by Leslie Jones
She couldn’t stop the smirk tugging the corners of her mouth. “After the trials, we went into Witness Protection. Madison’s not my last name by birth.”
Without warning, he scraped back his chair and stood. Striding to his Army duffel bag, dropped near the sofa—where he would be sleeping—he unzipped it and withdrew a small bundle, which he brought to her. “Here,” he said. “If you’ll do something that dangerous, you need to be armed. It’s a baby Sig for your purse. The P238 subcompact. We might be able to rig something for small-of-back carry, but, honestly, with you in those princess clothes, it would show in most of what I’ve seen you wear.”
She took the Sig Sauer from him, automatically checking the magazine. “Seven rounds,” she said. “Not a lot of firepower.”
“No,” he agreed. “Look at it this way, though. You having to use that means we’re all dead.”
She frowned up at him. “Jesus, Gabe.”
“No, I mean it. That thing doesn’t come out of your purse except as a last resort. If you pull it and someone sees, your cover’s blown.”
“I get it.” She set the handgun on top of her discarded napkin.
“Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes.” She truthfully wasn’t any more familiar with it than the dozens of other semi-automatics she’d fired, but a handgun was a handgun, and she was a good shot. She rose from the table, taking herself and her wineglass to the sofa. Where Gabe would be sleeping.
A hand fluttered to her throat. All six-foot-plus of hard muscle, sleep-mussed hair, and bedroom eyes. She swiveled to face him as he sat next to her on the sofa, curling one leg under her but not quite able to meet his eyes. After a moment, a long finger touched her chin, nudging it up.
“Look at me.” Christina obeyed the soft command. “I’m an expert in my field. I’ve done executive protection work before, and so have the guys I handpicked for this team. That’s what I bring to the table. I shouldn’t have said that before, about all of us being dead. Because it’s not going to happen.”
She didn’t doubt that. Delta Force operators were some of the best trained men in the world. They were very hard to kill.
Gabe shifted closer to her, taking her wineglass and leaning past her to set it on the side table. He smelled clean and somehow light, and the scent of wine on his breath made her slightly dizzy. “I’m having trouble wrapping my head around this. You were incredibly lucky. Now you’re trained, but at seventeen . . . ? Experienced undercover agents go missing and are either found dead, or never found at all. I . . . Jesus, you could have . . .”
She couldn’t seem to catch her breath as his palms came up to cradle her face. He was upset about something that, years ago, might have happened but hadn’t. Flutters moved from her stomach to her heart.
His lips were soft as he brushed them over hers, eyes closing on a sigh. She found herself leaning into him, letting her head fall to his shoulder as he turned his head and captured her lips. Soft, drugging kisses. He tugged her closer, his fingers running up and down her arm. She shivered as his other hand cupped the back of her head.
She had not expected him to be gentle. It disarmed her like nothing else could have, and silenced the voice at the back of her mind shouting that this was the very last thing she should be doing. He kissed her like they had all the time in the world, rubbing his lips back and forth on hers for the sheer pleasure of it. He licked the corner of her mouth, and did it again when she gave a soft moan. Frissons rippled across her shoulders as his fingers brushed her skin.
Dipping into the hot recesses of her mouth, he slid his tongue across hers, tangling them together in gentle union. She shivered, angling her head to deepen the kiss. Taking it for the invitation it was, he tugged her onto his lap. Where she became very aware of the bulge in his trousers as it nestled against her bottom.
“Christina.” The soft note of entreaty did strange things to her stomach.
Humming with feminine power, she pulled his dress shirt from the waistband of his trousers; he helped her. She ran her hands under it, finding bare skin. Finally! The fingers that had itched to touch him for days smoothed across his stomach. He was silk over steel, his abs clenching as her nails ran across his skin. A sound sloughed out of him.
“Again,” he muttered, bringing one of his hands over the top of hers. “Do it again.”
