by Meryl Sawyer
She sighed deeply and inhaled the woodsy fragrance of his aftershave and reveled in the smoothness of his skin and the prickling sensation where hair covered his chest, his sex. She ran her hands over him, memorizing every curve and firm plane. Not seeing, relying on touch and smell, heightened her desire in a way she never could have anticipated.
And hearing! She could actually hear the thud-thud of his heart. It pulsed beneath the palm of her hand. She’d never noticed the sound before, but his ragged breathing was familiar.
His erection jutted into her tummy, rock-hard and hot. She ran a finger across the smooth tip, and he moaned. Her hand closed around him, squeezing. A low growl rumbled from his throat.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice husky. “You’ve got a lot of bruises. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
His mouth closed over hers and she parted her lips. Her tongue brushed his and another jolt of heat suffused her body. He tasted faintly like coffee. His lips were firm and moist. She arched against him, moving provocatively as his hand on her hips pressed her flush against his rigid penis.
Hayley couldn’t remember ever being this aroused as her pulse kicked into overdrive. She was almost desperate to have him inside her, but Ryan didn’t seem to be in any hurry. She speared her fingers into his thick hair and clutched a fistful of it. She eased one leg between his, then moved her knee—just a little.
Ryan muttered something under his breath. He could have been cursing or praying. She was reasonably certain he wasn’t consulting God. She giggled at the thought. When had a man ever made her laugh during sex? Well, come to think about it, she’d giggled a lot the last time they’d made love.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice gruff and barely above a whisper.
“You must have been cursing,” she whispered, “but for a minute, I thought you were praying. That made me laugh.”
“I was praying. Praying I can hold on until I make you climax.”
She wanted to say he’d never had any trouble before, but he smothered her words with a searing kiss. Her whole body quivered with anticipation. She didn’t know what he was concerned about; she was ready to climax any second.
She tried to whisper, “Hurry,” but it came out a croaking word. Soon she’d be talking normally, she realized. She could tell him how she felt about him.
Ryan eased her onto her back and moved over her. She felt the heat of his body—but not its weight. He kept his heavy torso supported by his forearms. He kissed the nublike nipple and caressed it with his tongue. The light prickle of his emerging beard rasped her sensitive skin. She wiggled beneath him, urging him to get on with it.
His mouth played with her nipple, sucking hard. Blood thundering like jungle drums in her ears, Hayley arched upward. A puff of cool air swished across her bare backside but did nothing to chill her overheated body. Her breath rushed out of her lungs in a long moan.
“Like that, huh?”
She could reply; it had nothing to do with her sore throat. She was too close to climaxing to utter a single word.
Ryan brushed the velvet tip of his penis against the soft folds of her sex. He wriggled his rigid shaft into her a scant inch at a time, slowly stretching her. With a powerful thrust, he was deep inside her. Hayley bit her lip to keep from exploding into minute convulsions of pleasure.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Again, she was afraid to speak except to herself. It hurts sooo good. Slowly, rhythmically, he rocked back and forth, drawing his body in and out of hers. Each thrust brought a surge of pleasure as potent as any narcotic. She moved with him, lifting her hips to meet his each time he withdrew.
Pummeling her now, Hayley held on by wrapping her legs around his hips, arms around his neck. A few seconds later, her world dissolved into a series of spasms of pleasure so intense she cried out, “Ryan! Oh, Ryan!”
She felt him throw his head back. With a final surge he powered into her as if he couldn’t get deep enough. A split-second later, he collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in wrenching heaves. Still buried to the hilt, Ryan quickly rolled onto his side, taking her with him.
Still linked, they lay there winded, facing each other. Hayley snuggled against his chest, thinking she’d never made love to a man like this. She’d never given herself fully—until now.
How did Ryan feel?
She knew he cared about her, but he’d mourned his wife for so long. His love for her must be deep and lasting. Was there room for Hayley in his heart? Was he ready?
