by Cherry Adair
She looked down at the heavy erection tenting his neatly pressed black slacks, then up, her lips curved in a smile. A cat-with-cream kind of smile, she knew. He reached down and unzipped his pants. Dropped them, kicked them aside.
She didn’t move as his gaze traveled her naked body with the impact of a physical touch. There seemed to be a direct line from his eyes to whatever body part he was looking at. Little flairs of electricity danced across her skin. Air seemed to be in short supply as she struggled to fill her lungs. But breathing was a two-edged sword as the scent of him made her head swim. “You seem to have a thing about bathrooms.”
“I seem to have a thing about you,” he corrected thickly. Using both hands, he wrapped them gently around her throat, thumbs at the heavy pulse pounding at the base, fingers cupping her skull beneath her hair. Instead of squeezing the life out of her, his thumbs moved up and down her throat in a caress that made Taylor’s nipples harden painfully and her breath hitch.
She licked her lips. “I’m not buying that one. Your body’s telling me it’s not killing me you’ve got in mind.”
His large hands, callused and strong, moved down her shoulders, brushing the sides of her breasts as they skimmed down her arms. “You have a smart mouth, you know that?”
A tremor rippled across her skin at his touch, excitement leapt in her chest at the heated look in those fire-and-brimstone eyes. She tilted her chin up. “Why don’t you put it to good use, then.”
He bent his head, his mouth hot as he skimmed his lips across her cheek in a caress of barely restrained greed. His fingers hurt as he tightened his grip on her elbows. “I don’t want to want you.”
Taylor slid her hands up his chest, paused to feel the heavy thump-thump-thump of his heart beneath her fingertips, then wrapped her arms about his neck. She turned her mouth up to his. “Door’s . . . there. Go.”
She waited to see if he’d do it. Slam the door. Leave her in here alone. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, his mouth thinned in a hard straight line as he looked down at her with the eyes of a predator about to feast. Her mouth went dry as lust surged and intensified to the brink of pain.
Anticipation traveled along her nerve endings at the speed of light. Bright and white. She imagined him, a sleek animal lying in wait in the tall grass, every muscle taut with awareness, eyes and ears tuned to his prey.
She smelled the starch in his shirt, felt the crisp scratch of it against her naked breasts as time stretched. The edge of the counter behind her pressed into her bare butt, cool and hard. Hunt pressed against her front. Hot and hard.
The hum of the plane’s engines took up a counter rhythm in Taylor’s body. She felt like a ripe juicy peach about to burst as she waited, pulses pounding in interesting places. She refused to look away as their gazes locked, battled, and challenged. Tossed a silent gauntlet she wasted no time accepting.
“Does this heat scare you?” Hunt’s voice was thick, ragged. His tight grip cut off her circulation in her arms, but she didn’t give a damn.
“No. Only your self-control,” she said thickly, smelling her own arousal and feeling the heaviness and moisture between her legs. Insane. Crazy . . . Hurry.
After what seemed a torturous eternity, he took her in an open-mouthed kiss that rocked her off her feet. No. He’d lifted her onto the cool countertop, she realized as her tongue met his in a bid for supremacy.
They both won.
The kiss went on and on. Hot and wet. Erotic enough to steam up the mirrors. Tongues, slick and in constant motion, slid and slithered in a motion mimicking penetration. Taylor’s breath hitched and caught.
He slid one hand up her leg, drawing her toward him. She wrapped her legs around him, shoving his shirttails up in back with one foot so she could feel the rock-hard muscles of his behind. She crossed her ankles and pulled, using muscles she’d used only to scale balconies and air-conditioning ducts.
This was better—oh, God, so much better.
He stood between her legs, huge, dark, and powerful. He slid both hands up her thighs and thrust inside her wet, ready heat with barely restrained ferocity. She made a sound in the back of her throat and shuddered with the beginning of a hard, fast climax.
