Facing It (19 page)

His voice trailed away and they stood in the shadowed silence. Awareness trembled between them, vibrating on the still air.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, her throat aching and tight, echoing the sensation low in her belly. “Kiss me so I know it’s all right to touch you.”

The quiet pulsed between them a second more, until he moved, until his fingers entwined with hers, until his mouth was on hers. The simple touch of lips flared and became a hungry seeking, a ravenous tasting. Her back collided with the wall, their joined hands on either side of her head. She melted, curves accepting every inch of the hard male body pressed to her own.

“You’re dangerous,” he gasped near her ear. He dropped a kiss on the side of her neck. “You make me forget.”

“I want you to forget. I want to forget.” She tightened her fingers around his and tilted her head back the little she could, allowing him access to her neck. He brushed a wet caress along her throat. “Is that wrong, to want to lose it in you?”

She sought his lips, need coiling and beating between them.

“We said slow and easy.” He muttered the words into her mouth and used their joined hands to lever mere inches away.

“You think I’m rushing you.” She searched his eyes, fiery with desire, shuttered with caution.

He blinked, offering her the impression he was choosing his words. “I don’t want to be something you regret later.”

“You could never be—”

“Ruthie.” His quiet voice rang with finality. He swallowed hard enough to jerk his Adam’s apple and looked away. “Shit.”

“What?” The frustration emanating from him held no threat, merely the sense he was fighting himself. “Just say it, Chris.”

His glittering gaze swung back to hers. “If I say it, I’m going to come off like a bastard.”

“Chris.” She flexed her fingers within the circle of his. “Say it.”

On a muttered curse, he released her and paced a few steps away. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, a visible tremor attacking his fingers. “At the beginning, you didn’t think you’d regret him.”

“You’re not him.” The very idea spilled bitter laughter from her lips. “You’re so far removed from him it’s not funny. Don’t you think I see that?”

He rested his hands at his hips and turned his gaze away once more. “I don’t…I don’t want to regret you later either. The physical stuff, the way I want you, it…clouds things.”

“You want me.” The idea pleased her, mostly because she knew it went beyond the physical and was tied into the connection that flowed between them. At the same time, she appreciated the veracity of his thoughts.

“Well, yeah.” He slanted an ironic look in her direction. “Then you kiss me senseless and I forget how to think. And not thinking? Just letting myself feel? That’s dangerous.”

“Chris, I…” She rested her palms flat against the cool wall and tried to put her own jumbled ideas into words. “I come from an affectionate family—”

“I never would have noticed that.”

A smile touched her mouth at his wry observation. She sobered. “And other than from my children, I’ve been deprived of the right kind of physical contact for a long time. The way I feel about you, it’s hard not to want to touch you, to be close to you.”

“I like you touching me too much. Damn it, Ruthie, you make me lose my head.” He chafed a hand over his short hair. “I can’t afford to be stupid with you. We need a freakin’ chaperone.”

She glanced heavenward. “We have three sleeping upstairs.”

His chuckle held little humor. “Yeah. We might have to keep them around twenty-four-seven.”

“I don’t think they’d mind.” Glad the tension around them was seeping away, she wrapped her arms across her chest. “They like you. A lot.”

“I like them too.”

“I know. It’s obvious.” Warmth pulsed in her and she hugged it to herself. “That’s the biggest reason I can see you’re nothing like him. He
didn’t
like them, and they were his.”

He nodded, glanced at his feet and a deep breath moved his shoulders. “I really do have to get out of here. Hound needs some run time since he’s been kenneled most of the day.”

“I understand.” She crossed to him and laid a hand on his arm. He didn’t flinch away and she lifted her mouth to his. He whispered the softest of kisses over her lips. She touched a light caress to his jaw. “See? We can do slow and easy when we have to.”

She stretched out her legs and let her head drop back against the wall, the truck’s movement jostling her slightly. Weariness filled her, but it was the warm, relaxed tired of returning from a vacation, rejuvenated and filled with memories.

With a sideways glance at Beecham, his head tilted back and eyes closed, she smiled. He did that for her, made her feel that way. But how long would she and Beecham be hiding? Patience. Faith. She’d wait, give it her all and believe that the strength of emotion between them would at some point override his fears and doubts.

