Never Coming Home

by Evonne Wareham

  Devlin buried a smile in his glass. The move with the shades had surprised both of them. Then she’d reacted as if she’d been burned, setting irritation and awareness buzzing in his gut. He’d flicked out that barbed response on a reflex, then regretted it when he saw her face. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. He didn’t need her vulnerability to make him feel like an asshole. She was too tightly wound and too tightly wrapped a package for him to unpick. However much he wanted to.

  The shock of that one rocked him. Kaz Elmore didn’t just make his groin ache. She had layers, and he wanted to explore them. Shit.

  Now she was looking at him as if she was peeling skin. With deliberation he let his limbs relax, easing back in the chair. He saw her ease back too, both of them stepping down from code red. She’s a Client. Out of bounds. Remember that, buddy. This is lunch, not combat.

  Conversation; that was the thing. She was looking expectantly at him. What the hell had he been about to say? Oh, yeah.

  ‘The way you speak Italian. You didn’t learn that in an evening class.’

  ‘No.’ She swirled the water in her glass, then thanked the waiter as he put a plate of antipasti on the table. Devlin helped himself to salami and olives and waited. Looked like she was sorting through memories. For him, or for herself? ‘I lived here, and in France, until I was twelve,’ she said finally. ‘Oliver rented a palazzo in Venice, before he bought the château in Provence. I grew up in both places.’ He could see one kind of wariness being replaced by another.

  ‘Not exactly your average childhood,’ he offered casually.

  ‘Not at all. Oliver was the centre of – what? A commune? An entourage?’ She picked out a black olive. ‘You know the rock stars in the ’60s and ’70s – Elvis, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones – the way they had this whole group of people around them, agents and managers, gofers, backing groups, stunningly beautiful girlfriends – even wives? That’s how it was with Oliver. Wherever we lived, the house was always full. Twenty, thirty people, sometimes. Mum was his favourite model for over twenty years.’ Devlin heard the defensiveness and the pride.

  ‘So – what happened when you were twelve?’ he prompted.

  ‘When I came home from school, Mum was in the hall, with our bags packed. She wouldn’t tell me why, just that we were leaving. I heard later that Oliver had brought another woman home, to the château. As his fiancée. She was supposed to be the daughter of an exiled Russian count, but I never found out whether that was true. He married her shortly after, in New York. They were going to found this incredibly talented artistic dynasty. We left that night.’

  ‘I can see how your mother might want to do that.’ Devlin nodded. ‘But Oliver didn’t get what he wanted. No dynasty,’ he elaborated, as he met her eyes.

  ‘No Russian countess either. She left him after six months, for a racing driver. The divorce was messy and expensive. He’s steered clear of marriage ever since.’ Kaz smiled in acknowledgement as the waiter put a plate of risotto in front of her.

  ‘But you’re not his only child.’ Devlin picked up his fork.

  ‘Not now.’ Kaz shook her head. ‘My half-sister, Chiara, was born a couple of weeks before I discovered I was carrying Jamie. So Oliver has another chance at his artistic dynasty.’ Devlin watched, interested, as the smile got a little crooked. She skewered a shrimp and held it up. ‘This is delicious. How is your tagliatelle?’

  Chapter Seven

  Philip Saint ambled down the corridor, sipping coffee from a takeaway mug. Nothing in the nondescript passageway gave any clue as to what the building was. It could be any office block, in any city.

  At this time of day Scotland Yard was as quiet as it ever got. Behind a closed door someone was yelling into a phone. In the room next to Phil’s three officers were crowded around a screen, intent on some grainy CCTV footage. Phil raised a hand as one of them looked up, but kept on walking.

  In his own office he slumped down heavily behind his desk. There was no one else about. He’d been out for – what? An hour? The pile in the in-tray was stacked and toppling. Again. Sometimes he was sure that all that paper bred, right there in the tray, while he wasn’t watching it. Was that the answer? Sit and watch it?

