Every Breath You Take

  His voice was deep and sure as his hand finally reached toward her, but not for any of the places she expected him to want to touch. His hand settled under her chin, tipping it up. “Are you feeling shy?” he asked.

  She met his gaze unflinchingly and said, “No, just a little … uncertain.”

  He mistook her meaning. “Don’t even consider uncertainty now.”

  Kate bit her lip to hide her smile, laid her palms against the muscles of his chest, and, while his hands settled on her waist, she exerted pressure. She slid her hands slowly up over his nipples, and then spread her fingers and slid them slowly back down while she watched the banked fires in his eyes begin to smolder. “Not that kind of uncertain,” she whispered back.

  They stood naked, face to face. She had beautiful breasts, not large, but full, and as he trailed his hand up from her waist, his eyelids closed with pleasure at the sensation of her skin. At her nipple, he opened his fingers and captured it. He increased the pressure until he wrung the first gasp of pleasure out of her.

  Her hands glided over his shoulders, while she covered his mouth with her soft lips and brought her body into full contact with his.

  The lazy pleasure of moments ago exploded in a deluge of pure lust, and Mitchell wrapped his arms around her and twisted his body, sending them back onto the bed. His hips landed unerringly against the seductive curly hair between her thighs, and his hands shifted back to her breasts. She gazed at him, sultry and playful, eyes smiling warmly into his. He couldn’t believe how much intimate pleasure he felt just watching her face and knowing she was watching his.

  Her hands smoothed slowly over his back and down his buttocks, holding him tight to her. She opened her legs, and he reminded himself that this was too soon, the preliminaries having barely begun. But he let his body touch the entrance to hers, experiencing the delight of finding her already wet. He edged inside of her just an inch, smiling a little at her hazy expression. He moved his hands to her hair. He shoved his fingers into it and, lowering his mouth to hers, slowly, deliberately forced her lips to part, opening them wide, while his hips lifted and forced her to open wide. He intended to ease just a little deeper into that tight, enclosing warmth, except that just then, she tightened her hands on his buttocks, arched her hips as much as his heavy weight would allow, and whispered an aching, imperative “Please.”

  He drew back, deliberately resisting the invitation.

  “Please …”

  He rammed himself into her, burying himself full length into her arching body, and his own body began to move without his volition, capturing her and forcing her to move with him. With the last ounce of willpower he possessed, he rolled onto his back, putting her astride his hips to slow them both down. Pressing her palms against him for support, she forced herself into a sitting position, her rumpled hair falling down her sides. She began to move on him with a rhythm that became a part of his breathing, of the coursing of blood through his veins. He could have continued pleasuring her by forcing his body higher into hers, except that she lifted her head and gazed straight into his eyes, looking as aroused as he was but a little baffled.

  “Take your time,” he whispered—an act of almost suicidal unselfishness given the urgent state of his body.

  Her answer explained the bafflement in her green eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered, and with a groan of anticipation and defeat, Mitchell tossed her onto her back and began driving into her with long, deep, slow strokes. She clasped him to her and buried her face in the curve of his neck, her fingers biting into his back, her body straining and moving with his. She cried out and clung to him tighter while spasms rocked her, and Mitchell slammed forward, climaxing with her.

  Afterward, she lay in his arms, looking into his eyes, her fingers idly smoothing the hair at his temple. “More?” she said hopefully.

  Mitchell burst out laughing and tightened his arms around her. “That is my favorite word.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  DETECTIVE CHILDRESS TOSSED HIS SUITCASE ONTO ONE of the beds in room 102 at the Enclave. “Did you see that damned bellboy trying to arm-wrestle me for my suitcase?”

  “He was hoping for a ten-dollar tip,” MacNeil replied as he pulled a lightweight laptop computer out of his own suitcase.

  “You know what pisses me off about being here?” When MacNeil didn’t reply, Childress explained, “We’re surrounded by gorgeous women who are prancing around in string bikinis, and we look like we’re a pair of fags.”

