by Lisa Hughey
“Si.” He fell back into the language his mother and aunt had always used when he was in trouble.
“English,” she snapped again.
“Sorry.”
His aunt waved toward the little old 13" that was always on. “She is also the one on the television.”
Shit. “Yes.”
“Did she do those things?”
That was his aunt. She never assumed. He’d gotten in trouble for fighting at school. A lot. Being the son and only man, therefore head of the house at an early age, in a primarily Hispanic neighborhood, he’d defended the honor of their unorthodox family frequently and effectively.
Tía Lupe had always been the voice of reason, the soul of neutrality waiting for all the facts and his version of events before she judged.
But what did he say?
In some respects, Staci was guilty of the things reported.
How did he justify to his aunt with her innate sense of right and wrong an issue even he had problems dealing with?
“It’s complicated.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said gently. Tía Lupe opened a can of tomatoes and dumped them into the sauté pan.
“She’s being falsely accused of some things. Others....” he trailed off. He really didn’t want to detail Staci’s activities. Especially since she would be a part of his family. Assuming they could get this current situation behind them. And assuming he could convince her to stay with him.
Tía peered over his shoulder into the other room. She bit her bottom lip, whispered, “You are sure...the child is yours?”
Jordan could feel his face reddening. This woman had raised him, as much as his mother. His sex life wasn’t something he discussed with them. Ever. “Yes.”
“Positive? Because sometimes the women, they use methods unknown to the men.” She was virtually tapping her toe against the linoleum.
A hint of amusement curled through him, even at this late date, she was still being his second mother.
“I’m sure.”
“Then you must uphold your honor.”
“I will.” Jordan shifted to hide Staci from his aunt, symbolically protecting her from Lupe’s knowing eye. He had been raised with a core of unshakeable values. Even without those, he would still want Staci, still want this baby.
“This will upset your mama.”
She was right. His mother’s reaction wouldn’t be pretty. Fortunately he had bigger worries right now, so he’d just put that particular funfest out of his mind. History was not going to repeat itself. He wasn't going to desert his child like his own father had done. “The circumstances are very different.”
“This woman, she has money, yes?” She meant like his father.
“It’s not the same.”
“I hope for your sake it is not.” She cupped her palm against the stubble of his jaw. “You were a gift. A gift.”
His mother and aunt had survived hardship to bring him into this world. Disowned by their family, his mother had been fired by his father’s wife when she learned Mama was pregnant. With no family, in a strange country, they had made a family with just the three of them. His mother and aunt had raised him to believe he could do anything, be anyone.
And he was.
His child would know the same love, have the same solid foundation and values as he did. And God help anyone who tried to get in his way.
From the other room, Staci snored softly.
“She needs to sleep. Give us shelter for a few hours, please,” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “Use the guest room at the top of the stairs.”
Jordan moved to the futon and lifted Staci gently in his arms. She snuggled against him, rubbing her check against his bicep as he carried her toward the guest room.
She needed to sleep. And he needed to think.
His palm wrapped around her waist, his fingertips brushed against the concave hollow of her abdomen.
His baby. Their baby, he thought fiercely.
Jordan carried Staci up the stairs carefully, the creaks and groans of the old house familiar.
As he nudged open the paneled door, she shifted in his arms and her breath huffed gently over his neck, giving him goosebumps.
Jordan lay her down on the frilly white duvet. When he tried to leave, she pulled him closer into her embrace.
“Don’t go,” she murmured.
He decided he could think just as well propped against the white wicker headboard. So he eased off his shoes, stuffed a pillow behind his back and contemplated what to do next.
Staci lay curled up next to him, her body drawing heat from his. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, his arm curled protectively around her shoulders, and he was disturbed at how bony her body felt.
When she was awake, the force of her personality kept the worry at bay, pushing her frailty to the back of his mind. But now, as she slept, he couldn't ignore her weakened state.
Jesus. He crossed himself and said a little prayer to the crude wooden crucifix on the frilly night stand.
After all she'd been through, she was lucky to be alive.
In the chaotic midst of the last few days, since he’d found her, in fact, there had been no time for gratitude. No time for sheer relief that she still inhabited this world. No time to embrace her and hold onto her life force.
As if she’d let him.
The only time she let him get close was when she was unconscious. If that wasn’t a sign of a fucked up relationship, he sure didn’t know what the hell was.
He brushed a soft kiss across her forehead.
Staci let out of a sigh, a tiny sough of breath that could be mistaken for relief, except that her arms tightened around his waist, just for a moment.
His cell phone chimed a warning at him.
The little trill startled Staci awake. “What?”
“Shhh. Go back to sleep.” He shifted, pulled his phone out of his back pocket, then thumbed to his calendar.
“Forgot an appointment.” In New York. He’d been slated to meet with a Sergeant Ravini.
Her eyelashes fluttered against the bare skin of his bicep. She skimmed her hand up his stomach and over his pectoral muscles until her palm rested over his heart. Staci stretched, shifting her knee up over his thigh, trapping them against the duvet and then settling back into slumber.
