Existing took all his concentration. If she touched him, he might fly apart, but he couldn’t figure out how to leave the room. This week had left him so fucking raw he was hardly functioning.
“Jimmy?” she said softly, rising, crossing to stand next to him and help hold up the wall.
“Huh?” he grunted for want of a better word.
“It’s okay that it’s not okay. It’s not a matter of weak or strong. Some things will never be right, no matter how much we rationalize them.”
In an unexpected way, her words made total sense to him. This wasn’t a matter of weak or strong. Some things would never be right no matter how much he rationalized. A sigh shuddered through him, the exhale carrying out slivers of the pain. Not the whole package, but still a few less pieces to scrape around inside him.
He glanced down at her. “I can’t cry about this, Dr. Freud, so don’t bother bringing out the tissues.”
“That’s not my expectation or my call to make.” Her eyes broadcast enough pain for the both of them.
“It’s not because I think tears are for the weak.” He tried for a laugh and actually managed half a chuckle.
She placed her hand between them on the wall, not touching but out there and ready if he wanted to touch her.
“Thank you.” He linked fingers with her. Damn but he liked this woman.
A little more of the rawness eased.
“You’re more than welcome.”
He angled to kiss her, just a thanks kiss—Ah, man, who was he kidding? He didn’t have the strength to say no to the one thing that felt good and right in his world today.
Being with Chloe.
She eased away to whisper against his mouth, “Jimmy, we used up my stash of condoms.”
“Actually,” God, he didn’t want to dig any deeper, but with the increasing sense that Chloe could be an important part of his life, she deserved to know. “I can’t have kids. Another by-product of those four months I guess I should mention and deal with.”
Maybe someday he would tell her the details on that one, if she stuck around that long, but he’d had his fill of sharing this garbage for one day.
She squeezed their clasped hands. “I am so sorry for the pain and for what you’ve lost.”
“You understand.” A bit more of the hurt slid away, allowing room for other sensations to bombard him. Like the feel of Chloe’s soft skin. The barely there flowery scent of her that was so sweet and clean and feminine it made him want to get closer to inhale her.
“I do.” Her voice sounded like music to the beast, and he knew he wasn’t leaving this room without thanking her in slow detail for the gift she’d given him.
What a stunner to realize with this woman, he didn’t have to pour his guts out. She got it, got him, without some owner’s manual. She was his personal freaking test pilot. Chloe offered him peace on one helluva bad day, and call it weakness on his part or strength of conviction, he knew exactly where he had to be right now. “Chloe?”
“What, Jimmy?”
“Lock the door.”
TWENTY-THREE
Committed to the moment, determined to stop wondering why this woman had gotten to him so fast, Jimmy hooked his hands behind Chloe’s thighs and scooped her up against the door. Just that quickly, they were hip to hip, chest to breast, mouth to mouth. He breathed in her minty breath, brushed his lips across hers, soaked in the feel of her pressed against him. She hooked her legs around his waist and dove back into a deeper kiss.
Yes.
The powerful wave of protectiveness he felt told him that sex with Chloe wasn’t just something he wanted. This was something he needed.
She tugged his flight suit zipper down the length of his torso, chasing away any remnants of the crap thoughts in his head. She was his for the taking, offering herself up to him to burn away every ghost of the past that messed with his mind. Her hand slipped inside, into his boxers, seeking, touching . . .
His head fell back, his groan filling the room. He stumbled and almost dropped her. Way to go, Romeo.
He steadied his hold on her, needing to keep that contact with her. He wanted his hands all over her. “I flew. I need a shower.”
Toying with his dog tags, she arched her hips closer, shimmied against him until he thought he’d go crazy if he didn’t get inside her now. “That sounds like an invitation.”
He tugged her toward the shower with the last shreds of his discipline. “Do you want it engraved?”
“I want you.”
Ditching his combat boots went a helluva lot faster with both of them working on the task. She tore at his clothes as intently as he dispatched hers until a haphazard pile of khaki, uniform, and lace filled the floor. A flash of purple distracted him. Chloe’s socks fluttered to rest on his flight suit.
Purple?
“I’m trying to add color to my wardrobe,” she answered his unasked question, reading his thoughts again.
He urged her under the spray before following her inside. Yanking the industrial shower curtain closed behind them, he sealed them in a stall of steam. Just the two of them for however long he could last, and he intended for that to be a long time. Or as long as was humanly possible, given she looked so damn good naked. She lathered soap in her hands, and he willed himself to slow down and enjoy the moment as she infused the humidity with a flowery scent he recognized as hers.
“Lavender.” She smiled. “It relaxes the spirit.”
“I’m feeling anything but relaxed, maestra.”
“Give it time.” She flattened her palms to his chest, testing his willpower with sweet, seductive strokes.
Her hands worked over him, tempting and teasing but never lingering in one place. Not lingering on his back. Nothing about her smearing the suds over him telegraphed any healing ritual that would have left him all the more raw. In fact, her acceptance of him as he was relaxed him far more than any tearful display of “washing away” his pain.
