Black and Blue

by Gena Showalter

  He hopped off the stage. The crowd watched, awed.

  Surely he wouldn't close the distance between them.

  He did.

  Leaning into her, he braced his hands on the arms of her chair. "How about a lap dance, sugar plum?"

  Bloody hell. Shivers cascaded down her spine.

  "Your nipples just beaded for me. I'll take that as a yes."

  No way he could tell. Her bra was far too thick.

  "I can," he said, as though reading her thoughts. "I can feel your reaction."

  Her eyes widened, and her response died as his hands encircled her waist. He lifted her to the tabletop, better aligning their bodies. He forced her legs to part and the apex of her thighs to cradle his--

  Oh, bless me. His massive erection.

  Then he danced. Slow and steady, grinding against her sweet spot. Ratcheting her desire to an earth-shattering level. A place where fires raged. She couldn't stop her hands. They roamed over his chest, glided over the scar on his face, tangled in his hair.

  If the patrons cheered or booed, she didn't know it. She was utterly focused on the man in front of her, hyperaware of his every move. Of his power, stroking her with the mastery of a thousand hands. Of his scent in her nose, champagne and strawberries. Of his gaze, boring deep into hers--perhaps seeing into her soul. Of his erection, pressing where she needed him most, retreating, pressing again, and--oh, keep going, please. A moan escaped her. The pleasure . . . too much . . . not enough . . . Give me more. Give me everything. Eden was right. The day had come. Evie wanted some guy to give it to her good and hard.

  Press, retreat. Press, retreat. Liquid heat pooled between her legs, the crease in her jeans just making everything worse. Press, retreat. Or better. Press, retreat. No, definitely worse.

  Her head swam with the force of her arousal. A dangerous pressure built inside her, coiling, readying. If he kept going, he was going to make her come. Right there. In front of everyone.

  Dismayed by the thought, she dug her nails into his bare chest. Felt the heat of his skin, and gave another moan.

  "Don't," she whispered, panicked. "Please."

  Just like that, he stopped.

  He was panting, his lips thinned and pulled taut against his perfect teeth.

  He turned away from her and returned to the stage, quickly disappearing behind the curtain.

  This is being more careful around him? her good sense screamed. Really? Stop threatening that lobotomy and actually do it!

  Evie tore the cap from the beer and drained the contents. Then she signaled for another and drained it, too.

  Once her body had calmed, she pretended to have a nice buzz going and tripped her way to a table of older gents who looked to be regulars, very familiar with the lay of the land. Over the next hour they hit on her and teased her about the we-swear-you-were-having-sex dance Jack Hammer had done with her. Trying not to blush like a stupid schoolgirl, she bought them several lap dances--not from Blue, because he was still backstage, probably searching the offices and cursing Evie's very existence--and they finally stopped hitting on her, instead treating her like one of the guys. That's when she paid for a round of drinks for everyone in the club.

  Eventually, all of the patrons came over to thank her and ended up staying to talk. She learned far more than she'd hoped.

  Mr. Gregory Star and his entourage visited the club at least twice a month, and they always migrated to the back to speak with Timothy Mercer, who had worked at the Lucky Horn for three years. Two weeks ago, Timothy just up and vanished. No one had seen or heard from him since, or had any idea what might have happened to him.

  Star, thrown into the mix once again. No question, the man was involved in her father's disappearance. It was just as certain that Timothy was the man who'd set Blue on fire.

  Eager to verify this news with hard evidence, Evie excused herself under the guise of having to pee and stumbled away as though snockered, heading toward the backstage entrance. The moment she cleared the corner, out of everyone's view, she dug a shielder out of her purse and threw it behind her, the tiny black device creating an invisible wall upon landing. Until she disabled it, only she and Blue would be able to bypass it, since they were the only ones with a scrambler on their phones, an app designed to disrupt the shielder's signal.

  She tripped her way toward the armed guard at the end of the hallway.

  Frowning, he gripped the handle of his gun. "I suggest you turn around, ma'am. No one's allowed in this section of the building."

  Ma'am? Did she really look like a ma'am?

