Rebecca York (18 page)

As she raised her eyes to his face, she saw he was staring at her with such heat and need that her heart melted. No man had ever wanted her so much, never affected her so deeply.

When he reached out and took her in his arms again, the sensation was like no other she had ever experienced. The erotic surge stole her breath. But there was so much more than sexual need, because the new physical intimacy deepened the mental connection.

They had shared their thoughts. But never like this. Never so deeply. So fully.

Fine threads of sensuality wound around them, through them, pulling them together. At the same time, his mind opened to her on a level that she could never have imagined. And she knew it was the same for him.

I've been waiting for you all my life.

Lord, yes.

But even as they spoke to each other—mind to mind— she fought a terrible sense of disorientation that was as terrifying as falling through space.

She was losing herself. Slipping from her own grasp. When her body trembled, he steadied her.

Focus on the feelings. Feel this!

He swayed her upper body in his arms, and she gasped at the hot sensation of her naked flesh sliding against his.

But she felt more than her own response. As the points of her nipples stirred the hair on his chest, she felt the urgent messages from his nerve endings traveling downward through his body to his cock.

His cock. Not her word. His.

She dropped her head to his shoulder, her teeth against his flesh, trying to cope with the mixture of torrid sensations and tangled thoughts—his and hers. The pressure building inside her body, inside her mind, skirted at the edge of pain.

"Stay with me. Lindsay. Stay with me." This time he spoke aloud as he stroked his hands up and down the length of her back, cupped her bottom through her pants—so he could pull her against his aching shaft.

She had no choice. She had never had a choice, she decided. Or was that his thought?

It didn't matter, not now. His naked chest against her wasn't enough. She needed more. She needed everything, or she would go insane.

She reached down, fumbling with his belt buckle, then the fly of his jeans as he worked the snap at the top of her pants.

She freed him from his briefs, breathless as she closed her hand around his cock, loving the contact with his rigid flesh and at the same time feeling his pleasure leap as she wrapped her fist around him and pumped her hand.

They kicked away unwanted clothing, then fell together to the rug in front of the fireplace—rolling across the padded surface, their bodies locked together as they exchanged hot, desperate kisses. His erection pressed against her middle, and the need to have him inside her made her gasp.

Yet the sexual frenzy was only part of what surged through her. Through them. Bursts of static crackled along the pathways in her brain—interspersed with information— some of which they had no intention of sharing.

Words and images snapped back and forth between them.

She saw the first girl he made love with—in a motel near Boston. He took possession of her computer password at work. She discovered where he had kept his secret stash of cinnamon candy when he'd been a kid. She found out why he hadn't talked to his agent about the Hamilton book.

And she knew he had brought a map of Maple Creek.

Maple Creek?

Later. We'll talk about that later.

She couldn't shut off the confusing flow of information— from him to her and the other way. But she found she could push it to the back of her mind.

She had to—because as their naked bodies moved against each other, the sexual need reached savage intensity.

They drank from each other, skimmed their hands over backs and buttocks—neither able to get enough.

Reaching down, she clasped his cock again, this time deliberately exploring what the intimate touch felt like to him.

Before she could savor the experience, his fingers parted the folds of her most intimate flesh, then dipped inside her. But that small invasion wasn't enough.

I need.. .

Yes.

He changed the angle of his hand, so that his fingers could stroke from her vagina to her clit and back again, sending jolts of heated sensation through her.

So that's how it feels for a woman.

Yes. And you're going to explode if you can't get your cock inside me.

Yes.

She rolled to her back, and he came down on top of her.

There was no need to guide his erection to the opening made for it. He knew exactly where she was.

Knew neither of them could wait a second longer for him to plunge inside her. Or was that her thought?

It didn't matter.

They must finish this.

Yet the fear was as great as the pleasure. As they made the most intimate of physical connections, her thoughts scattered, clashed with his, crackled through her brain like sparks flying from a damaged power line.

She had wanted this. Now she thought she would lose her mind if he didn't separate himself from her.

She tried to pull back. Physically. Mentally.

Fear and frustration leaped inside him. Christ! Stay with me. Stay with me!

The plea screamed inside her head as his hips moved in a frantic rhythm, pushing them both toward orgasm. Finally she had no choice. She had to follow.

As the physical sensations built, the static in her brain receded to a background buzz.

There was only room for the hot, urgent need pumping through her—through him.

She felt the delicious male knowledge that orgasm was only seconds away. Felt his penis jerk as the spasms took him. Felt hot semen pump through his cock—out of him— into her as her own orgasm washed over her, through her. Through him. Wave after wave of hot ecstasy—like nothing she had ever experienced, ever imagined.

He collapsed on top of her, both of them gasping for breath. It took hours before their surroundings came into focus around them. Or was it only seconds? Her arms and legs were limp, but she clung to his shoulders.

He moved his cheek against hers. Neither of them spoke. Words were no longer necessary. At least for now.

When he stirred, she locked her hands across his back, holding him inside her. Stay.

I'll crush you.

Don't leave me. Not when we finally know what this is like.

Yes.

He didn't have to ask what they'd discovered. Each of them had been afraid that they were different from other people. Damaged. Below standard.

Well, they were different all right.

Not less. More.

* * *

KURT MacArthur clenched his teeth, then eased up before he brought on a tension headache. Why in the hell couldn't the search team locate Mark Greenwood? The guy had escaped from a mental hospital with no money and no resources, yet he'd managed to stay on the run. He was either very smart or very lucky—or both.

It looked like he'd broken into a house in St. Mary's and holed up there for a while to catch his breath.

At least, the police report matched Greenwood's description. Now they were looking for fingerprints.

And checking to see who might help him. Which had led them to his cousin. Sid Becker, who was under surveillance now.

