Paired Objective: Matched Desire, Book 2

by Clare Murray

  “Not a bad place for a party,” Abby observed.

  “It is now,” the man next to her said. Seeing her slightly raised eyebrow, he grinned. “I’m Lorenzo. There’ll be a pop quiz later, so remember that.”

  She snorted. “So why’s it a bad place for a party?”

  “There’s no alcohol left.”

  Abby tsked. “Greedy politicians.”

  There was a chorus of laughter, and she smiled in response, leaning her head back to stretch her neck. The ceiling was rounded concrete, typical of the older-style nuclear bunkers. Her gaze traveled across its expanse as she idly wondered how many tons of earth covered them.

  “We checked everywhere,” another of the Triplets said. “Found a few bottles of champagne, a bunch of hard liquor and some beer, but eventually it all got swilled.”

  Abby suddenly grinned. “Did you check up there?”

  “Huh?” That was from Lorenzo. She felt the cushions depress as he followed her gaze.

  She pointed to where the ceiling rounded down into the beginning of the wall. “See that square? There’s a spot exactly like that in the bunker at Headquarters. It looks solid, but it’s actually hollow.”

  “No kidding?” That from the farthest man, who rose to peer upward. Even though he stood at a decent height—six foot three, maybe four, Abby estimated—he couldn’t reach the tiny handle.

  Neither could the politicians or their lackeys back in Washington, DC’s bunker. But the servants could, since they often had cause to carry ladders around. Nobody questioned an eyes-down person carrying a ladder and cleaning rags.

  “We used our space to smuggle messages out of Headquarters.” That was how she’d gotten word to Grammie. She’d enclosed money inside an envelope, addressed it to Gina and tucked it inside the compartment. As a soldier-turned-delivery person, Gina had the freedom to come and go from Headquarters. They’d struck up a kind of casual friendship born out of mutual hatred for the senators. Gina made decent money by delivering letters on her travels, so when she’d mentioned she was taking a trip west via Scar City, Abby had jumped at the chance to have a letter delivered to Grammie.

  “Can’t quite reach it,” Valentino muttered.

  “It’ll haunt us for the rest of our days if we don’t open it up,” Lorenzo said. He looked sidelong at Abby. “Will you fit on his shoulders?”

  She laughed. “Um. I guess?”

  That was all the impetus Valentino needed, apparently. He scooped her up, setting her atop his shoulders as if she weighed no more than a kitten. Torn between amusement and indignation, Abby grasped his hair for balance and reached up with her other hand. Her fingertips grazed the handle of the compartment before finding purchase. Plaster fell away and long-disused hinges creaked as she pulled open the door.

  A trio of masculine “ohs” filled the bunker. Abby raised her own eyebrows, stunned by how many bottles were jammed into the recess. Had the former occupants run out of storage or had some bright spark tried to keep a bunch of alcohol on the down-low in pre-Invasion days?

  “The fuck is going on here?”

  Abby suppressed a yelp as Valentino swung around, keeping her atop his shoulders by dint of anchoring her thighs with strong hands. When she’d recovered from near-whiplash, she found herself staring at Russ and Cam—who didn’t look happy at all.

  “Just Val’s scheme to score some alcohol,” Lorenzo said.

  “Put her down. Now.” That was Cam, and he’d never sounded so lethal. Abby would have stared at him in surprise had she not been busy keeping her feet as Valentino hastily set her on the ground. Her hand flailed out, connecting with a muscular forearm as Russ stepped forward to steady her.

  “Sorry. Didn’t know she was your girl,” Lorenzo said, flicking her a speculative look. “So…are we allowed long-term relationships these days?”

  “We’d better be,” was Cam’s reply. He seemed far more relaxed now that Abby was off the other man’s shoulders. He reached out to stroke her head in a casually possessive way that seemed designed to underscore his claim on her. The rational part of her recognized it with some uncertainty. Her feminine ego, however, embraced his behavior wholeheartedly.