She wanted to ask him, but now wasn’t the right time. He was still panting deeply, trying to catch his breath. Hayley thought she could talk, but she wasn’t positive. She had managed to get out a few actual words—not grainy whispers—during sex. But this might develop into a long discussion. She should wait until she could speak normally and look him in the eye to gauge his reaction.
Ryan started to say something but the brr-ing brr-ing of his cell phone interrupted him. He rolled off her and a faint whoosh of air drifted across her naked body and chilled her. She fumbled for the covers as she felt Rob sit up. She found the sheet and pulled it over her.
“Hollister,” she heard him say. Then he listened for a minute before adding, “I’ll be right there.”
She felt his weight leave the bed. “Gotta go. That was Tom Dawkins. My boss finished early.”
“T-time is—?”
“Eight-thirty.” He kissed the nape of her neck, then said, “I wouldn’t go, but I need to see him to explain why I’m resigning.”
“O-okay. B-be…h-here.”
His weight left the bed. “I won’t be long.” Rustling sounds told her Ryan was putting on his clothes. “I was going to pick up Andy afterward, but I think I’ll leave him with Timmy until tomorrow.”
Good idea, she thought. She needed to talk to Trent about Timmy.
“O-o-h-h,” she screamed as she realized what was happening.
She felt Ryan’s weight hit the bed. “What’s the matter?”
“I—I c-can…see!”
“You’re kidding. Just like that, you can see?”
The room wasn’t pitch-black the way it had been. She pointed in the direction of the ghostly blur. “L-light.”
“Light’s coming through the window on the bay from the exterior lights and a full moon.”
“Oth-er lights?” She croaked out the question.
“No. There wasn’t any point in turning on the lights, since you can’t see, and I thought you were going to sleep.”
“O-on…n-now.” She was speaking again, but her words sounded as if her tongue was sandpaper.
Hayley felt his weight leave the mattress and a second later heard the click of the bedside lamp. She turned toward it and saw a blurry glow and next to it a tall, dark form that must be Ryan. “S-see light…not m-m-uch…more.”
The shadow moved closer, then blotted out the lamp’s light. She felt Ryan’s breath on her cheek. He kissed her lightly on the lips. “You’re getting better just like the doctors said. By tomorrow you should be back to normal. Get some rest now.”
Ryan turned out the light and pressed a wad of silky fabric into her hand. Her nightgown, she realized, and slipped it over her head. She sank back onto the pillow, suddenly exhausted.
“I won’t be gone long,” he promised again.
Hayley closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax. It had been a harrowing experience, but everything was going to be okay. They’d find Chad, arrest him, and the jerk would get what he deserved. She’d be maid of honor at her aunt’s wedding. She drifted into sleep with a contented smile.
HAYLEY AWAKENED some time later—alone. She groggily blinked her eyes. Yes! She was seeing even better now. Moonlight filtered through the large window facing the bay. It was an unfocused blur, as if she had Vaseline in her eyes, but she could make it out now better than she had when Ryan had been here. Blobs of what she knew to be furniture
crouched in the shadows.
Ryan? Where was he? Oh, yes. He’d gone to explain his resignation to his boss. How long ago had that been? She turned to where she knew her digital alarm clock was on the bedside table. Nothing but a red blur.
Ryan couldn’t have been gone long, she reasoned. His meeting was at the Marriott, which wasn’t far away, and he’d said he’d be right back.
Suddenly, her ears detected a noise. Out on the water? No. The sound had come from inside the loft. Another squeak.
It had to be the free-standing staircase that led up from the lower level to her bedroom. The stainless steel wasn’t attached as tight as it should have been on certain stairs. It wasn’t dangerous so she’d put off having it repaired.
Was Ryan back? She doubted it. A man of his size would cause a louder squeak. If it wasn’t Ryan, who was it?
She strained to see through the darkness to her bedroom door. She recognized the outline of the door, but nothing else was visible—even the palest suggestion of a glow. If it had been Aunt Meg or Courtney returning with Andy, they would have turned on the downstairs light.
