by Radclyffe
"I'm not even sure I should be bringing this up now—hell, or at all." Cam shook her head, disgusted at her own indecisiveness. "I've just spent the last forty minutes trying to make up my mind. Then it finally occurred to me that if I didn't discuss it with you, you might be pissed."
"Cameron," Blair said firmly. "Just tell me."
"One of the art dealers who Diane invited to the pre-opening show tonight is Claire."
"Claire. "Blair's brows furrowed, the name meaning nothing to her. But she couldn't ever remember seeing Cam so uncomfortable. Angry, worried—even, on rare occasions, frightened. But never quite like this. Suddenly Blair stiffened, knowing with the sixth sense of a lioness whose territory was about to be invaded precisely to whom her lover referred. In a dangerously calm tone, Blair repeated, "Claire. Your Claire—of the beautiful face and the elegant body and the oh-so-sophisticated demeanor. That Claire."
"She's not my Claire," Cam pointed out. "And—"
"I notice that you didn't disagree with the rest of my assessment," Blair interjected conversationally, but her eyes glinted like shards of glass in the sunlight.
For a moment, Cam couldn't follow the direction of the discussion, and then she laughed. Not the wisest thing to do, but she couldn't help herself. "You're kidding! You can't actually think I'd look at any other woman in the world when I have you."
"You've done a hell of a lot more than look at her." Blair couldn't even think about Cam being with another woman, let alone acknowledge that she'd been with someone so obviously beautiful and undoubtedly accomplished. In everything. It made her want to hurl breakable objects.
"That was before you," Cam said gently. "Now, there's only you, and there will only ever be you."
Blair blinked. "I hate it when you do that."
"What?"
"Make me forget why I'm mad at you."
Cam stood and stepped between Blair's legs, resting both hands on her lover's waist. She kissed her lightly on the mouth and grinned. "I love you."
Blair bumped her head against Cam's chest. "You'd better, because I swear to God, I won't be accountable for my actions otherwise."
Laughing quietly, Cam eased an arm around Blair's shoulder and leaned against the counter with Blair resting along the curve of her body. "Believe me, you have nothing to worry about."
"So what's going on?" Blair regarded Cam curiously. "With Claire?"
"Apparently, she's not Claire. Well, she is, or at least was, but she's also Valerie Ross."
"An alias?"
"Nope." Cam gently massaged the muscles in Blair's shoulders. "According to our records check, she really is Valerie Ross."
"And is she really an art dealer?"
Cam nodded. "Apparently so."
"Well. She is quite the mystery woman." Blair hooked her fingers over Cam's belt and beneath the waistband of her trousers, rubbing the back of her hand over Cam's stomach. "High-class Washington call girl, high-rolling art dealer, and drop-dead gorgeous femme fatale, I'm going to have to hurt her."
"We can't find anything to suggest she's a threat," Cam replied quietly, "but I can have Diane try to reach her and rescind the invitation. Or I can have Mac stop her at the door."
"Why?" Blair's tone was curious. Unconsciously, she pulled the tail of Cam's shirt loose so she could touch her palm to skin.
"Because this is a special night for you, and I don't want anything to spoil it."
Blair leaned away far enough so that she could meet her lover's eyes. "You'd do that?"
A look of confusion crossed Cam's face. "Of course."
"I don't mind if she comes." Blair thought of the few brief moments late one night standing beneath a streetlight with Cam's lover, if that's what Claire—Valerie—truly had been. She remembered a beautiful woman with deep sadness in her eyes. She'd recognized the sadness born of loneliness because she'd felt it so often herself. "She probably doesn't even realize we'll be there. Often, when the gallery has a private showing for a few select dealers before the opening, the artist isn't present. Besides, if she's got a client who's interested, she couldn't turn down the invitation. It's bad for business."
Surprised, Cam shrugged. "I'm not interested in her reasons. I'm only interested in what's best for you."
"It's fine, darling." Blair stood and put her free arm around Cam's neck while smoothing her palm up and down Cam's abdomen. She leaned hard into Cam with her thighs and pelvis, rolling her hips subtly. "Now, are you coming to the gym with me to spar?"
