Fontanas Trouble (3 page)

Fontana nodded. “End
transmission.”

The telecommunications link faded
back to a mirror. She leaned against the metal back of the chair and stared at
her reflection. This vacation needed to get a whole lot better in order to get
her back into shape to return to the field.

The door chimed. Fontana spoke a
command to fade the door to one-way visibility. She straightened. The naked man
stood outside her door now dressed in khakis and a safari shirt.

“Find a man,”
Stephaney
had said.
“Reaffirm life. Let him fuck your brains out.”

Why not?

Chapter Three

The man shifted, and the
loose-fitting white shirt went taut across his broad shoulders. Memory of his
tanned skin and steel muscle hit like a thunderbolt, and Fontana’s stomach did
a flip.

He grinned, a sure sign he knew
he was being viewed through a one-way door. Desire rippled through her on a
slow, sure wave that promised heart-stopping pleasure. She’d known good-looking
men. Ray, her last serious relationship five years ago, had been gorgeous.
She’d been mad for him, but the man standing outside her door had a quality
about him that made her want to snuggle up against him and fall asleep.

Fontana snorted. Her body would
disagree. Right now the part between her legs throbbed with an insistent desire
to fuck him—hard. Maybe then the flutter in her heart would have a say, and
she’d fall asleep wrapped in his arms. That would be a welcome change to the
sleepless nights she’d spent since Jenny’s death. It would be a temporary fix,
but she could use at least one good night’s rest.

She sighed. First she’d better
deal with the damned raincoat and find out how the naked man had escaped the
shock troopers. Then there was the little matter of how he’d found out where
she was staying.

Fontana rose and smoothed the
form-fitting blouse and poly-cotton slacks she wore. “Open door,” she said, and
the door dematerialized.

His stare slid down her body, and
her nipples tightened to a delicious discomfort—and one he couldn’t miss under
the millipore fabric of her top.

“Well, Mr. Long John.”

His blue eyes returned to her
face. “Long John?”

She stepped aside and motioned
him in. “Last time I saw you, your long johnson was standing at attention.”

He entered, and the door
rematerialized behind him. “Give him a minute, and he’ll be at your command
again.”

“What are you doing here?”

He wrapped an arm around her
waist. “You said to look you up.”

She spun out of his grasp and
backed up. “How did you find me?”

“Spacer Jack’s is brimming with
information.”

He was right. She’d figured that
out the first time she’d walked in. Even a benign resort like Club Sagitariun
had a dark side. Proof stood right in front of her in all its masculine glory.
No. All his masculine glory had been long, hard, and ready to go in the alley.
Damn shock troopers. Ten more minutes and she would have had a quick hard ride
on his steel rod.

He continued to advance.

She retreated. “Where’s my
raincoat?”

He grasped her hand. “What do you
need with a man’s raincoat?”

“The owner is looking for it.”

“Forget about him.” He stepped
closer.

“Can’t.”

“I came to thank you for the
coat. Let me buy you breakfast.”

Some offer—and not what she had
in mind for jump-starting a morning that had begun four hours ago for her.

“It’s not my coat,” she said.

“We’ll find the owner and thank
him—later. We have some unfinished business.”

Heat radiated from his body. Her
pulse sped up. The smile at the corners of his mouth deepened. Her calves made
contact with the bed. He stepped closer, grasped her hand, and pressed her palm
over his heart.

Fontana ignored the warmth
spreading through her and locked gazes with him. “What did those shock troopers
want?”

He shrugged. “Never found out.”

“They never caught you.”

“I had to elude them so I could
be here.”

That had a certain logic she
liked.

His fingers gently tightened over
the hand still pressed against his heart. “You’ve got my heart beating like
crazy.”

She noted the hard muscle of his
chest, under which only a regular heartbeat thumped, and pulled her hand away.
“It’s not nice to lie.”

“I’m hurt.”

She wanted to laugh. He actually
did look hurt.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten
all that we’ve shared,” he said.

