“You can just call us geniuses,” Rip says. On the tablet, his name precedes the transcription. “Because we have a line on Volkov.”
Sloane sits up so quickly, her knee bangs into the table, and the thin flute glass with her sparkling cider threatens to tip over until I steady it. “What? Where is he?”
“Well, his money is in Milan, Italy. Three days ago. We have a facial recognition match to the last known photo of the asshole outside of the Banco di Milano,” Ripper says, and the tablet screen splits in two with a grainy photo of Volkov on the street in the sun.
Sloane covers her mouth with her hand. We’re close enough, I know she made a noise, and from the look on her face, it wasn’t a good one. “A little warning next time,” I snap and drape my right arm around her shoulders. “Sweetheart, breathe for me, okay.”
She nods and turns away from the screen. “That’s him. He’s bigger. Older, but…shit.”
“Take the photo down. Now.” Sloane doesn’t need to spend another second looking at that piece of shit, and the screen shifts back to transcription only. “Any idea what he’s been doing for the past three days?”
“No.” This from Austin. “He disappeared in a sea of people at a piazza two blocks from the bank. We’re watching the airports in Zurich and Milan, but he could drive to Zurich in a little over three hours.”
Not helping, Pritchard.
With every word, Sloane’s expression shutters further, and soon, I don’t know if I’ll be able to reach her.
“We have the gala in three hours. You have control of the hotel security cameras, right?”
“Affirmative. And Wren’s facial recognition program will send an alert to your phone and watch if any of Volkov’s known associates—or Volkov himself—show up,” Austin says. “Dax worked some of his magic with the local police, and if you need anything, ask for Officer Eric Keller.”
After Austin rattles off the number, Sloane and I both save the number to our phones.
“One piece of good news.” Ripper’s words scroll across the screen. “The guy who broke into your house, Sloane? He’s in custody, and he’s talking.”
“Talking?” she asks, reaching for my hand. Her fingers flutter, and her lips press together, then purse before she clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Yep,” Austin replies. “We sent Inara and Graham—they work with Ripper out in Seattle—to find the asswipe and persuade him to forget where you lived.”
Sloane shoots me a confused look, and I squeeze her hand. “I’ll explain later.”
“Well, they found him. Breaking into a surf shop in Coronado. He was all too happy to tell the District Attorney everything he knew about Volkov in exchange for the DA’s office ‘losing’ one of his previous strikes. The plea deal still sends him to prison for two years, but that’s a hell of a lot less than the twenty-five to life he would have earned.”
The screen splits again, and the right side cycles through half a dozen camera feeds. “Got the travel arrangements and security system taken care of too,” Ripper adds. “E-tickets, schematics and instructions were sent to both of your phones. The system’s armed, so make sure you know how it works before you try to unlock the front door.”
“Will do. Thanks. How’s Wren feeling?” Second Sight’s hacker—or genius, per Ripper’s earlier declaration—handed most of this case to Ripper after another wicked bout of morning sickness, and when I messaged Dax yesterday, he was worried.
“Better,” Ripper replies. “Ryker finally found the right combo of ice cream, potato chips, and oddly…spinach.”
“So the kid is going to be Popeye?” Ryker McCabe is close to seven feet tall, and while I’ve never met the man, his reputation in the intelligence community is fucking terrifying.
On screen, the word laughter appears after Ripper’s name. “Maybe. Except they’re having a girl.”
Austin joins in with the laughter. “I can’t wait to see McCabe try to figure out how to hold a newborn. Might have to fly out to Seattle for that. Listen, Griff? You and Sloane have fun tonight. We’re doing everything we can on our end. If we get any updates, we’ll let you know.”
We say our goodbyes, and I wrap my arm around Sloane’s waist and hold her close. “They’re the best in the world, sweetheart. We’re the best in the world.”
Even though I’m not sure I should lump myself into that category any longer, I do it for Sloane, and in her gaze, I find such unwavering confidence that I vow to put my issues aside and be the man she thinks I am.