"Blair," Cam whispered, her voice husky. "It will hardly be a fair match if I'm too swollen to walk."
Blair chuckled. "All's fair in love and war, Commander."
1445 07Sep01
Five men crowded around a glass-topped dining-room table in a four-room condominium overlooking Central Park. None of them noticed the view. A blueprint was spread out in the center of the table, and several of the men held down the corners with their hands., ,
"The layout is simple," the brown-haired strike team leader said, punctuating his words with a finger tapping on the surface of the diagram. "Front and rear entrances, here and here."
"Guarded?" a gravelly voiced, heavyset man asked.
With an irritated flicker of his eyes at the interruption, the leader replied, "Not the rear, no. Routinely, there is a man posted only in the front lobby. The second elevator to the penthouse"—he pointed—"is keyed, but the common one to the rest of the building is not. The penthouse elevator can be called from the lobby, the command center-—here, or from the penthouse floor."
"So," a sandy-haired, fresh-faced younger man commented, "we have two possible routes of access: from the lobby with a frontal assault, or, if that fails, from a flanking maneuver on the upper floors."
"Exactly." The team leader pointed to the rear entrance. "And this is the only exit other than through the lobby. It's easy to secure, and with all the rest of the confusion, if we move quickly, we should be out before anyone knows what's happened."
"Let's run through it then," the heavyset man suggested impatiently. "We've only got three days."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1523 7 September 2001
" L et me see that in the light," Blair said, reaching for Cam's chin.
"It's nothing," Cam said quickly, drawing her head away. The movement sent a hot stabbing pain into the base of her skull. She barely managed not to wince.
"Damn it, Cameron, it's not nothing. I can see the bruise from here." Blair stepped between Cam and the single bench in the center of the room, effectively preventing her from moving anywhere in the tiny women's changing area-—too small to be called a locker room—in the far corner of the hard-core gym where she had kickboxed for almost two years. "What happened? You completely missed the block."
"Timing was off."
"Your timing is never off."
Cam worked her jaw back and forth experimentally. It hurt, but her teeth came together normally and everything seemed stable. "It's not broken. It'll be okay after a little ice."
Blair regarded Cam with a mixture of anger and concern, "And you've never missed that block before. Are you still upset about Claire?"
Cam's brows rose. "No. I wasn't even thinking about her."
"Then what were you thinking about?" Blair snapped. "Because it sure wasn't sparring. All you had to do to counter that kick was step into my body and take me..." Her eyes widened. Step into my body and take me down. Into my body. Into my breast.
Blair thumped her palm into the center of Cam's chest and backed her against the three rickety metal lockers, her face an inch from her lover's, her voice low, controlled, and filled with fury, "God damn it, I could've broken your neck, not just your jaw. If you didn't want to spar with me because you were worried about hurting me, you should've told me."
"It wasn't intentional," Cam said quietly. "I just hesitated when I realized where you'd take the hit."
"So you let me kick you in the face instead." Blair touched her fingers gently t
o the swelling on Cam's jaw, "God."
Cam settled her arms around Blair's waist and kissed her forehead, taking care not to move her head too much. The pain had actually subsided to a dull throb. She'd been hit before, and she knew no serious damage had been done. "It was just an accident. Next time I'll be sure to toss you on your ass. Hard, if that will make you happy."
Blair laughed in spite of herself, nestling her face against Cam's chest. "I hate for you to be hurt."
"I know." Cam untied the rolled red bandanna that Blair wore around her forehead when she sparred. She tossed it onto the bench behind them and combed her fingers through the damp tresses at her lover's neck. "Is everything okay with you?"
"I've got a sports bra on that's tight enough to cut off my circulation. My breast is fine." Blair tilted her head back and kissed the darkening smudge at the angle of the left side of Cam's jaw. "More than I can say for that."
"Mmm. I think that might have made it all better." Cam rested her head back against the flaking, green-painted locker, enjoying the sensation of Blair in her arms. Sparring with Blair always got her blood up, because Blair was the most beautiful when she was at her strongest. In the ring, with her muscled arms exposed, a cutoff T-shirt baring her stomach, and her toned legs dancing over the canvas, she was magnificent.
