Sting (31 page)

T
he phone on the nightstand vibrated, waking them. Shaw disentangled from Jordie, reached for his cell, and answered.

She could hear Joe Wiley through the speaker. “Hick survived the surgery. He's in ICU. Holding his own, but, you know…it could still go either way.”

“Good so far, though,” Shaw said. “How are you?”

“Cross-eyed tired, but I'm gonna hang around.”

“Keep me posted.”

Shaw was about to click off when Wiley said, “Ms. Bennett still hasn't been out of your sight?”

Shaw placed his hand on her hip which was snug up against his groin. “No.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

Wiley brought up the concern he'd expressed earlier. “The attempt on Hick has been on the news. I expected we'd hear from Josh in full freak-out mode.”

“No way he can reach Jordie without our knowing,” Shaw reminded him.

“True, but he hasn't even tried. And he knows he can call me.”

“He's scared is all. Don't borrow trouble.”

Jordie got the impression that Shaw was saying that as much for her benefit as for Joe Wiley's.

“Maybe he'd be spurred to call if we leaked to the media that she's under arrest.”

Shaw didn't comment on that.

Wiley cursed. “You've breached ethics, haven't you?”

“Let me know if Hickam takes a turn. Either way.”

Again Shaw started to hang up, and again Wiley stopped him. “Kinnard?”

“What?”

“I want Panella—”

“Me too.”

“—dead.”

Shaw's lips thinned into a grim line. “Even if I breach ethics?”

Wiley's response was to disconnect.

After replacing the phone on the nightstand, Shaw lay on his back, placed his left hand over his bandage, and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Jordie reached across him and stroked his hand resting on the bandage. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I might've busted some stitches during that last go-round. All that back bowing. It was still worth it.”

She smiled and laid her cheek on his chest. “You've never said, but I hope you're not married.”

“A little late to be asking, but no.”

“Ever?”

“It lasted less than two years. She liked me okay, I think, but she hated my job. I came home from an assignment, and she had moved out.”

“Did you go after her?”

“She made the better choice. For both of us.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“All of that's true?”

“Scout's honor.”

She gently plucked strands of his chest hair. “Of all the lies you've told me—”

“Part of the job.”

“I know. But what I want most to be untrue is what you told me about your parents and how they died.”

His body tensed, but he didn't say anything.

“You told me that you'd followed in your dad's footsteps.”

“I don't want to talk about this, Jordie.”

“I didn't want to talk about Josh.”

He hesitated, then said, “All right. Fair enough. About following in Dad's footsteps, that's true. He wore a badge and carried a gun. Tough when he had to be. Bad guys hated to see him coming. Good guys looked up to him.”

“FBI?”

“Local police department.”

“Where?”

“If I tell you, I'll have to kill you.”

She let that pass. “Your mother wasn't happy when you chose the same career path.”

“No. After forty years, Dad retired without a scratch. Which made her think the odds were against me. She was afraid I'd get hurt, or worse.”

She raised her head high enough to look into his eyes. “Did they die the way you told me?”

He stroked her hair, ran his thumb across her cheekbone. “You're hot, you know that? Smokin'.”

Her look let him know he wouldn't get by with that.

He sighed in resignation. “They retired down here. When their renter left, they gave over the use of this apartment to me and moved into the larger one downstairs. Mom treated it like a dollhouse. Fixed it up. She loved it.”

He continued combing his fingers through her hair but was staring blankly at the ceiling. “I could spin it a thousand ways, Jordie, but the short version is that Dad placed all his retirement money with Panella. He and your brother stole it. Forty years of savings, gone. By Panella's standards, it wasn't a huge amount. He never would have missed it. But to my folks it represented the reward for a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice. It evaporated.

“And he stole more than their retirement. He robbed Dad of his pride. He felt like a fool for being scammed. Broke him in every way a man can be broken. He was going to have to sell this place to get out from under the mortgage. When he called to tell me, he was crying, and said the worst of it was having to tell Mom that she would have to abandon her dollhouse. He said he didn't see how he could do it.”

He paused, took a breath. “I guess he couldn't. She was asleep, never knew it, but I don't see how he could've done that, either.”

“Shaw. I'm so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't dismiss my apology with a thanks.” She took him by the chin and forced him to look at her. “I'm truly sorry that my brother played a key role in the deaths of your parents.”

“Josh is as twisted a person as anybody I've ever heard of. I hate like hell the hold he has on you. But he was only Panella's facilitator. You said so yourself. A brainy one, granted, but would Josh have ever committed a crime if he hadn't been corrupted by Panella? He's the destructive one, Jordie. He's evil.”

She returned her cheek to his chest. “I can't argue with that. But regarding your parents, I feel guilty by association with Josh and Panella. I don't know how you can be here with me like this.”

“Then let me explain it.” He eased her onto her back and loomed above her. “I saw you, wanted you, and didn't give a damn who you were related to. I still don't.”

The first kiss left her breathless. All those that came after left her boneless. His lips and tongue were everywhere, a gentle suction combined with a fluid swirl—on the undersides of her arms, the insides of her thighs, behind her knees, the arches of her feet. They mapped her throat, breasts, nipples, navel, and the shallow channels that funneled from her hip bones to her sex. Where they lingered.

Murmuring endearments in the syntax of both sinners and saints, he lavished her with caresses. But before she came, he turned her onto her stomach, straddled her legs, and kissed his way down her spine.

Sliding his hand between her legs, he pushed his fingers into where he'd left her achy and melting, then in graphic detail, talked her through what he was doing to her. It was erotic and exciting and uniquely
Shaw
.

But what finally broke her control was the way in which he described, in ragged whispers, how good she felt to him. With his voice and touch leaving her no choice, she ground herself against his hand, undulating between his chest and the bed until she collapsed.

