by Sandra Brown
Chapter 29
1:22 a.m.
Goliad pulled his car up beside the police unit and motioned for the officer to lower his window. He gave Goliad a mock salute.
Goliad asked, “Have you seen them?”
“Neither coming or going.”
“Room number?”
“Seven oh seven. It’s on this side. Third window from the south corner. Drapes are closed. If there’s any light on, it’s feeble. Hasn’t changed since I got here. No motion. So can’t say for certain if they’re in there or not.”
“I’ll be in the row farthest from the building,” Goliad told him. “Stay here until further notice. Let me know if you see anything.” He passed the cop an envelope of cash through the car windows, then drove away and found a parking space that provided a view of the entire building.
After tucking Timmy in for the night, he had returned to the Hunts’ house and, through the house intercom, told Delores that he was back. She’d thanked him. They’d exchanged good nights.
But Goliad hadn’t availed himself of the sofa.
For one thing, her husky whisper telling him how much safer she felt with him nearby had left him with an erection, which he suffered frequently. Tonight, she had touched him, making his desire even more rampant. It consumed him. It was demoralizing and potentially destructive, but he was helpless against it.
Countless times he’d considered leaving, getting away from her entirely. He could easily find lucrative employment. With his experience, he would be a valuable asset to a Mexican drug cartel. He’d lived all his life on the U.S. side of the border, so he understood the norteamericanos’ way of life and how to maneuver in it. He spoke flawless English without a trace of a Spanish accent. He would have his choice of jobs.
Yet he stayed. His unrequited love for Delores was torturous, but he would endure it if only to be able to see her on a near-daily basis, to watch her move, to hear her voice. A smile, a word of gratitude from her was like a caress.
The only permissible way for him to express his love was to serve her with unqualified loyalty. So instead of resting on the study sofa, he’d continued his quest for Brynn O’Neal and Rye Mallett. He’d made follow-up calls to his snitches and offered more substantial bribes to law officers on the take.
None had had anything to report. A canvass of hotels and motels hadn’t yielded a guest named either Mallett or O’Neal. But Goliad recalled the phone conversation Mallett had conducted while in the car and reasoned that a room might have been booked for him by the company he was flying for.
After ten minutes on Google, he had obtained the legal name of the owner of Dash-It-All. He’d begun calling hotels and motels within a reasonable distance of Hartsfield-Jackson, asking to be connected to the guest room of Mr. Dashiell Dewitt.
On the sixth call, he’d gotten a strike. The hotel operator had put him on hold while she rang the room, but Goliad had hung up before the call went through and instead phoned a beat cop who was notorious for taking graft.
The police officer had gone to the hotel, told the desk clerk that Mr. Dewitt had reported that a rifle was missing from his car, which had been parked on the hotel parking lot. It was emphasized to the clerk that, in light of recent mass shootings, law enforcement took weapons matters seriously. He must follow up with Mr. Dewitt immediately. The clerk had willingly given him Mr. Dewitt’s room number and had advised him to use a side door.
The officer had passed all this information along to Goliad, who had told him to park near that door and to report to him any sightings of the couple immediately.
Acting on the new information, Goliad had called in a replacement to take over watch duty at the mansion and, alone, had driven to the hotel.
The gloom and rain reduced visibility, but he applied his binoculars to the designated window. It was as the cop had described to him: drapes drawn and the room looked dark.
But then, an infinitesimal flicker at the edge of the drapes. A motion so subtle and short-lived that if he had blinked he would have missed it.
He lowered his binoculars and smiled.
He debated calling the Hunts and informing them of this latest development but decided to wait until he could report that he had the drug in his possession.
1:26 a.m.
Rye stepped out into the corridor, leaned against the door, and pressed the back of his head into the hard surface. He felt weaker, more shaken, more unbalanced now than he had last night after the crash.
That hadn’t been his fault, but the blame for this was solely on him. He had let it happen. He had made it happen. Knowing it was a mistake, he had touched Brynn anyway, and, God, it had been good, moving inside her. Terrifyingly good. Because, when he came, he’d been all in: body and mind. Heart.
And, as if that hadn’t been cataclysmic enough, he’d then poured out his soul, revealing to her aspects of his torment that he’d never spoken of to another human being.
Twenty-four hours with her, and he’d broken all his self-imposed rules:
No bonds. No involvement. No one.
He had fibbed to Brynn. He hadn’t forgotten to tell Dash something in a text. The truth was, he hadn’t replied to Dash’s last question. He saw now that Dash had repeated it, adding a few blue words to emphasize his need of an answer. R U still flying for me tomorrow night?
Up until a few minutes ago, Rye had been unsure of his answer. The plan had been for him to see Brynn off on her way to Knoxville, wish her well, and that would be it.
But he couldn’t abandon her. He simply couldn’t. It wasn’t because they’d had fantastic sex, or because he’d opened up to her about his personal tragedy. It was because there were still people who could stop her, and he wanted Brynn to get what she’d strived for. He wanted Violet to have a shot at life.
