Silent Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  There was nothing he could say to that. As far as everyone here but Rav knew, he had gotten off his ass, and he certainly couldn’t deny an infatuation without raising questions. “Shut up and get me another beer,” he ordered the groom.

  Ian laughed and reached into the cooler at his side, grabbed a cold microbrew, popped off the cap, and handed it to Sean. Then he held out his bottle in a toast. “Thanks for standing up with me, man.”

  Sean smiled at the heartfelt tone behind the words. He’d first met Ian when he’d orchestrated Ian and Cressida’s exfiltration from Syria. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Sean said. “Cressida is an amazing woman. You are a lucky man.”

  Ian’s gaze shifted across the fire, toward the historic inn. He grinned. “Yes, yes, I am.”

  Sean followed his gaze and saw Cressida leading the charge of women crashing the fire-pit party. Eight women, each beautiful in her own way, but there was only one who’d haunted his fantasies for years. He’d finally kissed her earlier today. Tonight she would share his bed in a room full of sex toys.

  She made a beeline for him, holding a wool blanket in her arms. She looked tentative, nervous. And it only took a moment to realize why. None of the women had chairs, and one by one, they settled onto their husbands’ laps.

  Like the others, Sean scooted his beach chair back from the fire to make room. He spread his legs and held out his arms in invitation. It was the only option, and hell, having Hazel in his lap wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. But he would get hard. Epically so, if past history of having Hazel in his proximity was any indication.

  She cocked her head and gave him a wry smile, then dropped into his lap without a word. Her sweet ass nestled against his groin as she settled between his spread thighs. She tilted her head back and he pressed his mouth to hers in a quick kiss, as would be expected.

  It was weird how all this felt so natural, and yet it was fake. He wanted to know how much she was performing in this moment, because sure as hell, his erection against her ass was real. He liked Hazel MacLeod way too much, and now she knew exactly how much she turned him on.

  “Hope you don’t mind we invaded your guy time,” Cressida said as she snuggled on Ian’s lap to Sean’s left.

  “Hell, no, I don’t mind,” the groom said. “What could be better than sharing this beautiful night with my best friends and the woman who makes my life complete?”

  “Ohh. Good one,” she said with a laugh.

  “I finally got the hang of the boyfriend thing,” he said in a teasing, smug tone.

  Erica snickered. “Too bad now you have to master the husband thing. It’s a whole new ball game.”

  “Already got it covered.” He kissed Cressida’s nose, then said, “Wanna know what the guys and I were doing down by the lake before we built the fire?”

  “Knowing you, after you finished chopping wood, things probably devolved into a hatchet-throwing contest or some other guy competition,” Cressida said.

  “Accurate,” Sean said. Some men wanted bachelor parties; Ian had insisted they all chop wood, both for the weekend’s celebration and for his honeymoon. Tomorrow night, after the reception, he and Cressida would take off for a quiet cabin on a private lake about fifteen miles from here. He’d told Sean he’d wanted to bring Cressida to that cabin on that lake since they’d been on the run for their lives and had spent a night by a lake in Turkey.

  While Trina had outdone herself and arranged the scavenger hunt, Sean got off easy when it came to best man duties. His major task involved making sure there would be bolts ready for splitting and all the men had gloves and axes. Ian wanted firewood, he’d get a full damn cord. Like Trina, Sean had turned it into a game, and he’d had prizes—growlers of microbrews, not sex toys—for winners. For some reason, it never crossed his mind to shop for sex toys.

  “Who won the hatchet-throwing contest?” Mara asked.

  “Guess,” Keith said.

  “Don’t do it, ladies. It’s a trap,” Trina said. “If you don’t guess your own husband, you’ll be in trouble, but we all know who the winner had to be.”

  In unison, six women said, “Matt.”

  Sean felt Hazel’s body stiffen with surprise. “Why Matt?” She turned to her brother-in-law and laughed while asking, “You have some mad ax skills I haven’t heard about?”

