by Alex Ander
Wedging a hand between his hair and his pillow, former FBI Special Agent Curtis Ashford cocked his head to get a better view of her. He let a skimpy half grin come and go. “Where’s this coming from?”
“After Jonathon died,” she ran fingernails across his torso, “I guess a part of me thought I’d never find someone again...especially someone who’s so good with Cassie.” She faced him. “She loves you a lot.”
“And I love her.”
For the next several seconds, the six-month newlyweds regarded each other without saying anything, their physical expressions conveying more sentiment than any words could have carried.
Ashford rubbed the back of her arm.
Devlin walked two fingers up his sternum. Still resting on her elbow, she rocked forward, lightly pinched his chin between her thumb and forefinger, and pecked his lips. Pulling away an inch, she scanned his face for a few moments before going in for a second smooch, a romantic lip-lock.
He pulled her body closer, and the two exchanged a deep, long, passionate French kiss. A heartbeat later, he threw back the covers and rolled her. On top of his wife, kissing her, his right hand sandwiched between the mattress and her back, Ashford slid his free hand to her hip and gently squeezed.
Devlin flinched, “Ouch,” and set her jaw, nearly biting his lower lip.
He did a one-armed push-up, and their torsos parted. “I’m sorry. What did I do?”
“No—no. You didn’t do anything.” She held his face in her hands. “It’s just a sore spot...from earlier tonight.”
Ashford frowned.
Devlin ran a thumb over his mouth. “You asked me about my day. Well, I jum—” seeing herself jumping off a building, she bit her lower lip and regarded her protective husband. “I...” she flashed a smile and straightened his hair, “took a little tumble...and got banged up a bit.”
Placing a foot on the floor, “What happened?” his upper body going vertical, he gave her figure the once-over and gaped at her. “Did you get hurt?”
“It’s okay.” After stealing a glance at his swelling boxer briefs, she pulled him to horizontal again and kissed him. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
He craned his neck. “Are you sure?”
She forced him back toward her, “I’m positive,” and nibbled his earlobe.
“Maybe,” Ashford lifted his head, “maybe we should forgo having—”
Squeezing his ribcage between her knees, Devlin trundled him onto his back and hovered above him, her boots straddling his legs. Her hair fluttered from side to side once and settled. “Trust me, Curt. I’m all right.” She sat on his thighs. “So how about you just,” she removed her shirt, “let me...” slid bra straps over her shoulders and unhooked the front-closure lingerie, “take the lead tonight?” The apparel opened.
His gaze shifted downward.
She felt him stir beneath her while she slipped out of the undergarment.
His eyes met hers. “I do like it when you,” a slow grin poured over his face, “take the lead.”
Curling up one side of her mouth, Devlin tossed the bra and gripped his shoulders. “I know you do.”
Ashford massaged her lower back.
Her breasts brushed over his chest, as she leaned forward and planted palms on his pillow, each hand next to an ear. The tip of her nose wandered near his lips before grazing across the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
With her hair tickling his ears and her chest caressing his, he pushed her skirt down to her thighs and tugged on the material, drawing her hips nearer.
She daintily suckled at the side of his neck, her lips drawing out his skin each time they let go.
Ashford’s fingers found a metal tab on the side of her skirt. He ran the zipper upward, and the black apparel fell away from her legs, adorning his stomach like a pro wrestler’s championship belt. He finessed the leather out from between their bodies and tossed the flat piece. Well, that makes things easier.
“Just as I know...” Devlin’s mouth skimmed over his, as she righted her head and brought the bedcovers up around her and her mate.
His fingers touching smooth skin above the lace band on her thigh-high stockings, he ogled her devilish grin. She’s so sexy.
