by Leslie Jones
“We can’t,” she whispered, clutching his arm. “Lark is in the next room.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do!” She was slightly horrified at the thought of the younger woman overhearing them.
“We’ll be quiet. Unless you don’t want to . . . ?”
Of course she did. She’d thought of him often in the quiet moments of loneliness over the past ten months. And she was ready to open herself to him.
Boldly, she stroked a hand down his stomach to his shorts, running her fingers over the waistband, feeling him move and jerk. He moved back far enough to shuck off the underwear. She sat up.
“How can any man be so perfect?” she whispered, touching him.
He groaned.
She pushed him flat, surprised when he let her. She’d assumed he’d like being in control in the bedroom, like he had in Ma’ar ye zhad. She explored him, tracing her fingers along his throbbing cock, cupping his balls and gently squeezing them. He made a small sound. Emboldened, she kissed her way down his chest, stopping at his flat nipples to scrape them with her teeth. His breath hitched.
“You’re perfect, too.” She could barely make out the words.
How far could she drive him before he groaned aloud? She continued her downward path, smoothing her palms across his stomach and hips, until she was where she wanted to be.
His hips jerked as she closed her lips over his shaft. She sucked, drawing him deeper into her mouth, reveling in his hiss of pleasure. Licking leisurely along his length, she very gently scraped her teeth over him. He half lifted himself, fingers spearing into her hair, cupping her face.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Her voice felt foreign to her, its husky rasp mirroring the fine trembling that shook her limbs.
“You keep that up, we’ll be done before we start,” he said, voice barely above a growl.
“Let me please you.” Slowly she found a rhythm, stroking him with her mouth, tasting the saltiness of him. She rolled his balls in her fingers, massaging gently. His hips jerked against her. She purred, a feline sound of satisfaction. The sound must have traveled along his shaft, because he jacked upright, gripped her under the arms, and had her under him before she knew what was happening. He entered her at once, a desperate seeking that caused another purr to escape.
His hands gripped the insides of her knees, pushing her legs apart, baring her to him. He stroked into her fast and rough, and she threw her head back, spine bowing as sensation washed through her.
“Yes,” she muttered. “Fuck me hard, Trevor. Like you mean it.”
It was harder than she’d thought possible to stop the screams wanting to rip from her throat. Her breath came in spurts. He, too, was panting. Their flesh slapping together seemed loud in the silence, but suddenly Shelby didn’t care. She met him thrust for thrust, and all too soon felt the tide begin to sweep over her. She tried to keep it back, make it last longer, but Trevor reached between them and stroked her nub with a calloused thumb, and she closed her eyes and bit her lips to stop crying out as she exploded.
She collapsed against him as he rolled off her and pulled her into his arms. She knew this was something special. It wasn’t just that she’d never known how mind-blowing sex could be. It was this man, and the magic he created on her body.
“You’re amazing,” she murmured sleepily.
His laugh rumbled under her ear. “You are, too.”
They fell asleep holding one another, and Shelby knew she would never feel like this with any other man.
Chapter Nineteen
TREVOR AWOKE WITH the sun pouring through the windows. Shelby still snuggled against him, her head on his chest as her breath stirred against it. He hated to move. He wanted to stay like this forever, just reveling in her softness and the scent of him on her skin. He hadn’t woken up with a hard-on in years. Instinct told him she would not be receptive to a repeat in the light of dawn, so he eased away from her and moved her head to the pillow.
Retrieving his shorts, he slipped them on and went into the kitchen. He started the coffee brewing before heading down the hall for a shower. Pulling his jeans and rugby shirt on, he returned to the kitchen and started laying out what he would need for omelets.
A sound from the doorway had him looking around to see Shelby, hair tousled and eyes drooping, the cute T-shirt hugging her slender curves. He gave her a lopsided smile, unable in that moment to form words. She returned the smile hesitantly.
“Good morning.”
He grinned. “Yes, it definitely is.”
Before he could cross the kitchen to reach her, Lark staggered into the room.
“I smell coffee.”
Trevor poured a cup and handed it to her. She dumped in sweetener.
“You added more sugar than there is coffee,” he said, bemused.
“Have to get rid of the nasty coffee taste,” she said, blowing across the top of the mug and taking a huge sip. “Ahhh.”
Trevor poured another cup for Shelby, who still hadn’t moved more than two steps into the kitchen.
“By the way, kiddies,” Lark said sourly. “I’m a heavy sleeper. I might wake up for a tornado, but that’s about it. You should have told me you were together. You could have had the bed, and I’ve taken the—unused—sofa.”
Shelby’s cheeks pinked, her eyes troubled. “I didn’t know if—”
“We are,” Trevor interrupted firmly, “together.”
Her face relaxed. “Okay.”
Lark shook her head in disgust. “Imma go shower while you two idiots figure things out.”
Trevor barely noticed when she left. He reached for Shelby, who melted into his arms. He held her tightly, throat choked with relief. She wasn’t going to run from him this time.
“We can take things slowly,” he said into her hair. “I know you’ve had some bad experiences.”
