“I do not hiss.”
“Rattling a warning then.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re beautiful in that flowing bit of nothing.” He flashed a quick eye at the vivacious curves of her firm breasts. They spilled over the heart-shaped top of the vibrant red gown. “Scarlett O’Hara,” he uttered softly.
“What?” She blinked. “You don’t make a lick of sense.”
“How ‘bout I just lick you, and we forget the sense part of it?” He traced his tongue beneath the soft, warm flesh near her left ear. Travis didn’t think he’d ever forget how she tasted, or how tight her nipples became when he’d suckled them that long ago night.
She was just so damn cute. No way could he stop wanting her. Hell, he didn’t want to stop wanting her. Sam reminded him of Valerie Bertinelli, only a younger version—same bob of shiny brown hair that curved toward her chin, same snap to her sultry, coffee-hued eyes, same rosy flush to her cheeks, same bubbly sound of laughter—when she laughed, which was rare these days.
“Don’t look at me that way,” she ordered primly.
“What way?”
She tried to squirm out of his grasp. “You know what way.”
“Don’t.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “It isn’t going to kill you to dance with me one time.” Travis drew her closer. He heard her sharp gasp and lifted a brow. “I can’t help what you do to me.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You did once.”
“Don’t you dare mention that night. I–it was…it was—”
“Good?” Travis lifted a dark brow. “Better than good? Great? Fantastic?”
“No! It was…nothing.”
“Ouch. You like to pretend it was nothing, but honey, my memory’s much better. It was incredible. You felt delicious. I must have felt good inside you because you climaxed multiple times and so damned fast, I couldn’t keep up with you. It was something all right, or you wouldn’t still be running from it…or me. You came undone in my arms, sweetheart, and you’ve been running away from the truth ever since. But you can never run or hide from the fact that I had my dick so friggin’ deep inside you and you…you were moaning and bucking like something beautiful and wild beneath me.”
“Shut up! I don’t want to talk about what happened. It should never have happened. You know it. I know it. I was married.”
Travis snorted. “Bull shit. You didn’t have a marriage. You might have had a ring on your finger, but your marriage had wrecked long before I came along. You were living a lie then, just like you are now. He beat the crap outta you before we left on that assignment. Why? You never told me why.”
“And I’m not going to.”
“Why did he beat the hell outta you just before we left?”
Tears welled into her eyes and she lowered her gaze. “It’s none of your business what happened between David and me.”
“Oh, God. Was it because of me?”
Her startled gasp told him he’d hit on the truth.
“I told you, it’s none of your bus—”
“Don’t. Stop freezing me out.” Travis frowned.
Sam lowered her gaze and kept it lowered. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please? Just let it go. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead.”
“I wanted to kill the bastard.” Travis exhaled. “I would have, if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”
Samantha’s head jerked up. She pressed trembling fingers over his lips. “Don’t. Don’t say that. Please. He’s dead.”
“Good riddance.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “I’m asking you to let it go, all of it. Forget what happened between us. It was a once in a lifetime mistake…I made.” She stiffened in his arms. “One I won’t ever repeat. So do…forget it.”
“I can’t.” Travis drew a deep breath, and slowly released it. “I can’t.” He looked around. They’d stopped on the dance floor. People were staring. He tightened his hold on her narrow waist and picked up the steps again. “Relax. Act as if you’re having a good time in my arms. Molly can take care of herself for three minutes.”
Samantha tilted her head and scowled at him. “It’s our job to take care of her.”
“It’s our job to mingle. We’re mingling.” Travis danced her to a quiet alcove. “Why do you hate me?”
Her mouth gaped. “I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, you do. Why? Because I gave you the best damn orgasms you ever had?”
“What on earth gave you that idea?”
“You.”
“Travis…I—” She looked around as if desperate to find justification to walk away. “Look, Molly’s excusing herself. Once she’s out of here, we only have to mingle for a little while, watch the Secret Service until she’s clear, then our job’s finished. Let’s just get through this evening.”
Travis dropped his arms to his sides. “Yep. Heaven forbid Molly doesn’t make her date.”
“Excuse me. I have work.”
“Samantha?”
She looked over her shoulder. Impatience speared her face. “What?”
“Is Hayley my daughter?”
She turned to face him, an edge of wariness in her eyes. All the color drained from her face. He knew he’d blindsided her with the unexpected question. Catching her off guard was the best way to read Sam.
“No,” she said in a ragged voice. “What on earth gave you that idea? She’s David’s daughter.”
“I wanna see her. I’ve never seen your little girl, not since she was a newborn. You don’t even keep a picture of her on your desk. Why not? Afraid I might see it?”
“I don’t display her picture for her protection. Lots of people come and go from my office. They aren’t always the good guys.”
“That doesn’t wash, Sam. I find it a little strange you have no photos of your daughter on display. Everyone else has pictures of their kids on their desks, at least those who have children. Is there something wrong with her?”
“Of course not. She’s perfect.”
“I want to see her.”
“No.”
“Sam, I want to see her.”
“No.”
“You can’t keep me from seeing her.”
“Yes, I can. She’s my daughter. You come near her and I’ll have you arrested.”
