If he had any feelings about the items listed, he showed no signs of it.
"The warden is back," Alexander grumbled, pushing the plate of cookies away.
"Okay, frappe," Cora said, coming back in. "I didn't forget," she added, though she clearly had for a moment. "Oh, Christopher. You're home. Would you like a frappe? Miss Miller was telling us you made her one with chocolate."
That got his attention.
His head rose, and if I wasn't mistaken, he looked almost a little bashful.
"She wanted one," he said simply. "But no, Cora, thank you. I have some arrangements to make," he added, snapping the binder shut, making it clear what those arrangements were.
"What was in the binder?" Alexander asked when my smile broke out once he was gone.
"Your brother offered to get me anything I wanted while being in pris—" I started, cutting off when I looked at Cora's back as she poured milk into glasses. "While I am staying here," I corrected. "I got rather... inventive," I told him, sharing a smile with him.
"You're going to be a bad influence, aren't you?" he asked.
"Wait, where are you going?" Cora asked as he took his frappe from her.
"I have a list to write," he said, eyes twinkling.
"I think he likes having you here," Cora concluded as he left.
"He just likes that I give him ideas to torment his brother."
"He has had no women in his life," she said, voice sad.
"What are you talking about? He has you," I reminded her, shaking my head. "You're a fantastic mother figure."
"You're very sweet. But I am no mother. Grandmother, maybe. He needs a mother."
"He's almost grown."
"A child always needs a mother. Even if they're forty."
I couldn't agree or disagree with that, never having had one myself.
"Alexander has turned out very well, Cora. You and Mr. Adamos have done a good job."
"We've tried our best," she told me, giving me a small smile. "Would you like to learn a new dish?" she asked, motioning to the space beside her.
"Sure," I agreed, finding an unexpected bolstering in my confidence in learning to master this skill that had always eluded me.
"You know," she told me as we both started chopping food, "this is Christopher's favorite meal."
Of course it was.
If I wasn't completely mistaken, Cora had her heart set on me getting together with Christopher, becoming a mother figure to Alexander.
Which was sweet, if kind of ridiculous.
Did a part of me—even a large part of me—want to take a tour of his bedsheets?
Hell yes.
Did I want to move into his cave house, become a makeshift mother, cook him meals, and birth him babies?
The answer to that should have been simple: Hell no.
But all I felt was a sort of mild interest mixed with a bone-deep certainty that I was already starting to lose my mind a little bit.
Maybe I should set up an appointment with a shrink as soon as I got home instead of waiting for Quin to insist upon it.
SEVEN
Christopher
She settled in.
A little begrudgingly at first, then more easily. So much so that I was surprised. Especially considering that everything about Miller suggested she would go toe-to-toe with me every moment of every day in the hopes that I would cave. I wouldn't, of course, but it was pleasant not to have to fight about it.
It had been four days since Alexander came home. And aside from the rebellious act of creating the world's most ostentatious list—and then giving my brother the idea to create one as well—she had simply made herself at home.
She slept in late, something everyone seemed to work their schedules around. Yes, even me. I found I waited to go into the kitchen for my coffee until after I heard her moving around. Cora pushed breakfast later. Alexander got up earlier so they could banter over breakfast.
After breakfast, she and Alexander retreated to the sitting room to watch action movies, then she annoyed him by debunking many of the scenes for being so unrealistic, further proving her life had been very colorful, very dangerous.
In the afternoons, she could be found in the kitchen with Cora, an eager student who clearly thrived on the praise she got from the mother figure she'd claimed she'd never had.
In the evenings, Cora insisted we take our dinner in the dining room, a room that had been entirely ornamental until Miller came into our lives.
It felt—as was likely Cora's intention—like a family coming together to share their evening meal, to talk over good food, to connect.
I couldn't have anticipated how much I would begin to enjoy it. As someone who often ate on the go, it was nice to sit down, to slow down. On top of that, I got to reconnect with my brother, making me realize how much I had missed out on when he was away. I had to learn names of friends I didn't know he had, about where they were from, what they were into. Miller, with her keen observation skills, managed to figure out that one of these friends was a bit more than a friend, further explaining Alexander's somewhat hostile response to having no access to his cell phone for the time being. After a short talk in my office one night, though, about how his girlfriend was much safer if no one knew there was a connection to her, he seemed to come to terms with the arrangement.
Over those dinners, we also were privy to many interesting, dangerous, and even ludicrous stories from Miller's past. About the men she worked with. One who cleaned crime scenes, one who tracked or disappeared people, one who lived in some place called the Pine Barrens illegally with killer dogs and baby goats. She told us about some men she had done negotiations with, about the antics she had cleaned up for Fenway.
She had lived more life by her early thirties than most would ever live.
She didn't, I noticed, talk about her childhood, her young adulthood, anything at all before she started working for Quin. Hell, she didn't even explain how she had come across someone like Quinton Baird in the first place.
