The Quiet Seduction (12 page)

Back in the house, Ellen went through the checklist. “Homework finished?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Clean clothes laid out for the morning?”

“My green shirt's getting too little, Mom. I'm really growing pretty big, aren't I?”

Spence looked him over with mock severity. “You're going to have to un-grow until your mom can get you some new clothes. Looks to me like those pants are shrinking, too.”

From the width of his grin, you'd think the boy had been paid the greatest compliment. Shaking his head, Spence crossed the room and switched off the outside security lights. Given the option, he'd have left them all on—porch lights and barn lights—but Ellen was the one who paid the power bills.

The rest of the nightly ritual involved chocolate milk and cookies. “Can I have seven, Mom? They're real little.”

“Three.”

“'Kay. Thanks. While I watch TV?”

“Just until the first commercial break.”

Tonight's treat was a wildlife special on snakes. Pete, seated cross-legged on the floor, was awed by the anacondas. Spence, seated beside Ellen on the faded slip-covered sofa, murmured that she might want to think about getting him a mutt before he adopted a pet from the wild.

“Go ahead, gang up on me, why don't you?” she teased, and Pete looked around, his avid gaze going from one to the other. The boy was no fool.

After Pete went upstairs, Ellen picked up a book and Spence switched to an all-news channel, eager for any shred of information he could glean that would arm him for the coming confrontation. What he needed was an advance scout to bring him up to speed on what was
going on behind the scenes. Reporters had their sources, but not all sources were reliable. And all, unfortunately, were subject to bias, deliberate or otherwise.

He could always simply walk into the courtroom unannounced and let the chips fly. If he had only himself to consider, he might choose to do it that way, but there were others involved through no fault of their own. Before he exposed himself, he had to know Ellen and Pete were safe. If Del Brio knew where he'd been staying these past two weeks, he might put two and two together and come up with something that made Spence break out in a cold sweat, just thinking about it.

 

A few miles away a hushed meeting was taking place. Two men stood on a country road. Two cars, one heavily detailed with a flame motif, were pulled up under the shelter of a stand of young pine trees.

“Sonofabitch, man, that's no answer! I need answers! I gotta know, damn it! I told Frankie we knew for sure, that's why he went ahead and got that Joe Ed Malone guy appointed.”

The smaller man hunched his bony shoulders and looked away. “Shouldn'a told him nothin'.”

“It's been two frigging weeks, man! I had to tell him something. Listen, Sal, the guy's got to be dead. We checked every place he coulda been holed up and didn't come up with nothing. You saw that car—nobody could've lived through that. What I want to know is where the hell's his body?”

“Coulda been sucked out—the door was tore off. Dogs coulda worked him over, buzzards maybe.”

“Then how come his coat didn't get sucked out with him?”

The smaller man shrugged. “Beats me. I'm not the one that give the boss the all clear.”

“Hellfire, man, once the cops found his car with all his stuff inside, Frankie was ready to move in. He had Joe Ed Malone all set to take over the minute Harrison was out of the picture.”

“Yeah, but we still don't know for sure if he's dead or not. Me, I think he's shacked up wi' that widder woman,” Sal said, his voice more of a whine. “These two guys I met in a bar said—”

“I know what they said! You tol' me a hunnert times! You wanna be the one to tell Frankie we was wrong? We don't even know for sure it's the same guy, and I'm tellin' you this, I ain't wearin' no cement boots fer nobody!”

There was more swearing, more frustrated grumbling, then Silent Sal finished using up his month's allotment of words. “Check out the widder's place again, but I ain't doin' him if you find him. Doing a D.A., you're talking big time lethal injection.”

“Yeah, well, lemme tell you something, good buddy. If there's a chance this guy Harrison's still alive, one of us better find him fast. If he turns up alive after we told Frankie he was dead, we're gator bait.”

The man known as Silent Sal, who wasn't always silent, nodded. Peaches absently scratched his newest tattoo, which showed signs of becoming infected. He knew what he had to do. He'd been doing it ever since he'd knocked over his first convenience store when he was eleven years old, down near the border. He'd shot his first man at the tender age of thirteen, but this was the big league. Screwing up when you were dealing
with a man as powerful as Frank Del Brio could give you a bad case of the deads.

