Force of Nature

by Suzanne Brockmann

  At least not too much.

  Clearly Annie was already discomfited. “I should be able to do this.”

  He saw right away what the problem was. “This needs to go around your neck like…” Together they made the adjustment. “Now everything just needs to be tightened, like a giant shoelace.”

  She stood still, quietly, obediently—possibly for the first time in her entire life—in front of the mirror in her room, just letting him do it. He focused on the string—keeping both sides of it even—rather than on the smooth coolness of her sun-kissed skin beneath his fingers, trying to ignore the way the dress accentuated her curves.

  “This tight enough?” he asked, looking over her shoulder at her reflection. She was still holding the top against her breasts, but now she let it go.

  “Only if I want to be flashing everyone all night,” she replied as he started all over again. “Although maybe that’s the idea. I mean, God.” She turned slightly, and he realized there was a slit in the side of the skirt that went practically to her hip.

  Yeah. God. That was going to be awful for all the people who hated tall, shapely women with gorgeous legs. “We should probably mark the string,” Ric told her briskly, businesslike. “So you can put it on again, after you take off the bathing suit.”

  “I don’t need to take off the dress to take off the suit,” she told him, laughing at his look of disbelief. “Really. I might need it to be tightened just a little, but I can do it. I once completely changed my clothes—underneath my clothes. It’s one of the few female-identified skills that I actually have. That and asking for directions. I’m good at that, too.”

  Ric tied the string at the small of Annie’s back, where many women her age had a tattoo.

  Not Annie. Her skin was smooth and soft and naked of all marks.

  “So, no cracks about how this substantiates your case?” she asked, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. “My inability to dress myself. You know, reason number four hundred and thirty-three why you believed Bruce?”

  “I don’t have much of a sense of humor about that,” Ric admitted as she began taking off her bathing suit, right out from under the dress, slipping one arm out from the tank suit’s shoulder strap and then the other. She had to wiggle it down past her waist and her hips, reaching up under the skirt to pull it off.

  And yeah, he probably should’ve left the room instead of standing there gaping.

  “See?” she said, tossing the bathing suit onto the bed.

  Yeah, he saw. Without the suit containing her, the dress was even more amazing.

  But she wasn’t as happy about that. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror—at the way the soft, pale sides of her breasts were exposed. “I’m guessing that throwing a sweatshirt on top of this isn’t an option.”

  “You need me to tighten it again?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. Just do me a favor and double-knot it.”

  Ric did, careful not to touch her. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like us to leave a little early—I have an errand to run for my mother.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” she said.

  He nodded. “Thanks. I’ll get dressed.”

  He was halfway down the hall when she said, “Ric.”

  He turned to see her standing in the doorway, a shimmering vision, like some Annie from an alternate universe.

  “Is our friendship over?” she asked. “I mean, the way you’re acting…”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I do know that it’ll be really hard to be friends with you if you’re dead.”

  She nodded. “That goes both ways. But…wouldn’t it also be hard to be friends with me if I cared more for my own safety than the safety of our country?”

  “Not everyone belongs on the front lines,” he pointed out.

  “So…I don’t, but you do,” she said. “But it’s more than just because I haven’t had police training, isn’t it? It’s because I’m a woman.”

  Did she really believe that?

  She did. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Ric tried to explain. “It’s more than that. I’ve got this thing where, I don’t know, I can’t say it without it sounding like, yeah, I’m sexist, but bottom line, I just want to protect you.” It wasn’t because she was a woman, it was because she was Annie. “And yeah, it has nothing to do with your ability or skill or—”

  “You want to protect me, but it’s not because you’re a man and I’m a woman.”

  His temper sparked at the attitude she was throwing at him. “No, it’s not.”

  “Bullshit.” Her own temper didn’t just flare, it ignited.

  “Are you going to let me attempt to explain or are you—”

  She cut him off again. Of course. “Explain what, Ric? How your being sexist isn’t really sexist simply because you say it’s not?”

