by Tee O'Fallon
“It was nice to meet you,” Joyelle said with a glimmer of curiosity in her gaze. “Hopefully I’ll see you again.”
“Thank you.” Trista smiled at Joyelle and would have said her goodbyes to Matt’s father, but he was already halfway to the silver Jaguar parked in front of the house. She’d sensed some serious undercurrents in the man’s reaction to seeing Matt already had an invitation and hadn’t responded. She assumed that the invite was to Jerry’s banquet and that Matt wasn’t going.
After locking the door and re-engaging the security system, she went back to Matt’s desk. The program she’d been running to decrypt the last of the reporter’s files was still hard at work, with combinations of numbers and letters scrolling rapidly down the screen. She glanced out the window to the backyard, thinking about the visit from Matt’s family.
Whether he realized it or not, Matt really needed to attend the banquet this year. Despite his father’s anger, it was obvious the man loved his son and was disappointed he’d so blatantly ignored the invitation. She surmised Jerry’s death had not only hurt Matt deeply but had also indirectly caused a rift in the family, one that would keep worsening if it wasn’t repaired soon.
The laptop dinged, and she jerked her head back to the screen. “I have it. I have the code!”
With shaking fingers, she entered the reporter’s password and opened up the first of the three remaining encrypted files, the one labeled “Erica Sands,” documenting the flight of Mrs. Sands and her son, Billy Jr., to Nebraska shortly after the murder of Will Sands. The second file contained a search history of Nebraska birth records for—
“It can’t be.” Her fingers froze on the keyboard as she read the name again.
A second later, she opened the last encrypted file, the draft article. As she read the last story Thomas George had ever written, her heart began to race.
“Oh my God.” She sat back in the chair, her mind whizzing at what she’d just learned.
She now knew who was trying to kill her. And why.
Bolting from the chair, she pounded up the stairs and flung open the door to Matt’s bedroom.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Matt leaned against the shower tile, allowing the cold spray to pound against the back of his head and neck. He’d lost track of how many cold showers he’d taken over the past week. Being this close to Trista and not making love to her again was driving him insane.
Earlier, he’d nearly lost his resolve and taken her right there on his desk.
Blood surged to his groin, and he looked down. Just thinking about her made him rock hard.
The only things that had kept him grounded enough that he hadn’t done something stupid were a grueling workout session in his basement gym every morning, followed by an equally intense session with Sheba. To eradicate Trista’s effects on his dog, so she didn’t go soft.
Bullshit.
Every morning when Trista came downstairs and parked her butt at his computer, he’d taken Sheba and practically fled from the house because he still needed space. His need for Trista was off the charts, but he couldn’t go there again. There was only pain there for her, and he refused to drag her down with him.
A hammering sound came to his ears over the spray of the shower. He flung open the shower door to see Trista standing in his bathroom, chest heaving, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Matt, I—” Her gaze dipped to his chest, then lower as she took in his nakedness. When she swallowed, he knew what she was seeing.
His rock-hard erection.
Neither of them moved. He gripped the shower door tightly and clenched his other hand to keep from reaching for her.
Don’t do it.
Blood pounded in his ears. His heart thumped crazily, and he felt himself grow impossibly harder to the point of pain. When their gazes finally met, the searing need he glimpsed in her eyes echoed his own, and he lost all fucking control.
Reaching out, he pulled her into the shower, not giving a shit that she was fully clothed. He wrapped his arms around her, tugging her against his chest. Angling her head, he groaned, then crashed his mouth down on hers. When she parted her lips, he savored what he’d been denying himself and wondered if he could ever live without it again.
“Goddamn,” he whispered, raining kiss after kiss on her sweet lips, her creamy neck, and the tops of her breasts. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. How much I want you.” He wished he could say more, but that one word wouldn’t come out: “love.”
He might not be able to express how he felt verbally, but he could do it with his body. That was the easy way, the coward’s way out, but it was all he had in him.