Sal stalked off, muttering something under his breath about heading south. Reaching his own nondescript sedan, he turned and pointed at Peaches's pride and joy. “Why'n hell don't you get yourself a car that don't stand out like a dog in a cathouse?”

“Hey, I like art. You got a problem with that?” Peaches slammed the door and started the engine, racing it a couple of times before he backed out. Sal was a pissant. Let him head south. Who needed him? Peaches had a lead through some schoolkid—work 'em right and kids leaked like a gutted muffler. If it checked out and he could produce a dead body—didn't matter how long it'd been dead—old Frankie boy would be choppin' in tall cotton from now on. And the man who'd made it happen would be set for life.

And it wouldn't be Sal.

“Oh, yea-a-ah,” the tattooed man crooned softly.

 

“I warned you about overdoing it,” Ellen grumbled. “But no, you had to go and prove something when you're barely off crutches. Here, hold still.” Ellen poured a palmful of the smelly liniment and slapped it between his shoulder blades.

“One crutch, not crutch
es.
And it was only for a couple of days to keep you from jawboning me to death.” He'd given himself away when it had taken three tries to lever himself up out of the chair.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And who had a turnip-size knot on his head?”

“Cantaloupe. It's gone now— Ouch! Don't dig in so hard!”

She pinched him, but they were both grinning. Hav
ing her hands on him under any circumstances was good. Incredibly good.

Dangerously good, Spence reminded himself. He forced himself to keep at the front of his mind his dual priorities: bringing down Del Brio's regime and keeping Ellen and Pete safe.

Shifting slightly, he tried to find a comfortable position, but there was none to be found lying facedown on his hard mattress. What he needed was something softer—something that would accommodate the changes that were rapidly taking place in his groin area.

“Thought any more about getting Pete a dog?” He tossed the topic into the ring, desperate for a distraction. Ellen's hands had slowed until the massage was becoming a lot more than just a remedy for sore muscles.

“He won't let me forget. I thought about getting him one for Christmas, but he really needs a new bike. Maybe I can get him a reconditioned bike and a dog from the pound.”

Warm, firm palms slid down his spine, then spread out over his hips, where he wasn't sore at all.

“Is that peppermint I smell?” Spence sucked in air through clenched jaws.

“Menthol.”

“Yeah. Ah-hh…don't stop. Look, why don't I get him a dog and you can get him the bike?” His voice sounded as if it had been wrung out and hung up to dry.

“You might not be here Christmas,” she reminded him, her hands working their way up toward his shoulders, thumbs biting into his flesh.

Spence took one deep breath, then rolled over to stare up at her. She snatched back her hands as if
they'd been guilty of some terrible transgression, her attention seemingly focused on the pottery base of the small bedside lamp.

“Ellen, look at me.”

“I don't think so,” she whispered.

“Damn it, look at me!” When she did, he almost wished he could snatch back the demand. Was that truly sadness he saw in those clear green eyes? For him? That didn't make sense—not that anything had made much sense once he'd gone through lost-and-found and come out on the other side.

But nothing that he knew of involving her had changed in the past few hours. Sitting up, he caught her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “Ellen, look at me. Hear what I'm telling you. I can stay or I can leave if my being here creates a problem. It's your call. But I want you to know that wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, I will be back. That's a promise.”

It was a promise he had no right to make—he didn't even know if she wanted to hear it—but it was a promise he fully intended to keep. For Pete, if that was the way she wanted it, and for himself.

She sighed and offered him a wobbly little smile, but said nothing.

He waited, hardly knowing what it was he was waiting for, hoping for.

Oh, yeah, he knew, all right. Of all the lousy timing.

“Will you?” she whispered.

“You don't believe me?” This was going to be tricky. It could be dangerous for all three of them if he surfaced before he had things set up and someone made the connection between them.

