by Sylvie Kurtz
Her hot breath teased his ear. Her hands stroked down the length of his back. One leg hooked over his, pressing his rock-hard cock against her sweet center. The layers of fabric had to go.
He was out of control. Some part of him realized that. Everything became sensation. Somehow what clothes remained came off. He moved, he tasted, he touched, answering her hunger with his. At her urging, he pushed himself into her, slowly, exquisitely fitting her to him. Sheathed in her welcoming warmth, he held himself very still, fighting once more for control.
He’d wanted this for so long, imagined it a thousand different ways. But his mind could never have conjured this unbearable humming of his being like a string drawn too tight, this need so deep it hurt, this love so strong it tortured. Smiling her honey-filled smile, she lifted to meet his thrust, and they settled into a rhythm that brought the whole world into sharp focus.
“Abbie.” He was breathless, mindless, helpless. She filled him to overflowing with something he couldn’t even name. Was there something bigger than love? If there was, it was Abbie. Not the Abbie of his fantasy but this warm, open, trusting Abbie who looked at him as if he was all she needed. He trembled from head to toe, desperately wanting to pleasure her before he fell apart.
Murmuring in her ear the madness of what she was doing to him, he rocked inside her until she tightened around him. A low cry tore from her throat. She stilled, then shuddered beneath him, gasping as she took him deeper.
The tight coil in him unleashed and spiraled, whipping him right out of this world and into another where all vistas contained Abbie—the golden glow of her honey eyes, the sweetness of her soft smile, the total surrender of her acceptance. A deep groan rumbled in his chest, clawed up his throat and rasped out as he arched up, pulsing inside her.
Right here, right now, he didn’t have to be a hero, he simply had to be. For tonight, he was enough. And that was a gift he hadn’t even known he’d needed.
Lungs pumping hard, body still quaking from the pleasure they’d shared, he rolled his weight off her and spooned her against him. He shouldn’t have let himself be seduced by his golden girl.
The cost was too high.
She’d gone and imprinted herself on his soul.
What would become of him when she went back to Echo Falls?
He tasted the almond-and-honey sweetness of her skin and tumbled the quilt from the back of the couch onto their entwined naked bodies.
She was right. He played for keeps.
For him there would be no other.
He closed his eyes against the inevitable pain of having to let her go a second time. Morning would come too soon. He kissed the top of her head and whispered, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
HER MIND WAS FOG. A GOOD FOG. A warm, fuzzy fog. Even better than a movie-marathon kind of fog. She marveled at how well she’d slept, even with the awkward sharing of the couch. For the first time in over a year her dreams hadn’t been riddled with nightmares of Rafe and murder—just that wonderful, welcomed fog of contentment.
She loved the feel of Gray, smooth and hard against her. The feel of his hands on her. The weight of his leg tossed over hers, his arm around her waist. She loved how he’d dissolved her worries, her fears—her—with his tender attention. Too bad she couldn’t bottle this moment and save this closeness, this connection, forever. Then she’d never have to wake up alone again.
For the past year every day had brought nothing but pain, grief and fear. Other than the few messages she’d shared with Brynna, there’d been no one to talk to, to hold, to care for. And every day she’d grown more and more isolated, feeling removed from the world as if she no longer belonged.
Until Gray had bowled back into her life.
She loved him. Always had. Always would.
But as a lance of light speared through the curtains and onto the braided rug on the floor, restlessness invaded her like a summer storm. She was growing too dependent on him. Sleeping like this, sheltered in his arms, felt too good.
How was this different from the life she’d fought to make her own before the mess with Rafe? If she was Gray’s, then what would become of her? He’d asked, and she’d willingly given him everything. True, she was the one who’d started the seduction—and enjoyed every second of it.
But nothing had really changed.
She still didn’t know what she wanted for herself, out of her future. Did she want Gray simply because he connected her to the scattered parts of herself? Because he was the one person she thought could actually save her from Rafe?
