Breakaway

by Rochelle Alers

  “Stop talking.”

  “And do what?” he asked.

  “Finish what you’ve started, m’ijo.”

  Gavin needed no further prompting. He rolled his hips, swallowing a groan when he felt the walls of her vagina squeeze his penis before releasing it. Celia was on fire, and it was racing out of control and spreading to him. The rising scent of their lovemaking had become an aphrodisiac.

  Celia rose to meet his strong thrusts in an uncontrolled passion that stunned her with its intensity. She moaned, cried as erotic pleasure seized her in a vise that refused to let her go. Then, it happened. The flutters in her vagina grew stronger, more frequent and then she felt the familiar sensation at the base of her spine signaling she was going to climax.

  “No!” The protest came out between teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. She didn’t want it to be over. It was much too quick. The orgasms came, tumbling over one another when she gave in to the all-consuming passion that had been building since Gavin Faulkner pressed her against the bumper of his truck and kissed her. He’d awakened a sleeping passion that made her crave him every waking moment. She’d told herself she didn’t want or need him but her body said differently.

  Celia never acted as brazenly with another man as she had with Gavin. His overt masculinity had become a beacon calling out to her and guiding her home. She could feel the heat from him seep into her as she bared her throat and cried out as her body vibrated with liquid fire that swept her away and she floated into nothingness.

  Gavin quickened his thrusts as he surrendered to the sensations taking him beyond himself. He’d tried holding back, but his heart felt as if it was going to explode. Burying his face in the pillow beneath Celia’s head, he bellowed out his pleasure as the strong pulsing in his sex ebbed, leaving him feeling as helpless as a newborn.

  He was shocked at his response to her lovemaking, and deeply disturbed because he realized making love with Celia was a mistake. When it came time for him to leave her, he knew it wasn’t going to be easy—not when he lived under her roof and they’d become lovers.

  One thing he was certain of: it would take Herculean strength for him to make a clean break. That would only be possible if he continued to remind himself why he was in North Carolina. Making contact with his brother and getting him back safe was his first and only priority. Orlando Wells Faulkner only had him as his lifeline, while Dr. Celia Cole-Thomas had a wealthy family that would move heaven and earth to keep her safe.

  Raising his head, he smiled at Celia smiling back at him. “Thank you, baby.”

  Her smile grew wider. “You’re welcome, m’ijo.”

  Reluctantly, Gavin pulled out, and left the bed to go to the bathroom to discard the condom. When he returned to the bedroom, Celia had turned off the lamp and covered herself with the sheet and lightweight blanket. He sat down on the side of the bed. “May I join you?”

  Her shoulders shook with laughter. “I should be asking you if I can stay. After all, this is your bed.”

  He pulled back the sheet and stared at the scar where the bullet had passed through her side. Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to the puckered flesh that was a constant reminder of how close she’d come to losing her life. “Move over, baby.”

  Celia shifted and Gavin got into bed, pressing his groin to her hips. They lay together like spoons and went to sleep.

  Gavin woke and peered at the travel clock on the bedside table. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds made it seem as if it were nightfall instead of late afternoon. He couldn’t believe he’d been asleep for hours. The scent of a woman’s perfume lingered on the pillow beside his, and then the realization that he was alone in bed galvanized him into action. Scrambling off the bed, he reached for his jeans and slipped them on in one smooth motion. Racing over to the closet, he retrieved the automatic.

  Taking long strides, he ran barefoot down the hall to the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time. Celia had turned on lamps and ceiling lights on the first floor to offset the unnatural darkness blanketing the countryside.

  He followed the sound of music, coming to a stop where he found the object of his unquenchable desire sitting on the window seat in the alcove off the kitchen. Recessed lighting bathed her in a soft flattering glow as she concentrated on wielding a pair of knitting needles. Gavin watched, transfixed as she pulled up a strand of pistachio-green yarn from a quilted bag, winding it around her forefinger.