Meanwhile, Kurt was thinking of another piece of the puzzle. Maybe he shouldn't have yanked Jim Swift off his surveillance duties at the Hamilton estate.

Eyes narrowed, he called the operative who had been in Wilmington that morning.

"Before I pulled you away to join the hunt for Greenwood, did you see any traffic in or out of the gate at Hamilton's place?"

"Not much. A bottled water company sent a truck in. I checked on the vendor. Hamilton does use them.

And a silver Mercedes sedan came in just before I left."

"Did you recognize the driver?"

"I got all of the license number—except the last digit. It was a D.C. plate."

"Give it to me."

Swift read the number, then hung up.

Kurt went back to the computer, tapped into the D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles, and started looking for possible owners of a silver Mercedes.

* * *

JORDAN eased to his side, rolling Lindsay with him, still inside her as he cradled her body against his, both of them savoring the delicious sense of connection.

What just happened to us?

Our minds .. . linked. They're still linked.

She nodded against his shoulder, but this was too new for her to understand the rules. She wanted to drift in the afterglow of their pleasure. She wanted to simply savor these moments.

When a phone rang, they both jumped.

Damn. It's my phone. In my purse. I don't want to answer it.

Better do it.

Why?

I'm not sure. But I think it's important.

He moved to the side and pulled his body from hers, so she could get up. As she scrambled to get across the room, she broke the physical contact between herself and Jordan. The mental link snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight. It felt like a part of herself had been ripped away.

A wave of fire swept through her brain, and she heard a scream gurgle in her own throat.

Blind, deaf, unable to think, she flopped against the edge of the sofa, gasping.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"OH, CHRIST!" FIGHTING a wave of sick disorientation, Jordan pressed his hand to his temple, trying to stop the knife points of pain shooting through his head. His vision blurred, and for a moment he was lost to the world.

Then Lindsay's face swam into view. He could barely move. Barely think. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed her arm, and immediately the pain lessened.

"Got to get the phone," he croaked, then gathered her up and held on to her as they staggered across the room to where she'd set her purse on the counter. Pulling out the instrument, he snapped the lid open, then struggled to find the Talk button.

"Who is it?" he demanded.

"Who are you?" a man's voice challenged.

"Sid Becker," Lindsay whispered, holding out her hand.

He gave her the instrument, and she brought it to her ear, still keeping the contact with him.

They were both breathing hard, but with his hand on her arm, he was able to function. And it looked like she was reacting in a similar fashion.

"Sid?" she asked, obviously struggling to keep her voice steady.

The transmission was loud enough for Jordan to hear both sides of the conversation.

"Who was that?" the man named Sid asked.

She glanced at Jordan. "A friend."

"Someone you trust?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right? I couldn't get you at home."

"We went away for the weekend."

"Oh," he said, and she remembered that he'd tried to get her to go away with him, and she'd always refused.

She was still struggling to control her breathing when she asked, "Why are you calling?"

"I heard from my cousin."

"Good."

"I'm not sure. I thought he had contracted some kind of illness. But it's not that. Somebody invaded Maple Creek three weeks ago."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. He's on the run. He wouldn't tell me much. But I'm going to meet him. So I wanted to say you didn't have to bother Bridgewater."

"I already asked him."

Sid was silent.

"Was that a mistake?"

"'It depends on where he takes the information."

"Okay. Keep in touch with me."

"I'm not sure I can do that."

"Sid?"

"It's complicated, Lindsay. I have to hang up now."

The line went dead. She pressed the Off button and set the phone down on the counter. But she kept hold of Jordan's hand, squeezing tight. He saw in her mind the image of a man standing in a bedroom, staring toward the door. Then he exited the room. As he stepped through the door, the image snapped off.

"That's him?" Jordan asked.

"You saw ... that? In my head?"

"Yes."

"Was it real—or my imagination?" she asked in a shaky voice. "I mean, was he really standing beside his bed?"

"I don't know. Have you ever been there? To his bedroom?"

She turned her head toward him. "Are you asking if I slept with him?"

"Yeah, I guess I am."

She tightened her fingers around his, and he knew the answer.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"My sexual relationships were few and far between," she whispered.

"Mine, too."

By mutual agreement they switched back to the subject of Sid Becker.

"Who is he—exactly?" Jordan asked.

"He works for the Center for Military Affairs."

He closed his eyes and saw the crude map of Maple Creek. He didn't want to think about the map.

About Todd Hamilton or Sid Becker. Or his cousin. He only wanted to focus on Lindsay.

And he knew she felt the same way. But it seemed she had more resolve than he.

"Let's tie this up. I mean—tie up what we know," she said.

"If you let me get you into bed first."

She laughed. "Talk first. Sex later."

He groaned. "Okay. We know that Mark Greenwood worked at a secure facility called Maple Creek.

And it was invaded three weeks ago. Just at the time Todd Hamilton died."

She dragged in a strangled breath. "And you found a map Todd drew of the facility."

He didn't bother asking where she'd picked up that information.

"We know that Todd was worried about a chemical weapons program being conducted in secret. Can we assume the base of operation was Maple Creek? And Todd and his friend Glenn Barrow broke in there to try and shut it down?"

"Based on the evidence, yeah. I think we can."

"How did they do it?"

"That's part of what we have to find out."

"And there was some sort of massive cover-up."

"Yes. Maybe we can figure out more if we ... link again."

"Can you be serious? You just want to get me into bed."

He grinned. "Guilty. Come on."

He felt her resistance wavering. Pressing his advantage, he clamped his arm around her and was gratified to feel her melt against him. Sensing victory, he led her to the bedroom, keeping her against his side while he pulled back the covers.