Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2)

by Stella Barcelona

  Oh hell. “You knew Black Raven was hired. You didn’t know I was coming. That’s why you’re so pissed at your grandfather.”

  A mask of cool calmness fell over her face. “Stay on task, Hernandez. I’ll follow instructions related to security, but the instructions have to be logical. Chipping me like a dog doesn’t seem logical, when I know you and your agents are going to stay glued to me.”

  “Logic? How’s this for logic?” He didn’t bother trying not to sound irritated, because, dammit she’d just irritated the hell out of him by ignoring his question. “Reality is I have no clue what the next thirty days will bring, but we’re preparing for the worst. In the unlikely event you get separated from Black Raven, this chip could help with search and rescue. The chip isn’t foolproof, but it’s the best we’ve got. If you’re taken, you’ll be praying—”

  “So you’re God, and the chip will enable you to answer my prayers?”

  “Stop being such a fucking smart ass. Save that for other lawyers. God’s busy. Black Raven doesn’t wait for him to answer prayers, when our clients are begging, pleading, and yes, praying for their lives. I wasn’t going to give you a visual, but since you’re being hard-headed, go ahead and imagine there’s a machete at that slender neck of yours, the cameras are turned on, and this chip might be the only thing that lets me find you. Now stop arguing.”

  She frowned, giving him a glance of disgust as she approached him. “Understood. You said it isn’t foolproof. What do you mean?”

  “If you’re in tall buildings, or a congested city area, or mountains, or underground, it’s hard to get precise data. And there’s always the chance the people who take you are smart and have signal jammers or advanced scanners that can find this. If they do, they’ll cut it out of you. Or send your arm to your grandfather. Or kill you. Dammit, Sam.” He softened his voice as she stepped closer. “On security issues, don’t ask me to explain myself.”

  When she sat on the couch, he sat down heavily next to her. She worked on pushing up the snug sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Just do the things I ask. There won’t be many answers you like. What you’re doing isn’t logical. If you want logic, resign. Go home and practice law. And your sleeve isn’t going high enough, so take your sweatshirt off.”

  “I’m not wearing much under here.”

  “Not a problem.” He ground his teeth together. In his peripheral vision, she shrugged out of the sweatshirt and let it fall to the side of her. She hadn’t been the shy, modest type seven years before. In fact, she’d been happy to walk around naked. He hadn’t minded.

  He forced his focus on the contents of the first aid kit. “If I couldn’t handle looking at you for thirty days, I wouldn’t have taken the job. Despite our past, I’m a professional, and you’re a client. That’s it.”

  And I’m a lying motherfucker, because you will never be just a client.

  He might want to make love to her with every fiber of his being, but even with Sam, he had some degree of willpower when on the job. Fortunately for the two of them, stars were in alignment for extreme willpower, because not only was he on a job, he was facing a woman who didn’t want him. And she was practically engaged to someone else.

  “This goes inside left elbow. Lie down. That way, if you pass out, you’re already down. There shouldn’t be much blood, but if you’re staring at the injection site, you’ll see some.”

  He glanced at her as she swung her legs up on the couch, lay down, and squeezed her eyes shut. Dammit. Not wearing much was an understatement. The lace camisole stretched so tightly that pale pink nipples were visible and fuck it, they were hardening to nubs. Cold? Desire?

  Hell. Wishful thinking. He was goddamn hallucinating. Don’t look. Not at her small, high, near-perfect mounds with the slight up-tilted peaks. His mouth watered as though he was staring at a feast and starving. Both were true, when she was the offering and when he thought of how much he wanted her. Fuck. Don’t look at the way the camisole hugs her taut, flat belly, and tapering waist.

  Fuck me to hell and back. Sexual thoughts on night one were only going to ensure thirty long nights of torture.

  “Hurry,” she said, left arm extended to him, eyes closed, oblivious that his mind was playing out a far different scene than the one she expected.

