He set his glass on the rail and turned to her. She followed suit. They melded into each other’s arms, their lips meeting in a stirring kiss that seemed to pick up where the kiss in the woods had left off. Within minutes Robbi’s smoldering passion, passion that on the drive home had been kept alive by his exploring hand on her thigh, was rekindled.
Jake pulled away and silently led her into the deeper shadows of the balcony. He reached inside the sliding glass door and flipped a switch that extinguished all the lights. Across the river, twinkling lights reflected brightly in the moving water. Jake slipped his feet out of his shoes, then he crossed his arms, took hold of his shirt, and peeled it off.
“I like watching you do that,” she said, low in her throat.
“Taking off my shirt?”
“Ummm.”
He gingerly tugged at her T-shirt. “Show me how it looks.”
Staring into his eyes, Robbi took hold of the hem of her shirt and, gathering it in her fingers, slowly pulled it up and over her head. She rested her wrists on top of her head, letting the shirt drop to the floor.
Jake stepped closer. “That was nice.” He brought his hands up as if to caress her breasts, but instead he stroked the insides of her raised arms. His fingertips went as far as her elbows, then traversed back down, under her arms, along her sides, to pause at the waistband of her shorts.
Robbi’s fingers went to the catch at the front of her bra, snapping it open. She parted the silk cups, arched her chest to loosen the straps from her shoulders. The bra dropped to the floor with her shirt.
Jake gazed down at her. His hands gently cupped her breasts, his thumbs lightly brushing across her nipples. He leaned down, kissed them, his tongue tracing their contours, their texture, tasting, teasing.
She sighed.
He took her hands in his and backed up, pulling her along until they were inside the condo. Scarcely clearing the threshold, he caught her to him, the crisp hair of his chest tickling her sensitive breasts, and kissed her again.
His hand slipped between their bodies and undid the button at her waist. Then he unzipped his own jeans. He knelt on one knee, removed her canvas shoes, then carefully pulled down her shorts and panties; she stepped out of them. His hands caressed the backs of her knees, her thighs, her buttocks.
Roberta coaxed him up. She wanted to be held by him, to feel his hot skin flush against hers. Then they were kissing again. She loved his kisses. They were tender, lingering, urgent, and fiery.
He buried his fingers in her hair, said her name softly.
She tugged at his jeans.
Jake stripped off the rest of his clothes. He lowered her to the thick carpet. She wanted him inside her. Deep inside her as one. It was essential she experience the bonding of their bodies, the mingling of their energies and escalating passion now, before it was too late. Too late? Too late for what? She pushed the unformed thoughts away. Now, it must be now.
She reached for him, stroked the solid, rigid length of him.
“Oh, Jesus.” It was a half sigh, half moan.
He supported himself above her as she opened herself to him. He entered her. Slowly, filling her up. Looking into his eyes, she saw a primordial hunger, a hunger for her that served only to heighten her own desire. Intense. A look that seemed beyond desire, closer to anguish, pain. Where was that faint smile? That teasing glint? What was it about a man whose usual countenance was playful—boyish almost—what was it that made the awakening passion in his eyes so damn sensual? When he looked at her in that way, that soul-searching, erotic way, it was as though she could see the two of them making love in the reflection of his eyes— his mind’s eye. She wanted to cry with sheer pleasure, the sheer agony of it.
Slowly he moved inside her, slowly and rhythmically. He continued to look into her eyes. She marveled at his face, his eyes were soft, loving, yet the muscles in his jaw tense, as though he struggled with an inner tumult. They shared, she realized then, the same sharp joy, the same pure torment.
She had never felt this degree of passion or pleasure. It was something she had not even allowed herself to imagine, so inconceivable was the ecstasy.
His hand moved from one breast to another, caressing. Pinpoints of pleasure spirited about wherever he touched. They moved together now, matching rhythm, as though they were one, had always been one. Gradually the rhythm increased until he was thrusting into her, his strokes long and swift. His breathing quickened; her breath came in sharp gasps.
