Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  “No, sir.” Rutledge folded and refolded his hands in a wringing gesture. “Dwayne, he didn’t know what an indoor voice was, though. That boy was so loud. An’ when he was angry, the whole building knowed.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “I could hear ’em fine, but I couldn’t follow the words they shouted.”

  Jace interrupted. This was about either Gretch or the opposite sides of the financial spectrum they represented. “Did you hear them mention Gretch’s name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about the words: smurf, layering, placement, or white collar?”

  Rutledge stared at the wall beyond Margo. “Can’t say as I heard those exact words, but it was words like that. Words that don’t make no sense.”

  Excitement stirred, and Jace glanced at Margo. “Meyers trades mortgage-backed securities at Hennings. Wonder if there’s any connection with the money-launder watchdogging Collins did?”

  Margo broke into her sunny smile. “It’s enough of a lead to visit him first thing tomorrow. Great work, Jace.”

  It was a far-reaching lead and one that shouldn’t be their priority. The second Margo had thanked Rutledge and they’d both said goodnight to the old man, Jace drilled her with an annoyed stare. “It’s a stretch to think Brandon came back here tonight with a sword and a Middle Eastern vendetta. Collins had evidence of massive shady transactions for Adyton. What if the old man found that out?” Like from a mole in the task force. 'It’s Adyton we should interview tomorrow morning.”

  Margo’s amused expression brought him up short. “That’s one of the good things about a task force,” she said lightly. “We have the manpower to go several places at once and follow multiple leads.”

  “Of course.” Jace forced a tight smile. It was his exhaustion. He hadn’t had back-to-back mission-critical assignments in so long that his body and mind were sluggish on the uptake now. “How about if Dirk and I go interview Adyton?”

  She patted his bicep. “How about you get a good night’s sleep and pick up your brother and Gretch in the morning. We’ll make sure they’re off Donatello’s radar going forward. I doubt the mob wants anything to do with them now that the painting is headed back to Boston.”

  He was assigned chauffer duties again. Super. Jace pivoted before his face outed him. Dirk stood close enough to have heard the order as he signed a chain-of-custody form a cop held out. He glanced over at Jace. “Go on, man. This is grunt work that’ll take until the wee hours. You may as well crash. You’ve been the superhero long enough.” Crooked teeth flashed a teasing grin.

  “Right.” Like hell he was going back to his place to sleep. “Goodnight.”

  34

  “Christ in a splintered cradle.” Gretch hugged her knees on the lid of the director’s toilet. Humiliation curled hot flames through her. Sean had pinpointed her deepest flaw. Destroyed her lifelong compensatory strategy with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. Hadn’t she predicted this? He’d always been too observant.

  She sat up and pressed icy hands to flaming cheeks. Really, who was she to sit here feeling sorry for herself? Someone had killed an innocent man who’d simply answered the doorbell.

  The fresh horror catapulted her off the toilet seat. She washed her face and rinsed out her mouth, each step strengthening her sense of control. Sean was right: they had too much to figure out to waste time dealing with the repercussions of whatever it was that overtook her when sex entered the picture. She eased the door open. Sean had cleaned up the food and moved the side chairs and knapsacks. He lay on the edge of the mattress closest to the door, facing away from her, still in his brother’s t-shirt. She’d bet her paycheck he still wore jeans under the blanket, too.

  She flicked off the bathroom light. The sound tightened his shoulder blades. “I—I’m sorry I freaked out,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I freaked you out.” No movement, and nothing more.

  Gretch stripped off the cargo shorts and slipped out of the loose bra without removing her shirt. In a heartfelt nod to Dwayne’s fastidiousness, she folded the items and laid them on the corner of the desk. Stepping over a corner of the mattress, she flicked off the overhead light. A crescent moon shone through the window, illuminating the room in a romantic glow.

  She edged onto the mattress and air displaced immediately, lightly bouncing her and probably Sean. He was right: they’d be all over each other on this dinky thing. My erection will press into you all night. It’ll be thick and urgent and won’t allow me to fall sleep.

  She cleared her throat, the sound overly loud and awkward in the brittle silence. “I can lay behind the desk if you want.”

