by Rachel Grant
“And how does a US attorney justify buying scalped tickets?”
“They weren’t scalped. I bought the tickets at face value.”
“And the ticket holder’s daughter’s artwork for an exorbitant sum. That’s scalping.”
“I happen to think the five-year-old has talent,” he said dryly.
Mara laughed.
Curt grinned. Her laughter, her voice, everything about these conversations made him feel vibrant. Alive. A warm buzz that had nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with her. “Fine. Our second date was the Smithsonian American Indian Museum.”
“You really got off cheap on that one. A free museum.”
“Hey, I spent a fortune on a little girl’s artwork so we could go on a nondate to a football game.”
“I thought it was an investment.”
He chuckled. “It was. In you.”
“Ohhh. Good one. Okay, I’ll let you cop a feel.”
“Before or after dinner?”
“Depends. Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going to the White House for a State Dinner.”
She let out a low whistle. “Pulling out the big guns. Okay, I’m slightly impressed by the venue for date four, but you should know, this isn’t my first State Dinner.”
“France. Four years ago, when your uncle was in office. I’ve seen pictures, and you were stunning in that dress.”
“The low-cut blue one?” He could hear the smile in her tone. “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.”
“So what State Dinner is this?”
“I think we need something exotic. Maybe Asian?”
“I’ve spent enough time in Asian countries recently, thank you.”
He cringed. “Oh. Yeah. My bad.”
“How about South Africa? I’ve never been there.”
“Okay. South Africa. State Dinner. You’re wearing blue. Or barely wearing blue.”
“And you look hot in a tux,” she said. “So, who are we seated next to?”
“You don’t want to sit at the president’s table?”
“We’re too controversial. We’re at a table by the kitchen, sitting with the Taiwanese ambassador or a Tibetan holy man. The guy they had to invite but shoved in the corner to keep from pissing off China.”
He chuckled. “I’m not impressing you with my connections at all, am I?”
“No. But it’s so sweet of you to try.”
“Sweet. Just what I was aiming for.”
“How’s this for sweet? The blue dress is backless. I have to wear an adhesive bra or the whole world will see my goods. Guess what I rub on my nipples to make it stick?”
She’d struck him speechless.
“Honey,” she said.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “No way.”
“It wouldn’t really work. But this is fantasy. In this fantasy, my bra adheres to my breasts with honey.”
“Works for me.” He closed his eyes, lost in the erotic image of a honey-coated Mara. “Let’s skip the dinner part of this date and get to afterward…”
“You were charming and witty and had everyone at our table enthralled with your legal exploits.”
“Then we leave in a limousine.”
She chuckled. “Fastest State Dinner ever. Okay, with the privacy shield up, I pour you a drink and tell you I’d like to go back to your place.”
Hot damn, it’s about time. With the phone in one hand, he reached for the open bottle of champagne on the coffee table and refilled his glass. He’d begun preparing for his nightly “dates” with Mara more meticulously than he ever had for actual dates.
Tonight he had a chilled bottle of high-end champagne to go with this high-end fantasy. Next to the bottle sat the embossed invitation to the Indonesian State Dinner, due to take place in a few weeks. Given his tenuous reputation, he’d been surprised to make the cut. Tonight he allowed himself to fantasize she would be his date, wearing a sexy blue silk gown, high heels, and a thin coating of honey.
“How long is the drive to your place?” she asked.
“Ten minutes.”
“I sip the champagne, then kiss you.”
“I pull you onto my lap and deepen the kiss,” he added.
The sound she made was the sexiest guttural purr Curt had ever heard. “The limousine stops in front of your building, but neither of us notices.”
“Eventually, the chauffer politely informs us we need to get out.”
“You’ve lost the bow tie.”
“They’re overrated.”
“And a few buttons on your shirt might have popped off. We’re disheveled and stumble out of the limo like two kids on prom night.”
“And I’m so hard, I feel eighteen again.”
Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Are you hard right now, Curt?”
“Beautiful, I get hard every time I hear your voice.”
Her sultry laugh only made the ache worse. “Good. Because I’m so turned on I’m shaking.”
“I can help you with that.”
“I wish.”
“What are you looking at right now, Mara?”
She paused, then said, “The fireplace. Flames licking the logs.”
Curt leaned to the side and flicked the switch that turned on his gas fireplace. In seconds, flames danced before him. “How does the heat feel?”
“Not as good as your hands would.”
“Words are all we have. So let’s use them.” He paused and took another sip of champagne. “We stumble through the lobby of my building and into the elevator.”
“Can we do it in the elevator? I’m really, really aroused.”
He chuckled. “I am the US attorney for the District of Columbia. I can’t have sex with you in an elevator.”
“Okay, USA Dominick. I merely kiss you silly in the elevator. How many flights?”
“Eight.”
“Not a long ride, then.”
“We enter my condo. You hate it, by the way.”
She burst out laughing. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Honey, I’ve thought about all of this, every minute of every day.”
“Why would I hate your home?”
“It’s a place to sleep, shower, and shave. I rarely even eat here.”
“We’ll talk about your decorating skills later. Right now I’m more interested in your anatomy.”