She did, fingers shaking with the need to surround herself with his scent, his feel, his taste. She ran her fingertips up his rock-hard chest. His light hair was springy, but the look he gave her was dark and carnal. His hand followed hers up his body until he found her breast pressed into his side, and he paused there, his fingertips brushing across it so lightly she found herself pushing closer, wanting his hand hard on her breast. Instead, he reached down to tug her blouse from her skirt. His long, tapered fingers unfastened the last button first, then moved up her body, his knuckles brushing against sensitized flesh as he worked each tiny stud loose. His concentration was absolute. She felt the heat of his look like a physical caress. When he reached the top, he rubbed his knuckles across her collarbone as he slowly spread the material.
Resisting the urge to cover her chest, Christina instead forced herself to meet his eyes. His gaze scorched her, approval glittering in their depth. Emboldened, she straightened her shoulders, slowly thrusting her breasts forward. Dark promise poured from him as he swept a tongue across his lower lip. Without thinking, she leaned forward to capture that tongue and pull it into her mouth, drawing a hiss from his lips. He crushed her to him, his arms strong bands, his mouth voracious as he ravaged her mouth with kisses. His hands slid up her spine, under the material of the blouse she still wore, and paused at her bra strap. The material loosened.
“Do you have any idea how damned sexy you look, half naked and in my arms?” His voice was hoarse. The truth was, she felt wanton and wild with her blouse open and bra undone. Her hands went to the tie of her wraparound skirt. His beat hers there, nudging hers aside so that he could tug the clip free.
“Come here,” he commanded, picking her up by the waist and turning her so that she straddled him. The wraparound skirt parted and slid up her thighs, allowing her to sink onto the smooth material of his trousers. She rocked against him, and he responded by gripping her hips. “Kiss me.”
Their lips met and dueled. Christina felt feverish as his hands slid to her breasts, cupping them through the peach lace. His thumbs brushed across her nipples. They hardened instantly. She swallowed a moan, bracing her hands on his shoulders, pulling back to look at him. His eyes were wild, almost desperate, and he closed them on a groan.
“Gabe. Look at me.”
Chapter Thirteen
GABE CLOSED HIS eyes, resting his forehead on her shoulder, shaking as he struggled for control. Finally, he simply wrapped his arms around her and held on. She stroked his hair.
Her fingers sliding against his scalp felt amazing. But he couldn’t do this. Not again. Was it cowardice, this need for control? The need to limit lovemaking to the physical? No emotions involved. It wasn’t fair to Christina. Women needed affection. Reassurance.
He couldn’t give her those things. Wouldn’t, no matter how much he might later regret the lost opportunity.
He could give her pleasure, but never his heart. Leanne’s betrayal had hardened him. He’d loved her, or thought he did. Never again.
He pulled back, not quite meeting her eyes. Pulling her blouse off her arms, he snagged her bra as well, leaving her naked from the waist up. Sliding his hands up her ribs, he cupped her breasts again, bending to lick across a nipple. She shuddered. He did it again, then drew it into his mouth and suckled, teasing and rolling the nub with his teeth. She gasped and arched.
Inching his hands up her thighs, underneath her skirt, he tortured them both with his leisurely exploration. She reached down, pulled her skirt away and let it fall to the floor. His th
umbs reached the apex of her thighs and lingered there, scant millimeters from where he wanted them, but he held himself still as she squirmed and uttered a noise of protest. Finally, he allowed the pads of his thumbs to brush across her core. She cried out, pushing forward, and he pulled his hands away, teasing her. He wanted her wild for him; too wild to realize he’d closed his emotions down. She was incredibly perceptive, and he didn’t want her to know.
“Gabe?” She looked uneasily at him. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He tried to make his voice teasing. “You have my undivided attention.”
She was nearly naked, while he was still fully dressed. Bringing her hands up, she tried to cover herself, but he gripped her wrists lightly and pulled them down again.
