But it had been his wife crying out his name, and his guilt had been a bitter, sobering brew.
He threw his arm across his eyes, disgusted with himself. What was wrong with him? He loved Kate. He loved their life together.
But he wanted Julianna. So much, he sometimes thought he would go mad if he didn't have her.
Julianna hadn't encouraged him. Quite the opposite, she had held him at arm's length, seemingly more conscious of his responsibilities and moral obligations than he.
They'd talked about their kiss, agreed it had been a mistake and that it would never happen again.
Easier said than done, he thought, stifling a groan. The air between them was electric; it all but crackled with awareness and unrelieved arousal. During the middle of a meeting he would find himself staring at her mouth, remembering and becoming aroused. While working, their hands or shoulders would brush; they would both look up at the same time and their gazes would lock.
And he would see his own longing mirrored back at him from her eyes.
If it were only sexual, he thought not for the first time, his head beginning to hurt, he could deal with it, could somehow conquer it. But everything about her called to him. When he looked at her he felt a deep urge to hold her close, to protect and possess her, the way men had been protecting and possessing women throughout time. She was everything a woman should be-sweet, vulnerable and bright, sexy as hell.
She had offered to quit. Had urged him to find someone else for the job. His family, she'd said, came first. They had to be strong, had to do the right thing.
He had refused. He couldn't do that to her; it wouldn't be fair or right. Besides being good at her job, she needed it.
No, it was up to him to be a man. To be strong; to exert self-control. It wouldn't be easy-for either of them-but they could do it.
The jangle of the phone startled him out of his musings. He grabbed it before it could ring a second time, not wanting Kate or Emma to be awakened.
It was Julianna. She was crying. Nearly hysterical.
"What wrong?" he asked alarmed.
"I don't know what to do. I'm so frightened."
He glanced over his shoulder at Kate. She stirred, but didn't awaken. He sat up and pressed the phone tighter to his ear. "Tell me what's happened?"
"Someone tried to break in. I was sleeping and-" she sucked in a broken-sounding breath "-he rattled the doorknob and I…I saw someone…a figure at the window."
"I'll be right there. Make sure all your doors and windows are locked, and just sit tight."
He hung up the phone and climbed out of bed.
"Richard?" Kate mumbled. "What's going on?"
"The office," he said. "There's been a break-in."
The lie slipped so easily, so convincingly, past his lips it frightened him. He wished he could call it back. But he couldn't, he realized, stomach sinking. Now spoken, he was stuck with it.
"A break-in?" She eased up on an elbow, her expression concerned.
"I'm going to check it out." Unable to look her in the eye, he turned his back to her and pulled on a pair of khakis and a golf shirt.
Fully awake now, she sat up, pushing the hair out of her eyes. "Are you sure it's safe? I don't know if it's such a good idea for you to-"
"The police are there. They need one of the partners to come down and look the place over, reset the alarm, things like that." He looked over his shoulder at her, smiling reassuringly. "Lucky me, my number must have topped the list."
She frowned. "If you're sure it's safe?"
"I am." Blood pounding in his head, Richard went around the bed, bent and kissed her. As he did, he was struck with what a big part of his life she was, how long they had been together, how much he loved her. And how close he was to losing it all.
No. He wouldn't allow that to happen. He was letting his imagination run away with him. He was going to help a friend in need. A woman who was alone and terrified. He'd lied about it because…because it was late and he'd wanted to avoid a scene. That was all.
He bent and kissed Kate again, this time more deeply. "I love you, Kate," he murmured, his voice catching. "Believe that."
When he broke away, she clung to him a moment. She searched his gaze. "I'm scared, Richard."
He knew she wasn't talking about tonight or about his going down to the firm to check out an attempted robbery. She was talking about them, the forever they had taken for granted for so long.
He kissed her one last time. More, he acknowledged, to reassure himself than her. "There's nothing to be scared of," he said, forcing an easy smile. "I'll be back before you can say Jumpin' Jack Flash."
44
Julianna opened the door and Richard stepped into her apartment. He closed and locked it behind him, then turned and met her eyes. They were both adults; they knew exactly what they were doing-why he had run right over, first lying to his wife, then kissing her three times before leaving.
They didn't speak. Julianna moved into his arms and pressed herself against him. Through her sheer gown he felt every curve and hollow of her body. He dropped his hands to her backside and pulled her closer, wanting her to feel how desperately and completely he wanted her.
At the contact, the breath shuddered past her lips. She rubbed herself against his erection, clinging to him, trembling.
He stripped off her gown; she his clothes. Naked they sank to the floor. She took him first in her hands, then her mouth, doing things to his body he had only dreamed of before.
Gasping, he rolled onto his back, lifted and impaled her. She thrust her hips forward and back, driving him to a fever pitch. And when she arched her back and screamed, he orgasmed violently.
Still shuddering with his release, realization set in. He'd fucked another woman, had broken his wedding vows, every promise he had ever made to his wife.
Only this time he couldn't blame his actions on booze or Kate's inattention; he couldn't blame Luke Dallas. What he had done had been with a clear head and full awareness of the consequences.
