by Molly Joseph
Grace frowned at the bedlam. “What is he saying?”
Sam didn’t want to tell her. It was a bunch of shit about Al Raji battling a migraine during the game, and veiled accusations of cheating. “He’s saying that you won the first game,” he said, switching it off. “I don’t think you should watch the news. You should be doing something to take your mind off the craziness. Something like this.”
He smoothed a hand down her spine and kissed her. She still tasted faintly of cinnamon. He groaned as she pressed against him, because he’d been wanting to do this all day. He cupped the back of her neck and wove his fingers through her hair. It was half dry from the shower, sticking out in little blonde scruffs here and there. “Beautiful Grace,” he whispered against her lips.
She trailed her fingers down to his waistband, and released his thickening cock from behind constricting fabric. He took off her glasses and kissed her eyes and nose, and cupped her face as she stroked him.
He was so hard for her. Unfortunate. The one toiletry the Danes didn’t provide in their five-star lodging was condoms. He pushed her back on the bed and captured her hands, and kissed the underside of her arms and her pretty elbows. He’d never found a woman’s elbows especially pretty, but now he wanted to fuck those elbows, and her tits, and her mouth, and her pussy and ass and every part of this precious body he might have lost today. He spread open her robe and licked her nipples, and thrust his fingers between her legs. Beautiful. So hot and powerful, and beautiful.
“Put it inside me,” she begged, pumping a hand up and down his aching length.
“I can’t.” He gripped her wrist as she stroked his cock again. “I don’t have any condoms. They’re back at the hotel.”
“Do you have any diseases I need to be worried about?”
“No.” He kissed her pouty lips. “But I have millions and millions of viable sperm.”
She thought about that for a moment. He felt her pain, he really did. He was so ready to spread her legs wide and bury himself in one deep thrust…
“Can’t you just pull out? Not come inside me?” she asked.
“I can, but Grace...” He smoothed his thumb over the lines between her brow. “I don’t know if I’m up for any more risks today. I’m supposed to be protecting you.”
She groaned, a throaty, frustrated groan that made him go harder still. He stroked her pussy, the wet, hidden spot he knew she liked best. She threw her head back against the pillow. “Ohh. Please keep doing that. It feels so good.”
“I know. Put your hand on my cock again.”
Her palm felt cool and soft against his heated flesh. He shoved his pants the rest of the way down while Grace shimmied out of her robe and fumbled with his shirt buttons. It made sense to do this. The ultimate forgetting. He filled his hands with her body, with her luscious breasts and curving hips. He burned to be inside her.
No, no more risk.
“Stroke me,” he sighed. “Give me a hand job. See if you can make me come.”
He stroked her too, pressing his palm against her delectable heat and pistoning his fingers in and out. It wasn’t as good as fucking her. It was still good though, different and heightened in their current moods. He knelt over her and slid his cock along the line of her pussy, not inside, just nestled within her slick, hot lips. He kissed her at the same time, cupping her face with one hand, while he balanced over her on the other. It took every shred of his control not to jam his cock inside her.
“Oh God. Oh my God.” She bit down on his lip, trapping him as he kissed her. “Please don’t stop rubbing on me.”
“I won’t. Does that feel good, baby? You’re so hot and slick, you’re going to make me come on you. I’m going to come all over your sexy tits if you keep that up.”
Wow. Dirty talking while he pseudo-fucked his client in the basement of a Danish embassy in the Middle East. A new professional low, but he didn’t care. She needed this release, and so did he. She needed this feeling of letting go and being alive, even if he couldn’t be inside her the way she wanted. He’d fuck her to pieces once he was in possession of a condom. Maybe he’d fuck her on the plane out of here, under a blanket, or in the bathroom...
His dirty airplane-sex thoughts were interrupted by her rasping cry. He jammed his fingers inside her to bring her off harder, and was rewarded with a muscle-spasming, knee-jerking, head-shaking display of climactic bliss. When she was mostly wrung out, he palmed his cock and pumped it a few times—he’d only been waiting for her—and shot jizz all over her breasts and stomach. She was so high from her own orgasm, he didn’t know if she noticed or cared. But he cared. There was something about coming all over a woman, some primal satisfaction in leaving her marked with his seed.
“Grace,” he sighed.
She gazed up at him hazily. “Hmm?”
“Are you all right?”
“Probably.” She looked down at the milky fluid decorating her body. “Except I’m covered in millions and millions of viable sperm.”
Again, not sure if she was joking or not joking. That was Grace. Impossible to read, impossible to know. Impossible to get over, once you had her in your heart.
“Do you think they have any more ice cream here?” she asked. “And a chess board?”
He laughed. It felt so good to laugh.
“If they do, you’re going to have it,” he promised her. “But I suggest you take another shower first.”
Chapter Thirteen: Going Home
“The blunders are all there on the board, waiting to be made.” —Savielly Tartakower
Sam came awake at a flicker of light in the other room. He had no idea what time it was, or who was out there. He reached for his weapon and realized he didn’t have it. A moment later, a long-haired man in a thousand-dollar suit looked in at them. Liam Wilder, the Ironclad CEO, had come to Dubai.
