He probed her again, a firm imprint that stretched the cloth over her clitoris and made her squirm against him, trying to get as close as possible. Trying to lure him inside.
She no longer cared that he was too big for her. She would put up with any amount of discomfort to mate with Teague . . . but in the dim recesses of her mind she realized there would be no discomfort, because Teague would do just as he promised. As he threatened. He wouldn't take her until she was so crazed with passion she would be soft and pliant to his touch . . . until the moment when climax made her spasm around him.
This wasn't the sex with Teague she had imagined. She'd thought it would be fast and hot. Instead, he lingered and probed until frustrated tears trickled down her cheeks. She couldn't squirm away; his grip on her legs held her in place, and his weight controlled her every movement.
He kissed her, lingering kisses of such pleasure she wandered through sensual passages of dark delight. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the soft delicacy of her inner elbow. His penis touched her again and again, and when her body reached and stretched toward climax, he pulled away.
She groaned in an agony of frustration. Time submerged beneath the tide of passion. She lost all awareness of the minutes passing, becoming quarter hours, half hours. . . .
"Please," she chanted without even realizing she spoke. She stroked his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his back, loving the sleek stretch of skin over each well-defined muscle. "Please, Teague. You're hurting me."
"How am I hurting you, my darling?" He released her legs, slid his palms up her thighs, and caressed between her legs with his thumb. He brought her to the brink again, so close that she trembled and lost the power of speech. Then he pulled back, a beast who specialized in sexual torment.
"Come into me." She wrapped him in her embrace and tugged at his hips. "How can you wait so long? Don't you really want me?"
"Really want you?" He laughed, short and bitter. "I've been up nights wanting you. I've walked the floors. I've imagined how each moment was going to be." He drew back. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of her panties, he pulled them down and tossed them aside. "You're not going to rush me now. I'm going to make this last forever."
It sounded like a vow that a woman in love could relish. Sighing, she stroked his face. "Forever."
He didn't flinch from the word. Instead his lips curled in a smile—not a pleasant smile, an almost cynical smile—but before she could question him, he reached up and turned off the lamp.
At once the storm, subdued by light, possessed the room. Lightning ripped the darkness, stripping his face of softness, illuminating his dark soul. The thunder roared triumphantly, and it seemed that Teague commanded the elements as he commanded her. Certainly he gloried in the violence; as he donned a condom, his teeth gleamed and his amber eyes sparked with lightning.
Yet the ferocity of the storm did not possess him; he touched her softly, repeatedly, finding the place where he would enter. His finger slid just inside and rimmed her, and through the anticipation that possessed her, she realized he had prepared her with lubricant.
So he had anticipated the difference in their sizes. As he promised with words and smiles and glances, he would make this good for her.
Then he pressed inside.
The tug against her flesh confirmed her suspicions. He was . . . so big. He stretched her. She whimpered on the verge of discomfort. But as he had vowed, she wanted him too much to draw back. First the lubricant eased his way, then the wonder of at last being united with Teague Ramos swept her. Her body softened, grew damper.
When he slid back, she moved her hips, trying to capture him inside.
Yet he left her . . . left her bereft and empty.
When he slid back inside, the fullness soothed her desperation . . . and incited every brash instinct.
She tightened her legs, nipped at his chest. . . .
The small pain made him groan and thrust.
Then he caught himself, stopped himself.
She groaned, too.
He looked down at her. She looked up at him.
The lightning beat at them like a strobe. The thunder growled and roared like a living beast.
And finally, Teague thrust all the way inside her.
The sense of being taken swept all rational thought aside. He set a rhythm that made her arch and twist beneath him, seeking the primal pleasure this magnificent creature had promised in the way he walked, in every glance and every touch. She was full; she had no room for loneliness or pain or memories. He commanded her body, her mind, her emotions . . . her soul.
He held her down, controlling her motions, whispering husky encouragement in her ear, and all the time he filled her, and filled her again until she was aching with a desire made more frantic as it was denied.
She clutched at his shoulders, moaning softly, almost insensate with need.
"Don't be frightened." He nuzzled her lips with his.
His breath fanned her skin.
"I'm not frightened," she managed to gasp. She wasn't. She was part of the lightning and the thunder, part of the glory of the storm . . . part of him.
Burying her nose in his chest, she took a long breath of the heat and the scent of Teague, and as she exhaled her body, deprived for too long, found its release.
Outside, nature battered the world with noise and light.
Inside, Kate screamed with ecstasy and climax. Sex with Teague was erotic and sensual, so filled with power it overwhelmed her five senses and gave her something more. She held him with her arms and her legs, arched beneath him, demanded with action and sound and yearning.
He gave her everything she required, and at the height of her orgasm, he gave up all restraint and with a shout, he joined her. His hips thrust in the rhythm of life, providing everything he had promised her—every morsel of pleasure, every long moment of rapture, and an intimacy that fused them into one—one being, one spirit.
While outside the storm faded to a whimper . . . and gathered strength to strike again.
Teague looked down at Kate, her eyes closed as the last remnants of climax swept her. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Her chest heaved, and her body trembled.
