Simon carved the scrolled detail into the header for the custom china cabinet while The Fray blasted out of the radio. Meg Greene, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—except when she changed her mind—had asked to adjust the design four times before he hit the mark for her.
To ensure she didn’t adjust it again, he’d put aside other work to focus on the cabinet. It was a big, beautiful bastard, Simon thought, and would be the showpiece of Meg’s dining room. Another few days, and he’d be done with it, and between the staining and varnishing, he could get serious about the sink base. Maybe work in a few pieces for Syl and have them done when she got back from the spa deal.
If he delivered the stock while she was gone, she couldn’t drag him into talking with her customers. That added motivation.
Starting the day earlier meant he got a jump on things, which almost offset quitting at specific times each day instead of going until he’d had enough.
Stopping, even though he might be on a solid roll, went against the grain, but knowing Fiona would be alone if he didn’t would only screw with his concentration anyway.
But the arrangement had benefits—and not just the sex.
He liked hearing her talk, and listening to the stories she told him about her day. He didn’t know why she relaxed him, but she did. Most of the time.
Then there was the dog. He still chased his tail like a maniac, and stole footwear—and the occasional tool if he could get to it. But he was so damn happy, and a hell of a lot smarter than Simon had given him credit for. He’d gotten used to having the dog curled up under the workbench snoozing or running around outside. And the sucker could field a ball like Derek Jeter.
Simon stood back, studied the work.
Somehow he’d gotten himself a dog and a woman, neither of which he’d particularly wanted. And now he couldn’t imagine his days, or his nights, without them.
He’d gotten more done than he’d expected, and glanced at the clock he’d hung on the wall. Funny, it felt like more than a couple hours since he’d started back up after the grab-a-sandwich, throw-the-ball break he’d taken.
Frowning, he pulled out his phone, read the time on the display and swore.
“Damn it. Why didn’t you remind me to change the batteries in that thing?” he demanded as Jaws trotted through the open shop door.
Jaws only wagged his tail and dropped the stick he’d brought in.
“I don’t have time for that. Let’s move.”
He tried to time his trip to Fiona’s so he arrived long enough after her final class to avoid the inevitable stragglers. Otherwise, she’d start introducing him to people, and there had to be conversations. But he aimed for timing it so she wasn’t alone more than fifteen or twenty minutes.
It was, for him, a delicate balance.
Now, he was nearly two hours behind.
Why hadn’t she called? Wouldn’t any normal woman call to say, Hey, you’re late, what’s going on? Not that they had a formal sort of arrangement. He said see you later every day, left, then he came back.
Nice and easy, no big deal.
“Women are supposed to call,” he told Jaws as they got in the truck. “And nag and bug you. It’s the way of the world. But not her. There’s never any Are you going to be here for dinner? or Can you pick up some milk? or Are you ever going to take out that trash?”
He shook his head. “Maybe she’s lulling me into complacency, stringing me along until I’m . . . more hooked than I already am. Except she’s not, which is one of the reasons I’m hooked, and I’m already taking out the trash because it’s just what you do.”
The dog wasn’t listening, Simon noted, because he had his head out the window. So he might as well save his breath.
No reason to feel guilty because he was a couple hours later than usual, he told himself. He had his work; she had hers. Besides, he thought as he turned into her drive, if she’d called, he wouldn’t be later than usual.
Maybe she hadn’t been able to call. His stomach knotted. If something had happened to her . . .
He heard the gunshots as he drove across the bridge where dogwoods bloomed snowy white.
He floored it, then fishtailed to a stop even as Fiona’s dogs charged around the side of the house. Gunshots ripped through the fear that buzzed in his head as he leaped out of the truck. He left the door swinging open as he ran toward them. When they stopped abruptly, he heard his own heart roaring in his ears.
He pulled in the breath to shout her name, and saw her.
Not lying on the ground bleeding, but standing, coolly, competently shoving another clip into the gun she held.
“Jesus Christ.” The anger flew through him, stampeding out the fear. Even as she started to turn, he grabbed her arm, spun her around. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Careful. It’s loaded.” She lowered the gun, pointing it toward the ground.
“I know it’s loaded. I heard you blasting away like Annie f**king Oakley. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Let go. Earplugs,” she said. “I can barely hear you.” When he released her arm, she pulled them out. “I told you I had a gun, and I told you I’d be practicing. There’s no point getting pissed off that I am.”