But then maybe she’d spent even longer trying to pretend everything was normal in life than he had. For that, he kissed her. With slow deliberation, he took her face in his hands and tasted her, tugging gently on her tongue until her busy hands stopped their cleaning all together. She moaned softly against him, her wet body melding to his.
Shower beating his back, he took the bar from her. Soaping his own hands, using his palms as a washrag in kind, he left no part of her slick body untouched, lingering on the sweet fullness of her breasts for so long he thought he might have to press her to the wall and finish it now.
Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of her, urging her legs apart with his shoulders while the soap fell to the floor. Her fingers landed on his arms, lightly scoring his skin.
“Think about that lavender,” he puffed over her swollen flesh, “and relax.”
He took her, laved her with the most intimate kiss, and her fragrance soothed and stirred him far more than any scented soap. Her legs sagged, and he supported her, drew on her, soaked in her whimpers while coaxing even louder cries from her.
“Jimmy.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting tender moons into his skin as she squirmed restlessly against him. “Enough. More.”
He smiled against her, teased with a final flick of his tongue that sent her shuddering in his arms, shouting her “Yes, yes, yes” completion in that beautiful voice of hers that stroked over his senses.
Not that he needed any coaxing. He’d held back for as long as possible, but he needed to be deep inside her. Now.
He stood quickly, urgently, looping her legs around his waist again. Pressing her to the tile wall this time instead of the door, he drove deep, full, her after-spasms clamping around him in a hot grip that sent his already revved body over the edge. He pounded and pulsed and took her gasps into his mouth, or maybe she took his, until he slumped against her.
Her legs slid down until she stood again, steam fogging around them, sweat mixing with the shower pellets. His head fell to rest agains
t the wall. The taste of her still on him, the scent of them around him, he couldn’t hide from the truth. Keeping her safe wasn’t just about the job anymore.
Somewhere between her conducting an iPod song and seeing her in nothing but purple socks, this had become personal.
Parked on his bed, Nunez clicked through secure websites on his laptop. He’d procured a room for Anya for at least one more day until he could figure out what authorities could offer her in the way of protection.
He should have gone to sleep hours ago. He’d even tried to unwind with the palm-sized meditation labyrinth he carried with him, tracing the path with his finger rather than walking it on a life-size course.
The pewter disk now lay on his wadded bedspread, where he’d pitched it after realizing no amount of meditation, prayer, or ritual would slow his brain enough for rest. He’d given up and gone online to the NSA site for research on Anya’s genealogy now that he had additional hints for where to look. The cyber network certainly saved manpower hours, often cutting fieldwork in half.
Searching in Hungary, he located the name he’d been looking for. Radko Surac. Luckily, the uncle didn’t have a different last name. A tiny archived news article reported he’d died at forty-two from a stab wound with—
Nunez sat up straighter. With a corkscrew? Holy crap. The assailant was listed as a vagrant found beside his body in a dark alley. Nobody thought to question why that nameless drifter just happened to have a corkscrew in his bag of homeless man goodies?
Clicking the back button, he returned to the sparse family tree he’d lucked into. Marta’s mother and father. Marta’s one older brother and the man’s wife.
Wait. Something wasn’t right.
He searched again, and the family tree read the same as before. Anya was adopted. She’d never mentioned that, and given how much she wanted to break free of her criminal family, he thought she would be glad to disclaim their blood connection. Perhaps she would even want to search for her biological parents. He would bet big money that she didn’t know about the adoption.
A possibility he didn’t even want to consider scratched at the back of his brain like a beast demanding to be released. Pieces of evidence shuttled around in his brain: how much Marta and Anya looked alike, their sixteen-year age difference. Anya had talked about her sentimental aunt wearing her mother’s ruby ring, a piece of jewelry Marta promised to Anya. The pieces came together as the beast latched hold with sharp teeth.
Marta Surac wasn’t Anya’s aunt. Marta could only be Anya’s mother.
Where the hell was Anya?
Marta hid in a tiny, smelly room over a rundown bar. She could have been sixteen, scared, and pregnant again, living under her parents’ thumb, enduring the disdain of her brother and his wife. As if they all hadn’t been grateful for the information she bought on her back.
She was in control then, taking from the men rather than being taken from, as Uncle Radko had tried. Only when the brat had latched on inside her had she lost some of her power, a mistake that would never happen again, since she’d had her tubes tied.
The shower sounded a simple door away. She’d made it clear to Baris he couldn’t have her until he washed. She hated the grime that seemed to come with being poor most of all.
Kicking her shoes to the ratty rag rug, she swung her feet onto the lumpy mattress. Perhaps she needed this reminder of her past to get her through the next twenty-four hours. Erol was dead, killed while trying to shoot Chuck. Kutros was talking. She would never give up looking for Anya, but Marta also accepted she couldn’t have back her old life. She must move forward.
To do that, she would focus on what she had left. She still had Baris, even if he was a poor replica of a man. She could use her power over him to ensure he did exactly what she wanted. She had a connection to a powerful terrorist cell frantic to hit an American icon. She had information about the USO troupe.
