Tall, Hard and Trouble

by Cerise DeLand

  “Did you make up this story?” Coco babbled on, wanting only to sleep. “Just to get us to Venice, hmm? Why? Why’d you do that?” She squeezed her eyes shut to think. “Quicker to stop me, right?”

  Nasar told Jamal in Arabic that she was too damn smart and to proceed with finding Warwick.

  “You are confused, I see, my dear Coco,” Jamal spoke. “Open your eyes when I talk to you!”

  “Why? Hmm? I can hear you with my ears.” She smiled, knowing she spoke in a long, slow slur.

  “We need to know where your Mr. Warwick is,” Jamal said, sounding like a persuasive friend.

  Her lips twitched. She might be drugged and sloppy with her speech, but she understood what Jamal wanted and why.

  But he couldn’t know that, could he?

  “Naples,” she offered. “In bed,” she added, her mouth curving in remembrance of when she’d last seen Grant there. Naked and beautiful.

  Lady Capo laughed and made a few ribald statements.

  Coco regarded her and her spare features, her mannish clothes. “The capo who’s a man or a woman. And Hakim. Who’s he? Or is he a she? Hmm?”

  Jamal drifted away but continued to talk. “I think Mr. Warwick has followed you. You are lovers. He would not permit you to come alone.”

  “Why not?” she asked him, being particularly prickly and loving the charade.

  “Does he know what you do? Why?” Jamal persisted.

  Coco nodded. “I loved him.”

  “Does he know about the meeting in the desert? Who you saw there?”

  She smiled, lolled her head around, pretending deeper euphoria than she felt.

  Jamal fumed. “Isn’t that against your rules? To share the details of your mission?”

  Coco shifted in her chair. “Untie my hands. They hurt.”

  “Who else knows?”

  Coco grinned. “Lots of folks. Want a list?”

  Jamal sneered. “Name them.”

  “Mark and Paul. Todd.” Hell, might as well make this worth her while. “French police. Interpol. Nick.”

  The Italian man scoffed, then rattled off a series of words that ended with Nick’s last name, Chekov.

  Coco closed her eyes. That made sense. They knew Chekov in the Paris Embassy and had gotten info from him. What kind of info, Coco? Oh, yeah. Knowledge that she and Grant knew Ahmed had a computer and the murderer took it.

  “Did Ahmed have a laptop or a desktop?” she asked Jamal. And when he didn’t answer, she let her gaze wander to Nasar. “What was it?”

  Sheik Nasar looked at her with fire in his dark eyes as he got to his feet. “I do not know or care. Tell us where your Mr. Warwick is.”

  “I’m right here, Sheik,” Grant called from the top of the stairs, both arms extended, aiming his Glock at the man.

  Coco grinned from ear to ear. “I knew you’d come.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” murmured Jamal.

  Coco saw a flash, heard a groan and thump. Then another. Lady Capo sank to the floor and Jamal followed.

  Chapter Twelve

  The breeze off the Aegean ruffled Grant’s hair as he smiled when a sweet, sleek body moved against him on the chaise longue. Coco was on her phone and whoever it was, they gave her news that made her smile. Anyone who did that was golden in his book.

  Late June now and the sun beaming down on the island of Mykonos was hot enough for him. Yesterday they’d arrived from Naples to stay at a small hotel near the beach. The two of them needed a rest from the grueling de-briefing they’d had with more law enforcement agencies than either of them ever wanted to hear from again.

  Sheik Nasar and Jamal Husseini were in the custody of Interpol. Jamal recovered from a flesh wound to his arm. Initially both men proclaimed how innocent they were of steering a radical group, the Stars of the Desert. But there was too much evidence against them. Days ago, both men admitted there was no one man who was Hakim, the Judge. They created the concept to frighten Coco. The woman Coco had nicknamed Lady Capo, who also recovered from a gunshot graze to her shoulder, was indeed a Neapolitan Mafioso boss, heading an export firm. That firm sent many different types of goods into New Jersey ports, among them illegal immigrants and prostitutes. All her warehouses were locked and her shipments were embargoed, being inspected for contraband. Nick Chekov had lost his post in Paris and maybe his freedom, pending an investigation into his ties to Lady Capo and her smuggling cartel. Meanwhile, Coco’s so-called “control” was getting a good hard look-see by an internal CIA review board for her failures to convey appropriate information to and from Coco to her superiors.

  After all that, Mark had flown them down to the Greek island, then left for Qunitar to pick up Todd and the forensic team. Coco and Grant told themselves they were going to devote themselves to getting a tan. Period. This worked for Grant, not because he especially needed a suntan, but because he did get a charge out of looking at Coco with a bathing suit and especially without. That was a sight from which he derived endless pleasure and one he had worked too damn hard to get. And keep.

  He frowned at the memory of how Nasar and his people had drugged her and roughed her up. He wanted to light up their asses that night in Pompeii in revenge for how they had played him. Mark kept him sane until the carabineri arrived to help them handcuff the cartel and take them up to Naples for the Guardia to interrogate.

