Understanding crossed his face, followed close on by impatience. “Bloody well hurry, then,” he said, sliding his tantalizing hand down her stomach and across her flank as he removed it from beneath her sweatshirt. Instantly she ached for its return. The parts of her body he hadn’t even touched yet ached for its return. She found that hand with her own and swiftly led him to stage right, where the discreetly set stairs awaited. She drew him down in unseemly haste, laughing quietly at herself and yet nearly bounding with anticipation.
Chandler’s body. Her body. Heat and slick skin and coarse chest hair against her soft skin. Oh God, and they hadn’t even reached the room yet. “In here,” she said rather desperately, and led the way into the small, dark chamber, closing the door with one absent foot to then push him up against it with an assertiveness that first surprised him and then inflamed him. She tugged his shirt free and ran her hands beneath it, finding that crisp smattering of hair she’d anticipated, following the muscled ridges of his stomach up to the flat planes of his chest. She hardly noticed when he pulled her sweatshirt off, aside from those few seconds the soft material enveloped her head. Then she was free and returning the favor, albeit with much care as she disentangled his wounded arm. He didn’t make it any easier, tipping his head back with fierce pleasure and using his good arm to pull her hips against his. Distracting. He seemed to realize it, making the supreme effort to hold still until she finished. “No-no-no,” she murmured, pushing herself against his erection, making them both gasp at once. “No stopping.”
“This isn’t going to go easy,” he said, by way of question as his fingers dug into her bottom, clenching reactively. Not a soft, gentle loving, but fierce and wanton.
“It’s not meant to,” she told him, finally freeing his shirt, quickly working his belt free. Damn military slide belts…ah. There. Only his briefs between them, because she made short work of her sweats and panties, naked in the cool darkness but flaming hot within.
“Wallet,” he reminded her with effort. “Always be—” But his words cut short in a hiss as she groped her way around him in the dark, finding places to linger, parts of him to fondle. In the end he was the one to dig out his wallet, first making crinkling noises and then disgusted noises. “Not meant to be done in total darkness.”
“Here,” she said, sounding wicked even to her own ears. “Let me help.”
Slowly, attentively, she applied the condom. Slowly, while her own loins grew wet and hot, she made him tremble, his fingers closing hard on the curve of her hip, his legs threatening to buckle, his injured arm making helpless attempts to reach for her. “Hurry,” he told her through gritted teeth. “I’m about to whimper, and that would—ah!—be embarrassing.”
“All done,” she said sweetly, with a final caress. He growled and he grabbed her hips, pulling her in, pulling her up. She wrapped one leg around him, giving him access. Opening to him, until they came together with a mutual cry of satisfaction. His legs did give way then, but she merely went down with him, ending up astride his lap while he sat back on his heels. One-armed, all fierce passion, he pulled her close, nuzzling her, gasping and groaning and clutching and thrusting while fire and lightning gathered along her nerves and built to unbearable—
He cried out, abandoning all his control, stiffening until his muscles corded and then abruptly pulsing within her. It tipped her over the edge into climax; they milked each other into fiery satiation, their cries mingling in the darkness.
Long moments later, Beth heaved a great happy sigh. He ran his hand down her spine in wordless agreement, a gentle touch after the roughness of their lovemaking. With some chagrin, Beth said, “I think I bit you.”
“I bloody well think you did at that,” he responded. “I hope it scars.”
She snickered gently into his neck, then licked the offended spot. He shivered. She felt the goose bumps rise up under her hands, and reluctantly and gently separated herself from him. “Brr,” she said. “A little heat would be nice.”
“We just generated a fair amount of it,” he said.
“I noticed that. Where’d you throw my—never mind. Got it.” She slipped the sweatshirt back on, glad to snuggle into its warmth, though she’d rather be wrapped around Chandler. Jason, she thought to herself, trying it out.
Nah.
