Hot Pursuit (34 page)

“I think I can manage,” he said dryly.

“I'm not so sure. You look like you'll pass out any second.” Taylor turned back the soft cotton sheets on the bed and mounded up the pillows. “If so, I'll take off whatever I see fit,” she said huskily.

“You're welcome to try. I might be deadweight after all.” Jack pulled her down onto his lap. “Sorry. I had other plans for how we'd spend our first few hours out of that car.”

She touched his face, smoothing the lines of exhaustion. “Later, Navy. This is just a temporary reprieve. Tonight I figure we can start at the hot tub and work our way across every usable surface from there. You interested?”

Heat flared in his eyes. “Can dogs bark?”

But Taylor pushed him back onto the bed and tugged off his shoes. “Don't bother looking at me like that. When I have my way with you, I expect you to manage to be semi-conscious.”

He made a muffled sound as his shoes hit the floor. After some maneuvering, Taylor pulled off his shirt, avoiding the bandage on his upper arm.

Then she went to work on his belt.

It was embarrassing to see that her hands weren't quite steady.

She blew out a breath, trying not to feel the rock-hard stomach and rigid abs, or remember how much she wanted to have him touch her in this big bed.

“I'll find something for you to eat, if you're hungry. Soup. Milk.”
Stop babbling, O'Toole.
“The truth is, I can cook. An egg.”
With a little luck.
“How about some iced tea?”

Jack muttered as she slid his belt free, and Taylor swallowed in sheer lust as his pants rode low over lean, hard hips.

Sweet Mary, the man was built, no question about it.

Right now, she wanted to strip off his pants and see all the rest of that prime body. Touching him was going to take her a great deal of time.

But not now.

With a pang of regret, she shut down one of her better fantasies and went to work on his zipper, trying to keep her fingers from straying to the straining cloth on either side. She cursed as the metal stuck twice.

Sweat touched her brow.
He's just a man, damn it. It's not like you've never touched a hunk before. Rein yourself in.

A drop of sweat fell, beading against those gorgeous stomach muscles and sliding down to the curve of his navel. Taylor wanted to moan with sheer, excruciating lust.

Forget the zipper. Forget taking off his clothes.

She shoved the snap free on his jeans and left it at that, her hands shaking when she stood up. “You're on your own from here.”

There was no answer.

“Jack?”

The pillow rustled. His fingers moved, opening to encircle hers, then closing hard.

Something tightened in her throat at that one simple movement. She needed to be touched now, Taylor realized. The horror of the night before was still too close. Every time she closed her eyes she saw shadows and blood, then Agent Rodriguez's fallen body. “Aren't you ever frightened?” she whispered to Jack.

His hand moved, pinning her arm to the bed, but he didn't answer. When Taylor looked up, he was fast asleep. She tugged on his hand, trying to pull away, but his fingers only tightened. Even in sleep, he wouldn't let her go.

She sank down and curled into his hard body. At least she could feel him beside her, even if it was simply to sleep. In fact, self-restraint was probably good practice. Whatever happened, she couldn't let the magic of this high valley make her conjure up impossible dreams that had no place in the cold reality of her future.

In a few weeks Jack would be gone, vanished into a jungle in South America or a stormy sea in Asia. It was what SEALs did. And they didn't look back.

Taylor took a long breath, trying to ignore the magic scent of sage and lavender drifting through the open window. Somewhere to the south, jagged peaks shimmered like smoke above the vast green floor of the desert, and a hawk cried as it soared through the turquoise sky. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was a dust devil churning up the valley, raising a tall brown cone of mayhem as it scattered rocks and sticks in its path.

Taylor knew exactly how those rocks felt, as Jack's hard body brushed against hers in sleep.

Chapter Thirty-seven

“They're not quite what I thought.” Down in the main house, Tess McCall sipped a cup of herbal tea. “She's quiet, thoughtful. And he's . . .” Her lips curved.

“He's what?” her husband demanded.

“Most women would call him a hunk.”

The sheriff snorted.

