by Kira Blakely
The diplomat was not the bald, studious intellectual I expected, but a breathtakingly gorgeous woman. That was unusual among the diplomatic corps, something I thought rather foolish. A beautiful woman could be far more convincing in diplomacy and flattery than a staid, older statesman.
Her name was Michele Overton, and as I sat next to her on the flight over the Pacific, we came to know a bit about one another. I let her do the talking and sensed that despite her career, flying distances over water made her a little nervous. She was divorced and the mother of a young daughter who stayed with Michele’s parents when she traveled. Although we should have been sleeping in preparation for the rigorous schedule we’d have once landing, it seemed peaceful to chat quietly in the other otherwise quiet cabin of sleeping passengers.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“No, but I do have a companion who lives with me,” I said, choosing my words carefully as I’d been trained to do.
“Ah, I see,” she nodded. I realized then that she had mistaken my vague reference to mean I was gay and my companion was another man. I let her think that—in fact it solved any ghost of a desire on my part to fall into the role of a charming, and very masculine, companion to her. I had Lilly and wasn’t interested in the least, but the women who came on to me couldn’t know that. Nothing about my private life could be divulged, no matter how safe I thought the listener might be. It was an old habit, and it had kept me alive thus far.
“What do you do when you aren’t doing…this?” she asked. I felt suspicious but understood she was nervous, and although our relationship was to be impersonal, for obvious reasons, she was feeling vulnerable. I understood that. God knew I’d felt vulnerable at points in my own life.
“I have a little side business,” I commented offhand and then changed the subject. “Don’t you think we should try to get a little sleep? You have a rugged schedule ahead of you.”
She nodded, settled a pillow beneath her head, and closed her eyes. I was stiff and uncomfortable in my coach seating. When flying on my own, I always got first class, but the government never sprang for comfort, but for utility. The first-class section landed at the same time as coach, so coach it would be.
We landed in South Korea as our first stop. I separated myself from her obvious entourage and blended in, listening to pick up on the local sentiment. I carried a small cellular device in my pocket that only sent coded transmissions, something like Morse code. The signals could be intercepted easily, but interceptors would have to break the code I used, as well as the double encryption the device added. If I heard something suspicious, I relayed that in a “level of suspicion” transmission, and those appointed to security would move in nearby and pick up as I moved on. It was a simple job.
Our next stop was Hong Kong—not normally considered dangerous but certainly a center for expensive tastes and power brokering. Michele was touring a government-owned resort reserved for the very powerful when suddenly in the crowd I heard a word being repeated from person to person. I recognized it was a signal, and as I summoned security, those involved went into action and moved forward in a herd to attack Michele.
Pushing my way through the throng, I managed to reach her ahead of security and shielded her with my body. I wasn’t carrying a weapon, but I shouted threats in the local dialect, and my unexpected presence took the attackers by surprise. Poorly organized, they fell apart quickly and disappeared into the throngs of innocent and terrified bystanders.
I hustled Michele away from the dense crowd and into a nook of the building’s external architecture, where we waited until her security arrived and took over. I didn’t see her until much later that evening when the tour had been summarily canceled and we were again aboard a flight, but this time headed to Los Angeles.
“Thank you,” she mouthed as she settled into the seat opposite me across the aisle. She was surrounded by security. I nodded and looked back at my magazine.
It was early morning by the time I arrived back at home. I walked into the bedroom and found Lilly sitting against pillows, a remote in her hand. There was a stormy look on her face.
“Is something wrong?” I asked warily.
She pointed the remote at the television. “You want to explain?” she challenged me.
I looked at the screen and saw a picture of myself, shielding Michele with my body on a static screen behind the commentator. He was reporting the incident of an American diplomat being the focus of an attack, and I was being named as a coincidental American bystander who had luckily jumped into action.
“Fuck!” I swore. My cover had been blown, and worse yet, Lilly thought she’d caught me doing something she didn’t like, and she was about to let me know just that.
“Well?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Maybe I didn’t hear you right?” She came out from under the covers, kneeling on the foot of the bed. She’d been sleeping in one of my dress shirts again—something she did often when I was out of town, I heard. “You can’t talk about it, or you won’t? Which is it, Bolt?”
My eyes were glued to her cleavage, which suddenly was very appealing. Her amethyst eyes were shooting sparks in my direction, and her breasts were heaving with emotion. In spite of my aggravation with the report, I felt myself hardening at the sight of her.
“It’s both. Lilly, whatever is going on in that beautiful head of yours is off the mark, you have my word.” I pulled out my cell phone and texted a code. Sliding it onto the nightstand, I said, “That report won’t be repeated.”
Chapter 14
Lilly
“Off the mark, is it? Maybe you can explain your arms around that woman?”
He was advancing slowly toward me, his eyes glued to my chest, and a fine sheen of perspiration blossoming over his forehead. Why?
“Well? Bolt?” I repeated, if a bit breathless this time.
“Did you hear the announcer say who she was?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then you know the whole story.”
