She turned her head to look at him, and even that felt slow, as if she were trying to move underwater. “There are things I have to do. He has a wife, kids, they—”
“That will be handled.”
“But if they need anything—”
“He and his family will have whatever is necessary, no matter what happens. Redstone takes care of its own.”
“But I should call Debra—”
“Josh will call her.”
She blinked at that. “Josh? Personally?”
“It’s his policy. He is Redstone, and he feels he’s ultimately responsible for everyone who works for him.”
She felt both sadness at the circumstances, and pride in Redstone, Josh and everything they both stood for.
Draven repeated his original question.
“I can walk,” she said. I think, she added silently.
She could, she found, but not well. The prosthetic foot seemed to have been twisted slightly, and was no longer properly seated on the stump. After a couple of limping steps she stopped to try to adjust it, although she suspected she was going to have to remove it and start over.
She never got the chance to try. The moment the problem became obvious, Draven literally swept her off her feet. It was the phrase that leapt to her mind; she couldn’t help that, nor could she help the flood of color that rose to her cheeks as the other implications of the phrase echoed in her head.
“I can walk,” she protested, but it sounded halfhearted even to her own ears.
“Quiet,” he said as he settled her in his arms.
His voice sounded rough, and when she looked up at him she saw his jaw was set tightly. She knew his strength, had seen it evidenced, so she knew it wasn’t a strain for him to carry her.
At least, not a physical one.
He carried her into the bathroom and gently let her down. Despite her efforts she wobbled. He moved quickly to brace her.
“I’m okay,” she said.
He ignored her, and began to peel off her filthy clothes. Startled, she pulled back.
“Just be still,” he said, his voice as tight as his jaw had been. There was an undertone in it she didn’t recognize, because she’d never heard it before.
She felt herself coloring hotly as he continued, but still noted how gently he touched her, how carefully he pulled her filthy, smoke-and-ash saturated clothes off. She shivered when she was left in nothing but her underwear, but she wasn’t at all cold. Embarrassed at the plain, cotton, utilitarian undergarments, perhaps, but nothing fancier was comfortable or practical on a job, especially in this climate.
Odd, she thought with a sort of distant vagueness, that she wasn’t at all embarrassed about her foot. How could she be, when this was the man who knew better than anyone but her doctors what she’d been left to deal with?
And then he unhooked her bra, with a slight awkwardness that somehow reassured her. She felt the motion of her breasts as they were freed, and an unusual little sting from a spot on the left one. She looked and saw a reddened spot where an ember or something had given her a small burn.
Even as she looked, she saw Draven’s hand move. She sucked in a breath as his strong, tough hand cupped the soft flesh and lifted. She felt an odd tremor through his hands, as if he were trembling. And that reassured her even more. She didn’t pull away, couldn’t, as a memory of her dream flashed through her head. Instead she barely quashed the urge to push forward, pressing herself into his palm.
Slowly, so slowly she nearly cried out with anticipation, he bent his head and kissed that spot, so gently she felt only the barest brush of his lips.
She wobbled again, but for a completely different reason this time. She felt a shiver go through her, followed by a rush of heat that seemed to pool low and deep. Draven must have felt it, too, because he raised his head and looked at her, his eyes hot with something she had never expected to see in those cool, green depths. Except in dreams…
He began to move quickly then, stripping off her panties and then, after a moment’s study, removing the prosthesis as if he did it every day. Again oddly, she didn’t feel awkward at being naked in front of him—in fact, judging from that building heat, she instead found it arousing—but only wondered if she was going to be able to hop into the shower.
And then Draven solved the problem by lifting her in his arms and stepping into the shower himself.
“You’re going to get wet,” she protested.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But you’re dressed.”
“That,” he said gruffly, “could be fixed, but I’m not sure you’d like the results.”
Again her breath caught as she realized what he was saying. And stopped entirely when she realized that she wanted it. More than she could ever remember wanting anything in her life.
“I’m sure,” she said.
He went rigidly still. “What?”
“I’m sure I’ll like it.”
“Grace—”
He stopped as she reached up to cup his cheek. Slowly he let her slip down to the tile. She held on to him for balance…and because she wanted to. He stared down at her.
“Don’t, Grace. Don’t start if you don’t mean to finish.”
“I won’t,” she said. “I mean it.”
And then she reached for his hand. Slowly she drew it upward, until it was once more cupping her breast.
She heard him suck in a breath. And then, almost convulsively, his fingers curved around her.
As if making a final effort at warning he said thickly, “Don’t count on me to stop unless we do it now. I’ve wanted this for too long.”
Me, too, she thought, unable to speak it with his hand on her. So in answer she balanced against the wall of the shower, took his other hand and urged it toward her other breast.
Draven groaned aloud. Grace felt the rumble deep in his chest before she heard the sound. She pressed closer and felt the surge of male hardness against her. Then she felt a shudder go through him, and the knowledge of his response only stoked the fire building inside her.
