“Hungry?” he asks.
Hiding my disappointment, I wrap my arms around myself and nod.
“Perfect,” he replies. “I’ll throw something together.”
“Can I help?”
“Nah, I got it.”
He slips around the counter and into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room. His bedroom is down the hall. Glancing in that direction, I see his bulky leather holster and revolver are draped over the edge of his headboard. I imagine him doing a quick draw, whipping out his gun. In a flash that mental image abruptly turns dark, scary. Like watching a movie, I picture him staring down the barrel of someone else’s gun. I stand there, completely frozen, as the trigger is pulled. Beckett goes down.
Irrational terror shoots through me—I am only imaging this, and yet it feels so real. But it’s not. It can’t be. I won’t even allow myself to think it. Probably just leftover tension from the stories he told me about infiltrating Columbian drug cartels and Salvadorian street gangs.
Badly in need of something else to occupy my mind, I move to the window to check out the view—his apartment faces the street, so there’s not a lot to see—when I spy an old yearbook sitting on the bookshelf. I bring it with me and slide into a counter stool. “You mind?” I ask.
He glances at it and shakes his head. “Go for it.”
I open it and flip through the pages. I had halfway hoped to find something funny or embarrassing: Beckett with thick glasses, nerdy clothes, an awful haircut. Just the opposite is true. Beckett hasn’t changed. Every photo shows a handsome, popular jock who was obviously well-liked. Lots of photos of him captaining varsity teams, sitting behind the wheel of a flashy Saab convertible, or with a pretty girl tucked under his arm.
“Just as I suspected,” I say. “You were the hot guy in high school.”
He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “I don’t even remember high school.”
Doesn’t matter. I’m sure his classmates remember him. Hell, the women probably still fantasize about him.
“What about you?” he asks. “Were you the hot girl in high school?”
His question is so absurd I can’t control my shocked bark of laughter. “Oh, my God. No. Guys were never interested in me in high school. They didn’t even notice I was there.”
He stops what he’s doing. Looks me straight in the eye. “You can’t actually believe that.”
“Believe what?”
“That guys didn’t notice you.”
“It’s true. I was the smart one. Jess was the pretty one.”
“Jess? Your sister? That blonde you were with in the student commons the other day?” He gives an indifferent shrug. “Yeah, she’s pretty, but kind of obvious. But you—” he stops abruptly as his gaze runs me up and down. “You would have driven me fucking crazy. Crazy. A body, face, and a brain like yours, combined with an attitude that said you had no use whatsoever for men.” He gives a shout of laughter and shakes his head. “Holy shit. Pure torture. I feel sorry for any guy who had to sit next to you in class.”
I blink, speechless. Unless I was totally oblivious, that’s not even remotely close to how I remember high school. But the picture he paints of me is so absurdly flattering, I don’t want to talk him out of it. I watch as he opens the refrigerator, removes a frosty Heineken, and twists off the top. He takes a deep swig.
“You’re not going to offer me a beer?”
He thinks about it, shrugs. “Probably not a good idea.”
True, so I let him pass me a Coke instead. This is tricky for both of us, but I suddenly realize how much is at stake for Beckett. I remind myself that he’s law enforcement. A federal agent. Hard to justify serving alcohol to someone who’s underage. By that same token, sleeping with a paid informant probably wouldn’t be considered a great career move, either. Time to change the subject.
I slide off my stool and move into the kitchen. He’s got cutting boards spread out, knives, piles of chopped vegetables, and chunks of cubed chicken. “What’s going on here?” I ask.
“I hope you like stir fry.”
“I love it—and I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I wok everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yup. Even my eggs in the morning. It’s the only way I know how to cook. I’m a one wok kind of guy.”
My favorite kind. We pour on the sesame oil, garlic, and Sriracha sauce—we both agree spicy is the only way to go—and a few minutes later we’re sitting down together at his dining table, eating.
We’re at an odd place. From the moment we met, everything has been beyond intense. We’ve shared secrets, taken insane risks, had sex, and come closer to dying than I ever thought I would. But there are things we don’t know about each other, and the holes that lie between us have become too gaping to ignore.