“I’m going to see her,” Travis stated. “It can happen before or after a DNA test. Your choice, but I am going to see her.”
“You bastard, leave her alone, and leave me alone.” She whipped around to leave.
“Sam.” He called her name softly, but the warning was there, plain for her to hear if she heeded it.
She turned round, impatient.
“If Hayley’s mine, then that night we spent together was no mistake. Our daughter is not a mistake, and don’t ever say that again.”
“There is no our. Hayley belongs to David. You wore a condom…remember?”
“Yeah. I remember. And I remember being in you without one, too, right after. I remember how good you felt and how close I was to coming again. Maybe I did…a little, before I pulled out of you.”
“You didn’t climax, Travis. Not then. Not even a little,” she snapped.
“I was wet. I always thought it was from before, but maybe it wasn’t—”
“For God’s sake, lower your voice! Hayley is not your child. Forget it.” She turned away, her back stiff with rage.
“I wish I could. Sam?”
She looked over her shoulder once more. “Leave it alone, Travis.”
“For once, just tell me the truth. Is Hayley my daughter?”
Samantha tightened her lips. “I just told you, she’s my daughter. That’s all that matters.”
“That isn’t all that matters, and you know it.”
“It’s all that matters to me,” she said, ice coating her words. Samantha hurried away, leaving him standing there with the taste of ash in his mouth.
Chapter Four
Here is a
small fact—You are going to die.
~Markus Zusak
McLean, Virginia
February 16, Monday
Thirty minutes after the assassination…
Jayla skinned off the once spotless white gloves, balled them up, and tossed them over her shoulder in the general direction of the back seat of her sassy red Mustang. She drove like a crazy woman down Interstate 495.
The perfect little peacock-blue pillbox hat followed the once spotless white gloves, landing haphazardly on the edge of the seat.
Perfect?
Not anymore, she thought a tad hysterically. With Molly’s blood splattered all over it, it was far from perfect or charming any longer. She didn’t even want to think about what else of Molly’s was on her clothes. Her hand trembled as she returned it to the steering wheel and clenched her icy fingers around it tight enough so her knuckles gleamed like bleached bone.
Molly was dead.
Death.
Dead.
All around her people she cared about were dead. And way too near for comfort was the one person she knew who was involved right up to his cold gray eyes. Assassin!
Why had she never realized? Suspected?
Punch the button!
Jayla smothered a hysterical laugh. Punch the button, like that would have saved either of them. She knew Kane Masters well enough to know he got what he wanted—when he wanted—and if it wasn’t given to him willingly, well hell, he didn’t let that stop him.
He was like the Energizer bunny—he kept going and going, until he got what he was after. Three months ago was a fine example of him taking what he wanted. It was the last time she’d seen Kane—until tonight outside the elevator—gun in hand. Fuck!
Why did she have to be the one who saw what happened? He’d never cease hunting her. When he set out to do something, Kane was like a bloodhound. The remainder of her life could be marked in hours. Short hours.
When she walked away from him three months ago, she’d known in her heart that if he ever wanted to find her, he could. D.C. was big, but it wasn’t so big she could lose herself and escape him for very long. One didn’t walk away from a man like Kane Masters, unless he let her.
No, you didn’t walk away, she thought bitterly. You were carried away in a coffin. Jayla bit her lip and suppressed a sob. Someday, God, someday, she’d have her revenge.
“Why? Why did I have to be in the damn elevator tonight, at that precise moment?”
Witnessing a murder, being in the wrong place at the wrong time in D.C., sucked the big one! However, Jayla couldn’t help wondering if she had to observe something like Molly getting her head blown off, why couldn’t it have been just a plain old ordinary, simple little thing, like a measly street killing or a robbery gone wrong?
But, no, oh no, she had to go for the Texas oil strike. She had to be the only spectator of the murder of Molly Westcott—the nation’s freakin’ beloved first lady! A real friggin’ nightmare she wanted to wake up from, and knew there was no hope of it happening.
And she was wearing Molly’s blood.
What if she became a suspect?
“Why didn’t I stay at the Vintage Party five minutes longer, then I wouldn’t be in this mess?”
What was it about her that drew trouble like white on chicken shit? Five minutes! If she’d stayed a measly five minutes longer, she’d have missed the entire fiasco. Of course her life would still be headed down the crapper, but it wouldn’t be because of this.
“Oh, Jesus.” Panic-stricken, she suddenly realized she’d left Molly lying there in the elevator, dead as a mackerel. Was it some kind of treason to leave the body unguarded? Did one protect the body of the president’s wife no matter what? “No! I’m not the Secret Service.” But she was the stepdaughter of a U.S. Senator. Were there certain kinds of rules, laws that applied to her—different from say the ordinary Joe Blow on the street? She pounded the steering wheel. “What was I supposed to do?” Tears welled into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m sorry you’re dead, sorry I couldn’t save you or stay by your side.”
It wasn’t as if she could heft the first lady over her shoulder and disappear with her, or repair the damage. Calling nine-one-one was out of the question. It might be what she ought to have done, but she knew better than to do it, unless she had a death wish.