She had a vague sense of a storm building inside her, gusts swirling and battering at her soft, tender places. She heard the rumbling, crashing sound of thunder in her ears. An amassed electrical energy gathered. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of light, strokes of charged power streaking throughout her body. Lightning. Would it snake down, penetrate her most inner core, burst her asunder? She welcomed it. It was the only way she could possibly endure this relentless onslaught.
And when his urgent, driving motion forced the raging storm inside her to erupt into a devastating climax, she cried out, clinging tightly to him. His mouth was kissing hers savagely. An instant later he was pulling her to him, his throbbing merging with hers in the eye of the tempest.
Afterward she felt drained, so tired she could scarcely move. She had survived the storm. She felt like a survivor often does, reverent, grateful, and purged, with a new meaning for existing.
Jake kissed her, a sweet kiss filled with tenderness. Then he rose, helped her to her feet, and led her into the bedroom. They slid beneath the sheets, embracing.
Robbi felt herself slipping away into a gossamer world of serenity.
________
Eckker grinned. Roberta Paxton, the very woman he had to find, had come to him that evening, had come to his woods. He had only to get his pickup, drive to the Paxton road that intersected the main highway, wait, and then follow them back to Reno, to the high-security complex.
Knowing he would not be allowed through the guarded gates, Eckker drove to the park at the end of the block, left his truck, and took the jogging path behind the units. He stood at the river’s edge and, on the fourth floor of the six-story building, watched the lovers embrace, partially disrobe in the shadows, then move indoors.
Several minutes later Eckker jogged back to his pickup, an inflamed need gnawing at his gut.
________
Jake, propped up on one elbow, watched Roberta as she slept. In the moonlight she was beautiful, angelic. Her hair, a mass of lazy tangles, spread across his pillow. He lifted a corkscrew strand, twisted it around his finger. It was soft, the texture fine. Her skin glowed by the soft light coming from the hallway. Her creamy complexion was the type that changed little from the sun. It deepened like a ripe peach, glowed warm and healthy. He detected a faint smattering of freckles across her nose.
Robbi lay on her side, facing him, the sheet covering only her lower half. Jake caressed her seemingly flawless body with his eyes. She wasn’t rail-thin like the model figures of the past several decades. Her body was curvy, full in the breasts and buttocks, slender at waist and legs, her tummy flat. And she was soft, like a woman should be, he thought, lightly stroking his hand along the indentation of her waist and hips. The silky texture of her skin brought to mind their lovemaking of a while ago, and he felt himself swelling with the sweet memory of it. He wanted her again. He longed to kiss and caress her. Yet he knew she needed sleep. There was plenty of time. They had the entire night. He would fix them a snack. He would fill the platform bathtub with water and they would drink iced champagne. They could make love again. Then they would talk. He wanted to know everything about her. Everything.
He realized how little he knew. But what he knew, he admired. And what of her Wall Street boyfriend? She hadn’t said a thing about him since the hospital. Was it over?
His hand lightly caressed the length of her torso. She stirred. He leaned down, kissed her smooth shoulder.
She began to squirm; soft mewling sounds came from her th
roat. She’s dreaming, he told himself. What was she dreaming?
________
A restlessness, a deep irritability gnawed at his nerve endings. Eckker turned this fitful energy toward the blond woman at the far end of the bar. She was there again, just as he sensed she would be. Last night a seizure had sent him running out into the alley, aborting his plan. Tonight nothing would stop him.
On the end stool she sat feeding quarters into the video poker machine. Her mass of golden hair was pulled up into a ponytail to one side of her head, secured by a shiny clip. He didn’t care for that, but when he got her home, he’d ask her to let it down. A woman’s hair should be worn down about her shoulders, natural, flowing.
He watched her scan the occupants of the bar casually, as if looking for someone in particular. Her scrutiny continued, finally penetrating deep into the dark recesses of the corner of the lounge where he sat watching her.
