Flash of Death

His other thigh joined the first one, and he levered her legs wide apart. This time she arched toward him with a soft cry of need. If she was going to do this, then by golly, she was really going to go for it. She flung caution to the wind and launched herself toward him. He caught her up against his shockingly hard body and kissed her deeply. And then he took her. There wasn’t another word for it. He invaded boldly, filling her to the point of delicious discomfort, and then he made her his. Fast then slow, gently and then with driving force, he made love to her.

When she would have closed her eyes, embarrassed over how wantonly she was throwing herself at him, he wouldn’t stand for it and made her open her eyes to look at him. When she would have shrunk away from the hoarse cries of pleasure torn from her own throat, he kissed her until she gave those cries to him. And when he drove her to release a second and even a third time, he ripped away any last vestiges of inhibition she might have clung to, with the sheer excess of pleasure he gave her.

Her entire being was raw and exposed to him. He played her body and soul like the master artist he was before he finally joined her in one last, shattering climax. It tore his name from her throat on a primal note she’d never sung before. It was, in a word, magnificent. And better yet, she wasn’t alone.

He collapsed beside her on the now-damp sheets, breathing heavily. She rolled over and pushed up on his chest to stare down at him, and that was when the full broadside of the whiskey hit her. Dizzy and reckless, she retained just enough reason to know this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a girl like her. One not to be missed.

“If I let you rest a little, do you think we could do that again?” she asked.

A broad grin spread across his face.

She added hastily, “Well, not that exactly. There’s something else I’ve always wanted to try …”

“Do tell. What does a nice girl like you think about alone in the deep of night?”

And in her whiskey-induced honesty, she told him. Every lurid, naughty detail of every lurid, naughty fantasy she’d ever had. By the time she was finished, his eyes blazed with desire and his body was obviously more than eager to play along.

“I don’t think we can get to all of that tonight, Chloe, but we can definitely make a dent in your list.” He rolled out of bed and fetched her discarded panty hose. With quick efficiency, he tied her wrists together and then to the headboard and knelt between her knees, his eyes burning with dark fire.

“Let’s see just how far you’re willing to go, my nice, normal little accountant.”

Chapter 2

Trent slipped out of the hotel’s delivery entrance in the last dark before dawn. He couldn’t sleep anyway, and there was no sense humiliating Chloe by strolling out through the hotel lobby in his rumpled tuxedo for all the staff to see.

Normally, he would’ve spent the night in her bed and enjoyed a morning-after brunch with her, but he had a hunch that, after last night, she’d just as soon wake up alone. For one thing, she was going to have a hell of a hangover. And, if she was telling the truth and had never done any of the things they’d done together last night, he’d lay odds she was going to suffer a rather large dose of morning-after embarrassment. He hadn’t been kidding when he called her a nice girl.

Who’d have guessed such a prim-and-proper lady would be such a wildcat after a few shots of whiskey? She’d pushed even a few of his sexual boundaries last night, and that was saying something. He’d spent most of his post-pubescent life enjoying the favors of beautiful women. But he’d never met one quite like Chloe Jordan, all sweet and virginal in public, and jaw-droppingly not virginal in private.

He crossed the street, stopping at the spot where the SUV had nearly run her down last night. As he’d thought. Not a skid mark in sight. That vehicle had accelerated toward her. Now why would anyone be out to hurt an uptight accountant who lived and worked half a continent away?

And more importantly, who would want to kill her?

Frowning, he returned to his own suite in the men’s club where the wedding had been held. His family owned the apartment, and he used it when he was in town. As its dark wood, leather and Ralph Lauren décor surrounded him, he breathed in the easy, old-world elegance with guilty pleasure. Most of the time he shunned the trappings of his family’s wealth. He was much more likely to be found in a shack on a beach, waxing a surfboard than lounging in high-end men’s clubs. And frankly, he was more at ease in the shack. People were more real there. Had a better sense of what really mattered in life.

Being diagnosed with his illness in his second year of college had put everything in perspective for him. Life was too short to waste doing things or being around people who made him crazy.

But he had to admit, this condo’s luxury was nice once in a while.

He took a six-jet steam shower to work out the worst of the kinks from last night’s athletics with Chloe, and shaved and dressed quickly. Then he sat down at the walnut desk in the corner and made a phone call to Winston Ops.

It was the headquarters of a private, corporate intelligence network for all of the many Winston Enterprises companies around the world. The duty controller, a computer genius named Novak from somewhere in eastern Europe, took his call.

