by Diana Miller
She’d kicked off her shorts and sandals and was trying to remove her panties without falling from the narrow railing when he settled back between her thighs. He ripped off the fragile silk and lace, widened her thighs with his palms, and thrust into liquid heat.
She caught her breath as he filled her, her body clutching him.
He stood perfectly still, breathing hard. No doubt trying to regain his control so he could push her away, like he’d done in his bedroom.
That was not happening. Jillian wrapped her legs around his waist, locked her heels together, and rocked her pelvis against him. “You said you wouldn’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping. I promise.” His voice sounded strained.
“Then move.”
He thrust once, stilled.
“Not like that.” She gripped his shoulders. “I want it faster. Harder.”
He sucked in air through clenched teeth. “I’ll be lucky to last ten seconds if I do that.”
“I don’t care. Move faster.”
He thrust into her, retreated, thrust again.
She shook his shoulders. “Harder. I want it harder.” She didn’t know what she was saying, just what she was needing.
“Hold onto me.” He picked her up and carried her so her back was against the cinderblock wall. Supporting her buttocks with his palms, he rammed into her hard. “Like this?”
“More.”
He rammed again and again and again, the delicious friction making Jillian hotter. The smell of gunpowder suddenly seemed unbelievably erotic.
She was on fire, ready to snap, but each stroke somehow wound her tighter. Then Paul fingered her clit. She exploded, flashes of light overwhelming her brain, electric charges shooting through her in hot spasms, pleasure consuming her.
“Jillian.” Paul shouted her name then jerked against her hard.
Her back barely skimmed the wall as he slid her slowly down until she was sitting on his lap on the floor, still impaled on him. He lay back and pulled her down on top of him.
She put her cheek on his damp chest. His breathing was ragged. His heart thundered under her ear, against her skin.
Pleasure faded, replaced by apprehension. Now what? Was he going to order her to leave like he had in his bedroom?
“Jesus,” he said. “I thought I was building it up in my mind, but that was even better than I remembered.”
Jillian let out the breath she’d been holding and opened her eyes. She raised her head and rested her chin on his chest. “I thought you didn’t want me.”
His eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Not want you? Hell, I’ve taken so many cold showers the government’s going to start deducting the water bill from my paycheck.” He rolled them both onto their sides so they were facing each other, his thigh and arm cushioning her from the concrete floor. “I was determined to keep our relationship professional, but I had problems remembering that whenever I got near you. So I did everything possible to drive you away.”
“That’s what Ryan said.” Jillian stroked his cheek, the rasp of stubble against her fingertips triggering goose bumps along her arm and spine. “I thought he was crazy, that you resented me because I was a painful reminder that your wife was dead.”
“To be honest, I didn’t like Helene much when she died.”
“Ryan told me you were getting a divorce.”
Paul tensed beneath her. “What else did he tell you?”
“How she died. Her death wasn’t your fault.”
“She was killed by a car bomb meant for me. Did Ryan tell you that?”
“He also said you weren’t even working for the government then.”
His hand fisted on her bare back. “I still always checked my car.” His knuckles pressed into her skin. “I was so angry at Helene that morning, I didn’t even think to do it, and she ended up dead.”
“According to Ryan, she wouldn’t have waited long enough for you to do it.”
“But I should have tried!”
Jillian propped herself up on one elbow. “You’re blaming yourself when the only difference is you’d have been in the garage trying to stop her and ended up dead, too?”
“You don’t understand.”
He had the same stony expression as when she brought up going to Denver. Jillian gave up. “Maybe I don’t.”
Paul was silent for a moment. Then he kissed her hair. “I don’t feel like talking about Helene at the moment.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, I need a little recovery time for what I do feel like doing.”
“As long as you don’t plan to kick me out like after your nightmare.”
His mouth tightened, all traces of humor disappearing. “Would it help to tell you that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done? That I’m sorry and still feel like shit about it?”
She stroked his cheek again. “It helps.”
He caught her fingers and held them still, his eyes fading to a bleak November gray. “Actually, I’m sorry to have involved you in this at all. Sorrier than you can imagine.” He let out a long breath. “To be honest, I did approach you on the slopes for my cover. I knew you’d be safe in broad daylight. But everything after that was for me, because I liked being with you. I convinced myself it was safe, that no one had spotted me. I’ve usually got a sixth sense about that, but this time it malfunctioned. I never should have done more than ski with you that first day.”
“Ryan said no one thought your enemies would show up in Keystone. That the government had taken precautions against another leak and your enemies weren’t skiers, so they wouldn’t coincidentally decide to vacation there.”
Paul raked his sweaty hair with his fingers, raising black spikes. “We didn’t know who leaked my identity in D.C., so how could anyone be sure there wouldn’t be another leak? And it’s not like Jack and Martin had a choice. I told them if they didn’t let me go, I’d refuse to testify.”
“They knew you wouldn’t go through with your threat.”
She’d clearly guessed right, because he shrugged. “Probably. That I even made the threat proved that isolation was driving me crazy, though.”
“If they’d anticipated any possible danger, they wouldn’t have jeopardized your life and their case no matter what your mental state.”