“I’m pissed off about the five years you shaved off my life. I had plans for them.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send out a notification I’d be getting in some target practice.” Her movements as testy as her tone, she shoved the gun into the holster on her belt, then stalked over to set up a variety of cans and plastic water bottles she’d obviously killed before his arrival.
“We can argue about that, seeing as you knew I’d be coming by and might have a strong reaction to gunfire.”
“I don’t know anything. You just show up.”
“If you have a problem with that you should’ve said so.”
“I don’t.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Go ahead and take the dogs inside if you want. I won’t be much longer.”
“What crawled up your ass? I know your face, so don’t tell me about not getting pissed when you’re already there.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. You should take Jaws inside. My dogs are used to the sound of gunshots. He’s not.”
“Then we’ll see how he deals.”
“Fine.”
She took out the gun, shifted into the stance he’d seen cops use on TV and in movies. As she fired away, Jaws moved closer to his side, leaning against him, but cocked his head and watched—as Simon did—the cans and bottles fly.
“Nice shooting, Tex.”
She didn’t smile, but walked over to set up fresh targets. Behind her a few big-leaf maples, boughs heavy with clusters of blossoms, shimmered in the sunlight.
It made, to his mind, an odd contrast of violence and peace.
“Do you want to shoot?”
“What for?”
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
“Why would I?”
“There are a lot of reasons. Hunting, sport, curiosity, defense.”
“I don’t hunt. My idea of sport is more in line with baseball or boxing. I’ve never been especially curious, and I’d rather use my fists. Let me see it.”
She put the safety on, unloaded it, then offered it to him.
“Not as heavy as I figured.”
“It’s a Beretta. It’s a fairly light and very lethal semiautomatic. It’ll fire fifteen rounds.”
“Okay, show me.”
She loaded it, unloaded it again, showed him the safety. “It’s double-action, so it’ll fire whether the hammer’s cocked or not. The recoil’s pretty minor, but it’s got a little kick. You want to stand with your feet about shoulder-distance apart. Distribute your weight. Both arms out, elbows locked, with your left hand cupped under your gun hand for stability. You lean your upper body toward the target.”
It was an instructor’s voice, he realized, but not her instructor’s voice. That was bright and charming and enthusiastic. This instructor was flat and cool.
“And you remember all that when bullets fly?”
“Maybe not, and maybe one-handed or a different stance would suit the situation better, but this is the best, I think, for target shooting. And like with anything, practice enough and it becomes instinctual. Tuck your head down to line up the sight with the target. Try the two-liter bottle.”
He fired. Missed.
“A little more square, and with your feet pointed at the target. Aim a little lower on the bottle.”
This time he caught a piece of it.
“Okay, I wounded the empty Diet Pepsi. Do I get praise and reward?”
She did smile, a little this time, but there wasn’t any light in it. “You learn fast, and I have beer. Try it a couple more times.”
He thought he got the hang of it, and confirmed the hang of it didn’t particularly appeal to him.
“It’s loud.” He put the safety on, unloaded it as she’d shown him. “And now you have a bunch of dead recyclables in your yard. I don’t think shooting cans and bottles comes close to shooting flesh and blood. Could you actually aim this at a person and pull the trigger?”
“Yes. I was stun-gunned, drugged, tied up, gagged, locked in the trunk of a car by a man who wanted to kill me just for the pleasure it gave him.” Those calm blue eyes fired like her pistol. “If I’d had a gun, I’d have used it then. If anyone tries to do that to me again, I’d use it now, without a second’s hesitation.”
A part of him regretted she’d given him exactly the answer he’d needed to hear. He handed the Beretta back to her. “Let’s hope you never have to find out if you’re right.”
Fiona holstered the gun, then picked up a bag and began to gather up the spent cartridges. “I’d rather not have to prove it. But I feel better.”
“That’s something then.”
“I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t think about you driving up and hearing gunshots.” She leaned down, gave Jaws a body scrub. “You handled that, didn’t you? Big noises don’t scare you. Search and Rescue dogs need to tolerate loud noises without spooking. I’ll get you that beer after I pick up the targets.”
Odd, he thought, he’d learned her moods. Odd, and a little uncomfortable. “Got any wine?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get the bodies. You can pour out some wine, and maybe use your sexy voice to score us a delivery. I feel like spaghetti.”
“I don’t have a sexy voice.”
“Sure you do.” He took the bag, walked across her makeshift range.
By the time he’d finished, she was sitting on the back deck, two glasses of red on the little table.
“It’ll be about forty-five minutes. They’re backed up some.”
“I can wait.” He sat, picked up his wine. “I guess you could use a couple decent chairs back here, too.”
