The Search Read online

  “I came over to thank you, and since Syl took my morning classes and I don’t have my last class of the day until five-thirty, I decided to thank you now, in person.”

  “What time is it?”

  She arched her eyebrows, glanced at her watch. “Three-fifteen.”

  “That’ll work.” He tossed the sandpaper down, then stepped off the porch to take her arm and pull her toward the house.

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “You know damn well.”

  “Some might attempt at least a little warming up before—”

  He swung her around, crushed his mouth to hers while his hands streaked down to mold her ass.

  “You’re right, that’ll work. I want to say I’m not normally this easy, but—”

  “Don’t care.” This time his hands streaked under her jacket, her shirt, up her bare back.

  “Me either. Outside.”

  “I’m not doing this outside with all these dogs around.”

  “No.” She choked out a laugh, struggled to stay on her feet as they groped each other. “I’m telling the dogs to stay outside.”

  “Good thinking.” He dragged her onto the back deck, through the door.

  He yanked off her jacket, shoved her against the wall. As desperation spiked, she dragged at his shirt.

  “Wait.”

  “No.”

  “No, I mean—I know you’re happy to see me, but I really think that’s an actual hammer pressing into my . . . Oh God.”

  He pulled back, glanced down. “Shit. Sorry.” And unstrapped his tool belt, dumped it on the floor.

  “Just let me—” She shoved his unbuttoned work shirt aside, then pulled up the T-shirt he wore beneath. “Oh, mmm,” she said as she pushed her hands up his chest. “Too long,” she managed when his mouth clamped on the side of her neck. “Need to hurry.”

  “Okay.” With that he tore her shirt open, popping buttons into the air.

  She should’ve been shocked, possibly annoyed—it had been a decent shirt—but the sound of ripping cloth followed by the rough hands on her breasts shot her within a hairbreadth of the edge.

  She shuddered, grinding against him, urgent sounds humming in her throat as she fumbled with his zipper. He tugged hers down, one quick, impatient motion, then slid his hand in, down, over. He watched her face, watched those calm eyes glaze like blue glass as she erupted against him. Then he took her mouth again and drove her until she went limp.

  “No, you don’t,” he murmured when she started to slide down the wall.

  The simplest solution was to toss her over his shoulder and find the handiest flat surface. He dumped her on the dining room table, shoved debris aside. Whatever crashed and shattered could be replaced.

  Because he wanted her naked, he pulled off her boots. “Your belt, undo it.”

  “What? Oh.” Like a shock victim, she stared at the ceiling while she unhooked her belt. “Am I on the table?”

  He pulled her pants down her legs by the hems.

  “Am I naked on the table?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  But close enough. He wanted his hands on every inch that was, every inch that wasn’t. He dealt with his own boots, pants, then climbed on to straddle her.

  “Handy,” he decided when he noted the front hook of her bra. He flipped it, then simply lowered to devour.

  “Oh. God.” She arched, her hands fisting on the table before she dug her fingers into his back. “Thank God. Don’t stop. Just don’t stop.”

  He used his teeth, and she thought she’d go mad. Too much, too much, this tidal wave of needs and pleasures and demands. And yet her body consumed them, starved for more.

  She heard cloth ripping again and realized he’d torn her panties away.

  She was being ravished, she thought as she gasped for air—and the little kernel of shock only added to the wild thrill.

  She tried to say his name, to slow things down—just enough to breathe—or to give back. But he shoved her knees back and drove into her. Hard as steel, fast as lightning. And she could only cry out and ride the storm.

  She closed around him when she came, squeezing like a fist. The sensation only whipped him on. He’d wanted her, and that want had sharpened over the last days. But now, with that long, tight body quaking under his, those surprising and sexy muscles taut under his hands, that want turned its keen edge inside him.

  He took until she went lax, then took more until that edge sliced through him and emptied him out.

  She heard music. Angels singing? she thought, dizzy. It seemed odd for angels to sing after table sex. She managed to swallow on a throat wildly dry.

