by Tara Janzen
He just needed sex, and the soft catch of her breath. He just needed the fullness of her breasts pillowed against his chest, his hands hot on her bare bottom and hot between her legs, taking her higher and higher with each of his thrusts. She was going to come for him. He could feel it in the tightening of her legs around his waist, in the arch of her back, in the straining grasp of her hands on his upper arms. She was reaching . . . reaching, her breath coming in short, ragged pants. When her release hit, it hit him like a riptide, dragging him under on a wave of intense, searing pleasure as she contracted around him. He jerked against her, deepening their contact, burying himself to the hilt inside her, and he came, endlessly, pouring into her, until he was drained.
It was all he'd wanted.
All he'd ever wanted. He found her mouth and took it with a long, lazy, devouring kiss, his heart racing like a freight train, his breath coming hard, the soft, ambient ripples of her orgasm playing over him like the sweetest torture.
Easing her down onto Jeanette, he bared her shoulder and pressed another kiss to her skin. Then he kissed her neck, and her cheek, and her eyebrows. She was beautiful, so beautiful, her body hot beneath his, still pulsing with the pleasure he'd given her.
And Jeanette—good God—she was like the world's biggest vibrator. How could he never have thought to make love on the hood with 383 cubic inches of pure power rumbling in idle beneath him?
Regan stirred, and he quieted her with another kiss.
“Shh,” he murmured, stroking her with his hands, long, gentle sweeps from her waist and up over her breasts. “Don't move. Not yet.”
Her lashes rose, revealing the gaze of a slumberously satisfied woman, and heat coiled in his groin.
Ten minutes, he thought, leaning down over her, running his tongue over her skin, ten more minutes—or, God, maybe five, or one—and he'd be ready to go again. He loved the way she smelled, the way she tasted. Her skin was so soft, silken, everything he'd ever dreamed it would be.
“Shh.” He kept kissing her—and thinking Scott Hanson must have been the most sexually inept man on the planet. God, she'd come for him, effortlessly, like a wave coming to shore.
When she ran her foot up the back of his leg, he slipped free of her long enough to do away with her skirt and change condoms. Then he started making love to her all over again, unbuttoning her shirt and undoing the front closure on the bra he'd practically devoured, getting her naked.
This was his fantasy, having her spread out before him, the perfect picture of bare breasts and smooth skin. She didn't have a tan line on her, just one creamy curve after another, starting with her shoulders and going all the way down to the silky calf he held wrapped around his waist. He'd been here before—sated and yet still horny for her. It happened all the time in his little daydreams.
But this was real, and the combination of coming down from a world-class rush while simultaneously getting turned on to take another ride was mind-blowing. He was afraid that just like in his fantasies, he wasn't really going to get enough of her—and suddenly, there it was again, that fine edge of desperation he didn't want to think about. He toed out of his boots and pushed his jeans and underwear to the ground. Then he pulled his T-shirt off over his head and slipped back inside her.
Perfect. She was so perfect, like silk around him. This time they took it slow, which in no way lessened the intensity. They both ended up sprawled on top of Jeanette, the engine growling, and him ready to howl, and when she came, he didn't stop. He just kept pumping into her, letting her ride her high for as long as they both could take it.
Geezus. He collapsed on his side when it was over. He kept one arm around her, holding her to him. He'd snapped one of Jeanette's windshield wipers clean off the hood and was holding it in his other hand. Regan's bra was missing—or so he thought until he noticed it was hanging from his wrist by a single silky strap—but her shirt was still half on, draping off her left arm, a handful of yellow lace trailing across Jeanette's black steel. The logistics of her clothing situation were beyond him. He just hoped to hell they hadn't lost her skirt.
“Quinn,” she said softly, smiling at him, an utterly lazy, satisfied smile that appeared almost to take more effort than she could muster, and he grinned back. What fun she was, he thought, sliding his hand over her hip and rolling her toward him. She flowed into his arms, her leg coming up between his. What incredible fun, the kind of deep-down, frisson-up-your-spine kind of fun he hadn't had in a long time—or maybe ever, not like this.