  A Triplet cleared his throat meaningfully. “About those bottles…”

  “What command doesn’t know won’t hurt them?” Cam asked dryly. “Russ, you got anything against us indulging tonight?”

  “Nope. Abby?”

  Equilibrium restored, Abby once again found herself atop a pair of broad shoulders—Cam’s, this time. She began pulling out bottles, handing them to several pairs of waiting hands. At the very back was a huge bottle of champagne, which she struggled to remove as the men remained reverently silent. Once she’d hauled it out, they all crowded around to stare at its label.

  “Well, damn. Whoever hid these had fine taste in alcohol,” Lorenzo said.

  Chapter Eight

  When the motherships landed, Abby hadn’t yet been of drinking age. That hadn’t stopped her from having an occasional sneaky drink with friends, of course. Usually they’d pilfered cheap beer or dusty spirits found in the back of parental cabinets.

  But champagne? That had been beyond her teenage means.

  So she accepted the flute Russ handed her with a kind of reverence, letting the bubbles tickle her nose before she took the first sip. She was vaguely aware of the Twins watching her, perhaps amused at the way her nose wrinkled. Not that she didn’t like the champagne, but she was no longer used to having carbonated drinks. The liquid slid down her throat, leaving her craving more.

  “This is good,” Abby proclaimed, and held out her flute for a refill. One of the Triplets poured it one-handed, which was hugely impressive given the bottle’s size.

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Methuselah bottle,” Cam said. They’d set out the other bottles atop the counter. Most consisted of regular bottles of champagne, but there was hard liquor mixed in—whiskey and gin, mainly. The stuff would have netted her a small fortune had she been able to sell it.

  Train tickets for years. Or enough to set herself up with a place of her own—if there was anywhere safe to be found. Uther’s compound hadn’t been safe. Neither had Headquarters. If she waltzed into some random City or rural community, she ran the risk of being married against her will to someone desperate for children.

  Better to drink it up, to enjoy the moment.

  She suppressed a hiccup, lowering the flute. Too much, too fast. When Russ indicated she should take a seat at the table, she was happy to oblige. He followed her, sprawling in the chair next to her while Cam and the Triplets fussed around in the kitchen.

  “You’re not still mad, are you?” She flicked a look sideways.

  “Nope. Just had to get past the visceral reaction at another man touching our girl.” Russ hesitated. “It could be that you appeal to them in the same way.”

  “Um. Wouldn’t they know right away?”

  “Not necessarily.” Russ scooted his chair closer, bending to sniff her hair. She shivered as his light stubble grazed her cheek. “Cam swears he was enchanted from the moment he saw your photo. I didn’t know for sure until I actually tasted you.”

  “Hmm.” His head was still bent toward her. Impulsively, she turned the tables, nuzzling his cheek. “Maybe it works both ways, because I’m finding it difficult getting enough of you.”

  “That’s the champagne talking.”

  “No.” She pulled back, mildly indignant. “Well, a little. But I’m telling the truth. You’re kind of addictive.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “I like flustering you.” She leaned against his arm, chuckled when he slid her champagne out of reach. Then gasped as he lifted her into his lap.

  “You don’t have much experience with drink, do you?”

  “Not really.” The world tilted lightly when she propped her
head against his shoulder. Whee. “How can you tell?”

  “You just pounded one and a half not-insubstantial glasses of champers. On an empty stomach.”

  “Yeah,” Abby said happily. She reached out for the flute.

  “You’ll drink that up with the food.” Russ folded her hand into his, preventing the movement. “Otherwise you’re likely to puke.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Abby said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Empty stomach, remember?”

  “Won’t be empty for long. Look over there. The Triplets are good cooks.”

  Vaguely aware that he was deliberately distracting her, she watched the men in the kitchen. Cam sliced fresh vegetables under the watchful eye of—oh hell, she couldn’t tell them apart even when she was sober. One of them was feeding what looked like dough into a small machine. As he turned its crank, noodles piled into a large bowl.

