Checkmate

by Kris Norris

  She moved back to her throbbing clit, circling it with two, moist fingers, milking the thick cream from her body. She could feel his fingers there, larger than hers, rougher. Would he know how to touch her? How to ignite a fire so hot she’d beg him to take her?

  Let me make it good for you.

  She fell back on the mattress, consumed by images of Dawson loving her, hearing his voice, husky and raw, watching bolts of white light blur across her vision. God she was close. Her breathing increased and her chest heaved with anticipation. She inched her other hand across her torso, feeling the smooth skin quiver against her fingertips until she reached her breast. Her jaw clenched, her hips bucked, as she rolled her nipple between her fingers, squeezing until she wasn’t certain if it was pleasure or pain. Dawson’s touch had been gentler, a mixture of need and concern. She could tell by his soft words he didn’t want to hurt her, but she was far from fragile.

  She moved to the other side, pinching again, crying out in need before arching her hips upward, meeting each caress, fighting to prolong the climax. Her hand was moving in steady strokes, thrusting two fingers back and forth through her sex, brushing the rough patch of skin behind her pubic bone. A plume of heat spiraled from her stomach, igniting every cell as it raced through her body.

  “Yes!”

  Her breath hissed through her teeth, her body twisting on the bed. She could feel the orgasm building inside her, striking a path straight to her womb. Streaks filled her sight, dimming the room as the heat rose like a spiral inside her.

  “Dawson.”

  She moaned his name, imagining his fingers in place of hers. She could see his face. How the desire darkened his eyes, shadowed his face, as he bent down over her, licking every drop of honey coating her thighs, thrusting his fingers deep within her. His pursuit was relentless, his mission attainable. Every nerve arced, every inch of skin seemed electrified as she waited, perched on the edge.

  “Now.”

  Her body jerked, her fingers vibrated back and forth. There was nothing left to fight, no way to withhold the release she needed.

  One stroke…two…three…

  She exploded, arching her back, sinking two fingers inside, her palm pressed against her flesh. She felt the climax race over her, stealing her breath, thrashing her head against the pillow, as tears of frustration covered her cheek. She wanted to feel him move over her, his body hugging hers. Stare into his eyes as he nudged her legs apart, brushing the head of his cock against her sex. Feel the slow slide of her juices along his erection as he inched his way inside her, finally ridding her of the emptiness she’d grown accustomed to. She looked up at the ceiling as her vision darkened, the images blurring, until his face became a wash of colors lost in the fading abyss.

  He was gone.

  Kendall closed her eyes, cursing the hunger still gnawing at her. God, she wanted him even more now. Instead of easing the need, her orgasm had only intensified it…driven it to an even higher level. She rolled over, releasing a slow, steady breath, as the last flickers of pleasure tingled down her spine. She needed to think things through, to rationalize her feelings. To…

  Get a grip!

  She took a soothing breath. What she’d told Jody earlier was right. Dawson was here because it was his job. Of course there was the possibility he was attracted to her, but her fear over Trace was clouding her judgment. And her need for reassurance was transposing itself into sexual fantasy. He wasn’t falling in love with her. His desire to comfort was only natural. A deep seeded male instinct to help a woman in distress. Hell, the knights had made a living out of it. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  But his body was so warm, and his touch felt so right.

  “I thought you told me to get a grip!”

  Trust him.

  She wanted to. He’d given her no reason to doubt his sincerity. But she wasn’t sure she knew how. It meant surrendering to her fears and uncertainties…it meant allowing him to be strong for her.

  That’s what you want, more than anything. To be vulnerable without feeling weak.

  “Damn.”

  Kendall sighed and swung her feet to the floor. A new wave of desire pulsed through her as she padded to the closet, stealing a quick look back at the bed over her shoulder. She could still picture them together and just the thought of touching Dawson again fluttered the butterflies to life in her stomach. The intensity of the feeling unnerved her and she pushed the thoughts aside as she grabbed some clothes and shimmied into them. She should be concentrating on Trace, and how to stop Garrick, not on how the room heated up the moment Dawson walked into it. A breathy whimper feathered across her lips and she cursed the way her body warmed to the idea of having Dawson’s breath caress her skin. Bloody hell, but she was lost.