The consequences. He sucked in a choked breath.
Dear God, he'd ruined his picture-perfect life. He'd thrown it away. On a woman, on a quick, sweaty roll in the hay.
Julianna purred and rubbed herself against him, and he felt sick. At what he'd done. That, God help him, he wanted to do it again. Now. Tomorrow. The day after that.
His body cooled. He tightened his arms around her. Even as he scrambled for a way out of what he'd done, a way to return to the honorable man he had been a minute before he'd succumbed, he realized he couldn't go back. That he didn't want to.
Now that he'd had Julianna, he couldn't imagine not having her again. She was in his blood now.
Part VI. Cause for Alarm
45
John stood at the center of Julianna's tiny apartment. He smiled. With satisfaction. In anticipation of their reunion. It would be good, he decided, unable to suppress a shudder. Very good.
He moved his gaze over the room, curious yet repelled. There were no signs of a baby here, no toys or playpen or crib, no cloying smell of formula or powder. As he had known she would once she'd had time to consider her options, she had seen things his way and aborted it.
After all, Julianna was spoiled. She was accustomed to being taken care of, to having her way, to having nice things. Caring for a howling infant night and day, changing soiled diapers and messy bibs was not her style.
Not that one would know it from this hovel of an apartment, he thought, disgusted. Or the jobs she had taken in the past months. He shook his head. He supposed nothing she had done, no depths to which she had sunk since leaving his care, would surprise him anymore.
She would already be home with him if not for her mother and Russell. They had frightened her. They had told her things about him that weren't hers to know; she was confused and afraid. By what they had said. And by her own disobedience. Her disloyalty.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, cleansing breath.
> His angel had fallen from grace. She had paid the price, living like this. But only part of the price. The rest was to come.
At his loving hands.
John crossed to the desk, shoved into a corner of the living room, and began leafing through the pile of mail on its top. Sale circulars and advertisements, the utility and phone bill. He opened the latter and scanned the register of long distance calls. There were several to New Orleans, all to the same number, two charges for long distance information and one call to Langley, Virginia.
The Agency. John frowned, staring at the familiar number. Why had she called CIA headquarters?
John slipped the bill into his pocket, the call a reminder of the other reason he had tracked Julianna here. His book. It contained information that was important to him. Names and dates. Places. Amounts. He had kept the record as a bargaining chip, a sort of "Get Out of Jail Free" card.
Quite a number of people would love to get their hands on it, including his former buddies at the Agency. He wanted it back.
When he had discovered the book missing, his fury had known no bounds. He'd been furious at her for her willfulness and at himself for underestimating her. For trusting her too much.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
John began his search, starting with the desk and living room, then moving on to the kitchen and bathroom. He worked methodically, checking both the obvious places and those she might consider clever. He inched along the baseboards, looking for one that was loose, the same with the floorboards; he went through the contents of her freezer, the pantry; he checked the toilet's water tank and between the stack of bath towels on the rack above it.
He finally reached her bedroom. He searched from one end to the other, saving the dresser for last. He worked from the bottom up; he opened the top drawer and froze. It contained sheer nighties and skimpy underwear. He stared at them, disoriented, light-headed. He lifted a pair of the thong panties. Made of black nylon and polyester lace, they were the type worn by a woman who fucked freely, indiscriminately. The kind of woman who's soul had been fouled, her light extinguished.
Not his Julianna. Not the sweet girl he had loved so well and for so long.
He curled his fingers into the fabric, the blood pounding, drumlike in his head. It made him sick, the thought of her, his special girl, in these whore's clothes. And if she wore them, who did she wear them for?
Rage swelled inside him, stealing his breath, his ability to reason, to think. One by one, he destroyed the offensive garments, using his teeth and hands to snap elastic and lace, to tear flimsy nylon.
She had not learned from his lesson that last night. He would have to give her another. He would show her the error of her ways. Every child chafed under the restraints of the older and wiser. This was her rebellion.
He drew a calming breath, flexing his fingers, steadying himself. He would punish her and they would go on as before. Better than before.
He would wait. Bide his time. Toy with her; rock the safe little world she had created for herself.
But first, a gift.
He went to the bed and pulled back the coverlet and top sheet. He knelt on the edge, unzipped his pants and took himself in his hand. Closing his eyes, he stroked himself, imagining, remembering-skin, as smooth and white as new silk; tiny buds of breasts, pink-tipped and tender, a pubis as smooth and moist and new as the rest of her. He stroked faster, harder, his breath coming in pants. With a groan, he ejaculated on her sheets.
He fastened back up, then extracted a folding knife from his pocket. He swung open the blade, honed to a razor sharp edge. Without flinching, he ran the blade across the top of his hand. The skin parted, a line of red chased the tip of the blade.
Satisfied, he held his hand out, watching the blood trickle from his hand to the bed-blood meeting sperm, mingling with it. Life. And death. Beginnings and endings. Now and forever.
She would understand.
46
"What do you have for me?" Tom Morris asked Condor without preamble.