Her gaze met his and locked.
He smiled.
________
Detective Kathleen Lerner scanned the bar area of the Zenith Club for the fugitive. A tip from an informant put the California escapee in this bar only two nights ago. Jesus Manuel Gonzales, a.k.a. Chino, was reported to be a regular here. He usually showed around midnight. It was getting close to that now.
Her partner, Avondale, was in the pit shooting pool. Music from a DJ sound system blasted throughout the place. The cracker box dance floor with its prism of lights was packed. An oldie, “Leroy Brown,” beat out from the speakers. Well, she’d had worse nights, she thought. At least she was inside with a cool drink in hand. The music wasn’t bad and she’d been lucky on the poker machine.
She chuckled to herself; actually, this was all right. Aside from the fact that she couldn’t drink on duty, it was pretty much like her nights off when she did the single scene with friends; danced, played slots, and sometimes sat in on a draw poker or Texas Hold’em game. She was a damn good poker player. Like Kenny Rogers, she knew when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.
A man asked her to dance. She declined. She sipped her diet Coke and checked out the bar again. In the far corner of the room, through the dusty fronds of a silk palm tree, a big man sat staring at her. Her eyes moved on, then came back, involuntarily, to the man. She was mistaken, he wasn’t staring, he was devouring. Something utterly slimy oozed from his eyes, transmitting to her.
His craggy face a mask of granite, he smiled again.
Detective Lerner shuddered and quickly looked away. She twisted her head, looking for Avondale, and felt a measure of assurance when she caught his eye briefly.
Although she didn’t look back at the man in the corner, she continued to feel the force of his black eyes on her. She sipped her drink, her throat suddenly dry. No matter how many partners she had for backup, how skilled she was in self-defense, or how heavily armed, that was one hombre she wouldn’t want to meet up with in a dark, deserted alley.
Twenty minutes later she watched Avondale finish the pool game and then take a stool at the bar directly opposite her. After four Cokes, Kathleen Lerner had only one thing on her mind now—pit stop. She stared at Avondale until he looked her way. With her eyes she indicated that she was going to the rest room. His acknowledging nod was discernible only to her.
She slid off the stool and started in the direction of the alcove marked REST ROOMS, EXIT. Something compelled her to look in the back corner of the room. The man sat there still, his dark eyes followed her until she passed from his view. She would have to tell Avondale to keep an eye on that one. He looked like trouble.
She clutched her purse closer to her. Through the soft leather she felt the positive, steel bulk of both the service revolver and the handcuffs. Then she was through the door into the rest room and the man in the bar was forgotten.
While finishing up in one of the stalls, she heard the door open, footsteps then the door of another stall close. She flushed, left the stall, and went to the sink. She heard the bolt release on the occupied stall. She shook the water from her hands, reaching for a paper towel, and, as she did, she looked into the mirror. He stood there, a massive figure in a dark jacket and pants.
Two things about him initially shocked her senses. His immense size and the look in his eyes, a giant with intense black eyes. The smile made him all the more menacing.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” she said.
He moved toward her, that insane grin on his bearded face. “I want you to come with me,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Get out of here,” she said, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.
She opened her bag, reached inside. He was on her instantly, a huge hand clamping over the entire lower half of her face, his other arm pinning her arms to her side. She struggled, trying to use the self-defense moves that could bring down an antagonist larger than herself. The man was too big, the advantage clearly his. He lifted her off the ground. She kicked, her high-heeled shoes met unyielding bone; he seemed oblivious to pain.
If he intended to rape her, he would have to loosen his hold, reposition her, and then she’d have him.
He did the unexpected. He pushed through the door into the dim hallway and, as if she were a weightless mannequin, he carried her down the hall to a back door. Her muffled cries were lost to the blaring music.
The policewoman knew what was beyond that door. An alley. Beyond the alley, a parking lot. She and Avondale had checked it out days earlier. Avondale! her mind screamed. Where the hell are you!