“Can I try…being on top?” Sloane asks, her eyes half-hooded after the climax I wrung from her body only a few minutes ago.
Smiling, I roll onto my back, cup the back of her neck, and pull her close for a tender kiss. “You can have whatever you want, sweetheart.”
She chews on her lip for a moment, clearly nervous. “You’ll tell me if I’m not doing it right?”
Locking eyes with her, I try to impress on her just how serious I am with my tone. “There is nothing you could possibly do wrong. Go slow, and stop if you need to.”
With a nod, she picks up the foil packet and rips it open. Her warm fingers stroke down my dick, and once I’m sheathed, she straddles me, her hands on either sides of my shoulders so a curtain of her blond hair falls all around our heads.
“Just ease yourself down.”
She does, and I wrap my fingers around the base of my shaft to hold myself steady for her.
“You feel so damn good, Sloane.” Her inner walls are so tight, so hot and wet, and from this angle, fuck me. This is nothing like our first coupling. Her confidence grows as she seats herself fully and then kisses me.
Slowly, I start to move my hips under her. I can’t hear the sound she makes, but I can feel it, and that’s enough. Some things don’t need to be heard. And maybe…I haven’t lost as much as I thought.
Rising up enough so I can see her face, she smiles, her lips swollen. “Harder,” she says.
My hand curls around her hip, and I raise my brows, asking for permission before I move any further. “Can I grab your ass, sweetheart? It’ll give me better…leverage.”
She answers by covering my hand with hers, guiding me right to the spot that will give me the most control. Her trust is so fucking amazing, such a gift, and I’ll never, ever take it for granted.
Digging my fingers into the tight muscle, I start to move faster, and she matches my rhythm, riding me so hard I won’t last much longer.
“Sloane,” I manage. “I want you to come again. Before I let go. Can you touch yourself?”
She sucks in a sharp breath, but it’s not in fear. No. Excitement is all I find in the depths of her eyes. Trailing her fingers down her flat stomach, she finds her clit, and I know the instant she starts to feel pleasure. Her eyelids flutter, and her channel tightens around me. “Oh, God.” She throws her head back and her entire body implodes, squeezing my dick with each wave of her release.
I only have one single thought as I let myself fly with her.
She’s it for me. And soon…I’m going to tell her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sloane
After I help Griff with his bowtie and a pair of cufflinks that are quite literally tiny pocket knives attached to the post and toggle, I shoo him out of the room so Marina can zip, tape, and tuck me into my gown.
Griff’s seen me naked—several times now—but there’s something magical about this dress, and I want to surprise him.
“After tonight, I don’t ever want to see a pair of nipple covers again,” I mutter, smoothing the silicone over the sensitive skin. The adhesive hurts no matter how I try to remove them, but with this dress? The bodice is designed to lift my boobs as far as they’ll go, while the silk provides no protection should I get cold—or aroused. And with Griff at my side, aroused is a distinct possibility.
“Promise me you won’t just disappear,” Marina says quietly, the dress draped over her arm. “If you need to run, I get it. B
ut find some way to let me know?”
A tear threatens, and even though I’m still mostly naked save for a pair of nude panties and those cursed silicon stickers, I hug her so hard, she squeaks. “The point of running,” I whisper in her ear, “is so no one can find me.”
“Sloane—”
“Shh. It’s my last resort only. Griff will do everything he can to make sure I never have to ‘just disappear.’”
Marina wriggles free of my embrace and holds my gaze. “That’s not a promise.”
Sighing, I hold out my right hand, making a fist with every finger but my pinky. “I swear.”
“You’re gorgeous, Sloane. And I’ve outdone myself.” Marina turns me toward the full-length mirror on the wall, and holy shit. She’s right. The lavender gown comes to a peak at my left shoulder with a sparkling strap of rhinestones that follows the S curve of the bodice down to my waist.