And he realized he had been right. He had taken her. He had controlled her. He'd spilled his seed in her.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Not with Kate.
This was why he hadn't had sex with her before, because this act wasn't sex, it was something more, something beyond his ken.
Then she opened her eyes and looked at him, and that slow, warm, sensual smile stretched her lips. "Tell me, why didn't we do that before?"
Every sensible thought disappeared from his brain, and he forgot fear, forgot trepidation, forgot everything in the need to conquer her again.
He kissed her, savoring the freshness of her breath, the warm twist of her tongue against his.
My God, he would almost be satisfied just to kiss her.
Almost.
He stroked her breasts, marveling at the pink blush that rose beneath her pale skin, and the way her nipples turned from a relaxed peach to a puckered raspberry. She watched him from beneath lids that drooped, and a satisfied smile played across her lips.
He'd satisfied her.
Why was he not completely satisfied? Why did he need to take her again so soon? When had he become a glutton for this one woman?
What did it mean?
He was sure she was in trouble. Really big trouble with George Oberlin.
Usually Teague could smell menace, sense it in his bones. He had an intuition about the bad guys, and what he sensed was a dangerous man's disquiet with his own deeds.
So why hadn't he been aware of the threat caused by Oberlin?
There could be only one explanation. Oberlin had no conscience, no thought of right and wrong, no thought of anything beyond his own wishes. He had murdered before, murdered more than once, and he had never been caught. Somehow, he had co
vered up the evidence.
If he wanted Kate, he would use every weapon in his considerable arsenal—respectability, money, influence— to remove Teague and take her as his own. And if she refused . . . would he kill her, too?
"What are you thinking?" Kate smoothed the hair across Teague's forehead. "You're frowning."
"I'm wondering if I can borrow a friend's jet."
"Why?" She smiled as if she read his mind.
"I have a place in Mexico with a private beach. There's a hut. It's not big and it's not pretty, and the cockroaches are as big as mice, but—"
"What are we waiting for?" She sat up—bare, unselfconscious, and beautiful. "I have the weekend off. Let's go."
Damn. She could read his mind. "Not so fast." He tumbled her onto her back. He'd dreamed of her dark hair spread across his pillow and her blue eyes sparkling up at him. Now he held her between his hands and discovered just having her here wasn't enough. He required more.
Fate. She was his fate. He'd tried to avoid her, and it, and Fate had laughed at him. Now he was bound to Kate by sexual desire and by . . . no. Not by love. He'd seen love at its worst—at home when another son of a bitch battered his mother, in the service when a Dear John letter arrived and destroyed a man from the inside out.
He himself had suffered for love. Suffered . . . but not enough. His torment could never be enough.
If Teague knew how to love, if he'd ever learned, he would love Kate. But he was too scarred by the events of that fateful day to learn now.
For if by some chance he did learn, he knew how love must end.
With death and pain and wounds that never healed.
So he pretended to himself that he'd never thought the word. Outside, the storm stirred again. The lightning and thunder began anew, and he grinned down at her. "Before we do anything else, I need to kiss you . . all over."
Her eyes grew large and, for a moment, uncertain. Then she took a long breath. That ever-present spark of desire sprang to life between them. She stretched, a long, slow, sensuous provocation. "If you do that, it could take all night long."
"It's too stormy to fly anyway." He bent to her again. "We'll go in the morning."
FIFTEEN
"Senator, I'm sorry to bother you in your time of grief, but two FBI agents have arrived and are waiting in the foyer." Freddy stood in the doorway of George's study.
"The FBI?" With great deliberation, George put down his glass of single malt scotch. The steady motion gave him time to calm that instinctive reaction of horror. No one had seen him coerce Evelyn into taking the pills and chasing them down with booze, but it was possible someone had seen him help Evelyn down those stairs. . . .
But even if someone had, the FBI wouldn't follow up on the case. That would be the jurisdiction of the Austin police, and on George's forceful suggestion they'd done their investigation quickly and come up with exactly the right findings—Evelyn's death had been an accident, possibly suicide, caused by a dependence on tranquilizers and alcohol. "What do they want?"
"I questioned them, but they showed me their credentials and claimed they had to speak only with you." Freddy was dressed in black, as befitted a butler in a house in mourning for its mistress. He'd had to calm the maid who'd found Evelyn's body at the bottom of the stairs; she had thrown a shrieking fit that brought everyone running and provided George a great audience for his shock and anguish. Freddy proved his efficiency when he ordered the house draped with black crepe—excessive, yes, but it looked good to observers— organized an immediate funeral that had gone off with great success today, and screened the steady stream of visitors who came to express their condolences, allowing in only the most distinguished as well as those likely to be impressed by George's profound grief.
Yes, in these last couple of days, Freddy had truly proved his worth.
Yet it was Sunday afternoon, and George had not heard one word from Kate Montgomery. The other reporters had dropped by, but not Kate. And when he'd gently asked Linda Nguyen if Kate would arrive soon, she stared at him with those fierce black Asian eyes and said, "I don't know, Senator. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not on Kate watch this week."
That skinny bitch would never get another quote from him.