His hand stilled in its absent caress, his gaze sliding over her. She was so lovely.
Slowly, he moved his thumb along the curve of her hip. He didn't think he'd ever used the word lovely in his life, but she was lovely, so lovely it made his chest tight.
“Regan.” He whispered her name, and she opened her eyes again, a drift of dark lashes rising, and the tightness in his chest got worse.
He was going down—hard. Just like he had in his F-16.
But, God, the landing this time—the landing this time was so incredibly soft. Her eyes darkened as he watched, her mouth parted, and he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. The rest of his body had given out, but they could still share a kiss.
It wasn't going to be enough. Nothing they did would ever be enough. No wonder he felt a little desperate. He was never going to get his fill of her.
Never.
CHAPTER
13
AS SOON AS the shoot was over and Travis was safely back on the ground, Kid Chaos had slipped outside the studio—much to Nikki's relief. She wasn't used to having her heart race just because a man looked at her—but she'd never had anybody look at her the way the ex-Marine had.
She hoped to hell she'd gotten it on film.
God, he was such a piece of work, and she meant that in the nicest, most wonderful way. She was going to paint him.
She was not going to get involved with him—if the opportunity even arose. That was crazy. She didn't know a thing about him, except he was the complete opposite of everything she had ever known. A warrior. Not a gridiron warrior, or an MBA shark, but the real thing, a soldier who had put his life on the line for what he believed in. God, country—she wasn't sure. Her parents had done it for Incan ruins in the Peruvian highlands, and she'd always thought they'd paid too high a price for what they believed in. Or maybe it had been she and Regan who had paid too high a price.
Damn, she wished Regan and Wilson were home, where they belonged, instead of out running around, getting into trouble with a bunch of stolen dinosaur bones, which by all rights shouldn't have had a thing to do with them. It was so unlike either one of them, but especially Regan. Nikki was the one who pushed boundaries, who lived a little on the edge. She was the one with the wild teenage years behind her, not Regan.
“The guy's got a gun, Nikki,” Travis said, wiping off the last of the paint before slipping on his shorts. “Do you want me to stick around?”
She looked up from where she was taking film out of the cameras. She wasn't surprised Travis had seen Kid's pistol. He'd probably noticed it before she had.
“No . . . uh, he's a friend of Regan's, in some kind of law enforcement. She'll be home pretty quick. She just asked him to stop by and check on me. You know how careful she is.” It was sweet of Travis to offer to stay, but if she was going to get any work done the rest of the night, the last thing she needed was two caged wolves prowling around her studio. One was more than enough.
“Too careful,” Travis agreed with a rueful grin, walking over and helping himself to a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He liked older women, and he had a definite thing for Regan, who so far had managed to resist his repeated offers to sexually reimprint her. It was his own New Age specialty.
Regan had been horrified at how much her baby sister had revealed to Travis about Regan's less than satisfactory marriage—but not nearly as horrified as she would be if she ever found out how Nikki had gotten Travis psyched for the Narcissus paint
ing. Somewhere up the canyon, tacked on the wall in a hand-built and only half finished cabin full of climbing gear and skis, was a life-size poster of her sister in her morning dishabille—her hair tousled and backlit by the sun, her silky sleep-shirt falling off one shoulder, way off, the hem hiked up to reveal the perfect curve of her derriere and a pair of sheer lavender panties.
Oh, the wonders of a zoom lens and a sister prone to falling asleep on the sunporch while reading the Sunday funnies.
The whole panty thing had really worked for Travis.
Nikki was shameless. She'd be the first to admit it, but she'd gotten what she wanted, and it was the Narcissus piece that had gotten her a showing in September at the Toussi Gallery in Denver, one of the city's most exclusive art galleries and a guaranteed stepping-stone to L.A. and New York. She wanted Pathos VII finished for the show.
“Okay, then, if he's a friend of Regan's. You've got my number,” Travis said, walking toward the back door. “There's a meteor shower tonight. I'll be up till dawn, so don't hesitate to call, if the mood strikes.”