  Matt chuckled, and Sean wondered what sort of answer he’d give. He needn’t have worried. Matt was always in character. “In my early twenties, I lived in the Pacific Northwest and worked as a logger on the Olympic Peninsula. On the side, I started competing in the lumberjack competitions around the state. I was good at the log roll, speed climb, underhand chop, and springboard chop, but axe throwing was my best event.” He kissed Ivy’s cheek. “I’m guessing you shared that story at a wine-tasting night?”

  He was smooth, the way he named events lending credibility to his story. But Matt had lived on the Olympic Peninsula, so he was probably familiar with the competitions.

  Ivy nodded.

  “Believe me, if I’d known about Matt’s crazy axe-throwing skills,” Sean said, “I’d have come up with a different contest.”

  Ivy laughed. “Sorry, Sean.” Her tone said she wasn’t sorry at all. To Matt, she whispered, “What did we win?”

  Sean laughed and tightened his arms around Hazel as relief settled in. She’d been given a reasonable story for why the women had all guessed that Matt was deadly accurate with a hatchet, and probably wouldn’t think twice about it. But the truth was, Matt had begun his spy training at the age of fourteen and was deadly accurate with everything. And tonight, he’d crushed them all in the axe-throwing competition—as Sean had guessed he would. But it sure was fun watching the guy throw, and the competition to match his accuracy had been fierce.

  Ian cleared his throat. “So anyway, can we forget how awesome Matt is for a moment and get back to me and how I’m going to kick ass at being a husband?”

  Cressida laughed. “Honey, we agreed not to talk in public about all the ways in which you excel.”

  Ian laughed. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m an ex-spy. King of discretion.”

  She snickered.

  “Now,” Ian said, “as I was saying when we were throwing axes around, I noticed a field of fall wildflowers at the edge of the forest. There were sunflowers, goldenrod, asters, and phlox—I might’ve looked them up on my phone—and it reminded me of—”

  “Turkey,” Cressida said, her voice whispery with emotion.

  “Yeah. So I was thinking, tomorrow, instead of carrying some fancy, boring, sterile bouquet that was put together by a florist, it would be more special if you carry flowers I pick for you myself.”

  Cressida sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes, please.”

  He reached behind his chair and plucked a bundle of flowers he’d picked earlier and had tucked into a plastic water bottle with the top cut off—they’d used one of the saws to create the impromptu vase. “I’m going to pick a fresh bouquet for you tomorrow right before the ceremony but cut these tonight so you’d have an idea what they would look like.”

  Cressida took the bouquet into her hands and pressed her face into the blooms. “Oh, Ian,” was all she managed to say.

  “Wow,” Erica said. “That’s pretty romantic.”

  “Damn you, Boyd,” Luke said. “Did you have to give her the flowers in front of everyone?”

  “How are the rest of us going to live up to that?” Curt added.

  “Seriously, Ian. She’s already agreed to marry you,” Sean said. “No need to set the bar so high for everyone else.”

  “Sorry, guys,” Ian said. “But when you’ve found the love of your life, you just want to let her know in every way possible what she means to you.”

  Laughter was building among the women, including Hazel, who was shaking with it even as her chuckles were almost silent. The quakes were physically arousing, while the soft sound was even more enticing. “Isn’t that what sex is for?” Sean asked, playing t
he role of dumb single guy.

  As he’d hoped, laughter exploded around him, including from the woman who was settled firmly on his lap.

  “Lucky Hazel,” Erica said. “Still in the ‘sex is the only way I can show my feelings stage.’ I loved that stage.”

  “Hey,” Lee said with exaggerated offense.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie, I love the ‘we’ve been together forever and I haven’t slept for more than four hours since the baby was born’ stage too. It’s just…different.”

  “We don’t have Gracie tonight,” Lee said in a low voice.

  “I know. No way am I staying by the fire past ten o’clock.”

  “Hear, hear,” Mara said. “I think I’m going to turn into a pumpkin at nine thirty.”

  Everyone laughed, and the conversation drifted. To Sean’s right, Mara gave Curt, Lee, and Matt an update on a call she’d received from her mom, who was babysitting all their children for the night. To his left, Ian and Cressida chatted with Trina and Keith about a work project Trina and Cressida were collaborating on. And on his lap, Hazel relaxed, seeming content in her role as the couples around them conversed. She shivered when the wind kicked up, and Sean draped her wool blanket over both of them.