“Let me look at you. Your body is a miracle.” He hadn’t meant to say it; it just slipped out. She just flat out did it for him. He just couldn’t let her know how vulnerable he felt.
She burrowed close, cuddling into his chest. Damn it! She felt that something was off; she just didn’t know what.
To distract her, he nibbled along her neck to her ear, and ran his tongue lightly around the delicate shell, pulling another shiver from her. Then, so fast she barely had time to register it, he reversed their positions, laying her along the sofa and nestling between her legs with a groan of delight. Even as she tried to slow him down, tried to still his hands, he pulled her knee up and ground into her.
“Stop. Gabe, stop. I need to . . . think . . .”
He ran his fingers up into her hair, controlling her head for a long, lingering, seductive kiss. “The absolute last thing you need to be doing right now is thinking,” he said in a rough voice. Him, too. “Let me make you feel good.”
That evidently wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She pushed against his shoulders and levered herself partway from under him. He stilled his hands and let them drop away.
“What is it?” he asked. But he knew. And, somehow, she did, too.
Christina covered her breasts with shaking hands. “What are we doing here, Gabe? What is this?”
“Christ,” he groaned, his head dropping down to rest on her stomach. “It’s been too long for you if you can’t figure out what I’m doing.” He ran his hands down her hips to her thighs, hoping her desire would cloud her mind, but she yanked her feet free and pulled them to her chest.
“I’m serious.”
“I was afraid of that.” He pushed himself upright, again not quite meeting her eyes. “What’s the problem?”
Christina looked like her head might explode. “What’s the problem? For starters, we work together. Don’t you have rules about that?”
He adjusted himself, trying to get comfortable. His face burned. She had every right to be upset. It was for the best anyway. Getting involved with her physically on any level was a piss-poor idea. Now he just had to fix their working relationship so there wouldn’t be any fallout from tonight’s activities.
“Nah. I’m allowed to screw Tag if I want to. Which I so don’t.” He tried a smile, but Christina glared. He realized she sensed she was being played. “You’re thinking of an executive protector getting involved with his principal, like Kevin Costner did with that singer in that movie.”
“Whitney Houston,” she said absently.
“Yeah. That one. It’s bullshit. A professional would never do that. But you’re not my principal. You’re my teammate.”
“So, what?” she said, head rearing back. “Tag’s not available, so you jump me instead? Is that what this is?”
“Why does it have to be something? Why can’t we just be two people enjoying a night?”
Her expression of hurt nearly undid him. He forced himself to release her when she stood, grabbing her bra and putting it on. “No, thanks.”
He ran a hand through his overlong hair, scraping it back from his forehead and then letting it flop forward again. “You’re turned on. I did that to you. Let me take care of you.”
“Just sex?” she asked. He kept his face expressionless. “Just two teammates relieving stress, no emotions involved?”
His eyes narrowed and his teeth clamped together. “It’s not like that,” he snapped, but his eyes shifted away from her because that’s exactly what it was like. What he’d made it, because that’s not how it had started out.
“Get out.”
He stood to face her. “It would be good between us. Why deny yourself?”
Only pleasure. No strings attached.
She planted her hands on her hips, but she looked like she might cry. “Dinner’s over. Dessert just got canceled.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. “Have it your way. This couch is occupied, though, so unless you want to finish what we started, I suggest you get the hell out of here and go to bed.”
“You’re an ass, Gabriel Morgan.”
She scooped up her clothes, turned on her heel, and stomped into the bedroom. It was for the best, he told himself. But he knew he would get no sleep tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
THEY SPENT THE next day exploring the villa, mansion, whatever it was. It was old, and that meant lots of hallways, lots of rooms, and plenty of places to hide. Gabe had them run through scenario after scenario, getting to know the layout and the exits. To his relief, Christina did not argue or fight him on any of his tactics, though she treated him with icy disdain. He’d tossed and turned the night before. The tactile memory of her smooth skin, scorching heat, and passion-glazed eyes were seared into his brain.
