A Father's Sacrifice (17 page)

Mintz had also told her not to bother him, yet here she was. Her conscience had been eating at her all day as she studied Tom’s code and tried to figure out what his next move would be.

She had to tell Dylan about Tom. He deserved to know just how vengeful the attacks on his home and his computer were. He deserved the choice of keeping her or dismissing her.

She had the sick feeling that if she weren’t here, Tom might have given up after a couple of failed attempts and gone on to an easier target.

She’d already sent an urgent message via Storm to Decker alerting him that Tom was the hacker and t
hat they should assume he was working with a domestic terrorist cell—based on the truck driver’s suicide mission.

Now she had to tell Dylan. She knocked on the door, but the flat sound of her knuckles hitting steel told her there was no way anyone inside could hear her. She looked for a buzzer or button, but didn’t see anything.

Dylan had told her that she was one of four people who could open any door. Did that include this one? She tried her pass code and fingerprint, and heard the muffled click. She went in, letting the door swing shut behind her with a quiet heavy thud. The sound of forced air surrounded her.

A frisson of alarm slithered down her back. She turned, her breathing suddenly sharp and uneven. The door had a panic bar, like most of the other doors in the house.

Panic bar.
Good name. She smiled wryly. Forcing herself to breathe slowly and evenly, she surveyed the room.

It was swathed in shadow. She saw a seating area—a couch and chair on one side. A desk with a computer console was against one wall.

Her eyes were drawn toward a bright area on the opposite wall—a small area curtained by heavy translucent plastic sheeting.

The clean room. Where Dylan and Campbell worked on assembling the interface hardware. It was set up to filter dust and keep the temperature and humidity at a controlled level.

That’s where the forced air was coming from. The clean room was positive pressure, which meant that anyone entering would be subjected to a strong downdraft of clean air—it kept out dust and lint.

She scanned the length of the room. It was empty.

“Dylan?” she called as she stepped away from the door. To her left a recess in the wall provided the only other light. A small sign hung next to it. She stepped closer.

Restroom And Showers. Light spilled out from a short, tiled corridor.

“Dylan?” Her voice sounded small and scared.

She heard a noise. She hesitated. Should she go in?

Just then he appeared wearing jeans and nothing else. His face and torso were sprinkled with drops of water and he rubbed a towel over his wet hair.

The sight of him backlit by the shower room’s fluorescent glow struck Natasha speechless for a second. His bare arms and shoulders rippled with sleek muscles. His abs were lean and defined. And the sparkling water droplets made him look sprinkled with fairy dust.

Her insides tingled with awareness. Her mouth watered at the remembered the taste of him. Her fingers remembered his skin.

He lowered the towel and stopped, surprised. “Tasha—”

She dragged her eyes away from his abs. “I’m sorry. I was worried—”

“No, no. It’s okay.” He gave his hair one last swipe with the towel then tossed it behind him. “I was just taking a break while the diagnostic program runs.”

His golden skin glimmered. Natasha watched two little drops on his chest merge into one and trickle down toward his belly. She swallowed and blinked, imagining that she felt his heat radiating over her. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the magnetism of his presence.

“How—how’s it going?” she stammered, forcing her gaze upward, to meet his.

He shrugged. “I’ll know when the diagnostic is finished.” He wiped a hand across his face, then pushed his fingers through his wet hair, spiking it. His eyelashes were wet and matted together like star points around his eyes.

He sent her a curious glance. “Did you need something?”

She opened her mouth to tell him about Tom and how she knew him, but she couldn’t. In fact she wasn’t sure she could speak at all. Not with him standing half-naked in front of her. “I—was just worried about you,” she stammered. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

His mouth turned up. “I’m okay. I’ll be better if that diagnostic finishes with no errors.” He glanced toward the clean room then looked at his watch. “It’s been running over an hour. Campbell started it around ten.”

“I saw him in the virtual surgery lab.”

“Really? I guess he’s trying to make up for what he did.”

“You talked to him? What did he say?”

