Flirting with Disaster & Fanning the Flames

by Victoria Dahl

  Tom ducked his head and stepped past her.

  “Did you have dinner?” she asked.

  “I didn’t, but I’m fine.”

  “Listen, I’m no Jill, but I can make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. Assuming you like them made with American cheese and slightly stale bread. I promise you can’t even tell once it’s fried in butter.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said, happy to hear her laugh as he followed her toward the kitchen.

  She got him a glass of ice water when he said he couldn’t have wine, then set a pan on the stove. “Thanks for last night,” she said, as if that were normal conversation.

  Tom managed to swallow the water in his mouth with only a minimal amount of sputtering. “You’re welcome,” he rasped. “I mean, thank you, too.”

  “It was nice,” she said, with a glance that swept down his whole body.

  “Yes.” He was trying to think of a polite way to say, “I also really enjoyed fucking you,” but she changed the subject before he could manage it.

  “Did you have a long day? You look stressed.”

  “Yeah. New stuff came up.”

  “That guy is pretty crazy, huh? The survivalist? And his brother, I suppose.”

  “They definitely have some issues, even aside from being murderers.” That was all he was going to say, but as he watched her smear butter over the cheese sandwiches and drop them into the sizzling pan, he realized this was an in. “They didn’t have much of a chance, I guess. By all accounts their dad was a bad guy. Mom died at home, giving birth to Saul in their cabin. They were raised alone by their father, and he was a crazy son of a bitch who got in trouble with the law a lot.”

  “Mmm.” She stared into the pan and didn’t respond.

  “He obviously had a big effect on their lives.”

  “Families are funny that way,” she muttered.

  He watched her flip the sandwiches and tried to think of some other way to open her up. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. She couldn’t trust him because he was a marshal. He had to find a way to show her he would sympathize. That he understood that the world was more complicated than the law allowed.

  His neck prickled as an idea occurred to him.

  “Do you want something else with this?” she asked. “You probably need more than a grilled cheese to fill you up.”

  “No, that’s good.” Suddenly nervous, he eased past her to get two plates from the cupboard. She checked the bottoms of the sandwiches then slipped them onto the plates before carrying them to her small table.

  He brought their glasses and took a seat after she did. “My family...” he started, before pausing to wet his dry throat. “My family seemed perfect, I think. We had a good life. Stable. A house and a backyard and two parents. The American dream. But my brother had problems.”

  She frowned as she chewed, looking confused. “I thought you only had a sister.”

  “I do now. My brother died.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice alarmed, as if it had just happened.

  “He was five years older than me. The firstborn. Popular. Confident. Star football player. I don’t know what happened. He made the wrong friends at some point. Partied a little too hard. Then he was tackled in a game, and his leg was screwed up pretty badly. He wasn’t the star running back anymore. He got bored and partied a little harder.”

  Isabelle nodded.

  “None of us realized it at the time, though. He was charming and outgoing and so confident through all of it. He graduated and went to college. I was thirteen, and he was still my hero.”

  He stared at the grilled cheese in his hands for a moment before he set it down. He realized Isabelle had set hers down, too, but she still said nothing. He’d hoped that he would need to tell only a little bit. Let her know that he understood the kind of darkness family could pull you into. But he hadn’t said that word yet. Any of those words. Heroin. Junkie. Overdose. The words his parents would never say, even now.

  “I don’t know when he started using, but he didn’t make it through his freshman year of college. He was a full-blown junkie by February.”

  “Heroin?” she whispered.

  “Yes. We didn’t know it at first. All I knew was he was back home and living in his old room in the basement, and I was happy about that. Can you believe it? He had free time to spend with me. I thought it was great.”

  She nodded. “Of course you did.”

  “But that didn’t last long. By the time I was fourteen, I knew he was shooting up. At fifteen, I was the only one in the house who would talk about it. My sister was older, but she was busy with school and not the type to confront anyone. And my parents were just...” He waved a hand. “They couldn’t accept it. They refused to admit he had a problem. They said he had a lot of pain with his knee and ankle and he’d bounce back.”

