Killer Romances

by Dana Delamar, Talullah Grace, Sandy Loyd, Kristine Mason, Dale Mayer, Nina Pierce Chantel Rhondeau, K. T. Roberts, H. D. Thomson, Susan Vaughan

  He inhaled her fragrance. More intoxicating than the wine.

  Like a runner itching to steal second, he watched her eyes. She was hedging. “You said earlier that the spill was the catalyst. What did you mean? Did Who’s Next? fold?”

  “The magazine’s doing okay. What is this—Truth or Dare?” She glared at him over her jelly glass.

  “A little of both, I guess.” Dare you to tell the truth. He grinned at her as he emptied the bottle to top off both glasses. “Was it a man?”

  She clamped her mouth shut. Aha. The bits and pieces of the truth she’d dropped over the last several days fit together into a whole. “I’m betting he’s a jock. That’s why you hate us all. But he can’t be too bad. You said he was no damn Yankee.”

  Her matching glower morphed into a wry grin. “No Yankee. Ian Mackenzie’s a Redcoat.”

  Sam’s jaw dropped. “Ian Mackenzie, the tennis pro?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “I follow more than baseball. The only news I recall Mackenzie making concerned nasty disputes with line judges and opponents. Worse than McEnroe ever was.” A prime jerk, grabbing headlines any way he could, doing his sport no good.

  “That’s Ian, the British bad boy of tennis. Egotist supreme.” She pursed her lips. “The weaker his backhand, the stronger his spin on shot calls. His only recourse for staying in the spotlight.”

  “You were... involved with him?” Any mellowness from the wine vanished.

  “Practically engaged, to my regret. We met after a tournament when I interviewed another player. Ian gave me the rush. We went together for over a year. He can be very charming when he wants to be. Or when he wants something. We were talking marriage when I realized he was just using me.”

  “Using you?” This slime was lower than the dirt under home plate. “How? Publicity?”

  “He wanted me to do a story on him. A series, in fact. Cover every tournament and public appearance. That’s what opened my eyes.”

  “How does that tie in with New Orleans?”

  “Emma’s the only person I’ve ever told. It hurt too much to talk about. Odd, now it feels more like hurt pride than heartbreak.”

  His heart thumped hard. Annie trusted him enough to tell him her painful secret. More trust to heap guilt on him, but not enough that he’d stop her. Besides, it would distract them from wondering where the Hunter might be. “Time does heal. Look at me. No, bad example.”

  She rolled her eyes, but continued. “Ian nagged me to do an interview for Who’s Next? and I kept making excuses. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Eddie flat-out wasn’t interested.”

  “Let me guess. Who’s Next? wants rising stars, not sputtering ones. It’s not Who’s Finished?”

  “You got it. At the time, Ian’s career was only in a dip. Since then, self-absorption took his focus off the game and put him in a downward spiral.” Head angled, she met his gaze. “No injury, no loss of ability. He has only himself to blame.”

  Another loser who self-destructed. With the injury as his excuse, Sam’s self-absorption had prevented any focus but inward. “Am I supposed to glean a lesson from that?”

  “You’re not a loser unless you choose to be.”

  This wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. “Go on with your story,” he growled.

  “I should’ve seen through him when he pestered me to leave the magazine and freelance. But I didn’t see him for the selfish egotist he is until the oil spill sent me south.”

  “My God, what did he do?”

  “Monumental indifference to the suffering and destruction describes it. He headed for a tournament in the Midwest, the Kansas City Open. I planned to join him when the matches started, but, well...”

  “I know. You stayed to help with the rescue efforts and to cover the story.” He squeezed her shoulder and leaned closer to nuzzle her hair. He wanted to kiss the freckles on her nose, ease away the hurt caused by the dipstick who didn’t appreciate her. Instead, he draped his other arm across his lap to conceal his arousal. “Mackenzie didn’t like it?”

  “An understatement. He swore on the phone like he does at line judges. Interesting how a British accent can cloak a temper tantrum in elegant outrage. He called four times a day. If I wasn’t home, he blasted my machine. Ordered me to get my derrière out of that filthy sludge.”