“Storm, it's not that I don't believe you. It's just that—”

It's Spence, damn it—not Storm!
But he couldn't tell her that without confessing the whole thing, and right now, the less she knew, the better. She'd denied his presence once. He didn't want her to have to do it again, because this time she might not be able to pull it off. There was a basic honesty about Ellen Wagner that was one of the things he lo—liked so much about her. Del Brio's trained gorillas might not have known she was lying that first night—she hadn't had time to get used to Spence's being here. Next time, if Del Brio sent anyone with an I.Q. larger than his collar size, she'd be a sitting duck.

It was partly frustration, partly spontaneous combustion that made him kiss her. But it was sheer sexual desire that shoved him over the edge, beyond the reach of common sense. He knew—they'd both known right from the first—that no matter how attracted they might be, any deepening of the relationship was asking for trouble.

Well, to hell with playing it safe!

T
he pressure had been building for too long. One touch and the kiss caught fire. Groaning against her mouth, he pulled her down on top of him. Awkward at first, she twisted until she was lying half across his body, one of her legs entangled with one of his. The scent of liniment, shampoo and baby power seeped into his senses as her hands moved hungrily over his chest.

He could tell she was as eager as he was. The knowledge added fuel to an already combustible situation. Jake's bed—Jake's jeans—Jake's wife.

But my woman.

She tasted of apples gone winey. If this was all there was, all there could ever be—

He broke off the thought as the taste of her mouth, the feel of her soft warmth drove the last shred of reason from his mind. Somehow, without losing contact with her mouth, he managed to unbutton her shirt. Two fingers found their way inside her bra.

It wasn't enough. He wanted her naked beside him, underneath him, on top of him. Wanted full possession in all the ways a man could possess a woman. “Ellen,” he whispered harshly, dragging his mouth from hers. “You know what's happening, don't you?”

Breathing heavily, she nodded.

“If you want to raise an objection, you'd better do it now.”

She shook her head, her face still hidden in his throat. “We barely know each other. Only two weeks ago you were a…a stranger,” she whispered against the pulse pounding there.

“Oh. Right.” Easing a hand down between them, he touched her in a way that made her whimper. “Guess we'd better wait a few more minutes, then.”

She stroked his nipples with her menthol-scented fingertips. “I guess we'd better,” she mused, though he couldn't tell if she was laughing or panting. They were both breathing audibly.

“I certainly wouldn't want you to think I was rushing you.”
Where's your common sense, man? You don't need this kind of trouble!

It was when her fingers left his nipples and began trailing down his chest, his stomach, to his flat, hard abdomen that he knew there'd be no turning back. The time for reason was past. He could no more deny himself—deny either of them—this moment than the shore could deny the incoming tide.

Desperately, knowing that it would end all too quickly, he tried to store up fragments of time in his mind—fragments involving the sense of taste, of touch and scent. Things were moving too fast. He thought he heard her whisper something like, “Time's up,” but his heart was pounding so heavily he couldn't be sure.

Her fingers moved south again. At the first tentative touch, he nearly lost it. Knowing that if she touched him again it would be over before it even began, he snatched her hand up to his mouth and nibbled her fingers, torn between the urge to race toward the finish line and the almost equally powerful need to savor each step along the way.

This was more than foreplay—this touching, tasting
exploration—the rocking, grinding of pelvis against pelvis in sweet anticipation. Playing for time, he whispered, “Peppermint,” as his tongue traced the lines across her palm.

“Menthol. It's supposed to relax the muscles.”

“Guess again,” he whispered, soft laughter erupting that in no way broke the tension. Teasing had never been a part of his sexual repertoire. He'd never particularly missed it, never even thought about it. But then, he'd never before known a woman like Ellen.

“Storm?” she whispered. “We could find out, unless you're afraid.”

“Oh, lady, do I look like the kind of man who backs down from a challenge?”

Eyes dancing, she moved her body sinuously against his. He gave up any hope of prolonging the inevitable. With much twisting and squirming, they struggled to shed the rest of their clothes. He had trouble with the gripper at her waist. “Haven't you ever heard of elastic?” he muttered.

“Haven't you ever heard of patience?” she retorted sweetly.

“Patience and short fuses don't go together.” Truer words, he told himself, shuddering, had never been spoken. He brought her hands to his lips again and kissed each finger, then placed them on his body, giving her silent permission to resume explorations.

