by Maggie Price
“I was a landscape designer in Houston,” Grace replied from the table beside Iris’s. “That’s where Mark and I live. I quit my job about six months ago.” Grace almost moaned as her masseuse’s nimble fingers spread warm oil across her bare back. “Now I’m not sure that was the smartest thing, considering.”
“Considering?”
Grace paused as if trying to pull in strength to discuss a painful subject. “Mark and I have been trying to have a baby for a couple of years. We’ve had no luck. I quit my job, thinking maybe concentrating on my career was having a negative effect on things. That doesn’t seem to have been the problem.”
“I’m sure you’re frustrated.”
“We both are, although Mark does a good job of not showing it in front of me.” Grace felt the warm massage oil seep into her skin, scenting the air with the delicate aroma of roses. “I know I could be a good mother and he will make a great father. He’s so warm and loving. And a wonderful provider.” Grace felt a ping of satisfaction when Iris let her gaze rest on the gold band with its enormous diamond Grace had purposely kept on while exercising.
“What does your husband do?”
“He’s in oil and gas,” Grace said vaguely. “And owns holdings in other energy concerns.”
“I see.”
“Actually our second honeymoon is only one reason we’re in Vegas,” Grace continued. She hadn’t expected to have a chance to impart so much information to Iris during their first meeting, but since the opportunity had arisen, Grace intended to gain as much mileage as possible. “Our third attempt at in-vitro fertilization failed last week. Mark thought we both could use some getaway time to help take the edge off our disappointment.”
“It must be so difficult for you,” Iris said. “To want a baby so badly.”
“Yes.” Without warning, a swell of grief for the child she’d lost hit Grace. A fist closed around her heart when she thought of how overjoyed Ryan had been when she’d told him she was pregnant. And then, barely an hour later, Ryan lay dead. And weeks later she’d miscarried…
The tears stinging her eyes left Grace shaken. It was strange how grief could hide inside you, laying low like a virus, then surge back to life without warning.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Iris stretched her arm between the tables to squeeze Grace’s wrist. Iris’s smile remained sympathetic and her eyes friendly, but Grace could almost feel the possibilities clicking in the woman’s brain.
“You didn’t upset me, I did it to myself,” Grace said. She took a grip on her emotions, centered herself mentally. She would deal later with the unsteadiness that had settled inside her. “I apologize for getting weepy.” Grace sent Iris a determined smile. “I’ve got a great life, a wonderful husband. I don’t have anything to sniffle about.”
“I’m sure things will work out.” Iris squeezed her wrist again. “And once you do have a baby, your life will be even better.”
Chapter 5
Dressed in sharp-creased tan slacks, a black polo shirt and windbreaker, Mark let himself into the suite late that afternoon. He shrugged out of the windbreaker, grimacing when his sore muscles protested the effects of the eighteen holes of golf he’d played.
Anyone observing him earlier would have assumed that Mark Calhoun of Houston, Texas, had no connection with the threesome who’d invited him to join them on the links when he checked in with the golf pro. In reality, the trio of men consisted of FBI agents. They’d brought Mark up-to-date on Iris Davenport’s activities since the Bureau had begun its surveillance.
One agent was charged with overseeing the tap, authorized by a federal judge, that had been placed on the phone in Davenport’s hotel room. Another agent obtained and scanned daily copies of security tapes during the times Davenport spent shopping, gambling in the casino and eating in the various restaurants inside the Gold Palace. The other agent made sure the trash collected each day from Davenport’s room got passed to him instead of dumped into a maid’s cleaning cart.
So far Davenport had neither made nor received a single phone call. When she gambled, it was alone. Her meals were solitary affairs, usually spent with her nose in a police-procedural paperback. To date, her trash had contained nothing remarkable.
Mark knew from experience that surface observations were necessary, even though they meant little. He had run across serial child killers whose looks and behavior were so benign they could get a job playing Santa at any mall in the country.