They sat on a bench in the main hall of D.C.'s busy Union Station. People streamed by, commuters and tourists and businessmen like themselves. The sound of so much bustling humanity echoed through the great hall, bouncing off the spectacular ninety-foot barrel-vaulted ceiling.
"Not much," Condor answered, brushing at a cookie crumb that had landed on his lap. A vendor in the food court one level below sold the best chocolate chip cookies on earth. Condor had bought himself a dozen of them.
He held the bag out to Morris. "Cookie?"
The man eyed the bag, then helped himself. "Thanks."
"Powers hasn't been back to his apartment," Condor continued, scanning the faces of the people around him. "He hasn't traveled under any of his known aliases. I've made all the right inquiries and come up with nothing. The man's gone under."
"I don't think so."
Condor glanced at the older man. "No?"
"No." Morris broke off a piece of the cookie. "A call came in to the Agency a couple months ago. Caller identified herself as Julianna Starr. She was looking for Clark Russell."
"Julianna Starr," Condor repeated. "Any relation to the stiff?"
"Her daughter. I would have passed this along sooner, but the agent who took the call was new, and it fell through the cracks."
"What did she want with Russell?"
"Good question. One I'd like the answer to." Morris cleared his throat. "Here's the interesting part. This Julianna didn't show for her mother's funeral, and she hasn't collected her inheritance. None of her mother's neighbors or acquaintances have seen her for a while. Curious, considering the circumstances."
Condor drew his eyebrows together in thought. "Could be she doesn't know her mother's dead. Or, could be she saw her mother and the senator get whacked and is running for her life. Called Russell for help. Or information."
"My thoughts exactly."
"A couple months is a long time. This Julianna could be to hell and gone by now." Condor tipped back his head and squinted up at the magnificent ceiling. "You got an address?"
"And a picture." Morris handed him a manila envelope. "Ever been to southern Louisiana?"
"As a matter of fact, I just got back."
"I hope you liked the weather, my friend, you're making a return visit."
47
Julianna unlocked her apartment door and hurried inside. She and Richard had managed to sneak away for a leisurely lunch. Lunch at her apartment. In bed. But first they would make slow, delicious love.
She closed the door behind her but didn't bother to lock it-Richard was only minutes behind her, charged with the job of stopping for sandwiches at the café down the street.
She would be waiting for him in bed, she had decided. Naked, trembling with excitement and anticipation.
These past three weeks as Richard's lover had been perfect. Everything she had dreamed of and planned for. He treated her like a woman and as an equal. He encouraged her to express her opinions and wasn't angry when those opinions differed from his own.
The sex had been glorious. Hot. Fulfilling. Unlike anything she had experienced with John. At first she had been hesitant to tell him what she desired. But now she knew he enjoyed when she took charge, when she boldly explored his body, when she called out to him, and when she told him how she wanted him to touch her.
It was so freeing. She felt alive and for the first time in her life, like a real woman. She initiated lovemaking everywhere, anytime she thought they could get away with it-in his office between meetings, parked in his car at the lakefront, the windows open to let in the cool fall air, in a restaurant's bathroom, once in his and Kate's bed while Kate was out.
When they were together, they didn't talk about Kate. Or Emma. They didn't talk about his marriage or what the future would bring. That was okay with her, for now. Her mother had taught her well, and she knew better than to rush him. He needed to come to the realization that he couldn't live without her on his
own.
Besides, she didn't need to talk about something she already knew the outcome to. She and Richard were meant to be together. And they would be. Forever.
Crossing to the bed, Julianna stripped down to her bra and thong panties. She jerked back the coverlet and sheet, then stopped dead, a small sound of surprise slipping past her lips. She stared at the gory-looking mess in the center of her bed, her stomach rising to her throat.
What was it? She reached a hand out, snatching it back as realization dawned.
A cry raced to her lips, and she swung away from the bed. Her gaze landed on her dresser, on the garments spilling out of her top drawer. Heart pounding, she inched slowly across the room, picking her way, as if the carpet itself might be contaminated.
Not garments, she saw. What was left of her underwear and nighties. They had been ripped to pieces.
John. He'd found her.
"Julianna?" Richard called out. "Babe, I've got lunch."
"Richard!" She scrambled for the door, yanking it open, then slamming it shut behind her, not wanting him to see what John had done. "Richard!" she cried again when she saw him. He turned and she launched herself into his arms. "Thank God you're here."
"You're trembling." He held her away from him, searching her expression, his concerned. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
She shook her head and pressed herself close again, unable to look him in the eyes. She longed to tell him about John, longed for him to comfort and reassure her. She didn't dare. If he knew the truth-about her, about John- he might not want her anymore. And she couldn't bear to lose him.
A partial truth, she thought, clinging to him, working to calm herself.
"Julianna?" he prodded. "Babe?" Again, he eased her away from him, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Talk to me."
Julianna's eyes flooded with tears. "Back in D.C., there was this man, an awful man. He's the real reason I came down here. To get away from him." Her throat closed over the words, and she struggled to clear it. Richard waited, watching her intently. "He's a bad person, Richard. If he finds me, he'll hurt me. I know he will."
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