Hardwind

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

HardWind

ISBN # 1-4199-0492-2 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. HardWind Copyright© 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo Edited by Mary Moran. Cover art by Willo.

Electronic book Publication: June 2006

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

HardWind Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: 7-Up: Seven-Up Company, The Agusta 109C: Agusta S.p.A. Bell: Bell Helicopter Textron BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft Chevrolet: General Motors Corporation Dago Red: Garrett, John Individual Demerol: Alba Pharmaceutical Company, Inc. Desert Eagle: Magnum Research, Inc. Dillards: Dillard International, Inc. Dom Perignon: Schieffelin & Co. Excedrin Migraine: Bristol-Myers Squibb Company Ferrari: Ferrari S.p.A. Glock: Glock, Inc. Gulfstream: Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation Halston: Halston LLC Ltd Liab Co. Hummer: General Motors Corporation Lear: Learjet, Inc.

Lexus: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha TA Toyota Motor Corporation Michelin: Michelin North America, Inc. Ray-Ban: Luxottica Leasing S.p.A. Corporation Italy Rohypnol: Hoffmann-La Roche Inc. Seagrams: Pernod Ricard USA LLC Sikorsky H-92 Superhawk: Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation Styrofoam: Dow Chemical Company, The Vistaril: Chas. Pfizer & Co., Inc. Wicked Witch of the West (Wizard of OZ): Turner Entertainment Co. Zorro: Zorro Productions, Inc.

Chapter One

Dáire Cronin was a stone-cold killer with the sensual brown eyes of a matinee idol. His smile could melt the hardest of hearts and the soft Southern drawl that flowed like warm honey from his full lips could make heat pool in any womb. With a thick thatch of glossy black curls, chiseled pecs accentuated with a crisp mat of wiry hair and an ass that filled out his tight, faded jeans to perfection, he was every woman’s idea of a sexy man. As he walked along the sugar white sand beach at Panama City, the eyes of women from four years of age and up—and the eyes of a few men—followed his slow progress. The women stared because he appeared to be a little piece of heaven on earth. The men stared because the tattoo on his left pectoral labeled him a man among men. Barefoot, shirtless, his chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat from the Florida sun, he stopped at the shoreline and looked out across the Gulf of Mexico. He put up a deeply tanned arm to block the glare from the late afternoon sun and the reflection from the emerald water as it rolled to shore. When he did, the firm muscles of his back rippled and many a sigh wafted on the early June air from his watchers. The ship he’d come to Bay County to board was lying somewhere well off the Florida coast, beyond the three-mile limit. A chopper would be sent the following morning to take him to the ship. Dáire lowered his arm and braced his hands on his lean hips. He was in no hurry to meet the employer he’d come to Panama City to see. At that moment, the sun was sinking and his belly was rumbling. He had reservations that were top priority to his way of thinking. Though there wasn’t a spare inch of fat on his honed body, Cronin loved to gorge himself every chance he got with the finest seafood to be found on the Florida Panhandle and Corinth’s was the best restaurant

going. Trips to Panama City were never complete without a lengthy meal delivered from the creative hand of Star Kiernan, the restaurant’s owner. Dining at Star’s private table on savory shrimp scampi, succulent lobster dredged in clarified butter and delicate, crusty crab Rangoon was the one obsession in which the hired assassin allowed himself to indulge. That and Star’s shapely body spread like a creamy, ivory delicacy upon ice blue satin sheets. “See anything out there you like better than yourself?” Dáire shrugged without looking at the speaker. “Are you slumming or has the master allowed you to slip your leash?” “Funny.” “Wasn’t meant to be,” Dáire said. He turned to the retired FBI agent who worked with him and looked him up and down. “You’re going to be a hurting puppy by morning, Jackson.” Daniel Jackson glanced down at the redness staining his arms. “Yeah, well, you’ll still be a pretty boy, now won’t you?” “My mama always said pretty is as pretty does,” Dáire replied. “My mama always said that too,” the ex-Fibber agreed with a sigh. He looked out over the water, reached up to tug his Ray-Bans down so he could get a sharper view of the ocean. “The HardWind out there yet?” “I imagine it is.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You really should put some zinc oxide on your nose if you want to keep it attached to your ugly face.” Jackson reached up to gingerly finger his proboscis. He winced. “Never have cared for its shape all that much anyway.” Cronin chuckled and started back up the beach. “I can understand that.” Jackson watched the women watching the man beside him and sighed again. “Don’t you ever get tired of putting the rest of us men to shame?” “Nope.” “Bastard,” Jackson said. “What’s on the agenda for this evening? The usual?” Dáire nodded. “And no, you aren’t invited.” “Aw, come on, Dairy Crow,” Jackson complained, using the nickname he loved to use to irritate Cronin. “I could use a decent meal.” “Have Uncle Sam buy you one then, Jack Off,” Dáire threw right back at him. “You’re getting a whopping retirement check, aren’t you?” “Yeah, right,” Jackson snapped with a roll of his eyes. “I’m skin and bones here. Have you no heart?”

“Of course I do. A black one as I remember you once telling me,” was the reply. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?” Jackson grumbled. Dáire stopped walking and turned to look at the ex-Fibber. “Did your mama ever tell you a man is known by the company he keeps? I want a woman’s admiration, Jack Off, not her pity for having to sit at the same table with a Neanderthal like you.” “Screw you and your little dog too,” Jackson said, batting his nearly non-existent eyelashes. Dáire shook his head. “You’re a disgrace to G-men everywhere with a potty mouth like that,” he said. “Speaking of screwing,” Jackson said as he stumbled in the sand, “did you hear Star has a new boyfriend?” Dáire frowned. “Who told you that?” “Now and again we retired G-men learn a thing or two before you ultra-government spooks do,” Jackson quipped. “In this case, our boss informed me of the executive-type yuppie person Star’s been keeping time with since last you shared her bed.” “When was this?” “A few weeks ago when I came down to make sure your place was in order.” Jackson wagged a finger at Dáire. “See how I’m always thinking of your welfare, Dairy Crow?” “That’s when you learned about this dude?” “It surely was.” “And he is…?” The question was asked in a cold, carefully modulated tone that was all the more lethal for its softness. “You gonna ask me to join you for supper?” “You gonna go dressed like a color-blind refugee from a seventies disco?” “Nah, I’ll dress up pretty for you, lover,” Jackson answered with a pucker of his lips. “Might even put on a tie if you really, really want me to, but I doubt it.” “What’s his name?” “Are you ready for this?” Jackson asked, his lips twitching. “He even has a yuppie moniker—Brighton Tyler Boyd III.” “Bright Boy, huh?” Dáire asked, picking up on the possible insult he could aim the faceless intruder’s way. “You’re a hoot,” Jackson said, annoyed that he hadn’t thought of the slight first. They continued walking past families packing it in for the day, amused at men burdened down with vinyl

floats, folding chairs, thermos jugs and picnic baskets while their wives yanked reluctant children in their wake, the youngest in their sunburned arms. The men gave Dáire the quick once-over—their mouths tight, their eyes wistful at his youth and sheer male beauty. The wives’ stares were longer, filled with lustful longing. Even the children stared at the tall, dark-haired man as though they knew he was something their fathers would never be. “You make it a living hell for us mortal men, you little shit,” Jackson mumbled. “So get plastic surgery,” Dáire suggested. Jackson snorted. “I’d need an extreme body makeover and with another man’s body to look like you.” He fingered the love handles beneath the wild floral shirt he was wearing hanging over his beige safari shorts. “Make that two men’s bodies.” “Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Dáire Cronin owned a Gulf-side residence on the twenty-fourth floor of a luxury condominium resort, though he rarely got a chance to enjoy it. The private, gated community had the most expensive address on the beach with a waiting list at least a mile long of the rich and famous wanting to own a slice of Farraige Port. When Jackson was in town, he had access to the sprawling two-bedroom, two-bath suite—which included a heated rooftop pool, gym and theater. Cronin’s digs occupied one-half of the top floor of the resort. Star Kiernan owned the other half. The price tag for each suite had run in the low seven figures. “So whatcha gonna do about it?” Jackson asked as Dáire slipped the keycard from the pocket of his jeans and swiped it down the entry box that operated the private elevator he and Star shared as owners of their rooftop abodes. “Do about what?” Dáire asked as the sleek copper-faced doors slid open. He motioned Jackson inside the plush, mirrored elevator cage. “Bright Boy,” Jackson replied. To activate the elevator, it was necessary for a member of the two-woman cleaning staff or one of the three people who used the suites—at least at last count there were only three—to press his or her thumb into the biometric thumb print verifier on the control panel. Jackson did the honors this time around. Silently the doors slid shut, and with only a modicum of a jolt, the cage began to rise, the muted numbers lighting up as each floor was passed and pinged softly. No vibration marred the ride for a thick wool carpet covered the bottom of the elevator cage in lush jewel tones. “If that’s what she wants,” Dáire said, “I won’t do anything about it.” Jackson snorted. “Like hell you won’t,” he drawled. “You ever had a woman taken away from you before, stud?” Dáire’s arms were crossed over his bare chest as he stared at his reflection in the sparkling mirrors on the doors. “You know for a fact he’s taken her away from me or is that something you’re just hoping for?” he countered. “Fervently, fondly, feverishly and any other f-word that fits,” Jackson said with a grin.

The elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors slid soundlessly open on a large copper-veined, travertine-floored entry hall paneled in rich oak. Overhead a spectacular bright copper, triple-tier chandelier with curved arms and alabaster glass shades hung in the center of a radius dome skylight framed in shiny copper plate. The entry hall was trapezoid in shape with two eight-feet-tall, double radius-top oak doors with forged iron grillwork over Flemish glass sitting in the center of each shorter arm. Between them was a thirty-foot-wide wall of water rippling down from near the top of the twenty-foot-high ceiling to a bed of polished rocks in a large copper tub. Unseen, the melodic song of wind chimes in a deep basso profundo tone sent a soothing welcome. The combination of the cascading water and the wind chimes were comforting. Dáire opened the door to his sanctuary and walked across the cool travertine floor, continuing on to the master bedroom at the far end of the suite. He knew Jackson would make them something to drink and have it ready for him when he came out of the shower. His jaw set and hard, he walked into the bathroom and tore open his jeans, shucking them off and kicking them aside before turning the water on in the shower. Stepping inside, six body-massage jets blasted at him from three sides and overhead, a large eighteen-inch, circular shower nozzle sent hot warmth cascading down upon him like summer rain. Bracing his hands on the sleek marble wall, he closed his eyes, lowered his head and let the water drum on his shoulders and neck. “Damn you, Star,” he whispered as the water cascaded over his face, streaming off his nose and chin. Dáire Cronin loved Star Kiernan as much as it was possible for him to love another human being. She was the one bright object in his otherwise shadowy world. They had been lovers for seven years, friends for longer than that, having met when they entered their bids for the suites at Farraige Port. Theirs had been a relationship that had survived months of being apart, the vagaries of Dáire’s profession and the hustle and bustle of hers. Until now. “Damn you,” he said again, clenching his fists. When had it happened? He asked himself. Opening his eyes to watch the water swirling down the drain at his feet, he thought of the last conversation he’d had with her and a feeling of remorse dredged through his soul…

“We need to talk. Can’t you give me at least half an hour?” she pleaded. “I have to go, Star. We’ll talk about this when I get back,” he said. “I might be able to change a few things and…” “But you aren’t going to change, Dáire,” Star accused. “You’ll always be at some mysterious group’s beck and call. Whenever they crook a finger, you will go running.” “It’s what I do,” Dáire reminded her. “It’s how I make my living.” “Yes, and I don’t see you for months at a stretch because of your job,” she complained. “I never know from one assignment to the next if you’ll be alive when you come home or if Jackson will bring you back to me in an urn!”

There had been tears, angry words, recriminations from Star and a whole lot of cursing on his part before he’d slammed out of her suite and taken a midnight flight to New York aboard the private jet The Cumberland Group had sent to pick him up. As rain lashed against the windows of the Gulfstream V-SP, he stared out into the darkness and replayed the conversation over and over again. By the time the jet landed, he was sorry he hadn’t stayed in Florida and hashed things out. A call to Star had gone unanswered, not even her machine had picked up. Six more phone calls the next day had likewise failed to reach her and he’d gone on to Tokyo with a heavy heart and a premonition that he’d wrecked the only happiness he was ever likely to have. Before beginning his assignment he’d tried one last time, but Star had changed her telephone number and had taken an extended leave of absence from the restaurant. Not a single one of his contacts could provide him with her new telephone number. The night he’d left for Borneo, he’d tried one last time to reach her but couldn’t. He’d spent the next eleven months in a filthy cell delirious from psychotropic drugs and suffering from beatings that had nearly cost him his life. Every waking moment—and most of his hallucinating ones—had centered around Star and the love they had shared. Thoughts of her were the only things that kept him sane and alive. Now—fourteen months after that last conversation with Star—he was back in Panama City. When he’d called the restaurant to make that night’s reservations he had failed to make contact with her still again, having been told she was unavailable. “Unavailable to me you mean?” he’d snarled at the hostess. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cronin.” “Yeah, well, so am I.” And his keycard had not worked at her front door. His knocks had gone unanswered, though instinct told him she was inside. “You gonna stay in there all night?” Jackson asked. “You can’t be that damned dirty, Dairy Crow.” The retired Fibber stared at him through the shower door. “Has your prick always been that small or did they shrink it while you were in Borneo?” “Go fuck yourself, Jack Off,” Dáire told him in a tired voice. Not for the first time did he regret having a shower with two see-through glass walls. “Thanks, but I already did. Hope I mixed my jizz good enough so there ain’t no slimy wads in your Bloody Maria.” Dáire winced at the disgusting image Jackson’s words painted in his mind. He turned his head to see his old friend leaving the bathroom and knew Jackson had left a drink for him on the vanity. Sighing, he reached for the soap and quickly lathered up, knowing full well Jackson would come back to annoy him again if he didn’t get a move on. Showered but unshaved, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white long-sleeve silk shirt, Dáire padded barefoot into the great room, his expensive Italian loafers and socks in one hand, Bloody Maria in the other. He was surprised to see Jackson already dressed and dressed rather nattily. “Who the hell are you trying to impress?” Dáire snarled as he sat down on the sofa to pull on his socks.

“Temper, temper,” Jackson said as he polished off his Bloody Maria. He chomped on a mouthful of ice, grinning. “Causes wrinkles you know.” Socks and loafers on, Dáire leaned back on the sofa and took a healthy sip of his drink. “Getting sunburned causes skin cancer too,” he remarked. Jackson shrugged. He was already beginning to feel the effects of falling asleep beside Dáire’s pool. “Gotta go some way,” he stated. “Did you take a shower?” “I most certainly did,” Jackson said as though highly offended by the question. “Although I didn’t need to stand beneath it wasting precious water like you did.” He wagged his brows. “Or were you whacking off?” “One more insult and you can find your own dinner reservation.” Jackson sighed. “You ‘bout ready, then?” Dáire finished his drink and got up to take both their glasses to the kitchen. “You go on. I’m not hungry.” Jackson nodded slowly. “Figured as much.” He heaved himself from the oversized chair in which he’d been reclining. “Anything you want me to tell her if I see her?” Dáire just stared at his friend. When Jackson headed for the door, he walked behind him. “Where you gonna be?” Jackson asked as he opened the entry door. “Wherever I end up,” Dáire replied. “Don’t wait up for me, Mom. I’m a big boy now.” Jackson turned and locked eyes with his friend. “I really don’t want to have to come down to some sleazy bar and pick your ass up tonight. Okay?” “Uh-huh.” The retired Fibber started to say something else, thought better of it and continued on to the elevator. He cast a quick look to Star’s door as he pushed the button for the lift. “You reckon she’s in there?” he asked. “Why don’t you do the neighborly thing and go on over and knock?” Dáire countered as the doors to the elevator opened and he stepped around Jackson to enter the cage. Jackson shook his head. “I don’t like being caught in the middle of this, Dairy Crow.” He stepped onto the elevator. “You’re both friends of mine and this sucks.” Dáire shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and remained silent. His gaze was on the light panel above the door. “It really sucks,” Jackson emphasized. When the doors opened, Dáire pushed past his friend and was walking briskly across the lobby before

Jackson exited the cage. “Really sucks,” Jackson repeated.

Chapter Two

The Corinth was a high-end restaurant that catered to a casually elegant crowd. Menu prices were extravagantly high, but to the savvy clientele who patronized the eatery, the food was worth every penny. From the valet service to the washroom attendants to the busboys, the staff was friendly, movie-star pretty and extremely efficient. Jackson was greeted by name by the lovely hostess who was without doubt one of the most beautiful women the middle-aged man had ever seen. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Jackson,” the hostess said with a sensual smile. “It’s nice to be seen again, Phaedra,” Jackson said, swallowing the lump in his throat the woman’s extraordinary beauty always caused. “Miss Kiernan is entertaining this evening so I have assigned you another table.” She smiled apologetically, her lush red lips thrust out in a little pout. “I hope that’s all right.” Jackson could only nod his head like a bobble doll. “Will you be dining alone or will Mr. Cronin be joining you?” “Alone,” Jackson managed to squeak. Beautiful women never failed to intimidate him and Phaedra Pappas was perhaps the loveliest he’d ever seen. “Then let me show you to your table,” Phaedra said softly. Walking behind the statuesque redhead, Jackson felt like an errant schoolboy being led to the principal’s office. He cast a sidelong glance to Star’s private table set well back from the others where he and Dáire usually dined and frowned when he saw Star seated beside a man who could only be—in Jackson’s estimation—the dastardly, girlfriend-stealing Brighton Tyler Boyd III. “Is this all right with you?” Phaedra asked, indicating a table from which Jackson could no longer view Star and the interloper. “Sure,” Jackson agreed. “I’ll send Colton over for your drink order,” Phaedra told him. “Is that Boyd with Miss Kiernan?” Jackson heard himself ask, and winced at the tone he’d used. Phaedra nodded elegantly. “Yes, sir, it is.” Jackson took his seat and barely had time to get settled before Colton Hayes, the wine steward, appeared at his side. “The usual, Mr. Jackson?” he inquired.

“I think I need something a bit stronger, Colton,” Jackson said. “Give me a Seven and Seven and keep ’em coming.” Colton nodded politely. “Mr. Cronin won’t be joining you, I understand.” “Nope,” Jackson said. “I don’t think he feels welcome here anymore.” Colton’s smile was sympathetic but he refrained from commenting. With a slight dip of his handsome blond head, he vanished as silently and speedily as he had appeared. Gerard Dubois, a breathtakingly handsome waiter with his dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail, slipped quietly to Jackson’s table and inquired if he would like his customary meal of Caesar salad with anchovies and fresh, grated Parmesan, grilled salmon served with oven-browned new potatoes and sautéed vegetables and Key Lime pie for dessert. Jackson thought about it for a moment then agreed that was, indeed, what he wanted. Before Gerard turned away, he asked the waiter if he would deliver a message to Miss Kiernan. Gerard stiffened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson, but Miss Kiernan doesn’t wish to be disturbed this evening.” He too gave Jackson an apologetic smile. “I hope you understand.” “All too well,” Jackson said. “Thanks anyway.” For the next hour Jackson ate his meal slowly and with relish. Even though the Corinth was a renowned five-star restaurant, there was nothing foo-foo about it to Jackson’s way of thinking. No one tried to push Lobster Newberg or Dom Perignon down his throat. The staff let the patrons order what they wanted and never frowned at their choice of food. Likewise, Colton did not try to foist an expensive this or even more expensive that off with each course. “Did you enjoy your meal?” Jackson looked up from the miniscule crumbs that were all that was left of his huge slice of Key Lime pie. “Excellent as usual,” he replied, and half rose from his chair. “My compliments to Diego.” “Sit down, Jackson,” Star Kiernan said, and pulled out the chair across from him. She took a seat, braced her elbows on the snowy white linen tablecloth and steepled her fingers beneath her chin. She looked at her guest with just a hint of concern in her beautiful green eyes. “How’ve you been?” “Same old, same old,” Jackson said. “Had a knee replacement back in March but I’m about up to par again.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said in her soft South Georgia accent. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an ordeal for you.” “Hurt like a son of a bitch at the time. What about you?” he asked. “How’s things been with you?” She smiled. “Business has been very good,” she replied. “Health wise, I’ve had my quarterly migraines but nothing else to write home about.” “And you’ve got a new friend, I hear,” he said.

Star looked out across the restaurant. “I’m just moving on, Jackson,” she said. “What if he’d been with me tonight?” Jackson asked, referring to Dáire. “Would you have stopped by to say hello?” She turned her face back to him. “What do you think?” “I think you wouldn’t have come tonight if you’d thought he’d be here,” Jackson answered. “And you would be correct,” she agreed. “Are you going to make yourself scarce at the Farraige while he’s there?” Star drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly, her gaze locked on Jackson. “I really don’t want to talk about him, Jackson. It’s over and I’m—” “Moving on,” Jackson finished for her. He picked up the napkin in his lap, wiped his lips, folded the linen square and then laid it beside his plate. “Can I tell you something before you write him off completely?” “Why do you think I haven’t already written him off?” she asked. “You came over to say hi,” he reminded her. “To you,” she stressed. “I came over to say hi to you, Jackson.” She arched one finely manicured brow. “We are still friends, I hope.” “Always will be,” he responded, “but I’m his friend too, and this is killing him, Star.” She leaned back, lowering her hands to her lap. “Really?” she asked in a voice that suggested she did not agree with Jackson’s statement. “And where did he go this evening?” “Probably to some sleazoid strip bar that serves oysters on the half shell, boiled shrimp with a tepid seafood sauce and all the booze he can down before I am forced to go retrieve his drunker-than-a-skunk self.” “Sounds about right,” she acknowledged. “Five will get you ten he’ll have had a few lap dances added to the menu if I know Dáire.” Jackson cocked a shoulder at her remark. “Probably.” She folded her arms and looked at him. “So what is it you think I need to know concerning your friend Dairy Crow?” she inquired. Jackson leaned forward. “I know things weren’t so good when he left here last time.” “Indeed they weren’t,” she agreed. “He had one helluva row with our boss over wanting to sideline the assignment until he could come back down here and clear things up with you.”

“And?” “No go, doll. He was told in no uncertain terms that wasn’t going to happen. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so damned mad. He tried to reach you when he got to New York but you must have taken the phone off the hook.” She didn’t deny the charge. “He tried several times more before our flight to Tokyo took off—then you know how it is. No cell phones allowed on the missions.” Star nodded. “Go on.” “By the time we got to Tokyo, you’d had your phone number changed and every time he called here, you were out or just not answering.” He reached out for the lemon ice water beside his plate. He brought the heavy glass to his lips, took a sip and then another before he continued. Setting the glass down, he licked his lips. “From Tokyo he and I went to…” He stopped. “Well, someplace else.” She frowned. “I don’t need an itinerary of his movements, Jackson,” she said. “He’s always going to someplace else.” “He was at that someplace else for a little over eleven months,” Jackson told her. “In prison.” He paused. “They nearly killed him.” Star’s frown became a look of shock then pain as tears gathered in her eyes. “He’s all right, though,” she said. “He spent three months in rehab when we were finally able to retrieve him, but yeah, he’s all right now.” The lips of the beautiful woman across from him quivered then Star looked away, a single tear falling down her alabaster cheek. “It had to happen sooner or later,” she said, reaching up to swipe it away. “One day, he won’t come back from one of his assignments.” “That’s the risk we take in our line of business, Star,” Jackson said. He glanced up for a man had suddenly appeared behind Star’s chair. The man curled his hands over Star’s shapely shoulders in such a proprietary way it brought a snarl to Jackson’s lips. “Daniel Jackson,” Star said. “This is Brighton Boyd, a friend of mine.” Boyd took his right hand from Star and extended it toward Jackson. “I’ve heard so much about you, I believe I already know you, Dan,” Boyd said. “No one calls me Dan,” Jackson snapped. Reluctantly he took Boyd’s hand but didn’t bother to use the etiquette his mother had drummed into him and remained seated at the introduction. “What should I call you then?” Boyd asked, his blue eyes turning a bit flinty. “He prefers Jackson,” Star said. She was staring at Jackson, her brow furrowed as though she expected him to lash out at the man behind her. “Jackson it is then,” Boyd said with a brittle smile.

“I…” Jackson began but his cell phone chirped. With a pained expression, he slipped his hand into his pant pocket and retrieved it. Glancing at the readout, he narrowed his eyes for he didn’t recognize the calling number. “Hello?” Star was watching the expression on Jackson’s face. She patted Boyd’s left hand, motioning him back, and stood up as Jackson ended his call. “It was nice seeing you again, Jackson,” she said. She came around the side of the table and bent down to kiss the retired Fibber’s cheek. “You need to treat that sunburn, sweetie, or you’ll peel.” “Do you know where the Cold Desert Wind is, Star?” he asked, his face turning redder beneath the sunburn. Star pursed her mouth and before she could answer, Boyd spoke up. “That’s one of those places you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in,” he said with a curl of his lip. “It’s a strip joint,” Star said, her face tight. Boyd gave Jackson directions to the nightspot. “You seem to know right where it is,” Jackson accused. “How is that?” “Brighton is a real-estate developer,” Star explained. “He knows just about every establishment in Panama City.” “Huh,” Jackson commented. He pushed his chair back and got up. “Dinner’s on me,” Star said. “Thanks, doll, but—” “It’s our pleasure,” Boyd cut in. “Perhaps next time you can join us at our table.” Jackson met Star’s eyes and he knew a brief moment of triumph when she lowered her lashes to hide the obvious embarrassment that riddled her green gaze. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that,” Jackson mumbled. “How long are you going to be in town this time?” Star asked. “We’re meeting with the boss in the morning,” Jackson said. “Don’t have a clue after that.” “Well, if you get the chance, please come back by,” Star said. “Or just come over and knock on the door.” Boyd’s mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed at the invitation, but thankfully, he kept his comment to himself, though he slipped a possessive arm around Star’s waist and pulled her to him. “If I don’t see you again, be happy, Star,” Jackson said. “That’s all I want for you.” He cast Boyd a steely look then turned on his heel and left. “Man, what an uptight fellow,” Boyd exclaimed.

Star eased out of Boyd’s embrace and put a few feet between them. “Don’t you ever do that again, Brighton,” she said, flinging her waist-length dark brown braid over her shoulder. Boyd blinked. “Do what?” “Put your brand on me in such a public way,” she said in a low voice. Her green eyes blazed with anger. “You know I don’t like it when you do that.” “Afraid Jackson will report to the ex?” he asked, and stood up a bit taller. “I’m not afraid of your old boyfriend, Star.” “You should be,” she said. Before Boyd could respond to her assertion, she walked off. ***** “According to the owner, he did roughly four hundred dollars worth of damage before he passed out,” the man reported. He shook Jackson’s hand. “Nate Gibson. I work out of the Pensacola office. I’ve been shadowing your boy all evening. I was told not to interfere but to report to the ship.” Jackson looked at the broken barstools, the scattered glass, the splintered table, and let out a long breath. “Where is he now?” “Sleeping it off in one of the dressing rooms,” Gibson replied. “Gentry told me to call you instead of handling it myself.” “What started the fight?” Jackson inquired. “Somebody said something he didn’t like. Man, he blew up like a pound of plastic explosives. Nobody got hurt but him.” “Everybody else was keeping the hell out of his way,” the bartender grumbled, surveying the destruction. “Who’s gonna pay for this shit? I had to close down for the night with all this mess.” “Send the bill to the Farraige in care of Cronin. He’ll get it,” Jackson replied. “Where did he get hurt?” “Knuckles look like he put them through a meat grinder,” the investigator answered. “He got a nick or two from some broken glass on his face but nothing that would mar those pretty-boy looks.” “He’ll be glad to know that,” Jackson said dryly. “Got a cut on his arm too,” the bartender added. “Darnelle patched that up, though.” “Darnelle?” Jackson asked. “One of the entertainers here,” Gibson said, making made the word sound dirty. He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in her dressing room—if you can call that pigsty by such a fancy name.” “I’ve got it from here unless Gentry ordered you to hang around.” Gibson shook his head. “Nope. I’m outta here now that you’ve got things under control.”

Jackson thanked Gibson, gave the bartender the address of the Farraige then strolled back behind the miniscule stage with its shiny steel pole upon which one of the girls was practicing gyrating. She gave him an air kiss as he passed by. The small hallway behind the stage smelled of body fluids Jackson had no difficulty in recognizing. The stench made him sick to his stomach and the salmon that had gone down his gullet so lovingly at the Corinth was threatening to swim back up. “You looking for Prince Charming?” someone asked from the darker shadows of the hallway. “Yeah,” Jackson said. A blowsy woman with a tuft of orange hair moved out of the gloom. She pulled a garish silk wrapper around her enormous bust. “He’s in here. Darnelle just finished sewing him up.” Jackson’s eyebrows shot into his non-descript salt and pepper hair and his gray eyes nearly popped from his head. “What do you mean sewing him up?” he demanded. “Cool your jets,” the big-chested woman said. “Darnelle is a PMS over in Mobile. She knows what she’s doing.” “An EMT,” a woman said from the room behind Chesty, as Jackson had named her in his mind. Chesty shrugged and one of her mammoth boobs plopped out of the neckline of her wrapper. She casually stuffed it back in. “Whatever,” she said. Jackson slipped past Chesty and came up short, his mouth open as he stared at the red-stained shirt that lay on the floor beside a rumpled twin bed. Sprawled across the none-too-clean-looking spread was Dáire—facedown, shirtless, and apparently out cold, one arm dangling over the side. “Looks worse than it is,” Darnelle said. “That’s not so much blood as cheap red wine on the silk.” “I should have known he’d be guzzling Dago Red,” Jackson fumed. “That’s always his poison of choice when he’s in a self-destructive mood.” He stared at the jagged cut along Dáire’s left biceps. “You’re right handy with the embroidery.” “I keep a sewing kit handy,” Darnelle said with a laugh. “You never know who might need it.” “Earning a little pocket money, are you?” Jackson asked. “Nah,” she said. “I’m just an exhibitionist at heart.” “Well, thanks for stitching him up.” “This isn’t his first go-round with suturing, is it?” Darnelle asked. She was dabbing a strong-smelling liquid over the cuts on Dáire’s face. “He’s had a few run-ins with the working end of a needle,” Jackson replied. “And some very artistic plastic surgery,” Darnelle added.

“Probably no one but a PMS could tell that,” Jackson joked. Darnelle grinned. “Poor baby,” she said then stood up. “He’s going to have one hell of a bitching headache tomorrow.” “Not the first time for that either,” Jackson assured her. “Who’s the star?” Darnelle asked. Jackson tore his attention from Dáire’s unconscious form to look at a woman who bore a passing resemblance to the woman the drunken man loved. “Why do you ask?” Darnelle sat down in the only chair in the room, hooking her legs beneath her. She was wearing a sweatshirt from which the sleeves had been cut and the neckline was so stretched out it fell over one shoulder, revealing a soft expanse Jackson found alluring. Black knit leotards encased her long legs and bright scarlet nail polish drew his eyes to her appealing toes. “Whoever she is, she hurt him pretty bad,” Darnelle said. “Yeah, well, we always hurt the one we love, don’t we?” Jackson asked. He went over to the bed, put a hand to Dáire’s shoulder and then thought better of trying to wake him. Instead, he bent down, wrapped the unconscious man’s arm over his back and hefted him up in a fireman’s carry. “You got a car outside, baby?” Chesty asked. “Uh-huh,” Jackson said, staggering a bit under Dáire’s dead weight. “I’ll get the door for you.” Jackson really didn’t want to be seen with the disreputable woman, but he had no choice. He could smell her, and the stink of semen clung to her like a cheap perfume. That—combined with another odor he didn’t want to think about—made his gorge rise. Her large, bare feet slapping against the cheap linoleum floor would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so pitiable. “He’s quite a man,” Chesty said as she followed behind Jackson. “What’s his name, anyway?” Jackson grinned. “Brighton,” he said. “Brighton Boyd.” “Oh!” Chesty said, recognizing the name. “I thought I’d seen him somewhere before! Must have been on television. He’s the city councilman, ain’t he?” “Ah, yeah,” Jackson lied. He nodded toward his car, trying to look around to see if anyone was observing him on the street. Chesty hurried forward and pulled open the back door of Jackson’s sedan. She stepped back as he gently delivered Dáire inside, folding him on the seat like a sleeping child. “You’ll want to watch that he don’t choke on his own puke,” Chesty warned. “He’ll be lucky if I don’t strangle him and be done with it,” Jackson said from between clenched teeth. His back was killing him from the exertion and the weight of Dáire’s body.

“Sure wish a man loved me like he loves the star,” Chesty said wistfully. “That’s all he could talk about.” “Well, I hope you find someone like that one day,” Jackson said, and hurried around the front of the car. He lifted a hand to the woman. “Thanks for your help and tell Darnelle thanks too.” From across the way, Star Kiernan watched Jackson drive away. Tears were falling down her cheeks as she sat in her car on the other side of the street. The sight of Dáire being brought out of the tawdry strip bar draped over Jackson’s shoulder made her heart hurt in a way it hadn’t ached in a long, long time. ***** The concierge of the Farraige helped Jackson take Dáire up to his condo. Discreet and accustomed to being asked to do some rather odd things for the residents, Joel Brubaker made no comment about the unconscious man. He was there to help and, upon opening the door for Jackson, stood just outside the entry, awaiting further orders. “Thanks, Joey,” Jackson said. “Catch me tomorrow, will ya?” Joel nodded. “There’s no need, Mr. Jackson. I’m only too glad to be of service.” “Yeah, well, college isn’t cheap, is it?” Jackson asked, knowing the young man was attending classes during the day and working the nightshift at the Farraige to augment his tuition. “No, sir, it isn’t,” Joel agreed, and reached for the door handle, pulling it closed behind him. He went to the elevator, and when it opened started to enter, but upon seeing the other resident of the top floor in the cage, stepped back, putting a finger to his temple in greeting. “Good evening, Miss Kiernan,” he said. “Good evening, Joey,” Star responded, stepping out of the elevator. “Mr. Cronin is in residence again, ma’am,” Joel informed her. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Joey.” Saluting her once more, Joel stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby floor. He lifted a hand to Star in farewell as the doors closed. Star stood in the center of the foyer and stared at Daire’s door. A part of her wanted to go to him, to help Jackson take care of him, but another part screamed at her to stay away from him, to let matters die between them. Even as that command pushed at her mind, she found herself walking to his door. She reached out to lay the palm of her hand against the coolness of the iron filigree then laid her forehead on the polished oak of the frame. “Why, Dáire?” she asked. “Why couldn’t you have just walked away from whomever it is you work for?” The thought of the company that owned Dáire Cronin—body and soul, his strong arms and loyalty—darted across Star’s mind and she lifted her head and moved back from the door. If there was another human being Star could hate more than she did the person for whom Dáire worked, that person hadn’t been introduced to her yet.

