by M. Leighton
When his door closes with a soft click, I mutter, “No, no don’t worry about me. I’ll just order up some room service. But thank you soooo much for asking.”
I do jump, however, when Jasper’s door flies open and he pokes his head out. “What was that?”
I just stare at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, for a good thirty seconds before I shake my head and duck back inside my own room, closing the door and leaning against it.
Moves like a tiger. Hears like a superhero. What next? Can the guy climb walls?
Determined to push my frustrating neighbor out of my thoughts in favor of more important concerns, I unpack a few things and get settled before ordering something to eat. I let my mind flow once more to the Colonel and what might’ve happened. Considering that I moved across the country to keep him safe, my distress over his absence is understandable.
Normally, I wouldn’t think anything about not being able to reach him for a few days. Aside from the fact that he stays pretty busy, the man hates cell phones. He says they’re just another tool that can be hacked and used to violate our rights by those with bad intentions. I’ve always chalked his paranoia up to the time he spent in the military. Although he never told me much about what he did, it was easy to deduce that it was highly classified. Most people talk about work, at least in a generic way, but not my dad. He’s been tight-lipped and guarded (about work, anyway) for as long as I can remember.
I glance over at my phone where it rests on the nightstand. For the millionth time, I contemplate calling Dad at home, but I stop myself. That could end in disaster for him if anyone found out.
Trapped with only my fearful imaginings and the quiet to keep me company, I wander over to the window, parting the curtain to stare out into the darkness. Movement, something disturbing the brilliant blue surface of the water below me, draws my eye. I watch as a lone swimmer cuts through the water with long, powerful strokes, pausing only briefly at each end of the pool before starting back again.
I study the form absently until it stops in the deep end, shaking water from short, dark hair and laying muscular arms along the coping as he rests. That’s the very moment when the curling of something warm and inviting in my stomach alerts me to the identity of the swimmer. It’s Jasper. Despite the darkness, despite the distance, I know it’s him as surely as I know there’s carpet beneath my feet and cool glass against my palm.
Without giving it a single thought, I grab my room key and head for the elevator. Following the signage, I make my way to the exit, moving quietly across the cobble decking to perch on the end of a lounger that parallels the pool. Jasper is swimming again, head down, arms slicing ruthlessly through the sapphire liquid like he’s got something to prove to it.
Tirelessly, Jasper decimates lap after lap of the rectangle, never pausing in his rhythm until he stops again at the deep end. From my seat, I can hear his ragged breathing. I don’t announce my presence. I’m not done watching him.
Finally, after another minute, Jasper plants his palms flat on the edge of the pool and lifts himself effortlessly from the water. The muscles in his back and arms glide under his slick skin like monsters, writhing to break free. When he turns, his eyes come straight to mine. There is no surprise in them, like he knew I was here all along.
Strong and confident, he walks toward me. His legs are long and muscular, encased in dark shorts that plaster to their length as they eat up the distance. I drag my gaze upward, past the granite ridges of his stomach, past the rounded hills of his pecs, stopping only when I reach the black tangle of a tattoo that dominates the right side of his upper body.
When Jasper stops in front of me, I don’t bother to hide my stare. I’m too intrigued by the body art to even try. Underneath the water droplets that glisten on his skin, diamonds scattered over smooth bronze, is a series of mean, thorny-looking vines that twist and turn across his right shoulder and upper arm, extending inward onto part of his chest.
Finally, I raise my eyes to his. They’re dark and fathomless in the night, causing a shiver to tremble through me. I wrap my arms around my middle, feigning a chill.
I want to ask about the tattoo, but I know I won’t get any satisfaction so I don’t bother.
“Is the water cold?” I ask casually instead.
“Is that what you came down here to ask me?” he rebuts dubiously.
“I didn’t come down here to ask you anything.”
“Liar,” he whispers.
Jasper is standing so close that I can smell his skin. It doesn’t smell like soap or chlorine or sweat or cologne. It just smells . . . delicious. Natural. Like salt mixed with the barest hint of musk. It’s light, but somehow . . . feral. Nearly imperceptible, yet my body is honing in on it as though it’s the only thing I can smell at all. Anywhere. Ever. His scent, his closeness is robbing me of my ability to breathe, to think, to fight.
I grit my teeth and strengthen my resolve. It’s not right that I should be thinking this way, feeling this way. I can’t let this guy get under my skin. There’s too much at stake, too many other things to worry about. Plus something tells me getting involved with him—really involved with him—would be a disaster. At least for me it would.
I straighten my spine. “Fine, I did want to ask you something.”
Jasper crosses his arms over his chest, drawing my eye to the bulge of his bicep. God, he’s built like a dream! “Well?”
“Why—why did you kiss me?”
“I told you I wanted to get it out of the way.”
“I know what you said, but what did you mean by that?”
“We’re attracted to each other. I figured it would be best to just get that kiss over with so we’re not constantly distracted by thinking about it.”
I should be insulted. I should deny what he’s saying. But all I can think about is that he’s attracted to me, too, and that he’s been thinking about kissing me. And how wrong it is that I should care.
