Mountain Blizzard

by Cassie Miles

  The Tenderloin had earned its reputation as a high-crime district. He was deeply grateful that she hadn’t tried an undercover stint as a stripper. “I’ll go there, no problem.”

  “And I wouldn’t mind sneaking onto Wynter’s yacht and looking around.”

  Breaking and entering didn’t appeal to him, but he definitely liked the idea of getting out on the water in the bay. San Francisco had many charms, ranging from unique architecture to culture to amazing restaurants. The best, he thought, were the piers and the ocean...the scent of salt water...the whisper of the surf.

  She yawned. “Maybe we should go to the docks. I only tried to get in there once, and it didn’t go well. The guys who work with shipping containers ignored me, and the supervisors were overly polite, thinking I was sent by management to check up on them.”

  “What can we learn there?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s another avenue.”

  They were going to be busy. “Tired?”

  “A bit,” she said.

  “You can take off your seat belt and lie on the sofa. It folds out into a bed.”

  She peeked out the porthole. “How long before we’re in San Francisco?”

  “A couple of hours.” The flight time on commercial airlines was two and a half hours. The Gulfstream took a little longer.

  “I wouldn’t mind a catnap,” she said.

  He moved their wineglasses to cup holders beside the chairs, picked up the nearly empty wine bottle and tucked away the table. Before he transformed the sofa into a bed, he opened a storage compartment and took out a thermal blanket and a pillow. Then he dimmed the lights.

  After fluffing the pillow, she stood and fidgeted beside the sofa bed. “I feel selfish, taking the only bed. You’re as tired as I am.”

  “Is that an invitation to join you?”

  “No,” she said softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you that idea.”

  Her tone sounded regretful. If he pushed, he might be able to change her mind. But now wasn’t the right time. He didn’t want to rock the boat while they were in a fairly good place. At least they weren’t fighting. It was best not to complicate things with sex. Great sex, he reminded himself. They’d always had great sex.

  “Not tonight,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “Lie down. I’m going up to the cockpit.”

  “With the other cocks?”

  “You might say that.” He wouldn’t, but she would.

  No matter how much she claimed to be a responsible, sober adult, there was a goofball just below the surface. That was the Emily that drove him crazy, the Emily he loved.

  * * *

  WHILE SHE SLEPT, Sean spent time with his buddy David and the copilot. He loved the night view from the cockpit with stars scattered across the sky. He felt like they were part of the galaxies.

  They talked, and he made coffee to counteract the slight inebriation he’d felt. A professional bodyguard shouldn’t be drinking on the job, but he couldn’t pretend that this was a standard assignment.

  If she’d been anyone else, he would have advised them to leave the investigating to the police. And if they refused, he would have terminated the contract. Not a detective, he was well aware that he didn’t have the resources that were available to him when he was in the FBI. On the other hand, he had the hacking skills of his brother and none of those pesky restrictions.

  Finally, he was peering through the clouds and wispy curtains of fog to see the lights of San Francisco, and he felt a surge. His pulse sped up. His blood pumped harder. This city was the setting for the best time in his life and the absolute, rock-bottom worst. Emily was intrinsic to both.

  He went back to the cabin and found her lying on her side, spooning the pillow. As soon as he touched her shoulder, she wakened.

  “I’m up,” she said, throwing off the blanket.

  “Almost there. You need to put on a seat belt.”

  “Do I have time to splash water on my face?”

  “Okay, if you hurry.”

  While she darted into the bathroom, he verified their arrangements on his phone. They had a suite reserved at the Pendragon Hotel and there should be a rental car waiting at the private airfield. Sean wanted to believe they’d be safe, at least for tonight, but his gut told him to watch for trouble. He put in a call to Dylan at the TST office.

  “We’re here,” Sean announced, purposely not naming the city in case somebody was listening. “Anything to report?”

  “Wynter must be taking advantage of his location near Silicon Valley and hiring top-notch programmers. His security is state-of-the-art, truly hard to hack.”

  Oddly, Dylan sounded happy. Sean asked, “You like the challenge?”

  “Oh yeah. Getting through these firewalls will be an accomplishment.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Hang on a sec. I had a phone call from your new BFF, Morelli. He wanted to make an information exchange.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you’d call him back.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  He disconnected the call. Morelli’s business card with all his numbers was burning a hole in his pocket. Though Sean was tempted to make the call, he’d warned Morelli not to contact him. It might seem weak to call back. But it was possible that Morelli had useful information.

  Sean set the scrambler on his phone so he couldn’t be traced and punched in the numbers for Morelli’s cell phone. As soon as the other man answered, he said, “What do you want?”

  “Let me talk to Emily.”

  “You’re wasting my time,” Sean said. “Talk.”

  “Tell her that she’s not going to be able to sell her articles to the BP Reporter anymore. That’s one of the places she published her last article on Wynter.”

  “Why can’t she sell there?”

  “A terrible accident happened in their office. The police are saying a leak in the gas main resulted in the fiery explosion that destroyed the building.”

  “Any deaths or injuries?”

