The Beach Alibi

by Alison Kent

He'd wanted to be here like this from the first moment he'd seen her gorgeous tits straining to pop out of her dress.

  The room had lightened enough that he could see in her eyes her awareness of what he wanted, and she tucked a pil­low beneath her head and smiled.

  He moved further up her body, curled his hands over the top railing of her wrought iron headboard, and started to thrust into the valley where she pressed her breasts together.

  He took it slow to start with, his eyes rolling back at the feel of her plump tits held so tight and so close that he could hardly fit between.

  But then she opened her mouth, flicked her tongue over the tight skin covering the head of his cock each time it came close, and slow turned into an effort in futility.

  His hold on the headboard became a death grip as he pumped harder, faster. Her tits squeezed him, her lips sucked him. He trailed a sticky string of jiz over her skin as he listened to her beg him to fuck her.

  The bed shook with the rhythm of his hips. He stared down, watching her tweak at her nipples, watching his cock slide between her breasts and into her mouth, watching the come-to-mama circle she formed with her lips and the lick­ing crook of her tongue.

  That was it. His fantasy of the perfect woman's wet, will­ing, and welcoming mouth. And the next thing he found himself watching was his come filling the bowl of her tongue before she sucked him to the back of her throat.

  She swallowed him from head to balls, her cheeks milk­ing him dry. He shuddered, felt the squeezing contractions deep between his legs until he was spent and drained with nothing more to give.

  He waited a moment, finally moving when the sweat beaded on his forehead threatened to drip onto hers. Only then did he find the strength to slide beneath the covers and spoon against her.

  He wanted to thank her, but didn't want her to think his appreciation was all about the sex. It was, but it was also so very much more, and at the top of the list was the lesson in trust.

  She'd flipped the switch on a megawatt spotlight and forced him to face the monsters in his closet. The difference this time was that she'd stayed beside him from the moment he'd opened the door.

  And now, for the first time since Nicaragua, he felt he might actually relax enough to catch up on years' worth of missed sleep.

  Eleven

  Emma left Kelly John sleeping while she showered in the guest bathroom. She ended up going through her morning routine in silence once she'd gathered her things, having closed the bedroom door for a second time without waking him.

  She dressed in the guest room, pulled her hair back with a clip instead of dealing with hot rollers, did her makeup at the kitchen table while drinking her coffee, totally skipping Katie and Matt.

  The fact that Kelly was sleeping as hard as he was meant a lot—primarily that he didn't do it often enough and that his body wasn't going to let him get by on catnaps one more day.

  To Emma, that said that his mind had waited until feel­ing safe before shutting down. And she liked that. She liked it a lot. Liked that she'd created a place where he'd been able to let down his guard.

  A place in her bed, in her heart. In her life.

  She'd never bought into the silliness of love at first sight. The concept was out of step with her belief that a lasting re­lationship took time, required nurturing, began with shared interests and mutual respect—not with garter belts worn sans panties and boxer briefs shoved to the knees.

  Even now, on her way out the door, the consummate ex­ecutive assistant in navy Liz Claiborne and Prada pumps, she shivered before she managed to tamp down the mem­ory. There was a time and place for fantasizing, but if she didn't get her act in gear she would miss the bus and be late.

  With five minutes to spare, she exited the elevator onto the twenty-third floor of the financial district high-rise hous­ing Smithson Engineering, and made her way to the execu­tive suite.

  Hank's door was standing open, and seeing her walk by, he waved her in. She tucked her purse and workout bag be­neath her desk's kneehole and took a deep breath, feeling less like Mata Hari this morning than like the daughter who didn't have permission to bring her boyfriend home.

  So much for Liz Claiborne and Prada and being all grown up.

  "Good morning, sir," she said cheerily. "Are you needing Starbucks as much as I am?"

  Hank came out from behind his desk chuckling. "You and your big budget coffee. I suppose you'll be needing a raise soon to support your habit."

