by Nora Roberts
There, he thought. Now they’d get down to it.
She started to laugh, a full-out, up-from-the-gut roll that left her breathless again. She had to bend over, brace her hands on her thighs.
“Listen, it may sound stupid, but—”
Still bent over, she waved him off. “Not entirely, but enough. God, God! I’ve been up here working my ass off to make myself feel strong, capable of dealing with whatever comes at me so I’m not hiding under the bed trembling, and you accomplish the same thing in under five minutes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You make me feel strong, capable, even ingenious because you just see me that way. I haven’t got you wrapped around my finger, Simon—far from it. And the fact is, I wouldn’t want you there. But because there’s this little part of you that worries I do, or I could, I feel I can take on anything that comes. Anything at all. I feel strong and sexy and capable and ingenious.” She flexed her left biceps. “It’s heady. I’m drunk on it.”
“Well, that’s just great.”
“And you know what else? That you would do that—that silly thing to make a point.” She gestured toward the window. “That you could do that without feeling foolish, but feel just a little foolish because you’ve spent time out there playing with the dogs? Simon, it just disarms me.”
“For God’s sake.”
“It disarms me and delights me. So I’m disarmed, delighted, strong and sexy and capable all at the same time. And no one has ever made me feel the way you do. No one. That.” She pointed to the window again, and let out a laugh that sounded as baffled as he felt. “That right there is why, as ridiculous, as incomprehensible as it is, it’s why I’m in love with you.
“Simon.” She walked to him, linked her arms around his neck. “Isn’t that a kick in the ass?” She pressed her lips to his in a hard, noisy kiss. “So, handprint stays. In fact, I think I’ll draw a heart around it first chance. Meanwhile, I can show you some basic moves before I dive into the shower and a glass of wine. Unless you want to yell at me for a while.”
“That’s it,” he muttered, and, grabbing her arm, pulled her across the room.
“That’s what? Are you throwing me out of the house?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m taking you to bed. I ought to get something out of this.”
“Gosh, what a charming offer, but I really need that shower, so—”
“I want you sweaty.” He used the momentum, gave her arm a quick whip and more or less slingshot her onto the bed. “I’ll show you some moves.”
“I think you just did.” She pushed herself up, cocked her head. “Maybe I’m not in the mood.” And her breath caught when he yanked the damp shirt over her head, tossed it. “Or—”
“You can pick that up later.” He cupped her breasts, rubbed her nipples with calloused thumbs. “You made the bed.”
“Yes, I did.”
“A lot of good it did you.” When she shivered, he pushed her onto her back.
“And you’re going to show me the error of my ways?”
“Damn right.” He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her gym shorts, pulled.
Smiling, she trailed a fingertip from her collarbone to her belly, and back again. “Then come and get me.”
He stripped, watching her watching him.
“I should just keep you naked,” he considered as he straddled her. “I know what to do with you when you’re naked.”
“I like what you do with me when I’m naked.”
“Then you’re going to love this.”
He took her avid, inviting lips with his, roughening the kiss even as he deepened it. He used his weight to pin her as her heart began to gallop, used his hands to exploit her so that hot, damp skin trembled.
Strong and capable she was, down to the marrow, he thought. It was part of what made her irresistible. But now, just now, he wanted her weak, he wanted her helpless. For him, only for him.
He used his tongue, his fingertips, in long, slow journeys that made her sigh as he felt her body relax into pleasure.
Then his teeth so her pulses leaped.
When his mouth came back to hers, she sighed again, lifting her hands to his face in the way that always disarmed him, then sweeping her fingers through his hair.
Against his mouth her breath quickened when he trailed a finger up her inner thigh, retreated, stroked slowly back to brush, only to brush, the heat.
When she moaned his name, arched her hips, he retreated again.
She ached. Her body quivered, rising toward that lovely release, only to have it denied. Even as she said his name again, he feathered his fingers over her, made her writhe. And his mouth began the same torturous assault on her breasts.
He gave, gave, took her to within a breath of peak. Then eased away to leave her churning.
“I want you. Simon. Please.”
Still he played her until her gasps mixed with moans, until her hands pulled at the spread she’d so neatly smoothed that morning.
He drove into her, hard, fast, a shock to her tormented system. The orgasm tore through her, center to throat. She heard her own scream, heard it, felt it deepen into a shuddering moan of release. Her body roared through it, bucking beneath his, nails digging in until her hands simply slid bonelessly to the bed.
