“I can’t stand nightmares,” his voice was gravelled and she could see him holding onto his control tightly. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”
“A bad dream isn’t something you can control and, therefore, not something you should feel sorry about.” Gracious, did she really sound that prim? “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not especially,” he answered gruffly.
Marie sat quietly and then, “You said something about a fire.”
He turned his head and looked straight at her. “Great. I was talking?” Marie nodded. “I suppose it makes sense. I was dreaming about my friends. We were playing poker and talking and somehow a bomb was under the table. I tried to get them to leave but they wouldn’t listen. It blew everyone to Hell except me.”
Marie winced. Survivor’s guilt, no doubt, but you couldn’t pay her enough to say that phrase. “I’m really sorry you’re going through this. Has it been going on for a long time?”
“Only since I stopped drinking,” Wit said wryly. “There was an interesting twist to this dream.”
“How so?”
“The guys were giving me advice.”
“And that’s different?”
“Yeah. The other few times I’ve had the dream it was memories, things that had definitely happened, that we were talking about.”
“Your sub-conscious must be wrestling with something,” she commented.
Wit thought about the visual of Marie’s face melting. He never wanted to see that again. “Yeah, I suppose that could be it. I’ll have to think on it when I’m clear- headed.”
“You’ll need a good night’s sleep to do that. Have you talked to anyone about your dreams?”
“You mean a doctor?” She nodded. “No, I haven’t. I considered talking to a friend of mine about some sleeping pills.”
“Those aren’t a solution but I could see how they could be recommended in your case. When does the trial start?”
Wit huffed out a breath. “Three weeks unless there’s a continuance of some sort. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a delay. The defense lawyers have been spinning out paper like tomorrow’s never going to come, which, for their clients, I guess it might not.”
“It sounds trite to say it but the trial could offer some closure.”
He bobbed his head side to side and thought about it. “It might. It’s a sucky thing to need closure for.” The shaking had finally subsided and Wit could feel his muscles unclenching. He built a mental and emotional wall against the cold that had resided in his soul since the bombing. With each second that passed Wit began to feel looser and back in control. Except for one thing.
The feel of the room changed. Marie didn’t know how to describe it, only that she felt it. Something was about to happen and she didn’t know if she should stop it. She didn’t know if she even wanted to.
Wit leaned closer, intimately. “I’m not tired anymore.” Those words said in a husky tone had her stomach doing slow flips.
Marie felt his lips teasingly close to hers. “Me either,” she whispered, a hairsbreadth from contact.
“I can’t think of a single thing I want to do.” The silky caress of his lips gliding across her cheek had her toes curling, her fingers closing against the fabric of the couch. She couldn’t catch her breath and the room had grown warm. Far warmer than the fire could explain.
“Oh yeah?” she asked, and kissed his palm when he reached to cup her chin.
“I can think of a few things I have to do, however.” His mouth captured hers in a demand, intensity screaming with every tug, nip and return.
Lightning struck her toes and travelled up her body, causing her thighs to quiver. She could feel the need in his kiss and she gave what she could while demanding more. His hands were everywhere at once and Marie could only tilt her head back, moan and enjoy the ride they took her on.
He stroked gently, feeling for responses and quickening or lightening his touch as she moved. The white t-shirt and black boxers he’d loaned her were loose enough that he could sweep his hands underneath and he did, his hands drifting up her abdomen until his thumbs ran over the silk camisole and teased the sensitive peaks.
They squirmed across the couch, turning and arching before falling to the floor. Wit landed on his back with Marie lying atop him. She could feel his hardness pulsing against her thigh. She pulled back from the kiss, leaned back onto her knees and gripped the hem of his shirt.
Understanding, Wit leaned up and helped her take the garment off. She threw it to the side and, while her hands were occupied, Wit pulled her t-shirt off and tossed it next to his. She sat a-stride him in a white lace camisole and a pair of his black boxer shorts. The light from the fire lit her skin with golden tones.
