Kelly’s heart sank as he led his friends inside. Her unspoken apology was apparently not accepted.
“Are you . . . alone?”
Tom looked up from one of the new computers that had arrived just that morning. He and Jazz, Sam, and Locke had set them up in this room in the east wing of the Ashton’s enormous house.
Their new headquarters had once been the Ashton’s music room—it still held a grand piano they’d pushed into the corner. They’d moved in tables and desks and a bunch of corkboards from an office supply store.
Joe and Charles had spent a good hour using pushpins to tack up all the pictures Tom had of the Merchant.
“Yeah,” Tom said, spinning in his chair to face Kelly. “I’m alone.”
She came in cautiously. As if she wasn’t sure of her welcome.
“Where’d they all go?”
He leaned back, looking at her. She was wearing a sundress with a tiny flower print. With her hair up off her shoulders she looked cool and sweet. Almost angelic.
“Your father’s taking a nap on the deck. Joe’s sitting with him. My team’s just gone out to get familiar with the town, particularly the hotel and the marina. Locke’s probably going to check out the church tower. One of the tricks to stopping a terrorist attack is to occupy all the good sniper positions.”
“I thought you said this Merchant guy specializes in car bombs.”
“He does. I’m just covering all the bases.”
“Alyssa Locke and Jazz both called you . . . was it L.T.?”
Tom nodded. “It’s short for Lieutenant. It’s a little more respectful than Tom, not as formal as sir.”
She moved farther into the room, looking at the pictures on the boards, looking at the computers. “This is . . . pretty intense.”
“Do you want something, Kelly?” he asked abruptly. “Because I’m in the middle of trying to track down a van.”
She gazed at him, her eyes wide. It wasn’t her innocent face. This one was for real. She was uncertain, a little afraid. “Yes, I wanted to . . . talk to you. I had the opportunity this morning to do a little research about patients who’ve suffered feelings of paranoia caused by severe head injuries.”
“Ah,” he said. “You’re here as a doctor.”
She shook her head. “No, I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’m here as your friend.”
He didn’t say a word. He just waited for her to go on, torturing himself by watching the way the light from the windows gleamed on the smoothness of her shoulders.
“The more I read,” Dr. Ashton continued—it helped if he thought of her as Dr. Ashton, “the more I was convinced.” She took a step toward him. “I really don’t think that’s what’s going on with you, Tom. The paranoia most patients experience is less specific than what you described to me. It’s more like waves of anxiety and vague feelings of persecution. I didn’t see a single mention of the kind of severe condition that actually has people seeing a specific threat—and especially not a threat to people besides themselves. Paranoia generally means someone’s after you. The way you described it, this guy doesn’t even know you’re here.”
“So either my case is so unusual, I should be written up in a medical journal, or—”
Kelly took another step toward him. “Or you’re not paranoid. Maybe you really did see the Merchant. I’ve been thinking about this all day and I think you should do more than this.” She gestured around the room. “I think you should call someone. Tell the authorities that you’ve seen this man here in Baldwin’s Bridge.”
She was close enough now for him to smell her subtle perfume.
“Yeah, well, I’ve already made that call,” he told her. “I did it right away. But no one’s taking me seriously. And if I persist in calling for help, I’ll be putting my career in jeopardy. There’s that rear admiral I told you about—Tucker. He’s been after my ass for years. I have no doubt that he’d try to use this situation to force my retirement.” He laughed in disgust. “Now that sounds like feelings of persecution, doesn’t it? But it’s true. Admiral Crowley said as much to my face. He’s the one who warned me to back off.”
“How about the FBI, then? Can you call them?”
“Yeah, I might do that. There’s also a guy I know in the SAS. I’m waiting to see if I can find any concrete proof the Merchant is here, though. Because if my own superiors don’t believe me, why should anyone else, you know?”
“This must be hard for you,” she said softly.
