Swept Away (30 page)

His words stunned her. “What?”

He let out another sigh, looking hesitant.
“Just tell me,” she demanded.

He ran his hands from her shoulders smoothly down her arms to capture her hands. “Chances are he won’t come with just one other guy this time. Or just a couple of guns.”

Doom settled over Kat like a heavy blanket she couldn’t shake off, and she nearly crumbled in
his arms.

“I’m sorry, kitten. I really fucked up.”

Yet she hated hearing him say that. Because it wasn’t true, not really. “Just by being a decent
man.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Right now, right here, I needed to be a federal agent first
and screw the rest. Sometimes... there’s no room for decency.”

“I don’t believe that. I’m glad you’re a decent man. A good man, Brock. There’s no shame in
that.”

His eyes still looked glassy, filled with emotion, as he glanced once more at the retreating boat,
still visible probably a half mile offshore now, then ran his hand through his hair as he brought
his eyes back to hers. “Here’s what we’ll have to do. Work on a good hiding place in the
woods, someplace that will camouflage us. Stock it with some supplies. Be ready to go there
the second there’s any sign of—”

An explosion in the distance made them both flinch, then drew their gazes to the water. The
yacht had just become a ball of fire, although only small bits of black smoke billowed skyward.
“Jesus Christ,” Brock murmured.

“What the hell?” Kat asked.

Brock slowly shook his head, still watching the yacht. “No telling. Could be that stray bullet
from Carlos’s gun hit something vital. Could have just nicked the fuel line or something so that
it took a few minutes for any fallout to result.”

Kat swallowed, considering the implications. “Do you think...he got off the boat?”

Brock seemed certain, giving his head a slow, thorough shake. “You don’t have warning with
an explosion. And besides, Francisco couldn’t swim.”

“What about... flotation devices, life jackets?”

But Brock shook his head again. “Happened too fast—no time for him to grab anything.
Probably no time...at all. I’d bet he died instantly.”

For some reason, the news took Kat’s breath away, and she slumped slightly. Brock caught her in his arms. “Hey, hey, hey—what’s wrong, kitten?”

She shook her head, peering up at him helplessly. “I’m not sure. I just...” She swallowed. “Weird to think of people dying, that’s all. And it’s just been... a rough day.”

At this, Brock drew her into a big, warm, consuming hug, exactly what she needed in that
moment. “We’re okay now,” he reassured her. “They’re both gone now and we’re okay,
kitten.” They embraced for a long moment—and the truth was, if it had been up to Kat the hug might never have ended, because he felt so strong and protective, so masculine and sure, so...
Brock.

When finally he released her, he silently took her hand and led her toward the path that would
deliver them to the bungalow. Which felt like a surprisingly wonderful place to be at the
moment. Where they’d been together before—before all this danger and chasing and shooting
had started. In a way, it felt like going home.

Upon walking in, the comfort of the place surrounded Kat immediately. Old and still in serious
need of redecorating, but at the moment, it felt like a palace. She’d never been so glad to see the
antique armoire or that Formica table.

“Food,” she murmured, spying the refrigerator. The clock on the nightstand said it was nearly
7:00 P.M., and they hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Brock snatched up a couple of bananas from the counter and passed her one, starting to peel the
other for himself. A bit overripe for her taste, but at the moment, she hardly cared. She yanked
down the peeling and took a huge bite.

With her free hand, she jerked open the fridge door and drew out bottles of water, which they
both started to gulp, then she grabbed two of the Milky Way bars she’d been hiding in a
drawer and hadn’t told him about.

“Hey, where did these come from?” he asked accusingly when she handed him one.
“Secret stash. Don’t whine or you won’t get anymore.”

Looking amused, he ditched what remained of his banana and ripped into the chocolate.

They stood in the kitchen gorging themselves like people possessed. But almost as soon as the strange, rushed dinner of bananas, candy bars, and water—supplemented with a few corn chips
from a rolled-down bag on the table—came to an end, things suddenly felt awkward, and Kat
had no idea why.

Now that the light euphoria of food was wearing off and the daylight starting to fade, an
unexpected light-headedness struck her. Images of the day started to flash through her mind.
Her and Brock kissing in the ditch. Running, running, running, her heart hurting in her chest.
That gun to her head and the very real possibility that she was going to die. She let out a heavy
breath and reached out to grab on to one of the kitchen chairs.

“Hey, you okay?”

She raised her eyes from the table to Brock. He looked a little shell-shocked himself standing
there in damp clothes just as filthy as her own, and she couldn’t help thinking they were both
suffering the same whoosh of emotions. “Yes,” she answered. Then, “No. I don’t know.”