I’m normally not a big talker, but Beckett makes it easy. I tell him about growing up in San Francisco, about my career ambitions, about my perpetually exhausted mom and flaky, part-time dad. I talk a lot about Jess—how inseparable we were growing up, but how that’s changed now that she’s married and has a baby.
Then I wait. It’s Beckett’s turn. He starts with the basics. He moved around a lot when he was young—his dad’s a retired Marine—but he considers upstate New York his home. His mom’s an artist; she specializes in equestrian portraits and has an intensely loyal following. He grew up with two older sisters. One of them is an elementary school teacher who married an attorney and lives in Saratoga Springs.
“And your other sister?” I ask.
He shifts back in his chair. When he looks at me, his face is expressionless, totally impassive. “She died when she was twenty-one.”
I draw in a sharp breath. I hadn’t expected this, but for some reason it’s not a surprise, either. Beckett, for all his hard-edged beauty, burns like a candle. He is fueled not by oxygen, but by tension and pain. I am finally beginning to get a glimpse of the source.
“What happened?” I ask.
He toys with the tines of his fork as he gathers his thoughts. Then he looks up at me. “I was sixteen, a junior in high school. Emma was twenty-one, a senior at Skidmore. She was the kind of person everyone loved. Smart, funny, beautiful… her whole life ahead of her. Once she finished her degree in cognitive therapy she planned to work with autistic kids.”
He pauses, and I can tell by the faraway look in his eyes that he’s no longer with me. He’s seeing his sister. Remembering Emma. Then he gives a subtle shake of his head.
“Anyway. It’d been a brutal winter, lots of snow, and Em and her friends planned a blow-out spring break trip. They’d made it through midterms and wanted to take off and go someplace warm—you know, beaches, bars, dancing, that sort of thing. They looked at Aruba, Cancun, and the Bahamas, but finally settled on Miami. I don’t remember why, maybe cheap air fares or something.”
At the mention of Miami, my stomach tightens. Dread courses through me. My fingers curl around my glass of Coke, and I suddenly wish I’d insisted on something stronger.
Beckett’s story ends as abruptly as it began. “The night before they were supposed to fly home, Em and her friends went dancing at a club in South Beach. A local hot spot. They didn’t know it, but the club was a popular hangout for up-and-coming drug dealers. That night, one of the deals went wrong. Weapons were drawn, shots fired. One person died right there, three others were wounded.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “And Emma?” I prompt softly.
“She was hit three times. One bullet lodged in her spine; the doctors couldn’t get it out. If she lived, they told us she’d never walk again. But Em was a fighter.” His lips curl slightly, but there’s no warmth in his smile. His words have a rusty edge, and I sense it’s been a very long time since he’s spoken of any of this. He’s unearthing a memory that was buried deep. “She hung on for two weeks in intensive care. We were all so sure she was going to pull through. But in the end, there was just too much int
ernal damage. She went into cardiac arrest and died.”
I am stricken speechless. I don’t know what to say. His sister’s death is one of those senseless, horrible tragedies that devastate utterly. I try to imagine how it would feel if something like that happened to Jess, but it’s so horrific my mind won’t go there. I ache for Beckett, even though everything about his posture tells me he doesn’t want my sympathy. Still, I have to say something. I find my voice and struggle for words. “Beckett—”
He shoves back his chair before I can get another word out. He stands and holds out his hand. “C’mon,” he says. “I promised you I’d show you why I rented this place.”
The transition is jarring, but I don’t object. If that’s all he can handle for tonight, so be it. He leads me into his bedroom and I assume he’s taking me to his bed. Instead, he opens his closet door and pulls down what appear to be a set of folding attic stairs. He climbs up first, throws open a bulky door that looks like a ship’s hatch, then disappears. Cold air whizzes past me as he reaches down and holds out his hand for me to grip. I reach the top of the ladder and allow him to pull me up the rest of the way.
