Panting with triumph, dry-mouthed with desire, she freed him, hot and hard and hers. She closed her hand on him.
He groaned. "Condom."
Reality crashed on Laura like a wave. She knew better. She really did. And here she was about to repeat her mistakes like some moron.
She bit her lip and started to slither off his lap.
His hands clamped on her thighs. "Don't move. Just let me…" Simon leaned forward, reaching one arm to the floor, holding her to him with the other.
She clung to his smooth shoulders as he fished his pants from the deck and dug in the pocket for his wallet. He had a condom.
Hallelujah. She snatched the packet from him and ripped it open.
His hand trapped hers. "You don't mind?"
She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "That you carry a condom around in your wallet?"
Simon nodded, his breathing harsh. His body beneath hers was rock solid with tension. But his eyes were raw and naked with need. Her heart stumbled.
"How long has it been in there?"
"I bought them Friday. I thought with the party Saturday… There was a chance." He shrugged, his gaze level on hers. "Not very romantic."
If she felt a pang, she would have died rather than admit it.
"I told you I don't need romance." She smiled crookedly. "Anyway, right now I'd rather have this condom than a dozen red roses."
To prove it, she took his face between her hands and kissed him, raising herself on her knees so he could get the condom on. She caught her breath at the tickle of his rough chest against her breasts, the brush of his knuckles against her belly. Now. He was at her body's entrance, blunt and hot and seeking.
Slowly, slowly, she lowered herself, gasping as he stretched her, filled her, completed her. Their eyes locked. His were dark as rain clouds, swirling with emotion, shot through with need. He pushed himself up, inside her, deepening then connection, making her quake. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and lifted herself to do it again, the slick downward slide, the aching upward withdrawal. Now. Again.
Her thighs trembled on either side of his. His hands gripped her buttocks, bruising, commanding. She was fluid, flowing, everything inside her soft and lax except for the terrible, tightening spiral of desire. Sweat coated their bodies. Gleamed on his face. His breathing was ragged. Her blood drammed in her ears. She was blinded and burned by the sun pouring over her, by Simon moving under her and in her.
She tried to take, to hold, to possess, and could only receive. Absorb. Sensation rolled through her, too powerful to control, too big to contain. He drove up into her as far, as hard, as deep as he could go, and the tempest broke over them both. Battered, blinded, spun, she clung to him and cried out. He groaned and fell with her, shuddering, into the heart of the storm.
"I can't feel my legs," Simon said much later.
The observation didn't bother him as much as it should have. Laura lay limply over his spent body, her head on his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. He had a cramp in his left calf and, he suspected, canvas burn on his butt from the padded seat.
He was completely relaxed. Wrecked. Satisfied.
Laura stirred, her damp flesh separating reluctantly from his. "I'll get off."
"No." His hands clamped on her tight, sexy rear. "You're fine where you are."
She was perfect where she was. She was perfect. If he had his way, he would stay with her like this forever.
She lifted her head. "I'm too heavy."
He studied the awareness returning to her dark, dazed eyes and flushed face. She was already retreating. Regrouping. He couldn't allow that. "You're impugning my manhood, Detective."
She sniffed. "Your manhood is in fine shape. Along with the rest of you. Now let me up."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Inspired, he said, "We need to do it again."
"What?"
"It's the scientific method," he explained. "You formulate a theory. For example, 'Making love with Laura will be the best experience of my life.'"
She squirmed. "Oh, please."
If she wasn't ready to hear that he loved making love with her, she sure as hell wouldn't welcome the other words that weighted his tongue and crowded his heart. But he persisted, hoping she would see through his teasing to the desperate hope beneath.
"Do you want to learn about the scientific method or not?"
"Fine." She rubbed her cheek against his naked chest. Could she hear how his heart beat for her? "Teach me about the scientific method."
He tightened his arms around her. "Once you formulate your theory, you conduct an experiment that either proves or disproves the hypothesis."
