True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  That part of him jerked at the contact, weeping for some attention, but he denied that for now, having to grit his teeth, instead easing back from her so he could trail his fingers down her ribs, caressing and tickling, paying close attention to the gasps and hitches in her breathing. He had to force himself to go slow, when all he wanted to do was plunge and take and fuck. At the juncture of her thighs, he stilled his fingers, smiling at the cessation of her breath, the air thickening with anticipation.

  “Please,” she whispered, her mouth against his shoulder.

  Ah, Sam begging. Who knew it would be so sweet . . . and hot?

  He teased her first, with just the tips of his fingers, kissing her at the same time, his tongue stroking and exploring as his fingers inched toward her wetness then retreated. With his palm cupping her hip, he felt the tiny jerks in her muscles as she fought the urge to press against him.

  “I want you, Mac. I want you now,” she breathed against his mouth, nails of one hand digging into the skin of his upper arm enough to leave marks as her other hand groped for his cock, gripping and stroking and trying to angle him for penetration.

  He chuckled at her desperation, swallowed at the heaven of her hand on him, the almost overwhelming urge to let go. Easy, boy. Not yet. “Just hold on. I’m not done playing yet.”

  She set her teeth against the join of his neck and shoulder and groaned. “I’m so going to kill you when this is over.”

  He released a choked laugh. “Trust me. You’re killing me now.”

  Then, clamping down on the need, the want, the holy-shit-I’m-going-to-fucking-die-if-I-don’t-get-inside-her-soon, he shifted on the bed, easing his torso down between her legs, and laved his tongue into her belly button, loving the quivers in her muscles, the faint, musky scent of woman on the verge. Smoothing his hands over her inner thighs, he massaged and kneaded until the muscles relaxed, until her hands tangled in his hair, and she let her legs fall open wider. He could smell her desire now, heady and so intoxicating that he had to take a moment to think cold thoughts to keep from losing it. The North Pole . . . Alaska . . . Iceland . . . Antarctica . . .

  She jerked and gasped at the first touch of his tongue, fingers tugging at his hair, and he smiled. This was going to be so much fun. Holding her steady with one arm snugged around her thigh, he played her with his mouth and fingers, sweeping into her with the flat of his tongue, sliding one finger, then two, inside her heat at the same time. Within minutes, she cried out and bucked, muscles bunching and shuddering, thighs trying to clamp around his head to stop him, or perhaps slow him down. He held her open and continued the onslaught, lapping at her heat, the flood of her desire, focusing on drawing out the contractions of her body around his fingers, the building tension in the muscles of her thighs, the sobbing sounds of her breath.

  She peaked again, a hard, shuddering, body-rigid orgasm, before he gentled his strokes, easing her down until she could breathe and her thighs began to relax some. As he kissed his way over her stomach, pausing to play awhile with pebble-hard nipples, drawing a few more breathy hitches out of her, he couldn’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot.

  “You okay?” he murmured when he finally made it back to her lips and kissed her, a deep, drugging melding of lips and tongue and teeth.

  “Mmm,” she replied, too sated to do more than hum.

  Her fingers trickled through the soft hair at his nape, and he closed his eyes as she rubbed the sensitive spot right behind his ear. He thought she might drift off to sleep now and wondered what he would do if she did. Well, that was easy: He’d go to bed with an aching hard-on or take care of it all by his lonesome, which wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying, but if he had to—

  She shifted, pushing him onto his back and straddling his thighs, rising above him with wild, sweat-damp hair and sex-glazed eyes. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she wrapped long fingers around his cock and pumped him, somehow knowing just what he liked, the pressure, the glide and slide and thrill . . . but not too much, not too firm to send him careening over the edge. He loved the way her dusky gaze took him in, roaming his features, her soft lips curving as though she approved of everything she saw. So . . . fucking . . . sexy.

  She leaned down and nibbled at his chin, the corner of his mouth, then murmured against his lips, “I want you inside me.”

