Never Love a Naked P.I.

need of the man she loved. Held. Captured. Protected. Amanda’s chest rose and fell quickly, filled with all- consuming passion.

She felt the hard presence of his raging masculine probe, sheathed and ready, forcing itself against her backside, and she wanted to possess this magnificent man, now; needed to devour him with her body and love him with her complete being.

She revolved within his watery embrace as his arms circled to contain her. Her breasts pressed against the powerful swell of his pectoral muscles. His mouth reached down to close over her upturned lips.

She loved his body. His perfect instrument, that transported her to realms she had only dreamt of.

If only that were enough…

Be still. Stay, my lady. Enjoy.

With one all-encompassing movement he drove possessively into her with such filling solidity that she sailed into the air. Like a bird. Free.

Amanda’s was thrilled to the center of her being. The first time they had made love he had lifted her with his power. She flew. Her senses raged as she circled their melded bodies, recapturing the rapture. The soothing hiss of the gushing spray, the glittering highlights off their gleaming wet bodies, the taste of their battling tongues, the freshness of the water mixed with the musk of their own enticing moistness combined to urge Amanda to strive for heights of sensual demand she had never conceived of before. Marc answered those demands.

She clasped herself to this man of men. Their writhing bodies tumbled down the rapids of overwhelming desire and then suddenly together, as one, they were swept over the falls of complete and total fulfillment.

She gasped for air. He filled her so full of caring. She couldn’t tell if it was in her head or into the fevered night that her cries mixed with the roar of the waterfall. She was bound to him as to elemental forces combining. He clutched her to him with the desperation of a drowning man, yet groaning in overwhelming joy at their joining and his rescue.

They slowly slithered down the slick tiles of the shower, clasped together in the quiet downpour, their bodies joined as one, locked together, enfolded in each other’s watery arms. For eternity. Would that it could be eternity and the ugly reality of what she must do would never have to be done.

Eternity dissolved and they slowly roused themselves to still the flowing water and towel each other dry.

In bed, they lay together quietly, neither sleeping.

He turned to her in the darkness. She felt the heat of his breath against her face, drew the scent of his maleness into her nostrils. The sadness in his voice echoed throughout her.

“You’re gone, right? And I’ll never get you back, right?”

Tears seared her cheeks.

“MARC, THIS is really sick. The Plaza? Why don’t you just kick me in the gut and get it over with?” How could he treat the memory of their wonderful stay there so badly.

She was tired of the bullshit, the being nice, the putting up with his condescending, masculine acceptance. No fight. No balls. Obviously he wanted this thing between them to be not only over with, but dead. Kicked to death. Totally destroyed.

Okay, what had to be, had to be. But, dammit, it hurt.And she was tired of being hurt, of having her insides ache day in and day out.

Get this wretched “operation” over with and get out of town.The dictum drummed in Marc’s head like a mantra. Get far away from her so she could get on with her life. So he could get on with his.

“You want to go over the plan again?” He was being overly solicitous. Kind to the poor, little wretch whose heart he had trampled, she thought…

“I think I’ve got the picture.” Her voice was brittle, a tone it had taken on ever since the sight of the professor dropping to the pavement had burned permanently into her brain.

“Hopefully, Dracula got the word to the Big Guy,” she clipped off tartly, “that Ms. Rich-European-Fake-Art- Grabber and her Money Man would only deal directly with the international fence into whose care Saber Tooth placed his best drawings.”

Marc chuckled. “The look on his face when you hit him with that entrance line was worth the price of admission to his lair.”

“Frankly, I preferred the look of what little blood he has left draining from his face as you flapped Mr. Wilde’s latest in front of him. His sharp little teeth fairly dripped with covetousness.” She nodded admiringly. “You’ve got quite a nice little Mafioso accent yourself, buddy.”

Marc repeated. “Ya see, creepazoid, we got the Michelangelo- the last Michelangelo there’s gonna be. We got no intention of going through no middle man. You tell your fence, Trask, we want in on the deal, now.”

“I loved the way you snarled out ‘Trask.’ It was like a verbal stake through the guy’s heart.”

“Thank you, thank you. I accept this supporting award only because of the extraordinary talents of my leading lady.”

She guffawed.Gee, I’m gonna miss… And felt emptier.

He leaned close. “You’ve gone through a real tough time these last few days, Ace. We never could have gotten this far without your guts.” He gave a rueful snort. “And you’ll never know how hard it was for this self-centered P.I. to say those words.” He looked tough. “Especially for an amateur and agirl.”

She punched him in the stomach listlessly.Hard as a rock; like his head.

She remembered the difficulties of the past hours with pain. She had gone to the professor’s to provide clothes for the funeral home. Angeli had lived alone. Died alone. She forced herself to believe she had provided some measure of friendship, but now realized all the artist’s hopes had resided in Nathan’s talent, and those hopes the untrustworthy young man had squandered.

In the professor’s tiny, well-kept apartment, she had found the phone log. An entry from several weeks back had caught her eye. $50,000-overwritten, then circled several times. In the professor’s precise handwriting, immediately preceding, was a London telephone number, followed by two names: Phibbs. Trask. The insurance company confirmed Phibbs was their missing investigator. Who was Trask?

A stock manipulator, Cambiare had informed them. A man named Trask had been buying large amounts of Cambiare stock over the last few years. They had feared an attempted takeover, but the man’s broker had informed them he simply believed in the firm.

Particularly if Cambiare held possible unknown Michelangelos and was waiting for a last one to appear to announce the news to the world-wide art community. Their stock would zoom.

But how had this Trask person gotten the information, unless he was somehow a member of the pipeline? The only one not accounted for-the fence! Possibly a friend of the missing insurance man.

And then she discovered the professor’s journal.

Exquisite cursive writing:

I am shattered. Nathan has sold my beautiful gifts- for those dreadful pills. Pray Mr. Wilde never discovers the loss.

A few pages later, representing a number of months:

The “drawings” have surfaced! There is talk of their being saved for Her Majesty! To imagine I might have held something she may one day own! I have received an astonishing note from a person called Trask who knows of my involvement. He suggests I hold my tongue. I am completely mystified as to his identity. And terribly unnerved.

Later:

The dreadful man has offered me an immense amount of money to “see to it, g’vn’r, that the true identity of the ‘reproducer,’ if you follow my drift, is never discovered.” I am incensed to think this wretched person assumes I myself am incapable of such work. I would, of course, never stoop to such a falsification of my talent. What does this dreadful person think I am to do to Mr. Wilde? End his life? I often wonder what the loathsome creature must look like. He sounds immense. Like Wilde. How quaintly appropriate.

Still later, the date nearer:

He has threatened Nathan’s life! My own! Why doesn’t he take care of the “problem” himself? Why does he lay it on my terrified and incapable shoulders?

Just a few days earlier:

How could I have been so deceived? Nathan and that painted woman! He squanders not only his