Voodoo or Die Page 15

  She'd come to this town hoping for a change, but she'd gotten way more than she'd expected. She watched Zane shrug into his shirt, her chest tight with swirling emotions. She was in way over her head here. And one thing had become heartbreakingly clear: She had to leave Mojo... leave Zane.

  He moved toward the door, not bothering to button his shirt as he reached for his raincoat. He seemed eager to leave, as if he didn't trust himself to linger over small talk. He opened the door, ushering in the pinging sounds of the driving rain, the fog of moisture hanging in the leaden air, the lush scent of wetness and earth. When he turned back to offer her a parting smile, longing welled inside her like a sob.

  And something snapped.

  Years of training to ignore her instincts fell away. She moved automatically, acting on impulse, allowing the moment to rule her, bowing to the emotions pulsing through her body. Fisting the openings of his shirt in her hands, she pulled him to her. Just before their lips met, she whispered, "Stay."

  And from the frantic way he kissed her, it was clear he planned to offer no resistance. With a groan, he kicked the front door closed.

  Chapter 18

  Zane smelled like rainwater and tasted like hops. And his hands... his hands massaging her lower back felt meltingly familiar and so, so right.

  She moaned into his mouth, deepening the fervent kiss and twining her hands behind his neck. He picked her up and walked them to the couch, knocking the pizza box off the table. Beer bottles and plates crashed to the floor as they sank into the feather cushions of the couch.

  She pushed at his shirt, dragging it off his shoulders, smoothing her hands over the cool cotton of his T-shirt before pulling it from the waistband of his pants and splaying her hands on the smooth muscled planes of his back.

  She had never been a physically assertive person. Zane had awakened her sexuality when she was a teenager, had given her a glimpse of how heavenly lovemaking could be. When she'd been ripped away from him, she'd retreated into herself. Eventually she had lost her virginity in an anticlimactic pairing in college, and in the few physical relationships since, she hadn't been able to work up enough enthusiasm to make any of the encounters memorable.

  But being in Zane's arms again, she came alive, like a starved woman having her first taste of food in years, and knowing she might never get back to the buffet. She took the lead, climbing on top to sit astride his lean hips, licking and biting at his mouth and neck feverishly, stopping only to pull his T-shirt over his head and to cast off her turtleneck to reveal a deep pink velvet bra. Her hands and mouth moved out of instinct, driven to wring every ounce of pleasure out of every second with Zane. She was determined to make enough memories tonight to last her a lifetime.

  If Zane was surprised by her take-charge behavior, he wasn't complaining. His eyes were hooded, his jaw set in restraint as he murmured guttural words of appreciation. He cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples through the soft, fuzzy fabric.

  She reached around and unhooked her bra, releasing her breasts into his hands, nearly coming undone at the feel of his warm fingers caressing her, pulling at her nipples, touching her just the way she liked.

  "Zane," she breathed. "That's perfect... yes." Under his caress, her nipples budded and her skin flushed with need. And her mind reeled over the fact that Zane was once again touching her intimately... she had dreamed of this so many times it didn't seem possible it could be happening.

  She leaned forward to smooth her hands over his torso, reveling in the crisp, springy dark hair covering the wall of muscle over his abs and chest... the same as she remembered, only different... familiar, but better. Her fingers slid over a round, red scar high on the right side of his chest, and she made a rueful noise.

  "What caused this?"

  "It's nothing," he said, his breathing labored. "Just a scratch." Then he distracted her by lightly squeezing her breasts and moaning his satisfaction.

  She wondered what he thought of her body, now lithe and lightly muscled, toned and athletic. But her doubts were erased by his caressing hands, which seemed to be in constant motion, as if he wanted to explore every inch of her.

  She circled his flat, dark nipples with her fingers, then trailed down to his stomach. He inhaled sharply at her touch, his muscles contracting as she traveled lower. She unfastened his belt and fly, then smiled. "Blue boxers."

