by Eva Charles
“Sit,” he says gently, but firmly.
I’m not sure what to do, so I sit my backside on the edge of the chair.
“Do you need me to do something?” I ask, hoping he’ll give me an assignment that requires all my attention so I don’t spend the day thinking about what I’m going to tell Gray.
Smith chuckles. “Yeah. I need you to tell me what’s on your mind.”
Of course you do. “Not a lot. You know me.” Sweet Jesus, that sounded stupid.
“I do know you. You’re not an airhead. And you don’t beat around the bush. You plow straight through it. So cut the bullshit and tell me what’s going on.”
I’m fresh out of pep talks for myself. Exhausted from weighing the pros and cons about working with Gray again, albeit in a different capacity. And I’m bone-tired of justifying to myself why I deserve a chance to do work that I love, even if it’s temporary. I have to do this. Not because of some picture that I’m afraid of, but because I will regret it if I don’t. My life is already too full of regret.
When I glance at Smith, my left eye twitches, but I press on. “I need some time off. Like a leave of absence—or something.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and the silence is so heavy it’s suffocating.
“I’ll be gone a month, maybe a bit longer.”
“You sick?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s nothing like that. I—I’ve been offered an opportunity—that I’d like to accept. It’s not something I’m free to talk about.” There. I said it. But I don’t feel any better.
Smith eyes me suspiciously while I try not to squirm. “The agency call you to come back?”
Even as he asks, I hear the disbelief in his voice. He knows the agency would never call me back. The director himself made it clear they were done with me. You’re no good to us as a covert operative now, Special Agent Porter. I could put you behind a desk, but you won’t be happy. I’m sorry this happened to you.
I blink away the memory. “No. It’s something different.” I take a long breath. “It’s all legal—as legal as this shit can be—but I’m not at liberty to say anything more.” I don’t actually know anything more. Not really.
Smith is quiet.
As well as I know him, I can’t read him right now. This was a mistake. That I do know. “I realize this is bad timing—I had actually changed my mind about asking you because I know this isn’t a great time to be asking for time off.”
“It’s actually not a bad time at all. We’re in a transition period. That’s not what concerns me.” He captures my gaze and holds it steady. “Are you sure about this? Are you certain it’s something you want to get involved with?”
No. I’m not at all sure. I’m not nervous about the work. I would love the opportunity to be part of a covert operation again. Love it. I live for the opportunity. But I am terrified of the man running the op. There’s no denying it. Not to Smith, and not to myself. “Before I answer, can I ask you a question?”
He sits back in the chair. “I’m listening.”
“As you branch out and Sinclair Industries takes on more covert operations—will there ever be an opportunity for me to work in the field?” I know the answer. I just need to hear him say it.
“You work in the field now.”
“Not like that. Undercover. The way I did at Wildflower. The way I was trained.”
He shifts in his chair. “Delilah. You’re damn good at what you do, and you are, hands down, the most important and trusted member of my team.” His brow is drawn tight, and even though he knows I won’t be surprised, it pains him to deliver the news. “But I won’t lie to you. I don’t see how I can put you undercover again. You were outed publicly. Your face—your story—it doesn’t take much digging to put it together. We were confident that no one at Wildflower would look hard at you. That’s why I put you there. It would have to be something like that—something unique—I can’t even think of what it might be.”
I nod, staring at my hands, squeezing the fingers I’ve laced together until they ache. “I don’t know the full extent of the operation. But it seems like it would challenge me and—and that it might be one of those unique opportunities where my past won’t be an issue.”
I glance up at him. I need to see what’s in his eyes. In his soul. I need the connection—and in a way I don’t really understand, I need his blessing. “It’s hard,” I continue, “so hard to say this. It feels like such an enormous betrayal, but yes, I’d like to do it. I might never get another chance.”
It’s true. Every word. Even if Gray weren’t involved—if the CIA or the FBI or the NSA or any of them, came to me with the proposition that Gray laid at my feet, I would do it in a heartbeat. At least, I would want to. “I don’t want to leave you in the lurch. That’s my only hesitation.” There’s Gray too, of course, but I don’t tell Smith that.
“It would require you to start right away?”
I nod.
He drums his fingers on the desk. “If you want to do it—if you feel it’s important, I won’t stand in your way.”
It’s not exactly a blessing, but close enough. “This should make me happy, but I feel bad.”
“I’m the one who feels bad,” Smith says softly. “You’ve brought so much to my team, but I haven’t given enough thought to what the work has given you.”
“It’s given me plenty—so much.”
“Maybe. But not enough. For people like us, the challenge is what fuels us. It wears you down if you feel like your skills aren’t being fully utilized. I know that feeling well.”
“Smith—”
“Go. Do what you need to do, then come back—if that’s what you want. There will always be a place for you here. But if you don’t do it, if you stay, you’ll get fat and sloppy from being insufficiently challenged. It’ll wear on your soul and you’ll be a risk to yourself and to the team.”
Anger, or maybe pride, is bubbling up and it tastes rancid. “I would never—”
“Not intentionally, but it would happen, eventually. Now that it’s out in the open, I can’t afford the risk. Neither can you.”