  MacNeil glanced up at his partner, whose desire to look like an ordinary tourist had translated into a pair of Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt with the words St. Maarten intertwined among palm trees, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a camera slung around his neck. “It’s your Bermuda shorts,” MacNeil said.

  Childress’s thoughts had already skipped on to other issues. “I don’t like being this ‘up close and personal’ when I’m working surveillance. It triples the probabilities of Wyatt spotting us.” As he spoke, he wandered over to the door and studied the room rates posted there. “One night in this place costs more than the down payment on my last car. The DA is going to have a coronary when the bill for this place comes in.”

  “I’ll tell him the truth: There was no place to park on the main road or on the private road into this place where we could spend day and night waiting for Wyatt to leave. The guard at the gatehouse would only give us a one-hour pass, and when that expired, a hotel employee appeared and tried to run us off. We had to register here.”

  “Yeah, I know all that, but I’m glad you’re the one who has to explain it to Elliott.”

  MacNeil glanced at his watch and reached for his cell phone. It was time for his daily check-in call.

  “Mr. Elliott?”

  Gray Elliott looked up from the photographs spread out across the credenza in his Chicago office, a frown on his face. “Yes?”

  “Detective MacNeil is on the phone.”

  “Close my door, will you?” Gray said. Swiveling in his chair, he waited until the door closed behind his secretary before he picked up his telephone. “Hi, Mac,” he said.

  “Did you get the report and pictures we e-mailed to you last night?” MacNeil began.

  Too restless to stay seated, Gray stood up and turned to the credenza. “I got them,” he said shortly.

  “Wyatt picked up the redhead at her hotel this morning, and they’ve just checked into a hotel in St. Maarten. We still don’t know who she is, but her hotel room in Anguilla was registered in the name of a guy named Bartlett. Sooner or later, she’ll use a credit card here or produce a driver’s license, and we’ll get a make on her—”

  “Don’t bother,” Gray interrupted tightly, staring at a close-up of a man and woman locked in a passionate embrace near a beach. The photo was taken at night using an infrared camera. It was a little grainy, but the subjects were easily identifiable. “Her name is Kate Donovan.”

  “Should that name mean something to me?” Mac asked. “It seems familiar.”

  “Her father was Daniel Donovan.”

  “The restaurant owner—that Daniel Donovan?”

  “That’s the one,” Gray said sarcastically. “The Daniel Donovan who died a few weeks ago in what was presumed to be a random drive-by shooting.”

  MacNeil sank down on the edge of his bed, already putting together the pieces and arriving at the same conclusion Gray had drawn. “That’s three people who Wyatt is connected with who’ve met untimely deaths in the last few months.”

  “Right.”

  “How does this guy Bartlett fit into the picture?”

  “Kate Donovan is Evan Bartlett’s girlfriend,” Gray spit out. “Or at least I thought she was. Evan and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s a lawyer from a long line of lawyers, all of whom have spotless reputations. I’m quite sure Evan Bartlett knows nothing about whatever she’s involved in.”

  Rather than debate that, MacNeil said calmly, “We didn’t see any sign of Bartlett last night,
but he’s registered at the hotel in Anguilla that she’s staying in.”

  “She’s using his name then, but Evan isn’t there. I saw him at the courthouse yesterday; he’s trying a case.” Rather than let MacNeil think he was letting his personal feelings interfere with his objectivity—which he was—Gray said curtly, “Don’t let Wyatt or Donovan out of your sight. I have to go into a meeting now. One more thing—” he added, “if Benedict’s yacht moves into international waters, I want you to let me know immediately. The same is true if there’s any indication that Wyatt’s plane is being made ready to take off from St. Maarten.”