“...you like it,” stretching out her long legs, she unfolded her body and pressed her boots against his outer calves, letting him support her while her hands disappeared underneath the covers, “when I...”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 5
The American
10:33 p.m. (local time)
villa mainero, Mexico
162 miles southwest of
brownsville, texas
While the people of Mexico may have done away with most traditional, smoke-filled cantinas, several holdouts still dotted the country’s landscape. Simple in appearance—aging staff, rickety stools pushed up to boot-scarred bars; small tables and chairs in dark corners—the rustic watering hole’s heyday of the 1940s and 50s had passed.
In the western half of the municipality of Mainero, however, stood one last cantina, a reminder for those who have ever watched old Mexican films or Westerns featuring heroes and bandits—revolvers strapped to their legs—downing shots of tequila, as mariachi bands played in the background.
Sitting alone in a back corner, dressed in khaki pants, a light-colored, short-sleeved shirt, and brown hiking boots, the white American male nursed a shot glass of clear liquid. Spinning the vessel between his fingers, he looked at the scene from behind black sunglasses.
He was out of place. Not so much because his skin color conflicted with the throng of dark-skinned men nearby. He stuck out, because even his simple clothing contrasted with the torn and dirty garments customers around him were wearing.
He scratched his chin and the two-week-old facial hair, which, for a man like him—blessed with dark, fast-growing hair—covered his face and neck. His eyes shifted toward the bar’s opening door, as he felt hot, moist air rushing into the sparsely populated space.
Two boisterous Mexican Nationals swaggered into the cantina and headed straight for the bar. They stopped to roughhouse with an old man who ended up spilling his drink on his pants. Laughing, they shoved the old-timer back and forth a few times until someone else caught their attention.
Wearing a short skirt and an off-the-shoulder top, one arm carrying a tray of glasses, a beautiful twenty-something woman emerged from behind the bar.
Book ending the woman, the ruffians made sexual advances, groping her while she attempted to pivot away from their assaults.
The American scanned the establishment; the other patrons studied their beverages, plucked complimentary botanas from bowls, or simply ignored the display. No one noticed. Or no one cared to intervene. He huffed under his breath. This ‘pat the old man’s head and cop a feel’ ritual must play out on a regular basis.
The woman escaped the two thug’s entrapment and served her guests their now half-filled refreshments.
The raucous men put bellies to the bar and beckoned the bartender.
After tipping back the shot glass, American peeled off his sunglasses, laid both items on the table—the bottom-heavy vessel landing with a bang—and rose to his full height, a five-eleven, one-seventy build of lean muscle mass.
Nobody turned his way.
He sauntered toward the bar, toward the hoodlums. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Neither man acknowledged him.
Pursing his lips, he stroked his chin. “Disculpe...caballeros.”
The men turned and leaned against the bar.
Withdrawing a roll of hundred-dollar bills from a pants pocket, American laid one on the counter and ordered two tequilas.
The troublemakers eyed the bankroll and gave each other a look, as the drinks were poured.
After pocketing his cash, American gently knifed his arms between the men, “Perdoneme,” and retrieved the shot glasses, one in each hand. Retreating, he eyed each man and lif
ted the tequilas a little higher. “Por favor, permitame que le compre una bebida—Please allow me to buy you a drink.”
The men reached for their reward.
American tossed the liquid in their faces, gripped the hard glasses tighter, and delivered a quick punch to each man’s face.
The men reeled backward, throwing out arms to steady themselves against the waist-high counter.
American threw several lefts and rights, breaking the hoodlums’ noses, cutting their cheeks, and bruising their eyes.
One by one, each bully slunk to the floor, listed sideways, and sagged against the stools.
After returning the shot glasses to the bar, American added another ‘Franklin’ to the first one and wiggled two fingers at the bartender. He strolled to his table, flapping hands and flexing fingers. He slipped his sunglasses back on and claimed his seat.
Twenty minutes later, two local police officers entered the cantina and approached the bar’s owner. They observed the two crumpled forms—now beginning to stir—between the stools. Words were exchanged among the officers and the owner.
Patrons joined the meeting. A beat later, they pointed fingers.
