Killing Time oj-1

by Cindy Gerard

  “There’s a reason there aren’t any mirrors in here.” Her mouth pulled tight when she saw his grin. “Okay fine. Get it over with.”

  “You look, darling wife, like a subservient, Kool-Aid–drinking disciple of the UWD doctrine. And better you than me, by the way. I don’t think I could run in that thing.”

  “But oh, wouldn’t I love to see you try.” She gave him a tight smile. “I itch all over. How do those poor women wear this stuff in this heat?”

  “Guess you’re going to find out,” he said with a sympathetic smile. She was, unfortunately, going to find out a lot of things before this was over. He thought of Simmons touching her today when he’d searched her. How Bryant had watched her every move. How the women of the camp worked like dogs while the men played soldier.

  “For the record, you’ve been a rock through all this.”

  She scowled. “What did you expect? That’d I’d fall apart and start crying for my mommy?”

  “Actually I thought I might do that. I still might. Hold me?”

  He couldn’t quite pull off the hat trick; this time she didn’t smile. She made a twirling motion with her index finger instead. “I’m getting out of this itch fest.”

  She wanted him to turn around? Seriously? Seemed a little like closing the barn door after the horse got out, but his momma hadn’t raised no dummy, so he did what he was told. She had good reason to be on edge. He wasn’t going to add to her tension.

  Back turned, he thought about strategy instead of the sound of her rummaging around in her duffel for the T-shirt and boxers that she’d brought along to sleep in.

  He thought about slipping outside when the camp was asleep for a little look-see. He thought about the meal that had been limited but surprisingly good: honey-cured ham on fresh-baked bread and fresh spinach salad. He thought about the communal shower and how the last time he’d used one, he’d been in the military. Which made him think about the One-Eyed Jacks. And Taggart. And Cooper.

  And he thought about how badly he wanted to nail Lawson.

  But when he heard the sound of a heavy wool skirt hit the floor, all of his carefully schooled good intentions and diversion tactics dropped with it.

  Suddenly everything he thought about was totally hot and totally wrong. Like the fact that she might now be standing naked behind him, in transition between itchy wool and soft, worn cotton. All he could picture was that double bed with the plain white spread and creaky springs, which he’d discovered earlier when he’d tested it for firmness. And he thought about how small that bed was for a man his size, when that man was expected to keep his distance from a woman who looked like her. From a woman whose skin was as supple and soft as satin, whose body was responsive and giving and…

  “You can turn around now.”

  There was nothing else in the cabin to look at. No TV. No computer. No distractions. There was only her. And she was magnificent.

  “Lord, you’re beautiful.”

  She was wearing the same T-shirt and boxers he’d taken off her two nights ago. The marriage of the memory and the reality combined to give him some serious issues in a certain area of his body that had a tendency to swell in her presence.

  Once more with feeling: Little head, big trouble.

  It didn’t help that the glasses were gone. She’d shaken her hair out of that confining elastic; it curled softly over her shoulders and down her back. And speaking of unconfined—she’d ditched her bra. And her feet were bare. And he was suddenly sinking fast.

  He could blame it on the adrenaline. On the very dicey situation they were in. All of his senses were overloaded and ready to stage a riot. It stood to reason he’d be revved in the testosterone area.

  Or, he could own up to the truth. This wasn’t all about raging hormones and randy sex. This was way bigger. And damn scary. He’d fallen in love with this woman.

  And he still didn’t know how it had happened. It sure as hell didn’t make sense. Especially in just three days, give or take a period of unconsciousness or two.

  “You don’t pick the time, Grasshopper. The time picks you.”

  Again with the Confucius voice invading his head?

  He needed to snap out of this, fast. Despite her studied reserve, he caught definite vibes that she had a few issues with this captive-in-a-box intimacy, too.

  He needed to fix that. And he only knew one way to go about it.

  “Any chance you’d do a guy a solid favor and put those woolies back on?”

  Another attempt to make her laugh. But clearly, she did not find him amusing. “Seriously? We’re being held hostage while an anarchist decides whether he’s going to kill us or recruit us, and you’re thinking about sex?”

  If it was easier for her to pretend this was just about sex, then hey, he’d give her that to hold on to. “I’m a guy. I always think about sex.”

  She gave him a look, turned back the covers, and climbed into bed. End of discussion.

  “Just make sure you stay on your side and keep your hands to yourself, or I’m going to cry foul,” he grumbled—and right then the lights went out.

  27

  Deep breaths. Forced yawns. Meditation. None of it worked. Eva couldn’t get to sleep. It didn’t help that Brown lay awake beside her. On top of the covers. Fully clothed. On his side, facing away from her. They’d played this “pretend to sleep” game for over an hour now and it wasn’t working for either of them.

  She knew he’d been kidding about the sex issue—sort of.

  But she wasn’t laughing, because he wasn’t the only one having trouble. That metaphorical elephant was way bigger than this damn bed. And as wired as she was on a combination of adrenaline, anticipation, and a healthy dose of apprehension, she didn’t see sleep coming anytime soon.

  It didn’t help to know that one word, one touch, was all it would take to put them both out of their misery.