He laid his room key card on a table next to a vase that held enough fresh flowers to turn the air ripely funereal with their scent. Glancing around the suite’s living room, he saw no sign that Grace had returned from the spa. He hoped her first encounter with Davenport had given her some instinctive sense of the type of person they were dealing with. As it was, they were currently in the familiar no-man’s-land of suspicion without proof. Investigative hell. He and Grace both believed Davenport was involved in the murders and kidnappings, but without evidence, they couldn’t be certain.
Mark rolled his shoulders, which seemed to be getting stiffer by the minute. Since his and Grace’s cover was of husband and wife, their clothes shared space in the bedroom’s chest of drawers and walk-in closet. He decided this would be a good time for him to grab a shower and change.
He strode down the short hallway, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet the shade of pewter. Like the living room, the bedroom was spacious and refined. Long vertical blinds covered the glass doors to the balcony; a touch to a button on a remote would lever the blinds open to reveal the muted grays and blues of the soft desert evening that would soon settle in. Another button was programmed to raise a wall panel to reveal a wide screen TV, DVD player and hi-tech stereo system. A rich tapestry of flowers and ribbons covered the sofa and matching chairs that faced a marble fireplace. The bed was as big as an ocean, clad in cream-colored Irish linen.
Still gripping his windbreaker, Mark let his gaze sweep across the bed. He knew without question that tonight—every night—he would lie awake on the living room couch and picture Grace in this immense bed. In his mind’s eye he carried the memory of how she looked while she slept—her black hair a gorgeous mess, her lips slightly parted, her dark lashes fanning her cheeks. Maybe after six years she had changed on the inside. He sure as hell had. But physically she was the same woman he had known and made love to. The same woman his body now ached for.
A noise filtered into his consciousness, a low moan that seemed to come from nowhere. Eyes narrowing, he tossed his windbreaker onto the foot of the bed. He did a visual scan of the adjoining dressing room as he strode past it, then paused at the bathroom’s closed door.
“Grace?”
When he got no answer, he knocked. The light rap caused the door to push slightly open, bringing with it a cloud of steam and the sound of a muffled sob.
He took in everything at once: the long rose-toned counter over which hung a mirror ringed in lights. A separate shower constructed of wavy glass blocks. The lush green plants that lined the tiled shelf beside the oversize tub, its jets bubbling softly. And Grace, up to her neck in steamy water, her face buried in a snowy white towel.
She had her back to him, so he had a good view of her damp bare shoulders as they shook.
A cold fist tightened Mark’s stomach. He moved to the tub and gripped her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Her head snapped up. Her body jolted beneath his palms, sending a wave of water sluicing out of the tub and onto the gleaming marble floor. She crammed the towel against her breasts as she drilled him with a hostile look across her shoulder. “Get out.”
Framed by her dark, wet hair, her face was pale as a sheet. Her dark lashes were spiked with damp from tears.
“Are you hurt?”
“Dammit, Santini, let go.” She twisted to try to free herself of his hold. “Leave me alone.”
“As soon as you tell me why you’re crying.”
He didn’t catch her succinct reply, b
ut he got the drift when she surged to her feet. His mind had time to register inviting curves and water-slicked flesh before she wrapped the towel around her, then rounded on him. “It’s none of your business.”
“It is if it has to do with your first meeting with our suspect.”
A shadow flashed across her eyes then was gone. “It doesn’t.” Gripping the knot of the towel between her breasts, Grace stepped out of the tub, turned toward the counter, then lost her footing on the wet floor.
Mark grabbed her, gripping her upper arms to steady her. Beneath his hands, she felt as taut as a bowstring. “Careful,” he cautioned. “Marble floors are like black ice when they get wet.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Lifting her chin, she sent him a look that could have caught a bush on fire. “Since you walked in without knocking, I assume you need to use the facilities. Back off, Santini, and I’ll get out of your way.”
