Whistleblower by Tess Gerritsen Page B

I'd already talked to him a few times on the phone. He offered to meet me in Garberville. We wanted to keep it private, so we agreed to a spot just outside of town. I drove down, fully expecting him to show. Well, someone showed up, all right. Someone who ran me off the road." He paused and looked straight at her. "That's the night you found me."
    The night my whole life changed, she thought.
    "You have to believe me," he said.
    She studied him, her instincts battling against logic. The story was just barely plausible, halfway between truth and fantasy. But the man looked solid as stone.
    Wearily she nodded. "I do believe you, Victor. Maybe I'm crazy. Or just gullible. But I do."
    The bed shifted as he sat down beside her. They didn't touch, yet she could almost feel the warmth radiating between diem.
    "That's all that matters to me right now," he said. "That you know, in your heart, I'm telling the truth."
    "In my heart?" She shook her head and laughed. "My heart's always been a lousy judge of character. No, I'm guessing. I'm going by the fact you kept me alive. By the fact there's another Cathy Weaver who's now dead..."
    Remembering the face of that other woman, the face in the newspaper, she suddenly began to shake. It all added up to the terrible truth. The gun blasts into her apartment, the other dead Cathy. And Sarah, poor Sarah.
    She was gulping in shaky breaths, hovering on the verge of tears.
    She let him take her in his arms, let him pull her down on the bed beside him. He murmured into her hair, gentle words of comfort and reassurance. He turned off the lamp. In darkness they held each other, two frightened souls joined against a terrifying world. She felt safe there, tucked away against his chest. This was a place where no one could hurt her. It was a stranger's arms, but from the smell of his shirt to the beat of his heart, it all seemed somehow familiar. She never wanted to leave that spot, ever.
    She trembled as his lips brushed her forehead. He was stroking her face now, her neck, warming her with his touch. When his hand slipped beneath her blouse, she didn't protest. Somehow it seemed so natural, that that hand would come to lie at her breast. It wasn't the touch of a marauder, it was simply a gentle reminder that she was in safekeeping.
    And yet, she found herself responding....
    Her nipple tingled and grew taut beneath his cupping hand. The tingling spread, a warmth that crept to her face and flushed her cheeks. She reached for his shirt and began to unbutton it. In the darkness she was slow and clumsy. By the time she finally slid her hand under the fabric, they were both breathing hard and fast with anticipation.
    She brushed through the coarse mat of hair, stroking her way across that broad chest. He took in a sharp breath as her fingers skimmed a delicate circle around his nipple.
    If playing with fire had been her intention, then she had just struck the match.
    His mouth was suddenly on hers, seeking, devouring. The force of his kiss pressed her onto her back, trapping her head against the pillows. For a dizzy eternity she was swimming in sensations, the scent of male heat, the unyielding grip of his hands imprisoning her face. Only when he at last drew away did they both come up for air.
    He stared down at her, as though hovering on the edge of temptation.
    "This is crazy," he whispered.
    "Yes. Yes, it is—"
    "I never meant to do this—"
    "Neither did I."
    "It's just that you're scared. We're both scared. And we don't know what the hell we're doing."
    "No." She closed her eyes, felt the unexpected bite of tears. "We don't. But I am scared. And I just want to be held. Please, Victor. Hold me, that's all. Just hold me."
    He pulled her close, murmuring her name. This time the embrace was gentle, without the fever of desire. His shirt was still unbuttoned, his chest bared. And that's where she lay her head, against that curling nest of hair. Yes, he was right, so wise. They were crazy to be making love