Now she did laugh. Fontana was
startled at the unexpected relief she felt. She hadn’t laughed since setting
foot on Rigil IV. He cut off her thoughts by pulling her against him. His mouth
crashed down onto hers. The hard ridge of his arousal dug into her stomach. She
could almost believe she had a special effect on him. Almost. But that erection
was just a little too ready—a little too eager—to belong to anyone but a
working man.

So what was he doing here when he
could be making a fortune with some bored rich wife who’d been ignored too long
by her husband? His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, and she decided she
didn’t care. Hard-cock-will-service was exactly what she needed. Fontana parted
her lips, and he thrust inside, hot, moist, and tasting of a sultry maleness
she had gone without far too long.

He broke the kiss, flashed a
wicked grin, and shoved her onto the bed. She didn’t roll away but let him land
on top of her, his weight pressing her into the memory foam mattress. As
promised, his cock was ready for her command. And damn if her pussy wasn’t
ready to give orders. Fontana grasped his shoulders, heaved, and rolled on top
of him. He stared up at her, brows raised.

“What if I hurt you?” she asked.

His eyes widened in mock alarm.
“That’s a deal breaker.”

He slid a hand into the hair at
her nape and pulled her mouth to his. His soft, warm lips brushed hers. Fontana
relaxed as he wrapped her close. The scent of him, like polished steel, made
her clit tighten.

She slid a kiss along his jaw to
his neck and nibbled the warm flesh. Fontana froze, remembering the one
question she should have asked. “Why were you running naked through Spacer
Jack’s?” she said against his neck.

He laughed, the sound like
rolling thunder deep inside his chest. “What would you say if I said it was
because I wanted your attention?”

She lifted her head and met his
gaze. “I’d say you’re a liar.”

“What would you know about liars?”

“It’s my job to know,” she said.

“Your job?” he asked. “Are you
working now?”

“I’m on vacation. What about
you?”

“I can work on you.”

She just bet he could. An
unexpected prick to her heart startled her. Dammit, the last month had been an
emotional seesaw. She had to quit thinking and act.

He cupped her ass and lifted his
hips, sliding his cock along her belly. Fontana closed her eyes, concentrated
on the thickening erection. She wanted him. Now. Fontana pushed upright,
straddled his hips, and began unbuttoning his shirt. After four buttons, the
shirt opened enough to expose tanned flesh muscled beyond perfection. Just like
she’d remembered. Working the remaining buttons free, she drank in the sight of
his broad chest as she shoved the shirt back.

He rolled each shoulder forward,
allowing her to pull the sleeves free from his arms. In a feather-light touch,
she trailed her fingertips down his arms and over the rippling expanse of
muscle. What would those arms feel like locked around her as he pounded into
her? Would they tighten when he climaxed? Would they tighten when she climaxed?

She paused and shifted her gaze
to his face. “What’s your name, by the way?”

Amusement showed in his eyes, and
her heart rate sped up. Here she was thinking again. She should have forgone
the introduction and just let him fuck her silly.

“Yari,” he said. “Brent Yari. And
you’re Fontana.”

How had he known—“Ahmed,” she
murmured.

“Don’t blame Ahmed.” Brent’s grin
was infectious, and she smiled back. “I was very persuasive,” he said.

She lifted a brow. “How
persuasive?”

His gaze locked with hers, he
reached for her waistband. When he fumbled with the old-fashioned buttons, he
dropped his gaze to her slacks. He flicked her a questioning look, and she
shrugged. She’d opted for the buttons instead of the more common self-sealing
fabric. He finally managed the buttons, then sat up and eased her onto her back
between his legs. He planted kisses on her belly while tugging the fabric down
over her hips. Warm breath washed over her curls, and Fontana thought she would
explode when he placed an all—too-chaste kiss on her mound before pulling her
slacks free from her legs.

