“I am sorry.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. Sighed deeply. “Me, too.”
He kissed her hair. “I didn’t think you were really a photographer.”
Her head snapped back, her eyes wide, her spine straight as a board. “I told you I only volunteered with the runaways. Taking pictures of babies is how I make my living.”
Ethan let his head fall back to look up at her face, once again humbled and touched. She’d shared another piece of her life that he sensed was intensely private, although he wasn’t sure why. Her work with runaways was something she should be proud of. “You might make a living taking pictures.” Not much of one, he thought. “But which gives you the most ongoing satisfaction? Snapping pictures or helping runaway kids?”
She never hesitated. “The second one.”
“Then that’s the one you really are. It doesn’t matter how you make your money.” Lazily he trailed his fingertips across her stomach, felt her muscles quiver and flinch in response. Watched her breasts rise and fall in the sleeveless polo shirt that seemed to be her stock uniform. Watched the expression in her eyes go far away.
“What an insightful thing to say,” she murmured. “What about you? What are you?”
He considered her question. It was a good one. He considered his answer, because it was an important one. “I suppose I don’t mind being a security consultant, but I’ll always be a Marine, because that’s where my heart is.”
Her eyes were changing, warming. He thought he could sit and look at her eyes all day long. “You miss it,” she murmured. “The Marines.”
“Every damn day.”
“It must have killed you to walk away.”
“It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. At first, when I was in Walter Reed I pretended to myself that I’d get better. Go back.” He closed his eyes, remembering.
“But it got easier? Not doing what you love?”
“Over time. I still wake up sometimes and think I’m in the desert. That it’s time to wake up and shoulder my pack and head out. Of course, the ceiling fan and the AC is always the first clue I’m in civilization.” He smiled. “And the lack of sand. Some of the guys filled little bottles of sand to take home with them, but I figured I had enough sand in my mouth and other vital orifices to last me the rest of my life.”
She made a face. “Thank you for painting that picture for me.”
His fingertips moved to the silk of her bare arm. He could feel her shiver where he touched her skin. “I really do not miss the sand. But the rest of it . . . the challenge, the excitement . . .”
She met his gaze. “The accomplishment?” she asked quietly and he knew she understood. Just as he’d known she would from the moment she looked up at him from the bus station floor with her brown eyes, first assessing, then filled with calm acceptance.
“I think that’s the biggest thing. I was part of something bigger than just me. I was doing something important. Using everything I’d learned to protect my country. To make a difference in the world. Some people think that’s old-fashioned and corny.”
She swallowed hard, but didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“So what makes you feel important now?”
He drew in a breath that seemed to burn his lungs. Not much, he thought. Certainly not finding Alec. “I don’t know.”
She said nothing for a long minute. Then leaned over and kissed his lips. “Thank you.”
She was close. So close that if he moved his head he’d be kissing her again. “For?”
“For telling me. I’m so glad I came tonight. You make me feel better, Ethan.”
Something had changed. “I could make you feel even better.”
Her generous mouth curved against his. Butterfly kisses. “I seem to recall a certain someone promising to make a certain other someone forget her own name.”
He raised his brows. “And?”
“Da-na. D-A-N-A. Dana Danielle Dupinsky. I remember all my names.”
His hands skimmed up, pausing at the sides of her breasts. From this distance he could see her eyes darken. Could hear her heart beat harder. And his teasing threat now became so much more. She’d come here to feel better and she wouldn’t leave until she did. Until they both did. He trailed the backs of his fingers along the underside of her full breasts, let his thumbs flick over her nipples, just once. And heard her breath catch.
“Good old triple-D,” he murmured.
Her swallow was audible in the quiet room, her answer husky. Aroused. “In your dreams, Buchanan.”
“You’re right. They have been. But I’m damn tired of dreaming.”
A flash of her eyes was the only warning she gave before abruptly shifting, throwing her leg across his lap so that she straddled him. “So wake up.” And when she crushed her mouth to his, every last nerve in his body did.