“No need to be jealous, T.J. Most women would say you're a hunk, too.”

She heard another snort.

“Are they really in danger?”

T.J. McCall sat back in his chair, watching his daughters play in the courtyard. “I'm afraid so. Izzy knows when to play and when to fold. If he sent them here, the threat's real.”

His wife stared thoughtfully at the casita. “I'll make them some dinner later.”

T.J. shook his head. “Afraid not. You and the girls are going into town to stay with Mae until this is over.”

Tess's chin rose. “We are
not
.”

“Don't argue with me about this, Duchess.” The gentle hand at her cheek took the sting from the order. “I won't have you in danger, and that's final. I'll handle things from here, and of course Miguel will be around.”

“You expect Miguel to cook? To be a hostess?”

T.J. chuckled. “I doubt those two will be out of the casita for hours. Did you see how he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching? The man was exhausted, but he still couldn't hide his feelings.”

Tess's eyes softened. “I saw. Too bad she didn't see. Maybe I should—”

“No matchmaking. They've got enough to worry about right now.”

“But I—”

He cut off her musings with a slow kiss, pulling her onto his lap and sliding his fingers through her hair.

“T.J., the girls,” she rasped.

“The girls are too busy mutilating my new chile crop to notice anything.” He slid one hand under her sweater and cupped the soft swell of her breast. “Your breasts are getting bigger.”

“Is that a complaint?”

He shifted, bringing her into the saddle of his thighs. “Does it feel as if I'm complaining?”

Tess McCall's lips curved in a smile of sheer feminine possession. “Not where I'm sitting. So you're banishing us to town,” she whispered, drawing his fingers through hers. “This calls for serious negotiation. What's in it for me if I go?”

The girls ran across the courtyard, following the flash of a hummingbird, their sneakers raising a small storm of dust in the quiet sunlight.

“I suppose I could find something.” T.J. brushed aside silk and lace to find the sensitive curve of one nipple. His long fingers roamed, stroking smoothly.

“Such as?”

He bent closer, whispering huskily.

Tess took a sharp breath, shifting on his hard thighs. “That sounds illegal, Sheriff.”

“Not while I'm wearing the badge, honey. If I give you the cuffs,
then
it would be illegal.”

His wife tilted her head. “The last time you cuffed me, I was trying my darnedest to leave town.”

“And you weren't complaining after I got you back.” His eyes darkened. “Even though I didn't think we could walk for a week.”

Tess drew a husky breath. “Maybe we could drop off the girls with Mae, then take the Blazer for a little drive up into the foothills. Someplace quiet, where we could try out the backseat.” She smiled. “Again.”

T.J. arched one dark eyebrow. “Highway safety is always a priority. I'd be remiss if I didn't check out the side roads.” He found her other breast and coaxed a sigh from her parted lips. “Miguel can keep an eye on things here for an hour or so.”

Tess sat up stiffly. “You wouldn't tell him that we—”

Her husband snorted. “I won't say a word, but sometimes I think that man can read minds.”

Tess's cheeks went red. “You mean—”

“Let me worry about Miguel, Duchess.” T.J. pulled her to her feet. “You herd the girls out to the Blazer while I get your bags.”

Becca and Katie peeked around the bougainvillea vines, giggling. “Stop kissing her, Daddy. She's all red.”

“Ladies get red sometimes. You two come help me find your bags while your mother stops being red.”

Katie frowned at her dusty sneaker. “I don't
ever
want someone kissing me. Nobody except for you and Momma. Maybe Becca.” She screwed up her perfect little cheeks. “But no
boys
.”

The sheriff shoved back his Stetson and smiled. “A good thing, too, darlin.' I'd have to shoot any boy who tried.”

Katie looked shocked for a moment, then saw her father's lazy smile. “You're teasing, Daddy.” She took Becca's hand and danced up the walk. “Last one to the car's a stinky old crow's egg.”

“As for you, ma'am, I have some thoughts in mind,” T.J. murmured. “And it's not wise to argue with an officer of the law.”