Turning her back on Dáire and the happiness they had once known, Star went into her suite and locked out the treacherous thoughts of the man her body longed for more than breath.

Chapter Three

The room was spinning—canting away from him in whirls of black streaks and red blotches. A pounding drum throbbed between his temples to send shockwaves of agony reverberating through his head. Lying on his belly with the side of his face pressed against the pillow—a position he took when filthy drunk—he understood why he hurt so badly. What he didn’t understand was why he felt glued to the bed, unable to pry himself up. Across the room, the light-blocking drapes had been pulled together to shut out the fierce Florida sunshine, but a tiny crack speared from cornice board to floor like a klieg light. The intensity of that one small chink in the otherwise fortified wall of drapery seemed to pierce his skull with its persistent brightness. “Argh.” It was a heartfelt, piteous sound of a man wishing he could die but knowing full well he was going to survive. There was hopelessness, despondency and overwhelming misery in that single ululation and it hung on the air like the death caw of a dying raven. Pain—intense, jagged, knife-like pain—sliced through Dáire’s head, yet he could not seem to lift it away from the breath-warmed, flesh-heated surface of his odorous pillow. There wasn’t a bone in his body, a muscle, a vein or sinew that did not ache with excruciating precision. His stomach was lurching with every quiet intake of air. His throat seemed filled with rising gorge that burned its way up his nose to cauterize his sinuses. And not one aspirin, not one single painkiller waited in his medicine chest to relieve the violence of his agony. He knew this before Jackson came tiptoeing into the bedroom to inform him the cupboard was bare of analgesics of any number, strength or brand. “Argh.” This time it was a wounded plea for help. “Sit tight,” Jackson said in as soft a voice as he could, yet it seemed to the suffering man lying crucified to the sticky bed sheets that he had shouted at the top of his gravelly voice. Jackson was grinning as he knocked on Star’s door. He knew she’d be there and he knew she’d answer when she saw it was him, and she did. “Trick or treat,” he said. “Whatcha need?” she asked, trying to hide a yawn. It was almost six in the morning and she wasn’t a morning person. Dressed in a pale lavender terrycloth bathrobe that swept down to her bare toes, she looked far younger than her thirty-six, almost thirty-seven, years. “As much as I am enjoying watching him suffer, I come seeking killers of pain and soothers of pukedom,” Jackson told her.

Star stepped back to allow him entrance. “I’ve got capsules or suppositories. Which do you want?” “You’re joking, right?” Jackson asked with a snort. “Although he might enjoy it—and I’ve no doubt he would—I’ve no desire to stick anything up his tight little ass, hunky bugger that he is. Give me the capsules. What about for his pain?” “Let him suffer,” she said as she padded into her bathroom to retrieve the meds. “My sentiments too, but we have a meeting on the HardWind this morning.” Star came back with two amber-colored plastic bottles. “There’s nothing as good as those for a headache. Give him two of them and don’t call me.” “Thank you, milady,” Jackson said as he took the meds. “You are a kind woman.” She walked him to the door. “And don’t tell him from whence his help came. His head could fall off for all I care.” “Gotcha,” Jackson said. He pecked her on the cheek and went back across the foyer to Dáire’s condo. Dáire had managed to peel himself from the befouled sheets and was braced on quivering arms, trying to put a halt to the carousel beneath him. The sound of Jackson’s shoes scuffing across the thick carpet was agonizing. “Shush,” he whispered. “You have exactly twenty minutes to get your ass out of that bed, shaved, showered and dressed before the car comes to take us to the airfield,” Jackson informed him. A groan was the only answer the hungover man could make. Thoughts of the meeting with their boss had not entered into his desire to take a leak and he collapsed back on the bed—opposite side to the one bedecked with God only knew what that was lending a malodorous stench to the room. “Here.” From out of the swirling chaos of his rotating bedroom walls, an outstretched palm appeared under Dáire’s nose. He flinched as a second hand thrust a glass of water at him. “Come on, Dairy Crow. We don’t have all day, man. Hop to!” Propping himself up on one elbow—the arm to which felt broken—Dáire took the pills from Jackson’s hand and with difficulty finally found his mouth, popping them inside. He fumbled with the glass, splashed water down his naked chest, but drained the water before handing the glass back to Jackson. “She curse me with canker sores and hemorrhoids when she gave you that shit?” he asked. “Suppurating boils and drippy dick if memory serves,” Jackson replied. “Sounds like Star. Always thinking of a man’s comfort.” It took a great deal of effort but Dáire was able to swing his legs off the side of the bed. The room was still tilting off to one side and the floor was heaving, but he had enough strength to pull himself up by

holding onto the thick brass post on his footboard. Clutching as though it were a lifebuoy, he sagged there until his legs felt less inclined to melt beneath him. “You know, she’s one of those women who look pretty from the moment they get out of bed,” Jackson commented. “I remember,” Dáire said quietly. “How you reckon she does that?” “Don’t,” Dáire pleaded. “Not today, Jackson.” Walking to the bathroom was a major accomplishment for Dáire. His head was swimming unmercifully and there were small wakes in his stomach that threatened to wash over the shore. Turning the water on full blast, as cold as he could get it, he shrugged slowly out of his soiled pants, opened the shower door and forced himself inside. The explosion of the chilled water on his body sent tremors rippling down his spine. “Doorbell’s ringing,” Jackson said. “Who the hell…?” Daire asked, but figured he knew. He smiled grimly as he took up the soap and began lathering. Jackson opened the door and was rewarded with an insulated pot of coffee. The smell was fantastic. “Bless you, my child,” he told Star, making the sign of the Cross over her. “I figured you had your hands full trying to sober him up and wouldn’t have time to brew a decent pot of coffee,” she said. “He was going to get three heaping teaspoons of instant,” Jackson responded. “Which he would have promptly thrown up,” Star said with a laugh. She turned to go. “Thanks, sweet lady,” Jackson said. “De nada,” she acknowledged over her shoulder. Jackson took the pot of coffee to the kitchen, grabbed two mugs out of the cabinet and headed back to the bathroom. He poured himself a cup, sat down on the rim of the garden tub and took a sip. “Woman brews a hell of a cup of java,” he called out over the rush of the shower. Dáire turned the water off and stood there for a moment as the water dripped from his shivering body. He hadn’t had either the courage or the strength to shave and he knew he would catch hell about it. Not that he cared at that moment. He could smell the coffee, and though his gut roiled at the aroma, he desperately needed the hot brew. Flinging open the shower door, he held out his hand and a mug magically appeared in his blurred line of vision. “Could have used a croissant or a bagel with honeyed cream cheese,” Jackson complained as he returned to the edge of the tub. “Would have gotten it too if you hadn’t fucked up with our lady.” “Why don’t you court her yourself, Jack Off,” Dáire grumbled as he walked gingerly over to the sink,

leaned over the vanity and stared at his reflection in the mirror. “God, I look like death warmed over.” “Not your usual pretty-boy self, no,” Jackson agreed. “A life of debauchery is not conducive to maintaining one’s superior looks.” He chuckled. “I should know.” “Think Gentry will believe I’ve decided to grow a beard?” Dáire asked, turning away from the mirror. “The boss had a man on you last night,” Jackson told him. “He’ll have reported every juicy detail about your fall from grace.” He got up and followed Dáire out of the bathroom. Dáire shrugged. “Oh well.” He winced as he turned the light on in the walk-in closet and grabbed the first pair of pants he saw. He leaned against the closet wall and tugged the pants up his long legs. “How do you keep from getting skidmarks in your trousers, Dairy Crow?” Jackson wanted to know. “Don’t you even own a pair of underwear?” “I know how to wipe myself. Do you?” Dáire asked between clenched teeth. His head was pounding so brutally, it was all he could do to straighten up from pulling on the khaki pants. For the first time he got a good look at Jackson. “Jesus, Jackson. You look like the Michelin tire man.” Dressed in a white long-sleeve cotton shirt, white trousers and white loafers, Jackson glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. “I’m dressed for this balmy clime, you arrogant prick.” “The Michelin tire man whose face ran over a can of red paint,” Dáire muttered. He took a long drink of the scalding-hot coffee, barely flinching as the liquid spread over his tongue. Jackson was hovering close by should his help be needed. He took a seat on the bench in the middle of the closet floor and watched as Dáire tried to button a shirt over his broad chest. “It’s lopsided, dude.” “Who gives a fuck?” Dáire inquired in a pleasant voice. “Gentry will,” Jackson said. He put his mug on the bench, stood up and came over to rework the buttons on his friend’s navy blue shirt. Feeling like a toddler, Dáire remained still until Jackson had the shirt buttoned up correctly. “I feel like shit,” he complained. “Dago Red will do that to ya,” Jackson declared. “Don’t forget your socks.” “Screw the socks,” Daire said. “I used to do that in my youth, but I’ve since learned mayonnaise jars are much more entertaining,” Jackson revealed. Dáire refrained from making a comment. He thrust his feet into his loafers, grimacing as he did. He hated the feel of the insole against his bare feet but he didn’t have the heart to go rummaging for socks. Leaving his shirt outside his pants, he walked out of the closet and headed for the front door. “Don’t you need your wallet?” Jackson asked. Either Dáire didn’t hear or was ignoring Jackson. He continued on to the door, opened it and then held

up a hand to block the bright sunlight falling through the domed skylight. “Sunglasses,” he pleaded. “Already on it,” Jackson said, swiping the dark Ray-Bans from the console table beside the front door. He held them out to Dáire. “You are a fucking hell of a gentleman, Jack Off.” “I live to serve, pretty boy.” From the closed-circuit camera over Star’s door, she was watching the men as they waited for the elevator. Dáire was weaving as he stood there, but at least he was erect. She watched them until the elevator doors closed then went in to get dressed for the day. The ride down in the elevator’s overly bright light had Dáire leaning against the wall, his eyes behind the dark glasses squeezed shut. Pain was beating through his head and his stomach was still threatening to revolt. “I left a note for Consuelo to throw out your sheets,” Jackson said as the cage settled. “No way was I going to wash those things.” “That’s fine,” Dáire agreed. Thankfully no one was about in the lobby other than the morning concierge to waylay the two men as they walked outside. As soon as the humid heat struck Dáire he gagged, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. “You might want to sit up front with me, Mr. Jackson,” the driver said, sweeping his sunglass-covered gaze over Dáire. He was holding the rear door open. “I put a basin in the back for him.” “Does the whole world know I’m hungover?” Dáire complained. “Just get the hell in and lay down,” Jackson advised. “I’ll sit up front with Allen.” Daire climbed inside and promptly stretched out as best he could fold his six-feet-two frame into the confines of the sedan. He was grateful Allen, the driver, had not only provided a basin but a thick pillow. “Better than he deserves,” Jackson said as Allen gently shut the door. “I have some Steppenwolf tapes in the glove box if you feel up to listening to them this early in the a.m.,” Allen joked. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve no desire to smell him puking all the way to the airfield.” He got in and slammed his door as hard as he could. “Jackson, please!” came a faint beseeching from the backseat. “Go back to sleep,” Jackson ordered. “And try not to puke down your shirt.” Allen was a bit less enthusiastic about shutting the driver-side door but he too was rewarded with a complaint from the backseat.

The ride to the airfield where the chopper was berthed took roughly thirty minutes. By the time Allen had driven the twenty miles from the Farraige to the Bay County International Airport, Dáire was sound asleep, snoring softly. “Don’t he look cute?” Jackson asked, twisting around to look at the sleeping man. “Makes me feel inadequate and all,” Allen said dryly. “Yeah, me too,” Jackson said. “I don’t feel cute,” Dáire said. He’d awakened as soon as the car stopped. “I feel like shit.” “So you’ve said,” Jackson commented. “Stop belaboring the point. Don’t nobody feel sorry for your ass.” Struggling to push himself up, Dáire groaned. The vicious agony in his head was still there but at least his nausea had subsided. He ran a hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had formed there. “Try not to get slapped in the head with the blades, okay, Dairy Crow?” Jackson warned as he opened the back door and held out a hand to help Dáire from the car. “Although I think a buzz cut would look adorable on you, I doubt Gentry would.” “I’ll try to remember to stoop to your height,” Dáire returned. Beneath the rotating blades of the Agusta 109C, the air was a bit cooler, but the wash of the wind did nothing to make Dáire feel any better. He climbed into the twin engine, multi-blade helicopter and buckled in. He began to feel even worse as the chopper took to the skies and arced out of the Gulf. “Hang in there, dude,” Jackson told him. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dáire whispered. His discomfort had gotten no better by the time the Agusta landed on the helipad of the HardWind. Even though the pilot finessed the six-thousand-pound helicopter to the pad, there was enough of a jolt to send savage pain through Dáire’s throbbing head. He put his palms to his temples and bent forward beneath the agony. “I want you to drink another case of Dago Red,” Jackson said sweetly as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I want to die,” Dáire complained. “Gentry just might oblige you,” Jackson warned. Forcing one foot ahead of the other, Daire walked away from the helicopter, following Jackson into the ship. He mumbled acknowledgements to those members of the crew who greeted him, but didn’t lift his head any higher than it was necessary for him to navigate the interior of the plush motor yacht. “The boss is in the office,” Dáire heard someone say. Two hundred and thirty feet of luxury motor boat, the HardWind had a twenty-foot draught and was built for extended ocean voyages. It was registered to a Dutch company with a homeport in Jamaica.

Onboard the boat, a garage held the owner’s custom-equipped sports utility vehicle and a helipad graced the top deck. Two forty-foot sport-fishing boats were strapped snugly to the side decks. Manned by a twenty-member crew, the HardWind had eight double-suite cabins with queen-sized berths, two twin suites with full-sized berths, and dining and entertainment facilities large enough to accommodate twenty-four people in luxurious comfort. The owner’s private deck bore a suite with a retractable moon roof and was decked out with a sitting area complete with a sixty-inch plasma television, a concave ten-feet-wide acrylic two-hundred-and-sixty-five-gallon aquarium, a fireplace, high-tech office, well-stocked bar, his and hers walk-in showers, a sunken whirlpool tub and a Hollywood king-sized bed. The HardWind was the company ship and a little piece of floating heaven for those granted access to her. At any given time, three operatives of The Cumberland Group were onboard along with their boss Tyndall Gentry, the boss’ private bodyguard and the crew. Flanking the doorway into the luxuriously appointed office were two of the three operatives and they neither smiled nor replied when Jackson wished them a good morning. Whistling beneath his breath, Jackson leaned over to Dáire. “Methinks you are in deep doo-doo this time, old chap.” “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dáire acknowledged. One of the gatekeepers reached behind him to open the office door then stepped back for Dáire and Jackson to enter. He quietly closed the door behind them once they were inside. A rock-solid man with wide shoulders, a bull-like neck, arms the size of pine tree trunks, cold black eyes set in a face only a mother could love, with a bald head that glistened as though it had been polished with oil, stood off to one side of the room, thick arms crossed over a powerful chest. Like the operatives outside, he did not smile or greet the men in any way. His gaze was locked on Dáire with obvious dislike. Tyndall Gentry was sitting behind an elegant mahogany desk in a chair Dáire knew held an eight-motor massage unit. The ergonomic chair had been crafted especially for Gentry in soft Corinthian leather that matched the exact same shade as the desk’s uncluttered top. Only a telephone, pad, pen and a cup of tea rested on the pristine top of the huge desk. Without being told, the men took the two uncomfortable leather chairs that sat before the desk. Neither spoke for it was against Gentry’s rules that anyone speak until spoken to. For a long time, the boss did not speak, just stared angrily at Dáire until the young man began fidgeting in the chair. “Sit still!” The order was a hiss of sound that brooked no disobeying. Though not spoken loudly, the two words nevertheless carried with them a harsh reprimand. Dáire stopped moving. His hands were curled around the padded arms of the chair, his eyes leveled on Gentry. “Have you any notion how angry I am with you, Cronin?” Gentry asked, eyes narrowed, lips tight. “I have some idea,” he answered. “I was going to give you an assignment this morning, but obviously you are in no condition to even shave, much less hold a gun in your hand.”

Dáire opened his mouth to disagree then thought better of it. Dark gray eyes the color of an approaching storm narrowed even more as Gentry swung that reproachful glare to Jackson. “I realize you are not his babysitter, Jackson, but it would have been prudent of you to dissuade him from his sojourn at that filthy strip bar last evening.” “Had I known he was—” Jackson began. “You knew perfectly well he was going to act like the child he sometimes is,” Gentry cut him off. “You might not have known where he’d end up, but you knew it would be somewhere of which I would not approve.” “Are you going to dictate where I can and can’t go now?” Dáire heard the words tumbling from his lips and had to steel himself not to wither beneath the frigid glower that shifted his way. “I would have thought nearly a year in that cell in Borneo would have taught you a bit of humility, Cronin,” Gentry snapped. “Obviously you learned nothing from your stay there.” Fury flashed through Dáire’s brown gaze but he kept his mouth shut. He alone knew what he’d endured in that hellish prison and the things he’d learned about himself had nearly broken his spirit. Gentry drew in a long breath, held it then let it out slowly, forcing the irritation and anger away. “You have a problem and until you can deal with it, I will not be giving you any more assignments.” Blinking against the unfairness of his boss’ decision, Dáire sat up straighter in his chair. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” he denied. “Yes, I got drunk last night but—” “I was speaking of your problem with Star Kiernan,” Gentry cut him off. “She has always been a liability to you, has always been your problem, and now that problem has escalated. You will handle it now and then we’ll move on.” Jackson cleared his throat. “Ma’am, Star has taken that decision out of his hands. She—” Gentry slammed her fist down on the desktop. “I know all about Boyd. He is of no consequence. The matter is between Cronin and his whore.” Dáire stared at the most powerful woman in The Cumberland Group and wished—not for the first time—that she were a man. There had been occasions when he would have taken great delight in plowing a fist through the haughty face that glared back at him. At that moment he hated her with every fiber of his being, and the thought of wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing until the life had drained from her overweight body beckoned to him. “Jackson, will you excuse us?” Gentry asked, not bothering to look the older man’s way. Without a comment, Jackson was up and out of the room. He knew Gentry’s scolding tone all too well and didn’t care to be there while she castigated Dáire. Once the door closed behind Jackson, Gentry leaned forward and put her folded arms on the desktop. “While I do not profess to understand the torments you were forced to endure in Borneo, I am keenly aware of how it affected you.”

“Do you really?” he asked, a muscle working in his lean jaw. “And while I sympathize with the horrendous experiences you suffered, I am not about to coddle you.” “I never asked you to.” “No, you didn’t, but you seem to think you can do whatever the hell you want to, when you want to, without there being consequences. The Group’s dispensation for your travail extends only so far, Cronin.” Gentry’s stare turned colder than the waters flowing beneath an iceberg. “If you want out, just say so. I’ll terminate you here and now.” For a long moment the two stared at one another and it was Dáire who finally looked away. He didn’t like the glint in her sharp eyes and the set of her mouth filled him with unease. “All right,” Gentry said, settling back in her chair. “Now that we have that out of the way, I want you to take a few weeks off and reassess this obsession you have with the Kiernan woman. Either get it out of your system or work it out with her. I don’t believe I have to tell you which of those choices I would prefer you make.” Dáire reached up to rub at the pain lacing through his temples. “No, you don’t.” Gentry sat forward and took up the phone receiver, punched in a two-digit number then asked whoever was on the other end of the line to come to her office. She replaced the receiver, steepled her fingers and sat there observing her employee until the door quietly opened and someone came in. Dáire looked up as a petite blonde woman came to stand beside him. She held a glass of lavender-colored liquid, which she extended toward him. “Drink it,” Gentry ordered. Hurting too bad to balk at the command, Dáire took the glass, tipped it back and drained the contents, swallowing quickly, though when he lowered the glass he was pleasantly surprised to find no horrid aftertaste. He wordlessly handed the glass back to the blonde and the woman turned and left the room. “What was that?” he asked. “Nothing you can acquire on your own,” Gentry told him. “How is your head now?” Dáire realized the discomfort was receding at a rapid rate and the thick coat of spiky fur on his tongue appeared to have disappeared. The nausea, the spinning sensation, the pounding were drifting away on a calming sea. “The pain is going away.” “Good,” Gentry said. “Now get the hell out of my office and don’t come back until you’ve settled things with Kiernan.” Dáire frowned. “What about Jackson? Is he—?” “He will be working with someone else until I deem you fit to return to duty. Don’t concern yourself with

Jackson. He’s the least of your worries at the moment.” It was a dismissal with which he could not argue. He got up and started for the door. “Cronin?” Dáire looked back around at the white-haired sixty-something woman he had once labeled The Piranha. “Don’t make it necessary for me to handle the matter of Kiernan on my own. I promise you might not like how I will resolve things.” An ice-cold finger of fear scraped down Dáire’s back. He nodded without speaking. The man who was Gentry’s bodyguard narrowed his eyes at Dáire but remained silent as the younger man left the office. Jackson was nowhere in sight when Dáire climbed to the upper deck, but the co-pilot of the helo was waiting. The man informed his passenger the chopper was ready to return to the airfield. Feeling far better than he had when he had arrived, Dáire followed the co-pilot back to the Agusta. The last sight he had of the HardWind was the giant motorboat’s wake as it headed farther out to sea.

Chapter Four

The Corinth opened for business at eleven o’clock six days a week and Star liked to be there to greet the lunch crowd every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday for an hour or two unless something came up to prevent her. On Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evenings, she was at the hostess kiosk to welcome the dinner guests from eight until nine p.m. and to circulate among the tables to speak to her guests. The restaurant always closed on Sundays. It was a fifteen-minute drive from the Farraige to the Corinth and Star was running a bit late. She came hurrying out her door and stopped, blinking at the sight that greeted her. Dáire was sitting on the floor beside his front door, his legs drawn up, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms resting on his knees, his back against the wall, sunglasses perched on the top of his head. He half-smiled at her. “What the hell are you doing?” Star asked despite wanting to kick herself for speaking to him at all. “My keycard is in my wallet,” he answered. “My wallet is in the bedroom. The bedroom is behind a locked door.” He lifted his hand. “Thus, I am awaiting rescue.” “Where’s Jackson?” “On his way to his next assignment.” “Then how did you get up here?” she demanded. “They were vacuuming the floors in the elevator. Consuelo’s already gone I guess.”

Pursing her lips, Star turned around, ran her keycard down the entry box and disappeared back inside her home. She was gone a minute or so then came back, tossing a keycard toward Dáire. “Keep it,” she snapped, about to shut the door when her phone started ringing. Dáire smiled at the vulgar word that exploded from Star’s lips. With the keycard in hand, he pushed his back up the wall and got to his feet as she went back into her condo. He heard her growl an answer into the phone then stilled when he heard her next words, asked with obvious concern. “Is she all right?” Thinking it might be bad news concerning Star’s older sister—her only living relative—he turned around and stood there listening to her end of the conversation. “Did you take her to the doctor?” She was silent for a moment then asked, “What did he say?” Another moment of silence stretched out before Star said, “I’ll be right there!” Star’s face was ashen when she came rushing out of her home. She barely glanced Dáire’s way when he asked if the call had been about Sophie, Star’s sister. “What?” Star asked, staring at him as though she didn’t know him. “Was the call about Sophie? Is she sick?” “No,” Star answered, shaking her head. “It had nothing to do with Sophie. Just leave me alone, Cronin.” He watched her stabbing at the button on the elevator panel until the doors opened and she raced inside. The pallor of her face was even more noticeable as she slapped at the lobby button inside the cage. “Is there anything I can do?” he called out to her as the doors began to close. “You’ve done more than enough already,” he heard her grumble before the copper panels slid shut, hiding her beautiful face from view. Sighing heavily, Dáire swiped his card down the entry box and went into his home. The air was rife with the pleasing scent of lemon, which told him Consuelo had worked her magic on his soiled bedroom. He didn’t need to check on the cleaning woman’s labors for she was by far the best housekeeper there was at the Farraige, if not the costliest. Kicking off his shoes, he went to the triple doors that led out to the rooftop pool, peeling away his shirt as he opened one of the doors and walked outside. The sea breeze was stiff this high up and the shrill call of the seagulls stitching across the sky made him feel at home. Tossing his shirt aside, he stretched out on one of the teakwood chaise lounges that sat at an angle to the pool. The porotex fabric molded to his body as he leaned back, crossing his ankles, lacing his hands behind his head as the wind played over his bare chest. Though he hadn’t been ready for his next assignment, he chafed at the thought of being sidelined, leaving Jackson alone with some other operative. He couldn’t remember when the last time was that the two of them hadn’t been partnered and a part of him was tense over him not being there to protect the middle-aged man. Friends since Dáire had saved the Fibber’s life during a heated gun battle with a suspected terrorist, it was only natural three years later that Cronin introduced the government agent to

Gentry when Jackson retired from the FBI. The two men had been partners ever since. Jackson bore an uncanny resemblance to the television actor Lee Majors. The two had the same height and build and were within a month of one another of being the same age. Dáire had lost count of the times fans of Majors’ television show had rushed up to Jackson, mistaking him for the actor. Times such as those irritated the hell out of the retired Fibber. “How can I blend in with people running up to me and calling me Steven Austin and asking for my fucking autograph?” “Maybe you should ask Gentry for that facelift you’re always talking about,” Dáire had once suggested. “The docs could build you better, stronger, faster…” That suggestion had gotten Dáire a black eye. Thinking about that shiner, Dáire laughed. He relaxed in the chaise and closed his eyes behind the mirrored finish of the Ray-Bans. Though it was hot, he embraced the waves of warmth that bore down on him, bringing glistening sweat to his matted chest. He’d spent a week lying on the beach in the south of France, soaking up rays and a bronzed tan that now covered every inch of his body save one small V-shaped area—front and back—that a pair of black swim trunks had kept safe from potential cancer. France, he thought, and the smile slipped slowly from his face. He’d been in The Cumberland Group’s medical facilities near Montpellier for three months, during one of which he’d barely been able to walk. The soles of his feet would forever carry the scars of the canings that had ripped them apart. Even now, his feet were often too cold or too hot, and pain lanced through his lower legs on occasion and would for the rest of his life. In prison, his wounds had been forcibly kept open to keep him on his knees before his captors and the intended emasculation had hurt Dáire Cronin far more than the actual pain of his torture. Unable to do anything but crawl due to the cuts and abrasions on his feet, he had spent many an agonizing moment in a subservient position before his captors—a situation he had found nearly unbearable. Seeing Jackson’s worried face on the day he’d been ransomed back to The Group had been the happiest moment of Dáire’s life. Sweeping Dáire up in his beefy arms, Jackson had carried his partner from the prison and had not released his hold on Dáire even in the chopper that had spirited them to the Philippines and the Lear that had been waiting to fly them to France. Only when the medic had ordered Dáire laid on the gurney that would carry him into the jet did Jackson let the emaciated, deathly ill man out of his grip. “I’m here, buddy,” Jackson had said, tears running down his face. “I’m here.” During the entire flight, Jackson had not once relinquished Dáire’s dirty hand. He had sat beside the gurney—stroking the filthy flesh—and crying. That was the bond the two men shared. Opening his eyes, Dáire watched a seagull careening across the crisp blue sky, thankful he had not been allowed to die in the unimaginable squalor of that cell and that—to some extent—he was as free as the high-sailing gull. Thirsty, he got up from the chaise and went inside, the coolness of the marble against his bare feet soothing. The fridge had been stocked with plenty of orange juice, beer and Bloody Mary mix. He

swiped a can of pop before heading for a shower and a change of clothing. It was nearing lunchtime for him and he found he was hungry. A wicked smile spread over Dáire’s full lips. It was a Friday and Star would be at the restaurant. He decided today was as good a time as any to begin winning her back. That he could, he had no doubt. It was simply a matter of trying. ***** The restaurant had a line of people waiting to get inside when Dáire drove up in his brand-new black Lexus L430 and handed his baby over to Raider, the valet who came hurrying up. “Man, neat wheels, Mr. C.,” Raider complimented. “How long’s the wait do you think?” Dáire asked. “For you?” Raider asked, his eyes wide. “Ain’t none. Deuce will let you right on in. You know that.” Dáire wasn’t so sure about his welcome, but when he caught the burly doorman’s eye, Deuce motioned him on over. “Long time, no see,” Deuce said, taking the hand Dáire always offered. “Jackson not with you?” “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always need him to lead me around by the hand,” Dáire joked. “Actually, I’ve now learned to walk and chew gum at the same time too.” “’Bout time,” Deuce commented. “Thought we were going to have to send you to remedial chewing 101.” The people standing in line gave Dáire some pretty odd looks but he ignored them as he moved ahead of the waiting diners and into the cool sanctuary of the Corinth. He smiled at Chelsea, the afternoon hostess. “You get any lovelier and Star’s gonna have to issue shades to her customers,” he quipped. “You’re a bad man, Mr. C.,” Chelsea returned. She picked up a menu. “She’s not here, but is her table okay?” Some of the good feeling he’d been experiencing since his shower leached away at the news Star wasn’t at the restaurant. “Sure. She gone already?” “Never came in today,” Chelsea said as she led him to Star’s private table. “She called to say she’d be out of town a few days.” That information hit Dáire like a ton of bricks. “Do you have any idea where she went?” “Not a clue. She does that pretty often, though.” “What? Leaves town?” he asked as he took his seat. Chelsea nodded as she laid the menu before him. “And she’s gone every Sunday. It’s been that way for

quite some time.” “And you don’t know where?” The pretty woman shrugged. “Not a clue,” she repeated. “He go with her on these mysterious jaunts of hers?” Dáire made himself ask. “Not that I know of,” Chelsea answered. “Mr. B. called asking for her a little while ago so I know he isn’t with her today.” She leaned down, putting her lush lips to his ears. “I don’t like that man. Can you do something about him?” She straightened up. “That’s the plan, sweetie,” Dáire told her. “Good,” Chelsea said. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. C.” He ordered four dozen boiled shrimp, a tossed salad with blue cheese dressing and extra sourdough rolls. Along with a tall glass of sweetened ice tea—Deep South style with lemon—he was set to enjoy his lunch. Until Brighton Boyd came strutting in and right up to the table, eyes flaring. “Who gave you permission to sit here?” Boyd demanded. Dáire Cronin was six feet two inches of prime muscle. He knew how to use those muscles. He had dark brown eyes that could blaze with fury in the snap of a finger or chill with the alacrity of a blizzard. At that moment—when he looked up at Bright Boy—his eyes were filled with a warning that Boyd was either too stupid or too reckless to heed. “I asked you a question, fool!” As Jackson—had he been there—could have told Boyd, you don’t call a man trained to kill with his bare hands such a name and walk away unscathed. One moment Boyd was standing erect and the next he was on his knees beside Dáire’s chair, his arm twisted up and behind his back in such a way extreme pain registered on the man’s smarmy face. “Obviously,” Dáire said in a pleasant voice, “you don’t have any manners. Let’s teach you some.” He pulled Boyd’s arm higher until the groaning man came partially off his knees. “Get the hell out of here before I lose my temper and break your scrawny arm.” Business taken care of, Dáire let go of Bright Boy’s arm and commenced to eating the salad the sweet-faced little waitress had slipped in front of him during the confrontation. “You’ll hear from my attorney!” Boyd promised. His face was infused with a deep red coloring and he was cradling his arm close to his chest. “I live next door to Star so he can serve the papers there,” Dáire said. Boyd’s red face blanched of color. “Y-you are Cronin?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room.

“In the very annoyed flesh,” Dáire replied. He smiled, but that smile was deadly. “You still want to call your little lawyer?” Boyd took a step back—nearly collided with a waiter—then turned and hurried off. As though nothing of consequence had taken place, Dáire delved into the icy-cold shrimp, dredging them through an even colder bowl of horseradish-saturated seafood sauce before popping them into his mouth with relish. “Well done, Mr. C.,” Chelsea complimented as she strolled by. “My pleasure.” Though he stayed far longer than he normally would have, Star never showed up. After prolonging his meal—almost wishing some rat-faced summons server would pop up—Dáire got up and sauntered out, leaving a large tip behind with his bill. He strolled down the Miracle Strip and did a bit of sightseeing. He bought a couple of pairs of jeans, a new beach towel, a couple of paperback books, some small bags of candy and soda pop. For two hours he ambled along watching the summer vacationers with their sunburns, flip-flops and garish shirts. Twice he walked back by the Corinth and twice Deuce shook his head to indicate Star had not come in. Finally, he decided to retrieve his car and go back to the Farraige. The pool was beckoning and he needed a workout. Sitting stretched out on his stomach later that afternoon, he dozed, letting the sun bake his back and legs. Now and again he’d turn over, read a chapter or two of one of his new books, munch a few pieces of candy then dive into the pool and do a few laps. By the time the sun began to lower across the Gulf, he’d read half of one of the paperbacks, consumed all his candy and polished off one entire bottle of Bloody Mary mix—which he drank straight and without benefit of liquor. Hunger rumbled in his stomach despite the junk food binge so he took one last dip in the pool, went in and showered, dressed in slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, and called the Corinth for a reservation. “I’m so sorry, Mr. C., but we’re booked solid,” Phaedra, the night hostess informed him. “Is she there?” There was a slight pause. “Yes, sir, but she’s dining with Mr. Boyd and she isn’t in a good mood this evening.” Although the peevish little imp who resided on Dáire’s shoulder did a mean little hop then kicked his cheek with a pointed-toe little boot, Dáire shrugged away the desire for another confrontation—this time with Star in attendance. “That’s okay, Phae. Thanks anyway. I’ll eat somewhere else tonight.” After thumbing through the restaurant guide in his desk, Daire decided to order a pizza and call it a night. He called his favorite pizza place Pepper Ronie’s and ordered a pie with everything except anchovies and pineapple, a tossed salad and a six-pack of the pop. After a barefoot trip downstairs to give the concierge the money for the pizza as well as a large tip for

the driver, he gave the man behind the desk five dollars to bring the food up to his condo. As he was waiting for the elevator to open, he closed his eyes for the delicious scent of gardenias came suddenly wafting to him and he knew Star had just come into the lobby. Turning, he saw her looking at him as she approached. “Wanna lift, little lady?” he inquired. Star didn’t reply. She came to stand beside him and when the doors opened, walked past him and entered the cage. The two rode up to the top floor in silence. Like the gentleman he was, he allowed her to leave the cage first. She surprised him by turning to face him. “I need to speak to you,” she said quietly. He thought he knew about what. “Look, I didn’t do the man any damage, Star. I—” She shook her head. “It’s not about that,” she said. He hesitated then asked if she wanted to come into his home. “Yes,” she replied. Some strange thing wriggled down his spine as he moved toward his door. Star’s face was drawn and she looked as though she’d been crying. She was nervously twisting her fingers together as she waited for him to unlock his door, and before she entered the foyer, took a deep breath—as though about to go to her execution. “I don’t bite,” he said, following her inside. “Not too viciously anyway,” she responded. She looked back at him with a ghost of a smile on her pretty mouth. “Have you had this year’s rabies vax?” “Distemper too,” he assured her. Instead of going into the great room, she turned right then left and went into his kitchen. It was there they’d always held any solemn conversations, sitting at the glass octagonal dinette table in front of a sweeping view of his lap pool. Frivolous conversation had always been reserved for curling up on his sectional sofa in the great room. “Is it that serious?” he inquired as she pulled out a chair and sat down. She didn’t answer for a moment. She was staring at the sparkling blue waters of the lap pool, the ten-feet-high fieldstone wall that ran beside, bisecting their two properties. “Want something to drink?” he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of orange juice. “No, thank you,” she answered, and turned to face him. He perched on a barstool at the peninsula, tipping back on the two rear legs, his right instep on the bar rail, took a sip of the beverage then rested the container on his thigh. “What’s up, Starlight?” he asked. She took another deep breath as though fortifying herself then looked him in the eye. “I need your help.”

