His mouth settled firmer against hers and she thought she’d die. Their tongues tangled for a moment, then he sought the tiny, powerful places within. Lord, first one minute she was freezing, next, her body felt as warm and pliable as soft wax. Had a woman ever been so thoroughly kissed before?
Flayme wanted desperately to escape him. Worse, the urgency building inside her made her want to crawl inside his skin, to let him have his way, to guide his fingers inside her skirt, to aid him in his quest toward her hit her with the force of a wild mustang—
“Uhh,” she moaned. “Ooh—” Oh, God, what am I doing?
Clearly, she wanted to succumb to the ravaging of her mouth. Her body was more than willing.
But Flayme wanted her freedom more.
Stealthily, she edged her hand to the classic-style desk phone at her fingertips. Before she gave herself time to reconsider, to, yeah, enjoy the tiny licks he trailed past her navel and the fleeting dip of his fingers past the waistband of her skirt, she slammed the hard plastic across his temple.
The air whooshed out of his body in a short, single groan. His mouth slackened against her belly. All sparks of fire died from his heated touches. Flayme thought she’d cry at that cruelty. She sobbed softly over the sweet loss. Then she gasped. “Crap.” His entire body had sagged on top of hers. “Please, God, this is getting to be a habit…me injuring this man. Please don’t let me have killed him.”
He moaned. Flayme dropped the phone, pushed him off her, and instantly dug in his jean’s pocket and fished out the key. In less than a heartbeat, her wrists were free of the steel bracelets.
She scooped up his car keys, took a second to strip out of her suit, yank on jeans, a sweater, socks and the pair of sturdy shoes he’d filched from her closet. “One more thing,” she muttered, and snapped the cuffs around his wrists. “There, they aren’t so bad once you get used to them. Get a taste of how they feel.” And why was she talking to an unconscious man? Idiot!
She hesitated for a moment, eyeing the big lump rising on his forehead and the tiny gash the phone had made. Blood trickled toward his chin. “Shit.” She hadn’t meant to do that kind of damage. Well, in for a penny and all that—Flayme whirled and rushed out the door. Free!
She was free. So why did she suddenly feel so damn disheartened?
Chapter Nineteen
I love her and that’s the beginning of everything.
~F. Scott Fitzgerald
Castle Rock, Colorado
February 17, Tuesday
Eight hours and ten minutes after the assassination…
Rafe slid his powerful hands beneath Lacey’s hips and lifted her to meet his penetrating thrusts. Her soft moans of pleasure soared through his soul, and like every time he loved her, he came undone in her arms.
He thought he’d die a slow death as she clenched her inner muscles and milked him of his seed. His heart pounded. His lungs burned and felt as if they were going to burst. “Lacey, sweetheart.” Rafe cupped the sides of her face and nibbled at her mouth. “God, don’t stop doing that. You feel so good. You always take my breath away.” Gently, he brushed a kiss across her eyelids, the sweet tip of her nose and finally settled on the swollen flesh of her plump lips.
With the reluctance he couldn’t stop feeling whenever he left her body, Rafe slowly pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. Curling his arms around her waist, he took her with him. She settled her head on his shoulder and sighed. “You have a way of making me feel humble,” she said, twining her fingers through his chest hair, “as if I’m the last woman on earth.”
“For me, you are.” His heart hammered with enough force he thought it might explode. “Lady, you are one dangerous female.”
Lacey crawled on top of him. “How dangerous?”
“Very dangerous. I’m not sure my cock will ever go soft again.”
“If it does, I think I know how to revive it.” She grinned and gently cupped his sac. “That is, if you want me to revive it?” Lacey lifted a brow, grinning, because his dick was already responding to her light strokes. Her body quivered in anticipation. “Rafe, do you think we might have made a baby?”
