Rebecca York (25 page)

As she captured his reaction in her mind, she felt heat building in her own body.

Did you like telling me what to do ? Did that make you hotter?

"Yes," she whispered.

Then it's my turn. Take off your T-shirt for me. And your panties. We don t want them to get ripped again.

Because she had no choice now, she put down the phone receiver and pulled her clothes off. And she didn't need to pick it up again to hear him ask, Did you do it?

Can't you tell?

I want to make sure it's not my imagination. That I'm not just fantasizing about your gorgeous breasts.

The beautiful curve of your hip. That tempting triangle of dark hair at the top of your legs.

"You, too," she gasped out. I want you naked, too.

"Yeah."

The words might be spoken aloud, but they echoed inside her head, too.

He was back moments later, with more erotically charged questions. If I were there, what would you want me to do to your breasts? Lift them in my hands? Circle the nipples with my fingers. Squeeze them?

"Yes," she breathed.

Do that for me.

She did as he asked, moaning her pleasure, knowing, that he felt her response as surely as she felt his.

Her breath came faster as her arousal built.

You need to come, don't you?

You, too.

God, yes. But I can't come unless you do.

You mean you won't let yourself.

Yeah. So stroke your quiver for me. Stroke your finger through those sweet folds. Dip your finger into your vagina. Then play with the rim where you're so sensitive. Are you using one finger? Or two? Is two better?

"Two," she gasped.

She followed his directions, her breath coming in little gasps as she felt her climax building. And his.

She knew he was lying on the couch, naked, his taut cock rising toward the ceiling as he stroked it rapidly with his hand. She knew she wasn't making up the scene.

And she knew he saw her, too.

She should be embarrassed. This was too personal, for them to be watching each other. But because they were both playing the same game, she could do it.

She did what she might have done alone in her own bed, building her own pleasure—until her inner muscles contracted, and climax took her body.

He followed her over the edge, semen spurting from his penis as it jerked in his hand.

Lindsay!

When he silently called her name, she answered as small waves of pleasure washed over her.

She collapsed back against the pillow. Moments later a sound made her eyes fly open.

He had opened the door and was standing naked in the doorway, staring down at her. She saw that he wasn't entirely steady on his feet—that he needed to lean his shoulder against the jamb.

His thoughts couldn't have been more clear if he had been touching her.

It worked. The sexual link is the key.

That's a little inconvenient, isn't it?

He laughed. "Oh, I don't know."

He crossed the room and came down beside her on the bed, gathering her close, and she nestled against him.

You should have told me what you were planning.

Like I said, I thought you would object.

I would have.

So I had to draw you into the game by making you hot.

You could have suggested we play. . . gin rummy, and try to read each other's cards.

He laughed again. Gin rummy. That wouldn 't have been quite so much fun. But, you 're right. We might try something like that for practice.

She stroked her lips against his shoulder, and when he began to kiss her throat and drift his hand down her body, she knew that he was forging the bond between them even tighter—in a way she knew she was going to like.

* * *

WHAT did the street people do in winter? Mark wondered. Above him, on the Whitehurst Freeway, traffic whizzed by. Down here among the concrete pilings, he'd found a little community of men with nowhere else to go.

Some of them were on drugs. Some were crazy. Some were dangerous. And some were suspicious of a newcomer in their midst.

"What are you doin' here, man?"

"My former business partner went bat shit. I'm hiding out from him."

"What business was that?"

"We had a nice little import business. Products from Mexico."

His new friend answered with a knowing laugh.

"I'm going to get things straightened out. Contact my ex-wife. She'll help me."

"Never trust a woman."

"I don't." He took a sip from a bottle of Wild Turkey wrapped in a paper bag, then handed over the bottle.

The other man took a couple of greedy swallows.

"So, I heard you might know where I could get a gun— for protection."

"I might."

"I'll come back tomorrow," he said, thinking that there were guys here who would slit your throat for a good pair of tennis shoes.