“Inside, I scoop you up and kick the door closed. I carry you into the living room and set you down in front of the fireplace.” Curt’s gaze fixed on the stretch of carpet in front of the hearth. He could almost picture Mara there.
“Only one button, at the small of my back, holds my gown on, and I undo it. It falls to the floor and pools at my feet.”
“So you’re wearing an adhesive bra, a thong, and four-inch heels?”
“I never mentioned a thong or four-inch heels.”
He chuckled. “I filled in a few details.”
“Fine. I just pulled off your shirt so I could get to those pecs.”
Curt loosened his collar but otherwise remained clothed. Tonight was for Mara and only for Mara. “What are you wearing right now?”
“It’s not sexy. I don’t have much.”
“Mara, you could make a garbage bag sexy. Regardless, take it off.”
She let out a hesitant sigh. “Have you ever done this before? Phone sex?”
He closed his eyes and conjured her smell, the texture of her skin. “No. I’ve never wanted or had a reason to. I want to make love to you, Mara, and the phone is all we have.”
MARA RELAXED, KNOWING this was a first for him too. Their phone dates had been sexy, fun, a forbidden pleasure with a forbidden man. But part of the exhilaration was the utter shock of knowing something about her drew out Curt’s warm, sensual side. He’d been so funny, so charming, so damn sexy on their pretend dates, they felt real.
But if he’d done all this before, then the sexy, sweet victory of breaching the barriers erected
by The Shark and captivating the man would be gone, taking her libido with it. She settled on the cheap Atlantic City motel room bed, wishing she could be honest with him about her location, but knowing he’d freak and the mood would be lost if she were.
She stared at the old radiator in the corner. It wasn’t a wood fireplace with dancing flames, but at least it was warm.
“I reach out and cup a breast,” he said. “My thumb brushes across your nipple.”
“Hey, wait. Am I still wearing the bra?”
“It’s imaginary. Imagine it’s gone.”
She laughed and pinched her nipple and rolled it between her fingers, picturing Curt’s hand in place of hers. “My breasts are tight. Ready for your mouth.”
He let out a soft groan, and she wondered if he, like she, was thinking of their brief, forbidden touches in a different seedy motel room. “I suck on one and cradle the other in my hand. I alternate between the two and watch how the nipple contracts with the attention. You really have beautiful breasts, Mara.”
“Thank you. I need you to kiss me some more. I could kiss you for hours.”
“Same here. So we kiss. For hours. We don’t stop as we lie down on the rug, in front of the fire. Your tongue and mine meld together. You taste like champagne.”
She smiled. “You’re still dressed, but I cradle you between my thighs as we make out. You are so hard, your cock presses against me, and I want you so bad I start fumbling with your fly.” She slid her hand between her thighs and rubbed, imagining Curt between her legs. Remembering how he’d smelled, how he’d cradled her when he’d held her in bed.
“I stop you. I want to go slower. I take both of your hands and pull them up, over your head. I kiss you deeply while pressing deeper between your thighs, grinding against you.”
“I want more.”
“And you get more. I leave your mouth and trail kisses down your body. Again I taste those perfect, honey-coated breasts. Then my mouth slides lower, across your flat abdomen. My tongue traces a line from your belly button downward, until I get to the top of your thong.”
Mara followed his words with a hand trailing down until it hovered at her panty line. “Then what?” she asked in a choked voice.
“The thong must go. I pull it off, and you’re naked before me. I spread your thighs and smell the sweet scent of your arousal. With a finger, I separate your folds, and touch your clitoris. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, just like I did your nipple.”
Mara jolted, electrified by his words. “I rock up against you and demand more.”
“I give it to you. With my tongue. I suck on your clit, then explore your opening. You’re swollen, ready for me, and taste like heaven.”
Mara found a pleasing rhythm with her fingers, surprised at how uninhibited she was. She felt as if she really were laid bare before him, really had given him free access to her most intimate places. “I want you inside me, Curt.”
“I want that too, love.” He sighed, then continued. “But I’m going to make you come with my mouth first. Are you close, Mara?”
“I was close when you answered the phone.”
He chuckled. “I slide my fingers inside you, then rub a slick finger over your clit. I keep up the friction with my tongue and thumb, while two fingers thrust inside.”
Her breathing became a ragged pant as the sound of his voice and the pressure of her fingers brought her closer to the edge.
“Your thighs tighten. I can feel your whole body coil when you clench down on my fingers.”
“Oh. Curt—”
“That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me. Feel my mouth on your clit, my fingers inside you.”
Her eyes were closed. His voice reached across the miles to caress her soul. She could feel his hands, his mouth, his heartbeat. He was here with her, and it was his touch that pushed her quaking body over the edge. A powerful orgasm rocked her. She let out a guttural cry.
“God, that’s sexy,” Curt said. “I wish I could see your face and follow up by sliding inside you. I want to make you mine.”
I am yours.
A moment passed before the quaking stopped and she could speak. “When can we do this for real?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. The trial will be done soon. We’ll figure something out once it’s over.”
