by Cherry Adair
"That depends on when we get Xavier airlifted out. If he's still here, Ram will stay to watch him, anyway."
"Can I have a gun?"
"Do you know how to use one?"
"Point and pull the trigger, right? Honestly, no. But I don't have to be an expect marksman, do I? Can you show me the basics so I can at least protect myself?"
He smiled. "It takes a bit more training than that. I'm sure you'd excel at shooting, but there won't be any need for you to be armed tonight. My men on the pass will have your back the whole time, and Marcus used to be an operative. He's smart and sharp."
"And armed?"
"Oh, yeah." He tucked her hair behind her ear.
River stroked her foot up and down his good leg. She didn't give a shit about Franco, and really, she was only half listening. She just liked watching his lips move, and the way his deep voice resonated through her.
"What about the redhead? Do you think it’s worth tracking her down?"
"You read too many spy novels."
"Pfft. I don't read any spy novels. Regency England is my favorite genre, and I don't like spies in those either. It is a logical question, isn't it? The redhead must be someone important to him if he has so many pictures of her, especially if he took her on a trip to Moscow or Disneyland. She could be anyone, but my vote is that she’s his love child. A secret one, since she'd been relegated to the back of a drawer, and not given one of the silver frames he has everywhere. Don't you find that odd? And interesting?"
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Ash sat up, stuffing several pillows at his back, then hoisted River up beside him. She slid her foot up his calf. Tucking her against his side, he kissed the top of her head, then murmured, "How old would you say she was?"
She gave him a narrow-eyed look, and tugged at the hair on his chest. "Are you humoring me?"
"Not in this instance." He covered her hand with his, then rubbed her fingers back and forth over his chest. She loved the springy tickle of the dark mat trailing down to his groin, and the warmth of his satin smooth skin. She slid her hand slowly down his belly, enjoying the flex and play of muscles under his smooth skin.
"I don't know if something's important until it fits or doesn’t fit the jigsaw puzzle of this op,” he continued. “There's nothing to suggest Xavier has a business partner, or another female in his life, other than his wife and daughters."
"Maybe she's his boss?"
Daklin laughed. "Whomever she is, or was, she doesn't fit the profile of Top Dog in this scenario."
"That's pretty damned chauvinistic of you. There's nothing that says a beautiful woman can't be Top Dog in all sorts of things. I'm Top Dog of my lingerie company, and I can assure you, I'm smart, savvy, and can be ruthless."
He smiled. "Ruthless?"
"In an affirming way. Sure, if I have to be." Trailing her fingers down his chest, she rested her hand low on his taut belly, brushing the tips of her fingers along his lengthening penis. His abs contracted.
"Don't count this woman out, is all I'm saying. One of the pictures was dated on the back. It was taken four years ago. She looked to be in her late thirties, early forties maybe? I didn't see any pictures after that date. But that doesn't mean there weren't any."
The soft white drapes on either side of the shutters billowed in the breeze. She felt the warm zephyr on her skin like ghostly fingers. Time ticked away their minutes together. River wanted to stop the clocks, barter with someone for more time, and plead with Ash not to blow himself up.
As he played with her hair, goose bumps rose on her skin. "I don't suppose there was a name on any of pictures you saw?"
"On one of them, where she looked to be in her late teens, I saw the name, Catalina. From the background it looked as if it was taken in Russia." She grinned. "Or Disney World. Somewhere with brightly painted minarets."
"Moscow. The Cathedral of the Intercession. Better known as St. Basil's cathedral. He has a rosary from there in his private chapel."
"That's pretty innocuous, right? He made a pilgrimage there with this girl? Still, odd, don't you think? She was young. Too young to be his mistress then."
Asher arched an eyebrow.
Her stomach twisted. Remembering who they were talking about, his kink room, and what he’d done to Juanita, she shook her head. “Maybe not.”
"Perhaps she was his mistress or, perhaps even then, he was selling E-1x or its precursor to the Russians."
River frowned. "Would he take a young girl with him to sell explosives to terrorists?"