“I still shouldn’t have ignored even the remote chance I’d be endangering you.” Paul combed his fingers though his hair again. “No matter what the government pretends to think, I know damn well you were targeted because you were seen with me.”
Jillian pushed herself up so she met his eyes. “The chance that would happen was too remote to worry about.” She smoothed his spiky hair. “To my mind, the only people to blame for what happened are the bastards who killed Kristen and are trying to kill me. I don’t blame you for any of it.”
Which was true. She didn’t blame Paul now that she knew he hadn’t been careless or using her in Keystone. He’d wanted to be with her, just as she’d wanted to be with him, and he’d thought it was safe. How could she fault him for that?
“That’s much more than I deserve.” Paul sounded unconvinced. “No matter who’s to blame for the past, we need to deal with the future. I’ll never be able to stay away from you now, but I can’t guarantee it won’t interfere with my ability to keep you safe. If you’d rather go somewhere else, I’ll understand. Somewhere other than Denver.”
She’d let the Denver comment slide; she felt too good to get into that now. “I want to stay here. You’ve already saved my life at least once, and I don’t think you’ll let anything stop you from doing it again, if necessary. Besides, I can’t think of anyplace I’ll be safer than in your bed.”
He studied her face intently then kissed her hard. When she looked at him again, the bleakness had disappeared, although the triggering guilt likely still lurked nearby. “Speaking of my bed, I think we should head back to the house,” he said.
Jillian looked around the stark room,
smelling of gunpowder and steamy sex, and smiled slowly. “I’m starting to develop an appreciation for this place. At least when I don’t have to pick up a gun.”
“About that,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t make you learn how to use it if I didn’t think it was important.”
“I know. It’s just that I hate guns and shooting.” She slid her hand down his body and closed it over him, then stroked his length. “Unless you’re speaking metaphorically.”
He shuddered, hardening as she continued massaging him. “I’ve always been a big fan of metaphors.”
* * * *
The next morning, Jillian stared at the brewing coffeemaker, willing it to hurry. She was in dire need of caffeine after last night, a night she’d never forget and not only because of the incredible sex. But because she’d gotten to know the real Paul Devlin, and she’d discovered she liked him even better than Mark Jefferson.
Surprising, since an accountant was more her style than someone who made his living the way Paul did, something he’d insisted on telling her about in as much detail as permissible. He’d expected his disclosures to shock her, and to some extent, they had. He’d spent his professional life doing things she could barely comprehend, things that made her Denver proposal look like a Sunday afternoon stroll through Chicago’s Lincoln Park. He’d killed people and not only in self-defense. Yet she was convinced that despite Paul’s chosen profession, he was a truly decent man, dedicated to using his unique talents to help society.
He was also upfront that he’d never give up his profession again. He’d confirmed what Ryan had told her, that he’d done it when he got married and ended up making both himself and his wife miserable. That meant Jillian had to control her feelings for him. Falling in love with Paul Devlin would only lead to heartbreak. After everything she’d been through recently, a broken heart just might shatter her completely.
So when Paul got back from the office, she was resuming her Denver campaign. Tempting as it was to prolong their time together here, she had a life apart from Paul. She needed to get back to living it.
As she waited for the coffee pot to finish, she flipped through a pile of pictures on the desk in the corner of the kitchen, a few glossies, but mostly newspaper photos. She remembered seeing some of them in Keystone.
She stopped at a newspaper photo she hadn’t seen before. The caption identified it as being from the Miami Children’s Cancer Fund gala, one of those fund-raisers most health care workers who care for the sick kids can’t afford to attend. The half dozen men in the picture were all middle-aged and tuxedoed. The two women were young and gorgeous, with long, wavy hair, and killer bodies encased in barely-there dresses. The type who, if life were fair, wouldn’t also be brain surgeon material.
One of the men looked vaguely familiar, although she was positive she didn’t know him. Then she realized why. He looked like the guy she’d spilled coffee on at the gas station she and Kirsten had stopped at on the way to Keystone.
Jillian’s stop at the station had been part of her plot to delay getting to Keystone until too late for the group skiing lesson she’d promised Kristen she’d take the first day. She hadn’t promised to take a lesson the second day, so hopefully that would save her from having to ski at all. An inflatable penguin wearing a hat embellished with an American flag held a red, white, and blue banner announcing gasoline prices. As another delaying tactic, she’d been meticulously adjusting the rearview mirror, determined to perfectly center it on the penguin before she took off.
“Quit fiddling with the mirror and start the car,” Kristen ordered.
Jillian shifted her seat forward a notch, decapitating the poor penguin. She reached up to readjust the mirror.
“Now!”
One glance at Kristen convinced Jillian to move her hand from the mirror to the ignition key and start her Camry.
“Finally,” Kristen muttered. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive.”
“Your transmission went out. You didn’t have a choice.”
“I should have rented a car. You don’t even have a ski rack.” Kristen elbowed back a ski tip that had inched between the front seats then crossed her arms, her scarlet turtleneck adding emphasis to the action. “We agreed to get an early start, but twenty minutes after we left Denver, you decided you were starving. For the first time in your life, you refused to eat fast food.”
