Johnny grinned. “Either that, or your body’s having a reaction to phenomenal sex. I like the second idea better.”
“You have such a one-track mind.” Her eyes danced in the waning moonlight. He eased onto his back as she rose to kneel with her legs on either side of his hips. “Lucky for you”—she traced a provocative line from the middle of his chest to his groin—“I suffer from the same affliction.” Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she lowered herself and dropped her mouth to his ear. “You might want to batten down the hatches while you’re getting your strength back. I’m afraid this is going to be a very rough ride.”
And her mouth came down on his.
…
Satyr walked off his disgust in the casino. Talking to Johnny earlier hadn’t made him happy. If Mockerie was interfering, he intended to do something about it. Fear only went so far. Mockerie needed to understand this was his show, his game, and dammit, those were his lives to destroy.
But how to do that without getting himself offed in the process?
Someone was taking potshots at Johnny. Who? Why? Mockerie was a definite possibility. But would he go so far as to kill the man his valued employee desperately wanted to torment?
“Who the hell knows how a delusional asshole thinks?” he muttered.
The chuckle that came from directly behind him made his skin crawl and, for a moment, his balls freeze. However, he pulled it together and swung to face the object of his irritation.
“Sorry, thinking about Johnny,” he lied with a smooth smile. “Have you come to send another one of my slot machines to an early grave?”
“Maybe.” Mockerie flexed his half finger, then displayed a row of teeth in his customary shadow-concealed face. “I’m somewhat more interested in your timeline for delivering the final blow to Johnny Hunt. Are you fidgeting, Ben?” He laughed. “Was it something I said?”
“What? No.” Satyr scowled and scrubbed at his hands as if to remove some unpleasant contaminant. “I just got off the phone with my man in Deception Cove. He possesses certain habits that are, to say the least, off-putting, especially after he’s eaten.” Drawing a breath, he went for the jugular. “Have you got someone in place in that town who’s taking shots at Johnny?”
Mockerie’s smile widened to sharklike proportions. “Someone’s been shooting at your prize? How fascinating. Maybe you’re not the only person with a grudge against him.”
“I…” Hadn’t thought of that, Satyr reflected, frowning. “Shit.”
“Highly complex shit, it appears.” Mockerie lit a long cigarette and blew the smoke in Satyr’s direction. “You might want to hurry that timeline of yours along a bit. Hunt’s had his chance to play the hero. You know he loves her, her death’s going to destroy him…all the usual blather. But consider, Ben, how much deeper the blade will cut when he’s forced to watch someone carve her up right in front of his eyes.” His hand shook slightly—in anticipation?—as he removed the cigarette from between his lips. “I get giddy just thinking about it.”
Satyr thought for a moment. If someone else really was after Johnny, that person might kill him before his wife was eliminated, and there would go all his months and years of planning.
“You could be right,” he allowed as Mockerie smoked away with supreme confidence. “Maybe the time is right to get it done.”
“We can fly out whenever you choose,” Mockerie said through a veil of smoke. “My private jet is at your—or rather, our—disposal.”
Satyr’s nod was distracted. “Let me think it through, and I’ll be in touch. I don’t like the idea of going off half-cocked.”
“As long as we both know where we stand.” Mockerie blew smoke right at him. “Don’t screw me around, Ben. We go together. We do this together. You for your reasons, and me for mine. Remember, I kill the woman. Understand that, and everything will be copasetic. Lose sight of it, and my knife will be going to work on a rather different body.” He leaned forward to smile. “FYI, when it comes to men, I start by skewering the balls. That’s when the fun really begins.”
Chapter Fifteen
The thunder and lightning developed into rain—heavy drops of it that pounded straight down, making the heat even more oppressive than before and the air much more difficult to breathe.
Melia woke up before dawn. It surprised her that Gert hadn’t knocked on her door. Bette must have kept her up late watching retrospective movies.
She and Johnny had certainly been up late. Up and active as hell. They’d made love in her bed three times, in the shower once, and again on the kitchen table when they’d gone in search of the party basket Mabel had sent home with them.
They hadn’t found the basket, but they’d gotten into a bottle of Shiraz and done full justice to several slices of the two-day-old pizza Laidlaw had conveniently left behind in the fridge.
They’d danced once the wine was gone, which was how they’d ended up making love on the table. Johnny had been wearing open jeans. She’d gone downstairs dressed only in his shirt. Neither item of clothing had remained with them for very long.
Johnny had such an amazing body. He was smooth, honey-toned skin over lean muscle with just a trace of body hair. Small wonder she’d given in to lust, hormones, and—why deny it—love, and let him get her naked just about everywhere in the house.
Not that she hadn’t been equally eager to get him naked.
She slid from her small corner of the mattress while he continued to sleep, sprawled on his stomach across the rest of it. Patients would be arriving in a few hours, and Pepper and Gomer needed to be fed.
“Don’t leave the house,” he said in a sleepy mumble.
“Get real.” Her entire body felt stiff, sore, and wonderfully used. “I’ll be lucky to make it out of the shower before six. And it’s only five now.”
“I can help with that.” She was less than halfway across the room when Johnny scooped her up in his arms and locked his mouth on hers.
“You taste like wine,” she said as he carried her to the bathroom.
“Ditto. Want more?”
“At five in the morning?”
“Pretty sure I heard Pappy Laundy say he starts every day with a shot of whiskey.”
She grinned and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Pappy’s brain’s too pickled to understand that whiskey first thing is bad for him. He’ll figure it out one of these years.”
“Before or after he hits his one hundredth birthday?” Setting her down, he turned on the shower and kissed her again. “In you go, doc. Bear in mind, however, I think I pulled several muscles last night. Don’t scrub too hard below the waist.”
She pressed a hand to his chest. “Maybe I want to take a shower on my own this morning. Did you ever think of that?”
“Nope, and neither did you. Move in tighter, Mel. I think I’ve figured out how to do this without spraining, twisting, or pulling anything else.”
“In a phone booth–sized space? That’ll be an interesting feat. Which one of us will be hanging from the shower head?”
“I’ll let you know in a minute,” he said. And, kissing her hard, he took both of them under the warm spray.
Dawn bled over the horizon. Red, pink, and gold fingers spread through the trees and shimmered between the layers of low morning mist. Melia loved the dreaminess of it, but habits were habits, and she’d always been an early riser. Unfortunately for Laidlaw, he’d had the all-night shift. She’d have to make a point of taking him some hot coffee.
After their extra-long, super-sexed shower, she’d left Johnny lying on his stomach in bed. He’d looked totally satisfied with himself. Or maybe he was just pleased that she hadn’t woken up and been horrified by the realization that they’d spent pretty much the entire night making love.
As she made her way silently toward the kitchen wearing a pair of faded cutoffs and a snug white tank, she tested out her feelings. Horrified had no part in them. But there was still a trace of conflict.
“Feeling really good, though,” she said.
“Glad to hear it, darling.”