“He said he was just sending files of his code to his home computer.”

Natasha raised her brows. “Did he say why?”

Dylan shrugged, sending rivulets of water sliding down his pecs and over his belly.

She forced herself to look at his face.

“He said he was proud of his work. Said none of it could be used to create or destroy the interface.”

“You believe him?”

“I have to. But you
are
quarantining his e-mails, right?”

“Right.” She quirked her mouth into a smile. “So what about you? How long have you been down here?”

He shook his head and a shadow crossed his face. “Not long enough. The interface isn’t finished until the diagnostic runs without error. So far, we’ve run it eleven times.”

“Eleven errors?”

“You know how it goes. Fix one error and another that was hidden by the first pops up.”

A beeping sound came from the clean room.

Dylan’s head angled. “It’s finished.” He met her gaze, fear and hope shining in his eyes.

She nodded and tried to smile. Hope and need radiated from him, hot as a desert wind. She didn’t know what he’d do if the program was still buggy.

He crossed the room to the computer workstation, studied the monitor for a moment, then reached across the desk to the printer. He retrieved the pages and shuffled them.

Natasha walked slowly over to stand beside him. She didn’t say anything, just watched him intently. Her body was tense with dread and anticipation.

He studied the printout, then looked back at the monitor. He typed something, clicked with the mouse, and stared at the screen.

She waited, holding her breath.

When he finally raised his gaze to hers, he looked stunned.

Her heart seized in her chest.
Oh, no.
Had the program erred out? She couldn’t speak. All she could do was touch his forearm in silent support.

Slowly his eyes changed, and his stunned expression morphed into disbelief, then hope.

“Dylan?” Natasha whispered, almost soundlessly.

“It’s—” he stopped and cleared his throat “—it’s finished.”

She heard his words, but for an instant they didn’t make any sense. “Finished?”

His face transformed. He shook his head in wonder. The bulging tension in his jaw and neck faded, and he grinned. “It works! The interface works!” He laughed. “The diagnostic finished with no errors!”

Natasha’s throat clogged with emotion.

He gripped her upper arms, his face beaming. “No errors. Do you know what that means?”

She smiled. “You can operate! You can make him walk!”

He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She hugged him back. His hard bare torso against hers was as hot and silky smooth as she’d imagined it.

His shoulders quivered and his breath hitched. She caressed his hair and neck. After a few seconds he bent his head and buried his face against her neck. She felt his hot tears.

She was crying, too, her tears mixing with the water droplets on his skin. She was so happy for them. Ben could be freed from the prison of his leg braces, and Dylan could finally shed the guilt that weighed him down. He could help his son.

She took a deep breath, breathing in his familiar scent. She cried with happiness—for him, for Ben.

But after several seconds, she could no longer maintain a remote happiness for his success.

Her insides vibrated with sensation, her thighs tightened in anticipation. She was m
ortified that she was turned on by him right now, when he’d just found out that he could make his child walk again.

“Thank you,” he muttered hoarsely against her neck as he tightened his embrace.

“You did it. You finished the interface.” She should pull away. She shouldn’t be enjoying the strength and safety of his embrace. Every inch of his skin that touched hers shouldn’t burn her with erotic fire. His muscular thighs shouldn’t be taunting hers. His hard chest shouldn’t be rubbing so sensually against her breasts, tightening their tips as his uneven breaths stoked the fire of her passion. And she shouldn’t want to slide her palms over his pecs to feel his crisp, sparse chest hair.

She tried to keep her breathing even, tried to pull away, but her body refused to cooperate. The pull of his burning intensity was unbearably erotic.

His arms relaxed a bit and he took a small step backward. “Natasha? Are you all right?”

Thank goodness one of them was strong.

She sighed in relief and lowered her arms. “Sure.” Her voice broke. “I’m just so happy for you and Ben.”

At the mention of his son’s name his gaze darkened. He nodded. “I need to call NSA. Set up an operating room. The clock is ticking.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you sleep, then call them tomorrow.” She laid her palm against his chest.

