Alicia’s arm dropped from the throttle. Did Rory just die before her eyes? Her heart pounded in her throat. John had stopped next to her as they stared at the burning Jet Ski, Alicia searching in vain for Rory’s body. When, after a few minutes, she didn’t see it, she decided to go in for a closer look.
She turned the throttle and sped nearer, searching the water, feeling very much like she was sleepwalking. She heard John call her name as though from a great distance, and then next thing she knew, a wave was crashing over her.
She had no idea what became of her Jet Ski because she couldn’t even figure out which way was up, the undertow was so powerful. She pulled her arms through the water, trying to surface. Then an arm encircled her waist. John. She figured out the direction of his strokes and emulated him, helping all she could to get them back above water.
John pushed her above the surface before him. Alicia gasped and pulled on John to help him up, too. Once he was safely up, she spun in the water, looking for Rory.
“I’m getting you out of here,” John called over the roar of the surf.
“Go without me. I have to finish what I started. There’s no other way.”
“There’s always another way.”
“If he’s still alive...”
“I’m not going to lose you to—”
A wave smacked into John’s side, throwing him into the rock behind him.
Alicia’s heart sank. “John!”
She lunged through the water to get to him but couldn’t see him in the dark, churning sea. Treading water, she turned in a circle, calling his name. Then one of his arms burst through the waves, stroking. She grabbed hold and pulled, helping him surface.
Her ragged cry of relief was swallowed by the roar of the waves and wind. She held on to him, catching her breath. He didn’t seem to have hit his head too hard, but she’d never been so scared.
They clung together for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing into each other. “I thought I lost you,” she croaked.
His gaze turned searching. “I thought I lost you, too.”
She looked around her, past the tunnel vision for Rory that she’d had. The wind was whipping sand around the beach, the surf was higher than ever and they were surrounded by sharp, underwater rocks. John would never get out of the water without her, so to keep him safe, she’d give up her need for revenge. Because without John, who was she?
Even estranged from him, even though she’d cultivated a superficial hatred for him based on lies she’d let herself believe, he’d still been a huge part of her life. Thoughts of him had shaped her every choice, the way she processed the world, how she thought about herself and thought about love and laughter, happiness and pain.
It was John who she’d dreamed of, who she’d railed against when something went wrong, whose image she’d pictured during physical therapy when the pain started and she wanted to give up. Hate, heartbreak, love—it was all so mixed up inside of her, as though the lines separating each emotion were impossibly thin and fragile.
Sometimes, it had only been fury at him that had kept her going during her darkest moments. Fury and sorrow and the bittersweet wash of memories that hit her like an aftershock when she was lonely. She loved him more than life itself. More than revenge.
She blinked the water from her eyes. “We need to get to shore.”
John nodded. “Good. Thank you.”
Together, they swam to the beach, each pulling the other along, keeping each other afloat. They trudged through the surf until the waves licked at their knees.
Once they were on shore, though, she couldn’t stop looking out to sea, at the rock Rory’s Jet Ski had run into. There was nothing to see, though, but the rock itself; not even the Jet Ski remained above the churning seas.
“Don’t even think about going back out there. He’s not worth it.”
She wrenched her gaze away, hating the lack of closure in not being able to confirm Rory’s death. She glanced back to sea again as a feeling like grief washed through her.
“Listen to me, Phoenix. I won’t let you back out there. I died inside when you were shot.”
That got her attention. She turned toward him and hugged herself.
He stepped closer and touched her cheek. “I couldn’t stand it when they took me into custody, not knowing if you were alive or well, but they wouldn’t tell me anything and I was in that holding cell for so long.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes in a futile attempt to push the water and sand from his face.
She was filled with a sudden and wholly consuming desire to comfort him for all he’d been through. She threaded her arms around his ribs.
“And then when you got out of the hospital, and it was clear you were going to survive what Rory did to you, you and I only talked that one time.” His jaw shook with each bellowed word in the storm. “Check that, we didn’t talk. You wouldn’t talk to me. I saw it in your eyes that you believed him. Over me.”
She deserved this. He needed to yell at her and she loved him enough to let him get it all out. “I’m so sorry I ever doubted you.”
“I could have lived with the rest of the world thinking me a criminal, a traitor—but you? It killed me all over again. I died. Life over. Do you understand me?”
She’d known from the first time he ever made love to her that she held his heart in her hand. What she never realized until this day was that he’d held hers in his. And this control she thought she was protecting from handing it over to men? It was illusion. A cruel lie.
“I understand. And I’m so sorry.”
John took hold of her face with both hands, cradling it tenderly. “I’m not losing you to this storm, even if you never admit that I would never hurt you. Even if it makes you hate me more than you already do.”
She stared at his drenched shirt, then past it, to the strength and heart of the man beneath the layers. Her man. The love of her life. She swayed and the only thing keeping her upright in the wind and waves was John. Always John, with his unflappable conviction.