  Ma'ams had at least sixteen robo-cats, wore muumuus, and never took the rollers out of their hair.

  Did he want to die?

  She stopped in front of him, a familiar surge of excitement hitting her. Don't you dare get used to this kind of work. It was a onetime gig. As soon as her father and his boys were found, as soon as Star was taken down, she was going back to her nice, normal life.

  But honestly, the last time she'd experienced anything this high octane, she'd been on her last mission, and Claire had--

  She locked those thoughts down.

  "Is this not the bathroom?" she asked, making sure to slur her words.

  "Turn. Around. Now. You won't like what happens if you don't."

  "Okay, okay, you don't have to be so rude about it," she grumbled--then rammed her knee into his groin.

  With a strangled bellow he hunched over, struggling to breathe, and she lined up at his side to slam the back of her elbow into his mastoid process. His body went limp as his brain tissue rapidly compressed, and he collapsed onto the carpet, well and truly out for the count.

  "Sorry, bloke, but you picked the wrong side. And you called me ma'am!"

  She peeked through a crack in the door. Half-clad dancers sat in front of a row of vanity mirrors, checking their hair and makeup. No one paid a bit of attention to the entrance as she slipped inside the employees-only area.

  To her right was a closed door with the name Timothy Mercer in the center. Brilliant. Evie strode forward and twisted the lock. It held. After a quick glance behind her--still good--she pulled the necessary tools from her purse and got to work.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" a female snapped from behind her. "You're not supposed to be back here."

  Evie pasted a bright smile on her face before turning and facing the brunette who'd been Blue's opening act. "Hi. I'm Chlamydia Jones, the new stripper. Hired only a few hours ago." Too chirpy, Black. Dial it down a notch. "I was told to speak with Mr. Mercer."

  Green eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Mr. Mercer isn't in."

  "Dang. That sucks." I tried to do this the nice way. Evie had worn three rings, just in case. In the center of each, under a jewel, was a needle she'd loaded with poison of her own creation; they'd once been trademarks of her mission work. She thumbed the diamond from Wrath, her most-used toxin, and clasped the girl's hands. "Can you please--"

  "Ow," Brunette said, just before yanking free to clutch her stomach.

  "Are you all right?" Evie asked, faking concern.

  The girl shook her head. As her skin turned a putrid shade of green, she ran as fast as her feet would carry her to the nearest receptacle, where she vomited the entire contents of her stomach . . . and maybe even the stomach itself.

  Behind Evie, the door swung open, and a hard hand seized her arm, wrenching her backward. The moment she was inside the office, the door closed, sealing her inside. With Blue.

  She recognized the hum of his power.

  Slowly she pivoted. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, all hints of Mr. Hammer eradicated, and yet, as soon as their eyes met, there was a suspended moment where all she could remember was the feel of his erection rubbing between her legs, and the sharp, desperate need of her body.

  All she could think was More.

  "Stop staring and tell me what you're doing back here," he demanded.

  O-kay. So he didn't feel or think the same. Flushing, she said, "I came to give yo
u a review. After a shaky start, you--"

  "We will never speak of this again. Do you hear me?"

  Can't laugh. "Consider this blackmail material." She told him what she'd learned.

  "Confirmation that Star is involved." He nodded. "We'll have to search his house. Among other things."

  Missionspeak. Good. The best way to get back on track. "Found anything in here?"

  "Not yet." He stomped to the desk and tapped away at the computer keyboard. "I'm loading the club's security feed for the past three weeks onto a flash drive and erasing today's activities."

  Thank God. Replaying Jack Hammer's debut--and her reaction to it--would have been humiliating.

  "All right. Done," he said, removing the flash drive.

  "So we're ready to leave the club?"

  "Yes. And if you can get me out without letting anyone grope me, I'll admit you're the better agent."

  She snorted--then inwardly cursed. Did the man have to be so witty and likable? "Deal."

  Ten

  EVIE KEPT SURPRISING HIM.

  At the club, she'd handled the patrons and employees with equal skill. Hell, she'd even handled Blue.

