When Stars Collide

by Aliyah Burke

  “A…a…and?” Her throat was so dry she could hardly formulate a single word.

  “He’s alive.” Hope soared. “But it’s still serious.” And crashed.

  “When is he coming home? When can I see him?”

  “They’ll fly him here on a transport. He should be here by the end of the week.” Her expression must have displayed exasperation. “The need to have him stable for transport is their top priority, Ms. Gibson.” His reprimand fell heavily.

  She ignored it. Her brother was alive and coming home. End of the week. Three days. “But he’s coming here? To Dallas?”

  “Straight here. They’ll be bringing him to Methodist Memorial.”

  “Okay.” There was a sudden influx of energy as the list of things that needed to be done hit her. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll keep you posted, Ms. Gibson, if there are any changes,” Alejo said.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a small smile, which wasn’t returned but she didn’t care.

  Heading for the door, she paused right before she opened it. Brows drawn together in confusion, she pivoted on her heels to find both men watching her with different speculative looks on their faces.

  “What about the rest of his team?”

  Chapter Seven

  Cort leant back, hands behind his head, feet up on the finally cleared-off desktop, and sighed. The grin was present, and he ignored the questioning looks that grazed him in the moderately busy room.

  “You that happy to be away from Ilsa?”

  With a chuckle he tipped his head to find his partner Trent Morrioe there. The man wore a suit, like usual. His dark skin shone under the fluorescent lights. He and Morrioe made quite a pair. Most days, Cort looked like he was off to work on the ranch with his jeans, T-shirt and cowboy boots, topped off by his cowboy hat—normal attire for him. Morrioe always wore suits.

  He rolled the toothpick around in his mouth. “Well, I am that,” he admitted, swinging his feet to the floor. “But that’s not why I’m smiling.” Trent sat on the corner of his desk. “Zémire left me a message. Her brother’s been found and is on his way home.”

  A flash of white teeth appeared briefly against ebony skin. “Wonderful, I know you and her brother are good friends. Although it begs the question, why are you still here?”

  Good question. “Trust me, I don’t want to be. But boss man said he wanted to speak to me. And since he’s on something else right now…here I am.”

  Morrioe nodded in understanding. “I’m off to grab some chow. You want anything?”

  “No, I’m good.” I’d be better with Zémire, but I’m good.

  “Have a safe trip.” Trent left with a wave.

  Cort ended up waiting another ten minutes before his phone rang to let him know to get to the office. He headed off immediately and strode into the room without knocking. Sarah Mathis stood at the desk corner, waiting for some papers, her blonde hair drawn back in a severe bun. Her blue eyes sparkled at him from behind tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Cort,” she said fondly.

  “Evening, darlin’,” he drawled. “You’re too beautiful to be in here so late. Why aren’t you at home?” He pinned Gene, his boss, with a mock glare. “This woman deserves a raise. You work her too hard.” As he headed to a chair, he winked at Sarah. “Just say the word, darlin’. I’ll take you away from all this and give you the pampered life you deserve.”

  Sarah blushed while Gene scowled.

  “Did you attend any of those classes on sexual harassment, Kysenzki? You do recall they were mandatory, right?” Gene’s words were dagger-sharp.

  Without sparing his boss a glance, he shrugged without remorse, all his focus on Sarah. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell for me.”

  Sarah shook her head in mirth.

  Cort loved teasing her when Gene was around. He knew his boss harboured a huge crush on his secretary, but refused to pursue her even though Sarah had reciprocating feelings. She was a lovely lady with a heart of gold, whom Gene would be very lucky to have once he got past his stubbornness.

  “Did you ever think Ms. Mathis might not like your comments?”

  Hooking a leg over the chair’s arm, he swung it in an idle motion. “If Sarah,” he used her name purposefully, “tells me to stop, then I will.”

  “Tell him,” Gene barked and shoved the papers he’d finished signing at her.

  Cort caught the flash of hurt that popped up for a second then vanished. Wiped clean like it never existed. She straightened the papers and gave him a smile—beautiful, yet he could detect strain.

