The filmy lacy veil of her hat caught up in the buttons of his pleated dress shirt.
He moved his chin but the veil wrinkled up. He could shift it with his hand but that would mean letting go of her and he couldn’t do it.
He looked down at her, short blue-black strands of hair framing her face. The color combination with her glowing blue eyes was striking.
Her sobs were dying down, just a little. She was crying for their lost love, for the lost years. For the days and nights they’d been apart. But … she was in his arms right now. He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t lost to her. He was right here. She was crying for him but he was right … here.
She took in a deep, shuddering breath and let it out on a sigh.
“You dyed your hair black,” Cal said, touching the strands. He didn’t care. She could dye her hair any color she wanted. Blue with pink stripes for all he cared.
“No.” Her voice was waterlogged. He looked down and saw thick eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, a delicate chin. “Not dyed. It’s a wig.”
A wig?
Cal slid a hand up her back, the black beads clinking softly, until he reached the satiny skin of her neck. Looking down, he could see her delicate neck, the tiny knobs of her spine. But there was something wrong with her hair, it was too coarse. Anya’s hair had always been soft and fine. Cal slid his fingers up her slender neck, kept going, reached under the weave and lifted away the wig of short black hair, together with the hat and the sexy little veil. He tossed the wig and the hat away, pulled out a few pins anchoring her hair and that soft golden blonde cascade fell over his hands in smooth perfumed waves.
Oh God.
He ran his hands over her scalp, then fanned out her hair so it covered her shoulders, fell down her back. It was a shorter than when he’d last seen her, but still glorious, still striking.
He lifted his head and so did she and they looked at each other.
Some trick in the acoustics of the ancient building made the notes of the quartet in the courtyard float up, bright silver notes, like a soundtrack made for Anya.
The whole room was a set designed to showcase her, like a pearl on velvet. Everything gleamed. The silver frames and decorative bowls, the chandeliers and crystal vases, the gold-flocked wallpaper, the frescoed ceiling. The most beautiful place Cal had ever seen and in it was the most beautiful woman Cal had ever known.
This was so familiar, Cal holding the silken strands of her hair in his hands, looking down at her beautiful face. The face was slimmer, cheekbones more defined. Light lines starred her eyes, bracketed her mouth, but they did nothing to detract from her beauty. It was now a woman’s face, but she was even more beautiful than she’d been as a girl, if that was possible.
His heart thumped in his chest so hard he wondered if he was bruising it.
He and his team had come under attack by ISIS twice. His security team was good and he’d become good not only with his hands but with weapons and they’d repelled the attacks. He’d kept his cool throughout both attacks.
He wasn’t keeping his cool now.
It felt like he was flying apart in a million pieces. This had happened to him over and over again in his dreams. Anya, in his arms, then Anya walking away.
Every single time he lived through that moment of separation as if it were the first time, feeling like she’d reached into his chest and wrenched his heart right out of his rib cage, leaving him a broken and bloody husk. Every single goddamned time.
He’d wake up sweating and shaking as if from a nightmare, the pain of Anya leaving him fresh and acute, like an open wound. For the first couple of years he’d had to take sleeping aids to get through a night without The Dream. Anya walking away forever.
And here she was.
Anya, her hair a golden cloud around her head, looking up at him with a soft expression in her eyes. How many times had he dreamed this over the past ten years, only to wake up clutching empty air?
When they’d been together, his hands wrapped in her hair always led to sex and wham! Like a knee jerk reaction, he was suddenly hard as stone.
There was like a hot wind in his head, blowing hard, scouring all thoughts away. There was only Anya in his arms, only Anya in the whole goddamn world.
He rose and tugged at her hand. She stood, moving right into his arms. This. This was what had been missing all these years. Cal bent his head and kissed her. She tasted familiar yet different. Her mouth was sweet but all those years were like a river that had washed so much away. Their youth and their innocence.
She didn’t taste like a girl, she tasted like a woman. He pulled her even more tightly against him and she fit perfectly. She was less soft, less curvy, more tightly muscled. Strong. Endlessly enticing.
Her arms were around his neck, pulling tight, as if he might break away from her.
No. Nope. Not going to happen.
He wasn’t going to pull away from her, he wanted to be inside her. Oh God, the image of that in his empty head. A naked Anya and him, inside her.
Call put his hand under her skirt. It was silk, with heavy beads, which made a musical tinkling sound. They had a little sound track, their moans, the tinkling beads, heavy breathing.
Beneath the skirt Anya was wearing black silky stockings that were thigh-highs. Mmm. Between the lacy tops of the stockings and her panties was an expanse of silky skin over strong, slender thigh. Cal’s hand followed the top of the stocking until he came to the center of her. When they’d been young, he’d touched her there thousands of times, but he’d been in the desert these past ten years. Literally and figuratively.
His hand cupped her and he could feel her heat, like a little furnace. He couldn’t touch her flesh and right then all he could think about was touching her and entering her. But there was a barrier.
It took him a second to realize it was her panties. Man, they had to go. Right now.
Cal took his other hand away from her neck and slid it under that heavy skirt, hooking both thumbs under a piece of stretchy lace and pulling down. His mouth never left hers.
