by Tiffany Snow
“Aww! You two are so sweet!”
Mia’s words were an abrupt reminder, and I hastily stepped away from Jackson. She was standing in the entry from the kitchen to the living room, vase of roses in her hands, and gazing at us with the expression of an adoring puppy.
“Time to go,” Jackson said, and I figured it was probably the only time in his life he’d ever been called “sweet.” Forbes’s Ten Most Eligible Billionaires list had used words like “sexy,” “aloof,” “mysterious,” and “genius” to describe him, not sweet.
I expected his usual car when we went outside, but instead, there was a shiny black stretch limo in my driveway. I’d never ridden in one before, and as a car aficionado, I immediately itched to see inside.
“I thought I’d go all out,” he said. A driver was waiting by the car door and opened it for us as we approached. I didn’t recognize him.
“Where’s Lance?” I asked. Lance was Jackson’s man and took care of the household and drove for him.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. I gave him the night off. The rental came with a driver anyway.”
The inside of the limo was gorgeous black leather with sparkly lights that looked like stars on the ceiling. I gasped when I saw not one, not two, but three huge bouquets of red roses placed strategically around the interior. Their sweet scent permeated the limo.
I scooted over on the back seat, wide-eyed, as Jackson climbed in next to me. The driver closed the door behind him, and we were alone.
I felt overwhelmed. No one had ever done something so romantic for me before. “I feel like Cinderella,” I said.
“You’re much prettier than Cinderella,” Jackson replied, his fingers grazing my jaw.
I turned toward him and it hit me then, how much I’d missed him. Two weeks had felt like an eternity.
Reaching up, I pulled him down to kiss him again. This time it wasn’t languid. It was urgent and wet, and I wanted him desperately.
“We should’ve stayed at my place,” I murmured against his lips.
He didn’t answer. Instead he pushed my coat off my shoulders and dragged me onto his lap. I knelt, straddling him, still kissing. Then his hands were on my bare thighs and sliding up underneath my skirt, sending a rush of heat between my legs. Two weeks was too long.
He suddenly froze and pulled away, a strange look on his face. “What are you wearing underneath that dress?”
I remembered then, and grinned. “Oh, just a little something I picked up.” I lifted my skirt so he could see my black satin bikini panties. They had words printed on the front in large white letters.
“Use the Force,” Jackson read, then burst out laughing. His laugh made me smile wider. I loved hearing it, especially when I was the one who’d amused him. Amusing him on purpose was even better.
I squealed when Jackson picked me up and reversed our positions, kneeling in front of me. His smile turned wicked as he tugged the panties down my legs.
“Wait, what are you doing?” We were in a car, for crying out loud. Yes, a limousine, but still. The driver was right there up front, even with the divider separating us.
“I thought I’d head downtown first.”
Usually euphemisms went over my head, but it was hard to mistake Jackson’s meaning when he spread my knees and put his mouth between my legs.
My eyes slammed shut at the touch of his tongue. I bit my lip to stay quiet, but Jackson moaned, pressing closer. His . . . enthusiasm . . . for this particular activity translated into an awesome benefit for me.
I stopped caring about where we were and who might hear about five seconds after he slid a finger inside me. I opened my eyes and watched him. The sight of his head between my thighs sent my pulse into overdrive. His eyes had been closed, too, but now they looked right at me, watching me watch him kiss the most intimate and sensitive part of me.
It was enough to send me over the edge. I clutched his head and came apart.
The look of smug satisfaction on his face when I was able to open my eyes again was enough to make me chuckle.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” I said.
“Considering how loud you were, I think I have the right,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the inside of my knee.
But instead of being sated, I wanted more. Leaning forward, I tugged at his bow tie.
“Please tell me wherever we’re going is far away,” I said.
“It’s however far you want it to be.”
Good enough.
I yanked his jacket off his shoulders and discarded it along with the tie. Then I pushed at his shoulders.
“Up there,” I said, motioning to the long seat that ran along the length of the limo. “I want you up there.”
Jackson’s lips twisted at my bossiness, but he did as I said, leaning back against the seat and looking much too sexy for a man who wrote computer code for a living. His tie was gone and I’d managed to get the top three buttons undone on his shirt, showing an enticing glimpse of his chest that made my fingers itch to touch him. His eyes were at half-mast, watching me, his lips slightly swollen from our kisses.
If I sold a picture of him looking like this, I’d make a fortune. Good thing I was too focused on stripping him to grab my phone.
I got the rest of his shirt unbuttoned and tugged it from his slacks, not bothering to push it off his shoulders. I could get to his chest now, and I spent some time admiring the view. I traced the muscles of his pectorals and abdomen with my fingers, his skin warm to the touch. Then the length of his erection straining at his slacks caught my eye.
Since I’d been partly satisfied, I took my time, teasing him. Slowly unbuttoning his trousers and carefully lowering the zipper. When my fingers touched him, he sucked in a breath, and I smiled.
“Miss me?” I asked.
“You have no idea.”
Being short had its advantages, so when I straddled him, I didn’t have to bend my neck to not hit my head on the roof. I looked into his eyes as he guided himself into me, and it felt as though more than our bodies connected.