  “I think it’s wonderful when a man pays attention to a woman. Compliments are always nice to receive, so Cort can continue to say those things to me.”

  Her response had a bite in it and he grinned. Who knew Sarah had teeth when it came to something other than her job? He watched thunderheads brew in Gene’s gaze.

  “I don’t condone team members having a relationship of the sexual kind.”

  Sarah sniffed and stared at her boss. “I’m a secretary, I’m not an agent. I can do whatever I want with whomever I want.” She glided to the door, handing Cort a wink in the process.

  She sounds a lot like Zémire. Full of fire and determination.

  “You’re my secretary,” Gene growled, his baritone deeper than normal.

  Cort, who still sat sideways in the chair, watched them both.

  Sarah stopped at the door and looked back, regret in her expression. “But I’m not yours, Mr. Wills,” she commented in a soft tone that could be heard remarkably well. Then she withdrew and left them alone with the click of the door closing.

  Good job, Sarah. He twisted to see his boss still scowling. Yet his eyes nurtured flames, and he realised soon Gene would be claiming his woman.

  Putting a toothpick in his mouth, Cort readjusted his body. “What’d you want to see me about?”

  Gene had momentarily forgotten. Eyebrows raised, Cort waited.

  “Damn it, Kysenzki. Do you have to flirt with every woman?”

  “Every one? No. Most, but not all.”

  Gene pointed a finger at him. “Leave Sarah out of it.”

  “She’s okay with it,” he goaded.

  “I don’t give a royal fuck.”

  “Good, then it doesn’t matter.” He put both feet on the floor, faced forward, and stared at his boss. “What’d you want to see me about?”

  Gene frowned but got to it, asking him about Ilsa and their time together. It didn’t matter—everything resided in black and white in his report. When the ‘inquisition’ had concluded, Cort got to his feet and traipsed to the door.

  “Kysenzki.”

  “Sir?” he asked, peering over his shoulder.

  “Stay the hell away from Sarah.”

  A devilish grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “You want her so bad, Gene, go get her. But don’t expect her to put her life on hold because you can’t tell her how you feel. From where I’m sitting she’s fair game.” He didn’t mention that he had a woman. What fun would that be?

  He left and closed the door on the string of curses streaming from Gene’s mouth. Sarah got a kiss on the cheek and he jogged to his truck, more than ready to begin his trip home. He had enough time on the books for a month off. On the outskirts of DC, he called Zémire. It went straight to voicemail.

  “Call me, Zémire, when you get this.” The words ‘I love you’ came perilously close to slipping out.

  As the miles flew by he mulled over that very fact. He loved her. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on and say it happened right at this time or place. It just was how things were. When he stopped at a rest area for a few winks of sleep, it was Zémire’s lovely face and killer body that escorted him there.

  Her pussy was like heated velvet around his delving fingers. Wet. Hot. A drug, and he was the addict. The thick cream pouring from her core coated the digits he thrust into her. Her lithe body thrashed on the table over which she’d been laid.

 
“Oh…uh…Co…Cort!” she cried and moaned incoherently.

  “So beautiful, Zémire. So fucking beautiful.”

  He rose over her and drew a pebbled nipple the hue of dark chocolate into his hungry mouth. She arched up, pressing herself into him even more. Her hips undulated and rolled as she rode his questing fingers.

  Her mewls grew louder and she bucked harder. Trailing between both breasts, he made sure to lavish equal attention on each. His cock, like a rod of titanium, dug into his jeans.

  “You should see yourself, Zémire. Lying here on the dining room table naked as the day you were born with three of my fingers buried to the hilt inside this wet pussy.” He grazed one tip with his teeth and her entire body shuddered including the slick folds around him.

  “Cort,” she begged, almost breathless.

  “Whose pussy is this, Zémire?”

  Her fingers raked at him, desperately clawing him closer. He resisted and her moans grew to grumbles.

