by Kylie Brant
She resumed trickling water over his chest. "Is he in the same line of work as you?"
"He's a police detective." With a neat verbal sidestep he managed to skirt addressing part of her question. "One of the youngest to make grade in his department. We were all so damn proud. With his talent for investigation, I always knew he'd be a cop or a criminal. He had a talent for blackmail when we were kids. Don't remember how many times I had to pay him off to keep quiet about one of my misdeeds."
There was something about the cadence of his speech, she thought, that reminded her of the deep south. "Why do I have the feeling that you kept him pretty solvent throughout childhood?"
He tipped his head back and pressed a kiss to her chin. "It's that suspicious mind of yours. I don't know where you got such a low opinion of me. I've been a perfect gentleman." His statement might not have been so outrageous if he hadn't been stroking her upper thigh, his fingers grazing her intimately.
Pushing his hand away, she observed, "Perfection is so often in the eye of the beholder." The pinch her words, elicited was almost worth it. "And I won't even comment on the gentleman…" Her words trailed off as a phone rang, her gaze going from one phone to the other. Sam reacted more quickly, straightening in the; tub so suddenly that the water splashed over the edge. Swiping his hand on a towel, he grabbed one of the phones and answered it tersely.
It was a moment before she recognized the phone that he'd answered was his personal one. And when his body sagged, leeching his muscles of strength, she found herself hoping, more than was comfortable, that it was relief causing it. His next words confirmed it.
"But he's going to be okay?" He listened, then chuckled, a sound she'd never heard from him before. "Yeah, that sounds like him. I'm not worried about it. Stick Ana by his bedside and let him try to get by her."
She was prepared for the wide grin on his face when he set the phone down, but not for the bone-crushing hug he caught her in immediately afterward. "I'm glad your brother is all right," she managed, despite her strangled lungs.
"He's a tough one. Dug three bullets out of his chest and he's already bitching about getting back to work. Guess since I'm not there to wait on him he figures there's no point in staying in bed."
There was, she was almost certain, a compliment to the man somewhere in there. "Sounds a lot like his brother. How long did the wound in your leg keep you down?"
He shrugged off her question. "Mine was from a knife, not a bullet." Leaning down, he nipped at her neck. "The doctor did recommend regular sexual activity as therapy." They were kneeling in the tub, facing each other, and his hands were sliding over her hips. Lower.
"That's uh … interesting advice," she gasped, as his fingers encroached on a very sensitive area. "I doubt it's made it to the medical journals."
He cupped his hands in the water and dribbled it down her chest. "That's where you come in." His words held a laugh, although his expression was sober enough. "You could help me with the research." His fingers slicked over her breasts, circling the nipples, before pausing to roll them between his thumbs and forefingers. "Purely in the interest of medicine, of course."
There was a huge knot in her throat, making it impossible to swallow. "Of course." The tiny drops of water clinging to his collarbone were a temptation she couldn't resist. Leaning forward, she licked them off. This lighthearted approach to sex was unfamiliar to her, as unfamiliar as the sudden rush of pleasure that threatened to swamp her system.
"Never let it be said—" she scraped her fingernail lightly across his nipple, watched him react "—that I refused to do my part for science."
A tiny alarm sounded in her mind, where reason was rapidly receding, reminding her of the vow she'd made earlier. It was easily quieted. This wasn't so dangerous. Not really. Languidly, she smoothed her hands over his chest, tracing bone and sinew with fingertips moments before she followed with her lips. Surely a moment out of time wasn't so much to ask when moments were all they had to offer one another.
She dodged the dart of pain that accompanied the thought and focused on the sensations careening inside her. He had quick, clever hands, and had already learned the places on her body that made her weak, turned her boneless. She caught her breath when he took the lobe of her ear between his teeth, then turned her head, nipped at his jaw. Her hands slipped lower in the water and found him, hard and ready. When her fingers closed around his length, his hips jerked, and she gave a slow smile. It wasn't quite fair that all he had to do was slick his tongue down her throat to shoot her pulse to riot. Evidence of his response somehow balanced the scales. She tilted her head to give him better access and slid her fingers along his hardness, up and down in a slippery dance that had his jaw clenching, his muscles tensing.
His arm banded around her back, quick and sneaky, while his mouth crushed down on her. It was hot, greedy, with enough bite to send the blood sizzling under her skin. She rubbed against him, enjoying the delicious friction of wet flesh sliding against wet flesh. She could taste his desperation as his lips twisted against hers, a wild primitive flavor that made the blood chug through her veins.
This exultant passion was new, unexpected. Sensation slapped against sensation as they pressed together, fighting to get closer. Then his hand swept down her thigh, between her legs, and he gave her more. With her mouth still captured beneath his he plunged his fingers into her, swallowing the cry that sprang from her lips as he drove her up. Then higher.
Her climax ripped through her, a violent shock to the system that left her shattered and weak. It should have been fulfilling, would have been, had he not kept driving, pushing her further.
Satisfaction melded into renewed hunger. She wanted, as she'd never wanted before. Needed him where she was still throbbing, wet and aching. Her fingers slid down, found the heavy sac below his manhood and explored him, felt him tighten at her touch.
