Dangerous Passion

by Lisa Marie Rice

  “Mine,” he moaned into her mouth. “Mine forever.”

  It was a hard kiss, almost violent, but Grace met his mouth with equal force, trying to meld with him, hands clutching at him in an effort to get closer, closer. Skin to skin. Loins to loins. Heart to heart.

  He walked her backward into the living room, shedding clothes as they went. He lifted his mouth from hers for a nanosecond to whip his sweater off, then impatiently ripped away the underlying shirt. In a second, trousers and briefs and shoes and socks were on the floor and he pulled her to him, hard, still kissing her deeply.

  Grace tightened her arms around him, his shoulders so broad her arms couldn’t meet. He was so hot, it was like holding warm steel in her arms as she settled heavily against him. His erection was huge and hot between them. She couldn’t resist the temptation to roll her hips against it, delighted to feel him swell, grow even harder and longer.

  He wasn’t the only one affected. She could feel herself growing moist between the legs, her body readying itself for him.

  He growled in her mouth, hooked a finger in the pale lavender silk shirt he’d bought her at Valentino and the La Perla bra beneath it and pulled, hard. The pearl buttons pinged as they bounced off the ancient terra-cotta tiles and the shirt and bra drifted to the floor. Grace moaned as his naked chest met hers, the feel of his skin against hers electric and almost unbearably exciting.

  He walked them to the plush rug in front of the open fire in the huge, intricately carved hearth and, still kissing her wildly, eased them both to the ground. She could feel against her breasts the strong play of muscles as he brought them down, laying her gently against the priceless antique rug, then coming down on top of her.

  He was shaking with the effort to control himself, but he didn’t have to. She needed this just as much as he did. She needed this wild coupling, this drive each of them felt to get inside the other’s skin. There was no such thing as being too close, not at this moment.

  Her tongue licked deeply in his mouth, her arms strained to hold him as tightly as she could. Desire blossomed in her, a hot unfolding and swelling, until her skin felt too tight to contain her. It was almost painful, this intense desire, and she whimpered.

  “Now, Drake. Don’t wait.”

  It was as if she had lashed a whip across his shoulders. In seconds, he had her pants unbuttoned, sliding them down her legs together with her panties, and as soon as her legs were free, he was kneeing them apart.

  He didn’t need to do that. They separated of their own volition, eager to twine around his hips. Oh God, his weight felt so delicious on top of her, heavy and warm, grounding her, making her whole.

  It seemed insane to her that she’d spent almost twenty-eight years without this. How had she survived all those lonely nights?

  Drake pulled back a little, face harsh, eyes closed to slits, as he reached down and opened her with his fingers.

  “Have…to…now,” he gasped. He was always so careful entering her, making sure she was ready for him, but she could tell he couldn’t wait. She didn’t want him to.

  In answer, she opened her legs even wider and lifted her hips, in an invitation as old as time.

  He entered her on one hard thrust, muscles hard and straining. She was ready, soft and wet and welcoming. Her entire body embraced him, held him, arms and legs and sheath, as tightly as she could.

  He moved inside her heavily, thrusting so hard she was going to get carpet burn, but she didn’t care because she needed this, needed it desperately. She needed his hard possession of her body, since she’d just given it to him, together with her heart.

  He was straining, hips slapping against hers, the sounds of their panting loud in the hushed quiet of the apartment.

  The intense friction caused a firestorm of heat in her loins, her vagina clenched once, twice, rising toward an orgasm…

  Drake stopped, panting, head hung low between his shoulders. Every muscle stood out in bold relief. He was so huge inside her, she knew he was close to orgasm, too.

  “Why—” she whispered.

  “No…protection,” Drake gasped. A drop of sweat ran from his forehead down over the hidden scar, to drop off his chin and onto her shoulder.

  Instinctively, Grace tightened her legs around his hips, her hands pushing down on the ironlike muscles of his buttocks, pulling him closer.

  “We’re married,” she whispered to him and it was as if those two words set off a firestorm. He bucked, hard, then started thrusting jerkily, fast and hard, in shallow, irregular strokes. Shuddering, he swelled inside her, then started coming on a low moan, almost of pain, setting off her own contractions.