Unable to stand the track of her thoughts, she slipped out of Gray’s arms and the cocoon of quilt. A hot shower failed to settle her thoughts. She donned an oversize sweatshirt left behind on the dryer, while her and Gray’s clothes spun dry. Then she headed to the kitchen to scrounge up some breakfast, calling herself three kinds of fool.
She couldn’t walk away from him because she needed his help to get to the trial alive and defeat Rafe. But even if she didn’t need him, she doubted she would leave. Even with all of the doubts traipsing through her mind, she didn’t want to let Gray go. Not yet.
The kettle’s sharp whistle reminded her that Rafe planned to escape today, that her selfishness could very well put Gray in danger again.
For a few more hours they were safe here and Gray was hers. It would have to be enough. Carrying a mug of coffee and a mug of tea, she went back to the couch, to Gray, to a long goodbye that would have to last a lifetime.
THE CAR WAITED RIGHT WHERE Pamela said it would—outside the gate of this complex of warehouses, hidden behind a billboard that also camouflaged the underground exit. Rafe found the key and the plastic bag with a change of clothes butted against the left front tire without a problem and started the engine right up.
Most people would call him lucky, but luck had nothing to do with his success. Fate was too fickle a friend to trust in a situation like this. Attention to details—that’s what put him a cut above.
He was a master artist—just like his namesake. Raphael was known for allegorical figures of Law, Philosophy, Poetry and Theology and for his exquisite harmony and balance of composition. His own mother must have had a premonition of her son’s great destiny when she’d named him after her favorite Italian Renaissance painter. History would remember Raphael Vanderveer just as it remembered the original Raphael.
Though Rafe longed to open up the engine of even this subpar government sedan, he glided into Boston traffic as if he belonged there. Cup of coffee on the dash—just as he’d ordered; no one had to know it was stone-cold—he was simply another commuter on his way to the salt mines. The steel bracelets at his ankles and wrists were an unfortunate aberration until he could get to the tools in the trunk. But no one would notice. So few people bothered to get out of their own heads.
Despite al-Khafar’s no-show, the task-force morons were still shooting it out with phantom snipers. During all the commotion, he’d slipped a shiv under his lone keeper’s bulletproof vest and used the dead man as a shield to simply fade into the background. In the maze of warehouses his laid-out route took him underground and out to freedom. Rafe couldn’t help chuckle at the irony that his getaway car belonged to the U.S. Marshals Service motor pool.
His inside contact had balked at such a bald move, but a deal was a deal. Especially when it guaranteed a worry-free retirement.
Pamela had done good, setting up the automatic training snipers. Too bad he couldn’t keep her around much longer. Using the government’s own training technology to rev its agents’ adrenaline was a stroke of sheer genius.
Just like dozens of other commuters fighting solar glare on this Friday morning, Rafe reached for the cell phone, charged and ready, in the cup holder.
“Where are they?” he asked without preliminaries. Only Pamela had access to the number he’d dialed.
“I’m hurt. Thanks for asking.”
Rafe didn’t bother responding to her childish pique.
&n
bsp; “They’re in a cottage on Green Goose Lake.”
“Nicely done.”
“Do you need me to draw you a map?”
Again he ignored her, seeing in his mind’s eye the ugly twist of sarcasm on her face.
“We have a problem,” she said. The edge of a tantrum leached into her voice.
Rafe waited. Patience was his virtue.
“Al-Khafar is demanding an explanation.”
“For what?” If the twit couldn’t come claim his prize when summoned, what did he have to complain about?
“He wants an explanation of your meeting with General Soldatov.”
“Soldatov? I’ve never met anyone named Soldatov.”
“He’s a Russian.”
Well, that explained the anger, but it didn’t change the situation.
“Al-Khafar has a picture of you shaking hands with Soldatov,” Pamela said. “The picture is dated a week be fore your arrest and a week after you told al-Khafar that the data he wanted wasn’t available yet.”
