Classified Baby

by Jessica Andersen

  Always before she’d struggled to reach the peak, laboring toward it like a destination rather than a bonus. So when she came in a rush, she nearly yelled with the pleasure of it, the effortless surprise of it. The waves of sensation washed over her without warning, tugging her under with them and then pushing her out the other side, where every cell of her body throbbed on a wholly new level of sensitivity, a higher plateau of pleasure than she’d ever known before.

  When she could breathe again, when she could see again, she realized she had her eyes open, and that she and Ethan were looking at each other. Into each other.

  “Wow,” she said, not even making an attempt at glibness. “Can I have another one of those?” When he cracked a smile and the shadows fled from his eyes, she said, “Better yet, do you want one, too?”

  “I wouldn’t say no,” he retorted, and rolled onto his back, so that his proud, jutting flesh was silhouetted against the firelight. But when he tore open the foil packet, she took the condom from him.

  “Allow me.”

  She heard his hiss of indrawn breath as she leaned over him, the firelight warm against her naked skin, her hair falling forward to brush against his taut stomach as she took him into her mouth, laving him, loving him. He muttered something low and guttural at the back of his throat and his hand slid from her hip to the thick rug, where his fingers dug in as he hung on for the ride.

  She worked him, sliding her lips and tongue along the wide, pulsing vein on the underside of his hard length, then across the soft, bulbous tip until she sensed his control was near breaking. Then, only then, she covered him with the protective sheath and moved to straddle him, rising up above him while firelight crackled across her bare skin.

  That impulse, too, was a surprise. Where before she’d been, if not passive, then not aggressive, now she took control, took him into her body and gloried in the sharp pressure within, the sensation of being filled, of being joined.

  Seeming to know what she needed, perhaps even before she did, Ethan dug his fingers into the soft nap of the rug, holding himself still, letting her take command, at least for the moment. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face taut with an expression that hovered between pleasure and exquisite torture, but he watched her rise above him, watched her make love to him.

  Heat, along with a warm, spiraling hope, swirled inside her, tightening as she rode him higher and higher. Then, in a flash, he broke from compliance, yanking his hands from the rug onto her hips and rearing up so they were face-to-face, chest-to-chest. He kissed her, not roughly as the fire in his eyes would have suggested, but so thoroughly it blocked out everything else, until he was the only thing in her world—the feel of him, the taste of him.

  She was only peripherally aware that he’d spun them, neatly reversing their positions so she had her back pressed against the rug as he pressed himself onto her, into her. The needs coiled hard and hot, rushing her to a second peak as he pressed his hot cheek against hers and thrust into her. She met him stroke for stroke, giving as much as she took. A groan reverberated in his chest, or maybe a growl. The low, feral sound echoed inside her, calling to something more powerful than she’d ever known before. She felt like a temptress, a goddess. Powerful.

  Riding that wave, she arched against him and raked her fingers across his back and ribs on either side, with just enough fingernail to have him shuddering against her and driving home hard to touch her core.

  She gasped and grabbed on to him, and then it was a race to the peak, with each of them goading the other on, chasing each other, pushing each other until Nic’s breath rattled in her lungs and then left her in a rush. Pleasure gripped her, locking her muscles and concentrating her entire being on the place where they were joined, where the hot, hard friction suddenly contracted and then flung outward, blasting through her in a shock wave of delight that had her keening his name, gripping his shoulders and hanging on for the ride.

  He thrust into her again and again, prolonging the pleasure, driving it higher until her vision grayed and she came again. He followed her over with a harsh groan that rattled deep in his chest and ended on the whisper of her name.

  They stayed locked together for a long moment, tangled in each other, as their heartbeats leveled off. Then Ethan rolled, carrying her with him to nestle in the crook of his arm as they both concentrated on breathing.

  We should talk, Nic thought, knowing that too much was still unsaid. But she was warm and replete, and the crisp crackle of the fire counterpointed the steady thud of his heartbeat. Those sounds, along with an overwhelming sense of rightness, of being exactly where she was meant to be, combined to send her under.

  Instead of talking, they slept.

  Spain

  ROBERT KNEW he should’ve died two years earlier, in a Pyrenees plane crash. Now, as Clive led him and Evangeline across a deserted road and up to a run down cottage, he realized it was good that he was both alive and already dead. It meant he wouldn’t hesitate when the time came.

  If one of them was making it out of Spain, it was damn well going to be her.

  As if she heard his thoughts, she glanced over at him and shook her head in warning. We’re in this together, her expression said.

  He snorted inwardly at the thought, then nearly missed a step. Oh, hell. That was what she’d been saying for the past month, wasn’t it? She’d accused him of not seeing her as an equal, as part of his team.

  She was right, he thought on a clutch of dismay.

  “Keep it moving,” the guy behind him growled, punctuating the order with a sharp pistol jab. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Robert stumbled forward, his feet moving automatically while connections were made in his brain.

  She’d waited for him, as he’d known she would, but she hadn’t been sitting at home, pining for him. She’d been keeping the business going. Hell, she’d grown the damn company, hiring new operatives and expanding their client base. More than that, she’d set out to make a difference, taking on projects like Angel and Ethan. She’d built a life for herself without him in it.