Tom stood up. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “When you’re my team doctor, that’s when we talk. But when we’re lovers, all we do is—”
“I want us to be friends,” she said, flushing slightly.
“That’s not the way I understood it. You told me last night all you wanted was to—”
“I also came to apologize,” she said. “Last night I—”
Tom moved closer to her. “Apology accepted. Because you know, you were right.”
He stopped hardly a foot away from her. He was close enough to see it all in her eyes. Everything she was feeling. Anxiety. Hope. Desire.
Desire.
He knew Kelly had come here because she could no more stay away from him than he could stay away from her.
This conversation was just an excuse—a way to get her in the door. She didn’t really want to talk to him. She was here because she wanted him, wanted sex. She was just too damned polite to admit it.
Tom touched her. Just one finger down the side of her face.
She trembled and he knew he was right.
“We’ve got a few weeks,” he told her, told himself, too. “Let’s not waste a second.”
He kissed her, and she exploded, kissing him back furiously, frantically, almost knocking him off his feet.
Jesus, had she really thought that if she came to him, wanting him so desperately, he’d actually send her away?
He kissed her harder, deeper, and she was right there, pushing him to the max. Her arms were locked around him, her body close to his. He pressed his thigh between her legs and she rubbed herself against him.
No, he wasn’t crazy enough to push her away. And now that he understood, now that he knew exactly what she wanted, he was going to give her just that, and nothing more. Yeah, from now on, he was going to keep his heart to himself.
This time, and for ever after, it was going to be just sex.
Tom pulled down the top of her dress, and the elastic straps that held it up gave just enough to expose her breasts, pushing them up and out into his hands, his mouth.
He felt her hands on the velcro fastener at the waist of his shorts, felt it give, too, felt her reach for him, find him. Yes . . .
But, God, the door was wide open. Anyone could walk in. Still, she’d had the opportunity to close and lock it when she came in. Maybe she’d wanted it open. She liked risk—she’d told him so.
But being caught with his pants down by his teammates—or Kelly’s father—wasn’t quite Tom’s idea of fun.
However, there was a closet in the room. It was a walkin, filled with overcoats and out-of-style suits that Charles Ashton would never wear again. A closet could be very, very much fun.
Tom dragged her toward it, pulled her inside. It was dark and airless and smelled of mothballs.
But damn, the door didn’t latch. The ocean air had warped the old wood and it hung slightly open, letting in just enough light and barely enough air and an enormous amount of highly charged risk. Anyone could still walk in.
But Kelly kissed him again so urgently, Tom didn’t give a damn.
She pushed down his shorts as he pulled up her skirt and then—
She wasn’t wearing any underwear.
She moaned as he touched her slick heat, pushing herself down to drive his fingers more deeply inside her.
“Please,” she breathed, and pressed a condom into his hand. She must’ve had it in the pocket of her skirt.
No underwear. A condom. The wom
an had come here prepared.
For sex. Only sex.
She kissed him again, and again he found he didn’t care.
Tom swiftly covered himself and lifted her into his arms. She pulled her long skirt out of the way as she gripped him with her legs and then, yes, yes, he was inside of her.
She moaned her pleasure as she clung to him, as he drove himself fiercely into her, setting both a pace and rhythm that was on the verge of too rough.
“More,” she gasped. “I want more.”
Yeah, she’d told him that, too, that she liked it a little wild, a little bit rough.
Tom pushed her up against the back wall of the closet for leverage, thrusting deeply inside of her. She gasped. Maybe too deeply. “Don’t you goddamn let me hurt you,” he rasped.
“You’re not, oh, God, please Tom, you’re not—”
“ ’Lo?”
He froze. Kelly froze, too, staring directly into Tom’s eyes.
Someone had come into the office.
“He’s not here.” It was Ensign Starrett’s familiar Texas drawl.
Tom and Kelly were surrounded on both sides by winter coats wrapped in plastic. If he tried to pull her back, farther into the shadows, that plastic would crinkle loudly, giving them away. It was better just to not move. To stay completely still. With his body buried deep inside her.
