“Before. His need for control escalated. He became almost desperate. Do you think it was when Roszca started pressuring him for agency information?”
He dropped her hand and shoved to his feet. Do you still love the bastard? How could you? But that might be too harsh. “Dammit, Janna, are you still making excuses for him?”
“I just want to understand.” She rose and stood at the railing beside him. The light breeze lifted her hair.
Her plaintive plea squeezed his heart. He understood. This woman, curious above all else, would naturally want answers. “Aw, hell, sweetheart, why did you stay with him?”
“Do you remember when you came to tell me Gabe was dead?”
“Yeah, but what—?”
“Bear with me. That was two days after the hospital released me from the burn unit — a week after he accused me of flirting with a lab colleague and shoved me onto the gas grill. I told you the two suitcases by the door were clothing for charity. That was a lie.”
“You were leaving him.”
“What Dr. French had been saying finally sank in. He wasn’t going to change, except to become more violent. She arranged for me to stay at a women’s shelter until I found a place.”
He suddenly saw her actions and reactions in a new light. “But his death as a hero changed everything.”
“I unpacked my bags and pretended to grieve. What I really felt was profound relief.” She paused, sobs choking her voice. “And shame.”
Once again, she was crying. And once again, he drew her into his arms for comfort. This time, her arms came around him, and she held on like a bareback rider on a runaway horse.
“You couldn’t bring yourself to shatter the hero’s image. I get it.” The burden of his abuse had lifted, but a new burden weighed her down.
The hero’s brave widow.
She didn’t reply, but clung to him with breathy sighs, surrounding him with heat and softness, igniting his senses and arousing possessive instincts. Her breath feathered against his neck. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest in rhythm with the boat’s rocking. The pulses of the tropical night throbbed in his blood.
When she lifted her face, he saw the same heat in her eyes. “Simon.”
“Janna, I…” His words trailed off as his body thrummed with need for her. She’d suffered more than he’d ever know and remade herself with courage and determination. He didn’t deserve to touch her, but he couldn’t help himself.
He lowered his mouth to hers, and they met with heated urgency. Compassion, fear and fury for what she’d suffered slid into tenderness and then into passion. Heat simmered between them, and her sweetness flooded him with the rich flavor of wine and the sizzle of the tropical sun at high noon. The urges he’d fought for weeks — months — flared from banked coals into flaming arousal.
He had no right to make love to her, to even kiss her and hold her. He’d failed her. He should stop. But he wanted her with an ache greater than any need he’d ever known.
If she made any move to withdraw, he’d back off even if it gelded him.
Janna held herself stiff in Simon’s arms, expecting the panic to tighten her chest and race her heart. But instead, his touch made her senses reel. She’d existed in a state of numbness for so long that the lush sensations surprised her.
The gentle circle of his arms and the firmness of his hard body against her. The hot, wild taste of his mouth, enriched with the wine they’d shared. The brush of his whiskers against her cheek and chin. His heartbeat, steady and strong, against her breast as he deepened the kiss.
Excitement streaked through her, leaving a long, soft ripple of pleasure in its wake. Currents of desire sluiced through her, loosening her thigh muscles and pulsing dampness between her legs. She thought she’d never feel arousal again, but this was Simon. Simon, whose gentle caring had opened her soul enough to trust him with her confession.
When he whispered her name, she sighed in response. The exhalation passed from her parted lips into his mouth. Feeling bold, she probed his tongue.
He emitted a low, inarticulate sound of satisfaction. When his thumb brushed across the tight pinnacles of her breasts, heat spiraled through her body. He caressed her, massaging one hand down her breasts and drawing a fingertip across the nipples. The hard ridge of his arousal surged against her belly.
Steamy heat licked through her. She pressed closer, rubbing her fingertips over the contours of his muscles through the thin shirt fabric. At last free to explore his body, she caressed his shoulders, slid her palms down his firm biceps. She lost herself in him, in feelings, her mind emptied of thought. “Simon,” she whispered against his mouth.