  Coco ended her call, put down her phone and leaned over to kiss his lips. Her color and energy were coming back now that she was free of the creeps who had tracked her. “Guess what?”

  “I give. Tell me, babe.”

  “I got a call from Maria’s plastic surgeon,” Coco announced as she flung herself backward, both arms over her head to grip the rungs of the chair. “She is very excited about the progress they made on this last procedure. She thinks Maria has a good chance of having another operation soon.”

  Grant reached over and cupped Coco’s cheek. “Terrific. And you feel better, too, right?”

  She gave a little nod. “Not so guilty.”

  “What happened to her was not your fault. You should see that in time.”

  She squinted into the sun. “But there are other things I feel badly about.”

  He stared into her sorrowful violet eyes and waited. He was not going to push her to tell him anything. She might not even be able to tell him everything about the Stars of the Desert. That was fine. He understood the top secret nature of what she had done and for whom. He loved her. He wasn’t going anywhere and though she had not told him so yet, he had the feeling she would never voluntarily leave him again.

  She sat up in her chair and faced him. “I have to tell you why I took the job with the Agency.”

  He tipped his head. “Didn’t you?”

  “Not all of it. ”

  “When I was invited by Ahmed to go into the Egyptian desert to attend this meeting, I knew only what he told me about those who were going to attend.”

  Grant nodded. “I gathered that.”

  “It wasn’t until I came home and told my father where I’d been, who I’d seen that he told me more about a few of them. At the end of his career, he was a mediator in Cairo to end a civil war in Sudan.”

  “I remember. It did not go well.”

  “No. In fact, it was his last mission and it was disastrous. The failure to come to a cease-fire was because two men pulled out of the talks at the last minute. They said they were threatened by a new group called Stars of the Desert and they buckled under. The negotiations failed, the civil war went on for three years longer and…” She choked up.

  “And your father,” Grant went on with what he knew about the man, “left Cairo in despair.”

  “He refused to negotiate with terrorists and he died, heart-broken.” She stared at Grant. “Thousands more died in that war. My father felt responsible. You can see why I felt I had to identify them.”

  “I do.” He reached out and brought her closer, her skin lusciously flush to his. “It was business and personal.
”

  “When we met three years ago, I had just begun to work for the Agency. I was obligated to them and to my mission. I couldn’t quit. But over the past few years, I had a wild idea that if I solved the case quickly, I could come back and find you, make it up to you.” She traced patterns on his chest. “It didn’t work out that way.”

  He threaded his fingers through her hair and put his lips to her forehead. “We can’t plan everything.”

  She looked him in the eye. “I hurt you.”

  He smiled. “That’s over, babe. You’re here now.”

  “I love you, Grant.” She bent closer and brushed her mouth on his. She kissed him, her lips tender. “I love you. I won’t ever leave you again. Not for work, not for anything. Can I spend years proving it to you?”

  He crushed her closer and took her mouth with an ardor he knew would only grow. “You bet you can. But I have a few requirements.”

  She laughed, relief in her eyes. “Really? Like what?”

  “You’ll marry me.”

  “Oh, yes. That’ll be so easy. How about next week? As soon as we can get home to Washington and get a license. And your second demand?”

  “You’re going to have to go naked for awhile.”

  She blinked. “Is that so?”

  “I’m gonna burn your cat suit.”

  “Sweetie, the material doesn’t burn.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  She giggled. “I believe you.”

  “Your ugly shoes go up in flames too.”

  “Gonna keep me barefoot?”

  He nodded. “You got that right.”

  She snuggled closer to him, her lips on his. “I’m not running away from you ever again.”

  He inhaled, fierce with joy. “I’ll never give you a reason.”

  “I’ll never give you a doubt.” She caressed his cheek. “No night will ever be too long to prove how much I love you.”

  He took her up over his body and positioned her to let them prove the power of their promises. “Bring on the night.”

  THE END

  TALL, HARD AND TROUBLE

  2 Scintillating Romantic Suspense Tales

  by Cerise DeLand

  Table of Contents

  NO NIGHT WITHOUT YOU

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  NO NIGHT TOO LONG

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  AN EXCERPT FROM: HER BEGUILING BUTLER

  And now a nibble of…

  Cerise’s new Regency Romance with a bit of Comedy and Mystery!

  HER BEGUILING BUTLER

  By

  Cerise DeLand

  Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book #1

  Copyright © 2015 by Cerise DeLand

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  www.cerisedeland.com

  Published by W. J. Power

  ISBN: 978-0-9908943-0-8

  Her Beguiling Butler

  A lady shouldn’t desire her butler. But what’s a woman to do when the man fascinates her? She must taste him…or dismiss him.

  And how does a man kill his scandalous desire to kiss his charming employer? Especially when he must protect her from an unknown villain…as well as his dastardly need to possess her.

  Chapter One

  January 17, 1820

  No. 10 Dudley Crescent

  London

  “Finnley, please,” Alicia addressed her butler with a shaking hand to her brow. “I am perfectly fine. Really I am.”

  The towering creature had her by the forearm, half carrying, half dragging her toward the foyer bench. Slamming the front door to her townhouse, too. “You fell on the doorstep, my lady.”

