Vengeance to the Max (34 page)

“Don’t play cop, Max. I’ll take care of this.” He took her hand once more.

Max gave the room one more cursory look before shutting off the light.

What else had Bud left to incriminate her? And what would he leave in the future when Bootman was dead?

The street was dark despite the light of the lamps ringed with fog. Cold air rushed beneath her skirt, blew it into a bell. Max covered the open slit with the plastic bag of clothes dangling from her unimprisoned hand. Her other hand burned up in Witt’s grip. Her heels tapped on the concrete, quick steps to keep up with his long stride.

“Never did say where your car is.”

“I traded with Sutter.”

“Thought you could hide from me?”

“I suppose I did.”

The side of his mouth rose a fraction. “Fat chance.”

Yeah, fat chance.

She looked at Sutter’s 4Runner parked a few cars away and wondered at the wisdom of going anywhere without her own set of wheels. Well, hell, at least tonight, Bud Traynor couldn’t frame her for murder. She’d have an unshakable alibi. She wouldn’t save Bootman, and Cameron was right, she might not be able to save herself. But she’d shut the door on her fear of Bud Traynor when she’d locked the door behind her. If the man wanted in, he’d get in. If he wanted to plant something, he’d do it. She couldn’t stop him. And she didn’t care. Tonight was for Witt. For her.

Dodge Ram straight ahead. It was gorgeous beneath the street lamp, circles of light bouncing off its black surface. She could never decide what she liked best, the black, the red letters, the shape of the behemoth itself. Or maybe it was Witt driving it. No, no, she’d been in love with Dodge Rams since ... well, forever. Witt was icing on the cake.

“I washed it,” he whispered in her ear. She tingled all the way down to her toes.

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“No way.” He was out looking for her.

“Vacuumed the inside, too.”

He pulled her around, opened the door, and eyed her thigh through the skirt’s slit as she grabbed the handle by the door to pull herself up. The interior certainly looked spotless. Air freshener hung from the rearview mirror. Vanilla. Light. Not overpowering.

Witt pulled out the safety belt and leaned over to buckle her in, his forearms touching her as well as his smile. She puffed out a breath of air when he closed the door and walked to his side.

“Settled in, sweetheart?”

That was Cameron’s pet name for her. She suddenly realized Witt had been calling her that a lot. She wasn’t sure she liked him using it. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

He stuck the key in and started the engine. “Don’t you want me calling you
sweetheart
?”

How about
honey
or
darling
(yuk!) or
babushka
? Something that wasn’t part of her relationship with Cameron. Witt wasn’t Cameron. Witt was ... alive. Real and solid. Witt was Witt. Just as she’d suddenly realized he used the same pet name Cameron preferred, she now realized that what Witt chose to call her didn’t have to be an eerie echo of her relationship with Cameron. Witt made it his own. “You can call me
sweetheart
.”

He grinned, patting her knee. He hadn’t even noticed her sudden inner turmoil. Or if he had, he saw another reason behind hit. It was a wonder he didn’t tell her he loved her again, driving his point home. Except that he was having too much fun laughing at her.

The truck rolled down her street, turned, turned again. They stopped at light. Witt pulled out his cell phone and punched in a few numbers, looking at her as he talked.

Max listened to the one-sided conversation. “Hey ... yeah, fine ... got someone needs your help, can you meet with us ... good, ASAP ... eleven, tomorrow, we’ll be there.” Short, sweet, to the point, he’d gotten her a lawyer.

It was enough to make a normal girl cry. Of course, she wasn’t normal, but he’d gotten to her all the same. “Thanks.”

“He’s a good guy.” The light had long since changed and Witt made his way onto the freeway. “Candy, little girl?” He pulled a butterscotch out of his T-shirt pocket, popping it in his mouth when she shook her head. “Tired?”

“No.”

“Ya look tired. Put your head in my lap.”

She choked. “Dream on.” She shook her head. “You’re trying to get that blowjob now.”

He gazed at her with innocent baby blues. “I’m concerned about your welfare.” He flipped the armrest up, patted the space beside him, then smiled again before turning back to the road.

Her heart beat double time, triple time. She was afraid it might beat right out of her chest. “But I’ll have to take my seatbelt off. That’s very dangerous. That doesn’t sound like you’re concerned for my welfare.”

“I promise to drive very carefully.”

“But it’s illegal.”

“I know. Sometimes I like to walk on the wild side.”

She did, too. With him. He had that effect on her. “All right. But don’t you dare slam on your brakes.”

“Promise,” he whispered.

Oh God. His silky voice made her want to do anything he asked. She put her head on his hard thigh, and if she’d been a bit tired before, she was wide awake now. Still, she snuggled her shoulder up against him, closed her eyes, breathed in sun-fresh laundry laced with testosterone. His fingers stroked her hair behind her ears, not that there was much of it to push back. She imagined his eyes on her, but didn’t look.
Hmmm
. This was too nice. The thrum of the engine soothed her, the sound of the tires against the road and the stroke of his hand a tactile lullaby.

But something was growing beneath her ear. She moved her head, stroking him with her cheek. He slouched deeper in the seat. They continued that way, his hand in her hair, dipping beneath her collar occasionally, and her face in his lap. She hummed and breathed all over him, keeping him as hot as he did her. She couldn’t say her trepidation over this
relationship
was gone. Saying the
love
word was a terrifying thing. But the ease with which she fit so neatly in his lap, his comforting scent and gentle caresses, subjugated her fears.