  In silent hell, he ripped open the alcohol packet. He bent to his knees on the floor, then found her pulse by running his index and middle finger along the impossibly soft skin of her inner arm, above her elbow. After swabbing her arm, he pulled the lid off the syringe.

  “Big stick.” Hah. Joke was on him. Given his erection, his words would have been amusing but for the desire that had his body on fire and his balls aching.

  She flinched as the needle went in. “Ouch! Son of a gun, Zeus. That hurts.”

  Hurts? You have no idea. Me worse than you.

  He pushed the plunger, pulled out the needle, and gritted out, “Don’t open your eyes.” After swabbing the blood and bandaging her arm, he waited a second. When he was sure she wasn’t going to bleed through the bandage, he sat down next to her. “All done.”

  She drew a deep breath, opened her eyes, and sat up.

  “Go slow,” he said, watching for signs that she’d faint. Remembering, though, that when he’d last seen her pass out it had happened so quickly there’d been no advance warning.

  She stood, waving off his concern as she shrugged back into the sweatshirt, engulfing him with a fresh waft of perfume as the material covered her. “I’m fine. I won’t pass out if I don’t see blood.”

  “Most of the time,” he whispered. She glanced at him with a startled look. God, but he’d missed her. He’d dreamed about her, and yes, he remembered every damn detail about her, every moment that they’d been together. “Sometimes you pass out from sudden standing after lying down. It happened when the lightning storm came up, when we were on the beach.” He left out the part about what they’d been doing on the beach, and the reason why they hadn’t noticed the thunderclouds building. They stood up to run for shelter, and she’d passed out. He’d caught her in the split second before she fell face down. He had to carry her off the beach.

  Now, from the raw look of pain in her eyes that she quickly concealed, he’d bet his life that she remembered exactly what he was talking about and what they’d been doing. “Still a problem?”

  “Hasn’t happened since.” As she turned from him, words he’d never had the opportunity to say suddenly needed saying. Whether she wanted to hear them or not. Before she disappeared into her bedroom, dammit.

  He jumped to his feet and started after her as she wordlessly headed for her room. Once she closed that door the window of opportunity might be lost.

  Now or never, asshole.

  He wanted—no, needed—the first night of being near her to end with one fact clear between them. He stopped a few feet away as she stepped through the doorway and turned to shut the door. Her eyes widened in surprise to see him standing so close.

  Now.

  “I’m divorced. My marriage didn’t work.”

  He’d intended for those words to come out smoother. But in the moment, there really was only one way to say what needed to be said. She froze, hand on the door handle, seemingly as shocked as he was that he’d blurted out the words. Damn, but it was impossible to read her, and that was new. When they’d been together before, she’d been hard to read, but he’d managed. It was part of what he’d loved about her. She was a challenge. Now? Not a chance.

  Dammit-to-hell, ask me why. He now knew why his decision seven years earlier had been the right one for the time, but the wrong one for his eternity.

  Having Sam give a damn why was more important than anything. Ask me why, because that’s what I need to tell you. But she didn’t say anything, and after making the first overture, he sure as hell wasn’t going to beg her to open the lines of communication.

  Instead of responding, she did what he’d have done when faced with such a potential emotional nuclear bomb fr
om anyone other than Sam. She looked at him with eyes that didn’t reveal a goddamn shred of emotion or thought, without even an eyebrow arch, and shut the door in his face.

  The solid thwap of the door brought a harsh reminder of an inescapable truth. There had been two people at his detour, and they’d both decided that going their separate ways was the correct course of action. He’d chosen the sharp turn leading away from her, but Sam had let him. She’d easily let him go, without a fight, without trying to change his mind, and she was a woman who damn well fought for what she wanted.

  The niggling half-baked thought, the one that had materialized after she threatened to cut her grandfather from her life, rose up. He tried, and failed, to squelch it before it fully materialized.

  Face facts, buddy.