As interesting as her other stories were, I found myself wanting to know those ones as well. I'd never been greedy for personal details people seemed unwilling to share. We all had our secrets. We were all entitled to them. But I wanted to know what her childhood had been like, what had helped shape her into the woman that sat across the table from me.
And, what's more, I wanted her to stick around long enough to feel comfortable sharing those stories, those more intimate parts of herself.
I was choosing not to reconsider if she was right, if she would have been just as safe to have her team come get her and take her home.
There was one simple explanation for that.
I didn't want her to go.
It was absurd, but true.
I was getting accustomed to seeing her around, to hearing her laugh, to seeing her hanging out with my brother, to knowing she'd had a hand in making the food I was eating.
That interest, though, was exactly why I had been swamping myself in work, had doubled up my efforts to find Chernev. Not because that was necessary since I had a team of dozens of men handling both situations, but because I found I needed time away from her. I was thinking of her too often, was finding it harder not to reach out and touch her, to grab her, to lead her down the hall and into my bed.
I'd never been a man who couldn't control myself. But I found I was struggling to do so with Miller. A woman whose real name I didn't even know.
So I stayed out longer than needed.
I locked myself in the office with some of my men.
I ran the stairs three times a day to get rid of the excess energy that I would much rather spend with her in bed.
I was getting ready for my late-night run when Miller jumped off the couch, rushing to block the hallway before I could exit it.
"I want to go."
"You complained just days ago about the stairs."
"Yes, well, that was before I had been locked in a house day in and out with no way
to really move around. I need some exercise. I'm going stir crazy."
"You can't leave the grounds right now."
"Then why can you?" she shot back, brow raising, arms crossing, the perfect picture of defiance.
"I was not the one that Chernev threatened."
"His threat to you went without saying," she told me, rolling her eyes. "Obviously, he wants to kill you. And likely Alexander."
"It's different," I insisted, pushing past her.
"Why?"
"It just is, Miller. Let it go."
"No, I'm not going to let it go. If you want me to let it go, let me leave. Then you won't have to listen to me bitch anymore."
"You know I can't do that either."
"I am not an irrational person, Mr. Adamos," she told me, following closely behind as I made my way through the house. "Give me a reason why you can walk around as freely as you choose while I can't, and I will accept it."
"No, you won't," I said, a chuckle in my voice because she simply was not the kind of woman to let something go if she had her mind made up about it. It was a quality I respected, even when she was using it against me.
"Is it because I am a woman?" she asked, reaching to grab my arm, trying to stop me before I could storm outside and way from her, knowing my men would stop her and haul her back into the house. "That's the reason isn't it?" she demanded, voice getting louder.
"Yes!" I shouted back, turning suddenly, making her step back so she could crane her head up to look me in the face, making her back press up against the wall. "Yes, it is because you are a woman," I told her. "I don't care if you don't like that explanation, but it is the truth. You are a woman. And if you knew what Chernev did to women, you would be falling on your knees thanking me for my protection."
It was when I finished speaking that I realized I had kept moving forward while I spoke, the urge to make her understand just how dangerous an adversary he was had pushed me into her personal space, my chest against hers, trapping her to the wall.
I could feel the breath expanding her chest, pressing her breasts against me as she slowly sucked it in.
"You could have told me that," she said, her calm, almost soft voice in complete contrast to the loud, passionate one I had used on her.
"You could have trusted me," I responded, voice going lower as well.
"You have to give people reasons to trust you, Mr. Adamos."
"I have given you shelter. Food. Protection. Half the items on your ridiculous list." The others I was still working on tracking down.
"You gain trust by sharing with people, not by expecting it in return for physical things."
"It was ugly information," I told her, momentarily distracted by the way her throat moved as she swallowed.
"I am used to living in an ugly world."
"You shouldn't have to," I told her, my eyes finding hers.
"You don't get to make that decision," she told me, voice going even softer.
"If I gave you the information, would you have stayed willingly?"
"I don't know," she admitted.
"I do. You would have gone. You would have been at risk. And if you had been hurt, I couldn't have lived with that."
"It wouldn't have been your fault."
"I brought you here. I put you in this situation. It would have been my fault."
"I'm a grown woman, Christopher," she insisted.
It was the name that did it.
Ripped away the small bit of control I'd had left.
She never called me by my name, save for that one time while arguing with me. It was always Mr. Adamos. Which, after a while, became sexy in and of itself.
But hearing my name in that soft, sweet voice, feeling that wall of formality drop, it just became impossible to hold myself back.
"I see that," I agreed, my hand raising, tracing up her shoulder, over her clavicle, slipping up the side of her neck, fingers reaching outward to frame her face.
Her eyelids got heavy, her breathing immediately quickening.
Her lips parted for a long moment before words came out.
"I don't think—" she started.
