"Is that a knife you have strapped to your ankle?" she said, and gasped.
He looked down at the leather sheath, chagrined. She had not noticed it the first time because he had made love to her without removing his trousers.
"Sorry," he said. "I tend to forget about it."
"How could you possibly forget a knife strapped to your ankle?"
"I have worn it since I was a boy. All Sweetwater men do. It's the family motto."
She raised her brows. "Just what sort of motto would that be?"
"Talent is useful, but always keep your dagger sharp."
"Not the usual family motto. But, then, I'm getting the impression that the Sweetwaters are not an ordinary family."
"That's not true," he said. "The Sweetwaters are really a very normal sort of family."
He unfastened the knife sheath and left it conveniently at hand. This time, when he looked at her he saw that she was, indeed, gazing at his erection.
"Is it always like that?" she asked.
His laugh came out as a groan.
"Only when I am near you," he said.
He knelt on the cloak and drew her down onto her knees in front of him. She reached out and took him in her hands, exploring him intimately. He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw clenching against the surging need that pulsed through him.
"I'm desperate for you," he said, aware that his voice was raw with need.
"You stir the most astonishing desire in me," she whispered. "I have never known anything like it."
"Then we are well matched."
He tightened his arms around her and kissed her, letting her feel the full force of his need. When she sighed and sank against him, her breasts pillowed against his chest, he moved his hand between her thighs. She was damp and slick, and wonderfully full to the touch. He stroked her carefully, seeking out the sensitive hidden places.
When he inserted a finger deep inside her she cried out and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. He felt her body draw tighter. Deliberately he inserted a second finger.
She gasped. Her small, delicate muscles closed even more securely around him. She released his heavy erection and clutched his forearms.
"Now relax," he whispered.
"I don't want to," she said into his shoulder. "I like it this way."
"You'll like it even better if you do as I say. I give you my word. Relax."
Her narrow passage loosened almost imperceptibly. He withdrew his fingers partway.
"Now hold me as if you'll never let me go." He pushed back into her.
She tightened snugly around him again. Another tremor went through her. She was very wet now. He breathed in the scent of her body.
"Yes," he said. "Like that."
He removed his fingers partway and eased his thumb up under the taut little bud of her clitoris until she strained against him. Then he penetrated her again with his fingers.
"You are as tight as a handmade glove," he said.
He hooked his fingers a little so that he could press them more firmly against the sensitive area just inside her hot channel. Then he slowly started to withdraw.
"No," she gasped, and tightened abruptly, trying to keep him inside. "Don't stop."
"I have no intention of stopping. Relax."
She did but just barely. She had the pattern of the dance now, and she was taking control, alternately clenching and releasing as he eased his fingers in and out of her. With each stroke he dragged his half-curled fingers against the roof of her passage, pressing harder and harder.
"Yes," she said. Her voice rose to a faint squeak."Yes."
He knew she was hovering on the precipice. He felt the sudden release of the tension deep inside her and sensed the onset of the small convulsions even before she did.
Her lips parted. He covered her mouth quickly with his own to swallow the sound of her climax. Her fingers dug into his arms.
He let her ride the currents, glorying in the knowledge that he was the one who had sent her soaring. When the small tremors started to ease, he pushed her onto her back, fitted himself to her and plunged deep.
"Owen," she managed."Owen."
He was beyond any coherent response, beyond the boundaries of his own control. He no longer cared.
He thrust in and out of her, his senses dazzled by the energy of their hot auras.
And then he, too, was poised on the high cliffs above the deep, mysterious waters. His release slammed through him, taking him over the edge. Virginia cried out softly again. Another rush of energy rippled through her.
It seemed to him that they fell together, their auras fused in a moment of searing intimacy. When the last of the shuddering waves faded he opened his eyes and looked down at Virginia's flushed face. She was watching him with a strangely intent expression.
Do you feel it?he wanted to ask.Do you sense this bond between us?
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She sprawled across his damp chest. He wrapped her close, indulging his exhausted senses in her warmth and the soft, vital weight of her body.
He let himself drift into the hazy place that marked the indefinable border between the dream state and the waking state. It was a good place, a fine place. He could not remember ever having been in a better place. He wanted to stay there until morning.
Chapter 30
They called him Wolf because he was as fast and as savage as any beast of prey. He had bestowed the nickname on himself while still in his teens, when he had realized that he possessed senses that the other street boys did not have. No one had dared object.
His talent had served him well. Over the years he had acquired a brutal reputation that was the envy of his colleagues. He was known and feared on the dark streets of London's underworld.
Until recently he'd made a comfortable living taking care of problems for one of the city's most powerful crime lords. Luttrell had appreciated his talents and paid well for his services.
But all good things must come to an end, Wolf reflected. Luttrell had been killed recently by another crime lord, Griffin Winters. Luttrell's demise had thrown the always delicate balance of power in the underworld into disarray. To further complicate matters, Winters himself had sold off his operations and vanished. Some said he was no longer even in London. No one knew where he had gone, but one thing was certain. Until the surviving crime lords got things sorted out among themselves, hardworking men like Wolf were on their own, obliged to make their livings by hiring out their services to whatever clients came their way.
Business had not been what anyone would call brisk lately. When the small man who called himself Mr. Newton had approached him outside of a tavern last night and offered a job, Wolf had accepted without asking too many questions.
He waited now in the deep shadows of the graveyard one street over from Garnet Lane. If he had calculated correctly, Sweetwater would pass this way when he left the Dean woman's town house.
The anticipation of the kill sparked an intoxicating excitement. All of his senses were heightened, but he was not yet making any attempt to focus. For the moment, he simply savored the darkness and the prospect of what was to come. It had been a while since anyone had hired him to kill a man, but he knew he hadn't lost his lightning-fast reflexes.
As if in response to his own flaring energy, the handle of the strange mirror that the odd little client had given him seemed to grow warmer in his hand. He doubted that he needed the device, but Mr. Newton had been very insistent.
"He's a talent of some kind," Newton said. "I don't know what sort, but I'm certain he's strong. There must be no mistakes. You will not take any chances."