License to Thrill

to get the blood flowing again. When he trusted his strength, he scooped her up and walked to the bed, then deposited her gently among the mussed covers, shushing her back to sleep when she roused. A thick strand of hair had escaped the haphazard side ponytail, and as he swept it away from her face, emotion ballooned in his chest.
    He'd never experienced blood-boiling lust in tandem with this intangible thing whose growth accompanied every thought of Katherine McKray. Whatever it was, it heightened lovemaking to near staggering proportions. But he recognized the danger in the euphoria because, like a potent drug, this thing gave him false confidence that he could handle obligations he knew he couldn't—mind-boggling obligations like being a husband, and a father. And the only way he had managed to survive a twenty-year career in the British Intelligence Agency was by following one commandment: Know thy limitations. It seemed like an applicable rule for civilian life too.
    Clearing his head with a shake, James rubbed his eyes, then stumbled to his room in the predawn light. Indeed, a blank envelope lay on the slightly worn traffic area just inside the door. Knowing the messenger was long gone, he checked the hall anyway. Stepping back into the room, he picked up the note, then withdrew a single folded sheet of white paper. The message was printed in neat, slanted letters. A man transacted sale of item to broker via phone; seller is reliable provider of authentic pieces; item sold to unknown third party.
    A man. Which could be a man working at the gallery—one of four security guards, including Ronald Beaman, plus Andy Wharton, Guy Trent, and two dozen or so volunteers, ticket takers, and maintenance men—or an acquaintance of a female employee. He grunted in frustration—so Kat was the only one who could be excluded.
    James scanned the note again. Not much more to go on, except that the person regularly provided stolen items to the underground market. Which didn't fit Guy Trent's assertion that only a handful of items, and small-ticket items at that, had been taken from the museum over the last several months. Unless the fellow who did the brokering was being fed items smuggled from more than one gallery.
    A man… . He hadn't given the Wharton guy much thought after Kat said he was harmless. Now they had more impetus to check into everyone who worked at the gallery, particularly the men. James frowned. And especially Guy Trent, whom he now thoroughly despised. Then he stopped.
    Well, they wouldn't be checking, but Tenner would be, of course. He'd make rounds with him today to follow up on Beaman's alibi, and pass him the information from the note, then the detective could take over. What mattered most was clearing Kat's name. Finding the thief, and perhaps the letter, would simply be a bonus.
    James peeked in on Kat, glad to see she was still sleeping. Having cast aside the sheet, she lay with her back to him, providing an unobstructed and tormenting view of her round derriere. His fingers twitched to touch her, but halfway to the bed he stopped and looked back to his room. He really should shower—Tenner would be expecting him to call. Then he glanced back to Kat and exhaled in appreciation. Kat, Tenner, Kat, Ten ner... he stopped.
    There was a decision here?
    Within two seconds, he had reached the bed, then took another half second to shed his slept-in slacks and underwear. He slid in next to her warm body with his head at the foot of the bed, vice versa her position, and said good morning by covering her exquisite ankles with kisses, then traveling north from there. She roused instantly, with a surprise of her own that wrung a gasp of satisfaction from him.
    From zero to sixty-nine in two and a half seconds. Even his Jaguar couldn't do that.

    *****

    Kat extracted a wide gold belt from the tangled nest on her bedroom floor and turned to Denise. "Give away or throw away?"
    Her friend looked up and squinted. "Hmm. Circa nineteen eighty-eight...nice buckle... it could work."
    "Then I'm adding it to your pile." Kat tossed it on the growing mound of clothes that were either too small or too hip for her.
    "Ooh, I've never seen you wear these." Denise held up a pair of stretchy, black-and-white striped pants Kat had bought two years ago during a moment of insanity.
    "I wonder why."
    "Can I have them?"
    "They're yours."
    "Gloria has these cool shoes—" Denise stopped, then bit her bottom lip.
    Kat shrugged.