Marie shivered lightly when he ran his fingertips down her arms, shoulders to fingertips and back again. She leaned forward, braced her hands on his chest and nipped his jaw. Her lips trailed across and he captured her mouth once more.
Both of his hands laced through her hair and he pulled to the side, kissed her throat. His tongue touched her earlobe and he whispered the thought that was plaguing him. “You taste like cinnamon, it’s driving me crazy.” She felt his teeth scrape at her collarbone and her body arched.
In a quick movement he flipped them and she cradled him tightly between her clenched thighs. He felt her hips move and she ground against him. The heat nearly destroyed him and he reached for her leg, pulled it more tightly around him.
His hand covered her breast and she felt it swell as he squeezed and rubbed. The scratch of his five o’clock shadow set her nerves tingling as he slid his lips to the hard peak, suckling through the silk. It was all she could do to hold back a scream as her body bowed.
In a smooth motion his fingertips were sliding up her thigh and under the shorts, heading unerringly for her centre. With barely a pause he pressed his palm against her mound. Marie’s eyes flew open and she gasped his name.
The stretch band of the shorts gave easily to his questing hand and he pulled them down. Marie twisted her legs, kicked off the offending piece of clothing. With a groan Wit reached for the camisole and pulled it off.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered and licked her navel. The touch tickled and Marie leaned forward, laughing. With a twist she flipped him to his back and she sat atop him again.
“Not nearly as beautiful as you,” she said and trailed butterfly kisses up his throat. She bit at his bottom lip and gave it a suckling tug. Her hands went to the waist of his shorts and she began tugging them down. He helped and just like that she felt him against her thigh.
“Wait, before you move,” he hissed, already feeling her heat against him. He reached for his shorts, pulled a small packet from the pocket. He quickly put on the condom and in a quick motion was poised to enter her.
“Not so fast,” she purred. Marie grabbed his hands, held them above his head. A wicked grin crossed her face as she slowly pressed him deeper inside of her. Wit tried to thrust and Marie held him back.
She rocked her hips and Wit groaned, pulled half-heartedly against her restraining hands. “Remember, turnabout is fair play,” he muttered.
Marie rocked her hips, began a rhythm. Every motion sent sparks arcing. Her limbs felt heavy, tight, and when he grabbed her hips and began thrusting in earnest her entire world exploded. Lightning bolts exploded behind her eyes and sent shocks through her arms and legs. Her entire body shook with the orgasm.
Wit couldn’t take the tight, clenching feeling, it was too much. With a final lunge and cry he rode the wave of his own orgasm, clutching her hips hard enough to leave light finger marks. Marie collapsed across his chest, panting. When she regained her breath she pulled back and looked him over.
“Sex is definitely a curative,” she decided. “You look much better.”
“Fantastic sex,” he corrected. “It’s definitely not a restorative, however. I could fall asleep right here.”
Marie shifted. They were still on the
floor and she was lying across his body and what should have been uncomfortable felt as soft as a feather mattress. She nuzzled at his throat. “I’m fine right here but maybe we should consider the bed or the couch at least. Neither of us is as young as we used to be.”
The thought of back pain brought Wit to a sitting position. He stretched and took a physical inventory. “I do feel pretty good,” he told her, “but I think I have rug burn on my butt.”
“Your butt, my knees. I think it was worth it,” Marie pulled her borrowed t-shirt on and her voice was muffled by the fabric. When her head emerged she gave a huge yawn.
Wit flashed a wolfish grin. “I’d say so.” He scooped her into his arms and took her to the bedroom.
As she slept cradled on his shoulder his eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling. He thought about the dream, ran it through his head once more. He looked at the different angles of each cryptic statement. All in all, what his subconscious was trying to tell him was pretty clear, he thought.
The hours of work he’d put into creating IGGY had been many and the thought of those going to waste caused his eye to twitch. There had to be a way, morally and ethically, to use his program. Okay, maybe it shouldn’t be in the hands of private citizens but it’s not like he’d be using it to blackmail politicians.