The look he slanted her from across the studio said he didn't care if the mood struck her or not; if there was trouble, she better damn well call.
Nikki blew him a kiss and watched him walk out. As soon as he closed the door, she furrowed her brow. Damn. She was getting a lot of rescue offers tonight. At some point, a girl had to start wondering if she might actually need to take somebody up on one.
THEY were fucked.
Standing by the pool table in the back room of the Jack O' Nines Club in downtown Denver, Hawkins didn't so much as alter his breathing or raise his eyelids. He didn't so much as blink or let his lips twitch. But with every word Roper Jones spoke, he knew they were fucked.
Vince Branson and Gunnar Linberg, the two guys who had tailed Regan McKinney to Cisco, had called Denver to report that their quarry had taken off with a man in a black 1969 Camaro, and one of Roper's homeboys had connected the car to Quinn.
Jeanette had given him up.
Roper now knew it had been Quinn in Cisco, Quinn whom Regan McKinney had gone running off to find. The dinosaur lady had run to the man who had stolen Roper Jones's bones, which brought Hawkins to the really awful news: Nikki McKinney sitting in the McKinney house in Boulder. Suddenly, she was Roper's prime target for getting back what was his.
Hawkins had to get her and Kid out of that house, and in order to do that, he had to get out of the Jack O' Nines. A quick adiós and walking out the door was not an option, especially with Roper's rottweilers hauling their ugly asses to their feet. Neither was flipping open his cell phone and making a quick call. Which left him doing a lightning-quick search for Plan C.
“Cristo,” Roper called out from where he was sit-ting eating his dinner across the room, and Hawkins scratched Plan C.
It was time to rumble.
“Yo.” He stepped forward, loose and ready, his attention totally focused on Roper and the dogs. If he went down, he was taking all three of them with him.
“Kevin says he saw this Camaro at a garage up in Commerce City. You're a Commerce City boy. Go with Kevin here. Check the place out. Bring me what you find, and if Younger's there, bring me his head.” A broad grin split Roper's face. “You think you can handle that?”
“No problem.”
Roper's grin hardened into a cruel curve. “Yeah, that's what I like about you, Cristo. You're the guy with no problems. No problemas. Verdad?”
Hawkins shrugged, not at all sure which direction the conversation was going. Probably straight to hell like the rest of the night—but so far he was one hundred percent behind Roper's plan, minus the ten percent about Quinn's head.
“Yeah, you bring me his head, but I still want it attached. Comprende? I want to talk to the fucker before I feed him to my boys. If he's not there, you stay put until you hear from me. I don't want him slipping through any holes.”
From anyone else, the threats might have been euphemistic. But Roper didn't deal in euphemisms. When he said head, he meant just the head, and when he said feed somebody to the boys, he was talking about the rotties.
Quinn should have stayed in Cisco and shot it out with Vince and Gunnar. With Kid on his side, they could have easily won the gunfight, and then Roper would be wondering where his guys were, instead of getting all excited about killing Quinn himself.
“Yes, sir. I'll keep him in one piece.” And you can bet the fucking bank on it, asshole.
“Yeah, you do that.” Roper narrowed his gaze and pointed with the knife he was using to cut his steak. “You do that for me, Cristo, and I'll do something for you. Now get outta here.”
Roper dismissed him with a jerk of his head, and Hawkins gave Kevin a heads-up on his way by. A clean and fast getaway, that's what he wanted, before Roper decided to send a third guy along on this joyride. Checking out a garage that was probably empty didn't have to be a full-blown gang bang. Hawkins appreciated the fact and wanted to keep it as low-key as possible, just a couple of guys cruising up to Commerce City to loot the place and stake it out for the night.
Of course, in his plan, only one of them was actually going to know where they were. The other one was going to be out cold.