“Always giving orders.” Tess pursed her lips. “Just remember, a woman can do a lot of damage with a pair of handcuffs.”

“A man can always hope.”

Tess's laugh was a smoky ripple of pleasure as she drew his arm through hers.

 

“How did they get away?” The South American voice on the cell phone rose in a crescendo of fury.

“They had a car waiting. Now they're gone and two of my men are dead.” Viktor Lemka took his time before continuing. “That's going to cost you.”

“You know we will pay. Just find us the compounds that the scientist promised.”

“All the rest is with the damned American woman.”

“Then
get
her.”

“Oh, I plan to. But your contact didn't tell me the man guarding her was a Navy SEAL.” Viktor's voice hardened. “Or that his friend was an ex-DEA field operative with a black belt in Tae Kwon Do.”

“I will call my contact and—”

“You will call
no one
.” The Albanian studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. In the darkness outside, road lights flashed past. “I'm already on my way. Get the final payment ready, because I will have the woman soon.”

He cut off the call and flicked his cigarette out the window, whistling as he considered his next plan. He'd always loved American heroes.

Now he would have a chance to see just how tough these Americans really were.

Chapter Thirty-eight

FROM TAYLOR'S BOOK OF RULES:
Amor vincit omnia.
According to the Romans, anyway.

She was going to make biscuits if it
killed
her.

Taylor glared at the flour-covered cookbook on the counter. One cup of buttermilk. One-half stick of butter. A teaspoon of something else. And what in the heck was a pastry cutter?

She dropped the butter into the flour and sneezed as powder flew everywhere. Muttering, she went to work with her fingers, squeezing in the butter just the way the directions said. When things were nice and gooey, she turned the mess out on a wooden board and kneaded it hard.

With any luck, cooking would make her stop thinking about Jack, and how he'd felt before she'd finally managed to wriggle out from beneath him. She closed her eyes, feeling her brain start to short-circuit all over again. It was bad enough to smell his scent, a mix of soap and man and fresh air that drove her crazy.

Then he'd rolled over, pinning her beneath him on the bed, one thigh across her hip. That's when her circuits had really blown.

And all the time, the big, dumb man was stretched out on top of her, sound asleep.

Taylor slammed the dough down against the board. Because it felt so good, she did it again. “What is wrong with this picture? All I want is a little uncomplicated sex. What is so damned difficult about
that
?”

She shoved a strand of hair out of her eyes, blinking as dough streaked her face. Probably Jack would have another excuse when he got up, something about mission integrity or operational preparedness. Taylor wondered how she could have convinced herself he was your ordinary, garden-variety P.I. when the man had SEAL written all over him.

Maybe she'd wanted to be deceived. If she believed he was a regular civilian, they could have a chance at a future together.

Taylor whacked the dough hard.

Not that she cared either way. Let the lug try to maneuver her into bed now and see what happened. He'd find out how it felt to be on the receiving end of a huge yawn.

Taylor shoved the dough into a circle and began cutting out biscuits with a glass. She refused to think about getting up close and personal with that amazing body stretched out in the bed next door.

Metal clattered as she shoved a row of uneven biscuits onto a tray bound for the oven. Who said baking was hard? All it took was a little organization and research, skills which any author had.

Her eyes narrowed. Too bad you couldn't conjure up stunning sex with the same ease. Not that she was going to think about sex.

She closed the cookbook with a snap, wondering what she should do next. Sleep was impossible. With all this nervous energy, writing was out of the question, too. Pacing would be downright humiliating.

She rubbed at her cheek, spreading the streak of wet dough. Probably she should go clean up. Maybe she'd try a cold shower. No,
frigid
shower.

She checked the clock, added up minutes until the biscuits would be done, and decided she had just enough time to—

Callused fingers circled her wrists. “Going somewhere?”

He turned her slowly and she nearly swallowed her tongue.

Jack's face was lined with stubble, his eyes were heavy with sleep, and he was naked except for a pair of partially unbuttoned jeans that left Taylor a mouthwatering view of great abs, sculpted shoulders, and a wedge of dark hair that tapered down and vanished beneath tight denim.

