Kill and Tell Part 8

"Mmm, yes."

"Then eat a cookie."

"Slave driver." But she smiled as she picked up a cookie and bit into it. The flavor exploded on her tongue. "Ohh, that's good," she moaned. "What is it?"

"White chocolate. Pecans: Other stuff. They're my favorite kind." He ate one with gusto, then another.

What a mixture he was, she thought in amus.e.m.e.nt. Almost Old World in some ways, typical modern American male in others. He would feel perfectly at ease stretched out in his chair in that marvelous old living room, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and watching a ball game. Plus, he was a cop, adding to his complexity. What other qualities would surface on longer acquaintance? It didn't matter, she realized; she wouldn't have a chance to find out, because she was leaving tomorrow morning. An odd pang tightened her stomach.

They killed the plate of cookies and their second gla.s.ses of wine. Thunder rumbled again, edging closer. Rain began to spatter on the street, and the tourists below began hurrying for shelter. Within minutes, the street was deserted, and the silvery rain increased in steadiness, hurrying twilight.

Karen felt slightly chilled on the outside, but the wine had created a warm glow inside. A single saxophone mourned, the pure notes reaching to her soul. She hugged herself, aching inside.

"Dance with me," he said softly, standing up and holding out his hand to her.

She stood and went silently into his arms. She closed her eyes, and her head found her personal resting place on his shoulder. There couldn't be anything more perfect, she thought, than slow dancing, barefoot, on a balcony in New Orleans, while the rain poured down and twilight wrapped around them. He was so marvelously warm, she wanted to sink into him, and she actually caught herself pressing closer. Immediately, she started to pull back, but he stopped her with a firm hand on the small of her back, urging her even closer.

"It's okay. Just rest against me." The words were barely a murmur, as if he didn't want them to intrude on the moment.

So she relaxed again, so readily that she felt a flicker of guilt in the far recesses of her brain. She was shamelessly using him, for comfort, for support, fora for pleasure. Yes, this was pure pleasure: the strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his chest and belly rubbing against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her own belly, as they swayed to the hypnotic wail of the sax. His thighs slid along hers, his feet brushed hers, and occasionally she even felt the bulge of his genitals, though she thought he was being careful about thata"his perfect manners again. She found herself waiting, almost breathless, for the next time their movements brought her hip against him. She wanted to curl into him, press herself fully to that intriguing bulge.

Her heartbeat was slow, heavy. The chill was gone; she felt deliciously warm, almost boneless, all thought suspended.

One strong hand slid up her back to close lightly over the nape of her neck, and the other moved down to her bottom. She didn't think of protesting. Somehow the touch wasn't demanding anything of her. He was just gently kneading her bottom, that was all. She had never before realized how good that could feel.

He tilted her head back, his hand firm on her neck. She saw the sensuous curve of his mouth, then he was kissing her, and even that wasn't demanding. Her eyes drifted shut again. His lips were soft, shaping hers, and he didn't use his tongue.

Abruptly, she wished he would. She wanted more of his taste. But she enjoyed what he was giving her, more than she had ever enjoyed any other man's kisses, so she let herself get lost in those light, brushing kisses. And she realized she had curled into him, after all, her hips arched toward him.

His hand left her bottom, almost drawing a protesting moan from her. But she heard the click of the door handle behind her and realized he was guiding her back into the kitchen. It was dark inside; he hadn't left a light on. She didn't bother opening her eyes, merely sighed with dreamy pleasure as he continued kissing her and his hand returned to her b.u.t.tocks. Both hands, she dimly realized, and she was clinging to his shoulders with both hands. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were tight, achy; her loins were full. It felt good, better than good. She wanted his tongue, she wanted it so much that she rose on tiptoe and deepened the kiss herself, tentatively probing. And she wanted to stretch against him, so she did that, too, pressing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to him and feeling her nipples pinch with pleasure.

