by Nikki Duncan
“I’m glad it worked out,” Sam said.
“You’ll likely get to see the results. I suggested this was a great place for an intimate celebration.”
“Thank you.”
“Least I could do.” Misty patted the bar and stifled a yawn. “Now, I’m heading to bed where I can contemplate the backs of my eyelids.”
As quick as she changed topics her demeanor changed. The vibrant Misty who’d been charged with the success of a surprise gave way to the exhaustion of what had clearly been a long day. Her shoulders drooped. Darkness circled her bloodshot eyes. Even her hair sagged more than when she’d entered. She’d never looked more stunning.
“Sleep well.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Misty faced Jace, gave him a backward nod. Her head froze in the back tilt. Her eyes stared through him—glazed—for four beats before she blinked. “’Night, Jace.”
She swayed. Her lids lowered. Her knees bent as she slowly lowered toward the nearest stool. Her exhaustion was going to take her down before she could sit.
Jace leapt to his feet and caught her as she collapsed. “Talk about asleep on your feet.”
Mumbling to himself, he scooped her sleepful weight into his arms. She was going to bed all right. His.
And she wouldn’t be avoiding him come morning.
Light blasted Misty’s eyelids. She rolled for the pillow. Unscented cleanliness engulfed her. An instant later, with her heartbeat hammering hard in her head, she shot upright.
The light shone from the hallway, and the space was too sparse to be a hotel room. “Hello?” Where am I?
No answer came.
Clean. Unremarkable. Impersonal. The naked white walls, simple pine dresser and white-sheeted pine bed offered no insights other than the suggestion that whoever the place belonged to cared nothing about personal touches.
Or has none to add.
But who could live life without collecting stuff? Criminals.
Her hammering heart grew louder and louder. Louder until thought shrank behind fear making remembering impossible. Scrambling from the bed, relieved to realize she was still dressed with only her shoes gone, she looked around.
Her shoes sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Perfectly aligned with the toes pointing out as if she may need to shove her feet into them and run.
Where am I? Who took me?
The shoes weren’t the only things precisely placed. The sheet corners were sharp and, aside from the creases where she’d laid, the bed was perfectly smooth. No dust coated the dresser surface. Whoever the place belonged to they were one of two things—severely obsessive compulsive or hardcore military.
Jace.
His name snapped into place and forgotten details followed with a sudden calm that settled her hammering heart.
The surprise. The bar. Exhaustion. Jace. Darkness wrapped warmth. She’d fallen into his arms asleep on her feet.
A fired flush flooded her neck and cheeks. She’d wanted him to respect her, to see her as a strong equal. Yet, the first time she saw him after sending him away she’d been coming off a run of back-to-back weddings and a week of twenty-hour days.
Any chance of respect he might have had for her no doubt died the moment she collapsed. He would only see the way she dressed and that she made herself vulnerable to victimization.
Misty slipped into her shoes, straightened her shirt and then headed toward the hall. She passed an alcove with a large, uncovered window that would be perfect for a reading chair, but it sat empty. The place bordered on barren and had little personality between the basic dining set and large sofa. The main hint into the person inhabiting the space was the couch. The rich brown leather looked butter smooth while the vast size invited gloomy-day snuggles or naps.
Another hint came from the banker box sitting in the far corner. It was labeled UNIT, and while the rest of the apartment was spotless, a layer of dust turned the white lid brown. Painful sentimentality?
The real insight came from the man on the sofa with a coffee mug balanced on a broad knee and the newspaper in hand. Jace sat at erect attention in jeans and a long-sleeve button-down. Even in his home he didn’t relax or let down his guard. He didn’t allow himself attachments to things. It stood to reason people were viewed the same.
“Sleep well?” he asked without looking up from his paper.
“Somewhere close to the sleep of the dead.” She moved closer, not wanting to stay long enough to argue but neither wanting to miss an opportunity to better figure him out. “Thank you for the loan of the bed. I needed it more than I realized after the last few days.”
He folded the paper more neatly than it had likely been to begin with and placed it on the floor with the mug atop it. He straightened and turned his head only.
Watched her with his mesmerizing stare.
Her heart leapt with a renewed hammering that had nothing to do with fear of the unknown. She took a step and stopped. She suddenly wanted to bait him into an argument that would lead to more sex, though something about his mood said that wouldn’t happen again in quite the same way. He hadn’t softened, but neither was he quite as domineering.
“You’ve been working long hours.”
“Yes.”
Still he didn’t move or blink. Like waiting for a coiled snake to decide if it would strike or retreat, the hammering in her chest grew and spread throughout until each pulse point throbbed in anticipation.
“You shouldn’t push so hard.”
“Too bad.”
Seconds ticked off by the no-longer-quiet sweep of her watch that blurred into an immeasurable buzz of time. Her eyes began to dry from holding his locked gaze. She took another step toward the door.
“You’re a stubborn woman.”
“You’re a grumpy man.”
He stood, looming less than an inch away. Misty didn’t remember closing the full distance between them, but they stood close enough to touch.
They didn’t touch. They didn’t reach for one another.