“So I can come back when the mission is over?” He’s already said as much, but I need to hear it again.
“I hope you do come back. But that’s up to you. You need to feed your soul, Delilah, and as much as I’ll miss your sassy mouth, I want that for you.”
Smith gets up, and I stand too. “Thank you. I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for me.”
He comes around the desk and wraps me in his arms. We’re close, but he’s never hugged me before. I press my eyelids together firmly, until the sting of tears dissipates.
Smith releases me, but keeps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “If at any point the operation goes south—at any point—or if you just want out, you call me.”
I don’t dare look at him, because the dam will open, releasing a flood the likes of which we’ve never seen.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Promise me, Delilah.”
My chest aches. There haven’t been many people in my life who have given a damn about my well-being.
Smith squeezes, again. “Promise me.”
I cover his loyal hand with mine, and clutch it tightly. “I promise.”
10
Gray
“Come in.” I glance up from the screen as Foxy marches into my office, like the taskmaster she is, carrying a tray that she sets down on my desk.
“I had the kitchen send over breakfast.”
“I already had breakfast.”
“Yes. I know. A protein shake.” She rolls her eyes, not bothering to hide her disapproval. Something most people who want to continue to work for me wouldn’t dare do. But Maggie Fox isn’t most people. She’s been with me since long before I took over at Wildflower. Saved my ass more times than I can count. That’s not hyperbole.
“Eggs and an English muffin isn’t going to ruin your girlish figure,” she snaps, lifting the silver dome off a
n omelet.
“Keep it covered. I’ll have it later.” Foxy knows it’s a lie, but she reads my mood, and holds her tongue.
I take another glance at the tray. “No coffee?”
“You’ve had enough.”
I don’t utter a word, but I glare at her until she understands that I’ve about had my fill of insolence.
I’m edgy, but it has nothing to do with coffee and everything to do with a smart-mouthed blonde who should be terminating her employment with Smith about now. But with Delilah, who knows what she’s actually doing? The woman makes me crazy.
After Foxy collects the contents of my outbox, she turns to leave, and I go back to studying a spreadsheet with the monthly expenses. “When you get back to your office, have them send over a fresh carafe. Please.” I add the nicety, because she means well, and I’m not a total dick.
“You’ve been jittery and irritable from the moment you arrived. It’s a bad look. You need some food to counteract the effects of the five cups of coffee you’ve already enjoyed this morning, not more of the same.”
It’s six, but who’s counting. “Is there something else you need before you go back to your desk and kindly order me some coffee?”
“Eat,” she mutters, shutting the door behind her.
“Coffee,” I bark before the door latches.
No matter how many times I review this motherfucking spreadsheet, I can’t make sense of it today. And the stench of eggs isn’t helping. Damn Foxy. I get up and dump the tray on the credenza across the room.
Delilah will contact me. Any minute now. I’m confident about that. The truth is she wants what I’m offering—all of it. She needs it too. Although I’m not convinced she understands that part yet.
I sink back into my chair and glance at the phone. Thirty-seven emails in the last forty-five minutes. Not one worthy of my time. The phone lights up, but it’s not her, so the call goes to voicemail, where I’ll deal with it later, or Foxy will.
Time is a bitch for those who wait. Shakespeare was right, and nothing’s changed since then.
I push aside the spreadsheet, and check my phone again.
Hopefully I haven’t made a mistake dragging Delilah into something without giving her ample time to prepare. This mission is tailor-made for her. If only there was more time.
I slam my fist on the desktop. I’m not impulsive, but I don’t second-guess myself ever—it’s too dangerous in my line of work. But everything with Delilah pushes me in directions I rarely go. Damn woman.
The timing on this isn’t perfect—it never is—but she’s beginning to take risks that will only get her into trouble…or worse. Mission or no mission, I’d have to intervene now, anyway.
This opportunity will be good for her. I’ve watched her closely for nearly three years, and even before that, when she was married to that stupid fucker Kyle, I knew her secrets.
Kyle had no honor and a big mouth that he ran all the damn time. He was a piss-poor excuse for a Dominant, and I was a piss-poor excuse for a man, so I let him be an abusive asshole and did nothing to intervene. But I have a chance to make it right. Something we don’t always get in life. At least that’s been my experience.
Delilah needs new coping mechanisms. She needs to be reined in, and allowed to live her dream—even for a short while. And she needs a safe place to submit, a way to quiet her anxiety, and a Dominant who will help her find peace without gaslighting and manipulating her for his own needs and wants. I’ll begin the process with her, and when the mission is over—I can’t entertain it. I’m not into long-term relationships, contractual or otherwise. Period.
The phone rings while I’m still trying to convince myself that when the mission is complete, I’ll move on.
I don’t need to look at the screen. It’s her. I feel it in my bones. I should be pleased she obeyed, but I’m torn up inside. Delilah is a wild card who’s wedged her way under my skin. Smith is right. I’m playing a fool’s game.
I take a deep breath before answering. “Good morning.”