"What are you thinking about?" Blair murmured, kissing the pulse that beat at the base of Cam's neck. "Your heart just started hammering like crazy."
"You," Cam whispered. "I was thinking about what an incredible woman you are and how much you excite me."
The unexpected answer and the absolute seriousness in Cam's voice turned Blair's insides to liquid heat. "Don't move." She licked a tiny dab of sweat that had pooled in the hollow between Cam's collarbones with the tip of her tongue. Nearly purring, she stretched languidly against Cam's body. "You taste good."
Cam sighed, closing her eyes. "You feel good."
"Yeah, I do." Blair leaned back, her legs braced against Cam's, and pulled off her T-shirt.
"Blair," Cam warned.
"We're the only two women in the gym, Cam." Blair spoke quietly as she reached behind her and unhooked her bra. "Take this off for me."
Cam slipped her fingers beneath the shoulder straps and slid the bra down Blair's arms, exposing her breasts. She looked down, drawing a quick breath as she watched the sweat-glistening nipples harden in the air. "Oh, Christ."
Following Cam's gaze, Blair smiled lazily. "Now, put your hands on them." When Cam cupped her breasts, thumbs and forefingers automatically encircling her nipples, Blair closed her eyes and arched her back. "Oh, yes."
"You have such beautiful breasts," Cam murmured hoarsely.
"Just keep touching me." Blair shifted a few inches until her legs straddled Cam's thigh and then, in one swift motion, insinuated her fingers beneath the waistband of Cam's gym shorts and pushed her hand down between her legs.
Cam jerked, groaning in surprise.
"Shh," Blair soothed as she caught Cam's clitoris between her fingers. "Quietly, now."
"I can't," Cam said desperately. "Jesus, Blair."
"Squeeze my nipples." As she spoke, Blair stroked Cam's length, pulling the blood into the tense tissues beneath her fingers, teasing the nerve endings that already pulsed and quivered on the brink of explosion. As she worked Cam toward orgasm, Cam's fingers tugged spasmodically at her breasts, and the sharp points of pain became sweet pleasure in her depths. "That's it. That's it, darling...hold my breasts in your hands while I make you come,"
Shivering, Cam closed her eyes tightly and braced herself for the orgasm that was fast climbing along her spine. She couldn't think, couldn't be sure what she was doing with her hands, didn't want to do anything except feel the weight and heat and wonder of Blair's breasts against her skin as she came. Her knees buckled and only Blair's body straddling hers kept her upright. She groaned and choked back a cry and came hard in Blair's hand.
Blair watched Cam's face as the orgasm consumed her. I will never be able to paint anything as beautiful as you are in this moment. Feeling her breasts cradled in Cam's tender hands, Cam's passion flooding hers, she fought sudden tears and failed. Despite the moisture dampening her cheeks, as she rested her head against Cam's shoulder, Blair knew nothing but joy.
1930 7 September 2001
Cam knocked on Blair's door and checked her watch. Five minutes earlier, Mac had confirmed that the vehicles were waiting streetside, Captain Landers had verified that her people were in position on the perimeter, and the advance team at the gallery had radioed an all clear. Everything was set. Everything was as secure as she could make it.
The door opened, and Cam allowed herself a minute to be no one other than Blair's lover. She found Blair attractive in anything she wore, whether faded jeans and paint-splattered T-shirt or an elegant evening gown and diamonds. This evening, Blair had chosen a sleeveless black dress, so simple in design that it appeared to have no design at all. The shimmering silk sheath was scoop-necked, cut just low enough to reveal the barest hint of cleavage before it fell away in a gentle sweep that accentuated the sensual strength of Blair's body. Sapphires, the same deep blue as her eyes, glinted at her ears and throat, and tonight, in distinct contrast to her usual style at official functions, she had left her hair loose. The golden curls teased along her neck and shoulders, and it was all Cam could do not to drag her fingers through them. "Christ, you look beautiful."
"Thank you," Blair replied quietly. A smile flickered and was quickly gone. "Can you believe I'm nervous?"
