Dangerous (25 page)

“Mine’s ten,” she bragged.

“Yes, but you live out in the country.” He sighed. “I’m in town, and the eight-inch lets in less light pollution.”

“You’ll have to come look at astronomical events with me, when we get through with our undercover stuff,” she said. “Boone had a small observatory built for me in the back patio. I can leave my telescope out in all weathers, because it’s waterproof.”

“I’d like that,” he said seriously. He was looking at her oddly. “In all the time we’ve known each other, you never mentioned liking natural events or astronomy.”

“It never came up,” she said.

“I guess not.” He liked what he was learning about her. But she was still far too young, especially for what he’d been thinking about when he first proposed this trip. He was vaguely ashamed of himself, more so when he recalled her recent turmoil in finding that she had a brother she didn’t even know about and that her uncle might be involved peripherally in the recent murder. Then, too, her mother had been shot. Perhaps that wouldn’t have bothered her some weeks ago, but since discovering her mother’s true situation, it had hit her hard. And he’d been thinking of a holiday romp with her, a sexual escapade that he could forget, but that she couldn’t. She cared about him. She really did. It was disturbing, on several levels.

Monica, his late wife, had liked his family’s wealth. Despite his job as a policeman at the time, she knew his family had money and she’d decided she might as well marry for money as love. Perhaps she’d been fond of him, but it had never been more than that. She’d been mostly unconcerned with Melly after her birth. Kilraven had doted on the child, taking her places with him, showing her off. He clamped down on the memory. It was painful. He recalled that Cammy, his stepmother, hadn’t liked Monica at all. Not that she liked any women her son and stepson brought around. But she’d often said that there was something dark and cold lying curled up in Monica’s brain.

“Deep thoughts?” Winnie asked gently.

“What?” He laughed humorlessly. “I was thinking about Monica. My wife,” he added when she looked puzzled. “She lived in Neiman Marcus and Saks. She loved clothes and diamonds and parties.”

“She must have loved her family, too,” she said.

“She loved my money.” He sighed. “But she never bought a dress or a pair of shoes or even a toy for Melly. If I gave her money to buy stuff for Melly, she bought clothes for herself with it. I finally learned to shop for my daughter myself.”

Winnie was surprised. In the other woman’s place, she’d have been showering her daughter with presents, cuddling her, taking her places, taking photos of her night and day… She averted her eyes and her hands gripped her purse hard. “That’s sad,” she said.

“I asked her once why she didn’t ever play with the baby,” he recalled solemnly. “She said it was her job to have the child, mine to raise it. She’d done her part. She didn’t even like children, she just got tired of me badgering her about having kids.” He dropped his eyes to the floorboard. “Cammy might not be your idea of the perfect mother,” he added with a deep laugh, “but she was a hell of a stepmother. She was always taking me places, doing things with me, buying me stuff. When Jon came along, he was my brother, plain and simple—she treated us both just alike. Heaven help any teacher or bully who gave us trouble at school. Cammy would be on them like a duck on a june bug. Even Dad wasn’t ever so protective of us.”

“I’m sure she improves on closer acquaintance,” Winnie said stiffly. “I’ll see if Boone will loan me a cattle prod to carry if I have to talk to her again…”

He gave her an affectionate look. “Little blond chain saw,” he said with pure amusement.

He made it sound like a caress. She felt warm, safe, secure. She smiled. “I’m not like that, usually.”

The smile faded. “I know. You don’t assert yourself enough. People will walk all over you, if you let them.”

“You’d know.” She sighed.

“I’m used to walking on people,” he pointed out. “You have to stand up to me.”

“I’m still trying to stand up to Boone,” she said, wincing. “It’s not easy.”

“You did very well, convincing him to let you come down here with me,” he said somberly. “I was proud of you.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “You were?”

He nodded. “Stick around with me for a while and I’ll have you eating tigers with just a little hot sauce, raw.”

Oh, give me the chance, she thought. But she only smiled. “I’ll follow your sterling example.”

The car was slowing. It pulled up to a wrought-iron metal gate, very ornate, and Winnie jumped out and punched a code into the computerized access panel. She got back in. The gate opened.

