by Debra Webb
She put her phone away and met McBride as he left the counter. “Pratt’s coming from short-term parking. We’ll meet him in the food court.”
Operating on less than an hour of sleep was going to make for a long day. She had relieved Pratt at two-thirty. At four-thirty they had prepared for the trip to the airport.
Most of that time in between she had either been arguing with McBride or walking off the fury he had ignited with his psychoanalyzing. The part that infuriated her most was that a whole lot of what he had kindled hadn’t been fury.
Her first high-profile case and she couldn’t keep her head screwed on straight.
Maybe she did need more therapy.
As they followed the signs to the food court she tried to recall the last time she’d had sex. Last month? July?
Sad. Really sad.
When you had to work that hard to remember, it couldn’t have been memorable.
But she knew where the fault lay. That McBride had nailed exactly how she disappeared made her want to fuck his brains out just to prove him wrong.
She grabbed on to the tiny slither of calm that tried valiantly to recover from her frequent and explosive emotional outbursts. If this was any indication of how she handled pressure, she was in trouble.
Everything about this case was wrong, including his leaving, but some part of her would be relieved when McBride was on that plane headed back to the Keys. He disturbed her … shook up her carefully controlled world. Somehow she was defenseless against him. Unlike with Nameless, when the main crux of the battle had been physical, this was completely emotional.
“How about we sit here?” She indicated a table in sight of the main thoroughfare so Pratt could locate them easily.
“Looks the same as all the rest.” He pulled out a chair but waited for her to settle in before taking his seat.
She considered that he had selected the same pair of distressed jeans he had worn on the trip up here, and the same khaki shirt; it made her wonder if that was symbolic … him going back to the way things were before she intruded in his life.
Probably just the first thing he grabbed when he rolled out of bed.
“Would you like breakfast?” She hated to put him on the plane hungry. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
One-word answers. He’d certainly had plenty to say a few hours ago.
“So, what’re we eating?” Pratt asked as he sauntered up.
Grace pushed out of her chair. “You guys decide. I’ll be right back.”
She left her purse on the table and walked to the ladies’ room. It wasn’t far. Glancing back, she could still see the table and both men. Front and center, she ordered her gaze. This was not the time for distraction. Besides, what was she worried about? Pratt had the same orders she did. He could handle babysitting McBride for a few minutes.
The airport was fairly deserted this early on Sunday morning so there was no line for a stall. The janitorial staff had apparently just cleaned since the place looked spotless and smelled freshly sanitized.
Vivian took care of business, washed up, and checked her hair. She hadn’t taken time to put it up and now she wished she had. After a quick finger-combing, she headed for the table. She could use a biscuit with egg. And a massive cup of coffee.
For a moment she was certain her eyes had played a trick on her. “Where’s McBride?”
Pratt pointed back the direction from which she had come. “Men’s room. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him.”
“Damn, Pratt. We’re not supposed to let him out of our sight!”
Pratt held up his hands. “I have his cell phone. The man just went to the toilet, Grace. It’s not a big deal.”
But he wasn’t the one who would have to answer to Worth if he was wrong.
She did an about-face and stamped back toward the bathrooms.
“Grace!”
She held a hand up in a stop gesture and kept on going. Jesus. Was everybody around her so incompetent or was she making a mountain out of a molehill? Maybe McBride was right and she didn’t know how to let anyone close … even her coworkers. Stop it, Vivian Grace. She wasn’t buying into his anti-Bureau theories.
Back ramrod straight, she strode right into the men’s room. Flashed a fake smile for the gentleman she encountered drying his hands. Staring at her, he wandered out, obviously confused or startled.
She scanned the stalls. No feet. Her anxiety level pumped up a few more degrees. A toilet flushed. There. She marched up to the door on the other side of the expansive restroom where his sneakered feet and jean-clad legs were visible. She banged on it hard enough to rattle the hinges.
“McBride!”
He yanked the door inward, glared at her. “Is the building on fire?”
She blinked. “No.”
“Then what the hell are you doing in the men’s room? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
That was it. She went toe-to-toe with him, caused him to stagger back a step. “You have pushed me around for the last time.” She poked him in the chest. “I’ve put up with your lewd comments and your inquisitions and I’ve had it!”
“Don’t hold back, Grace,” he murmured, those blue eyes glittering with something like mischief.
And then reality sank in.
She glanced down. That step she had forced McBride back had him straddling the toilet.
The toilet.
Oh hell.
Her horrified gaze met his.
He grinned.
“Now that’s feeling it, Grace.” He reached over her head and pushed the door shut behind her. “You get so lost in the moment, in the passion, that you forget about everything else.”
And then he kissed her.
Not some slow, tender sweet kiss. His fingers dove into her hair, held her head still while his mouth covered hers. He kissed her hard. Invaded her with his tongue. Fire roared through her. Her fingers clenched in his shirt.
She wanted more.
Her arms went around his neck. She wanted to kiss him back the way he was kissing her. Openmouthed … lips bruising lips … tongues battling.
