by Cat Johnson
A squeal of a microphone broke Peter out of his fanciful imaginings about the lovely though contrary Marty Vanderbilt.
He turned toward the speakers just as the crack of glass breaking had his head whipping back around. The burst of flames he saw on the square’s flagstone plaza explained the sound.
“What was that?” Marty asked, barely audible over the shrieks of the scattering crowd.
He spun back to answer her. “Molotov cocktail.”
She shook her head, mouth agape. “Here? Why?”
“I don’t know.” It made no sense to him except for that they lived in volatile times.
He heard sirens in the distance. The police were already on the way. That didn’t prevent a second projectile from crashing into flames next to the fountain.
Shocked screams turned into panic as the attendees clamored to get out of the main entrance of the park.
Slower movers got shoved out of the way by those desperate to flee the danger zone. The few who fell were trampled.
The reaction of the crowd was becoming more of a danger than the homemade incendiary devices.
“We have to get out of here.” He grabbed her arm, feeling the need to protect her.
Marty pulled against him. “Where's Clark? My photographer.”
Peter looked around and finally spotted the young man, working his way against the crowd toward them. “There he is.”
And he was obviously hurt, judging by the blood. He staggered while clutching his camera to his chest.
Peter moved to meet him where he was and looped a hand beneath his arm. “You need that cut taken care of.”
“I fell,” he said simply, sounding as dazed as he looked.
Clark reached up and touched the blood running down the side of his face. He looked down at the red wetting his fingers as if noticing for the first time he was injured.
He was definitely stunned. Disoriented. Peter couldn’t blame him. Chaos still reigned around them. He needed to get them all out of there.
Pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket, he pressed it to Clark’s head then placed the man’s own hand over it. “Hold that there.”
Clark nodded, still looking confused but he did as told. That was good enough.
Peter glanced at Marty. He saw the crazed look in her eyes as her gaze darted around them, taking in all the insanity.
Fist fights had broken out among the crowd. He wouldn’t put it past her to jump right into the fray, whether for the story or for the principal of the cause. It wouldn’t matter. She’d be in danger either way.
“Come on. This way.” Peter didn’t wait for an answer to what had never been a question.
It was no doubt time to go. Before the police started rounding everyone up and they all ended up sitting in a cell for the night. Or worse, beaten or gassed.
During these times, the authorities tended to act first and ask questions later.
With one hand grabbing each of their arms, he half steered, half tugged Marty and Clark out of the smaller back exit of the park.
Head down, he navigated them through the people running both ways. Some towards the action. Others away from it.
One man, who had to be high on some illegal substance from the looks of him, came at them, fist drawn back as if he was about to deliver a punch backed by the full force of his weight.
Peter didn’t know how this peaceful rally had turned to this, but he did know how to defend himself. He stepped forward toward the man, raised his elbow and brought it down full force on the man’s nose.
He heard the horrifying sound of cracking bone—the other guy’s, not his own. The man screamed in pain, clutching his nose as the blood flowed.
His stomach turned. But now was not the time to be squeamish.
He looked behind him and located Marty. She was holding Clark’s arm, steadying the man who looked like he was having trouble staying on his feet. How hard a hit had he taken to the head anyway?
“My apartment isn’t too far. Follow me.” Reaching out, he grabbed her hand.
“What about your roommate?” she asked, glancing backward as he dragged her toward the sidewalk, Clark stumbling behind her.
“Elijah? I saw him get out through the front gate. I’m hoping to find him at the apartment when we get there.”
Peter pulled them down a side street where, finally, there was no one running. No one screaming.
The continuing din of the park attack was muffled by distance. Only then did he dare slow down.
He evaluated Clark as he stumbled along. “You okay to keep going?”
“Yeah.” The young man nodded, his hand still clutching the bloody handkerchief while his other maintained a death grip on the camera.
Peter looked at Marty. “Are you okay?”
She met his gaze. “Yes. How did you know to do that?”
“Do what?” he asked, keeping them moving forward toward his apartment, even if it was at a much slower pace now.
She shook her head. “That . . . Bruce Lee move.”
“Don’t be too impressed. It’s one of about two self-defense moves I know.” He laughed, downplaying the truth, that he sparred with Tim pretty often back in the days right before Tim enlisted in the Navy.
“I think you broke his nose,” she said, her brows drawn low over her sky-blue eyes.
“He would have broken mine or worse,” Peter pointed out.
“I know.” She nodded.
His gaze shot to hers. “Wait. Do we actually agree on something?”
She cocked her head to one side. “Don’t get used to it.”
He allowed himself a small smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“How much farther?” she asked, after a concerned glance at Clark, who’d been silent as he tripped along after them.
“Not far. Logan Circle. It’s just another block.”
And then a three-floor walk up to his apartment, which, somehow, Clark managed when the time came, with their help.
Struggling to unlock the door with hands shaking with adrenaline, Peter finally got it open and flung it wide, grateful they’d made it to the safety of his place.