  She hesitated; before last night, his comment would not have tickled so much as a hair on one eyebrow. Now her entire nape was tingling.

  Surely he wasn't offering to pay her for the services she'd rendered last night to Kelly?

  Oh, God. Please don't let him have seen how far she'd taken her charge. She swallowed her unease, smiled. "Annual reviews began the first of next month. I think I can hold out until then."

  "Good, good." He nodded, distracted. "Things went okay last evening? You had a good time?"

  "I had a very good time, yes. Thanks so much for getting us the table at the restaurant." Keep it light, keep it friendly. That she thought she could do.

  "I knew getting reservations so late wasn't going to hap­pen without a bit of string pullin'," he said, perching his good hip on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms.

  She offered a nodding bow. "The strings were much ap­preciated. And the beef was to die for."

  "Pricey stuff, that Kobe. But worth every penny."

  She laughed. "As long as the pennies are coming out of your pocket, I'd have to agree."

  "Speakin' of out of pocket." He cleared his throat ner­vously. "You haven't by any chance seen Kelly since last night, have you?"

  She curled her fingers over the back of the visitor's chair behind which she stood, stared down at the seat. "Yes, as a matter of fact. It was late when we got in, and he stayed at my place. He was still sleeping, actually, when I left this morning."

  When she looked up again, she found Hank's complex­ion colored a ruddy red. He covered the moment with a cough made behind his fist. "Well, it's good the boy's get­ting some rest. I worry that he doesn't do that enough."

  "Did you need him? I can call the house and see if he's awake," she said, realizing how lame the offer was when Hank would no doubt have all manner of ways to make contact.

  He lifted his hip from his desk, waved off her suggestion. "I'll catch up with him later."

  She nodded. "Do you need anything done this morning before I get back to yesterday's EPA reports?"

  "Yes." He narrowed one eye and pointed. "I need you to get your coffee before Starbucks closes up shop for lack of business."

  She laughed. And she did.

  The morning passed quickly after that. Emma barely looked up before lunch. She wanted to say that she hadn't stopped at all to wonder where Kelly John was and what he was doing, but she'd never understood the benefit of lying to oneself.

  She'd thought of him constantly, wondered if this current job, the one putting his butt in a sling, required he come into the office.

  Or if he'd be in only if he needed to get with Tripp on the tapes, with Hank on where the assignment went from here. With the group if they held regular briefings in that amazing room on the twenty-fourth floor.

  Strange, perhaps, but working with him on a need-to-know basis had allowed her to quash her curiosity about what it was he'd been caught doing.

  It was only now, with all said and done, that she had the presence of mind to consider what it was she'd helped save him from.

  Honestly, though, she wasn't sure it made a difference. She wasn't even sure she really cared.

  All that mattered was that last night produced the hoped-for results, and that Kelly John was now out of harm's way—a twofold wish of sorts, because she wanted him safe for her as much as for himself.

  He was the man she'd been looking for all of her life, the man she wanted in her life. She didn't need to slow down - and first nurture what they had.
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  The twelve hours they'd spent together felt richer and more emotionally complete than she would have believed possible yesterday in Hank's office when they'd been intro­duced.

  Knowing the truth now made her anxious to get back to him, to see him again, to make him pecan waffles and serve him in bed.

  In fact. . . She glanced at her watch as the second hand swept from the five to the ten. Yes! Why not? It was close enough to lunchtime. She wouldn't be able to stay home long, of course . . . She supposed she should call, though surprising him would be much more fun.

  And, if he wasn't there, she'd gather up the dry cleaning needing to be done. A perfect plan—especially going in as she was with no expectations.

  If he was gone? She'd simply see him later. She reached for her purse first, then the phone.

  "Hank, here."

  "Sir, I'm going to take an early lunch. Would you like anything before I go?"

  "I'm fine, Emma. Not much of an appetite quite yet. Maybe I'll walk down to Brighton's when you get back."

  "All right. I'll be back as soon as I can," she said, hoping that the busses were running on schedule, that she had everything to make waffles, that Kelly John was still there.