“It’s done. Like you asked.” She fires out the words with a good dose of resentment.
But I hear the sorrow, and it lands on my conscience with the sting of rubber pellets.
What many people don’t understand about Dominants is that we have hearts. That it’s often easier to wrap a submissive into a warm embrace than to show her the steel spine that the moment requires—and that she needs.
Delilah isn’t my submissive, and aside from the game we’re going to play for the benefit of the mission, she never will be. But my heart aches for her. That doesn’t mean I’ll give in to the soft feelings. It won’t further the mission, and it won’t help her at all.
“Where are you now?” I ask calmly.
“In my car, outside Sweetgrass, wondering what the hell I just did. Why I left a good job with security and health insurance. And I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to pay my mortgage when it comes due next month.”
The money itself is a small factor. It’s the security it gives her that she’s already mourning. I’ve never gone without—at least not when it comes to the things money can buy—so I don’t pretend to know what it’s like for someone like Delilah. All I can do is provide assurances and follow through. “You don’t need to worry about any of it. You’ll earn good pay, and you’ll have everything you need if you get sick.”
“I better.”
I ignore the implied threat—for now. It’s something we’ll work on in the next couple of weeks. “Enough about your needs for now. What I need, is you, at Wildflower. Trippi will meet you in the parking lot. Give him your car keys, and he’ll take you upstairs. Stay out of my bedroom and my office. Otherwise the apartment is yours to do as you please.”
“Where will you be?” she demands.
I rub my forehead in an effort to remain calm. “I’ll be downstairs at the club until lunchtime, and then I’ll be up.”
“What am I supposed to do until then, bake cookies?”
The thought of Delilah in my pristine kitchen creating a disaster that would rival the destruction of a tornado makes me cringe. “You’ll have plenty to do. A personal shopper, Jessica, and a seamstress whose name I don’t know, will meet you there in about an hour. They’ll bring fabric and some samples with them. Don’t worry about the cost of anything. Just try to have fun with it.”
“I don’t need a personal shopper,” she replies, indignantly, “or a seamstress. And shopping is not my idea of fun.”
There’s not a single woman I’ve been with—ever—who wouldn’t just say thank you. But I expected this from her. “You need both if you’re going to be spending time with me.”
She’s breathing heavily, and I brace myself for the fury about to be unleashed.
“If my clothing choices aren’t up to your standards, then maybe you need to find someone else for the job.”
Not a chance.
“You’re not dressing me like a Barbie doll,” she adds, in case I didn’t get the message.
I adjust my hardening cock roughly. “Oh, but I am dressing you. All the way down to the color of your silk thong. You can be Covert Agent Barbie. Or maybe I’ll call you Charleston Barbie. I’ll even buy you a sparkly pink convertible to drive around town in.”
“Fuck you, Gray Wilder.”
“Listen carefully, because this is the last time I’m going to say this. I don’t care if you run around in rags from the thrift store or bare-ass, but there’s no way you can accompany me to some of the places where the mission will take us if you aren’t expensively and exquisitely dressed. It’s part of your cover, so get over it.”
It’s not entirely true. While I don’t care what she wears, I like the idea of her being dressed in ways that seem as though she has no financial worries. I don’t care if she shops at Goodwill, as long as she knows she doesn’t have to.
“I—”
“You will do as your told or suffer the consequences. You can meet with the shopper an
d have input into your wardrobe, or I’ll meet with her and choose your clothing for you. Your choice.” I sit back and wait for her to come to terms with the shopper. There’s no way in hell Delilah would let me choose her clothes.
She stews for several seconds. “Fine. But at other times, I wear my own clothes, not the costumes you pay for. I’m not your whore.”
Oh, Delilah. My gut churns. That’s what this is about. “First, we both have a clothing allowance to purchase the things we need to make it believable. I have everything I need, so you can use my allowance and yours.” I’ll personally cover any overrun—happily. But I don’t say that. No reason to throw gasoline on a raging fire.
“And second, you’re not a whore.” I say it with the utmost respect and sincerity. It’s not a judgment I make about anyone when it comes to their sexual needs and desires—and I sure as hell would never judge her in that way. “You’ll never hear me call you that unless it makes you wet. Then I’ll say it all the time.”
Delilah doesn’t utter a peep. She likes dirty talk. I remember how aroused she was when I whispered filthy things to her. How she moaned and whimpered, and how willing she was to repeat my words back to me when I demanded it.
“In the future, things will go a lot easier if you just tell me what’s bothering you, rather than have me guess. I’m not a mind reader.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
This is bullshit. She let me see a small piece of what’s inside and now she’s playing dumb.
“You could have said, I feel cheap when you make decisions about my clothing or pay for it. And I would have explained that it was necessary for the mission.”
“Isn’t that the conversation we just had?”
The woman is going to kill me before this is over, or I’m going to kill myself. One way or the other, I’m not going to survive her. “We have a lot to accomplish today. Come directly here, so we can get started.”
11
Gray
It’s nearly two o’clock before I finally break away from the club. When I get to the apartment, Delilah is in the living room, scrolling through her phone.
