A Kiss to Kill

by Nina Bruhns

  “No!” His fingers dug into her with his firm denial. “No. I can’t—” His words broke off with a choke.

  And suddenly she had another blinding insight. Somewhere in the distant past, he’d been through as much pain and torture as she had.

  That’s what drove his obsessive need for control.

  She understood it, because she now had exactly the same need.

  A shudder of intense recognition racked through her body. They were the same, she and Gregg. Two halves of the same Janus coin.

  As though he could read her mind, he tugged her back to him, enveloping her in his strong embrace. “I can see what you’re thinking, Gina. But we’re not alike, you and me. Not even close.”

  He was so wrong.

  The heat of his skin felt so good. She tilted her face up and kissed his throat, shivering at the rough scratch of his jaw against her cheek. Feeling her quiver, he pulled away. She pulled him back. And kissed over the pulse point of his jugular and on down to his collarbone. Under her fingers, the discs of his nipples were hard with arousal. As was the part of him she wanted most, pushing against her thighs.

  She kissed her way down to his concave belly, licking at the dip of his navel, toying with the arrow of curly dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his sweats.

  “Help me,” she urged, hooking her fingers under the elastic.

  In a swift motion he lifted, and they were gone. She heard the open and shut of the nightstand drawer. A small packet pressed onto her palm. She curled her fingers around it . . . and her other hand around his thick erection.

  She could wait no longer. She scooted down, and shivered in recognition of the ornate tattooed band that marked his organ as the only one that would ever satisfy her. She took him in her mouth.

  A groan burst from him. She tasted his salty essence as his cock wept with desire.

  “No,” he growled, and lifted her up with corded arms, dragging her up his body until she spanned his shoulders. Then he moved down so his mouth was on her, between her thighs. She grabbed the bars of the headboard. And rode his tongue.

  She echoed his low groan. She’d forgotten how utterly amazing sex felt. Real sex, with a real man. With this man.

  By the time he’d finished with her, she’d forgotten her name. She was boneless from an endless orgasm, limp with pleasure. At that point he could have done anything to her, taken her in any way he wished; she couldn’t have stopped him. Wouldn’t have, even if she could.

  But for some reason it didn’t surprise her when he just picked her back up, and with absolute control lowered her down onto his waiting cock. Her on top. He was long and hard, and slid up into her with a firm thrust. Gritting his teeth, he stopped, and waited for her to move.

  “You do it,” she told him, kissing his mouth. “I have no strength left.” Her muscles were like Jell-O.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very.”

  She kissed him again. And he began to move his hips, scything up so the tip of his arousal kissed the base of her womb. God, it felt so incredibly good.

  “Ah, woman, I’ve missed you so much,” he said on a strangled groan.

  She’d missed him, too. Missed this. Missed being so close to another human . . . in pleasure instead of pain. Missed having a man inside her, this man, his flesh one with hers, completing her. Loving her.

  He gripped her behind the neck, holding her mouth down to his for a drowning kiss as he continued to pump up into her. She wrapped her arms around him. And surrendered.

  “You’re safe with me, Gina,” he whispered roughly. “I swear to you, no one will ever hurt you again. Not as long as I’m still breathing.”

  The promise was delivered with such searing, gut-wrenching conviction, it would be impossible to fake. And that’s when she knew. With complete certainty. He’d been telling the truth. This whole time she’d been blaming and hating the wrong man. Because there was no way this man in bed with her was capable of hurting her in any way, in or out of bed.

  So just as he reached his peak and groaned out his pleasure, she whispered back, “I believe you. Oh, God, Gregg, I do believe you.”

  TWELVE

  SARAH and Wade made it as far as her front door before Wade’s cell phone rang. They’d been kissing all the way from the parking garage like a couple of teenagers. She still hadn’t decided if she’d go all the way, but she just couldn’t stop kissing the man. He was that good.

