Hot Target

by Marliss Melton

  "Maybe you need me to remind you how much you like it," he suggested.

  "Don't you dare!"

  "I can still picture it—that cute motel room in Playa del Carmen. You practically forced me to have sex with you."

  "What? You bastard, I didn't force you."

  "I remember you throwing yourself at me. I remember you sliding out of my arms onto your knees to pull my zipper down."

  "Stop it."

  Tristan held both Juliet's wrists with just one hand, freeing his other hand to stroke the backs of her legs through her lightweight slacks. He skimmed the curve of her bottom and felt her shudder.

  "God, you were hot that night," he reminisced. "I've never known a woman as hot as you. I could just touch you like this," he moved his caress into the warm groove between her thighs, stroking it once, twice, three times, "and make you come."

  She made a sound between a moan and a shriek. "Don't!"

  "What are you afraid of?" He was happy to realize that his blood no longer pulsed with righteous anger. High emotion tended to get a SEAL into trouble. He was having fun sparring with her. He hoped she was, too. Repeating his caress, he was pleased to feel her female flesh swell and firm under the pad of his finger. "You're a hot-blooded woman. I'm a hot-blooded man. Why shouldn't we enjoy each other?"

  "You can't force me," she insisted, her breath still coming in pants.

  That remark had him springing off her instantly, moving out of range of her long legs should she think to retaliate. He'd never forced himself on a woman, never would do such a thing, and he wasn't about to start now.

  "No one's making you do anything," he insisted as she whipped onto her side, putting one arm on the back of the couch and eying him suspiciously.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Tristan gazed at her and waited.

  "What do you want?" Her husky voice betrayed both anger and arousal. Her gaze dropped briefly to the bulge at the front of his jeans before she jerked it away.

  "I think I've made that pretty clear. I went six months without sex so I could be with you."

  Her eyes widened with surprise. "I never asked you to be celibate. I asked you not to date anyone. Your pathological need for female companionship worried me, that's all."

  Her psychoanalyzing thoroughly annoyed him. She was the one with relationship issues, not him. "Well, clearly I surpassed your expectations. If you're done toying with me, I'm here for my date."

  She kept mutinously quiet.

  "Or are you planning to renege on your promise?"

  "I never promised you anything," she insisted. "I said I might date you in six months."

  "With the stakes as high as you made them, honey, 'might' doesn't qualify. You owe me a date." He held his breath wondering what he'd do if she still refused him. She was all he'd thought about for six months straight.

  Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth as she gnawed on it. Finally, she asked in a small voice, "What if we just have sex again and call it a truce?"

  Frustration exploded inside of him. "Shut up," he warned.

  His vehemence must have scared her. She rolled suddenly to her feet and lunged at him, grabbing his hands. "Listen to me," she implored. "I'm sorry. I am. I do like you."

  A portion of his anger subsided.

  "But I don't date. I can't date." Her gray eyes pleaded for his understanding. "I have a business to run that requires all of my time. I can't be there for anyone."

  He shrugged. "My job's not any different."

  "True, but I'm also moody. And I have appalling habits—"

  He was dying to know all of them. "Like what?"

  "Like eating junk food and drinking too much coffee and forgetting to fill the gas tank in my car."

  "Ah. I wondered what took you so long."

  She tossed his hands away and propped her own hands on her hips. "Emma and Bullfrog are in on this, aren't they? How did you even get here? I thought you caught a ride with them."

  "I trailered my bike behind their Jeep. Figured you might give me the slip, so I mapped out a short cut to your place just in case."

  Her eyes glinted with interest. "You have a motorcycle?"

  Score one for him. "Sure do."

  "You need to show me that shortcut later," she demanded. "Listen." Stepping away from him, she began orbiting her couch. As she walked, she wrung her hands betraying just how much he unsettled her. "I'm not about to change who I am just to please a man. Girlfriends are supposed to be pliable. They shape their lives to suit their lovers. Look at Emma." She gestured. "Emma quit her job so she could be with her new husband. That's not me. I like what I have here. I like what I do. And I don't need a man in my life." She came around the couch and looked at him with an almost-desperate expression.