Her heart punched hard.
Don't lose it here, O'Toole. No need to get double vision over a naked male chest.

“To shower,” she snapped. “And I'd appreciate if you'd let go of my hands.”

He backed her against the kitchen cabinet. “What's the white goop on your face?”

“The white goop is buttermilk dough. I'm making biscuits,” she said stonily. “And I need to clean up while they cook.”

His fingers were at her belt, tugging at the knot. “You can shower later. In fact, we can shower together.”

“Sorry. Not interested.”
Who
wasn't interested? Why was she fighting him?

Because a woman had her pride, to say nothing of her honor and self-respect. All of these demanded she prove her control was fully operational.

“Why aren't you asleep?” she demanded.

“I slept long enough.”

She stared down at his hands, locked around her wrists. “Do you mind?”

His eyes narrowed. “Definitely. And just for the record, you can forget about the shower.”

Taylor realized she was caught against the kitchen cabinet. His hands snaked under her robe, hot and hard. “What are you doing?” She bit back a gasp as he caught her hips and lifted her onto the smooth counter, moving between her thighs.

Rough denim and straining muscle pressed against her sensitive skin.

No whimpering,
she told herself sternly.
No begging, either. Remember your pride.
“Is there a point to this display?”

His lips curved. “I'm getting to it.” He slid her robe open slowly. “I just need to have your undivided attention.”

Taylor felt color shoot into her face as her body lay revealed to him, covered by the sheerest triangle of pink lace. He could see most of her, right down to the auburn curls showing through the strategically placed flower cutout.

A muscle moved at his jaw. “Nice lingerie. Mind if they get ruined?”

She couldn't manage an answer, held by the energy in his eyes. “Ruined how?”

“Any damned way I feel like.” There was something in his face, in his touch, that hadn't been there before. It was primitive, unnerving.

Her breasts tightened, brushed his chest. She swallowed hard. “Jack, I don't—”

“Yeah, you do. We both do. We've waited too damned long already,” he said harshly. His fingers circled her waist, drawing her forward until she rode damply against him, pressed against straining denim.

Taylor made a low sound, wanting him blindly, and to hell with pride. She speared her fingers into his hair and jerked him down. Their hungry kiss was all teeth and tongue.

She pulled away, shaking her head. “I though we tried everything important in that motel room.”

“Honey, we haven't even started. I've got things in mind they don't have names for.”

“I hope that's a promise.” She licked his upper lip and bit him lightly, then slid her tongue hungrily over his, wildly pleased when he ground out a graphic one-word response. The thought of his control in shreds left her grinning as she ran her hands along those hard shoulders, then worked her way beneath his snug jeans to revel in the erection straining blatantly against her.

Her legs rose, wrapped around his waist. Cursing with impatience, Jack shoved aside her robe and bent low, his mouth against her breast.

Taylor pushed down the zipper, shoving down his jeans, intent on exploring what felt like a truly awesome erection.

When he sprang free and filled her fingers, Taylor closed her eyes, instinctively lifting her body, pressing against the warm, straining tip of his penis. “Now,” she rasped.

He held her hips and stroked between her thighs. One finger, then two pushed inside her.

“Jack?”

Slowly he skimmed her slick skin. “You're driving me insane.”

Taylor moaned and drove against him harder.

“A body in motion is a true miracle.” His voice was hoarse.

“Jack.”
Her legs pumped. “If you don't shut up and screw my brains out, I'm going to—”

“It's always nice to see a woman who knows what she wants.” In one panting thrust, he filled her deeply. Taylor felt the counter beneath her, flour slipping as he pinned her stroke by stroke while she moaned with the heat of him, with the amazing shock of being taken so completely. Around her, all sound faded and she strained upward, open to him in a way she'd never imagined possible.

He muttered her name and rocked inside her again, making her body clench until suddenly she was
there
, right at the edge, panting and straining.

