CHAPTER 27

“Now, where were we?” Jake asked.

He’d carried her inside, and they were sprawled across his unmade bed. Benson had positioned himself on the bench at the foot of the bed, enjoying the show. The room was dark and much cooler than it had been outside. In the background she heard soft music playing on the stereo.

“We were discussing corporate strategies,” she said, all innocence.

“No, we weren’t.” The weight of his body was on the bed, but his hip and leg had her anchored in place. “Remember your promise.”

“Promise?”

“You’re welching on me?” He could have convinced the toughest jury he shocked beyond belief.

“Of course, not. Refresh my memory.”

They were both naked now, although she couldn’t remember how or when they’d taken off the rest of their clothes. The hair on his chest and his emerging beard rasped her tender skin, but she didn’t complain. It was a powerfully erotic sensation, and she wiggled a little just to feel the enticing prickle.

“You promised I could make love to you as often as I wanted, and you’d be my sex slave.”

“Wait! You never mentioned becoming a sex slave.”

“What about the first part?”

“I vaguely recall … saying something.”

“Okay, so show me.”

She reached up and pulled his head down, intending to give him a quick kiss, then come up with some clever remark. She thought she’d given it her all when they’d been out on the terrace, but she was mistaken. In a second, the heat returned, and with it came her obsessive desire to feel him inside her again, to have the erotic experience all over again.

Both hands on his shoulders, she pushed him back. “I get to be on top.”

“Hold it. Sex slaves don’t call the shots.”

“Being a sex slave wasn’t part of the deal, and you know it.”

He considered it a moment, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. “It’s still my turn. What happened outside was rushed. I’m better than that.”

Better? She doubted she would survive any better sex, but refused to feed his ego by telling him so. “No way.”

She straddled him, taking care not to touch his erection and smiled inwardly at his startled expression. She bent over just far enough for her breasts to graze the dark whorl of hair feathering across his chest. Her nipples, already hard, tingled, and a low moan escaped her lips. She kept rubbing, a shocking heat invading her body.

Edging forward, she silently encouraged him to taste her breasts. He got the message and took one nipple between his lips. The sweet suction and the rasp of his tongue over her beaded nipple sent a lancing jolt of desire down to her groin.

She tried to reposition herself to take advantage of his fully erect penis, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“Don’t rush me.”

He began to kiss her other breast as his hand stole between her legs. She cautioned herself not to make a sound, but another little moan came out as he began to stroke her. She squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself she couldn’t possibly be on the verge of another orgasm.

“Like that, huh?”

She heard the triumphant smile in his voice. Responding was out of the question even if she could have come up with some witty remark. She was close, so close. Her body was trembling, the vibration coming from deep within, the way it had not so long ago.

He guided the tip of his erection into her, then put both hands on her hips and brought her down hard. She gasped, impaled, afraid if she moved she would instantly climax.

“Come, on, baby. Ride me. Ride me hard.”

She did what she was told, and found she had more self-control than she had thought. They moved together, in perfect sync, like dancers hearing their own tune. This time he came first with a rough growl and an upward buck of his hips. Within a few seconds, a ripple of unadulterated pleasure became a white-hot upheaval of satisfaction.

She pitched forward, and he caught her in his arms. It was a moment before she realized Benson was standing on all fours on the bench, barking, his tail thumping against the bedpost. She rolled to one side, a little embarrassed at her wanton behavior. She stared up at the loft’s ceiling with its open beams and shadowy recesses.

“Where are my clothes?”

“Outside,” came the hoarse response. “You don’t need them.”

“I have to go home.”

“No, you don’t. Thee’s still asleep.” He pulled her close and she nestled against his shoulder. “I guess we should talk.”

“Talk?” She was so exhausted she could hardly get out the word. Snuggling seemed like a better idea.

“That’s what smart men do after sex. I read it in Cosmo.”

She couldn’t help giggling.

“What’s so funny?”

“You reading Cosmo. It’s hard to imagine.”

“Hey, I was stranded in a Japanese hotel. The only magazine I could find in English was Cosmopolitan. Read it cover to cover.” He nuzzled her ear. “Know what it said? Women hate men who roll over and go to sleep after sex. True?”

“M-m-m, I guess.” She snuggled closer, closing her eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”

He said something about bringing in another armoire so she could have closet space in his loft. Closet space, she thought as she drifted off. He was thinking in terms of a permanent relationship. She liked the idea, more than liked it actually.

The br-ring—br-ring of the telephone awakened them. Jake levered himself into an upright position and picked up the telephone on the stand beside the bed. Alyssa lay flat on her back, trying to muster the strength to get up, find her clothes, and get dressed to go home. Jake listened and muttered a few words before hanging up.

“Sanchez is flying in this morning. He wants to talk to me in person.”

It took a minute for the words to register. What couldn’t Sanchez say over the telephone?

Jake was waiting outside the Million-Aire terminal when TriTech’s Gulfstream landed. From pockmarks in the tarmac minute tendrils of steam rose, a reminder of the predawn rain shower. The private jet taxied to a stop, and the ground crew rolled up a ramp. Sanchez hurried down the steps, his Tumi duffel slung over one shoulder.

It hadn’t taken much to convince Alyssa to go home to her aunt. He’d promised to come over later with a full report. The minute Sanchez was within earshot, Jake asked, “What did you find out?”

“I was right. Gracie Harper did talk to her husband. Claude said she accepted twenty thousand dollars—in cash—to hand the baby over to a man.”

“Is Harper willing to testify about it?”

Sanchez’s dark eyes narrowed. “No. He has IRS problems, so he’s living in Mexico. Even if he did return, he wouldn’t want to incriminate himself. There’s no statute of limitations on kidnapping.”

