by Dana Marton
She threw herself onto the sand and stared up at the sky. He sat next to her and pulled up his legs, wrapped his arms around his knees.
“Thanks again,” she said.
“No big deal. You should practice. If you’re going to spend time near water on this mission, you should get good at swimming.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re mocking me?” He looked over and his breath caught in his throat.
“Who, me?” she asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
She looked stunning when she was lighthearted like this, without the usual shadows in her gaze. Irresistible. He lowered his head, as though being drawn to a magnet. Her eyes widened as he touched his lips to hers.
Desire shot through him, hot and hard, making his body taut with need and his mind reel. He kissed her with reverence, barely daring to hold her, worried about scaring her. He recognized every second for the gift that it was and drank her in until he was drunk with the feel of her. He pulled away, breathing hard, grappling for control.
Now would be a good time to stop.
But she glanced up at him with what looked a lot like desire in the light of the moon and that undid him all over again.
He reached for her bikini top. He needed to feel the velvet of her skin without the fabric between them. He needed one taste. That would be it. That was as far as he would go.
She put a hand on his. Not yet, don’t make me stop yet, a part of him protested, while the rest of him breathed in relief. Everything was getting out of control so fast. It was good that she stopped him now. He didn’t want to hurt her. He looked up into her face. “Sorry. You’re okay?”
She didn’t respond, but lifted her lips to his again. Then she moved her hand up his arm to embrace him.
Desire thrilled through him, sharp and hot. And he knew half measures were never going to be enough. That it was going to kill him to let her go. But it was too late now to back away. He would take what she allowed him. He would have what he could without hurting her. To take it with him when he left.
Her breasts were a miracle of art, a perfect fit for his seeking hands. He stroked her nipples and his own body grew harder yet as they turned to pebbles under his finger. He pressed his lips against each in turn before deepening the acquaintance. Common sense and intention disappeared into the night as easily as the dying sparks of the fireworks hours before.
The fireworks between them were just beginning.
He drew on an erect nipple and pleasure burst behind his eyelids. He wasn’t sure when his right hand sneaked down her flat belly and under the elastic of her bikini bottom. He could only think of the silky feel of her down there.
When and how had the scrap of fabric disappeared?
He could not recall how he ended up between her parted thighs. Did he part them? He must have. He was drowning in the feel of his hard body pressed against her soft core. He drank in the taste of her mouth, ran a free hand down her side and cupped her buttock—he was supporting himself with the other hand.
And then, only then, did he notice that her body was no longer yielding, that she was holding herself stiff, although not protesting. He pulled away, saw the truth in her eyes even in the dark, and fell to the side, away from her with a soft oath.
“I’m sorry,” he said then. “I’m so sorry.” And felt like the bastard he was.
“No.” She turned to him, her voice shaky. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He looked at her, bewildered by the soft plea in her eyes that looked black in the night. A couple of seconds passed before the haze in his brain cleared. Then he finally understood what was going on, and it didn’t make him feel even a little better.
How could he have not noticed the point where she had stopped wanting it, him, truly wanting, and switched over to going along to prove something, perhaps to herself, perhaps to him?
“I need to—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
What? To complete what they’d started to feel like any other woman? To make her forget the past? To paint over old, loathsome memories?
He wanted more than anything to help her. “Not like this,” he said.
She looked confused and miserable. “I thought you wanted to—”
“Believe me, I do.” He gave a strangled laugh. His desire could not be more obvious. It hurt just to think about walking away.
“Just not with me.” She looked away.
He reached out and lifted her chin so she could look into his eyes when he spoke. “Only with you. When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” Her frustration came through her voice. She pressed against him.
He didn’t pull away but took her hand and one by one unfolded the fingers that had been clenched into a tight fist. “This isn’t what ready looks like, Sam.” He drew a deep breath. “You don’t have to rush it.”
He pulled her to him and held her, held her tight, felt the way as their hearts thump-thumped against each other. He kissed her hair over and over again, but his lips never once strayed below her forehead. And after a while he felt her relax against him, and her arms came around his back.
He could have happily spent the rest of his life just like that.
The thought slapped him sane with the force of a tidal wave. Is that what she thought was at the end of this road? Some kind of happy ending? He wasn’t that kind of man. He’d never been able to do it in the past. It was only fair to warn her.
But not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough to confront reality. For now, in this moment, she seemed happy and content, and he wanted to give her that if even for a night.
He rose and lifted her into his arms, carried her to the guesthouse, shielding her body with his own from view of the mansion once they were out of the shadows of the palm trees.
Chapter Eight
“Has he been caught?” Tsernyakov asked, a last test for the man about whose fate he was still undecided.
“Not yet,” Cavanaugh responded with the truth. “But it’s only a matter of time. It’s a small island.”
Tsernyakov already knew about the hustler from another source. He had wanted to know whether Cavanaugh would try to cover up his own incompetence. The fate of the hustler would not matter long anyhow. “You still have that property in Belize?”
