LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

  Perhaps she was a naive fool after all, but it was that Quisto she wanted. And if the price was having her heart broken by the charming ladies' man, she would deal with that later, when she had to.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

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  She had never, Caitlin realized with a little shock, been so naked with a man before. In her few other experiences, it had been a hurried affair, conducted in the dark and leaving her feeling afterward that she had somehow missed the entire point of it all. But her other experiences had been nothing like this. It should have felt odd, standing here beside the now open sofa bed in her office, but it didn't. It felt incredibly right.

  Never had a man undressed her with such slow, exquisite care, kissing each inch of skin as he revealed it, as if she were a work of art beyond price. He lingered at her throat, her breasts, her belly, her legs, caressing her with long, lingering strokes punctuated with quick, hot little kisses that set her on fire. Never had her body reacted like this, seeming to respond to him of its own volition, reaching for his touch, rippling under his caresses. Never had she wanted to give herself like this, never had she thrilled to the almost physical feel of a man's gaze on her, never had she been proud, as well as shy, about herself.

  But when Quisto looked at her, when his eyes grew hot at the sight of her nudity, when his gaze lingered on her breasts and narrowed fiercely as her nipples tightened as if he'd touched them again, when he let out a soft, low groan of wonder and need as that hot gaze swept over her body, taking in the curve of hip and thigh, and the triangle of red curls she unexpectedly felt no need to hide, she was proud. Still shy, but proud. Proud that she could make him look like that, that she was the one who had drawn his face taut with desire. The one who had brought him to a point of arousal that almost frightened her.

  She'd glimpsed him when he took a brief moment, as if he needed to slow down in his touching of her, to discard his own clothes. She'd seen him extract a small foil packet from somewhere and toss it on the bed, thought about a man like him being always prepared, but discarded her qualms; she'd put that dilemma behind her. Now her only fear was of the moments to come; would this really work? For an instant, she wished she had had more experience herself. He had been … very aroused. So much so that she'd been afraid to look again.

  But she wanted to. She wanted to look at him, as he was looking at her. She wanted to explore every inch of him with her eyes and her hands and her mouth. Even the thought made her pulse race, and heat flashed through her like wildfire.

  "Whatever you just thought," Quisto said harshly, his gaze now fastened on her face, "do it."

  Her color deepened.

  "Please," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  She couldn't deny him. Or herself. Not any longer. For a long moment, she simply looked at him, her eyes taking in the lean, wiry strength of him, seeing vividly now how wonderfully this tightly knit body suited him. Every line, every curve of muscle, was in proportion, flowing from one into the other, speaking of a quiet power that was more of speed and quickness than of bulk. And naked, he was even more beautiful than she could have imagined, reminding her yet again of some statue of an ancient god.

  She lifted one hand and placed it, fingers spread, on his chest. The heat of him seared her, making her fingers flex instinctively. Her other hand followed, and she felt his heart accelerate again beneath her touch. She moved her hands slowly, tracing the planes of his chest, savoring the feel of taut muscle beneath sleek, smooth skin.

  Her fingertips brushed over his nipples. She saw his stomach muscles contract in the same moment she heard his sharp intake of breath.

  "You … like that?"

  "I like it," he said, sounding a little grim.

  She did it again, this time adding the tiniest bit of an edge from her nails to the caress. He groaned.

  "Caitlin, honey … I know our first time should be slow, and easy, but I… You touch me and I—"

  His words broke off abruptly as she repeated the movement, liking the way the flat disks of flesh had puckered under her touch. Then she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his chest, midway between her hands. She felt the tension in him, as if it were radiating from his golden-brown skin.

  "Damn," he said softly, reverently, wonderingly. "What are you… I can't…"

  She reveled in the stunned, broken sound of his voice, in this proof that he'd meant what he said; this was different. She trailed her hand downward over his belly, until her fingers tangled in the thicket of dark curls. She hesitated then, shyness overcoming her newfound boldness for a moment.

