Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  “What?” A flash of panic zipped over her. “How can you be sure she’s going to consider Jillian and Will’s safety? How can you trust her if you just met her?”

  “Sometimes, you know. I’d say you and I trust each other, wouldn’t you?”

  He smiled. Damn, she couldn’t keep her indignation boiling when he did that. Especially when he had a point.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Grace has been on Blackthorne’s list of safe houses for years. I met her at Patterson’s, and again at the Sandersons’. She seemed perfect for the situation.”

  Miri tried to remember Grace but couldn’t place her. “I don’t suppose you ran a background check on her?”

  He smiled again. “As a matter of fact, I did. She has quite a colorful history.”

  “Colorful? What’s that supposed to mean?” The word conjured thoughts of some art thief or smuggler or something equally underhanded. “She’s not an ex-gangster or anything, is she?”

  He chuckled. “Nope. A genuine spy.” He glanced at her with narrowed eyes. “And I trust you’ll not repeat it.”

  Mollified, she mumbled an apology. Not only was she dealing with dead people and drugs, she’d gotten involved with a super-sleuth and super-spy. Her head swam. She chalked it up to lack of sleep and vowed to sit down and get her thoughts straightened out once she could string two of them together. Right now, her entire repertoire of thought processes was confined to the hunk of delectable masculinity sitting two feet from her.

  And no matter how much she tried to convince herself that he was simply a plain, everyday, run-of-the-mill person who happened to have the XY chromosome configuration, no different from the countless other males she dealt with daily, it wasn’t working. Her heart pounded, her palms and her mouth did that wet-dry thing again. And she wasn’t going to think about all the other things going on where the car’s vibrations rumbled through the seat to her bottom.

  For half a moment, she considered giving in. Having that fling. Then she remembered how charming he’d been when they’d sat in Grace’s living room. Like he’d been with Jillian. With Sammi, and for that matter, with Mr. Blackthorne’s secretary.

  Funny, but it didn’t bother her. So what if he was naturally charming? A fling with someone charming had to be better than one with a bore.

  Stop it. You’re tired. And grateful. And too damn horny for words.

  She squirmed in the seat and wrapped her arms across her chest so he couldn’t see her headlights shining like beacons. Something they seemed to do every time she thought of him.

  He glanced her way. Smiled. And squirmed in his seat, too.

  “Um . . .” She summoned enough spit to lick her lips. “We should probably discuss . . . what’s going to happen . . . with Jillian.”

  “We will.” His voice was husky. “Eventually.”

  She stifled a groan of longing, closed her eyes, and drifted.

  She hardly noticed when he got off the interstate well before her exit. Or pulled up in front of a redbrick apartment building in a quiet residential neighborhood. Or opened her door. Unfastened her seatbelt. Half-lifted her out of the car.

  “Where are we?” she felt obligated to ask, although she had a good idea.

  He didn’t answer, merely took her hand and led her up the boxwood-edged stairs into the building. When they reached the door, he said, “My place.”

  “Dalton, I—”

  “Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Galloway House is under control, right? It’s officially your day off?”

  She nodded. “But—”

  Dalton escorted her to an elevator, pushed three and encircled her with his arms. He dipped his forehead to hers. “No talking. No thinking. Let me do this for you. Please?”

  “Do what? You’ve done enough.”

  “What I meant to do the other night.”

  Desire coursed through her like a spring stream overflowing its banks. But a tiny portion of her brain dammed the surging tide. Be sensible. Don’t let your hormones make this kind of decision. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  He stroked a tendril of hair away from her face. “I do. Trust me?”

  To help her with her problems? Yes. To penetrate her emotional defenses? She wasn’t sure.

  The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Miri allowed Dalton to guide her down the carpeted hallway. Unlike her building, the hallways exuded air freshener, not homey cooking smells. Then again, maybe Mrs. Liebowitz’s stuffed cabbage or Sophie Lavia’s garlic-in-everything didn’t smell like home to people who lived in Dalton’s building.