And then he began to move. Quickly. Making sure she was safely balanced, he backed up a step and yanked off his own clothes. She looked at his hard, leanly muscled body, at the sleek skin and the scars that marked it. Looked at the broad chest; the lean, flat belly; and below to the thick curls surrounding jutting, rigid flesh. A shiver went through her at the thought of it buried inside her, and the heat within became almost unbearable.
He reached past her and turned the tap. The water turned warm almost immediately, thanks to the proximity of the motor home’s water heater. Draven grabbed the soap, but ignored the washcloth on the rack. When she realized why she shivered again; he was going to wash her himself, with his bare hands.
She nearly moaned as he began, his soap-slick hands sliding over her. And then he cupped her breasts again, and slid his thumbs over peaks already taut, and she did moan. He made a deep, guttural sound in response. Then he caught her taut nipples between his fingers and gently squeezed and flicked them until she cried out at the intensity of the sensation.
She thought for a moment she was going to fall, but he steadied her even as his hands slid down her body, rubbing gently, soaping and rinsing in turn. When he reached her legs, she felt the first flicker of apprehension, but he bathed her stump as tenderly as the rest of her, adding a bit of gentle massage that felt wonderful.
He worked his way back up, slowly, so slowly that she was in an agony of anticipation by the time his slick hands slid between her thighs. She knew the fierceness of her own arousal by the ease and speed with which he found the swollen knot of nerves that were already aching for his touch. He circled, caressed and stroked until she knew she was going to explode if he didn’t stop.
“Please, John,” she begged, not sure what she was begging for.
“Johnny seems right now,” he said, and through the haze she was vaguely aware he looked somewhat surprised at his own words.
“Johnny,” she whispered, trying it, liking this name that she would never have dared use on her own.
“Relax,” he said. “Just let go.”
“But—”
He kissed her then, swamping her protest in a wave of heat so searing she lost all awareness of anything except his lips taking her mouth and his hands claiming her body. She knew her own slick readiness by the way his finger slid into her. Knew how close she was by the sensation of her body clenching around the invasion.
He broke the kiss and swore under his breath as she tightened. She could feel his body tense.
“Not without you,” she choked out. “Please.”
He shuddered, as if fighting something, and then began again. He stroked her, rubbing that now violently aroused knot of nerve endings. And then he lowered his head and caught one stiff nipple in his mouth and sucked deeply.
Grace heard herself cry out as her body rippled with wave after wave of fiery sensation. And still he kept on, driving her higher, until she was shaking with the force of it.
And then, in one smooth motion, he lifted her, pulled her legs around him and stepped out of the shower. He took her down to the floor with exquisite care. He came down with her and into her in the same movement, driving himself hard and deep, filling and stretching her to the edge of unbearable sensation.
Grace screamed at the hard, driving, huge invasion of flesh into a body already on the edge. And then he moved again, pulling back and driving home again, and she shattered. Some small part of her mind knew she was wild with it; she felt herself buck and twist like some wild thing impaled by incredible pleasure. She grabbed at him, clutched at him, at any part of him she could reach to grind closer, take him deeper.
When he groaned her name as his body surged into her one last time, when she felt him shudder beneath her hands and explode inside her, when he held on to her as if she were the only thing left in his world, Grace thought there was nothing more to be asked of this life.
Draven woke up, amazed that he’d slept in the middle of the day. Even as tired as he was, that was unusual. And instead of his usual instant alertness, he came back to awareness slowly, in a drifting sort of way he’d never experienced before.
But he’d never experienced anything like what had happened here, either. From the shower to the bathroom floor to Grace’s bed, he’d been like some crazed man, starved for something he’d never known existed. Because he’d never known anything like the incredible sensation of sinking into her and feeling as if he’d found home at last, or like the hot, swift passion that had swept them both upward to explode in a firestorm rivaling the one that had nearly separated them forever.
He shied away from the implications of that as he gradually became more awake. He would sort that out later, he thought as he fought off the last groggy remnants of the unaccustomed afternoon sleep. Right now, he had other things to think about. Other things to do.
But one thing was crystal clear to him now, as he lay there holding this gallant, lovely, unexpectedly sensual woman in his arms. He was tired of just reacting. Tired of guarding against instead of solving the problem. El mercader had given him the information he needed.
It was time to go on the offensive.
Chapter 18
Grace awoke in the early twilight, feeling oddly energized after her two-hour nap. She would have expected to still feel shaken by the explosion, but with the exception of the expected aches, she felt good.
And some unexpected aches.
The memories flooded back, reminding her of exactly why she felt so energized. For a moment she just lay there as the erotic heat swept over her anew, as if he were still touching her, still caressing her.
As if he were still here.
She jolted upright. Stared at the empty space in the bed next to her. Felt an answering emptiness building inside her. Had he simply gone? Without a word? Gotten what he wanted and casually left her to wake up feeling alone and lost?
Was she suddenly drowning in cliché?
