by Cindy Gerard
She was in that bedroom now. Wearing what? Her bra and panties? Something soft and silky on loan from Jenna? His imagination ran wild. He could see her in something blue. Deep, midnight blue. Satin. A little lace. Cut low on top, high at the thigh.
God. He’d sunk to a new low. Chase wasn’t here to bolster his libido. And he wasn’t here to enjoy the boost. Hell, he didn’t even like her and she sure as the world had a hard case against him.
“Give it a rest, Mendoza,” he muttered under his breath, and turned the water on cold.
If he didn’t get this little issue that shouldn’t even have been an issue under control, it was going to be one long freaking operation.
11
Around three a.m., B.J. tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom with her pillow. Very quietly, she let herself out on the terrace so she could escape Stephanie’s restlessness.
The night was quiet and cool. The sky was big and dark and before long, she fell asleep on the cushioned chaise longue.
A voice cut into the silence. Soft, like a caress. Lightly accented and melodious, like a song. “I was thinking it would be blue.”
She reluctantly opened her eyes, uncertain that she’d actually heard anything, and blinked into the dark. And there was the silhouette of a man standing outside on the terrace.
Mendoza.
“You were thinking what would be blue?” she asked drowsily, still half-asleep.
“Your nightgown.”
That woke her up.
That and the sound of his bare feet slapping softly on the slate tiles as he walked over to the chaise. “Jenna wears a lot of blue. Thought maybe she’d loaned you something… well, blue… to sleep in.”
Now she was wide awake. And without a clue as to what to say to that. More to the point, she didn’t know what to think about the idea of Raphael Mendoza wondering what color nightgown she was wearing—or that he’d flat-out admitted it.
An even bigger problem was that she didn’t know where to look. He stood above her wearing nothing but that gold cross around his neck, a pair of boxers, and a whole lot of bare skin above and below them. The boxers were so white they almost glowed against the dark backdrop of the night and the caramel color of his skin. The cross, she could see now, was actually a crucifix.
A crucifix for a Choirboy. Symbolic of a cross to bear, she wondered? A religious statement? Or simply a piece of jewelry?
Finding herself a little too intrigued, she shivered even though the summer night was warm. Even in the air-conditioned apartment, it had felt a little close. She’d been warm in Jenna’s pink satin night slip. She was even warmer now. There wasn’t much of a moon; only the residual light from the city below, and a pale glow from the nightlight Jenna had turned on in the kitchen leaked out onto the terrace. But B.J. could see all that muscle just fine.
Nice muscle. Wide, smooth chest. Broad shoulders, one of which sported the tattoo she remembered from Caracas. Yet another cross of some sort. She couldn’t make it out clearly in the dark but she could see it was unusual.
And she didn’t understand why she was lying there like a lump instead of telling him to leave her the hell alone.
She swallowed hard. Shadows darkened his face so she couldn’t see his expression as he loomed above her. Probably a good thing because that meant he couldn’t see hers either, which was hovering somewhere between embarrassment, surprise, and appreciation.
What he could see, however, was that the night shirt Jenna had loaned her was not blue. It was pink and cut like a tank top and fell only to about mid-thigh. She was as covered as if she were wearing a pair of shorts and a summer top, but there was the issue of underwear. She wasn’t wearing any. Well, except for the brand-new thong Jenna had also loaned her.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked around a yawn, and in a uniquely male action, flattened a palm on his chest and rubbed with a casualness totally at odds with the tense intimacy of their situation. She watched in fascination as his big rough hand and long fingers moved in a circular pattern. His bicep bulged with the action; the network of veins in his forearm expanded.
“Stephanie was restless,” she said, tearing her gaze away and tugging self-consciously on the hem of the nightshirt. She sat up, leaned forward, and adjusted the back of the chaise so she was barely reclining instead of lying down. “I thought she’d sleep better if I let her have the bed to herself.”
Without an invitation, he sat down on the foot of the chaise. This close she could see that he was smiling. His teeth were straight and white, his lips full and sensual.
“Why, that was mighty considerate of you,” he said with an edge of teasing in his tone. “One could almost say you did a nice thing, cara.”
Cara. The endearment had ticked her off in Caracas. It should have ticked her off now. Instead it added to the intimacy of the moment.
“I thought I’d sleep better, too,” she said crisply, not wanting him to get the idea that Stephanie was the only reason she’d brought her pillow outside, even though it basically was. “And I was sleeping.” Until you showed up.
If he caught the implied accusation and her invitation to go back inside so she could get back to sleep, he chose to ignore them. Instead, he watched her with those dark Latin eyes of his as if she was the biggest puzzle he’d ever encountered.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, turning the tables on him. “Other than speculating about my sleepwear.”
