by Jaime Rush
“A safe way to release your anger,” he said, smiling to soften his words.
She nodded at the hammer, a meat tenderizer, he suspected. “Don’t be so sure of that.”
He reached out to wipe away a streak of gray icing on her bare shoulder. At her surprised look, he held up his finger and stuck it in his mouth. “You’ve got icing all over you.”
And you want to lick off every bit of it, don’t you?
Oh, yeah. He did a mental thwap. Maybe she’d gotten caught trying to get a copy of that folder for him. “Livvie, if you got into trouble because of me—”
“I didn’t get into trouble.” Her words came out clipped, her mouth still in that compressed line. “But I sure got what I deserved for breaking the rules.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Tell me.”
When she ignored him by wiping down the counter, he said, “Are you angry with me? God knows the only reason I turned down your proposal was for your own good.”
She turned to him. “Augh! For my own good! If everyone would stop making decisions for my own good, I could figure out what’s good for me myself. But you’re right, we shouldn’t get involved. I am so over that. Now leave me alone.”
“Ooh, you are mad at me. If not about that, then what?”
She gave him a smirk. “For reasons I can’t explain. There seems to be a lot of that going on. And I’m just as mad at myself. I compromised the program. And my integrity.”
“Sometimes having integrity means questioning the rules.”
“Not in my family or my job. I’m the good girl. I’m loyal. I follow the rules.”
He crossed his arms loosely in front of his chest. “Do you get medals for doing that? Or just a pat on the head?”
A growl sounded in her throat, and her hazel eyes narrowed in anger. She scooped up a glob of icing from the counter and hurled it at him. He was so surprised, he couldn’t move in time. It hit him in the cheek.
A mix of horror and humor lit her face. He slowly swiped at it, looking at the cake and icing smeared on his fingers. He lifted one finger to his mouth and licked some of it off.
“I like it.”
“It’s butter cream,” she said begrudgingly.
“No, I like this side of you.”
Her expression changed to a serious one, as though he’d reprimanded her for acting up. “It’s not a side of me. I simply lost my temper.”
He moved closer. “Uh-uh. I see something inside you.”
“What?”
“A feistiness, a streak of rebel.” He smeared the frosting from one of his other fingers across her cheek like war paint. “I think this is the real you, not the well-bred, obedient Daddy’s girl.”
Before she could react, before he could think logically, he leaned forward and licked off that smear of icing. He loved the flare of indignation in her widened eyes and the way her mouth dropped open. All the invitation he needed.
He locked his mouth to hers, sweeping in and moving his tongue in and around. She held rigid for exactly one second before she responded, meeting his tongue move for move.
“Stop…” he managed to say.
“Stop? I didn’t start—”
“Stop me. Just stop me, because I can’t.”
He couldn’t. God help him, he really couldn’t. No matter what he’d said to her, no matter the conviction he had about not getting involved with her.
Her hands went up to his chest, but they didn’t push him away. Like a cat’s claws when it’s kneading in pleasure, her fingers flexed against him.
“Stop…” Her voice was breathless and not convincing at all. “Stop doing this to me. You’re making me…crazy.”
Crazy. That was all he heard. Yes, crazy, delirious, mindless. He wove his fingers through her long hair, and just as he’d fantasized, pulled her head back and ran his tongue down her neck. He tasted flecks of icing, making her all the more delicious.
He ground his hips against her pelvis, aching for her. Not only a physical ache, though. He wanted to take her, make love to her, hold her, protect her. All those feelings exploded like an emotional orgasm. His body, though, wanted more of her, to feel her, touch her. He slid his hands up her stomach, his thumbs grazing the edges of her breasts. It was all he could do to hold himself back, because once he touched her…
She moved into his hands, her breasts filling them, and he let out a groan, surrendering, squeezing, caressing, now wanting to feel them in the flesh. He kissed over the ridge of her collarbone, down to the top edge of her shirt. He saw the pink bra, lacy edge, the swell of her cleavage, ivory skin he knew would taste like heaven, icing or no. He undid the first button, then the second.