Beside her, he didn’t move, long lashes shadowing his cheekbones. She nudged his knee with her own. He grunted but didn’t lift his lids.

“Tired?” she murmured, aware of the camouflaged agent in a brown UPS uniform behind the wheel.

A small grin crossed his face. “Yeah, but it’s a nice kind of tired.”

She didn’t take his hand as she wanted to, but let her knee and thigh continue to rest next to his. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

The truck leaned into a sudden, sharp turn and she reached out to brace herself, palm against his chest. Once the vehicle steadied, she removed her hand, but his gaze remained trained on hers, a familiar fire smoldering in the blue depths. It should be familiar; she’d seen it often enough over the weekend, especially once they’d discovered the perfect little black nightie and she’d modeled it for him long enough to entice him to remove it. The desire in that look thrilled her. The emotion lurking within the fire took her breath and sent a giddy happiness bubbling through her.

“Almost there.” The driver’s terse acknowledgement dragged them from the bubble of isolation.

The safe house was an old frame farm home, a nondescript two story in the middle of rolling green pasture fringed by a towering pine forest. They shouldered their bags and stepped from the truck, both of them blinking at the bright sunlight. Beecham exited first, taking her arm for a moment to steady her, and she flashed him a grateful look, warmth tingling up her arm from the simple contact.

She turned toward the house, dread skipping chilly fingers along her spine. The last thing she wanted to do was spend two days here trapped with Stephen Chason.

Inside, the house was clean and sparse, though anything but modern. In the kitchen, Agent Michael Edgewood sat at the stained Formica tabletop, sipping a cup of coffee, his bag waiting by the door. Chason was seated opposite him, also with a coffee, reading a newspaper. A sharp frisson of dislike moved over Jennifer as he lifted dark eyes to her face, then skittered to Beecham. Something about those watchful eyes made her think of a predatory reptile.

Beecham cast a glance toward the shadowy living room beyond the kitchen area. “Where’s Banning?”

Edgewood jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Packing his stuff.”

Beecham eyed Edgewood for a long moment. Jennifer knew what he was thinking, simply because she was thinking the same thing. Edgewood was too casual. They should be involved in debriefing, swapping information and insight, out of Chason’s range, and Edgewood looked in no hurry to do anything other than sip coffee while Chason enjoyed his newspaper.

Jennifer tamped down a spurt of bad temper. When they got back to Atlanta, they could talk to Weston, possibly have a different set of agents assigned. Having someone too comfortable with a witness like Chason, with any witness really, was trouble waiting to happen. Beecham caught her eye and she shook her head, blowing out a long, calming breath. He nodded, unspoken reassurance in his expression.

The unease didn’t go away.

When Chason lifted his gaze to hers again, an indefinable smile gracing his face, it increased. Suddenly the next forty-eight hours stretched like an infinite horizon—a visible end, but one that could never be reached.

Once Edgewood and Banning were gone, with the barest of debriefing conversations, Jennifer left Beecham in the kitchen with Chason while she performed a security sweep of the house. Obviously, the anonymity of the place served to provide the ultimate security, because getting inside the house, if someone really wanted to, would be laughably easy. Regardless, she made sure all the window and door locks were engaged and the outside motion sensor lights worked. A quick scan of the house’s layout revealed two bedrooms and a rather rustic bath upstairs, with a larger bedroom and tiny bath downstairs, as well as the large living area, smaller formal dining room and the big square kitchen.

Chason’s things were spread over one of the smaller rooms upstairs, although the spreading reeked of meticulous placement. Beecham could have the other upstairs room. She didn’t want to sleep on the same floor as Chason, although she and Beecham would be sleeping and trading out guard duty in shifts, one of them always awake.

Another way their partnership would keep them apart, it seemed.

She paused in the kitchen doorway and listened as Beecham laid out the house rules under their watch. Stephen Chason’s face tightened with each dictate and mean satisfaction ran through Jennifer’s body. So now he knew just how it felt to be controlled, the way he’d controlled Ruthie and the children.