  Was she trying to convince herself or him? He let his gaze drift from her flushed face to her rumpled jacket to her stockinged feet, and back up again. "You sure about that? I thought you just asked for sex."

  "Well, yeah, but..."

  "But you can get that anywhere," he finished for her. The thought of her having sex with anyone made him faintly nauseated. "How many men have you slept with since Mexico?"

  A nervous laugh escaped her lips.

  "Answer the question. While I was going to bed with a hard-on for six months, how often were you getting laid?"

  "That's none of your business." Color stained her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. "We're not together. I don't owe you my fidelity."

  "How many?" he repeated.

  "None!" She threw her hands in the air. "There, you feel better?"

  She had to be lying. A woman like her could get a guy in five seconds flat.

  "Wait." She seemed to reconsider. "Maybe I should tell you that I've slept with half the guys in this building. Maybe then you'd realize that I'm not the best girlfriend material and leave me alone."

  He could tell by her expression that wasn't true. "Is that really what you want? You want me to leave you alone?" he pressed.

  Her mouth worked hard to form the word "yes," but honesty warred with her stubbornness, and she ended up saying nothing.

  Sensing her capitulation, he hid a smile and suggested a compromise. "How about this? How about we spend time together and see how it goes?"

  Wariness melted into skepticism, which heated into sexual consideration, as her gaze drifted appreciatively over his chest and thighs. "You mean, enjoy the moment," she interpreted.

  He had her now. "Sort of," he qualified. She wasn't going to like his stipulation, but then he wasn't going to tell her about it.

  Her eyebrows snapped together. "What does 'sort of' mean?"

  "It means we do stuff together," he explained. "Like find this asshole who might have killed your parents. We make a good team. Remember?"

  She clapped a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes as she rubbed it. "But I work alone," she protested.

  "You need me," he insisted. "I have relevant skills."

  She heaved a sigh. "I'm not hunting anyone specific just yet. I need to look through family albums, first, like Emma suggested. Hopefully, I'll find something."

  "Great, let's do that."

  She searched his expression. "Are you serious? You want to help me look through old photographs?"

  "Sure. As long as we're working as a team, I'm happy." Tristan grinned to show her just how happy he was. He caught Juliet staring at his mouth, like she'd forgotten the shape and feel of it, and he could tell what she was thinking.

  The girl still wanted him—in a bad way. However, it had occurred to him in the last ten minutes that he stood a better chance if he didn't give her what she wanted. As long as he kept her hungering for more, she would keep him around. And the longer he stuck around, the better his odds of making their relationship permanent.

  He dropped his hands on her shoulders, jarring her from her trance. "So, what are we waiting for?" he demanded. He gave her a squeeze. "Let's do this." Letting her go before he was tempted to kiss her, he swatted her
bottom and stepped away.

  With a dazed shake of her head, she turned toward one of the two doors off her living room and threw it open.

  "This is my spare bedroom," she explained, flicking on the light.

  The bookcase, desk, file cabinet, and futon made the room a perfect place for guests, but it was cluttered with boxes and a large, metal trunk.

  "When Emma moved, she dropped off a bunch of stuff she didn't want to take with her," Juliet said explaining the mess.

  Tristan counted the number of boxes in front of them. "All of these are full of photo albums?"

  "Oh, no. The albums are in the footlocker. These boxes are just stuff Emma couldn't bring herself to part with, like my mother's sketches."

  "Your mother was an artist?"

  "Art teacher. She tried to help me find my creative side. But I didn't take after Mom, Emma did."

  "Who made the composite of the guy you're looking for?"

  "Hilary, my assistant, using a specialized software program."

  Flipping the latches on the locker, Juliet lifted the lid releasing a wave of the lavender scent that always reminded her of her mother. A wave of pointless longing clutched at her heart. Hiding her reaction, Juliet leaned over to pick up one of the six albums inside. She carried it to the futon, presently situated to serve as a couch, plopped down, and snapped on the nearby lamp.

