Hunt Her Down (27 page)

handsome jaw. Though as I recall, you didn’t shave every day.”

“Beard growth helped cover my face. And longer whiskers were easier to dye. Do you

really want to talk about this now?”

Her finger stroked from under one ear to the other, the feather touch making a faint

scratching sound that tensed his muscles.

She leaned into the hollow of his throat, and he braced for a kiss there, but she just inhaled

softly.

“You have a distinct scent, even after a shower. Kind of . . .” She breathed in again. “I don’t

know. Like
you
. I smelled it in the shed.”

“I was sweating like a pig.”

“You were aroused.”

“A permanent state, around you.”

She stroked his right shoulder, still using a touch so light he almost didn’t feel it, following

her finger trail with an intent gaze, drinking in every inch of him.

“You’re bigger here,” she noted. “More muscular than when you were, what, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-five.”

She nodded slowly. “I thought you were younger.”

“Part of the cover.”

Her attention had moved to his other shoulder, her finger traveling down his bicep, over a

vein, down a scar.

“Much stronger,” she said. “You were lankier then.”

She surprised him by pulling his T-shirt up. He slid it over his head and dropped it, one step

closer to naked, which was all he wanted to be with her.

She ran her hand over the rise and fall of his muscles, and down the middle, frowning as

though something wasn’t quite right. “You had dark chest hair. More than this.”

“I shave it when I work out a lot,” he said. “And then, it was dyed.”

She shook her head, circling her finger over a patch of coarse chest hair. “You were so

thorough.”

“It was part of the job.”

Her hand stroked lower, until she reached the snap of his jeans, strained by a hard-on

aching for release. She closed her fingers over him. “This is the same.”

“Always, with you.” He couldn’t bear it any longer. “Now, Maggie?”

She closed her eyes for a second, dragged her hands back up his torso, and locked them

behind his neck. “Now.”

Finally.

Dan moved like a man on a mission, stripping her top off on the way to the bedroom,

unclasping her bra and tossing it with one hand while the other set to work on her jeans. She

almost laughed at his determination, except hers matched it.

As he eased her back onto the bed, he dragged off her jeans, panties and all, his eyes

devouring every inch. The only light was from the living room, but from the look on his face,

that was enough to see what he wanted and like what he saw.

He did this, she remembered. He had this magical way of seducing her with his admiring

looks and, oh, those hands. He touched her breasts, caressing one, then the other, already

licking and suckling and nudging himself between her legs.

Still kissing, he reached down to the other side of the bed to his bag and produced a

condom.

There would be no stopping this train, and she didn’t want to. Her hips rose to meet his, her

center already wet and ready for him, her heart thundering with each wellplaced kiss on her

throat, her cheeks, her mouth.

His tongue plunged into her mouth as the tip of him slipped between her legs. Every touch

was more urgent than the one before, each murmur of her name a little more desperate for

entrance.

She opened her legs and he thrust into her. Fast, hard, pulling a shocked cry from her that

he soothed with another onslaught of kisses. He stroked once, then again, the thickness and

length of him wildly, beautifully familiar, and yet so extraordinary for her body that it hurt as

much as it thrilled.

He stopped, fully hilted, working to catch his breath. “Are you all right?” he managed to

ask. “Does that hurt?”

“Yes to both,” she admitted.

“Slow?” he asked, moving out, then in, to match the word.

“Slow’s good.”

He kept that pace for two, three thrusts, but tightened and groaned, and quickened again.

“Fast is okay, too,” she said with a soft laugh.

He smiled, biting down on his lip with the effort not to go even faster. “I don’t want to hurt

you. I never wanted to hurt you, Maggie. Never.”

She reached up and stroked his cheek, damp with sweat, rough with whiskers, the words

she knew she had to say on her lips—but somehow, they couldn’t come out.

He drew out an inch, then back in again, his look expectant, waiting. She brought his face

to hers and turned his head, pressing her mouth to his ear.

“I forgive you.” She kissed his cheek. “I forgive you, Dan.”

As she said his name, he seemed to let go. He kissed her shoulder, then worked his way

back to her mouth, kissing her as though it was the only way he could thank her for that.

Then he arched into her, breaking the kiss, plunging in again and again and again, until any

pain disappeared and a burn of pleasure crackled through every nerve in her body, and she

forgot about everything that had ever happened with this man except right now.

And right now was sheer bliss.

The climax started slow, then intensified with each move, over and over as he stretched her

inside with impossible sweetness until she gave in and let go, rocking against him in perfect,

perfect rhythm.

Just as lost, he let out a long, low moan of satisfaction and came in five, six, seven thrusts

that peaked and slowed until he collapsed on her, and neither one of them could possibly

move.

I forgive you
.

The echo of her own words filled her ears like his strangled breath. Had she really forgiven

Michael Scott for his betrayal, his lies? Had she really opened up her body to this man . . .

again?

She kicked the regret away and squeezed him, wanting Dan—this warm, protective, honest,

decent, fearless man—to forever replace the memory of anything and everything Michael

Scott had done.

Maybe not everything.

But everything that happened that black, miserable night, when he pushed her away, ran

from her, shed his jacket, revealed the truth and . . . “What did you say to me?”

“I didn’t say anything yet,” he said. “But we could start with how much I—”

“No, that night. In the rain. At the warehouse.”

He lifted his head, looking at her with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“You turned to me when you left, right after you took off your jacket. You remember. You

turned and said something.”

The light in his eyes went from uncertainty to . . . fear? Was that possible?

“I’ve always wondered,” she admitted. “I mean, I guessed it was ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Run,

Maggie’ . . . But I want to know. Just for my own curiosity. What did you say?”

