Rebecca York (35 page)

He drove to the garage at Reagan National Airport, where they wiped their fingerprints from the car.

"Your face is a little smudged," he murmured as he gave her a good look.

"So is yours."

"Maybe we should clean up."

She was too dazed to think clearly. So she let Jordan take charge. He led her to the concourse, where some of the shops were still open. There he bought a couple of Nation's Capitol T-shirts.

"Wash up in the ladies' room, and I'll do the same in the men's room."

They each disappeared into a rest room. When she looked at her hair and face, she was thankful that she had her purse along. Glad that the place was almost empty, she washed, changed her top, then put on the clean T-shirt and threw her borrowed shirt in the trash before combing her hair.

Jordan had also washed and changed his shirt.

She was still too discombobulated to function on any kind of intelligent level as he led her to the cabstand.

"Where are we going?"

"A hotel. Until we know that everything is okay."

He asked to be taken to the Embassy Suites on Pennsylvania Avenue. On the ride over they huddled together in the backseat. And she closed her eyes, praying that they would be alone soon.

Incredibly she drifted off to sleep. When the cab stopped, she woke with a jolt.

We're ... safe. Everything's fine, he spoke into her mind.

As they stepped into the lobby, he tightened his hold on her hand, then strode to the desk, where he asked for a room for the night. After a moment's hesitation he handed over his credit card.

As soon as they were alone in the room, he wrapped her in his arms, and she knew this was what she had been waiting for since their escape.

The intensity of his feelings, of his thoughts almost shattered her.

Oh, Lord, Jordan. 1 thought we wouldn't get out of there.

We did it—together.

With a little help from Mark and Bridgewater.

They clung together, swaying on their feet. And when he lowered his lips to her, she opened for him, drank him in, the kiss simmering with passion and promise.

I love you.

God, yes. I love you.

Panting, they tore at each other's clothing, sinking to the rug—only half naked because they were too impatient to wait.

Stark, desperate emotions shimmered between them. His hand shoved her T-shirt and pants out of the way while she struggled with his zipper, moaning with satisfaction as she freed his cock.

She felt the pleasure of it—hers and his. But she needed more. Much more. And he knew exactly what that was. Exactly.

His hands found her breasts, stroking and squeezing before his thumbs and fingers tightened on her nipples, giving her the precise pressure she craved. And when he replaced one hand with his mouth and sucked, she thought she would shatter.

All the time her hand clasped his cock, moving up and down with light strokes, not too hard, just enough.

Because she didn't want him to come until he was inside her—until he could ease the throbbing between her legs.

She was balanced on a high wire of need, swaying with each surge of hot wind blowing over her body.

He knew it, too, because he yanked her pants farther down, helping her free one leg to give him access.

Then he was inside her, and they both cried out with relief. He drove into her, and it took only a few frantic strokes to send her over the edge. She came so quickly that her head was spinning. And he followed her seconds later.

They lay gasping in a heap on the rug, until he helped her up and somehow got them both naked and into bed, where they clung together.

Half-formed thoughts bounced between them as they drifted into sleep. She woke hours later to find the sun streaming through the window.

At first she didn't know where they were. Then the horror of what they'd survived flashed through her mind. Through Jordan's mind, too.

* * *

We need to find out what happened.

Let's start with cable news.

Jordan picked up the remote from the nightstand, so he could turn on the television across the room.

They didn't have to wait long for news. CNN had a report of the fire at the Crandall Consortium—and chaos among the staff— caused by the arrival of Senator Daniel Bridgewater, who had come to demand information about a national security matter.

A number of Crandall employees—including Kurt MacArthur—were dead. Someone had driven a car into the river. A couple of religious leaders named Willow and Saxon Trinity were also dead. Apparently they had been hatching some kind of conspiracy with Kurt MacArthur. And Senator Bridgewater was promising a congressional investigation into the recent activities of the consortium.

"No mention of us—or Mark," Lindsay murmured, then turned her head toward him.

"Score one for the home team," he answered, feeling tension easing out of himself. He'd been wondering what the morning would bring. The CNN report was reassuring. But he'd have to tap some of his sources and make sure it was all true.

Beside him, Lindsay nodded, obviously following his thoughts. He'd have to get used to that.

She cleared her throat. "I don't think the law would say Mark killed MacArthur in self defense. Or Bridgewater— when he killed Willow."

"In both cases I'd say it was as justified as our taking out Wainright."

"What about the operative named Jim Swift? He's the man who killed Hamilton."

"I don't know. They didn't mention him."

"I assume Bridgewater's not going to talk about the Trinity twins controlling him."

"I assume not."

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"For starters, we need to call the Mountain View Lodge and see if they have my car. Then we drive up to Darien and get my computer—and visit Mrs. Vanderlin in the hospital."

That poor woman. But she's on the mend. I can sense it.

Jordan caught her next silent question and said, "I may abandon the Hamilton project. But I think I can get a book out of my recent investigations. Correction—our recent investigations. How would you like co-authorship?"

He had his answer from her mind before she could speak.

"Okay, you can keep a low profile. But you get a big credit in the acknowledgments."

"You really think Bridgewater will talk to me about it?"

"Yeah. I think he's feeling guilty."

He sensed her reluctance to get near the man. I'll be with you.

What about my job?

You don't need it. Whether or not your name's on the book, we're going to get a big advance. And when we sell our condos in D.C., we . . .

He stopped short.

"You were going to say we'd have enough to buy some property in rural Maryland or Virginia—somewhere out of the way, where we can ... practice. And you can write."

"Yeah. Then I remembered, you don't need to sell your apartment. You have a trust fund."

She nodded. "Does that bother you?"

