by Unknown
Ian kissed her.
Phoebe didn’t see it coming. It must’ve happened when she blinked, because one second he was staring at her in the mirror, and the very next, his mouth was covering hers, keeping her from saying anything more. He pulled her tightly against him, his arms around her so that she couldn’t get away. Not that she was fighting him. On the contrary.
This had to be proof that Ian thought there were cameras and mics in here.
And she wanted to make it look good.
Yeah, that was why she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and was kissing him back as if her very life depended on it. That was why she angled her head to let him kiss her more deeply, why she moaned when his hand slid down her back to her butt so he could press her body against the very solid length of him.
And … okay. Who, really, was she fooling here? Herself? Ian knew damn well that she was hot for him. She’d given him all the proof he’d needed when she’d kissed him the way she’d kissed him, beneath that dock.
As Phoebe kept kissing him now, she heard the door close and she felt him gently maneuver her toward it—it was cool and hard against her back. Only then did he stop. He lifted his head to say, “Don’t talk, don’t move.” His mouth was still so close to hers she could feel his breath, feel his lips against hers.
He raised an eyebrow, just a fraction of an inch, and Phoebe realized he was waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, so she nodded.
Only then did he push himself away from her, but he watched her closely—as if he didn’t quite believe she wasn’t going to blurt something out and give them away. Eyes still on her, he leaned past the shower curtain and turned on the water into the tub, then adjusted the dial so the shower sputtered to life.
The sound of rushing water filled the room as Ian came back to her. “We’ll let it heat up,” he said, and then he kissed her again. Lightly this time, his hands in her hair, on either side of her head as he kissed not just her mouth but her face, her chin, her cheeks, her neck …
He’d kissed her that same way back in the hall outside of Henrietta’s private party room, she realized. His hands warm against her face, almost chastely, with space between their bodies. And there’d been no cameras there, no reason to playact. So maybe this wasn’t a game …
“Oh, God, Ian,” Phoebe heard herself say, as he kissed her throat, her jawline, her ear …
“Camera and mic in the frame of the picture across from the sink,” he breathed, and that was that. No more maybes.
He kissed her on the mouth again as she mentally kicked herself and called herself names. Fool. Loser. Even as she kissed him back.
For the sake of the camera.
Although, really? Had she really thought, at any point, that there was anything even remotely real about anything this man did or said to her?
Yes.
But that was on her, for being naïve and pathetic.
Ian kissed his way around to her other ear so that he could say, “But that’s the only one in here, so we can talk in the shower.”
Her eyes opened at that.
Of course they could talk in the shower, with the water running to obscure their words, and the curtain hiding them from the camera.
But …
Ian straightened up, and in doing so, unzipped her sweatshirt. He looked at her body, at her breasts beneath her T-shirt, and the heat in his eyes was enough to boil the next two weeks of her very hot and sweaty dreams.
Phoebe looked from the picture in question—a frame of orange, pink, and aqua shells surrounding a frolicking dolphin, captured midleap—to the mirror over the sink, to the tub, with the shower running and the curtain that would provide privacy.
Privacy, that is, from the cameras, but not from Ian.
He was already taking off his T-shirt and kicking off his boots. His back was to her—although that was just an illusion. All he had to do to see every inch of that little bathroom was to lift his head and look into the mirror.
Still, she stepped out of her flip-flops and let her sweatshirt drop onto the floor. She pushed off her jeans, yanked her T-shirt over her head, and she hightailed it up and over the edge of the tub and into the shower, pulling that curtain closed behind her with a screech.
It was probably a mistake to get her underwear wet—she’d recently gone too many consecutive hours without any at all—but no way was she going to have a naked conversation with Ian Dunn, so she just stepped under the showerhead and let herself get soaked. She’d kept her glasses on, too, so she carefully kept the water from running down her face as she rinsed the back of her head—but there wasn’t even the faintest hint of blood as it washed down the drain. Obviously there had been none in her hair to start with. Which, okay, bright-siding it, was actually a good thing, because ew.
The water got too hot, so she turned to adjust the temperature as she stepped back out of the spray—and bumped into Ian, who had joined her behind the curtain while her back was turned.
He was solid and … solid. Very, very solid. She’d felt his erection during their embrace, and okay, since he was human and subject to the laws of biology, it was probably not a reasonable belief that he could have somehow made it vanish, but, whoa.
He’d also brought a wrapped condom in with him. He must’ve found it in the medicine cabinet, and he dropped it, a little red square, into the soap dish that was built into the tile wall.
“Whoa,” she said, aloud this time, turning to face him, determined to keep her eyes aimed above his neck. Of course she couldn’t. There was no woman alive who could have, and whoa.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice a whisper, but he didn’t sound very sorry at all. “You seriously keep your glasses on in the shower?”
“Not usually, no,” she whispered back. They were starting to steam up, so she took them off and put them up on the windowsill, next to a row of shampoos and body washes. He got blurrier, but not blurry enough. “And I’m sorry, but I’m not having sex with you.”
“No,” Ian said. “I’m not having sex with you.”
“I get that I’m supposed to be insulted when you say that,” she said, “that there’s an implication there that you don’t want to have sex with me, and that’s fine—”
“That’s not even close to what I said.”
