by Debra Webb
“Feisty,” Thor said with an approving grimace. Grabbing Holt by the shirt, he turned, using him as a shield. “I see why you don’t want to let her go.”
Holt didn’t bother explaining that Isely hadn’t yet told him where to take her. “Downstairs,” he snarled over his shoulder at Cecelia.
“Not without you,” she replied, pulling the trigger.
The shot went wide, plowing into a framed print on the wall, but it was enough to startle Thor, who ducked away from the exploding glass.
Holt thrust his arms up and out, breaking Thor’s hold. Rushing to Cecelia, he caught her at the waist and propelled her down the hall.
Another gunshot sounded, and chunks of wall exploded near his hip as they tumbled through the door into the stairwell.
“Down,” he barked.
“Which floor?”
“Just keep going,” he answered. There was a bridge to the parking garage on four. Her heels clattered against the cement stairs and he couldn’t tell if there was anyone following or not. With every landing they passed without the assault of more bullets, a flicker of hope spurred him on.
“Here,” he said when they reached the fourth-floor landing. He paused only long enough to see the way was clear, then he took her hand. “Breathe. The car is close by.”
Her eyes were wide and a little wild, but she nodded, her skirt rustling as she rushed to keep up with him.
Holt prayed he wasn’t leading her into another trap, but the car he’d parked here last week was registered with a member of the hotel staff. He’d bribed a bartender, who needed both a car and extra cash to cover a gambling debt.
As much as he’d coached her to stay calm, Holt didn’t take an easy breath until they were back on the parkway and headed to the grungy little motel he’d booked under yet another alias.
“I’m sorry.”
He glanced over when he heard the quiver in her voice. “For what? You saved us.”
“I should have hit him.”
“Rookie mistake. It happens.”
“Oh, Emmett. You really didn’t look up everything, did you?”
He’d looked up plenty, nearly picked apart her life. But then as a CIA family, she would know how to hide plenty. “What do you mean?”
“My husband and I used to go shooting for fun. Casey was three when she made her first trip with us. I’m no sharpshooter, but I’m pretty darned good.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about her husband, though he realized he’d made a critical error by not digging deeper into their married life. He wanted to classify it as irrelevant, but he knew now it had just been too uncomfortable.
“So why didn’t you take Thor out?”
“He was moving erratically. I was worried about hitting you. I mean, I’m a pretty good shot, but not that good.”
“Real life isn’t the same as a paper target.”
“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.”
He reached for her, but she drew her hand away. “I’m not trying to patronize you, Cecelia. You have what it takes, but for the record, I can take care of myself.”
“That’s obvious.” She shifted, staring out the window.
“You could have gone downstairs for help.”
“I thought about it. But Isely sends men in pairs.”
“You noticed. Good job.”
“Hard to miss,” she muttered. “I was terrified to think what might happen if they caught me first.”
“You have everything the CIA wants in an agent.”
“Right.”
“You do.” He reached over and covered her hand. “First of all, I wouldn’t have let him take you. Second, that was my mistake back there for not clearing the hallway at the elevator. Learn from my mistake.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t think she was convinced. “As for what you’d do if captured by Isely, I’m sure he’d be unhappy with your determination and resourcefulness.”
“Maybe.”
“Believe me. I’ve been at this longer than you.”
She was quiet for a long time, and he hoped she was processing his praise while she replayed the last hour.
“Where are we going?”
“I have a reservation they shouldn’t be able to track down,” he replied. “We need some time to rest and regroup.”
“Neither side will be pleased with our disappearance.”
“Nope. But only one will get nasty about it.”
“Isely.”
“Yup.”
Chapter Fifteen
As he pulled into the parking lot, he regretted choosing a cut-rate place like this one. She’d been through an ordeal and she deserved finer things than he would offer her tonight.
“Are we here?”
He nodded, wishing they were anywhere else. “Cash works here.”
“And cash is untraceable.” She reached out and caught his hand. “It’s smart. Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t need five-star accommodations all the time. Thank you for protecting me.”
When she looked at him that way, protection wasn’t what he wanted to give her. He leashed his unruly desire and led her through the back door and up to their room for tonight.
The door closed and her warm scent filled the small space. “Your things are by the dresser.”
“Thanks. I’d like to change.”
“In a minute.” He had to focus on business. The mission. Anything but the thought of being near her when she removed that dress. “Now that we’re alone, you need to tell me what happened today.” He knew there was something, and she’d asked that question about this being about her instead of her brother.
“Do we have to do that now?” She reached up and removed the elegant jeweled choker. “You said rest and regroup. Surely it can wait a few hours.”
He inhaled and shoved his hands into his pockets before he grabbed her and tossed that voluminous skirt up over her head. She needed his respect on a professional level, and somehow he couldn’t not give it. “Does whatever happened pose an immediate threat?”
“Not unless they can find us.”
“They being?”
“Isely.”