"Huh. So, I'm an experiment now?"
"A highly successful one," he assured her. "But even after the desired results are obtained, a dedicated scientist will conduct subsequent experimentation to validate the truth of his hypothesis."
She cocked her head. "'Subsequent experimentation'?"
"Repeated subsequent experimentation," he said, straight-faced.
She held his gaze for a long, significant moment. Her smile broke slowly, beautiful as the dawn easing over the horizon. "That is the lamest excuse to have sex that I've heard in my life."
But she sighed and snuggled back against his shoulder.
He stroked her back, grateful to have this much of her. Wishing for more. "It's not lame. It's science."
It wasn't sex, either. It was making love.
Because if he evaluated all the data, if he considered all the evidence, this wasn't about chemistry anymore or respect or even "feelings."
He was falling in love with her.
A gull cried and wheeled over the lake. Water lapped against the side of the boat. Deep below deck, a motor switched on.
He should tell her, he thought. Hadn't they promised each other honesty? He could tell her now, while she was naked and boneless and receptive on top of him.
But he didn't want to destroy the peaceful aftermath of their loving. In his whole life, no woman had said those words to him, I love you. No one had wanted to hear them from him.
He'd never imagined saying them for the first time with his boxers pushed down around his thighs and chafe marks on his butt.
It wasn't … romantic, Simon decided, burying his own fears beneath excuses. Laura deserved romance. Wine. Moonlight. Flowers. Some damn thing.
And thought of her saying, Right now I'd rather have this condom than a dozen red roses.
His body stirred.
She stiffened. "What's that?"
"That" thickened and rose against her, eager for subsequent experimentation.
Simon laughed ruefully. "'That' is—"
"Smoke," she said, pushing up.
"What?"
"I smell smoke." She scrambled off his lap, snatching her T-shirt from the deck. "Where's your extinguisher? The boat's on fire."
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Fire.
Simon froze, his blood cold, his thoughts crystallizing. He yanked up his shorts. Oily curls of black smoke already seeped around the edges of the hatch to the engine compartment.
Laura clutched his arm. "Get out. Get off. We're going to blow up."
"The fuel's diesel, not gas. Grab the extinguisher from the galley," Simon ordered. That would take her forward, away from the fire and smoke, long enough for him to contain the fire. Assuming it had just started—big assumption—he had about two minutes to take it out. After that it would be too late.
Laura's eyes widened. She turned and dashed barefoot toward the cabin. Which would have been great, except under the circumstances he'd have to be stupid to feel relieved.
The air was growing hazy and hard to breathe. He needed to radio for help before the battery cables burned through.
Snatching the extinguisher from the bridge, Simon scrambled back to the engine compartment and pressed his palm to the hatch, feeling for heat from the fire be
low. His eyes burned. Yanking the safety pin at the top of the bright red cylinder, he took a deep breath and lifted the hinged cover.
Smoke billowed upward, searing, choking. He couldn't see a damn thing. Squeezing the discharge lever, he jammed the nozzle down and around, aiming for the engines eight feet away in the back of the boat. Foam shot out, coating the tangle of hoses and wires just below deck, cutting through the smoke. The cylinder hissed as it emptied.
He heard Laura burst through the cabin door behind him. She was coughing. He couldn't breathe. The smoke, oily, heavy, black, rolled over the deck. He knelt in the middle of it, squinting past the fumes and foam toward the orange-red glow of the fire, raking the base of the flames with the extinguisher. It sputtered and kicked.
Hell. He needed to put this fire out now. He needed…
The second cylinder clanked beside him. God bless Laura. Jerking the spent nozzle from the hatch, Simon reached for the new extinguisher. Laura had already pulled the pin.
He aimed. Squeezed. Sprayed. Choking gusts of chemical foam whooshed out. He didn't dare look away. His eyes ran. His nose, throat, chest burned. Sweeping the nozzle side to side, he blanketed the engine compartment.