  He'd lost himself in the pleasure of grinding on her, forgetting their goal, their audience, until she reminded him.

  She'd begged so prettily.

  Begging. Completely unlike her. It had startled him back to his senses.

  Mentally and physically, he couldn't seem to control his reactions to her.

  Can't worry about that now.

  They'd had to ditch her car. Whoever had ordered the earlier chase--hit?--was still out there, and Evie was now . . . no longer Evie. She was Miss Blond Boobies, and he freaking hated it. When he wasn't grinding on her, of course. He much preferred her luscious dark hair and slender curves.

  Concentrate. Going back to her place would have been stupid, giving away their identities, no matter what they looked like, so he'd offered no protest when she stole a truck and drove him to a safe house she swore no one knew about.

  And why would he protest? Watching Evie steal a car was like watching sexy female auto-mechanic porn on set. He was still hard.

  You've been hard for two days.

  "You quit the agency. Why did you keep a safe house?" he asked as he cased the place. It was small but virtually undetectable, hidden underneath a middle-class neighborhood where all of the homes above it were the same shape and color. There was only one entrance, and that was concealed in a darkened alcove next to the district enzyme tower half a mile away.

  Evie had reinforced the walls with alien metal that could withstand a nuclear attack, and hung countless monitors, all watching the surrounding area from different angles. The only furniture was a bed, a chair, and a desk cluttered with a computer, papers, and mechanical parts and equipment he didn't recognize.

  "I like to be prepared," she said with a shrug.

  He was the same. He collected safe houses the way other men collected sexual mementos, ensuring he had someplace to go in every corner of the world. Maybe one day he'd give Evie a tour and impress the hell out of her.

  He stiffened. Give her a tour? Impress her?

  Seriously? Michael, John, and Solo weren't even aware of half of his holdings, and he wanted to share with her?

  Scowling, Blue settled at the desk and booted up the computer. Opening the contents of the flash drive would take a while.

  "I'm going to make a sandwich," Evie said, pressing a few buttons on a small black remote. In front of her, one section of the wall opened, revealing a fully stocked fridge. "You want one?"

  He masked his bafflement with a muffled "That'd be great, thanks."

  "Brilliant. I'll leave out the bread and peanut butter so you can make yourself one."

  Now, that was more like the Evie he knew and . . . liked. He rubbed two fingers over his mouth to hide a smile. "Have you always been such a ballbuster, baby bear?"

  She shook her fist in his direction. "Stop calling me by those ludicrous names. And, yeah, I guess I have been. But then, I've had to be." She dug a knife from a drawer hidden in the island. "Otherwise Mum would have broken me."

  She had never willingly offered information about her past, and he found himself leaning toward her, as eager to hear more as he usually was to make a kill. "Tell me about her."

  As she put two sandwiches together, she said, "She could have been a general in the army. Everything had to be a certain way. Her way. And then it had to meet her exacting standards. Meaning nothing was ever good enough."

  Little Evie, under a military-like regime. He frowned, not liking the image. Had she ever gotten to act her age and play?

  "I'm not sure what Michael ever saw in her, to be honest."

  Adorable, the way she added an -er to the word saw. "Does she look like you?"

  "Yes. I've been called her carbon copy, actually."

  Well, there you go. Michael hadn't been able to help himself. "No good times?"

  "Not until Claire came along."

  Happiness coasted over him, followed by sorrow. Both emotions sprang from her. Clearly Claire's death destroyed her, and she was still dealing with the pain.

  Breaking my heart. "What's your favorite memory of your sister?"

  She thought for a moment, then smiled. "Claire made me watch romantic comedies, romantic tragedies, romantic . . . everything," Evie said, and her smile faded. "I used to tease her about the horrors of heartfelt emotion, only I called it heartfelt crap, and she used to say I was fooling no one, that I already had that crap in my blood, and then we'd laugh about the word 'crap.' "

  Blue suddenly wished he'd never allowed dislike of Evie to keep him away four years ago. It would have been fun to watch her and Claire together. The fire-breathing dragon and the shy princess somehow finding a way to happily coexist.