He’d royally screwed the pooch last night. The sheer overwhelm of his emotions swamping him had scared him to death. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way before. Instead of admitting the intensity of his feelings, of opening himself to her, he’d pulled back, locked himself away, and tried to make it just about sex. It hadn’t worked, and he’d hurt Christina on top of it. He was a jerk, no doubt about it.
All seven of them trooped into the informal dining room for luncheon. Well, he and his men clumped in, looking ridiculously out of place in their plain clothes and practical shoes. Deni Van Praet strode in, an air of authority surrounding her. And Christina presented her grandaunt with a bouquet of flowers, kissing her cheek and seating herself next to the Viscount and Viscountess of Nabourg like she’d done it a hundred times before. He and his team were relegated to the bottom end of the long mahogany table, away from the nobles. That suited him just fine. It gave him the opportunity to watch Christina.
Calling the room informal felt silly to him. The table could easily seat fourteen. Table arrangements of fruit and candles decorated its length. Red oak paneling on the walls, dignified portraits, a chandelier above the table. Informal? His ass.
There was the slightest echo in the Bluetooth earpieces they all wore, due to their close proximity. The situation was unique. Normally, the principal wouldn’t hear the bodyguards’ chatter. It distracted Christina. She finally flicked the tiny earpiece into her napkin, fast enough that the Nabourgs didn’t notice. Gavin followed suit. “Don’t make sense,” he muttered, “we all being here.” Gabe nodded, and the rest took them out or turned them off.
Lunch consisted of a lamb-and-vegetable stew, followed by chilled shrimp salad and another selection of cheeses. As he ate, Gabe only half paid attention to the conversation going on around him. Mostly he watched Christina.
There was something different about her, some small thing about her demeanor that pinged at the back of his head. When she ducked her head and chuckled, he realized what it was. Sure, she still acted like Princess Véronique. But a subtle difference manifested itself: she fit in. Her body language mirrored the Nabourgs’, her inflection, her facial expressions. Despite the Nabourgs’ stilted English and Christina’s pretense, he almost forgot that she wasn’t a royal joining her relatives for an intimate luncheon. It impressed him.
Come to think of it, she�
�d done the same thing with his team, when she hadn’t been arguing with him. She had adopted their mannerisms. She had blended. They had accepted her easily.
After lunch, the Nabourgs retired to their rooms to rest. Gabe took his team onto the grounds and through the wild gardens, and they repeated the drills of the morning. Before they knew it, it was time to dress for the anniversary ball. Gabe escorted the ladies back to Deni’s room, where Christina’s glass slippers awaited. Then he went next door, reflecting that he fell far short of Prince Charming.
IT TOOK THE better part of an hour to dress Christina. Deni had already changed into a floor-length sheath dress with matching jacket.
“You look beautiful,” Christina told her. Deni only smiled, and went to work.
She swept Christina’s hair back from her face and into a series of larger and larger intertwining rolls. It wasn’t a bun, exactly, but it was neatly coiffed and elegant. Deni placed a hair comb made of a spray of crystals just above the rolls of hair.
Then came makeup—more makeup than Christina had ever worn in her life. Deni would not allow her to look in the mirror.
“Just wait, petite. You will see soon enough, eh?”
Before she slipped on the dress, Deni covered her scar in a sheer bandage, then blended it into her skin with more foundation.
“It is virtually undetectable,” she pronounced. “No one will notice this.”
The jewelry Deni presented to her took her breath away. The diamonds in the necklace echoed the crystal spray of the dress, teardrops dripping into an inverted triangle. Deni added square-cut diamond earrings and a triple-banded diamond bracelet.
“Holy crap. What if I lose these? What if a diamond falls out? What if I decide to steal them and retire to Rio?”
Deni quirked a shaped brow. “Then I should miss you very much.”
Finally, butterflies flitting through her stomach, Christina stepped into Ronnie’s Manolo Blahnik satin pumps, dyed to match the dress.