  His breathing was ragged. "I wouldn't want to disappoint the gossips."

  She freed his erection, sighing in satisfaction. Zane had been the first man she'd ever seen naked... how lucky she had been.

  When she clasped his rigid cock, he groaned in satisfaction. She stroked him the way he liked it, with a firm, slow grip, until the velvety knob glistened with his arousal. He gritted his teeth and tugged on the waistband of her jeans. She stood and shimmied out of them, her heart thrashing in anticipation of being with him. He shucked his boots and pants and added the items to the litter on the floor.

  Zane came up behind her, kissed the back of her neck, and cupped his hand over the lace crotch of her panties. She undulated against his hand, loving the rasp of his beard against her neck, a new sensation. She gasped when his seeking fingers found their way inside her extravagant panties, and inside her. With his free hand he palmed her breast, tugging and tweaking the nipple, jolting every nerve ending in her body. He massaged her folds, coaxing an orgasm to the surface with astonishing speed. But when her knees buckled from the abrupt explosion, she remembered that Zane had always had that effect on her... he knew just where to touch her, just the right pressure to apply. She cried out in ecstasy, vibrating against his hand.

  But afterward, instead of feeling sated, she felt whetted and energized. Turning in his arms, she kissed his muscled chest, then moved lower to his flat stomach, and lower still to push down the boxers. She sank to her knees to take the length of him into her mouth. Her moans mingled with his as he drove his fingers into her hair. Some part of her marveled she could be so uninhibited. But surprising him, pleasing him... it emboldened her. She drew hard on his shaft, again and again, until he stopped her with his hands.

  "Enough," he said, through clenched teeth, then pulled her to her feet. "I don't have... that much self-control. I have... to have you."

  His eyes were glazed with passion, his mouth set in a tense line. Seeing Zane nude, tall and broad-shouldered, his sex jutting, the light bouncing off his beautiful male body, made her feel loose-limbed and languid. With the rain creating an insular, staccato rhythm on the roof, it was easy to believe they were the only two people in the world.

  Zane... how she loved him. And she couldn't wait another minute to be one with him. Drawing on a fantasy, she steered him to the long narrow coffee table and swept aside a remaining bottle. He seemed perplexed and pleased at the same time as she guided his shoulders down for him to lie on the hard surface. Then she stepped out of her pink panties and crawled on top. They kissed deeply and rubbed their bodies against each other until the friction stoked their passion to unbearable temperatures. She sat up to straddle him, finding firm footing on the floor to leverage herself over him and join their bodies in one movement that robbed both of them of their breath.

  Beneath her, Zane bucked, the muscles in his stomach contracting to drive himself deeper into her. The hard table bit into her legs, but its unforgiving surface allowed them to be as deeply joined as was physically possible. The fullness, the stimulation... she thought she might pass out from the sensory overload and acknowledged fleetingly that this would be a terrible time for a Meniere's attack. Not that she'd noticed because she was so dizzy from Zane's lovemaking and the sheer incredulity that they were together again.

  His heated skin against hers—she wanted this moment to last forever, but even as the thought slid into her mind, she felt another orgasm building from their frantic rhythm. She resisted, but her body screamed for release.

  The storm inside the house rivaled the storm raging outside, rattling the windows. He placed his large h
ands on her hips, his thrusts growing more intense, stabbing her deeper and deeper, at last sending her spiraling over the edge into a dazzling climax. She crashed down on him, contracting around his sex, crying out his name. His body jerked, and he shouted his release as he gripped her hips and ground their bodies together.

  She slumped forward to lie on him, closing her eyes against the bliss of knowing that she was the cause of his strong heart galloping like a racehorse. Their bodies flinched with spasms, recovering with exquisite lethargy.

  A long, noisy sigh escaped him, and he gave a little chuckle. "Wow, that was... I don't know what to say—amazing."

  She smiled against his skin, emotion welling in her chest. "I thought so, too."

