Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2)

by Stella Barcelona

  Bad, bad idea.

  Kneeling in front of her, oblivious to the epic game of tug-of-war playing out in her mind, he said, “As I was saying, if it has to do with your well-being over the next twenty-seven days, it is security. Let me rub the kinks out of your neck, so I can race you without pulling back.”

  His hands on her? Now, when she was fighting with herself? Probably not a good idea. “I didn’t say we were going to race,” Samantha equivocated.

  That almost-smile, the twitch to the left of his lips was there and gone. The twitch told her he was fighting a smile, but he wasn’t giving in. A fresh reminder that even in the smallest things, Zeus had unbelievable willpower.

  Years earlier, he hadn’t touched her while on the job. Hadn’t even acted like he wanted to touch her, and that was one of the reasons she was so drawn to him. It was only after the job had ended that he appeared at her doorstep and showed her how wonderful a large dose of pent-up frustration could be. “You didn’t have to.”

  Damn. Resentment flared from deep within. He knew her too well.

  “Sweatshirt off. Flat on your belly. I remember how much you love a good neck rub.” His voice deepened. Yes, she remembered his style of neck rubs as well. “No using your neck as an excuse when I beat your ass.”

  “Never going to happen, Hernandez,” she said lightly. Easier not to argue. Besides, her neck really did hurt. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head and placed it on the floor. As she shifted to lay face down on the towel, his eyes lingered over her black exercise shirt. It was barely larger than a jog-bra, and it left her midriff exposed.

  Their eyes met. Held. A glimmer of raw hunger flashed in his dark eyes.

  Would he act on it?

  Samantha sucked in a breath. Would she stop resisting and give in to what they clearly both wanted? She wasn’t afforded the chance to see where that look could take them. He knelt at her head, leaned over her, and pressed his hands flat on her shoulder blades.

  “You’re really tight. Does that pressure hurt?”

  She almost groaned, for a second wishing he was talking about a different part of her anatomy, one that was craving as much release as her neck. Yet relief at her neck came from his warm touch, and she forced herself to focus on those muscles and tendons, ones that didn’t raise a host of underlying issues. “Oh God, that feels great.”

  “When you passed out today, your head fell back.” His voice was almost a whisper. She recognized that tone, remembered what they’d been doing when she last heard it, and felt like telling him not to stop at her neck. “I tried to run without jarring you too much.”

  Keeping his palms on her shoulder blades, he spread his fingers out and pressed them into her flesh while using his thumbs on either side of her spine, inch by inch working out the knots. “That. Feels. Soooo. Good,” she said, breathing in deeply, and relaxing as he probed at her pressure points. After long minutes where he worked magic on her neck, she added, “It wasn’t the run.”

  “Recurring problem?”

  Face still down on the towel, she nodded. “Seems to be lately. My job has gotten more and more stressful. End-of-day runs or swimming help. But I’ve missed too many exercise sessions in the last couple of weeks.”

  He lifted his hands, using the base of his palms for pressure for a few minutes, and started over with his thumbs, probing and rubbing along her spine, concentrating his effort on the area where her neck joined her back. God. What the man could do with his thumbs should be bottled and sold. He ended the massage by flattening his hands and spreading his fingers over her neck and shoulder area, applying gentle pressure.

  “Sit up,” he said, removing the warmth of his hands. She enjoyed his touch far more than was wise. Damn. She shouldn’t have let him put his hands on her. His touch sent muscle memory zapping though every single fiber in her being. The resulting desire didn’t give a damn about logic, nor did her aching need for him care about the gut-wrenching hurt that had overcome her when he’d made his decision.

  “Do a range of motion rotation,” Zeus instructed when she sat up. His husky, quiet tone indicated he’d rather be telling her to do something else. He gave great instructions in bed, where she loved to give a few herself. Hell. She sat up, squared her shoulders, and met his eyes. “Tell me if your neck’s better.”

