He memorized her body with his palms, sliding over her silky skin. The lush curves, the sides of her breasts, under them, all along her narrow rib cage, and then sweeping down to her waist. He followed his hands with his mouth, using his lips to kiss her, his tongue to stroke velvet caresses and his teeth to nip and show her how nerve endings fired under a slow assault.
His blood roared in his ears, rushed through his veins straight to his groin until he was so full and hard he thought he might burst. Just touching her did that to him. Looking at her. Feeling the silk of her hair against his body. The satin of her skin sliding under his palm. She was so beautiful, a woman he never believed he could ever have. His own.
He kissed her belly button, nuzzled her flat stomach and allowed his hands to drift lower, over her hips, tracing the bones there, lower still to her thighs. He felt her muscles shift and ripple, dance with arousal. His mouth moved lower, his hands parting her thighs, giving him access to her heat. His tongue swiped a slow, easy taste, languid and lazy, taking his time.
The breath slammed out of her and her hips bucked. She cried out his name, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. He tightened his grip on her hips, pinning her down so he could continue his exploration uninterrupted. She was pure liquid fire. She tasted like heaven, and he indulged himself. This was for her... but he couldn't resist.
He'd forgotten. The taste of her was in his mouth when he woke in the early morning hour, but still, he'd forgotten just how good it really was. The first few minutes were purely selfish. Her nails bit deeper and her breath came in ragged gasps as his mouth and tongue took her up so that the tension coiled tight and fiery deep inside her. He added a finger, pressing deep through her tight muscles.
"Casimir." Her breath exploded out of her lungs.
"Let go," he commanded softly. "Just let go, lyubov moya, let it take you." He kept up his assault on her senses, his mouth greedy, but still as gentle as he could be when he wasn't a gentle man. "Nothing is hotter to me than watching you come apart for me." He meant that. He loved looking into her eyes. Giving her that gift. The sound of her voice, breathy, ragged, gasping his name. It was music. Beautiful. A paradise he never thought he could ever have.
Her eyes on his, she did exactly what he commanded, her channel, scorching hot, clamped down on his finger, and his cock jerked hungrily. She shuddered, her hips writhing, pushing deeper against his finger, her hands moving over his shoulders and down his arms to his wrists.
"Please, honey, I need you."
He wasn't going to make her beg. Not this time. This time he wanted her to know in every single cell in her body that she was thoroughly loved. He wanted her to feel him, branded inside her, deep, where she would never get him out. He pushed her knees up and apart and moved over her.
"Wrap me up, malyshka," he ordered softly. "Lock your heels around my hips. I want to feel every inch of you against me."
He circled his cock with his fist and pushed the crown into her hot, slick entrance. The feeling was excruciatingly beautiful. Tight. Hot. Scalding. He waited while she obeyed him, while she circled him with her arms as well as her legs, until every inch of her front was melted into his.
Fire was there. Her fire. His. He felt it in his belly, a roaring he couldn't quite control. He felt it in his cock as he pushed through her fiery sheath, forcing her to give way for his invasion. So tight. So perfect. He didn't power through. He forced himself to keep to the gentle, leisurely pace that he knew was killing both of them.
One slow inch at a time. He watched himself disappear into her body. So beautiful. He could feel the slow assault, his thick cock forcing her muscles to give way, to stretch to accommodate his size. It felt as if a fiery fist clamped down around him, her muscles like a vise, stroking and caressing with velvet flames. Slowly, relentlessly, he forced his way, inch by slow inch, into her until he was seated deep, holding her still, letting her body adjust to the burning, stretched feeling. Letting his adjust to the fire.
Her mouth rounded, her lips forming his name, but only a soft groan escaped. Her lashes fluttered and her hips pressed deeper into him, urging him without words to move. She needed movement. Wanted it. Demanded it. She was so beautiful under him, her body swaying with every movement of his. Her breasts jolted invitingly, nipples hard little pebbles against his chest, the feeling unbelievably erotic to him. Her hips bucked harder, trying to drive down on him, to force him into compliance.
"You can't move, malyshka," he cautioned, clenching his teeth against the pleasure radiating out from his cock to the rest of his body. She gripped him so tight, the fire so hot, it bordered on pain, yet he didn't want it to ever end. "I'm not going to last five minutes if you don't hold still. You've taken away my control." He'd worked hard for that control. It had been beaten into him and now, when he needed it most, when it had never failed him before, he was in danger of losing it completely.
"I don't think I can stop moving," she confessed, panting, biting her lip, trying to still her body at the command in his voice.
He loved that about her. She tried to do what he asked, no matter how difficult, and staying still was difficult. He smoothed his hand over her bottom, those luscious curves he found so intriguing, taking a breath, wanting to live right where he was. He moved then. Slow. Withdrawing. All the way, almost losing contact. Her eyes widened and her ankles locked tighter, as if she could hold him to her.
He surged forward with a hard, fast stroke, driving through her tight folds so that the friction was nearly unbearable. Fire streaked through his body. She cried out, clutching at him, sliding her hands down to his hips to grasp him, to try to urge him to keep going. He withdrew again, even slower this time and, eyes on her face, he began a slow, steady assault on her nerve endings. Driving in slow, retreating even slower, allowing her fire to surround him, to grip and milk.