  For the first time in her life, Grace felt a man come inside her and not inside of latex. It was glorious. She could feel the hot washes of semen pulsing inside her, her vagina becoming wetter than it had ever been before, so that he could slide in her more easily.

  Even after coming, Drake didn’t stop, though he gained control over the strokes, slowing swinging in and out of her in measured movements, moving so easily inside her now that she was wet with his semen.

  He groaned with pleasure, eyes tightly closed. Grace’s legs and hands rode his buttocks, completely attuned to his movements. She felt herself become one with him, felt his movements inside and out of her, his body a part of hers…

  With a high cry, she started coming again in tight, almost painful pulses that seemed to come from her entire body. He rode her through the contractions, prolonging them, finally coming once more with her.

  At last, spent, he collapsed onto her, huge chest moving like a bellows to pull in air.

  His limp weight was enormously heavy, so heavy Grace had to work to be able to breathe, so heavy she could feel her joints stretching where he lay atop her.

  But she relished it, held him to her as tightly as she could. It was like his weight grounded her, made her feel she was truly a part of this earth for perhaps the first time in her life.

  As consciousness returned, she took stock. She’d substituted romance novels for romance in her life, and in the books, it was never this…earthy.

  The smell of their sex was sharp in the air, sharper than the smell of wood smoke. Her hair was all tangled and sweaty—she was sweaty all over, as was Drake. Her entire groin area was wet and undoubtedly they had created a wet spot on that incredibly expensive antique Persian carpet under her, the one that had given her rug burn.

  Her muscles ached and she had to open her arms, legs falling limply open, too, as she let Drake go. One part of her still held him, though. He was still inside her, softer than before but still semi-erect.

  She shifted a little to find a more comfortable position, finding it hard with all that weight on her. The instant her hips moved, he stiffened a little inside her and she nearly laughed.

  Not right now, ace, maybe later was on her lips, but she didn’t have the breath to say the words.

  Grace was squashed, uncomfortable, wet and sweaty and totally happy.

  Finally, Drake turned his head, eyes half closed, a small smile on his face. He kissed her ear and whispered something in a language she’d never heard before, three short, liquid syllables.

  She had no idea what he’d said, but there was only one possible answer.

  “I love you, too, Drake,” she whispered.

  Sixteen

  Lido di Ostia Marina

  20 miles from Rome on the Tyrhennian coast

  December 4

  Rutskoi reluctantly killed the outboard engine and gazed with loathing at the rippling black water under him.

  He was an army man, through and through. Put him on land and he could fight his way through anything. The Russian army had saved Russia from Napoleon and from Hitler. What had the Russian navy done? Nothing.

  It didn’t help that he couldn’t really swim. He could paddle around in a pool without drowning, but that was about it.

  He had imagined his final confrontation with Drake on dry land, walking away th
e victor, Drake slumped on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Not on the roiling sea. But here he was, on water, the unknown element.

  He had supplied Terabyte with a list of all known Drake aliases, including a couple he’d only used a few times. And fuck him if they didn’t get back to him within seventy hours, that a credit card in the name of Serge Blansky had been used in Ostia, a small port city just outside of Rome.

  It was the name Drake had used in Ossetia, when he’d been supplying the rebels. As far as Rutskoi knew, Drake had only used the name during the month he’d spent negotiating in Tskhinvali. Still, Rutskoi had remembered and had included the name among the twelve known identities of Drake.

  So here was a Serge Blansky, booking a room in Lido di Ostia at a fancy five-star hotel that was just Drake’s style, and buying a Lamborghini from a local dealer. How many Blanskys had that kind of money?

  Rutskoi had kept the hotel under surveillance from a hundred yards away, but somehow Drake came and went right under his nose, because he never saw him come and never saw him go. Rutskoi was very aware of the fact that a surveillance op like this required a team of five or six men operating around the clock, but he was alone. Deal with it, he told himself.

  Good luck came in the form of an SMS sent to his cell phone from Terabyte.