How many times had they lain in bed this way?
Not enough.
The thump of his heart was steady and true under her hand. He set his cell down on the bed and threaded his fingers with hers.
Thankful to have the real woman back instead of a stolen token, he rubbed his thumb over her fingers like he’d rubbed the scarab of her necklace so many times.
It was amazing how that one simple act could bring peace.
Then other details filtered through his consciousness. The heavy weight of her breast against his forearm.
The press of her pubic bone against his hip and a heat rising from her feminine core. Her lips brushed softly against the curve of his neck.
The combination of her gentle, unconscious touches and the lack of physical contact in the last two months bowled him over. His body responded as if she’d stripped naked and done a pole dance.
The reaction was inappropriate. And in just a second he would extricate himself from the sensuous bondage.
Except, a second later, she rubbed her hot core against the curve of his hip and shifted her knee just a bit higher. The little arch in her back uplifted her breast closer to the hand that held hers and the temptation was irresistible.
The backs of his fingers strummed over her hardening nipple drawing a soft moan. The scent of her arousal drifted through the air. God, he knew that scent, was tormented by the bouquet of her desire.
She was asleep. This was probably a bad idea.
Scratch that. This was a train wreck. Nothing critical had been resolved between them. He leaned over to lick her lips with his tongue.
As she strained her mout
h toward his, he surrendered.
Their hands still entwined, she tugged his fingers down and trapped them between her body and his thigh.
Her hand skimmed over his burgeoning erection and traced the outline with just the right amount of pressure.
He knew her, knew her body, knew what do to do to take her to the next level. He curled his fingers, rubbing her through her panties but avoiding her sweet spot.
She retaliated by unzipping his pants and sliding her hot greedy fingers into his boxers. Her fingernails scraped at his balls, circling, squeezing, taunting him with the possibility of her touch against his cock.
He shifted slightly, easing her on top of him and lifting her so the pouting bud of her nipple was even with his mouth. He sucked the hard berry as he brought his other hand up to squeeze and pluck at the other nipple.
Her breath came faster as she pushed at the waistband of his pants. She shifted to straddle his hips, the stretchy black skirt bunched around her waist. Jordan held her just above his hard on, so the tip of his cock teased her clitoris with the merest brush of heat before slipping away.
Her eyes slitted open, and her hands came up to fist at his shoulders. He wondered if she would stop.
He’d have the biggest case of blue balls in the country.
She didn't stop. Instead, she brushed a kiss against his neck.
“Take your top off,” he growled.
She ripped the clingy black fabric over her head as he reared up and feasted on her breasts. The action shoved her panty-clad bottom down on his erection. Her whimpers filled him with a fierce sense of satisfaction.
Here, here they had always been compatible.
Staci ground her pelvis against him. Using one hand he shoved the panties to one side and impaled her.
The slick wet heat of her enveloped him.
He swallowed her cry with his mouth as he pushed up into her velvet heat, holding her hips, rocking against her so he stroked her g-spot.
Her breath panted out in little bursts as she looked down at him. Her gaze held his as he suckled her breast while she thudded down on him, shaking the bed with the force of her thrusts.
It was wild and pagan and erotic as hell as she gripped his shoulders, then broke away from his mouth and threw her head back.
Her body convulsed, and he came in a blinding flash of light and heat and power as they continued to pump against each other.
The bed shook, the headboard squeaking from the fierceness of their joining.
Aftershocks buzzed through his body like little jolts of electric current. Staci breathed soft little hiccups, trembling in his embrace. He curled his arms around her back, her heart beat thundering in his ear, even as the languid curve of her spine stiffened into remorse.
He held tighter, refusing to regret the last few minutes.
He’d missed her.
Not just the sex. Everything about her. Their intimate dinners, their spirited discussions about religion and politics and sex, their physical sparring on the mats, even the way she looked after him.
“God, I missed you,” he said hoarsely.
She didn’t answer, but her arms stayed soft and loose around his body.
It was the best he’d get from her, he knew.
A strong breeze set the lace curtains billowing, ushering in the sweet scent of honeysuckle. Beyond the window, children shrieked in a rousing game of tag and traffic rushed by a few streets over.
This interlude would be over in a second. He could tell by the gradual tightening of her muscles and the tenseness of her thighs caging his hips.
She pushed off of him. “Better get cleaned up.”
Silently, he showed her the little bath adjoining the room. He handed her tissue and fixed his pants.
She wouldn’t discuss this unless he pushed, and unfortunately they had other more pressing things to discuss. But one day soon, they would have to talk.
He’d make sure of it.
THIRTY-FIVE
Who said ignoring problems wouldn’t make them go away?
Standing in the small bathroom, I tugged at the stretchy clothes and wished I could pull my emotions into line with similar ease.
The endorphins had faded, the fleeting euphoria of arousal was gone, although my blood still tingled with the aftermath of our explosive sex. Leaving his body, so hard and solid beneath mine, had been more difficult, more wrenching than I expected.