  He threw up his hands. “Fine. I’m sexist. I believe women belong in the kitchen and in the bedroom, in bed, on their backs. Is that what you want me to say? Are you happy now?”

  Fortunately, she wasn’t completely listening. She was too busy yelling at him. “I don’t want your protection. I don’t need it. I’m strong and I’m smart and I’m tough, and I’m not backing down—so you just go ahead and keep being an asshole. Just keep on with the silent treatment—with the pouting—it’s so attractive.”

  “Yeah,” he hurled back at her. “And you should know. Because there’s nothing more attractive than a woman in an evening gown screaming bullshit.”

  “Says you,” she said indignantly. “Because you obviously only like women who are helpless and weak—or pretending to be. Lillian Lavelle—”

  Great. They were back to Lillian.

  “—outsmarted you,” Annie pointed out. “Push come to shove, she probably could’ve kicked your ass.”

  “I don’t think so—”

  “As will I”—she spoke over him—“if you piss me off enough. I didn’t haul rocks for six months for nothing.”

  She actually flexed her right arm, and yeah, she definitely had some nice muscle tone. The sight of her standing there like that, while wearing that dress, should have made Ric laugh. But it didn’t. It was possible that he was never going to laugh again. At least not until this was over and he knew she was safe.

  Instead, he turned and walked away. “Like I’m going to fight a girl.”

  “I heard that,” Annie shouted. “You are such a—”

  Ric closed his bedroom door.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Jules hated the Internet.

  With cell phone access and the Google, you could jump online dang near anywhere, and find anything your heart desired, in a matter of seconds. In fact, if you weren’t careful, you could end up watching the very movie trailer that you’d spent months avoiding.

  And there it was, right on the viewscreen of his Treo, for him to watch as he lurked outside of the Bijou Café, waiting for Ric and Annie to appear.

  Play Riptide trailer again? his cell phone asked so seemingly innocently, like that snake in the garden of Eden.

  Jules naturally clicked on yes. The music started, and on the phone’s miniature screen, Robin ran, pounding down a dock, an entire team of police and FBI in pursuit. He didn’t break stride as he reached the end, instead diving with beautiful form—thank you, Mr. Stuntman—into the water.

  The movie was, according to the reviews included with the trailer, “nonstop action” and “thrill after thrill.” Underwater sequences—including a terrifying shark attack, were intercut with plenty of close-ups of Robin’s sweaty, dirt-smeared, yet still startingly handsome face. “Chadwick delivers the year’s best acting performance,” Entertainment Weekly proclaimed—true words of praise for an action movie.

  It was stupid to watch the trailer—twice. But Jules was the King of Stupidopia today, no doubt about that.

  What had he been thinking, going up to Robin’s room like that?

  Maybe I’ll get so
me?

  And he could’ve—if he’d stayed. Robin had become quite the aggressive pursuer. No hesitation, no doubt, no question at all of who he was and what he’d wanted. And apparently he no longer needed to be completely blind drunk to get it.

  That was an improvement that Jules couldn’t deny. And the full fantasy—Robin back in his life, in his arms, and yes, finally in his bed—had been intoxicating. The man was as charismatic as ever, and quite possibly even better-looking than he’d been two years ago. Or maybe self-preservation had dulled Jules’s memory, in order to make it possible for him to keep his distance from Robin’s shining glory all these months.

  God, he really should have continued to keep his distance.

  Dear Ben, So I ran into an ex… No, Robin didn’t even qualify as an ex. Ex what? Ex nothing.

  So I ran into this guy to whom I’ve been insanely attracted for years… Ran into? That sounded accidental.

  So I intentionally went up to the hotel room of this guy to whom I’ve been insanely attracted for years and very nearly had sex with him.

  Oh, yeah. That was going to go over well.

  Although it definitely underscored the nagging question: What was Jules going to say in response to Ben’s e-mail?