“He has no idea where we are and I’ve sent him a message that I want to meet tomorrow.”
“To turn me over.”
“Of course, but—”
“I trust you to have a plan. Tell me later. Let’s rest. And regroup.”
Any argument he might have offered fled as she raised her hands to her hair, her full breasts testing the limits of her strapless gown. It was an entirely underrated form of torture to watch her free those long blond locks from the sleek, upswept style she’d worn all night. And she had a point. They were both mentally and physically exhausted.
He might have fantasized about the elegant stretch of her neck a little longer, but suddenly his fingers itched to fist in her hair.
Beware was right, he thought, staring at her. Isely had given the warning for an entirely different purpose, but it couldn’t be more appropriate than right here in this room.
She gave him her back, drawing her hair forward over her shoulder. “A little help?” she asked, glancing over one bare shoulder.
Her lashes lowered, but her blue eyes smoldered. She was clearly daring him to help her out of the gown. He wasn’t strong enough to resist.
He found the small hook at the top and released it, but the line of tiny buttons down her back posed a new temptation. He swallowed.
She was a siren and he’d willingly dash himself against the rocks for this moment with her. His fingers trembled as he loosened each button, revealing her skin one slow, beautiful inch at a time.
She was the most delectable present he’d ever had the pleasure of unwrappin
g.
His cynical arguments about holiday attire turned into an instant appreciation as the festive red of her lingerie against her creamy skin stoked the fire already raging inside him.
His fingers brushed along her spine, resting at the curve of her bottom as the last button popped free.
Desire slid through his system in a warm rush as she let the dress fall to the floor. She turned to face him and his knees threatened to buckle. She was a vision beyond his ability to imagine, her breasts barely contained in those hot red cups of shimmering fabric, the matching panties a wonderful target dividing the creamy skin of her midriff and thighs. But the lace-topped stockings in lethal black nearly stopped his heart.
Who would’ve guessed the prim, perfectly coiffed Widow Manning had an arsenal like this?
Of all the pictures he’d used to export hidden data, this would have been his favorite.
But definitely the least effective. He nearly laughed thinking of how the director would delete this one immediately—or kill him for having it at all.
Didn’t matter. This image of her was burned into Holt’s mind and would be there the rest of his days—no matter how few or how many remained.
“You’re frowning,” she said, taking a step closer.
He smiled, but it took work. “You’re so damned beautiful.” He drew back a step, cursed himself for being a coward. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“I disagree.”
Of course she would. But it was a mistake, more on her part than his. He just needed to redirect enough blood flow to his brain to think of it. Raw need for her was riding him too hard. His control was nearly shredded. He knew he couldn’t hold out. Better she had informed consent here.
“I don’t want to be gentle with you.” He wanted to scare her a bit, wanted to back her off so he could regain his balance. But it wasn’t fear or worry he saw in her eyes, it was...anticipation.
God help him.
“So don’t be gentle.” She took another step and her red bra brushed against the white of his tuxedo shirt, making his pulse jump. She tugged the ends of his bow tie and slid it out of his collar.
“Cecelia.” It was the only coherent word he could get past his lips.
“I’m right here.”
He knew that. Her fragrance crashed over him in vivid, sensual waves. The things he wanted to do to that body...the things he wanted her to do to him.
Her hands gripped his shirt and she tugged, popping the studs free. Her white-tipped fingernails scraped lightly across his chest. Her gasp proved plenty of reward for all those hard workouts.
“I’m not that white knight you’re looking for,” he said with an ache that almost undid him.
“I don’t care.” She flatted her hands on his skin and smoothed those silky palms over his chest.
He groaned. She was killing him, but a woman like Cecelia deserved tenderness from a gentleman with an Ivy League degree and the manners to match. Not the hot, rough, fast kind of sex he craved tonight. His hands hovered at her waist to set her away. His mind told him to behave but his body argued just the opposite.
She took his hands in hers and pressed the palms down against her soft flesh. He stopped breathing as she dragged them up her sides to cup her full breasts. Her nipples peaked under his palms and she used his hands to squeeze and caress them as she arched into his touch.
Keeping one of his hands trapped between hers and one full breast, she raised the other to her face and drew his thumb into her mouth, sucking hard then giving the sensitive pad a light nip.
He wasn’t sure his heart could take much more.
“I’m not fragile, Emmett.”
He hoped she meant it. He bent his head to kiss her. Hard. Her lips parted and her tongue tangled with his. She tasted of champagne and a shocking dark desire that matched his.
Reaching lower, he palmed her bottom and then hitched her up, beyond pleased when she wrapped her legs around his waist. She rocked her hips, grinding herself against him. As if he wasn’t aroused enough, she gave a sigh of sheer pleasure.
No turning back now.
He’d be lucky if he could find his way to the bed. The world with all its complications and consequences just didn’t exist beyond the woman in his arms. He dropped her to the bed and her laughter spurred him on as he stripped away his shirt and slacks. The view of her in that sexy lingerie made him as hard as he’d ever been.
