Oh God. Oh God. I felt his lips on mine but couldn’t move, couldn’t open my eyes. Not until one final orgasmic shudder thundered through me, releasing the last of the tension that had been building for hours.
So good. My nipples pearled into hard knots, and goose bumps erupted over every hypersensitive surface of my body.
Just as I began to regain consciousness, Mitch made one final thrust between my thighs. He groaned in my ear. It was a deep, animalistic, carnal sound that made my entire body spark right up again. I’d never heard anything so sexy.
Mitch’s chest heaved with his heavy breaths, and he slumped against me, planting a lingering kiss on my lips.
“I’m going to have to drain my pool now.” He cupped the back of my neck.
I chuckled, getting the jizz of the joke. “Ick. Okay. Now I’m imagining I have a colony of dying sperm coating my skin.”
“I hear it’s a great moisturizer. Want to take some home?” He chuckled.
“What? Ewww…” I laughed and swatted his shoulder, knowing he didn’t mean it. At least I hope?
“Shower?” he offered.
Naked? Out of the pool? Could I do it? I wanted to. Really I did. But he was so perfect, so beautiful. I was just…me. Plain old Abi. On the other hand, I really liked this guy. I wanted this. I wanted him.
“Sure.” I nodded. “Sounds good.”
He left me in the pool and grabbed two fluffy towels from a cabinet in a nearby gazebo. When he returned, I climbed the small ladder and let him look. At everything. I figured that the darkness would help me warm up to the idea.
“You’re gorgeous.” He wrapped the towel around my shivering body and kissed me again. “I like you, Abi. A lot.”
There was something in his tone—maybe the hint of vulnerability and tenderness—that threw me. I hadn’t been expecting him to say those words and certainly not with such sincerity. “I like you, too?”
“You’d better.” He kissed me again, and before I knew it, we were in his bed, the towels gone, our legs intertwined, and warm naked bodies pressed together. He wasn’t hard, but I couldn’t wait until the moment arrived because if a little dry humping—or wet humping since we had been in a pool?—felt this incredible, I couldn’t imagine having real sex. The man was hung like a champion stallion, and he knew how to move his body. Such coordination. Definitely a gold medalist.
However, somewhere in between getting lost in the feel of his silky lips and hard body tightly fit against my soft curves, Mitch passed out. I tried to wake him, but finally gave up. Didn’t help that he looked so happy and content.
“You’re so handsome, Mitch.” I traced the edges of his full lips and the ridges of his honey brown eyebrows, drinking him in.
How can this be possible? I’d seen this man dozens of times on TV or at the checkout stand, never realizing that he would be the guy I’d meet one night and have an amazing connection with.
I just might’ve been born to be with him. And not in some stalker, full back tattoo, gather his discarded belly-button fuzz to make a doll after I abduct him kind of way. He seemed equally drawn to me. It’s like everyone says; you just know when you meet the right person.
I drifted off in his arms, and the next thing I knew, Mitch was shaking me the next morning. “Wake up. You have to go.”
“Huh?” I cracked open my eyes to find a fully dressed Mitch scooping up my clothes and tossing them at my face.
“You heard me. Leave now.”
I pulled the sheet over my bare breasts. “What happened? Is something wrong?” Because he looked angry—flat lips, eyebrows furrowed.
“No. I was drunk last night. It was fun, but I don’t want to see you again.”
Feeling confused and humiliated to be naked in front of him, I slid on my black cocktail dress. I grabbed my shoes, bra, and panties. Mitch must’ve brought them up from the pool.
“I’ll show you out.” He headed for the door, and I lapsed into my old habits—the shy awkward girl at a loss for words.
“But I…I…” My mouth flapped like two stale pancakes.
He dragged me by the hand, rushing me downstairs. When we got to the front door, he just stood there giving me a look, like he was disgusted for having touched me.
Was I that gross? Had his beer goggles tricked him into thinking I was one of his supermodel worshippers?
