Too Far Gone Read online

  Only Sean didn’t heed her pleas. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her belly, nuzzled her thighs, and put his lips to the aching emptiness between her thighs.

  Sensations, pure and sweet, overrode her disappointment. She’d never been pleasured like this, but there was no question Sean knew what he was doing. Delight licked over her, circling outward like rings following a disturbance on the surface of a pond. Her heart raced. Pleasure stormed the myriad pathways of her nerves and tingled on her skin, bathing her in cool sweat, while deep within, she melted into something pliable, an object for Sean to reshape at will.

  His murmured words flashed erotic images across the screen of her mind. Added to his exquisite assault, the effect was just too devastating. Pleasure overflowed its banks, drowning her in sweet oblivion. For all of ten seconds, she forgot, in the all-consuming power of her release, that her boys had been stolen away.

  As the memory impaled her anew, Sean covered her with his larger, more powerful body. She had scarcely caught her breath when he kissed her, putting the taste of abandon on her lips. In the same motion, he filled her, thick and determined, encroaching her being with ever-deepening penetration.

  “Yes!” she cried, reveling in his usurpation. Help me to forget.

  The shudder that wracked him followed by his low-throated growl told her he, too, was spellbound. They strained together, driven to get closer, and closer still, until they clung together in a fierce embrace, deeply joined.

  “Damn, I knew it would be like this,” Sean rasped, sounding shaken. He began to move with slow, deep thrusts that swept her into a world of primal rhythms and animal instinct. With greedy hands, she raked his hot skin, reveling in his citruslike scent, in the power of the muscles that clenched and rippled and prolonged her escape from despair into ecstasy.

  He began murmuring promises of what he was going to do and how many times he would do it. She came a second time, immediately, her convulsions drenching them both, lending slick, wet sounds to the melody of their creaking bed.

  Then he praised her for her responsiveness, words she’d never imagined being directed at herself. Words that made her feel valued, cherished.

  Two hours and five earth-shattering orgasms later, Ellie’s bones felt elastic, her muscles weary, her body sated. She lay across Sean’s chest, scarcely conscious. The crushing pain in her heart had dwindled to a throbbing ache. She told herself she would move in just a minute, once she caught her breath, once her heart resumed a steady beat.

  And that was her final thought.

  Roused by the jangling of the private line, Owen Dulay came up on one elbow and glanced quizzically at the bedside clock. It was just past midnight. Tossing back the covers, he waded through moonlight to the adjoining office to snatch up the phone at his desk. “What is it?” he snapped.

  “What song does the mockingbird sing?” asked the voice of his most loyal servant.

  Tempering his impatience, Owen gave the expected reply. “You’d better have good reason for waking me up at this hour, Bates,” he warned.

  “Yes, sir. To get right to it, there’s a stranger in town looking for your man Carl.”

  Carl? Owen stiffened at the unpleasant news. “Did he say what he wants?”

  “He said he went to school with Carl, but I’m not buying it. They don’t talk the same.”

  “I don’t pay you to speculate, Bates. What’s this stranger look like?”

  “Like a fucking mercenary, if you’ll pardon my language, sir. He’s bald and built like a brick wall, but quick on his feet.”

  Owen searched his memory. Only one player in this intricate scheme fit Bates’s description, but he was the fall guy, not some third-party investigator. “Await my orders,” Owen decided. “Let me find out who this man is.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bates hung up, sounding disappointed.

  Drawing upon his faultless memory, Owen tapped out the number to the Culprit, an ally he’d relied upon numerous times to assuage suspicion.

  The Culprit answered groggily.

  “Are you aware that the boyfriend is making inquiries down here?” Owen demanded, bypassing the cipher phrase. Surely the Culprit recognized his voice by now.

  “Why, has he caused any trouble?” came the enigmatic reply.

  “Not exactly. He’s asking questions of my employees. I fail to understand why he’s down here.”