“I see.” What had Abbie done to him this time? She was going to pay for this in spades. “Take care of him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I’m hurt. Reed hit me with his car. My hip’s broken.”
Pamela had definitely outlived her usefulness. “Fine. I’ll take care of it myself.”
FRIDAY TURNED INTO ONE OF those perfect days where the temperature wasn’t too hot or too cold, where the sky was an eye-hurting blue and the sun seemed to add a touch of gold to everything it touched. Outside, the green water of the lake gleamed, inviting summer swimmers to cool off and play. Tree leaves gossiped in the breeze like teenage girls. The country road wound around the lake, quiet and serene, empty of all traffic.
But in spite of the perfection of waking up to Abbie kissing him and riding him, every minute that ticked by cranked the ligaments on the side of his neck tighter.
Weekend cottages dotted Green Goose Lake, and this afternoon the owners would start arriving to make the most of the perfect weather. Would someone notice the Beasleys’ uninvited guests? Would the Beasleys themselves show up? Track season was over, even if school wasn’t.
Then there was Vanderveer.
Gray’s call to Kingsley went unanswered, but if the op was on, then that wasn’t surprising. Every man was needed to ensure success. He wanted to hear that al-Khafar had failed to show at the rendezvous. He wanted to hear that Vanderveer had failed to impress the task force. He wanted to hear that Vanderveer was once again safe behind bars.
Then there was Abbie.
Familiar pain cracked his breastbone. Her remoteness since breakfast as she folded clothes, repacked their bag and neatened the cottage twisted him inside out. The sane side of him said her anxiety was because of the situation with Vanderveer. The vain side of him took that same silence and molded it into rejection—as if he hadn’t done enough to reassure her that he could keep her safe.
Then again, maybe she understood that his promises held as much hope as determination.
He’d thought he could handle this—loving her, then letting her go—but he’d forgotten how big a piece of his heart she already owned. He rubbed hard at the pain stringing the tendons along his neck. His heart started racing. His feet couldn’t keep still.
When it came down to it, he wasn’t a complicated man. He had simple tastes—meat and potatoes, iced tea, classy clothes, classic cars and loud rock and roll. He loved his job. He liked the guys he worked with. And when he wasn’t working, he enjoyed sweating and seeing how far he could push his body.
But when it came to Abbie, everything turned complicated.
Only because you’re making it complicated.
The key was to break things down to their basic components. The important thing was keeping Abbie safe.
Concentrate on that and everything else’ll work itself out.
And what they needed now was a plan. Letting his love—oh, God, love!—interfere would only lead to disaster. They couldn’t stay here much longer. Once the weekenders started arriving, keeping hidden would definitely fall into the complicated category, and simple was always better.
There was still the problem of no cash and no car.
Gray glanced at his watch. The meet between Vanderveer and al-Khafar was set for dawn. Six hours ago. If everything had gone right, if al-Khafar had believed Abbie’s composite, if the task force had kept a tight leash on Vanderveer, then the situation was over and order restored.
Gray punched Kingsley number again. Once more he got the voice mail.
In the kitchen Abbie, angelic surrounded by a halo of sunlight, kneaded biscuits to go with the can of stew she was heating for lunch. His stomach took a dive. What if he couldn’t keep her safe? What if he did fail her?
“After lunch we need to go out and scout.” Gray couldn’t leave her alone in the cottage. There were too many variables he couldn’t control. “If we can find a couple of cans of gas, we can get the car going again.”
“Then what?”
She dusted her floury fingers. From the other side of the counter he reached for one hand, entwining her fingers with his. That simple touch made his heart stutter. “Then we find another place to stay.”
“What about—”
To his left a window cracked. A canister crashed to the plank floor and rolled toward him. Flash-bang. Where the hell had that come from? He shoved Abbie behind the counter. Aluminum powder burst from the bottom of the canister. It hung in the air, then flared like a peacock’s tail five feet in diameter before combining with the room’s oxygen and exploding.