All heads turned toward the white American male, sitting alone in the back corner, nursing a shot glass of clear liquid.
The law enforcement officials came toward him, each with a hand on his service weapon.
American stood, the backs of his knees kicking out his chair. “Officers...”
The uniformed men gripped their guns tighter and lowered their stances.
“...you’re,” American puffed out his chest and expelled a rush of air, “right on time.” He stepped out from behind the table. “Let’s do this.”
Pistols cleared holsters.
American went to both knees and interlaced fingers on top of his short hair.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 6
Violating
2 may—7:36 a.m.
alexandria, virginia
Wearing blue jeans, black flats, and a white long-sleeved blouse, Devlin entered the kitchen area while securing her hair in a mid-rise ponytail. Coming up from behind her daughter, she kissed Cassandra who was slapping a spoon on the lump inside her cereal bowl. “Cassie, stop playing and eat...or you’ll be late for school.”
“I don’t want to.” The girl spanked her breakfast again. “This is gross.”
Approaching Ashford, who was gumming a mound of the same paste, Devlin spun around and lifted a finger. “Watch your tone, young lady.”
Cassandra sat straighter. “Sorry.” She made a face at her sticky meal before forcing a small spoonful of the gray mush into her mouth.
Devlin spun back, clutched her husband’s shoulders, and kissed him, getting a taste of the oatmeal in the process. “Good morn—” she put fingers to her lips and winced. “Oh, wow.”
“I know.” After holding his spoon vertical—none of the slop on the utensil moved—Ashford dropped the silverware into the half-empty bowl and set the container on the counter. “I gave it my best shot, but...I’m done.”
She wiped her mouth and swallowed hard. “Feel free to make her something else.”
Opening the refrigerator door, “Way ahead of you,” he removed a carton of eggs. “How many do you want?”
“None.” She poured coffee into a travel mug. “I have to go.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Devlin gave Cassandra another kiss. “How about I pick you up from school? We can stop at the park on the way home.”
The little girl beamed at her mother. “Really?”
“Really.” Devlin stretched out her arms. “Now, come on. Give me hugs.”
Cassandra pivoted in her seat and raised her arms. “Love you, Mom.”
Devlin hugged and kissed her child, “I love you, too, babe.” She rubbed the girl’s back a couple times, “Be good,” and left the house, Ashford right behind her.
She opened the driver’s door to her black cherry, Ford F-150, placed her coffee mug on the console, and turned back to her man. “Plan on me picking up Cassie unless I call you.”
He nodded and lifted a brown paper lunch bag.
Chuckling, she unrolled the sack and stuck her nose inside.
“A bagel with peanut butter...and low-fat yogurt and fresh fruit.” He twirled a finger. “The yogurt and fruit are already mixed.”
Devlin put the bag next to her coffee and faced him, smiling. “You’re so good to me.” Holding his cheeks in her hands, she kissed him. “I don’t deserve you.”
He bobbed his head from side to side. “Can’t argue with you there.”
Her eyes got bigger, and her mouth fell open a bit before she went in for a longer kiss.
A football player in college, making the team as a linebacker, but later switching to running back, Ashford swallowed her up, his six-foot, two hundred pound athletic frame—wide shoulders, narrow waist, heavily muscled arms and legs—engulfing her.
“Don’t mind me...just passing through.”
Hearing the familiar elderly voice, Ashford nearly pushed Devlin into the truck to separate the two of them. He smiled at the man dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and black shoes. He glimpsed the Roman collar and white clerical tab. “Good morning, Father.”
Recovering from the shove, Devlin stood straight, frowned at Ashford, and smiled at her father. “Hi Dad. Getting an early start?”
“Last minute meeting with a young couple I’m marrying this weekend.”
Ashford lifted a hand. “Have a good day, Father.”