The last orange flare subsided. Simon shot it again to be on the safe side—take that, you son of a bitch—and backed cautiously out of the open hatch. He retched, his eyes streaming.
Laura's bare feet wavered at the edge of his vision. "Is it out?"
He nodded, unable to speak, his throat aching and his heart raw with relief. She was safe.
"Here." She crouched beside him, pressing a wet towel from the galley into his hands.
He wiped his face gratefully. Sucked in his breath. And coughed so hard he almost threw up. The acrid stench of chemicals and smoke hung heavily over the deck.
"Come on." Laura tugged on his shoulder, her small hands impatient. "You need more air."
Simon staggered to his feet and stumbled forward with her. Soot blackened the canvas seat where they'd made love. He could have lost her. Even with the fire gone, the fear smoldered inside him.
Laura pushed him down on it and stood over him wearing nothing but a wet, grimy T-shirt and a scowl. "Are you all right?"
Her concern stroked his ego one way; ruffled it another. He liked her concern. He didn't want her pity. "Fine," he rasped.
"Yeah, I can hear how fine you are." She handed him a bottle of water. "Drink."
While he gulped gratefully, she padded across the wet, filthy deck and crouched by the hatch. Simon paused with the bottle of water to his lips. Her T-shirt rode high on her hips. She was naked beneath it. But her attitude was all business.
"The bilge is full," she called. "Must be a fuel leak."
He cleared his throat. "Or we're taking on water. I'll radio for help."
"Your radio's out. Fire must have gotten the wiring," she said absently, leaning over farther.
Simon sucked in his breath and coughed. Sweet God in heaven.
"I'll swim," he croaked when he could speak. "To the island. Use the phone at the house."
Laura nodded. "Yeah, you could do that. That would be really macho. Or if you'd rather not hike over rocks with no shoes and wet clothes, I could call on my police radio."
He laughed, chagrined. "That would save time."
"I thought so."
"Of course, we'd have to put on pants before they got here."
She shot him a grin, scooping her underwear from the deck. "Every plan has drawbacks."
He watched her step into her panties and draw them up her long legs and the curve of her butt. She was so beautiful and tough. Smart and funny. Just looking at her created a hollow in the center of his chest.
She rubbed the bridge of her nose, streaking her face with grime so that she resembled a very sexy commando. "Any idea how the fire started?"
Simon pulled himself together. No romance, he reminded himself. She didn't want compliments. She wanted theories. The lovemaking that had rocked his world, blown his mind and shaken his heart had already taken a back seat in her mind to the investigation.
If he hadn't laid all that respect stuff on her, he'd be a little put out.
Hell, Simon admitted, he was put out anyway.
He struggled to regain his customary detachment. "You said the bilge was full?"
She nodded and pulled off her T-shirt so she could put her bra on.
Simon stared, dry-mouthed. Think logically, he ordered himself. He was no use to her as this mass of sensation, this mess of emotion, this walking gland.
"If there was, ah, enough fuel in the hull, then any spark could have started a fire."
Laura fastened her bra and jerked her T-shirt back over her head. "But the engines were off."
The engines were off. But…
He remembered those moments right after she'd climaxed in his arms, when his world spun lazily with her at its center.
A gull cried and wheeled over the lake. Water lapped against the side of the boat. Deep below deck, a motor switched on.
A motor, Simon thought. The pump.
"The bilge pump has an automatic switch that senses the height of the water—or in this case, the water-and-fuel mixture. I heard it come on. If there was a loose connection in one of the wires, it could create the spark that caused your fire."
Laura's eyes widened. "Then it could have happened anytime. You could have caught fire on your way across the lake this morning."
"Or last night in the dark with guests on board."
Laura's eyes narrowed. "You had guests on this boat?"
"We used the cruiser to ferry people back to their cars. After…"
After her father's body struck the propeller of the rental boat and put it out of commission. He stood and reached for his pants.
