Rapid Fire (20 page)

This was
about her. About them.

About the
moment.

She
murmured pleasure when his stroking hands clamped on her waist and boosted her
up so their mouths were aligned. It seemed the most natural thing in the world
to part her legs and wrap them around his waist, allowing her skirt to fall
away. She felt the naughty chafe as her inner thighs slid across the material
of his pants, then on to the bare skin above.

Thorne
growled deep in his throat and slid his warm hands down to support her, cupping
her bottom where her panties gave way to skin.

She was
wet and hot and wanting at the apex of her thighs, where her body was aligned with
his through the frustrating layers of clothing. She moved against him, with
him, wanting more, wanting it all.

As though
in synchrony with her wishes, he turned and bent low to deposit her on the
bench while he stepped away. Their eyes never broke contact as she shimmied out
of her panties and he undid his belt and zipper, and shoved his pants down far
enough to free himself.

A small
part of her panicked, shouting, What the hell are you doing? This is crazy!
Insane! Irresponsible! What are you getting yourself into?

But she
shoved the voice aside as she watched him fumble for his wallet, for the single
condom that rested in his billfold. When he rejoined her near the bench, she
didn’t notice the hard coolness of the stone beneath her, or the hard rasp of
the tree at her back. She barely comprehended the warmth of the sun or the
final trill the bird gave before it fluttered away.

Stuck in
the moment, in the now, she only noticed him, noticed the play of shadow and
light across the skin bared by his open shirt, across the proud jut of his
manhood as he knelt before her and aligned his body to hers.

Maya
didn’t try to analyze the experience, didn’t bother to try to figure the
future. She let her head fall back, baring her throat to his kisses, and let her
legs spread wide, opening herself to him, inviting him into her body, but not
her heart. Not this time. She was old enough and smart enough to protect that
part of herself.

Or so she
hoped.

He
entered her with a whisper. Her name. His. It didn’t matter who said the words,
only that they were said, binding the two of them together in that first moment
of joining, when her flesh clenched tight to reject him, then softened to let
him inside.

Then he
paused, waiting.

Maya
lifted her head and met his eyes, which were hazel and mismatched, and for the
first time since she’d known him, clear of shadows. They looked at each other
for a long moment, asking and answering unanswerable questions, until she
smiled and so did he, and they met halfway for a kiss. “What do you see?” she
asked against his lips.

“I see
you,” he said in return and began to move within her. To move with her.

Desire
tightened, flooding her with a new, pounding need that had been banked to a
warm glow only moments before. She tangled her fingers in his shirt, holding
him closer, binding them as their bodies pistoned together and apart, together
and apart.

What had
begun as gentle lovemaking morphed into a frantic scramble, a sweaty, straining
union with only one possible endpoint.

Climax.
Explosion.

When the
moment came, Maya clamped her legs around his hips and cried out, “Thorne!” She
didn’t care who heard her, whether it was the birds or other passersby. The
naughty thrill of being outdoors, of being in public crested alongside the physical
release, pummeling her with pleasure.

“Maya.”
He said her name on a groan and followed her over, shuddering with the force of
his own release, clamped in a vise of tension that rocketed through his body
until he went limp and collapsed against her, pressing her into the bench and
the tree and all the external things that were once again present, but didn’t
yet mean a damn thing to her.

The only
thing that meant anything in that moment was the good, solid weight of Thorne’s
body against her and the rise and fall of his chest in tandem with her breaths.
They could think about the other things later.

Except
that later came in mere moments, when Thorne’s phone chimed from the side
pocket of his half-mast pants.

The rude
interruption chilled Maya, as did that same little voice she’d ignored moments
earlier, which now said, What the hell have I done?

“Ignore
it,” he said, the words breezing against the side of her neck, where he’d
pressed his bowed head in the aftermath.

For a
moment she thought he was talking about the voice. Then she realized the phone
was still ringing. As gently as she could, she levered him away, needing the
distance as reality sank in and she realized they hadn’t solved anything.

No,
they’d complicated everything instead.

“You should
answer it,” she said, leaning back, unlocking her thighs from his hips and
tucking her skirt between them, so she was almost returned to pre-sex modesty,
save for her panties, which lay on the brick walkway beneath them. “It might be
something about the case.”

His eyes
clouded, then cleared with understanding a moment before his expression blanked
to neutral. “Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be.” He stood and refastened his
pants with quick, businesslike movements that held the edge of anger.

“I don’t
know what you’re talking about.” She stood and stepped into her panties as
deftly as she could, given that she snagged one foot in the elastic. With her
clothing restored—if not her dignity—she nodded and said, “Answer it. We can
talk about this later. Or not. Your call.”

