See Jane Die Part 56

she reached him, "did you forget something?"

"Yes. This." He dragged her to his chest and brought his mouth to hers.

Stacy froze, shocked. In the next instant, hunger replaced surprise and pa.s.sion exploded inside her.

He dropped a hand to the small of her back and fitted her body against his. His other hand cupped the

back of her head. Beneath her palm his heart beat wildly. She curled her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt.

Fear, indecision and grief slipped away with the pressure of his mouth on hers. With the stroke of his

tongue, the movement of his fingers along her spine.

He broke away. "I've wanted to do that...G.o.d, for weeks."

Pleased, she cupped his face in her palms. "So why wait so long to do it again?"

She drew his mouth back to hers. A car pulled into the parking lot; the headlights' bright beams sliced

across them.

He pulled away, panting. "My place?"

"Where-"

"Not far."

"Yes, yours. I'll drive my-"

"No." He kissed her again. "You might change your mind."

"I won't. I couldn't-"

"Promise?"

She did and fumbled for her keys. She found them. Hands shaking, she unlocked the door and slipped inside. Jamming the key into the ignition, she twisted it. The engine roared to life. And doubt washed her. What was she thinking? One careless act and she catapulted from a crackerjack detective to a bimbo. Just like that.

Don't think, Stacy. For once, just go for it.

He wanted her. She wanted him.

She wanted not to be alone.

Stacy followed him. They drove recklessly, weaving around the few vehicles on the road, gunning

through yellow lights. They made his place in minutes, stumbled up the walk and inside. The moment the

door was closed and locked behind them, they fell into each others arms.

They undressed each other as they made their way to the bed-room, tugging and tearing at garments, removing holsters and service weapons, sighing as, finally, flesh met flesh.

They reached the bed, fell onto it. Their mating was raw, pa.s.sion edged with desperation. As if the act had taken on some heightened importance, a kind of ferocity she didn't understand but reacted to instinctively.

And afterward, regrets rained down on her. She had slept with her partner. Broken one of her own cardinal rules. Opened herself to criticism, speculation and gossip.

Dammit. She rolled away from him and stared up at the ceiling.

"Stop it, Stacy" he murmured. "No second-guessing."

"Easy for you to say. Unlike me, you have nothing to lose here."

"I don't see it that way." He reached across the rumpled sheet and curved his fingers around her arm.

"We wanted each other. We are for each other. What's the down side?"

"You're being deliberately naive. We're partners, Mac. Female detectives who sleep with their partners

lose credibility. And you now it."

"You're a.s.suming I'm going to brag. That p.i.s.ses me off." He tightened his grip on her arm. "I'm not that kind of guy."

At the challenge in his tone, she looked at him. She believed him, she realized. That he meant what he

said. That he would keep his promise.

Until, for whatever reason, this fling was over and his ego needed a boost. She had seen it happen time and again. She had thought the women who had allowed themselves to be put in that position were stupid and weak-willed. She had promised herself she never would.

And here she was.

"Stacy-" He ever so gently turned her face to his. "This is be-tween us. It's not about anyone else, not for anyone's else's ears or entertainment." He lowered his voice. "I won't let anyone hurt you. Trust me."

She wanted to. More, maybe, than she had ever wanted anything.

The seconds ticked past. He trailed his thumb tenderly across her cheekbone, down to her mouth. She trembled, the response in-voluntary, shocking as it spoke to the depth of her pa.s.sion.

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry?" he asked.

She opened her mouth; nothing came out. Truth was, she didn't want him to be sorry. She wished for him

to say the opposite. That what they'd shared had been special. Important. That he would be with her again, their jobs be d.a.m.ned.

And then her wish came true.

"I won't do it, Stacy. Because I'm not sorry." A smile touched his mouth. "I'm d.a.m.n glad, actually. So

there. What are you going to do about it?"

"Maybe I'll be the one to brag."

"Think it'll boost your image in the department?"

"You bet. Another conquest for Killian. What a stud."

He smiled and drew her fully against him. His arousal pressed against her belly. "You are good. I'd vouch

for that."

She eased her hand between them, found him and squeezed.

"Maybe I should prove it?"

"Oh, no you don't." Lightening quick, he had her on her back, arms pinned above her head. "My turn."

FORTY-FOUR.

Friday, November 7, 2003

7:10 a.m.

Stacy awakened to the sound of Mac's deep, rhythmic breathing. She checked the clock and saw that it was still early, just after seven. She slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to disturb him. She spot-ed a stack of folded laundry and crossed to it. After selecting a big, soft T-shirt, she padded to the bathroom. She relieved herself, then cleaned up, using toothpaste on her finger to brush her teeth.

Peering into the mirror, she smiled. Not too bad for almost no sleep. And she felt almost...refreshed.

o.r.g.a.s.ms: nature's answer to stress and sleep deprivation.

Turning from the mirror, she left the bathroom and tiptoed out of the bedroom, collecting her hastily discarded garments from the night before as she did. She folded them, her thoughts turning to food. And coffee.

She padded toward the kitchen, taking time to notice things she had missed the night before: that Mac could use a housekeeper, that he enjoyed nice things, and that he collected old movie posters. That surprised her.

She stopped in front of a framed poster from Rebel Without a Cause, on the opposite wall hung one from On the Waterfront and The G.o.dfather.

She ducked into the kitchen. Black-and-white-tile counters and vintage gla.s.s-fronted cabinets dated the kitchen to the fifties. Mac, like her, was a coffee drinker. Thank G.o.d. She found a pound of beans, the grinder and filters and had a pot brewing in no time.

Food, she realized as she peered into the refrigerator, would be more difficult.

"Morning, beautiful."

She looked over her shoulder. Mac stood in the kitchen doorway, looking sleepy and satisfied. He was

buck naked. He held her shoulder holster and service weapon, a Glock 40, police issue, fifteen-round semiautomatic. "You forgot your gun."

She laughed and took the pistol. "My Walton and Johnson."

"Excuse me?"

"Instead of a Smith & Wesson. Jane got confused."