A Shameless Little Con

by Meli Raine

  His hands press me against him, shimmying under my shirt, up my back, fingers impossibly strong, palms muscled and heated against my shoulder blades, my ribs, my bones. As I arch my back, leaning into him to breathe in the fire between us, I surrender. All the churning in my mind lessens, the flurry of pain and uncertainty receding like the tides. Silas is my moon, my true North, my divining rod, my center. The trail of touch he leaves along my skin is a thousand years of memory. The sound of his low, deep pleasure–made by me–is my compass.

  Too much time spent living in my mind, the cage that holds all my screaming thoughts, has meant I’ve forgotten my body.

  But it has not forgotten me.

  I reach down and undo his buckle, frantic and in need of more skin, more Silas, more of him. His phone slips out of his back pocket and onto the floor between us, the blue glow showing unread messages, shining up at us. He ignores it.

  He focuses on me.

  We move to the couch, where gravity lets me fall into him. I’m grateful. The laws of physics work for us, propelling me deeper against him, giving me more.

  I can’t get enough, his groan of relief showing me he feels the same way as I unzip him and stroke the length of him with the palm of my hand, sliding down the long trail of his thigh, taking in his muscled leg, the groove of bone and tendon, the light sandpapery feel of his hair. In the dark, I close my eyes and take in the dusting of tight curls that cover the powerful bulk of him, the same flesh and bone that protects me every hour, every minute, every second we’re near each other.

  It’s intoxicating to be the object of that protection. I’ve shunned it, resented it, pushed it away, and hated it.

  Not now, though. Now I give in to it and let the weight of it blanket me, the warm trusting of his mouth turning me toward all he offers. No longer a client, I’m a lover in his arms. No longer Jane Borokov, a public enemy and object of shame to use as a weapon in the media, I am just Jane, all breasts and gasps and wetness and need, writhing in his lap as he pushes up against me, seeking and seeking and seeking.

  I’m here, my mind moans to him in a language that only uses my tongue, my fingers, my nails that dig into broad shoulders designed to move with deep grace to keep danger at bay.

  I’m here.

  “Jane,” he says, as if warning me, as if I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, as if I’m in peril. A very different kind of peril. This time, my body isn’t being threatened.

  It’s about to be worshipped.

  He doesn’t understand that I’m finding the first safe space in months right here, right now, as my hands define him, map him.

  Ache for him.

  Or maybe he does understand, and that’s the secret eluding me. When you spend every waking second in a state of stone-cold panic, the truth becomes a hidden treasure. A secret. Silas’s mouth glides across mine, his lips full and giving, his hands taking palmfuls of my willing skin and blending our movement into a fine art.

  He cups one breast and kisses me with such fevered power, I stop thinking. All light behind my closed eyes bursts into shades of nothing, words disappearing into colored mists that spread out into the corners of my mind and heart. Slipping under my bra, his fingers make my nipple tighten, a gasp coming from me without volition.

  In his hands I am my true self.

  I’m so wet for him, those thin pieces of cloth keeping us from joining, my bare belly brushing against his as our shirts ride up. A cold arc of air encircles my waist as Silas uses his open hand to tug at my shirt, signaling what he wants next.

  More.

  More of me.

  He can have it all.

  Tap tap tap.

  Bzzzzzz.

  Simultaneously, someone knocks at the front door and Silas’s phone buzzes.

  I shriek in surprise, the snap of my bra as Silas snatches his hand away like a rebuke, a punishment, a shaming. I roll away. We both look at the door as Silas automatically buckles his belt, zips up his pants, and tucks everything into place.

  Including every single damn emotion he just let me feel.

  He picks up his phone and looks at it while striding quickly to the door, opening it swiftly as a man in a suit stands there, hand ready to knock again.

  “Blumenthal?” he snaps at the guy, a tall, thin man who seems out of place for a bodyguard, his lean look more marathoner than muscle.