“I don’t re—”

“
Don’t
lie. Not now . . . not like this.” With their bodies still connected, the sweat from

making love still on them.

For an eternity, he just looked at her.

“I love you,” he finally said.

She sucked in a small breath. “What?”

“That night, when I turned back to you . . .” His voice was barely a whisper. “I said I love

you.”

Her heart squeezed in her chest. “You did?”

“I did say it.” His gaze locked on her. “And I meant it.”

“Oh.” The word was little more than a breath, and she smiled.

He
loved
her. Once, long ago, in those dark days. She closed her eyes and rested her face

against his, an entirely different bliss rolling over her. Maybe this was how he felt when she’d

bestowed her forgiveness—absolved, somehow, for so many misdeeds she’d spent years

regretting.

“You loved me,” she whispered in the darkness.

“Very much,” he added. “And I’ve never said it before or since.”

“I wish I’d known,” she said softly.

“Would it have made a difference, all these years?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” It would have made her feel less used. But she’d forgiven him

for that, and he’d given her this gift, and it wasn’t worth telling him at this point. “I’m glad I

know now.”

“So am I.” He eased off her, slowly pulling out and leaving her feeling empty without him.

He immediately tucked her deeper into his side. “Don’t leave me tonight.”

Tonight? She could stay like this forever.

She curled into his hard, hot, wonderful body. “Tell me again.”

“Okay.” She could feel him smile against her cheek. “I loved you.”

Right then, she wished with every wishing trick her Baba had ever taught her, that there

was no such thing as a past tense. But there was, so she’d better use it.

“I loved you, too.”

IN THE FAR recesses of Maggie’s sleep, she heard laughter. She turned over, longing for quiet

and another hour, when the sound rose again. It was Dan’s laughter, and someone else’s . . .

lighter and softer.

She popped up, blinking sleep away, remembering where she was.

Throwing off the covers, she looked down at her stillnaked body, then at the door. They

hadn’t closed that last night. She looked at the clock radio: seven thirteen.

Quinn would be up by eight!

She vaulted from the bed and seized her clothes.

“Shit!” Her top and bra were on the other side of that door, thrown on the floor.

She pulled on her panties and jeans, then headed for Dan’s bag, which had had a seemingly

endless supply of condoms last night. She grabbed the first T-shirt she found—navy blue, with

a gold FBI insignia on the chest—and yanked it over her head.

Then she went into the bathroom, rinsed her mouth out, ran her fingers through her hair,

and wiped some leftover mascara from under her eyes.

When she opened the bedroom door, two faces turned to greet her from the bar at the

kitchen. Dan, who looked mildly surprised, and a woman with features so bold and arresting

that Maggie couldn’t look away.

Dan hopped off a bar stool to approach her as Maggie studied the woman, mesmerized by

her fluid, natural grace as she stood to what had to be damn near six feet with a thick mane of

shoulder-length black hair.

“Hey,” Dan said softly, putting an arm around Maggie and dropping a soft kiss on her hair.

“I want you to meet somebody.”

From the tone in his voice or maybe the authority in the woman’s stance, Maggie knew

exactly who she was.

“Lucy Sharpe.” The woman held out a hand tipped with deep red nails that matched the

velvety gloss on her lips.

Rumor has it they’re an item
.

I don’t want this person on this chaise, in my head
.

She quieted the voices and returned the strong handshake, doing her best to match it.

“This is Maggie,” Dan said.

The note of pride in his voice put confidence into her handshake, and a warm feeling

through her body.

“I can’t begin to thank you for all your company has done to help my son and me,” Maggie

said.

Lucy waved an elegant hand, a diamond ring winking on it.
I’m happy she’s found

someone,
Dan had said.

“It’s a pleasure to help someone I know has helped Dan in the past.”

Maggie almost laughed at the euphemistic stretch of history. “What brings you here?”

“I came down with my men who flew into the Keys, and decided to bring the plane up to

Miami in case you two needed it. And after looking at that map and the four coordinates you

mapped out last night”—she gestured toward the computer screen—”I think you most

certainly will need it today.”

“You want to fly down there?” Maggie asked Dan. “To Venezuela?”

“I think so. We’ve been talking about it, and it seems like the right next move.”

She ignored the little kick of jealousy over the “we.” Shouldn’t he have been talking to her

about it? Of course, she didn’t own the plane. Or a security agency.

“What about Lola?” she asked. “Is she still here? She can probably answer a lot of

questions.”

He nodded. “She’s just waking up. Why don’t I walk you over there?” The rest was

implied:
so you can dress and get out of here before Quinn wakes up
.

“All right.” She turned to Lucy. “I assume you’ll be here when I get back, so we can all

discuss the next best move together.”

She nodded with a hint of a smile. “Of course.”

As Dan walked with her to the door, Maggie didn’t see her clothes on the living room floor.

When he caught her looking, he just winked.

Out on the patio, he snuggled her as he closed the door. “Good morning. Sorry if that was

an unexpected awakening.”

“I admit, I would have preferred to wake up next to you.” They started walking across the

patio. “Me, too, but she knocked at six thirty, which is a few hours into the work day for

Lucy.”

“She’s quite . . .” Gorgeous. Intimidating. Larger than life. “Something.”

Dan chuckled. “Everyone has that reaction to her at first. Really, she’s just a very smart and

capable lady.”

Who he might have loved once. Maggie gave him a quick look, and he must have seen the

question in her eyes.

“Don’t listen to rumors, Maggie May.” At the French door that led to the guest wing, he

brushed her curls back and tilted her head toward him. “You look good in that shirt. And

better out of it.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Where’s mine?”

“Hostage. You’ll have to come back and rescue it.”