by Pamela Clare
Chapter Ten
“Have you ever done anything in bed with a man you didn’t want to do?”
They sat on Holly’s back deck, having just finished a dinner of Thai carryout with pinot grigio that was chilled to perfection.
Holly smiled at Nick’s question. “Yeah, a few times, when I was younger and stupid and didn’t know how to stand up for myself.”
That was the truth, though not the whole truth.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Then he nudged her elbow with his. “Like what?”
“Pressing for the dirty details are you?”
“You know it.” A smile lit up his face.
And, God, what a face. She’d come to appreciate the finer points of his features over the past couple of days—the scar high on his cheek by his right eye, the slight deviation of his nose as if it had once been broken, the perfect cupid’s bow of his lips¸ the dark brows that gave him a brooding look.
He had the face of a fallen angel.
“Let’s just say I don’t do anal or anything involving real pain.”
He watched her over the rim of his wineglass. “Ever been with a woman?”
That question caught her off guard.
Only once in her career had she been sent on a mission where the quarry had been a female. She’d had real misgivings about the assignment, but in the end it hadn’t been much different than going on a date with a man in whom she had no interest. The woman—a tall, blond Dutch banker—hadn’t been as self-absorbed as most of the men of her social status and had gone out of her way to make Holly feel at ease when she’d learned it was Holly’s first time.
“I tried it—once.” She saw Nick’s pupils dilate and knew the idea turned him on.
He nodded, still grinning. “Would you do it again?”
She smiled, finished her wine, ignored his question. “I have a surprise for you.”
She scooted her chair away from the table, lifted her dress high up her thighs to reveal the garters, and then did The Leg Cross.
He gave a long, slow exhale, his brow furrowing when he saw that she wasn’t wearing panties. “Please tell me that’s dessert.”
“You’re still hungry?” She stood, picked up her wineglass, and walked slowly toward the door, leaving the plates and silverware for later.
A strong arm shot out, caught her around the waist, and drew her back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She lowered her voice. “Somewhere the neighbors and CIS guys won’t see us.”
He took the wineglass from her hand and set it on the table. “I am the neighbors, and fuck the CIS guys.”
He drew her into his lap so that they sat face-to-face, her legs straddling him, then drew down his zipper and freed his erect cock from his boxers. “I want you now.”
A shiver ran through her.
“But people—”
“People will be jealous.” He grinned. “Just try not to give us away.”
He reached down with one hand to tease her inner thighs with light brushes of his fingertips that made her skin tingle.
She felt herself grow wet, already wanting him inside her. She took his cock in hand and began to stroke him, felt his hips jerk, heard his breath catch.
But his gaze never wavered.
He caught her clit between his fingers, gave it a little tug, then explored her fully, the tip of one finger making delicious circles over the opening to her vagina before sliding inside her.
“See, that right there is what’s going to give us away, honey. Don’t let your head fall back all sexy like that. Keep your eyes open. Look at me. We’re just having a conversation here.”
And what a conversation.
His fingers caressed her deep inside, taking their time, asking her if she wanted more. Her body answered yes.
He withdrew his fingers and began to tease her clit with his thumb, asking it to join in the game. It swelled beneath his touch—another yes.
Oh, God, she was melting, coming to pieces in his lap, the gliding pressure of his thumb making the ache inside her worse.
He reached into his pocket with his free hand, drew out a condom, and handed it to her. She opened it, rolled it over his erection while his hands reached beneath her dress to grasp her buttocks. When the condom was in place, he shifted in his seat, lifted her up, and let her guide him inside her.
She couldn’t help but moan, her eyes drifting shut.
He felt so good, as he thrust into her from below, stretching her, filling her, the slick friction already carrying her home.
“Keep it together, honey.”
She opened her eyes, smiled at him.
Two could so play at this game.
She put her inner muscles to work, clenching them as he withdrew and entered her, contracting around his length.
He fought back a moan, his eyes closing, his body going tense, the muscles of his neck and his jaw drawing tight.
“Keep quiet,” she teased, a bit breathless, her fingers toying with his hair.
He picked up the pace, bucking into her, only his hips moving, one thumb still teasing her clit, giving her everything she needed.
She clenched her inner muscles tight, one hand now fisted in his hair, the fingernails of the other digging into the cloth of his shirt at his shoulder, her breathing every bit as rapid as his. But using her vagina like this came at a price, arousing her even more, ensuring that his cock hit every sweet spot inside her.
“You’re so close. I can tell.” His voice was strained. “Don’t lose it and scream.”
Holly fought to control her response as he drove her headlong to a shattering orgasm, the tight knot of heat inside her exploding into bliss. She bit back a cry, her body arching in his arms. He stayed with her, keeping up the rhythm, making her pleasure last with deep strokes, until she sagged against him.
“That was a dead giveaway,” he teased.
“At least I didn’t scream.” Holly drew herself upright. “Let’s see if you handle it any better.”
“Piece of cake.” His hands grasped her hips, and his rhythm changed, his breath coming hard and fast.
But Holly wasn’t about to let him off easy.
