Reckless Night (3 page)

Being ordinary protected them. In New York, Drake had lived large, albeit away from prying eyes, but with an outrageous degree of luxury. And all the tight security in the world, the armed guards and bulletproof windows hadn’t been enough to save him because his enemies knew he was there.

They’d gone to a great deal of trouble and effort to convince his enemies that he was dead. So why attract attention with an outrageously fancy home, high living, jewels, and super expensive designer clothes?

It was insane, suicidal.

“Diamonds attract attention, and we don’t want that, my love.” She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him just below the ear, a spot she knew from experience would make him shudder.

A h, yes.

“I don’t need diamonds,” she whispered in his ear. “I need you.” He had his arm around her waist, holding her tightly to him and she felt him rise urgently against her stomach.

To her surprise, instead of taking her down to the ground, or over to the sofa, he stepped away with a secretive smile.

“So. All right.” His voice had that slight guttural tone of arousal and she could seehow sexually excited he was.

Nonetheless, he kept himself out of arm’s reach and handed her three sheets of paper. “Here’s your Christmas present, two days early.”

Puzzled, she took the sheets, reading carefully, not understanding until—all of a sudden—she understood.

Her eyes widened as she lifted them to her husband in shock. He was smiling. “A re these—” she held up the sheets of perfectly ordinary photocopy paper. “Are these for real? For—for us?”

“Oh yes,” he answered softly. “In another name, of course.”

“Of course.”

They’d had several identities since their “death,” and continued to have them. For example, she ordered hard copy books from Amazon to be delivered to Australia, then flown in to their island by her husband’s airline under one fictitious name and credit card, and ebooks set up on her Kindle account under another fictitious name and fictitious credit card.

“These are—” A ll of a sudden her hands shook, the paper rattling. “These are tickets to Aida at the Sydney Opera House, to a showing of Phantom of the Opera and to a showing of Cirque du Soleil,” she whispered. “All in Sydney.”

“They are all right?” Drake asked suddenly with a frown. “On the website it said that there were live elephants onstage at the Aida. I don’t know what that means. Who wants live elephants on a stage?

Imagine if they have a bowel movement? And the other shows—apparently they are very popular.

These are things you would like to see?”

“Very much,” she assured him softly.

“And there is a show of 100 Picassos at the Museum of Sydney. I know you’ll like that.” Grace was as tempted as she had ever been in her life. Diamonds didn’t tempt her, not in any way, but this.

An opera, two shows. Picassos. Her voice trembled as much as her hands as she put the printouts of the ticket reservations down, trying to conceal her sadness.

“My love, I can’t accept these. I won’t endanger us.

It’s not worth it.”

They had to stay on this island forever. Drake had made that clear when they escaped the assassination attempt and made their way here to Sivuatu.

He bought the airline company flying into and out of the island and the three shipping companies whose ships docked here. He knew everyone who came to the island and surreptitiously recorded their faces. He had his finger on the pulse of the island, no question.

This island was safe.

He was shaking his head. “How can you imagine, my dusch—my darling, that I wouldn’t think this through? I never operated in Oceania, never. I never even operated in southeast Asia. I cannot imagine any of my old enemies in Australia. We will fly over under assumed names on SivAir’s executive jet. I have arranged for us to rent a private apartment in downtown Sydney so we won’t need to check into a hotel. Australia has very few CCTVs on its city streets, much fewer than, say, London or Paris or New York. When we are outside, we will wear big straw hats and sunglasses. For the shows, I bought us box seats and bought all the other tickets in the box.” She laughed. “Of course you did.” A faint tendril of hope made its way to her heart.

“And while making the arrangements, I had no pickle.

No pickle at all.”

“Pickle?”

“Pickle of danger.”

She forced herself not to smile, ruthlessly beat down the laugh. “No… pickle of danger?” The laugh lay treacherously in wait in her throat. She had a sudden image of him in one of his martial arts stances, brandishing… a pickle.

“Not one,” he said seriously. “I have a finely honed sense of danger, perfected over a lifetime, and I am feeling nothing at the thought of us going to Sydney for three days.” She blinked at him, hardly daring to hope that this would happen.