  If Sam could get his mitts on the bum now, he’d make filthy sludge out of him, grind him under his boots. He still held his empty glass in the hand resting across his lap. When he noticed the white knuckles, he forced his fingers to relax. Last thing he needed was damage to his other hand. “Bet a packet of Oreos he wasn’t worried about your safety.”

  “He wanted me in K.C. so I could cover his come-back and hawk the story to Sports Illustrated or Tennis magazine.” Her laugh had a bitter edge to it. “His vaunted come-back never happened. Out of respect for the disaster, the U.S. Tennis Association canceled the tournament.”

  “That must have pissed him off. What happened next?”

  “He phoned that night. The rains had headed to K.C. All planes were grounded, and poor, poor Ian was stuck in nowhere. He blamed the U.S.T.A., the President, and FEMA for ruining his big chance. He blamed me for not being there to comfort him.”

  “I hope you hung up on the son of a bitch.”

  Her lips curved, but a tear leaked from one eye. “Not until I heard another woman’s voice calling him back to bed.”

  “Cheating son of a bitch.”

  “And not until I had my say. After I told Ian just what I thought of him, I gave him an order—never to call me again. The next day I changed to an unlisted number.”

  “Somehow I doubt Mackenzie accepted that rejection.”

  “No epiphany for Mr. Ego. Back in New York, when I wouldn’t buzz him up to my apartment, he crashed the magazine office. After Eddie threw him out the second time, I obtained a restraining order. Finally he got the message. But I’d had enough. That’s when I resigned and came back to Maine.”

  “That’s why you want nothing to do with jocks.”

  Her gentle smile crinkled her eyes. “Egocentric, self-absorbed jocks. Sam, my experience caused me to lump all jocks together—you and my brothers included. But you’re not Ian. You’re kind and generous. You care about people. Your ambition wasn’t for the spotlight, but to play the sport you love. That was stolen from you, and you haven’t found your way yet.”

  The woman perceived more than he’d meant to reveal. In her steady gaze, he saw concern, but no pity. “The guiding business sure as hell isn’t it. If we survive this expedition, I’ll be damned lucky to guide a lawnmower. ‘Sam Kincaid, Maine Guide—Screwed-up Expeditions Complete with Killer.’ ”

  Annie ducked from the curve of his arm. She slammed her empty glass on the kitchen counter. Storm clouds flashed in her eyes. “Maybe I made a mistake about your lack of self-absorption. You’re still blaming yourself for the Hunter stalking me. You’ve done everything you could to keep the expedition going, to keep us safe, to—”

  “We weren’t going to mention the Hunter. Remember?”

  “It wasn’t the Hunter I was talking about. But forget it.” She dumped their bowls into the sink with a clatter. “I’m going to bed. You can do the dishes.”

  While he sloshed soapy water on their dishes, he heard her slap her sleeping bag on one of the bunks. Then she dug around in her pack. He got the scoop he’d wanted out of Annie, but he wasn’t sure how the conversation turned back on him. Now she was pissed.

  Hell, she was right. He was self-absorbed and mired in self-pity. That had to change. He had to change. How much that need had to do with her, he wasn’t ready to examine.

  In the charged atmosphere, conversation dwindled to the polite and perfunctory. Though he doubted the Hunter would find them tonight, he kept a hand on his hunting knife when they ventured to the outhouse one last time.

  “The night’s blacker than the inside of a home-plate umpire’s heart,” he said as he hung u
p his poncho.

  She didn’t groan at his baseball humor. Either she was still angry. Or afraid.

  Hell, she’d be stupid not to be afraid. He was terrified. He secured the inside bolt on the heavy wooden door. After adding a log to the wood stove, he turned down the damper. He doused the lantern and carried the candle to a small table by the bunks. He brushed away cobwebs and spread his sleeping bag on a bunk.

  Annie set her sneakers by the fire. She avoided his eyes and kept her mouth compressed.

  He was the one who should be steamed. First she wiggled her breasts at him and plied him with wine. Then she let him tuck her under his arm and get drunk on her scent. And now—Dammit, he couldn’t leave things like this.