“You spoke harshly last time we met.”
“You spoke like an overbearing, archaic-thinking ass.”
Hazel eyes sparkling with mysteriousness studied her, skimming her to her bare feet and back up as if they actually touched her. “You bring it out in me.”
Aggression reared, pawing and thrashing wildly for freedom. Misty battled it back along with a claim he brought it out in her. Lori’s advice from a few days earlier when she’d forced Misty to take a lunch break played in her mind. You’re not a mind reader. Stop thinking you know what’s in his head.
Maybe Lori was right, but psychic abilities weren’t necessary when Jace’s words made his thoughts transparent.
He reached out and slipped the edge of her blouse between his fingers. His skin didn’t brush hers, but she felt it anyway. Felt it and found herself leaning in with the hope of actually touching him rumbling in her belly.
“You always dress this way.” The judgment he’d always spoken with shattered beneath…awe? Whatever it was, he sounded as if he liked what he saw. Or he could be putting on an act to get her into bed again. It was a ploy she’d grown accustomed to.
“I like my clothes.” She’d been forced to wear proper attire by her puritanical mother who’d tried to hide Misty’s body from the appearance of her first curves. Stifled by the uncomfortable choices of her mother, Misty began rebelling the moment she earned her first paycheck. With each new freedom gained—moving away, graduating college, earning a bigger paycheck—she’d expanded her wardrobe and branched off in her design choices, always choosing something that showed her curves.
“They’re—”
“Powerful.” She’d never asked what offended her mom the most. The clothes or that she’d rejected the family tradition of getting married just after high school for the sake of settling into a family and kids. It could just as easily been the demanding desire to go to college and have a career.
“That’s one word for them.”
“
You’d prefer I wear burlap.” Like her mother had. “Or cover all skin below my neck.”
He rubbed her lapel almost hypnotically. “Yes.”
Just like mother. The hope for respect sank like a steel bubble in her heart. She shook her head once. “Pity for you.”
Grateful for the right to make her own choices, for the strength to stand for her decisions, for the inner courage to fight closed-mindedness, she spun on the ball of her left foot and moved to the door. Her hand curled around the knob. Jace’s hand curled around hers.
His chest—solid from regimented training—brushed her back. His hook sat lightly at her hip and though she could still evade him she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Heartbeats hummed into minutes saturated with silence. Heat rippled like sun-struck waves and kissed her skin.
“You misunderstand.” Jace spoke almost silently so she strained to hear. “You make me lose my words.”
Pleasure pulled at her lips and pulsed in her veins. She offered no reaction or response he could see.
“Your suits are…attention getting.” The last was blown along her neck in a whispering caress. His hand released hers on the knob and moved to the hem of her skirt.
Her core convulsed. He wanted her. Wanted to take her against the door. Damn, but she loved the idea of what he wanted.
Coolness brushed one thigh while warmth brushed the other. Higher and higher he inched her skirt. Misty leaned her head toward the door, ready to rest against the wood. Then her skirt slipped over her hips and his fingers pushed aside her panties. Instantly ready, she jerked toward his touch. He flicked a finger over her clit.
A cry crossed her lips. Her head fell back. She spread her legs wider.
He may be cranky at times, but Jace Nichols knew how to turn an argument around.
“From the moment I saw you striding down the street, with your calf muscles dancing between each flex and release…” His fingers danced over her, teasing but never plunging. “I was captivated.”
“Hmm-mmmm.” Only able to sort of grunt, she arched her ass higher toward him, encouraging him to go farther in his exploration. Her calves shook as she stood nearly on the tips of her toes.
“Then we met.” He nibbled a line down the middle of her neck. Her inner walls clenched, anxious to feel him. Her hips pumped backward, rubbing his cock with her ass. The memory of having him buried deep wasn’t enough, but he’d driven her speech abilities into a corner of undevelopment.
“And argued.” He kissed along the collar of her top.
She was going to argue if he didn’t take her soon. Ready to prove her point she dropped her forehead to the door—unsure her legs would stay strong—and released the knob. Reaching backward and between them, Misty fought to undo his pants. To release him.
With a guttural complaint of some sort he stripped her panties away and dealt with his jeans and protection.
“Hurry up.”
“You’re a demanding woman.”
She darted a dare over her shoulder, meeting his sparking gaze with her own. “You’re taking too long.”
His hand and hook rested on the front of her pelvis. She fisted her hands over his. He adjusted her angle. “I’ll show you long.”
She laughed. He thrust. She gasped.
She felt him in her core and in her heart. He filled her with passion and a wanting so deep it scared her as it seduced her. Release lingered just out of reach, held back by Jace’s control. His ability to rein in desire. His calculated effort to thrust not too slow, not too fast.
Her pussy clenched around him. Squeezing. Encouraging. She rolled her hips, desperate to have him move or rub against her.
She flung her hands behind them and grabbed his hips. Screw restraint. She wanted him a little wild.
“Jace.” The strangled croak didn’t sound natural, but the tingles tripping along her arms and neck and spine were very natural. Natural and something she’d love to see become normal.