"You're telling me all the suspects who came to the party last night had access to this boat," Laura said.
"Most of them." He stopped in the act of zipping his fly. Suspects? "Are you saying someone set the fire deliberately?"
"Why not?"
Why not?
Simon forced his hands to move, his brain to function. "Because no one had an opportunity. There must have been fifteen to twenty people on board at a time. Someone would have seen."
"It was dark. It was cold. What do you bet most of them stayed below? Anyone with a knife could slip out, lift the hatch and slice a fuel line in seconds."
"And risk blowing or burning themselves up?"
"It wasn't much of a risk," Laura argued. "You said the spark was caused by a bad connection in the bilge pump. It would take time for enough fuel to leak to turn the pump on. More than enough time for whoever cut the line to make the trip safely."
Simon frowned. He'd offered himself as bait last night. Were the rats really biting so soon? Or was Laura jumping at shadows in the corner? "Even if someone did cut the fuel line, he couldn't count on that faulty connection starting a fire. Or me being on the boat."
"What if he caused the spark? Loosened some wires or something."
"There wasn't time. There are too many wires down there to identify and isolate the right one."
Her chin stuck out. "Then maybe it was an impulse thing. A crime of opportunity."
"And maybe it wasn't a crime. Maybe it was an accident."
Laura grabbed the towel he'd used a moment ago to wipe his face. "Are you done with this?"
He eyed her warily. "Yes."
She marched back to the open hatch and dropped to her knees. Holding the towel, she lowered her arm below the fiberglass deck and wiped … something. She folded the towel to a clean section, reached and wiped again.
Simon's curiosity got the better of him. He strolled over to look over her shoulder.
"There." Laura sat back and pointed. The black rubber fuel lines, positioned for easy servicing of the filters, were only ten inches below the hatch opening. The distance from the fire had saved them from melting.
Simon squatted to take a closer look. His thigh brushed
Laura's shoulder. The nearest fuel line was smeared in foam and soft with heat. But he could still detect the break in the hose, its edges sharp and deadly as a wound.
"That's a cut," Laura said tightly. "The fuel leak wasn't an accident. Somebody is trying kill you."
She'd screwed up, Laura acknowledged later that night as she leaned over the balcony of Simon's house. He had behaved like a hero, taking action, taking charge, saving her life when she was supposed to protect his. While she was still dazed by sex and dazzled by love, Simon had put out the fire in time to preserve both their lives and the evidence.
She couldn't afford another mistake. From now on, she would play smart. Play safe. Play cool. At seventeen, when she'd let herself get distracted by sex and swept away by her hormones, it had cost her her relationships with her father and her brother. This time it could cost her even more.
Because this time, she thought, listening to the rise and fall of Simon's voice from the dining room where he still sat with Dylan, this time she had so much more to lose.
And so she had endured the sly looks and teasing remarks of the rescue team when they'd arrived to salvage the boat and process the scene. She had made her report to the chief, painstakingly laying out the evidence in the face of his carefully noncommittal expression and in spite of her own discomfort at intruding—again—on his weekend.
Denko hadn't told her to stay away from Simon. But he had ordered her to stay out of trouble. There was a question in the police chief's eyes when he looked at her now, a reserve in his manner when he spoke to Simon. Laura couldn't tell if Denko suspected her of a breach of professional decorum or a failure of personal judgment, but his appraisal stung.
Maybe her judgment did suck. She could be mistaking sex for love. That would be female. Foolish. Like her. She had known Simon for less than two weeks. Maybe she was letting loss and loneliness and incredible sex blind her not only to what she had to do but to what she really felt.
But she didn't think so.
She hadn't just fallen for a hunky Mensa millionaire. Okay, the disciplined body and amazing mind were a definite plus. But she liked his integrity, his perception, his calm competence and cool humor. She admired the way he took care of others—stepmothers, siblings, employees—who only wanted to take from him.
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