“Trent Hollings, here. I need you to run a quick background check for me on Chloe Jordan.”

“Sunny’s sister?” Novak asked, surprised.

“I think someone tried to kill her last night.”

“Are you serious?” Novak exclaimed.

“As a heart attack.”

The duty controller instantly shifted into all-business mode. “Got it. So, we’re looking for enemies in her life.” Trent heard clacking keys in the background as Novak typed furiously. “How was the wedding?”

“Great party,” Trent answered. “Can’t remember the last time I saw Aiden so happy. He’s a lucky man.”

“Maybe you should find yourself a nice girl and settle down, too.”

He laughed. “Not me. I’ll never slow down enough for any girl to catch me.”

“When you least expect it, one’s gonna come along and trip you all up, buddy.”

Visions of a blonde accountant blowing his mind in bed flashed through his head. “Nah,” Trent replied. “Not me. It’s not like I can give any girl a life evenly faintly resembling normal.” Hell, he couldn’t even promise to give a girl children. With his inherited disorder, careful genetic counseling would be necessary to ensure that his condition—spinal muscular atrophy—wasn’t passed on to his offspring.

“Okay, Trent. I’ve got a preliminary report on our girl. She’s a certified public accountant. Just finished a master’s degree in forensic accounting. Company called Paradeo filed a W-2 on her about six months ago. But they’re an investment firm, not forensic accountants.”

She’d said she was freelancing. And there’d been that reference to taking a company down. Must be investigating her employer for someone else. “Where’s this Paradeo company headquartered?”

“San Francisco. No satellite offices. Anything else you need to know right away, Trent?”

“Do you see anything at a glance that could explain someone trying to run her down in a large SUV?”

“Other than some rich, pissed-off CEO she might have put in jail? Nope. You don’t suppose it has anything to with Code X, do you?” Novak asked.

The controller’s question made Trent’s blood run cold. That was the one place he’d been mentally avoiding going this morning. He’d known it would give him exactly the headache he felt coming on. “I don’t know. Keep digging and let’s see what you come up with before we go there.”

“Roger. I’m on it.”

Trent paced the spacious room restlessly. He never had been able to sit still even before he’d accepted the experimental stem cell therapies that were both his miracle cure and the heart of the Code X project. Toss in a liberal dose of stress and worry now, and he could forget sitting down, let alone being still. He changed out of the clothes he’d donned only minutes before and into running gear. It was early enough that he should be able to stretch his legs a little without anyone seeing him.

He jogged down the stairs, too jumpy to wait for the elevator, and restrained himself until he’d cleared the lobby of the club. But when he hit the sidewalk, he couldn’t contain the bursting energy any longer. He exploded into motion, sprinting down the street with strides that grew longer and faster with every step. In moments he was flying along at twenty-five miles per hour, the wind ripping through his hair and making his eyes water. God, it felt good.

Every time he ran like this, he remembered the early onset of his disease, the progressive muscle weakness, the loss of tendon strength, the continuous respiratory infections, the pain. And the fear. Not knowing what had been wrong with him was the worst of all as his body had literally wasted away before his eyes. It had taken over a year to get the diagnosis. SMA usually showed up in infants and small children, and it threw the doctors off when his case waited until adulthood to present itself.

A delivery truck backed out of an alley in front of him and he dodged around it with a lightning-fast move a professional football player would have envied.

He accelerated again, reveling in the flow of muscles and sinew and blood working in extraordinary harmony, his quick twitch muscles reacting completely off the charts for a normal human. But then, he wasn’t normal at all. Not anymore. Not since Jeff Winston had called and suggested that there might be a radical cure for Trent’s disease. It was highly experimental and had side effects, of course. He’d grabbed on to the lifeline his old friend had thrown him and never looked back. He was entirely and for the rest of his life a creature of Code X.

He ran for nearly an hour, slowing only when people began to emerge onto the streets and he risked someone seeing him race along at world-class sprinter speed for block after block.

He’d turned around to head back to the club when the cell phone in the breast pocket of his skin-tight running shirt vibrated. He slowed to a walk to take the call. It was his boss and friend, Jeff Winston.

“Hey, Jeff. What’s up?”

“Couldn’t you at least sound out of breath after tearing around like you do?” Jeff groused.

Thankfully, along with his quick twitch muscles had come extraordinarily quick oxygen uptake. “Sorry, bro. I’ll try to huff and puff a little. What can I do for you? It’s early for you to be up, isn’t it?”