Sam stared back at him, aghast. Thank God they were dressed—relatively dressed. After their second shower, they’d fallen asleep in their robes, but that didn’t change the fact that Grace was sprawled across his chest.
Mr. Wilder glanced at the sleeping woman, then flicked his fingers at Sam and mouthed, “I need to talk to you,” before disappearing again.
Shit. Sam had known he’d have to come clean about his unprofessional behavior at some point, but he never thought he’d get personally busted by the boss.
He tried to plan what to say as he extricated himself from Grace’s slumbering embrace and hurriedly pulled on his clothes. He checked his phone. Eight in the morning. They’d been up off and on all night, touching one another, sweating through nightmares. Around one in the morning, Grace had sat bolt upright and screamed.
Sam squared his shoulders and finished buttoning his shirt, and checked that his fly was closed. Classy. He was classy as hell. He deserved whatever Liam Wilder was going to dish out when he went in the other room.
When he walked out, Mr. Wilder was peering at a tablet, fingers moving across the screen. “I just got in,” he said, without looking up from the device. “Events escalated here pretty quickly.”
“Yes. How’s the mood outside?”
“Not good. Still risky.”
Liam Wilder finally looked up. Sam had seen his photo plenty of times, but he’d never met the man in person. He was bigger than he looked on a screen, broader and more muscular. An intimidating guy, or maybe Sam was just feeling guilty.
“Mr. Wilder—”
“Call me Liam. Just so you know, my assistant is on the way from the hotel with your bags.”
Sam swallowed and tried again. “Liam, about what you saw...just now...”
He stopped him with a raised hand. “If you’re going to explain why you were sleeping next to your client in bed, don’t bother. I imagine she was pretty shaken up by yesterday’s events.”
“Yes, sir. She was shaken up. But—”
“We need to focus on what happens now,” said Liam, talking over him. “How to get her out of here with the least trauma possible.
” He tilted his head, tugged at an earlobe. “There’s something else.”
Sam waited, knowing the something else but not wanting to hear the words.
“I got a call from Louise Ferlander just after I boarded the flight here,” said Liam. “Mr. Valshemnik died at Brooklyn Hospital early this morning, of complications from the flu.”
Valshemnik. For a moment, that’s all Sam could focus on—the crisp, correct way his boss pronounced Zeke’s “cumbersome Russian-Jewish name.” Sam was glad he’d said it right. It made the moment a tiny iota easier to bear.
“I don’t know how I’m going to tell Grace that,” said Sam. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell her that news. She’ll be devastated.”
“I’ll tell her if you like, but you’d better be here too. She’s going to want a familiar shoulder to cry on.”
The mattress creaked in the bedroom. “Sam. Where are you? Sam!” Grace appeared at the door, clutching her robe around her. “I heard a voice—”
Her eyes traveled from Sam to his boss sitting on the sofa. Liam stood and held out his hand. “I’m Liam Wilder, head of operations at Ironclad Solutions. I’m sorry I woke you.”
One reason Liam had built such a successful, multi-national personnel agency was because he was an engaging guy. Grace lost a little of her panic and crossed to shake his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I figured Sam might need a little help until things settle down. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you played quite a game yesterday. I don’t know much about chess, but my assistant followed it live, and he just about exploded by the end. I think you’ve made yourself a lifelong fan.”
He sobered and gestured for her to sit next to him on the couch. Sam sat on a nearby chair. For now, Liam was in charge, and Sam was grateful. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until this moment, when he knew Zeke had died in a Brooklyn hospital, and Grace didn’t know.
Liam was still engaging her in small talk. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Nervous? Worried?”
She nodded. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“I promise we’re going to get you home, and find a safe place for you to regroup. In case you weren’t aware, they’ve cancelled the rest of the match for now. Your seconds have arrived safely at their homes and will be in touch. And Mem will be here any moment with your luggage. Mem is my assistant. Your superfan.”
Smart. Liam was so smart. He was getting the business out of the way, telling Grace what she needed to know before he knocked her world sideways with the news of Zeke’s death. He wondered how Liam could be so composed about the whole thing. Well, he’d probably been in some dire situations, considering what he did for a living. But Liam’s sharp competence made Sam realize how soft he’d become over the past few weeks, how ineffective.
God, he was so tired.
Grace looked tired too. She startled at the knock on the door, and there was the assistant, a small, dark man of indeterminate nationality, significantly older than Liam Wilder, but no less sharp. Some uniformed Danish agents came behind, carrying their bags.
It felt good to get them back—Sam had considered them lost—but neither he nor Grace got up to retrieve them. Without direction, the agents stacked the suitcases against the wall.
Once they left, Liam introduced his assistant. Mem, no last name. The man was deceptively slight, but Sam recognized the signs of capability. He might be an assassin on the side. Assistant, assassin. They weren’t too many letters off. The assistant, or assassin, bowed over Grace’s hand with fawning adoration.
“Miss Frasier,” he said. “You have given all of us so much to admire. I am deeply honored to make your acquaintance.”
Grace blinked at him. “He said you like chess,” she said, gesturing to Liam.
