One Night At A Time Page 8

  Doug lowered his head, and she tilted hers back, meeting him. His kiss was insistent, not soft and reassuring, but hard and demanding, like the man himself.

  He tasted of power, of resolve. He tasted of man.

  The pureness of Doug’s masculinity coaxed a response and ignited passion she’d never imagined.

  His tongue sought hers, demanding that she meet him in a dance. This wasn’t a conquest, it was a joining of two people, each a mirror reflection of the other.

  Her knees weakened and her blood thinned. A pulse of primeval power surged through her, and she wanted more, wanted something she didn’t dare name.

  A plane buzzed overhead, seeming to scatter the building energy. Slowly Doug released her and moved half a step back. His eyes were even darker than before, lines of deep teal spiking across his irises.

  Where he’d touched, Arielle’s lips felt warm and swollen.

  But most of all, her soul felt comfort and peace...two things she’d thought she would never again feel.

  When Doug spoke, his words sounded as if they’d been dragged across broken glass. “Consider me hired. You couldn’t get rid of me now if you wanted. You’re stuck. For better or worse.”

  Chapter 6

  Doug dragged himself from the stupor of contemplation. He became aware, again, of the hum of the private jet’s engines, the sensation of zipping through the sky, things he’d blocked from his mind.

  He replaced the telephone and considered the few things Brian had told him. No news on Arielle’s assassin. Her parents hadn’t received any more presents, gift wrapped or otherwise. The bad news was that they were becoming more and more anxious to talk to Arielle.

  Within the next twenty-four hours, he might have to authorize Shannen to share information with them. But he’d stall as long as possible. Compromised investigations gave him indigestion.

  Brian had also learned that Pickins had been released from prison last month. The dirtbag hadn’t been seen or heard from since prison bars clanged shut behind him, leaving him a free man to victimize the world.

  There had been an explosion at a paint store in Boston, and a couple of dozen cans of paint and turpentine had been stolen. Not surprisingly, there hadn’t been a single witness, not even the night watchman.

  Every instinct screamed the explosion had been Pickins’s work.

  Now to find the slippery bastard.

  But how the hell had Pickins known Doug was heading home? It’d been three months since he spent a weekend on the coast. His number didn’t appear in any listing, and the house was registered in another name. He occasionally needed a safe haven. Until now, he’d believed he had it.

  Doug despised puzzles. And now he had two of them.

  Drumming his fingers on the table, he looked at the woman sleeping next to him.

  She slept while guilt slithered around his insides, reminding him of the past. He hadn’t saved Kerry. And he’d very nearly lost Arielle. His jaw clenched. Nearly lost her. Nearly. Now they were bound together, secured by his determination.

  Arielle shifted, and he looked at her. She was curled up on the seat, feet tucked beneath her. Strands of long hair that had escaped their confines now feathered across the travel pillow, and wavy wisps of blond spilled over her forehead. A gray blanket snuggled across her shoulders, bundling her against the chill.

  Her lips had parted slightly, reminding him of the way she’d tipped back her head, offering the sweetness of her kiss. He shouldn’t have done it. Doug had made it a policy never to mix business with pleasure. With Arielle, though, it seemed the rule had. been written on the wind.

  He could no more resist her than he could sail against the tide.

  The faint smudges beneath her closed blue eyes riveted his attention. She’d valiantly fought exhaustion, through their first landing and halfway through the second leg of the journey.

  But the lulling motion had finally proved too much, and she’d lost the battle. Now, long lashes fanned out, casting a shadow and making him ache to take away the pain that caused her hurt.

  A wave of something another man might label compassion crested over him.

  It wasn’t compassion, though, not for her, not for anyone. Compassion was an emotion he never experienced. Kerry’s death—especially his part in it—had destroyed his ability to feel, let alone sympathize.

  At the airport, Arielle’s determination to handle any circumstance had been reflected in the depths of her eyes. She’d stood before him, nonjudgmental, her face pale, her lower lip drawn between her teeth to hide the trembling. If he said he was walking away, she would have swallowed bravely.

  And that was what had done him in.

  Yeah, he’d hit the wall of burnout, but it had crumbled, brick by brick, beneath the assault of her strength.

  In the afternoon sunshine, her eyes had communicated hope, trust and belief—the three things Doug needed to make himself whole again.

  They’d already shared a lot, and he was learning to read her moods. For a reason he refused to consider, her safety mattered to him. He had that at stake.

  Yarrow didn’t.

  Arielle had hesitantly walked into Doug’s office, believing he’d offer her protection. And she’d been caught in the cross fire of an old friend wanting to serve revenge hot and fast. That was how Doug liked his cars and women, but he preferred revenge cold and calculated.

  And that was exactly how he intended to dish it up.

  She shouldn’t have been there with him. Instead, she should have been standing at the head of a class, surrounded by students anxious to learn.

  Doug finally met honesty head-on. It was guilt. A flash of the past, a prayer that it wouldn’t happen again. Yeah, guilt, burning a hole in his gut.

  He’d keep her safe, because he had no other choice.

  Failure wasn’t part of this bargain.

