Dark of Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Why can't you just admit that you're hot for me, and stop blaming me for it, like it's something I intentionally did—like I chose to be born with big-boob genes. It's not like I've been doing stripper aerobics or… or pole dancing in front of you. Last time I looked in the mirror, the neckline of my shirt wasn't cut down to my navel. I'm covered completely. Or maybe you think because I actually have breasts instead of mosquito-bite boobs like the women you see on TV, I should wear a burka.”

  “I don't think you should wear a burka,” he said, reeling slightly from the idea of Tracy doing stripper aerobics. Talk about incentive to go to the gym. “You're overreacting.”

  “No.” She got in his face. “Overreacting is what jerk men do if women don't wear a bra that's padded enough. Forget comfort. I have to make sure my bra doesn't let even the slightest hint of nipple show—”

  Nipple. She actually said the word nipple, and Decker had to work to keep his gaze from moving below her neck. He found himself, instead, watching her mouth.

  “—because some stupid man will think I'm giving him some kind of body-language green light,” she continued, “when in truth I'm just cold.”

  The lipstick she'd had on earlier was gone. It was likely that he'd kissed it off her, but the truth was, she didn't need it. Her lips were smooth and pink and full.

  “You so want to kiss me again,” she accused him.

  Deck jerked his gaze back up to her eyes, and for a moment, they stood there in silence, just looking at each other. He didn't breathe—he couldn't breathe.

  He could see his desire reflected in her beautiful eyes. It was more than just sexual attraction and heat, it was a wistful longing for something more, an awareness that their seemingly constant bickering—and his too-harsh words—kept them both from having to acknowledge the truth. Which was that he liked her—more with each passing hour.

  More, even, because she'd called him on the fact that he wanted, again, to kiss her.

  So he answered honestly. “Yes. I do. But I won't. Again, it's called restraint.”

  He took advantage of the fact that he'd surprised her with the truth, and beat a retreat from the kitchen. It was definitely time to put even more space between them, so he headed down the hall, looking for the goddamn bathroom.

  But Tracy followed him—the arms of that ridiculous yellow rain slicker that she'd tied around her waist flapping about the tops of her thighs. “Oh, good,” she said. “Run away. You just proved my point.”

  The first bathroom he found was only a half—no shower—so he kept going, taking the stairs to the second floor, jarring his injured arm with each stupid step.

  Tracy, meanwhile, felt the need to continue talking at him. “I'm going to say it again: What you call restraint is cowardice. And it's not just sex you run from, in case you haven't noticed. It's intimacy.”

  And there was the bathroom, on the right, door open, tile floor, large walk-in shower stall.

  “I've seen you run away from conversations with Jimmy Nash,” Tracy continued “He's supposed to be your best friend—”

  “Men don't have best friends,” Decker said, as he flipped on the light and pulled back the shower curtain with a screeee. “Only little girls do.” As the words left his mouth, he knew they would serve to incite her further— which was probably why he'd said it.

  “Oh,” she said, attitude practically steaming from her ears as he turned on the water to let it heat. “Nice. But wrong. Again. People have friends—and some of those friends become special. You can mock it all you want, but Nash loves you. And whether you man up to it or not, I know that you love him. You're willing to die for him. Would it really kill you to have a meaningful conversation with him?”

  A linen closet held a stack of neatly folded towels. He took out two, putting them on the counter of the sink before turning back to Tracy. “You know nothing about my friendship with Nash.”

  “I've known you both for years now,” she countered, hands on her hips. “I know enough.”

  “He's been ‘dead’ for two months,” Decker found himself responding, despite the fact that he knew—knew—that engaging in this conversation wasn't going to lead to anything good. “You have no idea how many or what kind of conversations I've had with him—”

  “I would bet a million dollars,” Tracy proclaimed, “that not one of those conversations started with you going, How are you feeling about this being-dead thing? Or I'm freaked out by having to put my hands all over your fiancée, and it's particularly difficult to deal with, since Sophia's— ”

  “Jesus,” Decker said, looking toward the ceiling.

  “—hooked up with Dave.”

  Something snapped. He felt it go, in his forehead, right over his left eye. “I am not in love with her,” he said. “I have never been in love with her. I had sex with her. One time. A hundred fucking years ago, on the other side of the world. It was abusive. And wrong. She was afraid of me, and I knew it, and I let her go down on me because I told myself that she had information I needed, and that it was life or death that I find out what she knew, but what I really wanted was a blow job, and it didn't fucking matter whose mouth it was. Is that all right with you?”

  Tracy stood there—he'd silenced her at last—as the water finally turned hot and started steaming up the bathroom mirror.

  But then she blinked. And said, “Men turn into idiots when sex is involved. I mean, how was she supposed to give you any information when she's using her mouth to—”

  “Why is it you always feel compelled to comment?” Decker asked, his voice actually cracking. “I didn't say, She gave me a blow job, please discuss.”

