“Please, Rucker.” Dinah abruptly slid to the floor in front of him and repeated raggedly, “Please.”
“Don’t beg,” Rucker said savagely. “You never begged anybody for anything in your life. You’re the proudest person I know.”
She wrapped both arms around his legs. “I never had to fight like this before. I’ll do anything you want.”
He couldn’t stand it. He bent quickly, grasped her under both arms, and lifted her up. A shudder wracked him as he took her in a tight embrace. She shook just as violently as she burrowed her face into the warm hollow of his neck.
“Hate me if you have to,” she murmured brokenly. “Don’t trust me. I’ll understand and I’ll still love you.” Her voice grew hoarse with determination. “But help me do what I have to.”
“I’m a fool,” he muttered. “Because I can’t stop wanting to trust you.”
“Then do it. Take the chance.…”
NEVER LET GO
A Bantam Book / February 1989
LOVESWEPT® and the wave device are registered trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and elsewhere.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1989 by Deborah Smith.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
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Loveswept
Bantam Books
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eISBN: 978-0-307-79662-2
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
One
The ocean breeze curled into an open bedroom window and stroked his skin. The afternoon sun was a melting kiss on his naked back. Half-awake, he smiled. The breezes had a seductive appeal that made him think of his wife’s touch.
Soft lips brushed his ear. She was the ally of the breeze and the sunshine then. Appropriate, he thought. Her tongue teased his earlobe for a moment. “Every woman needs a man,” she whispered huskily. “And you’re mine. I think I’ll take advantage of that fact.”
He growled in mock protest and asked, “Without my permission?”
Her fingers feathered down his belly and explored gently. “It shouldn’t be a problem.” She dipped her head and placed nibbling kisses along the side of his throat. “You taste like the ocean. Are you sure you’re not a merman?”
“Nah. I’m Flipper. Or a giant crab.”
She pushed at him gently, guiding him onto his back while she knelt beside him. He kept his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, loving the mingled scents of her light perfume and the ocean air.
“A very fine crab,” she told him, as she skimmed her mouth over his. He smiled to himself and arched into the languid movements of her hands.
“I’m bein’ seduced.”
“No, I think one has to resist in order to qualify for seduction. You’re not resisting at all.”
His fingers itched to touch her. He lifted a hand slowly until it contacted with something warm and incredibly smooth. Eventually, after some detouring, he identified that something as the lower part of her stomach. He twisted a finger into the soft curls there.
“You’ve just lost your last protest against seduction,” she informed him, her voice airy. “I believe you’re actively participating.”
“I admit it. I have no virtue.” He sighed dramatically.
She bent over him, cupping his face in her hands. In between soft kisses she murmured, “I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
“This is my first time, you know.”
She nuzzled his head back and kissed the underside of his jaw. Her lips vibrated with suppressed laughter. “Ah, yes. You’re thirty-nine years old and still pure. The man New Southland magazine once put on a list of the ‘Ten Sexiest Writers.’ The man Oprah Winfrey called a ‘dynamic hunk of cornbread women love to pamper.’ ”
“I’m … I’m really just an innocent country boy at heart,” he said plaintively. “And you’re a wicked rich girl raised in Atlanta. A debutante. With a high IQ. And a politician. Oh, woe is me.”
“I’ll be very gentle. I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Don’t worry.”
“Should I do this?”
She shuddered with pleasure as his exploring hand slid between her legs. “Y—yes.”
“My, that gets a reaction.” Her head drooped onto his shoulder when he moved his fingers with wanton skill. He turned his face toward hers and whispered, “That’s pretty sexy. What should I do now?”
She nearly whimpered. “Don’t stop.”
He raised his other hand to one of her breasts and stroked the nipple. His voice became a low rumble. “Creep a little closer, lady crab.”
She moaned softly and moved forward so that he could kiss her breasts. Bracing an arm by his head, she nestled her face in his pillow and rocked back and forth.
“I reckon I’m doin’ this right?” he asked, his lips against her nipple.
Her soft squeak made him chuckle. He quieted as his own throbbing need made him breathless. His fingers continued to delve into the warm reception between her thighs. “I see that you still like what a rowdy old dirt dauber like me can do to you.”
“Not a rowdy old dirt dauber like you. Only you. Just you. I love you so much.”
He tilted his head back and kissed a spot over her heart. “Love you. Love you forever, ladybug.” With a soft groan of pleasure he pulled her over his body, then opened his eyes lazily. The sight of her, her breasts and stomach misted with desire, her face full of devotion, nearly ruined his control. He brushed a fingertip over her hip. “As Spencer Tracy said about Kate Hepburn, ‘There’s plenty of her, and every ounce is choice.’ ”
She gave him a gently rebuking look, but smiled. “I believe you’ve twisted that a bit. He said that there wasn’t much of her, but what there was, was choice. I’m nearly zaftig—all the fault of adopting your penchant for fried chicken and biscuits.”
