by Aimee Carson
Hunter put an arm around Carly’s waist and pulled her closer to him. “I’ll discuss it with him when the time is right.” His hand drifted lower, as if to hold her hip, but he kept right on going until his palm cupped the outside of her upper thigh. The feel of silky skin brought the desire back tenfold, not to mention some outstanding memories. “Currently I have other things on my mind. Like yesterday afternoon …” His thumb smoothed across her thigh, slipping under her shorts and tracing the edge of her panties at her hip. The crowd around them blocked most everyone’s view of his hand.
Though she parted her lips, as if to catch her breath, her lids narrowed just enough to let him know she was trying to continue her discussion. The flush on her cheeks gave her difficulty in focusing away.
“I could go discuss business with my partner.” He leaned in and spoke at her ear, pushing aside his frustration with the topic in favor of overwhelming desire. “Or we could go back to the hotel room and start working our way down my list …”
When she didn’t move or speak, he straightened a touch to look down at her face, and the look of pure need in her eyes was his undoing. His fingers discreetly stroked her thigh, and the energy flowing between them could have lit the LED light display that covered the massive expanse of ceiling.
“Still susceptible to a pretty face, I see,” a man said from behind.
The familiar voice from his FBI days plunged Hunter’s heart headlong into blackness, snuffing out the light in his good mood, and his fingers gripped Carly’s hip. In a blinding flash intense resentment flared. The sharp taste of bitterness. The bite of betrayal filling his heart.
Carly’s wide-eyed look helped him regain his composure. Through sheer force of will Hunter transferred the pressure in his grasp on Carly’s hip to the muscles in his jaw.
“Hello, Terry,” Hunter said as he turned to face his old colleague.
Stunned, Carly took in the cold look that frosted Hunter’s eyes—worse than any she’d seen to date—and a chill crept up her spine at the dark emotion exuding from his every cell. He dropped his hand from her hip and she instantly missed the heat.
Since they’d been in Las Vegas he’d been relaxed. Not coiled, tense, ready for trouble at a moment’s notice. But now the reserve was back, and it was shocking how fast the old wall could so thoroughly, and so quickly, be thrown back up. She sensed the tension, the seething energy around the two men.
The redhead’s buzz cut barely concealed his scalp, but it was the gleam of smug satisfaction in his eyes as he looked at Hunter that left her wary. Despite the chatter in the convention hall, the ominous silence between the two threatened to engulf them—until the newcomer decided to put an end to it.
The freckle-faced gentleman stuck out a hand at Carly. “Terry Smith,” he said.
She mumbled her name and returned the shake out of courtesy, dropping his hand as soon as polite.
“Old FBI buddy of Hunter’s, from his days with the Cyber Division,” the man finished, though Carly doubted the word “buddy” was an accurate description. “Do you hack, or are you into security?”
“Neither,” she said. “I’m a journalist.”
The slight widening of Terry Smith’s eyes registered just how much of a shock her profession was to him, vaulting her reporter’s curiosity to lunar levels. But as he slid a sideways glance at Hunter, Terry’s smirk grew bigger. Carly’s heart flinched in preparation for what she sensed was about to become a worse situation.
“What is with your fascination for members of the press?” Terry’s gaze touched back on Carly’s. “Though who can blame you? She’s hot too …”
Carly’s heart tripped and fell, landing painfully on his use of the word “too.” Hunter’s face went glacier, rivaling the polar icecaps for frigid first place, and the menacing look that crossed his face robbed her of the ability to function. Hunter took a half-step forward and Terry’s eyes briefly flickered with alarm. But whatever Hunter had intended was stopped by the sudden appearance of Pete at his side. His friend placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.
More mocking than holding real humor, Pete’s boyish grin was aimed at Terry. “How ya handling that alcoholic habit of yours, Terry?”
The agent’s face registered relief before he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Pete. “Funny how it works every year at Defcon. My hotel room gets charged with another guest’s consumption of alcohol.” He paused and crossed his arms, the generic dark suit pulling tight across his narrow shoulders, his words thick with meaning. “Almost as if someone hacks the hotel computer and sends the bar bill from their room to mine.”
Hunter’s clenched jaw loosened a fraction, as if he was amused by the indirect accusation. “There are a lot of hackers at this conference with nothing better to do than stir up trouble.”
Pete tipped his head in false sympathy. “Yeah, and you Fed boys will always be a target.”
“It’s a big bill too,” Terry said, clearly finding little humor in the prank. “Hundreds of dollars.”
“Pretty prohibitive with your salary,” Hunter said.
“I guess whoever it is must be throwing a party,” Pete added.
“Probably all in your honor,” Hunter said. The FBI agent’s lips tightened, and his grim look only got worse when Hunter went on, “Rumor has it every year the bill gets paid anonymously.”
“Yeah,” Terry said softly, his eyes glittering with accusation. “It doesn’t undo the illegal act, though.” He shifted his gaze between Hunter and Pete, as if looking for clues to the crime in their faces and trying to determine which one was doing the hacking and which one was paying the bill. “And if I ever catch the person doing it,” Terry said, “I’m bringing him down.”