Still, maybe Kate was out of town. If she didn't know about his travails, she couldn't offer her condolences.
"Senator?" Freddy said. "I did try and send them away, but they were quite insistent."
"The FBI agents. Yes. Of course I'll see them. Just . . . stall them. Give me a minute to tidy myself." George waited until Freddy left, then buttoned his shirt, rolled down his sleeves, retied his tie, shrugged into his jacket. He always found it best to present a powerful facade to any agency whose members might otherwise forget his importance.
Freddy tapped on the door, then opened it, and as the two FBI agents entered, he admonished, "Senator Oberlin suffered the loss of his wife in a tragic accident only two days ago. Please be brief."
"We know."
"We'll get right to the point."
At the sound of their high, gentle voices, George could scarcely believe his luck. The FBI had sent not one, but two female agents. They were both young—of course, there weren't that many females in the FBI, they hadn't been welcome for very long—and no matter how much the ladies tried to harden their hearts, he was sure they couldn't help but sympathize with so recent a widower.
But why the hell were they here? What were they after?
The taller, less attractive girl offered her hand and her credentials. "I'm Agent Rhonda de Lascaux, and this is Agent Johanna Umansky."
The petite, bouncing blonde held out her credentials, too.
As he shook hands, he looked over their badges. He'd seen a few in his time, and these looked genuine, right down to the bad photos.
"I believe you know Mr. Howell in the Austin office," Johanna said. "Silvester Howell sent us."
"Please sit down." George waved them toward chairs before his desk.
"We're sorry to disturb you at such a difficult time," the plain one said, "but we have a report we need to clear."
"Yes, of course, whatever needs to be done, but . . . I can't imagine . . . but of course, I'm tired, not sleeping well . . . what can I do for you?" He thought he did a good imitation of a bereaved and bewildered husband. So he was surprised when the women nodded without expression and without expressing their condolences.
What a couple of bitches.
He seated himself in the desk chair, using the power of his position to impress them.
Johanna flipped open a Palm Pilot, consulted it, then flipped it closed. "Senator Oberlin, do you know a Mrs. Cunningham of Hobart, Texas?"
He tensed, sat forward. What had Gloria Cunningham done now?
"I did know her, and her husband, too. Years ago, I worked with her on my church board." He tried to act interested, but distant, as if her name meant little to him. "Has something happened to her?"
"She died." The little blonde pronounced the news of Gloria's demise without a qualm. "Of cancer."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, while his brain buzzed with speculation.
Gloria never knew anything, never showed a sign of wanting to look beyond the obvious. Never indicated anything other than an undying fury toward Bennet and Lana Prescott and their kids. The minister and his family had been poorer than Gloria, but even though Gloria's husband was a doctor, the Prescotts had been more important in the community. She'd never forgiven them for that. Worse, her daughter Melissa had never been as talented as Hope Prescott, and Melissa had suffered the position of second fiddle with ill grace. Gloria had been thrilled when the Prescotts disappeared, and she'd watched with tight-lipped satisfaction as the family was broken apart and the children sent away.
She sure had never asked what happened to them. So why were FBI agents informing him of her death?
"She was sixty at the time of her death, at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston." Rhonda consulted her Palm Pilot, to
o. "Before she died, she wished to make a confession, which she did—to her minister and then to the police. That confession concerns you, Senator Oberlin." Rhonda pointedly looked over the rims of her glasses. "Would you know what that was about?"
"No. I'm sorry." He spread out his hands and with pleasure noted they were steady. "While I visit Hobart periodically—it is my district, and I keep a home there—I'm afraid we didn't have—that is, my wife and I—didn't have much in common with the Cunninghams." George liked the way he included Evelyn in the conversation, as if he still couldn't believe she was dead.
"Mrs. Cunningham claims that, twenty-three years ago, after your minister and his wife were killed"— Johanna glanced at her Palm Pilot—"a Mr. and Mrs.
Prescott, you organized a situation that thwarted the assignment of their children to one family, choosing instead to separate them."
"Why would I have had anything to do with the placement of those children?" Folding his hands on his desk, he leaned forward and radiated indignation. "I had barely started my run for the Texas Senate, and, contrary to popular belief, it's a grueling ordeal to get elected. I believe someone else handled the adoptions." He rubbed his forehead as if he couldn't quite remember. "Some pastor from a church outside of town . . . a Pastor John Wagner? Wilson? No, it was Wright. Pastor Wright."
Johanna used her stylus to record the information.
"Where is Pastor Wright now?" Rhonda asked.
"I have no idea. I'll tell you, I talked to the pastor about the Prescott kids, put the situation in his capable hands, and left town to campaign." Which was such a lie, because Pastor Wright's name may have appeared on any official documents, but he never existed as anything other than a name. It was George who had made damned good and sure those kids were scattered like dust on the wind. Somehow he'd known they would cause him trouble.
It was a good thing he was about to bring Givens Industries tumbling to the ground, because if Hope Prescott Givens heard about Mrs. Cunningham and her inconvenient repentance and confession, she would never let up until . . . she met the same fate as her parents.
CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) Page 16