  Tristan picked his way across the room to join her. As he settled into the spot immediately next to her, their thighs brushed. Her body prickled with awareness. Her pulse quickened.

  How long were they going to sit in here looking at old albums? Much as she appreciated his help, now that he was actually here, beside her, her body wanted him as it had from the first time they'd met. Distractedly, she opened the cover and forced herself to examine the pictures. Tristan looked over her shoulder.

  "Aww, is that you?" He touched a long, tan index finger to her first baby picture. All six pounds, seven ounces of wrinkled pink flesh and a squished nose.

  "Afraid so." None of the pictures featured anyone besides her and her parents, so she turned the page quickly, scanning photos at a fast clip.

  "Wait, wait. I want to see," Tristan protested.

  "This is not a trip down memory lane. I'm looking for the man who killed my parents," she reminded him.

  "Yeah, but look at your mother. Wow. Now I see where you get your good looks."

  "Stop flirting. I'm working here."

  "She was a blonde, too, huh? And your dad had red hair like Emma. Interesting."

  Juliet rolled her eyes. Was he really going to pretend fascination with her family's genetics? He probably could not care less. No doubt Tristan was biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch the album out of her hands and kiss her. Her body thrummed with anticipation.

  Focus! Focus on the picture.

  There were people on this page she didn't recognize. She studied each face with suspicion, searching for a large man with an oddly rectangular-shaped head.

  "Oh, sweet Jesus, look at Emma," Tristan exclaimed, bumping her shoulder so he could get a closer look at the four-year-old with auburn pigtails and two fingers in her mouth. "Jeremiah needs to see this. That is adorable."

  "I'm sure she's shown him. Are SEALs even allowed to say that word?"

  "What word—adorable? Of course. Why wouldn't they be?"

  "Never mind. You're distracting me." She elbowed him in the ribs. "Stop talking."

  He moved away so she could study the pictures without interference. But only half of her attention was on the photos now. She skimmed through several pages, all the while aware of Tristan's sudden silence. And it hit her. She'd used the hateful distraction excuse.

  A sidelong glance at his set features confirmed her suspicion. She'd annoyed him by using that word, the same one she'd used in Mexico to explain why she'd had sex with him—to distract her from the kidnapping of her sister and niece.

  "I'm sorry." Great, she was up to three apologies in half an hour. "I have to do this. I have to find this person if I'm ever going to get a good night's sleep."

  The hard look in his eyes softened. Tristan studied Juliet's face a moment. "No worries. You're entirely right. We're working here." He stood up and walked out of the room.

  Juliet gaped after him. Where was he going? Had she driven him away?

  She heard him cross her living room, headed for the door. The urge to call Tristan back stuck in her throat like a chicken bone. They hadn't even had sex yet, and she would probably explode if he walked out of her life at this point. But his footfalls grew louder, and he walked back into the room carrying her purse.

  "Is the drawing still in here?" He held it out to her.

  "Oh." She nodded sarcastically. "Now all of a sudden you respect my personal property." She waved it away. "Go on, help yourself like you did the last time."

  "To keep you from shooting me." A hint of a smile hovered around his mobile lips. "This is different."

  "Fine." She snatched the bag from his hands and withdrew the folded paper. Tristan, in the meantime, swiped a second album out of the chest. He sat down next to her, took the composite, and spread it open.

  For the next twenty minutes, they worked in relative silence, with Tristan making noises now and then that ranged from a tongue click, to "Hmm," to outright laughter.

  Juliet glanced over, distracted by his commentary but not deigning to ask what amused him.

  "How about this guy?" he finally asked, angling his album so she could see.

  She leaned toward him, brushing his forearm with her breast. "No." Her nipple tingled and pearled from the contact. "That's Uncle Joe."

  "Your father's brother or your mother's?" he asked.

  "Neither. My parents had no relatives."

  "Really?"

  "Dad was an orphan and Mom was an only child," she explained. "Her father died in the Vietnam War, and her mother drank herself to death."

  "Lovely." He fell thoughtfully quiet. "So, no family whatsoever."

  "Right, for the reasons I just explained."

