His Secret Son

by Brenda Jackson

  “I’m dying to taste you,” he whispered, just moments before shifting his body to place his head between her legs.

  She gripped tight to his shoulders as she felt his hot tongue inside her, stroking and licking. He was unwavering in his determination to taste her like he wanted. Sensations she’d never experienced before rushed through her and instinctively, she made sinfully erotic movements with her hips against his mouth.

  Over and over he laved her womanly core with greedy intent, making her whisper his name over and over. Suddenly, her body exploded like a volcano erupting and she surrendered to the pleasure he’d given her.

  Before the last spasm left her body, he had shifted to position his body over hers, and then she felt him enter her, stretching her to accommodate his size. She inhaled the scent of him—the scent of them—and then used her tongue to lick his shoulder, needing to taste the texture of his skin.

  He pushed his shaft as deep inside her as he could go and then he locked their legs together. He began moving, thrusting back and forth, in and out. He established a rhythm that sent sexual undercurrents all through her body.

  He looked down at her, held her gaze as he made love to her. She clung to him, holding tight to his shoulders as if they were a lifeline. His languid, deep, hard thrusts were driving her over the edge and making every nerve ending in her body zing brutally to life.

  He threw his head back and growled her name as he continued to make love to her, indulging her with his words. Her skin sizzled where their bodies connected and the more he stroked inside her, the more her body awakened to the aching hunger he was feeding.

  And then he called her name again. Together they were slammed with another orgasm. He gathered her in his arms, touched the side of her face with his fingers as they rode the tidal waves of ecstasy together.

  The next morning it had felt odd waking up with a man in her bed. They had made love practically all evening, only to get up around eight and eat some of the soup she’d made the day before with French bread. Then they had gotten back in bed and made love all over again. All through the night.

  No personal information was exchanged. None was needed. She knew the next three days would be considered one and done. Chances were, they would never see each other again. They were taking advantage of the now.

  “You’re awake?”

  She glanced over at him and saw desire in the depths of his dark eyes. “Yes, I’m awake.”

  “Good.”

  He got out of bed to put on a condom then returned to her. “And what if I wanted breakfast first?” she asked, grinning.

  He grinned back. “And do you want breakfast first?”

  She shook her head. “No. I want you, Laramie.”

  And she did want him. She had to keep telling herself this was just sex and nothing more. When he left here the day after Christmas he wouldn’t be coming back, nor would they stay in touch. The only thing she would have were her memories. Regardless, she could not and would not ever regret any time spent with him.

  After making love that morning they dressed and went out to grab breakfast. He surprised her with his suggestion that they get a Christmas tree. That meant they had to purchase ornaments, as well. He refused to let her pay for anything. Like kids, they rushed back to the house and decorated the tree. Their tree.

  Since most restaurants were closed for the holidays, she decided to prepare Christmas dinner for them. That meant grocery shopping, which she told him she wanted to do alone. She knew from their earlier shopping trip how he liked to spend money and she wanted Christmas dinner to be her treat.

  When she returned to her apartment he was waiting for her. The minute she opened the door and glanced over at him, heated sexual attraction consumed them. She couldn’t put her grocery bags down fast enough before he was ripping off her clothes, making love to her against the refrigerator.

  He surprised her on Christmas Day with a gift, a beautiful scarf and a pair of earrings. The gift touched her deeply. He’d apparently gone shopping when she left to get groceries.

  She surprised him with a gift, as well. A pair of gloves, since she’d noticed his were well-worn. He said he enjoyed Christmas dinner, but most of Christmas was spent in bed making love rather than eating.

  The next morning, the day after Christmas, she awoke to find him dressed and ready to go. Ready to walk out of her life. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard, but it was. She knew she had fallen in love with him. Not with the sex but with the man.

  He kissed her deeply, wished her the best in her artistic dreams and thanked her for making this one of the best holidays for him, ever. And then he turned and walked out the door...without looking back.

  She’d quickly gotten up and stood at the window to watch him leave. He’d called a cab and, as if he’d known she would be there at the window, before getting into the cab he looked over his shoulder, saw her, blew her a kiss and then waved goodbye.

  She blew him a kiss and waved back. And as the cab drove away she knew at that moment that Laramie Cooper had taken a piece of her heart with him.

  Three

  New York, present day

  “I’m glad you guys are finding this entire thing amusing,” Laramie said as he moved around the hotel room to dress. He had placed the mobile call on speaker while engaging in a five-way conversation with his teammates.

  “Hey, Coop, we can’t help but think it’s pretty damn funny,” Bane Westmoreland said. “I can just imagine the look on your face when you discovered what you were delivering to that member of the Security Council wasn’t top secret documents like you thought, but her pet cockatiel.”

  Laramie couldn’t help but smile as he slid on a T-shirt. “No, Bane, you can’t imagine.”

  “Well, just think positive,” David Holloway said. “You got a free trip to New York.”