Abruptly, his lips left hers and he ended the embrace.
Bereft, she nearly moaned. “What’s the ma—?”
The low rumble of a boat engine penetrated her sensual fog. She sought air to clear her head.
“The patrol. Keep back.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and tucked her beneath the shadow of the flying bridge.
“But why? They’d see your boat bunny.” From her protected position behind him, she watched the running lights as Roszca’s guards reduced speed to return to the cove.
Silhouetted against the dock lights, the boat and its occupants flickered like an old black-and-white movie. One man jumped out to tie up the motorboat. After the engine noise and the boat lights died, two more men climbed out. In another moment, the dock emptied.
“You’re safer if they don’t see you at all. That was a whisker too close.” He turned to her, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. His lips, taut with tension, still glistened from their kiss. Sweat beaded his forehead. “Besides, I forgot where I was. That can’t happen again. It’s too dangerous.”
“What can’t happen again? Forgetting? Or kissing?” Her uncharacteristic boldness shocked her, but she liked feeling again and wanted more.
As insane as it was, she wanted Simon.
He dragged a hand through his hair, further mussing it. An exasperated sigh escaped him, and he stepped farther away. “Either. Both. Aw, Janna, you and me, together — it’s not a good idea. And not just because of this gig.”
She folded her arms, trying not to tremble. How could she explain what she barely understood? “You may be right. We’re very different. I have some heavy baggage. I just know that talking to you about my marriage has freed a part of me that’s been frozen harder than a crashed PC. Then kissing you … well, I felt again.”
“Q, I’m not the one to help you heal. For that, go to your counselor.” His expression went blank, but his husky voice betrayed emotion.
He usually called her Q to put professional distance between them. It wasn’t working. For either of them.
“Kissing Dr. French won’t have the same effect.” She gave him a shaky smile.
“You don’t want me, not really.” He stood legs apart, hands fisted at his side in a combat-ready pose. “It’s just a reaction, a rebound thing. You don’t want a guy who doesn’t do relationships. I screwed up our friendship the last time. I’d only hurt you again. No. No way. It won’t work.”
Screwed up the last time. Did he mean backing off after she’d scared him off? Or was it something else? His desire had been obvious. He wanted her, and she wanted … she wasn’t sure what. Yet.
This time, Dr. French couldn’t help her. She had to sort through her maze of feelings and thoughts alone. But the hour was late, and her system had lost all GHz, and her RAM was overloaded. Something her neighbor Deena, an experienced man magnet, had told her popped into her head. Always leave ’em guessing.
Channeling Deena, she affected a nonchalant shrug. “Then let’s be friends again. If you think we can.”
“Friends,” he repeated, his gaze searching the yacht as though counting the days they must remain alone together. “Yeah. Friends it is.”
“Thanks for a great dinner. See you in the morning.” She summoned a bright smile and a wa
ve.
She paused at the companionway bottom to look back.
He stood where she’d left him, planted in the middle of the deck, brow furrowed, gaze unfocused and the fingers of one hand on his lips.
***
Late the next morning, Simon prepared to motor to the island compound with more bugs to plant, along with a miniature camera.
Standing beneath the flying bridge, Janna looked delectable in another bikini, an eye-popping pink flowered number. The sight was enough to roast him more than the sun searing his head and shoulders. The breeze hadn’t come up, and sultry air blanketed him like a fever.
Last night’s encounter had him on edge. He felt like a stallion around her, testosterone on the hoof. But no horse was ever burdened with the misgivings that had kept him awake for hours in the sauna his cabin had become.
Dammit. He couldn’t deal with that now. He had a job to do.
Thinking of Janna as his tech officer would help douse his hots for her. For now. Consulting her expertise reined him in.
“The chess game should open the door to more competition,” she said, pulling him back to reality.