  Abby sat up straighter. Stared unabashedly. “Is that pasta?” she demanded.

  “Cam says yes.”

  Real, fresh pasta? She pinched herself. “How’d they manage that?”

  “Eggs and flour.” Russ took her literally. “There’s a chicken coop upstairs, and it’s easy to trade for staples these days. Since the Triplets bounce between this bunker and a few other local patrol points, they’ve had the time to take up the hobby of fine dining.”

  Abby’s mouth watered. “I didn’t think that hobby existed anymore.”

  “Oh, it does. Apple cinnamon pancakes are my personal favorite. And Chicago still has cooks who can do a mean deep-dish pizza.”

  And Grammie was in Chicago. The thought of the elderly woman enjoying a large slice of cheese pizza—Abby’s favorite kind—made her happier than she’d been in months. Brimming with it, she turned a bright smile on Russ, whose eyes went soft as he regarded her.

  Capturing her hand, he brought it to his lips, skimming kisses across her knuckles until her eyes went unfocused. His free hand casually pinned her other arm to her side, restricting her ability to reciprocate. If their earlier argument had left any doubt that he was attracted to her, it evaporated with every brush of his lips. Across the room, Cam leaned against the sink, watching them both.

  Her stomach growled. For a moment, two needs warred. Hunger stole the moment, and Russ transferred her back to her own chair as the others began setting the table.

  The plates all matched, and the cutlery looked to be actual silver. Abby reached out to trace a finger across a china flower. Mom would’ve had kittens. Fresh pasta, real china, actual champagne.

  Sorrow diminished the sheen of the moment. Then Cam set a slice of garlic bread in front of her, and the smell yanked her out of temporary melancholy. Seconds later, a huge bowl of steaming pasta crowned the center of the table.

  Mom would have wanted her to enjoy the ever-loving hell out of this meal.

  She waited for the others to sit down, noting that Russ was still keeping an eye on her champagne flute. His other hand rested at the small of her back, stealing a caress now and then. That, along with the alcohol, helped her relax and enjoy herself. It had been too long since she’d sat down to a leisurely meal—in Headquarters, one ate as fast as possible in order to scurry back to relative safety.

  The Triplets came over a few minutes later, carrying the bottle of champagne, inside which a fair amount of liquid remained. Politely, they topped everyone’s glasses up—including Abby’s.

  “Anyone want to say grace?” That was Lorenzo speaking. He was the one with the torn shirt pocket. When he changed his clothes, she wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from his brothers.

  “I don’t know anything eloquent,” Abby said when Russ and Cam shrugged.

  “Give it your best shot,” Lorenzo suggested.

  “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, yay God.” Abby looked down at the table as a wave of masculine laughter swept over her.

  “Eloquent enough,” Cam said cheerfully. “Let’s tuck in before the food gets cold.”

  Abby resisted the urge to moan as she chewed the first forkful of pasta. The sauce was laced with fresh basil and the noodles themselves were sublime. She whirled more of them around her fork, eyes glazing over.

  The Invasion screwed up the world, but it couldn’t change human nature. Uther’s death proved that—but so did moments like these, where laughter filled the bunker and everybody put aside the fact that they were deep underground to simply enjoy every last bite of their meal.

  The Triplets seemed pleased to have company too. Afterward, one washed the dishes while the others made for the couches, chatting as they went. Abby let the Twins fold her in between them on the plush cushions, concentrating hard on balancing the remaining champagne in its delicate flute.

  Since Rocco was on watch tonight, he’d stuck to one glass, good-naturedly grumbling about his luck. The rest of them were under no such restriction, and the bottle made another round. Twins metabolized the alcohol faster than humans, but they apparently still enjoyed the hell out of drinking. So did she, for that matter.

  Abby leaned against Cam, fuzzy-headed and content. This was luxury. Full stomach, secure place to stay, no senators liable to burst into her room. The last thought sobered her slightly—those men would give their collective eyeteeth to find her right now. Not only had she assaulted Senator Green, she’d destroyed their control room and annihilated their security.