  Subject hired 150-foot yacht from company at Lido di Ostia. Name of yacht “Bella Mia.” Pays €10,000 per day for hire.

  Rutskoi had raced to the marina, and there she was, half a kilometer out—150 meters of sleek white hull with brass so brightly polished it hurt his eyes through the binoculars. Bella Mia was written in cursive script on the hull.

  There was no time to assemble a team of divers, Drake could disappear at any moment. And in any case, Rutskoi worked alone. He found a quiet spot far from the marina and settled in to observe. Drake wasn’t in the hotel room, he was on his yacht; Rutskoi would bet the $10 million on it.

  Probably fucking the woman right this instant.

  That’s right, Drake, Rutskoi thought, as he kept the yacht in the lens of his binoculars, enjoy the pussy while you can.

  It was dark now. An hour ago, at sunset, all the internal lights of the yacht had lit up. Oh yeah, Drake was on the yacht.

  Rutskoi had night-vision capability and could see on deck as clearly as if it were noon. The decks were deserted. It was entirely possible that—in a fit of testosterone-induced madness—Drake had dismissed the crew.

  Rutskoi pulled out a set of oars and began rowing clumsily toward the left-hand side of the ship. Port side, apparently, it was called. Though it was dark and he’d carefully dressed in non-reflective clothing, he was aware of his vulnerability as he quietly, slowly rowed his way toward the yacht. If there were guards on board, all it would take was a casual look over the railing with night vision and he was a dead man walking. Dead man rowing, actually.

  Finally, after what felt like forever, he pulled up beside the bow. He reached out a hand to touch the sleek wood, still warm from the day’s sun. He’d pulled up next to a rope ladder. This was more like it. Rutskoi was agile and athletic. He tied the boat to the rope ladder and then climbed the ladder like a monkey, happy to get off the small, rocking boat onto the much more stable yacht.

  He climbed carefully, utterly without noise. He had a Glock 17, which a former Spetsnaz officer living in Rome had given him, together with the night-vision goggles. A cold gun, no identifying marks. He had three magazines in case the yacht was heavily guarded, but he thought not. Peering carefully over the gunwale with his night-vision goggles, he saw that the deck was still deserted. No guards.

  Drake felt safe, running away with his mistress. Not expecting the trouble that was right now slowly rolling over onto the deck.

  Rutskoi also had half a pound of C-4 if the gun didn’t work out, together with detonators and a timer. Set the timer, get in the small boat, fire up the outboard and watch from a safe distance as the fucking yacht blew right out of the water.

  Rutskoi stood carefully and slowly from a crouch, tensing when he heard voices. A woman’s light trill of laughter, the deeper tones of a man. Music. All belowdecks.

  Belowdecks was very good because it gave Rutskoi all the advantages of high ground, room for maneuver and surprise.

  Quietly, Rutskoi followed the sounds of music and laughter. Noiselessly descending the shallow steps, he felt alive, on the hunt.

  This was going to be much easier than he thought. So far he’d seen no one. It seemed that the only people on board were the woman and Drake, whose voice he recognized as he approached the closed door of the salon.

  No guards, music, the woman. Drake thought himself safe, had abandoned all caution.

  Oh yeah, love turned men into fools.

  Rutskoi eased closer to the door, placed a listening device against the shiny wood. It piped sound into an earpiece.

  The same as before, only startlingly clear. Background music and Drake talking to a woman. Relaxed voice. His defenses were down.

  The door was a sliding one. Rutskoi checked it, ever so carefully, moving it by a hair.

  It was unlocked.

  God, Drake deserved to die.

  Rutskoi toggled the door a little to get a feeling for how much strength it would take to slide it open, fit his hand into the space between the door and the jamb and crouched down.

  If this had been a dynamic entry with his men, he’d have arranged for a four-man unit. Two high, two low. Two right, two left.

  But he was alone, so he went in low. If Drake had a weapon close at hand—and however insanely besotted he was, Rutskoi found it hard to believe that Drake wouldn’t have a weapon close by—he’d automatically aim for the head.

