by Misty Evans
So easy.
She moved the soap over his back, then grabbed the washcloth and dabbed at the cut on his neck and somehow his body pulled her closer until she pressed right up against him and he groaned.
“Hawk?”
“Yep.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me love sex.”
He raised his head, but continued to stare at the wall for a few seconds before turning back to her. “I love how much you love sex. Makes me a lucky man.”
“I never did before.” She shrugged. “Now? I can’t get enough. You did that for me.”
He sucked in a breath, backed her against the wall. “Don’t move.”
Not. A. Chance.
He shoved the curtain halfway open, reached for something on the floor and then waggled a condom at her. “Wanna get crazy in the shower, Ms. Denby?”
Another first. Sex in the shower. How the hell would this work without them slipping?
“Uh,” she said while he dealt with the condom. “I’ve, um, never…”
“What?”
She put one hand over her mouth and giggled. Giggled? Really? “In the shower.”
Condom in place, he inched forward, went right to that spot on her neck he’d hit the jackpot with before. “A shower virgin? Again I say, lucky me.”
Then his hands were moving over her belly, back around her hips to her rear. She arched away from the wall giving him access.
“Atta, girl. Ready?”
For what? Before she could ask, he gripped the back of her legs and boosted her up. “Eeep.” She splayed her arms out, her fingers slipping against the wet tile, desperate for something to hang on to before they both fell over.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “Always.”
She believed it. Finally. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back, let her body go loose and relaxed into the sensation of the slick tile against her back. Hawk dragged kisses up her neck to her face and she lowered her head, met his lips, and brought her arms around him.
He pushed inside her and she gasped, digging her fingers into his back, loving the feeling of him so deep as he anchored her against the wall.
And then she let her hands drop and hang at her sides, giving all control to Hawk as he pumped his hips, at first slow and then faster and faster. His eyebrows drew in—total concentration—and she reached up, ran her fingers over his face, smoothing the hard lines as they worked together, hips moving in rhythm.
He opened his eyes, met her gaze and blew her a kiss and something inside her burst open, just a huge whoosh that stole her breath because finally, finally, finally, she felt it, that connection, that contentment she’d never had before.
“Oh, my,” she said.
“Oh, my, indeed.”
To avoid his injured forearm, she clamped her hands on his biceps, squeezing because, no, no, no, everything inside her went rigid and she knew it was coming, that huge release. But no, she didn’t want it yet. Too good. Make it last. The emotional link. Please, let it last.
Hawk changed the rhythm and—boom—something behind her eyes exploded. She slammed them closed and moaned, gripping his arms hard as she tumbled over that crazy edge.
“I’ve got you,” he said again.
“I know.”
“Can’t…”
His words broke off and he leaned in, skin to skin, pinning her against the wall as he worked his hips harder and harder and she hung on, loving the loss of control and then it happened, he reared back, met her gaze and gritted his teeth, fighting for control.
She dragged her hands over his shoulders and as if her simple touch fired something, he cried out, pumped his hips twice more then pinned her against that wall while water poured over them.
Still holding her, his chest heaved against hers and his shoulders shook and she bit him on the ear earning a roar of laughter from him.
“If you drop me, I’ll kill you.”
He straightened and kissed her. Softly this time. “I’ve got you, Hope. Always.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The ringing of Hope’s phone brought her out of a dead sleep. What the? She shot up to a sitting position, looked around the room where a sliver of sunlight peeked through the blinds.
Safe house.
She rubbed her eyes, focused on clearing her sleepy fog.
Phone.
Bedside table.
She reached across Hawk who was face down on the bed, his long, lean body on top of the comforter as he slept in only boxers. Apparently, the man was a furnace when he slept.
Not wanting to disturb him, she took the phone into the hallway and checked the screen. Amy.
Hopefully her boss had good news. “Hello?”
“Denby,” Amy said, her voice quiet and even.
Too quiet. Way too even and Hope knew whatever it was, she wouldn’t like it.
“Yes. Hi, Amy. Good morning. What’s up?”
“I just got in and found an interesting link in an email. From the White House.”
The White House. “Okay.”
Now, the White House sending Amy a link probably wasn’t all that astonishing. After all, Amy had been appointed as the head Public Information Officer by the president. The astonishing part was that Amy was telling Hope about this link, particularly after being put on suspension.
“Not okay, Denby. The link took me to the The First Amendment Patriot blog where our blogger friend has declared the Chief Justice of the United States was assassinated. Dammit, Denby!” Amy exploded. “I thought you had this guy under control. You made a deal with him. He trusts you. That’s what you told me.”
“I did make a deal with him. He does trust me.”
“So what the hell happened?”
She could easily throw Hawk under the bus here, tell her boss he went rogue on her and ran the story despite promising not to.
She could.
But she wouldn’t.
She glanced back into the bedroom where he hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. His hair stuck out in every direction and in sleep, he was peaceful. Not paranoid or worrying or lecturing her.
She probably loved him.