  Would that be such a bad thing?

  Yeah. It would. The fact that she even entertained thoughts about going there showed how wrong her thinking was.

  “We will finish this… When this is over, we will figure this out and we will finish it.”

  Threat? Promise? His words had hovered at the fringe of her conscious thoughts since he’d had his moment and kissed her.

  Frustrated, she sat up and propped the pillow behind her head. She stared into the dark, stared down at his utterly still form, and gave it up.

  “What do you think the chances are of Lawson finding us out?”

  For a moment she thought he would keep up the pretense of sleep, but then he let out a perturbed sigh and rolled to his back. “About the same as me getting any sleep, if this is the start of a game of twenty questions.”

  Well, good. That made it the both of them who were cranky. “I thought you were going to sneak out and do some recon.”

  “And I will,” he gritted out, stacking his hands behind his head. “Once they lift the twenty-four-hour guard. All I want to do right now is sleep.”

  She snorted. “Liar.”

  “It doesn’t count as a lie if you’re trying to do the right thing.”

  Oh, God. Why did she always want to laugh at his stupid comments?

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked into the dark.

  “Like you don’t know.”

  Silence. Then, “Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

  That might be a good idea. “No.”

  More silence. Then in a very soft voice, “Do you want me to sleep on you?”

  She would not laugh. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “What is wrong with us? I mean, it’s not like we’re sixteen and shacked up at the local Holiday Inn on prom night. There are high stakes here. If these people find out who we are, they’re going to kill us.”

  “So,” he said after the quiet had settled again, “what do you know about shacking up on prom night?”

  “Damn it, Brown. Stop with the jokes.”

  “I wasn�
�t joking. Well, not about sleeping on top of you.”

  She expelled a deep breath. “All right. You know what? Let’s just do this. How’s that for an engraved invitation? Maybe it’ll relieve the tension and we can finally get some sleep.”

  “You want a tension reliever, take a Valium.”

  “Seriously? You’re turning me down?”

  She blinked down at him in the dark.

  “You haven’t asked me nice yet.”

  She growled in frustration. “Everything’s a game to you, isn’t it?”

  He moved so fast, she flinched as he rolled over, hiked up on an elbow, and looked up at her. “You think this is a game?” His somber tone sent her heart pounding. “You think I make it a habit of getting stupid over a woman? That I turn myself inside out drumming up reasons not to have sex?”

  She didn’t even know what to say. She could only stare at his moonlit face. His beautiful, tortured face.

  “Well, how’s this for not playing games? You scare me to death, Eva. You… make me feel things… and want things… and realize that I need things I’ve never let myself need before.”

  He sat up, then pressed his forehead against hers and let out a breath that spoke of longing and frustration. His voice held a sincerity she had never expected. “Look. I know this is sudden. I know you might not be totally over Ramon. I know that I’m a constant reminder of that part of your life. It sucks. For both of us.

  “I also know,” he went on, pressing the softest kiss on her temple and making her melt a little at his tenderness, “that a thousand obstacles stand between us and the finish line with Lawson. But I’m going to get you out of here. We’re both going to get out of here and accomplish Mission One, which is to expose Lawson for what he did in Afghanistan. I don’t want to muck that up by adding sex to the mix.”

  He’d managed to silence her again. And make her feel bereft when he rolled to his side with his back to her again.

  “Oh. And for future reference, ‘let’s just do this’ is an ultimatum, not an invitation. I don’t do real well with ultimatums these days.”

  For several long moments, she sat there. Processing what he’d said, mulling over how she felt about it. He was right. There were a thousand obstacles standing between them and their goal.

  But there was nothing lying between them in this bed, and the one thing she was sure about was that she wanted him. Wanted this devastatingly gorgeous man who was funny and sincere and conflicted, and so, so much more than she had thought he was.

  She wasn’t going to think about this any longer. It was a no-brainer. She peeled her T-shirt over her head, shimmied out of her boxers, and pressed herself full-length against his back.

  His skin was fire hot when she tunneled her hand up under his shirt and spread her fingers over his flat abdomen.

  “Eva,” he warned on a low growl and covered her hand with his, stilling it as she slid it toward the snap on his jeans.

  “Shh,” she whispered, pressing her lips against his nape. “This is me, asking nice.”

  He turned toward her then, his big hand finding her bare hip and squeezing. “You sure about this?”

  “Um… I’m naked. So yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

  To erase any doubt on his part, she wedged her hand inside his pants and, with a thrill that shot through her like electricity, found him, hard and hot and pulsing.

  “Well,” he said on a groan as she squeezed her fingers around him, “since you asked so nice.”

  She laughed, then gasped when he flipped her to her back and found her breast with his mouth.

  She held him there, knotted her hands in the coarse silk of his hair and showed him with a whimper how much she loved what he was doing to her. His mouth… she hitched in a breath and arched into him… his mouth was ravenous. His tongue masterful as he flicked it over her nipple, never letting up on the suction, finessing her to an edge that was sharp and thrilling.

  “You drive me crazy,” he murmured, trailing kisses between her breasts to her other nipple, which he sucked and lightly bit and tugged into his mouth with equal measures of greed and gratification.