  No doubt about it, Jules had just been handed an additional banquet of things to think about. Because the entire situation played more than one way. Maybe Jules had purposely gone to see Robin because Ben’s e-mail had scared the living bejeezus out of him. Self-sabotage had long held a place at the top of Jules’s personal bag o’tricks.

  Jules pocketed his phone and faded even farther into the shadows as a stretch limo pulled up outside the Bijou. Flashbulbs went off as Robin emerged, as he helped a gorgeous, dark-haired young woman out of the car, as the pair posed for pictures for the paparazzi gathered there.

  As Jules watched, Robin leaned close to woman, then laughed at whatever she’d said into his ear, as the pair walked into the party.

  And yes, that was definitely jealousy Jules was feeling now—as if he needed evidence beyond the psycho websurfing to prove that he was completely insane.

  There was still no sign of Ric and Annie, although Gordon Burns was already inside—Jules had seen him arrive, too. His son had been absent—which made sense. The elder Burns was the Hollywood-phile. According to some nifty information Yashi and Deb had just turned up, Gordie Junior had no use for Hollywood, although he, too, dabbled in movie producing.

  Porn.

  Why wasn’t that a surprise?

  Jules stepped forward as Annie and Ric finally pulled up, as they left their car with the valet.

  From their body language, it was obvious they hadn’t come to any compromise or agreement. Ric was still as pissed at Annie as he’d been when Jules had left their office. And now—bonus!—Annie appeared to be at least as annoyed with Ric, if not more so.

  Wasn’t this evening going to be just peachy keen?

  “Sorry we’re a little late,” Ric said. “I had to stop at my father’s studio. He’s AWOL again.”

  “We’re not late,” Annie informed him. “We’re early. We had enough time to see if he was at the Starbucks.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Guys,” Jules said.

  At least they looked good. Ric had the tall, dark, and handsome thing down pat, debonair in his rented but well-fitting tux. The former police detective was very easy on the eyes. And the dress and shoes really worked with Annie’s statuesque physique, although she could’ve gone a bit heavier with her makeup and done something snazzier with her hair.

  Still.

  “You look amazing,” Jules told her. “Good pick with the dress, huh?”

  If looks could incinerate, he’d’ve had to stop, drop, and roll.

  “Next time we attend a party, I get to pick what you wear, and it’s going to be a loincloth,” she said as she stalked toward the restaurant door.

  Huh?

  Ric just shook his head.

  Jules chased Annie, caught her arm, and pulled her off to the side, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel uncomfortable, and I’m sorry if I did,” he told her. “I just thought, with your coloring and height…You do look incredible, despite the roiling vibe of anger. You’re really going to have to lose that before we go inside.” He included Ric in his dressing-down. “Both of you. Dial your hostility down a few notches.”

  Annie looked at Ric, who glanced only briefly at Annie—like, if he maintained eye contact for more than a half a second she might realize just how unbelievably hot he thought she looked in that dress.

  God forbid that happen.

  “Sorry,” Ric said, and Annie echoed him. But the apologies were to Jules. They were still both standing there with their arms crossed, rigid in their pointed disregard of one another.

  “So I guess the plan is to make Gordon Burns believe you’re breaking up,” Jules said.

  “No,” Ric said quickly. “It’s not.”

  They both got the message, glancing at each other again as they awkwardly shifted closer. Ric even gritted his teeth and put his arm around her.

  And Jules no longer had any doubt. Before this assignment was over, they were either going to kill each other, or end up in bed. Either way, it was going to be quite the mess.

  “Before we go into the party,” he told them, “I wanted to update you. We’ve got some interesting information about your gun-toting client—Lillian Lavelle, which, by the way, is only one of many aliases. She’s got a number of different names—stage names, I’d guess you’d call them. She’s, um, an adult entertainment artist. Or rather, she was, before she retired.”

