First, he pulled off her boots. Then slowly drew her jeans down her long legs and dropped them to the floor.
She lay silent. Watching him. Her eyes glowed like a warm ocean, her lips slick and wet from his kisses. And her body...full breasts, softly curved hips and legs that went on and on and on.
Grazes marred both knees.
He ground his teeth, his mouth clenched tight against the fear.
If I hadn’t been there... If I’d missed...
“Don’t stop,” Eliza whispered. Her hands sank into his hair, anchored him to her. Determined. Urgent. Her breath taunted his lips.
He shifted his weight onto his elbows, kissed her again, his mouth moving lower as he grazed her breasts, teased her nipples. An exploration that begged for thoroughness and speed—contrasting needs that pushed and pulled him.
He moved lower to kiss her stomach, the sensitive area at the crease of her thighs before returning to her mouth like a bee to a flower. Her body arched beneath his, quivered with each touch. Tension strained within her muscles and answered the need growing within him.
She pressed toward him. Her eyes gleaming with desire, her mouth breathing his name like a litany. Her hands streaked over his body; pointblank lust driving him to the brink. He gasped, gripped her hands once again in his own, holding them gently above her head. He trailed a finger down the delicate skin on the underside of her arm, followed the shiver with his lips. Their breathing was labored and quick. She looked at him with wild eyes that urged him on.
He slid to one side so he could see her better and slow things down. He felt like he’d waited forever for this moment and he intended to savor each instant.
He ran a single finger down her body as he watched her watching him. His hand moved lower, slipping beneath her panties and into her hot wet core. She tightened against his fingers, eyes blanking as he rubbed them against her. But she didn’t freak. She didn’t shoot off the bed and run for the hills.
The rhythm built higher and higher; he could feel it, see it on her face and hear it in her breath. This was where he wanted to send her. This was where he wanted to go. He gritted his teeth against his own desire and the need to join her there.
She plunged her hands into his hair and pulled him closer, kissed him, ran hungry hands over his hot flesh. Sensation built upon sensation, careened out of control. She shuddered, body bowed as she cried out. It was too much and it still wasn’t enough.
She tugged at the catch of his jeans, helped him to scramble out of them, all without letting go of his mouth. They removed the last of their clothes in a tangle of arms and legs, and sank back onto the bed, rolling and groping, their breath shallow pants of pleasure.
He came into her in one powerful thrust, filled her hard and deep. The intense shudder of pleasure rocked them both. He held himself still for one long drawn-out moment as he looked deep into her eyes. She stared back at him, wide-eyed. Blinked.
“Damn.” Nat said, “Condom.”
Nat closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and withdrew. Snatching his pants off the floor, he grabbed a square packet and tore into the foil. He needed to be inside her.
The second time was just as incredible as the first. She was hot, tight and wet. And when he began to move, slowly, firmly, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper inside. His mind blanked as he was enveloped in hot wet heat that flowed around him like lava, tightening the noose around his emotions.
He held onto his control with a single iron neuron.
The rhythm built, changed pace, and then blasted him like an inferno. Their gazes caught and locked, drowning each other in need. Eliza’s nails dug sharply into his back, but Nat didn’t care. Her body tightened powerfully around him, pulsed exquisitely, drove him towards that velvety edge. He hung onto his control with every ounce of willpower, slowed everything down to a lazy caress that held back more than it delivered. Her breath hitched, muscles clenched demanding more.
Raw dark feelings tore at his gut as he buried himself into her one last time, and felt her explode around him as he came in a rush that seared his mind with white-hot flames.
They fell hard together, unseeing into the darkness.
***
New York City, April 14th
Nerves strung tighter than clock springs, DeLattio paced the plush blue carpet in his hotel suite. He took a drag of a cigarette, noticed the nicotine stains on his fingers were getting deeper, creeping around his knuckles and working their way down each digit.
Like rot.