He gave a low growl, deep in his throat, and took the initiative from her. This time, the pleasure was sharp, splintering, and she moaned aloud. Oh, yes. He tasted wonderful, like cookies and wine and himself. His tongue moved deep and sure, taking, and hers danced around it, softly teasing. She had never before realized kisses could be so subtle, so full of meaning, so varied.

He grasped her skirt and worked it up to her waist, then slid his hands beneath the waistband of her panties to clasp her bare bottom. Her b.u.t.tocks were cool, his hands hot; the contrast had her arching forward, gasping. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s throbbed; her hips undulated a little, reaching for and finding the hard ridge of his p.e.n.i.s, rocking against him, instinctively seeking relief. She had gone beyond warm; she felt feverish, her skin too tight, her clothes too binding.

He stooped a little, tugging at her panties. They slid down her thighs, dropped to her ankles. "Step out of them," he whispered, and mindlessly she did so. Her heart was pounding, her body caught in a fever of need.

"Open your eyes."

She did that, too, staring up at him in the rain-washed dimness of the room, his face lit by the watery light seeping through the french doors. His expression was set, his eyes narrow and piercing, his mouth fiercely sensual.

They weren't in the kitchen after all, she realized with a sort of distant surprise; he had danced her through the other set of doors. They were in his bedroom.

The bed hit the backs of her knees, and he eased her down onto it, his hands firm and sure. She barely had time to register the coolness of the sheets beneath her bare bottom, then he was on her, heavy and solid, kneeing her thighs apart while he opened his jeans.

She breathed deeply, her eyes half closed, watching him through the fringe of her lashes. She still felt dreamy, as if none of this were real, yet she had never wanted so intensely as she did now, never hungered for another man as she did for him. The power of her need surprised her; she wasn't quite certain how she had come to this moment, lying on a bed with a man she barely knew, her panties on the floor and her skirt around her waist.

The first touch of his p.e.n.i.s to her was startling, a stark intrusion of reality. Her eyes flared with shock, and her fingers dug into his shoulders. He held her gaze, his big body pressing her into the mattress, and entered her with a hard, steady thrust, sheathing himself to the root with one movement. Her body arched in feminine shock at the force of his penetration, at this searing invasion. His p.e.n.i.s was smooth and hard, thick, impossibly deep, and she writhed around him.

He steadied her, holding her firmly as he withdrew a little and thrust again, his gaze intent on her face. She couldn't stop her gasping cry at the resulting sensation, the pleasure that was almost torment. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. She clung to him with desperate hands, feeling as if she were about to be torn apart by an internal force she couldn't contain. He whispered soothingly to her, words of masculine rea.s.surance she couldn't quite grasp, but the dark honey of his voice was more effective than any words.

"Please." She heard herself begging, for mercy, for relief, for anything and everything.

He understood her urgency even better than she. He pulled back and thrust deep, hard, then again, and she began climaxing.

He rode her hard through the waves of sensation, pounding into her, holding her thighs spread wide so she had no control, no protection. He showed her no mercy as she convulsed and arched, nor did she want any. She wanted only him, the fierce intimacy of his body locked into hers.

When her spasms eased, she lay sprawled limply beneath him. She was exhausted, emptied out, barely conscious. His powerful body bucked when he came, and her flesh quivered from the impact of his thrusts.

He lay heavily on her, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath, his heart thundering against her own. He felt damp with sweat through his clothes, but a slight, cooling breeze wafted through the open French doors, bringing with it the freshness of the rain. Karen turned her face into his neck, breathing in the hot odor of his skin, and felt herself sink toward sleep.

She roused a little when he withdrew, instinctively protesting the loss of his weight, the comfort of his animal warmth in the rain-cooled night. "Shh," he murmured, soothing her.

Enough light came through the windows and open doors that she could sleepily watch him remove and discard a condom, and she was alert just enough to ask, "When did you put that on?" She would swear his hands had never left her after they had entered the bedroom.

"When I put on the music." He turned back to her, still kneeling between her spread thighs. His eyes were heavy-lidded with concentration as he began removing her clothes. Karen let him unzip her dress, his hands working under her; her sluggish thoughts still centered on the condom. He had planned this, then. Even before they had begun dancing, he had intended to make love to her.