A bright plume of light blinded him. The acoustic pulse deafened him. The sonic wave knocked him on his butt, stunning and disorienting him. The still-burning flash landed on his pant leg and burned like a son of a bitch. “Abbie!”
Another flash-bang exploded, flooring him a second time.
He tried getting up, skidded like a drunk, unable to tell which side was up. He couldn’t see a thing. His ears rang as if he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion. “Abbie!”
He made it to his hands and knees, solid floor beneath both. He bumped his head against the island counter and patted his way to the other side. Nothing. “Abbie!”
A third device bowled him down.
By the time the smoke cleared, by the time his vision started to return, by the time the ringing in his ears went down a hundred decibels, the back door yawed open and Abbie was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Abbie’s body tumbled around as if she were falling down an endless, black, narrow hole.
She came to a stop with an abrupt halt and something hard digging into her side, arms and legs stuck together yet askew. Just as quickly she was jerked forward again and pitched against another hard surface. The smell of sweat and gasoline slammed into her. A trunk. She was locked in the trunk of a moving car. Her mouth, wrists and ankles bound with duct tape.
Rafe. Oh, God, he’d escaped. He’d found her.
He’d done what he’d said he would.
Now he was going to kill her.
Eyes wet with tears, she fought against the duct tape.
Gray! The last time she’d seen him, he’d been holding her floury fingers, looking as if he wanted to kiss her again, and she’d been thinking how she wanted him to. The whole world had seemed bathed with gold before it all exploded.
Was he here, too?
Like a turtle on its back, she frantically rolled her way around the tight space. But there was nothing. Not even her tote bag.
Gray!
The bomb? Had it hit Gray? Was he hurt? A bloody vision of all the death she’d caused swam through her mind—the three deputy marshals, the young cop, her father—and her tears redoubled. Her worst fear was coming true. Protecting her had put his life in danger.
She’d told herself Gray was different. That he was strong. Smart. That he couldn’t die as all her other protectors had. Last night she�
��d reached out to him. He’d loved her back. What had she thought would change with the passage of time? She hadn’t needed to find herself all those years ago. She’d belonged with Gray. She’d loved him then. She still loved him. And now that they’d found each other again, they couldn’t just leave their relationship like that, without knowing where it could go.
Her breath stuttered in her lungs, impeded by the duct-tape gag. Gray, please, be alive.
She had to survive. She had to get away. She had to make sure he was all right. She hadn’t told him she still loved him, that she was sorry for hurting him, that she wanted another chance. That this time she’d follow him to the end of the world—no questions asked—if it meant she could be with him.
The hum of tires on asphalt spun at a good clip. They must be on the highway. Route 2 or Highway 91? Which direction? Where was Rafe taking her?
As long as the car was moving, he held the advantage, but once the car stopped, once he raised the lid of the trunk, she’d have an opportunity to take him by surprise. He would expect her to cower, not fight. He’d never seen her strength—not the way Gray had.
She wriggled her way to the edge of the trunk and patted all around the lining for something—a sharp edge, a tool—to cut the duct tape. Even after her eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness, she could spot no neon trunk-release handle. This had to be an older model, not Rafe’s own car.
Her hands stilled against the rough carpet of the trunk and the beat of her racing heart filled her ears.
What if it wasn’t Rafe who’d kidnapped her? What if he’d sent Pamela instead? Or muscle? Maybe this was just an interim ride.
It didn’t matter. She resumed her frenzied search for something sharp enough to tear through duct tape. No matter, she wouldn’t alter the basic plan. It was good. If she caught the driver by surprise, she still had a chance to get away, to get back to Gray.
On the top part of the trunk, the pointed end of a screw scratched her fingertips. She positioned the duct tape on the miniature cutter and sawed with all her might, scraping as much skin as tape. Sweat ran in rivulets down the side of her face, stinging her eyes. Heat sapped her energy, weighting her wrists as if cement cuffed them. Lack of air made her lungs burn with her exertion.