He didn’t. But he was inside her when she climaxed, inside her when she felt his own release, and when she finally regained the strength to open her eyes, he was still there, cupping her face between his hands and stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs.

The intensity of his expression caused her to tentatively ask, “What?”

“I’ve never been a big fan of the missionary position.”

Not quite sure how to respond to that, she said simply, “Oh.”

“I preferred making it any other way.”

“Why?”

“Because it didn’t have anything to do with getting off.”

“What didn’t?”

“Looking into the woman’s face.” He murmured the statement as though puzzled by it.

Her throat grew tight. She reached up and stroked his cheek. “You wanted to look into mine?”

He continued to stare into her eyes for several moments, then pulled away from her so abruptly that the emotional withdrawal was as definitive as the physical separation.

Reluctant to let that happen, she followed him, turning onto her side toward him. He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, suddenly but completely detached.

She spoke his name.

He turned only his head toward her.

Quietly she said, “When this is over, I’ll never see you again, will I?”

He waited for a beat or two, then gave an abrupt negative shake of his head.

“Right,” she whispered, smiling ruefully. “I didn’t think so.”

He returned to his study of the ceiling, and she thought that would be the end of it. Then he said, “I guess that changes your mind about this.”

“This?”

“Fucking me. But you knew what you were getting,” he said as though she’d disputed him. “Or you should have known. I haven’t made a secret of who I am, what I’m like. And, yeah, I’ve wanted you naked from the minute I saw you, and I made no secret of that either.

“But I’m not a hearts and flowers guy. I’m not even an all-night guy. I don’t hold hands. I don’t cuddle…” He paused, swore. “I don’t do any of that stuff.”

“No, all you’ve done is risk your life to save mine. More than once.”

He turned his head and looked at her.

“You repeatedly asked me why I left the garage,” she said. “Now I want to ask you something. Why were you coming back to it?”

“Huh?”

“You had told me that if you didn’t return within a few minutes of ten o’clock, I was to drive away and get as far from Tambour as possible. So, for all you knew, that’s what I had done. After nearly dying in that explosion, with a burn on your shoulder, and your hair singed, you could have run in any given direction in order to get away, but you didn’t. When you found me on the railroad tracks, you were racing back to the garage. To me.”

He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tensed.

She smiled and moved closer to him, aligning her body along his. “You don’t have to give me flowers, Coburn. You don’t even have to hold me.” She laid her head on his chest just below his chin. Her hand curved around his neck. “Let me hold you.”

Chapter 40

Diego held the edge of his razor to Bonnell Wallace’s Adam’s apple.

Wallace was proving to be a stubborn son of a bitch.

Getting into the house had been easier than Diego had anticipated. The alarm hadn’t been set, so he hadn’t had to strike immediately and then run like hell to get away before the cops showed up. Instead, he’d been able to sneak in and get the layout of the house before Wallace knew he was there.

He thought he’d caught every break, until he realized that Wallace was in the study in the front of the house where he’d seen him the night before, in plain view of anyone who happened by on the street.

The soundtrack of a television show had covered his footsteps as he’d climbed the curved staircase. The second floor had bedrooms along both sides of a long hallway, but Diego soon discovered the one that belonged to the master of the house. The gray pinstripe suit that Wallace had worn to the bank that day had been slung over the back of an easy chair. His dress shoes were in the center of the floor, his necktie lying on the foot of his giant bed.

Diego had made himself at home inside the walk-in closet. A long hour and a half had elapsed before Wallace came upstairs.

From inside the closet Diego had heard the chirps of the security system as Wallace punched in the code numbers to set it for the night. Which posed a problem, of course. It meant that Diego couldn’t get out of the house without tripping the alarm. But he’d decided not to worry about that until the time came. First he’d had to figure out how to overpower a man who was twice his size.

Wallace had obliged him. As soon as he’d entered the bedroom, he’d headed for the adjacent bathroom and unzipped. He’d used both hands to aim.

Diego had come up behind him, placed one hand on his forehead and jerked it back at the same time he pressed his razor to the banker’s exposed throat. Wallace had cried out, not so much in fear as from shock. Reflexively he’d reached behind him with both hands and tried to twist around to ward off his attacker. Pee had sprayed the wall behind the commode.

Diego had sliced the back of his hand to show him he meant business. “You fight me, I’ll slit your throat.”

Wallace stopped struggling. Breathing heavily, he asked, “Who are you? What do you want? Money? Credit cards? Take them. I haven’t seen you. I can’t identify you. So just take what you want and get out.”

“I want your bitch.”

“What?”

“Your bitch. Tori. Where is she?”

Wallace had been taken aback by that. Diego could practically feel the thoughts racing through the banker’s head as he’d held it secure against his chest.

“Sh… she’s not here.”

“I know that, jerk face. Why do you think I’ve got a razor to your throat? I want to know where she is.”

“Why?”

Diego’s hand had moved like lightning and cut an inch-long slice into Wallace’s cheek.

“Jesus!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” He’d thrust his knee into the back of Wallace’s, causing it to buckle, but it didn’t completely give way. The man was heavy and it was getting harder to hold him. “Get down on your knees.”

“Why? I’m cooperating here. I’m not fighting you.”

“Down on your knees,” Diego had said, straining the words through his teeth.

Wallace had complied. Diego liked this angle better. It afforded him more flexibility and options. It was also the position of a beggar, which worked to Diego’s advantage.

“Tell me where Tori is.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard from her today.”

Diego flicked the razor and the bottom half of Wallace’s earlobe dropped onto his shoulder. Again, he’d cried out.

“It’s the whole ear next time. And then Tori won’t want you no more, you fat turd. Or any other snatch for that matter, because you’ll look like a freak. Where is Tori?”

The ear trick usually worked. Typically that was the last thing to go before they told Diego what he needed to know, and then he would end it with one deep cut across their throat. He’d had one man hold out until both ears and his nose were gone, but he’d been exceptionally ballsy.

Diego hoped the banker wouldn’t take that long. He didn’t like being inside this house. It occurred to him that Wallace might have activated a silent alarm, some kind of panic button that alerted police to an intruder and duress. He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t lived this long by being careless.

So now, after five minutes of this song and dance, he was ready to be done with Wallace and to say adios to The Bookkeeper forever. “One more time. That’s all I’m giving you, just because I’m a nice guy. Where is Tori?”