Mem bowed again. “My play is that of a child compared to yours. But I am fascinated by the game. I hope we can speak in greater depth at some future time.”
“Of course,” said Liam. “But right now, we’re working on getting you out of Dubai in the safest possible way. The State Department is working on a private flight back to New York.”
Grace turned to Sam. “Have you talked to Zeke? He must be worried. When’s the last time we talked to Zeke?”
Sam looked at Liam, then Mem. If there was ever a moment to protect her, it was now, but there was nothing he could do to change the words they had to say.
*** *** ***
Grace knew right away something was wrong, because Sam wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“Did you talk to Zeke?” she asked again. “What’s the matter?”
“Gracie...”
Sam’s voice faded out. She’d never heard him sound like that before, so vague and inert. He reached for her hand and held it between his.
“Miss Frasier,” said Liam, when Sam remained speechless. “I have some terrible news.”
“Zeke’s in the hospital, isn’t he?” she said. “He’s had that cough for weeks now. Mrs. Ferlander...” Mrs. Ferlander was supposed to be taking care of him. She would have told them if anything was wrong.
“Grace, there were complications.” This from Sam, who apparently knew things she didn’t know.
“Tell me,” she said. “What’s the matter with Zeke?”
“He had the flu.”
Had. He had the flu.
“I’m so sorry,” said Liam. “Zeke passed away yesterday. There were complications.”
Complications. Flu. Passed away. She was trying to put those words together in some way that made sense.
“No. I just talked to him.” She shook her head and tried to remember. “I talked to him yesterday morning, before the match.” She tried to work out the time, his time, her time, to prove that this was impossible. Zeke was so far away, a different time of day from her, but it didn’t matter anymore. They were telling her he was gone. Dead. They were telling her she would never hear his voice again.
She started to cry. “Zeke. Zeke.” She repeated his name, dumbly, like it might conjure him back. Flu. Passed away. He’d died sometime between now and the last time she’d talked to him. It didn’t make any sense. It was impossible, but their faces...
She stood and went to Sam because she needed him to hold her, but then Liam reached out with a box of tissues, and she remembered that Liam was Sam’s boss, and that Sam wasn’t supposed to hold her. He held her anyway, pulled her into his lap and enveloped her in his arms as she sobbed against his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Frasier,” said Liam, as Sam handed her tissues. “They did everything they could, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight it.”
“Because of me,” she said. “Because he was worried. Because I was over here playing this match. He was stressed.”
“That's not why,” Sam admonished firmly. “Zeke caught the flu.”
“When did it happen?” She sounded like some kind of maniac, yelling and crying at once. “What time of day did it happen? When did he die? Before the game? After?”
“He died a few hours after the game ended,” said Liam. “Mrs. Ferlander was telling him the moves play by play, but he wasn’t able to watch it. She’s not certain...not certain he knew.”
“Maybe they killed him because of me. Maybe Al Raji’s people gave him the flu.”
Sam held her tighter. “Gracie.”
“Maybe Zeke saw the rioting on the news, and his heart got too stressed.”
“You’re not allowed to make this your fault.” Sam’s voice sounded rough in her ear. “He was old, and he caught the flu. It was too much for his fragile system to handle. This isn’t your fault.”
He put his palms around her face, against her ears, and pressed his forehead to hers. The boss and the assistant were silent, too silent. They would know now that she and Sam were more than bodyguard and client. She was terrified they’d fire him and make him go, and she’d lose him too.
“Don’t leave,” she said, clutching
the front of his shirt. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t. I’m not going anywhere. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry about Zeke. He was a great man, an amazing man, and I know how close you two were.”
“I wanted to talk to him about the game,” she bawled. “I wanted to tell him I won.”
“He knew.” He massaged her nape, a centering pressure. An intimate touch. “He told me the first day I met him that you were going to beat Al Raji. It was never a question in his mind.”
But it would have been so wonderful to call Zeke and talk to him, and laugh about the daring way she’d played. It would have been so great to fly home to New York at the end of the match, cocky and victorious. He would have held her in his frail arms and given her that beaming grin.
“I’m going to miss the way he grinned at me,” she blurted, bursting into tears again. “I’m going to miss his voice, and his hands, and that way he shook his finger.”
“I know,” said Sam. “I remember.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He made her sit up, made her look into his eyes. “We’ll figure it out, okay? You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you. For a while you’re just going to grieve, and that’s okay.” His eyes were wet too, like he might cry, only bodyguards didn’t cry. They protected, so he just stared at her with that misty gaze, his mouth set in a tight line.
“Would you like to read the message I got from Mrs. Ferlander?” Liam asked. “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you. Maybe it will help you to know he was comfortable at the end. He didn’t suffer.”
Sam’s boss held out his tablet and Grace took it, and stared down at the screen. There it was, the official notice from Mrs. Ferlander to her employer, telling him that Mr. Ezekiel Valshemnik was not going to recover from his illness. That she was unable to reach Miss Frasier, or any next of kin. That meant Zeke had died alone. No, not alone, Mrs. Ferlander had stayed with him, Mrs. Ferlander, whom he loved, who made his oatmeal just right.