She felt drunk, too loose for control, too pliant for shock, as his hands got busy again. She bucked, she reached for him, but he slipped away, sliding down her damp body, hands fast, mouth urgent. She couldn’t keep up. Now her body was tight, a white-knuckled fist, ready to strike. She came abruptly, violently, and didn’t hear her own scream.
; He took what he wanted. Everything. His blood pounded harder and hotter every time he dragged her over the next edge. Their flesh was wet with sweat now as he drove them both ruthlessly.
When the need to be inside of her was unbearable, he pulled her up, parted her legs until they clamped around his waist. And when her arms were around him as well, clinging, her body trembling hard against his, he gripped her hips and filled her in one deep stroke.
His mouth found her breast, felt the wild, ragged beat of her heart beneath the damp flesh. And when she climaxed again, vising around him like silk-coated iron, he held himself back.
“Look at me.” He arched her back, watching as her body shuddered, her hips moved. Arousal built fresh as he took himself deeper into her. “Look at me, Eve.” He stroked his hands over her, molding each curve again while he continued to thrust, slow, steady. His breath came in pants. His control vibrated on a thin, fraying wire.
She opened her eyes. They were glazed, heavy, but they watched him. “You’re the one,” he said, and braced himself over her. “You’re the only.”
His mouth swooped down to hers, found it eager and open as he emptied himself into her.
For once, he slept first. She lay in the dark, listening to him breathe, stealing a little of his warmth as her own body cooled. Since he was asleep, she stroked his hair.
“I love you,” she murmured. “I love you so much, I’m stupid about it.”
With a sigh, she settled down, closed her eyes, and willed her mind to empty.
Beside her, Roarke smiled into the dark.
He never slept first.
chapter twelve
In his midtown office high above the city, Roarke dealt with his last meeting of the morning. As originally scheduled, he should be concluding this business in Rotterdam, but he had arranged to take the meeting holographically so as to remain close to home. Close to Eve.
He sat at the head of his gleaming conference table, aware that his image sat at a similar one an ocean away. His assistant sat on his left, feeding him the necessary hard copy for his approval and signature. His translator sat on his right, as backup, should there be any problem with the computer headset’s language program.
The board of ScanAir filled the other seats. Or their images did. It had been a very good year for Roarke Enterprises and its subsidiaries. It had not been a good year nor a good several years for ScanAir. Roarke was doing them the favor of buying them out.
From the stony expressions on several holographic faces, they were not entirely grateful.
The company needed to be right-sized, which meant several of the cushier positions would be adjusted in salary and responsibility. Some would be eliminated altogether. He had already hand-picked several men and women who were willing to relocate to Rotterdam and whip the skyline back into shape.
As the computer-generated translation of the contract droned in his ears, he watched the faces, the body language. Occasionally, he conferred with his translator for subtleties and syntax.
He already knew every phrase, every word of the buyout agreement. He wasn’t paying what the board had hoped for. Then again, they had hoped his examination of the company wouldn’t turn up some of the more delicate—and well-hidden—financial difficulties.
He couldn’t blame them for that. He would have done the same. But his examinations were always thorough and turned up everything.
He signed his name on each copy, added the date, then passed the contracts to his assistant for her to witness and seal. She rose, fed the contacts into a laser fax. Seconds later, the copy was across the ocean and being signed by his counterpart.
“Congratulations on your retirement, Mr. Vanderlay,” Roarke said pleasantly when the countersigned and witnessed copies were faxed back to him. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
This was acknowledged by a brief nod and a short formal statement. The holograms winked off.
Roarke eased back, amused. “People aren’t always grateful when you give them large quantities of money, are they, Caro?”
“No, sir.” She was tidy, with hair shockingly white and gloriously styled. She rose, taking both the hard copy and the record disc of the transaction for filing. Her trim, rust-colored suit showed off beautifully shaped legs. “They’ll be less grateful when you turn ScanAir into a financial success. Within a year, I’d say.”
“Ten months.” He turned to the translator. “Thank you, Petrov, your services were invaluable, as always.”
“My pleasure, sir.” He was a droid, created by one of Roarke’s science arms. His body was slim, garbed in a well-cut dark suit. His face was attractive, but not distractingly so, and formed to simulate trustworthy middle age. Several of his line were leased by the UN.
“Give me an hour, Caro, before the next. I have some personal business to tend to.”