The panties were at mid thigh and she shimmied until they dropped to the ground and she stepped out of them. Under that silk and those tinkling beads she was naked.
His head was about to explode.
Cal picked her up and walked a couple of steps to that heavy table with the armchairs around it. He kicked one of the armchairs out of the way, slid her skirt up and set her down on the edge of the table. It didn’t occur to him until later that if the table had been less massive and heavy, they might have fallen to the ground. Then and there, all he could think of was Anya, here, naked, on the table.
Cal held the back of her neck with one hand while lowering her to the shiny surface of the table and unzipping himself with the other. He was massively aroused. He couldn’t remember ever being this hot and excited and fucking hard. His dick felt like a club hanging off the front of his body, like something alien.
But it knew exactly where it wanted to go. In her. In Anya.
Cal bent over Anya, settling between her thighs, smooth and slim and strong, and entered her with one thrust. He sighed heavily, lost inside her.
Anya lifted her legs, wrapping them around his hips and he lost all control, slamming into her over and over with the full power of his body. It was too violent, too intense and it was over almost immediately. He erupted inside her, shaking as he came and came and came.
He’d kept his face buried in her neck, so taken with being inside her that he couldn’t even kiss her. Now he kept his face buried in her neck because he was ashamed. Shocked and embarrassed at losing control like some randy kid.
It didn’t matter that Anya had left him brutally, she didn’t deserve this … rutting. Like a wild animal.
He was still clutching her hips with the full force of his hands, and he had strong hands. It was entirely possible he was hurting her and that thought burned him, lashed him like a whip.
Cal could barely lift his head to look at her,
sure what he’d see. Anger, disgust. Maybe she’d think she’d been right to leave him after all. And — maybe she’d be right about that.
Maybe he was unworthy of her, after all.
Cal was many things, but he wasn’t a coward. He had to face her. Apologize. Then leave her, this chapter of his life forever over.
It hurt, but he did it. He pulled out, looking down at her, slim hips at the edge of the table, soft ash-brown cloud of hair wet with her juices and his. As he pulled back, her legs fell to the floor and he saw red spots on her hips where his fingers had gripped tightly. Tomorrow she’d have bruises.
Oh, fuck.
Anya clutched the sides of the table, shaking.
Cal was on her, in her. She could hear his heavy breathing, as if he’d run ten miles. She found it hard to breathe too, but more because his full weight was on her, crushing her. She remembered exactly what Cal felt like on top of her. He was leaner now but he seemed to be more muscled and he was heavy as hell. She had to consciously expand her lungs to breathe and it wasn’t easy.
Still, she wasn’t agitating to have him get off of her. She liked it, liked that heavy weight anchoring her. She’d always felt that way. With Cal near her, nothing bad could happen.
Or so she’d thought. Plenty of bad things had happened.
But she also didn’t want him to move off because for these few moments, she didn’t have to face him. There was an undercurrent of anger in him, his love making had been rough. Cal had never been rough with her, ever, but just now there’d been strength and desire but not tenderness.
What would be on his face when he got off her and she opened her eyes? Did she really want to know?
Because she knew what would be on her face — longing. Love. Love that had never died. But if the same things weren’t on his face, it would collapse her world.
All these years there’d been a little flame of hope in her heart. Tiny, but there. That maybe … maybe his marriage would break up. And that afterward … maybe he would come find her, lay his heart at her feet. Tell her he’d never stopped loving her.
It was a tiny spark of hope that no one knew about but which in the darkest, loneliest nights kept her warm. But even that spark of hope failed her, often. Working endlessly long days in dusty hotel meeting rooms in the Middle East, soaking up hostility on two, three, even four sides, falling exhausted into bed after midnight only to stare up at the ceiling, at times she’d lost hope that Cal could ever be in her life again. That things could ever be good again. That she’d know love again.
But here they were.
His marriage had broken up, and he’d found her. That part had come true. And they’d had sex — but it had been rough, even angry.
If there was no love there, not a tiny bit of love left for her in his heart, it would shatter her beyond repair. The pieces would never be put back together again. All hope would be gone. She’d have lost Cal, forever, even though he was right here.
Cal stood up, stood back. That heavy weight gone wasn’t a good thing. She felt unmoored, something that had anchored her suddenly gone.
Anya slid off the table and stood up slowly, creakily. As if she’d suddenly aged a million years.
Cal was zipping himself up and when he was done he looked exactly as he had before — like a tough, rich businessman, completely pulled together. Whereas she was sure she looked like a wild woman — hair tousled around her shoulders, lipstick smudged, dress askew. She moved and felt something underfoot and looked down. Her underpants — a black lace symbol of wantonness there on the parquet floor.
She’d never ever felt dirty after they’d made love when they were young. She’d always felt so exhilarated and happy — as if touched by some sun god. Young and happy and so in love.
Cal had always had this look on his face and she thought it was his regular expression — bursting with joy, soft and tender. Well, it wasn’t his regular post-sex expression anymore because he didn’t have it now.
Not at all.
