He entered her on one hard thrust, muscles hard and straining. She was ready, soft and wet and welcoming. Her entire body embraced him, held him, arms and legs and sheath, as tightly as she could.
He moved inside her heavily, thrusting so hard she was going to get carpet burn, but she didn’t care because she needed this, needed it desperately. She needed his hard possession of her body, since she’d just given it to him, together with her heart.
He was straining, hips slapping against hers, the sounds of their panting loud in the hushed quiet of the apartment.
The intense friction caused a firestorm of heat in her loins, her vagina clenched once, twice, rising toward an orgasm…
Drake stopped, panting, head hung low between his shoulders. Every muscle stood out in bold relief. He was so huge inside her, she knew he was close to orgasm, too.
“Why—” she whispered.
“No…protection,” Drake gasped. A drop of sweat ran from his forehead down over the hidden scar, to drop off his chin and onto her shoulder.
Instinctively, Grace tightened her legs around his hips, her hands pushing down on the ironlike muscles of his buttocks, pulling him closer.
“We’re married,” she whispered to him and it was as if those two words set off a firestorm. He bucked, hard, then started thrusting jerkily, fast and hard, in shallow, irregular strokes. Shuddering, he swelled inside her, then started coming on a low moan, almost of pain, setting off her own contractions.
For the first time in her life, Grace felt a man come inside her and not inside of latex. It was glorious. She could feel the hot washes of semen pulsing inside her, her vagina becoming wetter than it had ever been before, so that he could slide in her more easily.
Even after coming, Drake didn’t stop, though he gained control over the strokes, slowing swinging in and out of her in measured movements, moving so easily inside her now that she was wet with his semen.
He groaned with pleasure, eyes tightly closed. Grace’s legs and hands rode his buttocks, completely attuned to his movements. She felt herself become one with him, felt his movements inside and out of her, his body a part of hers…
With a high cry, she started coming again in tight, almost painful pulses that seemed to come from her entire body. He rode her through the contractions, prolonging them, finally coming once more with her.
At last, spent, he collapsed onto her, huge chest moving like a bellows to pull in air.
His limp weight was enormously heavy, so heavy Grace had to work to be able to breathe, so heavy she could feel her joints stretching where he lay atop her.
But she relished it, held him to her as tightly as she could. It was like his weight grounded her, made her feel she was truly a part of this earth for perhaps the first time in her life.
As consciousness returned, she took stock. She’d substituted romance novels for romance in her life, and in the books, it was never this…earthy.
The smell of their sex was sharp in the air, sharper than the smell of wood smoke. Her hair was all tangled and sweaty—
she
was sweaty all over, as was Drake. Her entire groin area was wet and undoubtedly they had created a wet spot on that incredibly expensive antique Persian carpet under her, the one that had given her rug burn.
Her muscles ached and she had to open her arms, legs falling limply open, too, as she let Drake go. One part of her still held him, though. He was still inside her, softer than before but still semi-erect.
She shifted a little to find a more comfortable position, finding it hard with all that weight on her. The instant her hips moved, he stiffened a little inside her and she nearly laughed.
Not right now, ace, maybe later
was on her lips, but she didn’t have the breath to say the words.
Grace was squashed, uncomfortable, wet and sweaty and totally happy.
Finally, Drake turned his head, eyes half closed, a small smile on his face. He kissed her ear and whispered something in a language she’d never heard before, three short, liquid syllables.
She had no idea what he’d said, but there was only one possible answer.
“I love you, too, Drake,” she whispered.
Lido di Ostia Marina
Rutskoi reluctantly killed the outboard engine and gazed with loathing at the rippling black water under him.
He was an army man, through and through. Put him on land and he could fight his way through anything. The Russian army had saved Russia from Napoleon and from Hitler. What had the Russian navy done? Nothing.
It didn’t help that he couldn’t really swim. He could paddle around in a pool without drowning, but that was about it.
He had imagined his final confrontation with Drake on dry land, walking away the victor, Drake slumped on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Not on the roiling sea. But here he was, on water, the unknown element.
He had supplied Terabyte with a list of all known Drake aliases, including a couple he’d only used a few times. And fuck him if they didn’t get back to him within seventy hours, that a credit card in the name of Serge Blansky had been used in Ostia, a small port city just outside of Rome.
