ANOMALY.MIL (The Conspiracy Series Book One): A Romantic Suspence Novel (9 page)

"Sure," he mumbled, but he could not help himself.

She turned off the light in the bathroom then tiptoed toward the bed, and him. She must have been cold, because her nipples were hard and pushing against his T-shirt in an erotic show of force.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

"Where's the light switch?"

"Over here."

"Can you reach it?"

"No." He couldn't.

The light switch was too far away, and in his semi-aroused state, he had no intentions of embarrassing himself.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Okay, I'll get it. I guess."

Ansel closed his eyes as she approached his side of the bed. He could feel her staring down at him. Inches away, in nothing but his T-shirt and, he prayed, a pair of underwear.

He refrained from looking to find out.

Ansel knew he could probably seduce her if he wanted to, but this was not the time. He needed to focus on Catherine's extraction. And Seneca was not the kind of girl you fucked and forgot.

She was a commitment kind of girl, and one of his sister's best friends. There would be repercussions if he slept with her, but it did not stop him from wanting her on top of him.     

Resigned to keeping his hands to himself, Ansel tried to think about something else. He felt Seneca slide into bed next to him and his resolve wavered. Then he felt something cool against his back, and then against his legs.

"What are you doing?" he grumbled, curious.

"Sorry," she whispered at his back. "I'm putting pillows between us."

"Why are you doing that?" Ansel laughed, thinking pillows a piss-poor impediment if he was intent on ravaging her.

"I move around a lot when I sleep, and I don't want to hurt you."

Ansel grinned to himself. She could do a lot of things to him, but hurting him was not one of them.

"Good night, Seneca."

"Good night."

Fatigue caused him to fall into a deep sleep, but it didn't last long. Images of his parents, bound and shot, flooded his mind. His mother. The blood.

His fault
.

Then his sister holding her hands over her belly, before being dragged into the darkness.
By who?
Why was this happening? What had he done to deserve this? Was God punishing him for the people he had killed during military action?

More images. Exotic locations. Hot and wet. Dangerous people. Bad people he had killed or they would have killed him.

He took a punch to the kidney. Alert, he grabbed his gun and held one of the guys to the ground, waiting for reinforcement.

Gunner.
Gunner would be here soon. The guy tried to move, and Ansel tightened his grip around his throat.

He thrust the gun against the side of the man's head, growling, "Don't move." His finger twitced.

"Ansel." The guy whispered his name.

But how did he know it?

"Ansel."

Not a man. A woman. He blinked, trying to remember where he was. What he was doing? The woman was gasping. With all her remaining strength, she hit the forearm of the hand wrapped around her throat.

And then, he woke up.

Ansel stared down at himself, straddling Seneca with his left hand wrapped around her throat, and his right hand wrapped around the gun he had pressed against her temple.

Horrified, he yanked his hands back, and she gasped, filling her lungs with much needed oxygen.

The sound devastated him.

"Seneca." He clicked the safety on his pistol then laid it back on the side table. "I'm so sorry. I'm…so sorry."

He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her toward his chest, but she fought him. She fought like a wild animal trying to escape a predator.

Gutted, Ansel let her go.

She flew off the bed and he sat up, placing his elbows on his knees with his head in his hands. He sat there for a long time, wondering how much time to give her, and how much time he would need to face her.

He shook his head, still in shock.
What the fuck just happened?
Had the stress of his sister’s abduction triggered some type of episode?

Fuck.
She must be terrified.

Ansel got up, needing to see her, needing to make sure that she was okay. But she had run into the bathroom, and he didn't hear a thing.

"Seneca?" he said, knocking on the door so she would know he was there. "Seneca, I'm coming in."

When she didn't protest, Ansel twisted the silver handle. But he didn't see her. His eyes swept over the toilet and into the shower, but Seneca wasn't there.
Where…

When he saw her, it felt like a punch in the gut. Seneca had squeezed herself into the small space between the toilet and the wall of the bathroom. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them against her chest.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, hoping she could hear him. "I was…asleep. I'm so sorry."