He nodded. “Okay. Who do you want me to kill?” It was asked in a solemn voice. That ghost of a smile hovered on her lips for a moment then slipped away as she broke eye contact and looked down at her hands. She was back to twisting her fingers together, this time on the thick glass top of the dinette table. “First,” she said, not looking at him, “I need to explain something to you.” “All right. ’S’plain away, Lucy,” he said in his best imitation of the actor Desi Arnez. She looked up. “This is serious, Dáire,” she said. His name on her lips never failed to touch him. She pronounced it the Celtic way—deh ruh—and it always made his heart ache. He took another sip of the juice then set it on the bar. “Just tell me,” he said, lacing his fingers together in his lap. Once more she looked out at the pool—seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was pitched lower, softer than usual, and he had to strain to hear her. “Before you left that night, I had something important to tell you, but you didn’t have time to listen,” she said. He made no comment, knowing that to dredge up their last conversation would be to start the fight all over again. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, as a single tear slid slowly down her cheek. As she looked up—opening those striking green eyes—it was as though she were staring into his soul. “I was pregnant when you left, Dáire.” Nothing she could have said would have stunned him more. His lips parted. “What?” “That was what I wanted to tell you that night.” “Pregnant,” he repeated. “She’s ten months old,” Star told him. “Her name is Jillian.” He raised his left hand and plowed it through his hair, cupped his neck as he stared at her. “Whose child is she?” Green eyes flared and Star shot up from the table. “Go to hell, you bastard!” she snarled, and ran past him, shrugging off the staying hand he put out to stop her. “Star, wait!” he yelled. He had overextended his reach and lost his balance, both he and the barstool crashing to the floor. Scrambling up as quickly as he could, he raced after her but she was already out his door and at hers, swiping the keycard down the entry box before he reached the entry hall. Just as he got to her door, she slammed it shut in his face. “Star! Open the door!” He rattled the lever handle, putting his weight behind it but the door was locked.

He pounded his fist on the doorframe. “Star!” When she would not open the door, he bellowed at the top of his voice. “Open the goddamn door or I’ll kick it in!” he warned just as the elevator doors slid open and the concierge stepped out, pizza in hand. “Mr. Cronin?” the concierge questioned, disquiet covering his normally placid face. “You know I’ll do it, Star!” Daire yelled, ignoring the concierge. He hit the door as hard as he could, rattling the frosted panes. “Mr. Cronin!” the concierge said. His voice was filled with outrage. Star threw open the door and stood there blocking Dáire’s entrance. Her face was twisted with fury, her lips skinned back from her teeth. “How dare you ask me such a thing, Dáire Cronin!” she blazed at him. “How dare you!” Dáire pushed past her, completely oblivious to the concierge’s gasp of shock, grabbed her arm and pulled her back across the entry hall, batting away her attempts to hit him. “Miss Kiernan?” the concierge asked, the pizza clutched in his hands, pop and salad sliding to one side so he had to fumble to keep them setting on the pizza box. “Should I call the authorities?” “Do and I’ll pin your ears to your desk,” Dáire threatened as he shoved Star into his condo and slammed the door behind them. “It’s all right, Malcom!” Star yelled as Dáire pulled her down the hall to the great room. “I’m okay!” Spinning her around, Dáire caught her by her upper arms and shook her. “Knock it off!” he commanded, sidestepping the kick she aimed at his leg. “I mean it, Star! Knock it off!” One moment she was struggling with him, the next she was in his arms, held to him so tightly she could barely breathe, much less move. One of his arms was anchored firmly around her back while the other held her head, pressing it to his chest. She tried pummeling him with her clenched fists, but he was having none of that. He was restraining her too securely for her to get any leverage, although she dug her fingers into his shirt, clawing at the skin beneath the fabric. “You son of a bitch,” she sobbed against him, scratching him as hard as she could through the shirt. “I know,” he said, his voice soft though his heart was pounding. “I hate you!” “I don’t blame you. It was a fucking stupid thing I asked.” “How could you?” she sobbed. “I’m retarded,” he replied. “What other reason could there be?” She shoved against him and he let her go, confident she was no longer a raging virago, though the

stinging abrasions streaking down his chest warned him to be careful about what other stupid things might come out of his uncensored mouth. “Not only retarded but an insensitive prick,” she labeled him, running the back of her hand under her nose. “That too,” he agreed. She moved away from him and sat down on the sofa, drawing her feet up beneath her. It was a defensive posture he recognized all too well and kept his distance. A few minutes passed in awkward silence. He had no idea what to say that wouldn’t set her off again. Cautiously he moved to a chair flanking the sofa and perched on the edge, poised to keep her from running again if she felt the urge. “You said you needed my help,” he finally said. “Help to do what?” She sniffed, reaching into the pocket of her skirt to pull out a wadded up tissue. Wiping her eyes, her nose, she lifted her head and her eyes were lethal as she glared at him. “After you left that night, I had no intention of you ever finding out about Jillian,” she said. Dáire flinched but he wisely kept the angry accusation from erupting. “When I delivered her, some woman came to see me in the hospital.” His dark brows drew together. “What woman?” “She didn’t tell me her name and I didn’t ask,” Star replied. “She came in and the first words out of her mouth were to tell me I was a liability to you.” “Gentry,” he said, and the word was a bitter taste in his mouth. “She’s my boss.” “She then went on to say that I had just given you an even more dangerous liability and she offered me money to get out and stay out of your life from then on.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “How much money?” “A million dollars,” Star answered, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue. “Apparently you’re worth a lot of money to your people.” “I hope you told her to go fuck herself,” he said. He had no doubt Star would have done so. “I told her she had nothing to worry about,” Star said. “I told her it was over between the two of us and that I had no intention of seeing you again.” “Did she tell you where I was?” he asked. Star shook her head. “No, but Jackson did.” “So you know it wasn’t a place where I could have been with you when you had our child?” he asked

quietly. “Even if I had known about it?” “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “And before you ask, no, Jackson doesn’t know about Jillian. If he did, he’d have said something to me. I don’t think that woman told anyone about the baby.” He hung his head. As furious as he was with Gentry, he couldn’t fault Star for feeling the way she did. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. “Where is the baby now?” he asked. “In Pensacola where she is being raised.” He lifted his head, hurt playing across his handsome features. “You gave her away?” he asked. Star stared into his eyes. “No, I didn’t give her away. Jillian is a special-needs child,” she told him. “She required more care than I am capable of giving her. She’s in a group home with other special-needs children.” “Special needs,” he said. His heart was no longer pounding but racing. “What does that mean?” “She’s a Down’s syndrome baby,” Star said, her eyes full of fresh tears. “Down’s…?” He shook his head, completely taken aback. “I don’t…” “It is a genetic condition,” she told him. “Children born with DS develop it at conception, caused by the presence of an extra chromosome.” Dáire flinched as though he’d been slapped in the face with a wet rag. “I know what Down’s is,” he said in a choked voice. “It’s nothing either you or I did, Dáire,” Star said. “She was underweight, born two months earlier than expected.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “It didn’t help though that I was thirty-five when she was born.” “Star,” he said, trying his best to cope with what he was being told, “I thought you were on the Pill. I thought—” “I was, but the Pill isn’t always foolproof, Dáire.” Feeling as though he was back in the dark, dank bowels of the prison in Borneo, Dáire got up and began pacing, assuring himself that he was, indeed, free to move about, to stand before the wide sweep of windows and look at the piercing blue of the sky. “I wasn’t equipped to care for her,” Star said, following his every move. “Jillian is severely retarded. Her sight is very limited. She has a hearing impediment too. Now, this morning, I heard from Frieda, the woman who runs the facility where Jillian lives, that she’s been diagnosed with acute nonlymphocytic leukemia.” “Leukemia?” he repeated, horror flooding his face. “It’s a form of leukemia that occurs in infants under a year of age. Frieda said Jilly had been losing weight then she developed a high fever and was crying a lot. They took her to the doctor and when he

ran tests on her, they found the ANL.” Dáire squeezed his eyes shut against such devastating news. “What have I done, Star? What have I done? I had…” he said, his voice breaking, “an aunt who was a Down’s baby,” he said. “She died when she was twelve.” He turned to look at Star, misery deep in his wounded eyes. “It’s my fault. If I’d known you could get pregnant, I wouldn’t have—” She was up and off the sofa in a flash, going to him, taking him in her arms as he broke down, his sobbing tearing at her heart. “No,” she said. “You can’t blame yourself.” He clung to her, feeling like the lowest scum on the bottom of the deepest sewer. “Oh, God, Star. I’m sorry,” he said. She rocked him, absorbing the tremors of his crying. His arms were once more tightly around her, but this time it was because he needed her rather than a desire to restrain her. He sagged against her and she went down to the floor with him, refusing to break their embrace. Somehow his head wound up in her lap, her hand smoothing the curly hair from his forehead as he curled in a fetal position and moaned deep in his throat as though his heart were breaking. “Dáire, don’t do this,” she said. “Baby, you have to be strong for me right now because I’m about to come apart here.” It took him a moment to realize what she’d said. He pushed up from the floor and turned to face her, his cheeks streaked with tears. “What can I do?” he asked, swiping angrily at the telltale signs of his weakness. “What do you want me to do?” “She needs a bone marrow transplant,” Star explained to him. “Normally they like to use the healthy marrow from the patient, but Jilly has a proliferation of white blood cells in her bloodstream. That means she’d need an allogeneic transplant—from a compatible donor—but I wasn’t a good match. Once we find a suitable donor—and I pray to God that’s you—she’ll have to undergo chemo and maybe even radiation therapy before they can do the transplant.” “What should I do?” he asked. “How do I…?” “We need to go over to Pensacola and have you tested to make sure you are a good match. After that, they can do the procedure if everything is okay.” “Let’s go right now,” he said, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to her. Star slipped her hand into his. “It’s Saturday, remember? Nothing can be done until Monday,” she reminded him. “It’s not as though her life is in immediate danger. We can go Monday.” “Together,” he stressed, reaching out to take her other hand as well, pulling both of them to his chest. She nodded. “Of course. We’re her parents.” “Just you and me.” Star frowned. “What do you mean?” “I know you’re still angry with me,” he said and felt her tug against his hold. He tightened his grip. “I

understand why, but I’m back now, Star. I’m here with you.” She pulled against his hands and stepped back. “For how long?” she asked, and there was a note of anger in her tone. “For as long as you need me,” he replied, letting go of her hands. “Or for however long they will allow you to stay,” she countered. “Star, don’t…” “Did that woman give you permission to see me?” she asked. His mouth tightened. “She doesn’t own me, Star. I came here because I was to be given an assignment but—” “Not to see me,” she said. He flung out a hand. “Of course to see you! I must have pushed your doorbell a dozen times that first day and I know you were in there. I could feel you in there, but you didn’t answer.” “So you go and got roaring drunk,” she accused. He put his hands on his hips and looked at her. “I was hurt,” he said. “In more ways than one when I left you last year. I needed something to dull the pain of that hurt. You made it obvious you didn’t want to see me.” “And now you think things have changed because I ask for your help with our daughter?” she asked. “Nothing has changed, Dáire. You are still who you are. You made that perfectly clear when you attacked Brighton this afternoon.” “I didn’t attack that shithead motherfucker!” he threw at her. “If I had, I’d have put his arrogant ass in the ICU!” “He is not an arrogant ass,” she defended the man in question. “I know he can be a bit overbearing but—” “If you don’t stay the hell away from him, he’s going to come up missing,” Dáire said, wanting to kick himself the moment the strong words came out of his mouth. Star’s eyes flared, her mouth opened in shock and she took another step backward. “What’s happened to you?” she asked. “Have you lost what little mind you had before you left here?” “What’s happened?” he growled. “Oh, nothing much. Nothing of any consequence. I just spent eleven months in a vermin-infested cell being beaten, starved and losing hope with every passing minute I was chained in that stinking rat hole. The only thing that kept me alive was the thought of being with you again, seeing you again, holding you again, Star. And what do I find when I come home? I find you have a yuppie boyfriend with a bad weave, a piss-poor nose job and a mouthful of shoddily applied veneers!” Star put a hand over her mouth, tempted to burst out laughing at his assessment of Brighton Boyd, but too angry and too hurt to give in to the compulsion. His words thundered through her head to add

compassion to her feelings. The thought of him being beaten and starved, tortured, made her heart ache. “Go on, Star,” he said, flinging his hand out again, dismissing her. “Get the hell out of here before I say something I shouldn’t.” “Like you haven’t already?” she threw at him. He turned away from her and walked out of the room, going into his bedroom and slamming the door shut. “Oh no, you don’t!” she snarled, stomping after him. “You aren’t just going to walk away from me this time!” Star went after him, sending the bedroom door crashing against the sheetrock and putting a nice, deep, round hole in the wall where the doorknob struck the surface. Walking up to him, she drew back her hand and slapped him as hard as she could, staggering him with the force of the blow. “Don’t you ever walk away from me again, Dáire Cronin!” she yelled at him. His cheek stinging from the slap, he reached out and grabbed her, jerking her to him with such power, he heard her grunt as their bodies made contact. Reaching up to bury his splayed hand in the hair at the nape of her neck, he yanked her head up, anchored it and then slashed his mouth across her lips, claiming her mouth with a hot, searing kiss that made her sag against him. There was nothing gentle about his kiss. It was a savage, heated branding that left no doubt in Star’s mind that he was the only man who would ever make her womb twist and fire pool in her lower body. It was the mastery of that kiss, the sheer potency of it that turned her to mush in his arms. Her hands came up and she locked her arms around his neck, molding herself to him as tightly as their clothing would allow. His tongue was stabbing into her mouth and swirling over her teeth, flicking at her lips as he worked his black magic on her. He slid his hands to her ass and lifted her. The short skirt she was wearing bunched up at her hips as she wrapped her legs around his hips, her toes pushing off first one sandal and then the other, never once breaking that soul-shattering kiss. Carrying her to the bed, he fell with her under him, scooting her across the mattress, dragging the covers up, gathering them beneath their straining bodies as he forced a hand between them. She plucked at his shirt, ripping it away from his heaving chest. He tore at her panties, jerking the delicate lace material away from her body. He fumbled between them until he had freed himself from his jeans, yet still their mouths were locked in heated duel. Star grunted when he rammed his cock into her cunt and tightened her legs around him, scooting forward on the bed under the force of his thrust. Like a madman he was pounding into her, sweat wept from his pores. His fingers were digging into her naked bottom—lifting her, positioning her, so that every powerful drive into her slippery channel went deep. For seven years they had been lovers. Each knew the other’s body as well as their own. Every push against Star, every grip of her vaginal muscles upon his straining staff was more than the act of sex. It was a sensually choreographed dance of a master danseur noble and his equally impressive ballerina locked in an erotic pas de deux. Lips drew greedily. Tongues stroked and flicked and stabbed. Limbs tightened. Bodies grew slick with perspiration. Juices flowed copiously, and when the frantic lovemaking reached its

penultimate conclusion, two voices sounded in tandem—his, a growl of possession and hers, a triumph of exacting pleasure. The frantic meeting of their bodies stopped, stilled, held, until the last spurt of semen left him, and she willingly took it deep into her as the last ripple of orgasm throbbed. Exhausted from the ferocity of their coming together, Dáire collapsed atop her, her legs slid from his hips to bracket his thighs, and he rolled them over so she was lying atop him, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her. For nearly ten minutes they lay like that—silent, willing their breaths to return to normal, their hearts to cease racing. Her palm was splayed in the center of his thickly matted chest, her index finger twirling the crisp hair. Beneath her flesh, the steady, comforting beat of his heart relaxed her. The strength of his arms made her feel protected, cherished, and his warm breath washing over her forehead made her drowsy. “This is right,” he said. “I had forgotten how intense it could be.” She rolled out of his arms. “I’m thirsty,” she announced, and slid off the bed. Sated, feeling more alive than he had in a long, long time, Dáire laced his fingers beneath his head and stared up at the creamy white ceiling overhead. He was lying across the bed, ankles crossed when Star came back carrying two cans of soda. She stopped at the side of the bed, staring at his feet. “What happened to your feet?” she asked. Her attention was on the bottoms of his feet. He uncrossed his ankles and drew his knees up, hiding the soles of his feet on the covers. “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled. “Dáire?” she questioned, her gaze lifting to his. “Tell me.” “You really don’t want to know, Star.” “Yes, I do,” she said, tears hovering in her eyes. “What caused those scars?” “Canes with split ends vigorously applied once a week,” he replied as though the matter was of no consequence. “Hurts like hell.” Star’s face paled and the hand she held out to give him the soda trembled. “What else did they do to you?” she asked in a tiny voice. Levering himself up so his feet were now flat on the floor, he took the soda. “It’s not worth discussing,” he told her as he popped the top on the can. She sat down beside him, unable to tear her attention from his feet. There were faint white lines on the tops of his arches and red, raised ridges on his ankles and heels. “Stop looking at them,” he ordered. Star turned her face away, squeezing her eyelids together for her heart was breaking, her soul burning for the man beside her. Every unkind, mean and heartless thought she had had of him during the last fourteen months came back to haunt her. He knew she was crying but he couldn’t reach out to her. A part of him was still locked in the sweltering

four-by-six cell that had been his prison for nearly a year and he really didn’t want to talk about it. He feared that once the torrent of agonies he’d suffered were out in the open between them, it would be pity, guilt—and not love—that might bring her back to him. “Did I ever tell you about Jackson and the Thai whore?” he asked. Star put the back of her hand to her mouth and looked around at him. She knew him all too well and the matter of his imprisonment, the torture that had turned the soles of his feet into a mass of scars was—for him—a dead issue. “No,” she answered. She sucked up her tears. “When was this?” His forehead creased. “About three years ago, I think,” he answered. He took a long pull on the soda. “We were over there to pick up a very high-profile American senator who liked to vacation in the sex clubs in Bangkok.” “Can you tell me which senator?” she asked, knowing he couldn’t and wouldn’t. “Let’s just say he’s from a small Eastern state,” he answered. “I take it he’s married?” “Not anymore, but he was back then,” he answered. “Ah,” she said, recognizing who it must be then. “We were told to go in, extract him and bring him back before the paparazzi got wind of his sojourns into those dens of iniquity,” Daire explained. “I was feeling a bit under the weather—” “Was this when you had that bad case of the flu?” she interrupted. “I think it was.” “Go on,” she said, arming away the wetness on her cheeks. “Well, Jack Off goes strolling in there, pretending to be a customer. We didn’t think he’d have a hard time finding the senator.” He chuckled. “What we didn’t know was that particular club was an S/M smorgasbord.” “Oh, God,” she said. “Here’s Jackson with a bevy of beauties lined up by the madam and she’s ticking off the specialties of each girl and Jack Off swears he’s starting to sweat because all the girls are looking at him and licking their lips.” Star giggled despite the pain still raging in her heart. “He said he just pointed at one, not even remembering what the madam said was the girl’s area of expertise. She takes his hand and leads him down this long, dim corridor and he’s hearing grunts and groans, moans and shrieks, and what he could only describe as men talking in little-boy voices.” “Oh please, mistress!” Star said in a squeaky voice. “May I have another spank?”

“Exactly,” Dáire asserted. “Well, he hears the senator’s voice as they pass this one door and he tells me later that the things the man was saying made him blush.” “Jackson?” she questioned. “Yeah, well, I found it hard to believe too,” Dáire stated. “At any rate, he can’t very well rush in and snatch the senator in the throes of whatever the hell he’s in the middle of, so Jackson figures he’ll wait until he hears the door open then jump up and grab the good senator and hustle him out.” “But it didn’t happen that way.” “No, it surely did not.” He took another sip from the can, licked his lips then leaned back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows, making it necessary for her to twist around to look at him. “You’re killing me here, Cronin,” she urged. “According to Jackson, he turned to explain to the prostitute that he wasn’t there to do the nasty with her, but before he could she’d slapped a handcuff on his wrist and yanked him toward her bed. He says he tried to get away but she picked him up—” “Our Jackson?” she asked, her eyes wide with incredulity. “Uh-huh,” Daire acknowledged. “He swears she picked him up, threw him on the bed, locked one of his wrists to the headboard, and while he’s struggling and yelling, grabs the other, yanks his arms apart and spread-eagles him to the bed.” Star had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from hooting with laughter. The sight of Jackson so incapacitated was rich. “Then she spreads his legs and chains his ankles too,” Daire told her. “He’s shouting at her and she produces a ball gag and proceeds to silence his cries for help.” “He was calling for you?” Star asked. “He said he was, but I was right outside and I didn’t hear a damned thing from him.” “Did you hear all the groaning and shrieking?” “Some of it,” he said with a grin. “What happened then?” “Well, she commenced to cut his trousers and shirt off, laying him open to her wicked intentions—or so he says—then began working him over with all kinds of interesting things I don’t think I should tell you about.” “Why not?” she asked. “I don’t want to give you any ideas,” he replied. Star rolled her eyes. “Did you guys get the senator or not?”

“Oh I got him,” Daire answered. “I caught him trying to sneak out the back door, popped him full of this sweet little syringe I was carrying, slung him over my shoulder—” “Like Jackson did you the other night,” she said, missing the surprised look he gave her. “After I got back to the car and got the senator to the plane standing by to take him to Guam, I went back for Jackson. Three hours later, he comes strolling out of the place—walking none too steadily I might add—and swears to me the senator isn’t anywhere to be found in the club.” “Did you tell him you already had the senator?” “Not right then. I was too busy laughing at what he was wearing.” “Oh that’s right!” Star said, now really invested in the tale. “She’d cut his clothes off.” Dáire nodded, trying to keep a straight face. “Here he comes sidling up to me with only a green-and-pink-plaid cloth wrapped around his waist and tucked up between his legs. He’s barefoot and he reminds me of Yul Brynner from The King and I. His legs, chest and arms are covered with bright blue permanent ink drawings of all kinds of animals—tigers, elephants—you name it. He is literally covered from neck to ankle with these drawings and he is pissed. Man oh man, was he pissed!” “How’d he get them off?” “He had to scour them off,” Dáire said, chuckling. “Some of them had to wear off ‘cause he couldn’t get me to scrub them off his ass cheeks. I’m not sure, but I believe he may still have some of them on his cock.” Star’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding!” “Nope. He had a cobra drawn on his pecker and as I remember, it coiled around his balls and the tail came out his butt crack.” “Oh Jackson!” Star said, laughing. “He said he was held captive and that the senator was behind it. He then said it was our target who had given the orders to have him tortured by the whore.” “Do you believe that?” “Hell, no, I don’t believe it,” Dáire replied. “I think Jack Off got his pole waxed by the whore, he inhaled a goodly amount of opium and was so wasted he forgot all about the senator and me waiting out on the street for him.” “Opium? Jackson?” Dáire grinned. “Stranger things have happened when he and I have been on assignment,” he said. Star hadn’t taken the first drink of her soda. The can was clutched in her left hand, condensation dripping onto her leg. She glanced down as a drop rolled down the inner surface of her thigh, drawing her attention. Dáire had successfully pulled her away from thoughts of what had happened to him on his

last assignment. Just as he had intended. “He’s going to smack you for telling me that,” she said softly. “Won’t be the first time,” Dáire said. “He needs a woman in his life to keep him on the straight and narrow,” she commented. “Don’t we all?” Dáire asked. She raised her head and looked at him. There were dark shadows lurking in his brown eyes. For the first time, she saw the faint circles hiding under those sensual orbs and the lines that now bracketed his full lips that weren’t there when last they were in bed together. There was suffering etched beneath the handsome exterior that looked back at her and it made her sad. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly. He crushed the now empty can in his hand and—she would have sworn on a stack of bibles—didn’t even look, but pitched the can unerringly into the wastebasket near the hallway into the bath. Untouched, she sat her can of soda on the bedside table and then lay down beside him. He twisted so he faced her, propping his head on his right fist as he gazed down at her. Her legs were bent over the side of the mattress. His right leg was stretched out beside her. He lifted his left to crook it over her thighs, effectively pinning her down as his left hand toyed with the long braid that lay over her shoulder. “When I was over there, I would lie awake at night and mentally trace every inch of your flesh. Sometimes, I could almost smell the sweetness of gardenias drifting on the air and I would ache so bad inside I couldn’t keep from crying.” She stared into his face, saw the loneliness and the despair he didn’t try to hide. “Dáire, I—” He put his fingertips to her lips. “Shh,” he whispered. “I didn’t tell you that to make you feel sorry for me. I told you because I think you’ve forgotten how much I love you, Star.” She searched his eyes. “I love you too, Dáire.” “Then what are we doing, baby?” he asked. “Why are we apart?” He didn’t try to stop her when she sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “When it was just you and me, I could cope with your leaving for months on end,” she said softly. “It hurt and I worried myself into more than one migraine wondering what you were doing and if you were safe. When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I’d never be able to make it through the entire pregnancy with those worries dogging me.” “You think because you were worried about me that’s why the baby was—” She cut him off with a violent shake of her head. “No, of course not. I know it wasn’t. But breaking it off with you, trying not to spend those months in fear, flinching every time the phone rang and praying it wasn’t Jackson telling me you wouldn’t be coming home took its toll on me, Dáire. I just can’t go through that again.” She locked gazes with him. “I won’t go through that again.”

“So if I want to be with you, you’re making it a stipulation that I leave my job,” he said. She lifted her chin. “That’s what I’m saying. If you can’t do that, it’s best we not see one another again. I’m willing to buy your condo and…” “And what?” he said, eyes narrowing. “Move Yuppie Bad Weave in?” Star’s lips twitched. “I broke it off with him this evening,” she told him. “He didn’t like it, but he was getting a bit too possessive for my comfort.” “I’m not selling my home,” he stated, his eyes fierce, although his heart was soaring with the news she’d just given him. “Okay, then if you want to stay at your job, you can buy me out,” she said. “And if I decide to call it a day? To quit?” he asked. “You’d make me the happiest woman in Bay County,” she replied. They stared at one another for a long moment then Dáire let out a long breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call Gentry tonight and let her know I won’t be coming back.” “You’re sure?” she pressed. “If you need to take some time to think about it—” “Gentry gave me an ultimatum this morning. I could either get you out of my system or work things out between us. If working things out means giving up my job, then that’s what it will be. I don’t know how the hell I’ll make a living, but we’ll cross that bridge when the time comes,” he said. “You could always become my boy-toy,” she declared with a smarmy grin. “There’s always that,” he agreed. “Might be a kinky enough arrangement, I guess.” The grin slowly disappeared from her lush mouth. “If you do this, Dáire, there won’t be any going back. You can’t slip behind my back and take on assignments, trying to hide them from me.” “I understand,” he said, shifting uncomfortably as he lay there looking up at her. “No lies between us,” she stressed. “No lies,” he capitulated. He reached up to cup her check. “I promise.” “It’ll be a deal breaker otherwise,” she wanted clarified. He pulled her down beside him and curled her body close to his, his chin resting atop her head. He spent the next hour staring blindly at the ceiling.

Chapter Five

Star was asleep in his bed when Dáire quietly left the rumpled sheets behind and went into the great room, gently closing the bedroom door behind him. Lightning was flaring out on the bay and the wind was singing in the eaves as he went to stand at the sweep of windows overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Even though he was standing there in the nude, he wasn’t concerned with anyone seeing him from a passing ship out on the water. Such things had never bothered Dáire Cronin. A few spots of water had already gathered on the windowpanes, sparkling like loose diamonds in the flash of light. Thunder rumbled out on the water in a low, bass voice, signaling one of the frequent summer storms that brewed in the warm clime. Dáire stood there for a long time, watching the advancing storm, feeling as unsettled in his personal life as the skies were in its upheaval. Indecision struck at him with blunt talons raking down his back and he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to rid himself of the uncertainty that sat so heavily on his soul. Having been born to a career Army father and Air Force brat mother, Dáire had never lived anywhere other than base housing until he left for college. He had gone to FSU on an Army ROTC scholarship. Upon graduation, he’d received his commission in the regular Army and had been chosen for Special Ops, assigned to Fort Benning, Georgia, in the seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment as a member of America’s elite Rapid Deployment Force. He had been twenty-two years old, a brand-spanking new second lieutenant with more fervor than sense. Now—fourteen years later—he was still a soldier but in a clandestine government Black Ops unit known only to a select few as The Cumberland Group. He knew no other way of life than that of the military, of guns and war and doing one’s duty for his country. He didn’t think he was suited for anything else. Raking his hands through his hair, he tugged at the thick strands, welcoming the slight pain that took his thoughts temporarily from the reckless promise he’d made Star. As much as he loved her, as much as he wanted to be with her, he had no idea how he could possibly keep that promise. He’d never lied to her—at least that he could remember—and knowing he would never be able to break away from The Cumberland Group either easily or successfully until they were ready to allow him to go sat heavily on his mind like a lead weight. They might terminate him—as Gentry had threatened that morning—but it also might be with extreme prejudice. He knew far too much to be allowed to just walk away. And there was the matter of Jackson. Who would Jackson be partnered with if Dáire were allowed to quit? Would that man look after the bumbling, retired Fibber or cast him to the winds the first time Jackson screwed up—something he regularly did, living up to Dáire’s nickname for him. Dáire turned and looked at the phone. He needed to talk to Gentry, and he knew even this late at night the woman would still be up, still be at her desk. Sometimes he thought she was nothing more than an automaton, a cyborg programmed to work 24/7. That she had little human feelings—no human emotion other than anger—made her a formidable enemy, and making her his enemy was not something Dáire wanted to do. He was about to walk to the phone when he felt Star’s presence in the great room. She was standing in the doorway, the sheet from his bed wrapped around her. “It’s about to storm,” she said, and there was disquiet in her pretty green eyes. Knowing she was terrified of bad weather, he went to her and drew her into his arms. He could feel her trembling against him even though the thunder was miles away. Swinging her up against him, he carried her back to the bedroom and laid her on the bed, tugging the sheet away from her naked body before settling his own beside her.

“What were you doing?” she asked, flinching as light pulsed beyond the windows. “Just watching the storm coming,” he answered. He knew the best way to get her mind off the tempest and slid his hand to her breast, gently squeezing. “You were thinking about your job,” she said. “That too.” He molded the sweet flesh of her breast then leaned over her, drawing the dusky nipple into the warmth of his mouth. He closed his eyes as she threaded her fingers through his hair to anchor his head to her. “Are you having second thoughts?” she asked. “Uh-uh,” he grunted, and swirled his tongue over her hardening nipple, flicking at the pebbly head. “Did you call your boss?” Dáire slid his hand to the juncture of her thighs. Gently he spread her vaginal lips apart with his index and ring finger and used his middle finger to slowly stroke her clitoris. Star squirmed beneath his ministrations. She drew in a long breath and held it as he continued to rub her most sensitive nub. A little moan pressed from her throat and her fingers tightened in his hair. Dáire caught her nipple between his teeth and lightly nibbled, hearing his lady’s gasp of pleasure, then slipped his finger into her wet sheath. The muscles of her vagina clenched around him, warmth flowed and her body tensed under his touch. She flinched as a shriek of lightning pierced the sky so he drove his finger deeper, wriggled it within her. “Dáire,” she whispered, almost purring like a little kitten. She writhed, squeezing her legs together. He released her nipple and lifted his head. “No,” he said, and withdrew his finger to push her legs apart. “Lay still, baby. Let me pleasure you.” Star tucked her lower lip between her teeth and did as he commanded. She reached up to grip two of the thick vertical spindles on the brass headboard in her hands. She clung to them as waves of delight rippled down her body. A fleeting thought of how much she loved Dáire’s wicked bed—as she had labeled it—drifted through her mind and she smiled. Cast from genuine brass, the bed had been designed by Dáire long ago. The six end posts of the wrap-around headboard and footboard—two at each compass point, one six inches lower than the other—were six inches in diameter with the tallest ones on the headboard being six feet in height. “It’s my six, six, six bed,” he’d informed her when the delightful bed was being brought in by the master craftsman who had created it. “Six posts with two six-feet-tall head posts, each head post six inches in diameter.” “A wicked bed,” she had remarked, impressed by the high sheen of the brass and the six jet-black porcelain finials that capped the posts.

