N WEDNESDAY, A WEEK AFTER THE MURDER, SARAH FOUND herself following her old schedule. She had forgotten to reschedule her karate and kick-boxing sessions anyway, so she worked in the house until it was time for the classes, then devoted herself to the hardest workouts she had put herself through in a long time. It’s exactly a week today, she kept thinking. Exactly a week. A week ago, the most important thing in her life had been finding out who’d sent her that pendant. Today, she couldn’t remember exactly how the pendant looked. It had been relegated to unimportance by what had happened later that night.

She was supposed to go to a movie with Cahill that night. Remembering that she’d gone to a movie last Wednesday, too, she knew she couldn’t do it. She called the number Cahill had given her, and he answered immediately.

“This is Sarah. I’m sorry, but I can’t do a movie tonight.”

He paused. “Has something come up?”

“No, it’s just... it was a week ago today, and I went to a movie then, too.”

“Okay.” His tone was gentle. “We’ll do something else.”

“No, I—” She wanted to be with him, but maybe after last night a cooling-down period was in order. She had managed to keep things from getting out of hand, or even progressing any further than they already had, but he was making serious inroads in her resolve. The cooling-down period was for her. “Not tonight. We’re still on for tomorrow night, but I won’t be good company tonight.”

“Are you getting cold feet?”

Trust him to bypass sympathy and politeness, and go straight to the heart of the matter! “Trust me,” she said wryly. “If my feet are cold, it’s the only part of me that is.”

He blew out a short, sharp breath. “You just made it impossible for me to sit down.”

“I hope no one can overhear you.”

He ignored that. “I’ll be at home if you change your mind, or if you decide you want company.”

“Thanks, Cahill.” Her voice was soft. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Told you you’d be calling me that,” he said smugly.

No matter what, he could lift her spirits. She hung up feeling slightly elated, the way she always felt around him. The fizz saw her through the rest of that difficult day.

On Thursday night, on the way to the symphony, he said, “I have a friend who’s dying to meet you. He’s lowlife scum who thinks he can charm you away from me, but if you don’t mind feeling dirty by association, he really, really wants to do some target practice with you. I have an extra weapon you can use, since we still have yours.”

She laughed. “He’s a lowlife scum who makes you feel dirty by association? Sure, I’d like to meet him.”

“Thought so. How about tomorrow afternoon, about two o’clock, at that range you were at before.”

“Two o’clock? Don’t you have to work? Or are you sending me out to get dirty by association all on my own?”

“I’m off half a day tomorrow, and all of the weekend.” He slanted an appraising glance at her. “Wear that dress.”

If that wasn’t just like a man. “To target practice? In your dreams.”

“You have no idea about my dreams,” he said feelingly. In one of those swings of temperature so common to spring, the day had seen the mid-eighties and hadn’t cooled down much with sunset. Sarah had dressed accordingly, in an sleeveless aqua sheath that made her warm coloring glow, and brought along a shawl to drape over her arms if she became chilled. The sheath clung in all the right places and skimmed others, and was cut low enough in front to show a hint of cleavage. Cahill had been eyeing that hint since he picked her up.

Prudently she didn’t ask him about his dreams, because she was fairly certain he’d tell her. If Cahill had a shy bone in his body, she hadn’t found it yet.

The symphony was wonderful; she loved classical music, and Cahill talked knowledgeably about the program, proving that he hadn’t picked the symphony just to impress her. “Do you come to the symphony often?” she asked.

“Not as often as I’d like, but a couple of times a year, at least. I have to work it into my schedule.”

“I can see how it would be tough making time for the symphony, what with all the ball games and the bowling.”

He grinned. “Admit it. You liked cosmic bowling.”

“I’d never bowled in the dark before.” In fact, she’d had a ball Tuesday night; cosmic bowling was a hoot. The balls and pins were painted with glow-in-the-dark paint; the regular lights were turned off and the black lights turned on. Anything white, such as teeth or shoes, or a shirt, had taken on an unearthly glow. It was a little disconcerting to suddenly see teeth flashing at you in the darkness. The next time they went, though, she would make Cahill wear a white shirt so she could keep track of him.

She worked that night after he took her home and got up early the next morning to get in some extra time packing so that she could take off early to meet Cahill’s friend. If anything, she was putting in more hours now than she had while the Judge was alive, but she was so wary of short-timing the family that she was doing the opposite. Cahill had a way of consuming time—witness this afternoon—so she wanted to have extra hours built up during the week as a cushion.