  “Yeah. Foster sent me.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming until later,” I say in a high, nervous voice, trying to put all the passion we just shared into a box like Silas did. My ability to compartmentalize is at war with the lingering memory of his taste, his hands, his touch, his groan.

  Blumenthal frowns. “Foster said this was a priority. Sent the first guy he could.” His eyes ping between Silas and me, narrowing.

  “It is,” Silas replies, clearing his throat. “It’s more of a priority than you could ever imagine. Glad you made it early. We’re trying to avoid crises.”

  Suddenly I want to punch walls, too.

  Silas looks at me, then Blumenthal. “You know where to take her?”

  He nods. “The Grove.”

  Silas gives him a suspicious look. “The Grove? What? No. Monica Bosworth refuses to let her stay there.”

  I’m back to being “her” again.

  “Change of plans,” Blumenthal says with a shrug. “Big meeting in the morning. I’ll get her there tonight. Foster says you need to be there at 9 am.” His eyes skitter to Silas’s bloody hand. Eyebrows go up, but he says nothing more.

  Pure terror shoots through my bloodstream, crowding out all of the much nicer sensations that were just there. The Grove? Without Silas? Why? What is Monica Bosworth doing? I race to find something–anything–I can say to stay here for a few seconds longer, to try to reconnect with Silas.

  “Silas,” I say softly. “What about Kelly?”

  “What about her?” he asks gruffly, closed off, shut down.

  “When she wakes up, will you tell her I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye?” Tears threaten to take over, my skin tingling with the effort to hold them back. “She’s been through so much. I don’t want to be another person who disappears on her.” A single teardrop, fat and round, breaks the line of my lower lid and lands on my upper lip. I lick it and look at him, imploring.

  I might as well have slapped him.

  Quickly, microscopically, he drains his emotions off his face and looks neutral again. I get a curt nod. “Right. I’ll handle her. My mother is on her way.” He gives a tight, polite smile. “I’ve already inconvenienced you enough. I apologize for the disruption. You don’t need to worry.”

  “I’ll feel whatever I want to feel, Silas,” I declare. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joey’s little black face peeking out from under the couch, just watching.

  Silas’ smile tightens to the point of snapping. “You do that, Jane.”

  And with that, Blumenthal escorts me to a black SUV. Duff is driving.

  That night, I sleep in the guest house at The Grove, body reeling from Silas’s attention, heart broken from his withdrawal.

  I do not dream.

  Chapter 22

  It feels like déjà vu.

  All the same people are around the conference table at Senator Bosworth’s office. The only ones missing are the senator himself and Silas. His absence makes this so hard. When he’s here, I feel like I have a safety net. No one can hurt me.

  Not my body, at least.

  But Silas isn’t here.

  Marshall, Marcy, Victoria, Drew, and to my surprise, Duff are all in the room. It appears that Duff is acting in a security capacity, watching the door, eyes straight ahead, zero warmth.

  My stomach growls and I reach for my lukewarm coffee, sipping to have something to do with my hands, my mouth, my fear.

  A loose plan forms in my mind. It involves going back to Alice’s ranch and never, ever leaving.

  Haunted by Silas’s touch last night, the way his kiss penetrated every
part of me, leaving so much undone, untouched, unfinished, it’s hard to be present. I need to keep my wits about me. I know this. I need to be on alert, vigilant, and ready for whatever Monica Bosworth has in store for me.

  Marshall is standing by the door, chatting with Drew. The two keep looking at me askance.

  Whatever is going on is bad.

  And yet I’m more worried about Silas and Kelly than I am about myself.

  Did she wake up sad that I wasn’t there? Did Silas have to continue to pretend for her sake until his mom arrived? How did they break it to Kelly? What’s next for that beautiful little girl who has already suffered through too much neglect, too many secrets, so many lies?

  It’s always easier to worry about someone else’s problems than your own. Especially when it comes to a child. I would happily play Candyland and eat ice cream with Kelly for the next year. My heart breaks knowing that right now Silas and his mother are comforting a little girl who will never, ever see her mama again.

  I inhale sharply, the pain along my heart an aftershock.