  He didn’t have to be told twice.

  With a growl, he rolled her under him, muscles jumpy and jittery. After snagging his jeans from beside the bed, he fumbled out his wallet and then the condom. He had to hold his breath while he rolled it on. But then he was guiding himself to her, clenching his teeth until his jaw ached, come on, hold on, hold on, and then he was inside her an inch, and the breath hissed through his teeth as, laughing, she arched her hips to take him in another inch, and then another, and then she wiggled just a little, hooked her ankles around his calves and angled just right and daaaaaaaaaaamn, he was all the way in, completely surrounded by the sweetest, hottest, sexiest woman ever.

  Breathing through his nose, he ground out a shaky request, “Hold still.”

  She obliged—mostly—only her hands continuing their exploration of the muscles in his back, then down over his butt where she gripped hard and whimpered a little, trying to pull him deeper, her breath uneven in his ear, her hips straining under him.

  He rested his forehead against her cheek and gathered the tatters of his control. Women were so damn lucky. They could come all night without needing time to recover. Or maybe he was just so far gone for this woman that he’d never be able to control himself for as long as he wanted to. Closing his eyes, he pulled air in through his teeth as he eased almost completely out of her wet heat and then sank back in, again and again, urged on by the way her head arched back into the pillow and her throat worked on a ragged swallow.

  Her long, low moan stole his ability to think. He thrust harder and faster, gathering her close against him, pumping his hips, feeling the pause just before she peaked, loving the anticipation in the tense lines and curves of her body. When all that wet heat contracted around his cock, light exploded behind his eyes. For long seconds, he heard nothing but the roar in his ears, felt nothing but the intensity of a shattering climax and the rush of heat rising, gushing, spilling out of him.

  “Ah, God, Sam,” he groaned. “Sam.”

  Even when the orgasm eased off, leaving him only semi-erect, he kept thrusting, helpless to stop the shudders coursing through him, helpless to back off the ultrasensitive sensations of being this close to Sam, of being inside Sam. He didn’t want it to end, he never wanted it to end.

  And then, unexpectedly, her body convulsed in his arms again, her mouth open against his shoulder in an intense, silent cry, her breath heaving against his sweat-slicked skin. She gasped out something, her own name, he thought at first—obviously he’d misheard—and then she was clinging to him, her face buried against his neck, her body limp and struggling for air.

  Smiling, giddy even, he shifted so he could kiss her. One of her hands gripped tight around his forearm as he cradled her head in both palms and lazily kissed her, stroking into her mouth with his tongue, tender and loving. The remaining tension trembled out of her muscles, and she went even more lax against him.

  He thought he might love her.

  And she was going to get rid of him the first chance she got.

  He closed his eyes as he eased back and settled her snugly against his side, their breathing synchronized but calming. She continued to stroke her palm over his pecs, until she curled her fingers into his chest hair and tugged slightly.

  “You won’t leave, will you? When my sisters get here?”

  He almost laughed out loud with relief.

  “I mean, you’re all I know right now,” she went on. “I feel . . . safe with you.”

  He pulled her to him for a tight hug. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Flinn Ford was so wired by the time he checked i
n at the Royal Palm Inn in Lake Avalon that the sign declaring JAMES DEAN SLEPT HERE just above another that read UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT didn’t impress him in the least. Neither did the lobby with its totally Florida décor, from the wicker furniture with cushions bearing large pink-and-blue flower designs to the large green plants that turned the lobby into a virtual forest. He could practically feel the freshly generated oxygen filling his lungs.

  Letting the bellboy deliver his bag to his room without him, he headed into the nearly empty bar adjoining the lobby and took a stool under a thatched overhang that brought to mind a tiki hut.

  “What can I get you?” the female bartender asked. She had a gracious smile that showed impossibly white teeth against the backdrop of a lightly tanned, unlined face.

  “Whiskey and Seven. Make it adult sized.”