  “Give me what I want and I’ll give you what you want.”

  Back and forth he moved his fingers in her, wanting nothing more than to pull them out and slam his cock deep within her in a single stroke.

  “Cort!”

  “Whose is it?” he asked low while his other hand unbuttoned and lowered the zipper on his jeans. He groaned when his fingers curled around his shaft. Soon his hand moved a torturous pace along it, matching the speed of his other one, which continued to piston between Zémire’s legs.

  Her toes dug into the backs of the chairs her feet rested upon as she used them as leverage to move her hips even more.

  The things she does with her hips…damnation!

  “Tell me,” he ordered in a gruff tone. The torture was getting to be too much. The scent of her arousal, her tight channel holding his fingers, her moans. All of it was arousing and intoxicating alone. Combined…lethal, and he was losing the battle. His will was made of tissue paper which had begun to tear.

  “Mine,” she snapped, reaching for his cock.

  He withdrew his fingers and pressed them to his mouth, dragging his tongue along them, ingesting her cream. Her taste caused his shaft to jerk in his hand, his balls drawing tight to him. Holding her gaze, he nudged her slit with the head of his cock. A smile of gratification slid along her face.

  “You want this,” he said arrogantly, able to read her need.

  Zémire licked her lips and tried to impale herself. Ignoring his own body’s demand for release, he grabbed her hips and held her immobile. She whimpered.

  “Do you want me to beg?” Her words breathless.

  “No. You know what I want to hear.”

  “Yours,” she gasped as he teased her opening.

  “Louder.”

  “Yours, Cort! This is your pussy.” She screamed. “Now, fuck me!”

  He smiled well aware it was feral. “Yes.” Cort drew back and plunged forward into…

  into nothing.

  The blare of a horn snapped him upright in his truck. It took him a few moments of time to focus.

  Rest area.

  Alone.

  Shit.

  He scanned the dark area where he’d parked. It remained quiet and still as it had been, aside from that one hit of the horn. A groan of frustration slipped out when it became all too clear Zémire had been just a dream. He could smell her skin, taste her arousal and…

  That was all it took for his already horny body to find release. He dropped his head back and rode it out. It had been a long time since he’d come in his pants. Rubbing his still needy cock, he got out and into the backseat where he changed with swift efficiency. With a shameful shake of his head, he got back on the road, knowing restful sleep was out of the question.

  I’ll be in Texas soon and I’ll have the real Zémire, not a dream one.

  That thought made him smile. For the remainder of the drive back to Texas, he pushed hard, stopping only when he needed to refuel. Zémire had yet to return his calls. Any of them. He called his parents and they were expecting him. But it was the lack of contact with Zémire that bothered him.

  He stopped by BB’s, but no one was there. Biting back his disappointment and frustration, he went home. His mom had dinner ready and while they ate, he found out Zémire had been by a few times to share a meal.

  Cort longed to go to her. Hold her. Make love to her until neither had the energy to move other than to breathe. It wasn’t to be, for he crawled into an empty bed, his only company the vivid dreams of Zémire, which flooded him each night.

  When the visiting hours began at the hospital, he was striding through the automatic doors of Methodist Memorial. At the front, he stopped at the desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” a lovely young black woman asked.

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Benvolio Gibson’s room.”

  She typed on the keyboard and frowned. His badge was out when she looked up. “Oh,” she murmured. “He’s on the fifth floor. Room five-six-eight.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Before coming here, he’d swung by BB’s once more. And again, there had been no one there. Stepping off the elevator, he checked the signs and headed left. Going around a corner, he slowed at the sight of Zémire. His beautiful Zémire. She wore baggy clothes, which seemed to tempt him further. A uniformed officer stood by a door and Zémire stood toe to toe with another man in a suit.

  Fed. FBI, he’d bet. Upon closer inspection, he realised it was Agent Michaels. Cort recognised him from the photo, which was with his agent information. He moved closer, noticing the anger in her body language. Zémire was pissed.