“Not yet,” he muttered thickly, withdrawing a little and dragging in a harsh, ragged breath, hard fingers gripping her ass cheeks. “Not . . .” He rammed home again, Taylor’s back arched, as she shot another three feet up the lust ladder. “. . . yet.” He pulled out, slick and hard. Hot and greedy.
He brought her to the very edge. Again and again. Prolonging the climax in a dance that had her clawing his back as violent ripples wracked her body, making her pant and sweat and moan his name.
Soaking with sweat, shaking with mindless need, she tried to tighten her grip on his hips. He was trying to control her. Show her who was boss. Silly, silly man.
“Bastard,” she choked out, ripping her mouth from beneath his to take a much needed breath as he withdrew yet again. Each time he did, it made the buildup more intense, more exquisite than the last.
“Hellcat,” he ground out, crushing his mouth back down on hers as he thrust back inside her as if determined to come through the other side. Strong and relentless, he controlled the speed and intensity of his thrusts as if he could read her body’s every action and reaction.
Harder and harder, closer and closer together, until she couldn’t tell where he began and she ended.
Staked. His. Lost.
Blood thundered in her ears, roaring through her veins in a sweet blaze that left her shaking. This time she didn’t let him pull out. She held him with every well-toned muscle. Inside and out.
He plunged into her like a hard-driven weapon. She didn’t give a damn what he was trying to prove. And she didn’t think he did either. Not anymore. Now, hunger was its own reward and carried its own demand.
Taylor buried her face against his shoulder to muffle her scream as they climaxed together. Hard and fast.
Twenty
BLACK ROSE SATELLITE OFFICE
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Lisa Maki was a stunningly attractive, statuesque blonde with the face of a Botticelli angel. In her mid-thirties, she looked twenty-five, and easily passed as a student. Which she frequently did. She and her small group were responsible for the student uprising at the University of Madrid earlier in the year, resulting in many new, if unsuspecting, supporters and hefty donations for Black Rose’s coffers.
She’d successfully hijacked an American airline flight from Paris, and had been responsible for two embassy bombings. One in Valencia, and one in Rome. She was proud of the work she did. The Black Rose cell in Spain was small, only seven members, but she made sure their numbers counted.
When her phone rang, she answered it eagerly, ready for her next directive.
“T-FLAC has the woman en route to Zurich. Be there,” her leader informed her without greeting. Lisa’s heart pounded with anticipation. At last! Madre de Dios! At last!
This was the Black Rose’s most ambitious act of terror; overthrowing the Mano del Dios was no small task. Taking down another terrorist organization was a bold move. Particularly one of Mano’s strength and worldwide control. Participation was a guaranteed star maker.
Lisa would be the Black Rose’s star player, if she had any control over the situation. She’d do everything in her power to make her move count. But stuck here in Spain, she knew there was little chance of her seeing any of the action. Until now.
“ETA Kloten, six hours, fourteen minutes.” Her boss proceeded to give her the exact flight particulars and the call numbers of the T-FLAC private jet. Lisa committed the information to memory. She already had photographs of the T-FLAC operatives involved, as well as a quarter-profile photograph of the woman they held. It was enough.
“Take your team, intercept them inside the terminal. Do not make contact. Do not let them out of your sight. Do not let them see you.”
Lisa didn’t take notes on the call. She didn’t ne
ed to.
“They will wait until the last minute to hire a car and driver. Do not underestimate these men. St. John is both determined and tenacious. He won’t let the woman out of his sight until he has the disks in his hands and is assured that it holds the information he needs. The information we need. Keep in mind, he trusts no one and has eyes in the back of his head.
“Let him do our job for us. When he is satisfied, I will be satisfied. Follow them, confirm delivery, then eliminate them. All. No mistakes. I will expect to receive the disk—from you, in person—first thing tomorrow morning in your office. Understood?” The line went dead.
Lisa understood perfectly. She couldn’t wait.