“I’m sorry. I need a minute.” She wrapped her arms around the nearest dog, pressed her face into fur and wept.
Simon rose, went inside and brought out a short trail of paper towels.
“I was okay when I was doing something.” She kept her arms around Peck. “I shouldn’t have stopped.”
“Tell me where you put the gun and I’ll get it so you can shoot more soup cans.”
She shook her head and, on a long breath, lifted it. “No, I think I’m done. God, I hate that. Thanks,” she murmured when he pressed the paper towels into her hand.
“That makes two of us. So what set you off ?”
“The FBI was here. Special Agent Don Tawney—he’s the one from the Perry investigation. He really helped me through all of that, so it was easier going through all this again with him. He has a new partner. She’s striking—sort of like the TV version of FBI. She doesn’t like dogs.” She bent down to kiss Peck between the ears. “Doesn’t know what she’s missing. Anyway.”
She picked up the wine, sipped slowly. “It stirs up the ghosts, but I was ready for that. They traced the scarf, the one he sent me. It’s a match for the ones used on the three victims. The same make, dye lot. He bought a dozen of them from the same store, near the prison. Near where Perry is. So that squashes even the faint hope that somebody sent it to me as a sick joke.”
Fury burned a low fire in his gut. “What are they doing about it?”
“Following up, looking into, pursuing avenues. What they always do. They’re monitoring Perry, his contacts, his correspondence, on the theory that he and this one know each other. They’ll probably contact you because I told them you were staying here at night.”
She folded her legs up, drawing in. “It occurs to me that I’m a lot of work to be involved with right now. It’s not usually true—I don’t think. I’m not high maintenance because I know how to maintain myself, and I prefer it. But right now . . . So if you want to call a time-out, I get it.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do.” She turned her head to meet his eyes straight on, and now, he thought, there was the faintest light in them. “I’d think you were a cold, selfish bastard coward, but I’d get it.”
“I’m a cold, selfish bastard, but I’m not a coward.”
“You’re none of those things. Well, maybe a little bit of a bastard, but it’s part of your charm. Simon, another woman’s missing. She fits the pattern, the type.”
“Where?”
“South-central Oregon, just north of the California border. I know what she’s going through now, how afraid she is, how confused, how there’s this part of her that won’t—can’t—believe it’s happening to her. And I know that if she doesn’t find a way, if there isn’t some intersection with fate, they’ll find her body in a matter of days, in a shallow grave with a red scarf around her neck and a number on her hand.”
She needed to see something else, he thought. Control meant channeling the emotion into logic. “Why did Perry pick athletic coeds?”
“What?”
“You’ve thought about it, the FBI, the shrinks, they’d have a lot to say on it.”
“Yes. His mother was the type. She was an athlete, a runner. Apparently, she just missed being chosen for the Olympics when she was in college. She got pregnant, and instead of pursuing her interests or career, she ended up a very bitter, dissatisfied mother of two, married to a forcefully religious man. She left them, the husband, the kids—just took off one day.”
“Went missing.”
“You could say—except she’s alive and well. The FBI tracked her down once they’d identified Perry. She lives—or lived—outside of Chicago. Teaches PE in a private girls’ school.”
“Why the red scarf ?”
“Perry gave her one for Christmas when he was seven. She left them a couple months later.”
“So, he was killing his mother.”
“He was killing the girl his mother was before she got pregnant, before she married the man who—according to his mother and those who knew them—abused her. He was killing the girl she talked about all the time, the happy college student who’d had her whole life in front of her before she made that mistake, before she was saddled with a child. That’s what the shrinks said.”
“What do you say?”
“I say all that’s just a bullshit excuse to cause pain and fear. Just like whoever’s killing now uses Perry as a bullshit excuse.”
“You stand there because of what he did to you. Motivation matters.”
She set down her glass. “You really think—”
“If you shut it down a minute, I’ll tell you what I think. Motivation matters,” he said again, “because why you do something connects to how you do it, who you do it to, or for. And maybe what you see at the end of it—if you’re looking that far.”
“I don’t care why he killed all those women, and Greg, why he tried to kill me. I don’t care.”
“You should. You know what motivates them.” He gestured to the dog. “Play, praise, reward—and pleasing the ones who dole all that out. Knowing it, connecting to it, and them, makes you good at what you do.”
“I don’t see what—”
“Not done. He was good at what he did. It was doing something he wasn’t as good at—When he deviated from his skill area, he got caught.”