  “Just lie down and go to sleep, Gretch. My brother is picking us up out front at seven sharp.”

  “No worries. I wake up way before that.”

  Sean folded his pillow and shifted further from her. “I doubt I’ll fall asleep.”

  She sighed quietly and eased between the tightly tucked blanket like a cat burglar. “Goodnight, then,” she whispered.

  He grunted.

  She lay on her right side and, yep, her lower half pressed right up against rugged jeans, hard limbs, and the solid curves of his ass. Neither of them would be sleeping.

  She tucked a hand between her cheek and the pillow. Think of something calm. Instantly Dwayne’s last seconds on earth launched into her imagination in vivid detail. She squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t! She forced the image to change to Sean’s magical hands raking her thighs, the feel of his soft lips on her breast. How he’d effortlessly coaxed the very first flame of need to life. Desire felt lovely. Scorching. She palmed her breast and squeezed gently like he’d done, then twitched restlessly. Her ass bumped his hard. She stilled. “Oops. Sorry.”

  He grunted again.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize sheep jumping a fence. Replayed the kickass dance moves on Beyoncé’s newest music video. Brainstormed how to find the Parisian shop inventory all the way back to 1965. None of it worked. She stared into the darkness, stiff and alert, straining to hear a snore or deep breathing, anything to signal that Sean was asleep so she could relax. Moments passed. Nothing. In fact, no sound of breathing at all.

  His body was a freaking furnace. Gretch waited in paralysis as long as she could, until her borrowed t-shirt was as damp as if she’d sat in a sauna all this time. Lord have mercy, she was in hell!

  Ever so slowly, she peeled the blanket off, a task doubly difficult because he’d tucked every centimeter of it so tightly under them and now even her slightest twitch jiggled the damn mattress. She made incremental progress, reveling in the inch-by-inch coolness of office air. A fraction at a time, she raised her left arm and leg into the clear. Almost free. The blanket snagged at the bottom corner, the snuggest place he’d tucked, and her ankle tangled in a pocket of cloth. Damn it. She rotated her foot. Nothing. She tried to flick the blanket with her fingers. The mattress jostled, and she froze. After infinity and a year passed, she micro-kicked her leg. The blanket dropped with ease, and she connected with his shin instead. “Oops,” she whispered, cringing. “Sorry.”

  “Gretch?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you think Hank would grant me shelter in one of the rooms beyond his desk? ’Cause on some scale, this qualifies as abuse.”

  She tsked in disgust and shifted onto her back, which naturally molded the entire left side of her down the incinerator of his backside. The folded sheet beneath her was sopping. “I’m the one suffering here, Sean. Jesus! You’re so fucking hot.”

  The mattress bounced violently as he turned on his other side and rose up on an elbow. In the pale moonlight, his eyes glittered icy and alpha-like. “I know I’m hot.” He snarled. “But you’re just going to have to restrain yourself, madam.”

  His unexpected response dissolved the fatigue and frustration. Gretch burst into giggles, helpless to stop when it turned into snuffling snorts. “Madam,” she wheezed, tears running down her face. �
�Restrain myself…”

  She clasped her aching stomach and flutter-kicked her legs. Tears streamed freely down her face.

  “Shhh…” His lips rested on her forehead, the smile evident. “How can I get you to go to sleep? A massage? A pillow over your face?”

  Her giggles ramped back up, her fresh hysteria no doubt making a racket. She covered her mouth with both hands, to no avail. Hank was probably going to knock any second. Sean jostled and bounced the mattress further, but she was too helpless to care. As her mirth subsided, though, she grew aware of the new sleeping arrangement. His pillow was lodged between his groin and her hip. The blanket was on the floor. His right hand cradled his head and his left roamed in a feather-whisper over her bare, damp stomach. The guy had taken the liberty to ease her shirt up, almost to her breasts.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Cooling you down, for starters.” He leaned in and blew a steady stream of air on her midriff, raking the tips of his fingers in a slow circle. Goosebumps coated her skin. Her nipples strained to attention.

  “What’s your tattoo?” His thumb traced the ink in the dim light, and because the design disappeared into her panties, his fingers slid the elastic down. Her breath caught. He dipped his head until his face was an inch from her pelvis as he tried to make it out. On instinct, she combed fingers through his hair. The intimacy of the moment spread so much joy through her that her chest hurt.