"Depends who the girl was to him. Maybe. God knows the man's a certified grade A psychopath. With Xavier, anything's possible. Maybe this Catalina is a nun. Several of his daughters are. And he's got several sons who are priests. I'll get my people to look into her, see what we can dig up. If she's involved, we'll find her."
"I'm still curious." River dragged her hand lower, closing her fingers around the tensile heat of his erection. "Should I just ask Franco flat out?"
His penis leapt in her hand, and he growled low in his throat when she tightened her fingers.
"Great idea. When he asks how you know about her, tell him you were just skulking around the house in the dead of night and accidentally fell over the pictures as you rifled through his drawers and personal papers. Good plan."
Tightening her fist around his erection, she slid up his chest and brushed her mouth over his. "I could accidentally fall on this. That would be an excellent plan."
Laughing, Ash tumbled her onto her back.
Fifteen
Ash stopped talking abruptly, glanced at the door, and swung his legs off the bed. River cocked her head. She didn't hear anything. Gloriously naked, he picked up his gun from the bedside table. She loved the taut flex of his butt as he walked across the room.
Sliding off the other side of the bed, she picked up her discarded dress, pulling it on over her naked body.
Ash scooped up his scattered garments with one hand as he kept the other hand steady, gun raised. Then he stepped to the left of the door where he dropped his clothes, out of sight. The fact that he wasn't dressing, his urgency and alert posture, shot up her heartbeat.
It was strangely arousing seeing a naked man with a big black gun in his hand standing as still as a statue. It was incredibly arousing when that naked man was Ash Daklin. Broad chest, ridged abs, narrow hips, almost every inch of him toned and fit, with rippling muscles and satin smooth skin. Every inch except his mangled leg, and the multiple scars indicating just how dangerous his job was. Even relaxed, his penis was impressive.
He hadn't moved. River frowned. She still didn't hear—-
A brisk knock. "Miss Sullivan?"
Franco.
Her eyes met Ash's. "I'm dressing, Franco." Well shit, she probably shouldn't've put that image in his head.
"One of the girls was tasked with giving you my gift this morning. The white dress? It would please me if you'd wear it tonight."
"A gift?" The gift Juanita had mentioned earlier?
"A confirmation dress I had made in Paris for one of my daughters," he said through the heavy door. "She never had the opportunity to wear it. You'll look lovely in it and I'd deem it a great honor if you'd wear it down to dinner later."
Ew. "That's--" Damned creepy. "--kind of you."
"Do you have it?"
She raised an inquiring eyebrow at Daklin who jerked his head in the direction of the tall, intricately carved wardrobe on the far wall. River crossed the room. Opening the heavy door, she saw the dress on a padded pink hanger. "I do, thank you. Um, isn't a girl confirmed into the Catholic church as a child?"
The long dress looked small, with delicate white on white embroidery across the scooped neck and down the pin-tucked bodice. The garment looked deceptively innocent until she held her palm under it.
River rubbed the thin fabric between her fingers. She knew her fabrics, and this looked to be nun's cloth. An incredibly fine wool, woven in plain-weave, with the s
oftness and transparency of muslin. She'd used it in her el velo collection last year. And, like mist, the dress was completely freaking see-through. Awesome for lingerie; not so awesome for a dress a young girl would wear for a religious ceremony, or one given to her by her father.
"The age of reason is anywhere from seven to sixteen," Franco said through the thick door, his voice slightly raised. "I had the dress designed for Ca-- my daughter, when she was fifteen."
Lovely. He thought she was going to wear his teenager’s see-through confirmation dress for him? Disturbing to the max. "It's very pretty. Unfortunately, it looks too small for me." She noticed a couple of Bishop Daklin's buttons lying on the floor, and put her bare foot over them, just in case Franco burst into the room. Of course, he'd probably notice a naked Ash before he saw the two buttons on the floor.
"You're slender and full-busted. I'm sure it will fit you perfectly." The heavy wrought iron door handle rattled as he twisted it from the outside. "Try it on."
