The Baby Mission

by Marie Ferrarella

  She shook her head. “This is just getting better and better.”

  “We could spend the night in the car.” C.J. looked at him. The quarters were much too close for comfort of any kind, mental or physical. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Right.” Warrick put his hand on the door handle. “I’m beginning to appreciate the title A River Runs through It.” He looked at her. “Ready?”

  She braced herself, then nodded and swung open her own door. The wind nearly pushed it closed again. Shoving, she made it out of the car. A gust of wind, pregnant with rain, hit her square in the face the moment she was out. Her ankles were instantly submerged in dirty water. The parking lot was rising.

  Was the area prone to flash floods? She had no idea.

  Her heart hammering, C.J. began to fight her way to the walkway that ran along the perimeter of the motel. The water tugged at her shoes. She tugged back with each step she took. Losing her footing, she slid and suddenly found herself meeting what would have been the ground if it hadn’t been submerged.

  The next second she was being pulled back up to her feet by her arm.

  “Stay behind me,” Warrick shouted to her over the howl of the wind. For once, he noted, she offered no resistance, no rebuttal. Using his body as a shield, he held her by the hand, keeping her well behind him as he made his way to the rental office and shelter.

  Pulling the door opened, he pushed C.J. in ahead of him and shoved the door shut. They took a second to catch their breaths and get their bearings.

  The dank smell of wet wood assaulted their noses. There was limited light in the office, coming from the yellowed fluorescent fixture overhead. Comprised of three long bulbs, the two closest to the door were out. There was an ancient TV set perched on a tall crate in the back. The blurry image of a sitcom was scattering itself all over the screen. The set had dials.

  The small, thin clerk slowly uncurled himself from his position on the chair in front of the set and made his way over to the front desk. His eyes slid over C.J. slowly before he spoke.

  “What can I do for you folks?” He was smirking as he asked the question.

  “We’d like a couple of rooms,” Warrick told him.

  The man shook his bald head. “Sorry, no can do. All’s I got is one left.” He winked broadly at Warrick. “This is Saturday night, you know. Busiest night of the week.”

  “On a night like this?” The wind rattled the window to underscore C.J.’s point.

  The man’s smile was smarmy. “Hey, nothin’ stands in the path of grabbing a little true love for an hour or two.” Small, dark eyes moved from one to the other like little black marbles. “But then, I don’t have to tell you two that, do I? I mean you’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Not by choice,” C.J. muttered.

  Warrick sighed and took out his wallet. He put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, keeping his fingertips solidly on the edge of it in case the man had any ideas about just grabbing the money.

  “You sure there’s only one room?”

  The clerk’s eyes were fastened to the bill. “I’m sure. If you want two, put another Franklin down on top of that one and I’ll let you have my room for the night.”

  Warrick looked at C.J. “What do you want to do?”

  There was nothing else to do. She was positive that the clerk’s room probably had to be disinfected before it was inhabitable. She blew out a breath. “Give us the room.”

  The clerk cackled. “That’s it, honey, you play hard to get. Men like a challenge, long as you don’t make it too hard.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.”

  Warrick saw C.J. clenching her fists at her sides. He felt like punching the clerk himself. The weather and circumstances had made him irritable.

  “Just give us the key and spare us the philosophy,” he ordered.

  The clerk put his smudged fingers on the other end of the bill and waited. Warrick released it. Tucking it into the pocket of his baggy, mud-colored pants, the clerk turned and took the last remaining key off the pegboard to his left. He slapped it on the counter, then took a step back as if he was afraid of getting hit. “Yes, sir. Room 10. Dead center. Can’t miss it.”

  She didn’t appreciate the word dead. C.J. tugged on Warrick’s arm. “Let’s just go, Warrick. I’m dying to take a hot shower.”

  The clerk cleared his throat, still eyeing Warrick warily. “Oh, sorry, can’t accommodate you there. The shower’s not working. But the sink’s got water,” he added brightly, then a wicked smirk came over his lips. “You could always sponge each other off.”