She began to rotate her hips to match his rhythm, until he was pounding into her hard enough to lift her with each thrust, his control hanging by a single, fraying thread.
She saw on his face the moment that thread broke, the intensity of his climax making his eyes go wide for a moment before he squeezed them shut, then buried his face in her neck, moaning out his pleasure against her skin, his body shaking.
He stayed that way for a while, holding her against him, his cock still inside her, while she kissed his forehead, caressed his nape, her heart swelling with an unfamiliar emotion. She couldn’t go there.
Not yet. Not now.
These past few days with him had been like a dream. It wasn’t just the fact that they had great sex together, freaking amazing, mind-blowing sex. It was that he truly seemed to care about what she thought, how she felt, what she did with her life. Not that she could be honest with him.
She could never be completely honest with him.
And that’s why she shouldn’t be feeling what she thought she might be feeling. There was no room in her life for a real relationship. Besides, she barely knew him. They’d had sex for the first time Friday night, and it was only Monday. A week from now, they might not want to have anything to do with each other. He might once again be the creep who lived next door to her.
She felt his body relax.
He raised his head and looked at her, his gaze soft.
She smiled. “Dead giveaway.”
* * *
They cleared the dishes together, put them into the dishwasher, Holly’s blood as warm as honey. They talked about everything and nothing—the demise of journalism, reality TV, seventies versus eighties music—which somehow led first to kissing and then to sex in the shower, Nick fucking Holly slow and deep from behind while hot water slu
iced over their skin.
They had just turned off the water when the doorbell rang.
Holly reached for her towel, wrapped it around her body. “Why are people always coming to the door when we’re naked?”
“Maybe because we’re always naked.” Nick took a towel and began to dry off.
Holly traded her towel for her bathrobe and hurried through the house toward her front door. She glanced through the peephole—and froze.
A FedEx delivery truck.
It was nine at night.
Damn!
She took a breath, let the tension slide away, and opened the door to find a frightened FedEx driver sandwiched between two armed CIS men. “Oh, great! It’s finally here! I’ve been wondering if you’d make it.”
She signed for the package—this time from Saks—thanked the driver and the CIS guys, and closed and locked the door.
Nick appeared, towel wrapped around his hips. “I didn’t know FedEx delivered this late.”
“Custom delivery,” Holly said. “It’s my package from Saks.”
“What is it?”
She smiled at Nick. “Give me a moment, and I’ll model it for you.”
He grinned. “I like that idea.”
Holly couldn’t tell him what was in the box because she had no idea. It might be anything—a bra with micro listening devices worked into the underwire or a special cell phone inside a designer handbag or shoes or clothes. Regardless of what it was, it included a message that she needed to decode as soon as possible.
She tossed him the TV remote. “I’ll be right back.”
She carried the package toward her bedroom, glancing back down the hallway to make sure Nick wasn’t following. She picked up her cell phone and letter opener in the kitchen and took them with her, closing her bedroom door behind her. Quickly, she opened the box to find a studded Valentino tote in pastel yellow, blue, and pink.
She moved the purse aside, reached for the packing slip . . .
Her heart gave a hard knock then began to race, adrenaline hitting her bloodstream in an ice-cold rush.
Looking up at her was a printed image of Nick’s face.
Beneath it was the encoded packing slip.
Fighting to master the autonomic effects of panic, she used her cell phone to retrieve the key off Twitter, picked up the packing slip with a trembling hand, and began to decode the ciphertext.
Nikolai Andris, aka Nick Andris, aka Nick Andrews is a CIA officer operating without the authorization of the Agency. He is a CI threat and believed to be responsible for the unauthorized termination of foreign national Sachino Dudaev. Last sighted in Denver. May have an interest in you due to incident with Dudaev. If sighted, proceed with extreme caution and contact authorities. Andris is armed and extremely dangerous. Suggest you leave town immediately. Tickets, ID, cash enclosed.
The words formed before her eyes, some part of her mind rejecting them, even as their meaning became terribly, horribly clear.
Nick was the rogue officer.
No. No, he couldn’t be. He couldn’t.
She’d had sex with him a half dozen times, stayed overnight at his house twice, slept beside him, and he hadn’t hurt her. She hadn’t seen any sign of tradecraft, any hint that he wasn’t who he said he was. He’d been living there since before . . .
Oh, God!
He’d moved in a few days after she’d started dating Dudaev.
And the day he’d finally introduced himself—that had been the day she’d come home from the hospital, the day after someone had drugged her and left her alive in Dudaev’s bed.
Had that someone been Nick?
Holly felt sick, her pulse pounding, a sense of rage warring with hurt as her mind flashed back through the hours she’d spent with him, not just having sex but sharing meals, talking, and sleeping together. All of his thoughtfulness, all of the questions he’d asked about her life—she’d thought he was interested in her. But he’d done to her what she’d done to dozens of men.
And she—she of all people—had fallen for it.
It figured that the one man she’d really liked, the one who’d seemed interested in her life, turned out to be a murdering rogue officer.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
She couldn’t waste time feeling hurt now, not when a man who might be out to kill her sat in her living room. No, killing her wasn’t his primary plan. If it had been, she’d be dead already.