Coming her brains out, digging her nails against his shoulders while he pushed inside her and she hung blindly on the wave he created, half lost, certain that the pleasure couldn't get any better. Then he pulled her closer, his fingers exploring her softness so the pleasure stabbed through her again and she rocked wildly, coming in a swift, furious rush.

Fingers in his hair. Legs against that rock-hard body, lost in the total explosion of her senses.

Amazing.

Eons later, noises drifted back and she felt the world returning.

The counter beneath her back. His hands locked on her flour-covered hips.

Something wrong.

She blinked and tried to sit up. “J-Jack?”

“What?” His voice was hoarse with strain.

Taylor knew why he sounded hoarse, because she felt the evidence sheathed inside her, as hard as ever, his desire unsated.

“Wait—what's that smell?”

With a curse he twisted, moving them as one while he grabbed the oven door. Smoke billowed out, spewing from the black remains of Taylor's biscuits, while Jack swatted vainly, trying to reach the oven controls. When nothing else worked, he lifted her and lunged, pounding the controls until the light went off. Then he shifted, their bodies as one, sliding back against the counter.

“Damned oven. Damned biscuits. Damned bad idea. This is probably going to get nasty and messy before we're done.” His hands clenched on the counter. “You want out?”

“Saved by the biscuits?”

“Something like that.”

Her eyes slitted. “Try it and die, sailor.”

He gave a tight nod, utterly serious, utterly focused. He didn't argue, and there were no more words. Taylor realized his eyes were beyond hard, beyond control as he stared at her and began to move again, short strokes alternating with long, savage thrusts that gave her no time to prepare, no choice but to follow as he slammed her up instantly, back into the lost place where she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, her body taking over, slick with sweat and need.

Only now there was a surety to every move, a surge of muscle, a
knowing
that might have been terrifying if it hadn't felt so amazing. As Taylor watched him take her, watched him lose himself in the power of their joining, she felt an ache in her chest where her heart probably wasn't but might have been. The ache grew, shivered, opened, then climbed as his breath came in hard bursts and his eyes held her, hiding nothing, demanding her presence completely in the moment.

Claimed, she claimed back, legs locked around his back, fingers driving up, digging into his shoulders. This close, this intimate, there was no mistaking the way his hands shook as he trapped her thighs to hold her tighter, no mistaking his pleasure in every movement, no ignoring her own delight in the power of his body driving down, hot and sweet and so real inside her that she came again, his name a raw sound on her lips.

The world blurred for a moment. Taylor felt him tense, balanced just at the edge. Then he followed, gripping her with barely contained violence, spilling himself endlessly, hotly, inside her while the world burned away into nothingness.

 

Taylor sneezed. That was all she had the energy for.

Flour tickled her nose. Her legs were shaking, and sweat touched their sated bodies.

She took a raw breath. “Wow.”

“And you, a writer.”

She opened one eye. “Was that an insult?”

“I simply expected something . . . more elegant.”

“Give me a few minutes and I'll sing the opening libretto from
Carmen
.”

Jack grunted, tried to move, failed. “Give me a few years and I'll join you.”

“Take a century. I'm not going anywhere.”

He found her fingers, slid them through his, then brought them with great effort to his lips. “This is usually the part where it starts getting messy.”

“Maybe we'll break the mold.”

“Maybe.” Using their locked hands, he brushed flour from her chin.

Taylor caught his finger and bit down gently. “Gee, I almost forgot. Want a biscuit?”

She saw the flash of a grin and it claimed her heart with stunning force.
Watch it,
sanity whispered.
This is strictly a case of nerves and hormones at work.

“Trying to get rid of me already?”

“What, a big SEAL like you is afraid of a few charcoal briquettes for lunch? I thought you hard bodies lived on adrenaline and raw eggs.”

“I've done a little of that.” He eased to one elbow, surveyed their locked bodies, and took a hard breath. “If it brought me here, I'm not complaining.”

She sank back with a sated smile. “It seems that cooking isn't my strong point.”

He whisked flour off her nose. “You've got other skills, I'm happy to report.”