“For now. I’m considering selling it. A large lot is coming up for sale on Little Cayman and I might need the extra capital. Why? You know anything about Belize?” The interest was clear in his voice. Cavanaugh was always game for a good bit of business.
“I know something about the Caymans.”
“You think property prices will go down?” He sounded pained by the very idea.
“Next year this time, you can buy that lot for a dime on the dollar. In the meantime, go to Belize.”
“It’s impossible. Everything I have is invested here.”
Tsernyakov scratched his chin. He knew the feeling. He had investments all over the world that he was backpedaling out of, trying his best not to become suspicious.
“I suggest you free up as much capital as you can and go to Belize.”
Dead silence ruled on the other end. Then, “That serious? Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t, of course, presume to make decisions for my friends,” he responded cordially.
“Okay, okay. By when? I have time, right? How many months? A year?”
“Two weeks,” he said.
His own ranch high up in the Andes Mountains was already prepared. He owned a thousand acres in the most isolated spot imaginable, including two villages and a small copper mine. His most trusted men were fortifying the place even now and laying in supplies.
The virus he was nearly ready to hand over to his buyers would wreak enough havoc to bring about a new world order. Not that he wasn’t happy with his life in the current one. He had achieved as much as any man could under the given circumstances. But what if all the rules and laws were thrown out and life returned to the survival of the fittest? What could
he achieve then?
He wasn’t greedy. He regularly gave to the poor. He had donated a small fortune to the hospital that treated his mother. He supported education through seven different grants, although he himself had never had formal training. Simple truth was, he was a megalomaniac. He embraced that and the boundless motivation and energy it brought to his life. Why not have him at the top? As much misery as there was in this world, who said he couldn’t do better?
Yes, it would all start with unspeakable tragedy, but in truth, he was doing a service to humankind.
CAVANAUGH STARED at the memo in front of him, something he had brought home from work the week before. He didn’t even see the printed words on the paper. All he could see was the deadline Tsernyakov had given him. He looked up the date. Two weeks from now. November 27. He had circled the date in red ink over and over again.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. How on earth was he going to accomplish all he had to do in two weeks? He felt ill at the thought of how much he was going to lose. How long had Tsernyakov known this? And what was it, exactly, that he knew?
What could damage an area as big as the islands?
A dirty bomb?
But why now and why here?
He dabbed his forehead, wadded up the paper then squashed it between his hands.
What about his life here? If what Tsernyakov was warning him about did turn out to be a dirty bomb, it could be years before he could safely come back.
Damn, damn the man for not saying more. And yet, he couldn’t sustain any kind of anger. Behind that, and the panic of it all, a much stronger feeling ruled his emotions—relief that Tsernyakov chose to warn him at all.
He thought of his guests, sleeping in the guesthouse. He had to send them home. Without arousing suspicion. But as he pondered them, he changed his mind. He liked this estate and he liked to entertain. Who knew when he was going to get another chance? He was due a little fun before he had to give up the life he had worked so hard to build.
Let them stay. He had a lot of work to do, but he needed distraction in between, too. And his guests provided that, especially delectable little Sam.
She was impressed by him, he could tell. He liked feeling flattered. He could almost feel her lithe body under him as she finally surrendered to him. She was skittish. He didn’t mind that. Taming her would feel that much sweeter. It would be his last indulgence before he left for Belize. And who knew, if she behaved herself, he might even take her with him.
No matter what her boyfriend thought about it.
David Moretti had surprised him. He was much stronger than he’d thought at his first impression of the man. And David didn’t like Philippe around Sam, not a bit. Too bad. Because Philippe was used to getting what he wanted. One way or the other.
He pulled a sheet of clean paper from the printer and began writing names in a long row. They weren’t people he would, in turn, save. There’d be none of those. He couldn’t afford a leak. Tsernyakov would never forgive a betrayed confidence. It was a list of those he needed to make his exit from life as he knew it as quick and smooth as possible.
SAM LAY IN BED and stared at the ceiling, listening to Reese’s even breathing next to her. She hadn’t been able to sleep since they had come in for the night. He didn’t seem to have that problem.
He had placed her on her side of the bed, gently, kissed her then went for a shower. When he’d finally come to bed, he’d turned his back to her and wished her a sleepy-sounding good-night, which she took for a fake until she realized after five minutes or so that he was truly sleeping.
For the last couple of days they’d barely left each other’s sight, had been in almost constant physical contact, at first to get used to it so their charade would be believable and now because the big performance was on. It had gotten to the point that she was beginning to miss him when they weren’t touching.
And after what had happened on the beach…
She actually wasn’t sure what had happened or why it had stopped. Maybe he remembered who she was and where she’d come from. Or had she misread him?
