Every Breath You Take Read online

  His voice was deep and sure as his hand finally reached toward her, but not for any of the places she expected him to want to touch. His hand settled under her chin, tipping it up. “Are you feeling shy?” he asked.

  She met his gaze unflinchingly and said, “No, just a little … uncertain.”

  He mistook her meaning. “Don’t even consider uncertainty now.”

  Kate bit her lip to hide her smile, laid her palms against the muscles of his chest, and, while his hands settled on her waist, she exerted pressure. She slid her hands slowly up over his nipples, and then spread her fingers and slid them slowly back down while she watched the banked fires in his eyes begin to smolder. “Not that kind of uncertain,” she whispered back.

  They stood naked, face to face. She had beautiful breasts, not large, but full, and as he trailed his hand up from her waist, his eyelids closed with pleasure at the sensation of her skin. At her nipple, he opened his fingers and captured it. He increased the pressure until he wrung the first gasp of pleasure out of her.

  Her hands glided over his shoulders, while she covered his mouth with her soft lips and brought her body into full contact with his.

  The lazy pleasure of moments ago exploded in a deluge of pure lust, and Mitchell wrapped his arms around her and twisted his body, sending them back onto the bed. His hips landed unerringly against the seductive curly hair between her thighs, and his hands shifted back to her breasts. She gazed at him, sultry and playful, eyes smiling warmly into his. He couldn’t believe how much intimate pleasure he felt just watching her face and knowing she was watching his.

  Her hands smoothed slowly over his back and down his buttocks, holding him tight to her. She opened her legs, and he reminded himself that this was too soon, the preliminaries having barely begun. But he let his body touch the entrance to hers, experiencing the delight of finding her already wet. He edged inside of her just an inch, smiling a little at her hazy expression. He moved his hands to her hair. He shoved his fingers into it and, lowering his mouth to hers, slowly, deliberately forced her lips to part, opening them wide, while his hips lifted and forced her to open wide. He intended to ease just a little deeper into that tight, enclosing warmth, except that just then, she tightened her hands on his buttocks, arched her hips as much as his heavy weight would allow, and whispered an aching, imperative “Please.”

  He drew back, deliberately resisting the invitation.

  “Please …”

  He rammed himself into her, burying himself full length into her arching body, and his own body began to move without his volition, capturing her and forcing her to move with him. With the last ounce of willpower he possessed, he rolled onto his back, putting her astride his hips to slow them both down. Pressing her palms against him for support, she forced herself into a sitting position, her rumpled hair falling down her sides. She began to move on him with a rhythm that became a part of his breathing, of the coursing of blood through his veins. He could have continued pleasuring her by forcing his body higher into hers, except that she lifted her head and gazed straight into his eyes, looking as aroused as he was but a little baffled.

  “Take your time,” he whispered—an act of almost suicidal unselfishness given the urgent state of his body.

  Her answer explained the bafflement in her green eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered, and with a groan of anticipation and defeat, Mitchell tossed her onto her back and began driving into her with long, deep, slow strokes. She clasped him to her and buried her face in the curve of his neck, her fingers biting into his back, her body straining and moving with his. She cried out and clung to him tighter while spasms rocked her, and Mitchell slammed forward, climaxing with her.

  Afterward, she lay in his arms, looking into his eyes, her fingers idly smoothing the hair at his temple. “More?” she said hopefully.

  Mitchell burst out laughing and tightened his arms around her. “That is my favorite word.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  DETECTIVE CHILDRESS TOSSED HIS SUITCASE ONTO ONE of the beds in room 102 at the Enclave. “Did you see that damned bellboy trying to arm-wrestle me for my suitcase?”

  “He was hoping for a ten-dollar tip,” MacNeil replied as he pulled a lightweight laptop computer out of his own suitcase.

  “You know what pisses me off about being here?” When MacNeil didn’t reply, Childress explained, “We’re surrounded by gorgeous women who are prancing around in string bikinis, and we look like we’re a pair of fags.”

  MacNeil glanced up at his partner, whose desire to look like an ordinary tourist had translated into a pair of Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt with the words St. Maarten intertwined among palm trees, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a camera slung around his neck. “It’s your Bermuda shorts,” MacNeil said.

  Childress’s thoughts had already skipped on to other issues. “I don’t like being this ‘up close and personal’ when I’m working surveillance. It triples the probabilities of Wyatt spotting us.” As he spoke, he wandered over to the door and studied the room rates posted there. “One night in this place costs more than the down payment on my last car. The DA is going to have a coronary when the bill for this place comes in.”

  “I’ll tell him the truth: There was no place to park on the main road or on the private road into this place where we could spend day and night waiting for Wyatt to leave. The guard at the gatehouse would only give us a one-hour pass, and when that expired, a hotel employee appeared and tried to run us off. We had to register here.”

  “Yeah, I know all that, but I’m glad you’re the one who has to explain it to Elliott.”

  MacNeil glanced at his watch and reached for his cell phone. It was time for his daily check-in call.

  “Mr. Elliott?”

  Gray Elliott looked up from the photographs spread out across the credenza in his Chicago office, a frown on his face. “Yes?”

  “Detective MacNeil is on the phone.”

  “Close my door, will you?” Gray said. Swiveling in his chair, he waited until the door closed behind his secretary before he picked up his telephone. “Hi, Mac,” he said.

  “Did you get the report and pictures we e-mailed to you last night?” MacNeil began.

  Too restless to stay seated, Gray stood up and turned to the credenza. “I got them,” he said shortly.

  “Wyatt picked up the redhead at her hotel this morning, and they’ve just checked into a hotel in St. Maarten. We still don’t know who she is, but her hotel room in Anguilla was registered in the name of a guy named Bartlett. Sooner or later, she’ll use a credit card here or produce a driver’s license, and we’ll get a make on her—”

  “Don’t bother,” Gray interrupted tightly, staring at a close-up of a man and woman locked in a passionate embrace near a beach. The photo was taken at night using an infrared camera. It was a little grainy, but the subjects were easily identifiable. “Her name is Kate Donovan.”

  “Should that name mean something to me?” Mac asked. “It seems familiar.”

  “Her father was Daniel Donovan.”

  “The restaurant owner—that Daniel Donovan?”

  “That’s the one,” Gray said sarcastically. “The Daniel Donovan who died a few weeks ago in what was presumed to be a random drive-by shooting.”

  MacNeil sank down on the edge of his bed, already putting together the pieces and arriving at the same conclusion Gray had drawn. “That’s three people who Wyatt is connected with who’ve met untimely deaths in the last few months.”

  “Right.”

  “How does this guy Bartlett fit into the picture?”

  “Kate Donovan is Evan Bartlett’s girlfriend,” Gray spit out. “Or at least I thought she was. Evan and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s a lawyer from a long line of lawyers, all of whom have spotless reputations. I’m quite sure Evan Bartlett knows nothing about whatever she’s involved in.”

  Rather than debate that, MacNeil said calmly, “We didn’t see any sign of Bartlett last night,