The sixty-one-year-old opened the door to his car, stuck a foot inside, and regarded his male counterpart. “You really don’t have to be so formal, son.” He tipped his head back, glanced at the sky, and smiled at Ashford. “The Almighty won’t send down fire and brimstone if you call me by my first name.”
“Thank you, Fath—” Ashford nodded at the shorter, gray-haired man, who sported sparkling blue eyes and whiter-than-normal teeth for a man of his advanced years. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Snickering under his breath, the man in black sunk into the vehicle and shut the door.
As the late-model car backed out of the driveway, Ashford shook his head at the front grille. “I always feel,” he rolled his shoulders, “strange around your dad. I mean he’s a Catholic priest for crying out loud.”
After Devlin’s mother died when she was a little girl, Devlin’s father had raised her and her sister by himself. He never remarried or dated another woman. When Devlin started college, he took an early retirement and started the process to become a priest, taking the final steps when she was married and on her own. Three years ago, he became Father Martin Mahoney. After the death of Devlin’s husband, Father Mahoney moved in with his widowed daughter to help care for Cassandra.
“I don’t know why, but when we’re all together...in the same room, I...I feel like I’m,” Ashford hesitated, “violating his daughter or something.”
A short snigger later, Devlin put fingers to his chin and turned his head toward her. “Well...”
He eyed the broad grin on her face.
“...that was some pretty good violating you did last night.”
Wincing, hunching his shoulders, “Please don’t...” he pressed palms to his ears, gave the departing Chevy another look, and shook his head at her, “don’t say it like that.”
She laughed, “I’m sorry,” before laying hands on his waist. “Look, my father was married, Curt. He has two daughters. He’s well aware of what a married couple does in their bedroom.”
Ashford’s chest heaved before he looked away and sighed. “I know, but still...”
She clutched his upper arms. “You need to get past this feeling. And I think there’s no better way to do that than with some more...togetherness.”
He saw a twinkle in her eye.
“So after we put Cassie to bed tonight, how about you and I do some more...” violating,
“tender...gentle...loving? Does that sound better?”
He smiled. “So when you say get past this feeling, what you’re really saying is I need to...get right back on the horse.”
Her eyebrows shot upward.
He heard his words in his mind. “Not that you’re a horse and I’m...” gawking beyond her shoulder, out the Ford’s passenger window, “although,” he tapped his lips with a forefinger, “at certain times last night, it did look,” he rotated the digit her way, “like you were riding—”
Devlin gripped his arms a little tighter.
Feeling her nails on his skin, he glimpsed her hold on him and presented a mischievous grin. “I’ll stop talking now.”
Flaunting a half smirk, she nodded. “Wise choice.”
“So.” The word was a complete sentence. “Can you wear that little red outfit with the bra that pushes up your,” he glanced at his cupped hands in front of his chest before lifting his gaze, “what’s that called again?”
“A push-up bra?”
“Oh yeah.” He frowned. “Name’s kind of right there in the description, isn’t it?”
Devlin stifled a giggle.
“So can you wear that?”
She went to tip toes, “Anything for you,” and pecked his lips. “But I need to go. I don’t want to be late for work.” She climbed into the F-150 and secured her seat belt.
Knowing her commute took less than ten minutes, Ashford spied his watch—7:43. “You mean you don’t want to be late...for being early.”
She adjusted the shoulder harness. “Don’t tell me you didn’t do the same thing when you were with the FBI.”
He chuckled, “Speaking of that,” before faltering, “when Cassie goes back to school this fall...”
Devlin inserted a key into the ignition.
“...I was thinking of applying for SWAT.”
Her body stiffening, she squeezed the key, but stopped short of starting the engine.
Ashford noticed her change in posture. “I know you’re not comfortable about me heading back into the line of fire...with what happened to Jonathon and all, but,” he dropped hands onto his waist, “I just thought with Cassie and me having spent the last year getting to know each other better that...it was time for me to go back to work.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to make the decision without discussing it with you first.”