  Tom took a bite of his sandwich, surprised that it tasted good. He was halfway through it in a few bites, but Isabelle didn’t say a word. Why wouldn’t she talk? Why wouldn’t she offer him something in return?

  “He overdosed?” she finally asked.

  He’d told most of the story. He might as well tell the rest. “Yes. When I was sixteen. I found him in his room the next day.”

  “Oh, Tom,” she said. Her hand came into his vision and curled around his wrist. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded and forced a shrug. “I try not to let my colleagues know about my...phobia, but I really don’t like seeing corpses.”

  “Shit,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I teased you.”

  “You didn’t know. I’m sorry I overreacted. We all have our secrets. It’s not easy to talk about them.”

  This was it. Now she’d tell him a secret, too. Reward him for opening up. For trusting her. But instead, she asked for more about him.

  “Is that how you ended up in law enforcement?”

  He couldn’t give her any more, so he shrugged. “Probably. How did you end up doing this? Were your parents artists?”

  She drew her hand back. “No.”

  “Doctors?” he pressed.

  “No, I’m just an oddball.”

  Tom felt suddenly furious. He wanted to help her, and he didn’t know how, and she wouldn’t give him anything. Did she think he told that story to everyone?

  Just as quickly, his fury washed away on a wave of self-loathing. He had no right to be angry. She hadn’t asked for his story, and for all he knew, she wanted nothing more than to usher him out the door and tell him to take his emotional baggage with him. And if he was realizing now that it had felt good to share his secrets with her, that wasn’t her fault. If there was closeness between them, maybe it was one-sided.

  All he really needed to do was tell her the truth. I know you’re Beth Pozniak, and I want to help. But then he’d have to admit that he’d lied. She wouldn’t trust him at all. She might even run again, and then he’d have to get the FBI involved. Even if she didn’t run, if she shut him down, he’d have to take her in and turn her over, and there was something wrong about it all. He could feel it.

  He just wanted to get her story first, so he could decide what to do. Had she helped her father escape? Had she helped conceal evidence? Did she know where he was now?

  One more day, and then he’d tell her. He just needed more information first. He had to figure out what he was missing.

  He barely registered when Isabelle swept his plate away.

  Her father had been a good cop, by all standards. Steady, but not ambitious. Almost anyone could’ve made sergeant after fifteen years. He hadn’t gotten there until nineteen, and he’d never bothered with a detective rank. So, unremarkable, but a decent, steady, average guy. Until he’d shot a fellow police officer to cover up a ring of cops who’d been skimming drugs and money from busts for years.

  Quite a fall from grace. A jettison from grace, really, once the extent of the corruption had been revealed.

  Still, it all would’ve been just another Hollywood movie script ab
out crooked cops. Standard Chicago stuff, even if the public would be shocked to hear that. Tom had tracked down ex-cop fugitives before. There were bad cops all over the place, and in Chicago it was practically tradition.

  The corruption ring would’ve carried on for another twenty years if some young idealist with a new badge hadn’t become suspicious about cocaine missing from the evidence locker.

  It had been her bust. She’d been protective. She’d asked a few questions. Fine. But she hadn’t been willing to be waved off. She’d dug in. Pushed the wrong guy. Followed the wrong cop. She’d seen things she shouldn’t have seen, and it had all exploded.

  The hit on her had gone wrong. It was supposed to have looked as if she’d stumbled onto a drug deal in public housing while checking an outstanding warrant. But she’d been only wounded before managing to escape from the apartment complex onto a crowded street. She would’ve gotten away and ID’d the cop who’d shot her, so she was chased down.

  The eyewitnesses to the second gunshot had given chaotic descriptions of exactly how many cops had been there and what had gone down, but in the end, Sergeant Malcolm Pozniak had been arrested for the murder of a fellow police officer. And then he’d talked. Just a little. Just enough to make everyone nervous before he lawyered up.