Then he realized how his crappy apartment would look to Marty.
He’d always known it was small. There was no denying that. But it felt extra tiny now that he was seeing it from Marty’s perspective.
A Vanderbilt. In a two-bedroom apartment where he strongly suspected the second bedroom had once been a closet.
“Nice place,” she said as she walked in and glanced around.
Peter snorted at what he suspected was a polite though false compliment, the results of her proper upbringing. “Thanks.”
He pulled out a kitchen chair for Clark and steered the man toward it, then rushed to the kitchen cabinet where they kept the first aid kit.
“Where do you live?” he asked her as he opened the box and breathed a sigh of relief that there were useful supplies left inside.
“DuPont Circle,” she answered.
Of course she lived there. In some fabulous apartment in a historic building with a view of the White House, most likely.
God, he was nuts for even being interested in her.
He couldn’t think more about that now as the blood seeped between Clark’s fingers and onto his kitchen table—make that his only table.
The good news was that after Peter cleaned and bandaged the wound, Clark’s head stopped bleeding. It looked as if he wouldn’t need a hospital or stitches. And after a glass of water and a little while off his feet, Clark looked like he was definitely feeling better.
That was proven when he insisted on getting home to process his film. In spite of Marty’s protests, the kid went flying out Peter’s door, pausing only long enough to predict the pictures on the roll he was leaving to develop were going to be front page material.
That was the good news. The bad news was that Clark’s recovery couldn’t distract Peter from the fact Elijah hadn’t been at the apartment when the
y’d arrived and he still wasn’t home yet now. Although the intense stare Marty leveled on him was certainly plenty distracting.
“You’re worried about your roommate,” Marty said.
“Yes,” he admitted.
She reached across the kitchen table, still strewn with first aid supplies, and laid her hand over his. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
He stared at their hands, one on top of the other, before turning his over so they were palm-to-palm. He raised his gaze to meet hers but didn’t readily agree.
She drew in a breath and pulled her hand back, before reaching for a stack of papers on the table. She frowned at the top page. “Is this . . . his speech for today?”
Peter nodded. “The one he didn’t get to give. Yes.”
He could see the few suggestions he’d made scribbled in the margin of Elijah’s typed pages.
“May I?” she asked.
“Read it? Sure. Go ahead.” At least someone would reap the benefit of Elijah’s hard work.
She read fast, covering the first page and the second quickly before raising her eyes to him. “It’s good.”
“I know. He’s good at his job. And he’s really an excellent speaker.” Peter only wished she could have witnessed that herself.
“And these corrections . . . was that you?” she asked.
“Suggestions. Not corrections. But yeah, that was me.”
Nodding she laid the pages down on the table.
“So I, uh, wanted to thank you.” She drew in a shaky breath and continued, “For saving me.”
She’d surprised him with that. He didn’t hide that reaction and smiled. “I’m not sure I did. I have no doubt you could handle yourself in any situation, but you’re welcome.”
Marty watched him, as if evaluating him before she said, “You’re not what I thought you were, Mr. Greenwood.”
She’d used his last name but this time it sounded different. It definitely felt different.
“I’m glad to hear it, Ms. Vanderbilt,” he said, following her lead.
“Marty,” she corrected.
“Peter,” he said, a gentle reminder he’d only return what she delivered in kind.
Finally, she nodded. “Peter.”
A smile broke out across his face. It was a small thing but it was no doubt a victory.
“So, what have you got to drink in this place?” she asked, glancing around the kitchen.
His eyes widened. He was not prepared for entertaining. “I, um, I’m not sure. Let me look.”
He jumped to his feet just as the wall phone rang.
Diving for the receiver he wrestled with the tangled cord before saying, “Hello?”
“Pete,” his roommate’s voice was a welcome sound.
“Elijah, are you okay?”
“Yeah, man. I’m good. You?”
“Yes. Fine. Perfect.” Elated. Relieved. Peter could spew a thesaurus worth of adjectives to describe how he felt at the moment.
“Good. I’m still with the organizers trying to figure out what the hell happened and regroup. I’ll be leaving here shortly, but I wanted to let you know I was okay and make sure you were good.”
“Yeah. I’m good. Thank you for letting me know. I was worried.”
“No need to worry. Takes more than a couple of flaming bombs to hurt me.”
“Well, let’s not test that theory.”
Elijah chuckled. “Agreed. I’ll see you home in a few.”
“Okay. Bye.” Peter hung the receiver back in the cradle on the wall and looked toward Marty. “Elijah’s all right.”
“I’m glad.”
“Me too.”
She stood and moved around the table to stand next to him. “Now we have something to celebrate.”
He dipped his head. “We definitely do.”
Things had certainly changed since the bar when she’d barely finished her drink before storming out. That was definitely something to celebrate.
She took a step closer and then the most beautiful, fascinating, irresistible woman he’d ever had the pleasure of encountering, kissed him.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marty didn’t know what it was about Peter Greenwood, but the man made her crazy . . . in all sorts of ways.