“There’s a mattress down over here,” she said, groping around for her bottoms and giving up. Come morning the light would filter in the tiny window up by the ceiling, leaking in around the hanging bicycles. Nothing more than dim at best, but enough for finding undies. There was also a light switch in the hall, but it would show along that same window, quite thoroughly giving them away.
“All well and good,” he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt, “if I could see over here and didn’t have my pants down around my ankles.”
She laughed and went back to him, finding him still a little shaky and leaning against the door. Guilt assaulted her. He’d lost blood, he was in pain, he’d—
He’d made his choices. And he’d enjoyed them. She smiled in the darkness and bent down to draw his pants up, careful of those things that might get caught in zippers. He gave a little laugh himself. “You’re…not like anyone I know.”
“Probably not,” she agreed, finding his hand, although not without running her fingers over his bare chest and down his arm to do it. He already held his shirt—he’d found it somehow—and she entwined a single finger around one of his. “Come over here. We can keep each other warm, and get some of that rest you were talking about.”
She heard his grateful sigh as he sank down on the mattress; she followed him down, snuggling inside the curve of his body. His arm fell carelessly from her hip until his hand landed on her breast, and she put hers over it, welcoming his quiet touch.
They breathed together.
After a moment he said, “She went to an obscure trailhead at the base of Table Mountain. That area’s covered with thick, stumpy trees…I have no idea just where she spent the night. I picked her up on the way out to meet you at the dock.”
Beth stopped breathing a moment. “The sleeping bag,” she said. “Table Mountain.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Probably the table you’ve been looking for.”
She felt it again—that stark, sudden impulse to jump up and run out into the night. But…
Thick, stumpy trees. An unknown trailhead. The middle of a long night. Chandler, wounded and in need of rest. Beth herself, sliding into exhaustion. Out loud she said, “Don’t worry. Not being impulsive, here.”
He kissed the back of her neck in reply, sighing deeply. Still satisfaction, but more than an edge of fatigue. And when he shivered again, it had nothing to do with her hands on his body.
“Our jackets!” she said abruptly, pulling away from him. He gave a monosyllabic protest, but she dashed out into the hall anyway, up the stairs in a sweatshirt and nothing else. She found their jackets, the sling pack, and his briefcase, and gathered them up in a huge armful that threatened to break free all the way back to “her” room.
Chandler already slept, offering the hint of a ragged snore, curled up against the cool air. Beth wasted no time. From her sling pack she extracted the night vision scope and carefully located not only her pants, but a folded lump of stage bedding. In moments she had the makeshift bed covered, and she crawled in to reclaim her space—but only after setting her watch to wake them an hour and a half before dawn. A mere four hours of sleep. It would be enough.
Carefully she rearranged Chandler’s injured arm into its original position, this time clasping her fingers through his, gently kneading them. His were strong hands. Strong in action, strong and confident as they lay claim to her body. She’d seen for herself the strength in the man behind them. The persistence. The rules. She wished she didn’t think that when push came to shove, just like all the others, he would try to mold her to his way of thinking.
To change her.
Because it wasn’t going to happen. She�
��d gladly have the world’s longest-distance affair, she’d find ways to meet him between assignments and make love to him in every exotic locale she could manage.
But she wouldn’t change the essence of Bethany Riggs. Not for him, not for anyone.
Chapter 8
In the end Beth slept poorly. Chandler’s thighs against the back of hers, his hips against her bottom, his breath soft on her neck. His physical presence kept her aroused; his emotional presence kept her worried. She slipped out of his embrace before her watch alarm went off. No need to wake him just yet. She twitched the heavy French knot bedspread back over his shoulders, wishing she could take a peek at the bloody bandage. She thought she could smell it, but couldn’t discern if it was infection or simply the smell of so much dried blood. No telling, in the darkness. Instead she ran her hands along his back, from the swell of his shoulders to the sculpted taper of his waist and then to the sweet curve of his ass. Very nice. He had a sturdy physique—not whipcord lean, not beefy. In between. Just right.