He wanted her so badly he could take her right there. He had such exquisite control over himself, but not with her. They were in the kitchen, where anyone could happen upon them, and he couldn’t even begin to untangle himself to stop.
He unclasped the bra that thankfully hooked in the front and opened her shirt. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, meaning all of her, but at that moment he saw only those pale, firm breasts. He covered her nipple with his mouth, and she exhaled in a quick breath. Her fingers kneaded his hair, the tips of her nails grazing his scalp as her breath came faster.
Before he moved to the other breast, he looked up at her. Her head was tilted back, her lips parted, her eyes closed. She had surrendered, too.
He was going to take her right there if she didn’t stop him. She wasn’t the sensible one anymore. He wasn’t in control. They were going to make love right there in the kitchen, which wouldn’t be right, not for the first time, not for anytime.
He needed to feel her skin against his, to bury his face between her legs and give her every bit of pleasure, and she couldn’t scream out without bringing someone in response, and that would humiliate her, get her into trouble…and still, still he couldn’t stop.
Yes, yes, yes…
“No.”
Where had that word come from? Not him. No way.
“Nicholas, we can’t do this.”
“I know,” he said on a gasp. “Need to find someplace private—”
She pushed him away and, with fumbling fingers, tried to clasp her bra. She was still breathing hard, her face flushed with heat.
So was he. He blinked, as though coming out of a trance. “You’re right. Wrong place.” Wrong time. Wrong man. He lifted his hands. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Mad, happy, frustrated, you’re too damned tempting.”
She kept missing the clasp and finally just buttoned her shirt. “You’re the one who said we shouldn’t—”
“I know, I know. And we shouldn’t.” He looked at her, running his hand back over his mussed hair. “And then I attack you in the kitchen. It’s crazy; I’m crazy.” Without thinking, he reached over to wipe away another fleck of icing on her arm. He caught himself, ripped a paper towel from the holder, and handed it to her. “Now I’ve given you something else to be angry about.”
“I wasn’t angry about that.”
“And what I said about the medals, that was condescending. You’ve been brainwashed, manipulated. I’m not the guy who should break you out of that.”
He’d apologized, then insulted her again. He had a problem being too honest sometimes, but he couldn’t help it. It was brainwashing. The only thing that could save her was the rebel buried inside her.
She looked through the open shelves to make sure no one was within earshot. “I don’t like what you do to me.”
“I know; you do that to me, too.”
“No.” She rubbed her forehead in frustration. “Because of you, I’m keeping secrets from my father. I covered for you when you sneaked into his office, which I’m ashamed of. I was going to give you classified information until I came to my senses.”
Which meant she’d changed her mind. But why?
She continued. “Why are you asking all these questions, doubting my father’s integrity?”
He saw the ago
ny on her expression. “It’s making you doubt.”
“No!”
“Don’t you wonder what’s really going on here? He hasn’t told even you that much.”
“I understand it’s classified. I don’t have that kind of clearance. Being his daughter doesn’t give me special privileges.”
“You blindly want to believe everything your father tells you because you’re afraid not to, fine. I don’t trust him. Not when I have questions he won’t answer, questions that pertain to me, to my past. Like why the Rogues targeted me. I had to lie to the police, on his orders. I don’t like lying. Scratch that. I hate lying. The world is black-and-white. You either tell the truth, or you lie.”
He leaned against the counter. “And don’t you think it’s strange that with the shootout at the asylum, no one questioned us? People were shot, maybe killed. The CIA might not want anyone else involved, but they’d investigate. And what about that strange fire?” One of the garbage cans had ignited. Nicholas had frozen, seeing the flames, the smoke, choking before he could even inhale it. “Nobody could say how that fire started, only that somehow the Rogues had done it. Admit it, you have questions, too.”
