Code Name

by Sawyer Bennett

  Astonishingly, there’s an indoor pool inside the huge bedroom. It’s probably only fifteen-feet wide, but it’s long, rectangular, and leads directly onto the balcony under the glass-paneled wall.

  Samuel walks over to the glass wall that leads onto a patio. When he presses a button, the wall starts sliding panel by panel into recessed pockets until it completely disappears.

  “Oh, wow,” Barrett murmurs.

  It’s obvious Samuel takes immense pride in this feature. “Visitors to Marjorie Island tend to spend a great deal of time in this room.”

  “I imagine so,” she replies as she wanders onto the balcony. It’s furnished with a beautiful set of furniture and another gas fire pit.

  “Mr. Murdock said you will be staying here for an extended period,” Samuel says.

  “A few weeks.” I keep the answer purposefully vague.

  “Well, we normally send someone in daily to clean, change the linens, and replace the towels. Would you like that?”

  “Actually,” I reply hesitantly, eyes on Barrett as she leans onto the balcony railing and admires the blue waters. “I think we’ll be just fine on our own.”

  “Of course, sir,” he replies with a half bow. “But like I said… I’m a phone call away if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Samuel,” I reply just as Thomas comes in with the first armful of our luggage.

  It takes another twenty minutes for Samuel to show us around and Thomas to unload the boat. I tip them each a hundred, for which they’re extremely grateful. My hope is the generosity will translate into discretion. When we were in the kitchen, I’d checked out the food supplies and pantry. We easily have enough to keep us well fed for a few weeks.

  I walk with the men to the docks, leaving Barrett to the lunch she insisted on making. The three of us make small talk until Samuel’s other son comes to pick them up. After they leave, I give the boat a once over, making sure it’s secure before heading back up to the main house.

  Barrett put together a salad with what looks to be grilled chicken. She certainly didn’t have time to cook it, so when Samuel said the provisions were well stocked, he hadn’t been kidding.

  It’s quiet as we eat, and I have no clue what Barrett’s thinking. My mind is on getting the security equipment set up before the sun goes down.

  So, it startles me when she says, “You should take the master suite.”

  Furrowing my brow, I lift my head. “Excuse me?”

  “The master suite. I mean… you’re the one doing all the hard work of protecting me and stuff. You should have that bedroom.”

  I put my fork down, then cross my arms on the table. “Actually… we need to stay in the same room.”

  “We do?” she asks, pulling her chin toward her chest in surprise.

  “For safety,” I say bluntly. “While the chances of anyone finding us or making it past the security alarms without alerting me are slim, I want you in the same room with me at night while I’m sleeping.”

  “Oh,” she mutters, eyes on her salad.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” I say.

  “Sure,” she replies vaguely, picking through her salad with her fork. But then she jerks her head up. “I mean… no. You can’t sleep on that hard floor. The bed is huge, and we’re both adults. We can share.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I drawl.

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Why? Am I unsafe with you or something?”

  “Of course not,” I snap, offended she’d even suggest such a thing.

  “Then what’s the big deal?” she mocks, batting her lashes.

  Jaw locked, I stare. I have to loosen it to grit out, “No big deal.”

  Except sleeping in a bed with you all night will be about the most torturous thing imaginable.

  But I keep that admission to myself.

  CHAPTER 12

  Barrett

  There’s no disorientation as I wake up. I immediately know I’m on a private island in the Caribbean in a luxurious home owned by a famous movie star, currently being hunted by people who want to kidnap me, and pressed against a half-naked, well-muscled, and gorgeous man.

  Shit.

  How did I end up plastered against Cruce’s side? It took significant effort throughout the night to cling to my side of the huge bed. It’s been the same for the last three nights.

  Each night, I’m exhausted at bedtime. I’ve pretty much been working the same long days I did back in the States, and I was ready—actually aching—for sleep when I tumbled onto the mattress. Cruce doesn’t go to bed at the same time I do, which has made it less awkward for sure. I’ve been able to drift off fairly quickly.