“He murdered Greg and Kong in cold blood.” She shoved out of the chair. “You call that a deviation?”
He shrugged and went back to his wine.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Because you’d rather be pissed.”
“Of course I’d rather be pissed. I’m human. I have feelings. I loved him. Haven’t you ever loved anyone?”
“Not that way.”
“Nina Abbott?”
“Jesus, no.”
There was just enough shocked derision in his tone to carry the truth. “It didn’t seem that far-out a question.”
“Look, she’s gorgeous, talented, sexy, smart.”
“Bitch.”
Pleased, he let out a short laugh. “You asked. I liked her, except when she was batshit crazy—which, looking back, was pretty damn regular. It was steam and smoke, then it was just drama. She liked the drama. No, she f**king loved the drama. I didn’t. That’s it.”
“I guess I assumed there was more than—”
“There wasn’t. And it’s not about me anyway.”
“So you just expect me to be logical and objective about Greg, about Perry, about this. I should be analytical when—”
“Be whatever the hell you want, but if you don’t think, if you don’t step outside and look at the whole, you can shoot that gun as much as you like and it’s not going to help. For f**k’s sake, Fiona, are you going to pack it twenty-four/seven? Are you going to strap it on while you’re running your classes, or driving to the village for a quart of milk? Is that how you’re going to live?”
“If I have to. You’re mad,” she realized. “It’s hard to tell with you because you don’t always show it. You’ve been mad since you got here, but you’ve only let it sneak out a couple times.”
“We’re both better off that way.”
“Yeah, because otherwise you’re Simon Kick-Ass. You come here every night. There’s probably some mad in that, too.”
Considering, she picked up her wine again, walked to the post to lean back, study him as she drank. “You’ve got to stop what you’re doing, toss some things in a bag, drive over here. You don’t leave anything, except what you forget. Because you’re messy. It’s another thing you have to do every day.”
She’d managed to turn it around so it was about him after all, he realized. The woman had skills. “I don’t have to do anything.”
“That’s true.” She nodded, drank again. “Yeah, that’s true. You get a meal and sex out of it, but that’s not why you do it. Not altogether anyway. It has to irritate you, to some extent. I haven’t given you enough credit for that.”
“I don’t do it for credit either.”
“No, you don’t work on the point system. You don’t care about things like that. You do what you want, and if an obligation sneaks in—a dog, a woman—you figure out how to handle it and continue to do what you want. Problems are meant to be solved. Measure, cut, fit the pieces together until it works the way you want it to work.”
She lifted her glass, sipped again. “How’s that for looking at motivation?”
“Not bad, if this was about me.”
“Part of it is, for me. See, it was okay when this was an affair. This you and me. I never had one before, not really, so it was all new and shiny, sexy and easy. Really attractive guy who gives me the tingles. Enough in common and enough not to make it interesting. I like the way he is, and maybe partly because he’s so different from my usual. I think it’s the same with him about me. But that changes without me realizing it—or at least without me admitting it. Affair becomes relationship.”
She sipped again, let out a little sigh. “That’s what we have here, Simon. We’re in a relationship whether either of us wanted it or were ready for it. And as stupid as it is, as useless and wrong as it is, part of me feels disloyal to Greg. So I’d rather be pissed. I’d rather not admit I’m not having an affair with you, a no-problem, casual little fling I can walk away from anytime.”
She watched the dogs scramble off the porch like runners at the starting gun, then bound around the side of the house.
“I guess you’re going to have to remeasure and refit. That’s dinner. We should eat inside. It’s cooling off.”
She walked into the house, leaving him wondering how the hell the conversation had flipped on him.
IN THE KITCHEN, Fiona gave the pasta a quick buzz in the microwave. By the time Simon came in, she’d dumped the spaghetti in a bowl, set the garlic bread on a small plate and brought the wine to the table.
When she turned with dinner plates in her hands, he took her by the shoulders. “I’ve got some say in what this is.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
She waited. Waited another moment. “Are you figuring it out now?”
“No.”
“Then we should eat before I have to heat it up again.”
“I’m not competing with a ghost.”
“No. No, believe me, Simon, I know it’s not fair. He was my first, in every way.” She set the plates down, crossed over to get the flatware, napkins. “And the way I lost him left scars. There hasn’t been anyone since who was important enough to make me take a good look at those scars. I didn’t know that’s what I’d have to do when I started falling for you. I think I’m in love with you. It’s not like it was with Greg, so it’s confusing, but I think that’s what it is, going on with me. And that’s a dilemma for both of us.”
