Hunt Her Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  She toyed with the bottom of her T-shirt, whispering, “I’m hot.” She pulled her top over her head, taking the bra with it, then leaning back to slay him with a full view her twin peaks, rosy and damp and just heavy enough to make him want to close his mouth over one, then the other.

  “I used you right back.”

  For a moment, he wasn’t sure what she meant. “You used me?”

  “Later. For fantasies. For pleasure.” She grazed her breasts with light fingertips, torturing him with the image.

  His mouth went bone dry as he watched her twirl her nipple between her finger and thumb, her eyes shuttering momentarily.

  “What did you think about?” His voice was barely a rasp.

  “You. Us. What we did.”

  The clouds flared again, electric purple pulses that lasted for five or six suspended seconds, just long enough for Maggie to reach up and whip the elastic out of her hair and shake her curls over her shoulders. She kneeled, her eyes sparking like the lightning, her body lithe and damp and perfect, her fingers already at work undressing herself.

  As fast as the last flash of lightning, she went to the back of the hut, picking up the hammock canvas.

  He just watched her move, mesmerized, still half in shock that she had fantasies about him, half in lust over the sexiness of her naked body. She spread the canvas on the floor and kneeled on it. “Come here.”

  He did, kneeling right in front of her. “What do you fantasize about, Maggie?” He reached to kiss her, but she ducked away from his touch.

  “Something I’ve only ever done with you.” She tugged the tie of his camo pants, pushing them down to reveal his erection. She dragged the pants over his thighs, then pushed him to stand up. He did, taking a quick scan of the water and horizon from every direction. A blinding yellow bolt careened across the sky and water as she closed her mouth over him.

  His back arched at the first sensation of her tongue.

  She gave him a quick look upward, her dark eyes wide as she released him from between her lips. “This is how I come. Every time.”

  She dropped her head and bent over him. How she came?

  He braced for the impact of her mouth again, but she didn’t take him. Instead, she blew a cool breath over his hot skin, eliciting a drop of creamy liquid on the head. He could only see her thick waves, her profile from above, dark lashes brushing over her flushed cheeks, her tongue flicking out to take a sweet lick of his flesh. Then she cupped his sac with one hand and used her finger to stroke the smooth skin between. He hissed in a breath, groaned it out.

  “You love that,” she said, knowing.

  “Yeah.” Enough to die if she stopped.

  She quickened her touch, slamming more blood into his cock. This was her fantasy? The way she pleasured herself? Then she swiped her tongue over the head, and every remaining drop of blood in his body coursed to the fiery spot where she licked him.

  She pressed a kiss on his shaft, then fluttered her tongue and lips down the sensitive vein that she’d long ago discovered.

  He gripped her shoulders and held on for the ride of insane, indescribable pleasure as she feathered kisses and licks along the length of him. “Maggie.”

  She lifted her head and looked up at him. His fingers knotted into her hair. “This can’t be your fantasy, baby.”

  She smiled. “We’re just starting. It gets better.”

  She closed her mouth over him, sliding her palm down his shaft while the head sank deeper into her velvet-soft mouth, her teeth scraping just lightly enough to make him drop his head back, eyes closed, balls tight, willpower gone.

  She sucked lightly, then a little harder, faster, bringing him right to the edge of control. Then she stopped.

  He let out a groan of disappointment, but she took his hands and pulled him down to the floor with her. “You know what happens next in my fantasy?”

  He kissed her, tasting his salt, licking it off her tongue and giving it back. “Yes.”

  Reaching for her, he kissed her as he laid them down on the scratchy cloth, the colors of the sky changing in a frenzy of red and orange and pure white flashes all around them.

  “How often did you think about this and touch yourself?” he asked, stroking her cheek.

  “A lot.”

  He was glad he hadn’t completely robbed her of happiness all those years ago. “So you didn’t always hate me.”

  “I didn’t hate this memory. Now stop talking, and make it real for me.”