He rubbed at the mustard colored skin, but it made no difference. The stain remained.
He ground his jaw and started to swear. The discoloration irritated him, nagged at his temper. Snorting, he gave up. Sucked the smoke from his cigarette deeper into his lungs and laughed it out. His uncle, John-Paul Mallena, had put a seven-figure contract out on his life. If Charlie Corelli was to be believed he was already a dead man. The color of his fingers wouldn’t bother his corpse.
No reason not to believe Charlie. He’d been Andrew’s bodyguard-cum-personal-assistant for the last eight years. Charlie had been a present from his uncle the day he’d graduated Harvard. Probably the most useful gift a man could get.
But Charlie was also a made-man, a sgarrista, on the Bilotti family books. He was one of John-Paul Mallena’s original work-crew, who’d taken a blood oath to work for the good of the family. A blood oath Andrew hadn’t been allowed take because his father hadn’t been Italian.
Andrew stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. He hid the tremors in his fingers by giving his hand a shake. His father had been a French/Slavic cross whom J.P. had gotten rid of years ago. His mother had never suspected, but Andrew had known—known and been grateful not to have been disposed of the same way.
He glanced towards the two federal agents who’d been assigned guard duty that night. Neither man liked him; not that Andrew gave a fuck. They were typical feebs—smarmy, arrogant.
He’d always known he’d have to run one day—Christ, he’d been scamming the mob since tenth grade. And he’d prepared. But he hadn’t expected to be screwed over by some sniveling bitch.
He inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs until it filled every space and he couldn’t hold it any longer. Exhaled slowly, brooding. He’d shared the profits with Charlie, but Andrew didn’t know where Charlie’s loyalty would lie when push came to shove. Andrew loved the guy, but chances were Charlie would be the hit man.
In his world, life and death were flips of the same coin.
One of the agents, Wade—tall and skinny with a buzz cut—played a game on a laptop, while Butler—his shorter, darker partner—snoozed on leather upholstery under the New York Times.
Looking at them, Andrew wanted to smile because he knew they were dead.
Crushing out the cigarette, he paced the floor, went over to the mini-bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon.
He was smart. The plan was set. Very, very soon.
Andrew was looking forward to killing Juliette Morgan. The need stabbed at him, distracted his mind when he should have been concentrating on escape. Tapping his fingers on the soft leather on the back of the chair he remembered the last time he’d seen her—spread-eagled and naked on the bed.
His nose itched from where she’d kicked him in the face. Everything he’d done to her and the only thing he could recall was that sharp rush of pain as the bone snapped. Anger narrowed his eyes and tightened his mouth. He gripped his glass so hard he thought it might shatter.
There was a knock on the door and he jumped, nerves as taut as tripwires. The feebs stood, unholstered their weapons.
“Get in the john,” Butler, the short one, ordered him.
Andrew walked away to the marble-tiled bathroom shaking his head. He hated these guys. The FBI thought they knew everything, but he’d show them. And he wanted to know her real name before he did her again, wanted to destroy Juliette and her alter ego once and for all.
From behind t
he door he heard the agents greeting his lawyer, Larry. Andrew came out, wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Larry was performing small miracles for him with the District Attorney’s office. Stupid schmuck. The lawyer juggled his briefcase in one hand and a large box of takeout pizza in the other, along with a plastic carrier bag.
“I met the delivery boy in the corridor and thought I’d better bring it in.” Larry gave the agents a frown of disapproval as he handed over the food. “I have to go over a couple of points with my client.” Larry nodded towards Andrew, but avoided eye contact.
Intimidation got the best results.
“We’ll go into the bedroom to discuss them, if we may?” Larry’s voice was even thinner than usual.
The feebs searched him, a quick up and down of hands and brief inspection of his briefcase. Then they turned away, eager for their food while it was still hot. They sat at the dining table that overlooked Soho’s bright lights and cracked open some soda.