  “Not to worry,” the Culprit insisted smoothly. “At the time of his trial, it’ll appear that he and his girlfriend were taking a vacation, unencumbered by children. Also, I find it simpler to accomplish certain tasks when he’s not around. I promise you, Consul, a warrant for his arrest is impending.”

  Mollified by the man’s efficiency, Owen muttered a brief warning. “If the SEAL becomes a problem, I’ll take care of him myself.”

  “Oh, he won’t,” the Culprit assured him. “He’ll be back in Virginia Beach, behind bars, within a week.”

  Ellie was awakened by hazy sunlight blazing around the edges of the drapes. She jerked to a sitting position, realizing in the same instant that she was naked and tender in places she hadn’t been in a long time. Memories of the previous night had her searching the room for Sean.

  To her relief, he wasn’t around.

  Oh, my God. She fell back into the pillow, assaulted by memories that warmed her from the inside out and put butterflies in her belly.

  And now what?

  A tight, anxious feeling built within her chest. Ellie threw back the covers and rose on jittery legs. She just wouldn’t think about it. She was crossing the room when she saw the white note stuck to the door—with chewing gum.

  I do believe, Sean wrote in his ridiculously messy handwriting, you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel. Back by 11AM. Sean.

  Ellie swung a glance at the digital clock. She had half an hour to shower and dress. As for his teasing remark, she was best off ignoring it. Sean was a hedonist, a ladies’ man. If she didn’t nail that fact like a shield across her heart, then she had no one to blame but herself.

  Locking herself in the bathroom, she sought to steam the scalding memories of her five orgasms out of her mind.

  It wasn’t until she turned the water off and reached for a towel that the realization hit her: She’d fallen asleep before Sean had enjoyed a single one.

  Chapter Seven

  Balancing a cardboard tray topped with steaming mochaccinos in one hand and clutching a plastic sack and a bag of muffins in the other, Sean rapped on the hotel door in lieu of using the key card. He had no idea what to expect from Ellie after last night. Hell, she never did what he expected, anyway.

  “Thanks,” he said when she popped the door open. “My hands are full.”

  As he crossed to the bureau, he noticed she looked rested for a change, recharged. Good thing, since they had less than twenty-four hours to find Carl. As promised, he’d called Butler this morning to relate last night’s incident. Butler had reiterated that they were not to approach Carl in person if they found him. The experts would handle it.

  Passing Ellie the bag of muffins, Sean tossed the plastic sack onto the bed. “I hope you like lemon poppy seed. Careful with your mochaccino. It’s hot.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, pulling a muffin from the bag. She ate it where she stood, eyeing the plastic sack with shy curiosity and avoiding his regard.

  So much for a quick romp in the sack this morning, Sean mused, giving up the hope with a shrug. He carried the remaining muffin and cup over to the armchair. “Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested, indicating the foot of the bed.

  “I’m okay.” She tore off a little piece of muffin and stuck it in her mouth.

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “You know, you really don’t have to beat yourself up for last night,” he told her. “I could’ve just said no.”

  Her gray gaze swivelled toward him briefly. With a suggestion of a blush, she went back to feeding herself mouse-sized bites. Obviously, she still had no appetite.

>   Sean tried again. “Sometimes when life really sucks, you need to do something to make it better, you know?”

  Her gaze snapped up at him again. “So, that was you takin’ pity on me,” she concluded, her accent sneaking out. A riot of color streaked up both cheeks, and her eyes flashed.

  Sean just laughed. He’d never seen that one coming, but, damn, she was cute when she was mad. “No, sweetheart, it wasn’t a pity fuck, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Her entire face turned red. “Don’t use that word!” she objected, turning away to snatch her mochaccino off the bureau.

  Sean grinned. She’d liked that kind of talk last night.

  “What are you grinning about?” she demanded, working herself up into a full lather. “The way I remember it, you didn’t even . . . you never even got to . . .” She floundered for the right euphemism.

  “Come?” he offered helpfully. “Ejaculate?”

  “Finish!” she retorted, hiding her face behind a swig of coffee. Sean chuckled as she startled and gasped, fanning her mouth.