  When he pulled away to shed his clothes she helped him, frantically working the snap on his pants and lowering the zipper. He left the bed long enough to strip to the skin, dig around inside his duffel—thank God he’d brought condoms—and lay back down beside her.

  “I know we talked about me sleeping on you,” he said, handing her the packet.

  God love him, he was irrepressible. And she loved it. She pushed to her knees, then threw a leg over his hips and straddled him.

  “Don’t. Move,” he ground out as she settled herself over him.

  “Yeah… like that’s a possibility.”

  He laughed and groaned and circled her waist with his hands and held her down on him—open and vulnerable and weak with desire for him.

  Holding the packet between her teeth, she ground herself against him, loving the feel of him hot and damp and thick against her. Loving the ache that built in her belly, making her wet and wanting to forget the condom and feel him move inside her, skin on skin.

  He reached between them, caressed her clitoris with his thumb, and she almost came in his hand.

  “Mike…” She whispered his name on a sigh. She lifted her hips and reached for him. She wanted him inside. She wanted him there now.

  “Oh, no.” He gripped her waist and lifted her, then pressed a kiss against her pubic mound.

  “I can’t…” She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t stop him, didn’t want to, as he lifted her higher, guided her knees above his shoulders, then buried his mouth in her heat.

  It was like riding out an electrical storm, all fire flashes and lightning bolts and turbulence. She groped for the headboard, desperate to ground herself. She clamped her fingers around it and hung on as he took her through a vortex of sensation she wasn’t sure she would survive.

  His tongue was relentless as he probed and plied and sucked, until she pressed her mouth against her arm to keep from screaming.

  And still he licked and suckled, until the insane pleasure burst in an explosion too perfect to comprehend.

  She was crying softly by the time he drew her down his body and wrapped himself around her, while she trembled and fought for a breath that wasn’t a sob.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here,” he whispered against her hair, “and guess that that was good for you.”

  She weakly pounded once on his chest. “Shut up. You know you destroyed me.”

  He cupped her head in his big hands and kissed her hair. “In a good way, right?”

  She found the strength to push up to an elbow. “You can’t help yourself. You have to gloat, don’t you?”

  He skimmed his fingertips along her shoulder. “I didn’t think you could possibly look more beautiful.” Trailed his fingers through hair that had been tangled by his hands. “Look at you.”

  “And look at you,” she whispered, and dropped her gaze to the gorgeous, jutting length of his erection. Pushing to her hands and knees, she moved deliberately down the bed. “We need to do something about that.”

  She knelt over him, shoved a handful of hair over her shoulder, and met his eyes. Then she took him in her mouth and showed him a few relentless tactics of her own. Tactics that had him clenching his teeth, and breaking a sweat and arching off the bed as though what she was doing to him was the beginning and the end of everything that mattered in his life.

  28

  Feeling humiliated and mean with it, Lawson slapped the girl across the face, then shoved her off him.

  “Get out. And stop whimpering.”

  She was sixteen. Skin like ivory. High, firm breasts. The brightest flower in his harem, and she had come with her mother’s blessings. Not that blessings mattered; everyone knew the rules here. He maintained absolute power. He took what he wanted. And he’d wanted her tonight. That mouth had finished him off like melting ice cream more times than he cou
ld count.

  But not tonight. Tonight he lay here, flaccid and impotent and glaring at her naked ass as she gathered her clothes and scrambled for his bedroom door.

  Fucking prostate.

  He hated getting old. He shouldn’t feel this old; he was only sixty, for chrissake. Prime of his life. A warrior. He’d done things, seen things, made things happen. Hell, he commanded his own army—ragtag bunch of misfits that they were.

  He propped the pillows behind his head, then reached for the glass of scotch sitting on his bedside table. Took a slow sip. Stupid fucks, all of them. Not a day went by that he didn’t want to clock Simmons for saying or doing something so stupid he shouldn’t be allowed to live. To a man, they actually believed the bullshit he fed them about overthrowing the government. And the women were nothing but sheep. Stupid, mindless sheep. It made him sick to be around them.

  He needed Hill back to rule the camp and free him up to do what he did best: making deals and money.

  He craned his neck, found the open bottle of scotch and refilled the glass, then sipped some more. They didn’t get that UWD was all a front. A way to keep Uncle focused on a backwoods anarchist group so he could continue to run his main operation without interference.

  He’d picked the right horse to run with fifteen years ago. Stingray was smart. Arrogant bastard, but smart. He’d kept their dealings out of the U.S. for the most part. The Juarez deal… that was a little different. And possibly the reason he was stressed to the point of impotence.

  He contemplated the amber liquid in the glass he’d rested on his chest. He didn’t like bringing their business here. Made him nervous. But this deal… this deal was big. His cut alone would net him a cool half mil. His “army” would actually come in handy—provided they could get their heads out of their asses long enough to protect the camp and the shipments.

  He lifted the glass off his chest and sat up abruptly.

  What this camp needed was new blood. Dan Walker struck him as a man who could provide it. Walker had an axe to grind—unlike most of the men here who simply had no place else to go.