His official political stance drove her insane, no doubt.
As a pacifist, her watching him break a man’s nose should have turned her stomach. Should have made her irate from the sheer violence of it. But for some reason she found the way he’d protected her, and then had cared for Clark’s injury, as well as his concern for his roommate, all undoubtably attractive.
More than attractive. Irresistible. Obviously, since she’d just parted her lips to give Peter access for a soul-deep tongue kiss.
A kiss wasn’t going to be enough. She knew that already.
This kiss would only end one way, with her in his bed. And she didn’t feel at all bad about that.
The women’s liberation movement of the last decade had given women the freedom to do what they wanted. The legalization of the birth control pill in this country gave them the tool to live life as they pleased.
Marty intended to do just that.
She reached between them intent on unfastening Peter’s pants. It was going to be an undertaking, getting this buttoned-up man out of his suit. Luckily, she wasn’t wearing a whole lot so they’d save time there.
When she reached for his zipper, he sucked in a breath through his nose. He pulled back from the kiss, meeting her gaze. “Marty.”
“Peter,” she parroted, her fingers now on the buckle of his belt and the challenge it presented.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “You, um, sure?”
“Yes. Are you?” she asked, her lips twitching with how adorably unsure he looked.
“Yes.” He nodded, looking as if he was facing a firing squad rather than the prospect of having sex with her.
“You sure about that?” She laughed.
“No. Yeah. Definitely. I’m sure. Yes.”
“Then you might want to kiss me. And help me get this suit off you. And show me where your bedroom is. Not necessarily in that order.”
His eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared and finally, finally, he looked like a man who wanted her, rather than a boy who feared the whole idea of their being together.
“Bedroom’s right behind you. I’ll go steal a condom from Elijah’s room.”
She smiled at him for being prepared, even if he didn’t have to be. She watched for his reaction as she said, “No need. I’m on the pill and I promise, I don’t have any diseases or anything. I just had my annual check-up at the gyno.”
His mouth dropped open. He nodded and sounded breathless as he said, “Okay. I, uh, don’t have anything either.”
“Good to know.” She smiled, enjoying his reaction.
Shocking Peter was fun. In fact, she had a feeling this whole encounter was going to be more fun than she’d had in a long time.
He laced his fingers with hers, holding her hand as he led her to the bedroom at a slower pace than she expected, although she should have expected it. Peter was proving to be a careful and deliberate man in all things.
That was reinforced when he undressed more slowly than she thought possible.
His gaze kept jumping to her. It was as if he wanted to make sure she was still sitting there on the edge of the bed as he divested himself of his jacket.
He went to the closet, took out a hanger and hung the garment before reaching for his tie.
His was a fascinating exercise in restraint. No man had ever made her wait for sex while he put away his clothes.
It was an interesting change from the usual and she discovered she didn’t hate it. A man who treated his clothes with such care and respect would have to show equal attention to the woman in his bed. Right?
If he ever got finished with his housekeeping and got to bed, she’d find out. She watched as he carried his two dirty socks to a hamper, lifted the lid, and
dropped them inside.
Just when she feared he might actually take the time to shine his shoes before putting them on the floor of the tiny closet, he turned to her, his boxer shorts the only thing remaining.
He was in remarkably good shape for a man who sat at a desk all day, displaying what she’d classify as a swimmer’s body. Lean and firm, with clearly defined muscles but not overly bulky. Nothing like that hulking Arnold Schwartzen—something or other who was Mr. Olympia.
And maybe, if he’d finally get on the bed with her, she’d be able to run her hands down that washboard stomach, all the way to the hard length straining the fabric of his underwear, and touch what she could only admire from across the room now.
He moved closer, finally, until he was standing next to the bed where she sat.
Leaning low, he cupped her face, brushing his thumb across her lower lip. His eyes, filled with need, dropped as he focused on the action of his finger.
She realized she was biting her lower lip in anticipation of his touch. They were both affected by whatever this pull was between them, even with as unlikely a pair as they made.
But right now she wasn’t thinking about red or blue or which side of the aisle Peter supported. Right now they were simply two human beings who needed each other.
As slow and deliberately as she’d expected, he moved his hands down to her thighs before pushing the hem of her dress up.
She watched him as he focused on every inch of skin his motion exposed.
Braced on her hands, she lifted her butt off the bed so he could slide the dress up farther. He sucked in a breath as her hips rose, but kept going, pushing the fabric up to her waist, then higher.
She’d forgone a bra this morning. When Peter reached her bare breasts with his hands, his eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. She raised her arms to help the process of getting them nude and down to serious business.
He pulled the dress over her head, bunching the fabric in one fist before tossing it to the side. It landed on top of the folding metal snack table that served as his bedside nightstand.
Her D.C. apartment was furnished with Vanderbilt family antiques she’d borrowed from the attics of her dad’s estates in Maryland and New York. As much as she liked to be independent and on her own, it seemed her family always followed her. And that was her fault for not going for thrift store décor like Peter.