  Once out of the executive wing and into the lobby, she found only one elevator moving between floors. Since she was leaving for lunch early, the wait wasn't long, though she hated losing even two minutes.

  The car finally arrived, and she stepped inside to ride down with one other passenger. He slouched back in one corner, ankles crossed, hands braced on the car's railing holding his weight.

  From the one brief glance she'd taken, he appeared to be watching the panel's digital display.

  It was hard to tell with the dark glasses he wore.

  They began the descent, Emma holding the narrow strap of her purse hooked over her shoulder, finding herself impa­tiently flexing her fingers around the leather and staring at the floor numbers as well.

  Staring until she sensed movement from her co-rider, who pushed off the back wall on which he was leaning and pressed the emergency stop button.

  What the hell? She raised her gaze from his hand on the button to his face. Took a step away as he pulled the reflec­tive lenses from his face.

  "Excuse me?" she began, stopped by the shake of his head and the silencing finger he pressed to his lips.

  Or so she thought, until she realized what had silenced her had been his eyes.

  She knew those eyes, had stared into them recently, though she couldn't place where . . .

  "I apologize, Miss Webster, for the inconvenience. But I will need you to come with me once we exit the elevator."

  She stared, blinked, her heart suddenly fluttering as she put the whole picture together. The earring, the dreadlocks, the eyes she'd stared into last night in the taxi's rearview mirror.

  This was the man who was after Kelly John. The man whose job it was to take others' lives.

  "Come with you where? Why?" The last word was no more than a whispered squeak. Talking was impossible when she couldn't even breathe.

  "I'm sure you understand that I cannot stop for explana­tions at the moment, but you and I will have plenty of time to chat soon enough."

  She said nothing, thinking of her cell in her purse, the building's security officer in the lobby, the emergency call phone in the control panel, which she could use if she could disable him somehow.

  She wanted to laugh at herself for even considering the thought. His lilting accent was the only thing about him that was soft. The rest of him was lean and hard, weathered and scarred, and very, very frightening.

  She shifted the strap of her purse more securely onto her shoulder and lifted her chin. "I'm assuming I don't have a choice?"

  "If I don't return with you to my employer within"—he glanced at the multi-dial face of the watch wrapped around his wrist with a wide leather band—"eight minutes, he will be on his way to retrieve what your Mr. Beach took from us. The retrieval will go much more smoothly with you tucked safely away." "Blackmail."

  "Exactly, though you shouldn't look on it in a negative light."

  "Why not?"

  "You'll be able to discover your lover's true colors. Will he choose you, or betray the trust of those counting on him to uphold the law?"

  Twelve

  It wasn't until Hank's stomach sent up a loud mournful howl complaining of hunger that he realized his lunch hour had come and gone some ninety minutes past.

  He'd been caught up on the World Wide Web, checking into the—what was the word for fancy knickknacks and extras?—accoutrements he was thinking of having installed in Maddy Bar None's new training barn, and hadn't paid mind to the time.

  Deciding no horse really needed a designer saddle blan­ket and anyone who thought such needed to be shot, he reached across his desk for the phone and punched the in­tercom button.

  "Emma? You want to order me up a sandwich and have Brighton's bring it over?" He waited for a moment, shutting down his browser windows, and when he got no response, tried again. "Emma?"

  This time he decided she must have stepped away for a necessary break. Hell, he needed one, too. Forget having Brighton's deliver his lunch. The walk down the block would do him good.

  Too much office air was drying out his brain. Too much sitting on his backside, which was spreading like bad weeds, instead of working in the field with his boys on SG-5's jobs.

  Not to mention too much time spent surfing the Web. And why the hell they called it surfing was beyond him, un­less it was from the way it sucked a man down and tried to drown him in more information than he could swallow in a lifetime.

  Pushing out of his chair and rounding his desk, he crossed the office, thinking of swallowing a big juicy roast beef on rye instead. Good ol' thick onions and cheddar cheese. Lots of horseradish mayo.