But her touch failed to garner anything but an appreciative sigh, and with a wry smile she gave him a final pat, kissed his shoulder through the bedding, and gifted him with a little more sleep.
And then she got busy. They were both targets now; she didn’t want to be recognizable when they left the theater. Nothing she could do about the yellow BMW, but she could certainly find ways to distract anyone’s attention from the bike itself. Hiding in plain sight. She grabbed her sling pack and went out into the hall, where she extracted a small flashlight and the nightscope and went to work. First a little cleanup—a splash of water on her face, a quick application of her toothbrush, and already she felt more alert.
Then she started in on the theater wardrobe collection. For Chandler, she found a greasy-looking wig of dark blond hair that would hang in his eyes, obscuring their sharp gray color and his equally sharp gaze. Leather pants, a pair of scuffed boots that might be a little big but ought to work, and a ripped biker tee. His own jacket wouldn’t do—far too staid. She found a leather jacket with lots of studs and chains, and even a pair of studded gauntlets.
He was going to hate it.
For herself she picked out a punk-tart look. Ultrashort black leather mini, shiny boots with hateful heels, a denim jacket over a black slashed top. And the wig. Spiky lime-green. No one would look at that BMW yellow as long as she wore the spiky lime-green hair. She hung up the dress and shawl from the night before, smoothing the wrinkles as best she could, and then did her best to smooth out the other signs of her presence. At seven that morning the auditions would start again, this time for the principle dancers. They had no reason to come down here, but sloppiness could cause problems if they did.
She hauled the goods back to their room, judged it close enough to dawn to be worth the risk, and turned on the hall lights.
Chandler lay sprawled on his back, his hair scruffed up and his mouth slightly open. Very much a morning look. She would have found serious amusement in the contrast between this and his waking self’s careful attention to neat detail, had he not also looked so unwell. Beneath the scruffy hair his face seemed grayer that it ought, even in this light. Strain painted itself in shadows under his closed lashes and a certain hollowness in the strong bones of his face.
Nor did she imagine he normally slept so deeply, deeply enough that he had not even twitched at her comings and goings. No doubt he needed more of it.
Well. Maybe later. They had a keycard to snatch. She didn’t know if Egorov’s mole and his CIA patsies had any notion of the keycard’s existence, but she figured it to be a good bet, given their persistence in pursuit.
She gave Chandler a few more moments’ rest, perching at the edge of the mattress to send Barbara Price a message of the tersest sort. After a moment of thought, she removed the mini CD from its latest hiding place and stuck it under one of the bicycle seats, an easy location to describe…and then she made sure Barbara knew.
Beth tucked the PDA away, checked that the sling pack was otherwise ready to go, and crawled onto the mattress beside Chandler. He stirred but didn’t wake, and she took the opportunity to lean over him and apply a slow, deep kiss. He responded almost instantly, and Beth lost herself in the gentle, dreamy contact until he gave a sudden start, and she knew he’d finally actually woken up. She smiled, knowing he’d feel it, and drew him back into the kiss until she felt an urgency quiver between them. Then she pulled back and said, “Good morning.”
He glanced look around the cluttered room—his first actual look at it—and then gave a rueful shake of his head. “I’m not sure if that’s the best awakening I’ve ever had, or the most tormenting.”
“Think of it as the most enticing,” she said, tracing the straight, dark line of his eyebrow to smooth the little frown that had immediately appeared there. Pain, she thought. “The sooner we get that keycard, the sooner we can revisit this moment. Are you up for it? You look like hell.”
I feel like hell. Gritty eyes, his arm hot and heavy, his energy bottomed out. But he didn’t say it out loud. No doubt she was perfectly capable of whipping up some devilish means of restraint for his own good, and running off to hunt out the keycard on her own.
