Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) (2 page)

“Of the flowers? The easiest explanation is that the roses were left by one of your mother's fans. Someone who read her memoir or liked her clothes but didn't know shit about her personally.”

“And the worst?”

“The worst-case scenario — which is also the unlikeliest, I saw that look — is that the flowers were left by Callaghan's men. Which means one of two things.”

He'd switched from the subjunctive tense to the present. Had he even been aware of doing so? Did he know what that meant? Or was it just bad grammar?

“What two things, Michael?”

“Callaghan has been keeping close tabs on us this whole time. Close enough that he knew where we were going, and managed to beat us there.”

I must have looked terrified. Michael darted another look at me and shook his head. “But that's probably not the case. If we were facing a leak that big, we'd have seen it manifesting itself in other, more obvious ways. Like being kidnapped — or killed.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He ignored that.

“It would be easier for him to send someone here and leave one bouquet of roses once every week or so, knowing that statistically there was a high chance of you visiting the grave and seeing them. People tend to visit graves most within the first six months of the deceased's passing. That's when the grief is freshest, and the survivors are still seeking closure.”

I didn't like it when he talked like this. All these impersonal recitations of cold, hard facts. As if grief were nothing. As if tracking people down like they were animals in the woods were nothing.

It isn't. Not to him
.

I shook my head, trying to shake these disturbing thoughts loose. “What's the point of that? At least the first one makes sense. This just seems like a waste of resources and manpower.”

“As far as messages go, it's a pretty powerful one. It lets you know that you're on his radar, and that he has the means to keep you there.”

“Which explanation do you believe?”

“I need more information first. But I'd avoid your mother's grave for a while if I were you.”

“You do think he's watching us then.” What I saw on his face scared me. “Oh, God. You
do
.”

“I think a lot of things. That doesn't make them true.” He paused. “Still. It doesn't hurt to be careful.”

Silence, except for the quiet purr of the car's engine. Trees whirled and spun past the windows. I suspected he was going too fast, but I didn't say anything. Michael knew better than to get us pulled over by a cop. “Where are we going?”

“To return this car. Then we're going to call a cab to take us to the Portland airport. We need to get back to San Francisco as quickly as possible.”

Visiting my mother's grave had been a detour on our trip to meet with other potential candidates for AMI. Which sounded heartless, and maybe it was, making my mother a mere pit stop on a business trip. She certainly wouldn't have liked that.

Unfortunately, it was a necessary evil. AMI was still in its infancy; meanwhile, the IMA continued to grow in power. We had all our eggs in one basket, and they had an entire hatchery.

All the candidates had been unsuitable in one way or another. One man had displayed a striking lack of subtlety considering his line of work (mercenary-for-hire), and one of the women, who worked for the government but was sick of the hours and the pay, had spent the whole time flirting with Michael and making suggestive comments. Now we were on our way back to the Portland airport to take our flight back to San Francisco empty-handed.

I wasn't looking forward to facing them all and telling them that we had been unsuccessful. But some of them, like Cliff, were so paranoid that they would probably be secretly relieved. More people meant more opportunities for betrayal. My own parents had thrown me under the bus when it had suited them.

We had a valid reason for our departure and yet — and yet … right now, leaving felt an awful lot like running away.

Michael

It was my responsibility to examine each situation from all possible angles. Probability played a definite factor, but so did instinct. And right now, my instincts were telling me that Christina was on to something.

I kept my suspicions to myself for the moment — I didn't want to spook her more than I already had—but it was time to look in on Callaghan and the IMA.

I reached into my coat pocket and sent a quick text to Angelica, letting her know that we were on our way.
Check in on you-know-who
.
See what he's up to.

A minute later, I received one in return.

Confirmed
.

We stopped at a fast food joint to change into a new set of clothes just in case we were being watched.

I ditched the coat and the jeans for a set of slacks and a button-down shirt and tie. While the bathroom was empty, I shaved the three-day stubble off my face and parted my hair to the side. When I was finished I shoved my old clothes into the toilet tank.

I stepped out of the bathroom, adjusting my shirtsleeves. Christina was waiting in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot. She had ditched her black dress for a navy skirt, white blouse, and blazer that looked a little too good on her for my peace of mind.

“Do you want anything?” she asked, nodding at the brightly colored billboard with the menu items.

I shook my head. “We can eat when we get back.”

The longer we stayed, the more memorable we'd be. There weren't many people dressed like us in the restaurant and we were already drawing some looks.

Her face fell. I pretended I didn't notice.

We arrived just in time for boarding. The security protocols went quickly, for once. We didn't even have to take off our shoes.

The woman waved us up. “Enjoy your flight.”

The plane smelled like new plastic and stale cleaning supplies. The cheap carpeting had tracks in it suggesting it had just been vacuumed.

Christina sat down while I placed our satchels in the overhead compartment. Leather, both of them. High quality. I'd learned that if you looked like you were on your way to something important people were less likely to try and stop you or interfere.

Despite its claims of democracy, the United States is inherently autocratic: money speaks, and power and authority make people bend.

Being white and affluent has its perks.

A stewardess came up the aisles. I guess they're called flight attendants and now they're allowed to wear pants, but it's just a euphemism for the same old humiliating position as before — and the skirts are still short. Too short.