With a groan he lurched forward, grabbed her butt, and pulled her down on him, pushing her skirt out of the way so that there was nothing between them but denim and slick, wet nylon. It was still way too much. Her hands were on his chest, on his shoulders, tearing at his shirt, and he jerked his arms out of his sleeves. She pulled her shirt over her head and sent it sailing as his fingers fumbled with the hooks of her bra. Then it was gone and her breasts were pressed against him, her nipples hard as diamond bits. She froze at that first delicious contact, her eyes closed, her head tilted back, as if absorbing the feel of them together. As if it had been an eternity since she’d done so.
“Dana,” he rasped and in slow motion her chin dropped and her eyes opened, slumberous and smoldering. “How long has it been?”
“Five years.” Not taking her eyes from his, she wriggled her hips, grinding against him, and he groaned again. “Five very long years.”
His heart gave one hard slam against his ribs and he threaded his fingers through her copper hair and pulled her mouth back to his. His other hand filled itself with one glorious breast and he kissed her and kissed her.
And he kissed her. It was more than she’d hoped, more than she’d expected. More than she’d dreamed. She pulled her lips from his and kissed her way across his face as she lifted to her knees. He muttered a protest at the loss of contact until she tunneled her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to her breast and once again closed her eyes as he feasted and suckled and tongued. Sharp currents arced down her body, straight to the place that wept for him and she pressed against the hard plane of his chest, trying to find relief from the awesome need that only this man had awakened in her.
Then his hands were pulling at her panties and his fingers found her, plunged deep inside, and sent her gasping over the edge. She cried out as she came and Ethan went stiff beneath her, sucking her other breast with a ferocity just short of pain, his thumb continuing to stroke her inside, pushing her higher until she arched her back, his name on her lips when the world shattered into a million pieces. Spent, she collapsed against him, panting, her heart a wild thing in her breast.
With a growl he came to his feet, holding her in his arms as her legs still straddled his waist. Without a word he crossed the small suite to the bedroom and in a smooth movement dropped her on the bed and pulled her panties down her legs. And they were gone. With difficulty she opened her eyes, watched him ease his zipper down with a grimace. Watched his erection spring free.
Drew a deep breath, part appreciation, part apprehension. He was a mountain of a man. In every way. He jerked his jeans down his hips, then bent over to retrieve a condom from his pocket. “Take off your skirt.”
Not taking her eyes from him, she complied, lifting herself on her heels so she could unbutton the waistband, unzip the zipper. Impatient, he yanked and the skirt joined his jeans on the floor. Then he was above her, his hands level with her head, one knee bracketing her hip, one foot on the floor. “Is this what you want?” he gritted and wordlessly she nodded. He put the condom in her hand. “Then you put it on.”
Hands trembling she complied, feeling his whole body jerk when she touched him for the first time. His breath expelled on a hiss. “Dammit, Dana, hurry.” She did and lifted her eyes to his. Felt her heart skip a full beat. He was hot. Ready. For her.
He slowly lowered himself between her thighs. And groaned. Even more slowly he entered, grimacing when she winced. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, sweat beading on his brow.
She held his gaze with those calm brown eyes. “I’m not.”
It was what she’d said the first time he’d kissed her. He kissed her now, voracious, openmouthed. Needing everything she’d willingly give him and some things she might not. He nudged and rolled his hips until he was in her as deep as he could get, then groaned again when she lifted her knees and took him deeper. “You feel so damn good.”
She hummed in pleasure. “My middle name’s becoming fuzzy, Ethan, but my first name is still crystal clear.”
With a hoarse laugh he began to move, then his voice broke when she clenched her internal muscles and stroked him. “More.” He didn’t care that he begged. “Please.”
So she did, and he did, setting a rhythmic pace. She was tight and she was wet and she was his and he wished he could stay inside her just like this forever. But then her face changed, her breath hitched. Her hands clutched at his shoulders and she started to whimper. “Ethan.”
The sound of her voice dragged him under and his hips plunged, taking everything she had to give. Her hands were on his ass, her nails scoring deep. She was bucking under him and then she was arching again, crying his name, pulling him into the current, the dark blessed current, and he let go.