No, Abi. There’s nothing wrong with you. Tell him to fuck off. Tell him he’s an asshole. But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
He slammed the door in my face, and I cried right there on his doorstep. They were tears of frustration and shock more than anything else. How could I allow him to treat me like that? And what crawled up his muscled ass? His behavior was inhumane. It was cruel and unforgivable. Okay, maybe they were sad tears, too. I wanted our connection to be real. I thought it had been. He played me.
Now, knowing what I do, I suspect that Georgie was onto something. Damn her! Always right! There is definitely more to the story, but my anger wouldn’t allow me to think compassionately or give Mitch the benefit of the doubt. Don’t know many women who would after what he did. My prince had turned into a frog. No. Wait. A frog turd.
But now I’m not so sure. Because clearly he’d rather fire his entire security detail and put his life at serious risk than place me in the crosshairs of whatever he thinks is about to go down.
I stand there in my kitchen, duffel bag in hand, with one mental foot already out the door. Part of me knows I shouldn’t get on that plane. It would be stupid to try to protect Mitch all by myself. I have almost no experience. On the other hand, what if my gut is right? What if Mitch isn’t the bad guy he portrays?
You idiot. Of course he’s not. A real asshole wouldn’t fire his bodyguards just to keep them safe.
But a closet-nice-guy would.
I rush out the door to catch my plane.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mitch
I don’t believe in fear. Not like a normal person. And I give most of the credit to years of hard training focusing the mind on one thing and one thing only: winning. Fear can be a good motivator, too, but it erodes self-confidence and drains away precious energy.
Yeah, and right now you could use more of it. The truth is I have too much male pride. It’s why I refuse to let those Kemmler bastards win.
I swim six hours a day, six days a week. I propel myself the equivalent of two hundred and eighty thousand meters a month, which is about one hundred seventy-six miles. This doesn’t include time with weights or my psychology coach, who helps rid my mind of doubt. I’ve had very little social life while attending university, going to competitions, and preparing myself for gold. It’s my pride that’s kept me going day in and day out, when I just want to drink a pint, eat a pizza, and head to the beach. Pride fuels me when I don’t think I can make one more lap. It tells me that looking like an arse and coming in last is not an option.
Neither is this gut I’m starting to grow again. Must lay off the Italian subs.
I rub the soft spot just below my six-pack. No worries. You’re still a handsome devil, says my pride. And now it’s telling me I’m right to be here in Miami, unguarded when there’s a price on my head.
Debating ordering room service before meeting up with my mate Ash at the bar down the way, I sit up from the king-size bed, where I’ve been sulking for the better part of the afternoon. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here. “Of course you are. You’re winning.”
And winning means swimming. I make a quick call to the concierge to let them know I’m coming, before I grab my towel and head down to the pool.
Abi
The two-and-a-half-hour flight from Houston to Miami felt like ten hours. In hell. My mind kept repeating images of Mitch being gunned down on the catwalk. Making my fear worse, his bathing suit was some hideous Chucky doll face.
So scary. But that’s my mind for ya. When my emotions run high, my brain does all sorts of weird stuff, like overreact or ins
tantly leap to the worst possible scenario. Then it starts trying to imagine how that feels and what I’d do. I call it nightmare mode. Of course, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of the time, everything turns out fine.
Just like now. Nothing to worry about. I’m sure Mitch is okay.
Almost to the hotel, I realize I forgot to turn my phone back on. I press the power-up button and wince. “Oh…mistake.” There are ten messages from Sam, three from Georgie, and one from my mom, all of them wondering where I am. “Please tell me this is a joke, Abigail,” says my mother, who sounds beyond pissed because she’s used my full name. “Please tell me you did not get a job with Sam like Georgie said! Call me immediately, young lady.”
I can’t believe my best friend ratted me out. Of course, I never told her not to say anything.
“Too late now,” I mumble to myself. Besides, this is my last job. I’ll either die or convince Mitch to run with me, but my bodyguard days are over. This is way too crazy.
