by Nora Roberts
He stopped her with a hard, bruising grip on her shoulder. When they fixed on her, his eyes were ice cold and expressionless. “Stay put,” he ordered, then closed the door firmly in her face.
Too shocked to do otherwise, Jessica stared at the blank wood. What in God’s name was going on? she demanded as she pressed her hands to her cheeks. It was crazy. Someone sneaking around the parlor in the middle of the night. Slade handling a big ugly gun as if he’d been born with it in his hand. Nerves jumping, she began to pace the room. It was too quiet, she thought as her fingers laced and unlaced. Just too quiet. She couldn’t just stand there.
Slade had just finished a quick, thorough tour of the first floor when the creak on the steps had him whirling. He saw Jessica stagger back against the wall, eyes wide as he turned the gun on her.
“Goddammit!” The word exploded at her as he lowered the gun. “I told you to stay upstairs.”
She had enough time to register that she’d seen the stance he’d taken with the gun on a hundred television police shows. Then the trembling started. “I couldn’t. Is he gone?”
“Looks that way.” Seizing her hand, Slade dragged her into the parlor. “Stay in here. I’m going to check outside.”
Jessica sank into a chair and waited. It was dark; the thin, shifting moonlight tossed wavering shadows around the room. Defensively, she curled her feet under her and cupped her elbows with her hands. Fear, she realized, was something she’d rarely dealt with. She wasn’t doing a good job of it now. Shutting her eyes a moment, Jessica forced herself to take deep, even breaths.
As the shuddering calmed, her thoughts began to focus. What was a writer doing with a revolver? Why hadn’t he called the police? A suspicion rose out of nowhere and she shook it off. No, that was ridiculous . . . . Wasn’t it?
When Slade returned to the parlor ten minutes later, she hadn’t moved from the chair.
With a flick of the wrist, he hit the switch, flooding the room with light. “Nothing,” he said shortly though she hadn’t spoken. “There’s no sign of anyone, or any sign of a break-in.”
“I saw someone,” she began indignantly.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” Then he was gone again, leaving her next retort sputtering on her lips. He came back without the gun. “What did you see?” As he asked he began a more careful search of the room.
Brows drawn together, she watched his practiced movements. “The parlor doors were closed. When I opened them, a light hit my eyes. A flashlight. I didn’t see anything.”
“Anything out of place in here?”
She continued to watch his deft, professional search as he roamed around the room. No, the suspicion wasn’t ridiculous, she realized as her stomach tightened. It was all too pat. He’s done this before. He’s used that gun before.
“Who are you?”
He heard the chill in her voice as he crouched in front of the liquor cabinet. None of the crystal had been disturbed. He didn’t turn. “You know who I am, Jess.”
“You’re not a writer.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What is it?” she asked flatly. “Sergeant? Lieutenant?”
He took the brandy decanter and poured liquor into a snifter. His brain was perfectly cool. He walked to her and held out the glass. “Sergeant. Drink this.”
Her eyes stayed level on his. “Go to hell.”
With a shrug, Slade set the snifter beside her. A deadly calm washed over her, dulling the sting of betrayal. “I want you out of my house. But before you leave,” Jessica said quietly, “I want you to tell me why you came. Uncle Charlie did send you, didn’t he? Orders from the commissioner?” The last sentence was full of carefully calculated disgust.
Slade said nothing, debating just how much he’d have to tell her to satisfy her. She was pale, but not with fear now. She was spitting mad.
“Fine.” Keeping her eyes on his, she rose. “Then I’ll call your commissioner myself. You can pack your typewriter and your gun, Sergeant.”
She was going to have to have it all, he decided and wished fleetingly for a cigarette. “Sit down, Jess.” When she made no move to obey, he gave her a helpful shove back into the chair. “Just shut up and listen,” he suggested as she opened her mouth to yell at him. “Your shop’s suspected in connection with a major smuggling operation. It’s believed that stolen goods are hidden in some of your imports, then transferred to a contact on this side, probably through the sale of the whole article.” She wasn’t attempting to speak now, but simply staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Interpol wants the head man rather than the few underlings already under observation. He’s managed to slip away from them before; they don’t want it to happen again. You, your shop, the people who work for you, are under observation until he’s in custody or the investigation leads elsewhere. In the meantime the commissioner wants you safe.”