  “We’ve got a couple of mechanics at Princess Juliana Airport watching the plane for us. We tailed Wyatt to the hotel in St. Maarten this morning, and he left his luggage there. I don’t think he plans to go back to Benedict’s yacht tonight, but if he and the Donovan woman split up, we can’t keep an eye on both of them and the yacht, too.”

  “My budget won’t stretch any further than it’s already stretched now on this case. Ignore the yacht, if you have to. If it moves into international waters, there’s nothing we can do to yank Wyatt off it, but we can exert a whole lot of unpleasant pressure on Zack Benedict to hand Wyatt over to us.”

  “Are you expecting Wyatt to lead us to the body down here, or meet up with an accomplice or something?”

  “I don’t know about an accomplice, but you can bet your pension that William’s body is somewhere up at the family farm. There are five hundred acres of woods up there, and we’ve been helping the locals comb through them. The ground is frozen, and there’s still some snow on it, but the body is going to turn up any day now. When it does, I want to know exactly where to find Wyatt. Don’t ask me how I know Wyatt’s our murderer or that the body’s at the farm. Once the body is found, the witness will come forward and give testimony. Until then, I’ve promised absolute anonymity.”

  Chapter Twenty

  STANDING ON THE BALCONY WITH HIS ELBOWS PROPPED on the wall, Mitchell watched the lights of a distant cruise ship gliding slowly northward as he waited for Kate to finish dressing so they could leave for the casino.

  After their first bout of lovemaking, they’d gotten up to eat; then they’d gone back to bed, made love again, and fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber. The sun had already set when he woke up with Kate in his arms. He’d felt utterly contented and totally relaxed lying there, and he still felt the same way.

  “I’m sorry I took so long,” she said behind him.

  Mitchell straightened and turned, his relaxed smile widening into an appreciative grin. Dressed in a short black strapless sheath with a scalloped bodice edged in lace and sassy high-heeled sandals with slender scalloped straps, Kate Donovan was a vision of lush curves, luminous skin, luxuriant hair, and long, long legs. His gaze riveted on her legs again, and Mitchell tipped his head back, grinning at his astonished reaction to what was, very possibly, the most beautiful pair of legs he’d ever seen.

  “Are you smiling because I look surprisingly nice, or because there’s something wrong with my dress?” she teased, but she sounded a little anxious.

  “I’m smiling because I just realized you have gorgeous legs,” Mitchell replied wryly, “and I never saw them before.”

  “I was wearing both of them earlier,” she said flippantly. “In fact, I distinctly remember that they were attached to me when we were in bed.”

  “I was too close to get a full-length look when we were in bed.”

  She walked up to him and turned her back. “Would you pull my zipper up the last inch?” she asked, lifting her hair out of the way for him. “I can’t reach it.”

  Mitchell had performed that same service for other women countless times in the past, but as he looked down at Kate’s exposed nape, there was an intimacy and pleasure associated with the simple act that surprised him. As he located the tab of the zipper and slid it up, she joked with him about his reaction to her legs. “Let me guess,” she said, “you’re a leg man, aren’t you?”

  Normally, Mitchell would have answered “yes” without hesitation or thought, but for some obscure reason, the question seemed all wrong, especially coming from her. Curving his hands over her shoulders, he bent his head and kissed her cheek. “Let’s not have that conversation,” he whispered.

  Kate turned slowly around and looked at him. He hadn’t answered the question for the same reason she’d instantly regretted asking it—she didn’t want to know what female body parts he was partial to. In fact, right now, she wanted to think he was partial to her as a whole being. “Nice answer,” she said, smiling into his eyes.

  “I thought so, too.”

  The casino he took her to was in the Dutch section, and it was a large private club where the members spoke an amazing variety of foreign languages and the table limits were very high. On the way there, Mitchell had described the casino as having a “European flavor,” which Kate now realized translated into an atmosphere that was elegant, sophisticated, and subdued. It was an atmosphere that suited him perfectly, Kate thought. Wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit, dark gray shirt, and pale gray tie, he personified elegant sophistication and calm self-assurance.