“Lighten up, Terry,” Pete said with a laugh and a playful slap of the agent’s shoulder. “It’s probably a couple of kids having fun at your expense.” Pete’s smile developed an edge. “Of course, with your poor skills, whoever it is should consider themselves safe from detection.”
The insult hung in the air, and none of the three men made a move, as if each was waiting to see what his adversary would do next.
“A few of us are meeting up at the bar tonight.” Terry’s gaze swept back to Carly. “If any of you guys want to catch up, reminisce about old times …” his grin was positively derisive “…stop by.” And, with that, he headed into the crowd.
Carly’s mind twirled in the aftermath. It was too much information to be processed quickly, and as she watched the FBI agent walk away a million questions swirled in her head. Her curiosity was so sharp she couldn’t decide where to start. With the reporter comment? With the history of the animosity between the three men? Or perhaps with who was hacking the hotel computer and stiffing Terry with the bar bill?
But when she turned to speak with Hunter…he was gone.
Hunter sat on a chair in the corner of his hotel room, thick curtains blocking all but a thin swath of the dying embers of the setting sun. After his aimless wander along the noisy chaos of the well-lit Vegas strip the dim light and silence of the hotel room was a relief. Out on the sidewalk he’d passed three Elvis impersonators, four superheroes, and a gold-painted human statue of Midas. Carly would have loved every one of them. He shouldn’t have left her so abruptly, but he’d needed time to regain control of his anger.
Nursing the same bourbon he’d poured when he’d returned to the room an hour ago, Hunter stared across the posh penthouse suite. In his days as an FBI agent, a government employee on a limited budget, he’d been assigned one of the cheapest rooms on the bottom floor. Now he could afford the best of the best at the top. A massive room, lavish with plush furniture, thick carpeting, and a well-stocked bar that deserved someone who drank more than him. Since his drinking binge following Mandy’s defection his taste for alcohol had waned.
Running into Terry had triggered an avalanche of troubled emotions Hunter had battled for eight years. At one time the salary slur he’d tossed at Terry would have left Hunter
satisfied, knowing that he could buy and sell the man’s life ten times over and never pull a financial muscle. But in reality it was an empty win. Hunter hadn’t minded the cheap rooms, the basic government-issue cars, or the limiting lifestyle of a G-man on a G-man’s salary. The work, the satisfaction of his job had supplied him with all that he’d needed: a sense of purpose. A calling he believed in. And—the real chocolate frosting on the plain vanilla cake—the thrill of outwitting the crooks and beating them at their own game.
Until his integrity had been called into question.
The acrid memories of those dark days burned—the shame, frustration and humiliation of going to work while the agency’s Office of Professional Responsibility had scrutinized his life. Being investigated like the criminals he’d been tracking for two years.
He clutched the cold tumbler in his hand, bitterness twining around his every cell, tightening its grip. Choking him. And twisting the knife still buried in his back.
A rustling came from the hall and Hunter tensed, not yet fit for human interaction. But the sound of a card swiping the outer lock was followed by the door opening, and a soft click as it closed.
Carly.
CHAPTER TEN
RELIEVED she’d finally found him, Carly paused, caught between her incessant need to know what had just transpired between Hunter and his old colleague and her intense longing to ease the expression on his face. She’d seen the Hope Diamond once, and his eyes resembled it now. Blue. Hard. Frozen. Though hope was hardly an apt description. There was such an underlying sense of…emptiness about him.
After the last few days with Hunter it was hard to adjust back to the elusiveness he’d exuded in the beginning. But the wall had returned, taller and stronger than ever, and his expression was sealed off—tighter than any super computer responsible for national secrets.
“After you left the convention hall,” she said from across the room, “I came back here looking for you.”
“I went for a walk.”
She paused, refusing to be deterred by his less than approachable tone. “Agent Terry Smith is an ass.”
“Yes, he is.” He didn’t even look at her when he went on. “He always has been.”
“You two never got along?”
There was a pause before he spoke. “He considered me a rival at work.”
Her eyes dropped to the glass in his hand, as she decided how to proceed. “Is that bourbon you’re drinking going on your hotel bill…or obnoxious Agent Smith’s?”
The hardness in his expression lightened a touch, and the frosty look in his eyes thawed half a degree. “It’s going on mine.”
Encouraged, she crossed the last of the distance between them. “I figured as much,” she said, tossing her purse on the bed as she passed by on her way to Hunter. “Pete’s the one who’s been hacking the hotel computer every year and switching the bar bills, isn’t he? And you’ve been anonymously paying the tab.” The scenario fit with everything she knew about the two. The eccentric mathematical genius and—ever the white-hat-sporting defender—his brilliant and fiercely loyal friend smoothing the way.
His brow crinkled in the faintest of amusement. “A little continued rivalry would be understandable, given our history. But hacking the hotel computer would be illegal,” he said.
She came to a stop beside his chair, and something in the way he’d said the words, in his expression, made her question her assumption. “Are you the culprit?”
He finally looked up at her with a hint of a secretive smile on his face. “Why would I admit to a criminal act?”