  Thinking of food made her mouth water. Much better than Sahara dry. God, she was tired. And, to listen to her stomach, hungry, although the thought of eating seemed too much effort.

  Dalton unlocked a paneled wooden door and pushed it open. She tensed. If Dalton noticed, he didn’t react. Inside, he steered her across a sparsely furnished living room to a black leather recliner, settled her down, and raised the footrest.

  “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.” He brushed her temple with his lips, then disappeared.

  As if she could move. The chair molded to her body. It smelled like leather and Dalton. Trying to escape the thoughts playing bumper car in her head, she studied his apartment.

  Standard apartment issue off-white walls. Neutral carpet—something between beige and grey. Empty walls. The boxy couch, striped in a brown and tan fabric, worn at the edges, looked like it would be more at home in a fraternity house. Maybe it had been.

  A dark green footlocker strewn with newspapers served as a coffee table. From the sounds of a refrigerator door opening and glasses clinking, she guessed Dalton was in the kitchen. Not exactly what she’d expected. Dalton approached with a glass of orange juice. He set it on the table beside the recliner.

  “A little energy boost,” he said. “Back in a bit.”

  Definitely not what she’d expected. “Thanks,” she called after him, as much for the juice as for delaying the decision she’d have to make. She picked up the glass and took a swallow. Tangy and sweet, it went down easily, and she drained the contents without stopping.

  More clunking noises. When Dalton returned, he gave her the grin that grew sexier every time she saw it. He held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  Warily, she grasped his hand and levered herself out of the chair. She followed him around a corner and into—a breakfast nook, where two plates of scrambled eggs and toast sat on a square wooden table.

  He pulled out a ladder-back chair. “Sit. Eat.”

  Most definitely not what she’d expected. “What’s this? Are you feeding me?”

  He lowered himself into the opposite chair. “Well, I’m not going quite that far. I figure you can manage a fork without my help.”

  “But—I thought—I mean—you brought me to your place—and—you cooked for me?”

  He picked up his fork. “Don’t let ’em get cold.”

  She took a tentative bite. Creamy. Perfectly seasoned. “These are good.”

  “Don’t look so surprised. Scrambled eggs isn’t exactly what I’d call cooking, but it’s one of the few things I do fairly well.”

  Suddenly ravenous, she devoured the eggs and toast.

  “More juice?” he asked.

  “Maybe a little.”

  He went to the living room and retrieved her empty glass. “I could make some more eggs if you want,” he said from behind the refrigerator door.

  “No, thanks. These were perfect.”

  He handed her the juice. “Feeling better?”

  Well, she wasn’t hungry anymore. And she was a lot more relaxed. Was this where he expected her to pay for her breakfast? Her insides twittered.

  Draining the orange juice, she couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes went dark and smoky. He took the empty glass from her hand, his fingers trailing over hers with an electric touch.

  “Come,” he said. He caressed her cheek.

  She shivered.

>   Heart pounding, she took his hand and followed him through the kitchen, down a narrow hallway to his bedroom. Nothing but the king-sized bed registered. She reminded herself to breathe as he pulled back a navy blue comforter and a pale blue sheet.

  “Sit. Relax.”

  “Come. Eat. Sit. I’m not Reggie,” she muttered, obeying nevertheless.

  He smiled and knelt to unlace her sneakers. His touch was gentle as he slid them, then her socks, from her feet. He toed off his shoes and draped his socks over them. He patted the center of the bed. “You’re tired. Lie down. On your stomach. If you’re more comfortable, you can leave your clothes on, but if you want to undress, I’ll leave for a minute.”

  Clothing-optional sex?

  Her mouth dropped open.

  He laughed.

  Her face flamed. “I’m not sure what you want from me.” She was no virgin, but this was the strangest foreplay she’d ever experienced.

  “Darlin’, let me take care of you. Like I wanted to the other night. Lie down.”

  She eased onto her belly, muscles tensed.