  He shifted slightly and groaned. "But I'm not sure how much longer my back can take this."

  She laughed and pushed herself up, wincing as long-unused muscles twinged. She started to stand but was surprised when he caught her hand. He searched her face, his gray eyes shot with confusion. "You are one big contradiction, Gloria Dalton."

  She bit into her lip, overcome with love even as her conscience plucked at her.

  You're getting in over your head. This isn't fair to him—he deserves to know who you are.

  The storm howled around them, a reminder she couldn't keep the world at bay forever. "Let's go to my bedroom," she suggested. A mischievous smile curled his mouth. "There were a couple of items in your lingerie drawer I wouldn't mind seeing again."

  She returned his smile, stood, and crooked her finger.

  Tomorrow she'd deal with her problems... or run from them.

  But tonight she had over a decade of fantasies to satisfy.

  Chapter 19

  When Gloria's eyes popped open in the predawn light, the first thing she noticed was Zane's steady breathing in her ear. She closed her eyes briefly and gave herself over to the tug of resignation in her heart, knowing the fantasy had come to an end.

  The second thing she noticed was that the rain had stopped. In fact, filtered sunlight flirted with the curtains at her bedroom window.

  The third thing she noticed was the clock—it was 6:40. She had exactly twenty minutes to make the money drop at Steve Chasen's house... or run the risk of having her identity exposed.

  She moved tentatively, trying not to wake Zane, but noted with smug feminine satisfaction that their acrobatic lovemaking had apparently left the man exhausted. He sprawled nude on top of the covers, taking up his side of the bed and more, his limbs extending in all directions. She glanced at him with bittersweet pangs as she picked her way across the floor strewn with the more fanciful garments from her lingerie drawer. Last night had been wonderful... indescribable... miraculous.

  And temporary.

  She paused, fighting the urge to waken Zane, tell him everything and ask for his help. He would, of course—he was sworn to uphold the law.

  But the U.S. marshal's words came back to her. This guy might get it into his head to try to protect you, Gloria, but he can't. No matter what kind of super-cop he is, he's no match for Riaz's men.

  The blackmailer might have nothing to do with Riaz's men, but he certainly could draw attention to her, make it easier for Riaz to find her.

  She swept her gaze over the long length of Zane, his bare, muscular arms and legs twined in her sheets. Her heart squeezed painfully. She couldn't involve him in the drama that her life had become; if something happened to him because of her, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. There had been several moments during the night when she'd wondered if she seemed as familiar to him as he did to her—her sounds, her scents, her touches. More than once the look in his eyes had made her catch her breath, she had been so sure that he was about to announce he knew who she was. And then the moment would pass, and she would be torn between relief and disappointment.

  After one last look, she dressed quickly in chinos, turtleneck, and sweater, then carried socks and shoes to the living room, where she surveyed the debris they'd left last night in their haste to be together. Her cheeks warmed at the memory of her boldness, but it had felt so good to act on impulse for once in her life.

  She only hoped that in the days and weeks and months to come, she would still feel as if it had been worth it.

  At the last minute she decided to leave a note for Zane. On a scrap of paper she jotted Early business meeting. Later, G., and left him a key to lock up.

  On the way to the garage, she pulled from her purse a breath mint and a moist wipe to wash her face, then finger-combed her permed curls. Their last makeout session had taken place in the shower in the wee hours of the morning—a treat for the senses, but her hair had dried into what felt like a spongy helmet. And her eyes were scratchy from wearing the green-colored contact lenses all night.

  As the garage door lifted, she had a panicky moment that she might not be able to back out with Zane's cruiser sitting in the driveway, but there was just enough room to eke by.

  The streets were relatively deserted, although she passed an empty school bus. For some reason, the bus made her think of Diane Davidson. Gloria wondered why the woman would stay in a place where people persecuted her.