“Boone had it installed,” she said. “We had a break-in a few years ago. Now we’re very security conscious.”

He nodded. He was going to make sure the security was top-notch while they were in residence. He didn’t want any surprise visits, just in case they ruffled enough feathers to invite unwanted visitors.

T
HE HOUSE WAS WHITE
with a red ceramic tile roof. It sat well back from the beach, on a plot of land that was covered with casuarina pines and palms. Around the long front porch were hibiscus and lantana, and brilliant bougainvillea climbing the patio balcony.

“Nice,” Kilraven said as they walked up onto the porch, the driver following with their luggage. He had the driver set the bags down and gave him a substantial tip, with thanks. The man saluted with a big grin, and went back to his vehicle.

Winnie was putting her key in the door. She’d already disabled the security pad.

She opened it and sighed at the beauty of the interior. The furniture was pristine, the floors spotless and highly polished wood. There were original paintings on the walls, one of Boone and Clark and Winnie as children. The house had been in the family for two generations.

Kilraven walked to the portrait and studied it. Winnie had long, wavy hair. She was wearing a white dress and holding a red hibiscus flower, laughing. She was very pretty.

“I was five years old when that was painted,” she said, looking at it from beside him. “My parents were still together. We used to come here for several weeks in the summer.”

He nodded. He looked around. The furnishings were nice, but they looked new. “These aren’t very old,” he remarked.

“No. The last big hurricane that hit the island got the original house,” she said sadly. “The painting survived because it was on loan to a local gallery, which survived. We lost everything, except the shell of the house. Boone had it rebuilt. It’s a replica of the original, but without the things that gave it a history.”

“The painting survived, at least,” he commented.

“Yes. But we learned a hard lesson. Now we don’t bring heirlooms down here anymore. Just in case.” She turned. He was still looking at the painting. “I’ll bet you’ve lived through hurricanes at least once.”

He smiled faintly and dug his hands into his pockets. “Hurricanes, typhoons, tornadoes, sandstorms and enemy attacks with blazing guns.”

She grimaced. “I’ve never even been in a tornado, although one went right by the house not too many years ago.” She laughed. “And I’ve never had to face an attack by anybody armed.”

“No reason for you to have to,” he pointed out.

“Thank goodness.” She went toward the kitchen. “I phoned down here before we left San Antonio and had Marco come up and turn on the electricity and stock the fridge. He acts as part-time caretaker for us. He also owns a local art store.” She laughed. “He’s the reason we still have that painting. He has strict instructions to rush right down here and put it in storage if there’s even a gale warning.”

“You could take it to Comanche Wells,” he said.

“It belongs here,” she replied simply. “But we did have it copied.”

“Good thinking.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Starved.” He sighed. “Peanuts don’t do a thing for me.”

“In defense of the airlines,” she said, “they have to feed the monkeys something.”

“Why can’t they feed us real meals? I was on this flight to Japan,” he recalled with a smile, “and I asked for Japanese cuisine. It came in several stages, just as it does in Osaka at a good restaurant. I loved it.”

They went into the kitchen and Winnie opened the refrigerator. She reached in and then turned with a ham platter in one hand and a mayonnaise jar in another. “I’ve never been to Asia. How do they serve food?”

“In tiny bits,” he said. “On one plate, you might get a morsel of meat with a small slice of fruit. On another, a spoonful of salad. Dessert comes on a plate in the form of a walnut-sized scoop of plum ice cream with a small leaf and a drizzle of syrup for decoration. It’s edible art.”

“Wow.”

“Like they do gifts,” he said, moving to the counter to find plates and bread and in a drawer to pull out a knife for the mayonnaise. “It doesn’t matter what the present is, they’re concerned with the way it’s wrapped. The more elegant, the better.”

“You liked it there,” she commented.

He nodded. “Very much.” He chuckled as he watched her make ham sandwiches.

“What’s funny?”

“I was thinking that I could never commit a crime on the streets of Osaka without being immediately taken into custody. I’m more than a head taller than most people I met.”

She grinned. She looked down at his shoes. “And with bigger feet, I imagine.”