They wouldn’t sneak up the stairs in the pitch dark.
Chad was her first thought. The police hadn’t captured him—last she heard. He might blame her—in the same crazy way Laird had—for his troubles. She considered slipping out and hiding, but there was nowhere to go except under the bed or into the closet. Any idiot would think to check there.
She squinted into the darkness beyond her bedroom door and detected a pinpoint of light. A flashlight, she realized. It made sense. The stairs were treacherous. A fall from this level—the third floor—could mean death or serious injury.
Who would come up using a flashlight? Chad, she thought again. He’d been here many times when they’d been engaged. He’d always warned her that the stairs were dangerous. As a precaution, he would know to bring a flashlight.
Chad had destroyed the trust and had killed the secretary who’d worked for the firm for years. She realized he’d been behind the car bombing as well. He knew where she lived, where she went. He easily could have placed the GPS tracker found after the bombing. He’d waited for the right moment, the right place.
And he’d killed the wrong person. How terribly sad, Hayley thought. She didn’t want to make this easy on him, but she didn’t know what she could do, considering her condition.
A form appeared in the doorway, barely visible in the faint light from the window and misshapen by her distorted vision. Not a man, she realized with the next shaky breath. Too small. A woman. Who?
Scream or pretend you’re asleep, she asked herself. The walls were too thick for a scream to be heard from outside the loft unless someone luckily happened to be in just the right spot. But if she played dead, a bullet to the brain might end her life—this time for good.
She forced herself to remain still and waited, watching through slitted eyes as the figure crept across the room with all the stealth of an experienced cat burglar. Did she still have the strength to fling herself upon the intruder once the woman came close enough? It had caught Laird off guard; it might work again.
As the woman crept closer, Hayley slowly slipped her foot out from under the sheet. The last thing she needed to do was become tangled and fall. The woman stopped beside the bed.
Hayley squinted so hard—afraid the whites of her eyes would give her away—that she could barely see anything but wavering patterns of dark and light. Her other senses told her the woman had stopped beside the bed and was gazing down at her.
Something cold and hard prodded her ribs. The flashlight? No. A gun.
“Wake up, Hayley.” The loud voice was unmistakable. Farah!
“U-u-h-h,” Hayley moaned, feigning sleep, buying time.
“Get up!”
Hayley jolted upright and saw the flashlight was off. The only light came from the large window. It was Farah, all right. She appeared to be dressed as if she was a surgeon. Cap, gown, shoe covers. Uh-oh. Her pulse skittered alarmingly.
“W-ho…i-s it?” Hayley asked, deciding it was wisest to pretend she still couldn’t see or speak.
“Get out of bed or I’ll shoot you right there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RYAN MET TOM DAWKINS in the lobby of the Marriott. The older man appeared tired, paler than Ryan remembered. Heading the white collar unit of the FBI in L.A. was a tough job. White-collar crime took longer to detect and usually meant hours in court battling expensive attorneys.
“How’s the shoulder?” was Tom’s first question.
“Almost as good as new,” Ryan said. Even though his shoulder ached now, his adrenaline level had been so high all day that he barely noticed it.
“Let’s get a drink.” Tom gestured toward the lobby bar.
One quick drink, Ryan told himself. He needed to get back to Hayley, but he didn’t want to appear rude. This was the man who’d directed the most interesting cases Ryan’s way.
They found seats in the crowded bar and ordered from a perky waitress who tried her best to get Ryan’s attention with a come-on smile. He asked for a gin and tonic while Dawkins wanted a dirty martini.
“I hear there was a lot of excitement here today and you were right in the middle of it.”
Ryan attempted a smile. He wasn’t proud of Laird’s death. It would have been much easier to tie up the loose ends if he’d lived. What was important, he reminded himself, was that Hayley had survived.