“You asked me that last time.” He picked up his watch off the nightstand and eyed it. “Exactly one hour ago.” He put the watch down and smiled to take the sting out of his words. The desperation she felt for another child showed on her face, in the way her lips pinched, and her eyes filled with hope. She troubled him. Her despair made him apprehensive, as if her conceiving was the only thing that might make her whole again.
God, let her get pregnant. If that’s what it takes to heal her soul, please let her conceive.
“My answer’s still the same, Lace,” he said gently, brushing her hair back from her face. “The more we work on it, the more apt it is to happen.” He grinned. “God knows I love working on it.”
“I just don’t want you to feel that the only reason I want you is because—”
Rafe searched her face. He saw the same sorrow there, the same emptiness he’d seen in her face since she lost their baby and Joseph. Lacey needed another child, and she needed it as soon as possible. Please, God, let it happen. Not for my sake, but for hers.“I never thought that, sweetheart. God, you’re so beautiful.” His hand shook as he brushed a damp curl that clung to her cheek behind her ear. “After this last time, just before I came, I lifted your hips, tilted them to take me deep. Sometimes that helps a woman conceive. Yeah, there’s a good chance we just made a baby. Remember, it didn’t take but one night last time.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “That was different. I was different. I was whole then.”
“Lace,” he said on a choked note. “Sweetheart, you’re still whole. You just need time for your body to heal. I want a baby with you, too, but there’s no hurry.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain it, Rafe. I just know we need to create a baby as soon as possible. I need that with you, to give us roots and stability.”
“Roots and stability? I love you, Lacey. If you love me, then we have our roots and stability.”
“I do love you, but a baby, a child, will strengthen our bond. I feel like I’m running out of time and that if I don’t conceive now, we might never get another chance to make a baby.”
Rafe stared at her. The anxiety in her eyes was real. He didn’t know what to say to her, to reassure her. He couldn’t tell her what the doctor had told him―that she might never conceive again. It would crush her, and he couldn’t bear to see that spark die in her again. “We’ll make a baby, Lace, but honey, it might not happen right away. You have to realize that. Your body went through a lot. It needs time. You need time.”
“I don’t want time,” she cried. “I’m fine. A little sore, but I can do this, Rafe.”
“Sweetheart, I want to give you—”
The jarring ring of his cell phone cut off his words. “Damn.”
“Who the heck could that be at this hour?” Lacey asked.
Rafe grunted. “No telling.”
Lacey grabbed the cell off his nightstand and eyed the caller I.D. “Danger.”
“Shit.” Rafe raked fingers through his hair. “What the hell does he want? Can’t he leave us alone?”
“Don’t answer.” She flipped the top and shut it with a snap, killing the ring tone.
“Lacey! What if it’s important?”
“There’s nothing he has to say that’s more important than what we’re doing.”
“Lace…” His voice trailed away when she closed her fingers around his aching cock.
“Again?” she asked, her eyes teasing, but she was already guiding his hard shaft inside her.
To hell with Danger, the man had no business calling them in the first place. There was nothing left to say between them. “I’m all yours, sweetheart,” he said huskily. “You know that.”
And he silenced his ringing phone again by punching the off button.
* * * *
Ohio
Motor Lodge Motel
Eight hours and twenty minutes after the assassination…
Flayme missed the tiny slot to the ignition on the first try. Drawing a deep breath, she clenched the car keys and ordered herself to calm down. This time, she jabbed the key slowly into the switch and turned it with a patience she was far from feeling.
Success! However, she couldn’t quite squash the memory of what she’d done to the already injured and possibly ill agent. How hard had she hit him with the phone? Too hard? Well, yeah. His forehead had split like an overripe tomato. Her stomach churned. Nausea bubbled, hot and greasy in her belly.
So much blood.
Was this new wound as bad as the knife wound?
Just because the wound on his forehead bled so much didn’t mean it was serious. Did it? Hadn’t she read somewhere that head wounds bleed profusely?
Oh, God, she didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. She only knew she didn’t want to be taken into protective custody, a formality that still made her little more than a prisoner.