Reducing speed, his leg flexed beneath her. The car slowed. She swayed with its turns, tucking one hand under his leg and curling the other next to his thigh.

Another turn, then they stopped. He reached forward over her, retrieving something. A moment later came the electric whir of a garage door opening.

“I thought you parked outside,” she murmured, eyes still shut. He had the other times.

“Only eight o’clock. Be damned if I’m gonna make love with you in my truck with the neighbors watching.”

Her heart stopped beating. Of course, it started beating again at some point. She thought about the length of his legs and the width of the cab. Then she decided to screw the logistics, pun intended. They’d work it out.

He pulled in, shut the engine off, and brought the door down behind them. “Max?”

She rolled over in his lap and looked up at him. The garage light clicked off. The moon streamed in from somewhere, but his blue eyes turned black in the dim cab. He took a shallow breath. His body pulsed beneath her head. He waited, hand cupping the side of her neck.

“Kiss me,” she demanded, her arm snaking up his chest, around his neck. He supported her while she did all the work. Not that it could be called
work
.

He tasted of the butterscotch candy. She opened her mouth, and at the touch of her tongue to his, she went from drowsy, comfortable, and compliant to hot, wet, and crazy. She devoured him. He let her. God, she wanted him. Her arms tightened around his neck. Wanted him right here, right now in his truck. Where else? Where better?

It was shameful the way she pressed herself to his chest, her nipples full and painful. She pulled back, feeling the light pop as his lips slipped from hers. His gaze glittered in the moonlight. His breath came fast, and yes, there it was, a slight tremble in his arm across her back and his hand against her waist.

Shameful the way she wanted him, the way he wanted her?
Never
. She swallowed, put a hand to his lips. She wanted to say something, tell him...

“Tell me what you want me to do.” His voice was rough and heavy with emotion. That emotion had nothing to do with shame.

She breathed deeply, taking in the scent of candy, laundry, and intoxicating testosterone. Her hands stroked the soft material of his shirt, over the hard pebbles of his nipples, his throat, in his hair, short, spiky, and soft.

He shifted, straining beneath her, a gentle puff of air coming against her lips, a light groan against her ear.

What she wanted. God, to be unashamed and totally out of control. Free at last. She didn’t want him to beg or plead for her trust. She didn’t need a mirror to know with whom she was making love.

“You tell me what will drive you crazy,” she whispered a hairsbreadth from his mouth, pulling back, eye meeting eye. Before there’d always been a neon sign overhead flashing
Control Freak, Control Freak
for all to see. She pulled the plug on its power and added, “I’ll do whatever you want.”

With a full-fledged groan, he ground against her. The man was hard as a rock. For her. And that was a good thing. Not a scary or a shameful thing. He pulled on the knot of the tie he’d picked for her. “Take off your jacket.”

She did, laying it across the back of her seat.

“Unbutton your blouse.”

“See? I knew you made me wear it so you could watch me take it off.”

“Uhuh,” he got out, slightly strangled.

Sprawled across his lap, she leaned back against the steering wheel, hoping she didn’t set off the horn. Then again, what a signal that would make. A scant inch from the first blouse button, she stopped. “Are you sure they’re big enough?”

He grinned and slid a hand beneath hers to palm her breast. “They fit in my mouth perfectly. Undo it.”

The command sent a shiver through her lower body. She’d ceded to his demands before. This was different. He knew she’d do anything if he told her to. He understood she gave him that power willingly. They both knew she could do the same thing to him. This was something exciting and dangerous and absolutely wonderful.

Top button, second, third. His gaze ate up the movement of her fingers. She left the tie loose but knotted. Pulling the bottom of the shirt from her skirt, she watched every mutation of his eyes. Hot, blue-hot, then blazing. His hand slid from her waist to the band of her skirt, skimming her butt, then her hip, to slip inside the long slit which had ridden almost to the apex of her legs. Like a brand, his touch stopped on her thigh.

Buttons dispensed with, the lapels of the shirt pushed aside, her tie now lay against the lace of her pink bra. He abandoned her thigh to trace the silk down between her breasts. Blunt fingers grazed her exposed flesh.

He was taking too long. “Now what?” she prompted.

He gave her a lazy smile. “Begging?”

She bit her lip, and in a breathy voice said, “You make me crazy. I think I’m going to come before you even put your hand in my panties.”

His breath hissed out. She got to him. Badly.

“Can’t wait?”

She shook her head, dizzy with how deeply he affected her.

“Want it now?”

She nodded.

“How bad?”

“Really bad,” she whispered.

He shut his eyes, sighed with what might have been another groan. “Gonna do anything I want?” He waited with closed lids for her answer.

If it was anyone else, she would have suspected an unhealthy ego and a need to dominate. But not Witt. He was asking for something else entirely. She gave it to him. “Yeah. Anything you want. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“Christ.” He opened his eyes. “Undo your bra.”

She flipped the front clasp, then pushed the lace aside, spilling free, exposing herself. Trusting him, she murmured, “Do you want to touch?”

His answer was to lean down and put his mouth around her nipple.
Ahh
. She wanted to whimper, then she allowed the sound to rise up out of her throat. She squirmed in her seat as he sucked, hard, barely below the level of pain. Then he lifted his head, smiled, and cupped her breast, plumping the flesh. “Your nipples are bigger.”