by Joni Hahn
No, Keegan. You’re moving forward and leaving behind everything that reminds you of the past.
She continued to watch him. He ate with such elegance—despite the catsup. With smooth, fluent movements, he chewed with little motion, those appealing hands slow and methodical as he cut into his steak and placed a bite in his mouth. Clint Robinson didn’t seem to hurry with anything. He carried a serene aura, a quiet, stoic character. He didn’t seem prone to outbursts or raising his voice, like Cyrus.
Yet, she knew his mind never stopped.
“It goes a lot faster if you pick up the food, rather than waiting for it to jump into your mouth.” Clint leaned over and spoke out of the side of his mouth.
She turned to look at him. His mouth sat just inches from hers, his springy bar soap permeating her nose. His pale eyes swirled in amusement before rounding in awareness.
Now that she studied him, he really was a beautiful man, with a strong jaw and brows a shade darker than his honey blond hair. When he looked into her eyes, as if there were no one else in the room, she felt like she’d stepped into a bed of soft clouds. Warmth spread throughout her body to flood her face, her lungs filling with gasps of fresh air.
She spoke in a low voice. “I’m really not hungry—for food, anyway.”
His gaze searched hers before dropping to her mouth. “You need to feed that insatiable appetite.”
“Are you volunteering?” Her hand found his thigh under the table. His muscles tensed beneath her palm.
Leaning away, he went back to his food without a response. Why did she feel this driving need to have him?
When she woke that morning, she’d felt refreshed for the first time in…forever. Clint slept beside her, sitting up, his hand on her back. He’d said she would stir and mumble in her sleep, unless he touched her. How odd.
Her sleep had always been fitful at best, due to her fear of Cyrus sneaking into the room and slipping into bed. It seemed strange that she didn’t mind Clint there at all.
Things had gotten better after Cyrus created Eve and used her for his sexual outlet. However, it didn’t erase the years of abuse and humiliation. He just wouldn’t go away until his desire was slaked, whether by his own hand or her need for him to disappear. Either way, she was forced to participate.
Clint didn’t know that. As far as D.I.R.E. was concerned, Cyrus had only touched her a few times when they were young.
Tears built behind her eyes. No. She wouldn’t allow them to rise to the surface, to ruin this special occasion for Natalie. Jumping up from her chair, she walked away.
Natalie spoke above the buzz of conversation. “Keegan, are you all right?”
Turning back, she pasted on her best smile. “Yes. I’m just going to the ladies’ room.”
Her sister’s astute gaze studied her before she nodded. A gust of breath escaped Keegan’s lungs as she rushed to the restroom.
Walking inside, she stopped in front of the mirror and studied her reflection. She hadn’t fooled her sister for a minute. With puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks, she looked like she’d been holding her breath for too long. Maybe that was due to Clint’s presence. For some reason, it seemed hard to breathe when he was around.
“You’re stronger than this,” she told her reflection. “Don’t let him win.”
She just had to get through tomorrow. Once Natalie and Riordan were married, the agency’s number one priority would be to bring down Cyrus and this Madam person. He would never touch her again.
Taking a deep breath, she tugged up the low neckline of her blush pink cocktail dress and gave herself a final inspection. All she had to do was stay away from Clint. He seemed to be the component that prompted her bad memories. With the evening on the downhill stretch, she could manage that without causing Natalie to worry.
Pulling open the door, she stepped into the hallway. Clint shoved away from the wall, his smoldering eyes full of concern and something more. “Everything okay?”
No. Please go away. “What are you doing here?”
He offered his elbow. “I’m your babysitter, remember?”
She stared at his extended arm. She couldn’t do it. Not now. Not when he made her think of things she’d worked so hard to forget. When she sat on the verge of tears that demanded their day.
Not when his deep voice wrapped her in peace, warmth and honesty.
She turned around. He grabbed her wrist. Her pulse rocketed at the heat of his touch, the strength in his firm grip.