  It couldn’t be more useless than spending half the day interviewing witnesses who’d suddenly been taken blind or deaf. Those that weren’t suffering from total amnesia, that is. He swilled down the last of the coffee. The current case had reached a brick wall. Frustration was mounting, shortening tempers within the team. Sodding CPS. In the old days –

  Phil crushed the carton, pitching it into the bin. He needed a break in the case, and he really needed to make time to see Kaz, to find out how she was doing. That bloody Yank, stirring up trouble, just when she’d begun to come to terms –

  He shifted restlessly, slumping further into his chair.

  The row of post-it notes, next to the phone, had to be more interesting than the admin crap in his in-tray. He peeled off the top one, frowning at the number scrawled on it. Underneath, the message-taker had scribbled Lyon.

  Abruptly something clicked in the back of Philip’s mind. He hauled the phone towards him and began stabbing in numbers.

  Fifteen minutes later he replaced the receiver with a low whistle. He hadn’t known what to make of Devlin – except that he was disturbing things that were best left alone, but he’d never imagined Jeff – what the hell did he do now? Kaz –

  His hand was still on the receiver when the phone rang again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I want a meet.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You don’t know me. I know you. I was in the pub, lunchtime. You weren’t asking the right questions, or the right people. You’re looking for the shotgun, right? I know where you can find it.’

  Phil sat up, heart accelerating. ‘If you have information –’ he began carefully.

  ‘Not over the phone. I know other stuff. You want it, you come and talk. In the Park, bench in Birdcage Walk, Queen Anne’s Gate entrance. Twenty minutes.’

  The line went dead.

  Phil looked around, checking that he had the right spot. There were any number of benches in St James’s Park, but this one, set a little apart, in front of a stand of bushes, had to be the one. He sat down, wiping away the film of sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand. He’d jogged over to get here on time, but it wasn’t just that which had made him sweat – if he could get one piece of hard evidence, it would be enough to lever this bloody case open.

  His heart was pounding. He forced himself to breathe slowly. The whole thing might still be a windup.

  He patted his pocket, where kept his cigarettes. Always a good opener – gave the snout the chance to ask for a light.

  Head down, fumbling with the wrapper, the first inkling he had that he was no longer alone was the cold touch of metal on the back of his neck.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘C’mon.’ Devlin urged Kaz towards the entrance of the Academia Gallery. ‘We can’t visit Florence and not look at Michelangelo’s David. Think of it as part of my artistic education.’

  Kaz narrowed her eyes. She suspected that Devlin knew more about art than she did.

  ‘We can spare a couple of hours,’ he persisted. ‘And when did you last see a museum in Florence without a mile-long queue outside? It’s fate.’

  He was right. There were only a handful of people standing in line before the ticket office. Kaz gave in.

  They ambled around the bright, air-conditioned space, discussing what they saw. Kaz found the half-realised statues of the slaves, or prisoners, that had never made it to Julius II’s tomb, more exciting than the massive David, and said so. Devlin naturally disagreed.

  Kaz stood in front of a Botticelli Madonna, letting the beauty of the picture wash over her. Devlin was behind her,
on the other side of the room, talking to one of the attendants. He’d been right about taking time out. She could feel the tension slipping out of her, except for the ever-present buzz of sexual attraction, and she was learning to cope with that.

  Devlin was easy to be with, she found, with surprise. And she couldn’t help that little lift of her heart when she turned and saw him walking towards her. What woman could? The way he moved, the way he looked, the way the jeans clung to narrow hips. The way his eyes sought hers.

  She turned quickly back to the painting.

  She really hadn’t meant it to happen. She was almost certain of that, because she wasn’t quite sure how it did happen.

  They were half a block away from the hotel, walking single file around a car slewed, Florentine style, with two wheels on the pavement. Abruptly the bell in the church tower above began to toll. Startled, Kaz hesitated. Devlin stopped within a hair’s breadth of her back. She could feel his warmth.

  She turned, confused, and his face was so close.

