"While we're on the subject of names," Lucky said, "what's yours? Dovey? Or Mary Smith? Or is it Devon Haines?" He slapped a newspaper, open to her column, onto her desk.
Her eyes lowered to the page, then swung back up to him. "Ordinarily they don't print my picture with my byline. I didn't know they were going to do it with this article, or I would have asked them not to." Her voice was little more than a hoarse croak.
"I'm glad they did. I've been looking for you ever since you skipped out on me. For the second time."
The initial shock of seeing him was wearing off; she was gradually regaining her composure. She assumed the haughty demeanor that set Lucky's teeth on edge. He recognized the expression she had worn while telling him off for interfering with her struggle with Little Alvin.
"If I had wanted you to know my name, I would have given it to you." She threw her shoulders back, shaking her hair off them.
"Obviously I preferred to remain anonymous, Mr. Tyler, so if you would be so kind—"
"'Kind' be damned," he interrupted. "If you want to talk here and let all the spectators in on it, fine." With a jerking motion of his head he indicated the city room behind him. "Or would you rather talk in private? Either way is okay with me … Dovey."
He deliberately slurred the last word, letting her know the extent of his anger, and that, if necessary, he had no qualms about discussing in front of an audience what had transpired in the motel room. Obviously she did. Her face paled.
"I suppose I could spare you a moment."
"Smart choice."
He took her arm the minute she rounded the desk and escorted her through the city room, where the onlookers made no pretense of subtlety. Speculative conversation resumed the instant Lucky and Devon cleared the doorway.
"Here are the elevators." She feebly pointed them out when he marched past them without even slowing down.
Propelling her toward the heavy fire door marked stairs, he took hold of the knob and pushed it open. "This'll do." He guided her through the doorway and followed closely behind.
She spun around to confront him. "I don't know what you're doing here, or what you expect to gain by—"
"You'll know in good time. First things first."
He shoved his fingers up through her hair and cupped her head. Tipping it back, he captured her surprised lips in a fiery kiss. Inexorably moving forward, he backed her into the wall without decreasing the pressure of his lips on hers. She strangled on her protests and ground the heels of her hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off.
"Stop!" she managed to rasp out when he came up for air.
Lucky, however, had a week's worth of pent-up frustration to expend, a week's worth of lust to slake, and he couldn't have been budged by a Sherman tank.
"I'm not finished yet."
He sealed their mouths together again, employing the technique he'd begun developing with the preacher's daughter and over the years had mastered to an enviable expertise. The pads of his fingertips pressed into her scalp, while his thumbs met beneath her chin to stroke the smoothest expanse of skin he'd ever felt except for the insides of her thighs. She never had a chance.
Her protests grew fainter, until they no longer qualified as gargled threats, but sounded more like whimpers of arousal. She stopped resisting the thrusts of his tongue as it hungrily plumbed her mouth again and again.
His first taste of her in more than a week reawakened an appetite that had been whetted but far from satisfied. He angled his body closer to hers, sent his tongue deeper into her mouth, and tilted his hips forward, nudging the cleft of her thighs, wanting, wanting, wanting…
Suddenly coming to his senses, he raised his head and smiled down at her. Gently he flicked his tongue against the corner of her lips, savoring the flavor of her kiss, and whispered, "You're the one, all right. I'd know you anywhere."
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to figure out a convenient way into your blouse." He frowned at the back buttons. "Later."
She raised a hand to her lips and touched them gingerly. "You shouldn't have kissed me like that, Mr. Tyler."
"My mother tells me I've always been guilty of doing things I shouldn't do. My conscience doesn't have a very loud speaking voice. Sometimes I don't hear it." He smiled engagingly and ducked his head for another kiss.
Devon staved him off. "Please don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you to."