  The glare Warrick gave the man had him backing farther away from his desk, his hands raised in mute surrender, his eyes fearful.

  “Or not,” he added in a mumble.

  The shower wasn’t working. Somehow that only seemed par for the course. C.J. turned away from the desk.

  “Great,” she muttered to Warrick. “It’ll be like washing up in a birdbath.” She didn’t appreciate the fact that her partner looked as if he was struggling not to laugh.

  Warrick opened the door for her. “Let’s go.”

  He didn’t have to say it twice.

  They fought their way outside and down the cracked walkway. The red clay roof that jutted out overhead offered next to no shelter. The rain was lashing at them from all directions, swirling around almost like a whirlpool.

  Water was lapping over the edges of the thin sidewalk, but most of the walkway wasn’t submerged. Warrick looked over his shoulder to make sure that C.J. was still behind him. “Doing okay?”

  His question, served by the wind, seemed to sweep over her like a physical entity. “Just peachy. Keep walking.”

  He couldn’t hear her. The wind was stealing her words. He cupped his hand over his ear. “What?”

  In reply, C.J. planted her hands against his back and pushed him forward. “Keep walking!”

  “Good idea.”

  When they reached number 10’s door, Warrick put the key the desk clerk had given them into the lock. Turning it took a bit of finesse. He jiggled it slightly and felt rather than heard a click.

  “Maybe he gave us the wrong key,” C.J. guessed, raising her voice. In which case she was going to go back and strangle the man.

  “No, I think it’s giving.” Jiggling the key again did nothing. Warrick finally wound up pushing the door open with his shoulder. “Flimsy.”

  “Well, that makes me feel secure,” C.J. commented, rushing into the room. She shook off as much of the rain as she could once she was inside.

  Flipping on the light switch next to the entrance, Warrick shut the door behind them and looked around the room. “All the comforts of home.”

  “Yeah, if home’s a brothel.” Scarlet seemed to be the color of choice for the decor. There were dusty, sagging scarlet drapes, a scarlet bedspread that was worn in several places and scarlet lamp shades perched on small, erotic-looking lamps. “Who the hell did the decorating for this place, Hookers R Us?”

  Warrick laughed. The room did go a long way in negating any kind of a romantic mood that might have been created by the rain. He only wished he could maintain that frame of mind. Soaking wet, C.J. still looked better than she should.

  He stripped off his jacket and his shirt and walked into the adjacent bathroom to hang them up on the curtain rod. With any luck, they’d be dry by morning.

  “Look on the bright side,” he told her. “At least it’s dry and the power’s still on.”

  The wind was rattling the windows, which looked none too secure in their casings. “For now,” C.J. qualified.

  She wished he’d kept his shirt on. Or that his chest was flat and pasty like so many other men’s were. But he was a walking testament to the hours he spent in the gym working out. She walked by an oval mirror hung over a broken-down bureau. One of its handles was gone. The silver all along the bottom of the mirror had begun to peel away.

  But she saw enough to make her cringe. “God, is that mud in my hair?”
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br />   Warrick came up behind her and began examining the top of her head. When she tried to bat away his hands, he batted back. “I’m only trying to help. No, no mud, it looks like twigs.” He laughed. “Thinking of starting a nest?”

  “Very funny.” C.J. shook her head, brushing the twigs out with her fingers. She made a point of moving away from Warrick and his bare chest. She looked toward the bathroom. “My kingdom for a shower.”

  “There’s always the sink. The clerk said it was working.” Walking back into the bathroom, he turned the faucet on. After making one sputtering noise, water began to flow. “At least he didn’t lie about that.” Rain was lashing at the small bathroom window. “Or you could always stand outside with a bar of soap.”

  Now there was an idea, she thought cynically. “The clerk would probably charge admission.” Moving past Warrick, careful not to brush against him, she turned on the shower taps. Nothing happened.

