Page 7 of Passion's Wicked Torment

When Kristin heard the shower water come on, she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She saw him through the frosted-glass shower door. She opened the door and went in.

The hot, steamy water blasted down on her, feeling wonderful. She was facing him, close to him. Her nipples became taut as they brushed against his chest. He stared down at her, angrily at first, as if he had made a decision to not touch her again and was now being forced, against his will, to abandon the decision. Then his arms closed around her, and he crushed her against him. “You damn sexy Sheba. You’re about the most beautiful, most sensual girl I’ve ever known.”

His hands moved all over her body, which was slick with the pouring water. He became erect almost instantly, and he surprised her by putting his hands under her armpits and raising her off her feet. And then right there in the shower, her back against the tiled wall, he pressed into her again. Her feet were dangling inches off the shower floor. The water was spraying over her head and shoulders, and he was moving rhythmically inside her.

She threw her head back and cried out, scratching at his shoulders. The pleasure went on and on, endlessly. . . .

CHAPTER 5

In the morning Dallas Hunter took her to breakfast at a nearby Italian restaurant. The place was clean and quaint with red checkered tablecloths and empty Chianti bottles dangling from the ceiling beams. Sunlight streamed in through the large plate-glass front windows.

Hunter ordered for both of them: scrambled eggs, spaghetti, sausage and buttered rolls. He also ordered kippers for himself, a smoke fish that was an English specialty. He explained that he had picked up a taste for them during the war, when he had been in London.

“A toast,” he said, raising his mug of cappucino coffee. Kristin raised her glass of fresh, cold orange juice. “To our first—and last—meal together,” said Dallas Hunter, clicking his mug against her glass. His dark eyes were penetrating. “After we finish here, I don’t ever want to see you again. Ever. Understand?”

Kristin withdrew her glass and put it down sharply. “But that’s not fair! I want to ... to stay with you. That’s why I . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she said, “Wasn’t I good last night?”

“Babe, good has nothing to do with it. You’re out of your league. That’s got everything to do with it. Being a gun moll isn’t the right life for you. I don’t care about those reasons you gave me last night for wanting to be wth me. I don’t really believe them, but that’s beside the point.”

She started to protest. Hunter cut her short, very firmly. “This isn’t up for discussion. The answer is, no. We’re going to finish our meal here, then we’re going to split up, and I don’t want to ever see you in my club again. Understand?”

She said nothing. She knew argument with him would not work now. But she could not let his decision stand. Her only hope of finding Chad, at the moment, was to work through Hunter. She decided to eat her meal sullenly, in silence, while trying to think of some strategy to get him to change his mind.

When Hunter had first suggested breakfast, Kristin did not think she would be able to eat anything. She assumed she would be too consumed by guilt over her behavior last night. She was surprised, though, to find that her experience of the night before had made her more hungry than usual, not less.

It had been vigorous, and it had awakened needs and desires she had not even known existed in her. And though she hated to admit it to herself, the experience had also satisfied these needs and desires fully, leaving her physically at peace with herself. And famished.

As she hungrily ate her eggs and sausage, she noticed a black limousine pulling up in front of the restaurant. Hunter saw it too through the plate-glass windows and tensed immediately, scrutinizing it. He had the sharp instincts of a man accustomed to living on the edge of danger. The sounds of traffic filtered in from outside.

Hunter relaxed when he saw the lackey in a visored cloth workingman’s cap who came out of the car and poked his head through the doorway of the restaurant, checking to see if it was all clear. Hunter knew the man. The driver nodded to Hunter when he noticed him. Then he returned to the car, giving the all clear to the party within. An instant later, Ironman Gianelli appeared in the restaurant. He came up to their table. “Morning, Dallas. Mind if I sit down?”

Hunter grinned. “What if I did?”

“I’d have you shot, dumped in the river, and then I’d stick Solly in your place to run the club.”

“Sit down, Mike. Glad to have your company.” Ironman grinned back. Nothing like a little light banter with a friend to start the day out right. He turned to the solicitous waiter who had appeared at the table. “Just some coffee.” He patted his stomach affectionately. “Got to cut down on the pasta. You know?”

He straightened his silk tie, looking at Kristin. He made a point of dressing like a dandy, with a silk shirt, chesterfield coat, spats on his shoes. His derby was on the table now, next to the pearl knob topped cane he carried as an affectation. His hair was slicked back, making his broad, mean face appear even more beefy. Kristin had seen his face gazing at her from the front pages of newspapers many times. His eyes were mirthful now as he looked at her. “So was Dallas here scared of you, after all?”

She said nothing. She lowered her eyes down to her plate and continued eating.

Ironman slapped a hand down on the tabletop. “So let’s get down to business. Dallas, you know this raid we been talking about, Rooney’s booze warehouse? Well, I been thinking. The trick is, we got to get someone there on the inside, right? To open the doors and let us in?”

“Unless you want us to shoot our way in.”

“Right. Which is what we don’t want to do, because it’ll just start this whole gang warfare thing right back up again. No, we’re going to teach Rooney a lesson, but if we can, we’re going to do it without any hot lead. So the problem is, how do we get anyone in there without his being suspicious. He knows all

the boys; so that won’t do.”

“You thinking of bringing someone in from outside?” Hunter wiped his hands on a red cloth napkin and pushed his plate away from him, finished.

“Sort of. Even that could be a problem, though. Rooney, he’s a suspicious bastard. You don’t get to his position by trusting people. Even if we wanted to put a man of our own into that warehouse, he’d be suspicious for a long time of any new man. He’d have him watched at first. It’d be a long time before our man would be trusted enough to do us any good.”

“That’s true,” Hunter agreed. “But our man only has to be left alone long enough to open the gates.”

“Well, I got an idea on how we can put someone in there who won’t be watched so closely, who they won’t be so suspicious of, wondering if it’s a plant of ours.” He held Hunter’s interested, questioning stare for an instant. Then his eyes moved to the side and fell on Kristin.

Hunter frowned. “Come on, Ironman! Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just a dame. She’s an outsider. Leave her out of it.”

“She’s an outsider is right. Which is why she’d be exactly the one we’re looking for. Rooney would never suspect a dame. Especially one who, as far as he knows, has got no connections to us.”

“No. I’m against it. I say bring in one of the boys from Philly, instead. At least they know how to handle themselves if something goes wrong.”

“Well, I’m surprised you’re so dead set against it.” Ironman sounded disappointed. “But seeing as how you are. . . .”

“I think it’s a fine idea,” said Kristin, speaking for the first time. They both turned to look at her, surprised. She felt nervous, but she forced herself to volunteer for this mission Ironman had in mind. It was her only chance of staying in the gang, close to Hunter. He intended to put her into a taxi after breakfast and never see her again.

“If you think I can help you out this way,” Kristin said to Ironman, “I don’t mind doing it. It sounds like it can be . . . fun.”

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