  “Goddamn it,” he growled, reluctantly untangling himself from her to dig his buzzing PDA out of his jacket pocket. “I told them not to call me unless it’s a emergency.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Go ahead.” She flung her back against the door of her townhome to catch her breath.

  Damn, he was an amazing kisser. Really amazing.

  “SAC Montana.”

  She raked through her purse for her keys, found them, and swung the door open. She practically stumbled through it as she heard him say, “Commander Quinn. What can I do for you?” He took a step toward her, then halted at the threshold. “You are?” He glanced at his watch, brows shooting up. “Now?”

  What the—?

  Wade’s gaze darted to her. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m with her now. Discussing the case.”

  Her stomach sank. Okay, so much for it being her decision.

  After a few seconds he said, “Sure, uh . . . listen, hang on a sec,” and pressed a key on his phone, looking guarded.

  “You talked with Bobby Lee Quinn from STORM Corps earlier today?”

  She nodded, jiggling the key out of the lock. “Briefly. He wanted to know if I’d searched Asha Mahmood’s apartment yet.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t know where she lived. He gave me the address in return for letting him know what I find.”

  Wade frowned. “Is that legal?”

  Her lips curved. “This coming from you?”

  His jaw clenched and unclenched. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d spoken to him?”

  Wow. He did not look happy. “It didn’t come up. Why?”

  “Quinn’s in D.C. And he wants to know what my interest is in Asha Mahmood.”

  “So tell him.”

  “Sarah, this is not a polite enquiry. This is STORM trying to shut me out of the case.”

  Was he kidding? “Why would they do that? Other than the obvious?”

  His expression darkened. “I told you. It’s complicated.”

  Her turn to frown.

  Jetting out a breath, he punched the button on the phone again. “Look, Quinn. We both want the same thing. Let’s make a deal. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.” He listened impassively for a few seconds, then pushed the off button and slid the PDA back into his jacket pocket. “You told him I’d contacted you.”

  “Hello? Before I knew who you were. I don’t normally get this much outside interest in a routine murder case. I wanted to cover my bases. Look, why don’t you come in? We can talk about it inside.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and she knew the night was over. Disappointment spiraled through her.

  “He knows we’re together now. Which means we’re being watched.”

  “Why on earth would they be watching us?” she asked incredulously.

  A muscle worked in his jaw and he glanced away for a moment. “Anyway, it’s late and I need to go into the office before we meet in the morning. We should both get some sleep.”

  And so much for being willing to risk it.

  “Sure, no problem,” she said, resolutely telling herself she’d dodged a bullet rather than getting the shaft. Ha. “Well, thanks for dinner. I really enjoyed it.” Except for the part where he turned into a paranoid wuss.

  He stepped forward, clearly intending to give her a peck on the cheek. As if. She stepped backward. “Goodnight, SAC Montana,” she said and firmly shut the door.

  Oh, well. She hadn’t really wanted to sleep with him anyway.

&nb
sp; Honest.

  THE rising dawn was chilly on the Chesapeake.

  Rebel poured herself a mug of strong coffee and carried it up to the deck of the Stormy Lady to watch the sunrise while Alex showered in the teensy stall, and the blueberry muffins she’d thrown together baked in the oven. A layer of gray clouds wrapped the bay in a shroud of thick silence and blocked the rays of the sun.

  How appropriate.

  She took a long, fortifying sip of coffee. Who would have thought the morning after the first time ever sleeping with the man she’d loved for years and years could be so depressing?

  Okay, so not actually depressing. But a touch of sadness marred what should have been the happiest dawn of her life.

  Yes, the sex had been incredible. Phenomenal. Making love with Alex had been everything she’d ever dreamed, and so much more. It was the part afterward that had put a damper on her total bliss. The part where he’d pretty much come out and told her they had no real future together. He had no interest in marrying her.

  Yeah, that had hurt.