Even though Franco was on the other side of a thick slab of wood, and Ash was a few feet away holding his gun, River's heart leapt into her throat at the absurd, and somewhat threatening, suggestion. The fire in Ash’s eyes told her he felt exactly the same way.
"I don't want to tear this beautiful fabric. It's so delicate and pretty," River told her creepy host. River had absolutely no intention of trying on, let alone wearing the damn thing to dinner. Not if Franco paid her a million dollars.
"I know you'll handle it with care. Please try to wear it. I'll see you downstairs for drinks in an hour." She'd skipped breakfast, then had an inedible lunch that seemed like hours ago, followed by a marathon of lovemaking. She was starving. But starving enough to sit across the table from Franco? No, thank you.
"See you then." What else was she supposed to say? No, I'll sneak into the kitchen and find a chicken leg to gnaw on while Ash and his men round you and your fellow bad guys up and do whatever they have planned with you?
"I'm looking forward to hearing how you spent your day."
Getting shot at and rained on. Having a lethal snake fall into her lap. Indulging in wild monkey sex in the front seat of a convertible? Almost killed by a rockslide? Finally, rolling around in bed with the bishop? Yeah. She’d get right on filling him in.
River glared at the door without responding. For a few pregnant moments, she held her breath. There were no footsteps indicating Franco’s departure. "Have you seen Bishop Daklin? I haven't seen him since breakfast."
I'm looking at every magnificent inch of him right now. "I think I heard the shower running in his room a few minutes ago."
"Ah. I won't disturb him then. I'll see you both downstairs in an hour."
She pulled a face. "I'm looking forward to it." Liar. But she did perk up at the bonus hour he'd just given them.
Asher held up his hand when she was about to say something to him. Pulling the dress over her head, River dropped it to the floor, then sat down on the foot of the bed and took in the delicious specimen of manhood that was Ash Daklin.
“Another hour,” she said.
“Priceless.” His voice was gruff, making the word come out like a growl.
Leaning back, she braced herself on straight arms to wait. "Do you think I'm 'full busted'?”
Stalking toward her, he dropped the clothes he'd just scooped up. "I think you're perfectly busted. He placed his knee between her spread thighs, pushed her flat, and kissed her as if he hadn't seen her in a month. River curled her legs around his hips, placed her crossed feet in the center of his back, and welcomed his hard, powerful thrust.
#
"We know that Xavier doesn't have a legitimate daughter named Catalina," Daklin told River as she watched him dress. "He has five daughters: Rosario, who's a nun; Esperanza and Esmerelda, twins who are teachers in Santa De Porres; Ana, another nun; and Deifilia, who worked for him at the plant. There is no redheaded Catalina."
"Would it help if I managed to get a picture for you? Maybe you can ID her."
"Not just no, but hell no! I don't want you snooping around the house of a known terrorist. He's not only a psychopath, but a deviant as well. If you can handle it, come down for dinner. If not, I'll make your excuses and you can wait here until it's time for you to leave with Marcus."
"Did you know Oliver when you were both at MIT?" River asked, propped against the pillows, bathed in stripes of white moonlight and black shadow. They hadn't bothered turning on the lights after they'd made love again.
"That wasn't a response to my request."
"It wasn't a request, it was an order. An order I'll take under advisement."
He chuckled, despite himself. He loved her sass, even though he had no business liking her at all. Goddamnittohell. This is a suckass, but fitting, way for an operative to exit. Only now, he didn't want a drink before the end. She was what he wanted his last memory to be. A crystal clear and vivid memory of River, relaxed from their lovemaking, her bright eyes gleaming in the semi darkness, content and sassy to the end.
It would be a good memory to hold on to when he traveled through the mine tunnels in a few hours.
“You haven’t answered my question. Did you know Oliver at MIT?”
"Only marginally," he said, dressing as slowly as he dared, prolonging his time with her. He wasn't going to waste time with a shower before he went downstairs. He wanted the last thing he smelled to be River. On his hands. On his face. The taste of her on his tongue. He stored the memories, imprinting her with all five senses.