  It was obvious she’d showered because raven-black curls hung loosely around her face and neck. With her bare legs and feet, oversize tee and shorts, she looked as if she were barely out of her teens. She was singing along with a sensual ballad flowing from concealed speakers. Without warning, her head came up to find him watching her. A shy smile spread across her face.

  “The prince awakens from his deep sleep.” Celia patted the cushioned seat. “Come sit. I called the animal hospital and we can come and get Terry anytime after ten on Monday.”

  Concealing the firearm in his waist at the small of his back, Gavin approached her. “That’s good. How long have you been awake?”

  Her hands stilled. “I just got up about half an hour ago.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I tried, but you were snoring so loud I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.”

  “I don’t snore,” Gavin said in protest.

  “How do you know?”

  “No one has ever complained that I do,” he countered.

  Celia stared at the man who’d made the most exquisite love to her. She’d memorized every angle in his face so she would be able to pick him out in a darkened room with a hundred other men. Shuttering her gaze, she forced herself not to look below his neck or she would jump him where he stood. “It could be that I’m a very light sleeper.”

  “Either that, or it comes with being a doctor.”

  Her head came up. She nodded. “That, too.”

  A slight frown settled between Gavin’s eyes. “Does this mean we’re not going to sleep together?”

  Celia’s eyes narrowed. “Did I say I didn’t want us to sleep together?”

  “It’s not that, Celia.”

  “Then what is it, Gavin?”

  It was his turn to squint at her. “Are you spoiling for a fight, m’ija?” He’d spat out the endearment.

  Lowering her head rather than let him see her smirk, Celia pretended to concentrate on the blanket that would match the sweater, cap and booties set she’d completed. “Nope.”

  “If not, then why the attitude, Celia?”

  “I don’t have an attitude, Gavin Faulkner. I merely stated a fact. You snore. I know you believe you’re Mr. Perfect—”

  “Stop it!”

  The two words came out with the impact of the crack of a whip, causing Celia to sit up and stare at Gavin as if she’d never seen him before. “Don’t ever raise your voice to me again.”

  “I don’t want or need your sarcasm,” Gavin shot back, refusing to back down. “If my snoring bothers you, then say what you mean. I’ll ask you again, and I expect you to be honest with me. Would you prefer that we sleep in separate bedrooms?”

  The seconds ticked as Celia pondered Gavin’s query. She’d fallen asleep with his arm thrown over her waist, but when she did wake up hours later it was to find him snoring loudly. She’d tried going back to sleep and couldn’t. Her attempt to move him enough to change positions had yielded little success, and she had left the bed rather than wake him.

  She shook her head slowly. “No, Gavin. I don’t want us to sleep apart. Maybe after a couple of nights I’ll get used to you calling hogs.”

  “I thought I was sawing logs,” he teased.

  “Hogs or logs, they’re all the same.”

  Gavin didn’t want to congratulate himself because he’d won a small victory. After making love with Celia, he didn’t want to think of not sharing a bed with her again. Making love and then getting up and leaving her was too impersonal. Even when he’
d had a one-night stand, he usually stayed with the woman until the following morning.

  “Who taught you to knit?”

  Celia smiled, her former annoyance with Gavin forgotten. “My mother. She was into fashion and design before she gave it up to become a full-time mother.”

  Gavin angled his head. “I’ve made love to you, yet I know very little about you other than you are a doctor, you have two brothers and you live in Miami.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know about me if you let me take you out to dinner.”

  “I’ll let you select the restaurant, but only if I pay.”

  She held out her hand. “Deal.”

  Ignoring her hand, Gavin leaned over and brushed his mouth over hers. “I’m going upstairs to shave and shower.”

  When he got up to walk away, Celia saw the butt of the gun tucked into his waistband. “I don’t want to see it, Gavin.”

  He stopped, but didn’t turn around, knowing she was referring to the handgun. “I won’t wear it in the house if you keep the alarm on at all times.”

  “Okay,” she said quickly.

