She stroked his tongue again, and when he moved inside her, she bore down on him, so that it was like a stroke. His breath came out in a soundless explosion.

“Do you like that?” Caroline slid her hands into his black hair, curling her fingers a little to tug it. Not enough to hurt him but enough for him to feel the bite of it.

It always surprised her to feel how warm his hair was since it was the color of midnight.

“God, yeah,” he muttered, the tone guttural.

“And this?” She rose a little on her knees, pulling him slightly out of her, then slid back down, using all her weight. “Do you like this?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.” He was panting and sweating, jaws tightly clenched at an effort to maintain self-control.

Caroline intended to torture him a little, explore these feelings of power over him that were so enticing, even though she knew quite well it was power he willingly ceded. Still, it was heady.

But her plan was starting to backfire. Little tremors were running along the insides of her thighs, her vagina clenched once, twice. The free fall into orgasm was beginning, and she hadn’t even begun to enjoy this feeling of dominance.

No matter, her body was taking over.

She slid up, then down, and felt his trembling. She was trembling herself. “And that?” she whispered, watching him watching her. She felt like she was falling into the dark depths of his eyes.

“Caroline, I can’t—I’m sorry, I have to—”

The hands that had been fisted on the couch came up and fitted themselves on her hips, holding her still as he thrust up inside her, hard.

She winced, and he stopped, panting. His big hands opened, letting her go.

“Can’t touch you now,” he gasped. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

She was going to have to do it herself.

Caroline leaned forward, clasping her hands behind his neck for leverage, and began a slow dance on him, long, lazy strokes as she nipped lightly with her teeth at his earlobe.

The trembling increased, she was so close…

Jack turned his head and caught her mouth with his, moving his hips just enough to match her rhythm. In and out…

He speeded up the strokes, and she met him, rising and falling on him, a flash of heat, then another and suddenly she was coming, milking him hard, sharp contractions so intense they were almost painful.

With a strong jolt, he came, too, the jets of semen so strong they prolonged the climax. They groaned into each other’s mouths, and Caroline felt like she was breathing through him.

It took her a long time finally to settle down, but when the tension finally left her body, she curled forward, nestling her head on his shoulder.

As always, he was still hard inside her, even after his climax. She lay still. Any movement with him inside her would abrade her supersensitive skin, on the razor’s edge of an arousal so strong it was painful.

He somehow understood. He didn’t move, didn’t try to press up inside her, didn’t try to start making love again. The only thing he did was reach for the afghan thrown across the back of the couch and fold it gently around her, then wrap his arms around her back.

She settled more deeply against him, lax and warm.

Though Caroline was boneless with pleasure, she was keenly aware of everything. The sharp smells of sex mingling with the rich smell of woodsmoke. Her breasts and belly rubbing against the hair-roughened hard muscles of his chest and stomach each time they breathed. His soft hair tickling her cheek. The taste of salt on her lips.

Above all, she was aware of some giant emotion swelling inside her, big and bright and new.

It took her several minutes before she realized it was happiness.

Summerville

It had taken him all day Sunday to cross the fucking continent, and when he finally landed in Seattle in the middle of a snowstorm, Deaver had only taken the first step toward getting his diamonds back.

He had two new identities—Frank Dawson, farm machinery sales rep out of Iowa and Darrell Butler, FBI Special Agent. Both of them were shallow identities, but Deaver wasn’t expecting to use either one for more than a week, two tops.

It was Dawson’s passport that would get him to the Caymans. Once he got his diamonds back, he’d drive down to Tijuana, ditch the rental SUV, then fly one way to Grand Cayman Airport. Even after paying Drake, he still had enough to lie low for a while. And once he had his diamonds in his hands, he would contemplate Drake’s offer.

It had stunned him, that he knew about the diamonds, but then Drake wasn’t a millionaire many times over because he was stupid. He was a dealer, sure, but his main commodity wasn’t guns or fake ID, though he did a thriving trade in them. No, the main thing he sold was information, and it flowed to him, wherever he was, like a river to the sea.

That system of information extended to a network that crisscrossed the States. Half an hour after landing, Deaver was at a warehouse outside Seattle, the meeting having been set up by Drake. Deaver got every single thing he’d paid for, in excellent working condition and with extra ammo thrown in for goodwill.

Three hours after that, he was pulling into Summerville. He’d called ahead for a room at a Holiday Inn in Darrell Butler’s name and said he was arriving late. He had something to do before checking in.

A downloaded map of Summerville lying on the passenger seat helped him to find Caroline Lake’s house. It was in the rich part of town, old stone-and-brick mansions set on ample grounds.

He drove by slowly, carefully studying the house. It was one of the nicest ones in this part of town—large but graceful. There was no wall, just an upward slope of what might have been lawn but now was an expanse of snow, split by a walkway. Someone had shoveled the snow off the walkway and the drive.

Ten minutes later, he drove by again, trying to see whether there was an external security system, but the light from the streetlamps wasn’t enough to be able to tell whether the windows were alarmed or what kind of lock was on the front door. That would require close scrutiny, and he’d have to leave tracks in the snow. If Prescott was in there, he’d notice immediately.

The only thing he could tell with certainly was that there were no security cameras.

So maybe the beautiful Miss Lake was the trusting sort.

It was a thought. Jack Prescott was a tough man to break. Trusting little Caroline Lake was going to be the hammer that would smash him.

This was good. A plan was forming.

Satisfied that he had done all he could for the moment, Deaver drove off to his hotel.

Tomorrow the endgame began.

On Monday morning, Caroline peered out at the sky, trying to gauge what to expect. It wasn’t snowing at the moment, but the sky was a sullen dark gray, even though it was eight in the morning.

Would it snow today? She hadn’t been able to listen to the forecasts because the TV and the radio were both still on the blink. She could check the Internet, but her computer was up in her room and by the time she powered it up and Googled the weather, she’d be running late.

Whether it snowed or not was out of her control. She needed to drive to work, and that was that. Plus, Jack wanted to get going on whatever it was he needed to do today. He was already in his denim jacket, ready to go.

Caroline pasted a smile on her face. Monday mornings were always hard, but this one was harder yet.

If she could, she’d press rewind and live yesterday all over again. They’d done absolutely nothing but eat and make love all day. Well, she’d done nothing but eat and make love all day. Jack had managed to fix her leaky washing machine, repair the bookshelves in her bedroom, oil the hinges of the garage door and shovel another bazillion tons of snow off the driveway. All the while insisting she sit in front of the fire with a book, a glass of wine and a blanket.