  He kissed his way down her body at a leisurely rate, despite the ache in his balls that made him want to get there faster. He took his time suckling her breasts, licking the concave of her stomach. Finally, he spread her thighs gently and placed his very first kiss on the wet, warm center of her womanhood.

  She melted under him, letting out a soft moan of pure pleasure, spreading her legs and lifting herself into him. He swirled his tongue, sliding up and down the slit, his mouth covering her mound, his hands closed over her tensed thighs.

  She urged him on with her fingers on his shoulders, responding to every sensation but definitely wanting more.

  He turned head to foot so his body was opposite her, sliding one of her thighs over his cheek, positioning himself so that she could reach his shaft.

  She opened her mouth and drew him in, so deeply that he had to stop tonguing her, to let the wave of insane pleasure roll over him.

  Under his lips, her clitoris thrummed. Blood raced through his veins as fast as the nonstop lightning, molten and furious, his senses torn between the savage pleasure erupting in his body and the delicious taste and feel of her in his mouth.

  This was her fantasy. He was her fantasy. All those years, all those nights she was alone.

  For a second he stopped, breathing hard against her womanhood, helpless, lost, close to the brink. He thought of her many, many times, too, but no fantasy was as good as this.

  She sucked harder, her fists wrapped around the base, squeezing, pulling, stealing his orgasm.

  He slammed his mouth back on her, annihilating her with his tongue over and over, until she bucked against him and he shot into her mouth with mind-numbing intensity.

  Their bodies shuddered and her heart galloped so hard he could practically feel the blood rush through her whole body. Slowly, she pulled her mouth off of him.

  “I have to kiss you.” he said, already turning to get faceto-face. He did, the juice of his ejaculation mixed with the remnants of her moisture on his tongue. He glided his hands over her body, dying to touch how he wanted, where he wanted—and he wanted it all.

  And finally, as if the gods had been holding back the cooling rain just for them, there was thunder. A low, distant rumble that vibrated the floor.

  Except that wasn’t thunder.

  It was a motorboat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE TRICK, QUINN decided as he threw back his comforter, would be keeping Goose quiet. He had to get into that office, and as far as he knew, they didn’t lock the door. The Ropers slept upstairs, so if he could leave Goose for ten minutes, he ought to be okay.

  As Quinn stood, Goose looked up from his corner of the bed with doglike interest.

  “No biggie, boy. Just gotta pee. You chillax.”

  Goose didn’t chillax, but he didn’t jump off the bed, either. Quinn went into the bathroom, peeing as loudly as he could so that Goose believed him. Then he turned on the water faucet and left it on. Goose had no concept of time. If the water ran for fifteen minutes, he’d just think Quinn was still washing his hands.

  He peeked through the doorway at the dog, a dark shadow on the light blankets. Back to sleep. Good boy.

  He made it out the door and down the hall without hearing a bark. He knew his way around this place pretty good by now. It was honkin’ huge, but he’d chased the kid around so many times, he’d memorized every corner. In fact, it was playing hide-and-seek with Peyton today that let him hear what Mr. Roper had said to that tall lady he worked for. />
  Not every word, since he was across the hall. But enough that he could figure out they were talking about his mom. And enough to make him curious as hell. Had his mom really been in a drug ring? The girlfriend of a drug dealer? And pregnant when she ran away?

  That would mean . . .

  But she’d never lie to him like that. Never. He had to find out.

  When Peyton had found him and screamed happily, the conversation had gone silent. With Peyton in tow, he’d glanced into the office where they’d been talking, and Mr. Roper was holding a file. With the ease of a Tom Clancy spy from that new Splinter Cell game, Quinn had cruised right on in, made small talk, and caught the name on the file. Varcek. His middle name.

  So that alone gave him the right to spy.

  The office was wide open now. He marched right over to the desk, where four or five manila folders stood in a metal-pronged holder. Varcek was the third one.

  He grabbed it and hustled back to his room, locking the door with shaking hands. Goose started to bark but Quinn hushed him, jumping on the bed to flip open the file and read.