It was the name Drake had used in Ossetia, when he’d been supplying the rebels. As far as Rutskoi knew, Drake had only used the name during the month he’d spent negotiating in Tskhinvali. Still, Rutskoi had remembered and had included the name among the twelve known identities of Drake.
So here was a Serge Blansky, booking a room in Lido di Ostia at a fancy five-star hotel that was just Drake’s style, and buying a Lamborghini from a local dealer. How many Blanskys had that kind of money?
Rutskoi had kept the hotel under surveillance from a hundred yards away, but somehow Drake came and went right under his nose, because he never saw him come and never saw him go. Rutskoi was very aware of the fact that a surveillance op like this required a team of five or six men operating around the clock, but he was alone.
Deal with it,
he told himself.
Good luck came in the form of an SMS sent to his cell phone from Terabyte.
Subject hired 150-foot yacht from company at Lido di Ostia. Name of yacht “Bella Mia.” Pays €10,000 per day for hire.
Rutskoi had raced to the marina, and there she was, half a kilometer out—150 meters of sleek white hull with brass so brightly polished it hurt his eyes through the binoculars.
Bella Mia
was written in cursive script on the hull.
There was no time to assemble a team of divers, Drake could disappear at any moment. And in any case, Rutskoi worked alone. He found a quiet spot far from the marina and settled in to observe. Drake wasn’t in the hotel room, he was on his yacht; Rutskoi would bet the $10 million on it.
Probably fucking the woman right this instant.
That’s right, Drake,
Rutskoi thought, as he kept the yacht in the lens of his binoculars,
enjoy the pussy while you can.
It was dark now. An hour ago, at sunset, all the internal lights of the yacht had lit up. Oh yeah, Drake was on the yacht.
Rutskoi had night-vision capability and could see on deck as clearly as if it were noon. The decks were deserted. It was entirely possible that—in a fit of testosterone-induced madness—Drake had dismissed the crew.
Rutskoi pulled out a set of oars and began rowing clumsily toward the left-hand side of the ship. Port side, apparently, it was called. Though it was dark and he’d carefully dressed in non-reflective clothing, he was aware of his vulnerability as he quietly, slowly rowed his way toward the yacht. If there were guards on board, all it would take was a casual look over the railing with night vision and he was a dead man walking. Dead man rowing, actually.
Finally, after what felt like forever, he pulled up beside the bow. He reached out a hand to touch the sleek wood, still warm from the day’s sun. He’d pulled up next to a rope ladder. This was more like it. Rutskoi was agile and athletic. He tied the boat to the rope ladder and then climbed the ladder like a monkey, happy to get off the small, rocking boat onto the much more stable yacht.
He climbed carefully, utterly without noise. He had a Glock 17, which a former Spetsnaz officer living in Rome had given him, together with the night-vision goggles. A cold gun, no identifying marks. He had three magazines in case the yacht was heavily guarded, but he thought not. Peering carefully over the gunwale with his night-vision goggles, he saw that the deck was still deserted. No guards.
Drake felt safe, running away with his mistress. Not expecting the trouble that was right now slowly rolling over onto the deck.
Rutskoi also had half a pound of C-4 if the gun didn’t work out, together with detonators and a timer. Set the timer, get in the small boat, fire up the outboard and watch from a safe distance as the fucking yacht blew right out of the water.
Rutskoi stood carefully and slowly from a crouch, tensing when he heard voices. A woman’s light trill of laughter, the deeper tones of a man. Music. All belowdecks.
Belowdecks was very good because it gave Rutskoi all the advantages of high ground, room for maneuver and surprise.
Quietly, Rutskoi followed the sounds of music and laughter. Noiselessly descending the shallow steps, he felt alive, on the hunt.
This was going to be much easier than he thought. So far he’d seen no one. It seemed that the only people on board were the woman and Drake, whose voice he recognized as he approached the closed door of the salon.
No guards, music, the woman. Drake thought himself safe, had abandoned all caution.
Oh yeah, love turned men into fools.
Rutskoi eased closer to the door, placed a listening device against the shiny wood. It piped sound into an earpiece.
The same as before, only startlingly clear. Background music and Drake talking to a woman. Relaxed voice. His defenses were down.
The door was a sliding one. Rutskoi checked it, ever so carefully, moving it by a hair.