  “Well, what did you think I would do after you tell me something like that?” Tracy looked at him as if he were mentally defective. “Run away? Or faint, like … like an old lady? A blow job! Oh, no! I've met a lot of men in my life, Sparky, and I'm pretty certain nearly all of them have, at one time or another, been the recipient of a blow job, given to them by a person with whom they didn't end up living happily ever after. Two of them I'm absolutely certain about, having participated in the blow job in question. Although I think I prefer the phrase hummer. It sounds more fun—less like work. Blow job, you know.”

  Decker just stared at her.

  “I was right,” she told him. “You are a total prude. Is this really what you've been making such a big deal about for all these years?”

  He didn't answer her—he couldn't.

  And being Tracy, she couldn't shut up. “How do you reconcile your boatloads of guilt with the fact that Sophia has seemed—for years—to be desperate to get with you again? You know, I know her. Not well, but well enough. She's not crazy. Okay, she's maybe a little damaged, but really, who isn't?”

  And still he just stood there, with the water pounding down behind him, gurgling down the shower's drain. Tracy took a tentative step closer, and he couldn't back away—there was nowhere to go in the little room. Besides, the anger in her eyes had changed to something softer and warmer. Compassion. And genuine concern.

  “Is your guilt from the fact that you liked it?” she asked. “You should give yourself a break. You were single. She was willing and, rumor has it, it can feel pretty good.”

  Willing? “You have no idea what Sophia's been through.”

  “I kinda do,” Tracy said. “She's talked to me about the months that she was a prisoner in Padsha Bashir's palace. I've seen her scars. She's let it go, she's moved on. You know, I actually think that one of the hardest things for her has been the fact that you haven't—let it go.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Decker asked, his voice rough, even to his own ears. “I should transform myself into someone I'm not? I should change who I am and what I feel—just to make Sophia's life easier? Jesus, if I wasn't going to do it for Em—”

  “No,” she countered. “Letting go isn't the same as—”

  “I don't love Sophia,” he said again. “I didn't even like her—not at first. But, yes, I r
eally liked the sex. Way too much, considering that she tried to kill me while she—”

  He shut his mouth on the truth that had almost escaped—the fact that he had never climaxed the way he had that night long ago, not before and certainly not after.

  And there they stood, in that bathroom, his half-confession sitting there, awkwardly, between them. He could feel his face heat with his embarrassment, and he didn't dare look into Tracy's eyes. He didn't want to see the growing awareness as she realized exactly what he'd just told her.

  And he had told her—even though he'd stopped himself. But Tracy was extremely smart. She was going to figure it out.

  “Just wait outside,” he said quietly. “Please. I'll shower first—”

  “There's nothing wrong with rough sex,” she said. “You know that, right? I've only kissed you once, and I'm pretty sure that if we were going to get it on? You'd eat me alive. I mean, as opposed to slowly licking me all over with the very tip of your tongue. Which … could really work, too.”

  Decker laughed. At least he meant to laugh, but it came out as more of an “Unh.” As if someone had punched him in the stomach and air escaped.

  “It makes sense—sort of—that you would feel an … elevated sense of… urgency from a … perceived threat,” she told him.

  “It wasn't perceived” he found himself telling her. “She tried to shoot me.”

  “While she was … ?” Tracy ingested that information. “And you … got off on it. Okay, that's … maybe a little weird. But, hey. Only a little. Normal is a very wide spectrum. And maybe it wasn't the threat of violence that revved you up. Maybe it was Sophia.”

  “I hardly knew her, and I didn't trust her,” Decker pointed out.

  “As obviously you shouldn't have,” Tracy agreed. “But she's very pretty.”

  “It wasn't the threat of violence. It was violence.”

  “The violence toward you, you mean, right? I mean, you're not, like, into—”

  “Yes,” he said. “Violence toward me. Jesus. I'm not that fucked up. Please, just let me take a shower—”

  “So maybe your ultimate perfect girlfriend is a cross between a librarian and Kato from The Pink Panther” Tracy surmised. “Out in public, she's all buttoned-to-the-neck and proper. But at home, she's jumping out at you, dressed like a dominatrix in leather and stilettos, shaking out her hair and taking off her glasses as she takes you to the ground and pins you down and…”

  Jesus.

  “That's actually kind of hot,” she mused.

  She was serious. The heat she was speaking of was evident in her eyes and time hung, for a very odd moment, as he looked back at her. He knew she was thinking about being dressed all in leather and pinning him to the floor, her arm jammed up under his chin, pressure on his throat, as she unfastened his pants with her other hand and …

  Yeah. It was outrageously hot. He could overpower her in a heartbeat—but he wouldn't.

  He looked away first.

  “I'm thinking Emily might've had a problem with the role-playing, though,” Tracy added. “I'm thinking she leaned a little too much—in reality—toward the stereotypical-librarian end of the fantasy. Was this, maybe, one of the things she wanted to change about you?”

  Decker shook his head. “I'm not talking about her—or about this.”

  She ignored him and kept right on talking about it. “There's nothing wrong with you,” she told him. “Everyone's into something. These days bondage and discipline is practically mainstream.”

  “I'm not into—” Decker stopped himself. “Just because I…” He shook his head. “I've never…”

  “Maybe you should,” she said. “You know. Experiment.”

  He looked at her.

  She looked back.