“I did knock. You didn’t hear me because you were crying.” He tightened his fingers on her arms. “Why, Grace?”
“I just needed to.” She eased out a breath that wasn’t quite steady. “Leave it alone, okay? Some people need a good crying jag once in a while. I’m one of them,” she added, then shifted her gaze from his.
He’d sat in prisons with killers cursing him, attended meetings in grim conference rooms with the grief-stricken parents of victims—and he’d maintained perfect control. Seeing Grace looking so fragile while secrets lurked behind her dark eyes shook that control.
The regret he’d shoved back earlier in the day welled up inside him. Old memories, too close to the surface to push away, tightened his chest until he could almost forget there had been no time between. He studied her profile, both angular and soft, while heat swarmed in his blood. His gaze skimmed down the long arch of her throat, still beaded with water.
He loosened his hold on one arm, grazed his fingertips upward to the hot, moist flesh of her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered shut. “Grace?”
When she still didn’t look at him, he cupped her chin in his hand and nudged her head around, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Do you remember that movie we saw?” he asked quietly. “The one where the dog died at the end? We had to sit in the theater for ten minutes after the lights went on because you were crying so hard.”
“I remember.” She sniffled. “It was sad. What about it?”
“You said the same thing then—that some people need a good crying jag every so often.”
“It’s true.”
He closed his hand around her throat and felt her pulse jump under his fingers. “I didn’t like seeing you sad then. I don’t like it now.” He rubbed his thumb against her soft flesh and dropped his gaze to her mouth. That smooth, lush mouth that he knew tasted of heaven. “What made you sad today?”
“Life. Life in general.”
“That doesn’t give me a lot of information.”
“You don’t need information.” Her hands came up and pressed against his chest. But she didn’t try to shove him away. “I’m not some suspect, Santini. You don’t get to interrogate me.” Her breathing was noticeably shallow, but her voice held steady. “Be sure and close the door on your way out.”
“Interrogating you isn’t what I’m thinking about doing right now.”
“I know.” Wariness, touched with heat, flickered in her eyes. “Mark, being here like this isn’t good for either of us.”
“Feels good to me.” He speared his fingers up into her damp hair and angled her head back. “Damn good.”
He dipped his head, settled his mouth on hers and felt sharp, edgy need spring up inside him. His lips moved against hers out of memory and longing, the fit he remembered. A perfect one.
When he felt her shudder, he wrapped his arm around her, banding her against him, trapping her hands that were still pressed to his chest. Angling his head, he kissed her quietly, slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding past her parted lips to perform a seductive dance with hers.
Her fingers clenched, gripping his shirt as if she were being tossed around by a storm. They may have said goodbye to each other, he thought hazily, but the heat igniting between them spoke of unfinished business.
He fed on her mouth while she softened against him and his arousal went rock hard. And then she moaned his name, a husky rasp in the back of her throat. He swallowed that moan like a man feeding after a lifelong fast. His kiss turned fierce. Mindless. He could no longer think past the hot, soapy scent of her, the press of her body against his, her succulent, ripe taste. Grace—only Grace—could make him forget the rest of the world, forget his responsibilities. Make him even forget the darkness.
Until this moment he had not realized how far he had descended into that black, hollow pit. Had not known how little of himself the ghosts of all the victims he’d been too late to save had left behind. And now he didn’t want to let go—couldn’t let go—not when he’d discovered the light and warmth that came with Grace’s kiss.
The salvation.
He shoved one hand beneath the hem of the towel, his fingers splaying on the curve of her hip. Need barreled through him like a train out of control. He drew the room’s moist air into his lungs and felt it turn to fire.
He wanted to take her right there. Drag her to the slick, wet marble floor and drive himself into her. Sate his gnawing, tearing hunger for her while she was moaning for him. While she was molten and damp and her mouth as urgent and impatient as his. Take her before she remembered she didn’t want to give herself again to a man destined to walk away. To one who had no choice but to turn his back on the light and comfort she offered.