“—And yet, you come in here, spouting Mount Kilimanjaro, tossing condoms around like Mardi Gras beads—”
“One condom,” he said, laughing his disbelief. “And while I appreciate the compliment, this”—he motioned to his package—“is adrenaline. That, plus the way you were kissing me—”
“Excuse me. You were kissing me.”
“Jesus,” he said. “Yes. That, plus the way I was kissing you—because you told Georg fucking Vanderzee that you’re my wife, and now we’re stuck with that cover, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Not kiss my smoking hot wife after I nearly get her killed?”
“Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding,” Phoebe said. “Sorry, you had me up to smoking hot wife, but then you pinned the bullshit meter.”
“Are you really going to stand there, pretending that you’re not completely aware that Vanderzee is into you?” Ian countered. “A little too into you. I was staking my claim. And, FYI? If we’re going to start keeping track of pinned meters, you broke the one for hyperbole, with Mount Kilimanjaro and the Mardi Gras beads.”
“Yes,” Phoebe said tartly. “Let’s get back to talking about the size of your penis. It’s not like we don’t have anything else to discuss. Like, maybe the best way for me to distract Vanderzee, while you wander through the house—making sure there are no clues or to-do lists saying things like Transport kidnapped children to Wichita for safety.”
Ian shook his head. “Even if that wasn’t ridiculous, I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“You say that like you’d be locking me into a cage with a ravenous lion,” she countered. “I’m talking about me going down into the kitchen a few minutes before you do. About taking advantage of our
being here to—”
“No.”
And there they stood, with water pounding down on her shoulders and steam filling the air between them.
“Look,” she said. “I know you’re angry that I got out of the van when I promised I wouldn’t. You’re angry that I’m here. I get it. And I’m sorry, but there really was no other option. Davio Dellarosa sent those men to that club to kill you, and I was not going to let that happen. And I also was not going to let Yashi go in there and force us to scrub this mission. So long, kidnapped kids? Good luck to you and your rocket-scientist mother? Nuh-uh. And yes, it was unfortunate that Vanderzee saw us in the hallway—”
“No, it was actually good that that happened. If you’d gone down those stairs, you would’ve bumped into the gunmen going out the back door. And if they’d recognized you, which they would’ve … I’m sure Davio gave them your picture. It would’ve been bad. Way worse than this.” He exhaled hard. “I’ve been flashing hot and cold, just thinking about that … I really need to get you out of here. As quickly as possible.”
“Well, telling him that I’m newly pregnant won’t fly,” Phoebe said. “Too bad, it’s a classic excuse. Oh, I’m so tired, what with all the morning sickness.…”
Ian looked down at the condom he’d brought into the shower. “Shit.”
“I’m right about that being a visual aid,” Phoebe sought to clarify, “to explain why we’re in here for so long …?”
“Yup,” Ian said. “And you’re right, too, that it kills pregnancy as an excuse for me to wrap you in gauze and stash you someplace safe.”
“Unless you were running on automatic pilot and forgot?”
Ian shook his head. “Wouldn’t happen.”
“But not impossible.”
“Yes,” he said. “Impossible.”
“Maybe I just told you. Surprise! It’s a girl!”
“That’s pretty half-assed,” he said, “considering you were just running down fire escapes and through parking lots.”
“Pregnant women still have legs and feet,” Phoebe argued, but he was shaking his head.
“It’s too much of a stretch, especially considering cultural differences. In K-stan, women don’t run, even when they’re not pregnant. I don’t want him forced to think too much, because we’ve already got this weirdness to explain.” And yes, he’d gestured toward her, when he’d said this weirdness.
She must’ve looked outraged, because he added, “Who wears their underwear into the shower?”
“I do, obviously,” she said. “Because … it’s sexy and it turns you on?”
“You ever hear that expression, the devil’s in the details?” Ian asked her. “Well, it applies, in a different way when you’re undercover. We have to make this look real, down to the tiniest details, or the Dutchman is going to do the math and either throw us out or kill us. The devil cannot be in our details. So, no. You were right. We can’t tell him you’re pregnant, and need to rush you home to spend the next six months on bedrest. Not after I bring a condom with me—into a shower into which you’ve worn your underwear. It’s too much.”
“Maybe it’s edible underwear,” Phoebe suggested.
Ian just looked at her.
“Okay, then … Maybe I’m not an idiot,” she tried, “and I’m well aware of the kind of man I’m married to—danger being your middle name and all that. And therefore I’m cognizant of the company you keep. Maybe—no, definitely. I know that the Dutchman has surveillance cameras all over this place, and I’m unwilling to parade around naked in front of him for the duration. In fact, I’ll say as much after we turn off the water.”
Ian was nodding now. “That actually works.”
“And why, really, do we have to have something like bedrest as a reason to want to leave?” she asked. “This is his house, we’re guests. After we use his laundry room to wash and dry our clothes—maybe you could borrow a T-shirt because that blood’s gonna stain.… Anyway, as soon as we’re no longer wandering around looking like you’ve just been shot, we can leave. And then it’s just So long, thanks again for not leaving us to die. You can make plans to meet him later.” She lowered her voice in a bad imitation of him. “Don’t want to talk business in front of the little woman.”
