Ahh. Permission. He watched her face transform with ecstasy as he toyed with her nipples through the lightweight T-shirt and flimsy bra. He slipped a leg between hers, pressed his thigh to the apex and reveled in the way she tipped her head back farther, her lips parted, a low, throaty sound more than hinting at her response. He nipped at her earlobe, dragged his tongue down her neck, under the neckline of her shirt. He caught her knee, dragged her leg up and alongside his. She drew a long, hissing breath as he moved his thigh in circles against her. She whispered his name. He closed his mouth over her breast, pulled lightly at the hard peak under the two layers of fabric.
Then she moved her hands, pressed them to his chest and pushed him back, not roughly but with determination.
"I can't," she said, panting, her forehead pressed to his.
"Can't what?"
"Do this. Us. It's so fast. There's so much to consider. Not just how good it would feel for now, for the moment. There's later … ."
How good it would feel. He had no doubt it would feel spectacular. How she found the strength to stop amazed him. Her wholehearted response taunted him. He wanted to pleasure her, just to feel her go wild in his arms. He didn't care if he didn't …
"Just let me-" he kissed her, ran his tongue around her lips "-take care of you."
Her breath went raggedy. "I can't … let you … do that."
"Sure you can."
"But … what about you?"
"Another time, maybe. Let me, Mysterious. Please." Their lips were touching, breath mingling. The air was saturated with the scent of her arousal, a silent beggar demanding satisfaction.
"What would you do?" Her voice was hushed, her interest clear.
"Let me show you." He waited a few seconds. He would give her a preview of what they could have together, even if only for a little while. An affair to satisfy their curiosity and get that out of the way. Those questions would be answered, and their relationship could settle in without ever having to wonder what it would've been like to make love. "You don't want to leave it like this."
"You're right. I don't want to, but I have to. I'm sorry."
He took a step back, not angry but surprised and disappointed.
"I should go," she said, hesitation turning her words almost into a question.
"Okay." He had to believe there would be another time, another opportunity.
"I'll see myself out," she said, before moving quietly through the yard and into the house. He roused himself from his stupor and followed her, arriving at the bottom of his front steps just as she pulled away from the curb. She waved. He just watched.
Then as he started back into the house he noticed a car parked nearby. Dark, two-door sedan, typical of cop undercovers. He saw the silhouette of a man inside. It struck James that the same car had been there earlier, when he'd come outside to greet Caryn-yet the guy hadn't followed her when she left a minute ago, a good sign. James walked close enough to see the license plate, then closer still to check out the man inside, who turned away as James approached. He kept walking, past the car to the newspaper rack at the corner. He bought a paper and headed back to his house.
Hours later the car pulled out.
In the morning it was back.
Eleven
James had a plan. He called Cassie, and she agreed to drive to his house, park out of sight of the stranger, then follow if he followed James. A direct confrontation would've suited him more, but would accomplish nothing except to hear a lie, probably, and tip the guy off that he'd been spotted. It was better to know who and where your enemies were.
Cassie reached James by cell phone when she arrived. Deciding that if he were a target of some sort, he would've been hit the night before, he went down to his garage and backed out his work car, as if nothing were different. He hit the speaker phone and dialed Cass's cell number as he headed up the street.
"He's not following you," Cassie said.
James could see that and was glad to be wrong, although he wondered who in the neighborhood was under surveillance, and by whom, and why. "Stay put for a few minutes. I'll come around and park behind you, then you can take off. I want to see what he's up to."
"Sure. How's every- Hold on. He's getting out of his car … . Jamey, he's opening your side gate. He's in your backyard."
James sped up. "Is he carrying anything?"
"Nothing I can see. I'll go for a little stroll in front of your house."
"Yeah, okay. You armed?"
"Yep."
He made the final turn that brought him back to his street, spotted a parking space and spent little time trying to park straight. He slammed the gearshift into Park and jogged toward his house, turning his cell phone to vibrate as he ran. With gestures only, he signaled Cassie to stand at the bottom of his steps, then he pulled out his gun, lifted the gate latch and crept into his yard until he could peer through some bushes at the back of the house.
A short, muscular man with a shaved head stood at James's back door, running his fingers around it, probably checking for a security system.
Baldy inched to a nearby window, peered in, then checked it for wires, too. To get him for breaking and entering, James had to be patient and let him do what he'd planned. The silent alarm would trigger a signal to a pager in James's pocket, which he'd already turned off, and at his office, which meant that his boss, Quinn Gerard, would come running, if he was there.
Baldy pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and appeared to punch a speed dial button. James picked up a word now and then but not whole sentences. He gathered that the guy was asking for advice. James heard the words alarm and risk. Then the cell phone was put away and he looked around the yard. James jerked back, out of sight. The sound of glass breaking followed. Baldy had broken in. The alarm was triggered, but he didn't know it yet.
James peeked around the corner again. The guy stood in place as if waiting for an alarm or a neighbor. When he decided enough time had passed, he reached through the broken glass on the back door and unlocked it. Glass crunched under his feet as he tiptoed into the house.
James followed.
He crouched as he ran under the windows then slipped silently into his house, scraping the glass bits from the bottom of his shoes before he stepped onto the kitchen floor. He swore silently. He hadn't let Cassie know he'd gone in. Bad move, going in without backup, even though he'd done it for years as a bounty hunter. He knew better. Too late now, though. At least she would be guarding the front.
Noise came from his office, the sound of paper being shuffled. He moved with his back to the wall, inching his way toward the room. When he reached the doorway he peered in. Baldy was stuffing Paul's papers into the boxes James had emptied last night. All that work, all the sorting James had done, was in shambles.
"Hands up!" James shouted as he entered the room, blocking the doorway, his weapon drawn.
Wearing his panic like a too-big overcoat, Baldy sought an escape route.
"Put the box down and your hands up," James said, making a point of aiming his gun at the man's heart.
Baldy bent over then suddenly heaved the box at James's midsection, spinning him around and almost knocking him over as the crook sped out of the room, adrenaline giving him extra speed and strength. James had no defensible reason to shoot him, so he went after him, lunging, catching him by the jacket and yanking, but the guy slipped out of the sleeves and kept going-through the kitchen, across the broken glass, out the back door, into the yard, over the fence.
James followed, but the guy was at least fifteen years younger, and he cleared fences in a single bound. He was long gone by the time James climbed the second fence.
He made his way to the sidewalk. Cassie spotted him and came running. Quinn pulled into his driveway. The gang was all there.
James hooked a thumb over his shoulder as Cassie reached him. "He does a helluva superhero imitation. He's gone."
"What's going on?" Quinn asked when he reached them.
"Let's go in the house." His ego stung, James led the way. He remembered why he'd gotten out of the bounty hunting business. He couldn't keep up with the young outlaws who could run faster and longer than he could. It struck him then that another six or seven years from now when his hoped-for child would want to play baseball with him, that he might not be able to. The thought depressed him further.