  “The ice,” she explained, gasping, her hand to her chest where something inside hurt badly.

  “I told Grimes to melt the ice and sweep it all away. I shall dismiss him,” her Goliath told her.

  “No, don’t!” she begged him because she liked the young footman. But she was gazing at her butler’s fabulous face and so she tripped on the edge of the carpet.

  “Madam!” He caught her.

  “Oh, Finnley!” Alicia gasped as the giant swept her up into the power of his arms.

  Was she inclined to trip on ice? And carpets? Last week, she’d inadvertently stepped on broken glass in the upstairs hall outside the door to her bedroom suite. She’d asked the maids about how the vase broke but no one claimed knowledge. “Honestly, Finnley. No need for this. I am fine.”

  She was not. Not at all. Her knees hurt like the devil and the balls of her hands smarted. And being held like a bit of china by this man who’d begun work only last month was unsettling. Unnerving. Endearing.

  “No, madam, you are not fine,” her man shot back as he plunked her in the oversized wooden seat which was where he usually sat while waiting to receive or dismiss her guests. Reaching up, he pulled the bell. “I’ll get a maid. You look like the very devil.”

  “Really, Finnley.” She had enough sense in her to chastise him for his blue language, even if she secretly admired his forthrightness—and his scrumptious mouth. “I only need to sit here a minute and catch my breath.”

  He scowled at her as he went to his knees before her. Those pale blue eyes, the color of a clear June sky, locked on her own. “If you are well, my lady, why do you clutch one hand to your bosom?”

  “My chest hurts, Finnley,” she told him on a whisper. At least she hadn’t succumbed to the sob that filled her throat. To cry before him—this creature who seemed so impervious to weather or emotions—would be demeaning.

  Alarm flashed in his cool countenance. He took her hands from her chest. “Where?”

  “Right—” She pointed to a spot beneath her right breast, enough toward her breast bone that she didn’t blush when she indicated its location. “Here.”

  He looked down and considered the swell of her bosom in her red redingote. “Sit back.”

  She loved the way he dwelled on her overly generous curves. “What?”

  He pushed her to the rear of the seat, her derriere sliding along the polished wood. “Let’s remove your coat.”

  She pushed his hands away from the frog closures at her throat. The heat of his big hands was enough to unsettle her, rouse her, make her breasts…honestly!…tingle. “I can do this.”

  But she fumbled. And frowned.

  He pushed her hands to her lap. “Don’t be a ninny.”

  She snapped her gaze on his.

  “I apologize,” he said with the first humor she’d seen gracing those lips. “Let me do this, madam.”

  She sighed and fell back against the hard wood. The firm mahogany countered the rising desire that shot from her belly upward. Swallowing hard, she shut her eyes and scolded herself for this outlandish attraction she bore her new butler. Madness at first sight, it was. She sighed at her foolishness to desire a man she barely knew and a servant at that!

  She jostled as he undid her coat and spread the wool wide across her shoulders.

  “Let me help you off with this,” he said, so solicitously that it brought frustrated tears to her eyes. Her departed husband, a scoundrel whom she assumed would never rest anywhere in peace, had never assisted her in removing her clothes. Unless he had wished to have her nake
d. But that had been for only a few minutes while he did his duty by her and departed for his own suite.

  “Of course,” she said, relishing the service of this man whom she’d hired last month on good references from the Earl of Newport. She’d never met Newport though her husband had known the earl and liked him. That aside, to be quite honest, she hired Finnley for other qualities that recommended him to her.

  She smiled to herself and admired the butler’s ministrations while he tugged her coat from her arms and gently urged it over her fingertips.

  No, she had not hired Wallace Finnley for the fine words Newport had written about him. Frankly, rebelliously, deliberately, she’d hired him for his brash looks. Not quite handsome, he was a collection of first-rate attributes that made her mouth water. The coal black hair. The cold blue eyes. The jaw that defied one and all to argue with him. The height, towering. The breadth, oh so comforting. The very sight of him each morning in his fitted black uniform made her catch her breath and hold it until her heartbeat resumed normal rhythms.

  Which now it definitely did not.

  Finnley remained much too close. And his eyes roamed the front of her. Yes.

  He considered her bodice where she was certain her chest heaved. Her cleavage where her overlarge bosom displayed a deep divide. Where her flesh hardened at his appraisal and her nipples peaked and pushed at her chemise.

  And chafed her.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Let me test to learn if you’ve broken a rib.”

  “Test?”

  Yes.” His icy gaze froze her own. “We can call a physician if you like and he—”

  “No. I detest doctors.” She’d had enough of the charlatans when her husband took ill more than a year ago and died within the month.

  “Fine. I can determine if you’re hurt badly. Sit forward. Arms up a bit like this.” He raised his own in demonstration.

  She imitated him.

  He put his hands to her waist. They were so big, so hot, his fingers so damn long that she swore he could span her entire waistline. But the delicious warmth of his touch set her swooning…and she caught herself. Smiling at him, she winced when he pressed on either side of her ribcage. “Does that hurt?”