“A wicked bed in which to do wicked things,” he had boasted, slipping his arm around her waist. A chisel-carved intricate center scroll in a Celtic bird design graced both headboard and footboards under a graceful arch and below the boxed-in scrolls were six widely spaced curved spindles that bore a strong resemblance to serpents slithering up from the floor. “A very wicked bed,” Star had observed as the bed was being assembled. Her eyes had danced with delight when the two thick visco-foam mattresses had been brought in to lie atop the slats. Many a wondrous night had been spent in Dáire’s sumptuous bed. Beneath cool ice-blue satin sheets and a duvet in rich black suede, she had lost herself to his questing hands and demanding body over and over again. Dáire’s lips were sliding along the valley between her breasts. “You’re thinking about the bed again,” he accused. Star smiled. “I love you only for your bed, Cronin,” she told him. “Let’s see if I can give you something else to occupy your wandering mind,” he whispered. Trailing nibbling kisses down her chest, her belly and into the curly thatch that rested at the top of her long legs, he slid farther down the bed. Crawling over her left leg, he positioned himself in the spread V of her limbs and lowered his lips to the wet heat that beckoned him. Although Star had not been a virgin when she had first lain in Dáire’s arms, she had never experienced the true delights an experienced man intent on giving his partner pleasure could bestow. This man was content to spend as much time as needed in foreplay in order to bring his woman to the very peak of aching release before allowing her to plummet to the depths of satiation. He was an expert at the very thing he was now doing to her body and could turn her into a mass of writhing, moaning jelly as his tongue, teeth and lips went into overdrive. She released her grip on the spindles then tightened it again as his tongue slid slowly along the folds of her vagina—first up one side then down the other, lapping at her moist flesh as though she were an ice-cream cone. The heat of his breath against her sensitive skin sent shivers racing along her spine and made her womb clench with need. He swirled the tip of his soft weapon over and around her clit, stabbed at that hardening root, then drew the prepuce—that delicate fold of skin covering her clitoris—into the warmth of his mouth, suckling it, tasting it, turning her insides to mush as his teeth grazed her. Twisting beneath his tender assault, Star bit her lip to keep from crying out. She knew from experience that one groan, one moan, one tiny squeak of sound would prolong the exquisite torment he was intent on delivering. Her heart was pounding in her chest—the blood rushing through her veins to pool in a heated lake in her nether regions. Dáire slid his hands beneath her hips and lifted her up so he could have better access. He dragged the broad plain of his tongue over her vaginal lips from just above her anus to the spiky growth of hair above her clitoral hood. Once. Twice. Three times until she bucked in his grip, thrusting her hips up in offering, in pleading. Outside the storm had reached the shore and lightning was flaring almost constantly. Shrill shrieks across the sky were followed by booming thunder, but Dáire doubted Star was aware of the violence of the gale

lashing at the bedroom windows. Though rain hammered against the panes and a strobe-like flash came every few seconds, he knew she was now lost in the needs her body insisted she fulfill. Sliding his body over hers, he slanted his mouth across her lips and claimed her. It was a demanding kiss—one filled with possession. She could taste her essence on his tongue, could smell her spice on his lips, and her body shuddered with want. She put her arms around him, brought her legs up to wrap around his hips as he arched against her, thrusting unerringly into her channel, going deep—deeper still—until he was seated as far as his large member would be allowed to go inside her. With their mouths fused, their bodies linked, Dáire began a long, hard pumping into her core. He was as hard as broadsword steel and her velvet sheath clung to him with intense warmth and slickness. Sliding in and out of her luscious body, he strove to touch her innermost being with the tip of his cock. He drove into her with increasing rhythm and depth until she was clinging to him, riding him with every stroke, every push and every well-timed thrust. His fingers were digging into her buttocks, welding her to him as he pushed into her sleek moistness. He could feel her nails scoring the flesh of his back but the minute pain only spurred him on. As the first tiny squeezes began along the length of him—milking him as Star’s inner muscles fluttered—Dáire broke away from her greedy mouth and buried his face along her neck, gasping for breath as he felt his own climax hovering within his reach. Star stiffened and her legs grasped him tightly as her release spread over her in waves of pulsing delight. She ground her lower body against him in an effort to scratch the itch that was consuming her. His cock was huge, hard, pressing almost painfully against her center. She felt every spasm that flexed his staff when he came. Every tug, every jump, every little ripple as his cum spurted deep inside her, prolonging her own contractions, extending the tremors of passionate delight that rocked through her lower body. She quivered, her entire body nothing more than a mass of putty in his proficient hands. Limbless, she melted into the bed, arms thrown wide as though she were a virginal sacrifice, her legs limp, lying alongside his as she collapsed in fulfillment. Dáire lay upon her, no energy left to heave himself up, roll himself off her sweaty body. He was as drained as he could never remember being with no strength left to move. His full weight was upon her and the realization of that hit him at last. He started to slide off her, but she would not allow it, instead, throwing her arms around him to hold him to her. “I’ll squish you,” he whispered. “I love the feel of you on me,” she said. “I love your weight pressing me down.” “I’ll hurt you.” She allowed him to shift just a little so that his entire heaviness was not crushing her beneath him. He still lay between her legs, his groin against hers, the side of his face pressed to her shoulder. She was stroking his damp hair with one hand while the fingers of her other hand dragged in lazy spirals along the biceps of his left arm. While thunder boomed now in the distance as the storm moved farther inland, they lay quietly—each lost in their own thoughts—until sleep gently reached up to lure them back.

Chapter Six

“I always go over to Pensacola on Sundays to see Jillian,” Star told him the next morning as she dried herself off in the shower. “Do you think maybe we can spend the night over there tonight?” Dáire leaned over the sink and spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the bowl. “Sure,” he said, scooping water up in his hand to rinse his mouth. He dried his lips on the hand towel hanging beside the sink. “I need to call Del and let him know I won’t be in tomorrow,” she said then paused in drying her arms. “Or the day after.” She looked at him. “I really don’t know how long we’ll be gone.” “Did they say how long it would take to do the donation?” he asked. “A couple of days of recuperation if all goes well,” she said. “You’re in good health, aren’t you?” “Far as I know,” he replied. He had yet to call Gentry, and he knew if he told her about the bone marrow donation all hell would break loose. His body wasn’t his own—it belonged to The Cumberland Group. There was a chance they could try to prevent him from giving his daughter the bone marrow. Star stepped out of the shower—leaving the water on for him—then wrapped the towel around her. “You didn’t catch anything when you were on your last assignment, did you?” “Nothing that wasn’t cured while I was in Paris,” he answered. He padded over to the shower, bumped her with his hip before climbing inside. “Unless you count the bad case of depression I brought back with me.” Star swiveled her head around to watch him as he bathed. She enjoyed looking at his taut, well-developed muscles and as he soaped himself down, she felt another stirring of lust pool in her body. “I’m going to go back to my place and pack a few days’ worth of clothing,” she called out to him, knowing if she stayed, she’d jump him as soon as he came out of his bath. “See you in about thirty minutes?” “Okay,” he said, pouring shampoo into his cupped palm. “I’ve got to pack too so make it forty-five minutes.” “Sure thing.” As soon as he washed the suds from his hair, Dáire hurriedly finished his shower. He had a phone call to make and very little time in which to get it done if he wanted to speak with Gentry without Star there to listen in. The connection went through on the very first ring and he had an uneasy feeling she’d been waiting for the call, sitting there in expectation of hearing from him. “So what’s it to be, Cronin?” were the first words out of Gentry’s mouth. “We’re back together again,” he told her. “Figures.” The word sounded like a curse on the older woman’s lips.

“How’s Jackson?” he asked in a bid to change the subject. “Since you are going to be out of commission for at least six weeks, there is nothing to be gained by giving you any information regarding Jackson,” Gentry snapped. “What do you mean?” Dáire asked. “Do you really think I don’t know about the child’s problem, Cronin?” Gentry queried. “I know all about the possible donation.” She was silent for a long moment then her next words sounded ominous. “We could stop you if we were so inclined.” “She’s my daughter,” he said. “Unfortunately for her, she is,” Gentry said. “Call when you get out of the hospital and have fully recovered and we will discuss your next assignment.” She paused as though waiting for him to say something and when he didn’t, she hung up. ***** “You’re being awful quiet,” Star said. She glanced at him as they drove along Interstate 10, the top down on her spiffy little BMW 645Ci convertible. The powerful engine of the sleek silver car purred along at eighty mph, passing most everything else on the slab. Daire’s thick hair was disheveled, blowing in the wind, but that only added to his predatory male beauty. With the dark Ray-Bans snug over his eyes, the front of his white shirt billowing against his deep tan, his bare feet braced on the dashboard, those female drivers they passed never failed to do a double take at the man in Star’s passenger seat. “I’ve got a headache,” he said. “Want me to put the top up?” “No.” Star looked at him again and her body melted. She was no more immune to him than the woman in the other lane who was gawking so hard at him she almost swerved off the road. His right hand was resting on his right knee, his fingers tapping out a rhythm of their own. He was staring straight ahead, and in profile, he looked like a statue of a Greek god. “How ‘bout stopping in Milton and letting me get a drink?” he asked. Star understood he didn’t mean liquor. It was the Southern way of expressing a desire for soda and to Dáire’s way of thinking there was only one brand of soda that would do. They had just crossed the county line into Santa Rosa County and it would be a few miles before the next turnoff for a convenient store. She knew he was aware of how far they’d have to travel before he could get something to help his headache. “You got some aspirin in that suitcase you call a purse?”

“Excedrin Migraine,” she said. “Okay,” he said, and laid his head back on the headrest. Star was passing a car full of teenage girls and she jumped when the young driver laid on her horn and the shrill voices of adolescent lust yelled out to Dáire. “Hey, baby!” “Hubba, hubba, dude!” The teenagers sped up, keeping pace with Star’s car. “Looking good, stud!” Star saw Dáire turn his head toward them and lower his Ray-Bans down his nose a bit. He must have either winked or smiled at the girls for they were making more catcalls, one going so far as to lean out the back window and pull up her T-shirt for him to get a view of her naked, young breasts. “Nice!” Star heard him compliment as she slammed her foot down on the accelerator before he caused an accident. With expert handling, she maneuvered the sports car past a semi and a truck towing a trailer, wanting to put as much distance as possible between her and the randy teenagers. Dáire looked over at her and grinned, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Starlight.” Star snorted. “What of?” she countered. “Jail bait?” “Gotta start somewhere,” he chuckled. Star checked her rearview mirror—half expecting to see the girls speeding toward her—but the little blue car was hemmed in behind the semi and the truck with the trailer. She eased up on the accelerator because a minivan was riding alongside a cement truck, blocking the inside lane. “Come on, move it,” Star snapped. She was practically riding the minivan’s rear bumper. “What the hell is he doing?” “Sitting there with his thumb up his ass, trying to work things out,” Dáire replied. “Flash him your lights.” Star reached down to do so but the cement truck slowed down going up a slight incline and the minivan passed it, swung into the truck’s lane almost immediately. The blast of the truck’s horn made Star jump but Dáire just laughed. “Where’s a smoky when you need one?” Star complained. Taking the FL-87S exit, Star pulled into the truck stop a few hundred yards down the road and waited in the car for Dáire to get them both something to drink. While she waited, she rummaged in her oversized handbag for the pills to help his headache. “Jazzy little car there, mama,” someone said, and Star looked up. A man had come out of the truck stop

and was ogling her as he leaned his hip against the front of a pickup truck that had seen better days. “Ah, thanks,” she said, and continued looking through her purse. “Bet it could get up to a hundred in a flash, huh?” the man asked. He pushed away from the truck. “Bet your head could too if you take one more step toward my woman,” Dáire said. His menacing words had been spoken in a soft voice but the man to whom they were directed instantly stopped in mid stride. Though Dáire looked yuppified—as he and Jackson would have termed it—with his white silk shirt, black trousers and black loafers—there was something very deadly in the way he stood, the way his sunglass-clad vision was directed toward the man in the frayed baseball hat, dirty T-shirt and rumpled jeans. The trucker sniffed, ran his arm under his nose, tugged on the brim of his baseball cap then spun around on his heel and went back into the truck stop. “Get in the car,” Star said. She had a feeling the man had gone back inside for reinforcements. Dáire was hoping he had. Although his head was pounding, he would have welcomed taking a few rednecks down a peg or two. “Please?” Star begged, keeping an eye on the door to the truck stop. Taking his time folding his tall body into the sports car, Dáire didn’t bother directing his attention to the truck-stop door. If anyone were foolhardy enough to come out to have a little dance with him, he would be glad to oblige. In the mood he found himself, smashing his fist into a beer-puffed face might help to ease the tension. Star didn’t give him a chance to find out. As soon as he shut the car door, she shot out of the gravel-paved parking lot—gravel spraying under her wheels—and was back on the highway, taking the on-ramp to the interstate before he could pop the tabs on the cans of soda. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Dairy Crow,” she threw at him. Dáire chuckled like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar and took a long swig of his soda. “Here,” Star said, extending the bottle of analgesic toward him. The drive to Sacred Heart where Jillian had been admitted to the Children’s Hospital took a while. Sunday drivers seemed to be out in force and not a one of them seemed to mind driving well under the posted speed limits and braking for no apparently good reason, slowing down Star’s progress. Following behind an elderly couple whose turn signal continued to flash long after they’d pulled in front of Star, was like residing in the first circle of hell. Dáire’s fingers were drumming on the side mirror as though he could hurry them up with the repetitious movement. “I hope I don’t live to be that old,” he said as they crawled along behind the aged couple. “Don’t worry,” Star said. “I’ll put you in a home long before you’re a menace to fellow drivers.”

“That’s good to know,” he agreed. They turned down Brent Lane as Ma and Pa Driver continued on their merry way, turn signal still flashing. The parking garage of the hospital seemed overly crowded for a weekend but, luckily, Star was able to find a good space. She turned off the engine and twisted in her seat, unwrapping the scarf she had tied around her long hair to keep it from blowing in her face. As she folded the gauzy material, she could not help but notice Dáire’s left foot was bouncing on his leg nervously. “Are you okay?” she asked. Dáire nodded but didn’t speak. “She doesn’t bite.” The man who had dodged flying bullets with aplomb, who had suffered untold agonies for months on end and who had killed more men than he could number, was trembling when Star reached out to place her hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Dáire.” He turned bleak, wounded eyes to her. “What do I say to her, Star?” he asked. “How am I supposed to—?” “Just relax,” she told him. “That’s all you need to do.” Nodding his assent even though he wanted to leap out of the car and run as fast and as far as he could, he reached for the door handle, annoyed with himself that his hand was shaking. Star opened her door and got out. She understood his nervousness, but there really wasn’t anything she could say or do to reassure him. This was his child he was meeting for the first time, and nothing could prepare him. It was not going to be an easy thing for him to see their special-needs daughter. Already she feared he blamed himself for Jillian’s condition. He had practically said as much when he’d told Star about his aunt with Down’s syndrome. He joined her at back of the car, reaching out to take her hand as they started walking. “Will she be able to understand what I say to her?” he asked. “She’ll respond to your words, though how much she understands is anyone’s guess. She’s only ten months old, sweetie,” Star said. “She’s been feeling pretty rotten since they admitted her so she may not be in a good frame of mind. She was fussing like crazy when I was here yesterday morning.” The ride up in the elevator was done in silence. Their fingers were threaded tightly together and when they got off the elevator, Star heard Dáire sigh deeply. “I have never liked hospitals,” he said in way of explanation. “Nobody does,” she replied. His footsteps became slower with each step he took until he came to an abrupt stop, shaking his head. “I can’t,” he said. He met her eyes and there were tears in his. “I can’t do this, Star.”

Star put her free hand up to his cheek and cupped it. “I understand. You want to wait here while I go see her?” He nodded, unable to speak. Withdrawing his hand from hers, he shoved them into his pockets and stood there with shoulders hunched, drawn in upon himself. “Just wait right here.” He watched her walking down the hall and called himself a coward a thousand times before he saw her coming back. He had paced the corridor numerous times—feeling the sympathetic eyes of the nurses—but could not find the courage to go after Star. He was more than willing to give their child whatever she needed in order for her to thrive, but he was not brave enough to meet her. Star hadn’t been gone all that long, but it felt like hours to him as she came up to him and slipped her arm through his. “Dr. Powell will have his nurse set up a time for you to come in and be tested in the morning. He said it might be possible to do the donation a day or two later. Is that all right with you?” “Yeah,” Dáire said, feeling as though a load of brick were being piled on his chest. “He told me the procedure won’t take long and you’ll be in the hospital only a day unless there are complications. He’ll go over all that with you tomorrow.” “Okay.” Star eased him into movement, ushering him back to the elevator. “Let’s go get some lunch,” she said. He stopped, his head down. “Star, I’m sorry. I…” “It’s all right,” she said. “I understand.” Lifting his eyes to her sweet face, he asked if she really did. “Yes, baby. I do,” she replied. “The important thing is that you’re here and you’re going to help our daughter.” All the way back to the parking garage, Dáire hated himself more with every step. Star was being so patient with him, so understanding, but he no more understood his reluctance to meet Jillian than he could have taken wing and sailed across the lowering sky. “Looks like another storm is headed in,” Star said as she pulled out onto Ninth Avenue. “Do you hate me?” he asked in a soft voice. “Of course not,” she said. “I hate me,” he confessed. Pulling into a used-car parking lot, Star put the car in park and turned to face him. “Dáire, there is no reason to feel that way. She wouldn’t have known who you were anyway.” “But she’s my daughter,” he said, his chin trembling. “Why couldn’t I go in there and see her, Star?”

Before Star could answer, a few raindrops fell and she decided to put the top up. As soon as the canopy was in place, the skies opened and a torrent of rain began to fall. “Man, that was close,” she said with a laugh. Dáire was sitting there with his hand across his eyes and his leg was bouncing again. It was a habit he had whenever he was upset. “The motel I usually stay at is over on Airport Boulevard,” she said. “How ’bout we go check in then get lunch? Maybe the rain will have slacked off by then.” “Whatever you want,” he answered listlessly. “Is your head still hurting?” “Like a big dog,” he replied. Star reached out and put her hand on his thigh, feeling the muscles bunch beneath her palm. “It’s tension, baby. Try to relax and it’ll go away.” “I’m a prick,” he stated. “I won’t argue with you there,” she said, and removed her hand. Glancing behind her, she pulled out into traffic, the windshield wipers slapping vigorously as the rain slammed against the glass. Star drove down to the motel she had used many times before and Daire got out to register them. He came back with a keycard and an annoyed look on his face. “There’s a damned reunion of some kind in town and the only room they had left was a double with two full-sized beds. I wasn’t going to take it but she said we’d be lucky to find anything else.” Star looked out over the parking lot of the motel. It was packed with cars. “She may be right.” “Let’s just go eat,” he said. “Maybe by the time we get back someone will have left so we can get a decent parking place.” There was a waiting line inside the restaurant and nowhere to sit while they waited. Rather than leaving and running the gantlet beneath the punishing rain, they decided to stay. Dáire leaned against the wall and drew Star back against him, gently cradling her in his arms. An elderly couple smiled at them. A middle-aged couple frowned and a teenage couple rolled their eyes at the public display of affection, as though they were the only ones allowed such behavior. Dáire stared at the teenagers for a moment then lowered his mouth to Star’s ear. “How do you think I’d look with my eyebrow pierced?” he whispered. Star had also been staring at the teens. Dressed in the faddish Goth style, the young man had both eyebrows as well as his lower lip pierced and the girl had studs in both sides of her nose, a bar in the bridge of her nose and at least nine rings in her left ear. “Like a fool,” she whispered back to Dáire. “I think it looks cool,” he said.

“You would.” He continued to stare at the teenage boy. Remembering getting his left ear pierced right after leaving the Rangers, he recalled all too well the severe tongue-lashing he’d received from Gentry. A smile crept across his face. Although he hadn’t worn a hoop in his ear in over eight years and knew the hole had closed up, he decided to get it redone and look into the eyebrow thing for good measure. “Dude, what’s your problem?” the Goth girl asked, her kohl-lined eyes boring into Dáire. “Like, didn’t your mother ever tell you it was rude to stare?” Dáire grinned and just as any woman who was the recipient of that sensual smile, the girl melted. “I like your tat,” he told her. The girl blushed. “Yeah, like, thanks.” She reached up to touch the spider web tattooed on her right shoulder. “You got one?” Dáire nodded. He took his arms from around Star and stepped around her, walked over to the couple and undid the top three buttons of his shirt, pulled the fabric back to show them his tattoo. “Cool!” the young man said. “You’re a Ranger!” “Was,” Dáire said. “Uber-bad, dude,” the girl said in an awed voice. “Dude, that’s awesome!” the young man said. “Did you go to Iraq?” “In 1990,” he answered. “During the first Gulf War.” “Outstanding,” the young man pronounced, and looked annoyed that the hostess called him and his date for their table. He reached out to shake Dáire’s hand. “Like really outstanding, dude! Thanks for like what you did over there.” Dáire took the proffered hand, shook it and then went back to Star as the young couple was led to their table. “Show-off,” Star whispered to him as he re-buttoned his shirt. She’d seen the crimson skull with the banners over and above the grinning skeleton face that read Airborne and Ranger so many times, she no longer noticed it. “When I came back from Vietnam, punks like that spat on me,” a middle-aged man commented to his wife loud enough for everyone waiting for a table to hear. “Yeah, you and me both,” another man agreed sourly. He gave Dáire a nasty look. “When I got back,” the elderly man said, “they threw us a ticker-tape parade.” He winked at Dáire. “Everything that goes around comes around, doesn’t it, son?” “Yes, sir,” Dáire answered. The two middle-aged couples were called in next, but not before the wife of one winked at Dáire.

Luckily, her husband didn’t see her commission of treason. “Cronin, party of two,” the hostess called out. Sitting down at the table to which they’d been shown, Star leaned over and batted her eyes at Dáire. “Does ’em the big bad Ranger feel’em better now him’s been appropriately hero-worshipped?” Dáire shrugged. “A little worshipping never hurt a guy’s ego, Starlight.” He took up the menu. “Wouldn’t hurt you to do a little worshipping at my feet, wench.” “Like, dream on, dude,” Star said in imitation of the young girl’s speech. Although he still had a bitching headache, Dáire found he was hungry. He took a sip of the icy water the waitress had placed in front of him and asked Star if she had any more Excedrin. “Not this soon,” she said. “It hasn’t even been two hours since you took the other ones.” She frowned. “Is it that bad?” “Bad enough,” he replied. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you being so good to me, Star? I don’t deserve it.” “True,” she said as she ran her fingertip around the rim of her water glass. “Let’s just say I’m getting senile in my advancing years.” He smiled at her. “You will be the same gorgeous woman at eighty that you are at thirty-six.” Star sighed. “And you’ll still be shooting the shit when you’re ninety.” “I won’t live that long,” he said. At her frown, he nudged her foot with his beneath the table. “You’ll have worried me to death long before then.” Star knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. She looked out across the room. “Did you call your boss?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she looked back at him. “Let’s not discuss this now,” he said. Before Star could respond, the waitress appeared to take their order. Surprised at what Dáire ordered, she only ordered a cup of broccoli cheese soup, a small tossed salad with blue cheese dressing and half a ham sandwich on rye bread for herself. When she cocked an eyebrow at him, he shrugged. “Did you happen to see the pizza box beside my door this morning?” he inquired. “I smelled it as soon as I walked out,” she said. “That was to be my supper last night.” She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry. Now that you mention it, I saw Malcom with the box last evening.” “Doesn’t matter,” he told her.

“So when can we discuss it?” she asked, not letting him off the hook. He met her gaze. “When we get back to the motel.” “Promise?” A muscle jumped in Dáire’s cheek. “Yeah, Star, I promise.”

Chapter Seven

It was still raining when they arrived back at the motel. Luckily, Star was able to find a parking slot close to the inside stairway up to their room. While Dáire brought in their overnight bags, Star went up to the room to open the door. The room was a bit musty but cool with the air conditioner humming softly in the background. “Want me to get some ice?” Dáire asked as he brought in their bags. “Please.” She picked up the ice bucket and handed it to him. “And some drinks too.” “Snacks?” “Sure,” she answered, turning on the television. Dáire was gone longer than she would have expected, and when he knocked on the door, she opened it to find him soaking wet, his hair plastered to his head. He was carrying a couple of plastic bags. “What in the world did you do, Cronin?” she asked. “You said you wanted snacks,” he said, dropping the bags on the round table beside the door, “so I got snacks.” “Enough for a party from the looks of it,” she said on a long sigh. “So I’m a carb freak,” he defended his actions. “If you don’t want the chocolate-covered cherries and peanut brittle—” “Gimme!” she demanded, heading for the bags. He snaked an arm around her middle and pulled her back from the table. “I don’t think so, missy,” he said, swinging her around. He enveloped her in his arms and pulled her to him. “Say I’m sorry for being facetious, Dairy Crow.” She wedged her arms up so she could circle his neck. “I’m sorry you were facetious, Dairy Crow,” she said sweetly. Lifting her, he walked over to one of the beds and dropped down on it with her still in his tight grasp. His mouth slanted across hers to stop her from protesting. Drawing his right leg up, he planted it firmly between her thighs, reveling in the gasp that tightened her arms around his neck.

Star pulled her mouth from his. “That’s not fair,” she stated. “You’re trying to distract me and you’re soaking wet, Cronin.” “Distract you from what?” he asked, lowering his lips to the side of her neck. “From chastising you for being a carb-o-holic,” she answered. “I need fuel for the love engine, baby,” he pointed out as he ran the tip of his tongue into the delicate spiral of her ear. Star wriggled beneath him, waves of pleasure shuddering through her as he blew his warm breath into her ear. “You’re not playing fair.” “Never said I did,” he mumbled, and in a lithe push was off her and striding away from the bed. Sitting up, Star watched him strip off his shirt. True to form, he slung it across the room where it landed on the back of a chair. She smiled as he worked his belt open and pulled it from his trousers. Watching him unzip did funny things to her lower belly. “Stop ogling me, woman,” he grumbled. The wet trousers joined the shirt and Star’s eyes followed him as he opened his overnight bag and pulled out a pair of shorts. “Still don’t wear underwear, huh?” she asked. “What’s this obsession you and Jackson have with me not wearing skivvies?” he inquired. “Well, I don’t know about Jackson, but I like knowing there’s nothing between you and your jeans,” she told him. “Why’s Jackson obsessing about your lack of bippies?” “He worries about skidmarks,” Dáire said. “Eeeww!” she protested. “Just a bit more information than I needed.” She watched him step into the shorts then go into the bathroom for a towel to dry his hair. “I thought we could go over to Sneaky Pete’s for supper,” she called out to him. “Is that okay?” “Fine by me, though I’ll have to pass on his Bloody Marias,” he said with a heartfelt sigh. “Yeah, I guess you should,” she agreed. “Do you know how they harvest bone marrow from a donor?” he asked as he came back to the bed and sat down beside her. “From your hip,” she answered. “They insert a large, hollow needle, but they’ll put you out for it. I believe they take like two quarts.” “Ouch,” he said. “You’ll be sore for a few days to a few weeks, but there shouldn’t be any other problems.”

“I don’t suppose…” The phone on the bedside table chimed and both of them jumped. He looked at her. “Did you tell anyone we’d be here?” “No,” she said. Dáire twisted around and plucked the receiver from its base. “Hello?” “I want you to check in with me every day,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “No excuses will be accepted. Is that understood?” His eyes narrowed with fury, Dáire was clutching the phone so tightly his knuckles were bleeding of their color. “Yeah,” he barked. “Don’t make me be obliged to send an operative to ensure you cooperate, Cronin,” Gentry warned. “I said all right!” he snarled into the phone. “As soon as you are released from the hospital, you are to go to the Pensacola airport and wait for pickup. You’ll be sent to Bethesda until you are able to return to duty. That order, by the way, is not negotiable.” “Damn it, I’m not…” he began but the line went dead, the connection broken. Cursing, he slammed the receiver down as hard as he could. Star put a hand on his back, concerned when he jumped at her touch. “Was that her?” she asked. “They must be tracking my fucking credit card,” he said. “Goddamn her. Why the hell can’t she just leave me the fuck alone for once?” He put a hand to his temple where the headache had come back with a vengeance. “They’re not going to allow you to leave them, are they, Dáire?” Star asked quietly. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “They’re not.” She suspected he knew that when he’d made his rash promise to her, but she was too tired and too worried about Jillian to take him to task over it. “If you want me,” he said, not turning around to face her, “that’s the only way it can be. I’ve seen too much. I know too much and I’ve done things you can’t even begin to imagine.” He was rubbing both his temples now, bent slightly forward, his eyes closed. He sounded as tired as she felt, and she knew all too well how brutally the pain was lancing through his head. She got up, went to her purse, took out the Excedrin and shook two more gel caps into her hand. She brought them back to him along with a cold can of soda. “Here, baby,” she said softly. When he’d taken the soda and capsules from her, she went into the bathroom for a wet washcloth, switching off the TV as she went. “Lie down and let them work.” Stretching out, Dáire drew his knees up and lay there with his arm thrown over his eyes. Just like Star,

he was prone to migraines and the one beating at his brain was bad enough to make him shiver—not a good sign. Star came back with the washcloth, nudged his arm away and laid the cold compress on his forehead. “You cold?” “Freezing,” he said. She helped him get under the covers then moved over to the other bed to sit on the edge. “Why don’t I let you try to get some sleep?” “Are you leaving?” he asked. “For a little while,” she answered. “I’ll be back in a few hours in case you feel like going to supper.” He knew she was upset with him, but right then he hurt too bad to argue with her. “Be careful,” was all he said. Star got up, retrieved her purse and keys, and slipped quietly out of the room without another word. ***** The storm had passed by the time Star drove out to Gulf Breeze. She needed the sight of the water—the murky green of the ocean—to soothe her screaming nerves. A walk in the wet sand with the wind blowing through her unbraided hair, waves crashing over her bare toes, was the prescription she’d written for herself to help relieve the pain that was stabbing at her heart. He would never change, she thought as she watched the waves rolling toward her. Somewhere in the deepest part of her she’d known that, but had refused to accept it. Dáire was what he’d been made long ago and never had the old adage of a leopard being unable to change its spots been truer than in regard to him. Even if he wanted things to be different—and she truly doubted he did—he was locked into the life he had chosen and there would be no altering that. As she stood there, tears formed in her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. She was angry. She was hurt. Most of all, she was torn. A part of her wanted to cut her losses and walk away while another part wanted desperately to be with Dáire Cronin. He was the only man she had ever loved, and she feared that would always be the case. Nothing he had done in the past had altered those feelings. Nothing he would do in the future would change how she felt about him. He might make her dislike him, mistrust him, but he would never lose her love. She knew he was caught securely in the trap of his job. Men like him didn’t just turn their backs on such an occupation. Once they had been drawn into the web, it was hell breaking free. “You are a liability to him,” the woman had stated the day Jillian had been born. “An albatross hanging around his neck. Why don’t you just cut your losses and let the man be.” There had been something in that woman’s gaze that had rankled more than her obnoxious, demanding attitude. There had been a spark Star recognized as primordial jealousy. It was there in the steely look, the bitter cast of the mouth, the covetousness threaded through her words, the body language that shouted overwhelming resentment toward Star.

“You’re not about to let him slip through your fingers, are you?” Star asked aloud. The wind threw her words back at her as though it had asked the question of Star. Standing there staring at the turbulent seas, Star realized that no matter what, she would fight for possession of Dáire Cronin. The months apart from him had been sheer torture, and had she known he was physically suffering during their separation, life would have been far, far worse for her. As it was, she had forced herself to go out with men who were nothing more than poor substitutes for the one she wanted—mere shades of a bright sun that had become her world—in order to try to get over Dáire. She now knew that was impossible. She was just as caught in Dáire’s web as was he. Trudging back to her car through the wet sand, Star valiantly tried to put aside the fears she had that something would happen to Dáire. Other women down through the centuries had survived loving men of action, men whose jobs took them into the jaws of danger. If those women could live with the potential loss of their men, Star could learn to live with it too. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the alternative—losing him to another woman—wasn’t worth considering. The drive back to the motel gave her time to decide the best course of action. Every scenario she could imagine popped up to try her resolve, but in the end, the only thing that mattered was that Dáire and she be together. As much as she hated the thought of him being placed constantly in jeopardy, it was who he was, what he was, and in order to be with him, she had to accept that, if not embrace it. Quietly letting herself into their room, she could tell he was asleep. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her, his hands bunching the pillow beneath his head. She eased the door shut and went to sit on the other bed, watching him as his slow, even breathing signaled he was deep in slumber. God, she thought as she looked at him, he was a gorgeous man. Long, thick brown lashes fanned across his high cheekbones and his eyebrows were peaked in such a sensuous way, she ached to trace them with her fingertips. Full, soft lips were parted just a little, the bright whiteness of his teeth gleaming. His dark tan stood out on the starched white sheets. The shiny dark curls tousled so adorably on the pillow made her want to slide her fingers through the sleek thickness. One long, muscled leg crooked at the knee lay outside the covers, and not for the first time did she think he had the most beautiful feet of any man she’d ever known. The scars on his soles from the torture not withstanding, they were gorgeous feet. Wiry swaths of hair matted his legs and chest and arms—not so much that he was hirsute but enough that it beckoned a lover to run her palm over it. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of his cologne—Halston Z-12—and the smell made her weak with lust. There was entirely too much temptation lying an arm’s length away. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her with those glorious brown eyes in which a glint of amber shone. She knew passion could turn that glint to molten gold. “Did I wake you?” she asked. “No,” he answered, and reached out a hand to her. “How’s your head?” she questioned as she took his hand and let him pull her to his bed. “Better,” he replied. He scooted over so she could lie down beside him. “You smell like the sea.” “Egads, Cronin!” she groaned, lifting her arm. “Really?”

“It’s a good smell.” “Not rotting kelp, then?” she wanted clarified. “Or stinking fish?” “More like the ocean in the early morning,” he told her, “when the wind is fresh and there’s a tang of salt in the air.” She nuzzled against his shoulder, her hand on his slightly damp chest. “It stopped raining for a while, but it was starting up again when I got out of the car.” “What time is it?” “A little after six,” she answered. “How long was I asleep?” “I don’t know, baby,” she replied. “I was gone a few hours.” “Deciding whether or not you were going to leave my ass?” he asked softly. “Well, I can’t very well leave your ass if I take the rest of you, now can I?” she asked. Dáire stopped breathing for a moment. He turned his head on the pillow so that he was looking into her eyes. “Does that mean what I think it means?” The phone rang at that moment. “Don’t answer it,” Dáire ordered. They both were staring at the ringing phone. It continued to ring until Dáire threw the covers aside, got up, grabbed the phone and yanked it from the wall outlet. Winding the cord around the base, he walked over and put the phone on the dresser. “Did you ever consider that might have been the hospital?” Star asked quietly. He spun around. “Could it have been?” She smiled. “They would have called me on my cell,” she answered. His eyes shifted to the black pair of trousers he’d worn earlier. Almost as though by magic, his cell phone began trilling. “Oh, Dairy Crow, no!” Star said laughing. The ringtone for his phone was the old Johnny Rivers song Secret Agent Man. Dáire cocked one shoulder. “Seemed fitting. You should hear Jack Off’s if you think mine’s bad.” “No,” she said, drawing the word out. “You aren’t going to tell me…” “Yep,” Dáire said. “The theme from The Six Million Dollar Man.”

Dáire’s incoming call had gone to his mailbox so the phone ceased ringing. He plucked it from his pant pocket, looked at the caller ID and then turned the phone off. “Was it her?” “Whatever she has to say can damned well wait,” he mumbled, sticking the phone back in his wet trousers. Star sat up, drew her knees into the perimeter of her arms and watched him take a drink of his now warm soda. “Do you want to talk about it now?” “Are you going to leave me?” he asked, not looking at her. “No.” “Do you want to?” “Sorta.” He swung his gaze to her. “But you aren’t going to.” “Someone has to keep you grounded,” she said. “Might as well be me.” His smile was a little sad. He headed for the bathroom. “Come take a shower with me, Starlight.” “Only if you promise no hanky-panky,” she said, scooting off the bed and kicking off her sandals. “We know my promises aren’t worth much,” he said. She stopped, and when he looked around at her, she drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” she said, continuing on toward him. “That we do.” He stripped off his shorts, kicked them in the general direction of the bed and then reached behind the vinyl curtain to turn on the shower. As the hot water produced a fine mist of steam, he stood watching Star undress, a slight smile on his face. Star was so meticulous with her clothes. She unbuttoned her slacks, stepped out of them and neatly folded them before laying them aside. Her blouse was next and handled with the same care. She was the only woman he’d ever known who never unhooked her bra, just pulled it over her head when she took it off. She folded the lacy cups together and laid it aside. “Why do you do that?” he’d once asked. “Remove your bra like that?” “My rotator cup gives me hell now and again,” she’d answered. “It’s just easier this way and I don’t have to try to hook it up again when I put it back on.” He felt his cock stir as he stared at her lush breasts. She had beautiful breasts and with her waist-length hair tumbled about her shoulders to hide the rosy peaks, she was like Aphrodite rising naked from the sea on her scallop shell. “Foam born,” he whispered.