  And then she just reached up.

  His mouth was firm and hot and, when he took control, searching. Her head was ringing and it wasn’t just the bells. No prisoners. She leaned her hands against his chest and simply melted into him.

  Devlin lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering the feel of Katarina Elmore’s mouth, and wondering if he was ever going to get a taste of all that sweet, soft heat again. Probably not. He sat up, cursing quietly.

  She’d stunned him, stunned herself, when she reached for him. He’d seen that when they finally broke apart. Her eyes had been so wide and dark. At that moment, God alone knew what she was thinking.

  She’d caught him unawares, for a second time, when she swung on her heel and dived across the square. He’d followed. He might have yelled at her to stop. He wasn’t sure.

  Once at the hotel she bolted to her room, without a word or a backward glance.

  Devlin looked over at the clock. That would be half-an-hour ago.

  She would be packing her bags now, he was pretty sure of that, and all bets were off over whether she would want to keep working with him. He shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed. This was not meant to happen.

  His control was shot to hell. One bloody kiss, and his belly was getting tight and his groin hard and heavy, just thinking about her.

  He gritted his teeth and rolled off the bed. He’d have to speak to her, and soon. To say what? God knew. Apologise? Demand she apologise to him? Now there was a thought. Despite himself, his mouth twisted into a grin.

  She’d got them into this bloody mess. Which didn’t mean that it wasn’t down to him to get them out again. If the worst happened, there were a couple of guys in Florence, good ones, he could hook her up with. Freelancers. He’d worked with them … before. They’d keep an eye on her while she hunted for Jeff.

  He really hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. He wasn’t ready to say why, except that it wasn’t only to do with the ache in his belly. Kaz Elmore was tapping into something in him that was shifting. Something that had started at the side of a deserted road six months ago?

  That thought was enough to prod his libido back into its cage.

  Stripping off his shirt, he headed for the bathroom, to see whether a cold shower could finish the job.

  Kaz padded along the landing, a bottle of the hotel’s best Barolo clutched in a sweating palm. The sight of the door to Devlin’s room almost had her running back to her own.

  She stopped, gathering her resources. She had to do this. She wanted to do this. She was scared witless and her knees were knocking, but she was right where she wanted to be. She half-smiled. She’d finally got it. Life was too damn short to let something as good as Devlin pass her by.

  The man could kiss.

  The thought of all the other things he might be able to do had her stomach juddering with heat and nerves. She wasn’t looking for happy-ever-after any more. She couldn’t think of a better way of proving it than going to bed with Devlin. If he would. If he wouldn’t, she was just going to have to seduce him. She swallowed. Well first, they’d have a drink.

  She squared up and rapped on the door.

  ‘Devlin, it’s me. Can I come in? I just wanted –’

  Whatever else she was going to say died on her lips as she stepped into the room. He’d released the door and moved away from it. He was standing in the middle of the floor. A pair of dark jeans clung to lean hips and that was it. Bare feet, bare everything else.

  Her mouth went dry as she took in the definition of muscles under the smooth, lightly tanned skin. She hadn’t realised just how spectacular his body was. She simply hadn’t looked, hadn’t let herself. There was a faint fuzz of hair showing above the zipper of the jeans. She wanted to put her hands just there. He was reaching for a shirt. She had to stop herself snatching it out of his grasp.

  ‘Kaz?’ He was looking from her face to the bottle of wine. She put it down carefully, on the nearest piece of furniture. She had to get her mouth moving, as he didn’t seem able to get further than her name.

  He hadn’t got the shirt on yet. He was just standing there, holding it. She wrenched her eyes away from his chest and up to his face. Frowned.

  ‘Uh … your hair is wet.’

  ‘Just out of the shower. Cold shower,’ he elaborated.

  ‘I see.’ She nodded, beginning to smile. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  She stepped forward, took the shirt out of his hands and dumped it on a chair.

  ‘I brought a bottle. If you really want, we can drink it. Or you can kiss me again, and we’ll move on from there.’