And resume, she did. “You're so hard…everywhere,” she marveled. Talking was something else that had never played much part in his sex life. “Like one of those TV advertisements for exercise equipment.”

As if she knew how it affected him—Judas priest, she had to know! It wasn't something a man could
hide—she took great joy in slowly dragging her hands down his torso, across his abdomen, circling his navel. Reaching his groin, she traced the crease of his thighs, her fingertips brushing against the thicket of dark hair.

He groaned. “You're killing me by degrees.”

“I was trying to go slow, in case the liniment burns,” she murmured as her hands closed around his rigid shaft.

“If I get any hotter,” he said through clenched teeth, “we're going to be setting off your smoke detectors. Ellen—” Hanging onto control by a thread, he covered her hands with his own. “This isn't going to work.”

“It said right there on the tube that it was great for relaxing stiffness, but you're right—it's not working. D'you think I should ask for my money back?”

His short burst of laughter turned into a groan, and then both of them passed beyond the point of words.

Abruptly reversing their position, Spence knelt over her, parting her thighs with hands that were far from steady. In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, he studied her openly, first reverently touching her breasts, cupping them, stroking the hardened tips. By then, all thought of teasing was past; the only reality was this throbbing obsession, this urgent demand for completion.

Wait! Make it last!
He lowered himself carefully until he was just touching her, forcing himself to hold back until she was ready.

Clasping him by the waist, she tried to bring him inside her. “Now, now, please!”

Yes! Thrusting slowly, withdrawing, thrusting again, he managed to hold back another split second as the pulsating tension built to explosive dimensions. She moaned, her short nails biting convulsively into his but
tocks. Slowly, he thrust again and this time his control snapped. Mentholated heat eddied around them, mingled with the intoxicating scent of sex as she lifted her hips and eagerly met each thrust. The exquisite, pulsating pleasure increased, tightening around them, binding them together, as clinging, gripping, panting, they rode out the storm together, stroke by powerful stroke.

Both bodies bathed in sweat, she convulsed around him, triggering his own release. Dimly he was aware of the sound of the soft cascading cries that fell like a benediction around them as they collapsed in a tangle of damp, throbbing flesh.

Not until much later did it occur to Spence that he hadn't used protection. He hoped she was taking something, but it was his responsibility. I'll be here, he vowed silently. Whatever it takes, I'll be here for you.

 

Ellen was gone when he awoke. Dressing hastily despite soreness in a few muscles that hadn't been sore yesterday, Spence hurried out to the barn. He had to see her—had to know that she was all right with what had happened. Needed to tell her the full truth, especially now.

“I think Moxie's going into labor,” she announced, meeting him halfway between barn and house. “I'm going inside to call the vet to see if there's anything in particular I need to watch for.”

“It's a pretty natural process. Wild horses have been doing it for thousands of years.”

She shot him a dirty look. “My husband didn't spend his last penny to buy a bunch of wild horses. If anything happens to Moxie, it's more than an investment, it's Pete's future.”

Message received. Last night was not to be mentioned. From now until that horse dropped her foal, whatever he had to tell her—whatever was between the two of them—was on hold.

Fine. He could live with that. “Go call, I'll baby-sit the mare. Where's Pete?”

“He's in with her. I know he should be in school, but for today, I think this is more important.”

“Biology lesson.”

“Whatever,” she said, not meeting his eyes as she strode past him.

Damn it, he should never have taken her to bed. As if things weren't complicated enough, now he couldn't look at her without remembering—without wanting her again. Just how long, he wondered, did it take for a man to get so screwed up there was no way back? When had his priorities undergone a shift that would've registered on any seismograph?

Pete was seated in a pile of clean straw just outside the mare's stall. The other horses had been led outside. “Know what? Moxie's gonna have her baby. Mom said I could stay and help, but don't go in there, 'cause she's nervous. See, she's never done it before and she might forget I'm her friend and kick me.”

Gingerly, Spence lowered himself to sit beside the boy. “Looks like you've pretty much got everything under control,” he observed. The mare was moving around, but didn't seem overly agitated.