  “Damn, Flipper, it’s cold as the dickens here. I prefer California weather,” Laramie said.

  “Stop whining, Coop,” Gavin Blake said, laughing.

  “Kiss it, Viper.”

  And then he said, “Hey, Mac? You still with us? You’re kind of quiet.”

  “I’m still here,” Thurston McRoy said. “I’m trying to keep up with you guys and watch the game, too. In case none of you realized, it’s Thursday night football.”

  That led to a conversation about their predictions for what team would make it to the Super Bowl. By the time Laramie had ended the call, he was completely dressed and ready to leave.

  And go where? He figured that since he had a taste for a juicy hamburger, he would grab a meal at Xavier’s. Flipper had recommended he dine there and said he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  A short while later, Laramie entered the restaurant and was shown to a table. It was busy and there had been a fifteen-minute wait but he didn’t mind. This wasn’t his first visit to Times Square, but he did note a lot of changes since he was here last.

  “What would you like tonight?”

  He glanced up at the waitress. No one could credit him with being slow and he immediately knew the double meaning behind her question. “A menu would be nice,” he said, hoping that would defuse any ideas she had.

  Maybe another time, but not tonight. He just wasn’t feeling it. He chuckled and wondered if he was running a fever. There hadn’t been too many times when he’d turned down sex. And there was no doubt in his mind the woman was offering.

  “I’ll make sure you get a menu...as well as anything else you might want,” she said, smiling.

  He smiled back. “Thanks. The menu will do for now and a beer.”

  She walked off and returned with the menu and his beer. “Thanks.”

  “You can thank me later.” Then she sashayed off.

  He wondered why he wasn’t taking advantage of those curves and long gorgeous legs. Hi
s excuse had to be that this place sort of reminded him of that café in Paris. The one where Bristol worked.

  Bristol.

  He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Maybe because it was around this time—during the holiday season three years ago when they’d met. Whatever the reason, Bristol Lockett was on his mind.

  After his rescue from Syria, one of the first places he’d gone had been to Paris to see her, a woman he hadn’t meant to ever see again. But something had compelled him to seek her out, only to be told by the manager of the apartment complex where she’d lived that she had returned to the United States a couple of years ago and had not left a forwarding address.

  When he noticed the waitress looking over at him, he decided to place his order, eat and then leave. He wasn’t up for any female company tonight and didn’t want the woman to get any ideas.

  An hour or so later, he left the restaurant a pretty satisfied man. The food had been delicious but he’d had a hard time deflating the waitress’s flirtation. By the end of his meal, she’d all but placed her apartment key in his hand.

  Instead of catching a cab back to his hotel room, he decided to walk off the hamburger and fries he’d eaten. Although he’d complained earlier about the cold weather, it really wasn’t too bad. He’d endured worse. Like that time his team had that mission in the Artic.

  He was about to cross the street when a sign ahead stopped him. It was an art gallery and the poster said:

  TONIGHT

  SPECIAL SHOWING OF ART BY BRISTOL

  Bristol...

  He shook his head. He was losing it. He hadn’t thought Bristol was a common name. Was it?

  What if it wasn’t? Could it be his Bristol?

  He dismissed the idea that Bristol was his. She was merely a woman he’d had a three-day fling with while relaxing in Paris before a mission.

  Merely a woman he hadn’t been able to forget in three years.

  The name was unusual. He’d told her so when they’d met. He knew she was an artist. She’d shown him some of her art.

  There was no way she could be here.

  But then, why not? She was a New Yorker. He’d gathered that much from a conversation she’d had with Bane. Laramie hadn’t asked her anything. His main focus had been sleeping with her.

  What if the Bristol on the sign was the same Bristol from Paris?

  His chest pounded at the possibility. He watched all the well-dressed people getting out of their limos and private cars to enter the gallery. He glanced down at himself. Jeans, pullover shirt, leather jacket, Stetson and boots. Definitely not dressed to mingle with the likes of the high-class crowd entering the gallery. But at that moment, he didn’t give a royal damn.

  He had to find out if this Bristol was the same woman he hadn’t been able to forget.

  * * *

  “Would you like some more wine, Bristol?”

  Bristol glanced up at Steven Culpepper, forced a smile and said, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  He nodded. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Excuse me for a minute. A few of my clients just arrived.”

  “Sure.”

  She let out a deep sigh when he walked off. Why was he hanging around as if they were together when they weren’t?

  She glanced around. There was a huge crowd and she appreciated that. A great number of her paintings had been sold already.

  “I see Steven is quite taken with you tonight, Bristol.”

  She turned to Margie. “I wish he wouldn’t be. He’s barely left my side.”

  Margie lifted a brow. “And you see that as a bad thing?”

  Bristol shrugged. “I just don’t want him getting the wrong idea.”

  “Oh, I see,”

  Bristol doubted it. Margie was determined to play matchmaker.

  “A lot of the people here tonight are ones he invited. People with money. Need I say more?” Margie then walked off.