He felt her nod. “Thank you.”
“But I need you to promise me something.”
She tensed in his arms.
“I need you to promise me that if you get scared, you talk to me. No running away. Deal?”
Her breath whooshed out. “That’s . . . it? Talk to you?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet for so long he was afraid she was going to withdraw from his arms at any moment. He held his breath.
“I can do that.”
He exhaled hard in relief. “Good. That’s good.”
“Trevor . . . you have to know. I’m damaged goods.”
He laughed. That’s not at all what he’d expected her to say. “Honey, we’re all damaged to some extent.”
“No, but . . . you don’t understand. I chose Bruce. Even agreed to marry him. Dated Floyd. I make poor choices.” She sounded bitter.
“Those idiots are a gnat’s ass in my world. They should be in yours, too.”
She all but hid her face in his chest. “Bruce was incredibly ambitious.”
She stopped, and he waited quietly for it to come. He was pretty sure he knew what he was going to hear.
“I should say shamelessly ambitious. He used every advantage in his arsenal to climb the political ladder. Including me. I was his entrée into the so-called privileged world of politics. I was a commodity, nothing more.”
“He used you.” He kept his tone neutral, tamping down the urge to hunt Bruce down and beat him senseless. “Did you never want, yourself, to run for election?”
“Not once. I went to Girl’s State during high school. It’s like a make-believe Washington, D.C. You campaign and run for office and make political alliances. I hated having to do any of that. I liked to watch the machinations, and predict where everyone would end up. I was right more often than not.”
He continued to hold her, pleased beyond measure that she seemed con
tent to rest within the circle of his arms. “So you were training to be an analyst, even back then. But you couldn’t see it with Bruce?”
“No. The first time he cheated on me, it was with the personal aide to a member of a subcommittee of the Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs. Soon after that, he landed a lucrative contract. That sort of thing.”
“The first time?” Try as he might, Trevor couldn’t keep the tightness from his voice.
She tensed in his arms, hearing it as well. “Yes. I forgave him. Didn’t mean a thing, never happen again, all sorts of bullshit. Lies. I’m pretty sure he cheated on me a couple of other times, always where it would benefit his ambitions.”
“So you dumped him.”
She swallowed so hard he heard it. “Not then, no. I was a naïve twenty-four. He was everything the men in Coon Bluff weren’t. He wore suits, used expensive cologne. When we were together, he paid attention to me, not my friends. I thought he loved me for me, not just to get close to someone else. I was so wrong.”
“Like the boys while you were growing up using you to get close to Raeanne Swinney, head cheerleader.”
“You remembered.” She looked up at him in wonder.
He smiled. “I do listen when you speak.”
“I thought all men were like that, until I met Bruce. And then he turned out to be the same.”
“He never deserved you,” Trevor said fiercely. “He was unworthy.”
He felt her smile against his skin. “Well, thanks for that, anyway.”
He put her from him, holding her by the forearms so he could look into her eyes. “No, I’m very serious. I’m sorry you ever experienced that. For you to say that you thought all men were that way, well, I can assure you we’re not.”
“I hope that’s true. So what happens now?”
He hugged her closer to him. “Now you remember you’re a kind, intelligent, wonderful woman who deserves the very best in life. You forget those morons as completely irrelevant. And I do my damnedest to prove I’m worthy of you.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. After a moment, she took a breath. “Please don’t turn out to be a jerk.”
Trevor started to laugh, but abruptly realized that she was dead serious. He chose his words with care. “I will never deliberately hurt you, Shel. That doesn’t mean we won’t have disagreements or even arguments. But I can promise you that I’m an honorable man. I will never belittle you or cheat on you.”
“Well . . . good.”
“Have you idiots figured things out yet?” Lark said from the doorway. She leaned against the doorjamb. Today she wore a teal shirt over a shell and black leggings, her triple earlobe piercings winking in the kitchen light. Dramatic makeup and spiky hair made her look even younger than she had the previous night.
“We’re getting there,” Shelby said with a shaky sigh. She pulled out of Trevor’s arms.
“Then let’s go talk to that gnat’s ass, Floyd.”
“Do you always eavesdrop?”
“What about your class?” Shelby asked at the same time.
Lark looked from one to the other. “Fuck my class. And yes, I frequently eavesdrop. I learn stuff that way. Stuff you can’t learn in boring schoolbooks.”
Chapter Twenty
DESPITE HIS SUGGESTION that he take the wheel, Lark slid into the driver’s seat.
“No way. My car, my rules.”
Trevor just shook his head. Lark was a force of nature. Shelby climbed into the back, so he took the front passenger seat. They’d taken the time to change into their disguises. He had his suit jacket folded neatly across his lap.
“Do you know St. Baldwin’s?” he asked,
“It’s in Soho. Siri knows the address. Although, I think I’ll rename her Danby. She gives you a little information, but when push comes to shove, she’s less than helpful.”
“You really must learn not to eavesdrop. That was a private conversation.”
Lark grinned, unrepentant. “So who is he? Scotland Yard? GCHQ?”