  “Told you it was hot,” he drawled. “And the main reason I didn’t finish is because I didn’t have a condom at the time.” He glanced meaningfully at the sack on the bed. He had plenty now, though.

  Surprise, chagrin, and then real concern chased across her features. She slowly put her coffee down, turning wordlessly away to collect an article of clothing on the floor.

  “You won’t get pregnant,” he comforted. “If you do, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. And if you’re worried about STDs, the military checks us all the time, and I just came up clean.”

  Her face had gone permanently pink. “What they ought to do is teach you how to pick up after yourself,” she retorted, flinging his T-shirt at him. “You’re messy!”

  “When I’m distracted,” he agreed, fascinated by her complexity. “Maybe you’ll stay awake long enough next time for me to finish,” he added, pressing his luck.

  She threw him her most prickly look. Only now that he knew what lay under Ellie’s pincushion, that look made him hornier than ever.

  “Well, are we going or what?” she demanded on a desperate note.

  Reading the banked desolation in her eyes, Sean kicked himself for forgetting, even for an instant, about her boys. Today they would visit the third and last shelter in Savannah. If no one knew Carl there, it was over. There’d be nothing left to do but trust the FBI to find him and return to Virginia to face the fallout.

  Wherever he went, Drake carried his backpack, with his cell phone and listening devices tucked into a hidden compartment. The hot May sun left the pack sticking to his back as he hurried to the shelter for lunch. He could see the sandstone building on the corner up ahead, its carved griffin statues guarding the gate that led to a mulched enclosure and the shelter’s double doors.

  All morning long, Drake had sat in Wallace Square, two blocks west, staring at the pigeons pecking at his feet, listening to a man in a Civil War cap play his saxophone, and mulling over his options. There weren’t many left.

  Yes, living at the shelter had gotten him one foot into the world of the Centurions, but in order to find evidence incriminating its leader, he would first have to slog his way through the ranks, and that took time—lots and lots of time—which the Undercover Division was unwilling to invest.

  They urged him to find informants, to befriend men close to Dulay, like his shifty-eyed gardener, Carl Stuart, who accompanied him to weekly meetings. The man had been promoted to the rank of Princeps Prior in a remarkably short period of time. Drake couldn’t fathom why Dulay was so invested in him.

  So maybe Carl Stuart would make a good informant. Drake would rather, however, befriend Dulay’s daughter, but she’d avoided him since their conversation a week ago. He could only assume his supposed drug addiction and immaturity had dissuaded her from getting to know him more personally. Then again, her soul-numbing obligations to both her father and her ailing mother were enough to keep anyone troubled and preoccupied.

  Regardless, Drake had been warned by the special agent in charge—his father—that time was running out. Unless he made substantive progress in a week’s time, he’d be pulled from this assignment and given another one, the setting of which would likely be an urban high school, where Drake would be sent to ferret out drug dealers and gang leaders. The opportunity to expose the Centurion machine for what it was would be lost, at least to him.

  The rumble of a powerful motor dragged Drake’s gaze from the sidewalk. He watched a black ’69 Pontiac GTO glide into a parking space ahead of him. The engine died, and a muscular man with a shaved head rounded the vehicle to fetch his companion.

  Drake’s stride faltered. This was no ordinary man. Every muscle in his hewn body screamed of highly skilled military training. Did this soldier boy work for Owen Dulay?

  The woman was nothing unusual, as far as Drake could tell. Young and pretty, her pained expression bespoke of a personal hardship.

  He timed his steps so he would overtake the pair. “Dude, nice car,” he commented.

  The man gave him a cursory inspection. “Thanks.”

  “You, uh, you lookin’ for someone?” Drake asked, jerking his head at the shelter.

  Blue eyes skewered him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you’re not homeless if you’re driving that thing,” Drake pointed out.

  Soldier boy pulled a photo from his back pocket. “Have you seen this man?” he asked, handing it to Drake.

  Drake was startled to recognize Carl Stuart. “I’m not sure,” he hedged, playing his cards close.