“Matt, I-I have something to tell you.” Her head fell back, giving him better access to that sweet spot beneath her earlobe. Her hands came around his back, then lowered to his buttocks as he pushed her against the tile wall.
He grabbed the hem of her shirt and made quick work of dragging it up and over her head. Next, he rid her of her jeans and panties until she was clad only in a lacy bra. Leaning down, he sucked her nipple into his mouth, but it wasn’t enough.
“I want you naked.” He yanked down her bra straps, freeing her beautiful breasts. Cupping them in his hands, he bent and suckled each one until they were hard and tight and puckered.
She clasped the back of his head, moaning. He reached around her back to tear off her bra, then skimmed his hands up the insides of her thighs, urging her to spread her legs for him. When she complied, he stroked the soft, wet folds of her core. Her body jerked at his touch.
Nuzzling his nose against the honey-blond curls covering her most sensitive parts, he looked up to see her watching him with glazed eyes. “I’m going to taste you.” With the shower’s spray on his back, he knelt in front of her and flicked his tongue against her wetness. A strangled cry escaped her lips, and he fastened his mouth on her, tonguing her until she was writhing against him.
Her fingers dug into his scalp, and he knew she was close. Inserting a finger inside her, he felt her tighten, then shudder as she came, clinging to his shoulders, crying out his name. Sinking his finger in deeper, he sucked on her folds, extending her orgasm. The feel of her body, so completely turned on by what he was doing, had him harder than he’d ever been in his life.
He turned up the water temperature so she wouldn’t freeze, then ducked out and rolled on a condom. Back in the shower, he closed the door behind them and lifted her, positioning the tip of his cock at her entrance. When she locked her legs around his waist, he pushed inside and they both groaned.
He gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead against hers. If he didn’t get his damned dick in check, this would be over in less time than it took for a bullet to leave the barrel.
Slowly, he began moving inside her, thrusting deeper with each successive stroke. His lips found hers, and as he thrust harder, faster, his heart pumped so furiously he thought it would burst.
“Baby,” he whispered into her mouth. “I can’t live without this. I can’t live without you.” Nor did he want to, he realized.
“Then don’t.” She kissed him back, her tongue doing amazing things inside his mouth.
Lifting her a fraction higher, he angled her hips, allowing him to push deeper inside her warm, tight walls. She tightened around him. Her breathing came faster, as did his. A beautiful, feminine moan escaped her sweet lips as she came, harder than before, her petite body bucking, her hips gyrating against his. A second later, his balls tightened, and he exploded with such force he cried out. With his face buried in the curve of her neck, he waited for his pulse to slow.
“Matt.” Trista’s voice was soft and breathy against his face. “I love you.”
He stilled as if he’d been slapped, then lifted his head to stare into the depths of her crystalline green eyes. For one infinitesimal second, he was happy. Truly happy. Then he felt the bite of tile digging into the old scars on the backs of his hands.
Jerry’s young, vibrant face cam
e to him just before he’d lit up the old barn. In less time than it took for Matt’s heart to beat again, the joy shooting through him seconds ago fizzled and he stiffened. Under the warm spray, reality burrowed beneath his skin, and his body chilled.
No matter how much he wanted to say those three little words back, he knew he never would. Never could.
“Let me go.” Her voice was flat as she unclasped her legs from his waist and slid down the front of his chest. She brushed past him and out of the shower, stopping to wrap herself in one of his large bath towels.
As she headed out the door, he followed her into his bedroom, pushing the door closed before she could leave. What he saw in her eyes killed him. Pain. Anguish. Both of which he was responsible for. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. He really was sorry, for both of them. “You deserve better than someone who can’t ever love you. Someone who doesn’t have it in him to love.”