It was another warm day, eighty-seven degrees. She wore a pair of tan knit slacks with an elastic waistband for comfort, since she would be sweating on the practice range, a short-sleeved, V-necked T, and sandals, with heavy-duty sunscreen slathered on all exposed skin. “Damn,” Cahill said when he picked her up. “I hoped you’d change your mind about the dress.”

“Yeah, I could just see me bending over to pick up cartridges in that dress.”

“Man, so could I,” he said, sighing.

His friend, Rick Mancil, was the stocky man she’d seen him with at the range before. Rick had black hair, pale green eyes, and was as irrepressible as the Energizer Bunny. His opening line to her was, “If you get tired of putting up with this jackass, just give me a call and I’ll have you at the altar before you can say ‘Mrs. Mancil.’”

“Believe him,” Cahill drawled. “He’s done it twice already.”

Sarah blinked. “Married women you’ve dated?”

“Just married,” Rick corrected. “But we won’t talk about that.”

She sensed that Cahill wanted her to show off her marksmanship for Rick, so she obliged. She and Rick got side-by-side targets; he exclaimed at length about his pistol, how accurate it was, how it had never jammed, and so on; she glanced at Cahill, who was leaning negligently against a post with his ankles crossed, and he shrugged, smiling. “He never runs down,” he said.

“That’s a good thing in a man,” Rick said, winking at her.

Sarah looked back at Cahill. “Aren’t you going to shoot?”

He gave a brief shake of his head. Rick said, “We won’t bring him into this. He beats me every time, the damn show-off. It’s that military training of his, gives him an unfair advantage.”

As far as that went, so did her own military training. Hers had been private, courtesy of her father, but training was training.

They began with the targets fairly close, moving them back after every clip. Sarah fired steadily, concentrating as she did when she was competing against her brothers. The buck of the pistol in her hand was as familiar to her as driving a car; she almost didn’t have to think about what she was doing, the habit was so ingrained.

“I can’t believe this,” Rick complained good-naturedly. “Doc said you were good, but I’m good, and you’re beating me on every target.”

“Shoot left-handed,” Cahill said to Sarah, and Rick gawked at him.

“Left-handed? She shoots both ways?”

Sarah simply switched hands and proceeded to empty the clip at the target. As usual, you could have covered all the holes in the target with a playing card.

“You son of a bitch,” Rick said to Cahill, his tone disbelieving. “You brought in a ringer! She’s a professional, isn’t she?”

“I’m a butler,” Sarah corrected. She had to admit she was enjoying herself, especially the byplay between the two men.

“Pay up,” Cahill said, holding out his hand.

Growling, Rick pulled out his wallet and laid five twenties in Cahill’s palm.

“Wait a minute,” she said indignantly. “You made a side bet and didn’t cut me in on the action?”

“What did I tell you?” Rick asked. “He’s a jackass.”

“You didn’t cut me in, either,” she pointed out, carefully putting down her weapon and crossing her arms, glaring at them.

“Uh...”

“Say, ‘I’m a jackass, too,’” Cahill prompted in an almost- whisper.

“I’m a jackass, too!” Rick repeated loudly. His pale eyes sparkled with laughter.

“Were you two in high school together?” she asked. “Just wondering.”

“God, no. Can you imagine?” Cahill grinned as he put the money in his pocket.

“Not without shuddering, no.”

Cahill clapped Rick on the shoulder. “Well, buddy, it’s been fun. We’ll do this again when I need extra money, okay? We’re going to leave you now; I have steaks marinating at home. We’ll think of you with every bite.”

“You do that,” Rick said, managing a forlorn look. He even gave them a sad wave as they left, like a little kid being left behind while the other kids go off to play.

“God, he’s exhausting!” Sarah said when they were in the truck. “Fun, but exhausting.”

“Two ex-wives said the same thing. If there’s such a thing as a manic-depressive who’s always manic, that’s Rick.”

“What does he say about you? Other than that you’re a jackass?”

“That I’m sneaky. And stubborn.”

“I agree; they’re good traits in a cop.”

“Mmm. So you think I’m sneaky?”

Sarah looked at him, at ease behind the wheel, long legs encased in boots and tight jeans, a crisp white T-shirt molded to his torso. His lips were slightly curled in amusement, as if he knew where this was going. Oh, yes, he was sneaky.