She hadn’t done anything wrong. Well—unless one counted stabbing the agent and cracking his skull. Which she didn’t—all’s fair in love and war. Wasn’t that the old adage? Love? War? It seemed like maybe there was a bit of both going on between them, at the very least, a strong attraction.
No. No. That wasn’t right. There was nothing between them. She barely knew him. In truth, she didn’t know him at all. The only good thing she could say about him was he knew how to kiss. Was that necessarily a compliment? Uh-uh. It meant he was very experienced in seduction.
But to give him his due, he hadn’t really tried to hurt her anytime. Well, except for the punch to the jaw, but she’d given him plenty of provocation, and still had. She knew he had principles because he hadn’t taken advantage of the fact that Sam would have slept with him given the opportunity. So he didn’t use women for the hell of it.
Flayme clenched her teeth. She refused to dig around, trying to find good qualities about him—time to move on and think about something else—like making good her escape.
Working for Sam had given her an opportunity to keep an eye on what was happening inside the White House. Not that she had the power to do anything about it, other than hold a press conference. She’d definitely do it, too, if she felt it was necessary to warn the country of an impending tragedy, like the president being in bed with another woman when he should be taking care of business.
The cover-up going on at the White House irked her to no end. She felt the people needed to know their leader was a cheat, a womanizer, and a liar. She hadn’t made any secret of her feelings, which might account for the fact she never received invitations to White House events.
It also might account for someone taking shots at her. The president and his wife didn’t much like her, but that was okay, because she sure as hell didn’t like either one of them. She didn’t put anything past the nation’s great leader if it meant saving his own ass, but she hadn’t done anything lately to piss him off.
The one thing she knew without doubt, if her brother was behind her being taken into protective custody, then no way—she had less reason to trust him than she did the cowboy.
Flayme tried to shake off the terror that clenched her heart. Her brother? What a joke! He wasn’t fit to serve the country. He’d been a lousy brother, an even lousier senator.
She swiped the tears from her eyes. The gung-ho cowboy agent? Was he trustworthy? Was he the good guy? She didn’t know. For sure, she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Not to the point she had.
But damn it, why should she care?
Just because he was a dynamite kisser, and no doubt possessed one hell of a manly package, at least according to Samantha, and was one hubba-hubba hunk, didn’t mean she could trust him with her secrets or allow him to handcuff her and hold her prisoner.
Flayme rubbed her eyes. God, what if she’d killed him? Shit! She was back to that concern. What if she’d blinded him with the blow? He didn’t seem to have much stamina. How the hell had he become such a top-notch agent when he couldn’t even handle a little stabbing and a minor blow to the head?
And why the fuck wasn’t his fancy car starting?
Flayme banged the steering wheel in frustration. She turned the key again, but there was only the dull grind of a dead starter. Not a spark of life ignited under the hood.
For an intense moment, she sat there debating what to do next. Reluctantly, she popped the hood. Annoyed, she wondered what the hell she knew about what coiled under a hood. Shoving open the door, Flayme stepped out of the car. She had to try. She’d come too far to turn back now.
Maybe she could fix whatever was wrong.
And maybe cows could fly over the moon.
She circled the front and lifted the top. Flayme stared, blinked, then stared some more. Holy hell! Okay. Yep. Clueless was a terrific word. What the hell was she looking at? For? She puffed a curl out of her eyes and nibbled on her lower lip. Hmm. Well she knew what spark plug wires were, and she was dead certain they weren’t supposed to be MIA.
But who could tell exactly how many were gone with all the hoses and wires twisting and twining under there? It looked like a big tubular jungle of black hoses, wires, caps, and other parts she had no name for or any desire to learn what they were connected to.
With a spurt of anger, Flayme slammed the hood. “The dirty, rotten sonofa—”
How could he take the wires?
When had he taken them?