Taking a couple of steps, then spinning around, I marvel at the design. The gown is split all the way to my hip, but thanks to Marina’s superior taping skills, even dancing won’t reveal anything inappropriate.
I gently pluck at one of the dozens of curls tumbling from behind a sparkling headband, and it bounces back almost immediately. “I’ve never felt more like a movie star—or a princess—than I do right now.”
“Well, then go meet your prince.” Marina beams, but then her eyes widen. “Oh, but can you do up the last few hooks on the back of this thing?”
As soon as I fasten the last few hook and eye closures on her silk and lace ball gown, we take a few selfies out on the patio. “I’m sorry this hasn’t been as much of a ‘girls’ weekend’ as it was supposed to be.”
“Sloane, I’m in one of the fanciest hotels on the planet, had an amazing spa day with my best friend, and now? I’m going to the party of the year. In a dress that probably costs more than Beauty and Style paid me this weekend. Except for the whole danger and death portion of the trip…I’ve had the time of my life.”
“Me too.” We hug one more time—albeit gently so we don’t wrinkle—and she nods at the door.
“Go. I’ll hang back here for a couple of minutes so the two of you can smooch a bit. Plus, Jacob isn’t supposed to be here for another ten minutes.”
With one last squeeze of her hand, I head for the door and my very handsome, very protective date.
Griff
Don’t tug at your bow tie.
The damn thing feels like it’s choking me. This is only the fourth time in my life I’ve put on a tux, and while this one—a midnight blue number with a deep-cut vest—was tailored to my exact measurements, the bow tie still chafes.
Or maybe what chafes is that I needed help with it. And the cufflinks. Sloane didn’t make a big deal of it, but I hate having to rely on anyone for something so basic.
While I wait for Sloane to finish getting ready, I double check the knife strapped to my calf and practice drawing the gun from a special pocket sewn into the inside of the vest. With the rest of the team trying to zero in on Volkov’s location, tonight should be nothing but a party full of pompous executives, music, and the official unveiling of this year’s Christmas Book.
Glasses, watch, phone…all fully charged. I’m as prepared as I can be. Until the bedroom door opens and Sloane glides toward me.
“Holy fuck.”
She spins, causing the dress to flare out around her and show me a long, toned expanse of leg, then laughs. God, I wish I could hear the sound.
“You’re not going to be able to sit down all night, are you?” I slide my hand along her waist, the fabric soft under my fingers.
“Probably not.” She presses a quick kiss to my lips before retrieving her clutch from the table.
“Are you wearing your panic button?” I hate asking. Hate that she has to even worry about that when we’re supposed to be going to a party and having fun.
Sloane touches a spot under her left arm, her gaze fixed on the floor. “This is the only place I could put it.”
“Hey.” Skimming a knuckle along her jaw, I wait for her to look up at me. “What’s wrong? You’re wearing it. That’s the important thing. We shouldn’t need it. It’s a party. I’m not planning on leaving your side.”
“We haven’t heard from Dimitri in two days. I’m scared, Griff.”
Her breath ghosts over my cheek, warm, scented with mint, and the urge to keep her here, to carry her back to our bedroom and figure out how to get her out of that dress—once I kick Marina out—is almost too strong to ignore.
“Maybe no one’s heard from him because he knows we’re close to tracking him down and he’s in hiding. Hold on to that hope for tonight, Sloane. This is your night. The unveiling of the Christmas Book. You should be able to enjoy it.”
“I will. As long as you’re with me,” she says, and I wish these glasses had the ability to save the words scrolling across the lenses forever. My heart belongs to Sloane. Now and forever if she’ll have me, and soon, I won’t be able to stop myself from confessing just how far I’ve fallen for her.
Pulling her close enough she can probably feel the solid weight of the gun in my vest pocket, I cup the back of her neck. My fingers—my real ones—graze the rough skin where she once bore that shitstain’s mark, and she shudders.
Dammit. Being reminded of him is the last thing she needs right now.