She made quick work of her
form-fitting shirt, and his warm hands slid up her torso and cupped her
breasts. His “um” expressed satisfaction before he ran his hands down her
sides, sending tingles rippling around her rib cage. Fontana sat up and
straddled his hips, forcing him back onto the bed. She flattened her hands on
his shoulders and pinned him to the mattress. Everything about him radiated
sex—especially the way his gaze followed the upward slide of her moist pussy
along the rippled planes of his chest.

The soft curls covering his chest
were like tiny strands of silk, tickling the swollen edges of her folds and
sending gooseflesh racing across her arms. She rubbed her moist folds around
his right nipple. His shoulder muscles tensed beneath her fingers, but she held
him firm and shifted to the left nipple. He groaned and grasped her ass,
massaging her clit against the marbled peak of his nipple.

Her stomach tightened. Still
holding him against the bed, she lifted one knee over his shoulder and braced
on the mattress beside his head. His pupils dilated, and satisfaction rippled
through her with the realization that he hadn’t understood her intent until
that moment. She lifted the other knee over his head and positioned her pussy
centimeters above his face.

Her heart caught in her throat
when he took a deep breath and inhaled her scent. Desire streaked through her
at the totally male…totally primitive action. She held her breath as he cupped
her ass, then coaxed her fleshy mound down onto his waiting mouth.

Chapter Four

Warm lips closed around her
pussy. Fontana was on fire. She gasped. More. She needed more. Her clit tightened
with the need to be touched. It had been too long—and wouldn’t take much to
bring her to climax. That was fine with her. The way his fingers felt digging
into the soft flesh of her ass while his tongue thrust between her folds had
her already anticipating a second orgasm with those long digits inside her. His
cock filling her would be the grand finale.

The tip of his tongue tilted
upward and lapped at her juices. Her breath caught. Was that satiny tongue
going to flick the aroused nub? Fontana shifted in order to give him quick
access, but his grip on her ass tightened, holding her in place. A tremor
rippled through her stomach. His tongue thrust inside her channel, careful to
stay clear of her clit. Tease! God, where did these guys learn how to bring a
woman to the brink with such intensity?

His lips abruptly closed around
her clit, and he drew the nub into his mouth like it was a nipple. Pleasure
rocketed through her. Fontana cried out. His mouth loosened. Then his tongue
flicked her clit. She drew in a sharp breath. He flicked and sucked. She ground
her pussy against his face, rocked hard, heedless of anything but the building
pressure that tightened her belly and yanked on her pussy until she came in a
spasm that took her breath away. Cream gushed from her channel, but he didn’t
stop. Instead, he lapped and sucked her sex again.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

Her legs clamped tight around his
head. Pressure built like an overloaded warp core. She wondered if she could
handle a second orgasm so soon, so intense, but he didn’t give her the chance
to decide. Pleasure burst across her senses. Euphoria flooded her, and she felt
as if she’d melted. He slid her down beside him. Her heart pounded.

He drew her close and nibbled on
her earlobe. “You tasted so sweet.”

A small thrill shot through her.
Heat dripped inside her, and despite the orgasm she’d barely had time to
recover from, she ached to feel him inside her. He cupped a breast. She
shivered at the feel of his warm palm kneading the soft, swollen flesh. Fontana
snuggled closer and felt the hard ridge of his desire, still separated by the
thin layer of his pants.

In the alley, he’d been so hard
and ready. She would never forget how good he’d felt in her fingers, like
velvet iron, hot and ready for the forge between her legs. She wanted to curl
her fingers around his perfect shaft again. Fontana reached between them,
unbuttoned his pants, and tugged at the waistband. He took the hint and
shimmied out of the pants.

His erection pointed toward her
like a beacon. Her mouth went dry. How was it possible for him to look even
better than he had in the alley? He pulled her close again, and her pulse
spiked at the feel of his rod, heavy against her thigh. He was going to feel so
good inside her. He kissed her slow and easy as if he had all the time in the
world and she was the only woman in the world. No matter what happened
tomorrow, she needed this.