His right hand slid along the length of her throat, reached beneath her jacket and closed over her breast. She groaned. No tiny, feminine sound … a throaty roar. Her hands roved over his chest, felt the contours she had already admired, crinkling the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. She wanted to touch all of him! Now!
His hands moved downward, over her bottom, pulled her hips against his pelvis. The needy sounds she made were swallowed up in his kiss. She tugged at his shirt buttons, wiggled her hands beneath the fabric to touch his skin. More! She snaked her arms upward, threaded her fingers into his hair. It felt exactly as she had known it would. Soft, silky.
He worked her skirt up her thighs … lifted her. Her legs instinctively curled around his waist. She threw her head back, arched her hips … God, she wanted him inside her. He kissed his way down her neck. She wanted to tear her blouse off so that he could access her breasts. Sensing her needs, he pulled the vee of her blouse aside and lathed his tongue beneath the lace of her bra.
“Oh … God!” She bucked, bit back a scream. Her cell phone clattered to the tile floor.
He pressed her back against the side wall, used the fingers of one hand to push the damp silk panel covering her out of the way and one finger slid inside. Her muscles clamped around him and he groaned in satisfaction.
“Hot,” he murmured. “Wet.” He slid that finger in and out a couple of times, smiled as if he had found just what he wanted, then he pressed … probed and pressed some more … until he did this thing at just the right spot that sent her over an edge she hadn’t even come close to … in years. Or maybe ever.
He put his mouth over hers to muffle the sounds of her orgasm, his lips smiling.
She rode out the incredible climax … but she wanted more. She had to have him. Now!
Her heavy lids opened just enough for her to peer into those sexy blue eyes. “N
o more playing. Do it!”
He kept one hand under her bottom and fished in his pocket with the other. He tucked the unopened condom between his teeth and then, one at a time, braced a stilettoclad foot against the metal wall behind him. Then he reached for his fly. She used her back and feet to maintain her position, as he ripped the condom open with his teeth and fingers and then slid it into place. That intent gaze never left hers, the promise there driving her crazy.
Then he did that thing again, thrust one finger inside and found that spot that sent her instantly into orgasm. This time she bit her lips together to hold back the cries and watched him watching her. Her entire body undulated with the waves of pleasure.
He nudged her with the head of his penis and she lost her breath. One slow, solid inch, then two filled her, teasing as he took his sweet time.
“Feel that?”
“Shut up.” She couldn’t talk … couldn’t think. She could only feel.
Then he pushed all the way inside, burrowed fully between her thighs and kissed her until she could no longer hold her breath.
She arched her hips, he moved in deeper still.
A hard poke in her ribs had her gasping, “Wait!” She struggled to speak. “Gun!”
He drew back slightly, his breath as ragged as her own. She wrestled the weapon out of its holster. Couldn’t drop it, so she held on to it, wrapped that arm around his neck and kept the door from swaying inward with the other.
The harder he pounded, the harder her stilettos scrambled for purchase on that slick surface. His movements grew frantic, his breathing more jagged. Finally—oh God!—he was losing it the way she had twice already.
He stopped mid-stroke. She wanted to scream. Her body throbbed for more.
He nibbled at her lips. “I do love those lips, Grace.”
“Move,” she ordered, shifting her hips, contracting those inner muscles with all her might.
He shuddered. “In a moment. But first.” He teased her lips with his own. “Just one more for the road.”
Confusion reigned for about two seconds, and then he caressed her where his penis already had her stretched so tight. Massaged and pressed until she felt herself coming all over again. Then he moved once more, in and out, slowly, making her breath catch, making her body convulse all the harder.
He started to come. Closed his eyes and worked it out, one measured stroke at a time.
He leaned into her, kissed her lips tenderly as if he hadn’t just made her come three times.
He braced her weight against him until her feet were steady on the floor, then he withdrew. The sensation made her gasp, made her ache at the loss.
Stunned, bewildered, tingly, out of breath … she felt all those things.
He pushed her skirt down her thighs, took the weapon from her hand and tucked it back into its holster. “You’d better go, Agent Grace.”
She nodded, uncertain of her voice.
Vivian slipped out the door, glanced around the room. The sight of the urinals hanging on the wall drove reality home. She had just had sex in a men’s bathroom. In a stall!
With McBride.
She strode out the door, thank God without encountering another man, and darted into the ladies’ room.
Her eyes rounded at the image in the mirror. Her hair was a mess. Her blouse was twisted.
“So, so dumb.”
She righted her clothes. Washed her hands. And smoothed her hair.
Pull it together. She couldn’t go back out there and face him if she didn’t.
Deep breath. It was just sex. No big deal. In an hour or so he would be gone and it wouldn’t matter anyway.
Except that it did matter.
He was leaving and this case wasn’t right.
There would be another e-mail from Devoted Fan. And without McBride …
She touched the holster at her waist. Where was her phone? The sound of metal bouncing on tile echoed in her head.
“Shit.” She had left it in the men’s room. Holding back the urge to run, she walked to the door.
McBride leaned against the wall between the two restrooms.