The significance of this seemed important, but why eluded her. He tugged her dress off over her head and tossed it aside, then deftly undipped her bra and removed it, too. Her attention was caught by her nudity, which, despite the intimacy of the act they had just shared, made her feel far too vulnerable. She shocked herself, lying there naked and spread in front of a man who was still clothed, even though his jeans were down around his thighs. He should have been soft, but his swollen p.e.n.i.s jutted out from under his shirt, twitching with arousal.

Her hands moved; perhaps he sensed her intention to cover herself, for he caught her wrists and pinned them to the pillow beside her head, and took his time looking her over. Her nipples drew into tight little points under his inspection, and he smiled. Leaning over her, he licked her left nipple, circling the point with his tongue before gently catching it between his teeth and applying delicate pressure.

p.r.i.c.kles of heat shot through her. She gasped, fruitlessly wrenching her arms in an effort to free thema"not to push him away but to hold him close. He sucked at her, pressing the nipple hard against the roof of his mouth while his tongue worked at it, and she writhed helplessly. She hadn't known her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were so sensitive, but the way he was sucking her aroused her so sharply she felt herself, impossibly, building toward another climax.

Bending forward as he was, the tip of his p.e.n.i.s nudged at her swollen folds, prodding her opening. Her breath snagged, caught. Her hips arched.

He swore softly, his breath ragged, and reared back from her. He fought his way out of the shirt, tossing it aside, and quickly sheathed himself with another condom. Leaning over her again, he caught her wrists in one hand and stretched her arms over her head, arching her b.r.e.a.s.t.s upward in tender offering. He took full advantage of her position, sucking both nipples, gentle and ruthless at once.

His free hand moved over her belly, down between her spread legs. She was swollen and sensitive from their lovemaking, barely able to take the two big fingers he worked up inside her. She quivered, gasping, and her head tossed restlessly back and forth within the frame of her upstretched arms.

A shudder of arousal rippled over him. "You're tight," he murmured, kissing her throat. "Am I hurting you?"

"N-no." She could barely speak. His fingers reached deep inside her, pressing upward. His thumb rasped over her c.l.i.toris, circled it enticingly. "Oh, my G.o.d." She cried the words, arching tautly. Heat poured through her, drawing her upward like a bow. She could feel another climax building, even stronger than the last. Her shaking thighs were spread achingly wide again as he shifted close to her, taking his fingers out of her and replacing them with the long stroke of his shaft.

The spasms boiled swiftly upward. He felt them begin and pressed himself deep. Rhythmic cries shook from her, and her body convulsed. He controlled his own urges and slowly, carefully, rebuilt her desire until she climaxed yet again, and only then did he let himself come.

She slept, and woke to his hands on her again.

Night had completely fallen, and he had removed his jeans. Rain still pattered down outside, and the French doors were still open, letting in the damp air. Nothing else in the universe existed but the confines of the bed and man who held her close to his heat and hardness. She didn't think, simply was, for the first time in her life, lost to pure physical pleasure. He could have done anything to her, and she wouldn't have protested.

He slid down her body and pressed his mouth to her, the caress so tender and intimate she almost wept, would have if desire hadn't risen again, throbbing insistently in her loins. He mounted her, said, "I'm going to do you hard this time," and did, ruthlessly driving for his own pleasure and making her come, too. She thought she would faint this time, the spasms were so intense. She clutched his sweaty sides and completely gave herself up to him. This savage lovemaking in the dark, rainy New Orleans night was more intensely carnal than anything she could have imagined doing, and she didn't want it to end.

This time, he slept, too, holding her so close that sweat formed between their bodies, sealing them together.

The night felt endless. She woke to the same rain and darkness, the hot damp air, the contrasting coolness of the rain-laden breezes. She couldn't see a clock anywhere, wouldn't have looked at it in any case. She kissed her way down his body. By the time she reached his groin, he was awake, erect, groaning. She kissed his shaft, licked the length of it, and felt it grow even more, then she took him fully in her mouth. Torment was a two-way street, and she wanted him to enjoy it as much as she had.