My cab pulls up to the beachfront hotel where Mitch is staying, and I sprint to the registration counter. “Hi. Um…I’m supposed to be meeting…” Shit, shit, shit! What’s Mitch’s cover name? It was on the sheet Sam gave the team, but I left it at home. “Ummm…Nemo…Thorpe?” I think that’s right. Nemo is that little fish, and Ian Thorpe is another famous Australian swimmer and Mitch’s biggest inspiration. I know this because he mentioned it in an interview. Not that I’m obsessed with Mitch like the rest of the world, but the news played a lot of clips during the last Olympics. It was hard to ignore. So when Sam gave us Mitch’s code name, it stuck in my mind because it was possibly the worst code name ever for a swimmer who’s trying to be discreet.
“Sorry, miss,” says the young woman behind the counter, “but there’s no Nemo Thorpe staying here.”
Dammit. “Um, well, is there anyone with that last name? A Dori? How about a Jamie or a Frazer? Maybe Loki or Thor or something?”
“Uh, no. Sorry. Perhaps you should call your friend and confirm where he’s staying.”
I know he’s here at this hotel. I memorized the floor plan. There are six exits on each floor, excluding the elevators. Each hallway is laid out in a cross formation to accommodate the rectangular shape of the building. There are fifteen floors, the upper ones have suites, but the penthouse takes up the entire top floor.
“Miss?” the woman says, eyeing the customers behind me.
Urgh…! “I will absolutely kill him—metaphorically speaking, of course—but did my jerk of a boyfriend check in under his real name?” I lean in to whisper, “Mitch Hofer.”
The woman raises a brow. Her lack of denial confirms it.
“Wow. Really? He used his actual name. Can you give me a key to that floor?” It’s secure and no one gets up to the penthouse without an access card.
“My apologies. But giving out room keys to nonguests is against policy.”
Well, good for her, sticking to safety protocols.
“But,” she adds, “the house phone is over on that table if you want to reach any of our rooms.”
“Thank you.” I rush over and ask the hotel operator for Mitch. I still don’t know exactly what I’m going to say, but I imagine it’s going to sound something like… You’re such an epic ass! And I’m not buying this alpha-male pig crap anymore!
After ten rings, I start to panic. He’s not answering the phone. I’m about to rush back to the reception and tell them to call hotel security when I catch a glimpse of Mitch strolling across the far end of the lobby.
“Oh, thank God!” He’s okay. See! I always overreact.
I rush after him, noting that he’s wearing a pair of blue board shorts and a white T-shirt. He’s going for an evening swim. The towel around his neck is a dead giveaway.
When I get to the iron gates surrounding the pool, I see a big ol’ “Closed for Maintenance” sign.
Spoiled brat. They closed the pool for him.
He’s about to jump in when I notice something completely out of place. “What the fuck?” A white power cord is plugged into the outlet of the nearby pool-caddy hut and dangling in the water.
Oh no! “Mitch! Mitch! Don’t get in the pool!”
But as loud as I’m yelling, he doesn’t hear me. He must be wearing earplugs or something.
Shit. Shit! I look around me and spot a trash can a few feet away. It’s the type with a cement base and heavy steel lid with a little swinging door. I hop on top of it and jump the fence. The landing nearly breaks my ankle.
Ow… I get to my feet. Super ow! “Mitch!” I yell and hop on one foot, praying he’ll hear me.
He doesn’t.
Time seems to slow as I watch him go to the edge of the pool, his body leaning forward to propel into the water.
“Mitch! Stop!” I dive for him, grabbing the back of his shorts just as he’s about to lean into his jump.
“What the!” He tries to get upright, but the next thing I know he’s twisting his body and falling back toward the water, his arms windmilling.
It’s a split-second decision, but I don’t know what else to do. I slide my legs forward, dig the heels of my tennis shoes into the cement, and release his shorts. I reach for his hand, grab on, and yank back with all my weight, like a rower fighting for the finish line. Mitch propels forward and lands on top of me with a grunt.
“Abi! What the bloody hell, woman?” he barks.
“Get. Off. Can’t. Breathe.” I push, and he rolls to my side.
“What are you doing here?” He sounds pissed.