“Well,” I begin, hating that my voice sounds breathy. “In that case, thank you. I’ve got plenty to worry about without adding you to the mix.”
I’m surprised when I see one side of Jasper’s mouth quirk into what looks dangerously close to a lopsided grin. “You’d only need to worry about me if you needed something to take your mind off your troubles for a while.”
“And why is that?”
I hold my breath as I await his answer, anticipation coiling in my stomach like a slippery, slithering snake.
“Because that’s exactly what I’d do. I’d distract you. I’d give you so many things to focus on, so many things to feel that you wouldn’t have enough energy to think about anything else. That’s all I can offer, but what I offer, I excel at providing.”
I inhale on a soft gasp.
It’s a promise. An invitation. A wicked temptation that I can’t afford right now. Why did you ask him that question? Why did you have to know? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
“Lucky for you, I don’t want a distraction. I need to concentrate. This is too important.”
“I won’t say that’s lucky for me. I’ll say that’s lucky for you.”
“And why is that?”
He gives me a long, penetrating look. “I’m probably the worst thing in the world for you. The worst thing that would feel like the best.” Just when I’m pretty sure my heart is going to leap out of my chest, Jasper moves to step around me. “See you in the morning, Muse.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the dark with thoughts I’ve got no business thinking.
EIGHT
Jasper
When I hear the gunshot, I’m out of bed and on my feet, holding my 9mm before the sleep clears from my eyes. I never rest very soundly. Occupational hazard, I guess.
My brain recognizes immediately that the shot was close, but not too close to me. No immediate threat.
A quick scan of my room tells me that nothing is amiss. My next thought is of the person sleeping a thin wall away, and that she might be in da
nger. I knew it was a possibility.
I grab the two keys on the nightstand on my way out the door.
Quietly, I let myself into Muse’s room. Rapidly, I swing open the door and then shut it behind me just as quickly, ducking into the corner in case she’s not alone. The light would’ve blinded any intruders and since they didn’t get a shot off, it would take their eyes a minute to readjust to the dark.
I hear movement to my left. Even if I couldn’t see the long waves of hair touching breasts covered in white, I’d know it to be Muse. I can smell her.
I move silently toward her, tucking her behind me and pressing her to the wall. Out of harm’s way.
I survey the room, my eyes accustomed to seeing in low light. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I don’t smell gunpowder. I don’t sense danger. There is no one in here except Muse.
Muse. I can feel every inch of her imprinted on my back. All I’d have to do is turn and take her in my arms and I could have my fill of her tonight. She wouldn’t resist.
But I’m not that much of a bastard.
I do turn to face her, but I don’t touch her. “Sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t,” she pants.
I glance down her body. I can see her chest heaving, lush mounds pressing against the pale material of her tank top. One thin, silvery beam of moonlight creates a shadow from the stiff peaks of her nipples. My mouth waters reflexively. “Liar,” I whisper.
My cock stirs, a sign of my lapse in control. A rare occurrence for me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted someone this bad. I’m all about restraint, so I wait until it’s convenient to slake my baser needs. Convenient, easy, no attachments. That’s my type. Or more my MO. I steer away from complications. And this one is about as complicated as they come, especially for me.
“Okay, fine, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing? And how did you get in here?”
“I heard a gunshot.”
“I heard it, too.”
“I came to check on you.”
“Oh,” she says simply.
She pauses, looking up at me with her big wide eyes. I see the shiny tip of her pink tongue sneak out to wet her lips. I can still taste those lips, that tongue. Still feel the untamed response I got when I kissed her. She’s all sweet allure and wild abandon mixed with the irresistible tang of forbidden fruit. Unfortunately for her, I’ve never let the forbidden, the taboo stop me from taking what I want. But something about taking advantage of a woman who I’m using this way . . . well, even someone like me finds that hard to swallow.
“Now that I know you’re okay,” I begin, backing up a step and sticking my gun in my shorts, at the curve of my lower back. “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”
“H-how did you get in here?” she asks again, stepping toward me as I head for the door.
“A key. They gave you two. I kept one.”
“Wow. Thanks for asking.”
“I don’t often ask permission for anything I do. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“And if it does?”
I shrug. “Then this isn’t going to be a particularly pleasant trip for you.”
I reach for the door handle.
“Wait.” I pause. “You can stay, you know.”
“Are you asking me to stay?”
She moves back toward the bed, fiddling with her fingers as she goes. “I’m just saying that I trust you not to do anything. I mean, it’s not like you can’t just come in here whenever you want anyway.”
I consider it. It would be so easy . . .
“We both need sleep.”
She tilts her head to one side, her long, fiery hair falling over one breast. It’s a sexy pose. She probably has no idea just how sexy.
“I promise not to keep you awake.”
“I can’t sleep in the room with someone else.”
“Oh,” she says again.
“I’m close if you need me, though.”
I open the door and walk out. I hear a soft “good night” just as I close it behind me. I get the feeling that it’s going to be a long night, but not necessarily a good one.