Star’s eyebrows drew together. “What?” she asked, her thumbs hook in the waistband of her lacy panties. “Aphrodite was born of the sea’s foam,” he said. “You’re comparing me to that hussy Aphrodite?!” His eyes had turned a molten gold color that signaled to her he was having lascivious thoughts. “She was the mistress of Ares, the god of war, and bore him two sons Phobos and Deimos, and a daughter named—” “Harmonia,” Star concluded for him. “You know your Greeks,” he complimented as he unwrapped a bar of soap from the vanity. “Aphrodite was married to Hephaestus when she took Ares as her lover.” She pushed her panties down her longs legs and stepped out of them. “She also had affairs with Hermes, Poseidon and Dionysus and bore children to each of them. She was a nymphomaniac.” “I beg to differ,” he said as he held the curtain aside for her. His gaze was locked at the juncture of her thighs. “She just made a lot of guys very happy.” “Humph,” Star commented as she climbed into the tub. “And do you know what happened to the son she bore to Dionysus?” He got in behind her. “Can’t say that I do.” “His name was Priapus and because Hera disapproved of Aphrodite’s promiscuity, she gave the child huge genitals. There was a famous painting on a wall in Pompeii of Priapus weighing his large penis.” “Hera was a bitch,” Dáire stated. He put his arms to either side of Star to wet the soap and begin lathering it. “Some women don’t take kindly to having their men look at other women,” she said, leaning back against him. “Some of us get downright pissy about it.” He used his lathered hands holding the soap to bathe her arms, sliding his palms up and down her flesh. “Are you one of those women who gets her panties in a wad over your man ogling other women?” “I don’t mind the looking, per se,” she replied. “It’s the touching that I object to. Touching might earn my man a whittled-down portion of his anatomy.” “That couldn’t be good for his anatomy,” Dáire said. His hands slid from her arms to her back. “Fersure, he’d have a few shortcomings,” Star asserted with a little Valley mixed in. He lathered her from shoulders to waist, running the soap lovingly across her flesh. “Let’s continue that discussion after our shower,” he suggested. “You can sit on my lap and we’ll talk about whatever pops up.”

Star pivoted toward him, his hands dragging over her hips. “Wouldn’t seem like we’d get much talking done that way, Dairy Crow.” “Oh, I don’t know.” He slid his hands up from her hips to her sides then molded them to her breasts, gently massaging the heavy globes. “It might be hard, but I think we could work something into the conversation.” Star shut her eyes as he kneaded her breasts. “A hard man is good to find,” she responded. “That’s what you always say,” he stated. His thumbs were stroking her nipples into hard little pebbles as he stared down into her eyes. Another part of him was lifting its head to gain her attention. Star looked down at the persistent fellow. “You seem to have a problem there, Cronin.” He arched his hips toward her, the head of his cock grazing the tight curls at her thighs. “He’s only got one eye so you might have to lead him where he needs to go.” “Excuses, excuses,” she said. Wrapping her hand around his shaft, she massaged him. “I’m all for helping the handicapped though.” Dáire eased out of her hold then squatted down in front of her so he could lather her hips and legs, insinuating his hands along her inner thighs, dragging the mushy soap along her skin. “I always knew I’d get you on your knees before me eventually,” she teased, her hands smoothing through his dark curls. “In a worshipful position, my lady fair,” he agreed, and bent forward to put a kiss on each thigh. He slid his mouth to the apex of her thighs and flicked out his tongue to taste her. “Wicked, wicked knight,” she breathed, allowing her head to fall back, her eyes to close as he worked his intense magic on her velvety lips. He held his right hand under the water until it was free of suds. “Horny, horny knight,” he corrected then slipped a finger deep inside her. He twisted it gently, looking up at her. Star lowered her head as he withdrew his finger and opened her eyes in time to see him put the finger in his mouth and suck on it. “God, you know what that does to me, Cronin!” she breathed. He grinned. “And that’s wrong because…?” “Screw you, Dairy Crow,” she said, breathing hard. He was off his knees in a shot and grabbing her around her waist. He lifted her against him with ease and grunted as she brought her legs up and wrapped them around his hips. He took a step, pushed her up against the wall and slid his cock unerringly into the wet heaven of her channel. Pistoning his hips like a well-oiled machine, he pounded into her, moving her up and down against the tiled wall as he thrust. “No, baby,” he said, his lips pressed to the hollow of her throat. “I’m gonna screw you.” Her fingernails were digging into his shoulders, her arms lashed tightly around his neck as he drove into

her with abandon. The steel of his rod was sheer pleasure as he pushed deep—probing so far inside her, she could feel him touching her womb. She was tight around him, her muscles gripping him, milking him as he moved in and out in a frenzy of need. The pounding of their bodies slapping together was loud in the confinement of the shower. In and out—drawing back and pushing forward. He took her with a mindlessness that bordered on insanity. She was an itch he had to scratch. His was a fire only she could put out. His hips pummeled her hard until the first faint stirrings of release clenched in their bellies and then his thrusts became a grinding, whiplash plunge. Star felt the tremors building within her as she rode his long, thick rod. She clung to him as though he were her only anchor in life. He was pressed up inside her as far as her sheath would allow. Fire was pooling in her womb and she felt heavy there. She was but a moment’s thrust from what she knew would be one hell of an orgasm. And when it came—for both of them in the exact same moment—he growled his release—she trilled hers as muscles clenched, muscles vibrated and hot cum shot deep within her aching chasm. Breathing hard—lungs labored, hearts pounding—he sagged against her as he held her pressed to the shower wall, pushed as far inside her as he could go. His legs were trembling and she was shivering, but he could not seem to move. There was nothing in the world save the two of them and nothing beyond the slick, water-dotted vinyl curtain that kept that world at bay. For the longest time they stood that way as the water surged over their straining bodies. Dimply they heard a knocking at the door but they ignored it. If someone were looking for them, they would have to wait. It wasn’t until the knock came at the bathroom door that they broke apart, each of them shocked at being so rudely interrupted. “What the hell do you want?” Dáire shouted, his golden eyes hot as molten lava. “Are you all right, sir?” someone asked. “I’m taking a fucking shower!” Dáire yelled. “I’m sorry, sir, but your wife insisted I see if you might be injured. You weren’t answering the phone but I see you removed it from the plug,” the man said in an accusing voice. “Your wife?” Star whispered. Dáire was furious, so enraged he could feel his headache returning with a savage vengeance. He pulled his body from Star’s, flung the shower curtain aside and stepped out of the shower, ignoring the water cascading onto the bathroom floor. Jerking the door open, he advanced on the startled man who backed up hastily. “I don’t have a fucking wife!” Dáire snarled. “If I did, it would be the woman who was sharing the shower with me!” The man glanced past Dáire’s naked shoulder and his face turned white. “I’m sorry, sir, I—” “That woman who called is insane,” Dáire continued as though the man hadn’t spoken. “You get the hell out of here before I pound you into the carpet!”

Fleeing as quickly as he could, the man didn’t even bother to shut the outside door behind him. His running footsteps could be heard pounding down the stairs. “Get dressed, Star,” Dáire ordered. She didn’t need to ask him why. She rinsed off what was left of the suds on her body, turned off the shower and began to hastily dry herself off. From the corner of her eye, she watched Dáire dragging on his clothes, mindless of the moisture clinging to him. “How much money do you have?” he asked as he yanked his shirt on and began buttoning it. “A couple of hundred or so,” she said, coming into the bedroom. She unlatched her overnighter and pulled out a long dress. “I’ve got a debit card, though.” Fishing in the pocket of his black trousers, he took his cell phone out, pushed past Star, opened the lid of the toilet and dropped the phone into the bowl. Star pulled the dress over her head then found a clean pair of panties and stepped into them. “Where do you want to go?” “I don’t give a shit as long as it isn’t where she can trace us,” he snapped. “Dáire, you have to have an ID when you check into a motel. Won’t she find us—?” “Leave that to me,” he snapped. In ten minutes, they were out the door—overnighters in hand—and getting into Star’s BMW. Neither saw the gray sedan that pulled in behind them and kept back a ways as they left the motel.

Chapter Eight

Star looked around nervously as Dáire swiped the license plate off a parked car at the mall. No one was watching that she could see but the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up as she waited for a police car to pull up, lights flashing. “Will you hurry?” she said, leaning out the window. The sun was almost down but there was still enough light for someone to observe what he was doing. Dáire had moved to the back of Star’s car and was replacing her plate with the stolen one. He seemed to take forever before he opened the passenger door and got in. “Go, babe!” he said. Star pulled out of the mall parking lot. “Where are we heading?” “Cantonment,” he answered. “I know a bed and breakfast there.” She turned to look at him, raising a brow. “Oh yeah? And just how do you know about this bed and breakfast?”

“I stayed there a few times before you and I became an item,” he answered. “Really?” She cast him a sideways glance. “We’ve been an item for seven years, Cronin.” He shifted in his seat. “Stop grilling me, Starlight, and pull in your claws. I haven’t willingly touched another woman in all that time.” It was the “willingly” part that brought a frown to Star’s face but she let the matter drop. She knew the kind of profession he had—if not the particulars. Those, she didn’t want to know. She suspected seduction might play a part in what he did from time to time, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t keep her awake at night or bring out the green-eyed monster to prick her. “How do you know the B&B is still there?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t. “It’s there,” he replied. They drove in silence, Star cutting through the Sunday traffic like a pro. She noticed Dáire kept rubbing his right temple and suspected his headache was back. Mentally cursing the woman who had caused all this trouble, she wondered if Dáire had ever been intimate with her but dared not ask. “Take a left on Tate Road,” he told her then directed her far out into the county to an absolutely gorgeous old Antebellum-style plantation house that took her breath away. “My God, Cronin,” Star said in awe. The sweeping vista of the plantation’s lush green front yard with its mass of azaleas bushes, stately magnolias, heavenly scented wisterias and elegant Spanish moss-draped oaks was spectacular in the fading sunlight. In front of the mansion—and it could be nothing less than that—was a black stretch limo. Several very expensive cars sat in the circular drive way and a bright red Ferrari Testarossa perched at the side of the house. “Who owns this?” “A little old lady from Pasadena, believe it or not,” he quipped. “That’s her ‘Rossa.” Star pulled up alongside the limo and Dáire got out. He came around the car and opened her door. “Don’t you think you should check to see if they have a vacancy?” she asked as he held out a hand to her. “She will,” he said confidently, and helped her from the car. Shutting the door, he walked her to the imposing front door and opened it, walking inside as though he owned the place. “Dáire!” Star gasped, amazed at his audacity. “Well, well, well,” an amused voice said. “Look what the cat done drug in.” Star swung her head toward the laughter that followed the statement and blinked at the huge black woman who came toward them, her ample hips rolling from side to side. “How’re they hanging, Bossie?” Dáire asked, letting go of Star’s hand and meeting the fat woman in the center of the vast foyer. “Nearly down to my knees, you little brat,” the woman replied with a hundred-watt grin. She threw her massive arms around Dáire and hugged him. “Where you been, boy?” she asked.

“Here, there,” he answered, and released her. He turned to Star and beckoned her over. “Got someone I want you to meet.” The immense black woman folded her arms over her more than abundant chest and cocked her head to one side. “Who’s this?” “Bossie May, this is my lady,” he said, drawing Star to his side. Star held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. Bossie lifted her chin but ignored the white woman’s hand. “You have affection for this poggleheaded boy, do you?” Star’s face flamed as she lowered her hand. “A great deal, yes, ma’am,” she replied. “Um-huh,” Bossie said, looking Star up and down. “Not much to you, now is there?” The blush deepened on Star’s cheeks. “I…I don’t understand.” “This boy needs a woman who got some stamina,” Bossie decreed. “Don’t look like you got much in the way of staying power to me.” She turned to look at Dáire. “Does she?” Dáire smiled. “She made my pecker so sore this afternoon I’m having trouble walking.” “Liar!” Star hissed. “Scrawny thing like her?” Bossie asked, her forehead crinkled. “Dynamite comes in small packages, baby,” Dáire observed. Bossy put out her hand and her ultra-white smile returned. “Sugar pudding, if you can cripple a boy like him, you’re good to go in my book.” The hand that enfolded Star’s was strong and firm, belying the flab of the massive arms with their copious folds of flesh. Star felt as though she’d put her fingers in a bear trap. “You have a room for us?” Dáire asked. “Always got a room for you, sugar,” Bossie replied. “Supper will be in about twenty minutes.” “You still cooking?” Dáire inquired. “I’m still breathing, ain’t I?” Bossie countered. “Got baked country ham, black-eyed peas, red potatoes, fried okrie, fried crookneck squash, mixed greens with fresh-made pepper sauce, sliced tomatoes, cornbread and for dessert egg pie.” She beamed. “That good enough for you?” “Egg pie?” Star inquired. “Bless your liver, sugar pudding!” Bossie said. “Ain’t you ever had no egg pie?”

Star shook her head. “I don’t think so. What’s in it?” “A dozen eggs,” Bossie explained. “Vanilla, sugar, milk, nutmeg.” She patted Star’s shoulder. “Baby, you’ll think you died and went to heaven eating my egg pie!” Star could feel her arteries clogging just listening to the ingredients. “Sounds great,” she said. “And plenty of real tea to wash it all down with,” Bossie said. “None of that Yankee shit they call ice tea. My tea’s so sweet you can stand a spoon up in it!” “That’s the way I like it,” Star concurred. “Go on up to the rose room, sugar. I’ll have Moss bring your bags in from that fancy little silver car,” Bossie stated. “I’m not here if anyone calls or comes looking,” Daire said. “You’re a ghost, sugar,” Bossie said. “I’m looking straight through you and don’t see no one there.” She winked at Star. “Don’t see you, neither, sugar pudding.” “Thanks, Bossie,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her pudgy ebon cheek. Climbing up the graceful winding staircase, Star felt like Scarlet O’Hara. She half expected to see Rhett Butler lounging in the doorway. “What do you think of Bossie?” Daire asked her. Her hand was clasped firmly in his as they climbed. “She’s quite a character. Is the owner as gregarious?” “Miss Idelle?” he asked. “Well, you’ll have to meet her to believe her.” “How did a woman from California end up in Cantonment, Florida?” “She married a Navy man stationed at Coronado,” he replied. “He was one of the first Navy SEALS back in 1962. When he passed away in 1996, she came down here and built the B&B on land that belonged to his family. His ashes are on the mantel in the parlor.” He led her down a long, deeply carpeted hallway. “She has a fondest for special-forces men.” The room to which he led her was straight out of the Old South. With a huge mahogany four-poster bed that required a step stool to climb atop, massive his and hers armoires, a pristine lace-draped dressing table and satin-covered bench, a separate sitting room with two overstuffed wingback chairs and plush settee placed in front of a sumptuous marble fireplace, a bathing chamber off to one side with an oversized clawfoot tub, two vanities, a corner shower and commode, the room was magnificent. The walls were papered in a pale rose moiré fabric and the coverlet, pillow shams and drapes were in a spectacular celadon green floral edged in rose brocade. Underfoot, a stunning Aubusson carpet graced the floor like a field of flowers. The room smelled of… “Gardenias,” Star said on a long sigh. She looked at him. “Did you arrange this?” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You did,” she accused, and slid her arms around his waist. “Oh, Cronin, this is amazing.” “Only the best for the future Mrs. Cronin,” he said, and when she pulled back and looked up at him, he smiled slowly. “That is, if she’ll have me.” She could see the hunger in his eyes, but she could also see the pain he had been trying valiantly to hide. She knew the telltale signs of a migraine and she knew Dáire had finally crossed over into that brutal realm. “We’ll discuss that when you’re up to getting down on one knee and asking me properly,” she said, easing out of his embrace. When he started to kneel, she shook her head. “And when you have the proper jewel box containing the most expensive solitaire you can afford.” He frowned. “Do I gotta?” he asked, his tone that of a little boy being asked to do something he did not want to. “Yes, you gotta,” she said, and moved away from him to go to the window that overlooked the vast backyard and pushing aside the drapes. She whistled. “I am flabbergasted.” There was a polite knock at the door and when Dáire opened it, he greeted a very tall, thin man who came in carrying their overnight bags. “How’ve you been, Moss?” The cadaverous-looking man in the black frockcoat inclined his head regally. “Quite well, Mr. Connelly. I hope you have enjoyed good health.” Star arched a dark brow but remained silent, smiling politely at the skinny butler. “I’ve been good,” Dáire said, and handed a twenty-dollar bill to Moss. “Thank you, Mr. Connelly. Please enjoy your stay.” He bowed then left as quietly as he’d entered. “Connelly?” Star questioned. “Grayson Connelly,” Dáire informed her. “One of your aliases?” “One of many,” Dáire answered. “And who am I?” “My mistress, of course,” he said with a wink. “Analiese McGovern.” Star winced. “Analiese?” She shuddered. “What a perfectly horrid name! Couldn’t you have come up with something more…” “Mistressy?” he asked. “How ‘bout Cora May Belle Prevost?” “Analiese is a very pretty name,” Star decided. She bit her lower lip. “Do we have to dress for supper? If we do, I don’t have anything suitable to wear.”

“Miss Idelle doesn’t stand on formality. She’s as liable to come to the table wearing a bathrobe over her swimsuit as not.” “You’re sure?” “Positive,” he told her. “What you’ve got on will be just fine, so if you’ve got to go tinkle, do it so we can go eat. I’m starving and this headache ain’t getting no better.” “Tinkle?” she repeated. “Seemed like the best word in a stylish room like this,” he replied. She went into the bathroom. “Do you need another pill?” she called out. “I don’t think it will do any good, baby,” he replied. He was leaning with his head against the cool surface of the four-poster’s spindle when she came out of the bathroom. “Do you want me to take you to the ER?” “Nah, I’ll be all right. Maybe if I get something in my stomach, I’ll feel better.” “Or dredge it back up,” she warned. “Let’s hope not.” There were four couples around the beautifully laid dining table that could seat twelve comfortably. The men were all over the age of sixty and looked quite prosperous. The women accompanying them were young, beautiful and very well endowed. Dáire introduced Star and himself as Grayson and Analiese Connelly as he held his lady’s chair for her to sit down. “Where all are ya’ll from, honey?” the youngest of the four women asked. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. “Albany,” Dáire replied, pronouncing the name the Southern way—all benny. “My best friend lives there,” another of the lady’s said. “Do you know Madeline Richie?” “Yes, ma’am, I do,” Dáire said. “I believe she owns Oak Haven Plantation, doesn’t she?” “Indeed she does!” the lady said, beaming. “Now, isn’t this a small world, Harold?” “It is,” her escort—who had introduced himself as Harold Huntman—agreed. “What do you do in Dougherty County, Mr. Connelly?” “Please call me Grayson,” Dáire drawled. “I do as little as I can get away with, Mr. Huntman. Analiese and I travel quite a bit.” “Spending his daddy’s money,” Star said with a giggle. Everyone laughed and Huntman gave her a speculative look. “I take it you two aren’t burdened with a family of little Connellys.”

“Oh heavens, no!” Star said, batting her eyes at him. “Gray doesn’t want me to ruin my figure.” She pronounced the word as fig gur. Two servant girls began bringing in bowls of steaming vegetables, which they placed on the table. Bossie carried in a huge platter of baked ham around which had been ringed new potatoes that had been cooked in with the ham. Moss walked sedately to the table with a large pitcher of sweetened ice tea, which he began pouring into tall amber-colored goblets. “I just love Bossie’s cooking,” Mr. Huntman’s companion declared. Her eyes were locked on the ham. “I’m waiting for the egg pie,” Star said in a hushed voice. “Only one piece, Analiese,” Dáire reminded her. “Oh let the little lady have all she wants, Connelly,” Harold Huntman said. He was sweeping his gaze all over Star, and it was all Dáire could do not to reach across the table and drag the overweight man across the platters of cornbread and shove Huntman’s face into the steaming bowl of fried squash. The conversation was quite stimulating, but all talk ended when Miss Idelle finally joined them to say grace before the meal. The men rose—as Southern gentlemen are trained to do—while Moss held the elderly woman’s chair for her. “Welcome, my wonderful guests,” Miss Idelle said, her gaze falling on Dáire with what Star knew was unadulterated lust. “It’s nice to have friends at my table. Let’s join hands and thank the Lord for His wondrous blessings.” ***** Once more the rain was falling in thunderous sheets, nearly drowning out the soft music playing in the parlor. With the exception of Dáire, the men were having an after-dinner drink of cognac while the women sat on the other side of the room talking about the latest fashions and best-selling novels they’d read. “And what do you do when you’re not with that handsome hunk of yours, Analiese?” Miss Idelle asked, her sharp blue eyes locked onto Star. Already wise to what was going on, Star smiled sweetly. “I lounge around and work on my tan,” she said. Miss Idelle smiled. “Good for you, dear.” She turned to the young woman on her right to speak to her. Star caught Dáire watching her and nudged her chin toward the doorway. She was tired and she could tell his headache was bothering him still. He nodded imperceptibly then stood, wishing the other gentlemen a good evening. “Before you two retire,” Miss Idelle said as Star got to her feet, “may I see you in my office? I have a favor to ask, Grayson.” “Yes, ma’am, of course,” Dáire responded. He walked over to Star, took her hand in his and followed Miss Idelle out of the room and across the hall.

“Shut the door, sweetie,” Miss Idelle instructed as she took a seat on an overstuffed settee in her luxuriously appointed office. Daire closed the door then went over to sit in one of the two chairs facing the settee. He motioned Star to the other. “Do you have one of your blasted headaches, sweetie?” Miss Idelle inquired. “I’m afraid so,” Daire answered. “Such a shame. So, my gorgeous Irish warrior, what brings you to my lowly establishment?” Miss Idelle inquired. Before he could speak, she turned the full power of her sharp gaze on Star. “Did he tell you this was a bed and breakfast, dear?” Star’s lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am, he did.” “But you know differently,” Miss Idelle probed. “I believe I do, yes, ma’am.” Miss Idelle put her elbow on the settee arm and propped her carefully made-up cheek on her hand. “And what—pray tell—do you think this place is, dear?” “I’m not sure what you would call it, but I believe it is a genteel place for very wealthy—and discreet men—to bring their mistresses for a little R&R,” Star replied. “I like to call my establishment a coquetry,” Miss Idelle said. “Tell her what the word means, Dáire.” “Playful behavior intended to arouse sexual interest,” Dáire responded. Star glanced at Dáire and arched a brow in query. “Miss Idelle knows the true identity of every person who walks through her doors or they aren’t allowed in,” Dáire told her. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your real name, dear,” Miss Idelle said politely. At Dáire’s nod, Star gave the elderly woman her real name. “Oh my!” Miss Idelle said. “You own that fabulous restaurant in Panama City! I’ve eaten there several times.” She smiled sweetly. “I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” “And who did Dáire bring here when he visited your lovely home, Miss Idelle?” Star inquired. Miss Idelle turned her attention to Dáire. “I spent two weeks convalescing here,” Dáire explained. “After Moss found me lying in an alley with a knife wound in my back.” “Poor Moss was waiting for me while I was doing business in a rather seedy part of Pensacola and had

to relieve himself. He went into the alley to do so and that was where he found this good-looking man. Knowing I would be inclined to help, he picked Dáire up, put him in the limo and then came to fetch me. I brought Dáire back here, called my personal—and very tactful physician—and we patched him up.” Star turned to Dáire. “What were you doing in the alley?” “Bleeding to death,” Miss Idelle answered for him. “I also insisted on sending him to my favorite plastic surgeon to have that scar seen to.” She winked at Star. “Such perfection as Dáire’s should not be marred, don’t you agree?” “I got dumped in that alley,” Dáire explained. “An assignment that went just a bit wrong.” “Just a bit,” Star mumbled. “He didn’t want anyone to know where he was and my place was the perfect hideout,” Miss Idelle said with a sigh. She tilted her head to one side. “May I inquire why you are here, now, my love?” “Star and I have a daughter who needs a bone marrow transplant. I’m here to provide that for her. I’ll be in the hospital a couple of days and she needs a place to stay. I’ll be going to the hospital tomorrow morning to be tested and if everything’s okay, I imagine they’ll do the donation within a day or two. I’d just as soon Star be somewhere she won’t be bothered.” “And away from those dastardly employers of yours,” Miss Idelle remarked. “Precisely,” Dáire agreed. “I am sorry to hear of your daughter’s misfortune, but I will take very good care of Star while you are incapacitated,” the elderly woman stated. “You don’t have to worry about her.” She stood, indicating the discussion was at an end. “I won’t,” he assured her. Star and he got to their feet. “How old is your daughter, dear?” “Ten months.” Miss Idelle sighed. “Patrick and I were never blessed with children, and I can’t say I agree with a man of Dáire’s profession bringing them into the world, but who am I to judge?” “Jillian was a surprise,” Star told her. “Ah,” Miss Idelle said. “Such things happen.” She led them to the door. “Would you like Moss to drive you to the hospital? We have several cars and he wouldn’t have to drive the same one twice.” “I’d appreciate that, Miss Idelle,” Dáire said. “I imagine my employers will be staking out the hospital.” “Oh I am sure they will, sweetie,” the elderly woman agreed. ***** Alone in their room later Star climbed up on the bed and sat there watching Dáire undress. “I like her.”

“So do I.” There was a soft knock on the door and Dáire walked over to answer it. Moss was standing there. “Miss Idelle asked that I give you these, Mr. Connelly,” he said, speaking the name clearly in case anyone heard. He opened his hand to reveal two pale yellow tablets. Dáire accepted the medication, thanked the butler then quietly shut the door. “What is it?” Star asked. “Demerol.” He put them in the pocket of his trousers. “You aren’t going to take them?” “I don’t want anything in my system that might cause a problem for harvesting the bone marrow,” he replied. “I can live with the headache. I have before.” “She is a very perceptive woman.” “And a very good friend.” “I can see that,” Star said. “She is also in love with you.” “I know.” Star blinked. “You do?” He looked up at her as he took off his trousers. “She told me a long time ago. I remind her of her husband. I even look a bit like him.” “Have you ever…?” “No,” he said as he entered the en suite bath and turned on the shower’s cold water as fast as it would go. “And she’d never ask.” She heard his quick intake of breath as the icy water hit his body. Knowing him as well as she did, she knew the headache was at such a vicious point, he needed to lower his body temperature. He’d remained in the shower until he was shivering from the cold. “Go to bed, Starlight,” he called out to her. Star slid off the bed and took her clothes off. She retrieved a cotton gown from her overnight bag, slipped it on then crawled up into the bed. By the time Dáire joined her, she was fast asleep.

Chapter Nine

The test results were back and Dáire proved to be an ideal match for his daughter. Jillian’s doctor went

over the procedures that would take place during the transplant, explaining to them that their child had been receiving chemo treatments the last three days. “She’s experienced the usual nausea, but that was to be expected,” the physician reported. Dáire sat quietly, his bouncing leg the only sign he was jittery. “Any questions?” Dr. Saul asked, looking from Dáire to Star and back again. Clearing his throat, Dáire replied, “I think you’ve covered everything. Thanks.” “I’ll have my assistant get a room for you for tomorrow morning.” He stood and held out his hand. “Get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Cronin, and be back here about seven. Please don’t eat or drink anything after midnight.” “He’s had a migraine for a couple of days now,” Star told the doctor. “Bad?” Dr. Saul inquired. “Nothing I can’t handle,” Dáire answered. “It’s most likely just tension-related,” the physician asserted. “What do you normally take when one lasts this long?” “One hundred each Demerol and Vistaril,” Dáire replied. “I’ll have that ready in case you’re still having pain after the procedure tomorrow.” “Thank you, Dr. Saul,” Star answered for Dáire. Walking back to the parking garage where they would meet with Moss after calling him on the cell phone Miss Idelle had lent them, Dáire held Star’s hand. They didn’t speak. Each seemed lost in thought. Now and again, Dáire would reach up to rub at his temple. “When we get back to the B&B,” Star said, “I think you should lie down and try to sleep it off, baby.” “I’ve got the damned nausea today,” he told her. “Wish I hadn’t let Bossie talk me into eating that French toast.” “I need to run a few errands anyway, so you can just crawl into bed and snooze,” Star told him. She’d spent the morning at Jillian’s bedside while Dáire was undergoing pre-donation testing. “Take one of Idelle’s cars and keep a watch out for anyone who looks like they might be following you,” he advised. “If you pick up a tail, go to the University Mall and park on the east side. Call Moss. He’ll come pick you up on the west side of the mall by the theaters.” Star noticed that her lover was looking around them, making note of anyone close by. Obviously he was searching for anyone sitting in a parked car, watching them. “You don’t think they’ll try to stop the donation, do you?” she asked, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Doubtful,” he replied, but he was still scanning the people nearby. “Why do you think she was calling you?” “Just to rub it in.” “She’ll be angry you ditched the cell phone.” He smiled grimly. “Yes, she will.” A dark green sedan was coming toward them and Star recognized Moss behind the wheel. He had brought them to the hospital that morning in a black SUV. Pulling up beside them, Moss waited until they were inside before turning around to look at Dáire. “I had a tail out of here this morning,” the butler said. “I didn’t go back to the house. This car is one of many stashed across the city. I lost the tail, but chances are good someone is watching the hospital.” “Take us to Cordova,” Dáire said. “Can you send someone to pick us up from there?” “Sure thing,” Moss agreed, and turned around. He drove out of the parking garage, surreptitiously inspecting his rearview and side mirrors as he drove. “Black sedan, back two cars,” Dáire told Moss. “Yes, sir, I see him.” He picked up a cell phone that lay in the front passenger seat and punched in a number. “May? Computer store entrance.” Moss drove them to the Cordova Mall. He stopped at the Parisian store entrance. “You two need to separate as soon as you’re inside. Walk quickly. Mr. Dáire, you go to Computer Terminal. You’ll be picked up by an oriental woman in an ice blue minivan with a Zorro emblem on the radio antenna. She knows what you look like and what you’re wearing. Miss Star, you go to Dillard’s. The one at the far end, not the men’s store. May will pick you up there. Get in the front with her. Mr. Dáire, you get in the back.” Hurrying into the mall, the two lovers promptly parted, going down separate aisles. They made their way quickly through the mall, their destinations at opposite ends of the large facility. Taking a position at the bank of doors leading to the parking lots beyond their respective stores, it didn’t take long for Dáire to be picked up by a diminutive Vietnamese lady. Once inside her minivan, he lay down in the backseat while she drove to the other end of the mall to pick up Star. Climbing into the front seat with the pretty oriental woman, Star was breathing hard. “Take a deep breath and relax,” she heard Dáire say. “I’m not used to all this spy drama,” Star said. “Let’s go take a leisurely drive to Mobile,” May said with a thick accent. “Mr. D., you try to sleep.” Star glanced at the woman, recognizing Miss Idelle’s hand in the order. She smiled, settling back as May whipped through traffic like a pro. She didn’t see how anyone could pursue the minivan but asked if May noticed anyone following them.

“Not that I can see,” May replied. “One of our men will be waiting over in Mobile to take you back to Cantonment.” “Do you do this a lot?” Star asked. May shrugged. “I’ve outrun many a private investigator, ma’am. I like pitting my brains against their feeble ones.” She glanced over at Star and grinned. The drive over to Mobile did not garner them any observable trackers. So Dáire could hopefully sleep, the two women did not talk during the trip. It wasn’t until they had crossed the Mobile Bay that Star became nervous. Going through the Wallace Tunnel under the Mobile River, she fidgeted. She was extremely claustrophobic and the ride through the tunnel brought sweat to her upper lip and underarms. “I don’t like tunnels either,” May said quietly. “I’d never have made a good VC back in the old country.” After an hour of driving aimlessly in Mobile, May took them to Our Savior Catholic Church on Cody Road where a short, squat Hispanic male was waiting for them. He opened Star’s door and greeted her with a gold-toothed smile. Dáire had managed to sleep and was yawning when he got out of the cramped backseat of the minivan. He glanced around them, relieved to see they had no tail and walked over to a beautifully restored blue and white 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air and got in the back with Star. “Cherry,” he complimented the Hispanic man. “She’s my baby,” the man said with pride. The windows of the hardtop were darkly tinted—the only modern concession on the vehicle—so no one could see in the back or side windows. It would be impossible for anyone to know there were riders in the backseat. “Lie down and put your head in my lap,” Star told Dáire. “You want me to eat you now?” he countered in a low voice, and grinned at the immediate blush that stained his lady’s high cheeks. Raoul, the driver, pretended he hadn’t heart the off-color words as he got behind the wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror—upon which hung pale blue fuzzy dice—then left the church, waving at May as he went. “If you’re hungry, I can stop for you to get something,” he told his passengers. Star arched a brow at Dáire as he lay down on his back, his knees drawn up, and pulled her right hand to his chest where he held it with both of his. He shook his head. “We’ll wait until we get back home,” Star told Raoul. With her left hand smoothing his hair, Dáire closed his eyes and within a few minutes fell asleep. When he woke, they were in front of Miss Idelle’s establishment. “No one followed us, Mr. D.,” Raoul stated.

“Thanks, Raoul,” Dáire said as he got out of the car. He was stiff but his headache had eased off somewhat. His stomach was growling and so was Star’s. Bossie had a generous lunch ready for them with crisp fried chicken, corn on the cob, fresh green beans cooked with ham, sliced tomatoes with cucumbers and Vidalia onions, and piping hot, buttered cornbread. Glasses of sweetened tea with wedges of lemon sat beside the plates. Generous slices of homemade coconut cream pie were brought in for dessert. “If I eat like this at every meal, I’ll be a wide-load mama before you know it,” Star said, digging into the succulent fried chicken. “You could do with putting some meat on them bones, missy,” Bossie said with a sniff. Dáire sat back in his chair, rubbing his belly. The headache was still there but he was doing his best to ignore it. He really didn’t want to sleep anymore and asked Star if she’d like to watch a movie. Star frowned. “Do you think we should leave here?” she asked. “Miss Idelle has a home theater at the back of the house,” he said. “If you don’t want some very explicit Swedish XXX-rated porn—which I highly recommend—I’m sure she has all the latest choices.” “Swedish porn, huh?” she asked. “Any male bondage in there, you think?” Dáire rolled his eyes. “Like male on male?” “Like a handsome Irish guy being tied up and screwed by a lusty entrepreneur-type woman?” she countered. “Is that your fantasy?” he asked. “Maybe.” Dáire got up lazily from his chair, stretched then held his hand out to Star. “If I know Idelle, she’s got some velvet ropes lying around somewhere.” He pulled his lady to him. “You’d better make it worth my while, wench.” Star smiled. “Honey, I’m gonna turn you inside out.” ***** The ropes were tight around his wrists and ankles as Dáire lay there naked in the big mahogany bed, his spread-eagled limbs bound to the tall four-posters. He didn’t want to let on to Star that he found the bondage less than stimulating. It reminded him far too much of real-life situations in which he’d unfortunately found himself to be enjoyable, but if this was what she wanted, he was game. “Mine,” Star said as she climbed atop him, straddling his hips, her bare bottom settling possessively over his thighs. “You’ll pay for this, baby,” he told her a moment before she thrust a silken gag between his teeth and tied it behind his neck, effectively silencing him.