I kissed him, and he grasped my hips, lifting me, then letting me slide back down.
“Oooooh,” I breathed. “That feels . . . nice.”
He grunted. “Nice? Really? Just nice? I guess I’ll have to try harder.”
Taking me with him, he moved to the opposite seat, effectively switching our positions. I clung to him with my arms and legs, sucking the skin covering his clavicle. I really didn’t care what position he wanted us in. I just didn’t want to miss a moment.
However, having sex in a limo isn’t as easy as it sounds. He couldn’t quite get enough leverage or the right angle, and at one point, my skull cracked against the ceiling. But the rest of what he was doing felt too good for me to care. We were both too into each other to mind if it was awkward or that we had to adjust a few times. I giggled when he muttered a curse under his breath, then he must’ve found a sweet spot because he was thrusting inside me so fast and hard, I didn’t care if I bonked my head another half dozen times.
I bit into his shoulder when my orgasm hit, stronger than the first, and his body jerked into mine. We’d never had a simultaneous orgasm before, and I thought it was just a myth . . . until now. And OMG. It was worth all the hype and Harlequin odes of joy.
“Best . . . Valentine’s Day . . . ever . . . ,” I panted into his ear.
His soft chuckle made me smile as his lips pressed against my neck. “God, you feel good,” he said.
I didn’t know if he was referring to holding me or to where his penis currently resided, but I decided against asking for clarification. It might ruin the moment, which was pretty darn good.
“Was it the diamonds or the sex?” he asked.
“If you have to ask, then you must be in need of affirmation of your sexual prowess.”
“Unless you’re a really good actress, I believe I’ve had all the affirmation I need,” he drawled.
I laughed, then we got on with the
business of putting ourselves back together, though the only lighting we could figure out was how to turn the roof lights into a flashing rainbow. Six college degrees between us and we couldn’t figure out the control panel. Finally, we were clothed again and I was digging in my purse.
“Yes!” I pulled out the small bottle of antigerm gel that Mia knew me well enough to include. “Hand me some of those cocktail napkins,” I said.
I squirted some gel onto the napkins Jackson handed me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, watching me.
“I’m sanitizing,” I explained, carefully wiping the seat where we’d . . . enjoyed each other.
“Of course you are.”
I didn’t think that required a response, so I continued with my task. A few moments later, I heard a champagne cork pop behind me.
“I think Valentine’s Day requires champagne,” Jackson said, handing me a flute filled with sparkling golden fluid.
I set aside my napkins, sanitation accomplished, and accepted the champagne while he poured his own glass.
“To an amazing woman who makes me miss being home,” Jackson said, clinking his glass against mine.
“To a man who’s made my first Valentine’s Day super special,” I replied, and took a sip of the champagne.
Jackson frowned, not taking a drink. “What do you mean, your ‘first Valentine’s Day’?”
“I mean, I’ve just never had a boyfriend before on this particular . . . holiday.”
He smiled. “Well, then, I guess I’d better make this night one to remember.” He set aside his flute and reached for one of the vases of roses, removing a small box from behind it. He handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Something to make the evening memorable.”
I rolled my eyes. “Um, I think two orgasms has already made the evening memorable, especially since we were in a moving vehicle at the time and violating all kinds of seat-belt laws.”
“I’m aiming higher,” he said, nodding toward the box I held.
Slowly, I lifted the lid. I hadn’t received gifts for Valentine’s Day since my mom was alive and had given me a teddy bear that sang “P.S. I Love You” when you pressed its paw. I’d been five years old at the time. I still had that bear.
I sucked in a stunned breath when I looked inside the box. A pair of eyeglasses was sitting on black satin. But not just eyeglasses. These had wire rims and perfectly round lenses. My hands turned cold, and there was a buzzing inside my head.
“Jackson . . .” I trailed off. I had no idea what to say. “Is this . . . ?” I couldn’t say the words out loud.
“It is,” he said. “It took some convincing for Dan to part with them, but he has another pair. Or more. He was a bit cagey about that. Plus, it wasn’t as though he could turn down a very sizable donation for Demelza House.”
“That . . . that’s his favorite charity,” I stammered. Jackson smiled.
“I know.”
I looked back down at the glasses. The diamond bracelet was beautiful, but this . . . this meant something more to me, and that Jackson knew that about me made tears spring to my eyes. I wasn’t the crying type, but being given Harry Potter’s glasses was worthy of taking a moment.
“I-I don’t know what to say.”
“I told him you’d take very good care of them.”
I carefully replaced the lid on the box and set it aside, then I threw myself at Jackson.
“Thank you thank you thank you!” I squeezed him as tight as I possibly could, and he hugged me back.
“You’re very welcome,” he wheezed. I abruptly loosened my grip.
I didn’t know how I could possibly thank him enough, but I thought he understood what I couldn’t put into words, because his smile was soft.
The car slowed to a stop, and I glanced outside. We were parked in front of a fancy restaurant, and the valet opened the door for us. I wasn’t about to leave the glasses behind, so I emptied the makeup out of my little silver purse and carefully put them inside.