“Zaftig? I thought you were a Libra.” He tried to dodge the playful cuff she aimed at his ear and tweeked her breast in retaliation. Her eyes melted with emotion and she squeezed her thighs around him erotically.
“You’re not zaftig,” he assured her. “That’s just a polite German word for ‘plump.’ You’re not plump. You’re not even German.”
She chuckled in delight as he placed both hands on her hips. Guided by his touch, she sheathed him with silky welcome. Her eyes half-shut and face rosy with desire, she appeared ready to purr with happiness.
“What do I do now, ma’am?” he asked coyly.
“Draw your knees up a little.”
“Yes,
ma’am.” He laughed and circled his hips under her. She gasped and tried to move in sync with him, but he held her still. “Like this, teacher?” he asked.
“Yes. Oh, yes. Yes, my darling.”
“You’re the only woman in the world who can say ‘my darling’ without soundin’ phony or stuck-up.”
“Because I use it sincerely.” She stroked his chest with quick, distracted movements, her fingers burrowing into the curly hair. “My darling good old boy.”
He shut his eyes tightly and willed his body to slow down. “As much as you need, for as long as you need it,” he promised. “I aim to please.”
She chuckled sexily. “How gallant.” She folded from the waist so that her breasts grazed his chest each time he moved under her. She slid her hands around him and hugged him tightly, resting her head on his shoulder.
He raised a hand and cupped the back of her neck. He kept the other hand on her hips and held her to him that way while she quivered and called his name. Every contraction of her body resonated through him, drawing his own heat closer to the surface until he heard himself whispering inarticulate phrases created of love and release mingled with her name.
A few minutes later, curled against him spoon-style, she fell asleep. He watched her a while, stroking her hair gently. He dozed off and woke eventually to her light kiss. She had moved from beside him.
“Sweetheart, I’m going to run into town. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes.”
“Hmmm? Why?”
“I’m just going to buy some milk.”
“Be careful. Hurry back.” He pulled her to him for a jaunty smooch. “Love you.”
“Love you too, big guy.”
He drifted toward sleep again, but knew that she held his hand for a moment before she whispered good-bye.
She never came back.
Seated at a table in a dingy gallery that overlooked the waiting room of Surador’s only airport, Rucker McClure tried to remember the last time he’d felt like laughing.
That was easy—last summer, on vacation. Before Dinah left their Florida vacation house to buy a lousy carton of milk. Before everything good in his life was ripped apart by confusion and grief.
He heard an elderly woman scream an oath in Spanish. People in the crowded room swiveled toward her, and she clasped her hands over her mouth as Suradoran soldiers raised their rifles. She pointed at the fat brown pig who flopped happily in the basket of fruit she’d brought to sell to travelers.
A collective sigh of relief rose in the muggy air as everyone turned back to his or her business. The soldiers, smiling thinly, lowered their guns. The woman put a bare foot against the pig’s rump and shoved him hard. He squealed but refused to move. For a moment people forgot their nervousness and chuckled.
“Revolution,” the man across from Rucker said. “You can smell it here.”
“What part are we secretly playin’ in South American politics this time?”
Jeopard Surprise, a master at hiding emotion, simply arched one blond brow and smiled. “We—as in the CIA? I wouldn’t know. That’s not my game. I work free-lance for Uncle Sam.”
Rucker gazed at his friend through slitted eyes. “You know a helluva lot more than you tell me.”
Jeopard met his gaze squarely. Rucker’s deeper inference had registered. “About some things. Not about Dinah.”
“And I don’t believe what you’ve told me about her.”
“That’s why you’re going to see for yourself.”
Rucker started to say something else, but Jeopard held up one hand. The tilt of his head told Rucker that he was listening to the tiny transmitter hidden in his ear. Rucker’s body tightened. Nerves that had already been tortured and tested too often over the past months now became even more alert.
“She just arrived,” Jeopard said. “Diego de Valdivia is with her. There are two others, probably bodyguards.”
Rucker vaulted to his feet and swept a gaze over the noisy, colorful throng below. “Where?”
Jeopard stood also. “They’re at the checkpoint. But the guards won’t dare delay a VIP like Valdivia.”
Rucker shoved his chair back. “I’m goin’ downstairs.”
Jeopard blocked his way. His voice soft but grim, he said, “I know this is putting you through hell, but don’t blow it, pal. I’ve never let a civilian in on something like this before. Valdivia is an agent for the Russians—and the coldest s.o.b. I know, except for myself. Keep that in mind. I’ll be listening in case you need some help.”
Rucker’s voice was lethal. “You mean you’ll be recordin’ everything so you’ll have more reason to arrest Dinah when she gets to the States.”
