by Edie Harris
She was only thirty-one years old. Her vocal cords worked just fine. A career here in the States, a fresh start, wasn’t beyond her power.
For now, though, Ilda wanted nothing more than to bask in this precious safety, and the new freedom she reveled in.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you.” Sofia’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Ilda straightened on the bench, shifting to look at the woman who would be her mother-in-law, if Casey had his way. “No, actually.” She spoke in English, as she had almost exclusively for the past month, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I am not known for keeping my mouth shut.”
“Then it must be me who’s bringing down the mood.”
Despite the teasing note in Sofia’s words, Ilda sensed a question lurking, and knew it was time to come clean about the guilt that had been plaguing her for weeks. “Your son. Adam. He...he saved my daughter.”
“Of course he did.” Sadness tightened the corners of Sofia’s beautiful eyes. “I raised a good man.”
Ilda’s throat hurt when she swallowed. “But that is the reason he is not here with us today.”
“Oh, sweetie, no.” For the first time since they’d met, Sofia initiated physical contact with Ilda, one slender arm slipping around Ilda’s shoulders and tugging her close. It was maternal and soft and warm and wonderful, and something inside Ilda melted as she leaned into the older woman’s embrace. “The reason Adam isn’t here is because he made a choice. And he made the right choice, to protect our little Arlo above all else.” Sofia squeezed Ilda gently, and the melting sensation increased tenfold. “Is this why you’ve been so careful around me?”
“I am...if I were you—” and it was important that she get her words exactly right “—and my child were somewhere in the world, with someone who intended him harm, and I could not find him, I would... I would be a mess.” Her throat hurt again, her eyes suddenly damp.
Another squeeze. “You’ve got your one baby, and she’s still a baby. You haven’t gotten to see her grow up yet, into the strong, independent person she’s going to become.” Sofia’s mouth curved, the solemnness leaving her gaze as she smiled at Ilda. “My babies are adults, all of whom have witnessed the scariest the world has to offer—the nature of their work. Yes, I’m terrified for Adam. Yes, I will do anything in my power to get him home again. Yes, I intend to lock him in his childhood bedroom for a year as soon as he is home. But I have to trust that my son is smart enough and tough enough and brave enough to handle whatever comes his way. Including this.”
“So you do not resent me?”
“No, Ilda. I like you, quite a lot.” Sofia paused, considering. “But I do wish you would put my oldest son out of his misery.”
A fierce blush heated her cheeks. “Oh.”
“Oh.” Sofia’s smile widened. “Casey loves you, and Arlo. It lights him up inside, that love.”
Shoving the sunglasses to the top of her head, Ilda let her gaze wander to the man in question. As if sensing her regard, he glanced up, eyes locking with hers. She shivered in the banked heat she saw there, blasting her with sensual warmth from several yards away. “Will you watch Arlo for us, for a moment?”
Sofia laughed. “Take as long as you need.” With a final squeeze, Casey’s mother stood and walked to Beth, Vick and Arlo, leaning down to murmur something in her son’s ear.
Breathing suddenly became far more difficult.
Short seconds later, Casey stood in front of Ilda, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, broad shoulders tense as he stared at her. A wealth of emotion lived in those gray-hazel irises, so different than those of the rest of his family, different than Arlo’s, but utterly familiar in the best possible way. “Hola.”
He was the only one who’d spoken Spanish with her since leaving Colombia, aside from Chandler McCallister—who, though having returned to London with Tobias, rang Ilda twice a week to check in on how she and Arlo were settling in and adjusting to American life. “Hola, Casey.”
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze drank her in, the greed and hunger lashing her. Making her ache. “Would you walk with me, Ilda?” He nodded to indicate the gravel path to her left. “Arlo will be safe—Gavin’s keeping a watchful eye.”
Gavin, the man with the book, the blue eyes and the tattoos. “All right.” Smoothing the skirt of her yellow cotton sundress, Ilda stood and began moving slowly down the path Casey indicated, careful not to touch him. Just as he made an equally concerted effort not to permit his arm to brush hers.