The sun was rising when Wit came to his decision. Well, most of a decision. He was able to meet his own eyes in the bathroom mirror and that told him he was doing the right thing. The circles under his eyes were something he was used to ignoring.
Marie sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a white fluffy robe he’d picked up on a cruise. She was drinking coffee out of a thick stoneware mug and the scent nearly drove Wit to his knees. He lifted the mass of honey brown curls from her neck, nuzzled the graceful arch and his knees went weak for a different reason.
“Good morning,” she gave a nervous smile. “The coffee’s ready. This is a nice blend.” She held the mug up to her face as a prop to hide her nerves.
After her experience with Michael/James she had questioned her judgment when it came to romance. And now here she was, sitting at a breakfast table with someone she barely knew yet felt incredibly close to. She didn’t regret the night but found she didn’t know how to act this morning.
“The blend comes from CoffeeBot. You smell fantastic.” He kissed her cheek, squeezed her shoulders and stepped around her to the counter and the sweet ambrosia that was freshly brewed morning coffee. He poured a mug and moved a stool around the island so he could sit across from her. “Did you sleep okay?”
She had to clear her throat. “Yes, thank you.” Oh Lord, here comes Miss Prissy. Wit merely grinned. He’d known that tell already. She acted somewhat prim when she was nervous. He reached for and grasped her tiny hand, held it. The tight look around her eyes began to melt away.
“How did the test with your program go?” Marie swung her foot over the bar of the stool she sat on. She rubbed at her eyes, hoping to push the sleepy feeling away.
“Ah.” Wit held up a finger in a just a minute gesture. He stepped out of the kitchen and took his coffee with him. Marie refilled hers and watched when he came back. He was walking with a jaunty air and the sight of Wit in nothing but boxers nearly made her lose her train of thought.
He laid a sheaf of papers down on the counter and Marie glanced at it. “Who’s Weston Manning?” The name was in bold print across the top of the first page.
“A friend of mine,” Wit said easily. “He offered to be a test subject. When we were talking the other day I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see what IGGY does. Since you asked,” he gestured to the papers, “take your time and you can tell me if it worked or not.”
With some trepidation Marie began reading the report. It wasn’t long before she was intrigued. After two cups of coffee she flipped the last page over and looked at Wit. “That is some seriously detailed information. Tax records, work summaries, mortgage details. Can you really find all of this information online?”
“Not everyone can, no. I can but it’s something I’ve been learning for years. Collecting access, we called it.”
“What does the last paragraph mean?’ All sources indicate a law abiding citizen. Due to insufficient data IGGY cannot prove this individual exists. Further research is required,’” She read.
“It’s a bug I have to work out,” he said glibly.
“And you have already directed this all powerful eye at James Brandt?”
“Oh yeah. In a few hours I’ll know him better than his own mother.”
“Who’s a lovely person,” she told him.
“I’m sure she is.”
Chapter 6
James Alan Brandt – always James, never Jim or Jimmy though sometimes Michael – lay in the bed and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. A crack had caught his attention and he lazily followed the pattern. One arm was beneath his head, the other trapped underneath the blonde he’d picked up at his brother’s engagement party. The limb hadn’t fallen asleep yet but he knew it would if he left it there for much longer.
He turned his head and looked at the sleeping woman. What was her name? He couldn’t remember and didn’t think it was important. He’d made it clear he was looking for an evening of fun, not a commitment. Hopefully she’d remember gleefully agreeing to those terms after several glasses of wine and champagne.
A headache was taking root at the base of his skull, most likely from those same drinks. He knew he’d gone a little overboard with the alcohol last night but he’d been stressed. After the week he’d had, Brandt felt he deserved a few drinks and a bit of companionship. He’d gotten both and found it hadn’t changed his situation.