  “The editor is in the hospital.” Morelli paused for a moment. “It’s fortunate that Emily wasn’t there.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Any complacency Emily had been feeling vanished when Sean told her of the explosion. BP Reporter was a giveaway newspaper filled with shopping specials and coupons, and the pay for articles was next to nothing. Most writers saw BP, which stood for Blog/Print, as a stepping-stone to actual paying assignments. The editor, Jerome Strauss, wasn’t a close friend, but she knew him and she felt guilty about his injuries. She was to blame. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Wynter was behind the supposed “gas leak” detonation.

  Refreshed from her catnap and energized by righteous rage, she found it difficult to wait until they got to the Pendragon Hotel to start her inquiries. They’d gained an hour traveling to the West Coast. It was after two o’clock in the morning when they entered the suite.

  She set up her laptop on a desk in the living room and watched while Sean prowled through the suite with his gun held ready. The floor plan for the suite was open space with the kitchen delineated by a counter and the bedroom separated by a half wall and an arch. Sean was thorough, peering into closets and looking under the bed. When he was apparently satisfied that there were no bad guys lurking, he unpacked some strange equipment. One piece looked like an extension rod for selfies.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “An all-purpose sweeper to locate bugs, hidden cameras and the like.”

  Though she appreciated his attention to detail, she didn’t understand why it was needed. “How would anybody know we were coming to this hotel and were assigned to this room?”

  “I’ve stayed here before. And I asked for this room
. It’s on the top floor, the sixth. Since this is the tallest building on the block, it’s hard for anybody with a telescope or a sniper rifle to take aim. There’s a nice view when the fog lifts.”

  “It’s a nice hotel,” she agreed. The exterior was classic San Francisco architecture, and the furnishings were clean lined, Asian inspired. “Why would there be bugs?”

  “I want to be sure we’re safe.” He started waving his long camera thingy, scanning the room for electronic devices. “Get used to this, Emily. From now on, I’m hyperprotective.”

  Tempted to make a snarky comment about how vigilance sometimes crossed the line into obsessive-compulsive disorder, she kept her lip zipped. He was the expert, and she needed to rely on his judgment. She sauntered across the room to the counter that separated the kitchenette and climbed onto a stool. “I need to start making phone calls. Which phone should I use?”

  “It depends on who you’re calling.”

  “How so?”

  He explained, “If you’re talking to somebody suspicious who might try to track your location, use the secure phone Dylan gave you. If it’s somebody you feel safe with, use a burner. We can load up a burner and pitch it.”

  He seemed to be thinking of all contingencies. “I want to track down Strauss by calling hospitals.”

  “Burner,” he said as he continued to sweep the room.

  She called four hospitals before she found the right one. The only information the on-duty nurse would give her was that Strauss was in “fair” condition, but not allowed to have visitors, especially not visitors from the press.

  Relieved but not completely satisfied, she wished she had the type of access the FBI and SFPD had. It didn’t seem fair. Law enforcement officers wouldn’t be barred from the room, but the press—the very people Strauss worked with every day—had to take a step back.

  If Strauss was awake, she’d bet he was planning his coverage on the explosion. The story had fallen into his lap. Would he let her be the one to write about it?

  She wasn’t his favorite reporter. He knew her as Emily, and she submitted only puff pieces, but the explosion might be a way to integrate her real identity with her secret pseudonym. Strauss already did business with her fake persona; the article about Wynter had been published first by an online news journal that paid for her investigative skills. Strauss had permission for a reprint that cost him nothing.

  Maybe she could get Sean to use his influence with Agent Levine to sneak her into the hospital room. She went into the bedroom area behind Japanese-style screens to ask.

  There were two full-size beds, and he had taken the one nearer to the archway connecting bedroom and living room. He’d pulled back the spread and collapsed onto the sheets. His shoes were off, but he still wore his jeans and T-shirt. In repose, his features relaxed, and he seemed almost innocent. She crept up beside him and turned off the globe-shaped lamp on the bedside table.

  Before she could tiptoe out of the room, his hand shot out and grasped her wrist. His movement was unexpected. She gasped loudly and struggled to pull away from him. He held on more tightly. “Turn it back on.”

  “I wanted to make it dark so you could sleep.”

  “Can’t see an intruder.” He hadn’t opened his eyes. “Leave the light on.”

  She flicked the switch, he released his grasp and she scuttled into the front room with her heart beating fast. He’d startled her, and her fear was close to the surface. If he could spook her so easily, how was she going to fall asleep?

  If she stayed up, what could she do? It was too early to make phone calls, and she wanted to talk to Dylan before she used the laptop so she wouldn’t accidentally trigger any alarms.

  A sigh pushed through her lips. Lying down on the bed was probably a good idea. Getting herself cleaned up was next best.

  The huge bathroom was mostly white marble with caramel streaks. Fluffy white towels in varying sizes sat on open shelving that went floor to ceiling. She wasn’t really a bathtub person, and the glassed-in shower enticed her.

  For a full half hour, Emily indulged herself. Steaming hot water from four different jets sluiced over her body. The sandalwood fragrance of the soap permeated her skin, and she washed her hair with floral-scented shampoo while humming the song about San Francisco and flowers in her hair.