Sculptures rose up on either side, bursting from the trimmed hedges, but she was blind to it. Every sense was attuned to the man at her side. His scent, fresh and masculine, filled her lungs. He filled her peripheral vision, big and bad in the most formal clothes she’d ever seen him wear, perfectly fitted jeans, a heather-gray henley and taupe topsiders. He looked every inch the successful weekending businessman—which, Ilda had learned, is who he was, when he wasn’t playing spy or soldier.
He looked edible, more than anything else, and her mouth watered for a taste. A taste she’d denied herself for weeks because figuring out who she was on her own, without a man casting a shadow over her everyday existence, was a necessary first step for the rest of her life. “Thank you,” she blurted out.
“For what?”
“Giving me the time I asked for.”
His shoulders hiked up, hands turning to obvious fists in his pockets. As though it was as difficult for him to keep from reaching for her as it was for her. “Ask me for anything, Ilda, and I’ll give it. That’s how this works.”
Frowning, she finally looked up at him. “How what works?”
“This. Us.” Casey halted in the middle of the path. “You already know what I want, baby. It hasn’t changed, but... I have.” When she stopped with him, he withdrew his hands, and together they stared down at the long blunt-tipped fingers, the broad palms with their visible calluses. Capable hands that cradled their child so gently, defended them so fiercely and pleasured her so thoroughly. “There’s a psychiatrist on staff. We’re required to talk with her on a quarterly basis, and for the past four years, I’ve been lying to her.”
“About what?”
“My mind. When I lost you—when I thought I lost you—I spiraled, big time.” Hesitating, he glanced around, and she saw the soldier in him take hold, assessing their privacy and, apparently, finding it lacking. Gesturing for her to follow him, he led her up a set of stone steps and around a corner, until they stood beneath the old-world arches marking the edge of the museum. His body acted as a shield, barricading them from any prying eyes of the outside world, no matter that it was the middle of the day with sunlight streaming down.
She shifted backward, until her bottom hit the balustrade, her bare shoulders brushing the greenery photosynthesizing its way up the wall. “You don’t have to tell me.” Except she was desperate to know, not because she wanted to revel in his suffering, but because she was finally ready to learn the portions of his past that might hurt her.
But he shook his head, the sun glinting off the short dark hair he’d let grow out a bit over the past few weeks. “I’ve got demons, baby. I don’t know if they were always there and I just ignored them, or if they popped up after I thought you’d died, but they fucked me up.” His hands turned to fists at his sides. “Hell, they still fuck me up, even knowing you’re here. So I decided to be honest with the shrink for once during our quarterly a couple weeks ago.” Meeting her eyes, he shifted closer, and a delicious thrill raced through her limbs. “Because I can’t do my job if I’m at the mercy of a chemistry imbalance. Just like I can’t be the best father possible, or the best...the best husband possible.”
Pressure on her chest made it hard to breathe. “It takes a strong man to put his health first.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he wanted to smile but couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Is that another way of calling me selfish?”
Her hands
fluttered over her skirt. “Oh, no, I—”
“I’m selfish, Ilda. That’s another thing I’ve learned, talking to the doc.” Again, he inched forward, and she realized that he was maneuvering her. Caging her. “You told me I was back in Medellín, and you’re right.” Another inch, his hands coming to rest on the stone railing, on either side of her hips. “I love you selfishly. I love you for making me burn, for making me ache. I love you for how you touch me, and how you let me touch you. I love you for the laughter and excitement and adventure and secrecy of our courtship, and I love you—” he leaned in until his mouth hovered over hers “—for our daughter. Selfishly is the only way I know how to love you.”
“Casí.” Her palms lifted to rest on the muscled planes of his pectorals. Touching him. She was touching him.