She stared at his wide, naked back in the semidarkness of the bedroom. Extended her hand. Pulled it back just before they would have touched. She wanted to feel the warmth of his skin under her palms, the smooth hills and valleys of muscles, be enveloped in the strength that radiated from him. If she snuggled up to him—pretending to have rolled over in her sleep—would he wake?
Bad idea. She forced her eyes closed. He had made it clear that the touchy-feely part of the night was over.
Kissing and touching a man could feel pretty damn good. That was a revelation to her. Physical contact didn’t have to hurt. She’d known that on a theoretical level. She had attended high school—sporadically and for brief snippets of time. She had gone to public libraries, mostly for the bathrooms, but she had read, too. She had snuck into movie theaters and seen the chick flicks. She understood that some people thought they fell in love and had sex for the fun of it. It hadn’t truly connected with her, however, until now.
Reese Moretti had been the only man who had ever taken her clothes off without her putting up a fight, who had ever moved on top of her without her trying her best to break his nose. She had been thrilled by that. She could control the brief flashes of panic. She hadn’t fought, she hadn’t run. She could have done it with him, probably, all the way. Would that have made her normal? She had wanted that, wanted it still. But he had called it quits.
What was wrong with her?
And what was she going to do when this morning, as soon as the sun came up, it would be back to business as usual, the two of them playing the role of lovers for Cavanaugh’s sake? After last night, how on earth was she going to handle it?
Voices filtered through the open window. She sat up, careful not to wake Reese, then slipped from the bed and went to look. Not much seemed to be happening. The voices came from the direction of Cavanaugh’s mansion. She couldn’t see much through the palm trees that stood by the guesthouse.
She glanced at the door. She could pretend to go for a late-night swim. Except, Philippe knew she was a bad swimmer. He wouldn’t buy that.
She leaned over the end of the balcony, praying for some wind to ruffle the palm fronds so that she might catch a glimpse. Whatever was going on, whoever was there, they’d be gone before that happened.
She blew the hair out of her face, frustrated, glancing up at the roof. If she were a few feet higher, she could see over the trees.
For a split second, she thought about waking Reese, but then changed her mind. It didn’t seem necessary. She’d go up on the roof, take a look around, come down. She glanced at her dark gray cotton shorts and tank top. Shouldn’t have any trouble with blending into the shadows.
She stepped up to the edge of the railing then reached for the roof, swung her legs up. Oops. She nearly kicked off a roof tile. She stilled when she gained purchase. Okay. Other leg. Pull. She lay on the edge of the roof, waited again for any sound that she’d been discovered. When she was fairly certain that nobody had been awakened by the slight noise she had made, she got up into a crouch and climbed higher.
She could still hear the voices and now see the front door of Philippe’s mansion, but nobody was there. Where had they gone? Maybe they were coming down the path around to the front of the guesthouse. If she went over the peak, she should be able to see them.
Too late again. The voices now came from under the overhang. She had to scoot all the way to the edge, extra careful this time. If a tile rattled under her, they would hear.
She moved foothold by foothold. A slight noise drew her attention from the other side of the roof, which she could no longer see. She froze. What was that? She waited. It had to be a bird. A seagull. Who else would be crazy enough to be out on the roof at three in the morning? She had to move or whoever she was trying to catch a glimpse of would go inside.
She inched closer, on her stomach now, as low as possible so the moonlight wouldn’
t cast her shadow on the ground below. The man and woman were whispering, but she could make out a few words.
“You know how it is,” the woman said.
“I thought—I was really hoping this time. I love you. Can’t that be enough?”
“We are not the same kind of people. I would disappoint you.”
“Never.” The word was spoken with heated passion.
“I love money.”
“I would show you how unimportant it is when you have true love.”
There was a moment of pause, then, “I wish I could believe that.”
Sam leaned over. She could only see the guy, a member of Cavanaugh’s security, Jack somebody. The woman was standing in the doorway. And because she was whispering, Sam couldn’t recognize her voice, either.
“You mean nothing to Philippe,” the man said.
“He’s my biggest client. That’s enough.”
The man moved forward and Sam was pretty sure some heated kissing was going on below.
“When you change your mind, I’ll be here,” the guy said then strode away.
She flattened herself to the roof and waited until the man passed out of sight, not daring to get up in case he turned back one last time. Once she was sure he couldn’t see her, she scampered up to the spine of the roof then over it, down on the other side.
For a second she thought she saw a shadow on the balcony that wasn’t her own, but it must have been a trick of her eyes. She lowered herself, snuck back into the room. Reese was sleeping in the same position she had left him. She snuck out the suite’s front door and crept to the top of the stairs. The guesthouse had three more suites, with a couple in each.
Had the woman already gone inside while Sam was coming down from the roof? Frustration tightened her fingers over the railing. Then she caught a glimpse of movement below.
Eva meandered down the hall with an armful of folders. She stopped, leaned against the wall, looking stressed and nervous. She stayed there for a full minute before taking a deep breath and opening the door to the suite she shared with Derrick then going inside.