by Lisa Hughey
“Brilliant,” he gutted out. Jerking his hand away from her breasts, he held his palm out. “Condom.”
She shoved it into his hand and tried to lift off of his fingers, but the iron bar of his arm held her in place.
“Not until I say you can move.”
The command stilled her. They were usually equal partners in their sexual exploration, but right now he wanted to dominate. She was leaving, and he’d damn well give her something to remember.
Using his fingers, hand, and arm, he lifted her body up from the tile ledge. The action causing her to whimper again. “Jordan.”
“Minute.” He shifted his lower body back from her ass and rolled on the condom with one swift jerk. “Put your weight on your feet.”
For a second he thought she was going to disobey. But she must have reconsidered because she shifted her weight to stand and didn’t try to pull away, then she balanced there waiting for his next directive.
He lifted her body off the tile by about six inches, gave her pubic area a small “good girl” squeeze and slid his finger out in a slick controlled move, rubbing hard along her clitoris.
“You are so fucking wet,” he ground out. He’d never been so hard in his life. “For me.”
He grasped her hips with both hands and impaled her on the jutting freaking sword of his penis.
“Yes,” she hissed as the soft skin of her ass met the rough hairiness of his thighs.
The forced spread of both their legs as they straddled the side of the tub meant he controlled the friction and their movement. He moved her up and down, her hands gripping his as her cheeks slid along his penis then connected with the flat of his abdomen.
He wanted to suck on her nipples, he wanted to rub her clitoris as the rest of their bodies connected, but he couldn’t reach anything.
With his mouth, he latched on to the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder and bit her gently as they moved together.
The position was perfect. Perfectly erotic.
In the end, she controlled their release. She reached down and squeezed his engorged balls and he swelled to bursting.
His orgasm exploded through his body, detonating like an unstable block of C4. Blowing his pseudo attempt to control their last encounter into the sky.
The powerful surge of adrenaline and blood and his orgasm sent her over the edge. She screamed. The sound filled him with a primitive and euphoric sense of power.
His vision blurred as he wrapped his arms around her waist, and she rested her head back against his shoulder. The soft soughing of their calming breaths the only sound in the quiet room as the tension that existed before slowly crept back in.
The glow of arousal faded. The remembrance of their argument and the reality that she was leaving flowed back in like the fog on a damp spring morning.
Thank God they weren’t facing each other. He didn’t want to look into her eyes, because he didn’t want to see.
Post-coital glow aside, he didn’t want to see regret or defiance.
As if she felt the same, she pushed off of him and reached for the toilet paper to clean up.
And he knew he’d only wished he’d felt the soft brush of her lips against his hair.
That was the end.
Later he’d dropped her at the airport without saying anything more. What was done was done, and talking to death wouldn’t help anything.
He’d thought maybe they could work things out...when she came back.
Except she hadn’t come home.
Regret, longing, futility. Now, weeks later, the situation was completely different, yet his emotions were exactly the same.
He was going crazy. Remembering their last encounter would get him nowhere. He needed to focus on the future not the past, to look to tomorrow, to influence events that hadn’t happened yet.
The past was done. It couldn’t be changed.
He could change what happened next. He would find her. He would do whatever it took to make sure she was safe.
She might not be the older woman three seats ahead of him, but she was alive. She had to be.
Jordan clutched the amulet in his pocket, holding tight, as if he held fast to the amulet he could keep her safe.
ELEVEN
One week later
September 21
San Francisco, CA
There's just something about the smell of hospitals. Did anyone like it? Did anyone walk in, breathe deep, and exhale with a joyful sigh...Ah, eau d’hopital.
I hated it. Antiseptic, disinfectant, Betadyne, decay, and preservative-enhanced food permeated the floors, walls, counter-tops, clothes, everything. The smell was pervasive and unavoidable. How did the staff live with those odors day in and day out? Or were they just so inured they didn’t notice anymore?
My freaking unstable stomach picked now to rear up again, a lingering nausea that struck at odd times or when certain smells hit my nose.
When I was out of this mess and got my life back, I’d be sure to let someone know a significant side effect of the experimental pigment drug was rather severe nausea.
I was done taking the drug. Thank God I’d only needed the pigment-altering drug to get back into the United States. Unfortunately the effects of the drug were lingering, my skin was still dark, and my stomach continued to be troubled.
As I strode toward the hospital room, I wondered if I was crazy to even be here. The reason for this hospital visit likely didn’t have anything to do with my inability to go home or my personal problems.
When I got back in the States, I’d rented a car and driven to D.C. After checking out my neighborhood, I’d realized my townhouse was under surveillance.
I wasn’t any closer to figuring out who wanted me dead. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to make it easy for them to find me.
Instead, I accessed a hidden private bank account with a black credit card and holed up in a hotel. I didn't check in with the CIA. They hadn't bothered to rescue me in Afghanistan. Until I had a clear answer why, checking in wasn't a priority.
