The Temptation of Sean MacNeill (17 page)

Gowan held up a stack of twenties, indistinguishable from all the others, before placing it in the bag. "This is your transmitter. It will signal your location, but it can't give us your voice. Your radio will be over the driver's side. Turn it on when you start the car."

"How?" Rachel asked.

He palmed a small device, square and black, like a cheap calculator. "Press this round button. It will look like you're adjusting the sun visor. Speak in a normal voice, and we'll hear you."

"When do you make the arrest?" Sean wanted to know.

"We'll have three agents at the high school. Eight on the surrounding roads. If Bilotti is there, we'll get him. If he isn't—say, he's watching from a distance, or he's paid some kid to make the pickup—then we'll wait till he shows. Or we'll follow his delivery boy."

"What about Rachel?"

"We'll be in radio contact." The agent spoke directly to her. "You'll look like you're on your own. You'll feel like you're on your own, but you won't be. It's safer if nobody follows you." He narrowed his eyes at Sean. "Nobody," he emphasized.

Screw you, buddy, Sean thought.

Gowan stood, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Will you be all right tonight?" he asked Rachel.

She smiled at him and lied. The girl had guts. "I'm fine."

But after Gowan had drunk his coffee and planted his bug and left, Sean said, "I don't like you going alone."

Rachel picked up both coffee cups. "You heard Lee Gowan. They'll be in radio contact."

"It's still a risk."

"It's one I'm willing to take. You were right. I couldn't go on paying forever."

He paced the living room, unable to hold still. "Yeah, well, all of a sudden I get why you did it. I'd pay Bilotti myself, if it would keep that son of a bitch away from you."

She walked into the kitchen. "What did you tell me? I was so afraid of losing, I couldn't win? This way is better."

He followed her. "I don't like thinking I'm responsible for putting you in danger."

She rinsed the cups in the sink. Her sensible summer top revealed her strong shoulders and silky skin. With her head bent, he could see the vulnerable nape of her neck.

"You're not responsible," she said. "I am. But for what it's worth, I have faith in your judgment."

He wasn't sure he did. Not when the stakes were so high. "I don't want to let you down."

She dried her hands on a towel and turned. She was still too pale, but her eyes, on a level with his chin, were warm and direct. "I'll take the chance. Just don't you die on me."

He didn't get it. He was too busy trying to figure if it made him some kind of bastard if he took her to bed now. He was already imagining how she would feel and taste on his tongue. Her words made no sense. She was the one being threatened.

"I won't," he promised, and moved in close.

Her lips were moist and ready. Her hands were damp and soft. His control slipped as he kissed her, as he pushed her back against the sink and felt her thighs part to take him. It was the back of his truck all over again.

He tugged her shirt clear of her waistband and found her sweetness with his mouth. She sighed and cradled his head, holding him to her breast. Need clawed him. He yanked her closer, bending, kneeling, pulling at clothes, seeking more skin, more sweetness, more Rachel. He popped the button of her shorts, jerked on her zipper and … froze.

Strung across the creamy curve of her hip like a faint blue tattoo was a line of tiny bruises.

"Did I do this?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded harsh.

Above him, Rachel opened her eyes. "Do what?"

"The bruises. Did I mark you?"

"I … don't remember."

Right. He spanned her hip with one hand, until every finger matched and covered a small dark circle. He swore.

She touched his hair. "It doesn't matter."

It mattered to him. She mattered to him, and he'd taken her with the care of a bulldozer let loose on a stand of prime wood, once in the back of his truck and once—almost—standing up in her mother's kitchen. Way to go, lover boy, he thought derisively.

He lifted his hand and, with his lips, soothed each tiny bruise.

She shivered. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to kiss it and make it better," he explained solemnly.

Her laugh was shaky. Raw sex didn't embarrass her, he thought with a twist of heart. But a little consideration left her pink-cheeked and uncertain.

She tried to cover the marks with her hand. "I don't think that works."

"Then we'll have to find something that does," he said, and stood and lifted her in his arms.

"Put me down," she said as he carried her through the living room.

He started up the stairs.
"In a minute."

"I'm too heavy."

She wasn't light. "I can't," he said. "It's a macho thing. I don't make it to the bed with you, I won't feel manly."

Would she buy that? Her smile bloomed. God, he loved her smile. "Then by all means, let's make it to the bed."

He pushed open the door to her room. The blue-flowered wallpaper and limp white curtains hadn't changed since he'd slept there alone. The room still smelled like flowers. Rachel's worn running shoes, peeking out from under the bed, and her lesson plans, spread across the doily-clad dresser, should have looked out of place in this ultra-feminine setting. But she'd grown up in this room, dreamed in that bed.