  But thereafter, things weren’t quite that easy. I had a terrible time staying asleep, nightmares and needing to pee constantly waking me. Each time I woke, sometimes sitting up in the bed or quietly rolling out to use the bathroom, Cruce woke, too.

  “You okay?” he’d ask.

  Each time, I replied, “Yeah… gotta pee.”

  I’m pretty sure he thinks I have a bladder problem at this point, but each time I returned to the bed, I lay on my side, back to him, with my fingers curled into the sheets on the edge of the mattress for anchoring.

  Each time before I fell back asleep, I gave myself a stern lecture to stay on my side of the bed and not to inadvertently roll his way.

  A lot of good that’s done because the sun is now up, and my worst nightmare has come to fruition. I’m snuggled right up against Cruce.

  He’s on his back, and my face is pressed into his upper arm. I’ve got one arm curled under me, supporting my head, and the other resting on his belly.

  Oh man… right on that part of his stomach at his navel where a sexy line of hair starts, running down into the cut-off sweatpants he’s wearing. I peek at the expanse of exposed skin before me as he’s bare chested.

  Damn it!

  I can hear seagulls screaming outside as we left the glass panels open last night. This was done only after Cruce determined it would be impossible for anyone to scale the outside of the house and enter as the outdoor balcony was built outward over free air space.

  Casting my eyes down to where my hand rests on him, I can’t believe I’m touching him so intimately. The urge to move just a few inches forward until I can touch that trail of hair is strong. My fingers literally cramp as I restrain myself. Against all my wants and desires, I very slowly lift my hand off his body.

  “About time you woke up,” Cruce murmurs and my hand freezes, hovering just over his stomach.

  I scramble away, putting a good foot of space in between us. “I am so sorry,” I squeak as I stare with wide eyes. “I did that in my sleep. It wasn’t intentional, I promise.”

  Lazily, he rolls his head on the pillow to give me a sly smile, those blue eyes sparkling. “It wasn’t a hardship, Barrett.”

  God, why did he have to make that sound so sexy?

  “Regardless,” I reply almost primly, “I’m sorry for encroaching.”

  Cruce just stares. He’s obviously contemplating something, I can tell. I brace, wondering if he’ll take the time to remind me why nothing can occur between us. Or perhaps he’ll gently let me down by telling me he’s gay, which we both know isn’t true, but it would be the gentlemanly way of letting me know he’s not attracted to me.

  Instead, he rolls on his side, props his head on one hand, and presses the other into the mattress. It brings us shockingly close again. Instinctively, I scoot back another few inches, mainly so I don’t assault him with my morning breath.

  “Do you know you talk in your sleep?” he asks.

  I blink in surprise. I did not know this, but it’s been a long damn time since I’ve slept with a man all night. No one around to point anything like that out.

  “What do I talk about?” My tone is hesitant… fearful it will be something embarrassing.

  “Interesting stuff,” is all he says, not even trying to hide the smirk spreading across his handsome face.
“Lots of little sounds, too.”

  Searching my memory, I try to grasp onto any fragments of my dreams last night. I don’t remember anything sexy that would cause me to moan, but then again… I don’t remember half the shit that woke me.

  “Are you messing with me?” I ask, hoping beyond hope that’s the case. If not, I’m going to die from mortal embarrassment. Right now.

  He ignores my question, which is intentionally evil on his part. “I’m starved. Eggs and bacon sound good for breakfast?”

  Cruce doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead, he flashes a charming grin and rolls out of bed. I lock my eyes onto his body, because it’s impossible not to when it’s so damn gorgeous. Plus, I cannot miss the hard-on he has.

  It presses right up against his cut-off sweatpants, tenting them in the middle. I only get a brief glance before he’s striding out of the bedroom.

  Rolling to my back, I let out a huff of frustration.

  Damn it… I want Cruce.