She topped off both glasses of wine. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when you figure it out on your end.”
“That’s it?” he demanded. “Oops, we’re in a relationship, and by the way, I think I’m in love with you. Let me know what you think?”
She sat, tipped her face up to look at him. “That pretty much sums it up. Love’s always been a positive in my life.” She scooped some spaghetti onto his plate. “It adds and enhances and opens all sorts of possibilities. But I’m not stupid, and I know that if you can’t or don’t feel it for me, it’ll be painful. That’s a dilemma. I also know you can’t force love, or demand it. And I’ve already dealt with the worst. If you can’t or don’t love me, it’ll hurt. But I’ll get through it. Besides, maybe I’m wrong.”
She took a portion of pasta. “I was wrong about being in love with Josh Clatterson.”
“Who the hell is Josh Clatterson?”
“Sprinter.” She wound pasta around her fork. “I pined for him for nearly two years—tenth and eleventh grade, and the summer between. But it turned out it wasn’t love. I just liked the way he looked when he ran the twenty-yard dash. So maybe I just like the way you look, Simon, and how you smell of sawdust half the time.”
“You haven’t seen me run the twenty-yard dash.”
“True. I might be sunk if I ever do.” When he finally sat down, she smiled. “I’m going to try to be logical and objective.”
“It seems to me you’re doing a damn good job at it already.”
“About you and me? I guess it’s a defense mechanism.”
He frowned, ate. “It doesn’t work as a defense once you tell me it’s a defense.”
“That’s a good point. Well, too late. I meant logical and so forth about Perry and what’s going on now. You were right about that, about the importance of understanding motivation. He didn’t try to kill me just because. I represented something, just like the others had. And failing with me, he needed to inflict punishment? Do you think punishment?”
“It’s a good enough word for it.”
“It had to be more severe than the others. Death ends—though I imagine if he hadn’t been caught he’d have come for me again. Because he’d have needed to end it—to tie off that thread. How am I doing?”
“Keep going.”
“He understood it’s hard to live when you know, when you understand someone you love is dead because you lived. He knew that, understood that, and used that to make me suffer for . . . breaking his streak, spoiling his record. What then?” she asked when Simon shook his head.
“For leaving him.”
She sat back. “For leaving him,” she repeated. “I got away. I ran away. I didn’t stay where he put me, or . . . accept the gift. The scarf. All right, say that’s true, what does it tell me?”
“He’s never forgotten you. You left him, and even though he managed to scar you, he was the one who was punished. He can’t get to you, can’t close that circle, tie off the thread. Not with his own hands. He needs someone to do it for him. A stand-in. A proxy. How does he find one?”
“Someone he knows, another inmate.”
“Why would he use someone who’s already failed?”
Her heart knocked at the base of her throat. “He wouldn’t. He waits. He’s good at waiting. So he’d wait, wouldn’t he, until he found someone he believed smart enough, good enough. The women he’s killed—this proxy—it’s a kind of building-up. I understand that. They’re a horrible kind of practice.”
“And they’re bragging. ‘You locked me up, but you didn’t stop me.’ ”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” For an instant those tawny eyes went fierce. “Be scared, and think. What motivates the proxy?”
“How can I know?”
“Jesus, Fee, you’re smarter than that. Why does anyone follow someone else’s path?”
“Admiration.”
“Yeah. And you train someone to do what you want, how you want, when you want?”
“Praise and reward. That means contact, but they’ve searched Perry’s cell, they’re monitoring his visitors—and his sister’s the only one who goes to see him.”
“And nobody ever smuggles anything into prison? Or out? Did Perry ever send a scarf before he abducted a woman?”
“No.”
“So this guy’s deviated. Sometimes you follow another person’s path because you want to impress them, or outdo them. It has to be someone he met, more than once. Someone he was able to evaluate, and trust, and speak to privately. A lawyer, a shrink, a counselor, a guard. Somebody in maintenance or prison administration. Somebody Perry looked at, listened to, watched, studied and saw something in. Someone that reminded him of himself.”
“Okay. Someone young enough to be maneuvered and trained, mature enough to be trusted. Smart enough not to simply follow instructions, but to adjust to each particular situation. He’d have to be able to travel with nobody questioning him about where he’d been, what he’d done. So, single, someone who lives alone. Like Perry did. The FBI must already have a profile.”
“He’d have to have some physical stamina, some strength,” Simon continued. “His own car—probably something nondescript. He’d need enough money to carry him along. Food, gas, hotels.”