Even after seeing Brynn safely to Tennessee, he would have hours in which to reach Columbus. If commercial service couldn’t get him there, he would charter a plane out of his own pocket. He wouldn’t let Dash down. He would fly that load of Roman Red. He wouldn’t alert Dash to his change of schedule, though, not until it was too late for him to do anything about it. If he told him now, he’d have a conniption, and Rye didn’t need the argument.
He tapped in Affirmative.
The reply came immediately. Not that glad to hear from you. I was hoping you were asleep.
About to be. Will ck in tmo.
Tomorrow, after he was sure that all had worked out well for Brynn and he’d told her goodbye.
But first he had to get through the rest of the night without reaching for her.
1:32 a.m.
Brynn used the time Rye wasn’t in the room to take a quick shower. She came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, but she decided it would be presumptuous of her to return to the bed naked, given Rye’s mood.
While in search of her undergarments, she noticed Rye’s bomber jacket hanging on the back of the chair. It was odd to see it without him. The jacket was as much a part of him as the growth pattern of his scruff.
She ran her finger along the edge of the collar. The leather was crinkled and scoured. It showed its age, but in a good way. Like the squint lines at the corners of Rye’s eyes.
Unable to resist, she dropped the towel, lifted the jacket off the chair, and slid her arms into the sleeves. It was too large and heavy on her frame, but the silk lining against her bare skin was seductive and felt wonderful.
She was examining one of the nicks on the sleeve when the door was pushed open and Rye strode in. When he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks. The door closed on its own.
Brynn was petrified by embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just…You’re obviously very fond of this. It must have special significance. I don’t know…I don’t know what possessed me. I shouldn’t have touched it, much less…”
“Stop.” He walked past her on his way to the window.
He didn’t report a change, so she assumed the police car was still there. He turned back to her, closed t
he distance between them, and took hold of the jacket with a fist on each side of the zipper. He rested his forehead against hers. “Once this is over, I’m off again.”
“I understood that the first dozen times you told me.”
“But, dammit, Brynn.”
“What?”
Raising his head, and looking her up and down, he whispered, “How did you know that this is my favorite fantasy?”
“It is? Since when?”
“Since I walked in that door.”
With a groan, he stamped his mouth over hers, slanting it to the perfect angle. The forceful thrust of his tongue was no less thrilling and exciting than it had been the first time he’d kissed her. More so, if that were possible. It reignited her craving for his mouth, his hands, him.
She pushed off his shirt, then folded her arms around the back of his neck, clinging. He slid his hands inside the jacket, his palms coasting over her breasts before he placed them on either side of her waist and pulled her with him as he backed up to the end of the bed and sat down.
Holding her in front of him between his legs, he nuzzled her breasts, dabbed at her nipples with his tongue, nipped at the area around her navel with his teeth. His tongue drew spirals in the hollows beneath her hip bones.
When he started to move lower, she responded to the gentle guidance of his hands as he parted her thighs, wider, until his soughing breath caressed her, then the brush of his lips, the wet heat of his open mouth, the sweeps and swirls and strokes of his tongue.
She gasped his name, clutched his hair. His mouth was merciless, unpredictable, eliciting unexpected flares of feeling that stole her breath. When an orgasm was only one caress away from shuddering through her, she angled his head away. “Not yet.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, then pushed him back onto the bed. In the process of scooting toward the head of it, he unbuttoned his jeans and worked them past his hips. Brynn straddled his legs. The feel of soft denim against the insides of her thighs was incredibly erotic. She relished the sight of his heaving chest, the drastic dip of his taut stomach beneath his rib cage, and his sex, pulsing with vitality, the tip already glossed.
He panted, “If you don’t ride me, there is no God.”
Smiling, she combed her fingers up through the fan of light brown hair on his chest as she bent over him and took him into her mouth. Sensations aroused by his elementally male scent and taste were intensified by the low animal sound of pleasure that vibrated through his entire body. She drew on him until he huffed her name and tugged her head up by handfuls of her hair.
“Now.” He took himself in hand, so that when she stood on her knees, he guided himself into her. As she sank down on him, he released a long exhale. Through the squint she was coming to identify with him, he looked at her with thrilling, possessive greed. “Damn, this is hot.”
His thumbs stroked the channels at the tops of her thighs; then he reached around and claimed her bottom with strong hands that lifted and lowered her as she rubbed herself against his hardness, creating the friction that rendered almost unbearable pleasure.
Their motions grew increasingly fast and urgent. He jackknifed up, burrowed his face into the open jacket, and sucked her nipple into his mouth. He worked his fingers down between them where they were joined, gathered moisture on the pads of them, then feathered, pressed, encircled. Again, again, and again until she came apart.
Her orgasm was long and intense. While aftershocks continued to ripple through her, he lay back down and carried her with him. Then, with his hands splayed over her bottom, grafting her to him, he thrust high and came.
Brynn lay limp and motionless on his chest, feeling his fingers sifting lazily through her hair, listening to his heart beating against her ear, until she fell asleep.
2:14 a.m.
A short while later, she moved off him. He mumbled sleepy protests and tried to hold her, but she extracted herself, took off his jacket, and laid it at the foot of the bed. With a groan, he got up, checked the window. “I hope the bastard’s uncomfortable.”
