now.” In half a dozen businesslike strides, he closed the space between them. “Welcome back to Blackstone, Kim.”
He took her hand in what started as a formal handshake, but when he felt the faint tremor in her fingers and saw the stirring of emotion in her eyes, his grip on her hand tightened. “You’ve made the right choice,” he said softly. “You belong here. You—”
“Don’t.” She shook her head abruptly. “Please, don’t go all understanding on me now. That is not what I need.”
“Perhaps you do.”
“Oh, no. I definitely don’t.” She expelled a little burst of air.
“It’s been quite a day. Seeing Blackstone Jewellery for the first time and talking to Ryan. Then making my decision. I spoke to Matt just before you came in, and Blake was there—”
Her voice cracked on the boy’s name and so did her composure. He saw something like desperation in her eyes as she tugged her hand free and swung away. Nothing could have hit Ric as hard as that wounded fracture in her voice or the sign of tears looming in her eyes.
He put his hand on her shoulder. A gesture of comfort, he told himself, but it wasn’t enough. He shifted closer, his simple touch expanding until his palm cupped her shoulder and his fingers encountered the smooth warmth of her skin. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to her sunwarmed hair. Perhaps that would have been enough if she hadn’t made a choked sound of distress.
It sounded like, “Don’t,” but he paid no heed. With a hand on each shoulder, he turned her into his chest and tucked her close. The tickle of her hair against his chin, the scent of orchids and spice in each breath, twined around his senses and thumped in his pulse.
This was where she belonged. Right here. In his arms.
He would hold her, just hold her, while his hands soothed the bare skin of her arms and the delicate fabric that cloaked her shoulders and her back. Leopard print. With lace peeping from the shoulder straps and the hemline. Underwear aside, it was one the sexiest things he had ever seen her wearing and with each stroke of his hand his control slipped another tenuous notch.
“This dress,” he muttered thickly, his fingers giving up the fight and tracing the delicate line of lace down one shoulder blade, “is not coming on the Janderra trip.”
He felt the flutter of her breath against his throat, the tension in her shoulders, the live-wire jolt of his fingertips on her skin.
“Of course not.” Her voice sounded low, breathy. Turned on. Or at least that’s how Ric’s body interpreted the husky edge. “It’s completely not appropriate for work.”
“Then it’s lucky you’re not yet on the payroll.”
She went perfectly still, and he knew exactly what was ticking through her agile brain. Inappropriate. Work. My boss’s hands on my skin.
Beneath those hands he felt her gathering control. Every cell in his body growled a fierce objection. No way in this life or the next was he letting her go.
When she started to pull away, his hands slid to her upper arms and held her in place; his eyes on her face did the same.
“And since you’re not,” he said, low and dangerous, “I’m not bound to let you go.”
Her nostrils flared as she drew a quick breath, and a new awareness shivered in the air between them. “Even if I ask?”
“Are you asking?”
A beat of pause, the green-diamond flash in her eyes, the quick lick of her tongue to moisten her lips, was all the time Ric allowed for her answer. Then he lifted a hand and touched his thumb to her mouth. He felt the warmth, the moisture, the shudder of her exhalation, and was lost.
He lowered his head and took her mouth with the hunger of years of wanting and the ache of the past week’s emotion. It was no gentle exploration, no tender assault, not once she responded with her own longing, with her hands at last on his arms, his shoulders, twining around his neck to draw him more fiercely into the kiss.
With a low growl, he changed the angle of contact so he could have more of her, more of the sweet heat he craved. When she welcomed him into her mouth, he tasted the impact all the way to his groin. It was sharp, intense, an exquisite surge of lust that he wanted to assuage, here and now.
Hands on her back, he pulled her closer until their bodies were flush and the kiss exploded with a silken savagery. Thigh to thigh, hip to pelvis, breasts to chest, she was everything he remembered of raw heat and unrestrained passion … and still it was not enough. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her against him, all the while turning and backing her toward the credenza.
Breaking the kiss, he lifted her onto the sleek cherrywood surface and her hands slid forward to cradle his face. Her thumbs stroked the corners of his mouth, the effect a gentle contrast to the rough rasp of their breaths. Their gazes locked for a long moment as he palmed the smooth warmth of her thighs, his thumbs circling inward with the same erotic motion as hers.
At first he thought the vibrating hum was her response to his touch. Then she touched a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, her mouth turning down in a frown. “That’s your phone. Don’t you think you should answer it?”
“No,” he growled against her throat. “I don’t.”
But she slipped her hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved the phone. “Ryan,” she mouthed, hitting the answer button and holding the receiver to her ear.
Ric’s growl turned into an internal groan … until she sat up straight, her eyes big and stark in her suddenly pale face.
“What is it?” he asked.
With a trembling hand she passed over the phone. “He’s just taken a call from the search area. They’ve located the wreckage.”
Nine
Closure, finally, Kimberley rationalised once the initial spear of shock had dulled. The interminable waiting was over. They could mourn Howard’s passing, make arrangements for his funeral service and burial, satisfy the press with final statements, move on at a personal and business level.
Unfortunately it wasn’t that simple.
An initial inspection located only three bodies in the wreckage, meaning one of the men—and the marine police couldn’t even speculate on whether this was passenger or crew member—remained missing. Due to the depth of the water and adverse weather conditions brewing off the coast, the recovery operation could take several days. The process of formal identification would require the use of dental records and DNA matching, which, their police contact warned them, could take weeks rather than days.
Looming over it all was the real and sobering possibility that the lost body might never be found … and that it could be Howard.
The waiting continued. Kimberley appreciated being included in the inner information circle this time, and for that she thanked Perrini. Or she would once they got through the weekend and the incessant phone calls. As the Blackstone PR mouthpiece she’d decided to be more open with the press, in the hope that regular statements and updates would result in more factual stories and less speculation.
So
