Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“But,” he softly said, amusement in his eyes, “it's not going to work out… the pleasing.”

“Until next time?” she finished with a seductive wiggle of her bottom.

“Which won't be all that long,” he said with a sharp inhalation as she began to unzip his slacks. “Promise,” he whispered, her hand stroking his rigid arousal.

He was proficient at undressing women, and her Air France uniform was discarded swiftly along with her lacy underclothes and nylons. She smiled when he brushed her hands away as she attempted to undress him. “You'll be way too slow.” He grinned, kissed her straight small nose, and proceeded to shrug out of his clothes in record time.

She lay on his large soft bed, heated by his fierce desire, intoxicated by his impassioned need, feeling a sense of power and utter abandon. She would always remember the sweet tenderness in his beautiful eyes as he took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Hello,” he breathed only inches from her mouth, and his smile held the promise of pleasure. “Welcome to Le Retour.”

He was shaking when he entered her, touched by both passion and tenderness after a lifetime of pursuing only dalliance. But at least in his idle pursuit of pleasure he'd gained a flawless expertise, and he conscientiously set out to satisfy her. He moved with impeccable finesse.

As Mariel felt him glide inside her gently, she could almost anticipate each movement upward, and she trembled to feel him deeply and intensely.

He wanted more time, but knew that wish was useless in his present state. And rather than leave her unsated and possibly unhappy-something he rarely considered with the predatory glittering butterflies so often in his bed-he decided to discard thought of a leisurely lovemaking.

Egon concentrated on the readily roused portions of the female anatomy and proceeded to bring the lady to climax. It was a sensible action by a man known for his intemperance, for he wouldn't have been able to withhold his own intense orgasm much longer.

He felt as though he were drowning as he poured into her, his breath in sharp abeyance as acute pleasure washed over him.

And the small, soft woman in his arms wept with the intensity of her passion.

“Don't cry… I've hurt you. I'm sorry… don't cry,” Egon murmured, bereft at his incompetence.

“No… no, it was beautiful. I've never-” She hesitated at the clinical word, translating it into the more lyrical French. “I've never experienced le petite morte…”

Oh Lord, he thought and damned his own selfishness. He could have made it so much better. Enfolding her in his arms, he held her close. “I think I love you,” he gently said. He found the words infinitely easy to say, though he spoke them for the first time in his life.

“I think I like that,” she whispered shyly in return.

And he knew he'd found his elusive paradise.

W ith every room at Le Retour lighted, Carey knew Egon had finally arrived. Without discretion he and Molly entered the house. Standing in the center of the entrance hall, he shouted, “Egon! Goddammit, get dressed!”

Then, grabbing Molly's hand, he swiftly moved toward the stairway leading to the third floor. “Pretty polite guy,” Molly said, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up to him.

“No time for etiquette. Besides, Egon's used to me.”

And that casual statement made Molly wonder how many times they'd shared the intimacy of amorous escapades. When Carey pushed open the door into Egon's room without so much as a knock, Molly hung back, uncomfortable with the idea of barging into someone's bedroom.

“Get your ass out of bed Egon, pronto. Sorry,” he briefly apologized with a nod at Mariel who was clutching the bedsheet to her chest. “But we've got to get out of here-now!”

“They might not come.”

“And I'm the Virgin Mary. Get your clothes on.”

Carey's sudden appearance brought thoughts of Rifat flooding back to Egon's mind. “Have you seen them?”

“No, not yet. We might make it out. Meet you downstairs in three minutes. Here.” He tossed Egon's slacks to him and walked out of the room.

“Let's see what we can find for weapons,” Carey said, taking Molly's hand again and moving toward the stairway. “The study's downstairs.”

“What was the girl like?” Molly asked as they descended the stairs. “Did she seem frightened at your appearance?”

Carey glanced at Molly, his expression bewildered. His thoughts were focused on the need to protect themselves. “I didn't look at her. She'll be down in a minute.” He pointed toward a room at the base of the stairs.