I liked to imagine the problem had gone away...and then I’d drive by my townhouse in Alexandria and check out the surveillance team just waiting for someone, presumably me to show up. Dammit.
I could get past them. No question.
Except every time I’d attempted it, Jordan had been around. Sometimes even in my house. Clearly he’d been accessing my living space. Jordan and I had put in a connecting door in our attics so we could go from one house to the other without going outside.
The biggest question was why was he in my house? I knew he'd been looking for me but I didn't know if he was worried about me. Because suspicion still lingered that perhaps he was somehow involved with my current problems.
I shoved away the longing, regret, and the spear of disappointment that colored my thoughts every time I remembered our time together.
And now was not the time to wallow.
I pushed open the door to the hospital room. John Michael Wishbone was the ticket to my peace of mind, then I could concentrate on figuring out the mystery of 5491 and why someone wanted me, possibly all of us, dead.
The door to a standard double hospital room squeaked open. The kid in the bed was eighteen, but Jesus, he looked young. The other bed was empty. The boy whipped his head around, eyes wide. “Who are you?”
I had to make a decision here. One I should have thought out ahead of time. I was tired of dicking around. I wanted action. And maybe, just maybe, I could kill two birds at once.
The CIA must know I wasn’t dead. They would have typed Fariya’s DNA and seen we weren’t even a close match.
The USA Today tucked under my arm told the story. Every day I checked the classified section for a message from my contact. Every day there was nothing. Maybe it was time to shake things up a bit.
“My name is Staci Grant.”
His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “And....”
“I’m here to offer you a proposition.” I didn’t have ti
me to be subtle.
Usually when I recruited kids, I analyzed how to cultivate the relationship, gain their trust, and slowly reel them in to working for the CIA. Plus, I only laid the groundwork. Someone else executed the actual recruitment.
But I knew all the triggers. How hard could it be?
“Not interested.”
“This is service to your government.”
He turned his head away and closed his eyes.
“John. This is something that would make your father proud.”
If I hadn’t been watching closely, I’d have missed the little jerk of surprise when I mentioned his father. Considered a hero, his father had worked for the FBI and he’d died when the second tower had gone down.
The fact John had managed to conceal a quick jolt of reaction was a point in his favor. “I work for the CIA.”
He snorted. “Right.”
Walking to the aisle between the two beds, I ignored his disbelief. I’d be disappointed if he accepted my statement at face value. “I have a job for you.”
“I don’t think so.” He closed his eyes, pretended I wasn’t there.
I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “I’ve been watching you for a while.” I wasn’t lying. He fit my profile.
He stiffened slightly but still didn’t open his eyes. I studied him, not wanting to acknowledge how damn young he was.
Perfectly ripe. Idealistic. Passionate.
He just needed someone to sculpt his attitudes while he was still naive and innocent.
“Your father was killed by terrorists.” I glanced over to the stuffed bear with the small helium balloon on the window sill and catalogued his flinch.
I needed to remind him of his pain, his passion. Those qualities were key to his agreement for this little mission.
“I’m the good guy.”
His eyes popped open and he frowned at me. “Look, if this is about my friends, forget it. I’m not going to roll over on them just because they’re Arabic.”
“Loyalty is good. As long as it isn’t misplaced.”
His face reddened. “Fuck you.”
“Not what I’m here for, Junior,” I replied mildly. “Your current behavior could be construed as treasonous, associating with ME’s, young men of Middle Eastern descent.” So much for the whole no-profiling thing.
“They haven’t done anything wrong.” He closed his eyes again. “Neither have I.”
“You’re right.” I paused a beat. “Unfortunately the same is not true of the father of your friend. He’s got questionable ties to a mosque currently under investigation.”
“I would have thought a woman of color such as yourself would have a little more sensitivity,” he said hotly.
“Nice.” Way to twist my argument. “Got a mouth on you, and you’re protective.”
I perched on the edge of the bed and pulled out the picture of Bella Holden: eighteen, blond, gorgeous, a freshman at Georgetown, and potentially in danger. I just didn’t know. “I’ve got a situation, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”
He turned his head away, stared hard at the television mounted near the ceiling.
I was convinced that my problems had something to do with the mysterious Department 5491. Of the twelve recipients of those monthly checks, nine were agents of the U.S. Government. Bella Holden, Sunshine Smith, and the mystery initials ADA were the exceptions.
The agents had the training to take care of themselves. But Bella and Sunshine were innocents.
A few incidents involving the people from the Department 5491 list had me wondering. Was someone trying to get rid of the people from 5491?
In Afghanistan, suddenly I’m arrested and imprisoned.
A few days ago, agent Brad Johnson was killed by a suspected Russian double agent. That one made the papers.
Two incidents was more than coincidence.
On one level, I really didn’t think Bella Holden was in any danger. On another, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to her when I could have prevented it but didn’t bother.
I dangled the picture in front of him, hoping the lure of a pretty girl and his curiosity would prompt him to ask questions.
