She could feel the brush, now and again, of his erection as he moved behind her. It was a peripheral reminder, not urgent or rude, that he wanted her. Tears gathered in her eyes, surprising her with her defenses down. This was nice. This was actually wonderful… and she wouldn’t have it soon.
But she brushed aside the moisture, letting the salt mix with the hot running water, before he could notice. She wasn’t going to spoil tonight.
It would be their last.
He reached around her, and she could see him soap his hands up. He caught her hands with his, lacing their soapy fingers together. He stepped forward so that he stood against her back. She could feel his chest against her shoulders, his belly against the small of her back, his cock against the crease of her buttocks, and still there was no pressure. They were simply a man and a woman, standing nude together, the water hitting her chest.
He unlaced their fingers and trailed his fingertips up her arms, a marionette under the thrall of a puppet master.
“Lift,” he whispered in her ear, and she obeyed.
He soaped under her arms and let the running water rinse the bubbles away. She watched as he soaped again and then lifted his hands to her breasts.
She groaned and let her head fall to his shoulder when he touched her.
He circled her breasts with just his fingertips, the light, tantalizing touch in contrast to the heavy beat of the shower. When he at last circled in to her nipples, they were tight and aching. He pinched them between thumb and forefinger, both at once, and made her gasp. She felt the brush of his lips against the side of her neck, and she tilted her head to give him better access. His penis was hard and wedged into her bottom now, thrusting just slightly, hardly noticeable, really, but it made her knees weak.
His hands left her and she watched, hypnotized, her eyes half-lidded, her breath coming faster, as he soaped them for a third time. Now he laid them on her belly, making gentle, maddening circles around her navel as his hips thrust behind her.
Her hands had been hanging by her side, but now she broke, too impatient to wait for whatever he planned. She gripped his forearms and pushed down and she heard his chuckle in her ear as he let her guide his hands to her bush and below.
He threaded his fingers into her wet curls, gently exploring, and she widened her legs to encourage him. His other hand traced tickling patterns on the insides of her thighs. His middle finger found her clitoris and she arched into his hand, gasping, as he tapped it.
He twisted his right hand free suddenly and reached behind her as at the same time he bent his knees. And then she felt his cock pushing through her legs, rubbing against the wet of her folds.
“Close your thighs,” he said, hot and urgent in her ear, and she did, trapping his penis between them.
She rocked slightly, feeling the slide, so close to her center.
He wrapped his arms around her again, pushing against her, his breath hot on her neck. Then he twisted his right hand down, seeking out her clit while his left flicked at her nipples. It was so much, all the disparate sensations all at once, and she had to hold on to something. So she gripped his arm with both hands as he played with her. She felt swollen, engorged with heat and want, and her hips jerked helplessly. The head of his cock was shoving up against her clit from below while he pressed gently down with his finger from above. She mewled, arching back against him.
“Shh,” he murmured into her ear. “You’re so hot right now. If I had a condom, I’d put my prick in you and fuck you up against the shower wall. Fuck you until your legs gave out and you screamed for me, May, my May. Come. Come now, so I can feel your slick on my cock. I want to bathe in you. I want to suck the come from your pretty little pussy, tongue you until you go insane.”
She gasped at his words and he pressed hard, circling his finger. She saw stars, bursting behind her eyelids, her legs shaking uncontrollably as heat raced through her limbs.
She was still panting, her orgasm still sparking within her, when he slapped off the shower. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her, and picked her up, striding into his bedroom without bothering to dry off.
Her eyes widened when he put her on the bed.
She watched him impatiently fish a condom out from between the mattresses and curse steadily to himself as he rolled it on. Her mouth curved uncontrollably, a giggle bubbling at her lips at his swift movements.
But all desire to laugh left her when he climbed on the bed and on top of her. He looked her in the eye and thrust into her at the same time without preamble.
She gasped. The sensation—the pleasure—was so exquisitely sharp it was nearly painful. He forced his way into her swollen, sensitive flesh, burrowing, filling her. Claiming her—or so it felt. A complete possession, irrevocable and final. He held her gaze as he pushed into her without hesitation.
In command.
In command of her. Her eyes filled with tears with the thought. He was everything she wanted, though she’d been denying it for so long. And now… and now that it was too late she could at last admit it: He was her mate, her companion, her opposite, the man who should be by her side for the rest of their lives.
And he would not.
Not after what she would do to him.
He had no sympathy for her tears. If anything his face became sterner as he lay fully on her, making her accept his weight. She welcomed him, though, reaching up to wrap her arms and her legs around him.
She’d wrap her soul around him, too, if it were possible.
He withdrew and shoved back into her, hard. Hard and almost cruel. He was telling her something with this lovemaking. Making a point that she couldn’t miss—but that she had to ignore anyway.
When he bent to open her mouth beneath his, she let him. Because she doubted she could deny this man anything now. Well, anything but the one thing he wanted.
She sobbed and lifted against him, suddenly mad. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t expect the impossible from her, she told him from the very beginning that this wouldn’t work. That it could never last.