Nothing could excuse what he had done, but Ansel needed her to know that he would never hurt her.

Intentionally.

"Come on out."
Please.
He lifted his hand toward her, but she flinched. Her blank stare drifted to his eyes. "Please," he whispered.

She blinked again, and he could tell that the initial shock had dissipated. Leaving what? Fear? Trauma?
Hatred.

Pushing the inevitable aside, Ansel stood up. He held out his hand to her, and this time she reached for him. Relief collapsed his lungs as Seneca pushed herself to her feet. He pulled on her hand, gently coaxing her forward, while making sure never to lose eye contact. Ansel had her sit down on her side of the bed, next to the bright lamp sitting atop the side table.

Tilting the lampshade so he would have more light, Ansel dropped to his knees to view the damage he had done. Seneca already had oval bruises darkening on either side of her neck where his hand had clamped down on her throat in an attempt to crush her windpipe.

His jaw pulsed against his self-recrimination and he instinctively lifted his hand to caress her wounds. But the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. So instead, he leaned forward, and kissed the bruises on the right side of her neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and then he kissed the left side. "I'm so sorry."

Ansel wanted to apologize. Needed to apologize. He kissed her behind the ear, and she leaned away from him. Whether to withdraw from him or give him better access, he did not know. He kissed along her jaw to make sure. Soft at first, apologetic. She turned her head to meet his lips and Ansel closed his eyes, praying that he was absolved.

Her arms slid around his neck, and Seneca tilted her head so she could kiss him more deeply. Ansel leaned in to return her kiss, but her knees were firmly planted in his gut. Until Seneca spread her legs.

Ansel sucked in a breath. His brain considered what she wanted and his body tensed as he fought to control himself, but he couldn't control his wandering eyes. He glanced down to see white lace panties peeking from underneath the blue T-shirt and Ansel knew that he could rip them off.
If she let him
. He could feel himself getting hard just thinking about it.

Ansel kissed her again, more insistent this time, as his hands began pushing up her shirt. Seneca leaned back, stopping him, and his heart sank. Until she looked him in the eye and began slowly peeling off the shirt herself.

The anticipation was unbearable. The dark shirt lifted away, exposing more and more skin. He swallowed his lust, and he could feel that she was watching him. He groaned as the round bottoms of her breasts peeked from underneath her shirt. And then the shirt was gone, leaving Ansel eye level with the most perfect breasts he had ever seen.

His hand reached up and cupped her left breast, but it wasn't enough. He needed to taste her. He leaned forward and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking rhythmically. 

The heat of her shallow breaths rained down his neck and she moaned softly, enjoying his manipulation. The sound sent a flash of possession through him and he picked her up, planting her firmly in the middle of the bed.

He followed, settling himself between her thighs as he looked down at her for encouragement.
Permission.
She gave it, lifting her knees toward his shoulders, and inviting him in. Ansel ran his hand over her silky hip then grabbed her ass as he pushed himself against her. He closed his eyes, moaning with pleasure at the feel of her softness.

Hungry to have his fill, he dipped his head and laved her breast, kneading her other nipple between his fingers. Seneca cried out, bucking her hips against him, and he could not wait to taste her. He kissed down the luminous skin of her stomach as she speared her fingers through his hair, grasping the back of his head for purchase.

Until he got to her pretty lace panties. Seneca let her arms fall to either side, her eyes closing as she waited to feel his mouth on her. God, he was hard, and she was so ready. But he needed to know that she wanted him. He used his index finger to tug the white lace down her hip, giving her the opportunity to stop him. But she didn't. She wanted him to taste her, and expectation seared every nerve in his body.

And then the phone rang.

Ansel didn't move. He was so close to fucking her, needed to. His hands shook with desire and his cock ached. The phone rang again.