“Bullshit.” Her eyes flared, and her voice rose. “You have as much capacity to love as I do, but you refuse to let yourself. It’s easier for you to wallow in this pitiful existence you’ve created for yourself than it is to fight past it. I told you before…you’re dying inside, and if you don’t get help soon, you will die. You’ll be here on this earth, living and breathing, but you might as well be dead.”
He dragged a hand through his wet hair, feeling despair like he’d never known before, knowing he was losing her. “It’s too late. What happened to Jerry—what I allowed to happen to him—” He hung his head and stared at the floor. “I don’t deserve you.” It killed him to say the next words, but they had to be said. “When this is over and you’re safe, you’ll find someone else. Someone who can love.” The thought of another man in her bed had him gnashing his teeth.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin defiantly, although her voice trembled. “I already found that someone. You. But if you can’t heal yourself, I will find someone else. I may never love anyone as deeply, but at least I’ll try. You’ve already given up.”
Unshed tears welled in her eyes, and it undid him not to go to her, not to take her in his arms and say the words he desperately wanted to say: “I love you, too.” All he could do was watch helplessly as she pushed past him and opened the door. When she turned back to him, he glimpsed the sorrow in her eyes. He’d been given a gift—a beautiful flower—and he’d crushed it.
“I almost forgot. Your father and sister stopped by to hand-deliver an invitation to Jerry’s banquet. You really should go this year before you lose all touch with your family. I saw the look in your father’s eyes. It took a lot for him to come here.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll call my boss and arrange to go into someone else’s protective custody.”
Matt gritted his teeth. He didn’t want her to leave. Ever. But damned if he couldn’t get his feet to move. I am an asshole of the lowest order. A pathetic fuck. The woman he wanted more than his next breath was on the verge of walking out of his life, and he couldn’t get his fucking feet to move or his tongue to work. Doesn’t matter. He could never be what she wanted him to be. What he wanted to be for her. Her friend, her lover…the only man to ever touch her.
With the towel clutched at her breast, she opened the door. “By the way,” she said in a neutral tone, completely devoid of emotion. “I got into Thomas George’s encrypted files. I left them open on your laptop. I know who’s trying to kill me, and why.” She turned and shut the door quietly behind her.
For two seconds, he stared at the door, unmoving, then shoved his legs into a pair of jeans and grabbed a shirt and boots from his closet. Moments later, he was sitting at his laptop, reading the decrypted files.
“Holy fuck.” He reread the article, along with the supporting files, but the words didn’t change. Trista was right. Now they knew why Thomas George was murdered and why someone would undoubtedly try to kill Trista again. This story was the biggest conspiracy in recent history.
Pushing from the desk, he began pacing the length of his office. The chat room Trista had overheard was the key to everything. Iqaluit. He is not who he says he is. “Now we know who ‘he’ is,” he muttered. And he wants to kill Trista because of what she heard in the chat room. She could reveal his identity and his link to the Russians. The million-dollar question was whether the CIA was part of the conspiracy to cover up the truth.
The articles Trista had pulled up weeks ago detailed a fight for Russian supremacy in the Arctic region. Was this really all about Russia wanting to claim Arctic resources? Shit. This was so fucking beyond his pay grade, but he didn’t know whom they could trust.
Despite his claim to the contrary, the CIA operative the agency sent to George’s house—Mitchell Hentz—could very well have murdered the reporter. Then Hentz and an FBI agent had dropped in on the Berkeley County Sheriff’s Department. Together. Why?
There was only one reason the CIA and the FBI would be working together. After what he’d just read, this was an international conspiracy involving Canada, the Russians, and U.S. government officials. But the CIA wasn’t authorized to conduct investigations on domestic soil, therefore they needed an agency that could. Enter the great and powerful FBI.
Matt had known Trista’s bosses were holding something tight to the vest, but this was beyond his wildest imagination. You can’t make this shit up. His gut told him government officials were in it up to their eyeballs, and the fog of suspicion surrounding all of them was thicker than an Afghani sandstorm. He’d bet the U.S. government damn well knew the identity of the he in that chat room.
