Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Enter Cato. Weak at the thought of how close he came to losing his beloved. You’ve got him coddling you like he’s never coddled you before. He swallows the self-defense story whole, and Trotter ain’t talking.” His eyes narrowed on her. “What must really be haunting you now is, where’s Meyer Napoli? Except for him, you’re clear. He’s the only person who can ruin this for you.”

Her shoulders slumped forward and she bowed her head.

Duncan strode over to her, placed his hand beneath her chin, and yanked her head up. “Isn’t that the way it went down?”

“Yes.” Surprising him, she surged to her feet and thrust her hands toward him, the insides of her wrists pressed together. “Handcuff me. Arrest me. Put me in jail. At least there I’ll be safe.”

“From your husband?”

“Yes!”

“Because he’s going to kill you?”

“Yes! No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not him. He wouldn’t do it himself. He’s not that foolish. He had his chance the other night in the swimming pool. I thought he might drown me and be done with it. But he didn’t kill me then, and he won’t. He’ll just make certain that I die.”

“Why?” Duncan fired at her.

“He…”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you why.”

“Because there is no why.”

She shook her head violently. “Just please trust me.”

“Trust you?” He laughed. “Not on a bet.”

“What do I have to do for you to believe me? Turn up dead?”

“That would be a start.”

She drew in a shocked breath and fell back a step.

“In the meantime,” he continued in the same cold voice, “I’ll see you at the Barracks. Tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”

He turned away from her and headed for the center hall. She came after him, caught his arm, and brought him around. “I don’t have anyone else who can or will help me. I’m afraid. Cato knows…”

“What?”

“He knows, or at least suspects, that I know what he’s trying to do. That’s why he told you about Napoli. So he would look like the cuckolded husband, win your sympathy against the unfaithful wife. He let you draw the connection between Napoli and Trotter and ultimately to Coleman to make me look guilty. It’s all a part of his grand scheme.”

“All right,” Duncan said. “If that’s the way it is, make that your official statement. Go on the record with it tomorrow during the interrogation.”

“I can’t. How could I? I would be as good as dead for sure.” Her grip on his arm tightened. “Please, Duncan.”

“What is it exactly you’re asking me to do?”

“Stop investigating me. Start investigating Cato, and why Trotter came to our house that night.”

“Which was to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“How would a bungler like Trotter know that you wander around the house in the middle of the night?”

“Cato would have told him. He would have told Trotter to wait in the study until I came downstairs, which was inevitable.”

“Cato kept you in bed so the alarm wouldn’t be set and Trotter could get in.”

“Doesn’t that sound plausible?”

It did, yes. He saw the hopefulness in her expression, and it tempted him to believe her. “Tell me why your husband wants you dead.”

“I can’t,” she said in an anguished whisper. “Not until I know, without doubt, that you believe me. Completely.”

“Then you’re shit out of luck.”

Before he could turn away, she placed her hands on his shoulders and moved in close. “You want to believe me.”

He reached up to remove her hands. “Don’t,” he said, but her hands stayed on his shoulders and his hands stayed on hers.

“I know you do.” She came up on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his, breathing against them. “Believe me, Duncan. Please.”

Groaning with anger and frustrated desire, he dropped his jacket and pistol to the floor and grabbed a handful of her hair. He yanked her head back. He might have released her and walked out if only she had returned his glare, if her eyes had held even a trace of triumph or defiance. Instead, they closed.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “Damn me.”

His mouth came down hard on hers. He pushed his tongue inside as his arm curved around her waist and drew her up flush against him. The feel of her body along his, her scent, the taste of her mouth all combined to snuff out the last flicker of conscience. Desire such as he’d never experienced pulsed through him.

She folded her arms around his neck and drove her fingers up through his hair. Her mouth was responsive, closing seductively around his tongue and making him crazy with wanting more of it, more of her, all of her.

He walked her backward until she was against the wall, then raised the hem of her tank top. There was nothing beneath it but Elise. He continued pulling up the tank until her arms were raised above her head, the shirt gathered on her forearms. He took both her wrists in one hand and held them pressed against the wall high above her head.

Later, he would regret that he hadn’t paused then to study her stretched torso, taken time to gaze at what he’d fantasized about since the first time he’d seen her at the awards dinner. He would regret that he didn’t treat his fingertips to the feel of her skin, that he didn’t touch her breasts or caress them with his mouth.

But at that moment, he was driven by a primal hunger to have her. He reached under her skirt and palmed her ass, encountering nothing but skin. Growling profanities, or maybe desperate prayers, he lifted her against him and carried her to the sofa.

As she stretched out along it, she pulled off her tank top and tossed it aside. Impatiently he shrugged off his shoulder holster and dropped it on the floor. He planted one knee on the sofa and raised her skirt as far as her waist. He dragged the thong panties down her legs and focused on the patch of soft hair between her thighs. His breathing was a harsh thrashing sound in the otherwise silent room as he grappled with belt buckle and zipper, then he pushed apart her thighs and thrust himself into her.

Sheathed by her, he sank his fingers into her hair and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. He took a precious few seconds to celebrate how damn good that alone felt, just to be inside her, surrounded by her, possessing her.

Then he started moving. His hard, deep strokes were born of frustration almost as much as passion. They drew from her small choppy sounds. Even if she was faking them, he didn’t care. He liked them. They urged him on.

Sliding his hands beneath her hips, he angled her up and held her in place as he thrust into her with escalating force, the tempo increasing, the friction growing hotter, until he shattered with pleasure. His climax was long and intense and left him replete.

He settled on her heavily, his breath sighing loudly, humid against her throat. He could have lain there forever, with her beneath him, in that state of blissful lethargy. But even before he had regained his breath, he levered himself up and tried to pull away.

“No.” She clutched at him. “No.”

Her body was taut. A shallow frown had formed between her brows. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was rapid. She wet her lips then rolled them inward.

Sliding her hands under his wet shirt, she dug her fingers into the sweat-slick flesh of his back. She mashed her pelvis against his in a gentle grind. The increased pressure caused her breath to catch. He forgot about leaving her, and instead bracketed her hips between his hands and nudged his body against hers. She murmured a low, wanting sound.

He rubbed himself against her while holding her hips even tighter against him. He felt the bite of her nails into his flesh. He made the slightest of rocking motions, but it was sufficient. More than enough. With a soft cry, her back arched off the sofa and her thighs squeezed his hips tightly. He felt her orgasm from the tip of his cock, buried deep inside her, to the back of his throat.