  "Yes," he hissed out, as if he'd tried to hold back the plea.

  She moved again then, her fingers curling instinctively around him.

  "Oh…" It was a tiny, awed gasp of wonder as the hot, heavy weight of him filled her hand. She felt his fingers dig into her upper arms, as if he were hanging on to her for support. Tentatively she stroked his length, marveling at the satin-smoothness and searing heat of him. She traced the fascinating masculine contours, lingering at the tip, where she found a tiny bead of moisture. She rubbed at it, and heard him gasp even as she felt that rigid flesh surge and his fingers tighten on her shoulders even more.

  He released her suddenly, and his hands came down to grasp hers.

  "Sometime," he said hoarsely, "I want to take hours to do this. I want to touch and kiss and taste every bit of you, and have you do the same to me. I want to take us to the edge and then stop, over and over, until we're both crazy for it. But not now. Please, Caitlin, not now."

  She shivered at the impact of those hot, impassioned words and the images they invoked. And shivered again when he moved with an eagerness that thrilled her, picking her up and lowering them both to the sofa bed with a restraint he had to visibly fight for. But when he came down beside her, she opened her arms, reaching for him, and he slipped into them with a low sound, something that could have been need or hunger or desperation, or just as easily all of them.

  She sensed him trying to bolster that restraint, to make himself go slow. And suddenly that was the last thing on earth she wanted. She'd never felt the hollow ache inside her as fiercely as she did now, knowing that the cure for that ache was within her grasp.

  "Please," she whispered as he trailed those hot, biting little kisses down the side of her throat, "don't wait. Not anymore."

  He lifted his head. "You're sure? About this?"

  "I'm sure that I'll go crazy in another minute."

  "I think I already have."

  He reached to one side and found the foil packet he'd tossed there earlier, and quickly dealt with it. This time the thought of his expertise was so fleeting that Caitlin barely had time to recognize it, because in seconds he was back in her arms, settling himself atop her gently, starting again to caress her with his hands and his mouth until she thought she would scream if he didn't take that final step and fill the aching emptiness inside her.

  And then he did, beginning a slow probing of her body that drove her to the brink of madness. She lifted her hips, trying to take more of him, wanting this more than she'd wanted anything in her life. And then he stopped.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, her fingers curving as she gripped him. She moaned, not caring that it was a pleading, needy sound. As if he'd been waiting for that sound, as if it had been a signal, she felt his muscles tighten.

  "More?" he whispered, his voice harsh.

  "All," she gasped, opening her legs wider in invitation.

  He accepted that invitation, driving forward, impaling her with a swiftness that made her cry out at the sudden burst of pleasure, and her body clenched in a fierce welcome of his body sliding home.

  A guttural sound broke from him as he froze, buried to the hilt within her. Her hands slipped down his back to grasp at his lean hips, wanting to hold him there, still and full inside her. He seemed to sense her need, or feel a similar need himself; he arched himself against her, as if he couldn't get dee
p enough.

  For a silent moment that seemed to spin out into a million years, he looked down into her eyes. She met his gaze, read there the pure wonder and amazement she could no longer doubt. Whatever he'd known before, this was as new to him as it was to her, this growing, clawing need.

  He started to move, slowly at first, in the age-old rhythm. But the heat built too swiftly, turned to flames too fast, and in moments he was thrusting hard and fast, and Caitlin was loving it, lifting herself to meet him, her hands moving over every part of him she could reach, first stroking, but then, as the flames turned into a firestorm, clawing at him in desperation as he drove her closer and closer to an explosion she feared almost as much as she wanted it.

  He muttered something, a wild, indistinct phrase out of which she heard only "…can't wait."

  Then his hand slipped between their bodies, probing, sliding over sweat-slicked skin, until his searching fingers found the tiny knot of nerve endings that his body had already roused to a raging sensitivity. He touched her there, gently, then insistently, and Caitlin couldn't stop herself from crying out at the sudden rush of fiery sensation. He thrust himself hard into her again, then stroked her again, then repeated it, until the alternation of that circling caress and the powerful invasion had her gasping his name on her every breath.

