Standing in the Shadows (McClouds & Friends #2)(106)

"I didn't know," she said defensively. "I've never had sex in this bed! How would I know? And what do we care?"

"Easy for you to say," he scoffed. "You're not the one who gets bludgeoned to death if your mom hears us."

She started to shake, with soft, helpless giggles that could melt into tears in an instant, and Connor clapped his hand over her mouth.

"I hate to put a damper on our romantic fantasy, because I was really getting off on it myself, but we have to make some modifications," he said. "Parental participation would seriously wreck the mood."

He pulled himself out of her clinging body with a groan of pleasure and slid off the bed. He tossed the comforter onto the rug, and arranged it into a soft, puffy nest. He grabbed a pillow and sank down onto his knees, holding out his hand to her. His smile was radiant and beautiful. "The floor doesn't squeak," he said. "Come here."

She scrambled into his arms. They both cried out with pleasure at the sweet shock of contact. She had no barriers at all, nor did he. He had offered his whole self to her with extravagant, childlike abandon, and it almost frightened her, how vulnerable he'd made himself, how enormous his trust. It was a vast responsibility, but she couldn't examine the thought. It exploded like a shower of sparks and gave way to the next wave of pure emotion.

"You want to be up or down?" he asked between kisses.

"Do I have to choose? Can't we do them all?"

"You're the enchanted princess. I am yours to command."

She leaned back against the pillows and pulled him down on top of her. "I want this, for now. I like your warmth, and your weight."

"Anything," he muttered, and he scooped her body up tightly against his, cradling her. He entered her again, and pulsed against her hips with lazy, sinuous skill until passion seized them and they heaved and writhed together, twining around each other like flames.

It was everything she could have desired More than she had ever dreamed of. Each kiss, each worshipful caress and whispered word of love deepened their surrender to each other. They made love until she was limp and soft, her whole body one glowing smile.

She must have dozed at some point, although the whole night seemed like a sweet, feverish blur. She opened her eyes and found him gazing at her, a small piece of folded paper in his hands.

"You're not sleepy?" she asked.

"I can't sleep," he said, smiling at her. "I'm too happy."

"What's that you're doing?" she asked.

He made one careful, final adjustment, and handed it to her.

It was an origami unicorn. She gazed at its miniature, angular perfection, astonished. "It's beautiful. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Davy taught me, when I was recuperating. Davy goes for that slow, meditative stuff. Tai chi and meditation and cosmic harmony, yada yada. I was going nuts with boredom, so one day he comes in with some paper and a book on origami. He said hey, it's about time you learned to concentrate, Con. So I did. I had nothing better to do."

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. "I love it."

"It's yours," he offered. "I'd better go on out to the car."

She reached out in blind protest, but he blocked her words with a kiss. "This is all we get for tonight, sweetheart," he said. "It's almost five o'clock. God. I feel like a horny teenager, sneaking around like this. What's the password for the alarm?"

"It's katherine323jane," she said. "Katherine with a k, mind you. Those are our middle names. Mine and Cindy's."

He extricated himself from their tangled nest and scooped her up into his arms. "Erin Katherine," he murmured. "That's so pretty."

She was utterly limp and smiling as he carried her to the bed and tucked her in. "What's your middle name?" she asked.

He spread the duvet over her. "I don't have one," he said. "I'm just Connor. It was my mother's maiden name. Jeannie Connor."

He kissed her again like he couldn't bear to stop, sending diffuse ripples of pleasure through her exhausted body.

He pulled on his clothes, shrugged on his coat, bent over to blow out her candles. She hated to see him leave, but the second the door clicked shut behind him, something inside her finally let go.

Sleep rolled over her like a shadowy tide and carried her away.



The man who was no longer Novak hung up the phone, stared at it blankly, and went looking for Tamara. He could have summoned her to him, but he wanted to catch her unaware.

It was not every day that a man got news of his own death. He observed his feelings with detachment. The news did not elate him. He felt lost, drifting. The flip side of freedom. The price he must pay.

He found Tamara in her office, wearing a pair of glasses, of all things, as she peered into a computer screen. She gasped, whipped the glasses off, and assumed her most seductive expression. Obviously she thought she had fooled him. She could keep her illusions. They cost him nothing.

"I just got some news," he told her. "Kurt Novak is dead, together with his employees, Ingrid Nagle and Matthieu Rousse. They were murdered some hours ago, near Marseilles. The building was blown up. A crime lord, Pavel Novak's rival, striking a blow at him through his son, they say. Live by the sword and die by the sword, as they say."