“Bolt?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why were you with her?” He put a knee on the foot of the mattress and was leaning toward me, his hand sliding up my bared thigh. “Why, Bolt?”
“Hmmm?” His fingers slid down the inside of my opened thigh, and his index finger slid inside the opening of my panties, pushing toward my tunnel.
“Bolt?”
“I was there on business. I saw a commotion and stepped in. She had security who took over. I just did what any man would do to protect a woman,” he answered, his voice thickening as his lips followed his fingers.
“I don’t believe you. You disappeared without a word, and the next thing I see is you, with her!” I tried to be angry, but my outrage was melting as his lips sucked upon my tender petals of flesh, making them quiver as though filled with an electric energy. Shafts of desire were shooting down my back and into my hips, causing me to open my thighs more widely and press forward to position his lips where I wanted them.
“I can only tell you the truth, sweetheart. It’s up to you whether you trust me.” He looked up at me, his eyes glazed with our heat. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”
His words haunted me, because there was truth in them. He knew me better than I knew myself. Why couldn’t it have happened as he’d said? Why did I jump to conclusions? Natalie had me well trained, but Natalie was not to be trusted. This was Bolt, and he’d never given me any reason not to believe him.
“Do you know how much I worry?” He’d slid off my panties, and my legs were opened before his eyes.
“Do you know how much I miss you when I’m gone? Don’t you realize I can’t wait to come home to you?” I couldn’t concentrate on his words. His hands were travelling upward, and his lips followed, up over my tummy and toward my breasts. His mouth closed over my nipples and I murmured my mutual consent. Our conversation had come to an end.
I folded my legs around his waist, trapping
his strong chest against me. I gave in to the urge to grind my hips against him, searching for a piece of his body that would stimulate all the erotic spots I could summon. Bolt pulled back suddenly, trapping my wrists beneath his strong fingers. His index fingers smoothed the tender skin on the inside of my palms, luring me to relax, and then he rose high and with a fluid motion, impaled me.
The force of his penetration caused my body to fold upward and cling to him, unwilling to let cool air pass between our bodies. I breathed his scent and felt at home. I inhaled his breath and let my lungs fill with his warmth. I could not get close enough, and every time I looked at his face, I saw a worshipful adoration there that inflamed me even more. I wanted him to shield me—from the world in general, from Natalie’s crazed reality, from the fear and suspicion that each of his trips instilled in me. Couldn’t he see how hurt I was? Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t he choose some other business, or none at all? He could be with me all the time. I wanted him so desperately, and yet he stayed out of reach and cloaked himself with double-talk, mystery, and an almost ethereal sense of a higher purpose that I could not be party to. It was making me insane with jealousy and possessiveness—two qualities I’d despised in other women. Yet there I was.
Bolt was pumping into me like a steam engine, hard and regular, undeniable. This was for him. I could feel him cleansing his emotions and enveloping himself in me. He was being selfish—not as a lover, but as a man who placed his own needs and desires above all others. I felt anger pressing inward from my temples, overcoming the growing rise of my orgasm. Somehow, I managed to combine the two, powering the exaltation of my sexual crest with the fire that radiated from my jealous brain. I seized his cheeks between my hands and pressed inward. I saw surprise in his eyes, confusion about what was happening. That only fueled me further, and even though he was easily twice my weight, I used the momentum of my body, combined with his relaxed withdrawal to shift him onto his back. Throwing a leg over his waist, I rolled atop, my hands pinning his shoulders to the mattress. He could have fought me, easily, but he didn’t. He knew I needed dominance at that moment, and he let me take it. He couldn’t bring himself to be submissive, but he could allow me to release the fury I felt inside.
I pressed my palms into his chest and lifted my hips, slamming downward onto his rigid penis in a constant, relentless movement that ultimately lifted me above the arc of any orgasm I’d ever experienced. Bolt felt it, too, and for that brief space of time, he fed my orgasm with his body, saving his own pleasure until mine was realized.
On the other hand, I could feel him beginning to stiffen, and immediately, I rolled off his body and to my feet. I straddled his hips as I stood over him, my legs spread wide. His mouth was slack as he fought to maintain the rush of his orgasm while I stood above him, displaying that very thing he needed most, and I denied him. “Do you feel that? Do you feel how much you want to be with me and yet how powerless you are to make it happen? Do you, Bolt? Now you can understand how I feel on mornings when I roll over to snuggle against you and find a cold place where your body should have been. You give me no warning and no sense of duration—I just float in your life until you’re ready to be with me. No more, Bolt Symington, do you hear me?”
I knew I was shouting, but I didn’t care.
“Your days of using me like a doll that you put on the shelf while you’re busy and then take down to play with in the dark of night—that’s done. Over!”
Bolt reached for me as the tears of anger turned into sobs, but I avoided his grasp and leapt from the edge of the bed onto the carpet and with a backward look, went into the bathroom and locked the door. I turned on the shower, feeding steamy water into my injured soul. I punished myself for my weakness. I’d never stood up for myself before. It felt foreign, unreal, and I was afraid I’d done it badly.