The phone?
His phone. His burner phone. Dave!

His breathing was heavy when he reached across the bed. "Hello."

"They're on the move," Dave said.

"Okay." He couldn't think. "Give us a minute to pack." And to let the blood return to his head.

"Are you okay? You sound—"

"I'm fine. I was just asleep," Ansel lied then gave Dave the number to the new burner phone before hanging up.

"Seneca." He turned toward the bed, but she was already off of it, getting dressed. She slipped on her shoes and walked out the door without looking back.

Used to bugging out, Ansel packed quickly and found Seneca leaning against the passenger side of the pickup when he got outside. He unlocked the driver side door, then leaned across the far seat and unlocked hers. Seneca climbed in, buckling her seatbelt. And then just stared out the passenger side window.

Ansel wanted to talk about what had just happened, about all of it. His nightmare, his pinning her down…the gun.
Jesus, he could have killed her.
He wanted to talk to her about it but instead he said, "Dave said they're still heading east on—"

"We can't do that again." It felt like she slapped him, and it took a moment for him to recover. "I'm here to find Catherine. Nothing more."

"Okay," he said, not knowing what else to say.

Ansel started the truck and turned east on I-90, determined to find Catherine and get back to his new life.

Whatever the hell that might be.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Seneca spent the next few hours watching the sunrise. It was beautiful, but she would have spent that time watching paint dry if it meant she could avoid looking at Ansel.

He scared her. On so many levels.

Her hand drifted to her sore throat and she caressed it with her thumb. Oddly embarrassed, she pulled her long hair forward to hide the makeup she had applied to hide the bruises on her neck.

She swallowed and it hurt. Her head too. He had pressed the gun against her scalp so hard that Seneca was surprised it wasn't bleeding. Either way, she was going to have some nasty bruises.

Even with a gun at her head, it was his hand around her throat that had terrified her. Ansel was so strong. And when he clamped down on her neck, crushing her trachea, she knew he had done it before. Killed people, probably a lot of people, with his bare hands.

She started shaking just thinking about it, and she could feel his eyes on her. The weight of the bench seat shifted beneath her, and then the heater came on. Warm air hit her on the side of her face, and the whole thing was so ridiculous that she burst out laughing. 

He had almost killed her two hours ago, and now he was worried that she was cold.

"Are you okay?" Ansel asked, so gently that it made her laugh harder.

In fact, she was laughing so hard that she began to cry.

A steady flow of tears was rolling down her cheeks when she said, "No," between gasps of uncontrollable laughter. "You just held a gun to my head so hard I thought my skull would cave in. But the possibility of a bullet to the brain was not even the scariest thing.

“The scariest thing you did was wrap your hand around my throat as you crushed the life out of me. And if you hadn't woken up when you did, you would have killed me. You know it, and I know it. And the funny thing is…" She snorted. "As I was passing out, I just kept wondering which way I would die. I wasn't even scared, more like curious.

“And then…" she said, her laughter subsiding into deep breaths. "And then, I was so happy that you didn't kill me…that I tried to fuck you. I mean, what the hell was that?"

The laughter was gone. Tears poured down her cheeks as she looked at Ansel. His chest was rising and falling as he stared straight ahead.

"Seriously, what was that?"

Ansel took a long time to answer.

"Trauma," he said. "You were traumatized. Nothing you did after I…" He glanced down, and then his eyes flickered back up. "After I hurt you was your fault. You were in shock."

Seneca stared at him for a long time. "Were you in shock, too?"

Ansel swallowed and then looked away from her.

"We need gas," he said, pulling into a busy station they had all but passed.

They came to such an abrupt stop that the truck rocked even after Ansel turned off the engine. He hopped out before she could say another word, and headed inside to pay for the gas. Seneca sat there, not knowing what to do, when she saw the sign for the restrooms. She didn't really have to go, but it was the one place he couldn't follow her.