Dáire froze—memories crowding in to push aside any pleasure he might get from the playacting. His woman’s hands were on his chest, her fingers tweaking his paps, but he was only vaguely aware it was Star sitting astride him. He strained against the silken robes, breathing heavily, his heart pounding, anticipating the blazing pain that was to follow. There was something in the wild glint in Dáire’s eyes that alerted Star he had gone beyond their little game and had entered a place she knew he had no desire to be. Very quickly, she bent over him and undid the gag, tossed it away and slanted her lips across his, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, her bare breasts pressed against his chest. She kissed him hard then pushed up, staring down into his pale face. “I love you, Dáire,” she said, holding his gaze. It took a moment for him to retreat from the hell he had almost plunged into. His head was thudding with a brutal pain that threatened to explode from his temples but he refused to let his lady know. He forced a smile to his lips. “You’d better take advantage of me being tied up, Starlight,” he bit out, “because when my hands are free…” He let the word hang there, his breath returning to normal with some effort. “Oh yeah?” she challenged. “Yeah,” he said. Star slid down him until she could take his nipple into the warm recess of her mouth. She suckled him until the pap was as hard as a little stone then she moved over to the other one, giving it the same delicious treatment, then she nibbled her way down the center of his chest until she could flick her tongue into the niche of his bellybutton. What had threatened to be an unbearable interlude was fast becoming a lusty romp that made Dáire’s cock as rigid as the wood on the four-poster. Star’s silky tongue was spiraling around the perimeter of his navel and sending shivers down his sides. He squirmed beneath her tender ministrations, but it was more from building lust than the irrational fear of a few moments before. Dragging her tongue down his belly and into the spiky hair growing at the junction of his thighs, Star blew her hot breath over his flesh and heard her lover growl. She placed little stabs all along that wiry hair from one side of his pelvis to the other before settling her lips where his cock jutted from that curly thatch. With her right hand cupping his testicles in the warmth of her palm, she gripped that stony erection with her left hand and took the velvet head into her moist mouth. Dáire’s hips arched upward of their own accord and he growled again, his teeth clenched together as Star’s mouth worked over the head of his staff. He tensed as the tip of her tongue slipped into the oozing slit of his cock and probed, causing heat to settle deep in his groin with a heaviness that made him ache. She was doing wicked things with that sweet mouth of hers. When she took him as deep into that warm cavern as his cock could go, he began to pant. Star gently massaged his balls as she suckled him, lapping at his rigid flesh, tasting the saltiness of his juices. She released her hold on his rod and lightly scraped her fingers down his taut thigh, feeling him quiver at her touch. “Baby, please,” he pleaded, his voice a husky pleading.

She eased her mouth from his stony erection and moved up in the bed, straddling his hips once more, reaching down to take his cock in her hand and guide it to the wet heat that radiated from between her own legs. Poised above him, she settled her cunt down his hard length—smiling at his quickly indrawn breath—and began to ride him in a rolling motion, lifting and scooting her hips forward, fitting so sweetly into the cradle of his hips. Dáire pulled on his bonds, tried desperately to draw his knees up, but the silken ropes binding him to the foot posts of the bed did not allow for much movement. He was open to her invasion, at her mercy, lying there being milked of his essence in such a way he thought he well might bellow when the building release came. “You want it, baby?” Star whispered. “Yeah,” he breathed, thrusting his hips upward, the slide of cunt along his length driving him mindless with need. “Tell me you need it, Dáire,” she commanded. He had no choice. “I need it.” “Say you really need it.” He was at her mercy. “I really need it!” She lifted almost completely off him then slid down, rocking furiously. He exploded like a rocket, bucking beneath her as his hot juices flowed copiously into her warm, slick channel. His hands clenched into fists and his toes curled with the violence of his orgasm. Coming down from that zenith of lust, he sagged against his bonds, his head fell to one side and he lay there completely spent until the first minute tremors began in his lady’s body and he managed to snap his head around. He stared up at her as Star hunched there atop him. Her head was thrown back, her long hair trailing over the sensitive tops of his thighs, her beautiful breasts arched upward in an invitation he would have loved to have accepted had his wrists not been tied to the bed. Her cunt quivered in a succession of ripples so powerful she gasped, biting her lower lip hard enough that a bead of blood dotted the dusky surface. The undulating tremors that moved through her moist heat made Dáire’s mouth water and he licked his lip as he strove to get his harsh breathing under control. “My God, Starlight,” he whispered, absorbing the last little squeezes that caressed his cock. She collapsed atop him, stretching her long legs beside his body, her wet nether curls mingling with his, her lax body pinning him down to the damp sheets. Her cheek pressed against the side of his neck and he pulled on the restraints, aching to enfold her in his arms. Little puffs of sweet air fanned over his chin—her breath smelled like wintergreen. One of her fingers was idly swirling a lock of his chest hair around and around its circumference. “I love you,” she said softly. “I love you,” he replied. They fell asleep with him beneath her, his body—like his heart—restrained and in her keeping.

Chapter Ten

He knew he looked silly in the vinyl shower cap some nurse had perched atop his head, poking his dark brown hair beneath the elastic rim. The hospital surgical gown was a hoot too as he grimaced at the feel of the sheets touching his bare ass through the neck-to-hem slit. The woebegone expression he turned up to Star as she bent over to kiss him must have made her day. “Behave,” she warned, lightly pressing her lips to his. “I hate it,” he complained. Dáire was lying on a gurney with a needle the size of Kansas stuck in his arm, a bag of fluid swinging in preparation for feeding him the knockout juice. They’d already given him a shot to soothe his nerves and all it had done was to give him a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re such a baby,” she reprimanded. “I don’t like hospitals,” he said for what had to be the fifth time. He was glaring at the beefy black nurse who was ready to roll him down to surgery. “Hospitals ain’t too fond of you neither,” the orderly chuckled. One last kiss, a long, promising look and Dáire was taken away. Star knew she’d never be able to sit calmly in the surgical waiting room so she just stood there until she could no longer see her lover—the father of her child—then began what would be a long pace from window to pop machine to double doors to snack vending machine and back again and again and again. Inside the surgical suite, Dáire watched everything they were doing. He craned his head around until the surgeon came in jovially and chatted with him a moment before a couple of nurses stripped off the tacky surgical gown and they had him turn over. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his right biceps. The anesthesiologist stepped forward and the lights in Dáire’s world were turned off. ***** He woke with a nagging pain in his hip and a pulverizing headache slamming into his temples. The migraine was back and it had brought a friend. Struggling to open his eyes, he felt himself shivering, but before he could open his mouth to protest, a warm blanket was laid over him and he relaxed. He knew he was drooling—could feel it—but he couldn’t lift his head from the cool pillow. “Dáire?” someone asked, pronouncing the name as dare instead of deh ruh. “Are you with us?” “Where else would I be?” he mumbled, and a laugh followed his ill-tempered reply. “Does your head hurt?” “Like a mother,” he said softly. The pain between his temples was barely manageable.

“Okay, baby. You just relax.” “Humph,” he managed to comment, and once more tried to force his eyes open. He was lying on his stomach and all he could see was a tiled wall. But there was bright light surrounding him and he groaned. The intruding brightness was too much for the migraine. Around him, he heard the rustle of material and knew he was in recovery. The squeak of nurses’ shoes was annoying the hell out of him. “Here you go, sweetie.” Someone lowered the warm blanket, exposed his bare back to a coolness he could have done without and then stabbed him in the ass with liquid fire. “Somofabitch!” he muttered as the thick liquids spread to the muscles of his rear-end. “That should help, sweetie.” “Help what? Fry my ass?” he asked ungraciously. “Somebody is not a happy camper,” another voice joked. He opened his mouth to curse the joker but then quiet lassitude drifted over him in a soft, warm, welcoming wave, and he subsided, letting himself float on the strong narcotic winds that were plying over his body. “Better?” “Uhm,” was all he could manage. His eyes were open as he was rolled out of recovery and down the hall to his room. All he could see were waists and legs and the occasional lower arm as he was rolled along. When they had him in his room, he heard Star’s voice and tried to lift his head. “Starlight?” he called out. “I’m here, baby.” A cool hand stroked his forehead and soft, warm lips briefly touched his cheek before he was being gently lifted from the gurney and dropped like a fragile flower onto his cool, clean bed. “My ass hurts,” he told Star. “He got a shot of Demerol on the way down here,” someone pointed out. “Still hurts,” he mumbled. “Your head still hurts?” “My fucking ass,” he responded. “My fucking ass hurts.”

There was soft, muted laughter and a hand rubbing his sheet-covered leg as he lay there on his belly looking at a pair of garish drapes. “Behave, Cronin,” he heard Star tell him. “Don’t wanna behave,” he said on a long sigh. “Want my ass to stop hurting.” “Is it your rump or your hip, Dáire?” that person who insisted on calling him dare asked. “Same thing,” he replied. “His hip will be sore for a few days, perhaps longer. Doctor took about two quarts of marrow.” “Two quarts?” Dáire gasped. “You’ll make more,” that daring person dared to tell him. “Dáire, how’s your head?” Star asked. “What head?” There was another rubbing of his leg and he thought it might be Star’s gentle hand on him but he couldn’t be sure. He closed his eyes as everything around him started to fade into the background. ***** When he woke again, he was lying on his back and the first thing he saw was Star’s smiling face looking down at him as she bent over the bed. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she greeted him. “I’m sore,” he told her. “That’s normal. How ’bout your headache? Do you still have it?” He thought about that for a moment, tested the waters then decided he didn’t. “Nope.” “Jillian came through the procedure just great,” she informed him. “They’re watching her closely but so far, so good.” He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer, grateful to Whomever was looking out after his little girl. “What time is it?” “Almost closing time,” she said, glancing at her watch. “They are about to run me outta here.” “Uhm,” he grunted. Star bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “Sweet dreams, pretty boy,” she teased, but he was asleep again. “Likes that Demerol,” one of the nurses said.

“Seems to,” Star agreed. She adjusted Dáire’s covers then turned away. “When he wakes up, tell him I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” “Will do,” the nurse promised. ***** It was close to midnight when Dáire woke again. He lay there frowning, feeling the pain in his hip but deciding it wasn’t enough to be a bother. He tried moving—thought better of it—then fumbled with the call button. Almost as though she were waiting for his summons, a young nurse came bustling quietly through the door. “Whatcha need, hon?” she asked. “How’s my little girl?” he asked. “You want me to check?” He nodded, trying to scoot up in the bed and wincing as he did. The nurse left but came back a few minutes later to tell him Jillian was doing just fine. “I’d like to see her,” he said. “I’ll put a note on your board to have someone take you over there in the morning. How’s that?” “I’ve never seen my little girl,” he said. “I don’t even know what she looks like.” The nurse’s face softened. “You can see her in the morning.” He gave her one of his million-volt winning smiles. “That the best you can do?” Her eyebrows drew together and she seemed to be trying to make up her mind. She bit her lip. “If I got a chair and wheeled you over there, would you promise not to disturb her?” Dáire put a hand over his heart. “Promise.” She held his gaze for a moment then shrugged. “All right, but you’d better behave. If she’s asleep, you aren’t to wake her. Agreed?” “Agreed,” she assured her. The hallways were quiet as Melissa—she had given Dáire her name as she rolled him from his room—pushed his chair along the pristine floors. His hip was hurting and he kept shifting in the wheelchair, but he knew that was mostly because he was nervous about seeing Jillian than anything else. Melissa pushed him up to the nurse’s desk on the pediatric floor. “This is Jilly’s father,” she said, and one of the nurses behind the desk frowned. The other just nodded, not even bothering to look up from the computer screen where she was playing solitaire. Jilly’s room was right across from the nurse’s station and Melissa wheeled Dáire to her bedside. The

little girl was sleeping on her back, her face turned toward the window so he could not see her. Melissa engaged the handbrake and walked out into the hall to give him some privacy. Holding his breath against the pain in his hip, Dáire pushed up from the wheelchair and wrapped his hands lightly around the bedrail of Jilly’s bed. All he could see in the semi-darkness of the room was a thin halo of dark brown hair and the sweep of one soft cheek. “Hey there, little lady,” he whispered. He ached to reach out and touch the sleeping child but he didn’t want to run the risk of waking her. His eyes swept over her from head to the lumpy protrusion of her little feet beneath the covers and back again, settling on that pale plain of her averted face. Tears gathered in his eyes. “I’m your daddy.” As though she had heard him, the child turned her head toward him and her little eyes fluttered opened. She smiled gently, sighed and then her eyelids closed. Pale rose lips puckered for a moment then smoothed out as though she’d blown him a kiss. “Oh man,” Dáire said. He felt like he’d been slammed in the gut with a ball-peen hammer. His legs were rubbery and he moved back, slumped into the seat of the wheelchair and stared at the slumbering face of his child, his hands tight on the chair arms. The tears that had formed were now trickling down his face. She looked like a little angel lying there, he thought. He was suddenly filled with an overpowering amount of protectiveness and a soul-scorching love that blindsided him out of nowhere. His heart actually ached as he looked at her. “Ready to go back now?” Melissa asked from the doorway. “Just a bit longer,” he pleaded. He was trying to memorize her face, caught up in just watching her breathe, her small hands bracketing her face, little fingers curled toward her palm. He wanted desperately to pick her up, hold her and have her smile once more. He stared at her for a few minutes more then told Melissa he was ready. As she rolled him out of the room, he put a hand to his face—covering his eyes—and gave in to the overwhelming emotions rocketing through him. It was Melissa’s lagging footsteps that warned him something was wrong. He lowered his hand, raised his head and saw the two steely-eyed men coming toward them down the corridor. “May I help you?” Melissa asked. She had stopped pushing the wheelchair. “We’ll take him from here,” one of the men—dressed in a black suit with a suspicious bulge beneath his left arm—told her. “What?” Melissa managed to say before the men converged on her. She gasped, stumbling back from the wheelchair. “Don’t hurt her!” Dáire warned. The tallest of the two men had reached Melissa and his hand shot toward her. She backed up again but the needle he carried jammed into her shoulder and she went down without another sound. Dáire started to get up but fiery pain was driven into his neck. He slapped his hand over the sting as the

lights overhead dimmed and went out and he sagged forward unconscious.

Chapter Eleven

He was swimming up through layers of white fog that clouded his mind and left a taste of burnt sugar in his mouth. It was all he could do to force his eyes open, and when he finally accomplished that feat, he had no idea where he was. Turning his head took a tremendous amount of energy and as he took in the open window—white lace curtains billowing inward on a soft breeze—he got a whiff of honeysuckle wafting into the room from beyond the casement window. Bright sunbeams cascaded in on a wide shaft of light upon which tiny dust motes floated. His head was hurting again and he tried to lift his hand to his temple but his arm wouldn’t move. He felt something cold around his wrist, hindering movement. Lifting his head almost cost him his consciousness, but in that brief moment, he’d seen the handcuff circling his wrist and knew his other wrist was restrained in the same way—locked to the raised railing of the hospital bed in which he was confined. He was lying on his back, handcuffed to a bed, and fury was building in his heart but he would not give Gentry—and he knew damned well it was her—the satisfaction of yelling, of yanking against his bonds, of venting his rage. He lay there quietly with the supreme assurance that he was being watched on a closed-circuit monitor and the bitch knew he was awake. The nurse who came in half an hour later was middle-aged and pleasingly plump. Her graying brown hair was wispy fine, her eyes a deep charcoal gray and her expressionless face devoid of any makeup. She glanced briefly at him before turning her full attention to his left arm. Her hands were cool as she touched the underside of his forearm and he realized there was an IV catheter in that arm when she put a hand in her pocket and produced a syringe. “What the hell are you giving me?” he demanded. “I’m flushing your catheter, Mr. Cronin.” She injected the saline solution into the cannula then put the empty syringe in her pocket. He knew damned well she was preparing to give him some form of medication, but he refused to ask again for he knew his question wouldn’t be answered. When she withdrew a second syringe from her pocket, he turned his head away from her, staring up at the ceiling. Whatever she injected into the underside of his arm hurt like hell but he lay there unflinching, a muscle working in his jaw. She must have known the drug was painful for she went slowly, easing the med into his vein. As the drug spread up his arm, he felt a lassitude that completely took him over. “If you need anything, all you have to do is ask,” she said as she pocketed the second syringe. “Someone will come in to check on you.” As quietly as she had entered his room, she left just as silently. He watched her go with the room undulating around him as though he were beneath the water in a deep pool. His hip still hurt as though he’d taken a hard fall and he was tired, but it was the waves distorting his vision that worried him more than the minor pain and weakness that came from the bone marrow donation. He thought he could taste sour cherries and there was a slight burning along the soft tissue of his mouth. The room was canting off to one side—playing hell with his equilibrium—so he closed his eyelids and lay there feeling the world whirling around and around him, bright streaks of light spiraling across his closed

lids. He must have slept, for when he next opened his eyes, his room was dark. The window was still open but a cooler breeze was flowing from the casement and bringing with it the hint of softly falling rain. The honeysuckle scent was even more pronounced with the dampness. Beyond the windows, he could hear night insects chirping to one another. He also thought he heard the soft wash of water to shore but there was a faint buzzing in his ears so he couldn’t be sure. Drawing his knees up, he managed to kick off the covers and was a bit surprised to see he was wearing cotton pajama bottoms to go with the soft T-shirt stretched across his chest. The material of the top and bottoms looked white in the faint sky glow coming in from the window. Lying there with his knees crooked—unable to do anything more than shift his aching rump against the cool sheets—he pulled uselessly against his restraints. There was little give and he sighed. It was her perfume that alerted him to her presence in the room with him even though he hadn’t heard her enter or could not make out her form in the darkness. She always seemed to bathe in the musky scent and the overpowering strength of it added to the misery of his throbbing head. “Somebody ought to buy you a perfume that doesn’t reek,” he said. “You stink.” She moved into sight and he flinched, not realizing she was as close to him as the side of his bed. Leaning her elbows on the bed railing, she stared down at him. “I don’t believe you are in any position to anger me, Dáire,” she said softly. “I hold the lives of those you love in the palm of my hand.” He saw the whiteness of her smile. “It would be a pity if I opened that hand and let the ones you care about drop through the cracks, now wouldn’t it?” The threat was there and he recognized it for what it was. He would have to tread carefully with her, for when her voice took on that soft, gentle tone it was then when she was the most lethal. “Where am I?” he asked. “In the Caribbean,” she replied. “You don’t need to know exactly where. I doubt you’ll be returning for a second visit.” Her words chilled him. He could feel her fury lashing out at him from the depths of her black soul. He was at her mercy and she was a woman to whom mercy meant little. “I allowed you to do your fatherly duty and now it is time you returned to the fold,” she said in a conversational tone. “I am told it will be at least a couple of weeks before you can safely and comfortably take on a new assignment so until then, you’ll be my guest here at Sinavar.” The name drove through him like a sharp spear. The compound was well-known throughout The Cumberland Group. It was a place you didn’t want to be remanded and from which few operatives ever returned intact. It was an exacting punishment for men who had screwed up or whose loyalty had been questioned. He should have known that would be where she would take him. “How’s your headache?” she asked. “It’s all right,” he muttered. “You’re lying,” she stated and pushed away from the bed. “Waverly?”

The nurse who had administered his meds earlier came silently into the room. “Yes, Miss Gentry?” “How close is he to his next dosage?” “I administered an injection almost four hours ago while he slept. He’s due for one shortly.” The hair stood up on Dáire’s arms. He had no idea what kind of medication he’d been given, but just knowing it had been pumped into his veins as he slept sent tremors through him. “Why don’t you go on ahead and prepare his next injection,” Gentry said. “I don’t like the thought of him suffering.” He frowned. “Is that what you’re giving me? A painkiller?” “A very potent painkiller,” his boss agreed. “It’s called tenerse.” He’d never heard of the drug. “I don’t need—” “And it is highly addictive.” She let the words drop like a sledgehammer to concrete and the vibrations of them speared through Dáire’s brain. He stared at her—her intention clear in the dark gray eyes aimed at him—and he lost his ability to speak. He simply stared at her, his heart pounding in his ears. “You surprise me, Cronin,” she said, folding her arms over the breast of her expensive gray suit. “Aren’t you going to curse me? At the very least I expected a wild attempt to break free of your fetters so you could get your hands around my throat.” “Why are you doing this?” he heard himself ask, and winced at the tone of hurt that invaded his words. “I shouldn’t have to explain it to you, Dáire,” she replied. “You are being punished.” A frosty smile tugged at her bright red lips. “Perhaps next time I call, you won’t rip the phone out of the wall and you’ll think twice about throwing your cell phone into the toilet.” Her smile became deadly. “And just so you know? My people were aware of where you were every minute of every day you were in Pensacola. You might have been aware of any cars behind you, but did you think to look above you? It’s so much easier to follow a target from the cockpit of a Bell Jet Ranger.” Dáire closed his eyes and turned his head away from the brittle glare that had fashioned itself on Gentry’s carefully made-up face. She unfolded her arms and reached down to smooth a lock of hair from his forehead. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “Waverly will be in every four hours to give you the tenerse. In the meantime, she’ll also be in a bit later to hang an IV so we can give you nourishment. At that time, she’ll also catheterize you. We wouldn’t want you to piss on the bed. Whether or not you will eventually require a feeding tube depends on how well you behave.” “You’re going to make this as hard for me as you can, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Yes, I am,” Gentry answered. “I’m going to teach you a lesson I don’t believe you will ever forget.”

He could not look at her. He didn’t want to see the gloating look on her face and he wasn’t about to plead with her not to do what she had already set into motion. She intended for him to suffer because he had dared to defy her. It went deeper than not answering a phone or pitching one into the commode. Waverly returned and Dáire could feel her attaching tubing to the cannula in his arm. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. “Tenerse is an interesting drug our group discovered about four years ago,” Gentry said. “Mixed with other liquids, it takes on different properties. Added to water—as the solution you are about to receive has been—it can be a very powerful and potent sedative as well as a hangover cure if administered in a very small amount. If you slip a few milligrams into a glass of ale, for instance, it causes severe and irrational anger in the recipient. Mixed in wine, it produces stupor, hallucinations with a very unpleasant ringing in the ears, I’m told. Added to mead in large quantities, it has been known to cause madness. By itself, it is a strong soporific that induces deep sleep.” The brutal stinging he’d experienced before spread up his forearm and into his shoulder, but almost immediately he felt the lassitude, the velvet softness that a strong narcotic could bring. “That cherry taste you have in your mouth now is normal,” Gentry continued. “The only time you won’t experience that taste is if the tenerse is mixed with milk. Do you remember that night on the HardWind when we shared such a savage encounter?” He turned his head so he could look at her. Gentry smiled. “Milk laced with tenerse produces the most devastating effect on a person’s libido. Do you remember how uncontrollable you were that night, sweetheart?” The memory of a night filled with wild, unbridled sex he could never have imagined ever participating in with Gentry—of all people—brought a heated flush to his face. Gentry nodded. “I had slipped some tenerse into that strawberry milkshake you enjoyed just before you snatched me up and literally raped me right there on the deck.” Disgust filled him and he looked away again. “I was bruised all over when you finished with me, but I loved every moment your hands were on me and that delicious cock of yours was pressed right up against my womb.” “Go away,” he managed to say between clenched teeth. Once more the room was canting away from him and there was a very unpleasant feeling of falling washing over him. “The more tenerse you get, the more you will want it,” Gentry said. “Once you acquire a dependency upon it though, only one shot a day—administered directly into a vein—is sufficient to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay.” “Leave me alone, Gentry,” he said, fighting the fog that was invading his mind. “Tenerse is not a drug you can get on the black market or from some little drug dealer out on the street. The only place you can get it is through me,” she said, and once more smoothed the hair back from his suddenly sweating forehead. “You will want to keep in my good graces, Dáire, believe me. When you experience the agony of withdrawal the first time, you’ll be sure to do as you’re told the next time.”

“And that’s your plan,” he whispered. “To addict me then allow me to find out firsthand how bad it can be without the drug.” She stroked him gently. “You have always been a very astute man, Dáire. I knew you’d grasp the situation right off.” He was clenching and unclenching his hands, trying desperately to hold onto consciousness. “Stop fighting it, brown eyes,” Gentry said. “The longer you fight, the harder it is going to be. Just give in to the peace, my handsome lover, and then go with the flow.” “I hate you,” he said as he pitched over the side of the wildly whirling room and into darkness. ***** It was an inner circle of hell into which he’d been forced that gave new meaning to the word agony. He had hurt before—from wounds, from torture—but nothing he’d ever suffered until then could have prepared him for the ragged depths of intense physiological pain and mental anguish he was living through now. Restless beyond all reason, he continually paced the tiny room into which he’d been placed two days earlier. With hot and cold flashes alternating down his limbs, he was sweating profusely, his nose running, his eyes watering. Now and again severe muscle cramps forced him to the bare floor and he would huddle in the corner of his cell while goose bumps peppered his flesh and nausea prodded at his raw throat, rocking back and forth in his agony. Chills racked him from time to time and his teeth would chatter. He shook. He trembled uncontrollably. He alternated between vomiting bile and feeling his bowels loosen with diarrhea that caused severe stomach cramps. The cell was foul with body odor and spilled waste. He could not remember the last time he slept, yet he continued to yawn repeatedly, needing sleep, but so irritable, so jittery, so filled with panic he could not slip into unconsciousness. The pain of the bone marrow donation had long since left him, but his body still felt as though he’d taken one hell of a fall. He felt bruised, battered, his muscle and bones aching as though he’d taken a vicious beating. The pain in his feet seemed to intensify and he relived the caning of the soles of his feet over and over again as he hunkered against the wall, reliving every pass of the bamboo, every split in his skin. He had no appetite for the clear soup and gelatin that was passed through a slot in the door. The contents of the Styrofoam containers were strewn across the cell, splattered the walls. He did drink the water that was given to him in plastic bottles but he took very little of it. He’d learned that drinking too much only heightened the nausea. Drawn in upon himself, he sat against the wall, his knees up and in the protection of his arms. His chest was bare but he still wore the white pajama bottoms. They stank so badly he could barely stand the stench, and he was tempted to rip them off himself and would have if chills had not started up again. As miserable as he was, the only thing that kept him from pleading with Gentry, begging her to end his torment, was his stubborn pride. He was forcing himself to endure, to take whatever she dished out for as long as he could humanly stand it.

“Seventy-two hours is when the withdrawal symptoms will peak,” Gentry had told him. “When they begin to lessen and if I don’t believe you have been appropriately chastened, we’ll start all over again and again and again until I feel you have learned your lesson.” He knew he’d never be able to go through those first forty-eight hours again without losing what sanity he had left. Before he allowed that to happen, he’d do whatever he needed to do. If it meant getting on his knees before Gentry, he would. He had no illusions that the time would come when he could no longer tolerate what she was doing to him. The slot in the cell door opened and he looked up fearfully. Gentry was standing there as she did every day and there was the same brutal smile on her flawless face. “I thought you might like to know your daughter is doing much better than expected. The transplant has helped tremendously and there was no problem with graft-versus-host disease. I thought you’d want to know.” “H-how is Star?” he asked, his voice rusty and hoarse. Gentry’s smile faded. “The bitch is fine. Don’t ask about her again or I’ll have Waverly give you another dose of tenerse. Do you understand, Dáire?” He nodded. His lips were trembling from the intense chills that were rippling over his body. “Two more days,” Gentry pronounced. “Let’s see how much of a man you are.” The slot slid shut and Dáire could not stop the whimper that pushed from his mouth. Tears fell down his cheeks as severe aches settled in his legs. He pushed his back up the wall to stand, needing to walk the cramps from his limbs. With his shoulder pressed to the wall, he began stumbling along the perimeter of the room, moaning with every painful step, his arms crossed over his stomach. ***** Time had ceased to have any meaning to him. He was in so much agony nothing registered except the cramping, the nausea, the chills and profuse sweating. His jittery restlessness kept him from sitting down or lying down in a heap on the cold floor. He kept moving—like a shark—his muscles twitching with spasms. His shoulder was bruised, rubbed raw in places where he kept it tight against the wall as he walked. When the door opened, he stilled like a deer caught in the headlights of a hunter’s truck. His dilated pupils let in far too much light and the brightness from the hallway beyond his cell cut through his head like a rusty knife. Two men came toward him and he pressed as close to the wall as he could get, his paranoia, his panic making him whimper as they grabbed his arms and pulled him forward. He stumbled along in their wake, mumbling to himself as they half-dragged him down the long corridor. An overly bright room. A hard, wooden chair. His escort shoving him onto the bare seat and yanking his arms up to strap them to the chair arms. One man knelt in front of him and lashed his ankles to the chair legs.

“Man, this fucker stinks,” the man at his feet snarled as he stood up. “That’s the least of his worries,” the other man quipped, and then they left. Being confined to the chair was an agony unto itself. Unable to move, to pace, to give in to the overpowering strength of the muscle cramps squeezing him, Dáire began to pant with the discomfort. Sweat was dripping down his cheeks, matting his hair to the nape of his neck, his forehead, trickling down his chest. A cool breeze wafted in front behind him where the door to the cell was located. He caught a whiff of her perfume and groaned, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he tucked his chin to his chest. She came to stand in front of him. He could sense her standing there. Feel her staring down at him. He clenched his jaws together, striving hard not to beg, although every instinct in his body screamed at him to do just that. There was a movement to his right and then warm fingers on the deep bruises along the inside of his forearm where one of the cannulas had been. He didn’t need to be told what was about to happen. His whimper was heartbreaking. Gentry stepped forward and took his chin in her hand, forcing his head up. “Open your eyes,” she ordered. A length of tubing was tied around his arm just above his elbow. “Don’t make me say it again.” Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and looked right into the merciless gunmetal gray depths of Gentry’s uncompromising stare. It was Waverly’s fingers that were slapping at his veins, bringing one up for the injection she had prepared for him. As she worked, all hope fled from Dáire Cronin. With one hand on his chin, Gentry put her other hand out to push the lank hair from his forehead. “Your punishment is over, sweeting,” she said. “This is just the daily dose of tenerse you will need from now on to keep the withdrawal symptoms away.” He didn’t dare believe her, didn’t dare hope. The sting of the drug rippled through his veins and brought intense pain. “It would actually be better if this was given in his neck,” Waverly commented. “It would hurt more but it would work faster.” “Yes, but he couldn’t give it to himself and that is what he must do,” Gentry replied. He felt the drug flowing over him like a warm blanket and every ache, every pain, every twitch, spasm and cramp magically disappeared. Peace set in for the first time in days and he relaxed, unclenching his jaw to run his tongue over his lips. “Are you thirsty?” Gentry asked.

He croaked an answer and magically a tall glass of iced water was handed to Gentry. She held it to his lips, some of the icy liquid spilling down his chest as he gulped. “Not too much,” his tormentress declared. “You don’t want to get sick.” She took away the blessed refreshment then dabbed at the water on his chest with a rag Waverly handed her. “You need a nice, long bath and some sleep.” To him, both things sounded too good to be true. “After your nap, we’ll go over your assignment,” Gentry said, and frowned when he laughed. “You find that amusing?” It was difficult for him to get the words out but he managed. “I’m in no condition for any assignment,” he said and his eyes filled with hurt. He hung his head. “You made damned sure of that.” “Oh I’ll give you time to recondition, Cronin,” she said. “I can’t send you after Jackson like you are now.” The mention of Jackson made Dáire lift his head. He saw triumph flaring in Gentry’s wintry eyes. “Jackson?” he repeated, already feeling the dread deep in his soul. Gentry shrugged. “I should have known better than to pair him with Harrelson. Mick was a fair enough operative but he tended to think only of himself.” He didn’t miss her use of the past tense in speaking of Harrelson. “Where is Jackson?” he asked. “In Iran. He was captured the day you decided to ignore my telephone calls. You have no one to blame but yourself for everything he’s suffered since then.” Dáire flinched. “How long?” She put her hands on his bare forearms and leaned toward him, putting her weight on his aching arms, her face mere inches from him. “If you had taken my telephone call, I would have sent you to retrieve Jackson that very day. You could have gotten him out and been back in time to donate the bone marrow. It wasn’t as though it was a matter of life and death with your daughter as it is with poor Jackson.” “How long?” He had no idea how many days he’d been locked in her hellhole. “Two weeks.” Two weeks was an eternity in a place like Iran. Jackson—if he were still alive—would be a mess by now. “He’s alive,” Gentry said, pushing away from him. “Just barely, but alive. I’ll give you five days to get back in condition. That’s all intel thinks he has left.”

Chapter Twelve

The crosshairs of the scope bisected the dark face in the moonlight. It was a young face—far too young—but it was an enemy face. The M40A3 rifle bucked as it pumped the 7.62mm armor-piercing cartridge into the target three hundred yards away, the straps wrapped around Dáire’s forearm tightening as the weapon fired. The young face would get no older. At seventeen pounds, the rifle was a bit heavier than Dáire liked, but it had the proficiency he needed. His next target was almost one thousand yards away—the maximum range at which the weapon could be effective—but there was no doubt in his mind he could hit his mark and move on to the third objective who stood between him and Jackson. Lying on his belly, tracking the movement of his second target through the scope, Dáire tried to ignore the pain that seemed to want to persist in his hip. The site from which the bone marrow had been taken continued to plague him from time to time. Stretched out as he was, the pain was more noticeable. It didn’t help that the black epoxy-powder-coated blade strapped in a glass-filled nylon sheath to his thigh was pressing on a nerve, aggravating the situation. The knife was seven inches of high carbon steel with a hand-honed, razor-sharp, triple-peaked, serrated edge fitted into a slip-resistant thermoplastic elastomer handle. Dáire had long ago nicknamed the weapon the SinTaker and he took it on every mission he undertook. He knew before the night was over, he’d give the SinTaker a taste of enemy blood. It took about four pounds of pressure to gently squeeze the rifle’s trigger. With his target in the crosshairs, Dáire exerted that pressure and an ugly, greasy, pock-marked face dropped out of sight without a sound. Quickly, swinging the scope to the third mark, he could see fear crowding the sweaty features of the target. The man’s mouth was opening and closing as he apparently called out to his comrades—unable to get a response. Just as he fumbled for his radio, the sniper rifle spat once more and the enemy went down. Laying aside the rifle, Dáire took up his night-vision monocular and did another scan of the area surrounding the bombed-out building where intel said Jackson was being held. He knew from his hour-long session of watching that there were two men inside the building, both armed but as yet unaware their fellow soldiers had been dispatched. Easing up from the ground, Dáire stuffed the monocular into a pocket of his heavyweight black field pants and ran crouched low and soundlessly in a zigzag pattern across the sand. The rifle was in his right hand, the SinTaker in his left. The exterior walls of the building where Jackson was being held were riddled with bullet holes. Part of the building was merely a hull with crumbling blocks and shattered wooden framework that had once been doors and windows. A well sat off to one side alongside a rusted-out hulk of a car. Moving silently, Dáire reached the side of the building and pressed close to the side wall at the corner, he craned his head around the corner, took a quick look at the closed door leading into the building then eased the rifle to the ground. He could hear voices inside, laughter, someone moaning and a muscle ticked in his tight jaw. Gathering a handful of mortar scattered about the ground, he lobbed one good-sized hunk at the dilapidated, bombed-out car. The voices inside the building ceased.