  His hands kneaded her neck. Slowly, they moved down to her shoulders, finding the tension, working until the knots disappeared. He leaned forward until his lips were by her ear. His breath fanned her cheek. “When we make love, darlin’, you’re going to want it. But you need to sleep. I promise, nothing’s going to happen here except a massage. Which would be easier without your sweatshirt on. May I?”

  She mumbled a yes. He reached for the hem of her sweatshirt, and she helped him slide it over her head. Trust. She did trust him. She unfastened her jeans and lowered them. He touched the clasp of her bra. Waited for permission. Her fingers met his and together, they worked the hooks free. He slipped the straps down her arms. She lifted her torso enough for him to pull it away.

  Naked except for her panties, she felt the sheet settle over her. He shifted it aside enough to access each part of her, then replaced it as he moved on. Any remaining self-consciousness evaporated. Warm, strong fingers demanded relaxation from weary muscles. By the time he got to her calves, she floated on a cloud into oblivion.

  Chapter 18

  Dalton paused, listening to Miri’s steady breathing. He crossed the room and closed the drapes so the afternoon sun wouldn’t disturb her when it hit this side of the building in a few hours. He shook his head as he closed the bedroom door. The two of them definitely gave new meaning to “sleeping together.”

  And what the hell was going on with that, anyway? Less than an hour ago, he had nothing on his mind beyond wild, frantic sex. A little friendly persuasion and she’d have been willing. He’d be rid of this annoying hard-on, and she’d be asleep in his arms instead of alone. That was normal. This was—absolutely crazy.

  He brewed a fresh pot of coffee and fired up his laptop. He checked in with ops control at the compound. The team was in one of those countries that ended in ’stan, on schedule to rescue six hostages while Uncle Sam dragged on with negotiations. Hell, by the time the official negotiations were wrapped up, the hostages would be home with their families and Blackthorne’s boys would be on their next mission.

  Anything on Rafael? he typed into the Blackthorne message system. Jinx was on duty and usually kept an ear to the ground.

  Nope. He’s in the wind. Rumors he’s switching to arms dealing. Or smuggling diamonds. For all we know, he’s trafficking humans. Or retired to the beach.

  Thanks. Anything else going on? With an ear tuned for sounds from the bedroom, he waited for Jinx’s message to appear on his screen.

  Drug crackdown on the Mexican border. Dealers looking for new ways to transport the product. DEA and Border Patrol territory.

  Right, Dalton thought. No client. Blackthorne wouldn’t get involved. Nothing ever stopped the flow, only rerouted it.

  Thanks. Keep me in the loop. He signed off, regretting he wasn’t on a field op.

  But he was on an op, albeit an unusual one. Might as well figure out how to tell Blackie he’d stepped over the lines of a domestic investigation. Like into the next county.

  Well, sir, you ordered me to work with Ms. Chambers, and this is where it led.

  Yes, sir, I know we don’t normally provide refuge for local citizens.

  Yes, sir, Mrs. Ellsworth will expect compensation for her trouble.

  Yes, sir, I fucked up. Big-time.

  He figured his personal budget could probably cover a month or two before anything hit the fan, but he knew better than to keep something like this from Blackie. Why the hell was he even considering shelling out the money?

  Try the truth. For the first time in almost fifteen years, I met someone who takes away the empty feelings inside. And I’d give my left nut to keep her safe and happy.

  The thought was a sucker punch to his belly. And another response lower down.

  He pushed away from the table and crept to the bedroom door. Leaning his ear against the cool, hard wood he listened to Miri sleep. Slowly, carefully, he eased the door open. The curtains didn’t block all the light, and he watched her, on her belly as he’d left her, with her hair fanned across the pillow. Under the thin sheet, her form lay like a sculpture waiting to be unveiled.

  The ache in his groin intensified, and he adjusted his trousers in a futile attempt to accommodate his growing erection.

  She stirred. Pushed her hair from her face. Her eye opened.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  She angled onto her side and shook her head, sending her hair fluttering. “I flunked naptime in kindergarten.”