  Sitting cross-legged, she shut her eyes, and rotated her head. Opening her eyes, she glanced up at him, and gave him a thumbs-up signal when she was through. “You knew it would be better.”

  He nodded as he drew in a deep breath. “I hoped.”

  He made no move to stand. He stayed on his knees, right in front of her. Because of his height and her flat-on-her-butt position, she had to look up to meet his glance, but not more than a foot of space separated their faces. Unfiltered, pained honesty suddenly flooded his eyes. It was the same look he’d worn after telling her his marriage hadn’t worked out, right before she’d shut the door on him the other night. It was a look that said he wanted to have a conversation that would dredge up painful emotions and feelings. The conversation that would only end one way—with them being sure that no matter what they felt for each other, they weren’t right for each other. There was no point to the conversation, because she already knew the outcome.

  Please God, don’t let him go there. There is no point rehashing our past.

  Instead of talking, he stood, but that look spoke volumes. He wasn’t going to let it drop forever. For now though, he stayed silent.

  Good. Because that’s a conversation I’m never going to have.

  He walked over to the treadmill. “Ready when you are.”

  “I’m not really up for a race,” she said as she stood. “I just need a good, solid run.”

  “Suit yourself. Six miles. I’ll finish before you, whether you race me or not.” He bent into a lunge to stretch his quads, before starting his machine at a slow walk. “Waiting on you.”

  Trying to ignore Zeus, she started at a six-miles-per-hour pace, keeping her attention focused on the glowing dots tracking her progress while she thought about the next day’s proceedings. There was still no word as to whether the proceedings would be cancelled for Thursday due to the bombing, or whether it would be business as usual.

  “You’re behind by an eighth of a mile,” Zeus said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “I’m not racing,” she said. “Thinking through some things.”

  Judge O’Connor’s phone call had been short. After confirming that the Amicus team was fine, he’d gotten to the real point of his call. He hadn’t liked her examination of Duvall, because she’d hit too hard at weaknesses in the ITT case against Maximov. His directive was simple and explicit: “For now, take more of a low profile approach.”

  She had responded that her integrity wouldn’t be compromised, because the job of Amicus counsel was to honestly represent to the court an accurate summation of the evidence.

  His response: “No, your job is defined by the tribunal, and I’m telling you not to highlight the weaknesses in the evidence. We’ve got to find a solution to the problem that this proceeding is becoming.”

  The conversation had continued, politely, from there, but Sam hadn’t bent. If the proceeding itself was becoming a problem due to the lack of evidence tying the terrorist acts to Maximov or any other terrorist group with international reach, it was her job to make that clear to the judges. If conclusions weren’t based on hard facts, the record needed to reflect that the conclusions lacked foundation. Her job was to make sure the record accurately reflected the evidence. At least that was how she perceived her job. Judge O’Connor was making it clear he had other thoughts.

  She hadn’t felt good about Judge O’Connor’s call when it ended, and it now served as a reminder that the job of Amicus counsel required diplomacy.

  Diplomacy wasn’t a strength of hers. It was usually her way or go-the-hell-down the highway.

  She’d work on it.

  She set her pace to a nine-minute mile. Zeus
reset his pace to match hers. They were both competitive to the nth degree. In everything. Not just in runs. In bed, too. She put that thought to the side, and shot him a glance. “Aren’t your legs tired after running this afternoon?”

  He chuckled. “Not at all.”

  At the two-mile mark, she lowered her pace. He didn’t reset his, no doubt assuming that she wouldn’t keep up the eight-minute-mile pace for long. She almost smiled. He had no idea what was in store for him.

  “Still,” she said. “You’re injured, and you were carrying me. I weigh one hundred twenty-three very heavy pounds.” She paused, focusing on breathing. “Carrying me had to be a bit of a strain on those leg muscles. Plus, you’re built for endurance. Not speed.”

  “Talk trash all you want.” Zeus adjusted his pace. “You’ll only lose your breath.”