  A pocket of turbulence rocked the plane. He curled his hand around the cup of coffee and rescued it. He wasn’t spilling it because a few clouds had a disagreement. He’d been through enough in the past twenty-four hours without sacrificing caffeine to the sky gods.

  Arielle stirred, blinking several times before focusing on him. She offered a soft, hesitant smile, as if a constant threat were hovering. In the instant between sleep and consciousness, she appeared vulnerable and delicate. Yet she’d proved that was anything but the truth.

  He’d worked with countless men, first in the military, then in covert operations for the government, finally in private practice. But few of them had possessed the spine of steel of his companion.

  Underneath it, though, she remained all woman, caring and honest. A combination to make him glad to be a man.

  She moved with effortless grace, placing her feet on the carpet and pushing herself upright. “Where are we?”

  “The sky.”

  She frowned, and he relented, saying, “Somewhere over Kansas.”

  “I don’t feel like Dorothy.”

  “And you don’t look like Toto.”

  “Thanks,” she said, swiping a hand across her eyes. “I think.”

  “Of course, with that hair—”

  “If you say anything about the Wicked Witch....”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “The Wicked Witch never had hair like yours.”

  She colored, and it chased away paleness and left behind a heightened stain of blush. If he’d ever seen a woman more beautiful, more desirable, Doug didn’t remember the occasion.

  The flight attendant appeared at their side. “Can I get you anything?”

  Doug ordered coffee for himself and Arielle. “Make the lady’s with a sugar.” When the woman moved away, he caught Arielle’s look. “I’m trained to be observant.”

  “About coffee?”

  “Especially coffee. Habits, tastes, they’re all clues.”

  In less than a minute, they had coffee and privacy. Arielle turned to stare out the small window. Her sigh wound a ribbon around his heart, a ribbon he’d
have given nearly anything to untie.

  “I take it back,” she said. “I do feel like Dorothy, and everything seems unreal.” Slowly she turned to face him once more.

  Doug raised his brow, waiting for her to continue. Ghosts haunted her eyes again, as he’d known they would.

  “How long will we be in Colorado?” Her voice dropped. “And how long until I can call my mom and dad to let them know I’m okay?”

  Self-recrimination laced her tone, stirred in until it was part of the whole, much like the sugar in her coffee. He recognized the tone, had heard it before, emerging from his own throat.

  And from the weight of experience, he knew only time healed the guilt. If it ever happened. “You tell me, Arielle,” he said. “I’m not an ogre. Granting the fact we both want the same things, your safety and the safety of your parents, what’s the best course of action?

  “Earlier, you were psychoanalyzing me,” he continued. “Give me your take on what we’re dealing with.”

  “But—”

  “Take a shot.” God knew, Doug had been the recipient of enough of those today. She might as well get in a couple, too. And in the interim, she might find some inner peace. If she did, he hoped she’d share.

  She sipped from her coffee cup, then swirled the porcelain between her hands, creating a miniwhirlpool. The same kind he’d been sucked into.

  Arielle’s assumptions about him this morning hadn’t been far off the mark, much as he hated to admit it. She’d proved perceptive and intelligent. He actually found himself waiting for her answer.

  “I paid a man for a hit,” she began.

  “Go on.”

  She looked at him. “You’re serious about this.”

  “Serious as the metal that damned near deprived me of hair.

  “He tried to kill me outside your office, then again in the alleyway.”

  As she spoke, her voice left behind the dullness of desperation.

  “He should have been satisfied with that.”

  “Should,” he said, prompting her.

  “But he wasn’t. He tracked down my parents—” She tripped over the last word, then lifted the cup to her lips with an unsteady hand.

  Then, obviously having taken a drink of courage, she added, “He wants me dead, Doug.”

  He didn’t respond. There was no need.

  “It’s like he has something personal to gain, he takes his job seriously.”

  “Assassins usually do.”

  She shivered.

  “The thrill of the hunt, the glory of the kill.”

  When her coffee sloshed over the rim, he reached for a napkin, wishing he could take back the words. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, looking at him. “I didn’t want it sugarcoated.”

  Good thing. When it came to reality, he was a diabetic.

  “Does money talk louder than the thrill?”

  Suddenly his sweet tooth had a craving. Without missing a beat, he lied to her. “Yeah,” he said. Experience had taught him that often the only way to get rid of an assassin was to send him on a short trip with a one-way ticket, six feet beneath the ground.

  Better the hired gun than Arielle.

  “What are we going to do?”

  We. A single syllable, a powerful word. They were a team; she’d cooperate. Mission accomplished.

  So why did the victory echo with hollowness?

  “I’ve had Brian call in some favors. We’ve got your parents’ home under surveillance. They’re being shadowed when they leave the premises. Only Brian’s budget is tighter.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Her gratitude filled the space between them. He took it in, holding it in his soul, letting it illuminate the darkness residing there.

  “I can’t contact them,” she said brokenly.

  “It’s your call,” he said, laying the facts on the table. In the beginning, he’d underestimated her. Never again. “You know the risks. If they know where you are, they may be in danger. Your assassin is making up the rules as he goes along. He’s capable of anything.”