  He could picture her, dressed only in high heels, as she lit, one by one, all of the candles in her bedroom, as he lay naked and prone on her bed, his hands tied to her bed frame with silk scarves.

  “I'm not having sex with you,” Decker said again, but this time the words seemed less forceful and certain. This time they rang with doubt. Because, Jesus. Tracy knew the truth—or at least part of it—and she wasn't running away. “You work for me.”

  “No, actually, I work for Tom Paoletti.”

  “But you take orders from me, too.”

  “So what? Sam takes orders from Alyssa. Big deal. Besides, it sounds like what you want is someone to give you orders. I think I might be really good at that.”

  Holy shit.

  And Jesus, were they really talking about this? Some of what he'd just told Tracy were things he'd never admitted before, not to anyone. He'd barely even admitted them to himself.

  “It makes sense now,” she told him, and the electric heat in her eyes changed to the more even warmth of compassion, “that you would keep your distance from Sophia. She probably doesn't share many of those kinds of fantasies. And even if she once did, she probably doesn't anymore. And if you did let yourself fall in love with her? You'd be right back where you were with Emily. Trying to be someone that you're not. Like you said—having to be so careful—”

  “Why don't you shower first,” Decker said. She blocked his path to the door, but he moved toward her, intending to lift her, bodily, out of his way, if need be.

  But she backed out into the hall with him, talking as she went. “And that's not even taking into consideration the fact that whenever you're with her, you probably feel like a deviant, even though everything she endured is apples to your oranges. Sophia wasn't a willing participant. You're looking for someone who is.”

  She stopped moving, so he did, too, and they just stood there.

  “I'm not looking for anyone,” Deck told her, but God, he was lying. And when she started moving toward him, try as he might, he couldn't back away from her.

  So he stayed where he was as she got closer. And closer.

  “There's nothing wrong with you,” Tracy said again. “Except for the fact that your inner prude has been shouting at you for years, telling you that you're screwed up. You've got to bring the logical part of your brain into the mix. Because how can there be a right or a wrong way to have sex? I mean, psycho-killers aside, there's just not. The only question that you need to be worried about is Honey, do you like it when I do that? If the answer's yes, game on.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Sophia sat on the floor in the bathroom at the hotel and tried not to cry.

  “Soph?” Dave knocked softly on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “It's unlocked,” she called, swiftly wiping her eyes and running both hands down her face.

  He opened the door and poked his head in first. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I'm feeling much better.”

  “You think it was something you ate?”

  She just shook her head, because she didn't know what to say or how to say it.

  “Next time, please, don't shut me out,” he said.

  “I'm sorry,” Sophia said. “I just needed … a little space.”

  When they'd first arrived at the hotel and she'd rushed into this bathroom, she'd actually been surprised that Dave had left her alone, despite her insistence.

  He'd used the time, though, to change out of his bloodstained shirt and into one of his faded T-shirts, which was good. Bloodstains made her queasy during the best of times.

  She was also glad he'd changed because with his T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, with his hair a mess from running his hands through it, he looked like the Dave she'd known for years—like a guy who worked in tech support. A com-spesh, or even a hardware dweeb. Or maybe a technical writer—hammering out his first angst-filled novel during his lunches and coffee breaks.

  He certainly didn't look like a super-spy compatriot of 007's.

  “I don't know what I'm most upset about,” she told him now as he came all the way into the room. “The fact that you went to Kazabek, or the fact that you thought going there was no big deal. I gue
ss when it's said and done, though, it's pretty much the same thing.”

  Dave leaned back out into the hotel suite and said, “I'm sorry, sir. I know this is an imposition, but could I ask you and Karmody to sit out in the hall?”

  There was a murmur of voices, after which Dave said, “Thank you, sir,” and then she heard the sound of the heavy hotel room door closing.

  He turned back to her, closing the bathroom door behind him even though he'd emptied out their hotel suite. “I'm sorry I upset you,” he said as he sat near her, on the edge of the bathtub. He lowered himself down carefully, gingerly, and she knew he wasn't taking the painkillers the doctor had prescribed for him.

  “But you're not sorry that you went,” she inferred.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I'm not. Tom's job is to be overly cautious, and rightly so, but he wasn't in Kazabek with me, so he doesn't know—”

  “I'm aware of that, yes,” she said. “That you went in there alone—”

  “I'm good at what I do,” he tried to reassure her. “I know when I've been compromised, and I wasn't. There are now four people on this planet who know where I was last week, and they're all right here, in this hotel. I went in using a different name, a completely different identity.”

  “And the people you talked to, while you were there … ? Didn't they know you?”

  “No.”

  She sat there for a moment, ingesting that information before she asked, “Who, exactly, did you talk to?”

  “Does it really matter?” he countered.

  Did it? Probably not. Still … “Was it anyone I know?”

  “Maybe, but probably not. I didn't get any names, but they were all servants—women—who worked in Bashir's palace,” he said quietly, “during the time you were held prisoner there. They did laundry and … cleaning. They washed the floors and … other things.”

  Sophia had to look away from him. Her stomach was churning again, even though it was empty. It had to be empty—she'd thrown up so much already, both on the side of the road and here in this bathroom, too.

  “What did they tell you?” she asked.