“So.” He picked up the show and opera tickets and handed them back to her. She took them with shaking hands. “Do you honestly feel I would endanger us? That I wouldn’t plan this carefully?”

“I don’t know.” She searched his eyes. “I don’t know how far you’d go to please me. It frightens me because it’s not necessary. You keep harping on wanting to get me nice presents, simply because I make a few things for you by hand.”

“You make me masterpieces. Priceless works of art.

But much as I love to please you, you don’t think I would endanger you needlessly, do you?” Put that way… “No.”

“So.” It was his favorite word. He had the faintest traces of an accent. He’d grown up an orphan on the streets of Odessa. In his previous incarnation as the head of a huge crime syndicate, he spoke five languages perfectly and another five well enough to negotiate. His English was nearly perfect and the slight accent bothered no one in Sivuatu as they expected a Maltese man to have an accent.

But she found it so sexy when he said “so.” Drawing the word out. Zooo.

“So. We are going. We will spend Christmas among the throngs in Sydney, seeing shows and Picassos and, God help me, an opera.” This last said with a painful wince and she laughed. “A re you happy?” He’d done this for her. How could she not be happy?

“Oh yes. Incredibly, wildly happy.” She was studying the tickets, imagining Aida and the Cirque.

And the Phantom! All those years in New York and stupidly, she’d never gone, though she loved the CD

and knew the songs by heart. She stared at the white mask with the red rose logo.

“And are you grateful?”

“Oh yes,” she answered dreamily, thinking of the three days ahead of them.

“ How grateful?” She looked up in surprise at the suddenly harsh, hoarse tone.

And blushed.

They had a fabulous sex life. Drake was an attentive, tender lover who took his time in pleasing her. But every once in a while something in him changed and she caught a glimpse of the truly dangerous man he really was. She hadn’t tamed him, not one bit. He just chose to show her a tender side he said he’d only discovered with her.

But sometimes the tiger in him growled and clawed its way to the surface. And then the sex was incandescent.

His entire body was tense, tendons standing out on his strong neck, huge hands flexed. Those dark brown eyes glowed as if there were a power source inside him that had suddenly roared to life. A s she watched, a huge shudder went through him. “I said—how grateful?” Watching his transformation was amazing but even more amazing was what happened to her in those moments.

Something—something animal in her awoke, too.

A flush of extreme heat washed over her, head to toes, the heat fizzing under her skin, glowing between her thighs. She could barely breathe, barely form the words.

“Very.” Her throat was tight, almost closed. Speaking was hard because speaking wasn’t what she wanted to do. “Very grateful.”

They weren’t touching but it was as if a red-hot flaming rod connected them. She could see his arousal even without looking down at his groin. It was in his face, the flush over those high cheekbones with a hint of Tartar blood, the tight mouth, flared nostrils.

And he could see hers, too. She had very pale skin that showed most emotions. Now it would be flushed.

Sweat broke out on her back, a drop curled between her breasts.

“Show me,” he whispered darkly. “Show me how grateful you are.”

“Okay,” she whispered back.

Driven by something entirely beyond her control, Grace took her clothes off. Slowly. Not because she wanted to entice him with some kind of striptease—when he was like this, he needed no enticement—but because her hands shook and her knees felt so weak they could hardly keep her upright. She had to move slowly or she’d fall down in a puddle of heat.

Or blow up.

Thick bands of steel encircled her chest, making it hard to breathe. Spots swam in front of her eyes.

With trembling hands, she reached to the side. Her dress was held at the waist with a small sash anchored by a bow. She undid it and the two panels fell open.

Underneath was a strapless bra and panties. She did indulge in expensive underwear, because it couldn’t be seen and because it turned on her husband.

He was massively turned on now. She could almost see the waves of arousal coming off him like smoke. He nearly vibrated with desire.

“Off. Dress.”

Now she knew how aroused he was because he was losing his faculty of speech. And syntax.

Slowly, she pulled the emerald green linen sheath off her shoulders, letting the dress fall to the floor.