“What’s this about ‘steaks marinating at home’? That’s the first I’ve heard about these steaks, much less their location.”

“I have a built-in grill, it’s Friday, the weather’s warm. What else does a red-blooded southern boy do but cook out? Besides, I know where you live; don’t you want to know where I live?”

She did, damn it. She wanted to know if he was a slob, if he had one chair and a huge television, if his refrigerator had nothing but frozen dinners, cheese, and beer in it. She wanted to know if he left whiskers in the sink when he shaved, if he made his bed in the mornings or left the covers tossed on the floor. She definitely had it bad, so bad she wanted to groan.

“Where exactly do you live?” she asked, and he smiled at her capitulation.

“Down 280, in Shelby County.”

The Birmingham metro area was spreading fast to the south; Shelby was the fastest growing county in Alabama, with businesses and subdivisions springing up almost overnight, which was why traffic on 280, the main artery into Birmingham, was such a nightmare. Property values in Shelby were soaring.

“How long have you lived there?”

“Just a year, since the divorce was final. I lucked out finding this house; actually, it belonged to a cousin who was transferred to Tucson. The house Shannon and I lived in sold almost immediately, so I had my split of the money from that as a hefty down payment and that got the mortgage payments down into the reasonable range.”

“I suppose I thought you’d have an apartment, or live in a condo.”

“I like the privacy of my own house. It’s not a new house; it was built in the late seventies and needed some work done on it. I’m pretty good with my hands, so I’ve been doing the repairs, fixing it up.”

She could see him as a handyman; he had that air of capability that said he could do pretty much whatever interested him. Maybe it was just her, but she thought men with hammers were sexy.

She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t a traditional brick house, with a yard that sloped away at the back, and a neat sidewalk bordered by trimmed hedges. The brick was a soft red, and the shutters were dark blue, the front door painted a shade or two lighter. The driveway curved around to the back of the house. “There’s a full basement,” he said. “The garage used to be there, but my cousin turned it into a playroom for his kids. Actually, it’s a lot of house for just one person, but I like the room.”

He parked beside the walkway, and let her in the front door. Either he’d just had in a cleaning service, she thought, or he wasn’t a slob. The hardwood in the entry gleamed, and there was a fresh, lemony smell in the air.

His hand was a warm weight in the small of her back. “The living room,” he said, gesturing to the left. The room was completely empty, the carpet spotless, and the curtains drawn. “I don’t have any use for it, so I haven’t bothered with furniture. Same with the dining room. The kitchen has a breakfast nook, and that’s where I eat. The den is here.”

The den was cozy, with a large fireplace, big windows looking out over the backyard, and an entertainment center with a big television. She felt gratified at that evidence of his guy-ness. He had furniture, though: an overstuffed sofa and two big recliners, plus the requisite number of end tables and lamps. All in all, it looked fairly civilized. The den was separated from the kitchen by a half-wall topped off with a row of white wooden spindles. “The kitchen needed work,” he said. “I refinished the cabinets, put in that island.” The wood cabinets had a natural finish that glowed with a soft golden color. The island was made of the same wood, with a smooth-surface cooktop surrounded by ceramic tile.

There weren’t any dirty dishes in the sink. The counter surface held a block of knives, a microwave, and a coffeemaker, but that was it. The breakfast nook at the other end of the kitchen held a white table with a ceramic tile top in a yellow-and-blue pattern, and the four chairs grouped around the table were painted the same shade of yellow, while the rug underneath was blue.

“Are you sure you weren’t in the Navy?” she asked, looking around at the spotless kitchen. Navy people learned to put everything in its assigned place, because there wasn’t any spare room aboard a ship.

He grinned. “What did you expect, a pigsty? The laundry may pile up, but I’m fairly neat. I do have someone who comes in every other week and does the basic cleaning, because I don’t think of things like dusting. C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

The rest of the house was a half-bath next to the kitchen, two good-sized bedrooms at the front of the house, separated by a nice large bathroom, and the master bedroom and bathroom suite at the back. His bed was king-sized, but then she would have put money on that. And it was made up. The room was neat, but it wasn’t spotless; one of his shirts hung over the back of a chair, and a coffee cup with an inch of cold coffee in it sat on the dresser. “So that’s where I left it,” he said, picking up the cup. “I looked all over for the damn thing this morning.”