  "What about second cousins or great aunts and uncles?"

  Juliet considered and shrugged. "I never heard of any."

  "Huh." He scratched his cheek and looked back at the pictures. "Then who are all these people if not family members?"

  "Colleagues, mostly. My parents were both school teachers, with lots of friends. Everybody loved them." Hearing the wistfulness in her voice, Juliet pretended to look back at the album on her lap.

  Several seconds elapsed.

  "I bet you miss them, don't you?"

  Tristan's gruff question made her eyes sting. She stared down at a photo of her five-month-old self. Such a happy, roly-poly baby with flaxen curls. Poor thing had no idea she only had sixteen years in which to soak up her parents' love. "Of course," she said shortly.

  The large hand smoothing the hair on the back of her head drew her gaze to his. She'd seen him look at her with humor, frustration, desire, and most recently anger, but she'd never seen his eyes go bottomless. His tender look unsettled her.

  "You can cry in front of me, you know," he told her gently. "I know these pictures bring up a lot of emotions. Hell, I want to cry and I didn't even know your parents."

  Tears sprang into her eyes, unbidden. "Stop it," she ordered, blinking them back. "You're doing it again. I'm trying to work here. Please, stop—"

  "Being a distraction," he supplied.

  "I didn't say it this time, you did."

  "True." He removed his hand from her hair, cleared his throat, and made a show of concentrating on the drawing, then turned to the photos in front of him.

  Juliet worked her way through the last two albums while Tristan went through one.

  With nothing left to peruse, Juliet felt her spirits sinking. It wasn't like she'd expected to find anything when she followed Emma's suggestion. But with no other leads, she might never identify the monster who'd returned so unexpectedly to her memory.
/>   Dropping to the floor, she shuffled on her knees to the trunk and laid the books back inside. The hollow sound they made hitting the paper-lined plywood had her pulling them out again. Taking closer stock of the chest's construction, it appeared there ought to be more depth to the trunk than was immediately apparent. Could the plywood be a false bottom? Sliding her fingers along the edge of it, she teased it up and exposed another inch of storage underneath.

  "Check it out!" She removed the false floor.

  Tristan thrust aside the album on his lap and dropped to his knees beside her. Together they stared at the single white envelope lying in the hiding place.

  Juliet's heart pumped with excitement. She shared a look with Tristan who urged her to open it.

  Picking up the envelope, Juliet cautiously turned it over. The front and back were blank. She broke the seal and slowly withdrew a few sheets of paper, carefully unfolding them.

  "What is it?" Tristan asked, leaning into her to peruse the top page.

  "A marriage certificate." Juliet scanned it with rising puzzlement. Aged to a rich cream color, old typewriter marks on the paper identified the document's genesis. "September 3rd, 1983," she read. "They were married in West Berlin, Federal Republic of Germany."

  "Who are 'they'?" Tristan pressed. "Your parents?"

  "No," she said, gaze glued to the paper. "Gerard Brause and Anya Ausfeld. I've never heard of them."

  "Why would anybody hide a marriage certificate?" Tristan queried.

  Juliet turned to the next page. "There's a letter."

  Wanting to read it in comfort, she moved back to the couch. As Tristan resumed his seat beside her, she set the certificate aside and skimmed the letter. "It's from my mother," she realized, her pulse quickening.

  With rising excitement, Juliet read aloud, while Tristan leaned over her shoulder, following along.

  "My Dearest Daughters, One day, when you are old enough to understand, I hope to show you this letter along with this marriage certificate, and you will know the truth about me. I want to believe your love for me will prevail over your judgment of the events of which you are about to read. My real name is Anya Ausfeld—" Juliet paused as the reality she had known fragmented, and the bride's name on the certificate of marriage became her mother's. "I was born in West Berlin, the only daughter of well-to-do parents, who sent me to Freie University to study languages and literature. Brought up with undeserved privileges, I felt guilty for my advantages over those born with less. Moreover, I was ashamed of my country's history and its blind acceptance of a dictator who had murdered millions while my parents and grandparents turned a blind eye."