Whipping her back around, he pulled her close and tightened his hold. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
His quiet voice, so filled with worry, made her want to run. She wasn’t ready to face the weakness. Somehow, she had to gain more strength before she took on the beast of her past. Right now, it would win.
His gaze studied her face with a scientist’s patient thoroughness, before landing on her mouth. “You’re breathing heavy.”
Stilling, she stared into his pale eyes. God, she was breathing hard. He held her a foot away, his clean soap scent washing over her face, his wide shoulders blocking out anything beyond him. His jaw held a faint, honeyed stubble, his voice a soft note of logic.
“I am not.”
Bending her arm at the elbow, he held it against his chest and placed two fingers at her wrist. “Your pulse is racing.” He searched her gaze. “You are ill, aren’t you?”
What girl’s heart wouldn’t race when Clint Robinson held her hand against his hard chest?
“I’m not ill,” she said, trying to yank her arm from his grasp.
He backed her against the wall. “You’re lying.” His fingers smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her pulse kicked in wild abandon. A frown appeared between his brows before a dawning half grin appeared on his face. His hand wrapped around her wrist as he pressed against her. Her breath came through her nose in loud wisps as her palm rested against his chest to keep some distance between them.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“An experiment.” Closing in, he nuzzled the area behind her ear. “You’re breathing harder.”
She swallowed as he inhaled deep, his breath hissing along her jaw, feather-light and sluggish, before his mouth hovered over hers with blatant intent. Her lips parted, the sudden thirst for his taste irritating and arousing her.
He whispered against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. “Your pulse is out of control.”
With minute, patient movements, he moved in, his thigh resting between hers with disturbing subtly. Her skin sprouted with stinging gooseflesh, as moisture gathered at her core.
That’s how it’s done. Building the anticipation, heightening the senses until orgasm was inevitable. He hadn’t even kissed her and she already buzzed with more excitement than she’d ever felt in any sexual encounter. What would it feel like with his hands on her skin, his lips on her mouth?
Her breath came faster. To have him inside her?
Stepping away, he dropped her arm, his grey eyes dark and turbulent. Her body screamed with longing. How could he just…stop? How could he do that to her and not feel something?
At a loss for words, she could do nothing but stare.
“Ready to go back?”
Her mouth dropped open. He really didn’t want her. Forget all of her pride, the games she’d played. Knowing he could do that to her, affect her that way and not reciprocate, burned a hole right through her chest where all of her newfound courage was stored.
Those stupid tears built behind her eyes again, but this time, she faced them defenseless.
“Keegan?” His hands cupped her cheeks, the pad of his thumb grazing her lower lip as he stared at her mouth.
“Clint…” Her voice caught.
He captured her mouth in a kiss filled with eager wonder, his lips soft, gentle against hers. Her heart sprinted with wild abandon, his own racing in unison beneath her palms. On the surface, the kiss could be called one of sweet exploration. Yet below, it burned wi
th barely restrained hunger, a struggle of bravery versus desire.
The resentment and fear she’d felt with Cyrus proved absent, the detached lust of her recent lovers, a revelation. This kiss was neither, but a discreet display of all-consuming splendor, something she’d never conceived in her cynical mind, something made of daydreams and little girls’ fairytales.
All from a quiet scientist.
Pulling away, his grey-blue eyes burned with blue flames, his face flushed with arousal. His slashed brows told of his disorientation, his damp palms against her cheeks, his anxiety.
She had to strike before he allowed logic to intrude.
Hooking her hand around his neck, she rose up on her toes and captured his lips again, her kiss hungrier, needier than the first. When she plundered his mouth with determined need, he groaned aloud, his arms wrapping around her tight.
Gooseflesh sprouted along her spine to splinter through her limbs, her body tingling within his warm embrace. His urgent, yet patient kisses relayed the desire he’d refused to acknowledge. He wanted her, just as she wanted him. She may not be what he wanted out of life, but he couldn’t deny the hunger between them.