  A temporary annihilation, to be sure, but it would take a lot of work to build it back up again. Abby frowned at the other end of the room. Would they create a whole new system, or would they try to salvage what they already had?

  If the latter, she could log in through the hijacked admin account. Then she could do a little poking around, find out if the Feds were pursuing her…

  Is it worth it? Her mind conjured up Senator Green’s leering face, and she shuddered involuntarily. Immediately, Cam’s hand stilled her, rubbing her back in slow, reassuring circles until she realized her eyes were half-closed. She shoved thoughts of the senator out of her mind and did her best to relax, tuning back into the conversation at hand. The men were in the middle of an intense discussion, and she briefly regretted not having listened more closely.

  “He actually read those files?” Russ asked.

  “He did, and so did we,” Lorenzo replied. “Which is why we’re stuck on constant patrol away from others. They don’t want us to talk about what we saw.”

  “They can’t control us like they did in the days before,” Cam said, his voice rumbling against her ear.

  “No, they can’t,” Lorenzo agreed. “They can try, though—and they’re doing a pretty good job. Val thinks they’re trying to buy time before they let things go public.”

  “Because everyone will freak out.” Valentino’s light Italian accent made the slang sound oddly sophisticated.

  “Yeah, well, we freaked out when we uncovered it,” Rocco said. He seemed about to say something else, but stood suddenly. “Something just blipped on the security screen.”

  Tipsiness did nothing to cushion Abby’s sudden fear. It was irrational to think Senator Green was here, but she swung her feet down anyway, ready to run despite Cam’s reassuring arm around her waist. Only when Russ moved closer did she sit back, anxiously watching Rocco move back across the room.

  “False alarm,” he said. “Looked like a deer bashing against the fence. Probably trying to get to our nice ripening vegetable patch.”

  Abby’s smile was born of relief rather than amusement. She’d been tense for far too long. Sure, they’d dumped the compromised commtab, but if someone had been watching the network, they could have tracked it down to the Columbus area, easy.

  But not to here, she reminded herself. For now, she could take a deep breath.

  “So is this place fully solar-powered?” she asked, eager to break the silence and lighten the current mood. Whatever they’d
been discussing earlier seemed like it unnerved them. She made a mental note to ask the Twins about it later once she’d sobered up.

  “Not fully, no. We’re working on converting everything, but the bunker still requires oil during the winter months.”

  Abby listened politely as Lorenzo extolled the pros and cons of part-time bunker living. Apparently, tinkering with boilers was one of their strengths, right up there with cooking. After a minute, she couldn’t help but lean back into Cam again. His arms closed around her, as he hefted her effortlessly into his arms.

  “Time for bed,” he said easily, and the world tilted as he strode away from the small living area.

  “Bed?” Abby struggled a bit as she tried to look around. It felt strange to be carried, but she was well aware of Cam’s superior strength, so she didn’t protest.

  “There are bedrooms at the end of the hall,” Russ said, opening another submarine-type door. Abby hadn’t noticed that one. Then again, she’d been distracted by alcohol, good food, and some damn fine men.

  She let her head loll against Cam until he brought her into a windowless bedroom. The light flickered on, assaulting her with its harshness until she shut her eyes. After a minute, the brightness dimmed and Cam set her down on a bed.

  Abby blinked and squirmed to a sitting position. Two soft lamps were the sources of light now, instead of the fluorescent overhead bulbs. The only bed in the room was super king-size. A door at the other end of the room was partially open, revealing a large bathroom. From what she could see of its fittings, it looked luxurious.

  “Was this room designed for Twins?” she blurted.

  “Nah, this room was designed for orgies.” Cam laughed at her expression. “Redesigned, I should say. Look at the impressions on the wall over there. The place used to be bare bones, rigged with bunk beds and basic necessities. Some randy politicians changed that.”

  Randy politicians? She was far too familiar with that breed.