by Misty Evans
They weren’t making love, but it wasn’t a casual fuck either. There was something between them. He just wasn’t sure what.
As he rode her, he let his gaze switch between her actual body under him and her reflection in the mirror. The skin on her back was satin white. Her hair, wild and tangled, fell forward, curtaining her face, but he didn’t want her hiding from him. Combing the mass away with his fingers, he held it with his hand so he could read her expression.
Her eyes were closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed. She looked…
Euphoric.
Exactly.
Dropping his mouth to her uncovered neck, he kissed and nipped and licked at her, running his tongue down her spine as he worked himself in and out, finding her rhythm, enjoying how she met his. Self-control had left the building, and if he didn’t slow down, he would lose it before she did.
He was so not going that route.
Using his free hand, he slid it over her breast, down her stomach and fingered her between her legs. On contact, her eyes flew open and they locked gazes.
Her hips undulated under him, getting the most bang for her buck, he imagined, as he sandwiched her between his hips and his hand. She moved in sexy little jerks, her breath coming out in bursts and her core tightening around him like a band.
“Michael?” she whispered.
He could tell she was so close, why didn’t she let go? It was as if she were trying to match him, trying not to give in until he did.
Her eyes were pleading, dark pools of desire. “Can I…can…I…?”
Damn it. She was waiting for his order. “Yes,” he answered, his voice a Brillo Pad. He was lost in her eyes, in her heat. “Now.”
Her eyes closed, her head fell back and she gave in, a low, guttural moan escaping her lips as she pushed into him hard. Time spun out as she peaked and then, without warning, went limp under him.
He wrapped his arms around her to keep her upright and two seconds later, with her soft folds spasming around him, the half a synapse in his brain winked out completely and his body released with a jerk.
As he held her gently trapped between him and the bureau, he laid his forehead on her back. Hell, yes, my kind of woman…
On the tail of that thought came my woman.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Brigit hung limp in Michael’s arms as time came back to her in snippets. The beat of her heart, thudding in her ears. The beat of Michael’s, thudding against her back, thin vibrations pulsing through her skin. Rain tickling the glass window, lulling her further into bliss.
In the mirror, her reflection was flushed. She’d just been taken over the waterfall and looked to have enjoyed it thoroughly. Which was an understatement. There’d been no bed, no romantic gestures, not even a glass of wine between them. Just carnal, demanding lust.
The voice in her head chastised her. Pricked her with guilt. An intelligent woman did not throw herself at a man she barely knew. As if he didn’t already believe her to be a liar and a blackmailer, what would Michael think of her now?
Turning her head to avoid her reflection, she considered her actions. Shove a powerful man in front of her and she was a goner. Shove a drop-dead gorgeous, powerful man in front of her and she was a slut.
Well, not exactly. In her profession, she was around powerful men all the time. Some of them were wicked attractive too. And yet she’d never slept with any of them. Even the single ones who flirted with her. She’d never let her shields down. Never shared anything about her family. Never challenged or teased them like she had Michael.
So where did that leave her in her current situation?
Having the best sex of my life.
Michael’s lips brushed the back of her neck. “You okay?”
Just like before, an irreverent response shot out of her mouth. “You’re a little big for me, but I managed.”
His soft chuckle jiggled her body against his and all her nerve endings flared hot again. “What a trooper.”
He turned her around and she leaned her hips against the bureau, legs still entirely too shaky. He planted his hands on the bureau top on either side of her and gave her a gentle kiss. “Next time, we find a bed.”
Next time? Her heart tap-danced like an Irish clogger in her chest. “Whatever you want.”
He straightened and flexed his arms as if shaking out a cramp. “What I want is a shower and some food.” As he picked up her pile of clothes, he sighed deeply. “Neither of which is going to happen at the moment.”
She took her bra from his outstretched fingers and put it on. “We could go back to my place.”
He handed her her pants. “And where is that?”
She stuck her legs in, heaved the pants over her hips and zipped them up. “A few blocks from here. A rented room, much like this, above a retail business.”
“Any security?”
“Deadbolt on the door.”
Ignoring his hard look and commentary about it being unsafe, she took her shirt from him and went to the bathroom.
The moment she was alone, she sagged against the door. Her heart continued to tap dance…next time, next time, next time. It drowned out the voice in her head.
She cleaned herself up best she could, a smug smile on her lips. Her nerve endings sang an opera. Her psyche was performing lazy cartwheels. She was living in the here and now. Not the past and not the future. The only rules she had to follow were Michael’s.
For now, that was okay.
Leaving the bathroom, she was going to ask about the plan to get her father back, but the pile of clothes on the floor was gone and so was the man who wore them.
She trailed out to the living room. His gaze locked on her, but before either of them could say anything, the outside door opened and people started filing in.
Del Hoffman, Brad Kinnick, Conrad Flynn and Julia Torrison.
Julia.
Why was she here? As the group passed out nods and murmured greetings to her and Michael, all Brigit could do was watch Michael’s face looking for any hint of…
“Thanks,” he said, already opening the white bag Julia handed him to see what was inside.