“Robinson.”
They jumped away from each other, breathing hard. Mitchell stood at the end of the small hallway. He nodded toward the area where the others were dining.
“Over here. Now.”
Grabbing her hand, Clint led her back to the table. His grip was tight, nearly cutting off the circulation in her fingers. When they reached the alcove, he let go and escorted her ahead of him. Mitchell watched them take their seats, a solemn Angela at his side.
He glanced down at the DNA tracker in his hand. “Tristan, stand in front of the door to the kitchen and don’t let anyone pass through.”
With a slight frown, his son got up and sauntered to the door several feet away. He stood before it, arms crossed over his chest.
“What is this, Mitchell?” Dar Naylor said, grabbing the back of his chair to twist around. “Afraid we’re going to walk out on your monologue?”
Raising his gaze to Dar, he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Yes. Or run.”
The room fell into a deadly silence, all eyes on the D.I.R.E. commander. That’s when she realized the wait staff was nowhere to be seen. Whatever he had to say, it couldn’t be good.
“You’ve never been one for drama, Mitchell,” Rachel Monroe said, as she glanced away from her fiancé standing at the door. “Why the mystery?”
“No mystery, Rachel.” He patted Angela’s hand where it clutched the crook of his elbow. “Just precautions.”
Dar’s voice sounded ripe with sarcasm. “Well, we know who he trusts—or doesn’t trust. Don’t we?”
Aidan’s voice held a note of impatience. “Damn, Naylor, of course he’s going to trust his son.”
Cocking his head, Dar stared at his future brother-in-law. “My father didn’t.”
Jocelyn grabbed Dar’s hand and kissed it.
“Let me be clear on this,” Mitchell said, as he glanced around the room. “I trust everyone on my team. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
If he didn’t spit it out soon, she would walk out again. This was no place for business. It was a personal, special occasion.
“We ran Cyrus’s DNA through the tracker.”
She caught her breath. His gaze flew to her face. Her heart raced as it had in the hallway moments ago. Clint caught her hand under the table.
“He’s still locked away where we left him, Keegan.”
The air rushed out of her lungs, as Clint squeezed her hand.
“But, he has relatives.”
His grandfather was dead and they already suspected this Madam of being a relative, possibly his mother. Why did that warrant an interruption of the rehearsal dinner?
“Where?” Dylan’s grip on Teague’s hand tightened to white-knuckled. “Here in San Diego?”
Keegan’s heart galloped again, a sense of foreboding shrouding her in a cloud of unease. Mitchell’s voice held a cynical, perturbed edge.
“No, McCall. Here in this room. Someone here is related to Cyrus Matheson.”
Chapter 4
She should’ve listened to her gut.
Rising up from her seat, she ignored Clint’s wide-eyed stare and walked to her father’s side. She knew him, was sure of him—and, Natalie. However, she didn’t know the others. One of them was hiding something. One of them had infiltrated D.I.R.E. and made it into this room of top security, elite personnel.
Had she been rescued only to be imprisoned by Cyrus’s family again?
Rather than the eruption of conversation she’d expected from Mitchell’s statement, the room remained silent.
“A confession is in order.” He glanced around the room, his gaze expectant. “I won’t consider it an admission of guilt and we’ll speak in private.”
“You really think one of us are in with Cyrus Matheson?” Jaydan held out his hands wide, his brow furrowed. “How can you even go there?”
Mitchell held up the tracker. “This doesn’t lie.”
Clint’s low voice resonated. “Have you considered the person may not know they’re related?”
Keegan’s gut tightened, her palm squeezing her father’s arm. Coming from the man that appeared more like Cyrus than anyone in the room, Clint’s question seemed rather convenient.
I didn’t know I was related to one of the most dangerous criminals in the world. My bad.
A skeptical huff escaped. At least Cassandra and Dar admitted their sordid past.