Dáire moved farther back along the wall to the far corner and slipped around it just as the door to the building opened. A spate of irritated Farsi broke the stillness of the night. Dáire translated the words easily. “What is it? What’s out there?” “There is nothing here.” “Check the perimeter.” “There is nothing here.” “Do as I order!” Footsteps crunched near the car—accompanied by a low curse on the mother of the man inside the building—then the footsteps started toward Dáire. The man whose throat Dáire cut never even saw his executioner. All he heard were the soft words the man who took his life whispered in his ear, “Bærat doa mikonæm.” I will pray for you. Lowering the dead man to the ground, Daire unsnapped his sidearm and edged back around the side of the building. “Arsalan?” the man in the building called out. “Arsalan!” When there was no answer, the remaining man did the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life and it would cost him dearly. He stormed out of the building without a weapon and walked right into a hollow-point .300-grain jacketed bullet that took the top of his head off. With eyes wide in disbelief, he crumpled to the ground without a sound like a deflated blow-up doll, the sound of his bowels emptying adding to the illusion. Rushing into the building over the fallen man, Dáire came in with his black oxide .50AE Desert Eagle in a two-handed grip, a live round ratcheted into the chamber, full magazine engaged. He came up short when he saw Jackson spread-eagled to a bare mattress box spring. Naked, grinning as though he were having the time of his life, Jackson was covered in dark bruises, burns and cuts, but he was the prettiest sight Dáire had seen in several weeks. “How’s it hanging, my man?” Jackson asked in a conversational tone. Letting his gaze shift away from the heavy-duty battery charger in the corner of the room, Dáire didn’t holster his weapon. He asked Jackson if there were any more of the enemy. “Don’t think so. Those guys were more than enough, thank you for asking,” Jackson replied. He pulled on the handcuffs binding him to the springs. “Get me out of these.” “Hey, you’re not the boss of me,” Dáire complained with a grin. “You ask nicely. You don’t demand, Jack Off.” Jackson’s eyes promised retaliation. “Keys?” Dáire asked.

“Who the fuck knows, Dairy Crow?” Jackson asked. “How’s ’bout just blowing the motherfuckers off me?” “And risk blowing your hands off?” Dáire countered. “How’d you pull your pud then?” Jackson sighed. “Shit. Well, check the fat guy’s trousers. He might have a key.” The fat guy was the one lying across the doorway. Dáire holstered his gun, bent over the dead man and found nothing in his pockets. “What about the other guy?” “Just blow the things off,” Jackson said. “I’d kinda like to get out of this rat hole before the next batch of turban heads gets here.” “Why don’t I just pick the fucking locks then?” Dáire inquired. Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Nobody likes a smart ass,” he said with a sniff. Trying not to look at the mass of wounds over his friend’s nude body, Dáire made quick work of the handcuffs. “Who’s your daddy?” he quipped then held out a hand to Jackson. Jackson shook his head. “I can’t walk, Dairy Crow. They worked me over pretty damn good. The bottoms of my feet are burned.” Fury lashed through Dáire. “Wait right there then,” he said as he ran out of the building to retrieve his sniper rifle. “Like I got a choice?” Jackson grumbled as he rubbed the abrasions around his wrists. He was struggling to sit up when Dáire came back. “You motherfucking shithead. What took you so long? Did you stop to whack off before you came back?” “You’re closer to the truth than you know for a change,” Dáire said with a smirk. He held his hand out to Jackson. “Come on and get your lazy ass up, you slacker.” Jackson slapped his hand in Dáire’s and the younger man pulled his partner up to a sitting position as gently as he could then slung him carefully over his back. “What, that you’re a motherfucking shithead or that you stopped to jack off?” Jackson asked, grabbing Dáire’s belt to steady himself. “Remind me to introduce you to my daughter when we get home,” Dáire said. “What?” Jackson asked, his eyes wide. “How long have I been gone?” Without another word, Dáire was out of the building and running for the drop zone as fast as the extra weight would allow. He could hear Jackson’s grunts of pain but there was no help for it. He could only pray he wasn’t doing more damage to his friend’s back. The desert air was cool and the night dark as he squatted down at the point where he’d been left a few hours earlier. His body felt as though it had been stuffed into a meat grinder but he managed to get Jackson to the ground without jarring him too much. He fished in the pocket of his field jacket and

pressed a button on a signaling device, letting the chopper know he had his target. They didn’t have long to wait before the whomp, whomp, whomp of helicopter blades bit the air and a chopper dropped out of the sky almost at their feet. “You limo awaits, milord,” Dáire said, scooping Jackson up in his arms and racing to the Sikorsky H-92 Superhawk. “I hope you have bubbly onboard,” Jackson said as he was handed into the care of the man waiting at the chopper’s doorway. “And caviar on crisp toast points, Dairy Crow!” “Only the best Beluga for you,” Dáire said as he climbed aboard. He made eye contact with the man who now held Jackson. “He can’t walk.” “We’ve got a medic onboard, Mr. Cronin,” the man said, and carried Jackson aft. “Please take your seat. I don’t think that group of vehicles heading toward us is all that friendly.” Dáire glanced around and could see headlights bouncing toward them over the rugged terrain. He grinned then headed for the jump seats to buckle in. The last thing he heard as the giant chopper took off were pings against the underside of the bird. He tensed. “We’ve got external fuel cells that are self-sealing, sir,” one of the crewmembers sitting across from him informed Dáire. “We can take a 23mm ballistic strike and still keep on ticking.” The chopper banked away from the occasional ping of bullets hitting the belly just as there was a loud explosion on the ground. From the window, Dáire saw a bright flash of a fireball blossoming in the night. “A few less turban heads to worry about,” Dáire heard Jackson’s slurred voice yell out to him. Smiling, tired, his body aching, he knew his friend and partner was in good hands. Every inch of his muscles felt strained as he slumped in his seat. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back and, before the chopper had gone a mile or two, he was sound asleep. He woke to a gentle shake by one of the crew. “How’s he doing?” he asked, rubbing his eye with the base of his palm. “Doc knocked him out,” the crewman reported. “He had cigarette burns all over the soles of his feet.” His young mouth twisted. “Bastards.” “Dead bastards,” Dáire reported. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, feeling his muscles protesting. “Where are we?” “At the French camp, sir,” the crewman replied. Dáire nodded and yawned. He desperately needed a bed and at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Following the litter on which Jackson was sleeping peacefully, a smile on his heavily lined, bloated face, Dáire felt the cool wash of rain coming in through the chopper’s opened door. It was a light drizzle but it refreshed him as he walked behind the litter and climbed into the ambulance that would take Jackson to the camp’s clinic. “Heard it was easy pickings, Mr. Cronin,” the med tech said as the ambulance driver slammed the door

behind them. Dáire frowned though he didn’t reply. He kept thinking about that assessment of his assignment all the way to the clinic, and by the time he was standing at Jackson’s bedside watching the nurses settle his partner, his frown had become a mean scowl. It had been easy, Dáire thought. Entirely too easy. He had been briefed, dropped in Iran less than a half mile from where Jackson was stashed. He’d taken out his five targets with no resistance at all and extracted Jackson without a hitch. The chopper had come in on cue, picked them up and they were out of there. Going to the hospital room’s window, Dáire stood there staring out at the rain, which was now falling in earnest, lightning flaring in the distance. “Too goddamned easy,” he said to himself. The mission had been something a first-year rookie could have pulled off. Anyone could have waltzed in there and rescued Jackson. So why hadn’t someone already done that? “You’re thinking so hard you’re fogging up my fucking window,” Jackson mumbled. Dáire shoved his hands into the pockets of his black field pants and came over to Jackson’s bed. His partner looked worse under the soft glow of the clinic’s over-the-bed lights than he had in the hut in Iran. Deep lines Dáire couldn’t remember ever seeing before were etched into Jackson’s face. His sad-sack gray eyes were underscored by dark circles and his nose looked even more battered than normal. “I can feel the gears shifting around in that pogglehead of yours,” Jackson said. “Why you looking like somebody kicked Toto in the pine nuts?” “Do you have any idea how long you were held?” Dáire asked. “Seemed like a year to me but I guess maybe a week or two.” “They did a lot of damage in a week or two, Jack Off.” Jackson cocked a shoulder. “Could have been worse, I guess.” “How’d you get caught?” Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Caught? Hell, I gave myself up,” he snapped. “Needed a vacation, you know? What the hell kind of question is that?” “It was too easy, Jackson,” Dáire said. He pulled a hand out of his pocket and shoved it through his hair. “Anyone could have extracted you at any time under those conditions.” “Mick Harrelson might have disagreed with you,” Jackson said. “What were you two doing in Iran?” Jackson fumbled with the bed controls until Dáire reached out and took the box from him and raised the head of the bed. He helped his friend to get more comfortable.

“We were assigned to bring a guy out who reportedly had intel on those infamous—and I still believe non-existent—weapons of mass destruction good old Sadaam supposedly stockpiled over there.” “What ‘guy’ is this?” “Some turban head named Zahak Hussein, a cousin of our cheerful sadist.” Jackson winced and motioned to the pitcher of water at his bedside. As Dáire poured him a cup, Jackson gave him a brief rundown of how they’d found Hussein. “That sounds too easy as well,” Dáire commented as he held the cup to Jackson’s mouth. Jackson drained the cup then laid back. He thought about it for a moment. “Well, yeah, it does.” “Did you find him?” Jackson shook his head. “No, and we didn’t find no stinking weapons of mass destruction either. What we found was an ambush. To give Mick his due, he did a real hero number before all was said and done.” “How’d he buy it?” “A single bullet right between the eyes as soon as we were taken down,” Jackson replied. “Me, they kept around to play with.” Dáire walked back to the window where the rain was cascading down it in sheets. The lightning was going off like the flashbulbs of the paparazzi. “Mick was lead, right?” he asked as he stared at the vicious flares of light. “Get away from there before you’re French fried,” Jackson grumbled. “Mick was lead,” Dáire said again. “Yeah, of course. You think Gentry trusts me not to run with sharp objects clutched in my sweaty little hand?” “They had to have known he was lead,” Dáire said. “Wouldn’t you think it would be you they ventilated instead of Mick?” “Oh that’s a pleasant thought,” Jackson complained. “You sorry I’m still here, Dairy Crow?” “Think about it,” Dáire said. “It was just too fucking easy.” “Where were you, anyway?” Jackson asked. “Did Gentry just give you a holiday or what?” Dáire went over to a chair and pulled it close to Jackson’s bed. “Star and I have a daughter, Jackson,” he said as he sat down. “You’re shitting me,” Jackson said. “How?” “Well, you slip the tube steak into the—”

Jackson actually growled. “You know what I’m asking!” “As Star said, birth control pills don’t work one hundred percent of the time. She wasn’t trying to get pregnant.” Jackson stared at him. “You with a kid. God, that is scary.” He shook his head. “You reproducing.” “She has Down’s syndrome,” Dáire said quietly. “And leukemia.” Jackson’s face turned pale. “Oh, God, Dáire! I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Dáire waved away his apology. “Gentry knew about her. When I was in Borneo, she went to see Star in the hospital.” He hunched forward, webbing his fingers together and dropping his hands between his spread knees. “She did her usual Wicked Witch of the West routine.” “No surprise there,” Jackson said. “Looking back on my capture in Borneo,” Dáire said quietly, his head down. “You thought it was a little too easy too, didn’t you?” He and Jackson had discussed that assignment many times, and it had been Jackson who had first brought up the notion that Dáire’s captors had been lying in wait for him. They’d ignored Jackson, allowing him to get away without so much as firing a shot at him. Before Jackson could call in reinforcements, Dáire was gone. “Are you saying you think Gentry was behind that?” Jackson asked. “Do you remember how furious she was with me for trying to get in touch with Star before we left New York?” Dáire questioned. “I remember you had the bad taste to screw the hag,” Jackson reminded him. “What the hell were you thinking?” Dáire looked up. Jackson had never asked about that last night in New York harbor onboard the HardWind. “I had no idea why I slept with her until now.” At Jackson’s raised eyebrow, Dáire explained about the drug he’d been given that night. “Holy shit, are you kidding me? She slipped you a date-rape drug?” “Something far worse than Rohypnol,” Dáire told him. “This stuff makes heroin and morphine look like a walk in the park and a hundred times more addictive if you can believe anything Gentry says.” Jackson shuddered. “Man, that’s sick.” “Gentry knew Jillian needed a bone marrow transplant. My guess is she knows everything about Star and Jillian. That day she sent you off, she told me to get my act together and either work it out with Star or break it off. When I found out about Jilly’s illness, Star and I went over to Pensacola where she was in the hospital.” “Is she all right now?”

“Gentry says she is, but I don’t know for sure. She had her men snatch me from the hospital the night after the transplant and I wound up on Sinavar.” “Shit,” Jackson whispered. “Why?” “So Gentry could punish me for annoying her,” Dáire admitted. “The more I think about it, the more inclined I am to believe it was a setup all along. She’s had this planned for days, if not weeks.” “Son of a bitch,” Jackson said. “What I didn’t tell you about that last night on the HardWind before we left for Tokyo,” Dáire said, “was that Gentry told me she loved me. She asked me to marry her.” Jackson’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. He finally snapped his jaw shut with a loud click of his teeth. “She said she could give me anything I wanted and, with her as my wife, I could go as high within The Cumberland Group as any man could want. All I had to do was say yes.” Still staring at his friend, Jackson was beyond words. He looked a little green around the gills at the mere mention of Dáire doing something so self-destructive. “You can imagine how she took it when I said no.” Jackson nodded, but still couldn’t bring himself to speak. Dáire took a deep breath before continuing then let it out raggedly. “She told me if I didn’t agree to marry her, she’d make my life miserable. She said she’d come after me with everything she had and I’d regret not taking her up on her offer to make me a kept man.” Jackson swallowed. “She called you that? A kept man?” Dáire shook his head. “No, but that’s what it would have amounted to.” The men were silent for a long while then Jackson cleared his throat, drawing Dáire’s attention. “You think she set you up and all that shit you went through in Borneo was to teach you not to fuck with her?” Dáire shrugged. “I didn’t at the time, but I do now. After what she did to me at Sinavar, she’s capable of doing anything.” Tears filled Jackson’s faded gray eyes. “I’m sorry, Dairy Crow,” he whispered. “For what?” “She knows we’re close. She used me to hurt you.” “You’ll be the last person she ever uses to hurt me,” Dáire said. Jackson’s brows drew together. “What do you mean? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to bring her down.” “I don’t think that’s possible,” Jackson told him. “At least I don’t think you’re capable of doing it.” An evil smile tugged at the corners of Dáire’s mouth. “You don’t want to know what I’m capable of doing, Jack Off.” “Dáire, look—” “I might not be able to prove it, but she got me locked up for nearly a year in that hellhole in Borneo. I could barely walk when you and your men took me out of there. Do you remember that?” “All too well,” Jackson said. “Just like I feel right now.” “I spent all those weeks here recuperating and in all that time I never saw her ugly face once, but as soon as I got back to the States, she’s sitting off the coast of Florida in her fancy yacht, summoning me like the vassal she considers me.” “Can’t argue with you there.” “She gives me an ultimatum, but she knows already which way I’m going to jump. She knows about Jillian. She knows my baby girl needs my help even before Star knew it. She sets me up. She sets you up, puts you over there in danger, then tries to keep me from donating bone marrow to my daughter. Only this time, I don’t answer her phone call. I pitch my cell phone in the toilet and try like hell to avoid her.” “Well, that was a bad idea,” Jackson reminded him. “And you suffered because of it,” Dáire said. “Jackson, I am really sorry, man. I—” “Forget it and don’t mention it again,” Jackson said. “Go on.” “I guess she could have had me picked up at any time, but she allowed me to give Jilly what she needed, yet that night she had her goons come to the hospital and drag me out of there unconscious.” “And you wound up at Sinavar.” Dáire nodded. “Where she proceeded to get me hooked on this drug of hers.” “Hooked?” There was shock on Jackson’s face. “She says I’ll have to have it every day for the rest of my life, but I can’t believe that’s true. I’ll shake it,” Dáire said. “I have to. What if Jilly needs another bone marrow transplant? What if Star or you need a kidney?” Jackson grinned. “I don’t want none of your used pieces-parts, Dairy Crow. You’re just as likely to sell me a lemon as not.” “I’ve got real problems, Jackson. What if Gentry tries to hurt Star like she hurt you?” “Don’t even go there.”

Dáire was beginning to feel itchy, twitchy, and he realized the drug was starting to wear off. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d had his last injection and the restlessness was building. If he were going to function at top efficiency, he’d have to give in to the call of the narcotic. He reached into the pocket of his black field jacket and withdrew a long, slender leather case inside which was a syringe and a bottle of tenerse. “Right now, this is the worst of my problems,” he said, opening the case to show Jackson the contents. “Man,” Jackson said, his eyes troubled. “That’s not a problem. That’s a nightmare.” “I’ll shake it, Jackson,” Dáire swore as he took out the syringe. “I’m going to shake the addiction to the drug then, one way or another, I’m going to rid us all of Gentry!”

Chapter Thirteen

Star was trembling uncontrollably. Sitting on the sloping embankment of Interstate 10, she was watching her car going up in flames. Shaken by her narrow escape from death, she didn’t even notice the Florida Highway Patrolman’s approach. She didn’t hear him speaking to her, asking her if she was all right, if anyone else had been in the car. Numbly she perched there with her knees drawn up, a wicked gash along the left side of her mouth where flying glass had hit her beneath the canopy of the head airbag. Cars had stopped on both sides of the interstate—drivers doing nothing but gawking at the burning car. A semi had pulled around the wreck of the BMW and parked on the shoulder headed east, jumping out and running back to help Star only moments after the wreck. They had only gone twenty feet or so before the car exploded into flames, the stench of burning rubber and plastic sickening, knocking both of them to the ground. Now the truck driver was sitting beside Star, answering the patrolman’s questions for it was obvious the beautiful woman from the car was in shock. “I was just cresting the hill back there when I saw this black Hummer come tearing across the median. He just T-boned the lady,” the trucker told the trooper. “He slammed into her and pushed her sideways into the guardrail.” The trooper looked around them. He could see fresh gouges in the grass of the median, skidmarks on the roadway, broken glass but no other vehicle. “Where’s the Hummer?” “Took off like a bat out of hell right after he hit her,” the trucker replied. “Man, it looked to me like he was waiting for her to come by and just shot across the median right at her.” “He was on the side of the road?” The trucker nodded. “Yes, sir. He took off from a dead stop and headed right for her. I don’t think she saw him until it was too late.” “Did you get a license number?” “No, sir,” the trucker answered. “I came barreling toward them. I saw the driver door of the Hummer

open, but then, next thing I knew, the driver was tearing out of here. I was too worried about helping the lady out of her car to pay attention to a tag. Both doors were caved in but the back window was broken, completely gone, so I crawled through the window and pulled her out.” He looked down at the torn, bloody knees of his blue jeans. “My old lady is gonna kill me. These were brand new.” In the distance the sounds of sirens began. Emergency lights were flashing along both directions of the super slab. There were several people milling about, but when the trooper asked if anyone had seen the Hummer, apparently no one had. Most had stopped when they’d seen the fire roaring out of control. “Someone tried to kill her, officer,” the trucker said. “Sure as I’m sitting here, someone has it in for this little lady, and that person would have finished her off if I hadn’t been there.” “Ma’am,” the trooper tried again. “Are you hurt?” He knew better than to touch her for fear she’d react in a way that could cause her further damage. Star was locked in a weird kind of silence in which nothing—not even the blaring of the sirens bearing down on them—could penetrate. She didn’t feel the concussion she had sustained. She didn’t feel the broken left wrist. When the emergency medics arrived, Star was simply staring into space. Unable to get any response from her, the EMTs gingerly placed a rigid cervical collar around her neck, laid her upon a long backboard then transported her into the ambulance. The closest hospital was in Milton and it was there she was taken. ***** It was well after midnight before Star came out of the deep fugue into which she’d fallen. She found herself in a hospital bed with an IV dripping fluids into her right arm, her left arm in a cast, an oxygen tube in her nostrils. Her head ached miserably and every muscle in her body felt bruised. She lay there for a moment trying to puzzle out what had happened, but then the fog cleared away in her mind and the image of her car with flames shooting from it brought tears to her eyes. She hadn’t seen the Hummer bearing down on her. Her cell phone had taken that moment to ring and she had fumbled it open. Just as she put the cell to her ear, she’d caught a dark shadow rushing toward her. Before she could look out her driver-side window, a voice hissed in her ear. “Goodbye, you bitch.” The words hung in the air, stunning Star, just as the horrendous crash hit her side of the car and she lost control. The main airbag and the head airbag had deployed, blocking her view of what had hit her. All she could feel was shattered glass hitting her face and arms. All she could hear was the roar of a mighty engine, the squeal of her car’s protesting tires on the pavement, the grinding of metal against metal, a loud explosion then utter, complete silence. She didn’t remember being helped from her car, but she remembered sitting on the grassy slope, watching her sweet little car being destroyed. “We were beginning to think you weren’t going to wake up.”

The voice came from her bedside and Star—with some effort—turned her face toward the sound. A tall man in a white lab coat was standing by her bed. He had a stethoscope hanging around his neck and he was carrying a metal record holder in his hand. He wasn’t smiling. His expressionless face made the hair stand up on Star’s arms. “There’s a policeman right outside your door,” the man said softly. Star’s eyes shifted to the partially open door. “I wouldn’t suggest you call him, Miss Kiernan,” her visitor said. “He has a wife, two little boys and a third on the way.” His eyes narrowed. “We want him to go home to that family in the morning, now don’t we?” “What do you want?” she asked, terror making her heart thud hard in her chest. “Me?” the man asked. “I don’t want anything from you. Miss Gentry is another matter.” For a moment the name didn’t register, but then Star remembered Dáire using it when she’d told him about the woman who had come to visit her after she’d given birth to Jillian. “Miss Gentry would have come herself, but with the security surrounding you, she thought it best to send me.” He smiled and the smile was pure evil. “I am expendable, you see.” The smile widened. “Just as the man who fucked up and didn’t do his job right on the interstate this morning was expendable. Just as you are expendable, slut.” “Where’s Dáire?” she asked. It had been a shock to hear he’d been abducted from the hospital the night of the donation. She didn’t need to wonder who had taken him. She knew. “I believe he and Jackson are still in France,” the man replied. “He’ll be there a while longer while Jackson recuperates.” “Jackson is hurt? How—?” “I am here to deliver a message from Miss Gentry,” the man cut her off. “I am to tell you that you lied to her. You told her you had broken it off with Dáire Cronin but that has proven to be a lie. She wants me to warn you that if you continue seeing him, there will be one less child in that group home in Pensacola.” Absolute terror drove straight through Star’s heart. She gasped, jerking her right hand to her mouth. She stared at the man, watching the nastiness filling his hard stare. “I don’t like children,” he said. “I especially don’t like deformed children.” He leaned over her bed, piercing her with his hateful glare. “It would make my day to eliminate a greedy, taxpayer, money-sucking retard from the state’s coffers.” He cocked his head to one side. “Give me a reason to smother that abomination you and Cronin call a daughter in her drooling sleep.” “No,” Star whispered. “Then stay the hell away from Cronin!” the man ordered. “Don’t hurt my little girl,” she pleaded. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“That’s up to you,” the man said then straightened up. He made a notation on the chart in his hand then turned his back on her. “Try to rest now. You really don’t look so good.” She watched him go out the door, heard him greet the policeman, and it was all she could do not to scream. Fear was racing through her body, paralyzing her, bringing a tremor that made her teeth click together. When the nurse came in to check on her, she found Star sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow. ***** Jackson was shooting the breeze with one of the French orderlies at the clinic and eyeing a pretty little nurse sitting by herself at the next table over. Now and again she’d cast him a saucy look then go back to the paperback novel she was reading. “There’s no accounting for taste,” Dáire said as he hooked a leg over a chair placed beside Jackson’s wheelchair and slid down into the seat. “She looks like she could eat you for lunch.” Jackson bid the orderly adieu then turned to look at Dáire. “I could sure enough gobble her up for lunch or any other meal.” “Frenchwomen taste like fish down there,” Dáire observed. “I love fish,” Jackson replied, lacing his fingers together over his belly. He let his head fall back so he could look up at the overcast sky through the window behind him. “Ever notice how American women taste like boiled potatoes?” “Star doesn’t,” Dáire told him. “She tastes sweet. Sorta like oatmeal.” Jackson winced. “More information there than I needed, Dairy Crow.” He lowered his head and glared at Dáire. “Now I’m going to have that stuck in my head, and every time I see her, I’m going to be thinking of oatmeal.” He smacked his lips. “I’ll never eat gruel again.” “Gentry’s here. She got in an hour ago,” Dáire said. He tipped his chair back. “She’s in with the director of the clinic.” “No doubt inquiring after my health,” Jackson said with a snort. He caught the eye of the little nurse and winked broadly at her. “That Transylvanian bodyguard of hers came looking for me. He told me to get our things together. We’ll be leaving for the airport when she’s finished with the director.” Jackson reluctantly tore his attention from the pretty nurse. “Do you know where we’ll be heading?” “To the HardWind according to the bloodsucker.” Dáire narrowed his eyes. “From there? Who the fuck knows?” “Vlad’s really a pretty decent guy,” Jackson said. Dáire’s eyebrow shot up. “That’s his name? Really?” “Vlad Tepes,” Jackson said, nodding at Dáire’s disbelieving look. “I’m not joking. That’s his name.”

“Yeah, right,” Dáire scoffed. “Could be an assumed name, of course,” Jackson surmised. “I’ve been thinking of changing mine to Love Machine.” “Now if you’d said Dud Machine, I’d have believed you,” Dáire said dryly. “Ah, Dairy Crow, I think you are being summoned,” Jackson said in a low voice. Dáire turned to see Tyndall Gentry standing in the doorway of the cafeteria. She crooked a finger at him then spun around on her heel and walked off. “Your mistress calls,” Jackson muttered. Dáire let the legs of the chair crash loudly to the floor then got up. “I had the orderlies pack your stuff. I’ll meet you at the limo.” “That’s providing I’ll be allowed to accompany you and the Wicked Witch,” Jackson reminded him. “She might want you to herself.” “She can want in one hand and shit in the other for all I care,” Dáire snapped. Jackson watched his friend and partner walk off then glanced at the pretty nurse one last time. He sighed deeply then motioned an orderly over to wheel him back to his room. ***** Gentry was waiting down the hallway, standing at a wide sweep of windows that overlooked the lush, green countryside. She was nervously tapping the toe of her black pump, her arms wrapped around the bright yellow tweed suit that fit her much too snuggly. The hemline of the skirt was much too short for a woman of Gentry’s age. Dáire said nothing as he joined her at the window. He recognized all too well the telltale signs of colossal fury in the woman. She was chewing on her bottom lip as she stared out at the beautiful scenery—another sign of her agitation. Folding his arms, he waited for her to vent that anger on him. Casting the handsome man at her side a quick look, Gentry stood there striving to get her anger under control. She’d lost three good men that morning, learned a fourth had been decapitated in Iraq and a fifth was missing, presumed dead. Between dealing with the incompetence of the man she’d sent to dispatch Dáire’s slutty lover and a not-so-good report on her personal health from the director of the clinic, Tyndall Gentry was not in a good state of mind. “Walk with me,” she demanded, and reached out to take his arm. She pretended not to notice that he stiffened beneath her touch as she led him down the hall. She turned to look at him again. He was dressed in a lightweight cotton long-sleeve shirt, the cuffs rolled up sensually to the middle of his tanned forearm, with the top four buttons left undone so that the crisp hairs on his chest showed through the opening. The black jeans looked as though he’d been poured into them and molded his hard ass lovingly. The stark whiteness of his sneakers was just the right touch to make him irresistible to every woman they passed in the hall.

“Dr. Francois says Jackson is healing well enough to go home,” she said, and when Dáire did not respond to her comment, she leaned closer against him. This time it was hard not to notice that he moved away from her touch. Dáire felt the pressure on the crook of his arm increase and then she was in his face, glaring up at him as they stood toe to toe. “Don’t fuck with me, Cronin,” she warned. “You really don’t want to do that.” Her gray eyes bore into him. “You do remember what happened the last time you fucked with me.” He said nothing, just stared down at her with no emotion at all on his still face. Not even his eyes moved as he held her look. “How’s your supply of tenerse?” she asked hatefully. “Do you have enough? Is it staving off your discomfort, or should I ask Dr. Francois to provide you with a stronger dose?” The warning was there. He didn’t even blink. “I have all I need,” he replied. “Perhaps I should take you back to Sinavar,” she said, her mouth twisted in a sneer. “I don’t think you learned all you could have when you were there last.” “What good would my cock be to you if I’m out of my mind in a locked room?” he asked quietly. “Unless, of course, you don’t mind whose dick you have shoved up inside your cunt.” She lashed out, slapping him as hard as she could. The imprint of her hand was vivid on his cheek. “How dare you?” she hissed. “I am not a slut like that piece of trash who bore your mongoloid child.” He was on her in the flash of an eye, the fingers of his right hand spanning her throat, cutting off her air as he shoved her against the wall, holding her there with the solid bulk of his body. His left hand dug cruelly into her right shoulder, pinning that arm between them. He ignored her raking his hand with her long nails, drawing blood, and pressed harder until true fear showed in the depths of her stricken gaze. “Don’t you ever call my little girl that again,” he spat at her. “Not ever again!” He used his knee, shoving it between her legs so she was riding his hard thigh. “Do you hear me, Gentry?” Lights were flashing across Gentry’s vision and she was struggling to get him off her. She couldn’t breathe and was fast losing consciousness. Her hand was slick with his blood from where she’d clawed into him but he didn’t seem to notice. “Do you fucking hear me?” he repeated from between tightly clenched teeth. “Yes!” she managed to get out. He let go of her and stepped back, watching her slide down the wall like a broken puppet. He just stood there—his legs spread wide, his hands clenched into fists at his side—hating her with every fiber in his being. Blood dripped from his hand to splatter on the floor but he wasn’t even aware of it. “Y-you,” she said in a strained voice, “will pay for that.”

He had no doubt he would, if he allowed it. He stepped back as she struggled to stand up straight. “That was a mistake,” she said. She coughed, gasping for breath. Pure evil had settled in Dáire’s dark eyes and he made up his mind then and there that one of them would not be alive to see the new day. Since he feared for the safety of the woman he loved and the child she had given him if Gentry were allowed to live, he knew what had to be done. ***** No one spoke as the stretch limo made its way to the Montpellier Airport where the chopper was waiting to whisk them to the HardWind. The Sikorsky S-76C Spirit lifted off the ground just after noon with six people onboard. Along with the pilot and co-pilot, Gentry, her bodyguard Vlad, Dáire and Jackson were making the short flight to the yacht. The HardWind was anchored just off the French coast near the seaside town of Arcachon. The limo stopped on the tarmac and Vlad was the first one out, holding the door for his employer, putting out a hand to help her from the vehicle. His face was stony and as granite hard as the mountains of his native Transylvania. Vlad’s cold, black eyes settled on Dáire when the younger man climbed out of the limo next. “Bitten any necks lately, Tepes?” Dáire asked, not in the least unsettled by the bigger man’s steady stare. “No, but I have driven a few stakes through the disloyal hearts of my lady’s enemies,” Vlad replied in a nasty tone. “It’s nice to have a hobby,” Dáire said with a smile. Jackson rolled his eyes as Dáire helped his old friend out of the limo and into the wheelchair the limo driver had ready for him. “Play nice, boys,” Jackson suggested. “I’d like a vodka tonic as soon as we’re on the helicopter, Vlad,” Gentry snapped. She raked her gaze over Dáire with a look meant to quell him, but Cronin just laughed. “Certainly, my lady,” Vlad agreed. The heels of her expensive shoes clicking on the tarmac, Gentry hurried to the chopper and was inside the craft before Dáire and Jackson reached the big black helicopter. Vlad was standing at the bottom of the steps leading into the chopper, blocking their way. “Just a bit of advice, Cronin,” the big man said in his thick accent. “Stay away from her during the flight. She wants nothing to do with you.” Dáire cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in there making her that vodka tonic?” he challenged. “Better hop to, boy.” He said the last word with insulting emphasis. “Oh this is going to be a joyful flight,” Jackson commented, pushing forward so that Vlad had to take a step up the stairway or have his foot ran over. “Vlad, be a pal and carry me up the steps. If Cronin does, he might drop my wide-load ass.” Jackson expertly pivoted the wheelchair around so Vlad could bend

down and scoop him out of it. Scowling at Dáire, Vlad did as Jackson asked and lifted him up, shifted his weight then took him into the chopper. From over the big man’s shoulder, Dáire could see Jackson grinning from ear to ear. The plush interior of the executive helicopter had deep, oversized leather chairs and Vlad settled Jackson into a window seat before moving away to make Gentry’s pre-flight drink. Dáire plopped down beside Jackson then leaned over to make a kissy face and smacking sounds at him. “Suck-up,” Dáire named Jackson. “Rabble-rouser,” Jackson returned. Dáire chuckled and strapped himself into the seat. They wouldn’t be in the air long but already Gentry was drumming her long red-coated nails on the arm of her chair, staring out the window, breathing hard. He knew she wasn’t a calm flyer and knowing she was so nervous amused him. He knew she needed a stiff drink in order to make the short hop to the yacht. “She can ride out a force-ten gale but she can’t puddle hop across a calm stretch of ocean without nearly shitting her britches,” Jackson commented. “She hasn’t been fond of flying since she set fire to her broom out there in Oz and the locals threw water on her,” Dáire said, laying his head back on the comfortable headrest. “Besides, she doesn’t have her flying monkeys to keep her company.” He snorted. “A flying ape, but none of her flying monkeys.” “Vlad really is a nice guy,” Jackson said. “I wish you’d stop slamming him.” “As long as he’s her gofer, I want nothing to do with him,” Dáire said, and closed his eyes. The chopper lifted off the ground as soon as Gentry had her drink in hand. Dáire opened one eye to take a look at her hand as she clutched the crystal glass. Her knuckles were white and the ice in the glass was vibrating. He chuckled to himself and settled in for the short ride. ***** As Dáire was half-dozing on a helicopter a world away, Star was writing a check to a private security firm, giving them strict instructions on what she expected from them in regards to her daughter’s protection. “I am fully convinced the woman is insane,” Star told Malcom Ventner, the owner of Prime Security. “You can’t take any chances with Jillian.” “We’ll take very good care of your little girl, Miss Kiernan,” Ventner assured her. “She’ll be on a flight to her new destination within the next few hours.” “I’ll call you when I get back to Panama City,” Star said, getting to her feet. “One of your men will be following me?” “You have nothing to worry about, Miss Kiernan,” Lloyd Fallon, Ventner’s partner, told her. “If anyone even looks like they want to get close to you, we’ll stop them. I wish you’d let us involve the FBI in this. After all, someone did try to kill you.”