She liked it that he hadn’t straightened up the place, not that it needed much. He didn’t have to have things perfect, and he wasn’t trying to impress her. Perversely, she was impressed anyway, with his confidence and sense of self.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m hungry. Let’s fire up the grill and get those steaks on.”

The steaks were filets, two inches thick and so tender she almost didn’t need a knife. While the steaks were cooking, she microwaved two potatoes, tossed the salad, and heated the rolls. Instead of wine, he produced a jug of iced tea.

If he had put on some soft, gauzy, romantic music, she might have had a chance, but instead he turned on the television to Fox News Channel and had the news playing in the background. Maybe he wasn’t trying to seduce her—at least not actively trying—but he was succeeding anyway.

After they had cleaned up the few dishes and put the kitchen to rights, working quickly and easily together, he said, “I want to show you the basement. I think you’ll like it.”

He led the way down the stairs and turned on the bright overhead lights.

The first thing she noticed was that the walls were very utilitarian, with bare pipes against the brick. The second was that he did some serious workouts down here.

To her left was an impressive set of free weights, and a punching bag hung motionless from a beam. There was a weight machine, the type that converted to accommodate all types of exercises, and a treadmill.

He stayed by the door while she wandered over to the free weights and ran her fingers over the cold metal of the dumbbells, then examined the weight machine and the computerized treadmill. He put a good deal of effort and money into staying in shape, though she bet the treadmill was used only during really nasty weather. A little rain wouldn’t keep this man indoors; it probably took a downpour with a lot of lightning to do the trick. Idly she wondered how many miles a day he ran, but what interested her the most was the large exercise mat that covered a full half of the basement floor. There was only one use for a mat like that.

She knew he’d studied karate from the way he had leveled the robber with a kick, but he’d never mentioned it again, and with everything that had happened since then, she’d forgotten about it. She wondered why he hadn’t brought up the subject, since he knew she studied karate. His silence couldn’t be because he was at a lower level than she; Tom Cahill didn’t have a fragile ego. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“You do your karate workouts here?”

He was leaning against the doorframe, one ankle hooked over the other, his arms crossed; his eyes were lazy and hooded as he watched her. He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “It isn’t karate so much as a mixture of a lot of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I’ve studied karate, judo, dim mak, silat. What works best in the real world, though, is a combination of wrestling and good old dirty street fighting.”

He was probably very good at fighting dirty, she thought, her heart kicking into a slightly faster beat. Why on earth would she find that sexy? But, damn it, everything about him was sexy, from the sleek, muscled power of his body to that unnerving stillness he was using to such good effect. It was like being watched by a great cat; his motionlessness only served to underline the sense of tension, as if he was preparing to pounce.

The mood between them while they ate had been light, teasing, but now she could feel that molten attraction throbbing between them. The air was thick and heavy, as if a storm were building—not outside, but in here. She wasn’t naive; she knew exactly what kind of storm it was, and if she intended to escape, she needed to move now. “Well,” she said briskly, swinging toward the door and, unfortunately, toward him, “it’s getting late, and I should be—”

“Stay,” he said.

Stay. His voice was low, the single word slow and dark, like velvet rubbing against her skin. She froze, held motionless by the promise of his tone, the temptation contained in that single word. There was no teasing now, no lightness.

Sex with him would be good. Better than good—better even than ice cream. It would be mind-emptying. She was very much afraid it would be shattering.

She swung around yet again, facing away from him. She stared at the punching bag, feeling her heart thumping against her breastbone, sending her blood racing and making her feel hot, jittery... excited. Involuntarily her loins clenched as if she already held him inside her. She wanted that, wanted it with an intensity that almost swamped her common sense. Desperately she tried to think of all the reasons why he wasn’t a good bet for any kind of relationship except a sexual one, but, my God, the sex... The physical chemistry between them had grown even stronger, stronger than she had ever imagined it could be, like an electrical field she could sense through every pore of her skin.

She didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare look at him or let him look at her. He would know at a glance, if he didn’t already, how close to the edge she was. And she didn’t want to see the open sexual hunger that was certain to be in his gaze, didn’t want to read the signs of arousal in his face and body.

Stay... not just for coffee, or for more talk. He meant stay the night, in his bed.

“No,” she said, and almost wept at the effort it took to say that one word.