He held up her cell phone. “Looking for this?”
She snatched it from his hand. “Thanks.”
The phone vibrated against her palm. She jumped.
“I’ll catch up with Pratt.” McBride pushed off the wall and sauntered back to the table.
Vivian watched him walk away, the long fluid strides making her throat dry.
Pratt looked up, came to attention as if he had been dozing as McBride joined him.
Vivian’s phone vibrated again.
She cleared her throat and answered it. “Grace.”
Worth.
One sentence.
Don’t let McBride get on that plane.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1000 Eighteenth Street
9:00 A.M.
There wasn’t a lot happening in downtown Birmingham as nine o’clock rolled around on a Sunday morning. The city looked deserted. McBride figured most of the good folks in this Southern town were probably having breakfast or getting ready for church. But every damned reporter from Huntsville to Montgomery had joined in the vigil outside the Bureau gates.
If it bleeds it leads. And this one was bleeding Bureau blue. Andrew Quinn had moved up the hierarchy during his service, all the way to the executive level before retiring. But the bigger headline was the man wielding the gun, Derrick Braden—grieving father and child advocate.
Just like three years ago all over again. McBride could have done without that particular trip down memory lane.
Birmingham PD forced the mob back as Grace turned her Explorer onto the block. Once they were inside the gate, the camera flashes and shouted questions accompanied their trip from the vehicle to the main entrance of the building. With no guard on duty inside just yet, a slide of Grace’s ID card got them through the door and out of reach.
Just another circus act. This bizarre story and its connection to a high-profile federal case of the past would boost ratings and everyone wanted center ring.
Judging by the number of bodies rushing around inside, McBride decided that all agents assigned to Birmingham’s field office and maybe some borrowed ones from a neighboring office were on hand. Though he didn’t recognize some of the faces, he was certain they were all feds. He could spot a federal agent a mile off. Ever-present formal bearing, shoes always shined, and sleek business uniforms ready for inspection. Could shoot ’em and bury ’em in the same suit.
McBride, on the other hand, wore his comfortably tattered jeans, his favorite khaki shirt that was now missing two buttons, and the earthy feminine scent of Special Agent Vivian Grace.
He should be ashamed of himself for having sex with her in a bathroom stall, but he wasn’t.
If he got the chance, he’d do it again.
As soon as they reached the third floor, ASAC Talley invited McBride to wait in the conference room then diverted Grace to Worth’s office. Gathered around the long table were a couple of the usual suspects, Agents Pratt and Davis. Schaffer and Aldridge were conspicuously missing.
Then the expected waiting game began.
McBride loathed waiting. The Bureau utilized the tactic for building and manipulating three things: discomfort, frustration, and fear. Even when they said please and thank you, offered coffee and promised to be right with you, the maneuver was designed for promoting one of those three elements. He should know, he had utilized that very method on enough suspects.
On cue, the instant McBride lowered his empty cup to the table, Pratt jumped to the task of going for a coffee refill. There was always the chance that the agent had taken this particular task on as his personal quest to support the effort of keeping McBride functioning. But, more likely, he had been instructed to make sure McBride didn’t get antsy.
Across the room, the timeline related to the ongoing investigation into Devoted Fan remained intact. Pictures and notes regarding Braden and Quinn h
ad been posted, along with a sidebar related to investigative reporter Nadine Goodman’s breaking news. Interestingly, two additional computers had been set up on one side of the room, along with a second plasma monitor. A complete command post.
McBride doubted that he had been dragged back here and left with Pratt and Davis to stare at each other if another e-mail had been received. Wasting the allotted time would be a major infraction of procedure. Worth was too anal for that. Whatever was going down, Worth was prepping for how to approach McBride on the situation. The additional search and monitor systems set up in here indicated the same. Something was definitely brewing around here besides the local supermarket’s store brand of coffee.
There was always the chance that they had come up with some aspect of this investigation to blame on him. But McBride wasn’t worried. What could they possibly do to him that they hadn’t already done?
Couldn’t destroy his career since he didn’t have one and, oh yeah, they had done that already anyway. Couldn’t take away his life … he didn’t have one of those either.
All present at the table sat in silence, suggesting that orders not to discuss whatever had occurred since late last night had been issued or that the agents were as in the dark as McBride. Just something else he loathed, the tendency of the managerial level to hold back as much knowledge for as long as possible in order to ensure they wielded all the power.
They could have it; he wanted no part of it.
There would be another flight to Miami sometime today. As long as he wasn’t taken into custody and didn’t go completely stupid, he still had a chance of getting out of here.
As if some Fate had it in for him more so than usual, Grace entered the room and McBride’s attention riveted to her. The jade suit fit her shape in a way that had him remembering every single curve and mound he’d explored. An unfamiliar and annoying tightening sensation in his chest made him want to stretch it out or walk it off.
Talley and Worth appeared, preempting any opportunity to ask Grace what the hell was up now. Or to drag her to the nearest closet and go for an encore. He doubted she would allow that to happen again in this lifetime.