  She toweled dry, styled her hair with a blow-dryer and slipped into a sleeveless nightshirt that fell to her knees. Before leaving the bathroom, she turned out the light so she wouldn’t disturb Sean.

  After she pulled down her covers, she glanced over at his sleeping form. Under the sheets, he stretched out the full length of the bed on his back with his arms folded on his chest. His eyes were closed. He’d stripped off his clothes and appeared to be naked, which had always been his preferred way to sleep.

  When they were married, she’d always looked forward to those nights when she was already in bed, not quite asleep and waiting for him. He’d enter the room quietly and slip under the covers, and she’d realize that he was completely naked. She remembered the heat radiating from his big, hard, masculine body, and when he’d pulled her into his arms, she was warmed to the marrow of her bones.

  The pattern of hair on his chest reminded her of those days, long ago. Her fingers itched to touch him. She sat on the edge of her bed, silently hoping that he’d open his eyes and ask her to come closer.

  Their ground rules started with the obvious: no falling in love, followed by no public display of affection. The complicated part was initiating contact. If he went first, he had to ask. But she was free to pounce on him at any time. What am I waiting for?

  She shifted position, sitting lightly on his bed and watching him for any sign that he was awake. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicated that he hadn’t noticed her nearness. Maybe she’d steal a kiss and return to her own bed.

  She leaned down closer. Her heart thumped faster. Her entire body trembled with anticipation. Falling in love with her ex-husband was completely out of the question. If anything happened between them, she couldn’t expect it to mean anything. Really? Am I capable of having sex without love?

  A couple of times in the past, she’d engaged in meaningless sex. The result was never good, hardly worth the effort. Maybe that type of sex would be blah with Sean, but she doubted it. He was too skillful, and he knew exactly which buttons to punch with her. The real question was: Did she dare to open herself up to him, knowing that he’d broken her heart and fearing that he might do it again?

  A scary possibility, too scary. She was too much of a coward to take the risk. Exhaling a sigh of sad regret, she pulled away from him, turned her head and stood.

  “Emily?”

  “Yes.”

  He was out of the bed, standing beside her. She glided into his embrace, and he positioned her against his naked body. They fit together like yin and yang, like spaghetti and meatballs, like Tarzan and Jane. Take me, Lord of the Jungle! She was becoming hysterical. If she was going to avoid sex, she’d better stop him now.

  His kiss sent her reeling. With very little effort, he’d caught her.

  All logic vanished. The pleasure of his touch erased conscious thought. All she wanted was to savor each sensation. He pressed more firmly against her. She couldn’t fight him, didn’t want to. If this is what sex without love feels like, sign me up.

  He gathered the hem of her nightshirt in his hands. Looking down, he read the message on the front. “Promote Literacy. Kiss a Poet.”

  “I’m just doing my bit to promote education.”

  “Noble,” he said.

  In a single gesture, he lifted the nightshirt up and over her head. Underneath, she was as nude as he. By the light of the bedside lamp, her gaze slid appreciatively downward, from his shoulders to the dusting of chest hair to his muscular abs and lower. He was even more flawless than she r
emembered.

  “Hey, lady.” He lifted her chin. “My eyes are up here.”

  “And they’re very nice eyes, very dark chocolate and hot. At the moment, however—” she gave him a wicked smile “—I’m more interested in a different part of your body.”

  He scooped her off her feet and dove with her onto the bed. With great energy, he flung off the covers, plumped pillows and settled her in place before he straddled her hips.

  For a moment, she lay motionless below him. She just stared at her magnificent ex-husband. Sex always brought out the poet in her. He was her knight errant, her Lancelot, a conquering hero who would plunder and ravage her. Which made her...what? Surely not a helpless maiden; she drove her own destiny. And she most certainly would not lie passively while he had all the fun.

  Struggling, she sat up enough to grab his arms and pull him toward her. A futile effort. He was in control, and he let her know it by pinning her wrists on either side of her head. He was too strong. She couldn’t fight him.

  “Relax, Emily.” His baritone rumbled through her. “Let me take care of you.”

  She wriggled. “Maybe you could speed it up.”

  “I’ve thought about this for a long time.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I want it to last for a very long time.”

  He hovered over her, balancing on his elbows and his knees. In contrast to his flurry of activity, he slowly lowered himself, seeming to float inches above her. Their lips touched. His chest grazed the tips of her breasts.

  She arched her back, desperate to join her flesh with his. He wrestled her down, forcing her to experience each feather touch separately. Shivers of pleasure shot through her, setting off a mad, convulsive reaction that rattled from the ends of her hair to the soles of her feet. She threw her head back against the pillow. Her toes curled.

  “Now, Sean. I want you, please.”

  “Good things are...worth the wait.”

  His seduction was slow and deliberate, driving her crazy. Her lungs throbbed. She breathed hoarsely, panting and gasping as a wave of pleasure rolled over her. Oh God, she’d missed this! The way he handled her, manipulating her so she felt deeply and passionately. Transformed, she was aware of her own sexuality.