  Maybe his decision to leave her hadn’t haunted her at all for the past seven fucking years. Maybe everything that had passed between them, all the things that meant so much to him, had amounted to nothing but forgettable moments to her.

  Maybe the only heart that had been irreparably broken had been his.

  Chapter Seven

  Samantha hadn’t seen that one coming. Zeus’s flat announcement had stunned her into silence. He wasn’t the failing—or quitting—type. With those words, her heart boomed the illogical beat of a hopeful fool. Yet her logical brain fired caution flares through the swirling fog of doubt that engulfed her.

  He was the reason she’d learned to use logic over her heart’s desire. So his marriage hadn’t worked out? Damn him for bringing it up.

  When had his marriage fallen apart? How long ago? Six years? Four? Yesterday? At any time between then and now he could’ve picked up the freaking phone to check to see if the information might have an impact on her life. But he hadn’t. He’d taken the opportunity to share the information only because the bastard was here. Hired by her grandfather. If Samuel hadn’t paid him to come to France to provide security, she’d have never known Jesus Hernandez’s marital status—one way or the other.

  Samantha tamped down her anger the second it started simmering. Do not react. Don’t let him know how much he gets to you.

  Shutting the door on him, a move dictated by instincts of self-preservation and brainpowered logic, was the only action she’d been capable of, though the simple move took all her strength.

  Door locked, she leaned against it, powerless. She exhaled. Inhaled. Don’t go there. Do. Not. Go. There. Their shared history produced three simple truths, each bringing varying degrees of hurt and resolve.

  One—he hadn’t chosen her and he never would. It was a painful truth, but a truth nonetheless. Sure, there had been exigent circumstances, the kind that made his decision logical. Reality was she wasn’t the kind of woman with whom he’d stay, and she’d never be that kind of woman. She wasn’t needy, and he damn well needed to be needed.

  Two—he’d been the first true love of her life. The job that he’d been hired for back then had provided enough time for them to get to know each other, before they acted on what they were both feeling. She had learned that he was strong and stoic, brave and considerate, and as determined and smart as anyone she’d ever met. She had loved to make him smile—which was something he didn’t do often. Loved to challenge him, and when she’d been in a room with him, loved the way he seemed aware of her, even when his dark eyes weren’t on her. She’d watched him fearlessly cover her grandfather when a would-be assassin fired a barrage of bullets. She had wanted him more than anyone. What he’d done after those three weeks, when the job was over, had proven that he wanted her just as badly.

  Damn.

  She shook off the heat that came with the memories of when they had first made love, without even a word. He’d just shown up at her door, unannounced. Next thing she knew, they were in bed, and they’d kept at it.

  For days.

  She shook her head, pushing those thoughts to the side. There was nothing to be done about the fact that he’d been the love of her life, except to make sure that wasn’t still the case. She didn’t have time for that kind of distraction.

  Three—he had used his only chance to break her heart. She was stronger now. More focused. He would only be a distraction, just as he’d been all those years ago. Thank God this third truth was empowering, because it cancelled out the pain that came with one and two.

  One plus two plus three equaled being as impersonal as possible with him.

  Focus on the job and I’ll get out of here with my heart intact. Life will resume. I’ll be who I am, without the distraction that inevitably comes with allowing a man to take over the precious real estate that is my heart.

  Excel, remember?

  Let your brain-fueled logic rule your life.

  Don’t be like your mother.

  Memories of her mother, and the weakness that defined her mother’s life, gave her willpower.

  Zeus’s marriage status? Irrelevant. Shutting the door between them was as explicit of a statement as she intended to give him.

  Back pressed flat against the door, she breathed a few times before the dull ache in her arm where Zeus had injected her registered more than the turmoil caused by his announcement.

  She turned sideways, pressing her ear towards the sound of his deep, low voice from the other room. Words weren’t decipherable, yet the deep timbre of his voice had a magnetic pull. God help me. Listening to the calm authority with which he spoke, she fought the urge to open the door and let him envelope her in warmth, strength, and all the in-the-moment, mind-numbing passion he was capable of offering.