She’d thought he made her weak, as weak as the gunshot wound had. But how could that be true, when right now, it felt as if he was the only thing keeping her strong? How could she hate him for walking away from her before when, now, in her darkest hour, he was the only person who’d stayed by her side?
She turned her gaze to his fierce, passionate eyes that told her he’d be the anchor of her life, if only she’d let him. “I believe you. About everything. You’re innocent. I don’t know how I...”
His eyes closed. “Say that again. Please.”
“I believe you. You’re innocent. You didn’t know what Rory was plotting and you didn’t work with him to kill me. And I love you. God, John. I love you so much.”
Nodding like crazy, his hands cradled her jaw as he pulled her lips to his. She clung to him and surrendered her body and heart to him.
A gust of wind knocked into them. They heard a crack and looked up the beach to see a tree branch hurtling over the sand. “I think Hannah’s here,” John said.
“We need to get off this beach.”
It was John’s turn to shift his attention to the rock in the distance where they’d last seen Rory. A dozen emotions flashed across his face—regret, pain, longing. Rory had been his best friend. A blood brother, John used to call him. As betrayed as Alicia had been by Rory, John had been a victim, too. Rory was going to die out there in the water, in the hurricane, and even if he wasn’t, there was nothing they could do about him until the hurricane passed. Walking away now, not saving Rory’s life in favor of keeping Alicia safe, ended his chance at redemption.
She pulled his face back to hers, kissing him with her whole soul.
When he ended the kiss, she followed his line of sight to the hill rising from the other side of the road, dotted with luxury estate
s.
“I’m going to get you up to one of those vacation homes on the hill.” The way he said it, the husky, low-down tone of his words, sent shivers through her body. He was going to find a shelter for them to ride out the storm in. He was going to make love to her.
She’d never wanted anything more.
His fingers brushed along her cheek, pushing errant hairs behind her ear. “Do you have it in you to go a little farther away from the beach?”
Knowing they’d be safe from the storm soon, knowing what he was going to do her, she had all the energy in the world. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 13
Alicia stood in the doorway of what looked to be a home theater, her Glock drawn and ready, her ears listening for any hint that she and John weren’t alone in the sprawling, hilltop estate that had seemed the surest bet in the long line of wrought-iron-gated mansions along the deserted residential street.
Most of the houses they’d passed had the feel of being empty, save for those in which the owners or employees were still braving the rain and wind gusts to take thirteenth-hour measures to secure the houses’ windows and patio furniture against the coming storm. They’d selected this particular house—a white-and-blue two-story architectural triumph of angles and curves set amid a lushly landscaped tropical oasis and a pebbled driveway that had to cost at least eight figures—because it was the only one with its windows not boarded up against the storm.
John thought that probably meant the owners were away and, with the storm upon them, there was no way workers would be summoned to secure it now. Not that he and Alicia were taking any chances.
They’d hopped the fence, then circled the house twice. The garage door was hooked up to a keypad, which was perfect. It only took Alicia a few minutes time to figure out the 2-4-6-8 code. They closed the garage door behind them. With a crowbar Alicia found in a cupboard near a workbench, John muscled the door from the garage to the house open. After all the laws they’d violated in the past couple days, a little breaking and entering was the least of their sins.
An alarm buzzed, but disarming house alarms was something she’d been doing for sport since she was fourteen and discovered that the couple across the street from her mom’s house—the ones with the state-of-the-art computer system that she couldn’t afford—only wintered there three months out of the year.
Still not taking any chances in assuming they were alone, they’d made a sweep of the ground floor before separating. John crept upstairs while Alicia handled the basement.
This was the kind of house Alicia felt right at home in—luxurious and sparsely decorated, with top-of-the-line everything and not a single personal touch. Outward displays of people’s private lives made her uncomfortable. She knew that was a messed up way of thinking, and one she couldn’t even blame on her CIA training, but from having two separate bedrooms in two separate households after her parents split. Neither liked it when she talked about the other. She’d figured out fast that life was easier for all parties involved when she pretended that whatever parent she wasn’t presently under the care of didn’t exist.
Like, instead of going to her mom’s house for the weekend, her dad somehow preferred to think that she merely powered off like a machine until it was his turn for custody again. And they both hated hearing about boyfriends or parties, especially if she’d had any fun when she wasn’t with them. So she’d learned to keep the details of her private life private, her photographs off the shelves, everything inside. Now, doing any differently made her uncomfortable.
The CIA was perfect. It was as if her whole life had been training for that career.
The Krav Maga with her father, the secretiveness, learning all about breaking and entering to use her neighbor’s computer. She was made for this life.
The home theater, which shared the basement with a large utility room that housed a washer and dryer and a fitness room, was dark and windowless and utterly cozy. Three rows of plush brown leather sofas with little tables on either side of them for drinks and food faced a massive viewing screen that nearly took up the entire wall on the far side of the room.