  A few weeks later, he’d run.

  Isabelle slid a plate of pie in front of Tom and sat next to him at the table.

  “Aren’t you having pie?” he asked. “I heard it’s your favorite.”

  “It is. I had a piece for breakfast. And lunch. This one is yours. You look like you need it.”

  “I don’t want to eat your pie,” he said then smiled stupidly at her when she laughed.

  “Well, that’s kind of disappointing, Marshal Duncan.”

  “Too easy.” He held up the spoon when she started to speak. “I meant the joke, not you.”

  “Then you don’t know me very well,” she countered.

  “We’ll share the pie.” He took a bite and offered her the spoon. “No forks?”

  “I got distracted halfway through loading the dishwasher this afternoon. It happens.”

  “A lot?” he asked.

  “Maybe. I bet you never forget to run the dishwasher. I bet you clean the kitchen every night before bed.”

  He shrugged. “Only when I’m home.”

  They laughed their way through the piece of pie, and by the end of it, Tom had almost forgotten why he was there, the same problem he had every time he came to her place, only now the stakes had gotten higher.

  Now he was lying to his boss, lying to the FBI, lying to her. He parted his lips, drawing in a long breath while he braced himself to speak words that would blow apart the safe world she’d made for herself.

  And then she kissed him.

  She tasted of the same cherries that he’d eaten, but they were somehow sweeter on her tongue. Richer. Or maybe that was just her body and what it meant to him now, because the very first taste of her reminded him of pure pleasure and how much he wanted more.

  He slanted his mouth over hers, taking her tongue deeper as he slid his hands up her thighs. She was wearing leggings under her black sweater, and he could feel every curve of her leg, and he wanted those curves on him. She seemed to have the same idea, because she slipped her thigh over his and shifted until she was straddling him. He was hard in an instant.

  He slipped his hands down her back and realized that this sweater held a secret. She was naked underneath. His hands slid along her curves, feeling nothing beneath the thin material. He feathered his thumbs over her ribs. She stretched up, as if trying to draw his hands higher.

  Following her movement up, his hands found the undersides of her breasts. So soft and warm and irresistible. He cupped her, memorizing the weight of her as she eased away from his kiss and lowered her eyes to watch.

  The neckline of her sweater had dipped tantalizingly low. He pressed a kiss to the bare skin there and then another. Her breathing quickened at that soft touch then caught in her throat when he found her nipples through the sweater and squeezed.

  He’d meant to tease her for a while, but why tease her when he could be looking at her bare breasts? Teasing was for people who had time. They didn’t have time. A few nights, at best.

  He dragged her sweater up, and Isabelle helped pull it over her head. God, she was beautiful. Not perfect and so beautiful for that, for being proud and easy with her body.

  She leaned back against the edge of the table, letting him look at her, wanting him to look.

  He slid his hands back up her ribs, this time watching as her skin went rough with goose bumps under his touch. Her nipples got harder, drawing tight before he even cupped her breasts. When he did, when he held her in his hands, his breath left him.

  “God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed, as he dragged his thumbs over her nipples. She sighed in response. He loved how rosy brown her nipples were against her pale skin. How they were so sweet and dark they made his mouth water.

  He circled one with a light fingertip, loving the way she shuddered. He didn’t want to tear his eyes away from the lovely sight, but he managed to do it so he could see her face as he circled her one more time.

  Her head was tipped down, her eyes watching her own breast as he teased it. Her lips parted on a breath. When he pinched her nipple, her teeth pressed into her lower lip. He kissed the spot on her lip she’d just bitten, his hands sliding down to wrap around her waist.

  As much as he wanted to scoot her hips forward so he could press her against his erection, he lifted her up instead.

  She stood before him, smiling slightly as he stripped down the tight layer of her pants, taking her panties with them. “I like this,” she said as she stepped out of her clothes and kicked them aside.