  Rutskoi gave the door a hard shove to the left and moved through the opening swiftly, gun in a two-handed grip, ready for anything, and found…

  Nothing.

  The room was empty. Large, beautifully appointed and…empty.

  Yet Drake was still talking, music still playing.

  What the fuck?

  The music and the woman’s voice cut off abruptly. “So, it is you, Rutskoi,” Drake’s voice said, and Rutskoi whirled, seeing no one, just the back of an open laptop on the table. “I guessed as much.”

  Rutskoi rounded the table.

  Shit! Drake’s face filled the screen. Fucker was somewhere else. With a webcam.

  It was a trap.

  “Ah, Rutskoi,” Drake said softly. “You disappoint me.”

  Ten million dollars, slipping through his fingers. Rutskoi could feel it, like sand. His only hope was to rattle Drake, somehow scare him into making a mistake.

  He leaned forward into the screen, staring into the tiny webcam attached to the cover. “You got away this time, Drake,” he growled, “but I’ll get you eventually. You and that bitch with you. You can count on it.” He slapped his Glock for emphasis.

  Drake didn’t reply, but pulled out a cell phone. He punched in a number.

  Who the fuck was he calling?

  Something started beeping. A big metal box on a counter. With—Christ!—a small LED display, counting down. 10, 9, 8, 7…

  Rutskoi leaped, slapped the laptop off the table.

  …6, 5, 4, 3…

  “Drake,” he screamed. “Son of a bitch! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “I think not, Rutskoi,” Drake replied softly.

  Rutskoi’s world exploded in a fiery ball of white heat.

  The sounds of the explosion carried to the city center of Rome.

  Epilogue

  Sivuatu, Oceania

  One year later

  His charge slipped into the backseat of the black Mercedes 500 S class and smiled at him. Jim Stanley smiled back into the rearview mirror and ignited the powerful engine.

  “Take me home, Jim,” Victoria Rabat said, “as quickly as possible.” Then she looked out the smoked side window and smiled secretly.

  Jim knew what the smile was for. He’d have to be blind not
to notice the discreet bronze plaque by the side of the plate-glass door of the doctor’s office she’d just visited. DR. RAJAV SINGH, GYNECOLOGIST-OBSTETRICIAN.

  Jim put the car in motion. It rolled smoothly, testimony to superb German engineering, because it was steel-plated and weighed more than ten tons. He didn’t hurry, though his employer had urged him to. If anything, now that Jim suspected she was pregnant, he drove as if carrying a load of eggs, because his real boss, Manuel Rabat, would have his hide if she arrived with even a scratch on her.

  Jim had been hired ostensibly as a driver, but it had been made very, very clear to him that he was being paid five times the going rate to be the missus’s bodyguard, not just her driver. It had been also been made very, very clear that if anything happened to Mrs. Rabat, his ass was grass.

  At first, the salary and the fact that his employer—who was no one’s fool—had never once mentioned his dishonorable discharge from the U.S. Army, something that had been the big job-killer up to now, seemed too good to be true.

  Jim had been a Ranger, and a damned good one, too, until he’d broken the jaw of a candy-ass colonel who’d ordered his team on a suicide mission. Jim had lost two of his best friends, his temper and then his future.

  But Manual Rabat hadn’t mentioned it once. He’d given Jim three tests. First, he’d taken him down into the second sublevel underneath the enormous home built on a cliff, inaccessible from three sides, accessible on the land side only by one gate that was manned 24/7 by three guards.

  The entire subbasement was a state-of-the-art gym, the best-equipped Jim had ever seen. And Rabat used it often, too, as was visible when he stripped to put on his gi. There was a gi for Jim, too, and it was clear that he was expected to show his prowess as a fighter.

  Fuck yeah. Jim had been trained in hand-to-hand combat by the best. His only problem was going to be not breaking his prospective employer’s arms.

  Fifteen sweaty, exhausting minutes later, Jim was on the mat, immobilized. Rabat released him and sprang up, sweating but otherwise unruffled. Jim realized he’d gone three rounds with a world-class fighter and that he was lucky they weren’t enemies, because he’d have been dead.