  Yes, offering. Because she wasn’t stupid, and the statement “my marriage didn’t work,” while Zeus stood on the threshold of her bedroom, looking at her with an honest, intense, and hungry gaze, had nothing to do with the face value of the words. It was an invitation that screamed let’s make love.

  No. Not love. Lesson learned, remember?

  Her body didn’t care how the invitation was worded. When Zeus looked at her with those dark eyes, a simple “Let’s fuck” would do, because sex with him had been incredible.

  The best I’ve ever had.

  The best she was ever going to have, because sex with him was in the past.

  She stayed there, listening to his voice on the other side of the door, until she gathered enough energy to pull herself away. There will always be a reason he’ll leave you. Don’t give him the opportunity. Again. Never again. Do. Not.

  Clearly, by the tone of his words, he wasn’t talking to a friend to unburden his heartbreak at her response to his earthshattering announcement. It sounded like a business call.

  Wow, and ouch.

  It had taken him all of a minute to get back to business as usual. There was a lesson to be learned there. Samantha crossed the room, sat on her bed, picked up the flip phone that Zeus had given her, and speed dialed one.

  “Hello, Ms. Fairfax. I’m Agent Lenore. How may I help you?”

  She opened her laptop. “You have messages for me?”

  “Yes. We’ve let your callers know that you’re fine. Any other details, we thought it best if you provided.” He continued to other people who’d left messages or numbers in the last five hours. There were twelve. Checking the private phone that she and Justin used for their personal conversations, Samantha saw that he’d called three times.

  She glanced at her watch. It was 2:30 a.m. in Paris. 8:30 p.m. in Washington, D.C. Because the callers knew she was fine, she decided only Justin needed a return call.

  She and Justin didn’t live together. Yet. Unless he had an event that she didn’t know about, he’d be home from work, probably sitting in front of the television, watching news shows while he read through the piles of work he brought home every evening.

  He answered midway through the first ring. “Holy shit, Samantha! I’ve been worried sick. It’s about damn time you called. I’ve got the pilots on standby and was headed your way if you didn’t call in the next fifteen minutes. Figured I could have breakfast with you,
or at least see you at the lunch break. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  The concern in his deep, smooth voice brought a sudden and overwhelming reaction to Eric’s death, coupled with grief-stricken longing for Stanley Morgan’s wisdom and guidance. Her hands shook and her stomach twisted. She struggled for composure.

  If she broke down, Justin really would fly to Paris to check up on her. He was, after all, her best friend. She wasn’t a crier, but hearing his voice made her eyes sting. She’d had to swallow back tears at different times during the day. Stress, sadness, and Zeus had made it a cry-worthy freaking day.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered.

  “Is that so? You don’t sound fine.”

  “Can never fool you, can I?” Tucking the phone under her chin, she winced as a slight bit of pain from the chip-placement shot zinged up her arm as she stripped off the leggings and sweatshirt. Wearing only the camisole and panties, she slipped into the king size bed’s linen sheets and nestled under the thick comforter. Lying on her side, head resting on the soft pillow, she pulled the covers over her shoulders. “I know this line is supposed to be secure. You’ve made sure on your end?”

  With his position as senator, and her high-profile job now being even more high profile, neither wanted to take chances that their phone call could be compromised. Still, whenever they talked about anything sensitive they used their own kind of shorthand. Just in case.

  “Always. Tell me, because my mind is now going in a hundred directions, and I want to be winging my way to, apparently not so gay, Paree, right now.”

  “No. Don’t come. I’d love to see you, but there’s no need. Seriously, Justin. Here’s what’s happening…” They talked for a half-hour, covering Eric’s death, the Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing, President Cameron’s call, and her grandfather’s insistence that she resign. Justin’s smooth, deep voice soothed her as much as his words.