Apparently he didn’t have it in him to look guilty. “I heard you slip outside. Kept waiting for you to come back in. Got to worrying when you didn’t, so I thought I’d better check.”
“You’re my boss,” she said, trying not to choke on the concept and the words, “not my babysitter. I’m fine. You can go back inside now.”
He smiled, shook his head. “Why is it that you always think you have to play the hard-ass?”
She blinked at him. She didn’t know what ticked her off more: the question or the amusement on his face.
“You know, it’s the middle of the night,” she pointed out, “and I really don’t care to have this conversation. Most of all, I don’t care to have this conversation with you. I might have to work for you, but I don’t have to engage in idle chitchat.”
His white teeth shone bright in the darkness when his smile widened. “Now see, that’s what I mean. You’re a hard-ass, B. J. Chase. Admit it.”
“I’m a hard-ass?” she challenged. “Why? Because I’m tired? Because I wish I was in my own bed? Because I wish I was sleeping and you won’t let me?” She stopped, dragged an unsteady hand through her hair. “Look. I got shot at today, okay? Some jerk with a Steyr made scrap metal out of my new Jeep. And another jerk,” she added pointedly, “is determined to keep me from getting a couple of hours’ sleep before I have to get up and start what promises to be another stellar day.”
She was shaking now, as much from anger as from a delayed shock that had, unfortunately, kicked in now. She didn’t get shot at every day. She didn’t face down assassins. She didn’t act as a living shield. And she sure as hell didn’t kill people.
“Hey, hey,” he said gently, and scooted up closer until his right thigh pressed flush against her left. He planted his hand on the chaise cushion near her right hip, so he was leaning over her, cocooning her with his heat and his body. And while his tactic could have been threatening, she understood that he was trying to offer her something to hang on to.
He touched a hand to her hair. The teasing smile was gone. “Easy, cara. It’s okay.”
His gentleness almost broke her. White knight. He wanted to play white knight for her. For a moment that scared her to death; she wanted to let him.
She managed to get ahold of herself. By sheer force of will, she kept herself from leaning into the support he offered. No way was she going to let him see her fall apart. She’d be damned if she would fall apart. And she wasn’t about to accept any help from him. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
He didn’t b
udge. “Because you think you’re super-woman?” He cupped her face in his hand. “You think you’re not entitled to a little meltdown?”
No. She wasn’t entitled. And she wouldn’t let a latent case of nerves get the best of her. She wouldn’t let him get the best of her, either. She shoved his hand away and recovered the only way she knew how, with more anger.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see me break—”
“Whoa. Just… just whoa, okay? Jesus. Where is this coming from?”
He looked concerned and puzzled and convincing. And for a moment, she almost cut him some slack before she reminded herself that it was so much easier to be angry than to be weak.
“I thought we’d gotten past Caracas.”
This wasn’t about Caracas but it was fine with her if he thought so. She angled away from him, showing him her back, and drew her knees up to her chest. “Still working on it.”
“Look, I know I should have cut you some slack. You were just doing your job.”
She wrapped her arms around her legs, dropped her forehead onto her knees, and refused to be affected by the regret in his voice. “You’re damn right I was.”
“And it wasn’t your fault that your op interfered with mine.” He heaved a deep breath. “I apologize. Again. Okay? Taking the weapons… it was a lousy thing to do to you.”
She felt his hand in her hair then, dragging it slowly away from her face in an invitation for her to lift her head and look at him. The intimacy of their situation hit her again. They were alone in the night. Alone in the dark. Her heartbeat drowned out the faraway traffic sounds and the low, distant drone of hundreds of air-conditioner units humming away in the night.
She should have pulled away. But his touch was surprisingly gentle. His accent was a little heavier as he softened his tone and his attitude and his hand slowly stroked her hair.
Her reaction was unsettling and strong. Ache in her breasts, unsettling. Wanting to lean into him, strong.
It had been so long since she’d had human contact— real physical contact. Her dad had been a hugger. He’d hug her so hard sometimes she’d thought her ribs would break. And she’d loved it.
She missed it.
And sometimes, alone in the night, in the dark in her bed, sometimes she thought about another kind of physical contact. The contact between a man and a woman. The ultimate physical connection. No, she didn’t believe in love but she did believe in the basic human need to mate, to join, to seek assurance and sustenance and renewal in contact. In sex.
It had been a long time since she’d made that kind of connection. Longer still since she’d made one worth missing. It made no sense that this man reminded her of all that.
“I’m sorry, querida.”