His hand slid down her hip, along
her thigh, then in between her legs. Fontana opened for him, and he slid a
finger between her soaked folds. Her breath quickened when he began an
in-and-out rhythm. His head dipped, and he took a nipple into his mouth. Desire
intensified. She rocked her hips up and down. His finger entered her on a down
thrust. A whimper escaped her lips.

Pleasure drove her higher. He
worked his finger in and out, and she let him drive her. Waves of pleasure made
her squirm as she rocked her hips.

“Brent,” she gasped.

He gave a low chuckle but didn’t
stop.

The wave broke over her, flooding
her with pleasure. He kept fucking her with his finger, and then a second wave
came, leaving in its trail the ache to have him inside her.

“I need you here.” She pulled him
on top of her and guided him inside her channel.

He moaned with pleasure as he
slid in and buried himself balls-deep inside her sheath. She clenched her
channel walls around him. His weight came down fully upon her, and she reveled
in the male hardness that pinned her to the bed. He pulled out, then drove
deeper. She rocked against him, their hips colliding with each plunge. Desire
rocketed through her. She held on to his powerful shoulders and wrapped her
legs around his waist. Pleasure rippled through her.

His thrusts quickened. He buried
his face in her neck. Warm breath bathed her skin. Shivers raced across her
arms. His cock plunged deeper until she thought she’d burst apart at the seams.
Fontana cried out. He groaned as her channel walls milked his cock. His arms
tightened around her like a vise. She gasped for breath, melting into his
powerful hold, and his weight came down fully on her. She detected a quiver in
his large body as he planted kisses on her jaw and neck.

“Fawn, you are perfect.”

She stilled. “Fawn?”

“Short for Fontana.”

Fawn. Her great uncle had
shortened her name to Fawn. He’d died when she was ten, and Mason was the only
person to still call her by the nickname.

Brent hugged her close, and
Fontana wanted like hell to give in to her first impulse and fall asleep in his
arms.

“That was as close to perfect as
it gets,” she said.

“Give me a few minutes, and maybe
we can top that.”

“Not possible.” Her heart still
pounded out a fast rhythm.

“We’ll see.”

Brent gave her a hard kiss on the
mouth, then rolled off her onto the mattress and slid an arm beneath her
shoulders, pulling her close. She snuggled against him, touching as much of him
as possible—hot, perspiration soaked, and still hard. That was good enough to
prove he was a professional. What the hell. He’d given her a ride she wouldn’t
soon forget.

He nuzzled her neck. “Fantastic.”

She made a halfhearted effort to
push him away, then gave up and melted into him again. Maybe she could talk him
into staying awhile. If they got tired of fucking, they could get around to
discussing quantum physics, philosophy, maybe even business logistics.

A commotion sounded from the
hallway—shouts, scuffling—and a ridiculously robotic voice boomed, “Surrender,
Brent Yari.”

The door to her room vanished. A
six-armed security sentry floated into the room. Fontana bolted upright. The
robot’s three eyes swept right and left.

Brent leaped from the bed,
pulling the sheet from her grasp.

“Stop, Brent Yari,” the sentry
ordered.

Brent sprinted to the French
doors and disappeared outside. Fontana stared. Was he actually running through
the streets nearly naked a second time?

A laser beam spit from the
sentry’s middle eye and hit the door frame. Faux wood splintered. Fontana dove
for cover on the far side of the bed. The robot glided out the French doors
after Brent. An elderly couple in the hall gawked through the open hallway door
to her room.

“Close door,” Fontana ordered.

Nothing happened.

She cursed. The damn robot had
overridden voice command. The elderly couple still stared. Fontana, naked and
shielded by the bed, waited, but they wouldn’t move on.

“Stupid tourists,” she muttered
and rose.