Andrew led Larry into the bedroom, closed the door on the other men. Larry’s hands shook so badly he could barely undo his briefcase.
“I have your word my family will no longer be in danger?” Nervously Larry pulled a letter from his briefcase. Held it pinched between two fingers like it was contagious.
“You do everything Charlie told you?” Andrew grabbed the letter, his eyes gleaming in anticipation.
Larry nodded.
“Then your family will be fine.”
He read the letter. Scanned the contents in one quick motion. Charlie told him not to worry. He told him he’d organized a little surprise for the feds.
Could mean anything.
Andrew shrugged and figured he had no option. Right now he had to trust Charlie.
His fingers itched. He wished to God he had a gun. The springs of the mattress squeaked as Larry sat down heavily. The old man hung his head in his hands. He looked like he was about to crumble.
Having your family threatened was hell on a person.
Andrew walked back to the door. Listened carefully. A crash sounded and Andrew opened the door a crack. Both agents lay on the blue carpet convulsing.
What the fuck?
They were breathing heavily. Holding their throats.
“Charlie.” It came out as a whisper of blessed relief. Andrew didn’t know what the man had poisoned them with, but he was grateful he’d never liked pizza.
Cautiously he walked across the thick carpet to look at the men who lay dying. Butler had stopped breathing and looked dead already. Andrew pushed him with his foot, but the guy didn’t even blink. Wade made gurgling noises that rattled up from his lungs. Andrew thought about shooting him to put him out of his misery, but decided not to. Too loud, too noisy.
And why waste a bullet?
He hunkered down. Lifted the SIG-Sauer from Butler’s belt, raided the man’s pocket for ammo. Andrew’s own pulse settled and the tension in his shoulders relaxed as he handled the gun. Now he could defend himself. Now he had a chance. He flipped open Butler’s wallet, found baby photos on the inside flap.
Andrew raised his head as Larry came to the bedroom door.
“Oh, my lord.” His lawyer held his hands to his throat as if he could feel the poison at work. “I didn’t know...I mean the pizza boy was just there. I offered to bring it in...”
“Sure you did, Larry.” Andrew walked into his bedroom, grabbed his coat. “Tell it to a judge.”
Larry gaped open-mouthed. “I, I, I—”
Andrew shot him in the temple, watched the man crumple to the floor. He walked over to take another look at the agents who’d insulted and derided him. Wade was still alive, gasping those last little breaths with slow torturous desperation. Andrew saluted him mockingly, felt the man’s eyes follow him as he left the room.
Now he’d keep his promise to sweet little Juliette. He could hardly wait.
***
They lay silent as her heartbeat slowed to a quiet cadence. A wolf howled in the hills, a desolate lonely sound, competing with the wind that whispered quietly against the window. The wolf’s plea resonated through her, melancholic and dramatic, making her quiver—reminding her how close she’d come to death.
And death still stalked her.
Nat reached for the bedcovers and pulled them over Eliza, keeping her warm and holding her tight.
He wasn’t asleep then.
She wished he were.
She brushed her lips against his chest, trembled, hugging him firmly for a second, before releasing him. He’d changed things for her and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it. There was a quality about Nat Sullivan that touched her soul and scared her down to her toes. She was healing—and that scared her almost as much as the thought of dying. Her fists balled uncertainly, lying rigid and tight against his flesh.
He’d pulled her back from the brink of self-destruction and taught her to trust again. To love.
Could it be love?
Restlessly she moved away from his warmth, climbed out of the tangled covers and walked through to the lounge to lock the front door. Pulling the drapes, she shut out the moon, preferring the dark now, and leaned her forehead against the coolness of the wall.
“Come back to bed, else I’m gonna have to come and hunt you down.” Nat’s voice rumbled through the open doorway.
Elizabeth knotted the thick drapes around one hand. Nobody in Nat’s world would hunt down and kill anybody, but in her world—for a price, or revenge, or kicks—they’d do it without mercy.