As he talked, her movements became more agitated as she wiped away the icing from her cheek, then the counter. “Maybe I do, but I trust his judgment.”
“What are you afraid of? Finding out he’s not what you’ve been trained to believe? Humor me for a second. Say you did find out he was up to something sinister. Then what?”
She was wiping the same spot over and over. “I’d have to confront him. I don’t like confrontations.”
Clearly. She wasn’t even looking at him. But she was staying, not stalking out. That was something. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t stand to see the look in his face that I’ve let him down when all these years he hasn’t let me down.”
Yeah, the man had her emotionally hog-tied. Bastard. “So he either denies it or admits it but won’t stop. Then what?”
“Then I can’t work with him anymore. I leave the CIA.” Her voice quivered. “I lose my father, because he won’t tolerate my disloyalty. I lose my family, because the Darkwells don’t tolerate disloyalty.”
“You’re sure they would disown you?”
The fear of that tensed her mouth. “Then I have no identity, no roots.”
Ah, he was getting somewhere.
The fear transformed to resolve. She looked at him. “I’m not brainwashed.”
“That’s what the brainwashed always say. Haven’t you ever seen interviews with people in cults?”
She threw the paper towel into the garbage. “I trust my father. It’s you I don’t trust. And right now, I don’t even trust myself.” She walked toward the kitchen’s entrance.
Nicholas called after her, “You’re the only one you can trust, Olivia. Remember that.”
Why did it bother him so much? Live and let live, right? She could spend the rest of her life playing daddy’s good girl, and it shouldn’t matter a bit to him.
But it did.
Get over it. You’ll be gone before long and never see her again. The thought chipped away at him, but the sight of something on the end of the counter distracted him: her key ring.
Like with the kiss, he couldn’t take time to think it through. This might be his only chance to get hold of that folder. He’d read the contents and decide what to do next. He grabbed her ring by the brass, etched heart and ran upstairs two treads at a time.
Olivia stalked around the grand rooms on the main floor, trying to push the kiss, and how it had made her feel, out of her mind. Her father was probably right about Nicholas trying to seduce her for information. She hardened her heart, because, dammit, her heart was all over that kiss. He pushed her, ridiculed her, and she should hate him for it.
She didn’t.
He did push her…into thinking, questioning in uncomfortable ways, herself, her father, and what he was doing here. Nicholas insisted she face her doubts.
He was pushing her out of her Daddy’s-little-girl role and into an independent grown-up role. Loyalty tore at her, but the thought of gaining her true self bloomed inside her, a perfect rose, with thorns ready to pop her bubble.
She returned to her suite of rooms in the east wing and reached into her pocket for her keys. They weren’t there. She remembered setting them on the kitchen counter and headed back downstairs. Hopefully, Nicholas wouldn’t be there. Damn him for throwing her loyalty in her face.
You just hate the part of yourself that’s submissive. And that he’s making you see it.
If he knew what it was like growing up Darkwell…if he knew how much her family was part of her life, of who she was.
Brainwashed!
Or was he brainwashing her, turning her against her father for his own cause? If she were going to look at this situation like a grown-up, she had to face that possibility, too.
She stepped into the kitchen and released a breath when she saw he wasn’t there. She walked over to where she’d set the keys.
They were gone.
And Nicholas had been in here. He wanted that folder. He knew she had a key to her father’s office on the ring.
She ran out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 11
Nicholas’s heart was banging in his chest as he sprinted up the stairs and around the corner. The hall was empty, but Darkwell was working with Jerryl in one of the mission rooms. He could come out at any time.
Nicholas stilled his heavy breaths and walked to Darkwell’s office. He looked at the keys in his palm. She must have one for every room in the place. He knocked first. No answer. A check of the knob—locked. He picked a key and slid it in. It jammed immediately. He went to the next one.
