Dreamwalker (34 page)

The goggles snagged in her wet hair as she pulled them off, her attention given to the debate in her head.

Rory could practically hear Felix advising her to cut the ties cleanly and quickly, his ruined tenor rasping over the words. Big Brother Lucas would say the same in his smoother baritone, she was sure.

Yet her heart clenched at the prospect of never seeing Damon again, of having as her last memory of him the sight of him lying pale and unconscious, wounded, helpless when he was normally so powerful and vibrant with life. Her sexy Adonis laid low because he’d protected her.

But what was the alternative?

She made a face as she imagined the reaction of her family to her pursuing a romantic relationship with a Fed. The Fed and the thief? It sounded like something only Hollywood would dream up. Granted, her female cousins would turn pea green once they got a glimpse of the leading man. Her menfolk, on the other hand, would be a tougher proposition, though she was sure they’d eventually see the possible advantages of such a connection.

Of course, that was assuming Damon would want an inveterate thief hanging around. He could have just been joking, keeping up a strong front and all that.

And if he didn’t want her to?

Tears suddenly filled her eyes, her thoughts scattering, disconnected as if forced through a head stuffed with cotton. Weariness weighed heavy on her shoulders, like a ton of rocks dragging her down to oblivion, catching up with her now that the crisis was truly over.

Deciding to leave decisions for later, when she was rested, Rory staggered to the bed and fell into it, still wrapped in the damp towel, fast asleep before her head hit the pillow.

He swept her off into a fantasy of sensual delights, tormenting her with possibilities in a way he hadn’t had since he’d lured her into his trap with the jade dildo, arousing her with imaginary pleasures
—
pleasures she’d experienced for herself at his hands.

The words jolted Rory out of her dream, into wakefulness, her womb throbbing and heavy with carnal hunger.
He loves me?
Terror and exultation warred in her heart. Wishful thinking or true contact? She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

As another night fell, darkness rose and so, too, did Damon’s tension. Would Rory come? The hours had crept by, bringing with them a change of his dressings, the removal of his IV and beard, and bland hospital fare that—more than anything else— proved he was in American hands. A call from the Old Man, already en route with the nuke to the States, was the only other thing that broke his self-imposed vigil.

Toward midnight, the curtain fluttered gently, seemingly stirred by the cold night wind. If Damon hadn’t been watching for Rory, he’d have missed the shadow behind it, though there was no mistaking the intense focus and trepidation that radiated from that direction. “I must be getting better at catching you or you’re that tired.” He slid his hand out from under his pillow where he’d tucked his .45.

A soft laugh answered him. “Just playing safe. Didn’t want to get shot, what with your hair-trigger reflexes.”

His visitor stepped out from behind the panel, a svelte blonde with brown Tatar eyes and a wicked smile—the same form she’d taken after the fight with Osum—and dressed in the black jumpsuit she’d worn when he’d first caught her. Nothing remained of the berserker who’d savaged the gang lord’s thugs, or hinted at the wholesome, girl-next-door artist he’d first met, but he knew that deep inside where it mattered, she was Rory.

Relief at her presence had him sinking into his pillows for an instant. She hadn’t run and left him to chase her, after all; he’d been half-afraid she’d disappear into the night, choosing to return to her previous lifestyle. Knowing he was probably in for some resistance, he straightened immediately, mustering his arguments while trying to anticipate her objections.

Rory stalked through the intervening space with her habitual feline grace and perched a hip on his bed. “You’re looking much improved. I must say, gray just isn’t your color. It doesn’t do anything for your complexion,” the minx remarked lightly, as though they were merely chance-met acquaintances, not lovers.

Damon matched her easy tone, willing to follow her lead, for the moment. “I can’t say I liked it myself.”

She bent over him, biting her lower lip as she inspected the white bandage on his ribs. Her fingers barely touched the gauze; the extreme care she took not to put pressure on his injury actually hurt him more. “Not bad. I guess you’ll live. You really ought to be more careful.”

He figured he wouldn’t get a better opening to segue into the topic he wanted to discuss. “Maybe if I had someone to watch my back . . .”

Moving away, Rory raised her brows at him, a ghost of a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “And a nice back it is, too. Well worth watching.” She drifted to the side table, then the curtains and the rest of the room, picking things up and setting them down at random.

Her aimless meandering, in complete contrast with the tight attention he sensed and her usual straightforward manner, made Damon wish he weren’t bedridden and could hold her in place to listen to his proposition. “Sit down, damn it. I want to look at you.”

She spun to face him on a spurt of surprise. “What?”

“You’ve checked me out. Now it’s my turn.”

“Why?”

He glared at her in exasperation, wondering if Rory was deliberately acting dense. “I only have the Old Man’s say-so that you’re okay. I want to make sure for myself.”

Still, she hesitated, which didn’t do his heart any good. “Old man? White Hair?”

Damon snorted at the nickname she’d given his superior. “Yeah, that would be him. Now come here.” He extended his arms imperiously, since demands seemed to cut through the nonsense.

Rory flowed into his embrace as though she belonged there— which she did. At the contact, something inside him began to relax, relieved by the tactile evidence of her presence. Tucking his head against her neck, he breathed in the scent of soap, cold air, and Rory. She seemed hale enough, smiling indulgently when he ran his hands over her, and he didn’t pick up any indications of pain. But that didn’t stop him from checking. She felt too good in his arms to give up without a fight.

