Devon frowned. “Christa, if you don’t want to stay here, I can take you back to London—”
“No, it’s not that. I like it here.” She wrapped her arms self-consciously around herself. “It’s just that I don’t want to be here by myself.”
“If you’re sure…?”
“I’m sure,” she whispered, her eyes focused on his.
They barely made it through the bedroom door before they were in each other’s arms.
“Stay with me, Devon,” she said as she raised her eyes to his. “Please?”
He brushed the hair back from her cheek and bracketed her face gently between his hands. God, she was beautiful. “Look, Christa, if you’re scared, I get that. I do. I can sleep in the other room, or on the sofa downstairs—”
In answer, she put her mouth against his and cut off his words. With a guttural sound he drew her hard against him as he threaded his hands in her hair and kissed her.
“I wanted you the first time I saw you,” Devon admitted. “Standing at Reception at the hospital in your capris and sandals.”
“Don’t talk,” Christa whispered, and pulled away to draw him towards the bed. “I don’t want to talk.”
They undressed, and Christa let out a soft breath as Devon pulled off his shirt and she caught sight of his defined abdominals and chest, his trim waist and hips. Police training had honed his body into a lean, muscled machine. Yet he’d held her as tenderly as if she were made of spun sugar.
As he watched Christa lift the T-shirt over her head and slide her jeans down the length of her legs, Devon couldn’t speak. She was so bloody gorgeous…with her dusky skin and that fall of brown, sun-streaked hair spilling over her shoulders…
Christa threw back her head and whimpered as Devon reached out to unhook her bra and fastened his mouth on the pebbled tip of her breast and greedily sucked. His tongue, so warm and rough, chased all thoughts from her mind. She threaded her hands in his hair as her legs trembled and nearly gave way beneath her.
He lifted her, naked save for her knickers, into his arms and lowered her to the bed, and in a moment he was beside her. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he murmured, drinking in the sight of her next to him. He slid his hand down her hip, his gaze taking in the length of her legs and the lacy thong that barely covered her sex. “A girl like you…”
She raised a brow. “A girl like me?”
“I don’t usually land in bed with celebrity pop singers.”
“That’s not who I am,” she chided. “That’s all rubbish. I’m just a nice Anglo-Indian girl who likes The Clash and makes a mean curry.”
“The Clash, is it?” Devon asked, and it was his turn to raise his brow. “So you’re a rebellious punk girl who makes curry and sings pop songs in the shower – and duets with Dominic Heath. Just your average girl next door.” He grinned.
“Shut up. I am the girl next door. And I’m glad you’re here.” She ran her palm reverently over his muscled chest, loving the feel of his warmth and strength under her fingertips. “I feel safe when you’re with me.”
He kissed her. “Just try and get rid of me,” he said, and his lips left hers to leave a hot, wet trail down her neck, to the skin behind her ears, to the hollow of her throat.
“I want you, Devon,” Christa whispered.
Wordlessly he stretched out and began to kiss and lick his way slowly up her legs, tasting the skin behind her knees, her thighs, until he reached the frilly pink thong. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and pressed his tongue against the delicate lace.
Christa writhed and moaned as his mouth, so warm and skilled, licked and teased and nipped at her through her knickers. He lifted his head and pulled the thong – soaking wet now – impatiently down her legs.
Then he did all the things he’d just done, but without the scanty lace barrier of her thong to get in the way.
Christa clutched the bedspread in her hands and bit back a scream as wave after wave of heated ecstasy swept through her.
She’d barely recovered her breath when Devon levered himself above her, resting his weight on his arms. His eyes, so blue and intense, looked into hers. “Good?”
She managed to nod.
“Ready for more?” he murmured as he kissed the sides of her mouth, her jaw, her neck.
Unable to speak, scarcely able to formulate a thought, Christa slid her hands over his shoulders and made a sound of acquiescence. With a single thrust he plunged inside her, and she cried out her pleasure, wrapping her legs around him.
He filled her, satisfied her, in a way no man ever had before. Her hands drifted down to clasp his buttocks and she pressed him deeper inside her.
“Make love to me, Devon,” she whispered fiercely. “I want you to, so much…”
He was only too happy to oblige. He let out a guttural groan and lowered his head to her breast, laving the nipple with his tongue until it was pink and hard against his lips.
It was over all too quickly. Christa was far too aroused – and Devon, as well – for either of them to last for more than a few, deep thrusts. Hoarsely, she called his name as she came.
He collapsed against her. “I don’t mean to sound like a cliché,” he murmured a moment later, “but you were incredible, Christa.”
She smiled, her eyes half closed. “And you were amazing,” she said, and stretched her arms over her head in luxurious abandon. “Now, I just want to sleep. And have a nice, leisurely breakfast in bed in the morning.” She turned her head to look at him and added huskily, “With you.”
“Well,” he replied as he rolled onto his side to regard her, “you’re one very lucky lady. Because as you’ll find out tomorrow, my omelette is the best you’ll ever have.”
Christa leaned over to kiss him. ‘Just like you,” she murmured, and smiled as her lips touched his.
It was dark when Devon awoke, his arm stretched across Christa’s waist. We must’ve fallen asleep, he realized, and sat up in bed with a start. A mobile phone – Christa’s – was vibrating madly on the nightstand.
Quickly, before it woke her, he reached over to grab it and eased out of bed. “Hello?”
There was a lengthy pause. “Where’s Christa?” a male voice demanded.
“Who is this?” Devon glanced at the number. It was a London number. And the voice on the other end of the phone definitely wasn’t Dominic Heath’s.
“Get me Christa on the phone right now, mate,” the caller said evenly, “before I lose my temper. She’ll want to talk to me, I think. Tell her it’s her boyfriend. Tony.”
Forty minutes later, Devon followed Christa out of the cottage and pulled the door shut behind them. He returned the key to its hiding place under the flowerpot.
Christa was silent as he took her bag from her and tossed it on the back seat, then opened the passenger door of the Mondeo and waited as she settled herself inside.
“This is…I can’t believe this is happening,” she said a few minutes later, her voice a whisper in the darkness as Devon turned onto the road. “He has my mum, Devon. Tony has my mother.”
She began, quietly, to weep.
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He’s been watching Mum’s house, and mine. He saw us bring her home this morning, and he saw us leave later without her. He waited for a bit then, somehow, he talked his way inside her
house. And now—” She choked back a sob. “Now he’s holding her hostage until I come back.”
“What does he want?”
“Money, of course.” Her words were tired. “A quarter of a million pounds, to pay off his drugs debt.”
“You haven’t got that kind of money.”
“No. But I could raise it, if I had to. And he knows it.”
“Don’t worry,” Devon reassured her, and squeezed her hand.
“We’ll be in London by morning, and we’ll get your mum back, safe and sound.” His jaw hardened into a grim line. “I’ll make sure of it.”