“One fish. One corned beef.” Julia gave Brigit a small smile. She was dressed in a rich leather jacket and form-fitting designer jeans. Her hair was flat-iron perfect, smooth and glossy as it fell over her collar. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
Michael grabbed Brigit by the hand and led her to the small table and chairs in the kitchen. The others followed, Julia bringing one of the living room candles for light.
“Where’s Vaughn?” Michael asked no one in particular. “Sit,” he said to her.
She sat and watched him pull the two sandwiches, chips and pickles from the bag. Conrad leaned against the sink, crossing his legs at the ankles. “He’s back at the hotel with Zara.”
Julia placed the candle on the counter and leaned next to him. “They needed to talk.”
Michael glanced at her and something passed over his face. Sadness? Brigit’s stomach cramped. But then he shifted his gaze to Conrad. “No drinks?”
From his coat pockets, the Director of Operations pulled two sodas.
Michael popped the lid of one soda and set it in front of Brigit. “Sandwich?”
She toyed with the can, skimming the cold, damp aluminum with her fingers, wishing with all her might she didn’t like Julia. “I’m not hungry.”
The fish sandwich instantly replaced the soda under her fingers. “Eat,” Michael commanded.
Meeting his gaze, she saw concern in his face. “Please,” he added.
The jealousy leaked out of her like the rain running down the window. He was taking care of her again. She took a bite of the sandwich and chewed. The concern lessened a fraction.
“Why did you let Donovan escape?” Conrad asked.
Michael worked on his sandwich, swallowed. “Didn’t want the cops to end up with him.”
Brigit started to ask her own question, but as soon as she
opened her mouth, Michael stuck a chip in it. As the others discussed what had happened and what was going to happen, Michael continued to feed her. Every time she tried to add her opinion or disagree with an element of the plan, he shoved more chips at her or a pickle. Once he even gave her back the soda.
He was worse than Truman.
Truman. She swallowed the last of her fish. “Where’s Truman? Did he go back to London?”
“I sent him back,” Michael said around a mouthful of corned beef. “He’s negotiating with the Bolivian government on Jeffries’ behalf to turn over Donovan in exchange.”
“You think you can trade Peter for my dad? Why would the Bolivian government want Peter?”
Del raised his hand from the corner. “Because I implicated Peter in the 2007 uprising between the farmers and the cocoa growers. You know the one where the factory blew up and the cokeheads lost a million pounds of pure snort?”
Brigit almost laughed in disbelief. “Do I want to know how you did that?”
Del wiggled his fingers as if typing. “Master geeks never reveal their secrets.”
“Nice play on Donovan in the bar,” Conrad said. He was staring at her, his dark brows hung low over his hard eyes. There was measured mischief in them though. “He shot out of there looking like he’d seen a ghost.”
Suddenly everyone was staring at her, including Michael. She smiled at the group. “He did.”
Conspiratorial smiles returned hers. A flush crept up her neck, over her cheeks. In the blink of an eye, she was one of them. They respected her, she could see it in their eyes. Even Julia was wearing a big you go, girl grin.
The sensation was heady, like Michael’s arms around her, holding her up and tucked against his solid body. Remembering their earlier encounter, the flush spread over her skin. Slipping her focus to his face, she saw in his smile he was remembering the sex too.
Oh, for the love of God, she was going to giggle.
The one sure way to get her back on track was to think about Donovan.
Donovan? When did I stop thinking of him as Peter?
Everyone was still watching her. She cleared her throat. “Your plan to capture Donovan will work, but I have a better one.”
Michael tensed, and he opened his mouth to say something, probably disagree, before he’d even heard her plan. But then he stopped, nodded at her. “You’re the expert on him.”
Another wave of confidence rolled over her. All the years she’d been without family, without roots. Wandering from one country to another, trying to fit in, blend in, find acceptance. Here in this small group, she now had it.
Because of Michael. The men and women who had come with him to Ireland had accepted her into their secret society.
Now it was time to earn their acceptance on her own merit. “O’Bern’s memorial service is tomorrow. Donovan will be there. In fact, he might even try to blow something up, just to make a point. Either way, that’s our best bet to catch him.”
Michael crumpled the empty sandwich bag. “If he’s still alive.”
Confusion marked Conrad’s face as he glanced between Michael and Brigit.
Michael motioned at her. “She poisoned him. In the bar.”
“No way.” Conrad’s dark eyes assessed her with approval. “How’d’ya do that? Put something in his drink?”
Heat rose in her cheeks again. “Assassin’s umbrella.”
“Seriously?” Julia straightened. “You know how to build one of those?”
“Yep.”
Conrad pushed away from the sink, eager as Julia. “That red umbrella?”
“Yep.”
“Will you show me how it works?” Julia again.
Brigit glanced at Michael. He gave a nod of assent. “It’s in the bedroom,” she told the others, rising from her chair. “I’ll go get it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The rain continued, slow and easy. Under the assassin’s umbrella, with Michael’s arm around her, Brigit barely noticed. The street was deserted in the early morning hour, although light from several bars and restaurants dotted their path to her rented room at the inn.