“Let me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Let me have you, Grace. Now.”
She couldn’t breathe or think. All her cool, controlled logic had vanished. In its place were rioting sensations. The hard feel of Mark’s muscled chest against her trapped hands. The urgent, desperate taste of his mouth. The spiraling heat, the thunder of his heartbeat, echoing that of her own hammering pulse.
Before, she’d had to divide her attention between focusing on breathing and making her legs support her. Now that his hand was beneath the towel and she felt the possessive press of his fingers against her hip, she’d lost all focus. All she knew now was need. Searing need and the thrill from his touch that snapped through her like a whip, with a quick, shocking burn.
The ache inside her was huge. She was close—so close—to surrender. To giving in to the madness where body ruled mind and blood roared over reason. A heartbeat away from giving herself up to the pulse that throbbed inside her as the heat of his mouth fanned the roaring fire between her legs.
So close to not caring how empty and hollow she would feel when he left her again.
But the part of her brain still functioning reminded her that she did care. That she’d been crying only moments before, grieving for people she had lost. One being the man who was currently kissing her as if he were starving for the taste of her.
She struggled to cling to the fine edge of reason, but discovered she no longer had the strength to resist him. Resist her own needs.
He slid one knee between her legs, forcing them apart so that he could press her closer. The hardness of his arousal against her belly filled her with a crazy sense of panic. The impatience, the heat, the hunger in his kiss all mixed together in a near brutal, thrilling assault. The urgency pumping from his body into hers nearly overpowered her. She wanted to race away to sanity. Wanted to stay in his arms and succumb to the reckless, maddening sensations.
Before she had to make the decision to stay or flee, the chime of the suite’s doorbell spiked into her brain. Mark cursed against her mouth. Grace stood stock-still in his arms, her lungs heaving, her entire body trembling as the chime sounded again.
With his hand still fisted in her hair, Mark dragged her head back and gazed down at her with eyes so full of raw emotion they threatened to consume her. “Expecting anyone?” he asked, his voice a hoarse rasp.
“I d
on’t… No.” Her mind reeled. Dazed, she fought for some rag of sanity and forced her brain to start working again. “Housekeeping, maybe?”
“If no one answers, they’ll let themselves in.” He muttered another curse. “Don’t want that.”
“No,” Grace agreed, and discovered that her lungs needed more oxygen than she could drag in.
He untangled his fingers from her hair. The hand molded against her bare hip slid down, his fingertips grazing her flesh so that she felt every second of his retreat from beneath the towel. “I’ll be back.”
She remained motionless, watching him stride out the door while her heart bumped madly against her rib cage and the echos of a million sensations rippled through her. She very much wished she had something specific to do, like see who was ringing the doorbell. Since Mark was handling that, all that was left for her was to think. Because she was afraid her legs wouldn’t support her much longer, she plopped down on the edge of the tub.
She had gone temporarily, crazily insane. That was the only reason she had to explain her actions. She had meant what she’d told Mark earlier in the day—she couldn’t pick up where they’d left off all those years ago, knowing it was only temporary. Knowing she might never see him again.
Grace stared at her reflection in the lighted mirror that spanned the length of the rose-toned counter. Her face was flushed, her dark hair a tangled mess from Mark’s fingers, her lips red and swollen from his kiss. She looked like a woman who’d been on the brink of being ravaged. In this case, looks weren’t deceiving. And if things had continued the way they’d been going, she was afraid—terribly afraid—it would have only been minutes before the towel still covering her would have been off, and Mark inside her.
So, would she have let things get that far? Or somehow found the strength to stop him? Stop herself?
“Damn,” Grace breathed when she realized she didn’t know the answer. The logical part of her had wanted to tell him no, she could at least give herself that. But with her body on fire and a savage need crawling through her like a swarm of ants, it was wholly possible she’d be on that wet marble floor, naked and wrapped around him at this very instant if the doorbell hadn’t chimed.
