What Price Love?

Until she touched the stars.

Until she shattered, and with a soft cry fell from the peak.

Her sheath contracted powerfully about him, once, twice; that was all he could stand. With a guttural groan he followed her, swept away on the tide as his body joined forcefully, unrestrainedly with hers.

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, in trickles of awareness.

They were bent over the desk, breathing like horses that had just finished a race. His hand had fallen from her breast to brace beside hers, taking his weight. Her head was bowed, her nape beneath his lips.

He touched them to the delicate skin, on the whisper of a breath traced.

Wondered, in the disjointed part of his mind that had managed to realign, whether she really thought he’d claimed her in payment for information, as he’d let her believe-or whether she’d guessed. Whether in her heart, in her female mind, she knew the truth.

The truth that was written on his soul.

10

Pris returned to the world, warm, sated, indescribably content, and feeling strangely secure.

Dillon must have carried her to the armchair opposite the bookcase; her legs, still boneless, had certainly not supported her over the requisite yards. Slumped in the chair, he was cradling her in his lap, gently, as if she were fine porcelain.

She felt fine indeed, the glory of their joining still golden in her veins, yet despite the sensual lassitude that dragged at her body, she felt mentally energized, alert.

Expectant.

Their clothes were neat again, she presumed by his doing, for which she was grateful. Before she could gather sufficient strength to wriggle around to face him, his chest, behind her shoulders, rose and fell. His breath brushed her ear in a sigh.

“The information in the register is used in many ways.” He spoke quietly, evenly. “Breeders use it-they request information on horses they’re considering using as sires or dams. It’s also used to track changes in ownership, as well as constituting the official race record-the wins and loses, the races run-for every registered horse.”

He paused, then went on, “The information is also used to verify the identity of all placegetters in races run under Jockey Club rules.”

She remembered what Rus had said in his letter-a racket run in Newmarket that somehow involved the register. Rus must have learned more, something that had made him leave Cromarty’s stable and try to get a look at the register.

Dillon had told her the register’s description was used to prevent “falsifying” winners. How did one “falsify” a winning horse?

She recalled the columns she’d recently perused, the countless details contained in each entry. Where in all that did the essential clue lie?

Dillon shifted; leaning on the opposite arm of the chair he studied her face. She felt his gaze but didn’t meet it. Did the racket Harkness was running center on breeding, racing-or did it involve falsifying winners?

“It would be easier if you told me what, exactly, you need to know.”

The quiet statement had her meeting Dillon’s dark eyes. He held her gaze steadily, and simply waited. He didn’t press, wasn’t pressing her; to her heightened senses, he seemed resigned.

She drew a breath, then stated as evenly as he, “I need to know how the register’s information can be used illegally.”

He didn’t move, yet she felt his reaction. Steel infused and hardened the muscles beneath her, turned the chest against which she rested to stone. The dark eyes that held her widening ones contained an implacability she hadn’t seen in him before.

For a moment, Dillon struggled to find words, in the end simply said, “I can’t tell you that.” His voice had flattened, grown hard. “But-”

He swallowed the unequivocal order he’d been about to utter, fought and succeeded in slamming a door on his too-violent response, succeeded in finding some degree of warrior calm. He’d known she was connected with some scam; probability had argued it was the current horse substitution one. Bad enough. That someone had shot at her had made matters worse. But to have her confirm that she was walking into the situation blind- knowingly blind-determined to protect her Irishman…!

He felt like roaring but knew better. Holding his roiling, welling emotions in check, holding her gaze, he refashioned his approach. “What ever it is you-and that Irishman-are involved in, it’s serious. Deadly serious.”

Telling her of Collier’s death, warning her that involving herself would bring her to the attention of whoever had murdered the breeder wouldn’t be wise; she’d only grow more desperate to protect her friend. But just thinking of some murderer turning his attention her way sent a surge of well-nigh-ungovernable protectiveness rushing through him.

“This is madness.” Even to his ears, his tone sounded harsh. Jettisoning wisdom, he cupped her chin in one hand; eyes narrow, he captured hers. “Some man shot at you-it was pure luck he failed to kill you! There’s other evidence those involved in this scam have already resorted to murder.” Releasing her chin, he gripped her upper arm; battling the urge to shake her, he forcefully stated, “You have to tell me what’s going on-what you know, and who’s involved.”

She stared at him; in the faint light from the distant lamp, he couldn’t read her eyes. But then she looked down, at his hand clamped about her arm.

Exhaling through clenched teeth, he forced his fingers to unwrap, to let her go.

Looking away, she cleared her throat, then in a sudden burst of action, she pushed up and out of his lap.

He swore, had to fight not to grab her and haul her back as she quickly put distance between them.

The action-its implications-whipped his roiling, not entirely rational emotions to new heights. He had to sit for an instant, force his body to stillness to regain some semblance of control before, jaw clenched to hold back an unprecedented urge to roar, he rose and followed her to the desk.

Stalking in her wake, he reminded himself that she didn’t yet know she was his.

She stopped before the desk, in the same spot where they’d so recently come together. She ran her fingers lightly across the open register. “Thank you for showing me.”

“Thank you for showing me-” He cut off the sarcastic, bitter words, but not before she’d caught his meaning.

The look she bent on him was reproving, and faintly, so faint he wasn’t even sure of it except in his heart, hurt.

Just the suggestion slew his temper, deflated it. “I’m sorry. That was…”

“Uncouth.”

He muttered an oath, then raked a hand through his hair-something he’d never before done in his life. He had to resist the urge to clutch the thick locks. “How can I convince you that this is too dangerous?” Lowering his arm, he met her gaze. “That you have to tell me what’s going on before whoever’s behind it finds you?”

Folding her arms, Pris frowned at him. “You can stop swearing at me for a start.” Rounding the desk, she halted behind it and faced him across it. “If it’s any consolation, I know what you’re saying is true-that it is dangerous, and that I should tell you all. But…”

She watched the hardness reclaim his face; his expression grew stony and distant.

“But there’s someone else involved, and you still don’t trust me.”

He’d spoken with his habitual cool and even delivery. She looked at him, and equally evenly stated, “There’s someone else involved-and I need to think things through.”

Her tone declared she was not going to be swayed by any arguments, physical, cerebral, or emotional.

For several heartbeats, they remained with gazes locked, the desk and the open register-and the memory of