So what did he want with her?
She heard the door creak behind her. Strong arms grabbed her, and she found herself hauled backward against him, one of his hands holding a cloth over her mouth and nose. She recognized the sickly sweet scent.
Ether.
“Don’t fight me, Holly. That’s it. Just breathe, honey. Let’s do this the easy way.”
Fighting true panic, Holly held her breath, pretended to struggle, and then slowly went limp. As she slumped down, her hand brushed soft terry cloth, and she realized he was still wearing nothing but a towel.
She grabbed his balls, squeezed hard—and felt him crumple.
“Fuck!”
Holly leaped over him and ran for her life.
* * *
Goddamn!
Almost blinded by pain, Nick dragged himself to his hands and knees, driven by the need to stop her before she could retrieve her Glock or alert the CIS team. He grabbed the end of the flokati rug she was running across—and jerked it out from under her feet.
She fell to the hall floor, hit her forehead hard, and lay there for a moment, dazed, the wind knocked out of her.
He grabbed the ether-soaked cloth he’d dropped and fought his way to his feet, pain leaving him nauseated and making it damned hard to walk, the towel falling from his hips. He stumbled over to her, let his full weight come down on her, driving the air from her lungs, pinning her to the floor with a knee to her ribs.
She gave a muffled cry, then tried to roll out of it, clearly familiar with ground fighting tactics. But he outweighed her by eighty pounds and was a lot stronger and more experienced with close-quarters combat. He wouldn’t let her get the best of him again.
He lay on top of her, careful to protect his nuts, and clamped the cloth hard over her nose and mouth. “Stop fighting. You can’t win. If you play rough with me, honey, you’re going to get hurt.”
Blood on the floor told him she was already hurt.
Still, she struggled, holding her breath, trying to twist away from him. But she couldn’t hold her breath forever, especially not with her heart beating as hard as it was and no air in her lungs.
In the end, all it took was a single shuddering breath.
Her eyes drifted shut on a whimper, and her body went limp, this time for real, one whispered word on her lips as she lost consciousness. “Creeper.”
* * *
Nick waited until he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t puke from the lingering pain in his crotch, gut, and thighs, then pulled Holly after him through the little access door in her laundry room and into her crawl space, where he’d hidden a bag with ether, duct tape, a flashlight, and his Ruger MK III earlier this afternoon when she’d been at work. He bound her hands and feet with the tape, trying not to notice the bruise on her forehead or the blood on her lip. Then, holding her head and neck against his chest with one arm, he crawled through the darkness, pulling her along with him to the opening he’d cut in the sheathing plywood that separated her crawl space from his.
It took less than five minutes to move her into his condo. Still naked, dirt on his hands and knees, he stopped only to make sure she was breathing before crawling back into the darkness.
He made two trips back to her place. The first time, he retrieved his bag, the photo of himself and the encoded message, as well as clothes and a few other basics for Holly. He found five grand inside the purse, along with a fake ID and plane tickets, and took that, too.
Whatever organization Holly worked for, they were professionals.
The second time, he w
ent back so that he could clean himself up, get dressed, and make a proper exit that the CIS team could witness.
He paused before he opened the front door, looking around Holly’s condo one last time, a strange feeling in his chest as he realized this life was now over for her.
Stop feeling guilty.
Okay. Right. Well, that was easier said than done.
He hadn’t planned to have sex with her again. The intimacy messed up his emotions, made it hard for him to do his job. Besides, he felt like some kind of predator, having sex with her when he knew full well what he had in store for her. But she was too much, and he’d gotten lost in her again. He’d found himself putting off his plans for taking her into custody, unable to bring himself to move against her so soon after holding her, kissing her, being inside her. If the package hadn’t arrived, if he hadn’t peeked through her bedroom door and seen the image of his own face . . .
This is her own damned fault.
Nick was only doing what he had to do to protect himself. He had to know what was in that message and who had sent it. It wasn’t just a matter of stolen files and national security now. His own survival might well be at stake.
He turned and walked out her front door and in through his own to make sure the CIS guys saw him going home—alone.
His rental vehicle—a gray Ford Explorer—was already packed, his gear, the whiteboard, all of his surveillance and computer equipment, as well as food and water stowed in the back and the third row. He picked up Holly, carried her through the door to his garage, and laid her down in the second row, fastening seatbelts around her. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, raised the garage door, and backed down the driveway and into the street, waving to the CIS guys as he drove away.
Chapter Eleven
Nick drove her to an isolated cabin that belonged to the Agency. Sitting at about ten-thousand-feet elevation above the old ghost town of Caribou, it was rustic to say the least, with two rooms, an old iron hand pump that served up bad well water, and a ramshackle outhouse. Its primary virtue lay in the fact that it was surrounded by miles of pine forest and deserted mining claims left over from the gold rush—not a soul in sight. Bauer had told him that officers sometimes came here to evade law enforcement when an operation went bad, but Nick was certain it had been used a time or two for interrogations.