  The only resemblance between the casinos she’d been to in the States and this one was that gambling was legal in both. In fact, the only times she’d ever seen casinos like this were in movies that were filmed in locales like Monaco.

  Trying not to look as if she’d never been inside a place like this, or been around people like this, Kate glanced past baccarat and roulette tables populated by wealthy men with large stacks of chips in front of them and well-kept women with glittering jewels at their wrists and throats.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes,” Kate replied, flashing him a laughing look, “James Bond.”

  “You’ll have to settle for me tonight.”

  “I can do that,” she replied unhesitatingly, and he grinned.

  “My original question referred to what game you prefer,” Mitchell explained, suppressing the sophomoric impulse to put his arm around her as they walked.

  “I prefer whatever game I can win money playing.”

  “In that case, we need to leave now,” he joked.

  “I’m actually very lucky at cards,” Kate said truthfully. “Slot machines like me, too. And craps tables are often very friendly to me.”

  “How is your luck at blackjack?”

  “It varies.”

  They found two seats together at a blackjack table, and although Kate inwardly shuddered at the $100 minimum, she opened her purse and resolutely withdrew five $100 traveler’s checks before she sat down. “I need to cash these first.”

  “I intended to back you or I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “I can’t gamble with your money. One of the things my father taught me was that a lady always gambles with her own money, or she doesn’t gamble at all.”

  “Your father had some very novel notions,” Mitchell replied drily as she turned and walked away, heading toward the cashier’s window nearby. With an unconscious smile, he watched her walk, admiring her natural grace and the way her flame-colored hair changed from waves into thick curls below her shoulders.

  “Belle femme,” the man on Mitchell’s right remarked, his gaze also following Kate.

  “Yes, she is,” Mitchell replied. He signaled to the dealer and signed the usual table form to draw money against his line of credit. “See that the young lady doesn’t run out of chips when she gets low,” Mitchell instructed the dealer as he began sliding Mitchell’s chips toward him.

  “Certainly, Mr. Wyatt.”

  An hour later, she was $2,400 ahead, and Mitchell had stopped playing so that he could lean over and watch Kate play her hand. It had been obvious from the first that she knew when to ask for another card, when to stay with the hand she had, and when to double-down. When she followed the usual procedure, she won an inordinate amount of times, but what fascin
ated him was that, on a whim, she would do the opposite of what she should—and she still won. Unfortunately those intuitive whims of hers made it difficult for the other players to anticipate her actions, and they were screwing up their own hands as a result. He was wondering if she realized that, when she slid her chips toward the dealer and said, “I’d like to cash these in, please;” then she looked at the four men seated at the table with her and said graciously, “I apologize for disrupting your hands. It’s difficult for me to ignore my hunches when I have them.”

  The Frenchman who’d spoken to Mitchell earlier grinned broadly at her, lifted her hand, and kissed it in sheer gratitude. “Elle est une très belle femme!” he said to Mitchell. Caught between amusement and shock, Kate gathered up her winnings while the man spoke animatedly in French to Mitchell, who replied to him in the same language.

  “What was that all about?” Kate asked as they walked away.

  “He noticed that you’re not only very beautiful, but you are also very lucky at blackjack.”

  “He said more than that. He asked you a question, too, because you shook your head and answered him in a rather chilly voice.”

  Mitchell grinned at her. “Did I sound ‘chilly’? That was rude of me, and I’m rarely rude.”

  “What did he ask you?” Kate persevered.

  “He asked if I would be willing to let you stand beside his chair so that he would have not only the benefit of your beauty but also, perhaps, your good fortune at cards.”

  Kate gave an indelicate snort and shook her head. “He’s an old letch, and that was a total crock.” Mitchell’s shoulders shook with laughter at her phrasing, and he suppressed another sophomoric urge—the urge to snatch her up into his arms and indulge in a public display of affection.