  And then she heard him moan, felt a violent shudder go through him, making every muscle in his body go rigid. He said her name, and then said it again, in a voice that drove her to the very edge of a pinnacle she'd never been to before. And then she felt him grow impossibly larger inside her, heard her name erupt from him once more, felt the convulsive jerk of his hips as he emptied himself into her. That final, helpless movement of his body was the impetus that sent her flying, and with a joyous cry she followed him over the edge.

  * * *

  "Who is he, Caitlin?"

  "Hmm?"

  "The photo. On your desk. Who is he?"

  She lifted her head to look at him. Her hair trailed over the skin of his chest, and as he thought of the various possibilities of having that soft mass trailing all over his body, Quisto felt a flicker of renewed need that amazed him, considering the night they'd just spent exploring each other. For all his so-called experience, he'd never had a night like this. In fact, he'd rarely awoken like this, still in the arms of a woman. But he could no more have left Caitlin last night than he could have walked away from Eddie's murder.

  "That's my brother."

  "Oh." He didn't think his voice had betrayed anything, but Caitlin, as he'd learned, was more perceptive than most.

  "You sound relieved."

  He was embarrassed, but he owed her an honest answer, he supposed. "Let's just say that, if he was your type of man, I wasn't quite sure what you were doing here with me."

  She looked at him for a long, silent moment. "Is this … a big thing with you? That you're literally not, as you put it, a fair-haired boy?"

  "I came to terms with that long ago. But I wasn't sure…" He ended with a shrug.

  "If it mattered to me?" she asked.

  "Does it?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes."

  He blinked, startled. During the course of the long, erotic night they'd just shared, his every perception of himself and his world and the way he'd chosen to live his life had been shaken, and his certainty about what he wanted out of that life had been shattered. And Caitlin seemed to be determined to carry that process on, rattling his cage yet again.

  "What—" He swallowed and tried again. "What do you mean?"

  "It matters to me that you've had to fight harder to get to where you are. It matters to me that your family made their way up from nothing, after leaving everything behind, and risking their lives to do it. It matters to me that you have a sense of your own history that so many others lack."

  Stunned by the unexpected fervor of her words, he wasn't prepared when she suddenly moved, levering herself over him, draping her slender, naked body over his as she lowered her head to speak huskily into his ear.

  "It matters to me that you're golden-brown and beautiful, that you look like the personification of some ancient, royal race, and that you can turn my muscles to water and my heart into a frantic hummingbird with just a look."

  He swore, low and raspy and heartfelt, as his body fairly rippled at her words, the tone of her voice, and the tiny flickers of incredibly erotic sensation that the brush of her breath against his ear sent darting through him. Need, demanding and undeniable, slammed into him, and his body responded with a speed that made him groan even as he reached for her.

  And minutes later, as he looked up at her as she rode him so sweetly, her body claiming his with an intimate clasp that made him nearly cry out at her every movement, he knew that his world had been shattered, and no matter how carefully he put it back together, it would never be the same.

  * * *

  He didn't like the way Crawford was looking at him. Or the way he kept glancing away and looking back, in the manner of a man who knew he'd seen someone before, but couldn't place when or where. And he was more sure than ever that it would only be a matter of time before the man remembered.

  "Who's Carlos's buddy?" Quisto asked Alarico.

  The man shrugged. "A small-time operator he did some time with. He wishes to join us, but, unlike you, he has little to offer."

  The words were innocuous enough, but something in Alarico's voice made Quisto nervous. The man seemed a little hyper today. Or tense, Quisto thought. Or maybe it was him; maybe he was just extra-sensitive today. Everything seemed changed, different. He nearly smiled in chagrin at himself; one night spent with Caitlin, and he felt like a man released from a hospital after a long illness. But what a night—and morning—it had been…

  "…paid for it."