  And he clearly wants me.

  Unless he was dreaming about Scarlett Johannsen or something.

  But what if that erection was because of and in reaction to me?

  I don’t consider myself an aggressive female when it comes to the opposite sex. I’ve never been the lead in making something happen, mostly because of my inexperience but I’ve also not been shy about it if the perfect opportunity presented itself either.

  In fact, I suspect there might be something wrong with me because I’m sitting here analyzing my sex life with the same detached, scientific curiosity with which I handle my work. That right there says I’m not all that great at this sort of stuff.

  As such, I need to let this go and let it go for good. Cruce and I have more important, pressing matters to worry about. I need to concentrate on my work, and I can’t make things awkward for Cruce.

  I vow to myself I won’t think about Cruce in an untoward fashion again, hoping to God I have the willpower to honor that promise.

  ♦

  Our first full day here, I’d decided to claim the dining room table as my office. It’s huge—seats sixteen—and runs perpendicular to one of the glassed walls that look out over the front of the island. I can see the dock with the boat we rented, the white beach to the left of it, and in between those points and the main house, the canopy of trees and bushes that hug the small island hills.

  I’m having a tough time concentrating, and I pin that on a few things. First and foremost, this isn’t my office and lab. There’s no familiarity here. Granted, anything my eyes land on is stunningly beautiful—from the interior of the house out to the blue Caribbean waters—but none of that means anything when I’m trying to concentrate on my groundbreaking work.

  I’m also distracted by the fact that, at any moment, some military strike force could come barreling up to the beach in an armored boat, shoot Cruce dead, and kidnap me. No one has said it yet, but I suspect my refusal to discuss my research is going to cause me pain at some point.

  I’m guessing torture is what is in store for me, and that alone has my stomach constantly knotting up.

  And then, there’s the man walking the length of the beach while checking the trip wires. He does that about ten times a day. Prior to checking the equipment, he navigates the entire perimeter of the island, making sure all alarms are operational. This has become his routine, and I expect he is bored out of his mind.

  I move my gaze away from Cruce back to my laptop. I’m reading an old article written during the eighties by a Russian physicist. Many of my peers won’t go that far back in their research, thinking anything more than twenty years is too outdated. But I find compelling kernels of information that will cause a new idea to fire in my head enough to make the effort worth it.

  I make a few notes on a yellow pad beside me, tapping my pencil against my chin. I never write in ink because, more often than not, the minute I jot an idea down, I’ll erase it and write something more expansive and infinitely more intelligent. It’s the way I process.

  When I’m done for the evening, Cruce will have me lock my laptop and notes away into a secure, steel vault located in, of all places, a guest bathroom in the east wing of the house. I guess if someone wanted to steal valuables, it would be one of the last places someone would think to look.

  I concentrate on the article, getting lost in the words and jotting notes. When the front door opens, I lift my head, sliding my attention that way. Cruce walks in, looking like he’s totally settled into island life. He’s wearing swim trunks, a light blue t-shirt that does amazing things to his eyes, and tennis shoes.

  Wait… the tennis shoes won’t work.

  “You need flip-flops,” I point out as he starts my way.

  “Yeah… not really all that mobile in flip-flops,” he counters, snagging an apple out of a bowl on the kitchen island. He takes a bite, his white teeth flashing a moment before he chews.

  “Island all secure?” I ask, pushing my chair away from the table and stretching my back.

  “As secure as I can make it,” he says, coming to a stop right beside me. He bends, peers at my notes, and reads my last line aloud, “It sucks not having Wi-Fi.”

  Lifting his head, he grins. “Those are some groundbreaking thoughts, Dr. Alexander.”

  I shrug. “What can I say… I’m a modern girl. I don’t like being cut off from the world.”

  “Well, modern girl,” he drawls, pointing a finger around the apple he’s holding. “You’ve been working at this table for seven straight hours today. The last three days, you didn’t take a break. You even ate your lunch here. So, I think you should take a break to keep your body healthy and alleviate my boredom.”