It was unlocked.
God, Drake
deserved
to die.
Rutskoi toggled the door a little to get a feeling for how much strength it would take to slide it open, fit his hand into the space between the door and the jamb and crouched down.
If this had been a dynamic entry with his men, he’d have arranged for a four-man unit. Two high, two low. Two right, two left.
But he was alone, so he went in low. If Drake had a weapon close at hand—and however insanely besotted he was, Rutskoi found it hard to believe that Drake wouldn’t have a weapon close by—he’d automatically aim for the head.
Rutskoi gave the door a hard shove to the left and moved through the opening swiftly, gun in a two-handed grip, ready for anything, and found…
Nothing.
The room was empty. Large, beautifully appointed and…empty.
Yet Drake was still talking, music still playing.
What the fuck?
The music and the woman’s voice cut off abruptly. “So, it is you, Rutskoi,” Drake’s voice said, and Rutskoi whirled, seeing no one, just the back of an open laptop on the table. “I guessed as much.”
Rutskoi rounded the table.
Shit! Drake’s face filled the screen. Fucker was somewhere else. With a webcam.
It was a
trap.
“Ah, Rutskoi,” Drake said softly. “You disappoint me.”
Ten million dollars, slipping through his fingers. Rutskoi could feel it, like sand. His only hope was to rattle Drake, somehow scare him into making a mistake.
He leaned forward into the screen, staring into the tiny webcam attached to the cover. “You got away this time, Drake,” he growled, “but I’ll get you eventually. You and that bitch with you. You can count on it.” He slapped his Glock for emphasis.
Drake didn’t reply, but pulled out a cell phone. He punched in a number.
Who the fuck was he calling?
Something started beeping. A big metal box on a counter. With—Christ!—a small LED display, counting down. 10, 9, 8, 7…
Rutskoi leaped, slapped the laptop off the table.
…6, 5, 4, 3…
“Drake,” he screamed. “Son of a bitch! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”
“I think not, Rutskoi,” Drake replied softly.
Rutskoi’s world exploded in a fiery ball of white heat.
The sounds of the explosion carried to the city center of Rome.
Sivuatu, Oceania
One year later
His charge slipped into the backseat of the black Mercedes 500 S class and smiled at him. Jim Stanley smiled back into the rearview mirror and ignited the powerful engine.
“Take me home, Jim,” Victoria Rabat said, “as quickly as possible.” Then she looked out the smoked side window and smiled secretly.
Jim knew what the smile was for. He’d have to be blind not to notice the discreet bronze plaque by the side of the plate-glass door of the doctor’s office she’d just visited. DR. RAJAV SINGH, GYNECOLOGIST-OBSTETRICIAN.
Jim put the car in motion. It rolled smoothly, testimony to superb German engineering, because it was steel-plated and weighed more than ten tons. He didn’t hurry, though his employer had urged him to. If anything, now that Jim suspected she was pregnant, he drove as if carrying a load of eggs, because his
real
boss, Manuel Rabat, would have his hide if she arrived with even a scratch on her.
Jim had been hired ostensibly as a driver, but it had been made very,
very
clear to him that he was being paid five times the going rate to be the missus’s bodyguard, not just her driver. It had been also been made very, very clear that if anything happened to Mrs. Rabat, his ass was grass.
At first, the salary and the fact that his employer—who was no one’s fool—had never once mentioned his dishonorable discharge from the U.S. Army, something that had been the big job-killer up to now, seemed too good to be true.
Jim had been a Ranger, and a damned good one, too, until he’d broken the jaw of a candy-ass colonel who’d ordered his team on a suicide mission. Jim had lost two of his best friends, his temper and then his future.
But Manual Rabat hadn’t mentioned it once. He’d given Jim three tests. First, he’d taken him down into the second sublevel underneath the enormous home built on a cliff, inaccessible from three sides, accessible on the land side only by one gate that was manned 24/7 by three guards.
The entire subbasement was a state-of-the-art gym, the best-equipped Jim had ever seen. And Rabat used it often, too, as was visible when he stripped to put on his gi. There was a gi for Jim, too, and it was clear that he was expected to show his prowess as a fighter.
Fuck yeah. Jim had been trained in hand-to-hand combat by the best. His only problem was going to be not breaking his prospective employer’s arms.