“But if he didn’t take the baby—”

“He was an accomplice. Not only did he know about it before the fact, he placed the call to Alyssa’s apartment and pretended he was Clay Duvall.”

Jake halted, his hand on the detective’s arm. “They deliberately framed Alyssa? Shit! Who’s the son-of-a-bitch?”

“Phoebe Duvall made the arrangements.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Jake had always thought Phoebe was a little off.

“Harper claims his wife would never have taken the baby from its mother unless the mother consented. Apparently, Gracie always felt guilty about what she’d done.”

“But not guilty enough to take the money and hand over the baby to the black market.” He thought a moment, then added, “Why did Phoebe do it? Because Clay wasn’t the father, and she didn’t want him to find out. Right?”

“Apparently.”

“Even if Claude Harper won’t testify, we can try to locate the baby. Finding him will clear Alyssa.”

Sanchez didn’t reply.

Jake started walking again, verbalizing his thoughts as he moved. “Phoebe has to know who took little Patrick. I’ll make her tell me.”

“She arranged for the baby’s father to take it. He’s the one who put up the money.”

“Makes sense. Wait. Wouldn’t someone have noticed a family who unexpected turned up with an infant? The case was all over television and the papers.”

“The father took the baby to his parents’ farm … outside Oklahoma City.”

“Okay, so it won’t be hard to find him.”

“Patrick died almost nine years ago.” The note of concern in Sanchez’s voice disturbed Jake. “The child contracted a rare virus. The doctors couldn’t save him.”

“Claude Harper knew all this?”

“Yes. He and Gracie remained close. She stayed in contact with the father as well as Phoebe.”

“Sounds like she was blackmailing them. Maybe they’re the ones who killed her.”

“No, not from what Claude said. Gracie never forgave herself for taking the child. She kept in touch with the mother to make sure the baby was all right.”

“Can we find the father?”

Sanchez waited a second too long before responding. Something clicked in Jake’s head, and he cursed himself for not having guessed sooner.

“It’s Max, isn’t it? My father had an affair with Phoebe.”

“Yes. Your father took the baby.”

Clay woke up in Maree’s bed, and for once, Dante wasn’t around. He lifted his head off the pillow, then let it drop again. It felt as if someone had buried an ax in his skull. He’d stayed at the party too late and had drunk too much. After his talk with Phoebe, who could blame him?

Phoebe wanted a divorce, and she wanted it immediately. She knew all about Duvall Imports’ accounting problems, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t willing to give him any more time.

He kept his eyes shut to block out the shafts of glaring sunlight streaking through the rattan shades in Maree’s bedroom. In his mind’s eye, he could see Phoebe, the way she’d been last night—sitting regally in the downstairs study—telling him to go to hell.

She’d cost him the woman he loved, made his life miserable for years, and now she was going to ruin him financially. Then it struck him like a bolt out of the blue. She was leaving him for another man. That had to be the reason she wanted a divorce. It was difficult to imagine, given the fact that she’d tricked him into marriage. She’d had numerous affairs over the years—not that he cared. So why would she want to marry this particular man?

Money?

Who had enough money to entice Phoebe to leave him and disappoint her family? He couldn’t think of anyone that wealthy except Max Williams. Christ! The man was old enough to be her father. True, she had a thing for older men. But if she wanted Max, why now? He’d been sniffing around for years, always single, and getting richer every day. It didn’t make any sense.

“Clay … darling.”

Great, Maree was awake. She’d come in so late last night, after being with Neville Berringer, that Clay had almost fallen asleep before she’d returned.

“Yes?” Clay opened his eyes and found Maree leaning over him.

“We’re good together, aren’t we?”

They had their moments, sure, but he wouldn’t brag about it. He tried for a smile, but it made his head hurt more.

“We should get married.”

“I am married, remember?”

Her dark eyes glittered with something he couldn’t name. “But if you were free …”

He closed his eyes again and yawned. He didn’t want her to guess his thoughts. He hadn’t told anyone except Alyssa about the impending divorce.

“What about Neville?” As he said the name, Clay’s eyes flew open. Berringer was rich and eligible. Was he the man Phoebe was involved with?

“Neville’s nice but he’s gay. He gets me into the right parties. That’s all.”

“He’s not gay. He was married for years.”

“So?”

Maree never lied, forcing him to believe her. Like Phoebe, Maree Winston lived to move in high society. He understood why Maree would use Neville to gain entrée to places she wouldn’t be invited.

“I know it would cost you a lot to divorce your wife.”

Clay nodded at the excuse he’d given Maree when he’d first started seeing her. Now, unfortunately, it was the absolute truth.

“Divorces are expensive, and they’re hard on families.” Clay tried to put as much concern in his voice as possible.

The doorbell rang, and Maree jumped up, saving him from dodging her questions. Maree was determined to become Mrs. Clay Duvall. Of all the damn luck. Neville Berringer was gay. Clay had been hoping Berringer would take care of Maree for him.

Maree shrugged into a diaphanous robe and belted it, saying, “It must be Dante. He said he’d be over this morning with beignets from Croissant D’Or. He wants to finalize the deal.”

She rushed out of the room, and Clay forced himself to get up. He staggered into the bathroom, the blood pounding in his temples like a jackhammer. He heard Dante’s voice coming from the living room.

Of course, Dante hadn’t been around last night. A woman with Maree’s looks could finagle her way into a society party on Neville’s arm, but Dante would never be welcome. Clay smiled despite the haggard face he saw in the mirror.

He liked having something on Dante. The Bahamian thought he could own anyone just by discovering their weaknesses. Once this deal was over, Clay intended to cut his losses and get rid of both Maree and Dante.