  She never noticed his approach, or if she did she gave no sign of it. She fired off words in rapid French at the man before her. He responded and Cort could see he was making an attempt to calm her down.

  From the other direction, another man strode up the empty corridor. Zémire sure noticed him. Before Cort knew what happened, Zémire had met the approaching man and swung. A beautiful right cross. She hit him. This was no open palm, hysterical woman slap. No. This was a closed fist punch. Holy shit!

  The man staggered back, clutching his nose, the blood seeping between his fingers. Zémire followed, only to be restrained by Michaels.

  Cort was so shocked that for a moment he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His calm, always polite Zémire had sent a stunning right cross to the man before her. Snapping out of his daze, he ran the rest of the way to the confrontation. When he slowed to a stop, he saw the gold badge hooked to the man’s belt.

  Aww, hell!

  Zémire Gibson had just delivered a punch to the face, resulting in a nosebleed, to an FBI agent.

  Zémire didn’t even struggle against the two men that held her. Agent Michaels had tried to calm her down but it failed. Now he held one arm and the room guard was on the other. Blood leaked between Agent Jimenez’s fingers, and he used his other hand to dig for a handkerchief to press against his nose. His eyes, hard as flint, watched her.

  “You bastard!” she seethed.

  His brown eyes honed in on her, containing shock and disbelief along with a hint of anger. “You. Hit. Me.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “Se calmer,” Allan muttered.

  She struggled. “Calm down? I don’t want to calm down.”

  Every fibre of her being trembled with the extreme fury that filled her from head to toe.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  The question came from a man. A man whose mere voice could throw her world into upheaval. A deep, silvered, sexy Texas drawl, it brought up another emotion other than anger.

  Cort’s here?

  She turned her head and met his intense stare. Lust coursed fast and swift, reminding her how unfulfilling her own fingers had been instead of his. Or his thick cock. Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, his gaze grew molten. Not for long, but she definitely caught the hunger before it vanished.

  Regardless of her physical reaction to seeing Cort again, she didn�
�t need to focus on him or have him step in. This was between her and Agent Jimenez.

  “Who are you?” Michaels asked.

  “Stay out of this, Cort,” she ordered.

  “Let go of her.” He issued the command like she’d never spoken.

  Jimenez readjusted the cloth beneath his still bleeding nose and put his watering eyes on the man who’d somehow got the uniform to let her go. Now she stood between Cort and Allan.

  “She assaulted a federal officer.”

  Yanking hard in attempt to get free from the hands that held her, she managed to shake Allan. Not Cort. In fact her move had allowed him to put her directly in front of him. His large strong hands settled along her hips, drawing them together, her butt pressed intimately against him. Zémire didn’t fight him. Cort gave her confidence and considering she had just struck a federal agent, she could really use him in her corner.

  But Alejo’s last sentence rubbed her raw and she retaliated without thought. “I’ll assault you again, too,” she spat.

  “Not helping, Zémire.” Cort’s voice, calm and resonating, warmed her. “Let’s just settle down and figure this out.”

  She harrumphed, longing to punch Jimenez again.

  “Who are you?” Jimenez demanded.

  “Special Agent Cortland Kysenzki, US Marshall.”

  Those six words created havoc in her belly. Cort was so bloody hot when he got that arrogant edge to his tone.

  “You,” Jimenez said.

  “Explain.” Cort’s order fell like the crack of a whip, despite being barely above a whisper.

  “This fucker used my brother…as bait!” she growled.

  Cort’s fingers tightened briefly in her flesh. “How so?”

  “By keeping him down there in one of their hospitals to see if there’d be another attempt on his life.”

  His body had gone rigid behind her. “Tell me you didn’t.” He spoke on a rumble of warning, Low and dangerous. The air crackled with ominous energy.

  Jimenez glared and readjusted the bloody cloth again.

  “He used my brother in his pissing contest with other agencies.” With a strength born of rage, she jerked free of Cort and marched right up to Jimenez. “You mess with my brother or me again and I will make you wish our names never made a blip on your radar.”