  “Hell, you cuddled up with me earlier. Was that just the wine? If you’re not lumping me in with Ego Mackenzie, why are you shutting me out?”

  Hands propped on her hips and standing by her bunk, she hoisted her chin. “Talk about ego. Sam, it’s not all about you. I’m tired and I’m scared. Did that ever occur to you? Rats, I’m doing it too.”

  On her last word she held out her arms in a grand gesture and sat down hard on her bunk.

  A loud snap. And another.

  A metallic twanging sound.

  Her mattress and springs collapsed onto the floor with her sandwiched in the middle. She landed with a crash.

  She screeched and flailed her arms. Her legs dangled over the metal edge of the bunk.

  Sam’s shock subsided fast once he saw the only part injured was her pride. He gritted his teeth not to laugh. “You okay?”

  “I... think so.” An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. Her face crumpled. “Dumped on my butt twice in one day. It’s too much.”

  “Guess that sucker’s rusted through.” He caught her hands and lifted her into his arms.

  This was where she belonged, her luscious body pressed against him, the softness of her breasts burning a hole in his shirt. He wanted her openness and her sharp wit and her unconscious sensuality. He wanted her with a fierceness that made his heart squeeze, a fierceness he didn’t understand.

  And all he could do was hold her?

  THIRTY

  Annie rested her cheek on Sam’s solid chest. Stupid to fall apart over something so silly. Whether or not she liked to admit it, she’d landed where she most longed to be—in his arms. Surprising that he still wanted her after her snippy outburst. But want her he did. She felt the hard evidence of it against her belly.

  Coiling her arms around him, she looked up. In his melted caramel eyes, she saw caring and desire... and fear. Sam was afraid too.

  Warmth curled through her at the awareness that he was leading her away from the killer although he was as afraid as she. But proud. He wouldn’t appreciate her acknowledging that fear. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I have no right to talk to you that way.”

  “No, you were right,” he said. “You see things I hide from myself. I’m used to acting on instinct. You make me think.” His gaze heated, and he lowered his head. His lips brushed hers, warm and tender and shooting fire all the way to her toes. His eyes asked the question. “Annie.”

  One night.

  All she wanted was one night. A brief, hot affair that would end. Would have to end. No regrets, no strings. They had their own lives, their own problems. She would sate herself on him this one night.

  She gazed into his eyes. “We could put the mattresses together on the floor.”

  His eyes widened with his dimpled smile. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  She lowered her lashes, then angled her head to look up at him from beneath them. “Don’t think too much. Follow those instincts and just do it.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting days to hear you say that.” He flung the mattresses and sleeping bags on the floor. Before she could blink, he stretched out and patted the mattress beside him. “Let’s make the most of this night.”

  She laughed and joined him. Sam gathered her tight against the length of him. Blocking the uncertainty of tomorrow, she gave herself up to the fire of his kiss and the feel of his honed muscularity. His kiss shimmered through her, intoxicating as champagne.

  Heat shimmered in her. She tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him. She tasted him—red wine and wood smoke and salty male.

  His broad hand pushed aside her shirt to uncover her breast. Her nipples tingled at the flexing of his fingers on her flesh. He broke off the kiss and lowered his mouth to the other breast. He suckled and nibbled, his soft mustache magnifying the sensation, as she rubbed against his thigh. When her hand found the hot bulge in his jeans, he dragged his mouth away from her.

  “You have on too many clothes.” He tugged off her shirt.

  “So do you.” She fumbled at the buttons of his drunken flamingo shirt. “Damn birds.”

  When at last she managed the last button, he flung away the shirt and tackled her jeans. “I know I promised you slow and thorough, but I’ve been so hard for days, I’ll disgrace myself if I can’t have you now.”

  She gave him a sultry look as she scooted out of her jeans. “We can do slow later.”

  His gaze as hot as the stove, Sam stared at her body. “You’re not wearing panties. You were naked under those jeans. If I’d known, we wouldn’t have made it through supper.”