His face — so lean and dark — was taut and still, completely closed to her. Those light brown eyes were expressionless. She now understood in full that the Cal of her memory was gone, essentially dead. This new man was someone she didn’t know, and now might never know.
For the first time, Anya felt awkward in his presence, that same awkwardness she’d felt with most of the men she’d been working with these past nine years. But most of those men had been hostile to her plans and to the plans of Peace and Jobs. They’d had no reason to be friendly to her and she hadn’t expected it.
Just as, apparently, she couldn’t expect Cal to be friendly to her.
She had to swallow that bitterness down.
Her hands twisted in front of her because she didn’t know what to do with them. Her palms itched to touch him, her arms felt empty because she wanted to embrace him, yet couldn’t.
With pain and sorrow she put herself into work mode — a frame of mind where her own feelings had no place, no value. It was all about the transaction.
“So,” she said softly, watching his eyes.
“So.” His tone was as hard as his expression.
They’d just made love — had sex, she corrected herself — but it was as if they were two strangers. She could smell the sex they’d had. She could feel her sex a little sore, their juices wet between her legs.
They hadn’t taken precautions. She couldn’t even think of that as her heart cracked a little. Cal was right in front of her, something she’d dreamed of for ten years. And yet it was as if he were a million miles away from her.
“I guess —” Anya stopped. Her brain was empty. She had no idea what she’d been about to say. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to walk away from her with this cold, hard distance between them, with the memory of angry sex rippling in the air. She should say something, but what? Words lodged in her throat like stones, unable to come out, unable to stay inside her.
“What?” Cal stepped forward a little, but she didn’t step back. Her head tilted back to watch his face. He was taller than she remembered. “What, Anya? You guess what?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, miserably.
He was scowling ferociously now. “You don’t know? You don’t know? You sure as hell knew ten years ago. You had no trouble at all making yourself crystal clear that you didn’t want me. So what is this? What just happened?” His long finger tapped her chest then his. “We just had sex. That’s something, isn’t it? Or did it mean as little to you now as it did then. I remember you got up out of our bed and left me without a care in the world.”
She’d wept bitterly for days afterward.
“No.” Her throat was so tight the word hurt. “Not without a care in the world.”
Cal’s jaw muscles worked as if he were biting something. “Sure as hell looked like that to me.”
“I explained —”
“You explained nothing.” The words exploded out of him. “What did you explain? That your dad was sick and was having economic problems and you thought — what? What did you think? That I’d blab that to the world? That I’d go around talking about a downturn at Voronov Industries? I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me but what the fuck, Anya. You didn’t trust me enough to think I could keep my mouth shut? I wondered for ten freaking years what happened and this is worse than anything I could have imagined. You broke us up because you thought I’d talk?”
Oh god. She’d thought her heart would break ten years ago but this was a million times worse. It felt like she could hear her heart crack open.
“No.” Damn, her entire chest hurt. It hurt to breathe. “No, I wasn’t afraid you would talk. I knew you wouldn’t. You were so honorable, you’d never do that.”
Cal huffed out a harsh breath and turned around, putting his hands on his head. When he’d had long hair, he’d pull at it when he was frustrated. But it was cut military short now.
She stared at his broad back, shoulders stiff with anger. At
her. She’d never seen him angry at her before. It was horrible.
“Goddammit, Anya!” he turned back to her. “Then what? What the hell did you leave me for, like that, if you knew I’d keep my mouth shut? You knew that whatever it was you had to do, I’d stick by you.”
“Oh yes.” Her voice was soft. “Oh yes, I knew that.”
His eyes burned, mouth tight. White lines of stress bracketed his mouth. “Then why?”
“Precisely because you’d stick by me.”
He reacted as if she’d slapped him. “What?” His shoulders tightened, big hands fisting. “What kind of answer is that?”
Anya drew in a deep breath. She felt hollowed out, almost insubstantial. As if she were an empty vessel held together by will and skin. Deep inside she trembled, reaching out with a hand to grasp the edge of the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He did, of course. He’d always been so observant, her Cal. When she had her head in the clouds, Cal was always keenly aware of their surroundings.
It was like being naked again, him seeing inside her.
Deliberately, Anya looked at Cal, from his expensively barbered hair to the tips of his shiny dress shoes. She’d learned to monetize in her job, as a way to categorize. Cal was wearing at least ten thousand dollars, from his black Armani or Gucci tux to the Patek Philippe on his wrist.
“Look at you,” she said, sweeping her hand to indicate him head to toe.
Startled, Cal looked down at himself.
“Is that an Armani you’re wearing?”
He frowned. “Gucci.”
My, all those years in war-torn cities, walking through rubble, sleeping on cots. She’d lost her touch. She used to be able to tell an Armani from a Gucci at a hundred paces. “Even better. The last time I saw you, you were wearing torn jeans and a ratty tee shirt.”
“The last time you saw me I was naked,” he said, voice clipped.
She broke with his gaze and looked away. Ashamed and hurt. Wondering what the hell she was trying to do here. But then thought — no. He needs to hear this. “True. But you’d been wearing torn jeans and a tee that had been washed a thousand times before you got naked. And the jeans weren’t bought distressed. They were worn right through at the knees.”
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