I wanted to wrap our intimacy around me like a warm blanket and snuggle in, close out the rest of the world and shelter in his hard, capable arms forever.
Unfortunately that wouldn’t solve our problems.
White Shoulders, heavy and redolent, perfumed the cool air. My grandmother had worn White Shoulders. Her bathroom always smelled as if she’d slathered the lotion everywhere.
It was the only thing our relatives had in common.
After meeting his aunt, I realized his life would be better without me. I’d seen the easy affection, the ingrained love, expressed so easily. My grandparents were not demonstrative. I knew they loved me in their own way, but it wasn’t spoken of. Ever. I didn’t know if I could ever give that much of myself, and he deserved more.
If my chest hurt and it was hard to breathe, well, I’d get over it.
Refusing to hide in the little bathroom any longer, I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Jordan sat at the end of the bed.
I headed to the dressing table with the ornate three-section mirror and dropped onto the wrought iron bistro chair, which was bound to be uncomfortable but a better alternative than sitting on the bed we’d just shared so intimately.
I said, “We need to figure out why someone is after me and possibly you.”
We. Jordan lifted his eyebrows, his face impassive as he waited for me to finish.
I really didn’t want him involved. For too many reasons to count. His future. My issues with intimacy. The previous twenty minutes aside, nothing had been resolved.
In some ways we were further apart now than when I was in Afghanistan.
But I needed another pair of eyes.
Jordan finally replied, “We need to figure out more than that.”
Sex was easy. What he wanted was hard. I’d be perfectly happy never talking about our relationship again, but I had a feeling my previously stoic, taciturn boyfriend was about to turn into someone who wanted to share his feelings.
I was pregnant. Wasn’t I supposed to be the sentimental one?
A glimmer of shame touched me. He shouldn’t have to put up with my insecurities. “We get out of this, and then we’ll discuss what just happened.”
He held his hands up in the air. “Okay.”
“We’ve got to focus on whoever is after me...us.”
“Fine.” Jordan rubbed the short black curls on his head, his bicep flexing with the movement, distracting me with the realization he’d carried me to bed.
Jesus, he was strong. Even half-starved, I was no lightweight.
Focus, Staci. Focus.
Jordan said, “Let’s start with 5491, since you’re convinced your problems began with that investigation.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but he talked right over my fledgling attempt.
“But we’re going to look at everything, including your recent recruits, and your trip to Afghanistan.”
I sighed. He was right. “You’re right.”
“Maybe we’re approaching this from the wrong angle.”
I leaned against the metal scrollwork of the chair, the iron digging into the bones of my back. “How so?”
“Why were the family members of the people on the 5491 list killed?” Jordan asked.
I didn’t know if my brain was fuzzy from the tea, the post-coital glow, or the baby but I didn’t know where he was going. “I don’t know.”
“What was happening in the world?”
Finally, I got it. “Let’s do a search.”
Jordan booted up the laptop on the little desk and leane
d closer to the screen. His shoulder brushed against mine. The scent of us swamped me. The subtle musk of our sexes mingled suffusing the air with the scented memory of his body slick against mine.
Had I leaned toward him?
I straightened guiltily. “1995.”
“World or just U.S.?”
“Let’s start with the U.S.”
He played with the search engine for a few minutes. “Here’s the big stuff.”
As he recited aloud the major events, I read the data and tried to ignore the heat emanating from his body.
“Clinton was President; bombing of the Edward R. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City; the CIA releases cables from the Soviet Union deciphered in the 1940's including names and cover names of 200 U.S. spies in a public ceremony....”
The CIA.
We both paused. Department 5491 was NSA, so the subjects had no clear affiliation with the CIA. That meant nothing as none of the original people killed had worked in espionage, although Bella Holden’s mother had been a diplomat.
This was probably all irrelevant. However, I mentally filed the information regarding the release of the cables.
Jordan kept reading, “Bosnia/Serbia/Herzigovina fighting still going on, UN sent peacekeeping troops including Americans and Russians; Yeltsin-Clinton relations strained, Clinton turns down an invite to Russia in May, Yeltsin agrees to come to the US in October–according to this October 23rd....”
So that was a period of a lot of unrest between Russia and the U.S., but I hadn’t found anything to connect the people killed in 1995 to Russia. I kept reading, a little bit behind Jordan’s oral recitation.
“Senator Richard Jordan appointed to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence; Million Man March on Washington had 400,000 participants; an influenza outbreak nearly shut down Congress in October.”
“Hey, your senator buddy.”
“He is not my buddy,” Jordan snapped.
“Okay.” Whoa. Sensitive much?
“Let’s get back to the subject.” Jordan, ever the inscrutable, sighed. “Another Ebola outbreak in Zaire; World Trade Organization replaces the GATT Treaty....”
“We could search forever and still have no idea.” I said, “Instead of just trying to figure out why...maybe we focus on who. Who had the power? Who had the contacts? And who had the motive to have these people killed?”