  For an evil second she thought he was going to opt for the bottle, or even scoop her up and shove her back onto the landing. Then he hauled her in, and went for her mouth. Firm, fast, hard. Everything went misty. Bliss.

  The groan Devlin gave when he finally let her go sent a hot thrill of pleasure through her.

  ‘You sure know how to stage an ambush.’ His forehead rested against her hair. ‘Here I am, half-naked, trying to resist a beautiful woman offering me great sex –’

  The thrill this time was panic. She leaned away. ‘I don’t –’

  ‘S’ok.’ His hand was warm against the back of her neck. ‘My resistance was shot to hell quite a while ago.’ He lifted his head to look at her, holding her eyes. Seeing everything. ‘You and me – it will be great. That I can promise.’ His voice was very soft, very sure. The ache inside her quivered and bloomed.

  ‘I don’t expect you to promise anything else.’ When her voice wavered, she let out a breath. With Devlin, everything was going to be different. This was what she was doing here.

  She eased forward, letting her pelvis rest against his hips, feeling his hardness even through the stiff fabric of the jeans. She had one more speech and then she was done. ‘I have to say –’ Her fingers clenched against his chest. ‘If I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t be here. But I remember what you said, about not mixing business with pleasure. So whatever state your resistance is in, I can still leave. If you want.’

  ‘Woman, you have to be dangerously crazy if you think I’m letting you out of here.’ He was grinning. ‘What do you want? Down on my knees and beg? I can do that.’

  ‘No!’ Her hand curled at the denim waistband, holding him. ‘I just –’

  He put one finger to her lips, to quiet her. ‘I know what you were doing, and I appreciate it, but right now neither of us is going anywhere.’

  This time the kiss was a slow, sweet simmer that set little fires of need spurting over her skin. It was like a long hello, she thought, dreamily, as his mouth explored hers. A prelude and a declaration.

  When he lifted her and deposited her on the bed, without letting g
o of her lips, she was breathless. Her palms were on his chest. His heart was tripping steadily under her fingers. Her own was all over the place. Just like Devlin’s hands and his mouth. God, his mouth. On her eyelids now, and her jaw, leaving hot yearning trails wherever it touched. She made an impatient sound in the back of her throat, scrabbling for the buttons on her shirt.

  ‘Not yet.’ He scooped her hands away, pinning them above her head with one of his as he ran the other slowly over her breasts. She squirmed. ‘Devlin.’

  ‘Hold on, baby, it’s gonna get a lot hotter than this.’ She could hear him laughing, feel it in his mouth as he dealt with the buttons. One at a time. With kisses in between, and long nibbling trails.

  He stripped her slowly, revelling in each layer of skin as he uncovered it. His tongue and his teeth on her tight, hard nipples sent fire spiralling deep inside her. To where the need was.

  Dazed with pleasure, she gazed up at him. She’d thought it might be crazy, wild. She’d never expected it to be so focused. Every move he made, every touch, every caress of his mouth on her heated body, was flawless. And he pulled something out of her. Response, or instinct. Something that knew when to touch and when to hold, when to yield and when to demand.

  She felt tears pricking the back of her eyelids and blinked them away.

  For a second they hung suspended, motionless, Devlin poised above her, watching her face. Kaz put up a hand to touch his cheek. He turned his head, to nuzzle a kiss into the palm.

  ‘I want you.’ Her voice was so thready she wasn’t sure he’d heard. Fathoms deeper than she’d ever wanted before, she shifted her hips to take his weight, opening to cradle him, as his body pinned hers. His eyes hadn’t left hers. Darker than she’d ever seen them. Intent. On her.

  She put up her arms and dragged him back to her lips as he slid inside her and began to move. The gasp she gave was lost in his mouth, but she knew he felt it. He shifted slightly and stroked deep, taking all she was offering and giving it back to her.

  As their lips parted she couldn’t take her eyes off his face. Desire, power, strength, giving.