  He nibbled on her neck as he did so. Playing his role to the hilt. Yeah. That’s what he was doing. He was holding a beautiful woman in his arms and nibbling on her neck for a role.

  Forget the fact that if they stayed sitting at this campfire for too long, he’d have to consider calling a help line to deal with his four-hour erection.

  For her part, Hazel tilted her head to the side, giving him better access to her neck as she wiggled her ass against him. Hidden as they were under the blanket and in the shadows beyond the fire, no one could see the small action.

  But damn, he could feel it. And if she did it a few more times, he wouldn’t have to worry about a four-hour erection because he’d embarrass himself right here under the blanket. He nipped at her neck. “Cool it, hellcat,” he whispered.

  She increased the friction.

  He clamped a hand around her waist to hold her still, but her shirt had ridden up under the blanket, and his hand landed on bare midriff. And hell if his fingers didn’t have a mind of their own and slide over the soft skin of her belly.

  His fingers skated down to toy with the waistband of her jeans. He dipped below, to the first knuckle, just enough to let her know the action was no mistake, then he slid upward. He could take her breast in his palm right now.

  He stopped just shy of the goal. What if he’d read the situation wrong? Given that this was all an act and she was pretending to be his girlfriend, she wouldn’t object. But he’d be a man taking advantage.

  The way she wiggled against his erection was a green light, but that could be as involuntary as his hard-on. That she wanted him wasn’t in doubt, but she didn’t want a fling, and that was all he had to offer her. She could be physically reacting to his touch, but mentally, he could be the last thing she wanted.

  He slid his hand down to her bare belly. Neutral ground. Sweet soft skin he wanted to explore, but safe. He’d just have to be content with having Hazel in his arms and leave it at that.

  17

  Sean leaned his head against the closed hotel room door. He was a little drunk and a lot horny. He hadn’t planned to drink tonight. He was on the job. But Rav was drinking with the rest of the guys, and he’d ordered Sean to enjoy being best man.

  But still, Sean wouldn’t have had so much to drink, but the beers went down easy as the hours slipped by. Then he’d had Hazel on his lap, and he’d drunk to numb the erection that told her in no uncertain terms he wanted to fuck her.

  Now it was almost one in the morning, and he was buzzed and hard. The couples with children had left the campfire first, followed by the women about an hour later. But Ian had wanted to stay and feed the flames, so Luke, Keith, Rav, and Sean had stayed to enjoy the starry night, hot fire, and good company.

  Now Hazel waited in his bed. He should head to the bathroom next to the lobby and stroke one out. It was the only safe choice considering his room was fully stocked with sex toys, massage oils, and—oh damn, the mental image was killing him—bondage straps.

  The idea of Hazel strapped to his bed, legs spread wide, unable to resist as he went down on her… His dick was so hard, he could steal Matt’s assassin moniker, the Hammer.

  And fuuuck. He must be drunk if he found that joke funny. Assassin jokes weren’t ever funny. He should drink water. A lot of it.

  Or Hazel. Drinking Hazel would be a few thousand fantasies come true. He’d spread her legs and stroke her with his tongue. Her thighs would cradle his face, the soft slide of skin against stubble.

  Yeah, baby. He’d make it so good for her.

  This was all Ian’s fault. Sean couldn’t say no to a drink when the groom insisted, right?

  Nah. Trina and her sex toy gift-a-thon were to blame.

  Hazel’s words from earlier flitted through his brain. “I’ve always wanted to try bondage but haven’t ever been with someone I wanted to try it with. You’ve got to really trust a guy, you know?”

  She’d said it so innocently, but she’d known what those words would do to him.

  Oh, baby, trust me. I will make it so good for you.

  No. No. No. No. No.

  He couldn’t go there with her. She wanted a relationship. She was broken. He couldn’t wait to leave. As soon as Kat’s chemo was over, he was gone. Back to Dubai. Back to Saudi Arabia. He’d return to the job he loved, where he was in control. Where he could protect people.