“Can Egon handle a gun?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” Carey said, “if the damn things aren't rusted shut.” He was feeling extremely vulnerable at the moment with two women to protect and Egon's stability in question, though he'd seemed remarkably in control. One point for our side, Carey thought. When Egon was in command of his nerves, the man was prime. Like the time they were trap shooting in Austria, and he and Egon had both melted the bores on two shotguns, matching scores all afternoon. Egon had a good eye.

He glanced swiftly at Molly, as if to reassure himself. She smiled at him, and he squeezed her hand. She was so normal and rational, so fiercely lovable. Damn, she shouldn't be here. But then there shouldn't be brutality and injustice in the world, either… he couldn't control the universe.

After an inspection of the rifles and shotguns in the glass-doored cabinet, he found only two unusable. The others, while not modern assault weapons, were custom hunting rifles and shotguns capable of lethal damage. He was stacking ammunition on the large, polished desktop when Egon and Mariel appeared on the stairway. “In the study,” he shouted.

Egon held Mariel's hand when he introduced her, and none of the blasй indifference was in his voice. Carey looked at her with interest; she was fresh-faced and unpretentious, with innocent eyes. A decided change from the European models Egon normally chose to amuse himself. The ones who pretended so much and so often, they were no longer sure exactly who they were. This young woman apparently knew who she was.

“So you're Molly,” Egon remarked enigmatically when Carey introduced her.

“And you're Egon,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “We've been tracking you for hours.”

“I see why you married Sylvie,” Egon quietly said. It wasn't the boredom of location in Yugoslavia, after all. Although dissimilar in physical details, there was a distinct general similarity between his sister and the woman Carey had called for so often when he was sleeping off some overindulgence during his enfant terrible stage. Egon had heard the name “Molly” quite regularly in those days.

“I'd love to sit and discuss my marriage to your sister,” Carey said with a sardonic grin, “but with Rifat's gunmen close on our heels, I suggest we save our skins instead.”

At Mariel's frightened expression, Molly soothingly said, “Carey's pessimistic by nature. I'm sure everything will be fine.”

She should write messages for Hallmark cards, Carey thought, recalling Egon's sports car blown up on his doorstep. “Since there is a possibility of danger, the sooner we leave Le Retour, the better.”

Mariel looked to Egon for explanation. “We'd better leave now to be safe,” he said. “I'll explain on the way to the airport.”

“Are you in trouble with the law?” she queried. There was no reproof in her voice, only concern.

“No.”

“Which is why we have to hurry,” Carey interjected. “The law at least might offer some security. You take this rifle, Egon. I'll take the other, and let's hit the road.”

They were halfway down the outside staircase, the car no more than ten yards away when the AK-47 opened up and blasted the ornate balastrade a foot below them. Mariel screamed. Molly bit back her own cry as Carey whipped his rifle up and fired into the trees where the stream of red tracers originated. “Get back in the house,” he barked, swinging around for a second to see if anyone was hit. “I'll keep them down. Go!” he ordered, and Egon herded them back up the steps while Carey emptied both five cartridge magazines into the trees. He heard the door open and thanked the darkness for saving them. Although the moon was out, sufficient shadow remained to make a moving target hard to hit at that range.

The familiar sound of gunfire had called all of Carey's old reflexes into action. He'd fired into the vortex of the red tracers-dйjа vu, like a vivid movie in his mind. Even the warm, sultry night was the same, only the hordes of mosquitoes were missing. Where the hell were Ant and Luger when he needed them? he thought, crouching down behind the shattered stone railing to load the cartridges he'd stuffed into his pockets.

Reloaded, he scanned the tree line beyond the lawn, watching for movement in the suddenly quiet night. And he knew they were waiting to see what he'd do. For one thing, he'd better change out of this white T-shirt. He gauged the distance up the stairs to the door, slightly ajar now, with a portion of Egon's blond hair visible in the narrow aperture.