I learned that I could cry in the shower and no one would know. My pain streamed down my body and swirled around the drain before disappearing forever. It was a personal exorcism of the build-up of emotions that fought to control my future. What did I have to count on, anyway? Bolt had stripped me of my car and my apartment, and Natalie had taken the rest. I had even less than before and no notion of how to restore myself. Did it even matter?
I turned off the water and sat on the vanity chair in front of the mirror, a towel turban around my head and another wrapped around my wet and shaking body. I knew I’d reached a split in the road. One branch led back to my previous life, and the second was to follow Bolt, grateful for whatever crumbs of himself he was willing to share.
I let myself out of the bathroom and crossed the room over the thick carpet. I could hear Bolt’s voice coming from the next room—his study. I’d never even glimpsed its interior. He kept the door locked, and not even Mrs. Polk was permitted in there to clean.
Hating myself, I laid my ear against my door, and I could clearly hear that he was speaking—and not in English. His tone was musical and intimate.
My blood turned to ice, and I flung the towels from my body and threw open the closet door. I pulled out the ratty black duffle bag I’d brought with me and quickly rooted through the clothing until I found what I’d brought from my previous life. A toothbrush, a small handful of makeup, and I was ready.
I threw back the bedroom door so hard that its knob dug into the wall with a crunch. I strode past his opened study door and in my peripheral, I saw him stiffen and reach out toward me, but he didn’t care enough to hang up. I was down the stairs and out the front door before he could stop me.
Bolt probably expected me to head for the road, but I went in search of Mr. Fred. He knew I was coming—it was evident on his face. He asked no questions but opened the door of the old farm truck he drove, and I climbed onto the bench seat beside him and slammed the door closed. He turned around, leaving the property by the farm road that headed east—away from the house, away from Bolt.
“Your sister is back,” Mr. Fred said in a low, solemn, and confidential voice. I nodded.
“Take me there, please,” I told him.
We pulled up in front of the building and I climbed out. He tried to follow, but I shook my head. “I can do this on my own,” I said.
“But the child…” he began.
I whirled around. How did he know? It was a rhetorical question. Of course he knew, perhaps even before me.
“We’ll be OK, Mr. Fred. I promise.”
He opened his mouth to say something more, but I nodded. I knew how to reach him.
Chapter 15
Bolton
I’d sensed she was leaving, even before I saw her pass the doorway, her torn duffel bag dragging behind her as she made her way out the front door. I couldn’t get free of the phone—it was a vital debriefing after the incident with Michele. I had no choice but to deal with it then, or they would have flown into town and taken me by force, if necessary, to gain the information they needed.
The moment I was off, I ran out of the house in search of Lilly, but she was gone. Her car sat in its normal parking place, but she wasn’t in it. I suspected she’d headed for the barns; it had become a place where she was happy. I found Mr. Fred was gone and suspected he’d had a hand in things, but I’d never get anything out of him. I knew what was going through his head. He saw another Dallas Symington in me, but I was too upset to deny it. In one sense, I was relieved that he knew where she was. He would look after her.
Lilly didn’t return that day. Late that night, I tapped her cell number and was ready to hang up when she answered.
“Hello, Bolt,” she began the conversation.
“Lilly, I know you don’t understand, but I swear on my life that it has nothing to do with us.”
“I’m sort of burned out with that explanation.”
I nodded to myself. “Come home? I’ll come get you, just let me know where.”
“I’m at the apartment. Natalie is back, but you probably know that. I haven’t seen her yet—she’s out somewhere. I need my life back, Bol
t. I don’t trust your world or the people in it.”
I sighed with frustration. “Sweetheart, it’s not what you’re thinking. I swear on my life.”
“I need my world back, Bolt. I’d like my old car, my old job, and my old life. It may not have been much, but at least I knew what I was dealing with.”
“That’s not necessary, Lilly. I’ll have your Audi brought over tomorrow, along with your things, and I’ll give you the space you request,” I told her, resignation weakening my resolve. If she didn’t want to be with me, I wouldn’t force her. I’d seen that all my life, and I wouldn’t put another woman through that.
“Thank you, Bolt.” She disconnected.
Chapter 16
Lilly
“Well, look who’s here,” Natalie drawled as she came through the door and threw a set of keys onto the counter. “Come to gloat?”
I flinched. She had been gone for more than two months, and still her attitude was the same. I tried to ignore it.
“Do you like the apartment?” I asked, hopeful to get a positive remark from her.
“Actually, it’s more your taste than mine, but it’s fine. Thanks.”
That was the highlight of her gratitude.
“What are you doing here, by the way? This is my place now, or at least that’s what I was told.”
“I left Bolt and needed a place for the night. I hoped maybe we could be sisters and talk, just for tonight. I’ll find my own place in the morning.”
“Talk about what? How you deserted me? Locked me up?”
I sighed. She was determined to be as uncooperative and ungrateful as possible. I knew she had found herself in an unthinkable situation—at the bottom. I expected her to be a little resentful, but she was blaming me for what she’d brought on herself. I needed to be away from her toxic energy.