His hand closed lightly, gently over the nape of her neck, his fingers sliding under the thick fall of her hair. She hadn’t heard him move, hadn’t known he was so close, and her nerves skittered wildly. He wasn’t trying to hold her; his touch was more of a caress than a grip. She could move away if she really wanted to. And that was the problem, because what she really wanted was him. Her skin tingled from his warm, hard hand, the slight rasp of his roughened fingers on the sensitive cords of her neck. Involuntarily she imagined how those rough hands would feel on the rest of her body, and a shiver ran down her spine.

He was big, dwarfing her with his size, her head tucked neatly under his chin. His furnacelike heat wrapped around her. He would be heavy, and probably dominating, but she could also imagine him lying back and letting her set the pace—

“Stay,” he said again, as if she hadn’t refused.

She hung on to her sanity, barely. “That wouldn’t be smart.”

“Fuck smart.” His hot breath stirred over the fine hairs on the back of her neck, making her shiver again. His low voice made the word a weapon to be used, a deeper level of intimacy between them. “It would sure as hell be good.” He stroked her neck where his breath had warmed her skin. “If you like it slow, I’ll be slow. If you like it hard and fast, then that’s the way you’ll get it.” His mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue slowly licking, and the shiver became a fine tremor that shook her entire body.

“Which is it?” he murmured. “Slow... or fast? Slow...” He licked the tendons in the curve of her neck and shoulder, then gently bit down. The sensation was electric; she jolted, a moan escaping her as her head, like a daisy too heavy for its stem, fell back to rest against his shoulder. “... or fast?”

His hands closed over her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over her nipples. His erection was a rock-hard bulk in his jeans, pushing against her bottom. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her, and she heard her own breathing, shallow and rapid, almost panting.

“Easy?” he whispered in her ear. “Or hard?”

Hard. Dear God, hard.

She pushed away from him and turned, bracing her hands against the wall behind her. He watched her like a patient tiger: hungry, but certain the prey was his. And she was. He knew it; she knew it. The only thing left to negotiate was the degree of difficulty, and pride demanded she make his victory as difficult as possible.

“I have a rule,” she said.

Wariness entered his eyes. “Do I want to know?”

She managed a shrug. “Probably not.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, five o’clock shadow rasping his rough palm. “Tell me anyway.”

She smiled, slow and sure. “I don’t sleep with anyone I can beat in a fight.”

The wariness slowly edged into disbelief. He stared at her. “Shit! You want me to fight you for it?”

She shrugged again and strolled toward the mat. “I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely, but... yeah.”

He took a deep breath. “Sarah, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” she said confidently.

His eyes began to narrow. “You really think you’re that good?”

She angled a smile at him over her shoulder, and the smile was almost a smirk. She might be defeated, but she was going to enjoy the process. “I think you’ll bend over backward to keep from hurting me.”

He got it now, and he didn’t like it. “You’re that sure I’ll pull my punches and let you turn me into a punching bag? Let you win?”

She heaved a sigh. “If you break my jaw or knock me out, I’ll be in too much pain—not to mention a really bad mood—for what you have in mind.”

“Yeah, well, if I let you kick the shit out of me, I won’t be in any shape to do anything anyway.”

She lifted one shoulder in a delicate movement. “What a dilemma.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face again. “Fuck.”

“Maybe.” She paused, and couldn’t resist taunting him. “If you’re good enough.”

He studied her for a moment, then came to a decision, his expression hardening. “Okay, here’s how we’ll do it: strip wrestling.”

Strip wrestling? He was diabolical, she thought. “No fair. I’ve never studied wrestling, and you outweigh me by seventy-five pounds.”

“Closer to a hundred,” he said, and she secretly gulped. That meant he was even more muscled than she’d thought. “C’mon, this was your idea. You know we aren’t going to stand toe-to-toe and slug it out, so this is the alternative. At least you aren’t likely to get hurt. I’ll take a handicap, too.”

With a handicap, she could probably make it interesting. She had no delusions that she could win, but she could make him put out the effort. “It’s a deal.”

He put his hands on his hips and studied her. “Here’s what we’ll do: I have to pin you, but all you have to do is knock me down, and you can use whatever method you like. The first one completely naked loses.”

Her heart was definitely going to jump out of her chest. The thought of wrestling naked with him was almost enough to make her dizzy with sexual hunger.