  "I had siblings, too," he admitted. "I was only four years old when they died, but they'll always have a place in my heart." He remembered how, before his brothers and sisters died, each placed a hand on his chest. Warmth had then spread throughout his entire body.

  He hadn't understood at the time, but Cade, Caell, Cameron, Caymile, and Candice had bequeathed their powers to him. They were the reason he survived the sickness they did not. They were the reason he was as strong as he was.

  And he would never get the chance to thank them.

  For a moment Evie was still and quiet. Then she walked over and, expression carefully blank, handed him a sandwich. "Here." She sat at the edge of the desk, not caring when she pushed supplies to the floor.

  They ate in silence, and for that he was grateful. The more she spoke, the more he liked her.

  And he shouldn't like her while she was nearby . . . affecting him. Bad things happened. Proof: already he was tense and aching. Ready for sex. Hard, pounding sex. Dirty sex. The kind neither one of them would ever be able to forget.

  What did she prefer? To be touched gently? Or firmly?

  Did she like to be licked? Or bit? Or both?

  How did she feel about oral?

  He wanted her mouth on his shaft, her dark hair spilling over his thighs.

  The power began to writhe inside him, and both the chair and desk wobbled before lifting into the air. Her eyes--those dark, rich eyes--widened. She'd removed the contacts, and he wanted to howl with gratitude.

  "Blue?"

  He didn't care that her hair was currently blond and not his preference for her. He could still wrap the strands around his hand and fist. He could guide her into the rhythm he wanted her to set. Afterward he could strip her and return the favor.

  He flattened his hands on her thighs. Big hands. Delicate thighs. She sucked in a breath . . . but didn't push him away.

  "Push me away," he said. The heat of her skin was so intense, he could feel the burn of her through her jeans.

  "Blue, I--"

  A muffled buzz stopped her.

  Frowning, she pulled her cell from the purse still draped across her middle and read the scre
en. Shock curled from her, slithering around him and tightening like a noose.

  "What's wrong?" His desire instantly cooled. The desk and chair settled on the floor.

  Her gaze met his. "I think . . . I think my father just texted me."

  U KNOW WHERE SUNBEAM

  That was the extent of the coded text, and yet the shock lifted and Evie knew. Her father was responsible.

  Sunbeam was his nickname for her. And she did indeed know where. About a mile out from Lake Michigan. Michael had planned for something like this--one of them being chased, needing a secluded place to stay--and had told her where to go if ever he contacted her.

  She and Blue left the safe house and stole another car. They drove to the dock, doubling back a few times to make sure they weren't being followed. Then, with the rerouting of a few wires, the "spare parts" her father kept in multiple slips drew together like magnets and metal to create a small boat.

  After pulling on protective bodysuits, she and Blue climbed inside the craft. This was going to be fun. Not. The bacteria in the lake constantly mutated. With Blue's Arcadian blood, he was probably resistant. But even though her immunizations were up to date, she could sicken.

  Finally, they were speeding along.

  "Don't get your hopes up." Blue had to yell to be heard over the roar of the engine. "This could be a trap."

  "It's not," she yelled back. Strands of hair slapped at her cheeks and filled her mouth as she valiantly tried to grab them and hold them at her nape.

  He cast her a grim look. And it wasn't fair. The sun was in the process of setting, providing a majestic pink and purple backdrop, making him more beautiful than ever. "I hope you're right."

  She drew in a breath and promptly coughed. The air was thick with the scents of rot and mold.

  Calming, she realized Blue watched her with concern. She had to look away.

  When was her desire for him going to fade?

  They'd almost kissed. Again. She'd known it was about to happen, and she hadn't planned to stop it. Had actually planned to encourage it.

  What was wrong with her?

  Maybe . . . she should just give in, she thought now. After he broke things off with Pagan. The poor dear. No matter what Blue said, Evie played a part in the demise of his relationship with the girl, and she felt terrible about it. Terrible and guilty and ashamed.

  I need to ask for her forgiveness. But that wasn't going to make a difference, was it. If anyone ever kissed Evie's man, "anyone" would die. No questions asked. No apology accepted.