He crashed through the door into the night air and kept going. Down the alley toward the parking lot.
No, she couldn’t let him get her in his car.
Her entire body went limp. The sudden slack forced him to pause and reposition the now-dead weight in his arms. She took her best shot and dropped to her knees, at the same instant she drove her arm upward into his groin. Without waiting for his reaction, she scrambled backward, reaching into her purse and pulling out both gun and handcuffs. The cuffs she let fall to the ground, the gun she aimed at him and said, “Police. Stop right there!”
“Bitch!” He grabbed the front of her blouse and pulled her to him. His other arm drew back, the hand a bulky fist, then it came at her like a gigantic hammer.
________
In the circle of Jake’s arms, Roberta squirmed and moaned. The long, sleek muscles of her body jumped, bunching tautly.
More moaning.
This was no ordinary dream, Jake thought, pulling her unresponsive body closer to him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The woman cop dodged, causing his fist to drive through empty air. Eckker cursed.
In the dark, narrow alley the policewoman began to scream.
His hand clamped over her mouth savagely. He felt something cool and hard press into his stomach. He twisted, heard the explosion, then felt a burning ache tunnel into his side. She had fired a round, the percussion muffled by his own flesh. Something warm and wet mushroomed beneath his shirt. Blood.
She’d shot him. The bitch had shot him. He found that remarkable.
They scrabbled in the alley, both slipping on the slick rivulet of water running from the building toward the sewer grate.
He wrenched the gun from her hand and dropped it into the pocket of his coat. She screamed again, snatched up the handcuffs, and on hands and knees managed to crawl to the side of the building. He grabbed her.
A door opened opposite them. A small Asian man dressed in chefs whites peered out. He advanced a step, uncertainly.
“Get outta here,” Eckker growled, averting his face.
The small man disappeared inside, the door closing resoundingly after him.
As quick as lightning the cop managed to secure one wristband of the handcuffs to the handle of the steel door.
He smiled, thinking she had in mind to cuff him to the door, and it was going to be interesting to see her try. But instead of attempting to clamp the other band over his
wrist, she brought it to her own, the sound of the serrated teeth crunching like steel jaws as she squeezed it closed.
She had handcuffed herself to the metal door. With her other hand she grabbed the bottom of her purse and slung it, scattering the contents every which way across the dark alley.
A rage surged up in him. The ache in his side burned. No one had ever beaten him. He could cut her hand off at the wrist, rip her arm out of its shoulder socket, crush the bones in her hand until it was mush, no longer an obstacle against the circle of steel—but he didn’t want her now. She was a cop. She was everything he hated.
His hand loosened from her mouth, then inched downward to circle her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but within moments the paralyzing constriction to her vocal cords rendered her speechless. Nothing more than a pathetic squeak escaped her lips.
He squeezed and squeezed.
Staring down into her saucer-like eyes, he squeezed until all emotion dissolved, leaving only two blank, glazed circles of icy blue-green glass.
The Power. The power to eliminate what was worthless, what served no good purpose. He could spare a life or he could take it. It was so easy. He blustered in the power radiating through his loins, making his heart thump like one wild beast triumphant over another. She’d been a cop and she’d shot him and now she was nothing.
Clasping the woman’s limp body to his chest, the stainless steel handcuffs clinking against the metal handle, he hauled her dead weight up.
“Where’s your power now?” He lifted the lifeless woman’s face. “What good’s your badge or gun now?”
The door across the way was flung open. The small Asian and another even smaller man, brandishing a meat cleaver, stared.
“P’lice come now,” one called out in a shaky voice.
A siren warbled in the distance. Eckker swung around to the plate metal door to which the dead woman was handcuffed, the light from the Chinese kitchen making it a bright mirror, and glared at his own reflection.
In the shiny chrome of the door his face was captured cruelly, indelibly, like a tintype portrait. Those piercing black eyes burning—
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