He shucked his jeans and got back into bed.
She pulled the covers over them and snuggled against his side, his arm cradling her head, their legs intertwined under the covers.
She kissed his pec and touched his nipple with the tip of her tongue. He gave a grunt of approval. “Should we set an alarm?” she whispered.
“I’ll wake up.”
“You’re sure?”
“Um-huh.”
She resettled and was almost asleep, and thought he was, when he mumbled, “What happened with the wild Hendrix boy?”
She snuffled a laugh. “Whatever brought that on?”
“Just wondering if I have to hunt him down and kill him.”
“He’s spared. Nothing happened. We never even went out. I just let Dad think so.”
“How come?”
“To get his attention.”
He’d been lying with the back of his head on the pillow, eyes closed. He opened them now and tipped his head to look into her face.
She gave a small shrug. “It worked for a week or so.”
He studied her for a moment, then stroked her lips with his fingertip. Without saying anything more, he turned her away from him and fit her into the curve of his body. He lay his arm across her. Heavily. Holding her close.
Chapter 30
5:32 a.m.
I can’t believe this.” Delores angrily disconnected her phone, ending another unsuccessful attempt to reach Nate. “I feel like I’m operating in a vacuum.”
“Coffee?” Richard asked.
She snapped a no, and then instantly ameliorated her tone. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take my distress out on you.”
“I’m as anxious as you are, Delores. More so. I’m the one with terminal cancer.”
She fell back as though he’d inflicted a mortal wound.
He ran his fingers up through his hair. “Now I’m sorry. Lashing out at each other is counterproductive, a waste of energy. Let’s try to keep calm. All right? We don’t know that anything catastrophic has happened.”
“We don’t know that it hasn’t, either. Where is everybody?”
They’d awakened almost simultaneously and, in robes and house shoes, left the master suite. The housekeeper wasn’t due to report to work for another two hours. Delores had asked Richard to get the coffee started while she checked in with Goliad.
Except it wasn’t their trusted facilitator she had found in the study. Asleep on the sofa was their chauffeur, snoring like a warthog. She’d startled him awake with a loud and imperious, Where is Goliad?
That was just one of the million-dollar questions among many. Where was Nate? What was he doing? When he’d taken his departure last night, he’d said he was going home to try to sleep for a few hours, but had insisted they contact him immediately if they received news of Brynn.
Delores had been periodically calling him for the past half hour. All the calls had gone unanswered. Goliad had inexplicably left the house, destination unknown, and wasn’t answering his phone. She was furious with both of them.
She’d declined coffee, but Richard poured her a mug anyway and added the two packets of raw sugar she preferred. He slid it toward her across the eating island. She sat down, took one sip, and then sprang up again.
“On the most critical day of our lives, everybody has abandoned us.”
“Goliad must have given the chauffeur a reason for calling him to watch duty.”
“He told him to come immediately, that he had to leave without delay. He didn’t explain why. To him or to us,” she added with irritation. “How many times have we told him to keep us informed? How hard is it?”
“Maybe the matter wasn’t important enough for him to disturb our rest.”
“But important enough for him to tear out of here?”
“Delores, please stop prowling. Sit down, drink your coffee.”
She slapped her hand on
the granite. “Stop being so damn calm.”
“One of us has to be,” he said, raising his voice for the first time. “What good is becoming hysterical doing you? Or me?”
She sat down on the barstool and reached across the island for his hand. “I’m not hysterical, I’m frightened.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s now less than fifteen hours until Nate must begin the infusion, and nothing toward that is happening.”
“You’ve jumped to that conclusion. On what basis? A few missed telephone calls, for which there are dozens of logical explanations.”
“I disagree. Ordinarily, perhaps, but not today. Nate knows his future is riding on this. Typically when one of us says jump, he asks how high. Now, he’s ignoring my calls? That’s worrisome, Richard. What if he’s become sympathetic to Dr. O’Neal’s cause?”
“He wouldn’t.”
“I’ve lost all faith in him.”
“I think that’s premature.”
“Or overdue,” she murmured.
“You were the last to speak with Goliad last night. What was said?”
“I told him how much safer we felt when he was around. And what does he do? Posts a chauffeur in his place. He knows better than to leave us in the lurch. Where did he go?”
“Maybe one of his many informants came through with a tip on Dr. O’Neal’s whereabouts, and he had to act on it immediately, before she eluded him again. Wouldn’t you rather him be in hot pursuit than giving you moment-by-moment play coverage?”
“Right now, I would appreciate both.” She sipped her coffee, thought for a moment, then picked up her phone again and punched in a number.
“Who now?” Richard asked.
“If Goliad has Dr. O’Neal in his sights, and he’s in hot pursuit, he will have taken Timmy along.”
5:35 a.m.
Timmy’s cell phone ring was an obnoxious rap beat. He looked at the readout and winked at Nate as he answered. “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”
Nate’s chest caved in, although he wondered how he could shrink into himself any further than he already had shrunk over the past four hours. Timmy had given him barely time enough to switch out his nightclothes for a suit and tie before manhandling him out of his condo.