She said it to herself sarcastically as common sense flooded back in. Everything she knew about John Draven told her he didn’t take anything lightly. Just because she was a little emotionally scarred didn’t mean she should assume this was any different. Long ago, after realizing her imaginings were so often worse than the reality came to be, she’d sworn not to spend any of her life going to meet a ship full of troubles that hadn’t docked yet.
Calmer now, she stretched, wincing when a sore spot protested. Bruises hadn’t shown up yet, but she knew they would soon.
She heard a sound from the other room. And chided herself for the way her pulse sped up at the realization that he hadn’t left after all.
She got up, pondered what she should do about dressing. After the afternoon they’d spent, naked on her bed and exploring each other in the tropical light, worrying about covering up seemed a bit absurd. But it was still too new, too fragile, so she got out a full set of clean clothes.
She reached for the prosthetic foot, which had gotten fairly grubby amid the smoke and ashes. To her surprise it was clean. She didn’t think she was that fuzzy that’d she’d tidied it up and didn’t remember, and Marly wouldn’t have done it even if she’d been back from her trip to Ambergris.
Which left Draven. John. Johnny, she said to herself, and it made her shiver to remember when he’d told her to use the name she instinctively knew few were given permission to use.
The thought that he had cleaned the prosthesis for her made her feel a tightness in her throat. She couldn’t remember anyone doing something like that for her, only to help, without being asked and without expecting anything in return. And he’d clearly felt no qualms, just as his only reaction to the sight of her stump had been to kiss the scars as the beginning of a sensual foray that had ended with her stifling a scream she was sure would have been heard in Belize City.
She powdered, put on a fresh stump sock and the foot, then dressed quickly. She quietly opened the door and stepped into the main room of the motor home.
And stopped dead.
She knew the man in front of her had to be Draven, but it was a Draven she’d never seen before. It wasn’t simply that he was dressed in different clothes—black jeans and shirt and a loose jacket—or that he had his hair dampened and slicked back, giving him an even more ascetic look.
It was his face. His expression. Always severe, now it was hard-edged, unyielding, bordering on fierce. And it was the way he was moving. He always had a tight-knit sort of grace about him, but now he was moving as if he barely had a leash on some building storm inside him. She could sense an imminent detonation, and she had the sudden thought that when John Draven exploded, it was entirely possible that he could do more damage than the pipe bomb he’d told her had blown up the half-finished terminal building.
When she saw what he was doing, her heart slammed into her throat.
He was arming himself. Not just the automatic weapon she’d seen before at the small of his back, but also another, smaller one in a holster strapped to his ankle.
Then he picked a knife up from the sofa and slipped it into his boot. A military-style knife that looked painfully like the one he’d used on her, that day that now seemed so long ago. But it hadn’t been this Draven who had done that. This was no harsh angel; this was a warrior. A warrior who wouldn’t be stopped by anything short of death.
He picked up something else that looked like a coiled cord and put it in his left jacket pocket. Something else she didn’t recognize, a small case of some kind, went in the other jacket pocket.
He turned then. She thought he hadn’t been aware of her presence, but the minute he faced her she knew he’d known all along she was standing there. She felt a shiver go down her spine as a being she’d never seen before looked back at her. The first word that popped into her head was frightening.
Predator.
She swallowed tightly against the sudden dryness of her mouth. She opened her mouth to speak, could
think of nothing to say and closed it again.
When he spoke, his voice was a chilly, emotionless thing that matched the expression on his face and the flat, almost bleak look in his eyes.
“I’ve called Buckley. They’re almost back here. He’ll take over.”
He picked up something else from the sofa and held it out to her. She barely glanced at it before she took it, feeling mesmerized by the changes in him.
“That’s a private satellite phone. Dial five-five and you’ll have a direct, scrambled connection to Redstone headquarters.”
She finally managed to find her voice. “Why do I need that?”
“If anything else happens here, tell Buckley. If something happens to him, you use that.”
She looked down at the device, which looked like a slightly oversize cell phone. She stared at it, not wanting to ask the obvious question of why he was giving it to her.
“But you said to call you,” she managed to get out.
“I’ll be out of touch until I get back.”
“Back.” She said it flatly as he confirmed her guess. He was leaving. Leaving to do…something she didn’t even want to think about. And before she could stop herself the question came out. “And if you don’t come back?”
He didn’t even blink. “Buckley will take over.”
Just like that. As if this was routine. As if walking into danger that could possibly prove fatal was something he did so often it didn’t merit acknowledgment.
And as soon as she thought it, she realized it was quite possibly true.
“What are you going to do—”
The opening of the outer door interrupted the question she didn’t really want answered. Marly and her shadow came in, the girl chattering excitedly, Buckley making a very creditable pretense of interest.
Then Marly saw Draven. Even the teenager saw the change. Grace wondered if this was how she had looked when she’d first seen him like this, with that sort of stunned, uneasy expression on her face.
Only Buckley didn’t react. Grace wondered if that was because he’d seen this Draven before, or if it was because he could undergo the same kind of change himself. She tried to imagine the golden boy as something dark and dangerous. The image just wouldn’t form.
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