  Kendall mumbled to herself as she made her way downstairs, rehearsing the line she’d prepared in order to face Dawson again. She wasn’t sure how she was going to look at him without remembering the fantasy she’d created upstairs. His face, his touch, his voice. It’d all seemed so real, and no matter how hard she tried, the longing just wouldn’t go away. She walked into the kitchen, beginning the line even before she glanced up.

  “Look, Dawson…” She stopped. The man sitting at her table wasn’t Dawson, nor was it the man who’d barged into her room. She took two quick steps back. “Who are you?”

  The man looked up. “Ms. Walker, I presume,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Bill Williams. Dawson and Mitchell had to return to the office for a while. Dawson didn’t want you left alone in the house. He said he’d call later, and be back sometime tonight.” He motioned to the coffee pot. “Can I get you some coffee? You look like you could use it.”

  “No, thanks anyway.” She turned and headed for the back porch. She needed to clear her head, and get Dawson out of it.

  Dawson and Mitchell had to return to the office for a while.

  “What are you up to?” she asked, staring at the tree off the left side of the porch.

  Now smile, like you’re in love with me.

  She had to get him out of her head. Trace was the one who needed her. Dawson was more than capable of handling himself. So why was there a sick feeling in her stomach? He hadn’t left her side in almost a week, always claiming she wasn’t safe without him. What was so important he’d entrust her care to someone else, without so much as a simple explanation?

  Something’s wrong.

  She nodded, wishing the voice in her head would shut up. What?

  Garrick.

  Chapter Eleven

  “That’s the alley,” said Mitchell, pointing off to his left. “The door is all the way at the end.”

  “He wants to be able to see his enemies coming. He’ll have cameras and sensors, and there’s a chance the place will be wired.” Dawson glanced at Mitchell.

  “You’re telling me like I don’t know any of this,” said Mitchell. “I did read up on the guy, remember?”

  “I hope you read the part that said he’s a genius when it comes to hunting people down.”

  “Yeah. But this time, we’re the ones doing the hunting.”

  Dawson sighed. He wished he felt as confident as Mitchell, but something about this place didn’t feel right.

  It’s just like the place you were taken.

  It’d been so long ago, but the feelings returned as if it’d happened just yesterday. The smell of urine and blood…the cold sting of the drainpipe against his skin…the unforgiving darkness.

  But I survived, he told himself, and so can Trace. He turned to Mitchell. “You ready?”

  “Ladies first.” Mitchell grinned when Dawson smirked at him, and motioned his friend forward with his hand.

  Dawson inched his way down the narrow street. The place reeked, and it took all his control not to gag over the stench. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding the soggy pieces of cardboard shoved up against the walls, as he watched the end of the alley. He stopped just shy of the do
or, Mitchell at his heels. “Camera, above the door.”

  Mitchell nodded. He took out his gun, screwing the silencer in place. “We won’t have much time after I take it out.”

  “Then I suggest we don’t linger.”

  Mitchell grinned, aimed and fired. He hit the camera dead center, smashing the lens.

  “Nice shot,” said Dawson as he darted ahead, jammed his pick in the lock and turned the handle, stepping inside. The room was dark and cold, and hidden beneath a thick layer of dust. There were a bunch of boxes piled in the corner, and a single chair in the center of the room. The place appeared deserted, and smelt as if it’d been abandoned for months.

  “Check the boxes,” said Dawson.

  Mitchell nodded and headed to the corner. He opened them, rummaging through the contents. “They’re filled with papers and photographs,” he said, returning to Dawson’s side. “Look familiar?”