“I don’t believe a word of it.”
But her voice shook. Slade thrust his hands in his pockets. “My information as well as my orders come from the commissioner.”
“It’s ridiculous.” Her voice was stronger now, touched with scorn. “Do you think something like that could go on in my shop without my knowing about it?” Even as she reached for the brandy, she caught the look in his eyes. Jessica’s hand froze on the glass, then dropped away. “I see,” she said quietly. The pain was dull in her stomach. Briefly, she pressed a hand to it before linking her fingers together. “Did you bring your handcuffs along, Sergeant?”
“Cut it out, Jess.” Because he couldn’t handle the way she looked at him, Slade turned to prowl the room. “I said the commissioner wanted you protected.”
“Was it part of your job to attract me enough so that I might be indiscreet?” When he whirled back, she sprang to her feet to meet his fury with her own. “Is making love to me all in a day’s work?”
“I haven’t begun to make love to you.” Infuriated, he grabbed the lapels of her robe, nearly hauling her off her feet. “And I wouldn’t have taken the damn assignment if I’d known you were going to tie me up in knots every time I looked at you. The Bureau thinks you’re clean. Don’t you understand that only puts you in a more dangerous position?”
“How can I understand anything when I’m not told anything?” she tossed back. “What kind of danger could I possibly be in?”
“This isn’t a game, Jess.” Frustrated, he shook her. “An agent was killed in London last week. He was close, too close, to finding out who’s pulling the strings. His last report mentioned a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of diamonds.”
“What does that have to do with me!” Jessica jerked away from him. “If they think there’re diamonds stashed away in one of my imports, let them come in. They can take the furniture apart piece by piece.”
“And tip off the number one man,” Slade returned.
“How do you know I’m not in charge?” A raging headache was added to the sickness in her stomach. Wearily, Jessica rubbed at her temple. “I run the shop.”
He watched her slender fingers knead at the ache. “Not alone.”
All movement stopped. Very slowly, Jessica lowered her hand. “David and Michael?” she whispered. Incredulity gave way to anger. “No! I won’t have you accusing them.”
“No one’s accusing anyone yet.”
“No, you’re here to spy on us.”
“I don’t like it any better than you.”
“Then why are you here?”
The deliberate scorn in her tone made him want to strangle her. He spoke slowly, brutally. “Because the commissioner didn’t want his goddaughter to end up with her beautiful throat slit.”
Her color drained at that, but she kept her eyes level. “Who would hurt me—David, Michael? Even you must see how absurd that is.”
“You’d be surprised what people do to survive,” he said tersely. “In any case, there are other people involved—the kind who wouldn’t think of you as any more than an expendable obstacle.”
&n
bsp; She didn’t want to think about that—couldn’t if she wanted to stop herself from having a bout of hysteria. Be practical, she ordered herself. Be logical. This time she lifted the brandy and drank deeply before speaking. “If you’re with the NYPD you have no jurisdiction here.”
“The commissioner has a lot of clout.” The hint of color that seeped back into her cheeks relieved him. She was tougher than she looked. “In any case I’m not here about the smuggling, not officially.”
“Why are you here—officially?”
“To keep you out of trouble.”
“Uncle Charlie should have told me.”
Slade lifted his shoulders in a half shrug as he looked around the room. “Yeah, maybe. There’s no way of telling if he was after something in here, or slipping through this room to another. Not with the way this house is set up.” With a frown, he ran a hand absently over his bare chest. “Do you see anything out of place in here?”
Jessica followed the sweep of his eyes. “No. I don’t think he could have been around very long. You didn’t stop typing until one. Wouldn’t it make sense for him to wait until all the lights were out before he broke in?”