Fifteen sweaty, exhausting minutes later, Jim was on the mat, immobilized. Rabat released him and sprang up, sweating but otherwise unruffled. Jim realized he’d gone three rounds with a world-class fighter and that he was lucky they weren’t enemies, because he’d have been dead.
Drake knew all the martial arts moves Jim knew, and some he didn’t. Clearly, Rabat had been trained in the Russian art of SAMBO, and he was adept at
savate.
When he stripped to shower, Jim could see the thickened shinbones that came from thousands and thousands of hours of kicking either sand-filled bags or ass. He suspected the latter.
When they were dressed, Rabat had congratulated him. It was the first time anyone had lasted fifteen minutes with him.
He’d passed the first test.
The second came five minutes later, on a mile-long shooting range, where Jim was tested on handguns, machine guns and rifles, at varying distances. Well, at least he got that right. With each weapon, at each distance, he was able to put ten rounds in a nickel. Something told him, however, that Rabat could place them in a dime.
The third test was on a race track, where he was put through a grueling series of tests. A bootlegger’s turn at 80 mph, evasive driving and combat driving.
At the end of the day, he was offered a job for enough money to make him rich in ten years’ time, and lodgings on Rabat’s compound. He was introduced to Mrs. Rabat as her new driver, but Jim was clear on what he was.
The money was worth it to be lackey and bodyguard to a rich bitch. He’d do his duty, no question. But it turned out that the lady was no bitch. Inside of a month, Jim had half fallen in love with her, as had everyone else on the staff.
She was gorgeous, but then that went with the territory of rich, powerful men. If they couldn’t have beautiful women, who could?
There was something else about her, though, a sweetness, a gentleness mixed with a skewered sense of humor that made Jim realize that he’d defend her with his life, even without Rabat.
The woman was magic. Not to mention a highly gifted artist. For Christmas, he’d gotten two watercolors of a puppy who’d adopted him, and they were small masterpieces that he’d framed himself and put up on the wall at the foot of his bed so they were the last things he saw at night and the first things he saw in the morning.
She ran a small, highly successful art gallery in the center of town, selling mostly her own works. She strongly encouraged local talent, but prospective buyers zeroed in on her stuff and didn’t have eyes for anything else. Apparently, she sold everything she ever showed, within a week.
And still, there was enough left over to cover every inch of wall in their huge mansion. He’d heard Rabat was planning a new wing just to house all her stuff.
“Jim…” She smiled into the mirror. “I know you’re a careful driver, but could we please…speed it up? I have some good news I want to share with Mr. Rabat.”
Well, maybe that wing was going to be used for something a little more lively than paintings. Jim raised his speed by five miles. Rabat was already insanely overprotective. If anything happened to his
pregnant
wife…
Jim shuddered at the thought.
Behind him, she drummed long, delicate fingers on the armrest but said nothing more. She wasn’t the type to insist or whine.
Finally, they were at the big steel gates that were only one aspect of Rabat’s perimeter defenses. There were motion sensors, thermal imaging cameras, trip wires. Discreet, hidden, but definitely there.
Oh yeah, Rabat was an operator. A fucking
rich
operator.
Rabat had appeared out of nowhere a year ago and in a month had become the proprietor of the three airlines that flew in and out of the Sivuatu airport and the owner of the four shipping companies and two cruise lines that operated out of the port.
Jim glanced in the rearview mirror. Victoria was sitting on the edge of her seat now as they drove through the gates, gathering her things, smiling a secret smile. The smile reserved exclusively for her husband.
And there he was, waiting for his wife, as always.
Jim drove slowly down the drive, waiting for the moment that always twisted his guts.
He pulled up, aligning the back door exactly with where Rabat was waiting. Rabat opened the door himself, lifting his wife out of the backseat and…his face
melted.
It never failed to amaze Jim.
Rabat was a hard-ass. It was hard to imagine that look could be on the face of a man like him. All that hardness and toughness and cold detachment, gone.
Victoria whispered in her husband’s ear and he picked her up and twirled her, her happy laughter loud in the tropical evening air.
This was happiness on a scale that almost scared Jim. Rabat put his wife down, touching her cheek gently. The expression of yearning and tenderness on his face was so raw, Jim looked away, chest tight.
Some things are too much for mere mortals to see.
Like looking into the sun.