“And some knowledge of the areas where he abducts them, and where he takes them. Maps, time to scope it all out. But under it, doesn’t there have to be more? The reason why. Admiring Perry? Nobody could unless they were like him. What made this person like that?”
“It’ll be a woman, or women. He’s not killing Perry’s mother. My guess would be she’s his proxy.”
IT MADE SENSE, though she didn’t know what good it did her. Maybe the fact that it made sense was enough. She had a theory about what she was facing—or who.
She supposed it helped that Simon pushed her to think. No promises that nothing would happen to her, to protect her from all harm. She wouldn’t have believed those claims, she thought as she tried to soak out the tension with a hot bath. Maybe she’d have been comforted by them, but she wouldn’t have believed them.
He didn’t make promises—not Simon. In fact, he was very careful not to, she decided. All those casual see you laters rather than just saying he’d be back. Then again, a man who didn’t make promises didn’t break them.
Greg had made promises, and kept them when he could. It occurred to her now that she’d never worried about Greg or wondered or doubted. He’d been her sweetheart before the abduction, and he’d been her rock after.
And he was gone. It was time, maybe long past time, to fully accept that.
Wrapped in a towel, she stepped into the bedroom as Simon came in from the hall.
“The dogs wanted out,” he told her. He crossed over, flicked his fingers over the hair she’d bundled on top of her head. “That’s a new look for you.”
“I didn’t want it to get wet.” She reached up to pull out pins, but he brushed her hand aside.
“I’ll do it. Did you finish your brood?”
She smiled a little. “It was only a partial brood.”
“You had a rough day.” He pulled a pin out.
“It’s done now.”
“Not quite.” He drew out another pin. “Scent’s the thing, right? How you find someone. I’ve got yours inside me. I could find you whether I wanted to or not. Whether you wanted me to or not.”
“I’m not lost.”
“I still found you.” He took out another pin, and her hair tumbled after it. “What is it about the way a woman’s hair falls?” He speared his hands through it, locked his eyes on hers. “What is it about you?”
Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers, but softly, testing and easy. She eased into him as she had the bath, with every muscle sighing its pleasure.
For a moment, just a moment, he simply held her, with his hand stroking down her hair, her back. It undid her, the offer of comfort she hadn’t asked for, the gift of affection she hadn’t expected.
He slipped the towel off, let it fall, and even then just held her.
“What is it about you?” he repeated. “How does touching you calm me down and excite me at the same time? What is it you want from me? You never ask. Sometimes I wonder, is this a trick?” His eyes on hers, he backed her slowly toward the bed. “Just a way to pull me in? But it’s not. You’re not built that way.”
“Why would I want anything I had to trick out of you?”
“You don’t.” He lifted her, held, then laid her on the bed. “So you pull me in. And I end up being the one who’s lost.”
She framed his face with her hands. “I’ll find you.”
He wasn’t used to tenderness, to feeling it spread inside him. Or this need to give her what she never asked of him. It was easier to let the storm come, let it ride over both of them. But for tonight, he’d embrace the calm and try to soothe the fears he understood hid behind those lake-blue eyes.
Relax. Let go. As if she’d heard his thoughts, she sank into the kiss that offered quiet and warmth. Slow and easy, his mouth tasted hers, changing angles, gently deepening in a seduction that shimmered sweet.
She’d been wrong, she realized. She was lost. Floating, untethered, in an unfamiliar space where sensation layered gauzily over sensation to blur the mind and enchant the body.
She surrendered to it, to him, yielding absolutely as his lips gently conquered hers, as his hands trailed over her—tender touches soothing a troubled soul.
The softly lit bedroom transformed. A magic glade steeped in green shadows silvered at the edges with moonlight, with the air thick and still and sweet. She didn’t know her way, and was content to wander, to linger, to be guided.
His mouth grazed down her throat, over her shoulders until her skin tingled from the quiet onslaught. He tasted her br**sts, patiently sampling until on a groan she arched and offered.
He feasted, but delicately.
Hands and mouth skimmed down in whispering trails, inciting sighs and shivers that rolled into a slow rise, a gilded peak, a breathy fall.
He was with her in the magic, steeped in her, in the rich glow of the moment, in the slow glide of movements. Seduced as he seduced, enraptured by the sound of his name murmured from her lips, the slide of her hands, the taste of her skin.
She welcomed him, warm and wet, took him in—into her body, into her arms. The need stayed slow and sweet, tender as an open heart even as it climbed.
And when he fell, he fell into her eyes.