  Belatedly, he tuned back in to Alarico's words. "What?"

  "You understand, of course. You are a man who sees the necessity of maintaining a certain image. The boy couldn't be allowed to get away with such a betrayal."

  "Er, no. Of course not."

  "Such a shame, though. Eddie was a bright boy. It is too bad he had such foolish ideas."

  Eddie. For more than two weeks he'd devoted his time to this and this alone, and now here it was, tossed out so easily he couldn't quite believe it. He kept his tone casual, even bored.

  "Eddie? Was that his name, the boy you were talking about before?"

  Alarico nodded. "I had to have him killed, of course. I could hardly let such treachery go unpunished. No one betrays the Pack to the police and lives."

  Alarico knew. He'd known all along that Eddie had ratted on them.

  "Is that what he did?" Quisto asked, trying to sound only vaguely interested, knowing he was walking a thin and deadly line.

  "He set us up for that raid in Marina del Mar."

  Quisto lifted his brows. "Really? A little boy did that?"

  Anger contorted Alarico's features, and Quisto regretted being unable to resist that little jab.

  "He was a pachuco, a punk who wanted to be a big shot, and then couldn't hold his tongue afterward. He should have known we would find out. You cannot hide anything from the Pack for long."

  Was that a warning? Quisto wondered. Could he risk going any further?

  How could he not? he thought. This was the entire point of his being here. He'd always guessed Alarico had ordered it, but he wanted to know who had actually carried those orders out, who had had the stomach to pump a skinny kid full of a lethal dose of procaine.

  Quisto leaned back in his chair, glancing toward the open off ice door, where he could see Carlos, Carny and a few of the others. Crawford was there, as well, still casting curious glances his way. Lenny, whom he intended to have a private word with later, was conspicuously absent. Nursing sore hands from battering Sandra, no doubt, he thought acidly. Yes, he'd have a little heart-to-heart with Lenny. Soon. But now he had to take the chance Alarico had handed him.

  "So," he said easily, "who was the lucky
one? Who got to do the little bigmouth?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Quisto shrugged. "Only to the kid, I suppose"

  "He should have thought of that before he betrayed us."

  "Um-hmm…"

  Quisto smothered a yawn that wasn't feigned; he hadn't slept much last night. Not that he minded. Not when he'd spent those waking hours with Caitlin naked in his arms. And naked in hers.

  "Sounds like something Lenny'd enjoy," he said around another yawn that he hoped was giving the impression he wanted, that this was a matter of only mild interest to him. It was only a guess, brought on by the brutal man's treatment of his girlfriend, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made; who better than Lenny, with a pipeline right to the Neutral Zone in Sandra, to overhear Eddie bragging about helping the cops? And, he thought suddenly, Caitlin had mentioned that Sandra's sister was a nurse. At a hospital, perhaps? Where procaine would no doubt be readily available?

  "Who did it is of no importance. What matters is that it was done," Alarico said, but the hastiness of his words and the slight edge that had come into his voice spoke volumes about what he wasn't saying.

  Lenny. It was Lenny. It all fit.

  Quisto yawned again, purposely this time. Alarico was watching him, closely. He seemed to be waiting for something, watching for some—or perhaps any—reaction. Quisto gave an apathetic half shrug.

  "A man must keep his house clean," he said. "And a fool must pay the price for his foolishness. Even a young fool." Then, as if it meant less than nothing, he said with an air of indifference, "Can we get on to something useful? Have you been able to locate a … shall we say, a dealer who can handle our merchandise?"

  Alarico said nothing for a moment, a moment Quisto guessed was calculated to make him squirm. He wondered for a moment if the man knew, but his instincts told him no. Besides, he didn't think the man had the control to keep such knowledge secret. He might be suspicious, or perhaps this was simply more of the usual mistrust the Pack felt for everyone.