The rest of the group had gone to the hostel. Michael had wanted her to go with them, telling her it was a safer place to spend the last half of the night.
But Brigit wasn’t worried. Michael’s arm reassured her. His bigger-than-life presence relaxed her. And even though she loved having a new group of friends to be part of, she wanted him all to herself again.
Inside her room, she set the umbrella near the radiator to dry and flipped on a table lamp as Michael locked the door. Few words had passed between them as they’d walked, as if they’d been a couple for a long time, but now as she slipped off her trench coat and hung it on a hook near the door, self-consciousness flooded her mind. The bed in the far corner seemed suddenly too big for the space. Should she make tea? Turn on the TV? Strike up a conversation about world events?
Continuing to run options through her mind, she watched him go from window to window, checking locks. Once satisfied, he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it on the nearby chair. His blue eyes met hers and Brigit was pretty sure from their darkened, sultry appearance, tea was the last thing on his mind. He moved toward her and turned off the light.
Without a word, she took him by the hand and led him to the bed. In the shadows, he kissed her, running his hands up her arms, over her shoulders and into her hair. Rising up on tiptoes, she did the same to him.
With slow movements and maintaining perfect quiet, he removed her sweater, then her bra. She helped him with her jeans, kicking off her shoes and stripping down to nothing.
His clothes went next, and then he eased her onto the bed, the box springs squeaking under them. He made love to her mouth, sucked the skin of her collarbone, worshiped each breast in an exquisite torture of lips and tongue and teeth.
Moving to her stomach, he licked her skin and kissed each hipbone. His hands parted her legs and his mouth took her, not with strength, but with gentleness. As he worked her with his lips, tongue and fingers, she cried out in the dark room, and his name echoed in the shadows as well as in her heart.
She’d been starved for so long, the orgasms came fast and hard, one right after the other. He stroked her through them, teasing them out and exhausting her. After the third one, he released her legs and pulled her close.
Bliss tingled her nerve endings. Snuggling into Michael’s chest, she was content to drift and wonder how she was going to keep him around for awhile. Once they were done exacting revenge on her brother, what would hold them together?
Nothing. He was Deputy Director of the CIA and she was…a psychologist without a job. She wasn’t even a consultant anymore, for the president or anyone else. In fact, if Thad Pennington found out what she’d been doing for Jeffries—she shuddered at the thought.
Michael’s hand stroked her back, up and down, up and down, comforting her, and she pushed thoughts about the presidents, old and new, out of her head. In their place, an image of Michael as a small boy rose. After losing his dad and blaming himself all these years, Brigit thought he was the one who needed comforting.
She shifted her head to kiss his chest, his heartbeat strong under her lips. The hard planes of his body called to her fingers. He was a big man from his head to his feet. A hard man.
Kissing the scar above his heart, she moved her lower half languidly to find what she wanted. He sucked in his breath at her touch and she rose over him, spreading her legs. Comforting each other was done.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as his hands locked onto her hips and pulled her down. “Damn tight too.”
Little by little, she eased his hot thickness into her body, wishing she could do the same with his heart. He’d already stolen hers and the thought of not having him beside her, inside her, made her eyes well with tears. For once she was glad the light was off.
She found the rhythm she wanted, bracing her hands on his gorgeous, rock-hard chest and blink
ing away the tears. “You’re not bad yourself.”
He chuckled and even though she couldn’t see the details of his face, she knew what he looked like. Deciding this might be the only time she could let the raw feelings in her heart show on her face without him seeing them, she kept the rhythm steady and thought about how nice it would be to have this man, with his high-powered job, traditional house and group of friends, to make a new life with. Instant security. Instant family.
But even without that treasure chest of dreams Brigit had longed for all her life, Michael Stone was what she wanted. What she needed. He made her look to the future with hope instead of trepidation. He made her accept who she was, so she could stop pretending to be who she wasn’t.
Don’t go there. There was no future with him, certainly nothing long term. Just like she’d told him, she wasn’t his kind of woman. Powerful men always attracted her, but they always tried to control her too. They usually saw her as a willful woman who intrigued them. A challenge.
Some played mind games with her. They always lost. Others took the me-Tarzan, you-Jane approach. They lost too. When each of them realized there was no wearing her down or breaking her spirit, she became disposable. A good fuck, but a pain in the ass.
When Michael returned to Langley, she’d find more consulting jobs and go on with her life. She hoped to form a new relationship with her father. What she wouldn’t do was hang around, waiting and hoping Michael would fall in love with her.
Even if he did, she couldn’t handle his constant demands in the long run. No one told her what to do or when to do it. She wasn’t necessarily a feminist, she’d just been on her own for too many years to ever play second fiddle to anyone, most especially a powerful Washington bureaucrat.
Michael still gripped her hips and now urged her to increase the speed of her strokes. She removed his big hands from their spot and put them on her breasts. “This time, we do it my way.”