If the hurricane got bad and the house started to deteriorate, this was where she and John would probably stay to wait it out. A shot of lust rippled through her when she thought about passing the stormy night with John in this room, of all the many ways they could make use of the sofas, blankets and throw pillows here.
Despite that she could feel the emptiness of the space, she methodically walked the rows, her gun pointed at the ground, making absolutely certain they wouldn’t be caught by surprise by some employee either using it as his own hurricane hideout or guarding the estate.
“So this is the room.” John’s voice was velvet-soft and deep. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest in a way that made his biceps strain against his shirtsleeves.
“The room for what?”
Rather than answer her, he prowled in her direction, stripping his shirt off. He tossed it on the ground.
She was suddenly, inexplicably self-conscious. It’d been twenty months since she’d had an orgasm. Twenty long months of denial, of feeling as if that part of her was dead. What if it really was? What if she couldn’t be that easy-to-orgasm sexual being she’d once been to John and she disappointed him? Or even worse, what if he’d changed? So much about him had. Could she trust him with herself to let go and feel?
John’s jeans fell to the floor, revealing a pair of wet, skimpy, stretchy blue briefs that had molded to his body’s every contour. He always did like wearing sexy designer underwear and she loved the way it looked on him—reflecting not just the perfection and virility of his body, but his bold, self-deprecating confidence and humor, which were the traits of his she’d first been attracted to. Maybe this was a sign that he wasn’t so different a man than he used to be. Maybe the old John was hiding under layers upon layers of armor. But what if it wasn’t?
He slid his hands up her forearms. “You’re thinking too much.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you always overthink this part.”
He was right; she did. She could talk herself out of pleasure nine times out of ten because the idea of letting go and losing control was terrifying. Worse than standing in a plane’s open hatch with a parachute on, waiting for the signal to jump. Butterflies in her stomach made her shiver and her breath catch.
He stroked her arms with his thumbs. “Shh...easy there. Because do you know what one of my favorite things to do is?” His hands slipped down to cover hers. He lifted them and set her hands on his chest, pressing until her fingers splayed across his hard, hot flesh.
“What?” she whispered, closing her eyes, feeling so out of control that her whole body, from her legs to her neck and head, was tense with anxiety, turning her fear of being incapable of passion into a self-fulfilling prophecy. She knew, logically, that all she needed to do was relax and trust herself, trust John. But the message from her brain wasn’t translating to her spirit. All she could do was cling to the loneliness, that hole inside her that told her that she could never love, not the way John deserved. She just wasn’t built that way.
His lips found hers, brushing over them, then tugging gently on her lower lip. Then he kissed the tip of her nose before pressing his forehead to hers. She gripped his chest and squeezed her eyes closed.
“One of my favorite things in the world is getting you to stop thinking so much. I used to live for that moment when you let go and let me in.”
“I don’t know if I can let you in anymore.” She opened her eyes and met his heated, determined gaze. “John, I haven’t— I can’t...”
He rubbed her arms. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“No, please. I want you. I want to...” She mashed her lips together. “I’m just...scared.”
/> His brows drew together. “Of me?”
“Of myself.” It cost her a lot less than she’d expected it to, making that confession, exposing her deepest feelings to John. It would be a learning process, but she’d never met a man more worthy of entrusting her true self to.
He nodded. “Let’s start with something easy. I saw a washing machine down here. How about you let me take you to the laundry room and get these wet clothes off you and washed before Hannah takes out our power?”
She felt some of her fight evaporate. How did he do that? “Laundry as foreplay?”
“Exactly.” Grinning, he took her hand and led her from the room.
He left the hallway light on but kept the laundry room light off. Standing before the washing machine, he took hold of her shirt. “Raise your arms for me.”
Working slowly, tenderly, he peeled the layers of clothing from her. His let his touch linger on her shoulders and arms, on the curve of her hips and hair. Nothing pushy, nothing that ratcheted up her anxiety more than a low buzz of nerves.
She stood still, arms hugging herself, and watched him measure detergent, then start the machine, marveling over how sexy the chore was when performed by a totally naked, hard-bodied warrior that she could reach out and touch anywhere she wanted. To prove it to herself, she extended an unsteady hand toward his hip and ran her hand along the gorgeous, perfect V diagonal of his traverse oblique muscle, loving the way his flesh felt beneath her hand.
He held himself in place, facing the washing machine, hands braced against the lid, and let her explore, even flexing his abs in a way that nearly made her purr as she bumped her fingers along his eight-pack. “My warrior,” she whispered in awe.
Before her nerves could stop her, she moved her hand to encircle his thick, hard length. He burrowed his nose and mouth in the crook of his shoulder and arm, eyes squeezed shut as he took the pleasure she offered.
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