Defender(60)

A smile slowly began to creep across Morgan's lips. "A bad dream," he said again, got himself to his feet, clutching at his ribs, and walked over to her. He sat down on the edge of the bed inches from her, smiling, and handed over her discardf'd sleepwear, which she snatched from him. He placed the gun discretely behind the lamp on the bedside table. Her adorable pout was trying hard to gestate into a smile but she was holding on tight.

"Are you OK now?" he asked.

"I suppose so," she answered coyly. "Where were you?"

"Well, after we both fell asleep, I thought the chivalrous thing to do was to put you to bed. I grabbed a spare room down the hall."

"So, how did I end up naked?" Her admonitory tone belied her real thoughts.

"That, my dear, is a mystery to me," Morgan answered honestly. There was that smile, he thought. Ever so slight.

Ari held his gaze and sensed the raw energy of the adrenalin-induced rush slowly subsiding throughout his body. This was the other side of Morgan, the dangerous side she witnessed so vividly in Malfajiri. His presence was magnetic. She allowed her eyes to wander across his heavy shoulders beneath the stretched white cotton fabric of his t-shirt and down along the contoured expanse of his arms. My God, she thought wickedly. A fine sweat had broken across his brow and his breathing was deep but controlled.

"Perhaps I shouldn't sleep alone tonight," she said softly. "In case it happens again."

"Ari," he began, playing with her hair. "There are a thousand different reasons why I shouldn't stay in here tonight."

"I know. But there are a thousand other reasons why you should." "You are a spectacular creature," he said with sincerity and just enough

humour, almost to himself. They sat gazing at each other, their breathing betraying them. The big house seemed to wrap them in a cloak of warmth and confidence. Nothing else mattered anymore, only here and now.

Ari pushed her fingers through Morgan's hair. "Stay with me." "Perhaps . . . if I slept over there on the . . ."

With tantalizing authority, Ari began to pull at his t-shirt, tugging and pulling it over his head before throwing it to the floor on the far side of the room. She drew her soft hands across his body, exploring him, reaching for him and pulling herself closer.

"Is this going to be OK?" she whispered in his ear as her hand brushed over the bandaging of his chest.

"I think so," he answered. "But, be gentle. I'm fragile." "Of course you are."

Their eyes locked above illicit grins. Ari turned the bedside lamp off and with the ambient glow of the moonlight streaming in through the windows she released the sheet, letting it drop into her lap.

Morgan leaned into her, gliding his fingers over the soft skin of her face and neck. He drew her to him easily and kissed her, feeling that delicious electricity as her breasts pressed against him. Her back arched and her slender legs stretched beneath the covers. Morgan pulled the sheets away, ran his hands along her thighs, and then slid her closer. He kissed her slowly and deeply. Ari responded. Her tongue flicked and teased in his mouth. They kissed, lost in the total abandon of the moment. They explored each other in oscillating waves of intensity and tenderness, savoring the caress of skin upon skin. The urgency of discovery grew with every touch and breath.

She reached for him, pulling at the waistband of his boxers. "Let's get you out of these."

"Did you really have a bad dream?"





CHAPTER 37





London, Six weeks later





Oblivious to his surroundings, Gregory Cornell headed south past the Houses of Parliament, along Abingdon Street towards the Victoria Tower Gardens. Desperate to convey the pretence of a man in control, his gait betrayed him.

Cornell kept the collar of his overcoat turned up, constantly tugging it around his face. It was an involuntary gesture, a reflex to withdraw from prying eyes, of which he knew there were many upon him. There had to be, but he had no choice. It was impossible to actually see the man face-to face. His only option was to make the call.

Suddenly, Cornell felt a heavy shove which sent him stumbling across the pavement.

"Sorry, bud," came a shocked but friendly voice. A young American couple had come from out of nowhere, blindly flicking through a fistful of novelty postcards they'd just bought. Caught up in their own world, laughing out loud at the images on the cards, the young man hit Cornell like a freight train. For his build he was quick, a Line Backer type, grappling Cornell easily with one arm and hoisting him back to his feet.

"Really sorry, man. You OK?" The young man continued to attend to Cornell, steadying him and straightening his overcoat.