“You should be in bed. You look faint.”

“Is it true? My baby was killed because of you?”

“Greta, listen to me. I don’t know what you overheard, but—”

“My beautiful baby.” She looked up at the portrait, tears streaming from her eyes. “My baby.”

His voice cracking, he said, “She was my baby, too.”

Greta glared at him through tears of wrathful contempt. “You heartless bastard.”

Chapter 33

As Trapper entered the kitchen of Kerra’s condo, she turned away from the stove. “Did you find the bathroom?”

“Yeah. What’s this?”

“Food.” She spooned scrambled eggs from a skillet onto two plates. “Doesn’t surprise me that you don’t recognize it. When’s the last time we had any?” She added slices of bacon and buttered toast to the plates and handed one to him. “Sit.”

The aroma of hot food had caused his stomach to growl, which caused her to laugh. He carried his plate to the tiny table. She joined him and they began eating.

“Who will you call first?” she asked.

“In addition to Marianne, there were two or three who at least listened and didn’t dismiss my notion out of hand. I’ll start with them. Maybe one of them can recommend someone for me to talk to, either in our bureau or with the FBI.

“But, contrary to what I told Wilcox, I’ll wait till morning. I remember calling former colleagues when I was falling-down drunk, especially soon after I got fired. I don’t want them thinking this is just another of those times.”

When they finished the meal, Trapper carried his empty plate to the sink and rinsed it under the faucet. “That was great.”

Kerra moved up beside him. “I don’t bake cakes, but I know how to scramble an egg.”

“I can do without cake.” He dried his hands and took hers. “I was against you going with me to confront Wilcox. But I’m glad I lost the argument. Thanks for being there.”

He wanted to thank her for having faith in him, believing him, standing up for him and with him. But he couldn’t think of a way to express all that without sounding like a sap, so he didn’t say anything else.

Kerra smiled as though she knew all the things he’d left unsaid. “You’re welcome.” Still hand in hand, she towed him out of the kitchen and through the living room. One of its walls was solid glass, affording a spectacular view of the Dallas skyline.

They continued down the hallway, past the small bathroom he’d used when they arrived and into the master bedroom that was furnished as tastefully as the rest of the apartment.

“This place is amazing,” he remarked.

“I’m glad you approve.”

“But it shows how much you outclass me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He took her by the shoulders. “A classy guy would thank you for the eggs, give you a peck on the cheek, and leave.” He lowered his head and nuzzled his way through her hair to the soft spot behind her ear. “Or at least lay you down on the bed first.”

“First? Before what?”

He backed her into the wall. “Before taking your top off.”

“The window shades are up.”

“See? I’ve got no class. I don’t care if somebody’s watching.”

Assuming he was joking, she laughed.

He pulled her top over her head, then threaded his fingers up through her hair and held her head between his hands as he plundered the hottest, sweetest, sexiest mouth he was ever going to miss.

Because, she didn’t know it, but if things didn’t work out for him tomorrow, he wasn’t going to drag her down into the muck of failure with him. He wouldn’t let her jeopardize her career by doing a story on Wilcox that nobody except him would or could corroborate. He’d tell her “so long” and mean it.

But for right now, he was with her, and she was kissing him back for all she was worth, and, by God, he’d earned at least this.

While holding her mouth with his, he popped the snaps on his shirt and pulled it off, then hooked his thumbs beneath the shoulder straps of her bra and pulled them down her arms until the cups fell away. He scooped a breast in each hand but only held them as he broke the kiss and looked into her eyes.

In a low voice, he said, “They’ve had a lot of rough play already tonight.”

“Hours ago,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

“Thank God,” he moaned and lowered his head.

She undid his fly, took him in hand, and began milking him from root to tip.

“Wait.” He removed her hand, then unfastened her jeans and knelt to pull them down her legs. She steadied herself with one hand on his shoulder as she stepped out of them. He gently gnawed her through the lacy triangle of her panties, breathed her in, blew against her. She sighed his name.

He slid the underpants down and off, then stood and replaced her hand around his cock and guided it between her thighs. He kept his hand covering hers as he whispered in her ear.

She angled her head back and looked at him with surprise. “Use you to …?”

“One of my many fantasies,” he said.

He withdrew his hand and let her take over. He was afraid she would demur, but she didn’t. He watched what she did to herself with him, and in turn watched her face: the bite she gave her plush lower lip; the frown of intense feeling as the lips of her sex closed around his smooth tip.

The slippery friction she created against her sweet spot was almost his undoing, but he concentrated on her, on the escalation of her breathing, on the increasing tension in her neck and chest, the tightening of her clasp around him, the beading of her nipples. He brushed one with his tongue, and his timing was perfect to catch her gasp of ultimate pleasure with his mouth.

He maintained the kiss as his arms closed around her. He held her skin to skin until her orgasm subsided and continued to hold her until she slowly spiraled down, bumped her head back against the wall and opened her eyes.

She gave him a drowsy smile. “What about you?”

“We’re getting to that.”

He lifted her against him and carried her to the bed. As she lay down, he stripped off the rest of his clothes. He did a push-up above her and settled between her thighs. She tilted her hips up to accommodate him, and he delved into her in one long glide. She was incredibly wet, but still glove-tight. He luxuriated simply in being grafted to her and feeling her subtle contractions that became ever stronger and soon had his breath hitching.

He groaned, “You’re killing me doing that.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“It’s working.”

He took her hands and stretched her arms above her head. Fitting her palms into his, he linked their fingers and began to stroke her inside. As before, he wanted her to remember this, because it would be engraved on his memory: the feel of her around him, the way she hugged his hips with her thighs, the sexy undulation of her belly against his, the sight of his chest hair dusting the hard tips of her breasts.

The kiss.

He kissed her, and, of all the other mind-blowing sensations, it was that of her mouth so greedily taking his tongue that caused his control to burst. When it did, she arched up and ground against his straining pelvis and brought on another soul-rending orgasm.

Later, he didn’t remember separating from her. He thought that both of them might already have been in the twilight of sleep before they moved, but when he woke up a short time later, he and Kerra were spooned together, his sex dormant now, but intimately tucked into the furrow of hers, her heart beating against his palm. He removed his hand from her only long enough to pull the covers over them, then returned it to cover her breast. Sleepily she murmured his name and snuggled closer.

For the first time in years, Trapper fell asleep without anger, at peace.

The Major was in conversation with the doctor who’d been overseeing his care when Hank poked his head around the door. “I can come back later.”

“No need, reverend,” the doctor said. “We’re finished.”

The doctor left. Hank came in. His smile was anemic, his manner subdued, his expression telegraphing bad news. “I haven’t seen you the whole while you’ve been here. You’re looking remarkably well for—”