We are on the roof of his building, standing beneath a pergola that has been strung with thousands of tiny, twinkling lights. There are potted trees and plants all around us, and two lounge chairs with thick cushions. It is spectacular—a private oasis in the middle of the city. I had no idea anything like this existed. The beauty of it takes my breath away.
I do a complete three-sixty, drinking in the view. The world stretches out before me. I can see all the way to Oakland, Sausalito, San Jose. The bay shimmers and sparkles, black and glossy against the night sky. There is only a sliver of a moon—the night is all stars. In the distance, a fog horn sounds its lonely cry. I don’t know how long I stand there, entranced, but when I turn I find Beckett watching me.
He looks shattered. Completely broken. I realize he’s not on the rooftop with me, but back in that hospital room with Emma, helpless to do anything but watch her die. Guilt, pain, and longing war for dominance on his face. He takes a deep breath, and then pulls me into his arms without a word.
He kisses me for the same reason he drags air into his lungs. He kisses me because I am alive and he is alive, and no matter what ugliness brought us together, the fact that we are together remains cause for celebration.
I understand this. At the same time, he’s hurting me. His kiss is harsh, punishing, brutal. His lips grind against mine. Our teeth gnash. His fingers dig into my flesh and his grip around my waist is so tight it burns. He holds me against him as though we are bound. I am forcefully reminded of how much larger he is than me, how much stronger.
I take his pain and try to turn it into something else. I receive his kiss and give it back, my mouth open and eager beneath his, kissing him until he tastes me, and not the bitter memory of Emma’s death.
I can tell the moment I break through. His body slumps against mine. His hands trace my spine, as though desperate to ensure that he hadn’t imagined me, that I am here, with him, now. He whispers my name. It falls against my hair, over and over, as soft as a prayer.
I tilt back my head and capture his mouth. The urgent sensual heat that I’ve come to expect whenever Beckett and I are together begins to build. His lips gentle and soften. His tongue races across the edge of my teeth, between my lips, tangles with mine. His kiss is delicious, divine, depraved. Fiery passion sparks and smolders.
I press myself closer, surrendering completely, willing Beckett to take me. Standing on tiptoe, I loop my arms around his neck and draw myself up. His hands close around my waist, supporting me. We sway together, almost dancing, our bodies locked in an embrace that has no beginning and no end.
My fingers thread through his deep chestnut hair. Silky strands of it twist through my grasp. I brush the nape of his neck with the tip of my nails, nibble his ear lobe. Satisfaction courses through me when I feel his shuddering response to my touch.
Bending slightly, he wraps one strong arm beneath my knees and scoops me up. Holding me as though I weigh nothing at all, he carries me across the rooftop to the pair of lounge chairs I noticed earlier. He deposits me atop the lounge and stretches out beside me. The cushion sinks beneath his weight and gravity rolls me into his arms.
He tosses his leg over mine, and the weight of his thigh pins me down. He catches my wrists and holds them above my head. As gentle as the pressure is, I could no more escape him than I could break free of a set of steel handcuffs. I am his, totally and completely, for him to do with what he will. The feeling is both unnerving and exhilarating.
He buries his face in the curve of my shoulder. The trail his lips and tongue make across my skin sends a shiver coursing through me. Naked longing nearly overwhelms me. I arch my back, pressing my body against his, aching for his touch everywhere.
“Beckett,” I say. My voice is low, pleading.
He brushes the corner of my mouth with his. “Say it again.”
I don’t hesitate. My need is raw, burning. “Beckett. Beckett.”
A small, satisfied smile touches his lips. With his free hand, he reaches for the clip that holds my hair. He releases it, allowing the thick, dark masses to cascade past my shoulders and fall against the cushion. The citrus fragrance of my shampoo perfumes the air.
Raising himself on one elbow, his smoldering gaze rakes over me. His blue eyes are so intense they appear almost black. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead, his fingers brush my cheek, my temple. His look is reverent, adoring. His fingers skim past my throat, across my collarbone. He bends to kiss the hollow of my throat.