  And that had been one of his sticking points, he realized. Somewhere deep inside, he’d wondered whether part of her resentment had been because she’d gotten used to life without him, maybe even preferred it.

  He’d been afraid, he realized as Clive and the thugs shoved them up the steps of the run-down cottage. Afraid that she’d been getting ready to move on when he’d returned, that she hadn’t known how to tell him that their marriage was over.

  He glanced at her now, and his heart constricted at the look she sent him, part entreaty, part resentment. Both emotions found twins inside him, making him face the fact that he’d been acting like an idiot. Heck, never mind acting, he’d been an idiot. He should’ve kept in closer contact with her, should have shared the burden of their separation.

  In protecting her, he’d shut her out.

  “I love you, Evie,” he said aloud, not caring who heard. “I shouldn’t have disappeared on you. I should’ve let you in.”

  That earned him a sharp jab from the guy behind him, who snapped, “Shut up and keep it moving.”

  More importantly, though, it earned him a quick look and a tentative smile from his wife. A swift touch of her hand against his when she faked a stumble and bumped into him.

  “Knock it off,” the guy behind Robert growled, shoving them into a small whitewashed room with a single narrow, barred window. The only furnishings were a small table that held a laptop computer, and a single rolling chair.

  “Sit,” Clive ordered Evangeline. “Read what’s written on the screen.”

  Realizing that the other two had waited outside, Robert shifted position, waiting for his chance.

  Evangeline sat and stared at the screen for a moment, her shoulders tightening. Clive snapped, “Read it aloud. The camera’s on.”

  Which meant the laptop was recording the scene, but to what end? Was it so Clive could replay the scene as many times as he wanted, reliving
the moment he finally defeated his former student? Or was there someone else involved, someone who even now was watching from a remote location?

  “My name is Evangeline Prescott,” she read, her voice inflectionless with anger, and perhaps fear. “I herewith confess to masterminding the murder of film star Nick Warner and conspiring with Peter Turner in a land-trust pyramid scheme designed to give us control of the oil rights in and around Hank Ward’s ranch in Colorado. My beloved husband, Robert Prescott, was also involved in—” She broke off suddenly and turned to Clive. “Who wrote this crap? It doesn’t sound anything like me. I don’t use words like herewith, and right now I’d be just as likely to conk Robert on the head for being a stubborn mule than call him my beloved. Honestly!” She huffed out a breath and deliberately turned her back to her husband.

  In the moment of silence following her snarl, Robert heard a quiet scraping sound coming from the other side of the wall, beneath the barred window.

  “Damn it, woman,” he shouted, cranking the volume to cover Cam and the others. “I stay hidden for two damn years to protect you, and when I finally manage to come back, all I get is a nasty attitude.”

  Clive gestured again with his weapon. “Just read it already.” Now he pointed his gun directly at Robert. “Or would you rather I just shot your husband right here and now?”

  The seconds ticked down in Robert’s gut. Nine…eight…seven…

  “Fine.” Evangeline turned back to the screen with a grimace. “My name is Evangeline Prescott, and—”

  A sharp whistle pierced the quiet outside. Clive jerked at the sound, and that break in his concentration was all Robert needed. He lunged toward Evangeline even as she overbalanced the chair and hit the floor with her hands over her ears. Robert landed atop her, shielding her with his body as everything exploded around them.

  The whitewashed walls blew with a roar and Clive and his thugs went flying. The table overturned and the laptop crashed to the floor. Robert held on to Evangeline as debris peppered his back in stinging pellets and the roar faded to a growl, then to silence.

  Clive recovered first, scrambled to his feet and headed for the hallway, where his thugs were struggling upright. “Kill them!” he shouted, and bolted through the door.

  The thugs gained their feet and rushed Robert as he pulled Evangeline up. Sunlight streamed onto both of them through a gaping hole in the wall.

  “You take Clive,” Evangeline ordered. “I can handle these two.”

  Robert gave a sharp nod. “I know you can.” He pressed a quick, hard kiss to his wife’s mouth, and bolted after the man who’d once been his friend and mentor, and was now his sworn enemy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Evangeline stood for a moment, stunned by Robert’s quick acquiescence. Then she grinned, joy blooming through her as Fuentes’s thugs closed on her, their weapons lost in the blast, their eyes narrowed with bloodlust and a determination that barely flickered when Cam and John flanked her, weapons drawn.

  “Keep them alive,” she ordered. “We’ll want some answers.”

  When the first man lunged, she stepped back and let her men have at it, knowing they were stronger and better trained than she. Despite what Robert thought, she knew when to back down in a dangerous situation.

  Cam took the first punch on his cleft chin, and the blow had his head snapping back on his neck. He stood fast, shook his head, and waded in, fists flying. Half a second later, John engaged the second thug with a war whoop. Both of the PPS operatives had identical feral grins on their faces and bloodlust in their eyes.

  They needed this, Evangeline knew, needed finally to have a flesh-and-blood opponent to fight rather than the string of shadow games they’d been forced to play over the past few months.