  “I didn’t pack extras, and mine were soaked.” Under his continued stare she sucked in her tummy. Exercise during the trip might have firmed her some, but she still carried those extra pounds. “What? Too fat? I need to lose—”

  “Dammit, don’t even say it.” He wrenched off his jeans with such force he nearly tore the denim. “You’re just right. Female parts and flesh a man can get hold of.”

  Now it was her turn to stare. She’d marveled at his body shirtless and in swim trunks, but naked, he was magnificent. The candle’s glow flickered over the hard, corded muscle defining his torso and flat belly. Cinnamon-colored hair fanned across his sinewy chest and arrowed downward to frame his rampant shaft, huge and hard to match the rest of him. As she watched, he swelled and surged larger.

  She whimpered at this testimony of his craving for her. With him she felt beautiful and desired. He was gorgeous and strong, and sensitive although he tried to hide it. For whatever reason, he needed her at this moment.

  And she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted a man before.

  Now.

  “Curves and softness.” He traced the slope of her torso, along the indent of her waist and around the swell of her hip. “Not one of those women built like a coat rack.”

  “Oh, Sam, you sweet talker, you.” His rough hand didn’t abrade, only stimulated her already sensitized skin. She could barely breathe.

  He lay back and pulled her on top. His body was on fire, flames surging into her from the touch of his skin. They kissed again, hot and hungry, a lightning bolt of a kiss. His hand descended between her legs. “I may not be able to wield a bat, sweetheart, but this hand can still make magic for you.”

  When he found her sensitive nub, she arched and moaned, forgetting everything but him. Forgetting her obsession with the Hunter, forgetting the danger outside, forgetting everything but this man, the firm sensuality of his mouth, the heat and power of his body and his magic that reached deep into her soul. “Magic, yes, Sam, make magic with me.”

  Sam promised himself there’d be magic for both of them. He rolled to place her back on the mattress. He slipped on the condom plucked from his pack, and she guided him.

  Overwhelmed with desire and an aching longing, he held himself still, arms braced, above her. He shuddered at the supreme pleasure of feeling her softness beneath him, against his skin. They kissed with greedy passion, her sweet-tart essence drugging him, her feminine heat coiling tension within him. He needed to be all the way inside her, and not just physically. Needs clamored—to protect her, to deserve her trust, to possess her. “Annie.”

  Blood thundered in his ears as he pressed into her tight passage, slic
k and hot and ready. She squirmed against him, enveloping him all the way, sliding him home, home as he’d never felt before, and his soul expanded with the sensation.

  They moved together, mindless with need, with ecstasy that soared and spiraled until it could reach no higher. Until sparks bloomed within her and she rose beyond herself on a huge, pulsing rush. Until her spasms sent him body and soul into the stars, and heat burst in liquid shock waves of release.

  ***

  A long time later—how much later Annie didn’t know—she stirred. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. No, she wanted to go back to the dream. Back to the sensual dream of sultry currents of pleasure, of fluid fire radiating from his touch. Though the dream had faded, she still tingled. Sparks flared and heat pulsed from her center.

  Then she remembered. Sam. Better than a dream.

  She felt the mattress beside her. Empty.

  “Sam?”

  “Right here, sweetheart,” came his familiar rumble. He lifted his head from between her legs. “I promised you all night, remember?”

  How could she forget? You’ll be my sole focus. What I want from you will take hours. “Omigod,” she whispered as he lowered his head.

  He wedged his shoulders between her legs and spread her thighs for better access. He rained kisses on her inner thighs, spiraling closer and closer to the dark curls. “Just relax and enjoy.” He swirled his tongue around his target.

  Relax? How could she relax with his mouth shooting icy hot darts through her body? With him ravishing her senses? She threaded her fingers through his hair and arched backward. The tingling intensified and spread, focused the raw pleasure into a molten storm within her. The tempest broke, and she gave herself up to the lightning flashes.

  She was still coming down, her heart drumming, when he propped himself on one elbow beside her. He beamed that heart-stopping smile she’d resisted, and for once she could yield. Skimming her hand along his rock-hard biceps up to his neck, she pulled him down and kissed him. Zing through her body right down to her toes. Unbelievable. After he’d brought her to shattering climax twice, she wanted more of him.