  Kelly and I have that in common now.

  We both lost our mommies.

  “Sabotage?” I overhear Drew’s tight voice. “We’re sure?”

  “Confirmed,” Marshall says between sips of coffee from an enormous travel mug. “It was planned. We checked the cars before delivery and there was nothing. By the time the car crashed, the fire was too hot. Burned any evidence.”

  “Chemical sabotage is more sophisticated,” Drew replies, crossing his arms over his chest, face increasingly grave. “New materials are coming out faster than we can keep up.”

  “It sure feels like it,” Marshall says.

  “We weren’t stupid. SOP is to get two vials of everything and send with duplicate couriers. It’s rare that it’s needed, but what happened in this case is precisely why we do it that way,” Drew says to Marshall, who nods, then sips.

  “That poor courier,” I whisper. They look at me, surprised I’m eavesdropping, but they’re talking two feet away from me. How can I not hear?

  “She was a field agent. Fourteen years,” Drew tells me. He sighs, a long, frustrated sound. “A good woman. Dying for this–” He cuts himself off as Marshall gives him a sharp look, both of them glancing at the folder in Marshall’s spare hand.

  “The lab work was that important? Worth killing a courier?” I ask.

  Both of them suddenly go neutral, stripping all reactivity from their faces.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Marshall replies. “After we–”

  All conversation halts as Monica Bosworth enters the room. She quickly walks to the head of the table and folds herself into the chair Marshall normally takes. The power play is obvious.

  Monica does not care about obvious. She’s accomplished her goal.

  Power it is.

  “I don’t understand the need for a meeting, Marshall,” she announces. “Just send Jane to the Island and keep it simple. You know I didn’t want her at The Grove.”

  The Island?

  “We tried to keep it simple, Mrs. Bosworth.” He taps the manila folder in his hand, using one finger. “There is a complication.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, looking at Marshall, pointedly avoiding Monica. “Why would I go to the Island?”

  Lindsay walks in as I ask the question and stops short, a woman carrying a coffee tray nearly colliding with her back.

  “The Island? Why are you talking about the Island?” She frowns at her mother. “You can’t make me go back.” The staffer smoothly delivers the coffee tray to a buffet table behind Drew, who pivots and pours himself a cup, watching Monica like a hawk the entire time.

  “We’re not talking about you, Lindsay,” Monica announces. She looks at me with a speculative expression. “We’re concerned about Jane’s mental health.”

  Lindsay and I snort in unison.

  “Jane isn’t married to Drew,” Lindsay mutters. “She has no one to protect her.” Sitting in a seat to my left, Lindsay gives Monica a challenging smile. “Is she your target now?”

  I close my eyes slowly and bear the pain because she’s right.

  “Target? You say that as if I’m singling her out unfairly. You know what she did to you!”

  “I know what people set her up to do to me, Mom.”

  “Not this fantasy again, Lindsay. Really.” Monica makes a clucking sound intended to shame her daughter. “Some childlike, innocent part of you wants to think your friend couldn’t do this to you. But she betrayed you. And look at what happens to people in her path. They die. Even the lab worker delivering those blood samples died while delivering them. How convenient.” The last two words are spoken while openly glaring at me.

  “Jane isn’t responsible,” Drew interrupts. “We’ve confirmed it.”

  That is the first time he’s said a single word in my defense.

  Monica sighs, impatient that she’s being challenged. “Is this interruption really necessary?” she complains. “We need to move quickly on questions of the Island. The staff needs to prepare for Jane.”

  “I am not going!” I argue hotly. “I’m not! I refuse! I do not give consent!”

  “This isn’t like talking your way out of a medical exam, Jane. You can choose the Island or we cut off all protection for you and leave you to the wolves. Given the attempts on your life, I give you a week.” Monica’s demeanor makes it clear she would prefer it take less than that.

  “Monica,” Marshall says with firm determination, “we have a different topic that takes precedence.”