  No, in all honesty, Margie didn’t have to say anything. Steven had told her several times tonight just how many people were here because of him. It was as if he’d assumed Bristol would not have gotten anyone here on her own. Although he was probably right about that, he didn’t have to remind her of it every chance he got.

  “Hello, Bristol.”

  She turned to an older gentleman. His face seemed familiar and after a quick study of his features, she remembered him. “You’re Colin Kusac, a close friend of my father’s.”

  He smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I haven’t seen you since the funeral and the reading of the will.”

  That was true. Her father had named Colin as executor, and the scene hadn’t been nice that day, especially when all her father had left her was revealed. Krista had accused Bristol of looking for her father only to get his money. Her stepmother had been wrong about that.

  Her father had told her that he and Colin had attended high school together and over the years had remained the best of friends. Before Randall died, he’d also told her to contact Mr. Kusac if she ever needed anything. Since there was nothing she’d needed, there had been no reason to call him.

  “How have you been?” she asked him.

  “Fine. And you? I understand you have a son.”

  She wondered how he’d known that. She lived a quiet life and it hadn’t been highly publicized that she was Randall Lockett’s daughter. Although, at her father’s request, she had taken his last name. At sixteen it had taken a lot of getting used to, going from Bristol Washington to Bristol Lockett.

  Although she’d taken her father’s name, she’d never flaunted it to influence her own career. And in the art community her father had used the pseudonym Rand, so very few people had made the connection anyway. However, over the years, people had mentioned how much her paintings resembled those of the renowned artist Rand. Although Margie was aware of her father’s identity, Bristol had sworn her manager to secrecy. Bristol wanted to make it on her own and not use her father as leverage.

  And now she was Bristol Cooper...

  “Yes, I have a beautiful two-year-old son. His first name is Laramie, after his father. His middle name is Randall, after my father. He has the names of two good men.”

  “Randall would have liked that. He would have been proud of his first grandchild.” Colin didn’t say anything for a minute and then added, “I miss my good friend. He was there for me more times than not. When I first saw your work, I was taken back by just how much you and he painted alike.”

  She smiled, thinking how wonderful it was that on this very important night, although her father wasn’t here, a man she knew to be his closest friend was. “Yes, we discovered that before he died.”

  “Randall was a gifted artist and so are you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s a beautiful landscape over there that I’m thinking about buying. I wonder if you can tell me what inspired you.”

  She knew exactly which one he was talking about. It was the first painting she’d done after her father died and a lot of her pent-up emotions had been poured into it. “Certainly.”

  And then she and Colin moved toward the huge painting on the wall.

  * * *

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Laramie wasn’t surprised someone had approached him the minute he walked into the gallery. All he had to do was look around the room to see he seemed obviously out of place. He really wouldn’t have to stay a minute longer if the man could answer one question. “The artist on the sign. Bristol. What’s her last name?”

  When the older man, who he suspected to be someone in charge, gave him a strange look, Laramie added, “I once knew someone by that name.”

  The man nodded his understanding. “Oh, I see. Her last name is—”

  “I will handle this gentleman, Jazlyn,”
an authoritative voice said behind him.

  Laramie didn’t turn around. He figured whoever had spoken would make himself known soon enough. Besides, he hadn’t liked the emphasis the man had placed on the word gentleman. As if he thought Laramie was anything but a gentleman. And what had he meant by “handle him”?

  Laramie inwardly smiled. He would like to see that happen.

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Culpepper.” And then the older man walked off.

  The guy who’d spoken came around to stand in front of Laramie and quickly sized him up. Laramie didn’t have a problem with that since he was sizing up the other man, as well. And Laramie didn’t like the arrogant glint in the man’s eyes, like he assumed he was better than Laramie just because he was dressed in a designer suit.

  A quick assessment told Laramie what he needed to know. The man was in his upper thirties, probably a Harvard or Yale graduate, a Wall Street type, most likely CEO of his own corporation.

  “May I help you, Mr...?”

  Evidently no one had explained to this man the proper way to introduce oneself. It wasn’t by asking a question. Therefore, Laramie didn’t intend to give his name unless this ass gave his. Besides, his name was irrelevant to what he wanted to know. “Like I was saying to the older man a moment ago, before we were interrupted—I once knew a woman name Bristol and was wondering, what is the artist’s last name?”

  The man’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Who was this man and what business was it of his that Laramie was inquiring about the artist?

  “I’m sure it’s not the same person.”

  How the hell would you know? he wanted to say. Instead he said, “Let me decide that.”

  He could tell his response hadn’t gone over well. The man’s eyes darkened in irritation. Evidently, he wasn’t used to being put in his place. “I won’t let you decide anything. In fact, I’m almost certain Bristol doesn’t know you.”

  Laramie was beginning to read the signs. This man was territorial. Evidently, there was something going on between him and the artist. “You sound sure of that, Mr...”