He dragged her up so her head fell against his shoulder.
“Put your legs around me.”
“I—”
“I want you around me.” His teeth scraped over her throat, her shoulders. “It’s all I can think about. You around me.”
She gave him what he wanted, held on through the storm. Rode it up again, yet again, until there was nothing left.
She all but melted onto the bed, might have lain there weak as water till morning. But he pulled her over, anchored her so she sprawled over him with her head on his chest over his raging heart.
She dozed off and the next thing she knew she was blinking awake and staring at four furry faces pressed to the deck door. Simon’s chest rose and fell steadily under her head, but his fingers played with her hair, sliding through it, twining it, sliding. Everything about the moment made her smile.
“The dogs want in,” she murmured.
“Yeah, well, they can wait a minute.”
“I’ll get them.” But she didn’t move. “I’m starving. I guess working out followed by working out hones the appetite.”
She snuggled in. One more minute, she told herself. Then she’d let the sad-eyed dogs in, grab that shower, and they’d figure out what to toss together for dinner.
She started to stretch, then her gaze landed on the bedside clock. “What! Is that clock right?”
“I don’t know. Who cares?”
“But . . . Did I fall asleep? For an hour ? That’s like a nap.”
“Fee, that is a nap.”
“But I never take naps.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“Well, God.” She shoved up, pushed her hands through her hair. Since it was the closest to hand, she grabbed his T-shirt, dragged it on.
It just covered her ass, he noted. Too bad.
She opened the door, and the room was immediately filled with dogs.
“Sorry, boys. Go on and talk to Simon. I need a shower.”
She dashed into the bathroom. And all four dogs lined up on the side of the bed, tails whipping, eyes staring, noses twitching.
“Yeah, that’s right. That’s right. I had sex with her. A lot of sex. What’s it to you? Only one of you has balls, and since everybody’s haranguing me, he’s not going to have them much longer.”
He recognized the gleam in Jaws’s eyes. “Don’t even think about jumping up here,” Simon warned, but cupped a hand around his own balls, just in case. “Why don’t you go get me a beer? Now that would be a useful behavior.”
Since none of them seemed inclined, he got up to get one for himself.
Once he got downstairs, he switched it to wine. She’d said she wa
nted wine, he remembered. He might as well go that route, too. He poured two glasses and sipped the first as he opened the refrigerator to study the contents.
They were going to starve to death, he decided, if one of them didn’t think about hitting the grocery store. He poked into the freezer and decided one of her frozen girl meals was better than starvation.
Marginally.
He picked up her wine and, with the dogs trailing him—again—started back for the stairs.
Beside him, Newman let out a quiet woof seconds before he saw the woman walk onto his front porch.
She beamed a smile through the screen door. “Well, hello.”
Simon took a moment to think she was lucky he’d bothered to pull on his boxers. “Something I can do for you?”
“I hope so. I’d love to talk to you for a few minutes. I’m Kati Starr, with U.S. Report. Isn’t that Fiona Bristow’s car—and her dogs, right?”
Slick looks, slick manner, he thought.
“Here’s what I’m going to do for you. I’m going to tell you, once, to turn around, get back in your own car. Go away. Stay away.”
“Mr. Doyle, I’m just doing my job, and trying to do it as thoroughly and accurately as I can. My information is there might be a break in the investigation. As I’ve been told Ms. Bristow’s now living with you, I’d hoped to be able to get her thoughts on this potential break. I admire your work,” she added. “I’d love to do a feature on you sometime. How long have you and Ms. Bristow been involved?”
Simon closed the door in her face, flipped the lock.
He figured he’d give her three minutes to get the hell off his property before he called the sheriff and had the satisfaction of pressing charges for trespassing.
But when he got back upstairs, Fiona, wet hair slicked back, sat on the side of the bed.
“I saw her through the window, so you don’t have to wonder if you should tell me or not.”
“Okay.” He passed her the wine.
“I was going to say I’m sorry she came here, started on you, but it’s just not my fault.”
“No, it’s not your fault. She said she had information that there’d been a break in the case. I don’t know if she was just fishing or if she’s got a source leaking her information.”
Fiona let out a muttered oath. “I guess we’d better tell Agent Tawney, just in case. What did you say to her?”
“I told her to go away, and when she didn’t, I just closed the door.”