Fell. Arms straining, lungs burning, teeth bared, he came so hard he saw white lights twinkling before his eyes. But there was no darkness. No panic. Just peace.
He dropped his head to her shoulder, his heart thundering as if it would burst. Her hands went limp, her arms slid bonelessly to the bed. For a full minute there was nothing but the sound of strident breathing.
“Ethan?”
“Hmm?”
“Who am I?”
The laugh on his lips fizzled as realization struck him. Mine. You’re mine. He raised up on his elbows to look down at her. Any and all little quips had fled his mind. He could only stare into those brown eyes and watch them stare back. Her curving lips went sober and she traced his mouth with her fingertips.
“What are we going to do now?” he murmured.
The tip of her tongue stole out to moisten her lips. “I have no idea.”
His body did, though, stirring back to life and her eyes widened and her breath caught. “Maybe I do,” she whispered, arching against him.
“That’s not what I meant, Dana.”
Her hips stilled. “I know. But for now, can it be?”
He hung there, still buried inside her. And tried not to let her words hurt. She’d told him at the beginning she wasn’t looking for a relationship. Well, hell. She’d found one, whether she liked it or not. She’d just lost a friend. The doctor. And gained another. Me. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “For now, we sleep.”
Chicago, Tuesday, August 3, 10:15 P.M
Ethan woke with a jolt when her back slammed into his chest, her feet skidding over the sheets as she tried to back away. She was dreaming, he realized. A nightmare.
He tightened his arm around her waist. “Dana.”
She went abruptly still, her body covered in a thin sheen of sweat for the second time that evening. Her heart thudded like hell under his palm. He kissed her ear. “Sshh. It was just a dream. You want to talk about it?”
“No.” It was a wispy sound and he pushed up on his elbow to look down at her face. She was pale in the light coming in the window. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right, Dana.” He kissed her temple. “I’m starving. I never did call room service.”
Her smile was shaky. “I’m hungry, too.”
He leaned back and switched on the light, picked up the phone and called for room service. “They said it would be at least forty-five minutes. Can you think of anything we can do for forty-five minutes to keep ourselves occupied so we don’t fall back asleep?”
Color was returning to her face. “I might be able to think of a thing or two.”
“Hmm.” Was all he said. Then without warning he stripped the sheet, making her gasp.
“Ethan!”
“Roll over, Dupinsky.” He gave her a little shove. “Right now.”
She was looking up at him like he’d lost every marble he owned. “What?”
“I want to see the tattoo.”
“Oh, that.” Obligingly she rolled over and he laughed out loud.
“So passé, Dana. On your butt.” One on each cheek, to be exact.
She glared up at him. “What, you think I’m going to put them on my shoulder?”
He blinked, thinking of the video woman. “No, that would be a bad place for a tattoo.”
She dropped her forehead to the pillow. “Besides . . . I couldn’t look at the needle.”
He scooted down, getting close to her curvy rear end. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
She blew out a breath. “Charlie played in a band. Called themselves Born2Kill.”
He smacked a kiss next to the skull with the knife in its teeth. “The butterfly’s cute.”
“The butterfly is a symbol of life.” She rolled over and pulled at the sheet, rolling her eyes when he held it out of her grasp. “I’m cold.”
He flopped to his side, pulled her close until they were nose to nose. “Symbol of life?”
Her eyes shifted, sobered. “I got it the day I filed for divorce.”
“Then I like the butterfly best.” He kissed her, felt her relax in his arms.
“You only have forty minutes, Ethan,” she murmured against his lips. “Get busy.”
Chicago, Wednesday, August 4, 8:15 A.M.
Dana reached out and hit an empty pillow. She drew in a deep, heady breath, unwilling to open her eyes. But the day was wasting. She could feel the sun on her face already.
She lifted her head, wincing when her body informed her she wasn’t a young woman any longer. But even young she would have been sore after a night like they’d shared. She opened her eyes to a clock that read 8:15 A.M. and an empty pillow bearing a note and remembered him telling her he’d have to leave early for more appointments.