She didn't know how many times they made love that night. Her mind was in a fog, her body completely turned over to him. When she was so exhausted she simply couldn't respond again, he cradled her in his arms and brushed a tender kiss across her eyes. "Sleep, darlin'," he whispered in that black magic voice, and it was as if she only needed to hear the words before she let go of consciousness.

Chapter 10.

Hayes was a careful man. He hired competent people, but when someone told him a job was done, he didn't necessarily take it for granted that the job had been done to his satisfaction.

He made it a point to double-check everything. His caution paid off, letting him catch and deal with irritants before they became major problems. The people who worked for him considered him a major pain in the a.s.s, but the people for whom he worked were eternally grateful for his attention to detail.

When Clancy called and reported he had taken care of his a.s.signment, Hayes believed him; Clancy was d.a.m.n good at what he did. But he still contacted another source to have a copy of the police report on the house fire, as well as the newspaper account, faxed to him on a private, untraceable line. He was competent with computers but more comfortable with older technology; he thought the security was better. With computers, who knew what little puke in Hoboken or somewhere was taking a peek at everything he sent or received?

His source called back the next day. "I can't find anything about a Karen Whitlaw's house burning," he said. "There was a house fire, but the house belonged to a couple named h.o.e.rske."

Hayes cursed. It wasn't like Clancy to burn the wrong house. "Do me a favor," he said. "Look in the phone book, and see what Karen Whitlaw's address is."

"Okay. Just a minute." The sound of riffling pages came through the phone line. "Whitfielda Whitfielda Whitlaw. There's no Karen Whitlaw listed, but there is a K. S. Whitlaw."

"Hold on." Hayes checked the file he had on Dexter Whitlaw's wife and daughter. The daughter's middle name was Simone. "That would be her."

"Okay. The address isa h.e.l.l, the address is the same as the h.o.e.rskes' house."

Hayes felt a headache forming behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fax everything you have to me."

"Sure."

Twenty seconds later, the fax machine was humming as it spit out the requested doc.u.ments. Hayes didn't bother with the police report; he picked up the copy of the newspaper account: "A fire yesterday morning destroyed the residence of Nathan and Lindsey h.o.e.rske. According to the fire marshall, the flame began in the kitchen. The h.o.e.rskes, who bought the home only four months before, were not at home at the time of the blaze."

Hayes tossed the sheet down. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened; the Whitlaw woman had sold the house. Probably Clancy had looked up her address in the phone book, but phone books were only updated once a year.

He called Clancy. As always, he got voice mail. "Leave a number," Clancy's voice instructed, without identifying himself. "If I know you, I'll call back."

"You f.u.c.ked up," Hayes said, also not identifying himself.

"The h.e.l.l I did," Clancy said, picking up the phone. He sounded p.i.s.sed; he wasn't used to customer dissatisfaction.

"She didn't live there, a.s.shole. She sold the house four months ago."

"Well, sonofab.i.t.c.h. I hate that, burning down a house for nothing."

"Find her. And this time, do the job right."

Senator Stephen Lake expected to be the next president; a lot of other people expected the same thing. He and his older brother, William, had been groomed for public office from the time they were born, but when William died, Stephen had become the heir apparent. The Lakes were lawyers and judges and politicians, and Stephen was the fourth generation to follow that path.

Senator Lake had always been acutely aware that William was his father's first choice, the apple of the old man's eye, and after William's death, Stephen had tried even harder to be the perfect politician, to make up to his father in some small way for the pain of losing his favorite son. He had set a sure and steady career course, building a reputation over the years as a man who always took the high road; an admirable position, Franklin Vinay thought, but the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, not to mention the agencies involved, would be better served by pragmatism than idealism.