  Her teeth practically glowed in the dark as she slapped a rocks glass on the bar and filled it with whiskey and 7Up. “Any snacks tonight?”

  “What’s good?”

  “Jalapeno poppers’ll kick your butt.”

  He chuckled at that. Her prettiness lifted his spirits. “How did you know my butt needed kicking?”

  She threw her head back and laughed, cleavage jiggling enough to be enticing without being vulgar.

  “Bring me an order,” Flinn said.

  As she walked away, he flipped out his cell phone and called Natalie. “What’ve you got for me?” he asked as soon as she answered.

  “I found charges on Hunter’s credit card to the Hotel Sandpiper in St. Petersburg last December. No joy on placing him and Sam there now, though. They can’t check in without a credit card, so I’m still searching for a connection.”

  Flinn knocked a knuckle on the shiny surface of the bar. “Keep looking. It’s all we’ve got. Get an agent over there to scope out the guests, too. Send them pictures of Hunter, Samantha and her sisters.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Any luck locating the other sister? Alex?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. An agent from Tampa has checked her home, the home of her boyfriend, her parents’ home and her workplace. There’s no sign of her.”

  “So she’s in hiding.”

  “Or she’s left the area,” Natalie said.

  “If she has, it’s to meet with Samantha. We need to find her. Keep the Tampa agent on it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Someone’s going to screw up eventually.” He paused as the bartender returned with a plate of steaming poppers. He flashed her a thank-you smile and waited for her to move away before he continued talking to Natalie. “In the meantime, I need Marco and Dr. Ames to establish a small medical facility in Lake Avalon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Have them secure an abandoned building on a less-traveled road. Something small, a former urgent care or pet clinic would be ideal. After the hurricane and flooding last year, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Equip it with power generators, lights, running water, etc. Are you writing this down?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Consult with Dr. Ames for a list of required medical equipment and supplies. Tell him to keep it to items that can be obtained at regular retail establishments. Everything he needs for the procedure. As soon as the location is secured, they need to hire some people to help get it ready.”

  “Is there a time frame, sir?”

  “It needs to be ready by tomorrow afternoon latest.”

  “That’s quite a—”

  “Get day laborers in there to get it done. Whatever it takes.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

  He snapped the phone shut on her next question, picked up a jalapeno popper and sank his teeth into it. Hot, salty cheese oozed onto his tongue, followed by the heat of spice. He savored the textures and the flood of flavors.

  Taking Samantha apart after everything she’d put him through was going to provide even more pleasure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was two in the morning when Sam braced her hands on the vanity in the bathroom. Pain pounded in her head, an insistent throb in her temples that pulsed like something had burrowed into her skull and now tried to claw its way out. Her entire body felt rubbery and fluid, as though lovemaking with Mac had unlocked her muscles.

  Or something else.

  The tile walls blurred and shifted, and suddenly she was in the past, fingers locked firmly around her mother’s slim wrist.

  “He’s not my father. Dad’s not my real father.” The realization sliced sharp and deep.

  Her mother looked both horrified and terrified. “Of course he is, Samantha. How could you think—”

  “I saw it. Just now, in your head. When I touched you, you were thinking I don’t look anything like Dad, how could anyone not realize I’m not his?”

  “Saman—”

  “Who’s Ben Dillon? Is he my real father? Where is he?”

  Her mother tried to jerk away, but Sam held fast and firm, determined to get answers. “Tell me, Mom. Tell me about him or I’ll tell Dad the truth.” She gave her mother a chance, but she didn’t take it, so Sam used her final bit of ammo. “Tell me, Eliza.”

  Her mother’s thin lips thinned further at the name, her actual name. “Northern Illinois. Outside Chicago.”

  “Where, specifically?”

  “Sycamore. He doesn’t want you. He never wanted you. I wanted you, Samantha. I did what was best for you. You have to believe me. He’s not a good man.”