NINE
Muse
When dawn slices through the clouds, I’m still awake, staring at the ceiling. My body only stopped tingling about an hour ago. For the longest time after Jasper left, I could feel every solid muscle, every warm plane as though my front was still pressed to his back. That’s never happened to me before, so I just lay, spread eagle, on top of the covers for the rest of the night. I took turns reveling in the sensation and marveling over what an awful person I am for wanting Jasper so much when my father could be in danger.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so conflicted. I don’t want to want Jasper. I want to find my father. I want for this whole mess to resolve so I can go back home. To my real home. I want a lot of other things, too, but Jasper shouldn’t be one of them. He’s wrong for me in practically every possible way. He’s aloof and stoic, he’s a veritable drifter with a dangerous job, he’s vague and barely even friendly. He all but admitted to being only one-night-stand material. I mean, could he be a worse fit for me?
Probably not.
But still . . . even considering all those cons . . . I want him. God, how I want him! He does something to me. Something powerful and visceral and irresistible. I can feel the heat beneath his cool exterior as vividly as if I were standing in front of a fire, warming my hands.
Not to mention that he’s brave and protective. I never expected that. Well the bravery, maybe, but not the protectiveness. I mean, he ran to my rescue when he heard that gunshot, like some kind of hero might. My knees get weak just thinking about him standing in front of me, so tall and fearless, tucking me safely behind him while he faced what could’ve been a killer or a madman. But he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think twice about putting himself between me and danger.
He’d probably laugh if he knew that the only thing about this situation that is offending me is my own reaction to him. It’s very much against my will, but that doesn’t make it any less fierce.
At just before six, I drag myself from the non-comfort of my bed and set about getting ready to leave. He said seven sharp and I plan to be ready.
—
Fifteen hours. We’ve traveled fifteen hours . . . hundreds of miles . . . and exchanged little more than a few polite words. The car has been full of silence since we left. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it empty. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s full, brimming with a sensual undercurrent. It’s bubbling with want and can’t-have, and churning with I-wish and I-wish-I-didn’t. Or at least that’s how it feels to me.
Dozens of times I’ve caught myself watching the way Jasper so casually yet so competently grips the steering wheel. I’ve caught myself studying his long fingers, admiring his thick veins. Even more often, though, I’ve found myself sneaking glances at his strong profile, following it down the sinew of his throat to his chest, to the wide expanse wrapped to perfection in soft black cotton.
Several times, when I haven’t been surreptitiously stalking him with my eyes, I’ve detected movement in my peripheral vision. I’ve noticed him glancing my way. Each time, he pauses for a few seconds and then looks away. But that hasn’t been the bothersome part. The bothersome part has been that I could feel the intensity of his stare. I could feel the communication of it as clearly as though words were spoken aloud. It’s been unnerving. Maddening. Worse, it’s been titillating. It brings the want back tenfold.
All day, I’ve teetered between obsessive thoughts of the man next to me—what he’s thinking, who he really is, what it would feel like to have his lips on my skin—and guilt-ridden thoughts of my father.
I did everything I could to keep him safe, the Colonel, but it’s possible that wasn’t enough. I reason, however, that if he were dead, I’d have been notified. He had measures in place in the event of his death. At the time, I thought it was excessively morbid, but now . . . now I’m gla
d he did it. It brings me some small amount of peace in an otherwise gut-wrenching time of worry.
But death isn’t the only concern, isn’t the only horrific circumstance. If he was just wounded or captured, no one would know to contact me. And he could be either . . . or both.
I stop myself before I can go down that road. Instead, I take some comfort in the reassurance that he’s not dead. I hold on to that thought as tightly as my torn mind will allow.
Involuntarily, I shiver.
“Are you cold?” Jasper asks in his raspy voice. “I can turn on the heat.”
“The heat?” I feel dazed. Confused. Addled by my chaotic thoughts.
I glance around me, taking in the stretch of bland highway illuminated by the headlights. They cut through the darkness in a surgical kind of way. I make note of a sign that reads Gamble with your money, never your time. Visit the most entertaining casino in Shreveport.
Shreveport? It’s not cold in Louisiana.
“Why would I need heat?”
“You shivered.”
I turn to look at Jasper. Immediately I wish I hadn’t. No matter how many times I take in his angular face, his mesmerizing eyes, his delectable mouth, I never get used to the fluttery feeling in my stomach that I get from looking at him. It’s like I’m awestruck each and every time.
Right now, his face is ethereal in the reddish glow of the dashboard lights. He looks like some fearsome avenging angel, come to take what’s his.
Maybe come to take me.
I shiver again.
“I’m not cold.”
Far from it.
He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to meet mine, to draw me into the honey of his gaze, to nearly drown me in it. “Then why are you shivering?”
“I’m not. I was just . . . I just had a bad thought. That’s all.”
He makes no comment, so I turn to stare out the side window, like I’ve done for a large part of the last fifteen hours when I haven’t been covertly watching Jasper. Jasper, the world’s most guarded, least talkative car partner.
“Tell me,” I hear several minutes later.