  “What?” he asked, distracted by the pretty sight of the dark triangle of curls covering her pussy.

  “I like you in your suit. You look so severe. And me...I’m so naked.” She scooted onto the table then hooked her feet behind his knees to pull him against her. “Your clothes feel wicked against my skin.”

  He obliged her by leaning down, pressing her to the table, sliding his hand along her naked thigh and hip as he pressed his cock against her. “You look wicked,” he growled.

  “Good.” She was still smiling. Still slightly removed and enjoying the tease.

  His anger surged back, surprising him. It was all mixed up with his lust for her. He wanted her to give him something. To give something real. He’d shown her something vulnerable, and she still held everything back.

  He slid a hand between her legs, found slick heat and pressed two fingers deep inside her.

  Her neck arched as a cry tore from her throat. She wasn’t removed anymore. She was stretched out and naked and tipping her hips up for more. He slid his fingers inside her, moving slowly, watching the way she met his rhythm. She was looking at his face now, her lips parted, her gaze steady and unashamed of what she wanted. His thumb touched her clit, and she inhaled so sharply that air hissed past her teeth.

  Tom smiled and slipped his fingers free. “Don’t move,” he murmured as he shrugged off his suit jacket and took off his tie. He set his gun and harness on top of a chair and threw his jacket over it then rolled up his sleeves, aware of Isabelle’s eyes on his hands.

  He put those hands on her thighs, easing her legs farther open before he went to his knees before her.

  The taste of her flooded his tongue as he put his mouth over her pussy and sucked gently at her clit. Her cry filled his ears. When he felt the bud of her clit get harder, he worked his tongue against her. Lightly at first then with more pressure and speed as she groaned her approval. Her fingers clutched at his skull, and when he reached a hand up to pinch one of her nipples, she bucked against him.

  “Oh, fuck, you’re good at that,” she gasped, making him smile against her.

  He lifted his head. “Should I keep going?” he teased.

  “Mmm.” She wrapped her legs aroun
d his back and tugged him closer. “Only until I come.”

  He laughed, but that urge was back. To make her give him some secret part of herself. He didn’t want her capable of speech, much less joking.

  He pinched her nipple again and licked more lazily at her pussy, memorizing the taste and feel and smell of it so he could jerk off to her for years. He waited until she was squirming for more, and then he slid his hand back down her belly and pushed those two fingers into her again.

  Her hips jerked against his mouth, but he didn’t let her get away. He fucked her hard with his fingers and flicked her clit with his tongue, and she wasn’t talking anymore. She was gasping and moaning and twisting up for more. This was what he wanted. Her heels digging into his back and her pussy dripping wet and her cries echoing against the walls. He eased his tongue off her until it was barely brushing her clit.

  “Please,” she panted. “Please. Tom.”

  Yes, he thought, beg me. Give me that, at least.

  “Please,” she groaned. Her nails dug into his scalp. “I need it.”

  He curled his fingers up, pressing against her as he gave her more of his tongue, and she broke, screaming, her hips spasming as she came against his mouth, the muscles of her pussy squeezing his fingers.

  When she finally went quiet, Tom stood, wincing at how much his cock ached. He’d bought condoms at the gas station, and he meant to reach for one, but before he could, he was caught by the sight of her. She was spread over the table like a decadent treat, her beautiful, lush body gone rosy with pleasure. He wished he could take a picture, to show her later. Maybe she’d paint it for him.

  She was watching him past heavy eyes, happy to let him look as she stretched. But just as he reached for his belt, she sat up. “Let me do that,” she purred.

  He backed up when she scooted off the table. “The bedroom?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” With that familiar secret smile he loved, she backed him up until he was against the kitchen cabinets then unbuckled his belt. “We can do this right here,” she teased. His blood went thick and heavy when she slowly lowered her body until she was kneeling at his feet. She tugged his zipper down and then his underwear, and then her heavenly fist was around him.