He left the bottle as a goodwill offering and drifted away. Oak Hill Cemetery seemed like a safer place to sleep. In a nice sheltered crypt.

Most guys down here were too superstitious to spend the night in a graveyard. He'd given up superstition for pragmatism.

* * *

THE old man was sitting up in his king-sized bed when Jim Swift stepped into the elegantly furnished bedroom. Apparently, Leonard Hamilton had fancied himself a descendant of the English aristocracy, judging from the furnishings he'd chosen.

A reading light shone down on him. Probably he'd been a holy terror in the boardroom—when he'd been in his prime. Now he was shrunken and stooped, his hands gnarled on the book he held. He made a pathetic figure— wearing a padded jacket to keep his old flesh warm.

After several seconds he looked up, then blinked when he saw that it wasn't a member of his staff.

Still, his voice was strong when he asked, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Even in his diminished state, Hamilton was a man used to getting answers.

Jim closed the door quietly behind him, then walked across the thick carpet. When he was standing beside the bed, he said, "I came to talk to you—about Todd."

The old man pushed himself up straighten "What about him?"

"Why did you hire Jordan Walker to investigate your son's death?"

"I didn't hire anyone."

"Call it whatever you want. Walker's sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong. He was here two days ago, interviewing you."

"How do you know that?"

"Not that I owe you an explanation, but I saw his car turn in at the gate."

"You were watching my house? Interfering in my private business?"

"Yes. And let's get something straight. I'm the one asking the questions. I want to know why you selected Walker—and what he's found out."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

Jim reached down and pulled the covers aside, pressing into Hamilton's liver through his abdominal wall.

He wedged his other hand over the old man's mouth, muffling his cry of pain. "There's more where that came from."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LINDSAY'S HEAD MOVED restlessly back and forth on the pillow, and she moaned in her sleep. Her body was still with Jordan in the motel bed. But she knew that her mind had traveled somewhere else.

To another place. Miles from where she slept.

An old man lay in a vast bed, his face contorted with pain. Another man stood over him. He must have just done something terrible, because the old man gasped and sputtered and fought to catch his breath.

She knew who he was. Leonard Hamilton. She had never met him in person. But she had seen a picture in her mind—of him talking to Jordan.

She shivered because the room was cold, and she realized that she was as naked as she had been under the covers with Jordan.

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, covering her breasts, trying to ward off the icy wind that rippled across her skin.

She wasn't really in Leonard Hamilton's bedroom, she told herself. She was with Jordan. Warm and safe.

Yet the cold sensation of being in that other location was very real.

When the man by the bed turned suddenly and seemed to be looking directly at her, she froze.

"Who's there?" he growled.

She wasn't really in the room with him. Not in person. Her body was back in bed. Could he sense her presence? The way Sid had done?

"Nobody's here." She mouthed the denial, struggling to send him a silent message that she wasn't standing fifteen feet away.

He raised his gun, pointing it at her, and she cringed back. If he shot her, could he hurt her?

She hoped she wasn't going to find out.

He took a step toward her.

She fought the impulse to turn and run. Run where? How did you flee from a vision? If she bolted out the door, would she be in another part of the house?

The question was moot, because her legs had turned to stone. So she stood stock-still, waiting to find out what would happen.

The intruder turned back to the man on the bed. "Is someone in the room with us?"

"No."

"What did I see?"

"Hell, I don't know. The ghost of Christmas future?"

"You have nerves of steel, I'll give you that." He tipped his head to the side, staring at Hamilton. "Do you want more pain like I just gave you?" he asked, his voice turning almost gentle.

"I can't take much more pain like that," Hamilton answered. "A few more ... of your love pats, and I'll have a heart attack."

"We can find out if that's true," the other man said, his fingers still caressing the old man's wrinkled skin.

Hamilton kept his respiration shallow. "I have a proposition."

"I'm listening."