“Come here,” he said, but he moved toward her instead and drew her into another of his great,
engulfing embraces. She went willingly because she knew it felt good there, and she also knew
she needed his comfort to get through this. “You’re safe now, kitten, I promise. No more
danger. You’re safe.”

With her arms around his neck, his around her waist, they stood quietly, chest to chest, torso to torso, and Kat realized that she’d never until today understood just how vital someone’s touch could be to her well-being. But not just someone’s. Right now, no one else’s would have felt
nearly so soothing.

She drew back just slightly, not to end the hug, but simply yearning to see him. He stood
nearly a head taller than her, but the move brought into view an angle of darkly stubbled chin, his strong jawbone, his closed eyes and the lone tear rolling down his cheek. She felt that tear
deep inside, like a blow to the stomach, and it forced her own eyes shut.
“Are you thinking of Carlos?” she whispered into his neck.

She felt his silent nod, the dip of his head. His pain seemed to drip onto her, and she was
willing to absorb some of it for him, whatever she could do to take it away.

Still nuzzling close, she lifted a hand to his cheek and whispered low in his ear. “You did what
you had to. It’s all right.”

Another slow, painful nod. “I know,” he breathed. “But it’s not just Carlos. It’s you. I was so
afraid so afraid he would hurt you.”

His grip on her tightened as he lifted one hand to the back of her neck, and then to her hair,
stroking, stroking, gathering it in his hand at her nape, and she opened her eyes. His rested
only a few inches away. And so did his mouth, lips parted. His look was hungry, needful. The same torrid desire filled her, too.

When he spoke, it sounded as if the words had been wrenched from his soul. “I need you so much right now, kitten.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”

He was a beautiful man in pain.

His hands possessive, his eyes dark with passion. She closed her eyes.

And gave herself over to him.

Chapter Eleven

His kiss came warm and hungry, tinged with chocolate, and deep with the need he’d
acknowledged. She drank it in, licked at his tongue when it pushed between her lips, and held so tightly around his neck that she dug her fingernails into his shoulders. She needed, too.

His hands dropped to her rear, tugging her close against him so that the stone-hard column
between his legs pressed into the soft juncture of her thighs, just where she longed for it most.
If there’d been a shred of resistance remaining inside her, any chance she was going to stop—
that killed it. A sensation so delicious she thought that, in this moment, she would have died for it.

Their kisses grew hotter, harsher, more frantic and bruising. She clawed deeper into his flesh, feeling him wince at the pleasure of just how intensely her own hunger ran. His fingers sank
harder into her butt as he thrust at her through their clothes. They both moaned, and she
instinctually lifted one leg over his hip, needing to be more entwined with him.

His kisses trickled warm and intimate to her neck, and she leaned her head back. His mouth
dropped to the vee of her soiled top, descending onto the curve of one breast. She arched for
him—more, kiss me more—and his teeth and tongue and lips worked over the soft flesh as she
held his head there, running her fingers through his dark hair, until he could go no further.
Clearly too impatient to untie the top, he simply reached for her breasts through the fabric,
caressing hotly and lifting his mouth back to hers for another hungry tongue kiss.

Both panted in slow, jagged breaths by the time he picked her up by her ass and turned to set
her on the Formica table. She closed her legs around his thighs, wanting to feel that beautifully
solid part of him up against her again, craving it. “Oh” she moaned at the contact, then drew
him back into another kiss. His hands found her face, then her hair. Their tongues played
intimately together, and she lifted her pelvis to meet his hard-on, needing more, so much more.

When he pulled back, she wanted to kill him, but forgave when his hands slid up her thighs,
under her skirt, his fingers closing quickly on the hem of her panties. “Lift up,” he said in low
command, and she braced herself on her hands until he drew the undies down.

She reached to push up his shirt, let him know she wanted it off—so he ripped it over his head
and flung it aside. The only sound as he moved back in was their labored breathing, and all she
saw was masculine flesh and eyes that looked as if they would devour her.

Gazes locked, she reached between them for the button on his shorts, then the zipper. No
underwear—something she hadn’t thought about him not having—so when she reached inside,
her hand closed instantly around him, flesh to hot flesh. They both groaned, and his head fell
back even as his hands curled around her bottom again, drawing them together under her skirt.

Oh God, I’m really touching him there. Such heat flared inside her as she’d never known. Her
chest ached, and a moan tore from her throat. And nothing else in the world mattered but
getting more of him.

Releasing him below, she sank her hands into the solid muscles of his shoulders and tilted for
him, almost reflexively. She bit her lower lip as his erection nudged at her most intimate place,
then plunged inside.