Mitchell’s blue eyes glittered as he stared at Clint. “I have—and deem it doubtful.”
“Considering how much Cyrus knew about me and my mother,” Hope said, glancing at her father at the end of the table, “I suggest you run my DNA. I think it makes the most sense.”
Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Jaydan pulled Hope against his side.
Hope. Of course. Her mother was the beginning of Clay Matheson’s master race initiative. Perhaps, Kimberly DePaul was Clay’s daughter.
“We’ve never had any relatives come up in the tracker, Mitchell.” Luke glared at him with heated accusation. “It can’t be Hope.”
“We’re on a new playing field now, Powers,” said Mitchell. “No one is absolved from this investigation. I’m having headquarters run everyone’s DNA—including my own.”
Keegan’s mind raced. Wouldn’t that make for interesting conversation? The head of D.I.R.E. and Cyrus Matheson. Or…
Angela.
What did they know about her? She’d taken the first time travel machine back to the future to avoid legal consequences. From what Jocelyn had told her, Angela wasn’t the most dependable person in the space time continuum.
She glanced at Clint. He reminded her so much of Cyrus. Both brilliant scientists, both blond, both…attractive. How could it be a mere coincidence?
Then again, they were nothing alike when it came to temperaments, attitude…kissing.
“What about Clint?” she blurted, before she realized the words had left her mouth.
He whipped around to glare at her, his lips pulled tight, his grey eyes stormy.
“I know Cyrus better than any of you,” she said. “If anyone reminds me of him, it’s Robinson.”
His low, logical voice held no malice or defensive derision. Only wondrous disbelief. “Is that why you kissed me in the hall?”
She caught her breath. He’d had to study her response to him. He’d had to pursue it despite the signs she’d given him to leave her.
Her gut had told her not to give into this attraction for him. Maybe she was falling into old habits after years of living with Cyrus. Maybe subconsciously, Clint felt comfortable because he was so familiar.
Her stomach swirled with defeat.
Clint turned to Mitchell. “I volunteer, too. I have nothing to hide.”
* * *
He’d heard it all. Him—related to Cyrus Matheson? No matter how much Clint
may remind Keegan of him, he wasn’t related.
Are you sure about that, Robinson?
He shouldn’t shun the possibility. There was no telling how many brothers and sisters he had out there, although he’d never seen his mother pregnant after she’d had his brother. Clint knew James wasn’t out there. He’d taken care of that.
“So, we’re all stuck in this room until you receive the results?” Natalie said, her arm hooked through Riordan’s beside her.
“We have everyone’s DNA on file at headquarters. It shouldn’t take long. Please, go about your dinner.”
Riordan gave a laugh of disdain before Natalie leaned over to speak low. “Riordan, let’s just postpone. This feels wrong.”
Clint’s gaze flashed to Keegan. The instigator in all of this. She was so determined to have her way and let this wedding take place. Her obstinacy irritated the crap out of him.
That’s why her vulnerability in the hallway had been a shock.
He’d wanted nothing more than to erase the hurt in her eyes, to dissolve the tears she’d fought with valiance. He understood her stance on having the wedding, but sometimes—most of the time—logic had to win.
James had taught him that—the hard way. Clint had done his share of spoiling his little brother, trying to make up for the absence of Russ and Carol Robinson. James cried when the two of them were left at home with the nanny. He’d had temper tantrums the likes of which Clint had never seen again. Back then, he’d done anything and everything to make James stop crying.
Even going against his own gut.
He’d never do it again. Not even for Keegan.
“At this point, I have to agree with Natalie,” Clint said.
Keegan’s hazel eyes flashed with green gold fire. “Why should we listen to the most likely suspect in the room?”
“Now, wait a minute,” Tristan Jacobs said, shocking everyone. The quiet super agent didn’t speak up often. “No one is accusing Clint of anything. I’d bet my life on him, regardless of his heritage.”