“Like a yacht race,” he said. “Roszca’s keeping a poker face on that notion. I can’t read him. Got any other ideas for tricking him into leaving the island?”
“He seems hunkered down until after his nuke summit. Too bad the AD couldn’t come up with an old map of the pirate tunnels. A team could sneak inside in the middle of the night.” She twirled an imaginary pirate mustache.
He considered the suggestion. “Not a good idea, even if they had a map. If the tunnels exist, he has them wired for security. He’d have time to wipe out the computer.”
“Too bad. You have to admit, it would make for a terrific headline. Are you all set then?”
“About the chess game,” Simon said. “I’m only a fair chess player. My instincts say to give Roszca a challenge, but to let him win in the end. Jack Thorne agreed.”
“And you’re not sure you’re up to it? After your sit rep, what did he say about Roszca’s game?”
He flopped down on a deck chair. “Roszca plays in tournaments. Has trophies.”
Janna grinned. “I know some Internet chess sites. Roszca will use the algebraic chess notation. Do you know it?”
“Algebraic? Yeah, I know it. Coordinates for the squares, like a1 and e5, instead of the old descriptions, like Queen’s Knight 1. What will you do, talk me through the moves?” He hoped like hell that would work.
“Exactly.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Um, that is, if you want.” She ducked her head and averted her gaze to the sun-dappled water.
Her trapped look and shrinking-violet reaction made him blink. After a moment, he got it. Saint Gabriel strikes again.
Tamping down the white-hot emotion inside, he spoke in a low voice. “Did Gabe resent your brains?”
She inhaled, dragging in the heavy air bit by bit as if panic was suffocating her. Finally, her response threaded out seemingly on a fine strand of nerves. “He said that a wife should defer to her husband’s authority. At first, he claimed to admire my intelligence and my degrees. He was no slouch in the brains department.”
“If your abilities threatened him, his own are sure as hell in question.” Simon crossed the deck and gently turned her to face him. “But go on. What did he do?”
“He’d say that I was acting like a know-it-all. That I was only a geek and knew nothing about real life. He’d yell and…” Her breath hitched and tears glistened, but she blinked them away.
“It’s all right. You can say it.”
“Sometimes, he would grab me by my braid and throw me down.” She reached a tentative hand to her short hair. “Once, he dragged me across the bedroom floor.”
“For the record, to me, intelligence is a turn-on, not a threat.” He skated a palm over her hair and down the curved layers, sleeker than a filly’s flank. To soothe, not to intimidate. “So after he died, you cut your braid.”
“I’ll never again let anyone use my hair as a weapon against me.”
“I like your hair this way, a short, silky mane.”
She chuckled. “Only you could compare me with a horse and make it a compliment.”
Her laugh reassured him. When she turned around, he saw amusement and desire in her eyes.
She swayed toward him, her lips parted for his kiss. Need burned him. What choice did he have — spending the day sweaty and naked with her or playing games with a slimy international arms dealer?
No choice. And even if he could scratch Roszca from the race, he needed to resist. He’d only hurt her again, not the way her son of a bitch husband had hurt her, but he had nothing of himself to give her. Bonds, even romantic ones, were temporary. He learned that the hard way. She’d packed to leave Gabe. She would leave him. If he was dumb enough to let her get close.
Besides, he had the twitchy feeling that, in spite of everything, she still loved the bastard. Mourned him, at least. Why else did finding out what he’d told Roszca obsess her?
He backed away. “Time to go. During the chess game, I’ll describe the moves. Roszca will believe I’m thinking out loud. If I need help, I’ll give a ‘hmm.’ ”
On a shaky smile, she flipped him a mock salute. “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready with cyber strategies.”
Afraid she’d kiss him for luck, he stalked to the stern and scooted down the gangway to the dinghy.