There. She admitted it. It didn’t terrify her this time. Didn’t feel like an illusion. It simply was.
“I helped him write the post.”
Silence.
“You...Wait. Did you just say you helped him write it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Amy, you have no idea what we’ve been through. Of course, had you given me the opportunity to tell you what we’ve discovered before suspending me, maybe you’d have counseled me not to help with the post, but it’s done now. We had no choice.”
“Oh, you had a choice. You should have called me before he ran that goddamned post!”
“You suspended me. Based on our last conversation, I didn’t think calling you was an option.”
“Well, congratulations, Denby, you and your blogger friend have caused quite the shit-storm. I have the White House all over me. They want answers and I can’t give them any. Now every network wants to know why the White House is covering up the assassination of a Supreme Court justice. The Chief Justice! Dammit, Denby!”
Yes, Turner was dead. And she and Hawk had discovered important information about that death. Information her boss hadn’t even asked about. “Amy, I’m sorry the White House is unhappy, but something isn’t right here. We think Turner’s death revolves around the Kenton Labs case.”
“Denby, stop talking.”
Hope stopped. When Amy got on a roll like this it was best to let her rage on and get it out of her system. “All right.”
“Thank you. I’m so disappointed. You were my rock star. The one I knew I could count on. You’re young and aggressive, even if that damned cheeriness gets on my nerves, you were the rock star.”
Hope squeezed her fingers closed. Since the third grade she’d been killing herself trying to be the positive one. Always painting on a fucki
ng smile and finding the fucking bright side. For years, she’d survived on the idea that if she stayed perky—happy, happy, happy!—she’d never be called boring.
Never again.
“Amy, it’s a solid story.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Of course she didn’t. She’d proved that when she’d suspended her without letting her mount a defense. Hope sagged back against the wall. “Okay. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”
She wouldn’t apologize for the story. It was a good story with merit and Hawk deserved the credit without her minimizing it by faking an apology.
One of Amy’s long sighs came through the phone line. “Denby, you’ve left me no choice. I’m going to have someone pack up your things and they’ll be delivered to your home. You’re fired.”
Hope shot up straight, her entire body going rigid. “You’re firing me? Seriously? The Chief Justice was assassinated and you’re canning me?”
Unbelievable.
“It has nothing to do with this supposed assassination. You disobeyed me.”
“Not true, Amy! You know it. The story is solid and for whatever reason the White House is trying to cover this up. I’m the first sacrificial lamb. You’ve probably already spoken to the networks letting them know a junior staffer blew it and has been terminated.”
Ten long seconds of silence ensued. Who knew ten seconds could take that long?
That meant Hope’s assessment was accurate and Amy couldn’t insult her by denying it.
“Hope?”
She spun back, found Hawk sitting up in bed, staring straight at her with that Mr. Cynical hesitant look he sometimes wore.
Well, she finally understood, didn’t she? He knew all about getting screwed, had even tried to tell her it would happen to her if she stayed with him and chased this story. But she wouldn’t listen. Didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe that her boss would use her as the scapegoat. Nope. She just kept on thinking if she could be perky, perky Hope everything would work out.
That she could change the world.
Fool.
She went back to Amy. “Fine. When we prove the Chief Justice was murdered, maybe I won’t sue you for wrongful termination. And, Amy, have a wonderful day.”
Ha!
To emphasize her point, she stabbed at the screen. “Witch! The nerve.”
Hawk stepped into the hallway, hair sticking up every which way and those stormy blue eyes narrowed. “Did you just get fired?”
“I sure did.”
She latched onto the waistband of his shorts, yanked him forward and kissed him. Disgusting morning breath and all.
He gripped her shoulders and set her back, studying her face. “What’s going on with you? Are you mad? Sad? What?”
All of the above.
Somehow, it felt good. Later, she’d realize she was out of a prestigious job most would kill for and that the louse Joel Bigley, after all the wrongs he’d done, got to keep his job, but oh well. Sometimes life sucked and no matter how positive she tried to stay, she couldn’t change that.
Obviously.
But right now, she was free. Free from being an eternal optimist who always found the upshot.
No upshot. Not now.
“Hope?”
“I’m...free.”
“Huh?”
She paddled her hands in front of her, all the energy from the last few minutes roaring through them. “In the third grade Jennifer Jacobs told me I was boring. Everyone laughed. I was completely humiliated. Do you know—wait, of course you don’t know, I never told anyone.”
“Okay, now you’re whacking out on me.”
“Yes, I am.” She poked him. “And guess what Mr. Cynical, it feels great.” She threw her arms up. “I’m free, Hawk! No more of this Mary Sunshine crap. If I want to be pissy, well, goddammit I’m being pissy. And I will swear like a motherfucker if I want to because that’s what people do when they’re angry.”
Hawk’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”
“I know, right?”
“That swearing thing from you is kinda hot. Never thought I’d say that about the chirpy idealist.”
“And you know what else?”