“Strange story,” Tom commented as the waitress arrived with their drinks. “One of the local cops at the conference filled me in. Did you know the police in San Diego found Chad Bennett?”
Ryan shook his head.
“Looks like suicide.”
“You’re kidding,” Ryan said, torn by conflicting emotions. He hated what Bennett had done to Hayley, but he wanted him to be questioned by the police. It was unclear just how involved he was in the plot against Hayley. Most assuredly he’d known about the destruction of the trust, but had he helped Laird try to kill Hayley? Who killed Sylvia Morrow? “How did Bennett die?”
“Shot himself.”
“There was quite a case against him.”
“How’d you get yourself in the middle of this?”
Ryan didn’t want to take time to explain, but he couldn’t think of a polite way to kick back the rest of his drink and leave. Besides, he hadn’t even gotten to his resignation yet. He gave as concise a version of events as he could manage.
“Good work,” Dawkins said. “If you weren’t so good on the computer, I’d send you into the field.”
Ryan took another swig of his drink. This was the point where he should tender his resignation and thank Tom Dawkins for all he’d done for Ryan.
Before Ryan could speak, Tom said, “Ed Phillips sent you this. I guess you asked him to run a check on remnants from a private plane crash.”
Ryan sheepishly nodded. He shouldn’t have asked Ed to use the facilities but he had. He was a little surprised Ed had told Tom.
Dawkins pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Ryan. “Long story short. A bomb caused the plane crash. The same type that blew up Hayley Fordham’s car.”
Ryan nearly dropped his drink. “Goddammit!” His thoughts spun and his instincts immediately told him Aunt Meg had been correct. Laird going to such extremes to get the company didn’t make sense. Ryan didn’t really know the man—having met him once—but bombing a plane and a car seemed radical. Too radical.
Conveniently, Chad Bennett was dead. Just as conveniently, Laird McMasters was dead.
Ryan vaulted to his feet. “I’ll come see you soon. I’ve got to go. Hayley’s in imminent danger.” How could he have been so stupid?
“UP! NOW!” ORDERED FARAH.
Hayley stumbled out of bed, her hands flailing in front of her as if she couldn’t see. Which wasn’t a stretch. All she could make out were shadowy forms.
Farah grabbed her arm and yanked Hayley forward. “Hurry!”
The gloves that must be latex were whiter than the rest of Farah’s clothing. They reflected the light as did the gleaming barrel on the gun. Hayley knew she didn’t have nine lives. This time she was dead…unless. A thought formed in her mind.
“W-hy…d-do-ing this?” Hayley asked in a thick, unsteady voice. Her throat hurt with each word. “Y-you…w-won’t get away…with it.”
“Oh, pul-eeze! I got rid of my father and—”
“No!” Hayley cried. “D-Dad loved…you.”
“No. He loved you and he loved my brother. He tolerated me because I was his child. He never had any time for me.”
The deep-seated animosity put a shrill note in Farah’s voice. It was as if she’d been holding in this statement for years. Hayley’s suspicions had been on target. The plane crash hadn’t been pilot error. “H-how—”
“A bomb. Like the one that blew up your Beamer, only this one worked on a timer. That way my father and your bitch of a mother would be blown to kingdom come over the mountains where search and rescue would play hell getting to them. I was betting the Civil Air Patrol would blame it on the pilot, which they did.”
For a moment, horror rooted Hayley to the spot and her heart lurched wildly. How could Farah brag about killing someone—especially her own father? Tears filled her eyes. Hayley thought she might break down and sob. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she envisioned the stylized Grim Reaper she’d created. With it came the familar slogan: Kick Fear—Believe.
“We took out Sylvia without any problem,” Farah bragged, nudging Hayley forward with the barrel of the gun.
“W-we?” Hayley shuffled her feet, but didn’t move ahead.
“Trent helped me.” There was a ring of satisfaction in Farah’s voice now. She must realize Hayley had bought Trent’s story and hadn’t believed he was involved.