  With every word, he couldn’t fight the lump of fury and hurt in his throat.

  Every single thing she’d ever told him had been a lie. She was a runaway, some guy named Ramon Jimenez’s girlfriend. Which meant that guy was his . . .

  He threw the file down, the papers scattering. Goose instantly perked up.

  “Dude, we’ve been totally fucked.” Quinn looked at the papers and swallowed hard. “Why not just tell me?” he asked the dog, who laid his head on Quinn’s leg. “She was never going to tell me. Never. And what about Dad? Did he know? Did she lie to him, too? Even when he was dying?”

  That was the kicker. He angrily grabbed a T-shirt, stuck his feet in Adidas flip-flops, and dropped his cell phone into the pocket of his sleep pants. He had forty dollars and his passport, which for some reason his mom had left in his backpack last night.

  He was outta here.

  Rage made him shake, tears spilling now out of his eyes. Every foul word he knew buzzed through his head as he took a few things from his drawer and threw them in his backpack.

  He could get out of here without making a sound. He’d watched Mr. and Mrs. Roper work the alarm system, and he’d memorized the code they’d made no effort to hide.

  He’d just run.

  On foot? That was crazy. He’d never get past that guard at the island gate. But if he was in a car . . .

  Goose followed him into the kitchen, where, right next to the alarm pad, the Ropers kept all of the car keys in a little cubby. Since they were so flipping rich, Quinn had his pick among four.

  Well, shit. If you’re gonna go, go balls to the wall.

  He hit the alarm and opened the door that led to the garage. He opened the Ferrari door with quivering hands, then let Goose climb over the console like he was jumping into his mom’s truck, instead of a six-bazillion-dollar Testarossa. He adjusted the driver’s seat, to where he’d had it when Mr. Roper let him drive, turned on the ignition, and cracked his neck like he’d seen race car drivers do.

  They’d get him, of course. Probably before he hit the causeway. Maybe he’d be pulled over. Then he’d get a record—just like his lying mother.

  The garage door went up and he stepped on the gas, eased up on the clutch, and shot forward.

  “Shit!” He got the car under control, cruised down the driveway, waited until the huge iron gates opened, then gunned it down the one road that led to the main gate. He checked his rearview mirror. Nothing yet, but something told him Roper would be up and out in ten seconds flat.

  He didn’t look at the guard or slow down too much, leaving the private island. The gate opened for him and he gave the gas pedal a push, rounding a little circle, crossing another bridge, then turning right on the big Tuttle Causeway that passed the cruise ships.

  All was still clear in the rear. Unbeliev—

  Panic curled through him at the sight of a blue light flashing behind him. What should he do? Pull over? Drive faster? He swerved as fear shot through him, then hit the brakes. He was so grounded for the rest of his life.

  He pulled the car over to the side of the bridge. But that wasn’t a cop car. Man, he was pulled over by an unmarked. The guy getting out of the driver’s seat wasn’t even in uniform.

  But, oh fuck, he had a gun out.

  Hands shaking, Quinn managed to get the window down, wishing like hell that Mr. Roper would suddenly come blazing out of Star Island to stop this.

  “Yes, officer?” Should he call a plainclothes that?

  “Quinn Smith?”

  Holy crap! The guy knew his name? Maybe Mr. Roper called the police the minute he heard the garage door. That had to be it. He relaxed a little and nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Out of the car.” He lifted the gun and Quinn almost choked. Goose barked, but Quinn gave him a signal to quiet.

  Why the gun?

  “What about my dog?”

  “We’ll take care of your dog. Bring your bag so we can inspect it.”

  He grabbed the backpack, then opened the door, his legs shaking almost too much to stand. But he managed, holding his hands up like it was a freaking movie.

  “Walk back to my vehicle, son.”

  He did and Goose went crazy, barking as Quinn scanned the bridge for one of Mr. Roper’s cars, peering down to the Star Island entrance, praying to see lights. He was so, so sorry he’d done this.