He raised his head and watched her as she struggled under him, her hips meeting his almost brutally. He was rubbing against her with each close thrust, driving her higher as she stared, defiant, angry, and bereaved beneath him. She was his match, God damn it, and if nothing else, he would remember her until the day he died.
She’d leave her mark on him, burn it into his very soul.
It hit her hard. Without warning or buildup. Her orgasm bent her spine in a bow of agonized sweetness. She gasped, her breath knocked from her body, black spots dancing in front of her eyes, and somewhere in the midst of her turmoil she heard him groan, loud and awful, and knew he was with her.
Together they died.
Together they lived.
Chapter Forty-Three
DAY FOUR
Sam woke to the sound of dozens of dogs barking and a shout from downstairs. He cursed himself, rolling off the bed and fumbling in the dark for his gun. Beridze’s men had been searching for his cabin yesterday. There was nothing to stop them from coming back with reinforcements and maybe finding it this time. He’d been so concerned with May that he’d let his guard down, failed to defend the perimeter.
Put everyone at risk.
He pulled on his jeans and, gun in hand, clattered down the stairs.
“Sam!” Dylan had a shotgun aimed out the front door.
“What’s going on, Dylan?” Sam shouted. The dogs were nearly deafening.
Dylan answered without looking away from the door. “We’ve got someone walking up. He’s holding a white flag.”
“What the hell?” Karl was barefoot and wearing the same clothes from yesterday. “He’s never gonna make it through that sled dog minefield.”
“Shit, he’s throwing something!” Dylan ducked inside just as the dog barks reached a peak.
Something thumped against the door.
“Well, what was it?” Karl hustled to the door. “He better not’ve hurt
one of my dogs.”
But Sam held out his arm, pushing Karl back. “Let me look first.”
He opened the door cautiously, watching for an ambush. The only thing he saw was the figure retreating in the distance. Even the dogs’ barking had died down. On his front step was a rock wrapped in plastic.
“What is it?” Karl reached past him and picked it up. “Hey! It’s a note.”
Sam sighed and shut the door. “Might as well bring it in.”
Karl was already untaping the rock when he turned. Karl fished out a piece of paper. “It’s from the crazy Russian. He wants to make a trade: George for the diamonds. Middle of Coot Lake, high noon.”
Sam frowned, thinking logistics. “Middle of the lake? He must be worried we’d set Molly and her rifle on him again. What—?”
“Oh, shit!” Karl cried dropping the rock.
“What?”
Karl bent to pick up the rock again, looking suddenly green. “There’s something else.” He opened the plastic bag fully.
“Sam?” May stood on the stairs, wrapped in one of his old shirts, her feet bare. He started for her when her eyes widened. “Oh, my God, what’s that?”
He turned back to see that Karl held something fleshy on a blood-soaked scrap of cloth in the middle of the opened plastic bag.
“It’s the tip of a finger,” Karl croaked. “George’s finger.” He looked up, his usually cheerful face stricken. “Beridze is going to send him back in pieces if you’re not at the lake at noon, Sam.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Maisa couldn’t take her eyes off that ghastly fingertip. The room was moving sideways and she couldn’t think.
Then Sam was there, catching her, helping her to sit down. He was telling Dylan to put away the damned finger and Becky was handing her a glass of water. Maisa felt sick to her stomach, but she sipped the water like Becky instructed.
All she could think about was that fingertip. How much it must’ve hurt Dyadya to have it chopped from his hand. He was an old man. A bent old man with gnarled, tattooed fingers and sweaters that had tea stains on them. He never should’ve been in danger. She should’ve kept him safe.
Something dripped on her hands, and she raised them to feel moisture on her face. She was crying and hadn’t even known.
Sam took her hands in his own. He was squatting in front of her, bare-chested in the morning cold, his hair rumpled from sleep, and he was telling her in his steady, strong, deep voice that it would be okay. That he would bring Dyadya back to her.
“We have to give him the diamonds,” she said. “We have to.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Beridze gets the diamonds and he disappears scot-free. I’ll get your uncle for you, but I’m not giving that maniac what he wants.”
“Sam—”
“Trust me, May.” He looked a little desperate. “Can’t you trust me to do this for you?”
No. That was the real problem, wasn’t it? In the end, she could trust only herself.
She smiled at him and he stopped talking, looking at her warily. She needed to be cautious, to be sly and deceptive, because she loved this man—loved him with all her being and always would—but she trusted only herself to save Dyadya.
Only she could bring him home whole.
So she bowed her head, listening as he turned to Dylan, Karl, and Stu, and made plans. The old farmer, Jim, sat drinking coffee across from her, and she remembered that he had a snowmobile. All she needed was the keys.
She glanced from under her eyelashes at the front door, where all the coats were hung or piled. Somewhere in there would be his parka.
“I need to get dressed,” she murmured, standing, deliberately keeping her voice weak and thin.
Even so, Sam shot her a suspicious glance. He knew her far too well.
She met his eyes. “I’ll be quick. Don’t make plans without me.”
That indication that she wanted to know what they would do seemed to reassure him. He nodded and stood, moving close, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. “You okay?”
“No.” She didn’t have to feign the tremor in her voice. “Not at all.”
