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“Love me,” she whispered. “Just this once.”
His expression tightened, his gray eyes darkened to nearly black as he froze against her for one long moment. Their gazes locked, Bailey watched as something akin to grief swirled in the hungry depths of his eyes.
“Forever,” he whispered, the word almost soundless, almost broken as his hips moved.
Bailey cried out, her hands flying to his hips while he thrust against her, pushing inside her, working his erection desperately into the tight depths of her sex as the world began to explode around her.
She saw stars. She saw a sunburst explode inside her mind as he thrust to the hilt, stretching the sensitive tissue as she clenched in reflex around him.
His groans mixed with her cries as he began to move. There was no time for slow loving now. They needed too much, had too many memories, too many sensations to store up inside their souls.
John felt as though his soul were pouring from his body into hers. He couldn’t hold back the emotions any more than he could hold back the need that tore at him.
His balls were tight with the need for release, his cock flexing, clenching as he felt her pussy tightening around him and the hard arch of her body when her orgasm flooded through her.
His name was a steady chant on her lips. Love filled her voice, her hold, it wrapped around him until he could feel nothing, sense nothing but Bailey. Until nothing mattered but the woman, until he released inside her with a hard growl, his body arching, tensing until he felt as though he had been shattered from the inside out.
Until he knew, without Bailey, he was nothing. Pleasure would be a thing of a past. He would be like a ghost, haunting the world for the love of a woman.
God help him, how was he was supposed to walk away from her now?
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT EVENING BAILEY stood amid the bright chandeliers, surrounded by the slow, sweet strains of orchestral music, and watched the eleven other couples in attendance at Ford Grace’s dinner party.
These dinner parties were always excellently timed to coincide with other parties being held through the night. Tonight the couples in attendance would leave to attend a fete held in honor of one of Hollywood’s leading men, who coincidentally was staring in a major production by a studio that Stephen Menton-Squire and his wife, Josephine, held major interest in.
Bailey had never enjoyed the rounds of dinner parties, despite her mother’s attempts to instill a sense of excitement about them. They were boring, the food was too rich, and the guests were too self-involved. She had never understood why her parents had enjoyed them so much.
After-dinner drinks were served in the large family room of Ford’s mansion. The chandeliers overhead were dimmed. Tastefully arranged lamps were set in place around a large seating area, which faced a crackling fire. Conversation flowed as freely as the alcohol.
“Interesting group,” John murmured from where they stood next to French doors that led to an evergreen garden beyond.
It was an interesting group. Every suspect left on the short list that had been compiled was in attendance. Was it possible that Warbucks wasn’t one man, but a group of four?
“There’s Raymond,” Bailey said softly as John drew her onto the dance floor. “Whoever or whatever Warbucks is, he’s here tonight. All the major families are in attendance.”
“As well as a few well known criminal elements,” John pointed out rather sarcastically. “Amazing the clout a few good drugs will get you.”
It was amazing the amount of drugs that actually flowed in a party such as this one.
“No one has yet approached me,” she kept her voice low, her lips close to his neck as she spoke. “Considering I’m the one that chose the broker for this deal, and the one with the code needed, you would have thought I would be approached by now.”
“He’s waiting to see what you’ll do when confronted with the choice,” he told her. “No doubt he’s well aware of the fact that the brokers will let you in on the secret. Better you have one of them arrested than one of his men.”
“True,” she murmured. “Still, not exactly the wisest course of action where I’m concerned.”
“There’s no way he can know that one of us isn’t who we seem,” he told her. “My background is solid, darling, stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe it wasn’t you I was worried about.” She smiled before nipping his neck with her teeth. She was rewarded by the tightening of his hand at her hip and the hardening of his cock against her lower stomach.
That was how she liked him. Hard for her, hungry for her.
“I’ll make you pay for that comment later,” he assured her.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vincent, but perhaps you should give the rest of us a chance here.” The deep, dark male voice at her side had Bailey lifting her head from John’s shoulder to encounter the snake-mean gaze of an American broker known for his penchant for sexual torture and terrorist connections.
Ralph Stanford was the only son of a very successful Texas rancher. He had married an international model whose extremely good looks had withered away within years of her association with him.