Before she had fully recovered, he turned her onto her back and pressed open her thighs. Then he was inside her, hard and full and vital, a male mating. He pulled her hands above her head and held them there, but not as securely as his gaze held hers.

His intensity wasn't entirely self-gratifying. He was sensitive to her responses, accommodating each slight shift of her body, interpreting every sound, anticipating what she wanted before she knew it herself.

She wasn't as satiated as she'd believed, because when he adjusted his angle so that each thrust, some slow, others quick, stroked her where she was most susceptible, she arched involuntarily, asking for more.

At the perfect time, he went deep and grafted his body to hers. The rotating motion of his hips was slight, but the pleasure immense. At that spot where they were fused, it collected, concentrated, and then burst, overwhelming her again.

He let himself come, his forehead against hers, his hands linked with hers above her head, his breath uneven and hot against her face.

They rested for long moments before he raised his head and looked into her face. He brushed aside a strand of her hair that had become ensnared in his scruff. She didn't realize her eyes had leaked tears until he sipped them off her cheeks. “I made you cry.”

Worse, she thought.
You made me care.

Neither addressed that he hadn't taken the precaution he had the first time, but as they pulled apart, they exchanged a look that acknowledged their awareness of it.

They spooned again. He placed his arm around her. She hugged it to her breasts. “Am I under arrest again?”

“I'm thinking.”

“You'll let me know when you reach a decision?”

“You'll know.”

“You'll put me in handcuffs? Tie my feet with a bandana?”

“No need to. You can't go anywhere.”

“Fine. I told you, I like it here.”

“Good.” He pulled her closer and slid his thighs up beneath hers. “And, anyway, you don't know the combination to the gate lock.”

Morning came.

By the time Shaw finished showering, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went into the living area, Jordie had the coffee made. “You didn't have to do that,” he said as he took the mug she extended him.

“I didn't do it for you, I did it for me. I was in desperate need.”

The cleavage above her own towel wrap was a distraction he couldn't resist. He kissed it, then they touched lips, clinked mugs, and sipped, but Jordie almost sloshed hot coffee over her hand when she recoiled at the sound of the buzzer.

“What in heaven's name is that?”

“Someone's at the gate.” He set down his coffee and hurried into the bedroom where he whipped off the towel, jerked on his jeans, and retrieved his nine-millimeter. On his way out, he said to Jordie, “Lock the door behind me, and if anybody except me comes back, call 911.”

He jogged down the stairs until his incision protested, then took the rest of the treads more slowly. As he approached the corner of the building, he stopped and peeked around it toward the street.

Joe Wiley said, “Don't shoot. But hurry up, let me in.”

Shaw relaxed his gun hand and started down the path toward the gate, buttoning his fly as he went. “Hickam?”

“Holding his own. His aunt's voodoo must've worked. Everybody's cautiously optimistic.”

“Voodoo?”

“At my request she took the pins out of your dolls.”

“Thanks. I owe you.” Dropping the drollness, he added, “Glad to hear about Hickam. I mean that.”

“I know you do.” Wiley motioned toward the bandage. “How's it feeling this morning?”

“Okay. But you don't look so good.”

“Tired as hell. Marsha's furious. Said I should be home sleeping.”

“This must be important then.” Shaw reached through the iron pickets and dialed the combination, then unlatched the lock. He let Wiley through, then locked it back. “What's up?”

“She inside?”

“Yes.”

“Under arrest?”

“No. I got her to come clean about Costa Rica.” In three or four concise sentences, he told Wiley about Jordie's limited participation in the scam. “Panella coerced and threatened her. She didn't solicit or make a sales pitch. Took nothing from it. The guiltiest aspect of it is her conscience.”

“Okay. I'm willing to shelve that for now and address it later.”

“I figured. What's going on?”

“I'll tell you together. It's Josh.”

Shaw stopped in his tracks and shot a worried glance up the exterior staircase before turning to Wiley. “Dead?”

“We don't know.” Wiley chinned him up. “In any case, you've got to put some clothes on.”

They climbed the stairs and Shaw tapped on the door. Jordie pulled it open. While he'd been outside, she'd replaced the bath towel with her clothing. Her hair was still damp, though, and Wiley noticed.

He also didn't miss the twisted sheets on the unmade bed, which he could see through the open bedroom door when Shaw went in to grab his boots, shirt, and the ball cap he'd shoplifted from the souvenir stand.

Wiley declined when Jordie offered him coffee. “No thanks. No time.”

“Josh?”

Sensing her apprehension, he dispelled her worst fear. “We have no reason to think he's been harmed. But we have a possible sighting.”

“Where?” Shaw asked as he snapped the buttons of his shirt.

“Bayou Gauche. It's between—”

“Been there,” Shaw said. “You have to wade through it.”

“It's in the wetlands, which will make the search a challenge,” Wiley said. “We'll drop Jordie at the FBI office. Gwen will stay with her while you and I go down there and check it out.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Shaw tugged on his boots. “Here's your vest back.” He passed Wiley the bulletproof vest Jordie had used the night before. “We're ready.”

They trooped down the stairs and along the narrow path, walking as fast as the loose stepping-stones would allow. Shaw went through the routine of unlocking and relocking the gate padlock.

As they crossed the street to yet another no-frills sedan, Shaw asked Wiley how he had learned about his apartment.

“Your man in Atlanta. Emergency contact info. I told him you wouldn't mind.”

“I do mind.”

“I'll take the secret of your French Quarter hideout to my grave.”

“You could've just phoned me, you know.”

“You have a car handy?”

Shaw didn't answer. The less people knew about him and his life, the better. For him. For them. He'd opened up to Jordie more than he had to anyone in recent memory.