“No,” he rasped as she started to push off one of her strappy high-heel shoes. “Leave them on.”
Her blue eyes sparkled and the curve of her lips was nothing short of wicked. “As you wish.”
He watched her eyes travel over his body, enjoying her obvious appreciation of the view he presented. One she liked, apparently. The idea spurred his confidence—something he’d never needed before.
He knelt between her parted legs, then traced the lacy tops of her stockings. First with his fingers, then his mouth. He planted hot kisses across her bare belly, taking his time as he freed her lush breasts from that bra. She speared her hands into his hair, holding him close. He made a study out of the curve of her throat until finally claiming her mouth. She opened under him, her tongue stroking his as her hands explored his body.
He was so close to the edge already. He tore her panties aside and found her wet and ready. When he pressed his fingers deep inside her, she bucked against his hand and her body arched. Moments later she cried out with a hard climax.
His eyes locked with hers as he gripped her hips. She rose to meet him and he drove himself into her with one swift thrust. Her body clutched around him as he gave in to the heavy rhythm pushing him. Those sexy heels dug into his hips as she tightened her legs around him. Her hands fisted in the linen; her eyes were dark with passion.
She moaned his name and he felt like a god at the sound. Her body strung tight as she reached her next climax. This one dragged him over the edge with her, and he thrust deep one last time before he sagged against the mattress.
* * *
HE WAS WAY better than some fantasy about a white knight, Cecelia thought as she drew the sheet up over her body. The cool air chilled her skin as her heart rate returned to normal. She wanted to burrow closer to Emmett’s warmth, but he wasn’t giving off an inviting vibe. She settled for resting her fingers lightly on his arm.
It wasn’t as though she expected a declaration of love. She didn’t think she was capable of giving him one. They were two consenting adults who’d given in to a mutually intense attraction and need. Simple. Straightforward.
Stockholm syndrome.
The idea made her giggle. She wasn’t his prisoner any more than he was hers. Maybe the intensity of the whole situation had rendered her helpless. She just wanted to laugh at it all. She’d just made love with a man besides the one she’d been married to for twenty-five years. She had lost the shadow of widowhood just now...somehow. Kind of like losing her virginity with William. The whole idea had her shaking with the need to laugh. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Dear God, she was hysterical.
“That’s not what a man wants to hear about now,” he murmured, rolling to his side, stretching his arm under her pillow. His eyes sparkled in the light of the lamp by the table, but a darkness still shadowed his face.
“It’s not you, it’s me. Is that better?”
“Not really.” He smoothed her hair away from her face. “What were you thinking that made you laugh?”
She sighed into his touch even as she sent her fingers roaming across that magnificent chest. “I was thinking about rapid-onset Stockholm syndrome.”
“You know you’re free to go anytime,” he reminded her unnecessarily.
She smoothed her fingertips across his brow, easing the frown. Going might be a viable option, but it wouldn’t be the prudent choice. Not just because she wa
sn’t done with him, but because she didn’t think she could outwit the enemy on her own. And she wasn’t leaving him to do that on his own, either.
Tonight’s adventure proved once more he was caught in a vise, and she refused to leave him to deal with it alone. Despite being chased by both her brother’s team and Isely’s men, the biggest obstacle she could see was Emmett himself. When would he open up and give her enough information to help?
He shocked her, bringing his face close and rubbing her nose with his. It was an unexpected tenderness from a man who claimed with body and words he wasn’t capable of such things.
“You’re still thinking.” His thumb caressed the furrow between her brows.
No amount of wrinkle cream would ever completely erase the tiny lines there. She was well into forty...middle-aged. Was this part of her crisis?
“I am.”
“That may be worse than the giggles.”
He rolled to his back again and she immediately missed the heat of his body, the hard planes and thick ropes of his muscles against her more pliant frame. No matter what happened in the coming hours, she wouldn’t have traded this stunning, sexy moment for any amount of caution or safety.
“Don’t worry. I was just thinking that this was worth all the rumors we’ve no doubt started. But I’m not in the mood for pillow talk.” Not yet. She shifted closer to him, pressed her lips to the crisp hair of his chest.
“You’re not?”
“Nope,” she whispered against his skin, and was rewarded when he trembled as she worked her way down to his navel, and lower still. “Not even close.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Senate Inn
Saturday, December 20, 7:05 a.m.
Holt slipped out of Cecelia’s warm embrace and peered around in the darkness until he found his discarded tuxedo pants on the floor. Pulling them on, he went and turned on his laptop, hoping to find some good news to share with her when she woke up.
Sometime after their third round, they’d managed to turn off the lights and sleep. He hadn’t felt this rested in months. It should have been a comfort, but it worried him. Cecelia wasn’t meant to be part of his future. And right now he couldn’t imagine her not in it.