God.
Tom felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back.
“Are you sure? I could’ve sworn I heard voices.” Locke was in the office, too.
Kelly was still gazing into his eyes. But then, slowly, she leaned forward to kiss him.
“Tom? Hey, Tommy, you hiding beneath the desk or inside that there piano?” Starrett laughed. “Nope, he’s not here.”
It was a slow kiss, a deliberately languid kiss, a white-hot but completely silent kiss.
The sweat down his back turned into a river.
Locke snorted. “That’s obvious. Like you’d ever dare call your CO Tommy to his face.”
Just as silently, Kelly pulled back. Gazing into her eyes, Tom could see heat. She actually liked this. She actually wanted . . .
So he moved. Slowly. Silently. Out. And in.
And Kelly smiled, catching her lower lip between her teeth, deep pleasure in her eyes. Oh, yeah, she liked this.
“We’re actually pretty tight,” Starrett said. “Me an’ ol’ Tommy.”
“Right. Just grab the map. Jazz is waiting in the car.”
Tom did, too. He liked it, too. So he did it again. Just as infinitesimally slowly. Nearly all the way out.
“At least Tom knows I’ve had experience shooting more than paper targets, sweetheart.”
Locke’s voice was tight. “I know we’ve been told to dispense with rank and respect due to the covert nature of this assignment, but from now on, when we’re alone, Ensign, you will address me as ma’am or Lieutenant. Is that clear?”
And all, all, all the way back in. Kelly made the start of a small noise and Tom kissed her, covering her mouth with his, swallowing the sound.
“Yes, ma’am.” Starrett’s surly voice faded as they left the room.
And just in time.
Because Kelly was coming. Right there, around him. In slow motion. He could feel her body’s release as he kept that erotically, decadently, intensely slow movement.
She was trying hard to be quiet, but the small sounds she was making were enough to push him over the edge.
He moved faster—he couldn’t help himself. His own release came with a rush of sensation, a flash of light, the roar of his blood surging through his veins.
Sex. It was sex. Just sex.
And once again, it was incredible sex.
Tom knew he should feel glad. He should feel sated and pleased that this beautiful woman had come to him, that she so obviously had wanted him, that she hadn’t been able to stay away.
And hey, this was great. He didn’t have to take her to dinner. He didn’t have to say another word to her.
He could just clean himself up as best he could, fasten his pants, and walk away.
He almost did it. He almost made it out the door without uttering a single syllable.
But he made the mistake of turning around and looking back at her, still leaning there against the closet wall, still breathing hard, dress rumpled, hair mussed. And he wanted her. He still wanted her. It was physiologically impossible for him to have her again. Not this soon. And yet . . .
“Unlock the screens to the French doors in your bedroom,” Tom told her, his voice still unsteady, “if you want me up there tonight.”
She gazed at him. “Tom, please, can we—”
He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to talk. It was, after all, her rule. “No,” he said, and got out of there, fast.
Seventeen
“ARE THEY AWFUL?”
“I didn’t look at them,” David said as he stepped back to let Mallory into his apartment. He had the air-conditioning on in anticipation of tonight’s photo shoot, so he closed the door tightly behind her.
“You didn’t? Why not?” She looped her fanny pack over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
“Because they’re your photos. You should be the one who sees them first.” This past day had been torture. As he’d worked, he’d seen only glimpses of Mallory taking pictures with his camera around the hotel. And then when he’d finally had the afternoon off, she’d been on at the Ice Cream Shoppe. He’d gone in, ordered a cone, and watched her work as he’d eaten it. He’d gotten a cup of coffee, too, and sketched her as it had cooled. He’d stretched it into two hours, but he was so afraid of being creepy. Of being David Sullivan, the stalker.
“You didn’t even peek?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Honestly? Not even a little?”