The DDO didn't like being summoned to the senator's office like a schoolboy ordered before the princ.i.p.al. He went anyway, and none of his distaste was revealed in his expression as he sat in the beautifully appointed office. He did wonder, though, what had brought the senator back to the capital during August; the last Vinay had heard, Senator Lake had been happily settled at the Minnesota estate he so loved. Vinay couldn't imagine anything less than a national emergency luring any of the politicians from their vacations during the worst of the summer heat. Since he would have known before any congressman if there was a national emergency, perhaps even before the president, Vinay knew that wasn't the case.

That made Senator Lake's presence all the more curious, and Franklin Vinay wasn't a man who ignored curiosities.

"Coffee, Frank?" the senator asked, gesturing toward a pot.

"No, thanks. I'm not tough enough to drink coffee during this heat."

The senator laughed genially and helped himself to a cup, perhaps to prove he was tough enough. Vinay smiled, watching as the senator poured a single drop of cream into his coffee, wondering how many cups the senator would drink before he felt his manhood sufficiently established.

He didn't ask why the senator had summoned him. Vinay had been in the game a long time; he knew the power of silence, how to play the subtle game of position: force the other side to come out first. He didn't betray any anxiety, or any secrets, by rushing into speech. That they were ostensibly on the same side didn't matter; Vinay let no one force him into unguarded speech. When he knew what the senator wanted, then he would know how to react.

Unfortunately, Senator Lake was a great one for small talk, rather than getting to the point. "This is the hottest summer I can remember," he said, leaning back in his b.u.t.ter-soft leather chair. "Miserably hot. Normally, I take August for vacationa""

Like every politician in D.C. didn't, Vinay thought.

"a"maybe get in a little trout fishing. Do you fish, Frank?"

"Not in years." He'd been too busy trying to contain some noxious isms, such as communism and terrorism.

"You really should try to get away more. Fishing puts a man back in touch with nature. You get to see unspoiled parts of the country, and you remember that most of America doesn't live in big cities. Our media is so dominated by what happens in the cities that we tend to forget the concerns of the rest of the country."

Vinay opened his mouth to agree, but the senator waved a hand. "Here I am rambling on, and I know you're busy. I'll get to the point. One of my aides informed me that one of your contract agents has been killed in Mississippi. Rea.s.sure me, Frank, that he wasn't on an a.s.signment for you, and don't give me the standard quote that the CIA is forbidden to operate within our own borders. Being forbidden to do something and not doing it are two different things."

Vinay looked blank, but inside he was furious. The only way one of the senator's aides could find out about Rick Medina was from an inside source in Vinay's department. "Senator, there are no operations inside our borders, period. If a contract agent has been killeda"and I haven't heard anything about ita"then it was something unconnected to us."

"You haven't heard?" Now the senator looked blank. "Buta""

"We use a lot of contract agents. They also work for other countries, as you well know, whenever they aren't working for us. Perhaps this person was on a.s.signment, but not for us, and if that were the case, I wouldn't have any information on him or her. Which is it, by the way?"

"Whicha"?"

"A man or a woman?"

"Oha"a man. You truly haven't heard?"

"Like I said, if it doesn't concern the Agency, I would have no reason to be informed."

"I was informed this man's son is one of your people."

The senator had been informed of too G.o.dd.a.m.ned much, Vinay thought grimly. And if he really thought Vinay would identify one of his most important operatives, then the senator also expected too G.o.dd.a.m.ned much. "It's possible, but unless the death affected operationsa" He shrugged, to show how unimportant it was to him that a contract agent had been killed.

Senator Lake consulted a file. "The agent was Rick Medina. Does the name ring a bell?"

"Rick Medina!" Vinay managed a credible look of shock. "Are you sure of that?"

"My source is very reliable," the senator said stiffly. He wasn't accustomed to having his word questioned.

"I've known Rick for yearsa"not well, no one knew him well, but he was one of our most reliable contract agents. d.a.m.n!"

"Are you also acquainted with his son?"

"Rick didn't have a family," Vinay lied. "He was a complete loner."