“Want me to take her to the prom?”
There was something wrong with me because his smart ass remarks tickled. “I don’t have time to waste romancing you into taking this assignment.”
“What assignment?”
“Get to know her. Protect her.”
“Just like that?”
“You’ve got weapons training, right?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed, glanced away.
The faint squeak of wheels from a cart of some kind came through the closed door. I forced myself to hold still.
Must be meals. The odor of hospital food had preceded the squeak and my hyper-aware sense of smell had already communicated to my hyper-sensitive stomach that food was on the way.
I straightened, swallowed down bile as my stomach protested. “What about hand-to-hand?”
“Yeah.” He pushed up and back against the puffy white pillow.
“Level?” Making my voice authoritative seemed to snap him to attention.
“Fifth degree black belt.” Finally, he looked interested. “So I’m supposed to...what?”
“Just keep an eye on her. Make sure no one else is keeping an eye on her. Make sure she’s safe.”
“Do you really think she’s in danger?”
“I can’t afford not to think it’s a possibility,” I replied honestly.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Money. Chance to travel. A chance to serve your country.” Sort of.
“What’s the catch?”
I saw the wariness in his gaze. Wariness I didn’t have time for. A little pang hit my stomach. Not the nausea. Remorse? Regret?
Emotions I definitely shouldn’t be feeling. Second guessing my moves and actions was not an option right now. I had places to go, puzzles to solve.
He'd been in the hospital for observation after a car accident. Concussion. But he was due to be released later today. He was fine.
“We leave now.” I used my real name which meant that I couldn't linger in one place for too long.
“Now?”
“As in...get your clothes, leave a note for your mother, and we haul ass.”
I could see him weighing the pros and cons.
“Your father would be proud of you.” The final twist of the screw.
His gaze went to the television again. Obviously he had a deep-seated interest in Oprah. Not.
“Okay.”
“I’ll bust you out of here. Write a quick note. And I’ll explain the entire situation on the way.”
I had to hope protecting Bella Holden was precautionary. I really hoped I was wrong and she wasn’t in any danger.
One checklist item checked.
Now if I could just figure out who was trying to eliminate the people from Department 5491. Specifically, who was trying to eliminate me...life would be peachy.
Right. Peachy.
TWELVE
Four weeks later
October 17
11:00 am
The gray, cloudy sky matched the tenor of Jordan’s mood. A hint of wood smoke wafted in the air and a breeze blew frigidly across the exposed skin of his face. His new cashmere duster, specially tailored to accommodate his shoulders and arms, muted the brisk wind.
As Jordan passed by the monument to the soldiers who’d served in World War II, a cascade of multiple water sprays splashed into a circular pool, drowning out the murmurs of the tourists paying their respects.
The rectangular reflecting pool surrounded by the small wood fence was to his right. The Lincoln Monument rose in the distance.
Continuing on the paved path bordering the west basin, he strode toward the all but forgotten symbol of the First World War. A discarded remnant of a time very few people alive could still remember.
The small domed structure, styled l
ike an ancient Greek temple, perched in untrimmed foliage and grass that should have been cut weeks ago.
Unkempt and untended.
Jesus. That was how he felt...like this monument, still standing as a reminder, except no one was looking.
Just as he was the only one still searching for Staci.
Whatever agency was surveilling her house, their surveillance had tapered off to a single guy twenty-four/seven. For a long time, that surveillance detail gave him hope that he wasn't the only one searching for her. Now it looked like he was the only one who still believed she was alive.
In the meantime, he'd been shocked by the phone call from the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence requesting a private meet in an obscure location. The guy wouldn't even discuss over the phone what the subject of the meeting was about. Jordan turned over possible reasons for this meeting.
Nothing good came to mind.
He’d been working on a few projects for the Franklin Group, but if the projects had anything to do with Congress, the senator probably knew as much about the details as he did. What the hell could the man want?
Traditionally if Jordan met with a member of Congress, the meet took place in their office. What was so damn secret it couldn’t be discussed over a phone line? The senator had been adamant that the meeting must be done in person. Away from the office.
Jordan stepped into the old marble monument, and noted the inscription, “The war to end all wars."
“Mr. Ramirez.” The senator was already seated, tucked away in the shadows, so no one would see him.
“Senator,” he replied warily.
Jordan sat down several stained pillars over from the senator and waited. He’d learned plenty in the FBI about interrogations and he wasn’t about to be the first to break the silence. He wanted to be able to analyze the lying sack of shit’s face, but noticed other things instead.
The old goat looked damn good for a man in his late sixties.
His hair, brushed off his forehead and away from his face, gleamed from the skill of an excellent stylist and colorist. The gray was there but artfully layered with a deep, rich brunette to convey the appearance of a younger man.
His skin was buffed and moisturized to preserve his pale, patrician features. His clear hazel eyes were sharp from cataract and laser surgery.