  He reached into the seatback in front of him and withdrew his cellular phone, placing it on her tray table. “Your call,” he repeated.

  She stared at the phone for a long time, tears balancing at the corner of her eyes. “Put it away.”

  Tilting her chin, she turned away from him—from temptation, he imagined. For long minutes, she looked out the window. How easily he could picture the demons tormenting her.

  And guilt would be the worst. He was aware how insidiously it crept up on you, sucking you into an unwinnable hand of what-ifs.

  He left her alone with her struggle, knowing it was one of the more difficult tasks he’d ever performed. He’d been raised to be the protector. And when he failed at that...he failed as a man.

  Night had long since swallowed the sun when Arielle turned to him, dry-eyed and resolved.

  “We have to do whatever it takes.”

  He nodded. “I owe you an apology for leading you straight into a trap.”

  She shook her head. “I thought the guy was after me. We both thought I was the target. You owe me nothing, especially an apology.”

  “Brian will get him. As well as your assassin.”

  She fought for a brave smile.

  And when she didn’t say anything else for a few minutes, he didn’t rush to fill the silence. She was forgiving of him. More so than he was. She was a trouper, and he admired that.

  “You said we’re going to Colorado....”

  She trailed off when the pilot’s disembodied voice interrupted, announcing possible turbulence as the plane flew over the Rockies. “What’s in Colorado?”

  “Rhone’s safe house.”

  She sighed. “And how long will we be there?”

  “Long enough to master the finer points of cribbage.”

  “Cribbage?”

  “TV gets old.”

  “You’ve been there before.”

  “A couple of times.” He only hoped this situation worked out as well as Rhone and Shannen’s. And anyway, Doug was an ace at cards. He should be, after his years of practice.

  “And when we’re there, do we just sit and wait?”

  He shook his head. “We formulate a plan of action, go over every event, every detail of the man you contacted. We outplan him. We outsmart him.”

  “Tell me what to do,” she said.

  He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a chauvinist?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes had narrowed. “I’m telling you now, Mr. Masterson. You’re a sexist.”

  “Do I talk too much?”

  She nodded.

  “So how are you going to shut me up?”

  In that instant, the air rushed from Arielle’s lungs.

  Their bantering had replayed earlier words, but those had ended in a kiss. Self-protectively, she wrapped her hands together. She didn’t dare kiss him again, didn’t dare open herself to the emotions that being in his arms caused. She liked it, wanted to stay there.

  But she knew better.

  Doug Masterson wasn’t a man who easily fell into relationships, according to Shannen. And neither did Arielle. She’d never tried to hide the fact that she wanted a home, children, and a loving husband.

  Doug definitely didn’t fit that profile.

  He was a loner, intended to sail to the Bahamas alone and remain there indefinitely. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him, but that was where it started and ended.

  If—when—they emerged from this waking nightmare, she would probably never see him again.

  “Arielle?”

  When he looked at her like that, with something she didn’t want to name smoldering in sea green depths, her objections eased down her insides, settling into a warm pool of wishes.

  “Doug, I...we...” She licked her dry lips.

  He waited and waited.

  “I’ve ne
ver... That is, I haven’t...”

  Showing mercy, he quietly asked, “Never taken the initiative?”

  Her lips dried to parchment.

  “It’s easy,” he encouraged. “First you lean closer, then you put your arm around my neck.”

  She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She leaned closer.

  Doug did the same. And then she put her arm around his neck.

  Pushing away insanity, she instead clung to him, this time with a different sort of desperation.

  Arielle inhaled the stamp of his cologne, subtle strands blended with his own aura to create a mixture that seeped into her consciousness. It was a scent she knew she wouldn’t ever forget.

  “Then you brush your lips against mine.”

  Her heart tapped a timed tattoo.

  Their gazes met, and she drank encouragement from his eyes. When she feathered her lips across his, he whispered her name. Feminine triumph surged through her, leaving a wake of wanting.

  She pulled back a little, looking at him. His eyes had narrowed, a furrow winking between his brows. A pulse ticked in his temple. If she was drowning in sensual awareness, she hoped she would bring him down with her.

  “After that, you deepen the kiss, asking for what you want.”

  Instead, daringly, she brushed across his lips a second time.

  “Arielle, has anyone ever told you that you’re a tease?”

  She licked her lower lip, imagining the taste of him there. “I suppose you’re going to.”

  “You’re a tease.”

  “And you talk too much,” she said, leaning into him.

  “Then shut me up.”

  This time, when their lips met, it wasn’t a glancing touch. Instead, it was driven by the simmering awareness bubbling inside her.

  She trailed her hands through his hair; finding the rich texture and letting the strands seep through her fingers. Her nerve endings ignited, fanning the flame.

  He opened his mouth, inviting her inside. He hadn’t taken over, but instead he offered quiet confidence. At his urging, she reached out with her tongue, tentatively tasting and touching.

  He groaned.

  The raw sound sent a spike of pleasure through her. She’d made him react, and that knowledge filled her with awe.

  She felt him reach around her, placing his palms against her back. He pulled her closer and closer, until his arms enveloped her and her breasts pressed against his chest. Her nipples beaded in response, making her react in a way she’d never before experienced.