The thought pinched. Their last bout of sex hadn't been the stuff that dreams were made of.

Well, his dreams, absolutely. But she deserved better. She deserved more than wild sex in a pickup truck. She deserved someone to make love to her, gentle and careful and tender.

She threaded her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. "The bed?"

"
Ssh
. In a minute."

He could do tender, he told himself firmly. For Rachel. Maybe he couldn't protect her tomorrow, but he could damn well comfort her tonight.

Gently he set her on her feet and kissed the space between her eyebrows.

They twitched together. "You don't have to baby me."

"Okay," he said agreeably. "How about I make love to you instead?" He feathered a kiss against her hair.

She shook her head. "I don't want you doing this just to be kind."

Exasperated, he reached for her hand and placed it over the bulge behind his button fly. "Does this feel like 'kind' to you?"

She stroked him. He bit back a groan. "N-no," she said. "But—"

"Responsible Rachel," he mocked gently. "Why don't you let me take care of things for once?"

She wavered. He could see it in her eyes. It was oddly arousing, that uncertainty in determined, decisive Rachel. He kissed her, using his mouth to seduce, his hands to persuade.

When he lifted his head, her lips were soft and her eyes were cloudy. "I really should—"

"In a minute," he murmured. "Give me one minute." He spun the time out, second by second, in soft caresses and slow, deep kisses. Her breath sighed against his mouth. Her hands fluttered at his waist before settling on his shoulders. She trembled, and that betraying quiver just about did him in.

He slid off the rest of her clothes and laid her down on the bed. He intended for her to enjoy this. But he was shaken by his own satisfaction in seeing her strong body against the white spread, clean-limbed as a beech tree and warm as cedar. Stripping off his shorts and shirt, he gathered her to him, body to body, heart to heart. She reached for him.

"
Ssh
," he whispered. "Let me."

Let me take you.

And she did, her eyes drifting shut, as he savored and soothed and aroused. Her skin warmed under his touch. Her muscles flexed and relaxed. And every tiny movement and each indrawn breath that signaled her pleasure doubled his.

He lingered and she yielded like a willow bending to the persuasion of the wind. Until the rhythm took him, too, until he was drawn along on her rising pleasure, immersed in every ripple, every quiver of her body. He worked his way back up her damp torso. She danced under him. Swayed around him. He wanted her. He needed her. In one smooth rush, he entered her. And she received him so deeply and completely, he was rooted in the same earth, shaken by the same storm.

He'd never said the three words that would bind a woman to him. He didn't say them now. But he showed her the best way he knew how, each joining a commitment, each stroke a pledge. Their hands met, their fingers twined on the pillow by her head.

"Now," he commanded.

Again. Forever.

Rachel felt him, deep and deeper, pressing into her body, piercing her heart. Always before, in her self-denying generosity, she'd been able to keep back a little piece of herself. She had no defense against Sean's giving. He lavished her with sensation. Destroyed her with tenderness.

Last night, she'd taken her freedom. Tonight, she gave him her heart.

She shattered around him, and he poured himself into her.

Chapter 14

«
^
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"
Y
ou sound stuffy," Rachel said, worried. She tucked the phone against her ear. "Are you coming down with a cold?"

"
M'mouth
full." Chris gulped. "Jack's dad made pancakes."

Rachel glanced at the kitchen clock. Nine-twenty. Forty minutes until she needed to be at the high school to deliver sixty-four-thousand counterfeit dollars to a smalltime crook. And while she didn't think her nervous stomach could handle a single pancake, she wanted more than anything to be with her children right now. "Am I interrupting breakfast?"

"'
S'okay
," Chris said cheerfully. "Mr. MacNeill said he'd make me some more. He's really cool, Mom."

So her son was happy with the self-sufficient, magnificent MacNeills. He didn't need her. "That's wonderful, honey."

"I like it here at lot."

"I'm glad."

And she tried to be glad as Chris rattled on about the games he'd played and the video he'd watched and the MacNeills' trampoline. At least, she was grateful. Her children were safe and happy. And her mother was with them, so if anything happened today… Don't go there, she ordered herself.

"My pancakes are ready," Chris announced. "You want to talk to Lindsey?"

"Yes, please. I love you," she said.

The phone crashed. She could hear Chris shouting, and Kate MacNeill's assured voice.

She wrapped her hand in the phone cord until it dug into her skin. As her fingers turned blue, Sean strolled into the kitchen, all lean male grace and pirate stubble, and her stomach went
ka-
whump
.