When he touched her, kissed her, buried himself in her their arguments vanished.
“I know what you want.” His words hardened as he pumped his hips faster.
Her tingles raced. Faster.
Her blood thrummed. Faster.
Her heart pounded. Faster.
He held her steady and kept pumping. Driving her higher, closer to the cliff’s ledge. She ached with the mounting tension.
A crescendo of desire built in her chest until a final thrust of his hips rocketed the buildup into the air on a wrenching scream. Echoes trembled through her quaking body as the crashing waves of arousal eased to lapping sweeps of desire.
Chapter Eight
“Camera five in the parking garage is flickering.”
“Call maintenance to check for an electrical short.” Jace typed notes on his palm-sized tablet, a device Trevor had come up with for the security team at Blue Chip Technologies. After spending the first few days getting into the flow of the building, though he still had some things to familiarize himself with, Jace knew the job well enough that he didn’t miss things when his focus was split. Which was good since he was primarily getting his update in the main lobby in hopes of catching sight of Misty.
“Already done,” Brad said. “I will have an update from Randy within the hour.”
“Good. What else?” Have you seen Misty? She’d left his apartment to get ready for work and had somehow seemed to beat him to the office. The woman was seriously seeping into his pores. He could hardly go ten minutes without thinking about her, and if he saw her he wanted only to touch.
“A keypad on seven is out.”
“See if it can be reset or needs replacement.”
Brad jotted notes in his tablet. Their notes would sync up so when Brad updated the task Jace would get the results on his tablet and a copy would be logged in their main database.
“Two techs say they can’t access the white room.”
“Check their security level.”
“HR is sending five people down at ten for new badges.”
“Have Mitchell there.” A flash of blonde hair caught his eye from the courtyard outside. Jace’s heart skipped. He watched as the woman moved from behind a large column. His heart plopped. It wasn’t Misty. “How are Dennis and Jordan doing?”
“Better so far.”
“It’s early still.” Trevor had put together a great security team, minus a couple of young men Jace had put on probationary notice for tardiness and laziness in appearance and performance. He suspected the young men valued their jobs with Blue Chip enough to straighten up.
“I think they’ll turn around.”
“I hope so. Their backgrounds make them great for the team.” The blonde woman he’d spotted entered the main lobby doors. She wore long slacks with legs so wide they swung like bells with each stride, simple flat shoes and a somewhat frumpy-looking top that hung a size too big on her narrow shoulders. He’d never seen her, but something about the way she moved was familiar.
As she approached the main desk, he and Brad turned with smiles. Older than he’d have guessed, she played down her looks with soft makeup and flat hair. Her only flash was the rock on her left hand and the blinged-out watch winking from her wrist.
“Welcome to Blue Chip Tower. Can we help you?” Jace asked.
“I’m here to see Misty Morgan.” Rich disapproval clung to every syllable. Maybe that she had to take the time to deal with security. Maybe because of something to do with Misty. Whatever it was, Jace didn’t have a good first impression of the woman.
“I don’t believe she’s in, but let me check.” He picked up the phone and dialed her extension from memory. He hadn’t had a need to call her since starting, but still he’d memorized her number as much as he’d tried to memorize her schedule. Her phone was ringing when he asked, “May I have your name?”
“My name, young man, is Judith Wilson-Morgan,” came the stinging retort.
“Tell her I’m not here,” Misty’s voice clipped in his ear. His
skin tingled just hearing her.
While he wasn’t sure why she responded so quickly the way she did, he tried for a vague approach that wouldn’t give anything away to Misty’s mother if he guessed right. “This is Jace with security. I have a Judith Wilson-Morgan here to see Ms. Morgan.”
“That’s my mother. If you send her back here, Jace, it will be your last act as head of security.”
“Do you know when she will be in?”
“Never for her.”
Misty’s message was clear. They did not get along. Looking at the woman before him, remembering Misty’s defensive tone the last time he’d mentioned her clothes, he began to understand more clearly. They were complete opposites. Coldness and warmth. Frumpy and sexy. “I will let her know.”
Mrs. Wilson-Morgan’s lips puckered with bitterness.
“If you’re going to tell her that, give me time to get there to watch the show.”
He smiled at Misty’s sudden humor, at the gleeful lift of her voice from the idea of him being so honest with the sour-lipped woman standing before him. This whole exchange was making him want to run and question Misty about the strained relationship he was now playing buffer for. He doubted she’d be forthcoming with any answers.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilson-Morgan, she’s not in.”
“You are a prince, Jace. I owe you one.”
Plenty of ways for Misty to say thanks sprang into mind, yet faced with her mother he didn’t allow his smile to widen. He simply hung up because saying anything else would sound suspicious to the woman before him.
“When will she be in?”
“Not today I’m afraid. She has appointments off-site all day.” And he was going to be her next one.
“As if playing with flowers can keep her that busy.”
Mrs. Wilson-Morgan didn’t snort, but the attitude of one certainly sprang out with the way she cocked a hip. He’d been watching Misty work and knew how busy she was. If she deserved respect from anyone it should be her own mother, but it wasn’t his place to say so.