He wished he could lie.

She smiled. "Probably we can make good use of the money."

He scanned her thoughts. "You want to take the risk of getting other couples together?"

"Cautiously. On a limited basis."

"Very cautiously. I'm good at research. Maybe that can be my job. Investigating suitable candidates."

"Yeah."

She found his hand under the covers and locked her fingers with his. "And will you come meet my mom and dad?"

He knew exactly what she was getting at. "So you can introduce them to your future husband?"

"They'll be delighted I fell in love with a big-shot author."

"A big-shot author who loves you passionately."

She closed her eyes and snuggled against him, and he reveled in the feeling of completeness.

Yet after a moment he sensed the edge of uncertainty in her thoughts.

What?

Will you be upset if they want a big wedding?

Is that what you want?

No. But I know it will make my parents happy. Their little girl finally landed a man. I 'd like to give them that gratification—because they stood by me all these years.

"I can go with that," he said in a thick voice. "Maybe my parents will even show up."

He gathered her close, marveling that Jordan Walker was making wedding plans. And he knew that she felt the strangeness of it, too.

I never thought I'd find Mr. Right.

He laughed. "I hope I am."

"You're getting used to being ... open to me?"

He struggled for honesty. "I may need to go off by myself sometimes. Would that bother you?"

"Yes. But I understand why. Maybe we can find a property with a separate house you can use as an office—or if there's a freestanding garage, you can convert it."

"Good idea."

He slid down beside her and turned her in his arms, then began to show her with his hands and lips and mind how much she meant to him.

Turn the page for a special preview of Rebecca York's next novel SHADOW OF THE MOON

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

THE THICK UNDERBRUSH of Rock Creek Park made the perfect cover for the gray wolf who hunted in these woods where no wolf should be.

He hadn't invaded this stretch of urban wilderness to stalk deer or rabbits or any other wild animal. He was a werewolf, and he was after much more exotic prey.

Laughter drifted toward him through the darkness, and he moved closer to a hulking building that perched at the edge of the woods. A fantasy of stone and concrete, it was built to look like a medieval fortress with turrets and small, arched windows designed for privacy—or to prevent escape.

His supersensitive hearing picked up footsteps to his right and the strong scent of a man who hadn't bathed in a couple of days.

Blending back into the shadows, the wolf watched a security guard pass on his rounds, then crept toward the front of the building.

It was called the Eighteen Club, and he knew the main floor housed a nightclub. Above and below it were much more interesting private rooms—set up to accommodate any sexual fantasy that the elite of the nation's capital could imagine.

A long black limousine pulled up, and a man got out. A U.S. senator, his broad smile and craggy eyebrows instantly recognizable. Tonight he bent his head as he hurried toward the front door.

The wolf watched as the senator was swallowed up by the massive stone building. Then something subtle caught his attention. At first, it was simply an unfamiliar scent. Something that didn't belong out here in the woods. Not perfume. But skin washed with scented soap.

He looked to his right, peering into the darkness, then blinked as he saw a shadow detach itself from a tree. A person. Someone slender, probably a woman, judging from her height and the feminine scent of her. She wore black leggings, a long-sleeved black top, and her hair was tied up in a black bandanna.

Like her body, her face was delicate. With his night vision, he could clearly see her light eyes, her little nose, her lips that might have been sensual if they hadn't been pressed into a thin line.

A wisp of blond hair had escaped from her bandanna, adding an endearing touch.

But the overall effect was no-nonsense. He saw anger, determination, and more. Emotions that made his chest tighten.

What had the Eighteen Club done to her? Alienated the affections of her lover?

Something dangled from a strap around her neck. A camera.

So what was she doing here? Was she part of a special security patrol? Had she come to take pictures of the people who entered the club—so she could blackmail them? Or was she stalking this place for the same reason as he? And what were the odds of that?

More cars pulled up, and she snapped away. First she caught a man and a woman. He wasn't a political celebrity. Far from it. This guy kept his face out of the media. But he had a reputation for getting things done—for a price. The woman with him was a looker, wearing a barely there little dress that clung to her body. She was slender, except for the large breasts that had probably been purchased from a plastic surgeon's catalog.

The woman in black caught another patron. A matron in her late forties or early fifties with auburn hair and a face that looked like it was just on the verge of sagging.

The photographer moved closer to get a better angle with her camera. He might have growled a warning—but it was already too late. One of the guards had spotted her.

"Hold it right there!"

She whirled, poised to run as the guard moved quickly toward her.

"Freeze. Hands in the air—or I'll shoot."

* * *

"Take off your camera and put it down on the ground," the guard ordered in a voice that was edged with steel.

With unsteady hands, she followed directions.

The guard snatched up the camera and slung the strap over his own shoulder.

"Come on," he ordered.

"Where?"

"Inside."

She looked like she wanted to run. But the gun kept her standing in place.

"Let me go. I didn't mean any harm."

"Then what were you doing?" He gestured with his weapon toward the camera that now hung from his shoulder.

The wolf waited for the answer, and gave her points for guts—and fast talking. "I'm an amateur photographer. I was in the woods taking pictures of the natural environment. And I was curious about the lights of that building. I didn't see any no trespassing signs."

"Do you expect me to believe that? When you snuck up on us at night—dressed like a damn ninja.

Move. Down there. Around the back."

The man started toward his victim, obviously enjoying himself.

The wolf watched the drama. This woman's fate was none of his business. That was what he told himself.

But he couldn't make himself buy into that truth.

Over the past weeks, he'd discovered a lot about the Eighteen Club. He was pretty sure that if the guard took her inside, she might never come out again alive. And death might not be the worst thing that happened to her.