her courage, her love and her determination were something to behold, he thought with pride. He pulled her up from the sofa and then offered Brenda his hand. Desperate to provide whatever bit of hope he could, Damien said, “You know what I think Jack will do? I believe he’ll take Sydney to his mother. There’s no one else he can trust to hide her for him.”

  Molly shuddered. “But what if he—”

  “He won’t hurt her, Molly,” Damien declared firmly, trying hard to believe his own words, praying he was right. “If we catch him, it’s only parental kidnapping, you see? He’ll get little more than a reprimand and he knows that. He’s banking on that.” God, he hoped he was right. “The only reason he took Sydney is because he couldn’t find you. He wants you to suffer by wondering what happened to her.”

  He squeezed her hand and Brenda’s. “We’re not going to allow him to get away with this.” He looked from her to her mother and back again, ignoring the cop’s rabid fascination and the fact that he was a witness to the threat. “I’m not going to allow it, do you hear?”

  “Damn!” the young officer exclaimed. “I’d sure like to be in on this.”

  “You are in on it, Peacock,” Damien reminded him dryly. “Guard this place with your life. Keep everybody out of the house and the yard until an investigator arrives in the morning to dust for prints and look for tracks outside. Do not disturb the scene. Do not corrupt it, and don’t let anyone else in. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!” Peacock affirmed. “That’s just in case it wasn’t the daddy that snatched her, right?”

  Damien prayed for patience. “We already know who took her. It’s routine to gather clues, Peacock. Simply routine.”

  Molly and Brenda hurried out the door. Damien turned his head as he followed them and nodded to the cop to indicate his belated agreement with Peacock’s blunt supposition.

  Just in case it wasn’t the daddy.

  Chapter 12

  “Why aren’t they all out looking for her?” Molly demanded of Damien as she paced the living room.

  So far the two agents, Joseph Blancher and Bill Thomas, and Detective Winton had done nothing but hold a gab fest in her kitchen and swill her coffee.

  Damien’s sympathetic look did little to appease her. She wanted an explanation.

  “Nobody’s doing anything! Why isn’t this on TV? Then everybody could be searching. What if Jack just put her out by the road somewhere or gave her to strangers?”

  Damien took her hands, led her to the sofa and pulled her down beside him. “They’re in there coordinating a private search right now, Molly, but we’ve decided it’s not wise to televise this. We don’t want Jack to panic.” He smoothed a hand up her arm, and Molly shivered.

  She leaned her head forward onto his chest and rested it there, whispering because the thought she had was so unspeakable. “If he does panic, he might…get rid of her?”

  Damien didn’t answer, and she knew she’d guessed right. She pushed away from him and withdrew her hands, brushing them down the front of her slacks, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. She had showered and changed when they got home, in hopes of pulling herself together, but she still felt scattered, totally unnerved. And absolutely terrified.

  “This is all my fault, Damien. If only I hadn’t agreed to go last night—”

  He stopped her. “I know. I feel guilty as hell about it, but we can beat ourselves up later. At the moment we have to think about getting Sydney back safely. That’s all that matters. Blaming ourselves won’t help at this point.”

  Molly nodded. He was right, but she couldn’t help how she felt. Neither could her mother. “Mama’s convinced she’s the one to blame for everything. She was so upset, I gave her a sleeping pill. They just hype me up.” Molly shook her head and cleared her throat, determined not to cry anymore. “You r
eally think Syd’s with Jack’s mother? Oh, God, I hope she is!”

  “Makes sense Jack would take her there,” he said.

  Winton came to the door and beckoned to Damien. Molly stood. “You can talk in front of me. I won’t go to pieces. Not unless you insist on keeping everything secret from me. In that case, you haven’t seen a fit like I’m about to pitch. What have you found out?”

  He looked at Damien, for permission, she supposed. He nodded and Winton came into the room. He took the chair opposite the sofa and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked as if he’d already spent a full day on the job instead of the three hours he had been here. It was only seven-thirty. The sun was barely up.

  “We had someone go to the Marriot to see if Jensen really was there. He was. Sound asleep. Your pal over there swears the car hasn’t moved since he checked in.”

  Winton puffed out a breath of frustration. “We can’t pick him up. There’s nothing even halfway solid indicating he had anything to do with this.”

  Damien tapped a finger on his lips, a habit Molly noticed he had when he was lost in thought. He spoke almost as if to himself. “Theory one, he’s working with an accomplice and switched vehicles with whoever was impersonating him while he went to Clarkston. Two, he had an accomplice take the baby for him. Three, he’s not involved at all and we have to approach this as a non-parental kidnapping. The Jensens have the wealth that makes that a possibility.” He looked up at Winton then. “What do you think?”

  The detective shrugged. “Might be he enlisted his father or some friend to pose as himself, bring him another vehicle, throw you off guard. Make you think he was good as his word and was staying out of town. He had plenty of time to get back into the Marriot this morning before we checked the room.”

  Damien agreed. “And he would do that because he had to know he would be suspect number one.”

  “If he’d had someone else break in and take the kid,” Winton questioned, “how would he have known you and Ms. Jensen wouldn’t be there at the time to prevent it? And that Mrs. Devereaux would be sleeping and provide opportunity? Nope. I don’t buy that. Your third idea’s feasible, of course, but you said no one else knew the Jensen child was there in Clarkston, so how could she be a target for ransom?”