  Celia watched him leave, and then realized how fast her heart was beating. She’d grown up around guns all of her life but a single incident had her rethinking her views about even more stringent laws when it came to gun ownership.

  Gavin smiled at Celia across the space of a small table for two at a downtown Waynesville family-style restaurant. They’d stopped at a pet store to buy items the puppy would need once he was home. Their original plan to share Terry was null and void now that he and Celia were living together.

  For a reason he couldn’t fathom, Gavin relished the notion of living with Celia. Not only would she fill in the empty hours that went along with undercover work, but she would also fill in as a social accoutrement. He’d discovered people were more willing to relate to a couple than a lone male.

  The rain had stopped but the mercury had dropped more than twenty-two degrees, making it feel more like early fall than late spring. Celia wore an oatmeal cashmere turtleneck wrap sweater with chocolate wool gabardine slacks, while he’d chosen a black wool pullover with matching flannel slacks and imported slip-ons. She reminded him of a high school co-ed with the Burberry plaid headband holding the curls off her forehead.

  The restaurant was filled to capacity with teenagers, seniors and couples with children ranging in age from toddlers in booster seats to preteens. A number of muted televisions were positioned around the establishment, while a satellite radio station played music spanning the last five decades. Like the varied menu, there was something for everyone.

  Celia had ordered baked chicken, a baked potato and spinach salad. His dinner choice was broiled salmon, wild rice and butternut squash. Their waitress had suggested a pitcher of mulled apple cider, which proved to be the perfect beverage complement for the damp weather.

  Celia set down her mug of cider and touched the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin. “What do you want to know about me?” she asked Gavin.

  “Why do you hyphenate your last name?”

  Her gaze lingered on the skin pulled taut over the ridge of his high cheekbones. “My grandmother claimed she was a feminist decades before the women’s liberation movement when she opted not to drop her maiden name. The news didn’t sit well with her fiancé, but after a lengthy discussion with his future father-in-law, he gave in. I’d heard rumors that Samuel Cole bought the house in Palm Beach as a wedding gift after Noah Thomas agreed to the hyphenated surname.”

  Gavin smiled, his teeth dazzlingly white in his brown face. “Your great-grandfather sounds like quite a colorful character.”

  Celia shook her head. “He was a rogue. He fought in World War I and when he returned to the States he went to Cuba, hoping to buy a sugarcane plantation.”

  “Did he know anything about growing sugarcane?”

  “Samuel Cole was a farmer, as was his father and brothers. They’d begun growing cotton, then switched to soybeans well before it’d become a practice in this country. He never got to buy the plantation because of anti-American sentiment, but got something better out of the deal. He married the daughter of a Cuban cigar manufacturer.

  “Marguerite-Joséfina Isabel Diaz was cosseted, beautiful and quite the wild child. With her waist-length hair and dimpled smile she’d become the toast of Havana. She was attending the Universidad when the news that she’d posed for a noted artist wearing nothing more than a dressing gown reached her father. He ordered her home, and was in the process of finalizing an arranged marriage when Samuel offered to marry her.”

  “Are you certain you’re talking about the twentieth century?”

  Celia nodded. “You have to understand, I’m talking about pre-revolutionary Cuba where it was all about class. M.J.’s antics, as she insisted everyone call her, were an embarrassment to her upper class father, and he was afraid no self-respecting man would marry his daughter. Samuel married her and brought her back to Florida. She gave him four children, two sons and daughters, and he built her a twenty-four-room mansion in West Palm Beach. He expanded his agribusiness with a banana plantation in Costa Rica, and coffee plantations in Mexico, Puerto Rico and Jamaica. He’d managed to survive the Crash of 1929, and went on to become the first black billionaire in the United States. The total worth of ColeDiz International is a carefully guarded secret, because it is family-owned and privately held.”

  “Is your great-grandfather still alive?”

  “No, but my great-grandmother is. She will turn one hundred six at the end of the year. She’s somewhat frail and refuses to speak English. All she talks about is how she misses her Sammy and wants to see him.”