Then he was pulling her to her feet, water splashing precariously over the edge of the tub. With one hand he reached behind him, searched blindly, and she leaned toward him, scraped her teeth over his flat nipple. The planes of his chest begged to be caressed. His narrow hips and hard masculine buns invited exploration.
But he was past the point of teasing. He sat on the edge of the seat in the tub, pulled her between his legs with hands that stopped just short of rough. She balanced her hands on his wide shoulders, taking a moment to savor the picture he made, to store it away in her memory. Skin slicked with moisture, narrow poet's face etched with desire. Then she straddled him, taking him inside her an inch at a time.
He felt thick, huge. His earlier ministrations had left her delicate inner tissues swollen, and she rocked gently on his lap, each movement taking him a little deeper. When she was fully impaled by that hard length she remained motionless for a moment, searching for a semblance of control that seemed far out of reach.
But in the next instant he clutched her hips, drove himself upward in an action that sent thoughts of restraint spinning away. There was only the rhythmic pumping of his hips, each motion burying him inside her more completely. There was a moment's panic, at having her senses, her body invaded so totally. She managed to drag her eyelids open, focus on him. His head was thrown back, his teeth bared as if in the throes of exquisite agony. She captured his bottom lip in her teeth ungently, and his hand slipped between their bodies. As he fondled her, the heel of his palm pressed against her lower belly in a constant steady pressure that had her writhing against him, demanding, and receiving more.
And this time, when the pleasure swept her up and over that jagged edge, she took him with her.
Juliette took her time dressing, fixing her hair. It gave her a chance to steady nerves that were still skipping and pulsing. Just thinking about those long moments lying collapsed and spent against Sam, feeling the shudders wrack his body, was enough to send a new skitter through her system. She needed time … to wedge a safe distance between them again.
It hadn't occurred to her until later th
at he must have brought a condom in with him when he'd retrieved the other phone. The sheer sexual confidence imbued in the action would have annoyed if it hadn't proved justified. She ought to be glad he'd thought of it. It was doubtful either of them were thinking clearly enough to have made it to the bedroom. She was used to taking physical risks, but had always been careful to avoid such intensely personal ones.
She looked in the mirror, examining her flawless makeup critically. Clothes and makeup could be an effective tool for shoring up defenses. She preferred not to dwell on the reason she felt the need for both.
Sam was on the couch wearing only a pair of jeans and an unbuttoned shirt. His bare feet were propped on a century-old marble-topped table, a fresh glass of Scotch on the matching table beside him.
She gave his feet a pointed look, one that faded when she saw the expression on his face. His countenance was contemplative, and there was a look in his eye, a glint of resolve that filled her with a sense of foreboding.
An innate feminine instinct had her skirting the couch and seating herself in the armchair across from him. She took more time than necessary crossing her legs, smoothing her dress, before coolly meeting his gaze with her own. "You look deep in thought."
He nodded, reached for his glass and took a drink. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you."
Her pulse jittered oddly, but she merely skimmed her brows upward. "Really."
"I was wondering what you were going to do. When this is over."
She didn't answer for a moment. Couldn't. It wasn't as if she hadn't been longing for that time, when she could go forward with her life without his interference. But the thought of returning to her time line brought her no satisfaction right now. And she blamed the man sitting before her for that. "I had plans long before I met you. They still need to be implemented."
"You mean you'll keep targeting Oppenheimer."
Something in that cold flat tone of his made her eye him carefully. Whatever he'd been thinking about while he sat out here alone hadn't pleased him. "I don't think either of us are in a position to be completely open with each other, are we?"
"On the contrary, I'm willing to share some information with you that you'll find interesting." He rattled the ice in his glass. "You haven't said much, but I'm assuming there's something personal at stake between you and our mutual quarry." His remark lodged with unerring accuracy somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. "So I'm wondering what you're going to do when he's no longer available."
It would have been far easier to look away. She refused to even blink. She'd considered the possibility, of course, especially once she'd reached the conclusion about who Sam was working for. Her time line was going to have to be sped up. It wasn't strict adherence to the schedule that mattered most, at any rate. It was the end result that counted. Her words didn't lack confidence when she said, "My plans are flexible."
He leaned forward then, speared her with a look. "You're going to continue to target him while he's in prison? Or in a coffin? Because that's where he's going, you know. One way or the other, he's going down. And it won't be long now. Miles called a few minutes ago. Headquarters has decoded the information in the file, and it's the evidence we've been looking for."
Her chest abruptly hollowed out. It hadn't been three days at all. Their time together was over. She took a fortifying breath. Well, she'd known this time was coming. And it was probably best that they separate now. Cleaner. Things had taken on a sense of urgency once she learned that the CIA was targeting Oppenheimer, as well. The knowledge called for a change in strategy, a fast-forward speed to reach her goal.
Sam was still speaking, in that flat expressionless voice she was quickly coming to detest. "He should be in custody by tomorrow. So I'm asking you, once he's out of the way, will your risk-taking be over, or are you merely going to move on to another patsy?"
