Turner grabbed her hand and pulled her back down onto the sofa. She stroked her arm. “Tom didn’t take his own life, Mrs. VanAllen. He was killed in the performance of his duty. The initial report is that a bomb was planted on his car.”

Janice gaped at her. “A bomb?”

“An explosive device, yes. A full investigation is already under way.”

“But who… who—”

“It pains me to tell you that the person suspected of involvement is another agent.”

“Coburn?” Janice whispered.

“You know of him?”

“Of course. First because of the warehouse massacre. Then Tom told me he was an agent working undercover.”

“Did they have contact?”

“Not to my knowledge. Although Tom told me earlier today that he might be called upon to bring Coburn in.” She read the pained expression on the agent’s face. “That’s the duty Tom was performing?”

“Mrs. Gillette was supposed to be at the train tracks. Tom went there to get her.”

“Coburn set him up?”

“We’re trying to ascertain—”

“Please tell me that Coburn is in custody.”

“Unfortunately no.”

“Jesus Christ, why not? What have you people been doing? Coburn is obviously crazy. If he’d been apprehended before tonight, as he should have been, Tom would still be alive.” Composure deserted her. She sobbed, “The whole freaking bureau is incompetent, and because of it, Tom is dead.”

“Mrs. VanAllen?”

Janice jumped. She wasn’t aware that Fitzgerald had rejoined them until he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke her name.

He held his cell phone out to her. “For you.”

She stared at him, then at the phone, and eventually took it from him and put it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mrs. VanAllen? This is Clint Hamilton. I just heard about Tom. I wanted to call and tell you personally how profoundly—”

“Fuck you.” She disconnected and handed the phone back to the agent.

Then she forcibly composed herself. She wiped her face and took several deep breaths, and when she felt more in control, she stood up and walked toward the door. She left the room, saying, “Let yourselves out. I need to check on my son.”

Chapter 39

Did you?”

“Did I what?

“Like the way I…” Honor let the unfinished question hang.

Coburn turned his head and looked at her. “No. I was faking it. Couldn’t you tell?”

She smiled shyly and burrowed her face into his chest.

He gathered her close. “I liked it.”

“Better than a sneeze or a cough?”

“Can I think about that and get back to you?”

She laughed softly.

They had moved from the floor to the bed and were lying with their legs entwined. Lightly she blew on the chest hair tickling her nose. “What was its name?”

“What?”

“The horse you had to shoot. You’d named it. What was its name?”

He glanced down at her, then away. “I forgot.”

“No you didn’t,” she said softly.

He lay perfectly still and said nothing for the longest time, then, “Dusty.”

She propped her fist on his breastbone and rested her chin on her fist, and looked into his face. He held out for several moments, then lowered his gaze to her. “Every day when I got home from school, he’d amble over to the fence like he was glad to see me. He liked me, I think. But only because I fed him.”

She reached up and ran her thumb along the line of his chin. “I doubt that was the only reason he liked you.”

He made an indifferent motion with his shoulder. “He was a horse. What did he know?” Then he turned to face her and said, “Dumb thing to be talking about.” He tugged on a strand of her hair, then studied it thoughtfully as he rubbed it between his fingers. “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you. It’s seen better days.”

“You’re pretty.”

“Thanks again.”

He took in all the features of her face, but eventually his eyes rested on hers. “You hadn’t been with anybody since Eddie.”

“No.”

“It felt good to me. But I think it might have hurt you.”

“A little at first. Then it didn’t.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

In a husky whisper, she said, “Neither did I.”

It was a difficult admission to make, but it was the truth. She was glad that thoughts of Eddie hadn’t intruded upon the moment, although even if they had, they wouldn’t have stopped her from being with Coburn.

Two men, two entirely different experiences. Eddie had been a wonderful and ardent lover, and she would cherish forever sweet memories of him. But Coburn had a distinct advantage. He was alive, warm, virile, and inclining toward her now.

His kiss was languid and sexy. Their hands explored. She discovered scars on him that she kissed in spite of his mild protests. He called her depraved when she brushed her tongue across his nipple, but also claimed to be a big fan of depravity. Her hand glided over the hard muscles of his abdomen and followed the tapering shape of his body down to his sex.

“Do that thing with your thumb,” he whispered. She did as requested, and when she picked up moisture, he groaned a litany of swear words.

His fingertips went unerringly to her most sensitive places that, when he stroked them, left her breathless. She became hot and achy in her center again and moved against him in shameless appeal. He lowered his head to her breasts, where he took his time, loving them with his mouth.

He raised her arm above her head and kissed the sensitive underside, then down her rib cage, gradually turning her until she was on her stomach. He moved her hair aside and softly bit the back of her neck, then started pecking kisses down her spine.

His breath was warm against her skin when he released a short laugh. “My oh my. Who would have guessed?”

Knowing what he had discovered, she said primly, “You didn’t corner the market on tats.” She had spent several minutes admiring the barbed wire encircling his biceps.

“No, but a tramp stamp? On a second-grade schoolteacher? I can remember my second-grade teacher, and I seriously doubt she had one.” He leaned down and took her earlobe between his teeth. “But it makes me hot as hell to think about it. What inspired you?”

“Two Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s. Eddie and I spent a three-day weekend in New Orleans while Stan kept Emily.”

“You got drunk?”

“Tipsy. I was easily persuaded.”

Coburn had kissed his way down and now his tongue was drawing tantalizing circles around her tattoo. “What is it?”

“A Chinese symbol. Maybe Japanese. I can’t remember.” She moaned with pleasure. “In fact, with you doing that, I can’t even think.”

“No? What happens when I do this?” He worked his hand between her and the mattress and began massaging her from the front, while he settled heavily upon her back. “That day in your bathroom…” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “When I had you up against the door.”

“Um-hum.”

“This is what I wanted to be doing. Touching you… here.”

What he was doing caused her breathing to turn choppy, but she managed to say, “I was very afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of what you would do.”

“To hurt you?”

“No, to make me feel like I do now.”

He stilled. “Is that the truth?”

“Shamefully, yes.”

“Turn over,” he growled.

He helped her onto her back, then knelt between her legs and rubbed his lips over her belly. He planted soft kisses on her hipbone and the hollow beneath it. Then nuzzled lower.

“Coburn?”

“Shh.”

His palm settled between her hipbones, and his fingertips caressed her belly while his thumb dipped down to separate and stoke. Then he deep-kissed her. The dual caress of mouth and thumb soon had her gasping his name and begging him with her arching body not to stop.