"Mom? You there?" Lindsey asked.

Rachel yanked her hand free from the coils. "I'm here."

"When are you coming to get us?"

She jerked her attention from Sean's torso—this morning his T-shirt read Carpenters Swing Big Tools—and focused on her daughter's question.

"Not until this afternoon, honey."

"But I want to come home now."

Anxiety spiked Rachel's voice. "Is everything all right?"

"I guess. There's nothing to do."

"Did you like the movie?"

"It was gross. They cut open this alien and all this stuff gushed out. Can't I come home now? I miss you."

Even knowing her daughter was pushing her buttons didn't stop the guilt. "I miss you, too. But I have things to do this morning."

"I won't get in the way."

Rachel was shaken. "Sweetheart, I know. But—"

Sean came close and plucked the receiver from her. "Hey,
dollface
. You check on Hairball for me this morning?"

Rachel, in the act of grabbing back the phone, stopped when he smiled and shook his head.

"Fuzzball, then. But I draw the line at Puffy. Talk to Kate about what supplies we need, okay?"

He listened. Laughed. "Fine. Now tell your mom you love her, and we'll see you after lunch."

Lindsey's voice floated from the receiver, sounding quite cheerful again. "Love you, Mom."

Rachel swallowed the ache in her throat. "I love you." Sean hung up, and the connection with her children was lost.

"All right?" he asked quietly, watching her face. She would not cry, Rachel vowed. "Fine."

"That wasn't goodbye," Sean said, surprising her by his perception. "You'll see them in a couple of hours."

She smiled weakly. "I know."

He cupped her shoulders and drew her to him. She let her forehead drop against his chest, let him knead the tension in her neck.

"Rachel … let me come with you."

She fought the terrible temptation to say yes. "He said to come alone."

"I'm not police. I'm no threat I'm a known quantity—the live-in boyfriend. He won't care if I'm there."

"Lee Gowan said it was safer if no one went with me."

"Safer for Gowan, maybe." His gaze was dark and intense. "Rachel, let me come."

"I can't risk it," she whispered.

I can't risk you
, her heart cried. There were some gambles she still wasn't prepared to take.

* * *

Sean watched as Rachel backed her mother's Buick carefully down the driveway, her one-way radio clipped to the sun visor, the sack of phony money with the transmitter inside on the seat beside her. Like an anxious parent seeing his only child off to school, he'd made sure she had everything she needed.

Except him.

He frowned as her car slid into the dappled sunshine and down the street. She shouldn't have to face Bilotti alone. Sean didn't care that Gowan had told him to keep his nose out. It didn't matter that Rachel herself wanted him to stay away. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should have gone with her.

Illogical, his brother Con would argue, but Sean had never let logic stand in his way. Patrick would expect him to obey orders. But Sean had always broken the rules.

And he'd never been any damn good at walking away from a fight.

He stomped toward his truck. He should know better. Hell, he did know better. The last time he'd taken on an unwilling woman's troubles, he'd ended up with his heart broken and egg on his face.

Calling himself six kinds of chump, he gunned the engine and headed for the high school.

* * *

Rachel squinted as she drove. The sun glared through the windshield. Above the arching trees, the sky was bright with promise. There was nothing menacing about the one-story houses along the road with their rural mailboxes and yard art, concrete deer and feeding geese. There was nothing creepy in the quiet fields, only cows and crows and yellowing tobacco.

When the phone chirped on the seat beside her, she jumped as if an unruly senior had pulled the fire alarm in the middle of end-of-grade testing. Foolish. The children were safe at the MacNeills'. Sean—she squashed her yearning for his solid, reassuring presence—must be back in his workshop by now, and she was on her way to getting the Bilottis out of her life forever. It was stupid to panic just because Lee Gowan was calling to check on her.

She dug for the phone with one hand, swerving slightly to avoid some
pancaked
roadkill
by the centerline. "Hello?"

"Do you have the money with you?"

Panic leaped into her throat and blocked her breathing. She knew that voice. Oh, God, she knew it. It didn't belong to Lee Gowan.

"Do you hear me?"
Carmine Bilotti
asked
.

She moistened her lips. Her eyes sought out the radio hidden above the sun visor.
She
could hear him, yes. But no one else did. "I can hear you."

"So, do you have it or not?"

The money. "Yes."

"Good. Turn left on
Powell Road
."

A turn would take her away from the high school. Away from the agreed-upon drop and the watching, waiting agents. "Why?"

"You arguing with me, Mrs. Fuller?"