What had she done by coming here? Closing her eyes, she ran her finger against the hard edge of the casement window. She bit her lip. If DeLattio found her here, they were all as good as dead.
But he wouldn’t. Swallowing back the pain, she knew she couldn’t stay, but the thought of moving on, of leaving Nat, tore her in two.
Returning to the bed she stood quietly at its edge. Nat took her fingers in his palm and kissed each fingertip, her knuckles, the fragile blue veins on her wrist. He pulled her down beside him.
“Wanna talk about it?” His voice was deep and even. She concentrated on the timbre, wanted to imprint the sound on her memory.
Her rape. Did she want to talk about being raped?
A shiver worked its way through her shoulders and vibrated through her frame. No fecking way. The memories that stole through her mind made her burrow her nose deeper into the curve of his shoulder.
Bound wrists. Blurry images of sex with fractured flashes of clarity. The drugs had blunted the pain and the details. Dulled the degradation except for the sound of DeLattio laughing at her. His laughter still haunted her dreams.
She didn’t want to talk about it, but knew she had to.
“I worked undercover for the FBI, but not organized crime. I worked in art theft.” Eliza squeezed his arm, felt him squeeze her in return.
“I was at a gallery opening when this guy started hitting on me.” Her voice shook. “He made me nervous—not something that happens very often. So I left. Avoided him.” She circled a finger on his chest in a nervous gesture.
“Turned out he was some big time mobster.” Her finger stilled, pressed gently into his skin. “The Organized Crime Unit approached me the next day and asked me to go out with him on a few dates. Plant a few bugs.” She shrugged. “The usual thing.”
Her fingers sifted his hair, contrasted the softness with the solid muscles of his body. She liked touching him, liked having that freedom. “They promised to protect me, but they didn’t.”
A knot formed in her throat, constricting the words. Nat seemed to realize she couldn’t go on and pressed her head against him, comforted her with the soft weight of his hand against her skull. She breathed deep, inhaled his scent. Heard his heart beat slow and true, next to her ear.
Trembling, she embraced him and swallowed down the tears that wanted to escape. She had no business making love to this man, pulling him into her web, into the mess that her life had become. Whatever it was that
burned between them should have been left to die. But it was too late for that now. She hadn’t been able to resist the attraction and it killed her to know she’d have to leave him soon.
But not yet.
Determined to get away from the confessions about her past, she reared over him, smoothed one hand across the firm planes of his chest.
“So who are you, Nat? Cowboy, photographer, sharpshooter? Just who is the real Nathan Sullivan?” She tried to smile, silently begged him to change the subject. The pain-filled memories were in the past, she wanted them to remain there. He grabbed her before she could move an inch and rolled her beneath him in one smooth move.
“You forgot demon lover.” Nat nibbled her bottom lip. “You’ve just met the real Nathan Sullivan, ma’am. He was the one sweating all over you. Maybe you’ve forgotten him?”
“Maybe I have,” Elizabeth said, tracing his lips with her fingertip. “Maybe you’d better remind me.”
Her hands moved lower, ran over his flesh to play with flat brown nipples. The muscles of his abdomen clenched against her tummy, the hardness of his erection pressed against her thigh. Bending her head, she teased him with her tongue, licked his nipples and sucked them gently. His breath tightened and his hands gripped her.
She couldn’t answer many of his questions and she wouldn’t lie to him, but perhaps she could make him happy for a little while longer. Make him mindless with lust—exactly what she wanted to be.
SIXTEEN
Stealth shifted agitatedly beside him, scenting the mare waiting patiently ahead. Nat wiped the sweat off his forehead as raw energy poured from the black stallion in hot waves that stank of excitement and eagerness. The brood mare was a Morgan, quiet and experienced and in a strong standing heat. Nat had chosen her for Stealth’s first breeding partner, having collected semen from a phantom mare in the past.
It was an edgy time.
Crimes of Passion Page 50