  My back is sore, since the comfort factor of these chairs suck. Sure, they’re gorgeous, designer, and feel great on the ass for the length of a meal, but they weren’t made to be sat in all day. Rolling my shoulders, I groan at how tight they are.

  Without thought, Cruce sets the apple down and moves behind me. He places his large hands on my shoulders, then starts to massage them.

  I groan again, this time in discomfort as he hits knot upon knot, but also with relief because I can feel them releasing.

  “Okay,” he says, hands moving from my shoulders and going under my armpits. He hauls me out of the chair, then gives me a tiny push toward the hall that leads to the master suite. “That’s it. Go get a bathing suit on. You’re going to take a half-hour break—at a minimum—and we’re going down to the beach. I’ll give your entire back a massage, then you can lay on a towel and watch me fish for our dinner. How’s that sound?”

  “Like heaven,” I admit as I face him. “And usually a luxury I never let myself have.”

  “Why do you work so hard?” he asks, his head tilted in curiosity. “I mean… I get putting in a fifty- or-sixty-hour workweek to anyone who’s dedicated, but you work anywhere from ninety to a hundred. Why?”

  My brow furrows. “Because I love what I do. I get immersed. Lose track of time. Isn’t that why anyone spends so much time doing certain things?”

  “No,” he replies firmly with a slightly sad note. “Most people don’t do what they love. They watch the clock, and they can’t wait to stop for the day. They dread going in to work in the mornings. You’re lucky, Barrett, to do what you love.”

  “Do you love what you do?” she asks.

  “Well, I did when I was with the Secret Service,” he says, then his smile turns sly and calculated. “This job is a little too new for sure, but I can’t say spending the afternoon on the beach with a beautiful woman in a bikini is a horrible job perk.”

  Laughing, I give him a mock, chiding glare. Then I sober instantly as I realize something. “Sorry… no bikinis. In fact, no bathing suits. Your packing job was shitty, and you didn’t bother to pack me one damn bathing suit.”

  “I could call Samuel to ask him to bring some over,” he replies thoughtfully, but then I see a metaphorical light bulb go off over his head. “Or rather, just wear one o
f those fancy lingerie sets I threw in there. God knows you had enough of them. They’re no more revealing than a bikini would be.”

  I stare, my jaw dropping slightly. Some of them are way more revealing, as in the lace and silk are extremely see-through.

  But some aren’t.

  Some would work. He’s quite right they have as much—or rather just as little—cloth covering the important parts.

  Besides… I’m on an isolated island, running from kidnappers and dependent on this man to protect me. I’ve already developed a level of trust with him that I’ve not had with most people in my life. I don’t think I’d feel a lick of insecurity or awkwardness in wearing my underwear in front of him.

  Funny what having someone save my life and continue to protect it can do in that regard.

  “Okay,” I say with a wink before turning on my heel. “Bra and panties it is, but only half an hour on the beach. Then I’m coming back in to work some more.”

  “Don’t forget sunscreen,” he calls. “There’s some in the bathroom.”

  “Got it,” I say without breaking stride. “But you’ll have to do my back for me.”

  I swear, I think I actually hear him groan in response.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cruce

  I’m not exactly sure when the semi-nerdy scientist started looking not so nerdy anymore. I imagine it was the evening I’d escorted her to the president’s state dinner.

  But right here and right now—as Barrett walks back into the living area—is the moment she goes from semi-nerdy scientist to the sexiest woman in the entire world.

  She chose a baby-blue matching bra and panties in a satin material. Her breasts are fantastic… heavy and testing the strength of the straps. The satin is thick enough to shield her skin, but not so much it can hide her nipples popping against the material.

  Those fucking panties, which cut high on her hips and low on her flat belly, have me dying to know just how much of her ass is going to be shown. I know it’s going to be as beautiful as her front view.