"I can imagine." Cam leaned forward and gently kissed her, running the tip of her index finger along the edge of Blair's jaw. "But you're a wonderful artist, and your work is very special. Just enjoy tonight—you deserve it."
"I'll try." Blair hooked her arm through Cam's as they walked toward the elevator. Her lover wore a slate gray suit and open-collared charcoal silk shirt that lent her long, lean form a sharp, edgy look. "Your jaw looks better. And you look hot."
"I'm not supposed to look hot. I'm your escort, and I'm also working." Frowning, Cam keyed the elevator. "What I'm supposed to look like tonight is background."
"It's not working," Blair stated, her tension easing as they rode down to the lobby. "Well, it's working, but probably not the way you planned."
Just as the doors opened to reveal Stark, waiting to escort Blair to the Suburban, Cam muttered, "Don't start. I have to concentrate."
Blair laughed and forgot entirely why she had been nervous.
2043 7 September 2001
Blair stood with Marcea before one of her oils, their arms linked. "I'm still not certain that the texture of the paint is right for the tone of the work."
"Oh, I think it is." Marcea tilted her head, sweeping the canvas again. "If it were any thinner, you'd lose some of the impact of the color."
"It was so nice of you to come all the way East for this," Blair said. "I know how busy you are."
Marcea gave her a fond smile. "I wouldn't have missed it. First of all, I love your work. And," she slid her arm around Blair's waist in a gentle hug, "I wanted to be here for you. I know how difficult it can be with your heart up there on the walls for anyone to see. Not that you have anything to worry about."
"I've had paintings in galleries before, but never a solo showing." Blair glanced around the room and saw so many pieces of herself on display. For the most part, the people who strolled about were friends whom she trusted, but even so, she rarely exposed so much of her soul to anyone. Only Cam has seen it all. "It will almost be easier tomorrow night at the open house, with strangers. Somehow, their reactions don't seem as critical."
"I'd like to tell you that you'll get used to it, but you probably never will. Every time you let one go, you'll wonder if anyone will understand what you saw when you painted it, what you felt in your heart that compelled you to create it." Marcea shrugged, her expression distant. "But you'll keep doing it, because that's who you are."
Strangely, Blair was
comforted by the sentiment, because coming from Marcea, an artist whom she revered, her own uncertainties seemed far less momentous. "It's a wonderful feeling in the moment, though, isn't it? When in the midst of painting you begin to see those indefinable emotions coming to life on the canvas."
Marcea's eyes brightened and she laughed. "I won't say it's the best thing I've ever experienced, but it comes close."
"Yes." Unconsciously, Blair's eyes drifted to Cam, who stood a few feet away, her attention seemingly focused entirely on the room. Despite the remote expression on her lover's face, Blair was certain that Cam knew precisely where she was. It comes close — but it can't compare to her.
"Everything is all right, I take it?" Marcea questioned gently, following Blair's gaze. "The press has left you alone about your relationship?"
Blair shrugged. "We're still getting the questions every time I'm out in public, but there isn't much more to say than what we've already said. For the time being, the newshounds are content with their usual speculations."
"Well, I suppose that's the best you could hope for then."
"Apparently." Blair gave a start as she spied Diane talking with another woman on the far side of the room. "Would you excuse me for a few minutes?"
"Of course. I want to have some time alone with these wonderful paintings."
Blair kissed Marcea on the cheek and headed across the room to where Diane stood with Valerie Ross. Singly, either woman would have been considered striking. Both were blond, fair skinned, fine boned and classically beautiful, and both radiated sensuality and confidence. Standing side by side, however, they were breathtaking.
Diane radiated the golden heat of sunlight. Her body language and sultry voice always reminded Blair of a young Lauren Bacall. In contrast, Valerie—Claire—was Bergman. Deceptively cool and remote on the surface, but ice was capable of burning, too. Under other circumstances, Blair would have enjoyed watching the two of them together, would have enjoyed speculating how one, or both, might have responded to her in an intimate setting. Now, she registered their individual magnetism and how together their allure was magnified, but she felt no compulsion, no desire, to experience any part of it herself.