  Bastard.

  She hit the two and a half mile mark as he did, and reset her pace, dropping it to the fastest sprint she could maintain for two-minute interval. Justin was a serious runner. He’d taught her how to shave time for distance runners. Her runs were now solid, fast, and steady, and punctuated with interval sprints. It was a world-class workout, and she was going to leave Zeus in the dust.

  Starting now.

  “You can’t keep up that pace,” he said.

  “Watch me.”

  She focused her legs on her run and her thoughts on her work, and not the man running next to her. In response to Judge O’Connor’s call, she had toned down the nightly briefing memo, explaining the problem to Abe and Charles. The internal proceedings of the ITT for that day were minimized in comparison to the bombing. She turned the memo into a bland, but accurate, summation of the day’s proceedings and gave a snapshot of what was planned for the next day. If the proceedings were taking place at all. After six more sprint intervals, with short, slower-paced intervals between the sprints, she hit the six-mile finish line thirty seconds before Zeus. She slowed the treadmill to a fast walk, gasping for air.

  “Holy shit.” He drew a deep breath, stepping off the treadmill.

  She wiped the sweat off her brow, enjoying the rush of feel-good endorphins that came with the strenuous run. “Pretty good, huh?”

  Palms on his knees, he inhaled and exhaled. “You’re even faster than before.”

  “Justin runs.” She stepped off the treadmill, pulling in deep breaths as she reached for the towel. “Marathons. Getting faster was a matter of self-preservation if I wanted to keep up. Or win.”

  He walked around the room. On his second pass, he lifted his towel from the back of his chair to wipe his forehead, neck, and shoulders. If the mention of Justin bothered him, he didn’t show it. Nor would he. His world-class poker face was focused on nothing but regaining his breath. After a few long minutes, as she did a standing stretch, palms flat on the floor, he asked, “When’s the wedding?”

  Ahhhh. So he was paying attention.

  “We haven’t set a date. Justin isn’t my fiancé. Yet.”

  As she straightened and stretched her arms overhead, he stopped walking. He was only a foot or so from her, less than an arm’s distance away. She wanted to run her fingers down his muscles, over the light glisten of perspiration on his stomach, and feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  Damn.

  She wanted to lick all the way up. Or down. Direction wouldn’t matter, when his chest rose. And fell. Like that.

  Stop looking.

  When she dragged her eyes back to his, he gave a convincing whatever shrug. “Media reports paint a mixed picture, but the consensus seems to be that the two of you are engaged. They say it’s a merger, not a marriage.”

  She ignored the press, but it was hard not to be aware of their rife speculation. All of which was becoming irrelevant as her body reacted to the nearness of Zeus and the possibility of having him. He stood so close, she felt his body heat. Or maybe what she was feeling was her own rising temperature.

  Eyes on her, he toweled perspiration off his chest, and slung the towel around his neck. With his hands balled into fists, he pulled at both ends of the towel, as though he was giving his hands something to do rather than reach for her.

  Her therapist had said she needed to persuade herself that Zeus wasn’t as good as she remembered. From the intense fire in his eyes, the way he was looking at her like he was ready to pounce, her opportunity to be persuaded was coming soon.

  Do me. Now. Hard. Fast. Deep. Like you used to.

  Evidently not a mind reader, he gave her a slight frown and kept his distance. “I saw the two of you together.”

  “When?”

  “June second. Last year. Ten thirty in the evening.”

  That was pretty damned specific. She thought back. June second was just a date in the past. Nothing special came to mind. “Where was I?”

  “D.C. Walking into Dixon Tower.”

  One of her grandfather’s high-end real estate developments. Offices filled the lower three floors. Condos filled the upper floors. She lived in a penthouse. Black Raven provided on-site security on her grandfather’s properties, including Dixon Tower. The security company employed thousands of people. She’d never seen Zeus there.

  “You were there for work?”

  “No,” he said. “It was the day my divorce was final. I went there to talk to you.”