  Fuck cancer. Fuck genocide. Fuck whatever it was that Isabel had found in that reservoir. That was nasty shit, and he was done with it. All he wanted was to go back to the life he had before his sister’s diagnosis. Before his father died.

  In his life before cancer, he dealt with death. Hell, he’d faced it daily as a side effect of ops. But dammit, he knew what he was dealing with in combat and the world of private security. There were risks. IEDs, bullets, and bombs to name a few. There were enemies he could fight. Disarm. Disable. Defuse. But fucking cancer…he couldn’t do a damn thing to help his sister. Just like he couldn’t help his dad. He was nothing to cancer cells or chemo, where the cure hurt more than the disease.

  He wanted to escape this place where he couldn’t do a damn thing to save the people he loved.

  All at once, his brain filled with images of him buried deep inside Hazel MacLeod. That would be an escape of a different sort.

  No. No, no, no.

  She wanted love and babies. He wanted a screw. He was drunk. She might be too.

  Did that rhyme?

  He shook his head. Drunk poetry was the worst poetry.

  He fished his key card out of his pocket. He couldn’t stand here all night. People would ask if he and Hazel were fighting or would wonder why he’d brought her to the wedding.

  He entered the room and saw Hazel sleeping in his bed, and his belly churned and he wondered if he was passing on the best thing that would ever happen to him. He liked Hazel. She was sexy and fun and smart as hell. In the last few days, he’d discovered there was a lot more to the party girl. In fact, he’d begun to wonder if the party girl was a persona she’d put on just for him.

  Could this thing between them work? He was Black, middle-class, former military. His uncle had married a white woman in the late seventies, when it had been a helluva lot harder to be an interracial couple.

  Hazel was white, and while not rich herself, she had family that was firmly part of the one percent. She’d never known financial insecurity, food insecurity. Her safety net had been vast and deep. She had a bachelor of science, a master’s degree, and a PhD in forensic anthropology, and no student debt, he presumed, as albatross after all that hard work.

  She was currently residing in her cousin’s mansion while she figured out her next career steps. That was one hell of a safety net.

  Knowing his parents couldn’t afford t
o help them both with school, he’d joined the Navy right out of high school so his twin sister could go to college. No regrets. He’d loved serving, and when he passed BUD/S and became a SEAL, he’d truly found his calling.

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw, watching the rise and fall of Hazel’s breasts in the dim light that spilled from the mostly closed bathroom door. She was so fucking sexy. Her lips had been soft against his. Warm and welcoming.

  He made a beeline for the fridge and grabbed a cold bottle of water. He drank a half liter before he came up for air, then set the bottle down. His gaze landed on Hazel’s now wide-open eyes.

  “You coming to bed?” she asked in a husky voice.

  He wanted to bury his mouth between her thighs and make her scream with orgasm. Make up for the lost months—no, years—he’d wanted but not had her.

  But he had two heads, and the one that rested at the top of his spine was in control. “Nah. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  She cocked her head. “So when you were handsy by the campfire, that was…?”

  “Me playing a role and letting it get out of hand.”

  “Out of hand? Hm. That’s not what it felt like. I distinctly remember you taking things in hand.”

  “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the heat of the moment. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She deflated. There was no other word for it. He’d rejected her, and her whole body shrank in on itself.

  “I like you, Haze, it’s just—”

  She waved him off. “Forget about it. I know you’re working for my cousin.” She flopped down and rolled to her side, her body stiff with hurt and tension.

  “Hazel—”

  “It’s late, Sean. Can we please go to sleep? Tomorrow is a big day of flower picking and axe throwing and whatever else you guys have planned before a sea of guests arrive, and we have to lie to everyone about how long we’ve been dating and how much we mean to each other. Frankly, I need a solid night’s sleep before I spend a day lying.”

  And there was nothing left for Sean to do but agree and turn out the light. He knew Hazel wouldn’t object if he shared the king-sized bed with her, but for sanity and safety’s sake, he opted for the couch.