Outside the Jack O' Nines on Seventeenth Street, the traffic had slowed down from rush hour and the city was settling in for the night shift. Bars were busy, restaurants were gearing up for dinner, and shops were shutting down. A few blocks south, Hawkins could see the Denver Center for the Performing Arts all lit up. He'd been there four months ago for La Traviata with the cochair of the Denver Opera Guild, a very classy lady named Vanessa Sattler, who was still leaving messages on his answering machine. The gig with Roper had effectively sidetracked their relationship. Hawkins didn't mix business with pleasure. When he was undercover, he stayed undercover, and he doubted if Vanessa would let “Cristo” park her car, let alone do what he'd done to her after he'd taken her home.
A quick grin curved his lips. Yeah, he knew why she kept calling.
“Man, that was sick,” Kevin said, having to hustle to keep up. “Did you see that knife, man? That's one cold son of a bitch, to do that whore up on Wazee and then eat his fucking steak with the same fucking knife.”
“Yeah, that was rough, man, real rough,” Hawkins said. And that was no lie.
He led the way down the nearest alley to a nondescript late-model Buick known affectionately as Sheila. She was solid, no flash, built to run, topping out at one-twenty, and one in a long line of similar Sheilas. Steele Street traded their Sheilas out every year. The big muscle cars like Jeanette and Roxanne were too damned distinctive to drive around when a guy was trying to maintain a low profile. A point just proved in the Jack O' Nines.
Hawkins slipped in behind Sheila's steering wheel and leaned over to get a pack of cigarettes out of the glove compartment. Right on cue, Kevin got in the passenger side, and in one smooth move, Hawkins coldcocked him right between the eyes with his elbow, then reached over and slammed the passenger door shut.
Kevin slumped down in his seat.
Hell. The kid was about as sharp as a button.
Sheila purred like a big cat when Hawkins fired her up and started down the alley. With one hand on the wheel, he knocked a cigarette out of the pack with the other, then tossed the pack on the dash and flipped open his cell phone.
The first call was a speed dial to Kid.
The second was to Quinn.
CHAPTER
14
FIVE MINUTES.
It had been five minutes since Hawkins had called. Five minutes since Kid had told Nikki McKinney to grab what she needed, they were heading out.
And she was still in the bathroom.
What in the hell could she be doing in a bathroom for five minutes?
As a sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, when he'd said move out, men had moved out.
She was—what? What was she doing? He didn't have a clue. The shower wasn't running. The toilet had flushed about a
minute after she'd closed the door. He didn't begrudge her use of the latrine—not much, anyway—but the other four minutes were pressing him hard.
Too damn hard.
He'd asked her twice to hurry things up, and twice she'd called out “Okay.”
But it wasn't okay. She was still in there.
He stopped his pacing in front of Narcissus in the living room and looked up the stairs. A line of light shone from under the bathroom door.
With a soft curse, he took the stairs three at time. His M40 and extra ammo were in the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He had a short shotgun in his hand and his pistol holstered under his arm. He was ready to rumble, and she was . . . what?
He didn't have a clue.
A sharp rap on the door announced his presence. “Ma'am. Ms. McKinney. We have to leave now.”
Hawkins had called right after Travis had left. Kid had still been outside, and everything had looked fine—but that had been over five fucking minutes ago. If Nikki McKinney had been a man, he would have cut this scene real short about four and a half minutes back.
“It's open.”
Open? What in the hell did that mean? Was he supposed to just walk in?
He didn't second-guess it any more than that. He didn't have time. He wanted out of the house with her in tow. Roper Jones had identified Quinn leaving Cisco with Regan McKinney. Or rather, Roper had identified Jeanette. Either way, that left Nikki as the most accessible target—and he'd be damned if he'd let Roper Jones get ahold of her. No fucking way.
Opening the door, he stepped inside and stopped cold. Sweet Jesus. No wonder she was taking so long. The bathroom looked like a grenade had gone off in it, a grenade full of little tiny bottles and underwear. Bras of every shade and shape were hung on every available rod, dowel, doorknob, and window latch, each with a matching pair of underwear. Panty hose were draped over the showerhead like skinny water snakes. A thousand doodad makeup thingies were piled on every flat surface and in boxes on the floor.