"I was a few years behind him, but everyone knew of him. His theories for creating new explosives for mining operations were considered original and cutting edge." Daklin sat down on the other side of the bed to put on his shoes.
Two minutes, tops, was all the time they had left. Once downstairs, he'd be Bishop Daklin until he retired to his room, later tonight. And an hour after the house was asleep, he'd leave to go to the mine. She’d be gone during that hour. Daklin got to his feet, facing her, drinking in the sheen on her skin, memorizing the way the icy moonlight, slotted through the shutters, gleamed on her pale hair. "He was brilliant."
Forget about me when you return to Portland, River Sullivan. Find a nice guy who loves you more than his next breath. Someone stable, sober, and in his right fucking mind, who'll build his life around you and worship the ground you walk on.
She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. "He's still brilliant."
No dangerous job, okay? A banker maybe. Yeah, a banker. Or an accountant. "Yeah, he is." If he's still alive. Jesus, she'd be bored out of her mind with some accountant in a three-piece suit.
Daklin racked his brain to think of someone who'd be perfect for her. Everyone he knew was an operative. They sure as shit weren't stable family men. Okay, maybe Navarro. He seemed to be doing good with Honey. They even had a baby on the way. Then there was Jake Dolan. He’d been married, hell, forfuckingever. Both were still operatives, both seemed stable. Others had made it work.
None of them were alcoholics with fucked up legs who were about to blow up an entire mountain.
It was a little fucking late for a Hail Mary now. There was no time to reevaluate his decision. He had to open his clenched fist and set her free. She deserved every scrap of happiness she could get her hands on.
Asher Daklin was the last thing she needed.
"I'm so glad he isn't here. But you'll find him, wherever he is, won't you?"
Daklin nodded. “My men won’t give up until they do.” She watched him as he came around to her side of the bed.
He wouldn't touch her. And he sure as hell wouldn't kiss her goodbye. He'd see her over dinner. Daklin swallowed a mirthless laugh, the last fucking supper, then he'd walk away. But only because his leg prevented him from running like hell.
Don't. Touch. Her.
She got up on her knees amid the rumpled sheets, a pagan goddess shadows painted shades of black and white across her pretty, perfectly-sized-for-him breasts and the pal
e heart-shaped fluff at the juncture of her thighs.
He felt the heat of her skin. Tasted her breath on his lips.
Do. Not. Touch. Her.
Her smooth cheek felt warm in his palm, the cool brush of silky strands of her hair a kiss to his senses. Daklin's chest ached, a physical pain to rival the pain in his leg. It felt as though someone was carving his heart out of his chest with a rusty spoon.
You are fucked, Daklin. Absolutely fucked. Say goodbye. Stop damn well touching her. Go.
River cupped her hand over his, holding it against her face. "Please tell me your people won’t kill him.” Be done. Finish this. Now. Before she learns to hate you. Before you deserve her hatred. "I won't make you any promises, River. Right now he, with Francisco Xavier, tops our most wanted terrorists list."
"It's really, really hard to wrap my brain around that label. It isn't who I know him to be. It just isn't."
"People change." Her hair felt like cool silk spilling between his fingers; he stroked her as one would a cat. "Money corrupts, and Xavier has been making billions from this explosive. He's got the market cornered. It’s impossible to believe that your brother—-who, dollars to doughnuts, invented it and knows how to defuse it--isn't taking a huge slice of the pie."
"They're planning a series of seven, earth shattering, Armageddon-type explosions tomorrow. We don't know where. We have to get that intel, and we have to get it fast. Both T-FLAC and Interpol are searching for him. We will find him, no matter where he's hiding. I'm sorry. But that's my reality. We need him alive, so we won't injure him intentionally. But this is a dangerous op with a lot of highly volatile, moving parts. Shit will happen, and people will get hurt.
She kissed his palm. "How do you stop something if you don't know where it's happening?"
"No idea. All we know is that it will occur, simultaneously, at seven different locations, at fifteen thirty-three. And they’ll be using E-1x. Three clues. We’ve worked with less, I assure you, but it isn’t easy. But T-FLAC is good."