  Mojo seemed to have a hold on its residents. As bizarre as it sounded, Gloria could feel the pull of the town as she maneuvered its quiet streets, blinking with pre-holiday lights. She passed the shopping center where her patched-up office was located and all looked calm. It was hard to believe only a few days ago a man had driven through the window after being poisoned by a candy bar.

  The town square, where she had thought someone had been shooting at her and Zane, looked as peaceful as a postcard. Dr. Whiting's office appeared quaint and dated, not the place where a witch doctor might practice voodoo.

  She passed a teenager on a bicycle delivering newspapers and a lone runner dressed for the cold weather, accompanied by a dog.

  Small town, USA. An observer might think she was on her way to get a cup of coffee versus making a hush-money drop.

  When she turned into Steve's neighborhood, she slowed, on the lookout for obvious thug transportation: long, black sedans, military assault vehicles, souped-up muscle cars.

  Instead the streets were quiet, with Ford and General Motors family cars sitting in the driveways, with brightly colored riding toys dotting the starkly dormant yards. Still, her palms were sweaty on the steering wheel as she pulled in front of the mailbox at the end of Steve Chasen's driveway.

  With her heart in her throat, she reached into her purse and removed the envelope of cash she'd withdrawn from the bank. Then, after looking all around and seeing no witnesses, she zoomed down her window, lowered the metal lid, and shoved the envelope to the back of the empty box.

  Feeling like a criminal, she rolled up her window and pulled away too quickly, catching the corner of the mailbox with her car, eliciting a sickening metal-against-metal scrape.

  She winced as she accelerated. Great—in addition to the expense she'd incurred to get the office up and running and replace the plate-glass window, then the cost of the clothes she'd ruined since coming to town and the cash outlay for the resident Mojo blackmailer, now she could add a car paint touch-up to her list.

  At the end of the street she turned around, then drove past Steve's house again on her way out. The curtain covering his living room window moved, sending ribbons of fear through her. She inadvertently tapped the brake, then relaxed—the black cat had jumped up to sit in the window, as if he knew she was there. Guilt stabbed her, but she drove on, telling herself she'd come back in a few hours to check on him. She glanced around nervously—the man had told her he would be watching.

  She hadn't realized how visible Steve's house was because his yard was free of large trees. Was the caller watching her from across the street, from the next street over from a parked car? Or could he be viewing her through binoculars from one of the big houses perched on the hills surrounding Mojo? Or from Hairpin Hill, the main road leading up into the pricey new subdivisions overlookin
g the town and the older neighborhoods?

  Nerve-wracked, she glanced in the rearview mirror, and although she didn't spot any suspicious vehicles, she did a double take at her own reflection. In the daylight, the roots of her sleep-rumpled hair looked almost... green. She jerked closer to the mirror and cried out—they were green!

  She clamped a hand over her hair with a groan—she needed professional help.

  On many levels, admittedly, but first things first.

  She drove through town back to the shopping center, praying that someone at The Hair Affair was an early riser. To her abject relief, the lights in the beauty salon were on.

  Chastising herself for being so careless, she parked her car, then fished a baseball cap from the floorboard behind her seat and yanked it on her head. She hurried to the door of The Hair Affair, shivering in the early morning cold, missing the warm bed and the warm body she'd left.

  How would things have been between her and Zane this morning if she had stayed? Would it have been awkward and fraught with small talk, or would they have enjoyed a morning romp?

  A bell tinkled when she opened the door to the hair salon and walked in. In the rear of the shop, four women sat in a semicircle having coffee: Marie Gaston, Cecily Knowles, a middle-aged woman whom Gloria didn't recognize, and a pleasant-faced young woman wearing a pink lab coat who obviously worked there. She stood and walked forward to greet Gloria at the front counter. "Good morning. May I help you?"

  "I hope so," Gloria murmured, then removed her hat.

  The girl winced. "Yowza, those corkscrew curls are just awful."

  "Uh... I was referring to the green streaks."