“I’ve never used the phrase the little woman in my entire life,” Ian told her.
“Well, thank God for that, at least,” Phoebe said. “So is that our plan? May I please get out of here?” The close quarters, full frontal nudity, and steam were making her light-headed. “Unless you want me to help you wash your shoulder?”
“Nah, I got it,” he said. “But we’re not done. I need you to understand that Vanderzee is a sociopath whose only allegiance is to himself. He cares nothing for other people, and even less for women and children.” The intensity with which he was looking at her was similar to that look he’d shot her, in the mirror. And again, she knew he wanted her to read his mind.
“What did he do to you?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“Not to me,” he said. “To one of his wives. He’s got dozens. And this one, he … he shot her in the head. It was … I was standing right there and …”
I couldn’t stop him. Or maybe I didn’t stop him. Ian didn’t say the words, but Phoebe didn’t have to be telepathic to know what he was thinking. If they’d had their clothes on, she would’ve reached for him. Instead, she stood there, awkwardly, with the water pounding down on her back, not sure what to say.
“Lookit, I don’t want to give you too many details, because I need you to be able to smile at this douchebag,” Ian continued. “But you need to know he’s unforgiving and cruel. Jesus, what else can I tell you? He’s socially conservative, so don’t bring up Aaron, okay? He’s not religious, but he follows K-stan’s strict religious laws—if those laws serve him. He’s superstitious—possibly even slightly OCD about it and … I don’t want you alone with him.”
Phoebe nodded. “Understood.”
“Just a few more things,” Ian told her. “First, I know from intel that the feds’ve already tapped into Vanderzee’s surveillance system here.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “That means they got to see me in my underwear, too.”
“That means we can communicate with them,” he corrected her. “Two, let me do most of the talking. With Vanderzee. Follow my lead. We’re still newlyweds and you’re really into me, okay?”
Phoebe nodded again, not daring to speak.
“Last thing. You can’t go out there with your underwear still on. You can grab a towel, wrap it around yourself in here, but …”
He was right. Keeping her wet underwear on after having shower sex with her new husband was beyond quirky and camera-shy and well into Something weird is going on here. “Will you at least turn around?”
“I’ll close my eyes. Here, trade places with me,” Ian said, and they maneuvered around so that he was under the water’s stream, his hands on her waist to keep her steady. He flinched as the water hit his wound. “Ow. Actually, there is one more thing.”
Phoebe turned back toward him, ready to help if he needed it.
“Don’t look so serious when you go out there. Try to look like a woman who’s orgasmed three or four times.”
She laughed her surprise. “Three or four …?”
“We’ve been in here for a really long time,” Ian pointed out. “Don’t explode the myth that I’ve worked so hard to build. No, no, no—what you’re doing there is a little too incredulous. Think dreamier. Like you’ve just found God.”
“This is me, being incredulous about what you’re telling me,” Phoebe said, pointing to her face. “Do I really need to audition my dreamy, just-had-three-orgasms-and-found-God smile for you?”
“Four,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it was four. Because I’m that good. And yeah. I’d like to see it.”
“Tough luck,” she said. “Close your eyes.” She didn’t wait to see if he complied, she just turned her back on him, slipped out of he
r soaking underwear, then grabbed a towel from a rack on the wall, and wrapped it around herself as she stepped out of the tub.
* * *
The devil was in the details.
Yeah, that was why Ian had put the condom on as he stood there in the shower, letting the warm water cascade down on his head and his back. He’d put it on so that he’d have something to wrap in toilet paper and leave in the bathroom waste can. And since it had to be used …
Details.
He was also doing this so that he’d leave the shower sporting the equivalent of that dreamy look he’d recommended Phoebe wear upon exiting.
Just thinking about her made him smile, but then he started thinking about the way she’d melted against him when he’d kissed her. About that sound she’d made, low in her throat as he’d—
“Ian?”
He opened his eyes and froze, because shit, he was close, but she’d pushed open the bathroom door.
“Yeah?” he managed, and his voice was only marginally higher than normal. “I’m still, um, washing out this wound?”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay. But I left my glasses in there.”
She had. They were on the tile-covered sill of a translucent glass-brick window. There they sat, with the earpieces extended, drops of water dotting both the lenses and the thick, dark, quirky frames.
“I’ll bring ’em out when I’m done,” he told her.
“Okay,” Phoebe said. “Thanks.” But she didn’t leave and close the door behind her, so he waited, just listening … “Are you sure you’re … okay? You don’t need help?”
She had no idea.
Or … maybe she did. She was, after all, a very smart woman.
“Nope,” he said, which wasn’t quite a lie. He would’ve loved her help. He desperately wanted her help. But he didn’t need it. Not here or now. Realistically, not ever—an oddly depressing thought. “I got this.”
“All right.” The door finally closed with a click, and he was alone.
And acutely aware of it.
It was doubly weird, since being alone was something he should have cherished and enjoyed—particularly after all those months in prison. But right now it seemed to sit on him with a heaviness that had to be connected to his fatigue.