His eyes flared and he waved his hand impatiently at her.

Deep breath. His big hand had all but sent waves of heat her way, hitting her groin like bolts of fire.

She reached behind her, unsnapped her bra. The light silk fluttered to the floor. A t any other moment, she’d have admired the pale green silk on the dark emerald green linen, but her brain was too blasted to notice aesthetic niceties. A ll she felt was heat turning her bones liquid.

“Panties,” he said, his voice guttural. His dark eyes studied every aspect of her body so intensely it was as if he were touching her instead of watching her.

Panties. Oh God. Taking off her panties was going to require balance and her legs could barely hold her. She gripped the edge of the chest of drawers with one hand, while pulling down her panties with the other. They, too, fluttered softly down to land around her ankles.

“Off.”

Still gripping the corner of the chest of drawers, she lifted one sandaled foot, then the other.

While he watched, one foot nudged the soft silk panties over to the pile of clothes.

She was naked and about ready to fall over.

Drake didn’t move. He simply watched her with molten eyes, still fully dressed.

“Do you want me?” he asked hoarsely.

“You have no idea,” Grace whispered.

“Show me.”

Show him?

She looked down at herself. Her nipples were hard, cherry-red. Her left breast fluttered with her pounding heartbeat. Of course, he couldn’t see her liquid knees, couldn’t feel how tight her chest was.

There was only one other thing she could show him.

Grace parted her legs, one knee slightly bent. Looking down, the angle was wrong for her, but surely he could see the lips of her sex glistening? With her legs spread, the air felt cool on her wet sex.

“Show me more,” he insisted.

O-kay.

Still gripping the corner with white fingers, Grace ran her free hand slowly down the center of her body. Her skin felt hot to the touch, slightly damp. One finger between her breasts, then the flat of her palm over her belly.

Drake’s gaze followed her hotly, riveted on her hand.

When she stopped her hand along her lower belly, his gaze snapped up to hers.

He didn’t even talk, just jerked his head downward.

More.

She nodded jerkily.

They were both beyond words now.

Grace opened her hand and slid it between her legs, closing her eyes as she touched herself. She needed Drake’s touch, she craved it, her vagina wept for it. A t least her fingers quenched the red-hot heat, if only a little.

She ran her index and middle fingers along the lips of her sex and moaned a soft exhale of breath.

Drake shuddered again, throughout his entire body.

Slowly, because if she moved quickly, her legs would give way, Grace slid her middle finger inside her and breathed out again in a harsh gasp, as if she’d been hurt.

It wasn’t pain she was feeling.

Drake moaned too.

She slid her finger out a little, then back in. It wasn’t anything like feeling her husband’s member inside her, but it was something. Anything was better than this empty, hungry heat that cried for his touch.

When she slid her finger back in, her vagina clenched around it, hard. Her legs instinctively tightened, her stomach muscles pulled.

She looked down, saw it, looked up at her husband.

He saw it too. Her hand slid away and she showed it to him. The palm of her hand and especially her middle finger coated with her juices.

She licked her middle finger.

It was as if he suddenly burst free of restraints. He lunged for her, pulled her against him while somehow, at the same time, freeing himself, pulling his huge, erect penis out from his pants.

With one arm her husband, the strongest man she’d ever seen, lifted her up, settling her legs around his waist, and entered her with one hard thrust.

They were kissing wildly and they both exhaled as he pushed hard into her.

With no effort whatsoever, one hand behind her head, the other holding her by the hips, Drake walked them to the bed.

Every step moved him inside her, inside her highly sensitized tissues, even the slight movements almost as exciting as his thrusts.

She was whimpering by the time he reached their huge bed. Bending over slowly, still embedded inside her, he gently placed her back on the bedspread and sprawled on top of her. When bending, she could feel the iron-hard muscles of his stomach against hers through his silk shirt.

It was exciting, being completely naked against him, his penis deep inside her, while he was fully dressed. She could feel the unyielding muscles of his back and shoulders under the silk shirt against the inside of her arms, the back of his hard thighs, encased in the polished cotton pants, against her legs.