TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [106]
When at last he pulled her on top of him, when at last she had the energy to sit up, her strong white legs tight against his flanks, her palms flat on his chest, he marveled as he always did at the whiteness of her flesh against the darkness of his hands holding her.
She gave him a silly smile. “That was rather nice, Dillon.”
“Oh yes.” He looked up at her beloved face, saw her eyes were vague from pleasure, touched fingers to her fiery hair, tossed wildly around her head, and said, “I never tell you enough. You are my life.”
As he was hers, she thought, but the words fell away when he came deep inside her and she was kissing him, and the words she whispered in his mouth were, “You are so hot I can’t stand it,” and it was enough, too much, really, and he didn’t last as long as he would have wished, but she was with him, blessed be, so that was all right.
He was felled, so loose and relaxed it would have taken Sean jumping on top of him for a good three minutes before he moved. His breathing finally slowed, at least enough so he could think. His meager thoughts soon scattered when she began moving down his happy, lifeless body. He grabbed handfuls of hair when he felt her mouth on his belly, and he arched up, groaned.
“Music to my ears,” she whispered against him.
She finally fell asleep stretched out on top of him, her head tucked into the curve of his neck, her hair against his mouth. He didn’t feel it tickle, though, because his was the sleep of the dead.
When his cell phone belted out the Monday Night Football theme, he came instantly awake and looked with loathing at his cell phone half hanging out of his pants pocket on the floor beside the bed. Sherlock was stirring against him. He didn’t want to move her, but a phone call late on a Friday night couldn’t be good.
He managed to stretch out and grab his cell. “Yeah.”
He listened as he leaned back to rub Sherlock’s belly. She didn’t want to pull away from that big warm hand of his, but she did. She managed to sit up, saying, “What’s wrong, Dillon? What happened?”
“Someone just tried to kill Dr. MacLean.”
They left a sleeping Sean with Lily and Simon, and arrived at the hospital sixteen minutes later.
He’d found hospitals to be eerily quiet at the witching hour, and truth be told, he hadn’t expected excitement there on the main floor, but he heard some raised voices, saw two security people dashing up the stairs. To their surprise, the elevator was empty. When they reached MacLean’s floor, they had to dodge a gurney, then two wheelchairs being pushed out of the way, and a good half-dozen hospital personnel, running, yelling, or silent with shock. He saw several patients standing in doorways, one older man holding up his IV bag in his right hand, an orderly trying to talk him back into bed, but he wasn’t buying it.
“Agent Tomlin,” Sherlock said, grabbing one of the nurses. “Where is Agent Tomlin?”
“They’re working on him. Someone walked up to him and shoved a syringe into his neck, but he didn’t go all the way out and Louise noticed something was wrong—you know, he was kind of jerking in his chair, and she called out, but he didn’t answer.” The nurse was nearly hyperventilating. “Louise ran toward him. I don’t know what happened—Louise was gone and there was a gunshot. I didn’t know it would be so loud. It was like an explosion, and everyone was yelling and screaming.”
Sherlock closed her eyes and prayed hard. Please, God, let Tom Tomlin be okay. She was right behind Savich when he shoved open MacLean’s door.
There were half a dozen people around MacLean’s bed, all talking, gesturing, some on cell phones, one security woman talking loudly on a crackling walkie-talkie.
When Savich shoved his way through, he saw MacLean lying on his back, the bed cranked up, his head on a pillow, and he was smiling impartially at everyone, the patriarch surrounded by his family. Hospital security was two deep.
“Timothy,” Savich said, studying him even as he took his hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m in fine fettle.