Twenty-one
“You should try to sleep,” Hunt told Taylor quietly as she came out of the head. She’d changed into softly pleated gray slacks and a cream-colored, long-sleeve shirt that crossed her breasts with no apparent means of fastening. He preferred her naked.
Narrow-eyed, he watched her lithe walk with unconscious intensity. He’d been with her not ten minutes ago, yet seeing her now, hair wet, pale, slender feet bare, made his lungs feel constricted. He’d never seen anything so sexy in his life.
They’d made love again in the small shower stall while hot water pelted them and the plane went through fifteen minutes of turbulence. For Hunt, it had been an unforgettable experience.
The cabin was quiet, the lighting muted, and the drone of the plane’s engines soporific. Yet he was wired. He’d had her twice, and wanted her again. The feel of her skin, the smell of her hair—all of it. Soon. Now. For the first time in forever, his focus felt blurred. He should’ve been thinking strategies and terrorists, and instead was drifting back to her.
Taylor tossed the matching jacket she carried over a chair back, then ran her fingers through her wet hair. She resumed the seat she’d had earlier. This time Hunt had chosen the plush chair beside instead of opposite her. As soon as she sat down, he handed her a glass of wine, noting how transparent the cloth of her blouse over her right breast had become where her wet hair soaked the fabric. She wore no bra. His pants immediately became as constricted as his breathing.
“Mmm, thanks,” she murmured, accepting the glass by the stem. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep.” She took a sip. “This is wonderful. I’m going to take a few weeks off.”
The fragrance of her skin made his mouth water. She drew her feet up on the seat, then rested her chin on her bent knees and turned her head to look at him as he asked, “In Zurich?”
She took another sip of her drink. “I’m not sure. Maybe the South of France. It’s nice there this time of year.”
Not the South of France, he knew instinctively, and probably no vacation either. Not surprised she lied, he wondered why she’d bother. He leaned back, holding his own glass. “How many jobs do you average a year?”
The diffuse lighting made her skin look luminescent. He knew how soft it was to the touch. He knew how sweet it tasted. He resisted the powerful need to touch her. The strength of that urge, and the fact that he still felt that urge, annoyed him as much as it intrigued him.
She twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, her attention on the light reflecting off the surface. “Sometimes one, sometimes, like this year, three or four.”
“And you’ve never been caught?” He wished to hell the thought of Taylor incarcerated didn’t bother him so much. Law of averages would catch up with her eventually.
“Once was enough,” she said dryly. “Were you born in England? It’s hard to tell, your accent is so faint most of the time.”
“Born in Boston, moved to Essex when I was nine, moved back to the States, D.C, when I was fifteen, went to school in London when I was seventeen.” He’d been recruited by T-FLAC while in college, and it was at their suggestion that he’d entered law school. He’d never regretted either choice.
“That’s a lot of moving around.”
“Father’s a career diplomat.”
“What about your mom?”
“She died. Cancer. I was seventeen. My father adored her—hell, everyone did. He never remarried.” Hunt didn’t add that his father had rarely smiled since. Genetic thing, since, come to think of it, he didn’t smile much either. Until recently. Until her.
“Tough losing your mom at that age,” Taylor murmured sympathetically.
“Yes, it was. She was an amazing woman. Funny as hell.” He half smiled at the memories. “Brave—Jesus, toward the end . . . I consider myself fortunate to have had her for as long as I did.”
“How long was she sick before she died?”
“Four and a half years.” They’d made the most of those years too, the three of them. Hunt felt his mouth curve at the memories. “She had a . . . thing for National Geographic and the Discovery Channel, and was an enthusiastic armchair traveler . . .”
Taylor leaned her elbow on the armrest between them. Her damp hair smelled of the fragranceless stuff all the operatives used. On her it smelled of flowers. “Don’t stop.” She brushed her hand over his.