He held out a hand to me, and I took it.
I expected we’d be seated at a table, but instead we were led to a private room in the back. When I walked through the door a waiter was holding open for me, I gasped.
Jackson had re-created the Yule Ball from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
I stared in wonder. Everything was covered in ice and dripping with icicles. A huge tree stood at the far end of the room—it had to be at least twenty feet tall—its branches laden with snow. Arches of ice gleamed above us—tiny lights, like stars, twinkling through.
Jackson swung a warm fur around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Is it everything it should be?”
I looked up at him, my jaw still agape. “I can’t believe you did this. It must’ve cost—”
“The cost doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “Now, may I have a dance before dinner?”
Music swelled and I recognized it from the film as he turned me around on the floor, which actually wasn’t ice, but somehow looked as though it was. It must’ve been frosted glass, maybe? I was living my own fairy tale at Hogwarts, complete with a Champion to open the Ball.
I felt as though I were floating as Jackson led me to a table. Dinner was wonderful and perfect, and they didn’t serve me anything weird like oxtail or anything that swam (I wasn’t a fan of fish). Just good ol’ Omaha beef and the best macaroni and cheese I’d ever had. Jackson ordered wine, and we shared a dessert that was made tableside and included flames. At first, I’d argued they shouldn’t use fire in a room full of ice, but the engineer had come out and explained to me that it would be okay. Only then did I let the poor waiter finish making the crêpes suzette.
It was the most perfect evening of my entire life, and I had to pinch myself. How did I, China Mack, end up with arguably the Best Boyfriend Ever?
I was pleasantly relaxed from the wine and lethargic from the food when I returned from the ladies’ room to the table. (Thank goodness the ice hadn’t extended to the toilet seat.) Jackson was waiting for me and I slid in next to him. His hand rested on my knee and I cuddled close to his side. I was sure that if I’d been watching us, I probably would have hurled at the sappiness of the scene, but I couldn’t help it.
“I have one more thing for you,” Jackson said.
I looked at him in disbelief. “If the Batmobile is outside, I’m going to pass out.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not this time. It’s something quite a bit smaller.”
He slid out of his chair and I watched in dawning realization as he knelt in front of me on one knee.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my eyes widening.
“China, I want to ask you something,” he began.
I stopped breathing.
“I love you and can’t imagine my life without you,” he continued. “Will you marry me?” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small box. He opened it, revealing a diamond ring that elicited audible gasps from the waiters hovering nearby.
I froze. We hadn’t discussed marriage since our disastrous argument on Halloween when he’d talked about the future as though he was “off the market,” then had gotten upset when I wasn’t as sure about us as he was. But people were watching, most of them already smiling, and now it was starting to get weird because I hadn’t said anything. I couldn’t breathe and the walls were closing in. The ring stared up at me the same way everyone around us was.
Marriage. It wasn’t the institution that frightened me so much as its . . . permanency, and expectations, and so many unknowns. And he’d just sprung it on me out of the blue. Spontaneous and surprise weren’t in my vocabulary.
“China?” he asked, his brows gathering into a frown as he looked up at me.
Suddenly, someone burst through the door. Another waiter, though this one not clad in Hogwarts attire. Jackson stood, shielding me as if the man was a threat.
“What are you—?” Jackson began, but the man shouted over hi
m.
“The president’s been shot!”
2
It took a moment for me to process what he’d just said.
“I need to get in to work,” I said, jumping to my feet.
An unusual thing to say, but then again, I had an unusual job. I was in charge of Vigilance—a super-secret-I’ll-have-to-kill-you-if-I-tell-you government agency that reported directly to the president. We were the eyes and ears and everything in between for connecting the dots between what people did on the Internet, what they did in meatspace, and what they were going to do . . . especially if it was something Bad. Since something really, really Bad had just happened and we hadn’t known anything about it, I thought I’d better get my ass in to work and find out everything we could.
Jackson said nothing for a moment, his expression unreadable. He was still holding the ring box, but now it was closed. “Okay. Let’s go,” he said at last.
He wasn’t supposed to know what I did for a living, but since he’d been the main developer of the algorithms that turned Vigilance from just monitoring software into thinking and predicting software, he had the inside scoop.
My phone rang as Jackson hustled me into the waiting limo. “Is he alive?” was how I answered the call.
“Yes. They said he’s in surgery,” said Derrick, the night-shift manager.
“What happened?”
“All the news has at this point is that he was speaking at a campaign event and that it was a sniper shot. They’ve practically shut down DC, trying to find the shooter.” Derrick was usually calm and collected, but I could hear the shock in his voice as we spoke.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” I said, ending the call.
A few decades ago when the Cold War raged and the threat of nuclear weapons loomed, Raleigh had built a sprawling Underground. It had flourished for a while, then gone dormant, only to have a brief resurgence in the eighties when it was filled with restaurants and a vibrant music scene, all taking place six stories below. Then that had died off, and most had forgotten the area even existed, which was why it was the perfect place to hide a secret government-surveillance facility.