He laughed as he handed her the pack of photos. “No. You look at them, and if you decide you want me to see—”
“I want you to see them. I wouldn’t have minded if you’d checked them out.”
Why was she looking at him like that? Her eyes were soft, and as he gazed back at her she turned away as if she was suddenly uncertain or . . . shy. Mallory Paoletti, shy?
“So how was work?” she asked as she sat down at his kitchen table and opened the pack of pictures, pulling them out and flipping quickly through them. “I was thinking about how tired you must’ve been all day—after working all those extra shifts in a row, after getting almost no sleep that night I came in and woke you up.”
David slowly sat down next to her, struggling to understand, afraid to misinterpret. Had she meant she’d been thinking about him all day, or that he must’ve been tired all day? It couldn’t have been the first. Could it?
“It was okay,” he said. “I’m a little tired, but I made a lot of money from tips. I don’t have to work in the morning, but the boss wants me to come in for the lunch shift tomorrow. One of the room service waiters quit and they’re short staffed.”
A week ago he would’ve jumped at the chance to make the extra money. Now all he could think was if he worked during lunch, he wouldn’t be able to meet Mallory at the Ice Cream Shoppe and have a sandwich with her by the marina. He’d missed doing that these past two days. Funny how quickly lunch had become his favorite time of day. Of course, right now, now was his favorite time of day, too, since she was finally here.
“Room service,” she said. “Cool. Are you going to do it? Take bottles of champagne up to all those lonely millionaires’ wives who’re looking for a little action while their elderly husbands are out fishing or playing golf?” She imitated a breathy, high-class voice, “Hello, room service? This is Mrs. Megabucks in room 260. I’d like a triple order of caviar, and can you send it up with that attractive David Sullivan and his great, big, enormous . . .”
She glanced up at him, her eyes gleaming, and David found himself thinking, shy. Where on earth had he gotten the impression earlier that she was suddenly shy?
“Tray,” she
finished, laughing.
It was too late. He was already blushing.
“You thought I was going to say something else, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Actually, with you, Nightshade, I always expect the extraordinary. I wouldn’t dream of trying to second-guess you. You’re far too unique.”
“Too much of a freak.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I mean that you’re special. I think you’re incredible and . . .”
Oh, God, way to go. Nothing like screwing up their friendship by cluing her in to the fact that he was completely infatuated. He grabbed her pictures and began looking through them, bracing himself, ready for her to make some excuse and leave. She had to go clean the bottom of her garbage can. She had to go brush her cat’s teeth. She had to . . . Or maybe she wouldn’t take the excuse route. Maybe she’d stay, but give him the Friendship Speech. “Gee, I really like you, David, and I’m so glad we’re friends. Friends. Let me say that again in case you didn’t hear. Ferrr-ennn-ddd-sss.”
But when he glanced up at her, she was looking at him in that same odd way that she’d been looking at him before. “That’s really nice,” she said softly.
And then she did it. At least he thought she did it. At the very least—and probably far more likely—he only imagined she did it. Her gaze dropped for just a split second to his mouth before she smiled and looked away.
According to every body language book in the world, that meant she wanted him to kiss her. Except, of course, if he’d only imagined it. Then it meant that he’d imagined she wanted him to kiss her. Two vastly different conclusions.
He looked down at the photos in his hands. She’d taken pictures of people. In and around the lobby of the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel. She’d used the zoom lens, so they were all candids, taken without the subjects’ awareness of her presence.
She’d caught a distinguished-looking man with his finger up his nose. A woman, her face contorted with anger as she spoke on a pay phone. A little girl, dreamily lost within the pages of an open book. A man checking in at the registration desk, holding tightly on to the rolling cart filled with luggage, caught in a tug of war as a bellboy tried to take it away. Several shots of David as he’d worked, smiling as he stopped to talk with an elderly man, Mr. Torrence. She must’ve taken them through the restaurant window.
The Unsung Hero Page 31