"Casimir." She wailed his name.
He kept the slow, steady buildup, keeping the friction right over her sweet little button, just enough to drive her wild, not send her careening over the edge. It cost him. Sweat beaded on his body. His blood thundered in his ears and roared through his veins. All the while he moved in her, loving her, he felt the assault on his own body, the power gathering like the force of a volcano rumbling, waiting, holding off for the bigger explosion. Arousal was so intense it was painful, arcing through his thighs, boiling in his balls, jackhammers drilling into his skull, and yet all of that only added to the pleasure burning through him.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. Fingernails bit deep. She went over the edge hard and fast, so unexpected, with such force, she swept him along in the wildfire. He plunged into her, several hard strokes while the flames burned over them, consuming both of them, and her cries reverberated in his mind.
He collapsed over top of her, pinning her small body beneath his, letting her take his full weight while he buried his face in her neck, his heart pounding wildly, his lungs raw and aching, his entire body sated. Aftershocks shook them both, her body still alive, rippling around his.
He lay there for far longer than he should have, letting his heart pound, absorbing the feel of her under him. Savoring it. She didn't protest or attempt to push him off. She kissed his temple and rubbed her hands along his back.
"Ya lyublyu tebya," he whispered, meaning it. He shifted his weight off of her, but stayed buried in her, his hands framing her face. "Do you understand, Giacinta? Did you hear what my body said to yours?"
She traced his lower lip with the pad of her finger. "I heard you, Casimir. I feel the same way. Thank you. I needed you tonight and I should have known you'd be here for me."
He rolled, taking her with him so that she sprawled over top of him. Grasping the covers, he pulled them over both of them. "Go back to sleep, golubushka. I'll wake you before you have to get back to your own room."
She laid her head over his heart, her hands moving up and down his shoulder and biceps as she drifted off to sleep, knowing he would watch o
ver her.
8
Patrice Lungren sat on the hard seat of the old bus and smiled at the little boy across from her. His mother gave her a quick grin in return. Patrice knew exactly what the woman saw, she'd assumed her role perfectly.
Patrice was short and very slender, almost a stick. She wore flattering trousers and a silk blouse with a short, flared jacket, very classy. Her black hair was glossy and hung just to her shoulders in a very sophisticated cut. Her eyebrows were dark and when she removed her very expensive dark glasses, her eyes and lashes were as well. She had a beauty mark just to the right of her lips. Her boots were expensive, soft leather, the color matching the dark red of her jacket.
"He's beautiful," Patrice said. When the woman shook her head, she repeated the observation in halting Italian.
The woman beamed at her. "Grazie. Thank you." She tried her own English. Clearly she spoke it but had been afraid to try it out with an American. She indicated Patrice's camera. "Pictures?"
Patrice nodded. "Shops. Homes. The ocean and countryside. Everything." She smiled wide. "I love it here. I come as often as I can to visit. I took a cooking class in the village just a few miles away and it was wonderful." Patrice Lungren, had, in fact, taken that cooking class.
"You like to travel?" The young mother now seemed determined to practice her English.
"I love it," Patrice admitted. "Fortunately, I'm in a position to indulge my love of traveling and I do it often. Italy is my favorite, but I travel all over. I just find myself coming back here over and over. Someday, I'd like to live here permanently."
"By the sea?" The bus traveled along the coastline, so it was a good guess.
Patrice smiled and nodded. "I'm taking pictures of homes. I want as many examples of places I could live as possible. I was in a cappuccino bar a few days ago and someone told me about the homes along this section of coast. Supposedly the homes are quite beautiful."
The young mother nodded. "Costoso." She floundered for a moment.
"Expensive?" Patrice guessed.
The young mother nodded vigorously. "Very expensive, but beautiful."
The bus pulled to the side of the road, and Patrice flashed another smile. "Nice talking to you. This is my stop." She waved at the little boy and, clutching her camera, hurried to get off. It was her experience that bus drivers started up just as fast as they pulled over.
As she snapped several pictures of the nearest home, she glanced at her watch. Luigi's information was very detailed, as usual. Now she knew how he got that information - he was friends with those he targeted. He walked right into their homes, inserted himself into their daily lives. He knew their routines just as well as he knew his own.
Luigi had become ill a few days earlier while she was out doing recon of Cosmos Agosto's home. Feigning embarrassment because he was walking unsteadily, Luigi had retreated, as he always did, into his wing of the house. That damned him in her eyes more than anything else. Thinking back, she realized every time she had gone after a target, he had retreated on the pretense of being ill. Before, she had accepted his chronic illness; after all, she'd known even before her parents had been killed that he was ill. Now, knowing it was a ruse, she was infuriated.
Lissa was grateful for the discipline she'd developed over the years, the practice of tamping down the fire always burning deep inside. For the first time in her life, she was glad Luigi had retreated into his wing, although she was tempted to come up with an excuse to have to crash into his empty apartment to see for herself that he was truly gone.