Star chewed on her thumbnail. “I don’t know that this Gentry woman isn’t part of the FBI,” she said. “I know one of her men was.” “We haven’t been able to find out anything about her, ma’am, but we know for a fact she isn’t with any federal agency we have access to. If she’s black ops as you suggest she is, it would be nearly impossible to learn anything helpful about her.” Ventner shrugged. “We have other means at our disposal so let’s hope someone will come forward and give us information on her.” Star shook hands with the two men and Fallon offered to walk her to her new car while Ventner called down to have her car brought to the front of the building by the valet service. As they took the elevator down to the lobby of the high-rise in which Prime Security had its office, she couldn’t stop herself from asking what—if anything—they’d been able to find out about Dáire. “Dáire Patrick Cronin was a Ranger,” Fallon said. “Decorated hero and all that. He kind of disappeared off the radar about nine years ago. From everyone we’ve questioned, he’s a good man but…” Fallon looked at her. “You sure you want to hear this, Miss Kiernan?” “I have to know,” she said. “One of our sources suggested that he’s a mercenary, hiring out to the highest bidder.” Star took a deep breath. “In other words a killer?” she questioned. “One of the best we’ve been told,” Fallon answered. “Very good at what he does. Ruthless and merciless when it’s needed.” A part of her had known, of course, but hearing it from Fallon made the hairs stand up on the nape of Star’s neck. She could do no more than nod, not wanting to hear anything else. “You’re running with a very dangerous man, Miss Kiernan. That kind of man has more enemies than friends. You’d do well to cut your losses and move on.” “Just keep my daughter safe. That’s all that matters. I can handle my personal life,” she said then softened the harshness of her tone by thanking Fallon for his concern. “We’ll be watching over you too, ma’am,” Fallon reminded her. He held the door open for her as the silver pine metallic Lexus GX with the darkly tinted windows pulled up at the curb and the valet got out. Star slipped her sunglasses on, shook Fallon’s hand one last time then skirted the front of the Lexus and got in. She laid her purse on the passenger seat with the top toward her, the opening unzipped and the 10mm Glock 29 autopistol only eighteen inches from her right hand with a ten-round magazine locked and loaded. Pulling away from the curb and into the traffic in downtown Pensacola, she constantly checked her side mirrors, the rearview mirror, her eyes skittering every now and then to the weapon in her purse. Once she was out on the interstate, she reached over and slipped the gun out of the purse and laid it in her lap. “Where are you, Dáire?” she whispered. “Where are you? I need you, baby.” *****

At that moment, the man Star Kiernan loved so recklessly, so passionately, she was unwilling to give him up without one hell of a fight, was striding across the deck of the HardWind. The ocean breeze ruffled his thick brown hair and billowed the white shirt that so richly accented his deep tan. Jackson rolled alongside him, keeping up a constant patter about the rough seas that were making the yacht pitch and roll a little too much for the older man’s comfort. “I don’t like the fucking ocean,” Jackson complained. “If God had meant man to be out on the ocean, he’d have given him gills.” “You get a few glasses of tequila in you and you won’t give a shit about the ocean,” Daire taunted. “If all this rocking and rolling don’t stop, I’ll be puking a few glasses of tequila,” Jackson grumbled. “Cronin!” Gentry called out. “I want you in my office. Now!” Dáire stopped walking and glared at the woman as she disappeared into the yacht’s interior. A muscle jumped in his jaw and his eyes were as cold as an Alpine avalanche and just as deadly. “Be cool,” Jackson recommended. Vlad had also stopped walking and was waiting for Dáire to join him. It was obvious he’d been given instructions to make sure Dáire did as he was ordered. “If you hear a splash,” Dáire told Jackson, “it will be her ass going over the side.” “Just make sure no one sees you pitch her over and that there are sharks in the vicinity,” Jackson said. Rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the tension gathered along his neck, Dáire headed for Vlad. He didn’t speak to the burly bodyguard as he passed him, but if looks could have killed, the Transylvanian would be pushing up daisies with his size fourteen boots. Gentry was pacing in front of her desk when Cronin came into her office without knocking. He halted a few feet from her, crossed his arms and waited for the tirade he suspected was brewing. “Take your clothes off,” she threw at him as she continued to pace. “Fuck you,” he replied with a snort. She stopped pacing, looked at him, and the smile she gave him could have turned water to ice. “I have a call in to my associates in Panama City. If I don’t call them back within the next hour with a certain codeword, spoken in my normal voice, Star Kiernan is a dead woman.” Dáire’s face drained of color and he slowly unfolded his arms, staring at Gentry with stunned eyes. “You’re bluffing,” he said so softly she barely heard him. “Want to bet that whore’s life on it?” she countered. She leaned her hips against the front of her desk and braced her hands on the desk’s top. He would put nothing past Tyndall Gentry. He’d known her too long, seen too many brutal things she’d set into motion, heard too many tales from operatives who had run afoul of her vile temper. The woman was psychotic and a person crossed her at his own peril—or in this case, Star’s.

“I won’t tell you again,” she said. With his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed mercilessly, Dáire put his hands to his shirt and tugged it from the jeans. He made quick work of the buttons that were still buttoned then stripped off the shirt, tossing it to the chair in front of him. He lifted his left leg, crooked it over his right and yanked the sneaker from that foot, peeling off the sock too, before repeating the procedure with the other leg. He unsnapped his jeans, he tugged the zipper down then pushed the garment down his long legs, stepped out of the jeans and kicked them away. Throughout the entire time he was stripping for her, Gentry never took her eyes from the honed body that was being revealed to her. Unadulterated lust had turned the chill of her eyes to molten silver, heat pouring from her gaze, so that at the moment he stood there completely naked before her she actually licked her lips. Dáire was sickened by her reaction to him as he had always been disturbed by her unwanted pursuit. Only once—long ago when he had been a new recruit to The Cumberland Group—had he gone willingly to her bed, and that was a mistake he regretted bitterly. He recognized the signs of unbridled obsession in himself and he saw it all too clearly in Gentry’s avid gaze. “Now come here.” Cringing at the command, he walked to her and stopped only a foot away from her. He was close enough to be overpowered by her perfume and could hear the ragged breaths she took. His arms hung loosely at his side, his eyes directed past her head so that he stared at the wall. “Look at me,” she said, not even giving him that out. When his gaze shifted reluctantly to hers, she arched a perfectly tweezed brow. “Why do you make me do this to you, Dáire?” He spoke before he thought. “Because I can’t stand you putting your hands on me.” Fury widened Gentry’s eyes and she thrust out a hand to grab his cock, hurting him as she brutally squeezed his flesh, pulling upon him so hard he had no choice but to stumble toward her. He slammed into her, their bodies touching as she increased her pressure on his staff. “Don’t you ever say that to me again!” she spat. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He could feel her breasts through the tweed material of her suit pressing against him. She was kneading his flesh, manhandling him and, despite himself, he felt his cock growing hard in her grip. “Lay your ass down on the floor,” she demanded, letting go of him and shoving him away from her. Ashamed of his body’s reaction to her touch, he just wanted to get it over with. He moved back and dropped to the floor, sitting there for a moment with his knees drawn up before gritting his teeth and stretching out on the plush carpet. “Spread your legs, pretty boy,” she instructed as her fingers went to the buttons of her suit jacket. “And your arms.” Feeling the heat of a hot blush staining his face, he spread-eagled his limbs and lay there staring at the

ceiling, despising her, despising himself, and itching to put his hands around her neck and squeeze until she no longer posed a threat to him or Star or their child. Gentry took her time undressing. It didn’t matter to her that he wasn’t watching her take off her clothes. It was the slowness of her movements, the deliberate taking of time, that she knew was like running her fingernails down a chalkboard with him. From years of knowing Dáire Cronin, she knew all the right buttons to push to irritate him to the point where he would take her in the way she preferred. When she was naked, she came to stand over him, straddling his lean, flat waist and looked down at him in satisfaction. “I offered you a chance to make an honest woman of me,” she said, and pretended not to hear the snort of derision that came from him. “You disdained that offer, and that was a big mistake.” Dáire lowered his furious gaze to hers. “One you made sure I paid for,” he threw at her. Gentry smiled. “No one throws that kind of offer back in my face, Dáire,” she said. “Your sojourn in Borneo was a reprimand, nothing more.” “One that almost crippled me!” he snarled. “It wouldn’t have come to that,” she said. “I wouldn’t have let it.” She lifted her leg and placed her foot on his chest, ran her toes through the thick hair nestled there. “I like your body just the way it is. Why do you think I had them cane your feet and not that beautiful back and glorious ass?” The memory of the intense pain he had felt as his captors had beat the soles of his feet until he passed out made him clench his fists. He didn’t dare say what was on the tip of his tongue for fear the insane woman standing above him would harm Star. Gentry drew her foot down his chest, over his belly and onto the erection that thrust from between his legs with a mind of its own. “Vlad?” Gentry called out, rolling Dáire’s rigid member across his abdomen. The door to the office opened and Gentry’s bodyguard came in. Dáire could feel the disapproving gaze of the brawny man boring through him but he refused to meet Vlad’s glare. “Prepare a glass of milk for him, will you?” “No!” Dáire protested, and nearly gagged as she pushed her weight down on his cock. He half lifted his arms to shove her away from him but reason prevailed and he put his arms down again. “Milady…” Vlad began, but stopped when Gentry hissed at him. “Do as you are told!” Dáire could see the bodyguard’s hands clenching and unclenching at his sides just before Vlad turned away and walked to the bar fridge on the other side of the room. “Give him a double dose of the tenerse,” Gentry ordered. “He’s not hard enough yet.” Humiliation rocketed through Dáire and he felt tears gathering in his eyes. He remembered entirely too

vividly the night before he’d been flown to Tokyo and the wild, unnatural rutting session that had occurred. He had shocked himself with the things he had done, that he had allowed done to him, and had never once thought that unbridled sex had been drug-induced. Vlad came back with the tenerse-laced milk and handed it to Gentry. His attention flicked down to Dáire and the two men stared at one another for a heartbeat of time—one filled with shame and the other with something almost akin to pity—before Vlad turned away and stormed out of the office. “Poor Vlad,” Gentry said as she squatted down over Dáire, the wiry hair at the junction of her thighs mingling with his. “He is so deeply in love with me, so completely besotted. Seeing you like this must be sheer agony for him.” She held the glass out to him. “Drink it.” He lifted his hand and took the glass from her. The thought of consuming the pale pink liquid made his stomach turn. “Drink it!” The taste wasn’t as bad as he had prepared himself for. There was a hint of cherries flavoring the milk, and he had to force himself to down the concoction. When he had drained the glass, she took it from him and her expression was triumphant as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “About twenty to thirty seconds is all the time it takes for the drug to work,” she said. She threw the glass across the room where it shattered against the expensive paneling. It didn’t take that long. Uncontrollable lust rippled through Dáire in waves of heat that set his cock to throbbing. His arms came up, his hands clamped around Gentry’s waist and he rolled over, pinning her beneath him, his cock straining, stabbing, thrusting at her opening. Gentry laughed, throwing her arms around him, digging her sharp nails into the flesh of his naked back, drawing blood. She arched her hips up to him and he jammed himself into her wet channel like a battering ram. His hips pistoning with such force they were both grunting, he pounded her, arching his fingers into the soft flesh of her ass to hold her up to him. Mindlessly he drove into her over and over and over again, straining to climax but unable to for the drug did more than just produce a rock-hard erection—it kept him poised at the threshold of release, refusing to allow him to come. Trembling with frustration, insane with overwhelming need and brutal lust, he scooted them across the floor. Their bodies joined, locked, sliding along one another, sweat poured from his superheated body. His hips rotated against hers, ground upon hers, arched and bucked and thrust, but the relief was just out of his grasp. The aggravation of his situation, the sheer irritation at not being able to release his seed brought growls to his straining throat. He snatched one hand from beneath her and savagely molded it to her breast, lowering his head so he could suckle her, lap at the hard nipple, draw it deep into his mouth, nip it with his teeth until beads of blood formed around the rosy nub. “Yes,” Gentry said, thoroughly engrossed in the pain he was inflicting. She pierced the flesh of his back with her sharp nails and felt the slickness of his blood and sweat on her palms as she anchored him to her. Her legs were tight around his hips, her heel drumming at the crack of his ass as he rode her. She was reveling in his cruel assault, completely immersed in the physicality of it, the wildness that had turned his handsome body into a pummeling machine. Dáire was so frustrated he was crying. No matter how he moved his cock in and out of her, ground against her, he could not reach the culmination that hovered just beyond his reach. He shoved into her

hard enough to cause rug burns on her back and shoulders, his knees. His cock went as deep as he could be inside her and yet nothing he did could scratch the violent itch that was flooding his lower body. His heart was racing so fast he feared it might burst. The blood was pounding in his ears, blocking out any other sounds save his harsh breath as he pushed into her. “Harder,” she commanded. “Thrust harder!” He was completely at the mercy of the drug that had taken over his sanity, his body, his very soul. The faster he pistoned into her, the more violently he shoved himself into her soft channel, the deeper he strived to go, the more intense became the itch in his cock. He felt nigh to bursting—his flesh throbbing, the head of his cock being rubbed raw, and still he was not allowed to come. “Hurt me,” she pressed. “Hurt me, Dáire.” He wanted to. He wanted to push himself so far up inside her he would burst through her womb and pierce her black heart. His fingernails gouged into her rump until he felt blood mingling with her sweat. Without a second thought, he drew his cock from her cunt and rammed it as hard as he could into her ass. “Yes!” Gentry screamed. “Yes!” He shifted her upward so that she was arched up from the floor, the better to shove his rigid staff into her. His cock was huge, hard, filling her anus so completely neither of them were aware of anything except the slide of flesh to flesh. The pressure was building in his cock. He felt a series of ripples go through her and knew she had climaxed, but he didn’t care. He wanted to reach that illusive point. He needed to reach it, for in a distant part of his brain that was still clinging to a modicum of sanity, he feared his heart would burst if he didn’t come soon. Pulling out of her anus, he shoved himself inside her cunt once more and his thrusts became frenzied, so violent his face had turned red and a vein was pulsing dangerously in his temple. Gentry was climaxing again—milking him as he rammed into her. She was grunting now with every thrust and her arms had dropped to her sides as he pummeled her. Like a sacrifice to his overpowering lust, she lay there allowing him to rut into her like a beast, to take her with no regard to how much he was hurting her. “Come, baby,” she whispered to him as he lapped at her breasts once more. “That’s it, baby. Come like you’ve never come before.” He could feel the release roiling down through his body. Even his toes began to curl as the intense pleasure of his release shot over him and he pulsed deep into her body, spraying her core with cum, straining hard into her as he went still and felt the last spasms of climax undulate through his cock. With a grunt, he collapsed atop her, lying there panting, sweat pouring from both of them, his legs quivering from the powerful release that had completely drained him. Gentry smiled and wrapped her arms around him, holding him to her as though he were her child. Her legs were stretched out along his and she was glorying in the heavy weight of his body pressing down upon hers.

“This is the way it will always be, my love,” she whispered to him. “You belong to me and you always will. When we get back to Florida, we will marry and you will take over Vlad’s duties at my side. We will be together every moment of our lives.” Dáire wasn’t aware of the tears that fell from his eyes but he felt the mortal shame, the utter despair and the overwhelming hatred that threatened to drive him over the brink into madness. Helpless, hopeless, filled with self-disgust, he lay there upon his worst enemy and cried. Outside the office door, Vlad stood with his ear pressed to the wood. He had heard every grunt, every moan and every whimper that had come from Gentry. His fingers traced the wood, caressed it, pawing at it like a lost child. He too was crying, but his tears were those of a man whose life has changed irrevocably and whose revenge would know no boundaries.

Chapter Fourteen

Despite hating the ocean, Jackson loved the sun and was stretched out in a chaise lounge with a metal sun reflector under his chin, lapping up the rays. He didn’t open his eyes as Dáire sat down on the chair next to him. “That causes cancer,” Dáire told him. “Man, everything I do causes cancer,” Jackson said jovially. “Name me one thing I do that doesn’t!” “Could you put it down a minute?” It was the tone of voice in which his friend had made the request that got Jackson’s immediate attention. He lowered the reflector and turned his head toward Dáire. He whistled. “Man, you look like somebody just ran over Toto.” Dáire was sitting on the end of the chaise lounge, facing Jackson. Shirtless, the long, deep scratches on his chest showed lividly. “Correction,” Jackson said, taking in the scratches. “You look like somebody ran over you and dragged you beneath the bumper of their car. Did she do that?” Dáire twisted around so Jackson could get a look at his back. “Holy Mother of God!” Jackson gasped. The scratches and gouges on Dáire’s flesh were twice as bad on his back and some were still oozing blood. “I’ve got to get away from her, Jackson,” Dáire said. “Those wounds need seeing to,” Jackson said. He laid aside the reflector and struggled to his feet, wincing as his burned feet slid into his flip-flops. “Come on and let me take care of them for you.” He eased into his wheelchair and rolled it on ahead. Listlessly, Dáire got up. His entire body felt as though it had been dropped to the pavement from twenty feet up. His cock was so sore he could barely walk, and even the loose silk pajama bottoms he wore abraded the raw flesh.

Dáire caught up with Jackson and took the handles of his friend’s wheelchair to push him over to the stairs leading below decks. Stopping and putting on the brakes, he was going to carry Jackson down the stairs but his partner shook his head. “You ain’t in no condition to be carrying nothin’,” Jackson said, and grabbed hold of the banister to move slowly down the steps. “How’s your feet?” Dáire asked. He knew all too well how painful sores on the feet could be. “They hurt like a mother,” Jackson said, “but they’re getting better.” Hobbling to the room they shared when onboard the yacht, Jackson opened the door and plopped down on his bed. “Be a good little helper and get the stuff outta the medicine cabinet, stud,” he said gruffly. Dáire got astringent—wincing as he looked at the bottle—cotton balls and a tube of aloe vera gel to soothe the wounds. He wet a washcloth with warm, soapy water and brought everything over to Jackson. “Well, shuck them britches and lay your ass down. I am not going to strain trying to wash those scratches.” Dáire sighed and stepped out of his loose-fitting pajama bottoms then stretched out across Jackson’s rumpled bed. “You have the sweetest bedside manner,” he told his friend. The pain was excruciating as Jackson cleaned and disinfected the scratches and gouges on his back and buttocks. His arms crossed under his head, his forehead resting on his hands, it was all Dáire could do not to groan as his friend took care of his wounds. “She’s a mean bitch, isn’t she?” Jackson complained. “You don’t know the half of it,” Dáire answered. “What else don’t I know?” They’d been friends longer than they’d been partners and neither kept secrets from the other. It was a mark of their loyalties to one another that what was said would never be repeated. “She threatened to kill Star if I didn’t cooperate with her,” Dáire replied. Jackson was gently rubbing aloe vera gel on one of the deep scratches on Dáire’s back. His hands stilled. “She’d do it too,” he said quietly. “I know she would.” “Turn over and when you do, cover up your pud. I really don’t care to—” As Dáire turned over and Jackson got a look at the condition of the younger man’s penis, he couldn’t help but stare. “What the hell did she do to your whacker?” Dáire was lying with his hands to either side of his head. He had no intention of shielding his cock from Jackson by touching his enflamed flesh. “That’s what the drug makes you do,” he explained. “You’ve no control over it.”

“The psychotic bitch,” Jackson proclaimed. He looked up and locked gazes with Dáire. “I ain’t slathering gunk on your tallywhacker, son. I hope you understand.” Dáire smiled for the first time in three hours. “And here I was looking forward to you massaging the pain away.” Jackson snorted. “In your dreams, stud,” he stated. There was a knock on the door and both men went as rigid as statues. “Cronin?” someone asked. “It’s Hunter,” Jackson whispered. “Want me to let him in?” Despite the pain he knew it would cause, Daire grabbed the top of Jackson’s coverlet and flung it over himself, cursing as the material touched his cock. “Yeah.” “Come on in, Hunter,” Jackson called out. The door opened and one of their fellow operatives was framed in the door. He took one look at Daire lying on the bed—obviously naked beneath the coverlet—and grinned. “Sorry to interrupt you boys while you’re otherwise engaged but—” “Get bent, Hunter,” Jackson said. “Whatcha need?” “Mr. Sheriden is on the horn,” Hunter said. “Miss Gentry didn’t answer the phone in her office so he put a call through to the captain. The captain sent me to rattle Miss Gentry’s cage, but she doesn’t answer my knocks and I can’t find the vampire nowheres. I tried the door to her office but it’s locked.” “Did you tell her Sheriden was calling?” “Yeah, but this isn’t the first time she’s ignored one of his calls. You’re senior op, Cronin. You want to talk to the big man?” “Did he ask to talk to me?” Dáire snapped. He had never liked Hunter and didn’t trust the man any farther than he could see him. “No, but Mr. Sheriden is not a happy man right now. He says he’s gonna stay on the line until he talks to her. Somebody better talk to him.” Dáire and Jackson exchanged a look. Jackson nodded. “Might be a damned good time to bring certain things to our big boss’ attention, Dairy Crow,” he said. “Dairy Crow,” Hunter said, hooting. “Man, that’s too funny.” “Get the fuck out of my room, Hunter,” Dáire snarled. “You gonna come talk to Mr. Sheriden?” “Yeah, yeah,” Dáire said, not moving.

Hunter shrugged then left, leaving the door open behind his departure. “Prick,” Dáire labeled the operative then threw the covers aside. He took the silk pajama bottoms Jackson handed him and slipped them on, wincing as he did. “Where the hell do you think Gentry is?” Jackson asked. “In her office fucking the bloodsucker,” Dáire replied. Jackson blinked. “You think?” “I know,” Dáire said. Barefoot, he walked out of the room and took his time climbing the stairs, the lacerations on his back and chest stinging. Cuthbert Sheriden was The Cumberland Group. The man was a powerful figure who had been around since the Cold War and whose contacts reached far and wide in every government in the world. With tentacles in banking, commerce, transportation and the media, there was nothing Sheriden could not control with a strategically placed phone call to the right ear. There was no situation he could not settle if he so desired. And he was a man every operative feared. Dáire took a deep breath before he lifted the telephone receiver to his ear. “Mr. Sheriden? This is Dáire Cronin.” “Where the fuck is Gentry?” Sheriden demanded. “Sir, she is in her office and otherwise engaged.” “Engaged in what manner, Cronin?” “I believe her bodyguard is in the office with her, sir,” Dáire reported. “I can only surmise what is occurring there.” “And that surmising would be?” “That she is having him do what she forced me to do about two hours ago, sir.” There was a deadly silence then Sheriden’s voice was low and throbbing with fury. “Put down the phone, go to her office and—I am assuming the door is locked?” “Yes, sir, it is.” “Then break it down, grab her by the hair of her head and slap her down at her desk to talk to me! Is that clear?” Dáire smiled hatefully. “Very clear. One moment, sir.” Knowing he wasn’t in any condition to break down even a hollow-core door, Dáire motioned Hunter and Morrison, one of the other operatives, to accompany him to Sheriden’s office.

“What are we doing?” Hunter asked nervously. “What Mr. Sheriden ordered done,” Dáire replied. They had arrived at the office door. “Break it down.” Hunter took a step back. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he said, eyes wide. Morrison didn’t question the order. He simply shoved Hunter out of the way, took a few steps away and hit the door with his heavily muscled shoulder. The door remained shut. Growling, Morrison hit the door again. “Miss Gentry?” Hunter called out. “Ma’am, we’ve got orders to get this door open!” “Suck ass,” Morrison spat and hit the door again. This time, the thick panel popped open, slamming back against the wall and bouncing back again, but Morrison put out a beefy hand and shoved it open once more. The sight that greeted the men as they entered the office brought them up short. Hunter turned and stumbled from the room, his retching loud in the hallway beyond the office. “Well, that’s something, now isn’t it?” Morrison inquired. Dáire stared at the tableau lying on the floor and felt his own gorge rising. What he was seeing pushed his aches and pains into the far background of his mind. “You ever spend any time at Sinavar?” Morrison asked. Dáire turned to look at the other man. “What?” “I did,” Morrison said. “Two weeks of sheer hell because I got on Gentry’s bad side.” He shrugged. “Guess that ain’t going to happen again, huh?” A deep scarlet wave was slowly creeping toward the two men and both took a step back. Gentry was lying on her back—as naked as the day she’d been born. Her gray eyes were open and staring, her throat slashed from ear to ear, her blood flowing out from her and making its way to the door to her office. Vlad was sitting at her desk, calmly watching the men. There was a faint smile on his face. His arms were slit from wrist to elbow, bright arterial blood pumping from the wounds and spreading across the pristine surface of Gentry’s elegant desk. Dáire and Morrison knew there was no way to save Vlad. The man was unnaturally white, almost bled, and both knew he didn’t want them to help him. “She wasn’t worth it,” Dáire told the bodyguard.

“She was to me,” Vlad said, and pitched forward, his face landing with a heavy thud in the slick pool of his own blood. “This is a fine kettle of worms,” Morrison said on a long sigh. “Guess you’d better go tell Sheriden.” When Dáire didn’t move, he reached out and took his arm. “Let’s leave everything as it is. I’m sure Sheriden will send a clean-up team.” Dáire nodded. He and Morrison left the room, ignoring Hunter who was leaning against the hallway wall and puking. Going up to the bridge, Dáire picked up the telephone receiver. “Mr. Sheriden, I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Gentry will not be able to come to the phone.” “Why the hell not?” came the explosion. “Sir, Miss Gentry has been murdered by her bodyguard.” There was a moment of silence then booming laughter at the other end of the line. Dáire stood there listening to it, wondering if he should hang up, was about to when Sheriden brought Dáire Cronin’s world to a screeching halt. “Assume command of the operation, Cronin. I’ll be along with the clean-up team to invest you with the position as soon as I can arrange it.” “Assume command?” Dáire repeated. “Sir, I—” “You heard me. You are now my right-hand man, Cronin.” Another silence. “Don’t let me down.” Morrison slapped Dáire on the back as the younger man put the receiver down. “You’ll make us a good boss, Cronin,” he pronounced, and at his words everyone on the bridge began to clap. ***** It hadn’t sunk in yet. There was too much that had happened between the time he and Morrison had discovered Gentry and the moment Sheriden landed on the HardWind. The clean-up team had swooped into Gentry’s office and was sanitizing the situation as Dáire sat with Sheriden in the lush suite that had belonged to Tyndall Gentry. “I was informed of the situation in Pensacola earlier today and that was why I was trying to reach Gentry,” Sheriden told Dáire. “Had I known Gentry was up to that kind of shit, I’d have slit her throat myself.” Learning that Gentry had tried to have Star killed, that one of her men had threatened to kill Jilly sent shock waves of disbelief and terror rippling through Dáire’s soul. He was trembling as he sat there and listened to Sheriden telling him about the incident on the interstate, the destruction of Star’s BMW, the man in the hospital who had boldly walked past a police guard to enter Star’s room and threaten her child. “All I can do is offer you my apology, Cronin,” Sheriden said. “I had no idea she was abusing her power or that she was responsible for you and other men suffering so greatly.” He cleared his throat. “Sinavar was her private estate but it now reverts to us since she had no living relatives and—unwisely—left no will. It would be a wonderful place for our agents to vacation. Perhaps you could take your Miss Kiernan

there for a few weeks.” “She’s all right, isn’t she?” Dáire asked, worried sick about Star. Sheriden smiled. “It was sheer coincidence she contacted one of our operations for protection. Ventner informed me as soon as she left his office. Your daughter is safe and so is Miss Kiernan.” He scratched the bridge of his nose. “Ventner did not let on that he knew anything about Gentry. I would suggest you leave it at that.” Dáire nodded. “Star doesn’t need to know she could have walked right into the fire on that one,” he said. “If she knew Ventner was part of our organization—” “Again, I am deeply sorry for the turmoil Gentry caused you and your loved ones. I hope you won’t hold her conduct against us.” “No, sir,” Dáire said. “But about my promotion—” “That is non-negotiable,” Sheriden said, his eyes glittering. “I need you in that position, and you are the most highly qualified. If you don’t wish to do fieldwork—Gentry never had either the talent or the desire to—I will leave that up to your discretion.” He looked about him. “The yacht, the choppers are all at your disposal. I am sure you will not abuse your position with us.” “Sir, what about Jackson?” Dáire asked. “What about him?” Sheriden asked. “Would you like him as your executive assistant? From all I’ve heard, he’s getting a bit long in the tooth to be out in the field anyway.” Dáire smiled at Jackson being labeled too old for fieldwork. “If I take the job—” “That is non-negotiable,” Sheriden repeated sternly. “Once in the group, always in the group, Cronin. You either remain in fieldwork or accept the promotion.” “The idea of staying on the HardWind doesn’t appeal to me, sir,” Daire confessed. “If you would prefer to be based in Florida, that would be fine with me,” Sheriden said. He sat forward. “I believe Miss Kiernan would relish you having a desk job, don’t you?” It would solve some of their problems, Dáire realized. “And Ventner will bring your precious little daughter back to Florida from the facility in Missouri where he took her. There will never be a need for you or Miss Kiernan to worry about Jillian’s safety or care ever again. That is my promise to you as the grandfather of a special-needs child.” Dáire felt his throat closing up. “Sir, I—” “I’ll work with you any way I can, Cronin,” Sheriden said, standing up. “You’re a good man, an effective operative, and I know you’ll make a good director of ops.” He held out his hand. “At $750K a year, how can you even think to turn me down?” Dáire knew he had no choice if he wanted Star in his life. He took Sheriden’s hand and warned himself to never look back.

Epilogue

It was raining again and the Gulf Coast was canopied with dark, rolling clouds veined with lightning. A brisk wind was coming off the water—palms trees were making rattling sounds as their fronds rippled. Hurricane season was fast approaching. The ice blue satin sheets rustled as Star turned over and flung out a hand to touch her lover. Her palm encountered coolness. Dáire was not lying beside her. Flinging aside the covers, she got up and padded into the living room of his home, knowing she’d find him at the windows, watching the coming storm. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked as she slipped her arms around his bare waist and pressed her cheek to his back. “I was thinking about Jackson,” he said, covering her arms with his. “You have made an enemy for life,” she said with a sigh. “I thought it was funny,” he said. “Jackson didn’t.” “Yes, he did, he just wouldn’t admit it.” Star thought about the black suit, sensible pumps, and—adding insult to injury—black fishnet hose Dáire had given to Jackson on their first day at work in the sumptuous offices designed for them by The Cumberland Group. “What the fuck is this?” Jackson had demanded, lifting a little black lace bra and wispy thong from the same box that held the suit. “Your uniform,” Dáire replied with a straight face. “It’s what all good executive assistants wear I’m told.” Jackson had actually growled as he dropped the underwear back into the box. “You are a dead man, Cronin!” Star had stood beside Vaughn Morrison, the new head of security, and tried not to laugh at the surprised look on Dáire’s face. “I told you he’d prefer gray, boss,” Morrison piped up. Jackson had limped out of the office, cursing them all beneath his breath. “If you believe he thought it was funny, why are you out here obsessing about him at three o’clock in the morning?” Star inquired. “Do you really think he likes gray better than black?” Dáire asked.

“Dairy Crow!” Star exclaimed. “The reason I’m asking is because I prefer black and I want his suit to match mine.” “You’re going to wear a sweet little number with black lace fishnets?” she taunted, rubbing her chin down the middle of his back. “Although I believe I’d look very elegant in such a fetchingly described frock, I think a nice black suit accompanied by a rather understated seven-fold silk tie in pale green to match that pretty spaghetti thing you have hanging in the closet would be appropriate. But if Jackson prefers gray, I’ll have to rethink the tie.” Star loosened her hold and came around to stand in front of him. “What are you talking about?” He took her hands in his. “Isn’t it true the best man’s suit should match the groom’s?” he countered. Star’s eyes widened. “What?” He was standing there in just the soft, silk pajama bottoms he seemed to love wearing. “Now, of course, if you don’t want to wear that pale green number and have something mauve in mind, either gray or black would go with that, wouldn’t it?” Star could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “Dáire…” Just as gracefully as he always moved, Dáire went to his knees before her and brought her left hand to his lips. “Star Adelle Kiernan, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Thunder was booming, shaking the window glass, wind was whipping rain against the panes as lightning stitched through the black velvet of the night. “Are you asking me to marry you?” she asked, stalling for time. “Well, I asked Jackson, but he said I wasn’t his type, so you get the consolation prize, babe.” “Black,” she said. “Jackson has a closet full of black suits.” Dáire’s eyes narrowed. “And just how the hell do you know what is in Jackson’s closet?” She threaded the fingers of her right hand through his crisp, dark curls. “I’ll never tell,” she told him. He started to say something, but she slid her fingers down to his lips, silencing him. “Yes, Dáire Patrick Cronin. Yes, I’ll marry you.” The little velvet box appeared out of nowhere and the ring slid onto her finger with ease. Gazing down at it as a flare of lightning lit the heavens behind her, she was stunned at its size, but she never got a chance to even gasp for she was in his arms and his warm mouth was covering hers in a kiss that took her breath away. As the escalating storm crept toward them, Dáire scooped his lady up in his arms and carried her back to their bed where—upon the silken softness of his ice blue sheets—he sealed their tender bargain.

About the Author

Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.

Charlee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology Fated Mates anthology Passion’s Mistral WesternWind: Reaper’s Revenge WesternWind: WyndRiver Sinner WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche WindVerse: Pleasure’s Foehn WindVerse: Prisoners of the Wind WindWorld: Desire’s Sirocco WindWorld: Longing’s Levant WindWorld: Lucien’s Khamsin WindWorld: Rapture’s Etesian

And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press (www.cerridwenpress.com):

BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn In the Wind’s Eye Taken By the Wind

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

www.ellorascave.com