Chapter 14
JANNA PRESSED THE headphones to her ears as Roszca showed Simon around the sprawling estate. She grinned at Simon’s hyperbole over this exquisite vase or that pricey painting. Lights blinked green on the monitor’s house diagram as he planted bugs in the dining room and formal living room.
Perfect.
If the hulking bodyguards were watching, his sleight of hand escaped their scrutiny. She clicked the mouse to connect each device to its voice-activated recorder.
The camera, Simon, where will you put that?
As the two men lingered outside near the guest cottages, she searched for her link to the chess site that would guide her. Once she found the page, her attention turned inward.
Friends with Simon? Maybe. Maybe more.
He was romantic, tender, funny and sexy. He respected her, even asked her for help. His openness reassured her that not all men wanted to control a woman’s life. She could trust him, even if he did have that streak of macho protectiveness. He tempted her to consider breaking her solitary, no-men rule. But Simon had his rules too, and relationships didn’t fit in.
They were alike in that way. As a boy, he’d had to become a loner to survive hurt and loss. The man used his rebel cockiness to protect himself from more hurt, much the same way she used the boring clothes and glasses.
Did the chemistry between them threaten the mission and the independence each guarded? Maybe. Maybe not. Whether they acted on their desires or not, the tension between them was a distraction in itself.
On the personal side, more than healing, her attraction to him was morphing into more than caring, more than friendship. Having her heart broken would be worth the chance to feel again, to be a normal woman.
For Simon, sex with her would mean a fling. He’d move on once he returned to the States and his normal routine. So why was he resisting? When he said he’d screwed up their friendship before, he meant more than backing off. She was sure of it. When he coaxed her to reveal the truth about her marriage, what was it he said?
I failed to make a difference when a friend ran into trouble.
Guilt. There was the reason. She’d wallowed in guilt for not fixing her marriage and for allowing the abuse. Now Simon took on the burden of guilt because he didn’t save her. Simon, her protector, felt he failed her.
For so long, she felt nothing. Only emptiness punctuated by the occasional panic reaction. But now a sense of euphoria and a warm flutter in her stomach made her giddy.
His unfounded guilt
was a problem she could solve. Tonight—
“Pawn to e4,” Simon said, jerking her from her thoughts to the first move of the chess game.
“Interesting opening.” Viktor Roszca’s accented voice came farther from Simon’s collar microphone but clear enough.
Simon’s host had adhered to etiquette and allowed him the white pieces and first move. She waited, hands poised on the keyboard, for Roszca’s countermove.
A moment later, she heard Simon’s commentary. “Black pawn to c5. Hmm.”
So soon? First move? She straightened. She pictured him leaning thoughtfully over the board as he contemplated his next move. She keyed in the two moves and waited for the computer to offer a strategy.
The next move came with a link that read Sicilian Defense. When she scanned the paragraph of notation that popped up, she nearly fell out of her seat.
“Okay, Simon, hang on to your hat. Your move is c3,” she said into his earring receiver.
For the next hour, the game followed the pattern and strategy set by the Website. With two exceptions, when the other man veered from the expected. But each time, the chess site came up with a countermove.
When Simon conveyed to her that each player was down to a small number of pieces, she said, “Time to lose.”
His competitive equality had done the job of raising Roszca’s respect level. If they played again, Simon could win, but this game belonged to his host. But not by much, she vowed, giving him the next move for white.
In a few more moves, black had maneuvered so that he had several ways to defeat white. As she’d planned, white had no real way to attack black.
“Well played, sir,” Simon said, conceding defeat.
Chairs scraped on the marble floor as the men stood.
“An impressive game, Simon,” Roszca said, his booming voice layered with esteem. “I see you are a student of the game as well as a fine player. You must join me in one of the little tournaments I enter from time to time. For amusement only, you understand.”
“I’d be honored.” Momentary silence. “I see you’re a man who enjoys competition. Even a small wager. Your yacht, the Prowler, looks like a fast boat.”
Dark Rules (The DARK Files Book 3) Page 11