  Annie put it into plain-speak. “A porn star?” She looked at Ric and said with exaggerated enthusiasm, “You almost had sex with a porn star. Dude. Bruce would be so proud.”

  To anyone unable to listen in, her smile would’ve looked genuine. It lit her eyes and she sparkled up at him in seeming adoration.

  A muscle jumped in Ric’s jaw as he finally met and held her gaze. “You heard what Cassidy said. Dial it down.”

  “Or what?” she countered sweetly, leaning in to kiss him, no doubt purposely right on that twitch. “You’ll get me pregnant, steal my shoes, and lock me in the kitchen? You adorable misogynist you?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he shot back.

  “Children,” Jules said sharply. “Was this a mistake?”

  “Probably,” Ric said. “What does Lillian’s former career have to do with Gordon Burns?”

  “Not so much Gordon as Gordie Junior,” Jules told them. “He’s been working hard to join the twelve-billion-dollar-a-year porn industry with his company, GBJ Productions. Long story short, he’s been having trouble finding funding, since Dad doesn’t approve and no one Stateside wants to piss off the old man.”

  Yashi was focusing on investigating all interest in GBJ from overseas investors. It was probably a dead end, but Jules was determined to check it out. Because what if it wasn’t Gordon Burns who was involved in smuggling terrorists into the U. S., but instead his son?

  “Apparently someone at GBJ convinced Lillian to come out of retirement. They’ve got a relatively new title on their list of DVDs—The Return of Trixie Absolute. That was her…well, her porn name. Not the childhood-pet, street-name thing, but her real one. She was quite the star in the eighties, famous for…Well.” He cleared his throat. “Just Google her, and…Anyway, financially, she had no reason to get back in the business—why she did, for GBJ, is something of a mystery—and possibly the reason behind why she’s trying to gun down Gordie Junior. Just to make things worse, her new DVD has been pretty much panned.” He paused as he realized what he’d just said. “Which means that there are actually porn critics. Go figure.”

  “Have you contained her yet?” Ric asked. “Trixie or Lillian or whatever her name is.”

  “Lillian works,” Jules told him. “And no.”<
br />
  Ric was not happy, silently grinding his teeth into stubs.

  “This is going to make you even more annoyed,” Jules continued, “but she’s recently withdrawn a huge chunk of change from her savings account. It’s going to be a challenge to find her if she’s not using credit cards, which we strongly suspect she won’t be. There’s been no activity in her accounts for the past five days. Plus, as an actress, she’s probably pretty good at altering her appearance.”

  Ric took the news well, considering. “Does the daughter—Marcy—even exist?” he asked.

  Jules nodded. “Past tense. She died just around the time the DVD was released. And Brenda Quinn? She’s GBJ’s workhorse. The majority of their titles feature her, um, acting skills, under a variety of different names.”

  “So maybe Lillian has more than one reason to want Junior dead,” Annie suggested.

  Ric looked at her. “If he’s at this party, I want you to stay far away from him.”

  “Shouldn’t that rule apply to you, and Jules, too?” Annie asked. “Unless your penises make you magically bulletproof.”

  Jules had to work not to laugh, mostly because the word magically made him think of Lucky Charms breakfast cereal and the phrase—magically delicious—that came to mind was particularly inappropriate.

  “We’ll both be careful, too.” Ric’s voice was tight, but not because he found any of this even remotely funny.

  Okay, then. Jules looked at his watch. “We better go in. Are you ready?”

  Were they ready?

  Annie was more than ready for a drink, but she ordered a ginger ale from the waiter who’d approached the minute they’d stepped through the door.

  The party was in full swing, with a band on an outside patio, music drifting in through the open windows.

  Despite that, the AC was blasting. It was cold in there, and she was already starting to freeze despite Ric’s hand, warm at her waist.

  The place was packed, but even though Annie stood on her toes, she couldn’t see any of the celebrities who were supposed to be in attendance. She did, however, spot Gordon Burns over by the bar.