He was as deeply inside her as he could be. Michael was part of her. She would have shared her blood with him, her bones, but she didn’t need to because he was right there. Right there.

MICHAEL, BURIED IN wet heat, didn’t really understand what was happening to him. He’d wanted to make this special for her. He’d wanted to be careful, gentle.

Shit. He hoped he wasn’t screwing it up, because there was no way he was gonna stop now.

He’d never been a patient man, not when it came to sex. Most of the time, he was on his way from one danger to another, so he’d mastered the art of the sentimental goodbye. Better to leave them wanting more, right?

But this…Tate was another thing altogether. He’d been with more beautiful women. Certainly tougher women. She was vulnerable in a way that made him vulnerable, too.

He kissed her, wanting the thoughts to stop. She was so responsive. Just listening to her could have made him come. He had to hold back, to not hurt her, but his resolve lasted seconds. And when he did hurt her, she pushed him for more.

They would be gone by tomorrow, heading out across the ocean to the Caymans. His glorious plan hadn’t turned out so well. Nothing had. Except this.

He’d never felt more of a failure-and he’d never experienced a triumph like being inside her.

He lifted his head, took in great, deep breaths, pumped into her until his arms shook. And then he reached between them, sliding his right hand down her belly until his fingers found her clit.

He watched her as he shifted his position, thrusting and rubbing her at the same time.

God, it was amazing. There was just enough light. Her eyes weren’t closed, but they weren’t focused, not on him anyway. Her mouth had opened as she’d arched her neck. It was stunning. He licked the sweat off her temple because he couldn’t lick where he wanted.

Her head thrashed, banging against the wall as he kept up an unrelenting pace, but he knew it was going to end soon. He could feel the tightness in his balls, his muscles tensing beyond endurance.

He had to choose: finger or cock. Cock won.

He pulled his hand out, captured her wrists again, and when he felt her heels on his hips, he goddamn exploded. The top of his head came off, the backs of his eyelids burst with colors, and she just kept squeezing him, her internal muscles sucking the life force out of him.

It seemed to go on forever. When he was finally dry, when there was nothing, not even breath left in him, he opened his eyes.

She was staring up at him with those wide blue eyes. With her auburn hair plastered against her skin, her cheeks blotchy and red. He couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful. Not even close.

Too soon, his arms gave out and he had to crash beside her. She didn’t speak; neither did he, but the sound in the room was loud enough to scare the fishes. Both of them gasping for air, cursing the world that made them need it.

“Holy cow,” she whispered finally.

He grinned. “Yeah, that’s just what I was gonna say.”

She slugged him in the hip. It was a lackadaisical sock with only half a fist. But good for her. He doubted he could have done better.

“Sleep now,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Tomorrow we’ll figure out how to live through this.”

“Okay,” she said, and even in her breathlessness, her doubt came through.

He rallied himself to his side, so his hand rested on her belly and his gaze on her eyes. “You think I want this to be over?” he said. “You think I’m not going to fight for you?”

She blinked. Then she smiled. “Not anymore.”

IT HAD BEEN DAYS-five days-since the kidnappers had disappeared with William Baxter’s money and Tate. Sara, who’d never had a sister but had always had Tate, was sitting in her friend’s bedroom, staring at the trompe l’oeil window on the wall. Through the painted window she could see a sandy beach, a brilliant ocean and a sky dotted with cotton clouds. It was so real that Sara thought if she moved closer, she would feel the breeze on her face.

But it, like the chances that Tate was still alive, was an illusion. There was a lot of trompe l’oeil throughout the penthouse, designed specifically to make the occupant feel as though she were living in an expansive world. The artist had done a superb job, but now Sara wondered if these fake paintings had been one more wall that had trapped Tate in her mental prison.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. That she should have been kidnapped at all, that she’d lived so much of her life in terror, that her cousin had been murdered in such a horrible way. Sara ached for Tate, but she also ached for William, who’d done so much to foster Tate’s fear.

He’d aged ten years in these last few days. He couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t take the tranquilizers his doctor had prescribed and barely ate. Sara had taken a leave of absence from her job to be with him. To wait. But for how long?

Was Michael dead, too? Or was he, as William thought, one of the guilty?

Two days ago, she’d taken the bull by the horns. Despite her belief in Michael’s team, she’d called the authorities. The FBI had swooped in, but they hadn’t found much. She’d tried to believe them when they said they’d find Tate.

Sara stood up, knowing she had to go into the other room, face William as he waited another day by the phone. She had to keep things upbeat, if not for his sake then for her own.

She missed her best friend.

“ARE YOU SURE THIS is a good idea?” Charlie asked, trying not to sound too desperate. Jazz liked it when he could hurt people, and even though no one was gonna be beat up or anything, it was gonna be ugly.

“Just take the damn tray, would you? Jesus, you’re such a whiny bitch.”

“I haven’t seen Mikey since-”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m busy.”

Charlie sighed, but only after his back was to Jazz. He was so sick of this boat he wanted to scream. They’d already gotten the ransom money, so why in hell hadn’t they just let him go? Why had Jazz given him that fix so he’d be out of it when they set out to sea?

He picked up the tray and headed to Mike’s cabin. The cups rattled, but he couldn’t help it. Mikey was gonna kill him, and Charlie already felt like crap. He knew there was some crack on board, but would they let him have any? Hell, no. They saw he wasn’t doing so good, so it was just pure mean that made them act so shitty. And after he’d made them rich! The bastards.

“Well?”

Charlie jumped at Jazz’s voice so close. He hadn’t heard the dude walking, let alone opening the cabin door. “Shit.”

“Do not piss me off, Charlie.”

With as much indignation as he could muster, Charlie walked past Jazz into Mikey’s cabin.

His brother stood up so fast he knocked an empty water glass off the bedside ledge. “What the hell?”

“Relax. I’m just bringing you something to eat.”

“Get out of here, Charlie.”

“I will. Just let me put this down.” He went to the vanity, and as he was depositing the tray, the door to the cabin shut. It was Jazz screwing with him, making it easy for Mikey to wail on him. He turned, fast, but Mike was already in his face.

“How many people are on board?” Mike asked, his voice low, threatening.

“How should I know?”

Mikey’s elbow bent and his arm went back. There was no mistaking the intent of his fist. “Count them.”

“All right, all right. Me, Jazz, Martini, the cook, the pilot guy and some kid that cleans up.”

“What are they planning?”

“You think I know? I shouldn’t even be here. They was supposed to let me out when we brought the money. They tricked me!”

“Gee, I feel real bad for you there, Charlie.”

“Look, I told ya-”

“I know exactly what you told me. And what you did. And what you’re gonna do now.”