  Dawson glanced at the photos in Mitchell’s hands. They were pictures of Trace and Kendall. One had been taken at their last race. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Looks like there’s something on the floor by the chair.” Mitchell took three steps forward. He picked up the article, his expression grim. “Wasn’t Trace wearing a shirt like this when Garrick took him?”

  Dawson grabbed the shirt. It still had their team number pinned on the back. “It’s his.”

  “It’s been cut, and there’s quite a bit of blood.”

  “Not enough to kill him,” assured Dawson. “He might still be here.” He motioned to the back.

  Mitchell ran ahead, sticking to the left side of the doorway. He peeked through and waved at Dawson. Dawson followed, darting through the opening and down the hall. There was another door at the end, light filtering through the small crack by the floor.

  “Garrick’s in there,” whispered Mitchell.

  “On three.” Dawson mouthed the numbers, his hand wrapped around the doorknob. When he reached three, he threw open the door and rolled across the floor. Dust and debris floated through the air as he swept his gun around the room. He stood up. “Dammit! Empty.”

  “Looks like he got wise and moved.”

  “Search everything. He had to go somewhere, and we need to know where before our time runs out.”

  “It already has,” said Garrick, his dark voice echoing through the room.

  Dawson turned as a rain of bullets filled the air. He saw Mitchell dive for cover as the first bullet hit his arm, splattering blood across the wall. He felt his body fly through the air just before the floor exploded, and darkness descended.

  * * * *

  Kendall sat by the phone, waiting. It’d been hours since Dawson had left, and still no phone call. “What are you doing?” She relaxed back on the couch. “You told Williams you’d call.” She sighed. Why was she worrying? What did it matter if he called or not? After all, she was his job, not his wife. Besides, he wasn’t even her type. He was competitive, sarcastic, and expected to get his way far too often.

  He sounds like you.

  “Shut up,” she hissed. She was far too tired to argue with herself. And Dawson would only laugh if he knew she was waiting by the phone, pining for him. “I’m not pining,” she said aloud, hoping the sound of the words would convince her. She was just concerned for his well-being. What would she do if he got hurt and was unable to train?

  The training has nothing to do with it.

  “Stop being right!” She didn’t care about the training, she was worried he’d get himself killed, and she’d be left alone.

  You’re not alone. You still have Trace.

  Did she? What if Dawson was right? What if she wanted Trace to be alive for her own sanity? So she wouldn’t have to admit Garrick had beaten her.

  Sleep.

  She yawned. Dawson was bound to show up sometime tonight, and she’d get some answers then. She curled up on the couch, the phone still waiting on the table.

  * * * *

  Dawson flung open the door and stormed into the house. His arm was on fire, and his head felt heavy.

  “You should sit down,” cautioned Mitchell, stepping through the doorway. “Before you fall down.”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. He took a step forward, swaying to his right.

  “Easy there, buddy,” said Mitchell, helping him to the bench beside the door. “You’re lucky you were wearing a vest, or you’d be dead right now.” He opened Dawson’s shirt. Dawson had three cuts on his left ribcage and a large purple welt across his chest. “Damn! That’s going to hurt tomorrow.”

  “It hurts now.”

  Mitchell grimaced. “I thought he’d gotten you when the floor exploded.”

  “So did I. Never would’ve guessed the bullets would knock me out of the way.”

  “You should’ve gotten that arm stitched. I’m not sure the bandages will stop the bleeding.”

  “It’ll be enough.” Dawson stood up.

  “You really should sit down.”

  “I already told you I’m fine.” Dawson headed for the kitchen. He’d gotten halfway there when he saw Kendall asleep on the living room couch. His heart sank. She’d never forgive him for this.

  Mitchell stopped behind him. “She’s beautiful, I’ll give you that much.”

  “She’s going to be angrier than hell.”

  “We did what we had to, Dawson.”

  “We screwed up!”

  “No, we made an executive decision that almost caught that son of a bitch.”

  Dawson moved back to the entry. He didn’t want to wake Kendall…not that way. “The key word is almost, Mitchell, and in this situation, almost wasn’t good enough.”