  He took a hesitant step into the room. She smiled, lazy and seductive. The blood left above his neck roared in his ears like the aftermath of a firefight. When he got to the edge of the bed, she peeked out from under a veil of silken hair and raised the sheet. Not enough to reveal her body, but definitely enough to be an invitation.

  “One of us has too many clothes on,” she said.

  He remembered the first time he’d heard her speak. When she’d sounded like she’d spent a night making passionate love. That was nothing compared to her husky, not-quite-awake tone now. What would she sound like in an hour?

  His shirt was off before he finished the thought. He took more care with his pants as he worked them down. All the while, his gaze never left Miri’s face. Not quite awake, yet definitely aware. Her tongue as it swiped across her mouth. Her lips, parted slightly, revealed a glint of white teeth. Her half-lidded eyes, drawing him in. Barely able to breathe, he slipped into bed beside her.

  Warmth from the sheets enveloped him. Miri’s scent heightened his arousal, something he didn’t think possible. Propped on an elbow, he brushed her hair away from her face. With a fingertip, he explored from the arch of her brow to the contour of her ear, afraid if he used more than a single finger, the sensation would overwhelm him. He traced the curve of her neck, continued along her shoulder, her torso, his touch following the dip at her waist to the elastic of her panties. Her choice of underwear suited her perfectly. Practical cotton, but low-cut bikinis. Sensible, with the tiniest hint of vixen.

  “Are you sure about this, darlin’? Because if you’re not, I have to leave right now.”

  She answered by pressing her lips against his, her tongue probing, seeking, dancing. Tormenting.

  He groaned with relief and plundered her mouth, rolling over her, straddling her, moving his kisses to her neck, her collarbone and back to her lips. Her fingers threaded through his hair, each strand shooting jolts of electricity straight to his throbbing cock. He fondled one of her round, soft breasts. She wriggled under him, making tiny whimpering sounds.

  He thumbed her nipple, pebbled into a taut peak. “You like that?”

  Her moan said yes. With effort, he abandoned her mouth and laved her other nipple. She clutched his head, pressing it tighter against her breast. He twirled the tiny erect bud with his tongue, scraped it with his teeth. Concentrating on bringing her pleasure, he tried to i
gnore what she was doing to him. Slow down. Breathe. He shifted so he was beside her again. One hand sought her panties. Slipped inside, caressed her curl-covered mound.

  “Off,” she whispered, lifting her hips, tugging at the elastic. With the last barrier lost beneath the sheets, he dipped a finger inside her wet heat.

  Her hips moved, and he matched her rhythm, seeking the nub of her pleasure. Already perched at the edge of control, he craved—needed—to be inside her. But not until she was with him on that precipice. His mouth returned to her breast, suckling, nipping. She writhed. Moaned. Or was that him?

  A warm hand fondled his balls. Encircled his erection. Stroked. When her fingers toyed with the moisture building at the head, he pulled back.

  “Wait,” he gasped.

  He reached for the edge of the bed. His nightstand never seemed so far away. Straining fingertips made contact with the drawer pull. Found a condom. Tore it open. Not quite ready to give up the flesh-on-flesh contact, he set it on the pillow beside him.

  Her hands found their target again until he thought he’d die.

  “Darlin’, slow down. Let me.” His fingers and tongue thrust in rhythm, mimicking the motions of lovemaking. Her hips gyrated faster, her head thrashed back and forth, and her moans grew louder.

  He groped for the condom and sheathed himself. Kneeling over her, he stroked damp hair from her face and placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. She lifted her knees, opened herself to him.

  He slipped inside her and gasped. So wet. So tight. So perfect. He stayed there, motionless, gazing into her eyes. Her lips curled upward.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  Supporting himself on his forearms, he leaned forward to do as she asked. When he did, she thrust her hips upward, drawing him farther inside. Her arms wrapped around his back, pulling him closer. At the same time, her muscles gripped him from inside.

  “I . . . am . . . going . . . to . . . die,” he said.

  “Not yet, please.” She gave him a bewitching smile and gently seesawed her hips. Barely moving, holding him against her, keeping him from moving.