If only

“I love you so much, you dumb-ass.” She took the last step—and, thanks to him, the words came easily. Yes, she could ask. “Let me stay. Please.”

“God fucking dammit,” he said under his breath and pulled her into his arms.

And it felt as if she’d come home.

After a minute, he said, “But would you just—”

“No.”

“Maybe for only—”

“No.”

“Vance and I spank submissives who say no to us,” he muttered.

“Okay.” Because in order to spank her, she had to be right there, within reach. And that was exactly where she intended to stay.

He pulled her up and kissed her neck before shaking his head. “I love you, but not even you can plant yourself in the middle of an FBI case. You’ll get us fired, pet.”

Oh. She hadn’t thought of that one. “Maybe getting you fired would be a good thing.” Jeez, maybe it was.

“I’d rather it be my decision, thanks,” he said in a dry voice. “So, we’ll talk for a bit. But if NYPD hasn’t picked up Somerfeld in the next hour, you’re going back to safety.”

She eyed him. No, he wouldn’t give way on this, but the unreasonableness was gone. He wasn’t operating out of old fears, but logic. And she could live with that. “It’s a deal.”

FROM THE BACK door, Vance listened. He and Galen had installed excellent soundproofing in the cabana— he’d barely been able to hear the yelling.

And now nothing.

Hopefully, they were fucking up a storm. Makeup sex. He grinned as he started to harden. With luck they’d get a call in a minute or two that New York had Somerfeld in custody. If so, a victory fuck would be in order.

If NYPD didn’t call, the imp’s time would be up. He’d have to drag Sally out and stuff her in her car.

Meantime—he snorted—he was guard dog.

His cell chimed, reminding him to make the scheduled check-in call. Vance hit the number for the office. “Still alive. How are the guys doing out by the turnoff?”

“They’re just fine, Vance.” Hazel was around seventy and undoubtedly had won Mother of the Year when her children were young. “How is your back?”

“All healed. I’m going stir-crazy, being shut in.”

She sniffed, unimpressed, as if he’d whined about a snow day. “You just settle down. And tell that boy to be careful as well.”

Choking on a laugh, he assured her that he’d tell the boy. If Galen heard that… Then again, his partner adored the old woman. Fuck knew, she acted more like a mother than Galen’s real one.

A few minutes later, his cell rang. The stakeout team reported an elderly woman had taken the lakeshore drive. One of the neighbors.

To stave off the urge to go to Galen and Sally, he went out the front. They hadn’t checked the mail earlier. After pulling on a coat to cover his shoulder holster, he walked onto the front porch. Nothing. Couldn’t even see the neighbor’s houses through the dense surrounding growth. No cars. No people. All quiet.

He glanced at his watch. Somerfeld, do your airport check-in. I want this over.

His skin felt as if the air was filled with sand. Nerves.

It was a nice day; he should make an effort to enjoy it. As he ambled to the mailbox at the end of their U- shaped drive, he watched the brilliantly white puffy clouds float across the sky. No thunderclouds…yet. Chances were good they’d appear later in the day. The summer rainstorms had started up.

As he unlocked the metal mailbox, he grinned at the memory of Sally’s insults about paranoid Feds. He pulled out a nice haul of letters and flyers.

A car appeared, slowly moving down the road. The gray-haired driver gave him a wide smile. It was his nearest neighbor, Mrs. Childress.

He stepped over to the car and glanced in the backseat—just in case. “Ma’am, how are you today?”

“I’m fine, dear. I was going to call you later. How nice to see you in person. We’re having a small barbecue next week on Saturday. I hope you and Galen and Sally will come.” The elderly couple had met Sally when she was on the lake, fishing with Galen. Like everyone else, they’d fallen for the imp.

“We’d be delighted.” Somerfeld had damn well better be safely behind bars by then.

“Wonderful. Around four.” With a sweet smile, the old lady put her car in gear and continued down the road.

Vance strolled back to the house. Before he’d opened the front door more than a crack, Glock darted out onto the porch.

“Have a good day, buddy.” Must be pretty urgent feline business. Flipping through the junk mail, Vance stepped inside…and the world fell in on him.

* * *

Why was he lying on his side on the floor? Vance wondered. Hangover? Hell, his head felt like an overinflated balloon, ready to pop.

His jaw clenched as memories trickled back in a slow returning tide. Mailbox. Cat. Letter. Nothing. Something was really wrong.

His heart sped up, increasing the throbbing inside his skull. Swallowing, he fought nausea silently. Blocked his urge to call for help. Didn’t move, didn’t groan, didn’t touch his head. With his eyes opened only a slit, he tried to assess, even while cursing the slowness of his brain. His thoughts moved hopelessly slow, like bubbles fighting to rise through a thick swamp.

He recognized the game room flooring. God knew, he’d spent enough time putting it in.

He listened, hearing nothing except the painful roaring in his head.

Fingers felt numb. Ah, fuck, his wrists were cuffed behind him.

Dread burst inside him at the sight of the heavy iron shackles on his ankles. Shackles. The chain connecting the shackles was looped around a two-by-four—part of the built-out bar Galen was constructing in a corner of the room.

The ugly realization worked through the murk in Vance’s head. Jesus fuck, he’d screwed up.

Somerfeld wasn’t in New York; he was here. But how the fuck had he gotten past the stakeout teams?

Please, don’t fucking let Sally or Galen walk in unknowingly.

Footsteps. In his narrow field of vision, he spotted the legs entering the room. A five-gallon container of gasoline was set down. The bastard was consistent, wasn’t he?

Vance felt his stomach clench. Burning was dead last on his list of ways to die.

The man made another trip out and back into the room. After Somerfeld ran upstairs, Vance kicked the two-by-four holding him. And again. And again. The fucking chain kept him from exerting much force.

And Jesus, his head might split before the post did. Half-blind from the pain, he halted when he heard footsteps coming downstairs.

Somerfeld dropped bedding in a corner of the room and went back upstairs.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

This time, Somerfeld came down with a full laundry hamper. After tossing the clothing into another corner, he walked into the hall leading to the office.

Once Somerfeld disappeared, Vance slammed his foot into the post again. This time he felt a slight give in the screws holding the post in place. Or maybe it was his knee fracturing.

Footsteps. Humming to himself, Somerfeld set a can of paint thinner on the floor and tossed crumpled paper against the walls. He was rigging enough flammables to ensure the building would burn completely. Wonderful.

The legs approached. Vance closed his eyes.

Pain burst in his low back; the bastard had kicked him.