He stopped pacing. Only one thing was clear. Trusting any of them with Trista’s life…not gonna happen.
The stairs creaked, and he guessed she was coming down. He wasn’t looking forward to their next conversation. Awkward didn’t begin to describe how things would be. There was no way in hell he’d ever let someone else protect her. Which meant she’d have to stay here with him.
The front door opened, and the security alarm began beeping. He jerked his head to the monitors. Trista was heading out the door, a plastic bag in one hand, Poofy in the other. “Shit.” She was leaving. Where she was going without a car, he had no idea. Guess she wanted to get away from him badly enough that she’d walk or hitchhike, even. “Fuck. That.” He clenched his fists and began to turn toward the door when another monitor beeped as three black SUVs raced up his driveway.
His blood ran cold as he turned and bolted for the front door. “Trista, wait!”
He raced to the open door and flew outside to see a man in a suit gripping her roughly by the arm. Poofy and the plastic bag she’d been holding were now abandoned on the grass.
She struggled in the man’s grasp, twisting and pulling, but he held fast. “Let me go,” she cried.
Matt leaped off the front steps, running at top speed, and tackled the shithead dragging Trista to one of the SUVs. They both hit the ground, with Matt on top. He pounded his fist into the guy’s face, hearing bone crack. Blood spattered, and the guy cried out.
Hands pulled him off, and he spun, plowing his fist into the next suit, knocking him to the ground. His buddy got in a shot to Matt’s jaw, sending him staggering but still standing. Breathing heavily, all he could think was that he’d kill anyone who tried to take Trista from him.
He charged at the suit who’d gotten in a lucky shot, barely registering three other men standing nearby. Again, he hit the ground and pummeled the guy until he stopped moving. He bolted to his feet, preparing for another attack, when the other three suits tackled him, pinning him to the ground.
Using his elbows and knees, he incapacitated one of them, hearing more bone crunch amid screams of pain. He nailed the next guy in the jaw, taking satisfaction at seeing blood spurt from his nose. He rose to his feet, readying to take down the latest asshole now holding Trista, when his arms were grabbed from behind and the muzzles of three guns were thrust in his face.
“No!” she screamed.
“Anderson!” a man shouted as
he got out of one of the SUVs. “Let her go or Sgt. Connors will beat the shit out of you.”
To Matt’s satisfaction, the guy released Trista, and she ran toward him. Ignoring the fact that his arms were pinned, she flung herself between him and the weapons trained at his chest. She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Trista, get back!” His heart lurched with fear that one of these bozos would fire off a round and drill her through the back.
“Don’t hurt him.” She hugged him even tighter. “Please, don’t hurt him and I’ll go with you.”
“The hell you will.” He struggled against the three sets of hands restraining him.
“Sgt. Connors,” the man who’d gotten out of the SUV said. With the tinted windows, Matt hadn’t noticed the seventh man sitting in one of the front passenger seats. The fucker must have been watching the whole thing from his air-conditioned SUV. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He held up a black leather cred case. “Resident Agent in Charge Max Fenway, FBI.”
“Since when is the FBI in the business of kidnapping women?” He glared at Fenway, wanting to wipe the arrogant smirk off his face.
“This isn’t a kidnapping.” Fenway approached closer. “You two have stumbled into something bigger than you could have imagined.” He refocused on Trista, who still held him tightly around the waist. “And you, Ms. Gold, just couldn’t stop digging. We have a wiretap on several of the Arlington Sentinel’s phones, including that of Martin Denis, whom you recently spoke to. Someone inside your own agency recognized your voice.”
Matt frowned. He hadn’t known she’d made that call.
“Sgt. Connors, I’d like to release you. But before I do, I need you to promise not to beat up any more of my men. I can’t afford to have my team decimated.”
Matt glared at the three other men he could see, all of whom had blood dripping down their faces. “What the fuck do you want?”