Her heart untwisted and eased. She adored the look on his face and was relieved to see the barrier drop a fraction. But her curiosity climbed to heretofore unseen levels—and for her that was saying something.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she said.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
She fingered the strap of her dress, hesitating, but she had to ask. Although she suspected she knew the answer it was several seconds before she worked up the nerve. “Was your ex a reporter?”
Nothing changed in his demeanor, but his fingertips blanched against his drink, as if crushing the glass. “Yes,” he said. “She was.”
The implications of the news were enormous. It explained a lot about his initial attitude toward her, and it opened up a slew of potential about what had happened between the couple. Was it more than just a girlfriend who had decided to move on? More than just a woman who’d changed her mind about a man she supposedly loved? Carly’s thoughts spun with the possibilities.
She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she tried anyway. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
The pause was lengthy. “Probably not.”
His answer was more painful than she’d expected. “What happened?”
“It’s not important,” he said, his voice grim, and then he tossed back the last of his drink.
She blinked back the hurt and the growing sense of panic. Inviting her to the conference had seemed like a major step forward. Now she wasn’t so sure. But there had to be hope, and the pain she sensed he’d buried for years currently outweighed her own. Her own need to heal his hurts, to tear down those barriers once and for all.
Exactly why she felt it so keenly wasn’t a matter up for consideration. The last thing she wanted to do was examine just how much she needed to get back to the connection they’d shared the last few days. It had felt like a real relationship, not the over-him-in-forty-eight-hours kind. More like an intense, never-will-recover, want-to-be-with-him-forever kind.
The thought of this man walking away came perilously close to being frightening.
He carefully set his glass on a nearby table and looked up at her with an expression that squeezed her chest—utter bleakness, infused with a burning desire. A compelling combination that made his tone gruff. “Did you put that outfit on for me?”
Heart now rapping hard, she glanced down at the leopard print slip dress she’d worn the night of their first TV show. She’d put it on earlier, with the thought of teasing him into a better mood when she found him, but now it seemed inappropriate. And very, very wrong. The light in his eyes was encouraging, but the fatigue, the sense of emptiness he kept buried beneath it all, was unmistakable.
“Hunter,” she said, looking down at him. “It’s been a difficult day, and you’re tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have you eaten?”
Eyes on hers, he clasped her wrist, his grip firm. “I’m not hungry.”
Pulse pounding harder, her resolve melted a touch. “You need to rest. You need to eat—”
“No.” Gaze intense, fingers around her wrist, he reached up and cupped her neck, bringing her head closer as he murmured roughly, “I need you.”
Her heart went wild in her chest as his mouth claimed hers from below. His lips and tongue held a desperation that was about more than just sexual need. It was intense, yes. Hot too. But the demand in his mouth was like that of a drowning man who seemed intent on taking her down with him.
She loved the way he made her feel. Special. Worthy of a sacrifice. But right now it was as if he needed her as much as she needed him …
Okay, Carly. This is obviously more than just lust.
The disturbing thoughts, the fear of wanting too much, were shoved aside when his hands raked up her thighs and over her hips. The despair and dogged determination in his touch set her skin on fire until she was sure her mostly naked body beneath the fabric would scorch her dress from the inside out.
With his mouth on hers, his palms consuming her body, her own need grew urgent. She began to unbutton his shirt, fingers clumsy with emotion, embarrassed at just how much this meant to her. This wasn’t about control or dominance. It was about surrender—not to each other, but yielding to the intense need they shared. She unfastened his bottom button and smoothed her hand across his chest, craving the feel of crisp hair, warm skin and hard muscle. Meeting his mouth,
kiss for kiss, she tried to absorb every sensation. Afraid it would be over too soon.
Dying to draw out the moment of being so desperately needed by this man—as if he could never walk away—she pulled her head back and knelt beside him. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to unfasten his pants, and she let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “I hope I don’t hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid.”
Carly’s hands stilled as she stared up at him, her heart pumping in her chest. Because he scared the hell out of her. But the frank desire in his eyes gave her courage, so she pulled out his erection and lowered her mouth to take a taste. Hunter’s low groan drove her on, and she loved the way his hand threaded through her hair, cupping her head. Not with a sense of power or control, but one of almost vulnerability. A moment where his wall was at its lowest point. No reserve. No guard. Just his need in her hands.
Her mouth and her touch grew bolder, more demanding. Her hands, lips and tongue smoothed their way along the soft skin covering the hard shaft. Satin covering steel. The protector, the coolly controlled man, poised and ready at a moment’s notice.
The desperation in his tone was her undoing, his voice ragged. “Carly …”
Hearing his plea, she stood and reached for the hem of her dress.
“No,” he said, his eyes burning into hers, his voice tight with desire. “Leave it on.”
Slick with need, throbbing from the force of the desire coursing through her veins, she slid her thong down, kicked it aside and fetched a condom from her purse. Fear, hope, and a feeling that came too close to love twined tightly in her heart. She concentrated on Hunter’s almost desperate grip on her thighs as she straddled his legs, sitting on his lap as she sheathed him in latex.
Pulse doing double time, her breathing too fast, she said, “You seemed more amused than affected the first time I wore this dress.”