She caught me looking and smiled brightly, giving me a slow once-over of her own.

“Can I bring you anything?”

Not what you're thinking.

“Scotch on the rocks.” I nudged Christina, who startled visibly. “Hey, sweetheart — the nice lady asked you a question.”

From the look on her face, the nice lady didn't appreciate being called a “nice lady.”

“What?” Christina looked up, and bit her lip. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

The stewardess's smile had dimmed; she now looked distinctly irritated. “What do you want?”

Color arced up her throat. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “Um, Earl Grey, please, if you have it. Black. No sugar.”

Christina took off her blazer and I saw one of the men nearby dart an appraising look at her breasts as she slid her arms out of the sleeves. The man saw me studying him and something in my face rekindled his undivided attention to his laptop screen.

A rustle of movement had me turning. I heard the sound of a zipper being pulled, which conjured all sorts of thoughts that aren't helpful on an airplane.

She was pulling a book out of her purse. I tilted my head to get a look at the cover, and Jesus Christ—it was a fucking programming manual for C++.

When she began to pick it up, I put my hand over hers to keep the pages flattened.

“Hey,” she said, “I'm trying to read.”

“Should you really be reading that on the plane?”

“If we're going to be stuck here for an hour, I might as well do something useful with my time.”

“We don't want to be any more memorable than we already are.”

“You mean a girl can't read a technical book on a plane without being noticed?”

“Not when they look like you.”

Her eyes flashed. “Are you implying I should have picked up one of those stupid romance novels from the airport bookstore?”

“Yes.”

“That is so incredibly sexist.”

“No. It's an observation. Pretty women stand out. They stand out more if they're unconventional.”

She stuffed the book back into her bag. “Well — I don't like that you think that being smart and being a girl is unconventional.” Her eyes cut at me. “That flight attendant was flirting with you, by the way.”

I had to hide a smile. “Not relevant.”

“I'm just saying, you're getting your fair share of attention, too. It's not just me.”

“Oh?”

I leaned against the armrest, lowering my head so my mouth was level with her ear. I blew a soft stream of air against her skin and saw her shoulders lock as she repressed a shudder.

“Are you sure about that?”

“What are you doing?” She had started to go pale, but her face was still flushed. Interesting effect.

“Relax.” My mouth brushed lightly against her earlobe, and she bit her lip. I watched goosebumps ripple down her bare arms with pleasure. “I'm not going to fuck you on the plane.”

She made an odd-sounding gasp that caused the woman in front of us spin around to give us an annoyed look. It was the people who weren't paying attention to us that I was interested in. But business class was fairly empty, and I was now fairly sure that none of them were plants of the IMA. Christina glared at me. I gave her a slow smile.

“Did you want me to fuck you on the plane?”

“No.”

“You look disappointed.”

“I'm not.”

She was breathing faster than normal, though. Oh, yes. She was disappointed.

She tried to hide her embarrassment with anger, as she so frequently did. I wondered idly if she was still upset that I hadn't wanted to eat lunch with her.

“You said you wanted to lie low,” she said.

“I do.”

“People are certainly watching us now.”

I leaned in again. “Nobody's watching us. At least, nobody who matters.”

Her eyebrows dipped in confusion. “What did you — ”

“Here's your scotch.” The flight attendant was back. “And your Earl Grey.”

I smiled and lifted my glass to Christina in a mock-toast. “Cheers.”

Christina stared at me for a moment. “You're a complete bastard sometimes.”

“I know.”

She wadded up her coat and threw it at my chest. It landed harmlessly in my lap. I laughed and took a sip of scotch —

And choked as I felt her fingers close around my erection. I glanced at her. Her eyes were downcast, focused on her book. Beneath the coat, she ran her hand up and down my shaft in strong, fluid jerks. I spilled some alcohol on my slacks and it was only with effort that I was able to set the glass down in the cup holder without spilling more.

Oh, fuck. Speaking of spilling … I was going to come in my pants like a teenager.

I opened my mouth to tell her to help me find the bathroom, so I could brace her against the sink and fuck her until the glass mirror cracked. The sexual tension between us was electric. It had been two days since we'd last had sex, and I was feeling every hour of deprivation right now, with each expert stroke. If only that were her mouth on me. Or her cunt.

I closed my eyes and struggled to catch my breath, to force myself to think in terms of words. Pain speared into the pleasure as some of the blood rushed back into my head, and I dug my fingers into my thigh, bracing myself.

“Christina…”

She stopped.

I could have killed her. My balls were throbbing. My shirt collar was too tight. A lot of things were too tight. I winced. 'Tight' was not a word I needed to be thinking about right now.

“Christina, for fuck's sake…”

“Hmm?” She glanced at me with wide, blue eyes. “Is there something wrong?”

And then I got it. I wanted to laugh, but that would hurt my balls. “You've started a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” she said, infuriatingly calm. Thought she was so fucking clever.

“I don't think you understand.” I tilted her face towards mine. “As soon this plane lands, as soon as we're alone, I'm going to strip you down, rip your panties off, and fuck you senseless. Just throw you down on whatever surface looks strong enough, and fuck you until we're both sore and the only thing you can say is my name.”

“You want to rip my panties off.” She said it in a low voice. The only suggestion of her embarrassment was a whisper of color tinging in her cheekbones.