“But the flip side, amor, is that I’ll give you anything, everything.” His lips brushed hers in a ghost of a kiss, and it felt good, so damn good. “You and Arlo, you make me selfless. Every piece of me, every inch, belongs to you.” And then he aligned every last one of those inches with all of hers, leaving them both shuddering. “You own me.”
Ilda lost control. Her hands fisted in his shirt, closing the final centimeters between them and stealing the kiss she’d been dying to take for weeks. She licked her way into his mouth, drowning in the rich, familiar taste of his lips. Nothing compared to the sweet need he inspired with each flick of his tongue, nip of his teeth, slide of his lips.
Her arms looped around his neck. “I told you, marido. You’re the other half of my soul.”
“Fénix.”
“Casí—”
“Sorry, sorry.” He kissed a path across her cheek, hands going to the unconstrained wildness of her curly hair, fisting and tugging to reveal the column of her throat to his lips. “I know you don’t want me to call you that anymore.”
“No, I do. I-I missed it.” Her nails raked over his scalp as she urged him on, lashes fluttering down. “I missed you, every day for four years, and I loved you for every one of those days. I loved you for every day we were together in Colombia, and for every night we’ve been apart since landing in Chicago. I love you, marido.” Hopping atop the balustrade, she wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling the delightful hard length of his erection nestle into the apex of her thighs. “Being apart feels like a punishment.”
“Then let’s stop punishing ourselves.” Lifting his head, he reached beneath the collar of his shirt to withdraw a chain. “You know our marriage isn’t legal, but I’m your husband. I have been ever since you gave me this.” His palm opened to reveal the moonstone ring she’d placed in his palm four years ago in the chapel—a placeholder for the wedding band she had always intended to purchase for him. “Let me give it back to you now with the promise to do it right this time.” With a yank, the chain released, and he slid the ring free, shoving the chain into his pocket as he reached for her left hand. “I want us out in the open for everyone to see. Dates, dinners, dancing. I want us to have everything we didn’t the first time around, and do this properly.” Slowly, purposefully, he slipped the ring onto her third finger. “And then, when you’re ready to take on my selfish heart forever, we’ll make it official. How does that sound, fénix?”
It sounded just about perfect to her. “Does doing this ‘properly’ involve you touching me?” Her thighs clenched around his hips, and she gifted him with her best seductive smile, relishing the weight of her new-old ring on her finger as she ran her hands over his big shoulders. “I feel like a beggar for you, after so long without.”
“Then it’s a good thing my version of ‘proper’ involves me fucking you senseless whenever you need it, baby.” His cock surged aggressively between them, rough palms falling to her knees and shoving up beneath her sundress. “And I hope you need it bad, because I feel like I’m gonna die if I don’t get inside you.”
She moaned when his tongue found the pulse beneath her ear. “I do. I do need it bad.”
“Good girl. Now spread those pretty legs a little wider for me—Yes, that’s it.” He loosed a pleased growl as he shoved aside the soaked gusset of her panties. “Ah, fuck, baby. Why do you always have to feel like this?” Two masculine fingertips found her clit, petting with quick, sure flicks designed to push her past the edge of reason.
“Fuck me,” she begged, panting. Her sex clamped around nothing, the emptiness leaving her shivering to be filled.
With his non-busy hand anchored now at the base of her spine, he angled her deeper into the green growth at her back, switching up the angle so that his trouser-covered erection rubbed perfectly over her center. He withdrew his hand from between her legs, sucking his fingers deep into his mouth and licking, licking with that devious tongue, before shoving them beneath her skirt and thrusting them into her, deep and without warning.
His mouth caught her scream of pleasure.
And then he was fucking her, with fingers instead of cock, but she was filled and that was enough for now. “Oh, God, Casí.” She kissed him with abandon, growing mindless with each pump of his hand, the grinding of his hips adding perfect pressure until she knew there was no avoiding her approaching orgasm. Not when she was starved for it. For him. “Casí, marido.”