He started to remind her that no one had broken in, then changed his mind. If it helped her to believe it had been a stranger, she might sleep better. He thought of David, who had a room on the east wing of the first floor. “I’ve got to call in my report. Go on to bed.”
“No.” Unwilling to admit that she couldn’t bring herself to go upstairs alone, Jessica lifted the brandy again. “I’ll wait.”
She sat as he went out to the phone in the hall. Purposely, she tuned out his conversation, though it was carried on in such quiet tones that she would have had to strain to hear. Her shop, she thought. How was it possible for her shop to be tangled up in something as fantastic as international smuggling? If it hadn’t been so frightening, she would have laughed.
Michael and David. With a brisk shake of her head, she shut her eyes. No, that part she wouldn’t believe. There was a mistake somewhere, and in time the police or the FBI or whoever was haunting her would realize it.
A burglar had been in the parlor. It was as simple as that. Hadn’t Betsy grumbled a dozen times about her not using the alarm system? The image of Slade with the gun in his hand came back to her too clearly. That was something she couldn’t shut out.
When he came back into the room, Jessica was sitting very still, eyes closed. There were shadows under them. What he’d just learned on the phone wasn’t going to make them go away, but perhaps a good night’s sleep would.
“Come on,” he said briskly, trying not to soften as her eyes shot open in alarm at his voice. “You’re tired. Go up and take a pill if you can’t sleep. And you’re not going in to the shop tomorrow.”
“But I have to,” she began.
“You have to do as you’re told from here on,” he corrected. “You’ll be safer here where I can keep an eye on you. Starting now, you don’t leave the house without me. Don’t argue.” Taking her hand, he hauled her to her feet. “You haven’t got any choice at this point; you have to trust me.”
She did. Jessica realized as he pulled her up the steps that if everything else was a maze of confusion, that was clear. That very quick first impression she’d gotten when she’d all but run into him at the bottom of the staircase had been viable. With him she was safe.
“I don’t like knowing you’re a cop,” she murmured.
“Yeah, I’m not always crazy about it myself. Go to bed, Jess.” He dropped her arm as they came to her door. Before he could move on, Jessica grabbed his hand.
“Slade . . .” She hated what she was going to ask, hated admitting to herself, much less him, that she was terrified of being alone. “I . . .” She looked away from the impatience in his eyes and glanced into her darkened room. “Could you stay?”
“I told you, I’ve got my orders from the commissioner.”
“No, I don’t mean . . .” She moistened her lips. “I mean with me—tonight.”
She looked up at him, pale, soft, vulnerable. He felt the blood start to pound in his chest. In defense, his voice was blunt and cold. “When I go to bed with a woman, I tend to give her my complete attention. I haven’t got time for that now.”
She felt a flutter that was both panic and excitement. “I’m not asking you to make love with me, just not to leave me alone.”
He allowed his eyes to rake down her. Warm flesh, soft curves, and ice-blue silk. “Do you think I’d spend the night with you and not have you?”
“No.” The answer came quick and quiet. The flutter became a throb.
In a quick move calculated to frighten her, Slade backed her up against the door. “You haven’t the experience to deal with me, lady.” Not quite gently, his hand closed over her throat. Beneath his palm he felt the wild scramble of her pulse, but her eyes . . . her eyes were tawny and unafraid. He wanted her with a desperation that threatened to drive everything else aside. “I’m not one of your polite country club men, Jess,” he told her in a dangerously quiet voice. “You don’t know the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done. I could show you tricks that would make your French lover look like a Boy Scout. If I decided I wanted you, you couldn’t run fast enough.”
She could barely hear him over the dull thud of her heart. Her eyes had misted over with desire. “Which of us is running, Slade?” Her arms were already heavy, but she lifted them. In one long slow stroke, she ran her hands up his naked back. He stiffened. The fingers on her throat tightened swiftly. She pressed her body to his.
“Damn you, Jess.” On a groan, his mouth came down to savage hers.