“You feel sound,” Damon said, just to fill the silence, suddenly uncertain. He studied her flawless face, wondering how his master thief would receive his next suggestion.

“I wasn’t the one hurt; you were,” Rory responded tartly.

“Yeah, well, I’ve spoken with the Old Man. He was quite complimentary about our results.” He paused to inject just the right amount of levity into his voice, so that she wouldn’t reject his proposition out of hand.

“As he should be.” The minx tilted her head, her slanted brown eyes widening in inquiry and mock innocence.

“He seems to think we make a great team.”

“We did work well together,” she agreed lightly, after a split second’s hesitation. He’d surprised her, though it showed only in a quick blink. “I rather enjoyed it.”

“How do you feel about making it more permanent?”

Rory’s fulgent shock was almost palpable, her pupils dilating as she stilled in his arms. “You want us to continue working together.”

“We’ve been doing so for weeks. What’s so strange about that?” Damon countered, pushing his advantage while he had her off balance. Apparently, she hadn’t expected him to propose a more permanent partnership. Had she thought he’d cut her loose and wave good-bye without trying for more? “It won’t pay as well as your current gig, but you’ll definitely be challenged.”

“Me, a Fed?”

“You can be an asset, if that would make you feel better.” He watched her expression shift from outright bewilderment, to bemusement, to speculation, the changes coming rapidly as might be expected in someone as canny as she. “You’d be one, too.” The amusement that bubbled up behind her amazement took him aback, though.

Rory’s gaze turned distant, her thoughts apparently veering off on a tangent. “Wouldn’t that be something,” she murmured under her breath. “They’d have kittens.”

They?
Damon didn’t pursue the non sequitur, not wanting to derail the discussion. Besides, if his master thief agreed to the partnership, he was sure he’d find out who she meant . . . eventually. He hadn’t forgotten that he’d still to learn her real name, despite weeks of working together.

His fingers dug into the bed as her silence stretched out. Finally, he couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. “Well?”

“After all that’s happened, I’m not sure I could go back to my old life.” Rory shrugged, as if her decision was of no great significance. “I think I’d be bored.” The minx peered at him from behind lowered lashes. “And maybe lonely, now that I’ve gotten used to working with a partner.”

Yes!
Exultation rushed through Damon, accompanied by a dizzying rush of relief.
YES!
He had her now. His heart danced, swooping wildly on wings of joy.

Laughing, he pulled her into his arms for a long kiss of celebration, ignoring the spike of pain in his side. She was his! And if she had any ideas of losing him, once he was recovered, she’d find out differently.

That was the last conscious thought he had for some time as he lost himself in her sweet taste and the lingering caresses of her mouth and tongue, her avid response communicating better than words could that she, too, welcomed the development.

But inevitably Rory drew away, thoroughly kissed and tousled. “Don’t you ever do that again,” she ordered him in a fierce whisper, her eyes blazing with suppressed emotion, clearly referring to his selfish attempt at gallantry. Her remembered terror flooded into him, the heartfelt relief that followed heady in its potency. She’d feared for him, though she’d probably never tell him.

“I can’t promise anything.” Damon met her gaze steadily, wondering if that would be a deal breaker. He couldn’t stint in his efforts; too much caution could mean the difference between success and failure in his missions. Besides, he couldn’t have lived with himself if she’d died from his inaction.

Rory pondered that in silence, her thoughts unreadable, then slid from his embrace and off the bed. Just as his heart skipped in apprehension, she said: “Maybe you just need some incentive to take better care of yourself.” With a secretive little smile, she went to the door to lock it and jammed the visitor’s chair under the knob, efficiently securing their privacy.

He grinned in anticipation, his pulse kicking up when she turned back to him, her tight nipples poking at her top. He could think of only one reason she would want guaranteed seclusion. When she climbed back on the bed, he was sure of it.

Her excitement teased his senses as she settled by his feet, calling to mind past pleasures. She pulled down the tab of her zipper, its quiet hum loud in the silence that had settled between them. The dark fabric of her jumpsuit parted, revealing pale, smooth skin.

Damon leaned back on his pillows, his heart pounding in his chest. “It’d have to be the right incentive.”

She eased out of the top, watching him with mock-serious eyes as she revealed perky, bare breasts just begging to be fondled, hard-tipped from the cold air. The minx had to know what she was doing to him when she arched her back, giving him an even better view of the high mounds. “Withholding judgment?”

He smiled, enjoying the thrum of arousal centered on his cock. “Waiting to be convinced.” Now that he knew he had her, he was willing to play her game.

Rory shimmied the jumpsuit down her hips and off her legs to drop the garment to the floor. “Better?” She rose to her knees to display the minuscule bikini that remained.

Damon frowned in pretend disappointment. “That’s all?”

“Impatient, aren’t you?” She skinned off that last bit slowly, drawing out the final unveiling to titillating effect.

The pale, trimmed muff she revealed surprised him; she’d always gone natural before. “Ummm . . .”

“Still need convincing?” Rory pouted thoughtfully. “Maybe you want bigger?” She plumped her breasts together and somehow turned voluptuous, the mounds suddenly overflowing her hands and looking pillowy, her hips markedly curvier. “Smaller?” Her bosom adjusted until she barely filled her cupped palms. “Darker?” Her skin and hair followed suit, losing creaminess to become golden, then mahogany, then a beautiful ebony.