Brandt’s life had spiralled out of control nearly a month ago and he’d been scrambling to clean up the mess. A trader on Wall Street by day, he’d become a compulsive gambler by night. The sports betting had started small when he’d been in college. A few bucks on a game here and there had been fun and made watching the games more exciting.
Then the gambling had become more important than the games. The amount he’d wager had gone up and he stopped watching the games for enjoyment and instead viewed them as investments. Lately his “investments” had been blowing up in his face at an alarming pace.
As is normal for habitual gamblers, Brandt looked for someone to cover his losses until the next sure thing came along. He’d met a man named Charles several months back. Charles was a man who had money to invest without the nasty business of paperwork and collateral. Brandt made his first deal with Charles for $10,000 and everything had gone smoothly. He’d won his wager, paid Charles back and went merrily on his way.
A week later he’d been back at the bar Charles had his “office” in, a back booth that had an outlet for his phone and laptop chargers. He set up shop when the bar opened at 5:00 and stayed through closing. Loan sharking was a fulltime job for some. Brandt had taken a larger loan and, once again, was able to pay it back immediately.
Now, however, Brandt had somehow lost track of the loans, the games he’d won and lost. Professional sports were for amateurs, he always bet on college and lately college had been kicking his butt. At last count, Brandt owed Charles nearly $200,000 and he honestly couldn’t figure out how it had happened or if that was even the final total.
An electronic beep came from somewhere on the floor. Brandt carefully disengaged from the blonde and reached down for his pants. As though Charles had known Brandt was thinking about him, a text message had arrived.
$225K, 10
Brandt felt the blood drop from his face and he nearly vomited onto the floral bedcovers. The total was more than he’d thought though, honestly, once you hit $200,000 did another $25K really make a difference? Charles was giving him ten days to come up with the money. Cash, of course, no personal checks or bank transfers.
Fortunately Brandt had finished laundering the money he’d liberated from Marie. She’d been a lovely girl but she should have paid far more attention to her secur
ity, internet and otherwise. By the time the money was clean enough for him to use the nut had been knocked down to $150,000, give or take a few thousand. How a cook at a steakhouse was able to get that kind of business loan was beyond him but bless the loan department at that particular chain bank.
He threw the covers from his waist and slid out of the bed. Clothes were scattered all over the room and he dug around until he found what belonged to him. Briefly he wondered if the blonde had any money. He thought Regina had mentioned the woman was a paralegal when she introduced them with that shine in her eye. Like he’d ever date one of her friends.
Paralegal meant no savings unless she had family money and, in his experience, that was something she would have mentioned. Name and family dropping was a popular pastime in New York. Damn, what was her name? Whatever, it didn’t matter now.
Brandt exited the apartment, making sure to lock the door on his way out. The air held a damp chill and a cold wind blew down the back of his jacket, causing him to shiver. The sun would be coming up soon and he wanted to be in his own bed when that happened. He hailed a cab, gave his address and leaned back in the seat.
Bradley Witson, Kid Midas himself, had been at his brother’s engagement party. Brandt couldn’t get over that fact. Witson was a modern legend in New York. He traded on the Exchange, he invested in new companies, the man blinked and his portfolio doubled or even tripled. Not only did he have the luck and the brains, Witson had been a freaking model in college. If Brandt didn’t envy Witson his life he might have hated the man.
Witson had said he was at the event with the caterer, not as a guest of Regina or Jason. Helping out a friend, he thought the man had said. It had been considered eccentric when Witson had taken off for places unknown. Brandt wondered if he’d spent or lost all of his money in those six months and thus his work with, and in, Menial Labour Land. He doubted it but stranger things had been known to happen.
Perhaps he could talk to Kid Midas, show him some deals he’d been working on. If he could get Witson to invest in one project, he could easily get the money to Charles on time. Then he’d tell Witson the project failed and Brandt would be in the clear. Or perhaps Witson had a few quick deals Brandt could participate in.
At Wit's End Page 8