She tapped a long nail on the hood and narrowed her eyes. He must have done it when he stepped outside for a few minutes. The beast! Squaring her shoulders, she made up her mind there was no way she was surrendering. He was not winning this battle.
Flayme gazed toward the office. Even with dawn making its gray appearance—albeit with more snow clouds obscuring any attempt made by the sun to rear its lemony face—the clerk hadn’t bothered with the small detail of turning off the vacancy light. The sign still glowed in hot-pink neon. Not that the motel looked remotely inviting, even with the flashing welcome.
Her skin crawled. She was going to kill the cowboy! This was obviously a seedy motel, one of those little shacky type, out-of-the-way flea bags that required one to exit and drive another ten miles to locate it, only to discover it was a rat hole. The kind of place she usually steered clear of no matter how desperate she was for a room. Okay. With no choice left, the office it was. She’d call a cab to anywhere and charge it to her Visa.
Flayme stopped in her tracks. Shit! Her wallet! Credit cards. Checkbook—her lifeline to the outside world, to Neiman’s, Tiffany’s, and Macy’s, to a nice Holiday Inn, for God’s sake, was in her purse—and her purse was back at the office in D.C.
Rage spiraled down her spine and settled in her womb. It was the cowboy’s fault. If he hadn’t knocked her out and whisked her away, she could have told him she needed her purse before they took off to wherever the hell he was taking her.
He’d made a thorough mess of her life. Ruined her escape! Her stomach clenched with sudden need, and she wondered if he was as thorough with—
Get your mind on what matters, Flayme!
How slow the hunky cowboy makes love to a woman did not her concern. What mattered was the fact she had no money. But there was a clerk in the sleazy motel office. Maybe she could sweet talk him into lending her a few bucks. She’d write him an IOU.
Fuming, Flayme trudged across the icy ground and tore open the office door. Crossing the short distance to the desk, she banged the service bell. Looking around while she waited, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a gangly-looking young male popped his head around an open door and grinned. Yuck! Talk about your neighborhood slime ball!
“Hi there.” He gaped at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. He sort of reminded her of one those idiotic characters from that long ago movie, Deliverance, inbred and just plain stupid looking. What on earth had made the cowboy take a room her
e with this character lurking about? It was enough to give a lady the willies!
Flayme glared. “I need to use your phone,” she demanded.
“Sorry, doll. It’s not working. Storm knocked down the lines hours ago. It’ll probably be out of commission for days. We’re usually the last place that gets service returned.”
“Perfect!”
“Yeah. Cuddling weather. Don’t ya think?”
“No, I don’t think,” she snapped. “What about a cell? Don’t you have a cell phone I can use?”
“On my salary? Get real, lady.” He lifted a sandy-colored brow and slowly raked his gaze over her. “I’d be glad to help you with any other needs…” His voice slowly trickled to a stop as she lifted her head and punched him with a hard glare.
“Damn.” Flayme snatched the phone off its cradle and lifted it to her ear. Dead as a rock! Deader than the ninny before her drooling like a lovesick calf.
“Look, lady,” the clerk said, yanking the phone from her hands and dropping it back in its home, “I told you the lines are dead. If there’s nothing else…” He turned his attention back to the television inside the little room.
Flayme’s gaze tracked his with the precision of a guided missile. Grunting. Groaning. And lots of activity on a bed blasted across the screen. Holy hell! Her throat tightened. Jesus. She tilted her head to one side and studied the action for a second. Hmm. She hadn’t known that position was possible. Heat scalded her face when the boy turned and caught her staring.
“Anything else I can do for you?” he asked, in what she was dead certain he considered an alluring voice. “Last offer.”
She stared at him, hands plastered on her hips. “Funny, I know this creepy little worm named Neil. I think you and he share the same gene pool,” she said, her tone icy.
His eyes flashed with animosity. “I guess you prefer the cowboy to a real man. I asked him about a threesome, but he turned me down flat. So, how ‘bout it, lady, you interested?”
Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 24