His words seemed to come from a distance. Everything inside her violently rejected his first statement. "No … you said you were investigating him." She almost trembled with the effort it took to remain still. To keep her voice steady. "It will take time to put everything together. Weeks, at least."
The slow shake of his head negated her words, and sent panic sprinting up her spine. "We've long suspected that he's been selling arms to terrorist groups all over the world. All we needed was proof. The file gave us that. He's been smuggling the arms by water. The file contained dates of shipments and the names of his customers." He gave a humorless smile. "We would have had a witness, but he wound up dead.
People who cross Oppenheimer tend to end up that way."
If there was a warning in his words, it was wasted on her. She knew too well what the man was capable of. Had waited too long to make him pay for just one of his many crimes. She wasn't going to allow that opportunity to be snatched away. Not now. Not when she was so close.
Surging to her feet, she circled the chair, clutched the back of it tightly. ' T just need a little more time. Then you can do what you want with him." A note had entered her voice that came uncomfortably close to pleading. Hearing it, hating it, she hardened her tone. "He's guilty of a great many things, Sam. And I'm going to be the one to make him pay for one of them."
"Why you?" There was genuine concern threading his words. She knew, if she looked at his face, she'd see it reflected there, as well. "What in God's name did he do to you?"
Slowly she lifted her gaze from her white-knuckled grip on the chair to meet his eyes. "He murdered my mother."
* * *
Chapter 12
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It was amazing, Juliette thought, how quickly icy calm had followed her earlier panic. The emotion was infinitely preferable to the pain that could rear from the memory, ripping at her heart with great fanged jaws.
But it was still harder than it should have been to continue to meet Sam's gaze, to see the inevitable questions in his eyes. She'd never felt the need to provide the answers to anyone before. But if he was right, all her plans, years in the making, were at risk. There'd be no satisfaction in having Oppenheimer in prison or dead before she'd completed what she'd set out to do. First he had to lose everything. Bitterness curled through her stomach. It was only just. He'd robbed her of that. He'd stolen her childhood, slicing away that time of innocence and showing her what it was to live in constant fear. He'd destroyed her family. Killed her mother.
Her fingers curled into fists. Sam could do what he wanted to the man, but only after she'd destroyed him, and let him know just who had been stealing everything he most prized over the years. It was little enough to ask, she thought. And she wouldn't be denied it.
First, though, the man before her would have to be convinced. Time had just become a priceless commodity. And Sam Tremaine could grant her that time. If she could just make him understand what was at stake.
Her voice when it came sounded rusty. "You guessed once that I was from America. I was certain there were no traces of the U.S. in my accent."
"There aren't, usually. Your French accent is flawless. There's just a certain flatness to the vowels when you're under stress." He stopped when she glared at him, and shrugged. "I'm trained to notice things like that."
It was ridiculous to allow that to smart, so she ignored the reaction. "My grandmother was from a well-to-do French family, although they lost much of their wealth in the war. She married an American soldier and after the war they went to America, settled down. My mother was born in Pittsburgh, and that's where I grew up, too."
It was difficult to keep the emotion from creeping into her voice, into her heart. Firmly, she banished it. The only feeling that had served her for the past decade was the thirst for revenge. There was no room in her life for more.
She managed a brisk tone as she went on. "I never knew my father. He died when I was three. We lived with my grandmother as long as I can remember. My grandfather had died before I was born. The summer I was nine my grandmother took us to France to
show us her homeland. We visited what was left of her family's properties. But it was in Paris that my mother met Hans Oppenheimer."
For just a moment she wished for the drink still sitting within Sam's reach. "My grandmother didn't approve of him. And when she saw how quickly my mother fell for him, her disapproval grew. She did everything she could to keep them apart." Juliette still remembered the arguments, a new frightening development in her young life. Her mother and grandmother had never disagreed about anything before that she could remember. But Oppenheimer had changed everything. "When grandmother went back to America, my mother and I stayed."
The recollection of those early days seemed almost surreal. Things had changed quickly, violently, later, but she could still remember how happy her mother had been at first. How full of joy and fun. She'd believed in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. For a while, Juliette had, too.
"We started traveling with him, and it wasn't long before we all lived together." And that, she thought, as nerves knotted in her stomach, was when things began to alter. "He grew jealous and demanding. Then he became abusive. He's a man who enjoys possessing things. We were his possessions, at least she was. And I was a tool to keep her in line."
"She could have left," he murmured, not unsympathetically. "That was no place for an impressionable kid."
Although he was wrong, it meant more than it should have that his first concern was for her, for the child she'd been. "She tried to, three times that I remember. The farthest we ever got was to the street. He had people everywhere, and we'd be brought back. Then I wouldn't see her for days after. But I'd hear her. Hear what he did to her behind locked doors."
Her palms had gone damp in the retelling. She rubbed them on the fabric of the chair she was still clutching. "We were in a strange country, with no money and no friends. Neither of us spoke the language. My grandmother grew alarmed when she didn't hear from us and came back to France to see us. She was beginning to make trouble for Oppenheimer, so he had her put away. The sanitarium he selected was secure and it was discreet." And if keeping a sane woman drugged and tied to her bed had bothered the owner's conscience, that small upset had been soothed by the large monthly payments he received in return.