On the other hand, it was hardly fair to pretend he was perfectly functional and have her depending on him for a level of backup he couldn’t provide. He didn’t have to look under the crusty bandage to know all was not well there. But he also knew just how far he could push things and still rebound quickly once he got the care he needed. For now, a few words with Bear would net him the antibiotics he needed to stave things off. He glanced around the amazing chaos of the tiny room again, seeing with dry amusement that if they’d been able to make it only another step or so past the doorway the night before, they could have made love on this mattress in the first place. Draped over the mattresses still leaned against the wall were a couple of outfits he gathered Beth had picked out for them, complete with wigs.
He hoped the lime-green one was for her.
“Where—” he started, looking for his laptop, but Beth gave a quick shake of her head.
“It’s behind me,” she said. “But I’m afraid you weren’t the only one to take a bullet yesterday. If that’s your means of communication, you’re going to have to hunt up an alternative.”
Ah. Immediate contact with Bear not an option. Jason could call in as soon as they ran across a public phone, but Jason had the distinct feeling that by the time that happened, events would again be in full swing. “It’s just you and me, then,” he said, and then looked over at the outfits again. “Or some version thereof.”
“Yes,” she said, still running a gentle hand across his brow, along his cheek. Tempting, just to close his eyes and let her do that for another day or two. Instead he shoved the covers off and carefully sat. As flexible as ever, she sat back not on her heels but with her ankles splayed to the side. It made him wince. So did the look on her face—concern mixed with determination. She said, “The question is—is it you and me? Are you ready to go? Because you know as well as I that I’m better off on my own than depending on a partner who can’t come through.”
He rubbed his hand over his face and through his hair, scrubbing it into what must have been an interesting mess, to judge from the amused look on her face. He was not in the mood to be amused. “Sod it,” he said under his breath. “Look, there’s no way I’m staying behind. I’ll let you know when I’m no good to you.”
She gave him a small, grim smile. He suddenly realized she’d expected nothing less from him. In that moment he had a fleeting moment of trepidation—not about hunting out the keycard, but about what had happened between them. Jason Chandler: does not fall hard and fast. Stays far, far away from creative whirlwinds.
Until now, apparently. Big mistake, asking her to dance. He’d seen her heart…and he loved it.
“Hey,” she said, prodding him, her eyes narrowing until they were shadowed into deepest green.
“Just thinking,�
� he said.
“Think later. Dress now.” She rose to her feet, somehow not looking at all awkward in spite of her splay-legged starting position. Tossing his outfit at him, she started to strip, not the least bit self-conscious.
Jason gave the wig and clothing a wary glance. “You’re quite clearly a tart,” he said. “What am I, a biker?”
She snorted, pulling the black leather miniskirt up over her hips and fastening the wide red leather belt. Jason felt a clear case of early-morning stonker coming on. Bad timing, he told it, but couldn’t bring himself to look away as she picked up her shirt. She said, “A biker? On that yellow banana you’ve been riding? No way. You’re a biker wanna-be. I even have a couple of pathetic stick-on tattoos for you.”
“Like playing dress-up, do you?”
“That,” she said, displaying her torso in all its toned and firm beauty as she pulled the tight black and lace baby-doll tee over her head, “is something we can talk about later. Now come over here and let me take your pants off.”
Riding the banana-yellow bike behind Beth did nothing to ease Jason’s body, but he found himself remarkably relaxed, trusting implicitly in her skill with the bike as his hands rested right at the level of that low red belt, possessing her hips with remarkable familiarity. She hadn’t even considered the thought that he might sit behind the handlebars, but had taken his keys, hiked back to the hotel and appeared half an hour later with a big grin and even spikier lime-green hair than she’d started with. He guided her with nudges and a word or two, and soon enough they traveled the winding tree-lined road at the base of Table Mountain, coming up on the small parking area for the trailhead with a strong dawn rising over the mountain itself. She slowed the bike, downshifting, before he had a chance to point out the gravel pull-off.
A dark sedan already occupied the small lot. He felt Beth tense as she, too, spotted it, but she pulled the bike into the lot as though it made no difference, scattering a little gravel as might be expected from a green-headed chick and her biker wanna-be.
Femme Fatale Page 11