He kissed her, frowning, and then nodded at the stairs.
She turned and made her steps slow, though she wanted to run. Beridze had her uncle, and Beridze was insane. There was no guarantee that he would even keep Dyadya alive until noon and the planned exchange.
She had to hurry.
Upstairs she dressed in her borrowed long underwear and sweaters, jamming her feet into boots, and picking up the little gun that Sam had given her yesterday. She’d fired two shots out of it while the mafiya gunman had been chasing her. She wasn’t sure how to check the remaining bullets, but she figured she had at least four left.
If she was lucky, that would be more than enough.
She shoved the gun into the waistband of her jeans, pulled her sweater over it, and glanced one more time around Sam’s bedroom, trying to think if she needed anything else. The most important things—the diamonds—were still in her parka downstairs. She’d never taken them out last night. She took a deep breath. This would be the last time she’d ever stand here in Sam’s bedroom.
She left without a backward glance.
Downstairs, the men were huddled together. She went over to them and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. He covered it with his own and she stood there for a moment, leaning against his back, absorbing his warmth. They were talking about a complicated plan involving dog sleds and Molly’s rifle. Naturally Sam was reluctant to just give the diamonds to Beridze in exchange for Dyadya. He wanted to trap him somehow.
All she wanted was her uncle alive.
Otter came to sniff her hand and she bent to him, rubbing her hands in his floppy ears. “Do you have to go out, Otter?”
He yipped at the word out, and she led him to the front door, murmuring nonsense to him. She glanced behind them, but no one was paying her attention, and she quickly slipped her hands into the pockets of one coat after another.
“Don’t go far,” Sam called, making her jump.
“We won’t.” Her fingers closed around a set of keys inside the pocket of a huge old coverall. She kept searching in case she had the wrong ones, but none of the other coats held keys.
She put on her own parka, zipping it up tight, the keys hidden in her fist, and opened the door.
Otter flung himself into the bright, cold air, barking at the lumps of sled dogs, curled into balls in the snow. A couple stood and shook themselves, looking curiously at the funny little terrier, bounding from drift to drift and occasionally sinking neck deep.
The snowmobile was parked behind the truck in the drive. Maisa walked to it as quickly as she could in the snow.
She straddled the huge machine, glancing nervously at Sam’s front door before trying one of the keys on the loop she held. There were three keys. The first wouldn’t go into the ignition. She shuffled keys in her cold fingers and tried another.
The key slid in and she turned it. Nothing happened.
“May!”
Sam was at the front door.
She gasped and saw the choke, flipping it.
“God damn it, May!”
There was a cord, like a lawn mower. She pulled it and the snowmobile roared to life.
Otter was barking frantically. She clenched the gas on the handlebar and the snowmobile raced away.
She glanced back just once.
Sam was running after her through the deep snow, but as she gunned the snowmobile he stopped.
Chapter Forty-Five
“Fuck!” Sam bent, arms braced on his thighs as he gasped for breath.
He straightened. May was no longer in sight. “God damn it. Fuck!”
“She gone?”
He turned, looking back at the cabin. Karl stood in the doorway. Otter was struggling to leap from footprint to footprint in Sam’s wake. He started back, his feet burning. He’d run barefoot into the snow.
Otter stood, hesit
ating in one of the footprint hollows, unsure which way they were headed.
Sam scooped him up as he passed, holding the terrier under his arm like a football. Otter hung there, panting happily. He had no idea of the disaster that’d just happened.
“She’s got the snowmobile,” Sam told Karl as he made the porch.
Karl stepped back, letting him inside. “I saw. You think she’s headed to Beridze?”
“I know she’s headed to Beridze,” Sam said.
Becky came around the corner of the kitchen island, caught sight of Sam’s feet, and made a horrified sound. She turned back to the kitchen.
Sam let Otter down.
“Does she have the diamonds?” Karl asked, running his hand through his hair. “Dude. We’re screwed if she does.”
The microwave beeped in the kitchen and Becky took out a towel.
“That’s just it,” Sam said, frustrated, angry, and worried as hell about May. When he got his hands on her… “She doesn’t have them.”
“What?” Karl asked as at the same time, Becky barked, “Sam, sit down.”
He sat because Becky was looking kind of militant. She immediately began wrapping his feet in warm towels.
His feet tingled as they warmed.
“What do you mean May doesn’t have the diamonds?” Karl demanded. His hair was sticking straight on end. “I thought you said she got them from the café.”
“She did.” Otter came over and put his wet front paws on Sam’s knee. He ruffled the dog’s wiry fur. “She had them in her pocket the entire time yesterday, but last night I took them out of her coat pocket. She must’ve been so damned concerned with getting away from me that she didn’t even check her own pocket.”
She was walking into a meet with a psychotic mafiya boss with no assets, and it was all Sam’s fault. He should’ve told her he’d taken the diamonds, should’ve confessed that he didn’t completely trust her when it came to her uncle. But he hadn’t wanted to start an argument, to start fighting again over how to handle Beridze and get Old George back. They’d been so close for once, he thought it all could wait for just one night.