  “Music,” she murmured.

  “My phone. In my pants. Don’t care.”

  “Oh. Not angels.”

  “No. Def Leppard.”

  “Okay.” She managed to find the energy to lift her hand, stroke it down his back. “Once again, I have to say thank you, Simon.”

  “No problem.”

  She let out a rusty laugh. “That’s good because I don’t think I did much of the work.”

  “Am I complaining?”

  She smiled, closed her eyes and kept stroking his back. “Where are we, exactly?”

  “It’s the dining-room-slash-downstairs-office area. For now.”

  “So we had sex on your dining-room-slash . . . workstation.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you make the table?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s very smooth.” A giggle tickled her throat, then escaped. “And remarkably sturdy.”

  “I do good work.” He lifted his head then, looked down at her. And smiled. “It’s cherry with a birch inlay. Pedestal style. I was going to sell it, but now—maybe not.”

  “If you change your mind, I’d like first bid.”

  “Maybe. Obviously it suits you.”

  She touched a hand to his cheek. “Can I get some water? I feel like I climbed Mount Constitution without a bottle.”

  “Sure.”

  She lifted her eyebrows when he rolled off the table and strode, naked, out of the room. She was pretty comfortable with her own body, but she couldn’t see herself walking around her house naked.

  Still, he looked damn good doing it.

  She sat up, took a breath, started to stretch with a huge smile on her face. Then stopped in shock. They’d just had crazed sex on the dining room table, in front of open, uncurtained windows. She could see the dogs romping, his drive, her own car.

  Anyone could’ve driven up, hiked up from the beach, out of the woods.

  When he walked back in with a bottle of water, already uncapped and half empty, she pointed. “Windows.”

  “Yeah. Table, windows, ceiling, floor. Here.” He passed her the bottle. “I started it, you can finish it off.”

  “But windows. Daylight, open.”

  “It’s a little late to get shy now.”

  “I didn’t realize.” She took a long drink, then another. “It’s probably for the best. But next time—if you’re interested in next times.”

  “I’m not done with you yet.”

  “That’s a very Simon way to put it.” She took another, slower drink. “Next time I think we should try for a little more privacy.”

  “You were in a hurry.”

  “I have no argument.”

  He smiled at her again. “You make a hell of a centerpiece. All I need is a picture of you, sitting there in the middle of the table, your hair catching just the right amount of sun, all messy around your face, and those long legs drawn up right below those very pretty breasts. I could get a freaking fortune for that table.”

  “No dice.”

  “I’ll give you thirty percent.”

  She laughed, but wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. “And still no. I wish I didn’t have to, but I need to get dressed and go.”

  He took her hand, turned her wrist to check the time. “We’ve still got an hour.”

  “During
which I have to get home, clean up. Dogs are . . . very sensitive to scent.”

  “Got it. They’ll smell the sex.”

  “In indelicate terms, yes. So I need a shower. I also need a shirt. You ripped mine.”

  “You were—”

  “In a hurry.” She laughed and, despite the uncurtained windows, was tempted to leap up and do a happy dance on the table. “But I still need to borrow a shirt.”

  “Okay.”

  When he walked out naked again, she shook her head. After sliding off the table, she pulled on her pants, her bra.

  Just as casually, he walked in and tossed her the shirt she’d recently yanked off him.

  “Thanks.”

  He tugged his work pants on while she pulled on her boots. Though she felt a little dreamy, she matched his easy tone when she stepped over, touched his face again.

  “Next time, maybe we’ll have dinner first.” She kissed him lightly. “Thanks for the tree, and the use of the table.”

  She walked out, called up her dogs and gave Jaws a body-scrub good-bye. It pleased her to see Simon standing out on the deck, shirtless, his hands in the pockets of his yet to be buttoned jeans, watching her as she drove away.

  TWELVE

  Francis X. Eckle completed the last of his daily One Hundred. A hundred push-ups, a hundred crunches, a hundred squats. He performed these, as always, in the privacy of his motel room.