He scanned the hallway again. All clear. Another key went in, stopped short. A fourth. The fifth slid in. Click. The knob turned, and he slipped in and closed the door. He went right to the credenza where he’d found the red folders. The others’ files were there, too: Brandenburg, Vanderwyck, Aruda. He could take them all, but one or two missing folders wouldn’t be as easily noticed. Grab Francesca Vanderwyck’s. More information to study.
He closed the drawer and looked up to see Olivia in the open doorway, her face as white as a china doll’s. The same betrayal he’d seen in her eyes before glowed even more so. She was shaking her head, but then she looked toward the end of the hallway. Her eyes widened. Darkwell had come out. She wasn’t going to cover for him this time.
He’d never have the chance to see this folder again. He had only one choice: haul ass.
He ran to the French doors leading out to the balcony. Locked!
“Braden, put the folder down.” Darkwell’s voice.
Nicholas didn’t turn. He unlocked the door, jerked it open, and covered the distance to the railing in seconds.
“Jerryl, stop him! Any way you can.”
Olivia’s voice: “What do you mean, ‘any way you can’?”
He meant injure. Kill. Nicholas knew that in his gut. He braced his hands on the railing and launched himself over it. He braced for the landing one story down. The impact jarred his body. The folders flew from his hands, and he heard papers flutter to the floor. They blended into the concrete. No time to grab them all up. The two guards patrolling the property would be on him in no time. He put his hands on one of the folders and snatched it up a second before someone landed just feet from him.
Jerryl.
He shoved Jerryl backward while he was still off balance and tore out of the courtyard. The estate was huge, with a concrete wall all around. He’d never get his truck out of the compound. Lights snapped on throughout the grounds. Voices shouted. God, he was being hunted like a criminal. Like a Rogue.
Which meant he’d be treated like a Rogue. Imprisoned. Shot up with some strange substance.
No way.
Fog had started forming, and the lights cast it into ghoulish shapes. He ran to the west, where he knew he’d eventually come across a r
oad. He had a lot of ground to cross before that. The landscaping gave him cover, though, and he raced from one unnaturally shaped tree to another, hiding in the shadows.
Footsteps pounded behind him. One of the guards came around a corner. Nicholas ducked into the maze. He ran to the right and took a corner.
“I saw him go this way,” a man said.
“I’ll check the maze.” Jerryl’s voice.
“You’ll get lost in there.” Darkwell.
“I can find my way around anywhere.”
Lights were strategically tucked into the hedges, not bright but enough to guide a person along. Nicholas swore his feet made crunching sounds in the grass as he ran. Behind him, Jerryl’s footsteps sounded quieter. Stealthier. The jerk was a Marine. Nicholas was a finder. Now he had to be a hider. He turned a corner and came upon a choice.
He chose right. Fog swirled around his feet, stirring with his movements, damp on his cheeks. He curled the folder like a tube and tucked it into his waistband. You’ve run out of air one hundred feet underwater. You’ve come across a shark. You’ve been lost in a cave. You kept your cool. Do it now.
Fear and exertion tightened his chest. Left went into the center. If Jerryl got lucky, he could trap him in one of the dead ends that spiraled out from it. He went to a path that led to the outer edge. It was like a house of mirrors sound-wise. He couldn’t tell from which direction Jerryl’s footsteps came. He ran to a dark corner and pushed himself into the hedge. The cut ends of branches scratched at him. He closed his eyes to protect them. Jerryl’s steps came closer, but he wasn’t coming into view.
Nicholas slowly pushed farther in, so as not to make noise. Each twig breaking sounded like a bat hitting a baseball.
“I can hear you, Braden.”
Through the web of branches, Jerryl came into view, his eyes wild in the shadows. “Come out and face the consequences, traitor.” Jerryl did a cursory scan of the area, then ran back around the corner.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the hedge. Heavy breathing, whispers. Nicholas shifted his gaze to the outer edge without moving his head.