“Don’t go there,” I whisper. “You survived. Hell, you did more than that.” Turning us so we’re facing the full-length mirror on the wall next to the door, I nod at the reflection. “Look at yourself. What do you see?”
She lifts her gaze, and her lower lip wobbles until she traps it between her teeth. After a long moment, she sighs, the motion causing her chest to heave. “I see an imposter.”
“No.” Fuck. This isn’t going the way I intended. “No. You are not an imposter. I see a woman with poise and confidence. A woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. I see you, Sloane. The real you. And I love you.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, and if I could kick myself as hard as I wanted to, I’d end up in next week.
“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. I know it’s too soon. Until five seconds ago, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t tell you until we were home. Back in San Diego. But, dammit. I can’t help it. You’re it for me, and tonight, you’re going to shine in front of everyone.” Carefully, so I don’t mess up her makeup, I touch my lips to hers, then kiss the sensitive spot behind her ear and lower my voice. “We’ll dance. We’ll mingle. And when the party’s over, we’ll come back here and I’ll hold you all night. Every night, if you’ll let me.”
Digging in her clutch, she pulls out one of my handkerchiefs and dabs at her shimmering eyes. “Griff…I…there’s so much I want to say. I just don’t have the words.”
“Shh. We have time. I’m not going anywhere. Except down to the ballroom with the most beautiful woman in the world.”
With one last, lingering look in the mirror, Sloane nods. “Okay. Let’s go.” She only manages a half smile, but it’s genuine, and I offer her my left arm. I don’t have any sensation above the wrist, but the weight on my shoulder as she wraps her fingers around my elbow reassures me enough to unlock the door.
When we’re back in the States, I need to tell Austin just how right he was. About everything.
The ballroom is lit with thousands of tiny white lights, tall silver “trees” decorated with bright blue ornaments line the room, and every post is wrapped in silver and white tulle. Along the far wall, six tables hold hundreds of copies of the Christmas Book, but the stacks are hidden under blue velvet drapes until the Beauty and Style CEO gives his big speech in a couple of hours.
After the security guards check my name against the list on their tablets, we’re allowed in.
“It’s so beautiful,” she says, leaning closer to me and resting her head on my shoulder for a brief moment.
“Not compared to you.” I cover her hand with mine, fully intending to kiss her when Don
na Mills, the head of the Beauty and Style Christmas Book selection committee rushes over to us.
“Sloane, my dear. You are a vision. That dress!” Donna leans in to air kiss both of Sloane’s cheeks.
“You’re too kind,” Sloane says with a small smile. “This is my boyfriend, Harry Griffin. He’s standing in as my agent for the weekend as well.”
“Mr. Griffin. It’s a pleasure.” Leaning in, presumably to whisper, she adds, “I heard about the little mob scene after the runway show. I was backstage at the time, but you were mentioned several times during the cocktail party—carrying Sloane to safety like some gallant white knight.”
“All part of the job, Ms. Mills.” Clearly, the woman doesn’t know I can’t hear her, or if she does, she hasn’t let on. “I presume we won’t have the same problem tonight.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. The only photographers allowed in are with Beauty and Style. You’ll be quite safe from any mobs—beyond Sloane’s fans, of course, and she has many among our staff.”
“Working with you has been my honor,” Sloane says, and from the look on her face, she means it. Ever since the middle of the runway show yesterday, she’s been comfortable and relaxed when not worried about Volkov, and I intend to do whatever I can to ensure she stays that way. To let her enjoy the evening so if she does decide to retire, she can do so with no regrets.
She deserves it. And so much more.
Sloane
The hours pass quickly, a flurry of congratulations from investors and executives alike, idle chitchat with some of the models—including Jill, who stares at Griff like she wants to eat him for dessert—and dancing.
Marina, with Jacob her constant shadow, flits by at regular intervals, the last time with a glass of champagne in her hand. “Only one,” she says, winking at me. “Otherwise I’ll turn into a pumpkin with a massive headache long before midnight.”
Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 23