  The man opened the back door and Quinn blinked in surprise. There was another man back there. He turned to look at the cop, but he got shoved so hard it took his breath away as he stumbled into the back.

  Not again! He wanted to scream, but shut his mouth when the man in the back pointed another black pistol in his face. “Hello, Quinn.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man just smiled as the driver gunned into traffic, throwing Quinn against the seat.

  “What do you want with me?” He didn’t even care that his voice cracked like a baby’s.

  “Let me see your bag.”

  Quinn shoved it at him and the man ripped at the zippers, digging through his clothes. “All ready for a trip, young man? In your Ferrari?” He laughed, low and ugly. “Oh, look at this.” He pulled out the passport and flipped it open. “Excellent. Anything else of value?”

  “Forty bucks. You can have it if you let me go.”

  He just snorted and dug some more, shoving beefy hands in the side pockets and jabbing all around.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “This.” He pulled out a tiny slip of paper. The little piece of paper that his mom said had sentimental value and she wanted it to stay with Quinn. Because he was supposed to be safe at the Roper’s house. He cursed himself and his stupid ideas.

  “Better put your seat belt on, young man.”

  He didn’t move. “Where are we going?”

  “Away.”

  Out the back window, the blue and white flashes of Miami police cruisers lit up the night, just as a giant black Escalade—one of the Roper’s cars—tore out of Star Island and headed in their direction. But all of those cars screeched to a halt around the Testarossa he’d abandoned on the side of the road.

  At least they’d get Goose home.

  The car he was in blended into traffic and disappeared from their sight.

  “They’re circling us.” Dan stood hidden in a corner where two windows met, his weapon aimed at the boat half a mile away.

  Maggie had dressed for escape and crouched on the floor where he stood.

  “So it’s not our pilots,” Maggie said, hope dwindling in her voice.

  “No.”

  “And it’s not Javi?”

  Dan inched out after a lightning flash, using the momentary whiteness to get a look. “Not our boy come to end the honeymoon.”

  “What size is it? Could it be someone night fishing?”

  “There are two men in a single outboard about twice the siz
e of Javi’s.” He stole another look, squinting into blackness. “And the only thing they’re trying to catch is us.”

  A small noise caught in her throat and he lowered himself beneath the sill, closer to her. “But they won’t.”

  A burst of reddish light from the sky illuminated the terror in her eyes.

  “I swear they won’t, Maggie. I’ll kill them from up here. I have plenty of ammo, I’m a great shot, and I don’t care who the hell they are. They’re dead—I’m just waiting to take my shots. And then”—he pulled her closer and kissed her—”we have transportation, because we’ll take their boat.”

  The motor revved and he stood again. They were moving in, but not close enough to risk a shot.

  “How can you shoot in the dark? As I recall, you don’t have the best night vision.”

  He just smiled. “So I have a flaw.”

  “Right now, it’s a doozy.”

  “We’ve got light. It’s just intermittent.” And it was slowing down. His memory was that the Catatumbo lightning peaked after about two hours, then waned for a half hour until the rain began. They were nearing the end of that half hour.

  These clowns had been circling for almost a whole hour, no doubt waiting for the cover of darkness and a downpour before they attacked. Which worried him.

  Another bolt of lightning sparked, much weaker now, and shorter. All he got was silhouettes, and no chance of getting off a shot.

  “We must have something they want,” she said. “And if it would save our lives to give it to them, why don’t we? We don’t have to be Rambo and just kill them.”

  “The only thing anyone wants is the location of the money. That’s why I think they trapped us here, even though I’m sure it’s not here.” His mind whirred with possibilities until he hit on one, hard. “Think about this, Maggie. If we’ve come to this very place, it means we have all four fortunes. We think we know all of the coordinates. But what if one of them is wrong? If someone knows three of them, and they make it not too hard for us to get them—like Ramon and even Lola did—then when we arrive at our destination—what do they have?”

  “A fourth coordinate by process of elimination,” she said.