"No."

Do whatever he tells you
, Gowan had instructed her. Hands shaking, she turned left across an empty lane as slowly and cautiously as the little old lady she hoped she lived to be.
We'll be there to help.
But now the agent's assurances were no help at all, because every yard she drove took her farther out of range.

* * *

He was only following her as far as Old Graham Road, Sean told himself. Less than a mile from the school. They'd pass whoever the FBI had posted at the intersection, and then he'd get his shiny, red, conspicuous butt off the road.

The sun glinted off the roof of
Myra
Jordan
's Buick as it climbed the hill ahead of him. Rachel drove like a kid with her first license, Sean noted with sharp empathy, slowing cautiously as she approached the intersection, signaling her turn. He slowed, too. He didn't want her to see him and worry.

Signaling her turn?

Why was she turning?
Powell Road
led out of town toward old farms and new construction. Rachel had no business going out that way. Unless the drop had been changed, and she'd decided to keep it from him.

Sean's jaw tightened. She hadn't told him. It pricked his pride. She didn't trust him even that much. But more than his pride was hurting. Rachel's deception bruised his heart. Hadn't she said she had faith in his judgment? Hadn't she let him love her with all that was in him? How could she do that and then lie to him?

Unless she hadn't lied.

Fear blew cold on the back of his neck. Unless something had gone wrong.

Damn
,
damn
,
damn
.
His fingers drummed the wheel. He could push on to
Old Graham Road
and hope the sight of his bright red truck provoked
Gowan's
men into revealing themselves and demanding an explanation. Or he could turn, trail Rachel to wherever she was going and hope like hell his tag-along presence didn't put her in even more danger.

He reached the intersection. Rachel's car was nowhere in sight.

He turned left onto
Powell Road
.

Sweet Mother in Heaven, pray for us.

* * *

Clutching the wheel, Rachel steered the car through another swooping curve. Her neck ached from clamping the phone. As she turned, it nearly slithered from beneath her jaw. She grabbed at it while the car drifted from the double yellow line to the narrow shoulder.

"You still there?"
Carmine Bilotti
demanded
.

"I'm here," she muttered.

She was not going to run her car off the road. She would survive. She would not deprive her fatherless children of their mother, too.

At least, she hoped not.

"You over the bridge yet?"

What bridge? "No."

"I want you to keep talking," Carmine said. "I want to know you're on the line."

So she wouldn't be able to hang up the phone. Her neck was breaking, and she couldn't call Gowan for instructions or Sean for support. She sucked on her fear like a nickel in her mouth, flat and metallic-tasting. "What if we get out of my calling area?"

"You're not going that far."

"Well, what if we get cut off?"

"You better hope we don't. I know where your children are, Mrs. Fuller."

Her breath caught. Well, that squelched any thought she had of turning back. Was Frank ahead somewhere waiting for her? Or behind her waiting for Carmine's instructions? She clung to the memory of Sean's words.
They'll be safe at Patrick's. He's a former marine. My sister-in-law's a doctor.

Oh, God, what if they needed a doctor?

She bit the inside of her lip, hard. Hysterics wouldn't help. She needed to think. She needed to let Gowan know what had happened. She needed … the radio.

The road echoed beneath her tires.

She cleared her throat. "I just went over the bridge on
Powell Road
," she said tentatively to the visor above her head. Would Gowan follow her directions? "Where am I going?"

"No names," Carmine warned her. "I'll let you know when you get there."

"How much farther?" she pressed, anxious for any clue that would help Gowan track her down. Would he come right after her? Or wait until she stopped moving?

"I'll tell you. You tell me when you get to the, uh, the water tower thing." Even through the distorted connection, Rachel could hear his disgust. "Jeez, what directions. What did you want to move to
Dogpatch
for?"

She drove.

"Talk to me," Carmine reminded her sharply. Anger licked at her. She welcomed it, used it. "I moved to get away from you. Will Frank be … wherever it is I'm going?"

"No names," Carmine repeated. "You keep your eyes peeled now for a big white-and-black sign. For
Sale
sign. Thirty-seven godforsaken acres for sale."

"I don't see it."

"Keep looking."

There. Up ahead, on her right, white against a screen of dark pines, a painted sign announced the suitability of thirty-seven acres for development.

"I'm there. A big black-and-white Land For Sale sign."

"Okay. Turn right."

"Turn where?"

Carmine swore. "I don't know where. There's some little road. Find it."

She had to turn around, executing a sloppy three-point turn across the double yellow line, but eventually she found it, a rutted construction road cut through red clay and trees.