“That’s another thing, if you think you may need a second pair of shoes, you’re advised to take them with you. You won’t find a size to fit you unless you have feet the size of yours.” He was looking at her little feet in the high heels and his expression was almost affectionate. “What do you wear, anyway, about a five?”

“Five and a half,” she corrected.

“Tiny little feet,” he mused. “Pretty in those strappy high heels.”

She flushed. “Thanks.”

He took the knife out of her hand and put it on the table. His expression was unreadable as he suddenly lifted her by the waist, right up to his eyes. “You promised not to wear anything suggestive,” he said.

She gasped. “Listen, I’m covered from head to midcalf…!”

His mouth brushed hers, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine. “Those sexy little feet aren’t covered,” he whispered. He nibbled her upper lip.

“My…feet…aren’t covered?” she faltered.

“Sexy feet,” he whispered. His tongue slid under her top lip and explored the soft, moist flesh. His big hands tightened on her waist. He moved just a few steps to the counter and lifted her there, so that she was almost on a level with his eyes. His lips whispered over her face, from her cheek to her nose, down to the corners of her mouth.

While he was exploring her face and enjoying her helpless little gasps, his hands were busy on her jacket and the front clip of the bra under it. She didn’t realize it until she felt the air on her bare skin, until she saw his eyes dropping down, until she heard his breath catch.

She would have jerked at the bra, but the way he was looking at her made her heart stop. His hand traced over the high, firm swell of her breast, his fingers smoothing down over the suddenly taut nipple. It was like the night on his sofa, all over again, and she was helpless.

“Beautiful breasts,” he whispered tautly. “As pink as the inside of a conch shell. Soft. Silky. Delicious.”

As he spoke, his head bent. His lips took the place of his fingers in a light, whispery caress that was so tender it made her whole body clench.

“Sweet as honey,” he whispered. His other hand smoothed up her rib cage, over the breast he wasn’t kissing.

Winnie was on fire. She’d never been touched like that voluntarily before Kilraven came along. Once a boy had grabbed her on a date and hurt her when she fought her way out of his arms. No other man had ever been allowed to go this far.

She arched her back in helpless response to the sensations he was arousing.

“You like this, do you?” he murmured. “I know something you’ll like better.”

As he spoke, his mouth opened and he took almost her whole breast inside it, teasing the nipple with his tongue as the soft suction caught her in the grip of a hunger she’d never felt before.

She moaned, a high-pitched little skirl of sound that brought Kilraven’s blood up, hard. His mouth became insistent, almost violent, on her soft skin. All at once, he lifted her again, only to rivet her hips to the rising hardness of his body, to show her the desire that raged in him from the contact.

His mouth bit at hers. “I had a buddy in Iraq,” he whispered roughly. “He came home on leave and his wife was walking around in a short gown with nothing under it. He dropped his pants, lifted her onto him and walked around the house, bouncing her against him. He said the climax was so violent that they fell down the steps into the sunken living room and had to go to the emergency room after.” His mouth ground into hers. “He said it was worth a broken ankle.”

She shivered. The mental imagery made her even hotter than she already was.

His hands ground her hips into his and he groaned.

Her hands were also busy, pulling at buttons until she reached hard muscle and thick hair. She rubbed her breasts against his chest in a fever of need, moaning again at the sensation it produced.

“I can’t…stop,” he bit off. “It’s been too long!”

“I don’t care,” she whimpered. She wrapped her legs around him, shivering. “Please…”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He carried her into the first bedroom he came to, put her on the bed and stripped.

Her eyes widened as she saw him without the protection of clothing. He was incredible-looking, all muscle and tanned skin, all man. She was too aroused to feel embarrassed, even when he stripped her as efficiently and tossed her back onto the coverlet.

He covered her with his body, his face taut and grim, rigid with the desire that was consuming him. He moved her legs apart and lowered himself between them.

“Are you really a virgin?” he whispered roughly.

“Sorry. Yes,” she managed as she felt him against her.

He slid a hand under her hips and lifted her. His eyes held hers as he impaled her suddenly.

She cried out, shocked and hurt.