For several minutes neither of them spoke. Then Pete said, “Did I tell you Mr. Ludlum used to play baseball? Did you ever play baseball?” And then he caught himself and added, “Oh, yeah. I forgot your am-a-nesia.”

Spence didn't bother to correct him. Telling Ellen was going to be tough enough. Telling Pete that he had
another life, a demanding career that required his presence now more than ever, was going to be even tougher.

“I could show you how to pitch a curve ball if you want,” Pete offered. “I'm pretty good.”

“You got a deal, but let's wait until after Moxie does her thing, okay? Your mama might need us.”

“Yeah, she pro'ly does. I help her a lot, but it's not like when Mr. Caster was here. Or my dad.”

No, it wasn't like that, Spence told himself. It would never be like that. He was a district attorney in the middle of the fight of his life—possible even for his life. And while there was something increasingly seductive about Ellen's small ranch, about the woman herself, about the boy, about the hard, satisfying work and the easygoing camaraderie—not to mention what had happened last night—he had places to go. People to see. And no idea of how long it would all take.

 

The two men met on the course at the Lone Star Country Club near the ninth hole tee. Flynt Carson lifted his club, took a few practice swings, then lowered it again. “What've you found out?”

“About which, Spence or Luke?”

“Both. Either.”

Tyler scratched his nose. “Luke's situation is out of our hands pending further intelligence. The military's in on it now. They'll get word out as soon as they get a lead. As for Spence, have you considered the possibility of an alien abduction? Damn it, I've combed every square inch of interstate between his apartment and the state pen, fanning out several miles on both sides. We're starting now on the secondary roads. There's a lot of open farm country between Laredo and
Corpus, but I have to tell you, it doesn't look good. If he's alive we'd have heard from him.”

Removing his sunglasses, Flynt wiped the lenses on the sleeve of his knit shirt. “Maybe. Maybe not. If he had a reason to drop out of sight…”

“And let Del Brio move Joe Ed Malone into his slot? I don't think so.”

“You got any better ideas?”

“I'm thinking, I'm thinking. Look, it's a straight shot on the interstate, but we know now from his credit card records that he took the long route. Why?”

Flynt shrugged. “You know Spence. He always claimed he did some of his clearest thinking while he was driving. Reflexes on automatic, mind clear to work on whatever's on the agenda.”

“Yeah, well, we both know he was hoping to get Black to turn state's evidence,” Tyler said. “Trouble is, he never made it that far. I've got a nasty feeling his health might be endangered if we don't find him fast. I had to barter my soul to keep that reporter from making a major deal out of his disappearance—told him something big was about to bust wide open and promised him an exclusive.”

“Him and how many others?”

“Four…maybe it was five. Look, we both know Del Brio's had his men out beating the bushes. If they find him first…”

Flynt shook his head slowly. “He wouldn't stand a chance now that the switch has been made. We can tell the attorney general that Joe Ed Malone is crooked as a snake, but without solid evidence, his hands are tied.”

“For all we know, the attorney general's been bought and paid for, too.”

Flynt looked up sharply. “You know something I don't?”

“He's clean as far as I know, but that's just it. There's too much we don't know.”

“We do know this much, though—without evidence, we're nowhere.”

Tyler squinted against the low angle of the December sun. “What we need is incontrovertible proof. And if anyone can come up with that, it's Spence. I'm pretty sure he had almost enough when he disappeared. I suspect his office was gone over with a fine-tooth comb, computers and all, but whether or not anything was found, we don't know.”

“Which takes us back to the starting line. Where the hell is he? I've checked every morgue and hospital between Laredo, Corpus and Brownsville. We can't go to the local police without knowing for sure who's been turned and who hasn't.”

“What gets me is why any man would walk away and leave his papers—hell, his credit cards—in plain sight. My contact says they were found intact by one of Frankie's goons, but the car was totaled. It's almost like he disappeared deliberately. If Del Brio had gotten to him, a body would have turned up by now.”

“Which means our guy figured that by dropping out of the picture, he could buy enough time to put together enough proof to blow this mess out of the water once and for all. When that twister came along—”