Her senses whirled from the onslaught, but she clung. This was what she wanted—the mindless passion he could bring her on the instant of contact. The kiss wasn’t loverlike; it wasn’t the worshipful merging of lips, the gentle teasing of tongues. It was madness. Jessica abdicated her sanity without a second thought. Let him teach her what he would.
He ripped the robe from her where they stood, then gave into the driving need to let his hands mold every inch of her. Softer, inconceivably softer than he imagined, her skin seemed to flow under his fingers. Within seconds he had her trembling, one wracking, convulsive shudder after another. Her thighs were slim and strong. Running a hand up them, he found her, then took her gasping to a staggering peak until she swayed helplessly in his arms.
Slade swore again, knowing he couldn’t stop. He had told himself he would treat her callously and then walk away—to save her . . . to save himself. Now she was moist and warm and pliant in his arms. Her fragrance clung to the air, seducing him. He shook his head, struggling to clear it, but she pressed her lips to his throat, huskily murmuring his name.
He was with her in bed, not even aware if he had dragged or carried her there.
Jessica twisted under him, answering his kiss deliriously as his hands moved everywhere. He gave her no chance to orient herself. There was a tangle of sheets under her, the soft fabric of his jeans against her legs, but she was only aware of the hurricane. That’s where he took her—all speeding wind and black sky. His ragged breathing shivered into her ear before his tongue darted inside.
In a zigzagging journey that had her mind spinning, he ran open-mouthed, nibbling kisses down her throat to the hollow between her breasts. She arched, her nipples hard with need, but he continued down and ran his tongue along the line of her ribs. Half mad, she dug her fingers into his hair, wanting him to take her before she exploded, wanting the agonizing pleasure to go on forever.
Greedily, he came back to her breast, the moist trail his tongue left causing her to shudder with fire and ice by turns. His teeth nipped into the soft swell of flesh while with a fingertip he began a slow, torturous path around the other. Lips and finger circled in until she was writhing beneath him. He drew her nipple into his mouth, catching the other arching point between his thumb and finger. Jessica cried out as the dual pleasure exploded, then was lost in wave after
wave of sensation as his teasing became rampant hunger.
She was tugging at his jeans, but he shifted away from her seeking hands. Without the restriction he knew he’d take her instantly. He was far from ready. He’d sensed her passion, knew it lay smoldering, but now it was engulfing him in a heat he hadn’t foreseen. She was wildly responsive, like a thoroughbred mare given her head. He wanted to drive her—drive them both—to the breaking point.
The musky, woodsy scent seemed to emanate from her skin wherever he buried his lips. Her body was slender, almost too slender, but with a seductive womanly softness that made him want to go on touching and tasting until there was no inch of her he didn’t know. When his mouth brushed low over her stomach, she moaned, nails digging into his shoulders as she urged him down. He could hear his name trembling out of her lips between raw, gasping breaths. But when his tongue sought and found the center of her pleasure, he lost everything else.
He drove her to peak after peak. Exhausted, Jessica hungered for more. Her skin was fused to his, both hot and damp with desire. Her body was stunningly alive, throbbing from thousands of minute pulses he had discovered and exploited. Even his name wouldn’t form on her lips any longer. Together they struggled with the last barrier of clothing that kept them apart. She found his hips, lean and long-boned; his thighs, firm and muscled.
They came together savagely, each gasping from the shock of power.
She couldn’t stop the shudders. They continued to race through her long after Slade lay beside her, silent. Her body ached. And glowed. Did we make love or war? Jessica wondered dizzily. Whatever had happened between them had never happened to her before, and she knew with a certainty that it would never happen with any other man.
None of her inhibitions had surfaced—he wouldn’t have allowed them to. Was there another man with his strength, his intensity, his . . . savagery? Not for her, Jessica realized, instinctively rolling to him. There had never been, nor would there ever be anyone else for her. She’d lost that vital part of herself to him long before they had ever gone to bed—her heart.