He caught her hand in his and kissed her palm. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“What little I did,” she said, “was my pleasure.” She smiled at him and gently pulled away.

But he didn’t let go. Instead, his embrace subtly changed. It was no longer a hug—it was a ca
ress. His muscles relaxed, turned sinuous and supple. Her body felt the change in his, and it fed her growing desire.

His hands slid down her back, gentle and caressing. They spanned her waist, then moved lower, to her hips. He urged her against him with gentle pressure and small adjustments of his stance, until she was caught, one leg between his, with his pulsing erection pressed against her in undisguised need. She closed her eyes. She should stop him, but she didn’t.

He bent his head just enough to reach her mouth. As his lips brushed hers she gasped. He groaned and his body grew harder and hotter.

“Tasha?” he whispered, as if asking for her permission.

She should say no. Stop.
Something.
But her vocal cords were paralyzed, and her brain was fixated on one thing—his hot strong body undulating against hers. His erection was rigid, straining against her belly as his lips skimmed across her skin.

She lifted her head enough to kiss him back. As his kiss stirred her, she could no longer deny to him or herself how much she wanted him. Ever since their kiss in the tunnel-house, she’d craved his soap and cinnamon scent, his hard, sinewy body, his firm, mobile mouth.

He plunged his fingers into her hair as his tongue urged her lips to part. She responded. He tasted like coffee. He felt like silk-covered steel.

Her hands ran greedily over his pecs, his muscled abdomen and around to stroke the bare flesh of his back. She traced his ridged spine and caressed the lean muscles that rippled under her touch.

He engulfed her in sensation. His hands sl
ipped beneath her sleeveless top. He traced each rib, moving up, up, until his thumbs grazed the underside of her breasts.

She shivered with reaction. Her breasts tightened and a liquid yearning pooled between her thighs.

“Tasha? Are you okay?” he whispered against her ear.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, arching her neck as he trailed kisses along her skin, finding erogenous zones she never knew she had. “Yes.”

Dylan groaned under his breath as his body responded immediately, painfully to her supple strength. He ran his mouth and tongue along her neck, her jaw, the underside of her chin. She tasted the way he’d known she would. Like springtime and strawberries.

He returned to her mouth, kissing her slowly and thoroughly, pulling her even closer until he felt fused to her by their heat.

His erection pulsed with desperate desire. His breathing turned ragged. He was too close to the edge. He’d never be able to hold out. But as much as he wanted to overpower her and propel them both to climax, he held back.

Natasha had always seemed so strong, but right now she felt fragile, breakable in his arms. She raised her gaze to his and the longing and trust in her green eyes scared him.

She flattened her hands against his chest. Her palms were hot. Her fingers curled into his chest hair as he teased her mouth and tongue.

He felt the change in her. She relaxed, and his concern that she might break dissipated as her body moved against him with supple grace and strength.

She opened herself to him, offering him her lush, sexy lips, and her perfect, firm b
ody. He took them, feasting on her mouth, caressing her breast until he felt its tip tighten and strain with response.

She opened her eyes, their green depths dark with desire, and looked at him. Then she lowered her head and kissed his chest as her fingers sought and teased his nipples.

Shuddering, clenching his jaw to control his raging hunger, he took her hands and urged her gently toward the sofa. Her gaze flickered, questioning, but she didn’t resist when he tenderly lowered her to the cushions.

She shivered.

“Cold?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nervous.”

He smiled at her and slid his arm under her head as he lay beside her. He kissed her eyelids and cheek while he teased her breasts under the thin cotton of her blouse.

Each time he touched a taut, hardened little peak, she moaned quietly. Finally, he bent his head and took an erect nipple in his mouth as he ran his hand down her belly to the button of her jeans.

It was an incredible turn-on to nip and suck at her nipple through the cotton, while her belly rose and fell with her excited breaths.

His arousal grew, throbbed until telltale dampness told him he was dangerously close to losing control.

He pulled back.