“Wind. Knocked,” I sputter, gulping for air.
“Okay. Okay. Just relax. It’ll pass.” He presses his warm hand to my cheek. “Just relax.”
Finally, my lungs kick in, and I gasp. “Oh, Jesus.” I lay there panting for several moments, thanking my lucky Aussie stars that we didn’t both go in.
“What the devil are you doing, you crazy sheila?”
I point to the water. “Cord. Electrocution.”
He looks at the pool and then me. Pool. Then me. “What the hell?”
“Yeah.” I nod frantically. “Exactly.”
“How’d you know?”
“I just got here and noticed it.”
“You…saved me,” he says with disbelief. “Again.”
Damned straight.
His body partially covering mine, he stares into my eyes. I can’t read his thoughts, but I know, with everything in my heart, that I’m seeing the real Mitch again. The same guy I met that night back in Houston.
He affectionately strokes my hair. “And you just happened to be here? At the right time?”
I nod.
“Abi, I’m…I’m so sorry about all this.”
I move to sit up, and he kneels in front of me.
“Mitch, why did you come alone? Why would you be so stupid?”
He glances at the ground between us. “I’m asking myself the same question.”
“We have to get out of here. Now. Whoever did this is posing as an employee of the hotel. How else would they know you were about to go for a swim?”
The vacant look in his eyes tells me he’s not listening to a word I’m saying.
“Mitch. Mitch!” I grab his shoulder and give it a firm shake.
“We could be dead right now. Both of us,” he mumbles, like it’s some big epiphany.
Who knows? Maybe that cord would have shocked the hell out of us and then tripped the breaker. Maybe it would have sizzled us unconscious. I’m just happy we didn’t have to find out.
“We have to go now.” I glance up at the hundreds of windows overlooking the pool. Whoever did this is watching. I know it. But Mitch is still in some other place. “Mitch! We have to go!”
His eyes focus on mine like he’s just seen a ghost. Or the Grim Reaper? “There’s nowhere to hide, Abi. Wherever I go, they’ll find me.”
“You don’t know that.” I give his brawny shoulders another shake.
“I do. The Kemmlers have friends in hi
gh places.”
“So what are you saying? Because, screw me, it sounds like you’re throwing in the towel.”
“I’m saying that…I don’t know.”
The man actually looks disoriented, like he’s in shock.
“Let’s go back to your room,” I say in the calmest voice possible. “You’ll grab your things, and we’ll get the hell out of here.” I don’t know where we’ll go, but maybe that’s a good thing. If I don’t know, then no one else does either.
“Right.”
We stand, and I jerk that cord from the socket so no one else gets hurt. “Come on. Hurry.”
We walk briskly toward the lobby and wait for an empty elevator. I don’t know who is who at this point.
Bingo! We get one, but I pray the entire way up that no one will board.
“Fuck.” I squeeze Mitch’s hand as the elevator stops a few floors shy of the penthouse. I reach for my gun, fearing it might be the disgruntled assassin who witnessed his failed murder attempt just now. “Double fuck.” I didn’t bring a gun. Sam planned to arm us when we arrived, so I left my peashooter in my sock drawer.
“Punch whoever walks through that door,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Punch ’em. As hard as you can.”
“What if it’s not the person who’s trying to kill me?” he asks.
“We won’t know until it’s too late. And a lawsuit is better than death.”
“Right.”
The doors slide open, and in steps a young woman wearing all pink. She’s holding a baby dressed in matching colors. Mitch pulls back his fist. The woman screams and runs away.
“Sorry! Thought you were someone else!” Mitch yells. “I’d never punch a baby!”
“She, on the other hand,” I mumble, “she looked way too girly. Definitely suspicious.” I poke the button to close the doors. “Hurry, you piece of shit!”
“Abi, Abi, slow down. What are we doing?” Mitch seems to be back, his brain firing on all cylinders.
“We’re getting the hell out of Dodge.” I repeatedly jab at the close door button, because everyone knows that pressing harder makes the elevator magically move faster.
Battle of the Bulge Page 11