  “It’s a black chess queen,” she whispered.

  “How perfect.”

  Yes, Sean was definitely different. Usually she got a confused “Why?” But a tattoo of the most powerful piece in the game of chess was perfect for her. And black because…well, there wasn’t anything lily-white pure about her.

  He kissed it reverently, then licked the entire outline. In the moonlight his ministrations looked sexy, like he was deeply enjoying making out with her pelvis. His dark hair tickled her midriff, his hot and delicious tongue branded her tat, and his warm breath kept the shivers rippling on the surface of her skin. It was a sensual assault, and everything between her legs sparked and tingled. She tried to catalogue all these new sensations. Erotic languidness, desire, excitement. But there were darker things—urgency. Impatience. An instinct to spread her thighs, so she did. His fingers slowed.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. The intensity from earlier flickered to life, along with an agitated need to relieve it, like an itch needing scratching. She pushed the hand now resting on her abs until his palm cupped the panties at the juncture of her thighs. Instantly her body rewarded her with more tingles. She arched and moaned her pleasure.

  “Have you ever come, Gretch?”

  She paused, the exquisite sensations taking a back seat to the glaring awareness of her wanton position and Sean’s humiliating question. “Yes, of course.”

  “I mean with a guy. Not you or a dildo.”

  She shoved his hand away and snapped her legs tight. Mustering her frostiest tone, she said, “Roll over and go to sleep, Sean.”

  He had the audacity to chuckle. “Like we have a prayer of that happening.” His palm glided over her hipbone and nestled right back between her thighs. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and when she exhaled through her mouth, a deeper sound came out. She sank into the sensations of his gentle hand, the brush of his lips on her temple, the warm male scent of him.

  “It’s like a bonfire down here,” he muttered. “No wonder you’re flopping around like a hooked fish.”

  He brushed the length of her and she arched, opening wider. A childlike voice inside began as a whisper but spread with chilling intensity. Please don’t touch me.

  She turned her face toward the window, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes closed. This wasn’t the same. It was Sean. She was safe. She could do this.

  He trailed kisses along her cheekbone and caught her earlobe between his teeth. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  Ugh. They all said that. Stopit, stopit, stopit!

  She panted anguished breaths, her focus slipping.

  “Shhh.” His hand stilled. Seconds passed. He raised up on an elbow and called to the virtual-assistant cylinder. The neon light awoke. “Play the Intermezzo in Cavalleria rusticana by Muscagni.”

  Soft strains of violins floated in the air. Gretch gulped a breath, her muscles so tight they were seconds from spasming.

  Sean gathered her close and settled on his back. “Just listen for a while. Feel it.”

  The melody built, and the ethereal longing from the other day swirled in her soul. She swallowed hard before tears filled her eyes. “Tell me about this song,” she whispered, twining her fingers in his.

  “I already did.”

  “Tell me some more.”

  His chest rose and fell. “The composer heard about a competition and wrote this opera in, like, two months flat.” His breath stirred her hair. The whole orchestra played, building the sweetness, and with each note the tension in her muscles melted. She focused on the music and his calm voice.

  “Did he win?”

  “Yes. One of three winners, but it launched his career. Shh. You’re missing the good part.”

  As the music climaxed, Gretch uncurled her fingers from his and lay back on the mattress. She eased his palm over her once again and closed her eyes. He let it rest there, almost as if getting physical wasn’t as important as the Intermezzo. So Sean. She smiled and let the last strains of the violins wash away her fear. When it was over, she opened her eyes. An edge of the moon was still visible in the window, pale and glowing. She sighed, groggy and relaxed.

  “‘I met a lady in the meads,’” Sean whispered, “‘full beautiful, a fairy’s child.’” His hand pressed her gently, as if seeking permission to move. “‘Her hair was long,’” he continued, his tone gentle. “‘Her foot was light, and her eyes were wild.’”

  “What are you doing?” she grumbled.

  “Reciting John Keats.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’ll know, without a doubt, it’s me here with you.” He kissed her temple and ear. “Try not to interrupt.” He kissed her nose and the corner of her mouth.