“And,” he continued, “we decide now what counts as wearing apparel, and we both start out with the same number of items.”

She nodded. “That’s fair.”

He studied her. “The earrings have to go. The posts will dig into your head.”

Silently she removed the gold studs and laid them aside.

“Your bracelet and my wristwatch balance each other out.” He glanced at her sandaled feet. “No socks, so I’m two up on you there.”

“Let’s both start out barefooted,” she said, slipping out of her sandals.

He removed his boots and socks. “Okay, how many pieces of clothing do you have left?”

“Four, not counting the bracelet.” Pants, shirt, bra, panties.

“I’m only wearing three.”

“Put your socks back on and they’ll count as one.”

He put his socks on again and stepped onto the mat. “That makes us even at five. Five throws won’t take long.”

He was that certain of victory, the smug bastard. Well, she was also certain he’d win—she was counting on it—but if he thought he’d win in five straight throws, he was seriously underestimating his woman. Speed was her strength, and she moved like lightning, whipping her leg behind his and dumping him on his ass before he could counter the move. She smiled down at him and moved out of reach. “The socks,” she said.

Silently he stripped them off and tossed them aside, then climbed to his feet. “You’re fast.” He was much more alert now.

She smiled. “That’s what my sensei always said.”

Fifteen minutes later he said, “Pin.” Breathing raggedly, he crawled off her. His hard gaze swept over her bare breasts, lingered on the tightly puckered nipples. “We’re tied again. Take off your panties.”

Her stomach tightened with anticipation. Panting, trying to control the rapid gasps, she held up her wrist. “What about my bracelet?”

“I’m saving it for last.”

Sarah climbed shakily to her feet. She had been putting every ounce of effort she could into resisting him, and he’d probably been holding back to make certain she wasn’t hurt. This match was going on longer than she’d imagined it would, and she didn’t know how much longer she could stand the rub of his mostly naked body against hers. But then, looking at him, she didn’t know how much longer he could stand it either. His erection bulged against the front of his shorts, and his skin was covered with sweat. There was a set to his jaw that made her stomach tighten in delight.

She took a few deep breaths, then hooked her fingers in the elastic of her bikini panties and shimmied them down to drop around her ankles. He made a raw, smothered sound, his gaze locked on the triangle of dark pubic curls between her legs. Without looking away, he pushed his shorts down and stepped out of them.

Now it was her turn to smother the sound that rose in her throat. His penis thrust out, thick and pulsing, so big she couldn’t decide whether to worry or celebrate. Wow. She wavered, then caught herself.

“Wait,” she said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears. “I haven’t won your shorts yet.”

“Just pretend they’re still on,” he said, and pounced.

She was on the mat before she could blink, but at the last second she managed to twist just enough to avoid being pinned. His heavy weight bore her down, overwhelming her, the way it had all the previous times he’d pinned her. While she appreciated his efforts not to hurt her, she was as helpless now against him as she had been the first time he’d pinned her. Her only hope had been to remain on her feet, evade him and look for her chance, but he’d already taken her down.

Desperately she braced one foot on the mat and pushed, seeking leverage. He shifted to counter her move, and his hips slid between the open V of her legs, the smooth heat of his penis pressing into her labia. He froze, a sound almost like a growl rumbling in his throat. As if he couldn’t help himself he pushed, and the thick bulbous head began to enter her.

For just a split second she forgot everything but the burning need in her body to lift, to take. She waited almost too long, but at the last possible moment she twisted frantically, dislodging him, and managed to roll closer to the wall. He gave another growl, this one more like a snarl, and was on her again before she could get to her feet.

That overwhelming weight hit her, smothered her, took her down. His hands were on her shoulders, pushing them down. “Pin,” he said hoarsely, and the match was over.

Panting, he lifted his weight off her and climbed to his feet. “Stay there.”

She stayed. She was too exhausted to do otherwise, and too turned on to move even if she’d been able. She closed her eyes, gulping in air as she listened to the rustle of his clothing. He was getting a condom, she thought, and opened her mouth to tell him he didn’t need one, but he was already back, lifting her arms over her head. Cool, smooth metal clamped around her wrists. There was a snick, and she was caught.

Bemused, she stared at him. Handcuffs? She angled her head back to look. He’d looped the cuffs around a pipe before fastening them to her wrists. Experimentally she moved her hands. He hadn’t closed them tightly, but they were tight enough that she couldn’t pull her hands out. “Are these necessary?”