  “Is she in a nursing home?” Gavin asked.

  “Heaven forbid,” Celia sputtered. “She lives with her eldest son, who provides her with around-the-clock nursing care.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Gavin gave Celia a steady look. “So, you’re a trust-fund baby.”

  “Yes. However, that’s not something I advertise.”

  “But you told me.”

  Her left eyebrow lifted. “That’s because I know I can trust you not to tell my business. I checked you out.”

  It was training and years of undercover work for Gavin not to react to Celia’s statement. “When and how?” His voice was low, even and his expression hadn’t changed.

  “When you left to pick up your clothes, I went online and searched for listings of security companies in Charlotte, North Carolina. It took two calls to make contact with your cousins’ firm. They verified that you did work for them, but you were currently on vacation. Don’t look so put out, Gavin. After all, you did tell my brother he could have you checked out.”

  He wanted to tell Celia that his cousins were programmed to say he was on vacation whenever he went undercover. Only his mother, cousins and brother knew that he was a special agent with the FBI.

  Leaning forward, Gavin winked at her. “Do you trust me now?”

  Celia returned his wink. “I’ll have to think about it,” she teased, astonished at the sense of blissful carelessness that made her so reckless. Gavin Faulkner was good for her, and she knew by summer’s end, she would be more than ready to pick up the pieces of her life.

  Chapter 11

  Gavin pulled on a pair of gray-and-white-striped pajama pants, tightening the drawstring waist. Celia had invited him to a sleepover. It was to take place in her bedroom. Over dinner, she’d revealed facts and details about her family that would’ve taken Bureau investigators months to compile.

  Gavin felt a measure of guilt that Celia was able to speak freely about family secrets when he had to conceal his true identity. He’d told her what she needed to know about him. He was Gavin Tyrone Faulkner, born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina and thirty-seven years old. Everything else about him was classified. Picking up the charger to his cell phone, he plugged it into the device at the same time the phone rang.

  He punched a button. “Fau
lkner.”

  “Are you close to a TV?”

  “What’s up, Mac?”

  “Answer my question, Faulkner.”

  “Yes, I am. Why?”

  “Tune it to CNN.”

  Still holding the phone to his ear, Gavin walked to the sitting area and flipped on the television, punching in the numbers for the channel. He went completely still when listening to the news journalist give an account of breaking news.

  “What does this mean, Mac?” The prosecutor in the Miami hospital-E.R. shooting was missing, and the Bureau was treating it as a kidnapping because of a ransom demand.

  “Right now, we’re going over all of his former and upcoming cases to see if anyone has threatened him with retaliation.”

  Folding his long frame into a club chair, Gavin pressed a button on the remote, activating the closed-captioned feature. “What haven’t you told me, Mac? Do you think this has anything to do with Celia Cole-Thomas?”

  “We can’t verify anything right now. But, if there is a connection, then she’ll be under the protection of the U.S. Marshals. What I can tell you is that the guns used in the hospital shooting were stolen by the same bunch Raymond Prentice ran with and those gang bangers are working for a Miami drug cartel with a network spanning the length of the east coast.”

  “Are you saying the shooting is linked to OPERATION: Top Gun?”

  “Yes.”

  The seconds ticked when Gavin paused to collect his thoughts. “I’d like approval to provide protection for Dr. Thomas.”

  “You know…”

  “Mac, don’t say it. I know witness protection falls under the jurisdiction of the Marshals Service, but remember this is a joint task force operation.”

  “You have enough on your plate with Ray Prentice.”

  “I’ll bring Ray in. I will also turn Dr. Thomas over to the marshals once the date is set for the trial.”

  “What’s your stake in this, Faulkner?”

  A scowl marred Gavin’s attractive features. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Don’t get caught up in something from which you won’t be able to extricate yourself,” Bradley MacArthur warned. “Do not get involved with your witness.”