  “Dammit, what’s wrong with you? We make these calls all the time. Have you forgotten how they got you out when you were the victim?”

  “Don’t throw that in my face. I know how lucky I was! So don’t pretend like it’s something I could ever forget. But this situation is completely different. We shouldn’t have tried to blindside Garrick.” He slammed his fist against the door. “We underestimated him, and now Trace will pay for our mistake.”

  “You still believe Trace Walker is alive?”

  “After tonight, I know he is.”

  “Man, she sure has you tied around her finger. I’ve never seen you this messed up before.”

  “This has nothing to do with Kendall. But for the record, she’s been right all along. We should’ve listened to her.”

  “Yeah, because she’s the expert with all the training. Jesus, Dawson, get your head out of your pants and start thinking like an agent.”

  Dawson glared at Mitchell, backing the man against the door.

  The phone rang.

  Dawson stopped dead. “No!”

  He ran to the living room, hoping to answer it before Kendall stirred. He rounded the corner just as she jolted awake, grabbing the handset even before her eyes were open.

  “Hello?” Her voice was raspy, and a full octave lower than usual.

  “That was stupid, Kendall. Very stupid!”

  “What?” She fumbled with the phone, catching it before it bounced off the table. “Who is this…what did you say?” She looked up, startled by Dawson’s gruff stature.

  “Don’t try to be coy with me, it doesn’t suit you.”

  The man’s voice was sinister and cold, with a distinct drawl. She took a sharp breath. “Garrick.” She looked back at Dawson. He’d grabbed the other extension, holding it to his ear. He looked nervous, or was it scared.

  “Well it’s about time. What’s the matter, Kendall, surprised to hear from me? Did you think your little ploy would work?”

  “You’re not making any sense. What ploy?” Fear gripped her. “What have you done with Trace?”

  “Oh, nothing yet. I wanted to call you first, so you’d know the exact moment I cut your brother’s throat! Say goodbye, Kendall.”

  “No! Garrick, wait! I don’t understand a thing you’re saying! Please, just talk to me!”

  “Don�
�t feign ignorance, you’re not good at it.”

  Kendall wanted to scream. She felt so lost, like she’d woken up in the middle of a dream. She looked back at Dawson. His face was smudged with dirt and there was blood on his shirt. Her heart stopped. “They came after you.”

  “I thought you were smarter than to send anyone. I told you Trace would pay if you did, and now he’ll die…slowly.”

  “No, please. I swear. I had nothing to do with what happened. I didn’t send them.”

  “There’s no way they could’ve tracked me down without your help. Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying! Dammit, if I knew where you were I would’ve been the one on your doorstep holding the fucking gun!” She pulled the phone away. She had to get back in control, or Trace would die…tonight.

  Garrick snickered into the phone. “Then I guess you missed your one chance at me. I’ll leave directions for where you can find the body. See you round.”

  She panicked. If she didn’t say something fast, he’d hang up, and she’d lose Trace forever. “I’ll do anything you want.” The words came out in a heated rush, and her stomach clenched as soon as she realized what she was offering him.

  A pause. She could hear him breathing…thinking.

  “You’d never give in so easily. I know you too well.”

  “You also know I’ll do anything to save Trace. Name your price.”

  “The price has always been the same. You know what I want from you. You’ve known for some time. Ever since I gave you that special package.”

  Her lip quivered and she felt the blood drain from her face. “I know what you want.”

  “Are you offering that to me? Willingly?”

  She swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. “I am.”

  “Well now,” he gloated. “Things just got a bit more interesting. But how can I trust you to keep your word?”

  “I’ll keep my word as long as you promise not to hurt Trace.”

  “You trust me?”

  “No. But you haven’t given me much of a choice, have you? Just remember one thing. If you put so much as a scratch on him, you’ll never get what you want. And that would kill you, wouldn’t it? To not get what you’ve been hunting for.”