“I was in the mood for a hearty breakfast.” Jillian tilted the rearview mirror until the penguin’s cheery face reappeared. Of course, he was cheery. He was staying here.
“So next time, get two Egg McMuffins.” The chill in Kristen’s voice rivaled the outside temperature. “Less than half an hour later, you need a bathroom break so we had to stop here. You feel guilty just using their restroom, so you buy something first and spend ten minutes listening to the clerk’s life story.”
“It wasn’t ten minutes, and she needed to talk. You wouldn’t believe her husband—”
“And what did you buy?” Kristen threw up her hands, her nails red flashes precisely matching her sweater. “A gigantic cup of coffee, which I’m sure you’ll gulp down and use as an excuse to stop at the next rest area. Since I didn’t fall for your claim that tripping and spilling coffee on someone is a sign this vacation is cursed, and you should go home immediately.”
“If I can’t even walk without tripping, how can I possibly ski?” An admittedly weak argument.
As Kristen’s snort indicated. “Drive.”
Resigned, Jillian shifted into drive gear, checked for traffic, and then shifted back into park. “That’s the man I spilled coffee on.” She pointed past Kristen at a handsome gray-haired man walking toward a black mini-van.
“Is he going to sue you?”
Trust a lawyer to focus on that. “Of course not. It wasn’t that much coffee.”
“Then there’s no reason to discuss this further. I refuse to waste another second sitting here. Move it, or I’ll stick you in the trunk and drive myself.”
Jillian made a last desperate look around, but inspiration was clearly hibernating. With a loud sigh, she shifted into drive and eased away from the gas station.
“You’d think you were on your way to spend a week digging ditches in Siberia.” Kristen flipped on the radio as Jillian accelerated down the freeway entrance ramp. “It’s skiing. It’ll be fun.”
It definitely hadn’t turned out to be fun.
Tears overflowed Jillian’s eyes and made tracks down her cheeks. She pulled a Kleenex from the box on the counter and blotted them away. Why had she ever agreed to go on that vacation? If she hadn’t, Kristen would still be alive.
Jillian walked over to the kitchen window and stared at the blurred yellow, white, and coral flowers outside. She’d been so lucky to have Kristen assigned as her freshman roommate in college, to have had her in her life as long as she had. Kristen had been so enthusiastic, friendly, and charming that people couldn’t help but like her. But she’d been a lot more than that, smart, caring, loyal, supportive, the best friend anyone could have. Now she was dead.
She’d cried a lot when Kristen had died, though she hadn’t thought about her much since she’d been hauled away from Denver. She’d been too preoccupied by other things. But God, she missed her.
Jillian closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against the lids to keep the tears in and taking deep breaths to regain her composure. She wasn’t going to mourn Kristen now, not when Paul would be back any minute. He felt so guilty about Kristen’s death that any reminder would cast a pall over their limited time together.
She needed coffee pronto. Jillian removed the half-filled pot and stuck her cup on the burner to catch the coffee stream, while simultaneously angling the pot and pouring coffee into the cup. Then she returned the pot to the burner and took a new Kleenex and her cup into the living room. Hopefully she’d find something there to distract herself from memories that still hadn’t become comforting.
* * * *
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When Paul returned, Jillian was sitting on the gold velvet sofa, trying to read a four-year-old issue of Time. Thanks to three cups of coffee, she had herself under control.
“We need to talk.” No sense putting this off. “About my going to Denver.”
“You’re still eager to get away from me?” He sat down beside her.
“I told you that isn’t why I want to do it. It’s because I need to go on with my life.”
“Even with guards, there’s a real possibility you’ll be killed. That’s why the government rarely uses civilians, no matter what you’ve seen on TV.”
Between her fear and her desire to stay with him, Jillian was tempted to agree, but she steeled herself. “I’ve considered the danger. I need to do this.”
Paul sipped his coffee then set his cup on a marble coaster on the ornately carved coffee table. “Can we drop this discussion until tomorrow? I’d like to enjoy today.” He grinned. “I promise I’ll show you some things Ryan didn’t have a chance to.”
Jillian felt like enjoying today, too. It wasn’t as if Paul were on the verge of changing his mind. “Things around the island?”
“Eventually.” Paul pulled her to her feet. “First we’ll start with the house.” He directed her to the stairs, his lips at her ear. “There are a couple especially nice bedrooms you haven’t seen yet.”
* * * *
Fourteen hours later, Ryan paced along the beach, his eyes on the path the waning moon illuminated across the dark water, his cell phone at his ear. “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. Paul thinks I left the island on government business.” He nudged a stone lodged in the sand with the toe of his running shoe.
“We can’t afford any screw-ups,” the man on the other end said.
“There won’t be any on my end.” Ryan loosened the stone and kicked it toward the ocean. It hit the moonlit water with a satisfying splash. “To be honest, I’m looking forward to an accelerated timeframe. My current accommodations suck.”
“Not a big fan of caves?”
“Or military rations? Not hardly. First thing I’m doing when this is over is checking into a five-star hotel with a commensurate restaurant and wine cellar.”