  “Precedence? I only allowed her to stay last night at The Grove because we agreed that the Island would be the best place for her to go to quell her impact on Harry’s campaign.”

  “New information has altered our priorities.”

  She looks hard at the folder in Marshall’s hand. “How significant?”

  Marshall’s silence speaks volumes.

  She begins to stand. “Well, if this isn’t going to be a meeting about the Island, then I have better things to do with my time.”

  “Stay,” Drew says, his voice a staccato point.

  “Excuse me?” She’s offended.

  “Stay, Monica. You’ll–well, you might not want to be here for this, but you damn well need to be here for this.”

  Anger turns her face hard. “I don’t take orders from you, Drew.”

  “This isn’t an order.” He looks at Lindsay, clearly conflicted.

  Monica’s eyes dart to the folder Marshall holds. “What the hell is in there?” she asks.

  Marshall looks like someone just ran over his dog and killed it. “I can answer that right now. We ran the paternity tests. Fortunately, Drew was smart enough to have double vials pulled of all of Jane’s blood samples, and we had Lindsay’s on file,” Marshall explains. He won’t make eye contact with Monica.

  How weird.

  Drew reaches for Lindsay’s hand and gives her the strangest smile. It’s melancholy and sympathetic, troubled and comforting. She smiles back then falters, seeing the underlying emotions in sharp focus and reacting to them.

  She’s confused.

  So am I. What’s going on?

  Just then, Silas appears, slipping into the room like a jewel thief. There’s no need to be so quiet, so slick. It’s jarring.

  He sits next to me, on my right, eyes darting to catch Drew’s. I want to ask him why he’s here, how is Kelly, did his mother arrive–I want to ask him every question in the world, so I can avoid whatever’s coming next.

  Something is going on. What did they find in my blood? I hear my breath through my nose, the line of sound running behind my ears, like it’s wrapping around my head and trying to protect me. I can’t get enough air, but I know I’m still breathing. My chest rises and falls, and Lindsay looks at me, brow down, her facial muscles tightening as she picks up on Drew’s weirdness.

  I glance at Silas.

  He’s looking at Drew.

&n
bsp; “Testing shows that there were no biological agents in Jane, and no implants,” Marshall begins.

  Lindsay gives me a tiny smile, as if to acknowledge my relief.

  I don’t feel any.

  Because I knew they’d find nothing.

  “But one bit of bloodwork is definitely going to be an issue going forward.” Marshall’s body language is stilted, awkward. Gone is the bureaucratic assurance of a man on a singular mission–to manage Senator Bosworth’s public relations issues.

  Instead, this is a man facing a serious problem.

  “Paternity testing,” Marshall starts, clearing his throat, “has revealed...” His voice trails off.

  My pulse feels like my heart is treading water in a cage with sharks outside.

  “Revealed what?” I ask, my voice high, cracking in half. “My father died when my mom was pregnant with me. I know who–”

  Silas reaches into my lap and grabs my hand, squeezing gently. The touch shocks me, an intimate gesture in public.

  Oh, God.

  Marshall and Monica lock eyes. He looks away first.

  And then he opens his mouth to say, “Jane’s biological father is Senator Bosworth. It’s a match.”

  My heart becomes my entire body.

  I blink, over and over, as if my eyelids can wash the lies off a smeared sheet of glass so I can see clearly. Monica is behind me, pure disgust radiating off her body in waves of heat I can feel. I don’t need to turn around and look at her to know how she’s reacting.

  Lindsay gasps, eyes so big, they look like moons with gemstones in them. “Jane is... Daddy’s her–oh!” She looks at her mother, gaping and sputtering like a fish on shore as Drew starts to put his arm around her.

  Instead, she jumps up and lunges at me.

  I start to stand to get away, because she must be attacking me, angry that I did something wrong, even if I didn’t. My mother. Oh, my mother had an affair with Harry Bosworth. It really happened, and now she’s dead and I can’t ask questions and I’ll never know–

  Silas moves to protect me, but suddenly Lindsay’s arms are around my neck, and she’s crying and gasping.