  “You’re not sure,” soldier boy repeated dubiously.

  “Nope,” said Drake, handing back the photo with a shrug. “I’ve seen a lot of guys come and go,” he added apologetically.

  “Uh-huh,” said the bald man, sounding unconvinced.

  “You might want to talk to Miss Dulay, though,” Drake suggested. “She kind of runs the place.”

  “Thanks.” Drawing his companion with him, soldier boy headed for the gate.

  Drake pretended to admire the car a minute longer. He was dying to hear Skyler’s response to the couple’s inquiry. Would she admit to knowing Carl Stuart, or would she protect her father’s privacy?

  In just a minute or so, he’d wander in and find out.

  Standing at the head of the soup line, Skyler took immediate note of the couple’s entrance. Grizzled heads came up to ogle the newcomers, especially the woman, since women were sent to the Magdalene Project for shelter. Not that this well-kempt woman looked homeless. Neither did the man, who carried himself with the kind of self-assurance the men at the shelter lacked.

  “Mary, would you take over?” Handing her ladle to the nearest volunteer, Skyler rounded the table to assuage her curiosity. Heavens, the young woman looked just like that poor mother in the news whose children were kidnapped.

  “Welcome to the Centurion’s Shelter,” she greeted them warmly. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Skyler?” asked the bald man, who was handsome with twinkling blue eyes that put her at ease.

  “Yes.”

  “Sean Harlan,” he introduced himself. “And this is Ellie.”

  Skyler blinked. Then she was the young mother in the news! What could have brought her to Savannah?

  “We’re looking for someone,” the bald man explained, handing her a photo. “His name’s Carl Stuart. Any chance you recognize him?”

  Skyler’s breath caught as she recognized her father’s pet project. “He sure doesn’t look like this anymore,” she couldn’t help but comment.

  “You know him?” the woman exclaimed, her gray eyes flying wide. The man put a steadying hand on her arm.

  “He works for my father,” Skyler admitted.

  “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?” asked Sean.

  His request heightened Skyler’s curiosity. “Of course. There’s a meeting room on the second floor. Why don’t you foll
ow me?”

  Leading them to the paneled, windowless chamber where the Centurions held their weekly meetings, Skyler admitted the pair and shut the door. “Have a seat,” she invited. There were dozens of chairs available, all facing the oil-on-canvas portrait of her father. Behind the paneled walls lay secret compartments filled with relics and curiosities, enticement to remain in the brotherhood, to lure the seeker to the next great secret. But Sean and Ellie couldn’t possibly know all that. Skyler only knew from overhearing snippets of conversation throughout her childhood.

  “Was Carl one of the homeless here?” Sean inquired, declining her invitation to sit. Ellie sat tensely on the edge of a stool.

  “No. My father hired him ten months ago to tend our garden,” Skyler admitted, “though I’ve heard he’s going to be my father’s chauffeur now.”

  “Carl couldn’t keep weeds alive,” Ellie remarked bitterly.

  “Carl is Ellie’s ex-husband,” Sean explained.

  “Really?” The wholesome-looking woman didn’t seem at all like Carl’s type. “I’ve seen you on the news,” Skyler admitted, earning a startled, desolate stare from the woman. “I’m so sorry about your sons.”

  “Thank you,” Ellie murmured.

  “Does Carl know about the kidnapping?” asked Sean.

  “I don’t know.” Putting two and two together, she asked, aghast, “You think he had something to do with it?”

  “What do you think?” Sean countered.

  The thought of Carl wanting to care for three children was inconceivable. “Um, I don’t think so,” Skyler answered as tactfully as possible. “I certainly haven’t seen any young boys with him.”

  Ellie’s shoulders slumped. She looked down at the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” Skyler added, wishing she could do something to ease the woman’s heartache.

  “Could you arrange for Ellie to ask him herself?” Sean asked, shocking her with his request.

  Daunted by the prospect of sneaking behind her father’s back, Skyler hesitated. “I don’t know. My father’s a very private man.”