She held
her breath for a beat after the offer, part of her hoping he would insist on a
conversation.

Instead,
he nodded distractedly and flipped open the phone. “This is Coleridge.” He
listened for a minute, face growing grimmer by the second. He hung up without
another word.

“Problem?”
she asked.

“The
chief wants us at the hockey rink. There’s been an explosion.”

Chapter
Eleven

Thorne
saw Maya freeze. The whole scene stilled, until he swore he could pick out each
individual pollen mote on the summer air, each beam of sunlight that filtered
down to gleam on the rich, dark hair he had touched only moments before as he’d
poured himself into her.

Moments
before, when innocents had been dying at the Mastermind’s hands.

“How many
casualties?” she asked.

“Two
dead.” He wanted to reach for her, to support her, but he didn’t dare because
he wanted it too much. So instead, he worked on fastening the buttons of his
shirt, staring down at them so he wouldn’t have to see her face when he said,
“One maintenance worker and one civilian, a chaperone on a children’s field
trip.”

She
swore. “Were the children hurt? Was there any warning, any—”

“We won’t
know until we get there,” he interrupted, body now thrumming with the need to
get to the scene, to get back to work.

To get
away from this small, sheltered nook where he’d done what he’d promised himself
he wouldn’t. He’d made lo—been intimate with Maya.

He knew
better, damn it.

As he
jammed his shirt into his waistband and waved her out of the clearing, Thorne
had to admit to himself that knowing better hadn’t stopped him, and he would
have to deal with the consequences. He’d have to make sure she understood this
wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t go anywhere.

But as he
followed her from the clearing, he paused by the gate, turned back and looked
at the spreading shade tree. The bird had returned, or maybe another one had
dropped in. The little scrap of wing and feather tilted back its head and sang,
just as it had done in his vision.

I saw us
making love, he’d said. The sun was shining and a bird sang in the tree above
us.

A faint
shiver touched his skin. Had it been an educated guess dressed in poetry, or a
premonition? Had the visions truly returned?

It was a
lucky guess, his brain argued, while his heart said, it was prescience.

It didn’t
matter, he told himself. It had happened and he’d have to deal with it.

They both
would.

MAYA WAS
FURIOUS WITH HERSELF by the time they reached the hockey rink. The site was on
her suspect list—it was part-owned by Wexton Henkes—but she hadn’t followed up
on it. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by other details. By Thorne.

And two
innocents had paid the price.

Worse, as
the reports filtered in over Thorne’s radio and cell phone, it became clear that
children had been injured, as well. The bomb had detonated in a maintenance
area, near the controls governing the ice surface. A nearby rink employee had
been killed instantly, a twenty-two-year-old named Howie who’d just graduated
from Bear Claw College and had been headed to grad school in the fall. The
force of the blast had blown out a nearby wall, sending shrapnel into a group
of kids who’d been waiting for their turn on the ice.

Stacy
Littleton, mother of two, had also been killed. Four children were badly
injured, and maybe a dozen others had suffered minor lacerations, bumps and
bruises.

When they
reached the scene, Maya was out before Thorne had the Interceptor parked. She
was aware of him at her side as she jogged toward the Bear Claw College ice
rink, which was a low, wide building made of preformed concrete slabs dressed
up with cement swirls in the shapes of figure skaters and hockey players. The
building itself appeared undamaged from the outside, but fire trucks,
ambulances and hustling rescue personnel jammed the sidewalk near the main
entrance, telling of the destruction within.

Maya
pushed through, aware that Thorne waved off several cops who advanced, maybe to
talk to her, more likely to tell her she had no place on the scene.

Maybe she
didn’t have an official role, but she damn sure had a moral role, one that
became all too apparent when she stepped inside the main lobby and heard the
children’s cries. Saw the tears and the blood.

She
should have stopped this, should have stopped him.

Instead,
she had been with Thorne, wasting time and energy, splitting their resources
and focus.

He’d been
right in the first place. They needed to stop working at cross-purposes and
catch this bastard once and for all.

More
importantly, they needed to stop being distracted by each other.

Ten kids,
ranging in age from six to maybe twelve, huddled against the far wall, being
tended by a trio of paramedics. The rescue workers’ faces wore professional
calm tinged with an undertone of sadness. Of anger.

Maya felt
that same anger gutter within her. She didn’t go to the children. She didn’t
have that right, and it wouldn’t solve a damn thing. Instead, she glanced
toward the main doors, one of which hung ajar on its hinges. Emergency lights
lit the scene, indicating that the blast had knocked out the main power. A
faint trail of smoke worked its way along the ceiling, and a crackle of radio
traffic picked up on Thorne’s portable told that the bomb squad was already at
work.