Jeopard nodded slowly. “That, too. We’re talking about espionage and treason.”
Rucker started to push past him, then halted abruptly. His voice low and vicious, he noted, “You’re talkin’ about espionage and treason. I’m tryin’ to learn what’s happened to somebody I love.”
• • •
He found a corner and waited. People stared at him. An old man with the features of a mestizo, mixed Spanish and Indian blood, jabbed a walking cane in his direction, then spent nearly a minute studying his cowboy boots, jeans, white polo shirt, and aviator sunglasses. Finally he focused on Rucker’s thick auburn hair and mustache. “Yankee,” he sneered.
“I live in Alabama, partner,” Rucker said, and the man shuffled off, mumbling.
Rucker’s eyes hurt from scanning the crowded area, even though being six foot three gave him an advantage. His throat was dry. He found himself silently repeating, Where is she? Dear God, where is she?
The crowd parted as if he’d been heard.
The woman he would have died for moved gracefully through the throng of people and farm animals, sidestepping the roughly woven baskets that served as luggage for most travelers.
Her chocolate-colored hair had grown long; now it was a curling mane that ended below her shoulders. A tailored white dress accented her statuesque height. Her rounded figure had become thin, almost too thin, Around her neck hung a thick gold chain that bore a medallion stamped with ancient Inca designs.
Rucker moved forward, though he wasn’t aware of any conscious effort. Don’t you never cry, boy, his father had instructed Rucker during childhood, enforcing the edict with rough words or fists. Truck drivers didn’t cry and neither did their sons.
The rule was stupid, Rucker decided later, but by then it was ingrained. He honored it. A man didn’t cry unless the woman he loved disappeared and he spent months tormenting himself with images of what might have happened to her.
A man didn’t cry—unless that woman turned out to be totally safe now—and looking cool and lovely even in this godforsaken jungle airport. Rucker’s eyes burned and he dug his fingernails into his palms.
She was accompanied by a tall, black-haired man whose impeccable white suit matched the elegance of her beautifully tailored white dress. His features were patrician, Rucker noticed just before he saw them stop. Dinah leaned companionably against the man and his arm went around her shoulders.
Shock and fury flooded Rucker. Jeopard had shown him pictures of her traveling with Valdivia, plus other photographs that left no doubt that she worked for the agent. But he hadn’t believed it; couldn’t believe it.
There had to be an explanation. He’d come to haul her back home and find out what it was.
Rucker jerked his sunglasses off and dropped them on the room’s hard concrete floor without caring. He wanted her to look straight into his eyes. Two hulking men in sport shirts and army fatigue pants shadowed her and Valdivia protectively. Rucker was aware when the men spotted him and reached for the pistols holstered on their belts.
Two more steps. Then one. Then he stopped in front of his wife and stood with his legs slightly braced. She was glancing down at her wristwatch.
Then she looked up.
Later, Rucker spent hours replaying that moment and trying to decipher it. Her eyes were a powder blue
shade that contrasted starkly with her dark lashes. People had a hard time looking away from those eyes. They were unique, and when emotion filled them, they were unforgettable.
In the first few seconds after they met his, he saw them widen in disbelief. Then they flooded with the poignant distress of conflicting emotions.
“Rucker,” she whispered hoarsely, and his name sounded like a wish come true. She might have been dying before this moment.
He exhaled raggedly and reached for her with one hand. Valdivia said something curt to him in Spanish, and one of the bodyguards shoved his hand away.
Spanish was one of many languages Rucker didn’t speak, but that didn’t hamper his response. Without taking his eyes from the obvious welcome in Dinah’s face, he drawled softly to Valdivia, “Get your damned arm off my wife’s shoulders before I kill you.”
It wasn’t exactly the kind of approach Jeopard had coached him to make.
Immediately the bodyguards started forward. The look of transfixed adoration fled from Dinah’s eyes. Her face went white and she flung up a hand in command. “No!” They halted and glanced at Valdivia, who nodded his agreement.
Sighing, she rubbed her forehead wearily and gazed at Rucker in a speculative way. “You always could startle me,” she muttered. “I’d forgotten how intense you are.”
“You weren’t startled. You were damned glad to see me,” he noted, frowning.
She drew her shoulders back imperiously. Turning to Valdivia, she said in English, “Diego, you’ll have to pardon my husband. I’ve told you so much about his background that you certainly can’t blame him for being belligerent and aggressive, can you?”
Valdivia’s dark eyes were unfathomable, but he smiled. “So this is the famous American writer? The modern Mark Twain?”
“Famous. Infamous. Whatever.” She turned back to Rucker, an expression of grim amusement on her face. “I’m surprised it took you so long to find me.”
Rucker was stunned by the stranger who had replaced his wife. He stared at her silently while contrasting emotions warred inside him. Chief among them was a sick feeling of horror; was Jeopard right about her?