“Yeah.” His chest heaved as he reached out and slowly rubbed his hand over her breasts. “Just in case you decide to go for two out of three matches.”

“I don’t renege, Cahill.” She arched her torso into that hand, loving the feel of it on her nipples.

“And I don’t take chances.” He bent his dark head and kissed her. It was a marauding kiss, deep and hard, but she had known when she taunted him into a fight it would arouse all those male, conquering-warrior instincts. She softened beneath him, giving him what he demanded, which was nothing short of unconditional surrender.

He spread her legs and moved over her, and she braced herself for his immediate penetration. She caught her breath, waiting, trembling with need, her hips automatically lifting.

“Not yet,” he growled. “I’m too close. I wouldn’t last ten seconds.”

Neither will I, she thought, but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t a fool; if he wanted to dawdle, then let him.

Not that there was any letting to it; he was in control, and all she could do was lie there and enjoy the dawdling.

God, he was heavy. His body was rock hard, sweaty from exertion. She opened her legs wider to give him a more comfortable cradle, sliding her thighs up his hips and tilting her pelvis, seeking. His erection nudged her again, and instinctively she wiggled, trying to take it in.

He swore and slid down her body, removing temptation from her reach. “Damn, you can’t give up, can you?” he muttered. “I said not yet.”

“Sadist.” She couldn’t lie still; desire rode her like an unbearable itch, an implacable hunger. Her body moved under him, dancing its need, calling to him with her open thighs and the hot scent of her body.

“More like a masochist.” He kissed his way down her throat, over the slope of her breast, then clamped his mouth over one tight nipple and strongly sucked at it. Electricity arced from breast to loins, bowing her upward; he slipped his left arm around her hips and held her in that position as he moved to her other breast.

He wasn’t being gentle with her. The pressure of his mouth verged on pain, but it wasn’t quite there, teetering on that exquisite edge between pain and pleasure. Just as it began to tilt over the edge, he moved, sliding down her torso, kissing and nipping. His tongue probed her shallow navel, and a surprised cry burst from her throat, her body arching again. God, he was going to make her come just by kissing her navel. But then he was gone from there, too, his mouth sliding lower as he smoothed his free hand over her hips and abdomen, before slipping it between her legs.

Yes. There. That was what she wanted, almost. She squirmed against his hand, but he just held it there, covering her with his palm, letting her feel the heat and strength. Her hips lifted, riding a wave of painful anticipation. She wanted his fingers inside her, she wanted his mouth on her.

“Do it,” she gritted, pushing herself against his hand. “Please!”

He gave a low, raw laugh, his head pressed against her inner thigh and his breath hot on her flesh. With his thumb he probed her, dragging it up the closed folds of her labia and opening them so he could see all of her. She panted, her head tossing back and forth on the mat as he circled her clitoris, teasing it to fullness. Just when she thought she’d scream in frustration, he closed his mouth on her and his tongue began circling and flicking as he dragged his thumb down and pressed it deep inside.

Desperately she grabbed the pipe behind her and held on. Spots swam in front of her eyes and her entire body bucked as she came. She heard her own hoarse cries, but they sounded distant, as if someone else made them. For a long, magic moment nothing existed but her body and the firestorm of sensation as her inner contractions peaked, then slowly began to ebb. Her thighs had been clenched around his head but now her legs fell limply open.

He was licking her.

At first the leisurely caresses were soothing. She made a little humming sound of pleasure as his tongue probed her entrance. But the probing and licking continued, and the glorious lassitude began to fade, replaced by a familiar heat and tension. “What are you waiting for?” she gasped, twisting a little.

“I want you ready again.” Gently he blew on her, his breath cool on her overheated flesh.

“Iam ready!” The need had rebuilt so fast she was breathless.

“Not quite,” he murmured, gently catching her clitoris between his teeth, then torturing her with lightning flicks of his tongue. She groaned under the lash of pleasure, but as good as this felt, she wanted more. She wanted him inside her. Now.

“Just a little closer,” he crooned, slipping his thumb inside her again. Then he replaced his hand with his mouth and he kissed her, deeply, his tongue probing, while his wet thumb moved farther down and pushed into her in a bold, shocking thrust that made stars explode in her head. She came again, convulsing, screaming, trying to fight him because the sensations were too sharp to be borne. He held her down, drawing out the moment, holding her at the peak.