The sound of the freeway assaulted her the moment she slid out of the truck. Dark oil stains dotted the concrete on the way to the bathroom, and Seneca darted to avoid stepping in them. She tugged on the door handle of the women's bathroom. But it was locked, and she had to wait a few minutes before a woman emerged with a little boy in tow. They smiled at each other politely and Seneca walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

The bathroom was cleaner than she expected, especially the mirror. Seneca looked at herself, and she was so embarrassed. Her eyes were red and swollen, and it was obvious that she had been crying.

God knows what that woman must have thought, but she was kind enough not to show it. Seneca wrestled with the toilet seat cover before going to the bathroom. She washed her hands, twice, then tightened up her ponytail. Satisfied that she’d done the best she could, Seneca walked out of the bathroom and right into a man's burly chest.

He wore a cheap black suit, and he looked down at her with intense gray eyes. "We need you to come with us, Ms. Reed."

She looked at the other men in dark suits and did the only thing she could think of.

"I'm sorry. You must have me mistaken for someone else." Seneca began to step around him, but the man swept his jacket to one side, revealing his holster and yet another gun.

"I'm afraid we must insist," the man said, like some bad movie, then held out his hand in the direction he wanted her to go.

Seneca took a few steps, trying to think of a way out of the situation. But when she saw the familiar black SUV, she gasped, recognizing them.

"You're the FBI guys who took Catherine."

"Mrs. Miller came with us. Yes." Seneca wasn't sure what she expected him to say, but an admission of guilt was not it. "Now, if you will just come with us, we’ll explain why." The man walked closer to her.

Until Ansel came around the corner.

Ansel looked at Seneca and then at the other two men, then kicked one of them in the chest so hard that the guy flew against the painted cinderblock wall with a sickening thud.

"Mr. Babineaux." The man was holding her arm with one hand, while holding his gun in the other. "I have your sister. We intend her no harm, unlike the men chasing her. We have taken her to a safe location, and if you would be so kind as to come with us, you can see her very soon."

Ansel glanced at the gun aimed at Seneca's side.

"We'll follow you in my truck, and Ms. Reed rides with me," Ansel's ominous eyes were looking only at the man in charge. "Non-negotiable."

"A caravan will be notic—"

"Non-negotiable," Ansel growled.

"Very well." The man looked down at his subordinate now slumped against the wall. "If you will give my colleague a moment to collect himself, we'll be on our way."

The third man was slapping his unfortunate friend gently on the cheek, and Seneca took advantage of the lead man's momentary distraction by running over to Ansel.

Ansel's eyes were still locked on the three men, but the moment she was close enough, he pushed her behind him.

"What about my sister?"

The man in the suit looked at Ansel, and smiled as if he were a tour guide. "We'll take you to her."

"I don't think he can make it, Joe," the third guy announced as he helped his friend stumble to his feet. "I'm pretty sure he has a concussion."

The lead man stared at Ansel, his jaw clenched, as he ordered his two men, "Wait here. I'll have someone pick you up and take you to the hospital."

"Will do," the younger man nodded, putting his arm around his colleague before walking him toward the convenience store to await their ride.

"I assume you still would like to see your sister?" the older man asked, and Ansel nodded. 

They watched as the lead man got into SUV, and only then did Ansel's shoulders relax. "Get in the truck."

Usually not one to take orders, Seneca happily complied with this one. Ansel slid in next to her and then leaned over, opening the glove compartment.

He pulled out his gun, and she could tell that he was trying to hide it from her. She didn't know why. Maybe because Ansel thought that seeing it would upset her. But she knew that he had it, knew what it looked like.
And what it felt like
. And as long as he was awake, Seneca was fine with him wielding it.

The black SUV pulled forward, and Ansel started the truck, the big engine roaring to life. He didn't say a word as they pulled onto the highway, fully focused on the car in front of him, and determined to find his sister.