  He showered, using his own unscented shower gel rather than the stingy sliver of motel soap. He shaved, using a compact electric razor that he cleaned meticulously every morning. He brushed his teeth with one of the travel brushes in his kit, which he then marked with an X for future disposal.

  He never left anything personal in the motel waste can.

  He dressed in baggy sweatshorts and an oversized white T-shirt, nondescript running shoes. Under the T-shirt he wore a security belt holding cash and his current ID. Just in case.

  He studied himself in the mirror.

  The clothes and the bulk of the belt disguised the body he’d sculpted to mean and muscular perfection, and gave the illusion of an ordinary man, a bit thick in the middle, about his ordinary morning. He studied his face—brown eyes, long, bladed nose, thin, firm mouth, smooth cheeks—until he was satisfied with its pleasant, even forgettable expression.

  He kept his brown hair close-cropped. He wanted to shave it for ease and cleanliness, but though a shaved head had become fairly common, his mentor insisted it drew more attention than ordinary brown hair.

  This morning, as every morning over the past weeks, he considered ignoring that directive and doing what suited him.

  This morning, as every morning, he resisted. But it was becoming harder as he felt his own power grow, as he embraced his new self, to follow the lesson plan.

  “For now,” he murmured. “But not for much longer.”

  Over his head, he fit a dark blue cap with no logo.

  There was nothing about him to draw the eye, to earn a glance by a casual observer.

  He never stayed in the same hotel or motel more than three nights—two was better. He sought out one with a gym at least every other stop, but otherwise looked for the lower-end type of establishment where service—and the attendant attention—was all but nonexistent.

  He’d lived frugally all of his life, dutifully pinching pennies. Before he’d begun this journey he’d gradually sold everything he owned of value.

  He could afford a great many cheap motel rooms before the journey’s end.

  He slipped his key card into his pocket and took one of the bottles of water from the case he’d brought in himself. Before leaving the room, he switched on the camera hidden in his travel alarm by his bedside, then plugged in the earbuds for his iPod.

  The first would assure him housekeeping didn’t poke through his things; the second would discourage conversation.

  He needed the gym, needed the weights and machines, and the mental and physical release they provided. Since he’d converted, the days without them left him tense and angry and nervous, clouded his mind. He’d have preferred to work out in solitude, but traveling required adjustments.

  So with his pleasant expression in place he walked outside and across to the tiny lobby and the tiny health club.

  A man walked with obvious reluctance on one of the two treadmills, and a middle-aged woman rode a recumbent bike while reading a novel with a bright cover. He timed his gym visit carefully—don’t be the first or the only.

  He chose the other treadmill, selected a program, then switched off the iPod to watch the news on the TV bracketed in the corner.

  There would be a story, he thought.

  But as the newscasters reported on world events, he started his run and let his mind focus on the latest correspondence from his mentor. He’d memorized every line before destroying it, as he had all the others.

  Dear friend, I hope you’re well. I’m pleased with your progress to date, but want to advise you not to push yourself too fast, too soon. Remember to enjoy your travels and your accomplishments, and know you continue to have my support and my gratitude as you prepare to correct my foolish and disappointing mistake.

  School your body, your mind, your spirit. Maintain your discipline. You are the power, you are the control. Use both wisely and you will amass more fame, more fear, more success than any who have come before you.

  I look forward to hearing from you, and know that I am with you, in every step of your journey.

  Your Guide

  Fate had taken him to that prison, Eckle thought, where George Allen Perry had unlocked the cell he’d been trapped in all of his life. He’d toddled like a child with those first steps of freedom, then had walked, then had run. Now, now he craved the heady taste of that freedom like breath. Craved it until he’d begun to twitch at the rules, the regulations, the absolutes Perry asked of him.

  He was no longer the soft, awkward boy desperate for approval and hounded by bullies. No longer the child passed from hand to hand because of a selfish whore of a mother.

  No longer the pimply, overweight teen ignored or laughed at by girls.