“That’s right, baby. Your man’s gonna make you come.” His whispered words fell harsh against her lips. “Your husband. So go ahead, get my hand all messy. When you’re done, I’m gonna lick you from my skin. Taste you there for hours.”
The heel of his palm raked over her clit, and that was all it took. Whimpering, writhing, she let the stars explode behind her closed eyelids, satiated lust rippling over her exposed skin like a brand she dare not hide, not when she wanted to remain marked by Casey and what he did to her body, her heart, forever.
Then he proceeded to pull his hand free and make good on his threat, licking the evidence of her orgasm from his fingers and sending a whole new round of sticky shivers through her bloodstream. “I think you had better come over for supper this evening.” She met his gaze, smiled at the surprised longing she saw reflected there. “I also think you had better spend the night, too.”
Arms banding about her waist, he dropped his forehead to hers. “Ilda. Te amo.”
Of course he loved her, and she loved him. “Come home with us, Casey Faraday.”
“Always.” And he kissed her, stark and pure, and hers. “Always.”
Epilogue
Faraday Labs
San Diego
Forty-six days. It had been forty-six days since Adam was kidnapped, and it killed Gillian that they hadn’t yet rescued him.
It didn’t make sense that they couldn’t find him. They were Faradays, for Christ’s sake; there was nothing their family, their company couldn’t do. Except, apparently, retrieve one of their own.
Her eyes burned behind the lenses of her glasses, but not from tears or emotion. No, it was from staring at this damn computer screen well into the night, and now it was past time for her to head back to her apartment, which meant she was bunking at the Labs. Again.
It wasn’t so bad, really, staying in the tricked-out studio attached to her office and private lab, the lab in which she now sat. It was just that she’d made a New Year’s Resolution to spend more nights in her two-bedroom apartment than she did at her workplace, and six months into the year, Gillian would really like to be able to start honoring that resolution. Like, anytime now.
Still, she struggled to justify a peaceful night’s sleep in the comfort of her own bed while Adam was God knows where in the world, and Faraday Industries hadn’t yet uncovered the mole within their ranks. So even though she had closed out the day’s work—a schematic for the subfloor cooling and electrical systems in her new “passenger drone” project—Gillian continued to pore over clues leading nowhere.
Satellite footage from the Kabul Girls’ School Bombing.
Flight manifests between Afghanistan and Russia for the weeks before and after the bombing.
The helicopter.
Always that damn helicopter.
They needed to locate it, but Gavin’s memory of its actual location was hazy. She’d started by tracking down as many of the late Karlin Kedrov’s properties as possible, but Gillian had never been the whiz-kid Adam was with the internet. Where nothing online remained sacred or locked from him, unless Gillian had a set key sequence or word search or instructions provided to her, her Google Fu was no more or less Fu-ish than your average nineties kid’s.
Gavin had said the helicopter had been burned out, but if he’d been able to open up the secret compartment and get at those hidden Faraday guns, that meant the chopper might be salvageable. Not that she wanted to save it—she wanted to get at its black box.
So when the Kedrov property search grew frustrating, Gillian had switched tactics to tracking and inventorying every Faraday helicopter that had been retrofitted with the secret in-floor storage compartment. Turns out, there were a lot of helicopters out there meeting that criteria. She’d started with the choppers requisitioned by the US military, since it seemed far more likely that one of those had fallen off the radar and into enemy hands, but now, more than halfway through the list, none so far were missing.
Gillian didn’t want there to be a mole in Faraday Industries. Logic dictated otherwise, with the targeting of her siblings—because it was targeting, no two ways about it, and it had to stop. It had to.
Shortly after Beth’s ordeal, Gillian had Skyped with her younger sister, taking in the visible evidence of Beth’s brutalization and wishing with everything in her that she was in their family home, too. Or that she’d visited Beth at her old condo in Chicago, in the year before this nightmare occurred. But Gillian hadn’t been in physical proximity with her siblings in a long time. Only once in two years, to be precise.
