"Suppose instead of tea," he said, "I carry you up to bed."
"You can't. There's just a ladder."
"Bet?"
She had no time even to scramble to her feet before she was over his shoulder, sack-of-grain style. She didn't ask him to put her down. She didn't kick or thrash. Without even the hint of a misstep, he had her up the ladder and into her loft, then flopped her onto her back on her bed.
She laughed and whacked him on the shoulder. "You're insane!"
He wasn't particularly out of breath. "Tell me this isn't better than tea."
She smiled, rising up off the bed to hook her hands around his neck and kiss him, bringing him back down with her. "Much better," she said against his mouth. "What if you'd tripped?"
"I didn't trip."
He settled on top of her, the weight of him firing her senses, burning up her ability to talk. She let her hands drift down his back to his hips, pulling him against her, knowing they wanted the same thing. They'd been dancing around it for two days, trying to be sensible and not repeat their body-clawing, mind-numbing madness at her apartment.
But he resisted her attempt to get on with it before she could think too much. He eased back, slipping one knee between her legs. "Not so fast."
There'd be no crazed lovemaking that she could attribute to stress and the moment in the morning-it would be slow and deliberate, and she might as well give herself up to it.
It was, and she did. At least for a time.
"We should have been making love like this for months now." His voice was a whisper as he lifted her sweater over her head, tugging it off, casting it onto the floor. "Maybe years."
He touched her breasts through her bra, a kind of erotic torture, then unclasped it, not fumbling even the slightest. Because his movements were unhurried, she had time to think, react, even feel a spurt of self-consciousness when she was exposed to him. In so many ways, they weren't the same people they'd been last winter, before he'd knocked on her door. He'd gone back to fight. She'd fled to Boston. The falling in love, the cutting and running, the pain and anger and embarrassment-they'd all had their effect, not just on her. On him, too. She could feel it in his tenderness, in his determination to give her the chance to make sure this was really what she wanted.
She could have dumped him back down the ladder, but she didn't, and she knew he didn't want her to.
It was warm in the loft, the heat of the woodstove rising, and it was dark in the loft, the only light from the fire's glow through the rail. She could see him outlined above her, feel him as his mouth lowered to her, taking first one nipple, then the other. She moaned, but he didn't pick up his pace. Her jeans came next, an even slower torture of hands, tongue and teeth, as if he was oblivious to her mounting urgency. She fought back, tearing at his clothes, and finally got her chance.
But he was ready for whatever tortures she had in mind.
When at last she straddled him and he lifted her hips, lowering her onto him, his hands smoothing up over her stomach and breasts, she gasped as if it was the first time.
Everythingchanged.Shecouldn'tholdbackandsaw thathecouldn't,either,notanylonger.Shewantedspeed and heat and ferocity, and he responded in kind, his strokes hard, fast, relentless. She ended up on her back, taking all of him she could get, and when she was filled up,spillingover,hecameatheralltheharder,againand again. Her release washed over her, endless, and her cries seemed to echo across the isolated meadow. She knew she was spinning out of control and didn't care.
But he didn't stop. He was slick with sweat, his heart beating rapidly against her, and when he came, she thought she would die.
Her vision blurred, and a treacherous mix of love and raw need ripped through her.
She'd promised herself never again. And here she was.
Later, Ty slipped down the ladder and tossed another log on the fire. He debated sleeping on the couch, but Carine would take it the wrong way. Or so went his rationalization as he climbed back up the ladder and into bed with her. She had a mountain of quilts and blankets. He thought he'd suffocate. He peeled one off and threw it on the floor with their clothes.
"Gus says we never returned the snowshoes he gave us for a wedding present," she said sleepily.
"Only Gus would give someone snowshoes for a wedding present, and we did return them. He tried to send them back to the manufacturer. He said they were tainted."
She rolled onto her side, pulling the covers up over her breasts. "I don't have to marry you, Ty, but I can't- I can't just be there whenever you decide you want me there."
"I know."
"And you-it's not right for you to be there whenever I want you."
"Right."
"Ty?"
He smothered her urge to talk with a kiss. It seemed like the right thing to do, and in a minute, she was the one kicking off blankets.
Twenty-Three
Val talked Hank into going out for coffee. They took her car, but she asked him to drive, because she was too damn nervous and barely knew her way around Washington, D.C., on a good day. For all she knew, her caller was around the corner with night-vision goggles, watching her every move. Maybe he was a law enforcement officer. The CIA. Military intelligence. Maybe she was out of her mind.
Plus, she had an unloaded Glock in her glove compartment, and she couldn't reach it if she was the one driving. And she'd seen in the movies-when you kidnap someone, you make them drive.
Except she wasn't kidnapping Hank. Really, she thought, sitting next to him. She was just going to ask him to drive her to Cold Ridge. Or not? Should she pretend she'd never gotten that bizarre call?
He had on a sweater and a lightweight suede coat.
It'd be colder in New Hampshire, but he'd be fine. She'd resisted the impulse to drag out her winter coat and instead pulled on a denim jacket. Jeans, turtleneck, sneakers, denim jacket-she looked perfectly normal, even if she felt as if she should be locked up somewhere.
"Where to?" Hank asked, mercifully oblivious to her wild thoughts.
She chewed on her lower lip. Should she tell him about the call? Or just make up some story about why she wanted him to drive her to Cold Ridge?
"Val? What's wrong?"
He was frowning at her, absolutely one of the best-looking men she'd ever met. And kind. So kind. It was dark on her street, not busy. A beautiful Saturday night in Washington. She and Manny should be at the movies. Eric-even if her life was normal, Eric would be in Cold Ridge. But that's what he wanted.
Hank pulled out into the street and headed to the main intersection and onto a four-lane highway of strip malls and chain restaurants. He seemed to sense something was up. He was so quiet, just glancing at her occasionally out of the corner of his eye. Val almost started crying. She couldn't believe what she was about to do. "Hank, I can't stand it," she said. "I-I need to see Eric. He didn't sound that great the last time I talked to him. If I leave now, I can be there by morning. But I can't- I'm too out of it to drive."
"Do you want to take the shuttle? I can drive you to the airport."
"No." She shook her head, not knowing what the hell she was doing. Why not just tell Hank everything and let him help her figure it out? He was a retired air force major. He'd performed combat missions. He was a damn senator. A Massachusetts Callahan. He knew everyone. He had connections. "Never mind. There's a place where we can have coffee down the street."
"Val, I know this has been hard on you-"
Her cell phone rang, and she jumped, gasping in an exaggerated startled reaction. She answered it, her hands shaking violently. She could feel Hank's narrowed eyes on her.
"You have him?"
Again it was that toneless voice. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. "What am I supposed to do now?"
"Do you have him?" the caller repeated calmly.