  Her heart pounded harder from what he was saying than from the exertion of the run. She’d assumed he hadn’t bothered trying to contact her before showing up in Paris this week.

  Assumptions? Very, very dangerous things.

  She’d made quite a few with him seven years earlier, and they’d been lethal. Foolish people made assumptions, she reminded herself. Do not assume anything.

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I wanted to have the conversation I tried to have with you the other night, when you shut the door in my face.”

  “I don’t want to have that conversation. Not now,” she said. Because there are hard truths that even I haven’t faced. “Not ever.”

  He gave her a slow nod. “Message received, loud and clear. But I’m not going to honor it. We will have that conversa—”

  “June 2. Last year. You went to D.C. to have a conversation with me. You saw me. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “When I arrived at eight, I figured out that you’d left for the evening. I have an in with the security personnel in the building.” He shrugged, lifted the towel from around his neck, and let it fall to the floor. “I waited for you to return. You left alone, but returned with McDougall. You were wearing high heels. A black dress. It fit you like a glove. He was in a tuxedo.”

  She shrugged. “Sounds like just another night in D.C. We attend events constantly. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “The two of you got out of a cab together. He talked to you for a few minutes. I wasn’t even twenty feet away. He sent the cab away and went in with you. For the night.”

  She reached for her own towel, which she’d left hanging on the treadmill. It gave her a chance to look away from the honest pain in his eyes. She wiped perspiration off her neck and chest.

  If I start telling you about hurt, the pain will consume us both.

  June 2nd. Last year. She didn’t remember the exact night, but she had no doubt that Zeus was right. She and Justin frequently slept at each other’s places. They were, after all, a couple, and though their relationship was platonic, through observing how others behaved Samantha believed that she and Justin were closer than many traditional, long-term couples.

  When sexual desire had them going elsewhere for satisfaction, they exercised the utmost discretion. At most, she and Justin told other sexual partners that their relationship was open, that they did not practice monogamy. The reasons why were kept private. No one other than she and Justin knew. They both chose their sexual partners carefully. Discretion was a paramount prerequisite.

  Samantha had found that in-depth conversation wasn’t necessary with her sex pa
rtners. In D.C., people who mattered understood discretion. Still, toys were typically easier than men. After all, toys were equally forgettable, but more dependable, and she didn’t have to worry about discretion from her favorite vibrator. It didn’t much matter who or what her sexual partners were, because for years, no matter what was happening between her legs, she’d close her eyes and imagine that Zeus was making love to her.

  Something he’ll never know.

  “I’ve wanted to talk to you forever, but I wasn’t going to call you while I was married. There was no point to it. When I saw you with him, I realized you had a life,” he said. “I didn’t have the right to interfere in it.”

  Dear God, on top of everything else, why did you have to give this man such a healthy dose of integrity?

  With Zeus, she knew she’d have to tell him about the understanding that she and Justin had. Her past with Zeus told her that he had old-fashioned morals, the kind that might keep him from having sex with a woman who was almost engaged to another man.

  As her mind searched for the words she needed to tell him of the arrangement, she acknowledged the truth in his statement. “Of course I have a life. Without you. I have a great one.”

  “I fully realize that. I just thought—”

  “That I’d care that you were divorced?”

  His shoulders slightly lifted in a shrug. His eyes were intense, honest, and proud. He was laying out his thoughts with strength and giving her the solid message that she could take it or leave it. “That was my hope.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

  “Dammit, Sam. I wasn’t there to talk about the weather. What I had to say seemed pretty goddamn irrelevant as I watched the two of you. He went in with you. For the night.”

  “You’re not in in much of a position to feel miffed over that.”

  He stepped so close to her that not even an inch separated them. A vein pulsed at his left temple. Deep at her core, she quivered with anticipation. She reached for him and tiptoed, bringing her lips closer to his.

  “Please stop talking,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, trying to pull him down to her.