  With a sigh she looked at the sink. Better than nothing. “At least I could wash my hair—if I had some shampoo.” This was not going down as one of her better days. “I didn’t exactly pack for an overnighter.” When she turned from the shower, she saw Warrick squatting down in front of the sink, rummaging through the faded yellow cabinet. “What are you doing?”

  “Finding you some shampoo.” He held his trophy up for her to see. It was a half-empty bottle of pink liquid.

  She looked closer. “That’s dishwashing liquid.”

  Rising, Warrick looked at the bottle, then shrugged. “Soap’s soap.” He arched an amused brow. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  She took the bottle from him, resigned. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  His mouth curved. “You must spend a lot of time being upset.”

  “In your dreams.”

  The deep-scarlet towel on the rack beside the sink was surprisingly fluffy. She placed it within easy reach. C.J. turned in the collar of her shirt so it wouldn’t get in the way and then turned on the water. Testing it with her fingers, she waited until the water temperature was fairly decent, then lowered her head. She angled it under the faucet to wet her hair with clean water.

  “Might have gone faster for you if you stuck your head out the door,” Warrick observed. Her only answer was to sigh. Crossing his arms before his chest, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched her begin to lather her hair.

  The tawdry surroundings began to fade into the background. There was something almost sensual about what she was doing, her fingers working up a lather, working it through her hair.

  He could feel that same stirring again within him. The nameless one he didn’t want to dwell on.

  “This whole trip’s been a bust,” she told him, raising her voice in case he couldn’t hear her above the running water. “I hope there’s a signal in here. I’ve got to call home. Otherwise, my mother’s going to have the state troopers looking for both of us. Kind of funny, really. Here we are, two special agents with the FBI, trained to the hilt in self-defense and there’s my mother, probably worrying about us getting lost in the rain.”

  Suddenly she felt another set of hands beginning to massage her scalp. She started. “What the—”

  Gently, Warrick pressed her back down. She was as skittish as a cat, he thought. He could see the tension all through her shoulders. Not that he was supposed to be noticing that about her.

  “Relax,” he soothed. “It’s just me.”

  Just him, right. Just as it was “just raining” outside. A more apt description was monsooning. And there was no “just” about Warrick.

  Drawing on anger, she worked to steady her pulse. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Testing your theory,” he answered. Definitely sensual, he thought as he continued massaging her hair. “I thought you said women liked having a man do this sort of thing.”

  “They do. We do,” she corrected before he could make a comment about her excluding herself from the gender. “But what do you know about washing hair?”

  “I wash my own. How much different can this be?” He smiled at her back. “Okay, now relax and let me do this. You’ve been through a lot lately. I thought I’d do something nice for you.”

  She didn’t want him doing something nice for her. She was having a hard enough time thinking of him as her partner and nothing more. Especially since he’d taken off his shirt.

  C.J. tried to twist away, but he held her body fast against the sink. “But—”

  He laughed. “Just shut up, Jones, and enjoy it, okay? I am.”

  She froze. It had to be the acoustics here in the sink. She could have sworn he said he was enjoying this, too. “What did you say?”

  That had just slipped out. His mind scrambled for a plausible explanation. “There’s something therapeutic about immersing your hands in hot water and suds.”

  He’s your partner, your partner. She chanted the line in her mind like a mantra. “Remind me to have you around when I wash dishes.”

  “You still wash dishes?” He couldn’t picture her doing anything domestic. Trouble was, he was picturing her a whole different way, which had nothing to do with dishes and everything to do with suds. He ran a tongue along dry lips. “What about the dishwasher?”

  C.J. clung to the mundane topic. “Wasteful. There’s never enough dishes to put in.”

  He’d never noticed how inviting the slope of her neck was, gently curving just enough for a man’s hand to hold while he was kissing her. “Maybe you should entertain more.”