"You're going to kill me anyway."

Lindsay swallowed a gasp as the man on the bed kept speaking. Was he right? Was this intruder his executioner?

"I want to know about my son. I'll answer some of your questions, if you answer some of mine."

The standing man laughed softly. "You are a delightful surprise. Too bad we didn't meet under different circumstances."

"You don't get to be the head of a multinational corporation unless you can surprise the opposition,"

Hamilton answered evenly.

Lindsay didn't want to be in the room, witnessing this conversation. Yet she couldn't turn away from the fascinating and disturbing scene. Neither of the men seemed aware of her presence now. They were too wrapped up in each other.

The younger man was deadly calm. Yet underneath the surface, she sensed a pleasure that made her stomach turn.

What about Hamilton? Strangely, he seemed relieved. He had been in pain for a long time. And he had been on a quest. Perhaps he'd complete his mission and find an end to his suffering very soon.

"What's your name?" Hamilton demanded. "If we're going to talk, I'd like to know who you are."

"You can call me Jim."

"Is that your real name?"

"Stop wasting my time. We'll see how the exchange goes."

"You might as well sit down."

The interrogator sat on the edge of the bed.

"A little too close for comfort. Why don't you pull over a chair." Hamilton gestured toward the brocade chair and pie crust lamp table in the corner.

"Because the marks will show on the rug. I don't want to leave any clues to my presence."

"Ah."

"Let's stop dancing around."

"All right. I get to go first."

Jim crossed his arms and waited.

"What did Todd and Glenn Barrow do that got them killed?"

"They broke into a secure government facility and immobilized the guards—without weapons."

"How?"

"My turn. Why did you hire Jordan Walker?"

"I didn't hire him. I invited him up here for an interview— to see if we could work together writing my authorized biography. I liked his style. I liked what I discovered when I met him. And I knew he couldn't resist a good mystery. So I told him there had been a cover-up on Todd's medical report."

"Did you arrange for Walker to meet Lindsay Fleming at Sam Conroy's party?"

The old man made a small sound. "Why do you think so?"

"It was too much of a coincidence."

"Yes. He might have been invited anyway. But I made sure he was on the guest list. I thought getting them together would be a good idea."

"Why?"

"She works for Daniel Bridgewater, the chairman of the SASC. I figured that if anyone could help Walker dig up information on what Todd was doing, it would be someone with good connections."

"That's your only reason?"

"Yes."

The man named Jim leaned forward. "Who else knows about your investigation into Todd's death?"

"Nobody."

He paused, as though mentally consulting a list of questions. "Did Todd know Saxon and Willow Trinity?"

"I have no idea. He didn't tell me about his friends. Who are Saxon and Willow Trinity?"

"A brother and sister with a ministry that claims psychic powers."

"Interesting. And who do you work for?"

"Since you're not going to tell anyone else, I don't mind saying. The Crandall Consortium."

The old man huffed out a breath.

"What does that mean to you?"

"Covert operations inside the U.S. Dirty tricks. Anything and everything necessary to get the job done—as Kurt MacArthur sees the job."

Lindsay felt the scene waver. Suddenly she was being pulled away as if something physical was breaking the connection.

"No!" she screamed, the sound echoing in the room. Or perhaps it was only inside her own head.

The one named Jim turned and stared in her direction, his eyes wide, and she didn't know whether or not he'd heard her—or seen her.

She didn't care. She couldn't leave now, and she tried to claw her way back.

"Wake up. Lindsay, wake up. You're having a bad dream."

"Let me ..." She struggled against the hands that held her in place.

"Lindsay, sweetheart, you're safe. You're all right. Nobody can hurt you."

"Stop! Don't pull me back here."

She struck out, connected with flesh and bone.

Someone made a harsh sound of pain. "Stop whacking me."

Her eyes blinked open, and she found herself staring up into Jordan's taut face as he hovered over her in the motel bed.