  “‘I made a garland for her head.’” He slowly stroked her again. “‘And bracelets too, and fragrant zone.’” He kissed her for a long time, abundantly tender and giving. When he withdrew, his inhale quivered. “‘She looked at me as she did love, and made sweet moan.’”

  His timbre held her spellbound. Her muscles remained relaxed. There was only the moon and his voice and his deft fingers waking the fragile sensations again: the damp heat, the ache. She closed her eyes and guided his palm faster. It’sSeanit’sSeanit’sSean. Her core caught fire, and she gasped and writhed beneath his touch.

  “This next part’s pretty dirty.” The preciseness of his words, their meaning reached her, like a match to gasoline. She strained into his hand.

  “‘I set her on my pacing stead…’”

  “Oh my God,” she muttered, visualizing riding Sean, long and deep. She was so close! Wrenching her panties down, she pressed his fingers to her, flesh on flesh. He roamed freely, igniting fires like a maniacal arsonist.

  “‘And nothing else saw all day long.’” His voice deepened. His nose nudged her shirt and his tongue snaked out, lashing her nipple, suckling, biting.

  She panted and bucked wildly. Almost…

  “‘For sidelong would she bend, and sing.’” He caught her earlobe between his teeth at the precise moment his finger eased into her swollen depths.

  “Oh… Sean…”

  “‘A faery’s song.’” His thumb flickered her rapidly again and again. “Come for me, Gretch.”

  Her nerve endings seized, shivered, and exploded into cosmic smithereens. She arced in a quaking mass. His mouth descended onto hers, swallowing her scream, absorbing her bliss. She twisted the pillow from between them, knocked his hand aside, and rolled his jean-clad body on top of her.
Twining her legs around his ass, she rode the end of her climax on his erection. “Oh, Sean, oh, God…”

  He grunted, initially trying to hold himself still, but suddenly he thrust his hips sharply, the rough zipper seam chafing her from her orgasm. Seconds later he stiffened, and moonlight sparkled off his clenched teeth. A long groan came from deep within and then he slumped on top of her.

  Gretch grinned and palmed his ass. She’d done it! She’d had an orgasm with a man. And not just any man—Sean and his odd, darling, crazy-hot skills.

  “Shit,” he wheezed into her neck. “A guy’s worst nightmare.”

  “What?” She giggled again. “Premature ejaculation? Coming to your own poetry recital? Soiling your brother’s jeans?”

  “Worse.” He rolled off her, clearly not finding humor in her sass. “Having to raid that closet for clean underwear.”

  “But there are only women’s in there.”

  “And you get my point.”

  35

  Sean stored the deflated mattress and made a final slow inspection around the office.

  “You’ve totally outed us,” Gretch observed, standing between the knapsacks by the closed door. “Now it’s way cleaner than when we arrived.”

  She munched a granola bar, looking freaking adorable in cargo shorts, no makeup, and a Cubs cap pulled low over her brow. Sure, she was a knockout in her skintight minis and stilettos, but this Gretch looked young, fresh…approachable.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she demanded.

  She’d never perceive his tomboy observation as a compliment, so he grasped for the usual insolence. “Because you’re dropping crumbs where I just vacuumed.” He pointed at her feet. “It’s like you’re a toddler.”

  “We’re about to walk out the front door and potentially face a mafia hitman. I’d think you’d be less worried about cleaning.”

  Sean let the comment lie and returned the dust rag and hand vac to the bathroom storage shelf. There was no threat. Jace would be out front in minutes. He’d convinced Sean last night what a stupid and reckless maneuver running off into the night had been, and Sean had lain awake for hours battling all-consuming guilt. Jace was right—as usual—and Sean had fucked things up again trying to be the hero. His brother would stick them somewhere safe until the task force finished the investigation. At the very least, Sean would have a whole day of Gretch to himself, which was probably more dangerous than facing terrorists. He allowed himself a smug grin and stripped the gauze off his wrists. Tiny razor-type lines encircled both wrists, but the cuts had scabbed overnight and barely hurt. He stuck the bandages in the mini garbage near the toilet and twisted the bag closed. “Do you think Hank will take this garbage? I hate leaving it for your director.”