Oh God. There he went again with those Spanish endearments.
She had to get away from him or he was going to see something she never let anyone see. Need.
She didn’t need anyone. At least she didn’t want to.
On a deep breath, she lifted her head. The hand in her hair stilled but stayed exactly where it was. When she looked over her shoulder at him, his eyes searched hers in the dark. Only inches away. But worlds and worlds away from what she really needed.
“If I accept your apology will you leave me alone so I can get some sleep?” She somehow mustered the will to gather her hair in her hand and drag it out of his loose grasp.
He was quiet for a long moment before he finally smiled. “That might work.”
Her breath hitched out, riding on the tension of the near catastrophe. “Fine. Apology accepted.”
Gentle humor colored his voice. “Did that hurt so badly?”
“Actually, yes. It did.”
He chuckled. “But I feel so much better.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Good night, cara,” he said softly, and stood. His movements were too natural to be staged as he extended his arms up over his head on a huge yawn. Every muscle in his body tensed with the motion. His thighs bunched, his abs tightened, his rib cage expanded. Her mouth went dry and, God help her, her thong got wet.
She was in a bit of a daze by the time he finally lowered his arms and turned to go back inside. She watched him walk away, held her breath until he finally reached the terrace doors.
Thank God.
But then he paused with his hand on the door latch and turned back to her. “Will you tell me if I guess?”
“Guess… what?”
“What B.J. stands for.”
That’s when she realized she was still holding her breath.
“Bonnie Jean?” he suggested on a grin when she said nothing.
The man was infuriating. And yet, against all odds, she had to fight to keep from smiling. “Good night, Mendoza.”
12
“Hey, Rafe.”
“Hey, you.” Rafe looked up when Stephanie walked into the kitchen the next morning. Her brown eyes looked tired, her long brown hair hung soft and loose around her shoulders. She was dressed in her rumpled white blouse and black slacks from yesterday. She looked pale and drawn but she still came up with a smile for him. “How you doing this morning?”
“Okay,” she said. “Feeling like a slug. You all shouldn’t have let me sleep so much yesterday.”
“You needed it. Besides, we’re going to work you hard today so the special treatment is over.” At least he let her think so. He’d keep an eye on her and if she started wearing down, he’d send her off to rest. “Let me get that,” he said, intervening when she opened a cupboard door and reached for a coffee mug.
“You don’t need to take care of me.”
“Just indulge me. It’s not every day I get to cater to a damsel in distress.”
She rolled her eyes but gave him the all clear by walking over and sitting down at the dining table. “I talked to Mom and Dad,” she said.
“I wish we could let you see them,” he said, reading the look on her face. “We can’t risk it. Whoever’s after you is bound to have someone watching them, expecting that they’ll lead them to you.”
“I know. I understand. So do they. They just don’t like it very much.”
No, Rafe thought, he didn’t suppose they did but it was a precaution they needed to take. “We’ll be moving you soon, then we’ll see what kind of communication we can set up that’s safe, okay?”
“How long is this going to go on?” Her brows knit together in worry when he brought her the coffee.
“Wish I could tell you. But we’re going to get to the bottom of it. You trust me on that, right?”
She nodded. “You know I do.” She sipped her coffee, then glanced around the empty apartment. “Where is everybody?”
“Gabe and Jenna haven’t made an appearance yet. B.J.’s out on the terrace.”
He could see her out there, sitting alone at the table. Sipping coffee, staring into space, a brooding look on her face.
“She was amazing yesterday,” Stephanie said quietly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She … just took control. She told me what to do, where to go, and then she faced down that … that assassin like bullets bounced off her or something.”
He understood where this was coming from and sat down at the table with her. He covered her hand with his. “Yeah. She kept her cool. She did her job.”
“And I did nothing.”
She was suffering from survivor’s guilt even though no one she cared about had been hurt. “Nothing was the best thing you could have done. You’re not trained to deal with those situations. Hell, few people are. She’s a pro, Steph. You gave her the room to do what she needed to do to keep you both alive by keeping your head, following her orders, and not making her worry about whether or not you’d do something stupid.”
“This is your life, isn’t it?” Her big brown eyes searched his. “You … you and the guys. You’re involved with this sort of thing all the time.”
He didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to
say.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“And I don’t know how you apply that amazing analytical mind of yours to cracking codes. The idea of tackling an encrypted message scares the socks off me.”
She finally smiled at that. “That’s hardly the same thing.”
He squeezed her hand. “The point is, we all have our strengths.”
“You and B.J. and the guys, yours is a different kind of strength. I’m humbled by it. Bry … Bryan had it, too, didn’t he?”