Patrice snapped more pictures. In fifteen minutes, Cosmos's beautiful young wife, Carlotta, would go to her weekly beauty appointment. She was a former up-and-coming model, and Cosmos apparently dictated that she work out, stay a certain weight and always look gorgeous. She complied. According to Luigi's information, Cosmos didn't want children and had also insisted that his wife - not him - permanently make certain a pregnancy didn't happen. She was young, but she had, again, complied.
Patrice continued her natural progression along the street. The manicured estates were large and set well back from the road. She took pictures of gardens, going so far as to balance on a fence to get a close-up shot of a certain flower in bloom. She took her time, out in the open, making certain she wasn't followed, the way she always did. She didn't deviate in the least from her norm.
Arturo remained behind in the house, supposedly to take care of Luigi. He slipped in and out of the wing, the only one permitted. She knew it was to help preserve her uncle's subterfuge. That hurt as well. She'd come to love Arturo. She worried about him almost as much as she did her uncle. He was part of the entire betrayal. He'd been with Luigi long before the death of her parents. She'd known him all of her life.
He had never followed her on a job, but always, just in case, she made certain she was entirely alone. Luigi had taught her that. He had said to make certain there were no witnesses, not even someone she trusted. Arturo hadn't followed her. None of Luigi's men had.
She moved farther down the street, ambling slowly, snapping pictures as she went. There was little activity in the quiet neighborhood - few cars and no foot traffic, exactly the way she liked it. Since most of the larger homes were set back so far, she doubted if too many people witnessed her camera-happy persona, but if they did, it was Patrice they saw, no one else.
The Agosto estate was one of the largest along that particular road. The grounds were covered with flowers and shrubs. Wrought-iron gates stood at the entrance to the long, winding drive, a drive that snaked through the property to come up on the three-story mansion, swung around to the guest home and then farther back, to the cliffs lining the property above the sea.
The estate was the crowning jewel of the area. A low wrought-iron fence surrounded the gardens on three sides. There was no fence along the cliffs, and the ornamental fencing was just that - for looks. It was known that Cosmos Agosto kept dogs and guns. No one entered his property without permission, not even children - and he spread it far and wide that he didn't like children. His reasoning for no fence along the cliffs was that he wanted an unobstructed view and he had no children to protect.
The gates opened while Patrice snapped several pictures of the gardens on the adjoining estate. A chauffeur-driven town car swept by, Cosmos's wife in the backseat. The woman stared straight ahead, not even glancing Patrice's way as she diligently took pictures of the flowers close to the wrought-iron fence at the corner of the Agosto property.
Patrice continued to ramble along the road, now peering into the beautifully kept gardens with their marble fountains as she trailed her hand along the black wrought iron. She always was careful to have liquid fingerprints, prints that would match Patrice Lungren's passport and identification papers.
A car moved slowly up the street, passed Patrice and the double gates to pull to the side of the road several yards ahead of her. The car was an older model and dusty, the windows clouded. A tall, well-built man got out. He wore a casual T-shirt under a sports jacket, dark trousers and nice shoes. His hair was silver, as was the stubble on his jaw.
The man looked around slowly and then reached into the car to pull a camera bag off the seat. He fiddled with the strap for a moment before closing the door and finally looking at Patrice. She sent him a friendly, sunny smile and a small wave, holding up her camera to indicate they were fellow travelers and quickening her steps to hurry to get to his side.
"Hi, I'm Patrice," she greeted with her happiest smile and an outstretched hand. "I'm from the United States, here on vacation."
The man hesitated a moment, leaning back against his car, his gaze drifting over her appraisingly. It took a moment for him to smile back and take her outstretched hand. "Friedrich Bauer. From Germany. Also on vacation."
The moment "Friedrich's" fingers touched her skin, an electrical charge skipped over Lissa's skin. Patrice might not be affected by just that skin-to-skin contact, but to her, it was almost as intimate as when he touched her i
n the bedroom. A little shiver went through her entire body.
It was important to stay in character at all times. This was the first time she'd ever worked with anyone on a job and just that was foreign to her, but Casimir had insisted. He didn't look at all like her Casimir, but she would recognize his touch anywhere.
When he let go of her hand after a firm shake, the pads of his fingers brushed gently along her inner wrist. She hadn't known she could be so sensitive, but that barely there touch felt like four firebrands sinking deep.
"All clear," she said softly. She glanced toward the house and then her watch. "He should be on the move any minute. Apparently he really enjoys walking to the cliffs when he's alone and staring out over the sea."
"I wonder why." Casimir's voice was strictly neutral.
His gaze did a long, slow sweep of the surrounding terrain, taking in the street as well as the vast estate across from the Agosto property. There was no one around, no one working on either of the grounds - something rarely done on a weekday. Both had suspected Cosmos wanted it that way. He liked a day to himself to do whatever he wanted away from prying eyes.
Luigi's report had been so thorough he had even had the information that Cosmos forced his wife to go to the beauty parlor for her facials and manicures even when she was ill. Never once had Lissa questioned Luigi's reports, but when Casimir pointed the remark out as odd, she just looked at him, understanding in her gaze. She knew Luigi had personal knowledge of what Cosmos did or didn't do with his wife.