Kane was already hot on her ass, or he would be.
Jayla swiped away the tears wetting her cheeks and fought against giving in to the bubble of nausea churning around in her gut. Angry that she’d been caught up in the nightmare of Molly Westcott’s death, she grabbed a tissue from the box on the opposite seat and blotted her face.
Aghast, she stared at the soft absorbent paper in her hand. “Oh, God.” Dark pink smears stained the flimsy tissue.
Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart. Not now. Think. Think about anything else, except—Jayla drew a sharp breath to steady her nerves and slowly exhaled. Okay. Think about the hours before Molly’s death. Think about how much fun you had at the Vintage Party.
A deep sob slipped past her lips. She knew in her heart and soul, as long as Kane lived, she’d never be safe, and that fact had nothing to do with the assassination of the first lady. It made no difference that her best friend was head of the CIA, either.
Kane’s connections were much more powerful and led straight to the top. Before Samantha could do one thing to help her, Jayla knew not only would she already be dead, but it was likely Sam and her little girl would go missing, or die in some tragic accident as well.
Even though she realized Sam would willingly take the chance, Jayla refused to involve her friend or put her or her daughter at risk.
Don’t think about the hopeless mess you’re in.
She gulped back another sob. She needed to think about how happy she’d been only a few short hours ago, or at least as close to happy as she was ever going to get. Yes. Think about something pleasant.
Think about the Vintage Party, the wonderful 60s music she’d danced to. Think about the cute young man she’d flirted shamelessly with, then let him fondle her boobs on the dance floor, because hell, she was free, and it was something she’d missed doing her teenage years.
In spite of everything that happened in the elevator, Jayla loved the concept of the Vintage Parties. They were the latest rage in D.C. She should have stayed a little longer at the party, danced one more dance to the beat of the Stones, Elvis, or the Dave Clark Five. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been having a good time. She had. But she had an early flight, things to do to prepare for the trip.
So what if she had last minute packing?
Why the hell did she leave the wonderful party and head back to the Ambassador at that precise moment? Oh, Jesus, she hadn’t even made it to the penthouse to collect the last of her luggage.
Ho! Like she was going to Hawaii now? “Get real, Jayla. Kiss the trip good-bye. Kiss your ass good-bye. You aren’t going anywhere, except straight into a witness protection program, jail, or the graveyard.” Most likely all three, depending on who got their hands on her first, then decided what role she played in the entire fiasco.
And damn it, for once in her life, she was innocent. She had nothing to do with Molly’s death, except for being there when it happened. One simply did not walk away from witnessing the first lady gunned down. The Secret Service would be all over this—all over her.
Jayla shivered. She was in such deep shit. All she wanted was to go home, wrap up in a comforter, a cup of hot chocolate laced with strong brandy in hand, and block the entire nightmare out of her mind. If she had the ability, she’d turn back the hands of time and change her life from the moment she hit her early teens. But hindsight was twenty-twenty.
Home? She smothered a bitter laugh. She had no real home. No real love, no one who was important. Not anymore. Wasn’t there something sadly wrong with her life that she had no one who loved her? No one who wanted to keep her safe? Provide her a home filled with children and love?
Ho
me was the penthouse floor of the Ambassador in D.C.—sterile, clinical—lonely. She’d gladly take those lonely, clinical rooms right now, but she’d only made it to the fourteenth floor.
“What the hell was Molly Westcott doing on the fourteenth floor? Alone?”
Where were the Secret Service Agents who were supposed to make damn certain nothing happened to a member of the first family? The men in dark suits and darker sunglasses who were supposed to protect the president and his family?
“Oh, crap…where’s the president?” Jayla drew a deep breath and tried to collect her wits, tried to recall exactly what she’d seen and heard, but it was all a jumble in her head, obliterated by the muffled coughs of the two gun shots and the blood.
Two shots?
Shit. Yes. There were two shots.
But Molly had been shot only once, one kill shot to the head. The thought jumbled around in her head. Two shots? Yes. She was absolutely certain she’d heard two shots before Molly was slain.
Had someone else been shot?
Or had Kane missed with his first blast?
Had he shot at her and missed? No. No way. She’d been an easy target. If Kane had taken a shot at her, she’d be congealing right there on the cold floor next to Molly. So who else had been there in the corridor besides Kane?
Who?
The only answer that made sense was the president. It had to have been. Yet she couldn’t wrap her mind around such a devastating thought. She must be wrong. Surely, she was wrong.
Jayla frowned. Recalling distinguishable sounds mingled with the horror she’d felt when Molly was shot. A man’s pain filled shout. She’d heard his muffled bark over Molly’s terrified, ‘Punch the button!’ What had he said? Run? Yes. He’d yelled, run.
Jesus—the president? Her thoughts had made a full circle and brought her back to the only one that made sense. What if he was on the floor, there in the corridor lying in a puddle of blood? Maybe John and Molly had slipped away from the agents for a little—yeah—a little—that worked. After all, they were husband and wife. They’d pretty much lived in a fish bowl for the last two years. Maybe they’d needed quality time alone?
Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) Page 7