"Don't think," I demanded, my lips claiming hers.
There was no hesitation, no resistance.
All the tension that had been in her body disappeared, making her soft and responsive. Her arms raised, grabbing my upper arms, curling in, holding on as her lips pressed harder to mine, demanded more.
A low, throaty whimper escaped her lips, vibrated against mine when my tongue moved out, teasing the seam of her lips, seeking entrance.
Gaining it, I felt a shiver course through her as my hand slid back, fingers slipping up, curling into her hair.
Her hands rose, going around my neck, forcing her up on her tiptoes, crushing her breasts to my chest, making my cock strain. Desire was a live wire through my system, begging me to lift her off her feet, to carry her down the hall, to drop her down in my bed, to run my lips and tongue over every inch of her. I needed to feel her legs slide around my hips, to slip inside her, feeling her walls clench me tight as she cried out my name.
I was moments, no, seconds, away from bringing all that to reality.
And then Alexander's door slammed in the back of the house loud enough to make us both jolt unexpectedly, breaking apart.
My eyes opened, finding hers wide as her hands suddenly released my neck, planting on my chest, and pushing me back a foot.
Just in time for Alexander to break into the space, his energy popping off, agitated. But I was distracted by the unfulfilled desire coursing between Miller and me.
"What are you arguing about?" Alexander asked, young enough to misinterpret the heavy breathing, the buzzing energy around us.
"Me being able to go out and exercise," Miller said, recovering herself first, taking a deep breath as her head turned to look at my brother. "No surprise, he's being stubborn."
"Yeah, well, what do you expect?" he said, his anger clearly directed at me once again.
"I know, right?" she agreed, letting out a laugh that was a little choked.
"He's not going to give in," Alexander said, shrugging. "I hear Cora left some Loukoumades in the kitchen for us, though," he said, trying to comfort her. "Want to share some and dissect a movie with me?"
"Sounds good," she agreed, moving away from me a bit stiffly, gaze purposely avoiding mine, not letting me see what was going on with her.
Which was probably for the best.
Because if I still saw need there, I likely would have told Alexander to fuck off, thrown her over my shoulder, and finished what we had started.
And that was not a good idea.
My body, though, was clearly not in agreement.
And by the time I had worked the need out of my system, my thighs were burning from the stairs, as weak and unsteady as a new fowl's.
But after I showered and got into bed, I realized it had all been for nothing.
Because the need was still there.
I was starting to understand it wasn't going anywhere until I got what I actually needed.
And that was her.
EIGHT
Miller
Shit.
Shit.
Double shit.
Yes, this was a double shit sort of situation.
I mean, it was bad enough just suspecting that our chemistry would be kind of explosive. It was a complete other thing entirely to know for sure.
Hell, the arguing in and of itself had been foreplay enough. When he turned on me with all the barely-contained anger and passion? I nearly yanked up my skirt and told him to take me then and there.
As a whole, I was not someone who found men hot when they were angry. In my line of work, angry men were something to be feared.
I guess because I knew I didn't have anything to be afraid of with Christopher, I was able to appreciate that kind of emotion from him.
Then he had to go all soft and kiss me like it was the last thing he'd get to do on th
is Earth.
I had never been a mushy person. I could respect the mush in others. Kai and Jules were a prime example of that. They had all the mush. And I was happy for them with that. But I couldn't claim to have ever felt that way myself.
But when he kissed me?
I felt mushy.
It was both exhilarating and fun and new as well as scary and strange and uncharted.
It was probably a good thing that Alexander chose that moment to be pissed about his brother removing his laptop from his room because if things kept going, yeah, we'd have been bare-ass naked, getting it on right there in the doorway.
Cora would have been thrilled.
She made absolutely no effort to keep her desire to see me with Christopher secret.
It was sweet. Really, it was. Even if it was crazy to me that she didn't see the varied and numerous reasons why I could not end up with Christopher. Not the least of them being that my entire life was back in the states.
Me, though?
I was just confused.
And more sexually frustrated than I had ever been in my life. Which was really saying something because I once had a drought for eighteen months.
I was closing in on ten at the moment, but it wasn't even that.
It was just... him.
It didn't help that the bastard worked out three times a day and came home shirtless and gloriously sweaty after each session.
Or that he always smelled good.
And he looked really friggen good in a suit.
And all that seriousness he had going on? All that self-control? It made me almost obsessed with the idea of seeing him stripped of all of that, to see him come unhinged, to see what he was like when he truly let go.
It was probably a magnificent sight.
It was one I obsessed over in bed, tossing and turning with an oppressive weight on my lower belly, just begging to be released.
After a short discussion—and too many sweets—with Alexander in the kitchen, I dragged my unsatisfied ass back to bed before Christopher got back from his run because, quite frankly, I wasn't sure my body could handle seeing him like that right at that moment.
The Negotiator Page 9