  Sam jerked back into the present and slid down to the ceramic tile floor of the hotel bathroom on a soft moan, her back against the vanity, her aching head cradled in her hands. Another memory took her over . . .

  The front door, dark wood with three, small, diamond-shaped windows in a vertical line, swung open. He wasn’t what she expected based on her mother’s disgusted attitude toward the man. No beer gut, rotting teeth and suffocating body odor. He was handsome, with thick, chestnut hair and eyes the same dark blue as hers. Lean but not skinny, wearing faded blue jeans and an untucked green polo shirt. Just a normal guy.

  “Ben Dillon?”

  “Sure thing. Who’s asking?”

  “I’m your daughter.”

  His grin revealed white teeth. “Yeah? Which one?”

  Her expectations took a header off a cliff. “I . . . I . . .”

  “I’m just joshing you, kid.” He cocked his head. “What’s your name?”

  “Samantha Trudeau.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “My mother is Elise.”

  He leaned against the door’s frame, shoving one hand into a back pocket. “Don’t know anyone named Elise.”

  “Eliza?”

  He straightened away from the door and took a step back. “Holy fuck. I thought she ran off and had an abortion. At least, that’s what I hoped—” He stopped, and his face flushed. “I mean, shit, you’re my kid?”

  “I have some questions.”

  “I’m sorry, hon, but I don’t have your answers. I was nothing more than the sperm donor. Your mom didn’t take care of business like she should have. That’s not my problem. I’ve got nothing, so . . . sorry to disappoint you.”

  Heat began to creep into Sam’s chilled cheeks. “She loved you.” She knew, because she’d experienced her mother’s anguish when this man ditched her.

  “Not my fault she believed every word I said. I was a teenager, for Christ’s sake. All I cared about was getting my rocks off.”

  Sam tried her damnedest not to let her disappointment show. “I still have questions. Of a genetic nature.”

  “You sick or something?”

  “I’m . . . I . . . I think I’m psychic.”

  It took several moments for his shock to subside. Then, while a small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, he stepped back and gestured her inside. “Please come in.”

  Sam fell out of the memory to find herself on the cold bathroom floor, curled into a tight, shivering ball.
Tears ran freely from her eyes, and her head felt as though a dam had burst, letting everything behind it spill out in an unrelenting wave . . .

  “You tipped off the local police in Columbia, South Carolina, didn’t you?” The heat in Flinn’s cheeks indicated his blood pressure had spiked.

  Sam stood on the other side of his large, gunmetal desk, hands behind her back, her expression serene. Like the good soldier he trained her to be. “Tipped them off about what?”

  His chair squeaked as he pushed himself to his feet and braced his hands on his black leather desk blotter. “Arthur Baldwin called. He said his brother has been taken in for questioning in a serial-killer case down there.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “You’re the only one who could have told them who to look at, Samantha.”

  She didn’t wither under his glare. She was done cowering, done denying that she had at least a little bit of power here, even if it wasn’t enough to get what she wanted most: to go home. “Perhaps he left behind witnesses when he raped and killed that last helpless woman,” she said.

  “Witnesses who didn’t bother to come forward until now, right after I’ve got that bastard Arthur right where I need him?”

  “You still know he knew about his brother’s illegal activities. Isn’t the threat of that getting out enough to keep him in line?”

  “It will have to be, but it wasn’t part of the original deal. He’s pissed, and that jeopardizes the entire project.”

  “Maybe you could try getting research funds the legal way.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Samantha. The American people don’t understand what I’m trying to do here. They couldn’t accept it any more than they could accept the idea that aliens exist.”

  “I don’t understand it, either. Perhaps you could explain this ‘project’ to me. Maybe I can help.”

  “In due time.”

  Frustrated with his refusal to confide in her goaded her to take a verbal swipe at him. “Are you ever going to admit that Arthur Baldwin is the businessman who drove your father to kill your mother and commit suicide?”