I writhe beneath him, desperate. But he’s firmly in control, moving slowly, keeping me in such a state of sexual suspense that I’m trembling with desire, teetering between pleasure and pain. Finally, he reaches for the buttons on my blouse and works them free. He brushes aside the straps of my bra and tugs it past my ribs. The sight of his mouth lowering over my breast is almost dizzying. When he takes my nipple between his teeth, my back arcs and I cry out. The scorching pleasure is as intense as a shock of electric current.
I push my body against his, not to escape, but to feel Beckett, to feel every inch of his thrilling masculine body, against my hips and my breasts and my belly. And between my thighs. Especially between my thighs. Cat-like, I rub myself against him, almost purring in heady contentment. Pleasure spirals through me. My heart races and my breathing becomes shallow.
Beckett releases me from his grasp and begins to tug at my clothing. My blouse is stripped from my shoulders. My bra unhooked and pulled free. His fingers fumble at the waistband of my jeans. Leveraging myself to an upright position, I perform the same thrilling task for him. His t-shirt, jeans, boxers, socks, and shoes—all tossed to the rooftop or perhaps floating to the street below. I don’t care. All that matters is that we are naked together, that nothing, not even a strip of clothing, comes between us.
We lay together, our bodies bathed by starlight. Beckett trails his lips between my breasts and then moves lower still, kissing my ribs, my belly, the curve of my hip. I dig my heels into the cushion and thrust upward, making myself more open to him. His fingers trace my skin, exploring and seeking, strumming me like a harp, a lyre, or some other heavenly instrument. My body is exquisitely sensitive to even his lightest touch. When his hand moves between my thighs a moan of pleasure escapes my lips.
Fiery heat builds between my legs and radiates through my belly. I feel myself pushing against his palm, aching for him. His gaze locks on mine as he slips one finger inside me, seeking and caressing. I gasp. I am damp and hot against his hand, so ready for him to fill me that my teeth ache with the effort of holding back.
I tell myself this is just sex, but I recognize the lie for what it is. This is beyond physical. I am so moved by our union that I’m trembling. Tears pool behind my eyes Afraid that my emotions will show, that he will read more in my gaze than we are ready to handle, I bite my lip and turn my face away.
>
Beckett won’t allow it. He tucks two fingers beneath my chin and turns me to face him. His gaze burns into mine.
“Kylie.”
I can’t speak. Emotion chokes me to the point where I can only stare.
“I would die for you,” he says.
His hips retreat, and then slide forward as he thrusts into me. His mouth slants over mine, taking me in a kiss of raw, brutal possession. His body is hard and hot and heavy. There is strength in the way he holds me, but even more in the way he holds himself still, allowing me time to explore him, to adjust to the feel of him claiming me.
I draw my hands over his broad shoulders, the corded muscles of his biceps, the flat ridges of his stomach. His chest is broad and muscular, his waist tapers to narrow hips. His legs are long and powerful and dusted with hair that is short and fine, and creates a wonderful friction against my palms. I trace my fingers up the back of his thighs, then caress the firm curve of his tight male ass.
A shudder vibrates through Beckett’s body, and he can no longer hold himself still. His thrusts are deep and strong, and bring an intense sense of completeness. We are intimately joined, and the sensation is beyond anything I’ve ever known. I throw back my head. Drag my nails down his back.
Beckett. My Beckett.
The rhythm we establish is as ancient as the stars scattered above us. It’s primal and simple and life-altering. His breath falls hot against my skin. Sparks of pleasure zip through my nerves. Each thrust is hard and sure. Pressure builds. His rhythm changes and his strokes become more rapid and shallow. A bud of heat blooms in my belly and radiates in my chest. One moment I’m there with him, and the next second I’m far away, lost in a series of tiny explosions that skitter along my spine.
Beckett gives a final thrust, and with a low groan he collapses on top of me. We lie together in a tangled embrace, neither of us moving. It is a moment of pure contentment, but it doesn’t last. It was fine when we were moving, making love. But now the sweat on our bodies reacts to the chill night air and suddenly I’m freezing. Beckett feels me shiver. He leans over and reaches for a thick down comforter that’s stored in a wicker chest beside the chaise. He wraps it around both of us, then folds me in his arms.
INFORMANT Page 13