Fontana strutted toward them. The
smile on the man’s face was priceless. She punched in the code on the panel
beside the door, and the door rematerialized. The sound of a slap and the
woman’s incomprehensible curse filtered through the door. Fontana turned back
toward her room. Damn Brent, streaking again. He better not take a coat from
another woman.

* * * *

That afternoon, after thirty laps
in the pool, Fontana sat at the vanity in her room in a luxurious white terry
robe, scrolling through the restaurant and nightclub listings on the desktop
display. The resort specialized in Earth communities, from Albania to Zaire,
and all eras from ancient Egypt to the ultramodern.

Irish pubs were out because Jenny
had been an Irish redhead. Wild West saloons reminded her of Rigil IV. Anything
spacecraft related made Fontana think of Jenny’s remains in that S-warp drone
speeding through the cold vacuum of space alone. There had to be some news of
the freighter that had disappeared after customs challenged her. What did the
freighter have to do with Jenny’s murder, and what had Gaelen Castor thought
Jenny knew that made it worth torturing and killing her?

Fontana paused on a page that
displayed black-and-white headshots of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.
Rick’s Café Américain, the best gin joint in Morocco.

She had copies of seventy-four of
the seventy-five feature films Bogart had acted in on her data-cube. The
missing one was an army training film lost to time and decay. He had starred in
fifty-one of the films, but Bogie was a man she couldn’t get enough of, and
she’d tracked down his first twenty-nine films and bought them for a small
fortune.

If she dressed in costume for
Rick’s, would Brent come dressed as Rick or Laszlo? In the hours since he’d
been chased from her room by the robot, she’d vacillated between tracking him
down and settling for what he’d already given her. Curiosity had gotten the
better of her—curiosity and the fact that she’d been unable to locate the robot
that had broken in on them.

The hotel directory listed Brent
as staying at the Hong Kong Hilton. She wasn’t sure if the fact he was a guest
at the hotel meant he wasn’t one of the planet’s escorts. Her heart fluttered.
Had he fucked her because he found her attractive, or was he looking for some
rich bitch to bankroll him? The resort charged exorbitant rates, and he didn’t
know the Corps had paid her bill.

His check-in and check-out dates
were set to private, which didn’t confirm anything. With a deep breath, Fontana
punched up a connection to his hotel room and got his video mail.

“Brent. It’s Fontana.” She
paused, surprised how fast her heart was beating. She should have set her side
to voice-only so he couldn’t see the unease she was sure showed on her face.
All she was doing was calling some guy.

You’re thirty-two years old.
You can pursue a man.

Anxiety quivered in her stomach.
“I was thinking.” Her voice wavered. “I’m going to be at Rick’s Café tonight,
if you’re interested in meeting for a late supper. Around eight?”

Now what?

“Hope to see you there.” She hung
up, feeling even more inept than when Daniel Tanner had given her her first
adult kiss at the age of sixteen. Had being without a man this last year turned
her into a quivering virgin? She grinned. Not if this morning was any
indication.

Remembering the dress Ingrid wore
when she and Bogie had danced, Fontana switched the display to wardrobe and
said, “White chiffon.” She paused. She might not be in the dress long, but she
wanted Brent to salivate to get her out of it. “Casablanca, Ingrid Bergman,
ankle-length white skirt, blazer, tailored collar, circa 1942—synthetic,” she
added. Synthetics were complimentary as part of the all-inclusive package.
“Sheer white scarf,” she added. “Floor length.” Ingrid looked damned sultry
with that scarf draped around her hair. Had Ingrid worn anything beneath the
blazer? Hell yes, but Fontana wasn’t going to.

Confirmation came that the outfit
would be delivered to her closet in five minutes. Fontana grimaced. How many
other Ingrid Bergmans would be there? She shrugged. As long as Brent saw only
her, who cared?

Rick’s was only two blocks away,
close enough to walk in heels, but she had tokens, so she ordered a cab to pick
her up at 8:15 p.m., fashionably late. She could make a grand appearance,
stepping out of the cab, one long gam at a time, in case he waited for her
outside.