“When she was diagnosed, she decided she wanted to see all those places for herself.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the silky skin on the back of her hand. “We took her to Spain. She said it was to see the flamenco dancers, but we figured she wanted to check out the matadors. We pretended to be appalled.” God, how she’d laughed at their teasing. “We went to Italy.” He and his father had sat, pretending not to be comatose, through an opera at La Scala in Milan. “And another trip to Loch Ness, so she could look for Nessy.” He shook his head at the memory. “Just as boring—and with dreary weather. Another time we packed up and went off to Easter Island to see the Moai monoliths along its coastline. And the last year . . . we returned to Boston. To wait.
“I gained an appreciation for orange Popsicles and 7-Up,” Hunt said, remembering the rock in his chest as he watched his mother fade a little more each day. Watched his father die with her. “Both of which she’d always given to me when I was ill as a kid. They helped her with the nausea. She died in my father’s arms.”
“You really loved each other a lot. I envy you that.” Taylor’s voice was wistful.
“Yeah. I was lucky. Enough about me. Tell me about Taylor Kincaid, the child.”
She smiled. “You have that big fat file on me. Didn’t you read it?”
“From cover to cover. Several dozen times,” he told her dryly. Her dark hair had started to curl a little around her shoulder. Her eyes, crystal blue, were clear as she watched him with a small smile curving her mouth. Looking at her made his heart twist strangely.
“Then you know my father was in prison.”
“High Desert State Prison, Nevada.” His voice was cool, nonjudgmental. “Armed robbery.”
“Yes.” Her eyes clouded. “It makes my heart hurt to think about him—”
“Jesus, Taylor,” Hunt said roughly, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers lightly over her damp hair. “How can you be such a tough cookie and talk like that?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “I loved him.”
“Where was your mother?”
“Worked days, partied nights.” She shrugged, as if with that one motion she could slide away old memories. “She left when I was twelve. She didn’t much like being a mother. It put a crimp in her social life big-time. We were better off without her.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you make that up earlier when you told me my mother was dead?”
“No. Didn’t you know? She died when you were in your early teens. A single-vehicle car accident in the desert just outside Las Vegas.”
She shook her head, then looked down at her toes, but not before he noticed a sheen of tears. “I had no idea. I—We thought she’d just . . . gone. But I somehow always imagined she was out there—somewhere.”
He should get up and walk away. Now. He didn’t want to feel compassion for her. He didn’t want his own fucking “heart to hurt” because she’d had a bloody lousy
childhood. He picked up his glass, shifted to rise, then sat back. Because he couldn’t leave her. In a few minutes. But not right now. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be. It’s just . . . strange. I don’t know how I feel really. Relieved. Angry. Sad, maybe.”
“What about your father?”
“He was around. Pretty bewildered with raising dau—raising a daughter alone.” The slip was infinitesimal. But there. “It wasn’t easy for him. He was a building super in one of the big apartment complexes in Reno, so he could spend quite a bit of time with me. But, oh, Lord. His job bored him to tears. Still, he was pretty good at it.” Her smile pierced his heart. Hunt was glad she at least had a few good memories.
“He liked fixing things,” she continued, nodding when he held up the wine bottle to refill her glass. He poured, and she immediately took a large gulp. “Machinery that broke down, cars, air conditioners—he couldn’t have cared less if old Mrs. Solomon’s linoleum was coming up or if Mr. Engel’s door hinge had a squeak. But, boy, give him a broken engine, or anything with moving parts, and he was a virtuoso. I loved following him around.”
Light played against her cheekbones, making him itch to stroke them; it took a concerted effort to keep his hands to himself. “Is that how you got started? Watching your father?” God, he loved watching her. Expressions flitted across her freshly scrubbed face like clouds across the sky, and her eyes sparkled like moonlight on fresh snow.
And he was becoming dangerously poetic.
Hell with it. He gave himself the duration of the flight to indulge his fancy. After that it was business as usual.
“Him and his buddies. God . . .” Taylor smiled, looking poignantly young as she did so. “When I couldn’t sleep, I’d go down to Uncle Hank’s apartment, where Dad and his cronies were playing cards. I learned to play poker at seven, and started winning at nine.”