After he sent her uncle to prison. Christ, what was she doing falling in love with this man?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE CALL CAME from Palea at midnight. “Curt, I’m e-mailing you a photo from Mara’s hard disk right now. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Curt ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. Weeks of being short on sleep had caught up with him. Add to that his incredible date with Mara and the erotic dreams that followed, and he’d uncharacteristically failed at hiding his groggy state.
“This better be good. Tonight was the first night I’ve gone to sleep before midnight in days.” He slipped from the bed and padded into his office.
“Depends, is nailing Beck and Stevens on the arms deal good?”
Adrenaline shot through him, eclipsing fatigue. “You’ve got the arms deal?”
“In HD clarity.”
He dropped into the office chair and woke his computer. It took a few minutes for the e-mail to download. “High-res digital camera?”
“You can count the pores on the Janjaweed militia leader’s ugly face.”
Curt opened the preview image. “Holy fuck.” There he was. A mass murderer sitting two feet away from Andrew Stevens. “Shit, Palea. The prosecution rested today.”
“Get it in on cross.”
“I can’t. Not without Mara to authenticate it.”
“You definitely need her. The others are all dead, missing, or in on it. Robert Beck is next to Andrew Stevens. Roddy Brogan is with Jeannie Fuller behind the VP, and I think that’s Evan Beck’s shoulder on the right. But Curt, zoom in on the Secret Service agents in the background.”
Curt did as instructed. “Palea, you fucking genius. Those aren’t Secret Service agents. Those are Robert Beck’s top operatives.”
“Merry Christmas, brah.”
This was his birthday and Christmas rolled into one. Mara had taken a picture of Raptor’s CEO, Raptor’s chief of operations, two operatives contracted out to JPAC, and two operatives pretending to be Secret Service agents, all meeting with a Janjaweed militia leader who was posing as an Egyptian villager. The meeting took place in a remote Egyptian village in the midst of a JPAC recovery operation, but Curt strongly doubted any of those people were there to mourn the American soldiers who died in Egypt during World War II.
“WE’LL NEED GARRETT to authenticate it,” Aurora said, sitting in front of her computer while Sam hovered over her shoulder and Curt leaned against a file cabinet. It was three in the morning on Saturday, and even though the trial wouldn’t resume until Monday, this couldn’t wait until dawn. She cursed, then said, “Why didn’t Palea get this photo to us yesterday, before we rested?”
“The FBI did everything they could to deny access to Mara’s computer—which they’d confiscated from a crime scene. I had to get a subpoena, just to find out the disk had been wiped.” He crossed his arms. “Then, when I learned where the backup hard drive was”—Aurora’s eyes flickered, telling him she’d guessed how he’d managed that—“he had to go through hoops to retrieve it so it would have a clean chain-of-evidence.”
Aurora growled. “Goddamn politics.”
Curt leaned forward and reached for the mouse. With a click, he opened another picture. “This is the photo of the warlord that Palea used for comparison.”
Sam pointed to the pictured man’s left cheek. “Same scar. Same goofy grin. He knew Garrett was taking his picture and didn’t care.”
“I think Evan Beck saw what she was doing,” Curt said, “and tried to block the shot. They started dating in Egypt. I’m guessing he was trying to get access to her camera and computer.” Anger simmered over the idea a scum
bag like Beck had ever touched her, let alone did it to serve Raptor. “He crashed her hard disk twice but didn’t know where she kept the backup.”
“If we get this accepted into evidence, we can motion to have the charges conformed to the evidence,” Aurora said. “The arms deal would be a slam dunk after that.”
Curt shook his head. “We can’t do that without Mara to authenticate.”
“We can bring her in as a rebuttal witness. Odds are Stevens will take the stand, so get him to deny the photo is authentic and she’s in.”
“We don’t need the photo for this trial,” Curt said. “We can save it for Beck. We’ve got Stevens on obstruction and influence peddling. He won’t get off.”
“Dammit, Dominick! Have you gone soft? We both know the obstruction charge could result in a presidential pardon. If we can prove the arms deal, he’ll get ten years—and it will be damn hard for any president to issue a pardon.”
Shit. Aurora was right. His gut clenched, and a piece of his heart ripped open.
He’d always thought the worst part of falling in love was the inevitable pain of breakup, but now he understood the truth. The worst part was knowing he would devastate her by doing the one thing he had to do. “I can get her here before this goes to the jury.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
IT WAS TIME to move to a new motel. Mara never spent more than two nights in the same place and left the Atlantic City dive without regret, knowing the next stop on her tour of the seedy casino fringe would be neither better nor worse. At least in Atlantic City she had plenty of options. She was merely another person wishing to remain anonymous in a place known for attracting the dregs of society. Atlantic City lacked even the questionable class of Las Vegas.
The motel she checked into at three in the afternoon on Saturday was as shabby and worn as the last. Her third-floor room boasted bars on the window and a surprisingly solid door with a massive dead bolt.
This was as safe as she would get, if she didn’t mind feeling imprisoned. Again.
She didn’t bother to unpack her paltry backpack of supplies gathered from thrift stores in Michigan, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. She never left a thing behind when she went anywhere. She could, and would, flee at any time.