“No idea, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Damn straight I will. You and I, we’re going to blow this story out of the water. I’m done being the good girl. Forget spin control. Someone is going down for this. And it won’t be me.”
She was pissed. Deep-down to the roots of her hair angry.
But most of all, Brice knew Hope was hurt. Disappointed.
Been there, done that shit.
Brice had been angry, too, when he’d been forced out of ATF, but mostly, underneath the outrage and disgust, he’d been disappointed. Hurt at the betrayal of his agency and the government of the United States of America.
He’d gotten some satisfaction when he’d helped Mitch and Caroline expose the gunwalking scandal and put the Deputy Attorney General, the man behind the curtain, in jail. It hadn’t brought back the dead agents or made up for those who were terminated, like him, for doing their jobs, but it had given him some closure. Vindicated him. Settled some old scores.
That was exactly what Hope needed right now. Vindication.
He took her hand, weaving his fingers in between hers. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, I promise. Why don’t you go get cleaned up, and I’ll make us some breakfast?”
“First, I need to do this.” She marched into the bedroom, over to the dresser, and picked up a knickknack sitting there. Swiping it up, she reared back and whipped it against the wall. The cheap ceramic dog shattered into half a dozen pieces and landed on the floor.
Hope brushed her hands together, her chest heaving slightly. “There.”
“Feel better?”
“Immensely.”
“Quite an arm you have there,” he teased. “You might have a future in baseball.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbed some fresh clothes, and headed for the bathroom.
Brice tamed his hair with one hand. His forearm was now a deep purple with smudges of green. The bandage on the back of his neck was half off. He yanked it the rest of the way, tossed it in the wastebasket, then grabbed his jeans and pulled them on.
Breakfast was going to be light since they hadn’t gotten any groceries.
To his surprise, however, when he opened the fridge door, a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, and a package of bacon waited for him. There was half a gallon of milk and another half of orange juice.
Sydney.
Grey must have brought the groceries the day before, but Brice knew it was Sidney who had told him to do so. She wasn’t officially part of the Justice Team, but she worried about all of them equally. To Brice, it seemed she was the best benefit to joining the team.
He found a couple of skillets and started the eggs and bacon cooking. Then he plunked slices of bread into the toaster and found a jar of grape jelly in the tiny pantry. As everything cooked, he cleared the kitchen table of papers and files and set it with plates and silverware.
A few minutes later, Hope emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of sweet-smelling steam. She eyed his handiwork as he slid two eggs, sunny side up, onto her plate. “Look at you, all domestic and everything.”
“I’ve been on my own a long time,” he said. “A guy’s gotta eat.”
She wiggled a finger at him. “The bare-chest-and-jeans look really works for you. Especially with that watch.”
His watch? “Whatever does it for you, babe.”
“How’s the arm?”
“Sore as hell. I’ll live.”
She sniffed the air. “Is that bacon I smell?”
“It is indeed.”
“I could get used to this.”
Helping himself to eggs and piling the bacon on a plate, he returned to the table and plunked down in the seat across from her. “Turnabout’s fair play, by the way.”
Snatching up two pieces of bacon, she dug in. “Wh
at does that mean?” she said around a bite of food.
Brice spread jelly on a piece of toast and handed it to her. “You can serve me breakfast shirtless anytime.”
Accepting the toast, she made a snorting noise. “Pig.”
“This pig just made you breakfast, and I believe he provided you with multiple orgasms last night.”
Pink rose in her cheeks and she grinned. “Yes, he did. He’s going to do it again tonight.”
“Sounds like you have plans.”
“Oh, I have plans. World domination and great sex with you topping the list.”
They shared a smile and then ate in comfortable silence. That was the thing about Hope. Sometimes she was a complete chatterbox. Other times she was just as happy in silence. Like when they were working together. Three days ago, he would have laughed at anyone telling him he’d found his match, as an investigator, in Hope Denby. That he’d be screwing her blind every chance he got.
A lot could happen in three days.
“This is so good,” she said.
“It’s just bacon and eggs.”
“No.” She waggled her fork in the air. “It’s more than that. It’s like I’m tasting food for the first time. Every bite is like…good. Really good.”
“That’s what happens after you’ve survived a traumatic experience. Food tastes better. Sex is better. You notice little things you never did before.”
She was staring at him. “Like the fact you have little gray flecks in the irises of your eyes?”
Weird, but… “Yeah, like that.”
“You’re squirming. You don’t like being under scrutiny.”
He was not squirming. “Everything I did in the army, and then in the ATF, was under someone’s scrutiny. The Patriot blog is under constant scrutiny. I’d say I’m pretty comfortable with being put under the microscope.”
“I’m not talking about the things you’ve done or the blog. I’m talking about one on one, in person, physical scrutiny. Me sitting here talking about your chest and your watch and the color of your eyes. It makes you uncomfortable. It’s an invasion of your personal space, your privacy.”
“You’ve had a field day invading my personal space in the past couple of days, Hope. Have I protested even once?”