  At least that was what he was thinking until he pulled open the door, found Emma's desk still empty, and a man sitting alone on her visitor's sofa, an ankle squared up over the opposite knee, the Wall Street Journal spread open on his lap.

  He glanced up over the rims of his wire-framed glasses, folded the paper upon seeing Hank, and got to his feet. "Mr. Smithson, I presume?"

  "Who's inquiring?" Hank asked, slipping in behind Emma's desk should he need to hit the alarm button be­neath her desk that would ring on the twenty-fourth floor. Something about the man's look set off a bell.

  "My name is Oliver Shore. I recently assisted an associ­ate of yours, a Mr. Shaughnessey? During a siege at the sandwich shop to which I believe you're headed?"

  He inclined his head toward Emma's speaker phone, and Hank felt as if he'd never be able to swallow anything again because of the hatred balled up like a cancer in his throat.

  This man was Spectra IT.

  Hank braced a hand on the corner of Emma's desk mo­mentarily, using his thumb to hit the button hidden deep in the wooden lip. "I suppose we should step into my of­fice."

  Oliver Shore nodded, indicating that Hank should go ahead before lacing his hands at his back. Hank stopped inside the doorway, closing it once the other man had en­tered.

  The chess game was on.

  Hank walked to his desk, not bothering to offer a seat to the other man—though he took one anyway—and not bothering to sit in his own. Instead, he stood to face the enemy.

  "You've got two minutes." It would take less for his boys upstairs to show.

  "I think your assistant's well-being might be worth more than two minutes."

  It took a moment for the words' meaning to settle, then . . . Emma!

  Sonofabitch!

  Hank reached into his desktop humidor, his heart thump­ing in his chest as hard as it had when he'd learned of his Madelyn's breast cancer.

  He held the cigar by both ends, rolled it in his fingers, took a long minute before looking up. "Where is she?"

  "She's quite safe, and will be able to return to her duties in the morning." Shore paused, crossed his legs, and leaned bac
k in the chair. "As long as I get what I want tonight."

  Hank's office door opened then, Christian Bane walking into the office along with Mick Savin and Tripp Shaughnessey. All Tripp needed was one look at Hank's visitor and his face turned a mighty beet red.

  Shore used his grip on the chair's arms and pushed to his feet, his gaze traveling from one man to the next and set­tling finally on Tripp. "Mr. Shaughnessey. A pleasure to see you again."

  "No. It's not," was all Tripp said, his arms crossed over his chest, his stance shoulder-wide. "What do you want?"

  Shore removed his glasses, retrieved his handkerchief to clean the lenses, spoke while staring at the motion of his hands. "I was just about to explain to Mr. Smithson that I believe one of your associates is holding an item belonging to me. Until it is returned, I will be holding onto an item be­longing to him."

  "What's the item?" Christian demanded, cutting to the chase, his gaze grabbing hard to Hank's.

  The Montecristo Corona Grande crumbled to the desk­top. "He's got Emma."

  Emma sat in the straight-backed chair with her back straight, her hands clutching her purse in her lap. Across the unremarkable table in the unremarkable room that seemed suited for interrogations sat her abductor.

  He slouched back on his spine, legs spread beneath the table, hands laced behind his head, biceps sharply defined. He'd hooked his sunglasses in the neckline of his black T-shirt, and with his long thick dreads held back by an olive green bandana, his face was completely visible.

  Unfortunately, it was also completely unreadable.

  She'd hoped to be able to find something, anything, in his expression that would clue her in as to what was going to happen, because she seriously doubted she'd be released as promised at the end of the day.

  "How long am I going to have to sit here?" she finally asked because the tense silence was working her nerves as intended.

  His dark eyes twinkled, a response as enigmatic as all his others had been. "Do not feel that you must sit. The room is not large, but the length should be enough for you to pace."

  She thought of the click-click-click of her heels on the tiled floor, wondered how long the echo would take to drive him mad.