And she had the courage to do her own dirty work in planting the bomb. That bomb would blow her enemies out of the way, especially the two undercover men who’d tried to infiltrate her world and that Chloe woman who’d somehow managed to escape when stronger men couldn’t.
Covers tangled around her damp legs, Chloe rested her head on Jimmy’s chest and flipped his dog tags between her fingers.
In the quiet moment, she finally let the reality—the horror—of what he’d shared sink in. Jimmy had been a POW. Even thinking about what he’d been through . . . She blinked back tears she knew he wouldn’t want to see and sealed herself to his side instead. She listened to his steady heartbeat, each thud a reminder that he had survived.
How long could they lounge around after their power nap before work called him again? She eyed the BlackBerry on the bedside table with a low-lying sense of dread.
How ridiculous to resent a piece of technology, especially when he held such an important job, but that same job had also nearly killed him. She listened to the steady reassurance of his heart against her ear, his sparse but loaded words from earlier echoing just as loudly in her mind. His intense lovemaking was still fresh on her sensitive skin.
And oh man, the rest of her felt just as sensitive and more. What she’d shared with him had opened up a well-spring of feelings deeper than she ever would have expected in a week’s time.
Jimmy tugged a lock of her hair, winding the wavy strand around his finger. “The friend I told you about, he’s from my test squadron. He was kidnapped two weeks ago during a TDY to Turkey.”
No wonder he’d been on edge thinking about his friend going through the same hell. She would have been more than just irritable in his shoes. “Thank God you were able to save him in time. Why didn’t I hear about his kidnapping on the news?”
“There really wasn’t anyone to tell, since Chuck doesn’t have family, and the air force kept a lid on the details. We didn’t want to risk his identity getting out.”
“He’s someone important?”
“I can’t go into a lot of detail, but we do dark ops testing.”
Her fingers slowed toying with his dog tags as she began to comprehend the kinds of “secrets” he and his friends held. “I know the military does secret testing, and they have dark ops units, but dark ops testing?”
“Suffice it to say, if you can imagine the technology, we can make it, and more. It was dangerous on a number of levels for him to be taken.”
The night she’d been nabbed and hauled to the cellar rolled over her, making her wonder. She bolted upright. “You were trying to get kidnapped, too, that night in the wine cellar? These are people who kidnap often?”
He’d risked captivity even after all he’d been through in Afghanistan? The people he worked with hadn’t thought twice about asking that of him?
How could he be so fearless on the one hand and seem so afraid of accepting her health concerns? This guy seriously confused her.
He cupped her shoulder and tugged her back down into the crook of his arm. “You put things together quickly. The investigation is still ongoing, but you’re going to hear some things on the news soon.”
“A news leak?”
“A carefully worded statement to the press. Basically, the people I’m working with have made a break in finding a group responsible for the disappearance of a number of military personnel overseas. This group breaks them and then sells the information to the highest bidder. They don’t appear to have any political or ideological loyalties.”
She kept her breathing steady while her heart clicked away like a pegged-out metronome. For years she’d watched stories on the news featuring people living through these sorts of dangers, but no breaking broadcast could relay the gripping fear when something like this affected someone you loved.
Loved?
Jimmy?
Ohmigod, just when she’d thought her heart couldn’t pump any faster. She clenched her fists until her nails cut a steadying pain into her palms. She admired him but didn’t want to love him, not with so much unsettled between them. She
hadn’t even thought past putting their feet on the floor.
His fingers grazed up and down her bare arm. “We’re still gathering information, and I can only share with you what’s in the press statement. Basically, they’ve been staging deaths to look like an accident or a mugging gone bad. Eventually, though, we noticed a trend.”
“This kidnapping ring kills people and ruins lives for money?” Maybe she was more ferocious than she thought after all, because right now she wanted to go back and shoot Kutros herself. And what about the driver and bodyguard who’d gotten away? She embraced the anger that helped distract her from emotions she wasn’t ready to dissect.
“Apparently so.”
“That’s totally amoral.”
“You’re right. That’s why I want you to go home.”
Whoa. Stop the music. How had this gone from talking about him to pitching her out on her ear? “Just this morning we got the okay to continue on with performances.”
“I know.” He inched them both up higher on the head-board and pinned her with his exotically dark eyes she suspected he inherited from his Turkish grandmother. “That doesn’t mean this is a totally safe region.”
“There are troops in Iraq and Afghanistan expecting us.” The defense sounded weak even to her own ears, but she didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know how to hide the kind of hurt this banishment incited. Once again, she was being relegated to the “practice room,” while others lived lives.
“The show will still go on without you.”
Why wasn’t he barking orders at the others to go home? His dismissal of her role stung more than it should have, but damn it, her feelings were still raw from figuring out she loved him, something she wasn’t ready to share, especially not now. “I know I’m just a backup singer, but you have to remember I’m also an orchestral conductor. I believe in the importance of everyone in the production. Beyond that, I need to do this, and you know full well why.”
Defender Page 23