  As had the crushing news of his inability to have children. Not that it made any difference in her feelings for him. It just took a bit of mental adjusting, that’s all. Except he didn’t want her. Not as a wife.

  And yet, he’d been all too willing to marry Helena. Why not her?

  A slash of pain razored through her heart, nearly bringing her to her knees. It was just as she’d feared. Great sex or no, she really was his second choice.

  Too distant a second ever to be his wife.

  And that was depressing.

  She swallowed down the urge to scream at the top of her lungs about the unfairness of it all, and took another sip of coffee. Ah, well. She’d known all along she’d come in second. She’d even told him she wouldn’t fall into bed with him because of it. Yeah. And just see how long that had lasted. About nine seconds.

  “There you are,” Alex said, popping his head up from below. He came up the ladder, coffee mug in one hand, two muffins in the other. “The timer went off, so I took them out of the oven. These are awesomely delicious, and you”—he leaned down and gave her a kiss—“are amazing. Coffee and muffins for breakfast? You spoil me.”

  Basking in the light of his brilliant smile, she laughed, all her sadness vanishing in a flash. The pleasure in his eyes was too genuine to resist. At least he wanted her for something. Which was far better than the alternative.

  “What, didn’t Helena make breakfast for you?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  “We never spent the night together, so breakfast wasn’t an issue,” he responded, handing her a muffin.

  He’d told her once before that he and Helena had never had sex. Helena’s choice. Which was something Rebel still didn’t understand, because Helena was not particularly religious, nor did she have any strong moral convictions against premarital sex. She and Alex had been engaged—engaged—for more than a year before he was taken hostage by terrorists. And Helena had remained true to his memory the entire time he’d been presumed dead, never once going out with another man. With a love like that, it seemed strange not to sleep with him.

  Selfishly, Rebel was jubilant. This was a part of Alex that she possessed and her rival didn’t. An important part.

  Did it shed a certain light on that insanity about Helena ditching him at the altar? Maybe the sex thing should have been a clue.

  “Her loss,” Rebel said, and leaned in for another kiss. He tasted like blueberries and coffee and cream. “And you’re pretty awesomely amazing, yourself,” she added, nibbling on his earlobe.

  He gave a gravelly hum. “You are too tempting by half, woman. But Quinn will have my hide if we don’t produce some results for him by the time he shows up.”

  “You think he will?”

  “Oh, yeah. D.C. isn’t that far. Once he’s finished with whatever he’s doing up there, he’ll fly down here for sure.”

  “I guess we’d better get going, then,” she agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “Though how I’m going to manage this dive, I have no idea. My leg muscles are toast.”

  He grinned. “Too much sex?”

  She grinned back. “Is that possible?”

  “Hell, no. Guess I’ll just have to massage them later.” His eyebrows waggled.

  She chuckled, finished off her muffin, and headed for the storage bins to fetch their dive gear. “You are so bad.”

  “Not what you said last night,” he called teasingly after her.

  After they got their gear assembled, he unzipped a black duffel that bore the distinctive silver STORM emblem. From it, he pulled an instrument that looked a bit like a handheld video game unit, with an LCD screen between two handles covered in buttons.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s an infrared-enhanced sonar detector. Hopefully it’ll be able to locate what’s left of Allah’s Paradise from the surface. That way we’ll know the depth and can plan our dives.”

  “Cool.”

  He showed her how it worked, then said, “Okay, let’s get going.”

  They suited up, threw out the dive flag buoy, and jumped into the frigid water. “Good grief, it’s freezing!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness for full-body wet suits.”

  “Wimp,” he declared—though he had donned a wet suit, too, she noted—and after hesitating long enough to take a deep breath and grimace at the water below, he disappeared under the murky surface, only his snorkel and tank visible. The man swam like a fish. She’d often wondered why he hadn’t joined the Navy SEALs out of college, instead of CIA’s Zero Unit.