  His voice was low, sultry and wreaking havoc on her nervous system.

  “Maybe.”

  Why did it feel as if every word was sticking to the roof of her mouth? And why was she so aware of the heat coming from his body? The rest of the room wasn’t warm. Or hadn’t been when she’d entered.

  He finally stopped just as she felt herself melting. The warm water caressed her scalp, washing away the lather. She dug her nails into her palms. It didn’t help divert her attention.

  She swallowed, trying her hardest not give herself away. “You’re very good at this.”

  He worked a stubborn tangle out of her hair, then moved his fingers through the strands, making sure the soap was all out of it. “Thanks.”

  “You’ve done this before.” Nobody was this good without practice. Had he done this for his ex-wife? A lover, maybe?

  Jealousy flickered through her. Appalled, she shut it away.

  “No. Just a natural, I guess. There.” He shook off his hands. “Done.”

  She raised her head, looking at him oddly as she wrung out the remaining water from her hair with her hands. Taking the towel, she blotted her face and neck before lowering her head again in order to wrap the towel around it like a turban.

  She raised her head. The light in the room wasn’t bright. It didn’t matter. She could see the look in his eyes. It called to something within her.

  Every pulse point within her body began to hammer.

  Chapter 9

  C.J. remained very still, not daring to take a breath, to blink an eye. Everything within her felt as if it had suddenly frozen.

  “Warrick?”

  “Yes?” He stood less than two feet away from her, his eyes never leaving her face.

  His eyes were holding her captive. “What are you thinking?”

  His voice was soft, low, each word carefully measured out, as if spilling it too soon was unthinkable.

  “That this rain is never going to stop. That we should have gotten more take-out food when we had a chance.” He moved forward. The two feet between them began to disappear until it was almost all gone. “And that I want to kiss you. Very much.”

  “Why don’t you?” she whispered.

  Very slowly Warrick ran his hand along her cheek, then cupped the back of her head and brought her lips halfway to his.

  He met her the rest of the way.

  His lips were hard, firm.

  Gentle.

  And they drew the very life
out of her, creating something wild and uncontainable in its place. Heat surged all around her. Through her. She might as well have been standing in a sauna.

  Abandoning any pretense that this wasn’t affecting her, C.J. rose up high on her toes, as far as she could reach, falling deep into the kiss. Not wanting to miss a single nuance.

  The towel slipped from her head onto the floor, completely unnoticed. All she was aware of was this fire burning within her.

  Fire and craving.

  His arms were around her, pulling her closer to him. She could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest.

  At least she wasn’t the only one in overdrive, she thought. A lot of good that did her.

  This was bad, Warrick thought, really bad. Kissing C.J. hadn’t satisfied anything. It just opened up the floodgates. Made him want her all the more.

  For a man who liked to maintain control of every waking moment of his life, he found himself a hopeless captive of what was happening right now.

  What was more, he didn’t care.

  Didn’t care that things were twisting around him, didn’t care that what he felt was so out of character it might as well have been happening to someone else. All he cared about was kissing her.

  Having her.

  The realization came like a crashing blow to his brain. He wanted to make love with her. With C.J. His partner.

  This was getting way out of hand.

  Drawing a deep breath, Warrick managed to separate himself from her. It almost surprised him to discover that there was an end to him and a beginning to her. For a moment he’d felt they had formed one continuous whole. One endless circle.

  He struggled to pull himself together, to cover up what he was feeling. She looked dazed. That made two of them, he thought.

  He took another step back and noticed the towel. “Um,” he pointed to the floor behind her, “I think your turban fell.”

  Numbly C.J. turned to look where he was pointing. She stared down at the damp towel as if she didn’t recognize what it was.

  “Oh, right. It did.”

  How long had the room been spinning around like this? Though it was secretly humiliating, she held on to his arms a second longer. Trying to regain the use of her mind as well as her legs. Both became available to her in small increments. She took what she could get.