“Just drive.”
Lark left the A400 by darting across two busy lanes to get to the exit ramp. A driver leaned on his horn and shook a fist at her, which she either didn’t see or ignored.
“We’re not in a rush,” Shelby said faintly. “You can slow down.”
Lark glanced at her, eyes wide. “I am driving slowly.”
“Good Lord,” she muttered, closing her eyes.
Lark made her way to Frith Street and found parking. St. Baldwin’s Hospital rose huge and modern, twelve stories of glass and steel surrounded by shops and offices. As they walked past a Pret a Manger and the long row of blue rental bicycles, Trevor scanned the narrow street and surrounding buildings from behind his sunglasses. Nothing raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Going to visit Floyd was a risk, but it would be worth it if the man could shed some light on the artwork that was being destroyed.
The revolving door led them into the sizable lobby area, pristine and open. Two nurses and a security guard manned the intake desk at the far end. They bypassed it and entered an area to the right, with its rows and rows of plastic seats filled with patients standing by. The scent of fear and anticipation hung in the air.
“The elevators are over there.” Lark pointed.
They checked the sign beside the lifts. “Critical Care is on the third floor,” he said.
They entered the lift with two grim and silent teenagers.
“Anthony is alive,” one said finally. “That’s good.”
The other started snuffling. “Tanked up and drives into a lorry. How fucked up is that?”
They exited onto the third floor in front of Trevor’s group. Trevor paused while the boys spoke to an older woman, gray-haired and fierce, guarding the entryway from behind a counter. The sign on the wall behind her announced that this was the reception area. The typical computer, fax machine, and filing cabinets decorated the area. Several portable medical apparatuses rested against the wall. The sign on a door behind the counter declared it was a staff-only area. To the left, a set of swinging metal doors remained closed.
The teenagers pushed through the swinging doors. Lark leaned against the counter. “My father was admitted yesterday. Can I see him?” Her voice wobbled a little bit.
“Certainly, miss. What’s the name?”
Shelby supplied it. In moments, they were trekking down an antiseptic white corridor, lined on either side with handrails for those needing extra stability. The door to Ward 312 was closed. Lark turned the knob and swung it wide.
The ward seemed large for a private room. Besides the mobile bed and medical equipment, there was room for an armchair and two smaller visitor chairs in front of the double windows. The armchair had been pulled up next to the bed and was occupied.
“Hiya, Floyd,” Lark said cheerily. “What’s up?”
“Who are you? I’m not giving any more interviews. Talk to my barrister.”
Lark turned the cheery dial up another notch. “Nothing like that. I brought someone to see you.”
He stepped into the room. Floyd glanced at him without recognition. His disguise was holding, at any rate. Shelby came in after him. Floyd squinted at her, pulled his brows down, shook his head slightly, and stared hard at her. Trevor watched the lights flicker on inside the man’s head.
“Shelby? Is that you?” As realization dawned, he grew white as a sheet, throwing furtive glances at the woman sitting at his bedside, a hand on his arm. She looked young and sweet—and very pregnant. She gave a watery smile as she rose to greet them.
“Hello. I’m Cindy Panderson. Are you friends of Floyd’s?”
Shelby stepped forward to shake the offered hand. “We share a common love of art. In fact, there is something I’d like to talk to him about, about a collection he has on loan right now. Would that be a
ll right?”
Cindy shot Floyd a lovingly exasperated look. “Oh, him and his art. He could go on for hours. While you talk, I’m going to go down and get a sandwich.”
Trevor closed and locked the door behind her. Floyd’s eyes rounded as recognition and fear darted through them. He squirmed back in the bed.
“You were working with them the whole time,” Floyd rasped, pointing a finger at Shelby.
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “You’re the only liar here.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Lark sang in falsetto.
“What are you doing with him, then?”
Shelby pinned him with a glare. “I don’t think you get to play the victim here, Floyd.”
Floyd had the grace to flush, but then pointed to his heavily bandaged abdomen. “You seem to have fared well. I’m the one who was stabbed and almost died.”
“You’re the selfish bastard who bargained for your own freedom, leaving the rest of the hostages behind,” Trevor said. The ass. “Not to mention dating another woman with a pregnant wife at home.”
Shelby shook her head. “That’s the least important detail right now. I’m glad to see you’re recovering. The man who stabbed you? Crawley? He is genuinely insane.”
He looked slightly mollified at that.
Trevor glanced at the door. They had precious little time. Any minute now, they were going to be interrupted by a nurse or doctor on their rounds, or by the young wife returning to her husband’s bedside.
They had to move this along. Shelby was an expert at reading people, though, and finding common ground with which to establish trust and confidence. He needed to let her lead this conversation.
“Floyd, I need your help. The police think I was involved somehow with the Bedlamites. I need to prove my innocence, but to do that I need information.”
He looked at her suspiciously, but finally judged her to be sincere. “What information?”
“The collection in the main exhibit hall. The surrealists. What do you know about them?”
Floyd wrinkled his brow at her. “About the collection? About the donors? What?”