  She stuck out her tongue at his wake, laughed, and paddled around, adjusting her buoyancy and getting used to the bulky gear while Alex swam concentric circles around the marked area with his gadget.

  Five minutes later, he popped his head up with a staccato exhale. “Okay, got it mapped.”

  Seriously? That was easy.

  “Ready?” he asked after quickly punching some numbers into the dive computer strapped to his wrist. He swam over and looked like he wanted to kiss her, but they couldn’t manage it because their masks were in the way. Instead, he touched her cheek with his glove. “I’m going to tether us together, okay?” He held up a nylon rope with clips at each end, one of which was attached to his BCD. “Visibility down there is nil, and I want to know where you are at all times.”

  She nodded. “Works for me.” She wasn’t ashamed to admit she was a bit nervous about this dive. Until yesterday, it had been several years since she’d been in full dive gear, and a lot longer than that since she’d dived in conditions that weren’t clear enough to see beyond your fingertips. On the surface, the Chesapeake Bay was beautiful, but underwater it was a brown, murky mess.

  Clipping the tether to her vest, he gave her an uneasy look. “Be careful down there,” he said.

  “Always.”

  “If anything happens . . .” he began, then shook his head.

  Her smile faded. “Alex?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  ALEX ignored a growing sense of foreboding and led Rebel down into the Stygian depths of the bay. Jesus, he could hardly see the end of his nose. Even under normal conditions he hated diving in crap like this. Thank God for the sonar, otherwise they’d be down there for days reading the bottom of the bay like Braille for bits of the wreck. It was spread out in an oblong pattern along the silty seabed at least a half-mile long. Luckily, the dive depth was child’s play, only about twenty-five feet down. They’d have plenty of time for a thorough search before they had to come up.

  The good news was that the bomb had blown a hole straight through the bottom hull of the yacht, which had ignited the fuel tank, which in turn had exploded upward so tightly it had taken just part of the deck and the wheelhouse with it. The rest of the yacht was still largely intact. The bad news? It would all be dangerously unstable. The whole vessel was sitting at a crazy angle, nose up; it could topple over any moment if the current hit
it the wrong way.

  Hell. He hated taking Rebel with him into this kind of underwater minefield, but there were strict rules against diving alone. He’d just have to clip her to the anchor or something while he explored what remained of the inside of the vessel.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  The Chesapeake was pretty useless as a dive spot, even at the best of times. If the tides were running, the currents could be downright wicked. The bottom was muddy and there was no interesting fish or plant life to speak of, unless you were mad for oysters and striped bass. Even seaweed refused to grow, since the water was brackish . . . and polluted from three hundred years of industry and farming along the many rivers that fed into it. He was definitely using antibacterial soap for his après-dive shower. He didn’t even want to think about what the tasty Maryland blue crabs he was planning for dinner tonight had been feeding on all their lives. Well, what the hell. He’d survived sixteen months at Club Torture; herbicides and mercury in his blood were small potatoes.

  What he wouldn’t survive was anything happening to Rebel on his watch. His chest tightened at the mere thought, and he listened for her bubbles, his muscles easing only when he was certain of her steady rhythmic breathing next to him.

  Using the sonar, he guided them down to the main part of the wreck, then passed the instrument over to Rebel and dug out a powerful spotlight from the dive bag he’d brought with things they might need. Switching on the light, visibility didn’t improve much, but when they got close, it was enough to make out the vague outlines of the intact bits of the vessel, along with a couple of cruising bass. The spotlight sparked off their striped scales and flashed back from one unblinking eye as they turned on a dime and swam away.

  Like the first memorable glimpse of the wreck of the Titanic, the yacht’s deck railing loomed into view as they approached. High-pitched squeals and creaking bangs of metal grinding on metal punctuated the muffled stillness of the underwater gloom. The whole thing made his hair stand on end.

  He motioned to Rebel that he intended to clip her onto the rail and go in on his own. She shook her head and gave the signal for no.