“Smarter than I was.”
“Well, I considered giving her a quote, but I thought ‘Fuck you, bitch’ didn’t have any real creative zing. And it was all I could think of. If you’re going into brood mode, it’s going to piss me off.”
“I’m not going into brood mode. I’m going into neener-neener mode by calling the FBI and the sheriff’s office and tattling on her. And I’m asking for a restraining order after all, just for the fun of it.”
He reached out, smoothed a hand over her hair. “I like that mode better.”
“Me too. Then what do you say we flip to see who cooks dinner?”
“Buzzing up sissy frozen dinners isn’t worthy of a flip.”
“I was thinking of the steaks we have in the meat drawer of the fridge.”
“We have steaks?” The day got brighter. “We have a meat drawer?” She smiled and got to her feet. “Yes, we do.”
“Okay, the meat drawer probably came with the fridge. How did we get steaks? Do you have a magic cow somewhere?”
“No, I have a fairy stepmother, who delivers. I asked Syl if she’d pick us up a couple steaks, Idahos, some staples I needed. She dropped them off today, including a bunch of fresh vegetables and fruit because she thinks we need those, too. That’s why there are fresh vegetables in the crisper. And yes, we have a crisper.”
He decided there was no point in telling her he’d looked in the fridge and seen none of those things. There’d just be some variation of his mother’s standard crack about Male Refrigerator Blindness Syndrome.
“You make the calls. I’ll start the grill.”
“Works for me. You do know you’re only wearing your underwear.”
“I’ll put on the pants you’ve already picked up and folded on the bed you’ve already made. But that means if we have to have any of those vegetables, you’re dealing with them. I’ll take the steaks.”
“That’s a fair trade. I’ll make the calls downstairs.”
When she went down, he put on the neatly folded work pants she’d laid on the bed.
Before he went downstairs, he stepped into his makeshift gym.
Okay, maybe, like the rest of the house, the room smelled like a lemon drop. But his handprint was still on the window.
It was, he supposed, a strange kind of compromise.
He started down, cursed, walked back up and yanked open a drawer. He pulled on a fresh shirt.
She’d gotten the steaks, he reminded himself.
Steaks, fresh shirt. It was just another kind of compromise.
TWENTY-SIX
Tawney studied Perry on the monitor. He sat at the steel table, shackled, his eyes closed, the smallest of smiles on his face—as a man might when listening to pleasant music.
His prison-pale face, doughier than it had been seven years before, expressed quiet contemplation. Lines carved brackets around his mouth, more spiderwebbed from the corners of his eyes, only enhancing the appearance of an ordinary, harmless man who’d use his senior discount for the Early Bird Special at his local Denny’s.
The indulgent uncle, the quiet next-door neighbor who tended his roses and clipped his lawn meticulously. The simple Everyman people passed on the street without a second glance or particular interest.
“He used that the way Bundy used his charming looks and fake arm cast,” Tawney murmured.
“Used what?”
“His I’m-somebody’s-grandfather mask. He’s still using it.”
“Maybe. But he’s talking to us without his lawyer, and that has to be another device.” Mantz shook her head. “What’s he up to? What’s he thinking? Nobody knows him better than you, Tawney.”
“Nobody knows him.”
He kept his eyes on Perry’s face and thought, He knows we’re watching him. He’s enjoying it.
“He’s good at making you think you do, saying what you want to hear, or expect to hear. It’s the layers that trip you up with him. The ones he has already, the ones he adds on to suit the circumstance. You’ve read the files, Erin. You know it was mostly just his bad luck and the heroism of a canine cop that we caught him.”
“You don’t give yourself or the investigative team enough credit. You’d have bagged him.”
“He stayed in the wind nearly a year, a year after we had his face, his name. Fiona gave him to us, and still, it took months and the murder of a police officer before we took him down.”
And for that he’d never completely forgive himself.
“Look at him,” Tawney added. “A paunchy man past middle age, chained, caged, and still he finds a way. He found Eckle and lit the fuse.”
“You’re not getting enough sleep.”
“I bet that bastard’s sleeping like a baby. Every night, with that goddamn smile on his face just like he has on now. He’s got an agenda. He’s always got an agenda, a purpose to everything he does. He doesn’t need the lawyer to talk to us because he’s only going to tell us what he’s already decided to tell us.”
“He doesn’t know we’ve got a line on Eckle.”