Finally she collapsed, trembling, her ears ringing as she struggled to find some measure of control.

“Damn it,” he said, slow and deep, as he moved up her limp body. “There’s no way in hell I can wait until you’re ready again.”

She didn’t care. She was beyond caring, beyond even opening her eyes as he positioned himself between her legs and guided his penis to her wet entrance, then began sinking into her.

Oh God oh God. Sarah pressed her head hard against the mat, forcing herself to breathe deeply. He was big enough that his penetration wasn’t easy; if she hadn’t been so wet from two climaxes, so utterly relaxed, taking him would have been painful. As it was, though, their fit was perfect, so perfect that tears sprang to her eyes. She was tight around him; he was deep within her. He pushed one more time and he was there, touching a place inside her that, impossibly, rekindled the heat of desire. She hadn’t thought she could climax again, but as he began to thrust she realized differently. The heat inside her began to grow, became hunger, lifting her body to him.

He held her legs wide and hammered into her, driven now by his own blind urgency. Every inward stroke forced her closer and closer to that moment when the tension would become too much, when the heat was scalding and nerve endings couldn’t endure any more. He thrust harder and harder, their loins slapping together, and she was almost there, almost there, almost...

He came, his powerful body bowing and bucking, shuddering, pumping. Hoarse, rough cries tore from his throat as he gripped her hips and pulled her groin tight against him. Then, slowly, he collapsed on top of her.

A small, wild sound vibrated in her throat. Almost... there.

She needed him to move, needed him deeper. Frantically she tugged at the handcuffs. “Take them off,” she panted.

“Wha—” He didn’t lift his head. His entire body was shaking, a fine tremor from muscles taxed to the limit.

“The handcuffs.” She could barely speak; her voice was guttural. She surged upward, seeking the final touch that would send her over the edge. He was still hard, still inside her, but she needed him deeper, wanted him deeper. “Take them off.”

“God,” he gasped. “Give me a minute.”

“Now!” she shrieked, maddened by the completion that lurked just out of her grasp. She fought the cuffs like a madwoman. “Take them off!”

“All right, just hold still!” He subdued her, holding her down as he got the key from under the edge of the mat where he’d stashed it. He stretched higher on her body as he reached for the cuffs, forcing his penis deeper, and something very close to a howl erupted from her throat. Alarmed, afraid he’d injured her, he hastily unlocked the handcuffs and started to draw back from her.

Sarah lunged upward, locking her legs around his in a vise as she grabbed his ass and pulled him in tighter, as deep as she could take him. There, right there—ah! Her hips pumped as she pistoned herself on him, and she felt the peak coming closer... closer... She screamed, caught in an orgasm more intense than the others, so intense she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t see. She heard him make an inhuman sound; then he was thrusting hard, groaning, his arms locked around her as he began coming again.

She either passed out or slept; she wasn’t certain which. Slowly she became aware of the whisper of cool air on her damp skin, of the mat sticking to her naked body, of the man sprawled so heavily on top of her. His heaving breaths had slowed to a more normal pace, telling her that at least a few minutes had passed. The sticky moisture of his semen had seeped out of her to pool uncomfortably beneath her bare bottom.

Was he asleep? She managed to lift her arm and touch his shoulder. He stirred and turned his head so his face pressed into the curve of her neck. “God,” he muttered, his voice muffled. “That’s the first time I’ve ever come twice with one hard-on. It damn near killed me.”

That was such a guy thing to say that she smiled. She would have laughed if she’d had the energy, but the fact was, she was damn near dead herself.

Slowly, every movement an effort, he levered himself off her and collapsed by her side. He lay on his back with his arm covering his eyes, breathing deeply. After a minute he cursed. “Please tell me you’re on the pill.”

“I’m on the pill,” she parroted obediently.

He groaned, long and heartfelt. “Fuck.”

This time she did laugh, though it was a little weak. “No, I really am on the pill.”

He lifted his arm enough to peer at her with one eye. “You are?”

“I am.”

“You wouldn’t joke with a poor, crippled wreck of a man?”

“I would, but not about this.”

“Thank God.” He tried to sit up, wavered, then fell back. “I’ll get up in a minute.”

Bully for him. Sarah knew for a fact her legs wouldn’t support her. “Are you sure about that?”

“No,” he admitted, and closed his eyes.