  Leaving Cam and John to their fight, she slipped through the deserted cottage. Instinct led her out the front door and across the street and through a barren field to the vine-draped box truck where she and Robert had been held. There, Robert and Clive were facing off.

  “I trusted you,” Robert said between gritted teeth, burying his fist in Clive’s gut. The blow slammed Fuentes into the side of the box truck. “You were one of the good guys, damn it!”

  He plowed his fist into Clive’s jaw, but the wily old man ducked the next punch, deflecting Robert’s fist into the box truck’s metal wall. Robert howled and reeled back.

  Clive’s lip was split and his face bore reddened patches that would soon go to bruises. He was no longer gloating as he’d been since grabbing Evangeline at the Madrid airport. Instead, when he pressed himself against the box truck and looked wildly from side to side, she saw panic and calculation, and beneath that, a dull resignation.

  The victory should have filled her with vicious joy, but she felt hollow when Robert turned his back on her, and dealt the bastard another punishing blow, making the fight into man against man, rather than the team against their enemy.

  Despair welled up out of nowhere, or perhaps out of the place she’d been pretending didn’t exist, the place that said their marriage had died two years earlier.

  Back then, she’d had hope. She’d held on to it for longer than her friends thought wise, longer than maybe she should have. She’d told Ethan to move on, but now she was beginning to think she was the one who’d needed that advice.

  Finally beginning to believe she’d lost Robert, that there was no hope for them, she turned away from the sight of her husband systematically pummeling the man who’d taught him to be a spy, the man who, in more ways than one, had taught him to depend on no one but himself.

  Tears pressed as she walked away.

  She’d barely reached the edge of the road when she heard footfalls chasing after her.

  “Wait.” Robert’s voice was ragged with exertion, with emotion. “Evie, wait.”

  She stopped but didn’t turn. “What is it?”

  A large, foolish part of her hoped he’d say the right things, that he’d finally get it. But if he hadn’t gotten it in the weeks he’d been back, why would he now? Men like him didn’t change—it’d just taken her too long to see it.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For—” He broke off. “Look, can you at least turn around?”

  She turned, and her heart clutched at the sight of him. Even wearing the ragged clothes of his captivity, he was gorgeous—all male, all arrogant and alpha. But there was something in his eyes, something she hadn’t seen there before. Not uncertainty, precisely, but close. That flicker of vulnerability had a glow of hope lighting in her chest.

  She took a step toward him. “Sorry for what?”

  He inhaled, nostrils flaring, looking faintly trapped. He was quiet so long she thought he wasn’t going to say anything, thought she’d lost him after all, but he finally exhaled and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

  Ouch. Evangeline fought to hide the instinctive flinch. She’d known it, heck she’d thrown it at him once or twice, but hearing him come out and say it still hurt.

  “I didn’t trust you enough to let you in on what was happening,” he continued, hands fisted at his sides. “I should’ve told you everything. I thought I was protecting you, but I was really protecting myself, and that wasn’t fair.”

  “No,” she said faintly. “It wasn’t.”

  She was vaguely aware that John stood nearby, keeping watch on Clive’s still form. He stayed close enough to help if Clive had reinforcements, far enough away to give the illusion of privacy as his bosses…what? What were they doing? Saving their marriage? Ending it?

  No! a voice said deep inside Evangeline at the very thought, and for the first time in a long time, she knew what she wasn’t doing. She wasn’t ending it, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Robert end it.

  She loved him.

  “To hell with it,” she said. “I’m not letting what happened—or what didn’t happen—keep screwing up what we have together. I love you, damn it, and I know damn well that you
love me, too.”

  A shudder ran through his long frame, and he said, “That was supposed to be my line. I was working up to it. I had the whole thing planned out.”

  Evangeline shrugged and laughter threatened to bubble up in her throat, where tears had been only moments earlier. “So I got there first. Deal with it.”

  “I will,” he said. “I am.” He exhaled a long sigh and opened his arms to her. “I’m sorry I shut you out sometimes. I promise to work on it.”

  Which, in her mind, was far better than him promising never again to turn away from her. That would’ve been an empty promise. But this…

  This was a beginning. A fresh start.

  A huge grin spread across her face as she stepped into her husband’s arms. She pressed her face against his chest. She felt the sure, steady beat of his heart beneath his torn shirt, and felt the leashed power of his body. But for the first time since his return, she didn’t feel as though his strength diminished hers.

  For the first time, she felt stronger with him than without him.

  She pulled back and looked up at him, then reached up and touched her lips to his. The kiss was no more than a brush of skin against skin, fleeting as a humming-bird’s wings, but promising so much more to come.

  When she pulled back, she hummed with pleasure and looked beyond him, to where John had bound and gagged Clive, no doubt leaving Cam to do the same to the other thugs. Then she glanced at her husband. “What now, boss?”

  He tipped his head. “You tell me. They’re your men.”

  And it was true, she realized. They were her men. Her responsibility. Her strength.

  More than that, far more to the girl who’d grown up in and out of the foster system, they were her family.