“Lights out at eleven. You’re never without one of us…”

Once he was finished, Beecham stepped into the dim living area with her. Jennifer glanced over his shoulder. Chason had abandoned his newspaper and gripped his cup with white-knuckled hands, his gaze trained beyond the kitchen window.

“He doesn’t look happy.”

“Too bad. His business associates aren’t happy about his cooperation. If he wants to stay alive, he damn well better follow the rules.” He raised his voice slightly on the last sentence, and Jennifer bit her lip on a laugh.

She managed to keep her face straight, though, as she turned toward the stairs—she had the sleep-nights-guard-days shift. However, she couldn’t resist nudging him with her elbow as she passed. “I really like it when you’re bad, Beech.”

His dark chuckle followed her down the hall to her room.

In the night, the house lay still and quiet. Harrell had checked in on Chason mere minutes before, assured himself the guy was alive, breathing, sleeping. He didn’t want to admit how many times he’d checked, simply because the oily son of a bitch set off every instinct he had.

Now he stood on the narrow porch that ran along the front of the house, gazing into the darkness. No lights from distant homesteads disturbed the deep blackness surrounding the house.

The loneliness of the setting wrapped around him with scary, suffocating tentacles. The deep-down male part of him wanted to go crawl into bed with Jennifer, wrap himself around her. She was his—somehow over the past few days, she’d wound herself deeper and deeper into his emotions, his being, his life.

His mind kept toying with the idea that Jennifer was right—there was no Bureau dictate that forbade a romantic involvement between them. Hell, it definitely wasn’t the first time in FBI history that partners found themselves facing something more than friendship and fidelity. Maybe keeping what lay between them a secret was a mistake.

He was still fiddling with that idea when the screen door creaked behind him, followed by Jennifer’s quiet “hey”.

She joined him at the railing. Her white robe, patterned with green frogs and belted over pink pajamas, glowed a little under the dim stars. Goddamn, she was adorable, hair mussed, her eyes sparkling.

“You’re supposed to be asleep.” He pitched his voice low.

“I know,” she said, her own voice a stage whisper, and he bit back a grin. “I tried. But I miss you. I’ve gotten used to having you next to me.”

He closed his eyes on a smothered groan. God only knew he was going to have the same trouble tomorrow, when it was his turn to catch some zzz’s. “Don’t say that.”

She moved closer and looped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh. “Just hold me a little while and I promise I’ll go to sleep.”

Unable to resist, he folded her tight against him and rested his face on her shining hair. She murmured in approval and snuggled in. “Hmm, you feel good, Beech.”

He turned his head, dropping a kiss on her head. “Jen?”

She made a noncommittal sound in her throat. He opened his mouth to tell her he’d rethought the whole secrecy angle, that he was ready to take that leap of faith, but a sudden clenching fear held him back.

Jennifer lifted her head. “Beech?”

“Nothing,” he said, tugging her back against him, chilled. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“Are you sure?” A small yawn cracked her voice.

“I’m sure.” He stroked her hair, the strands smooth and incredibly soft under his palm. “Go get some rest.”

Over the next day or so, they settled into an easy routine, although Jennifer’s nagging unease where Chason was concerned didn’t abate. Something about the way he watched them, like a waiting predator, niggled at her, making the forty-eight hours of their rotation the slowest, most nerve-wracking she could remember.

She told Beecham so, the night before their rotation ended, standing on the front porch with the dark quiet surrounding them. “I just don’t like it, Beech.”

“You don’t like him.”

“That too, but I feel like he’s waiting for some opportunity to…hell, I don’t know.” She shrugged, unable to articulate the shadowy apprehension.

He leaned on the railing next to her. “Your instincts are good. We’ll talk to Banning and Edgewood, make sure they keep a close eye on the guy.”

Jennifer snorted. “Come on, Beech. You saw how they were with him. I think we should ask Weston to have another set of agents assigned. They’re too relaxed. They don’t see him as a flight risk or a threat at all.”

“Baby, listen.” He rubbed a soothing hand over her shoulder, left bare by the thin straps of her pajama top. “I said your instincts were good. Mine are screaming too, but I don’t think he’s going to try anything. Hell yeah, the guy wants out of here. Think about it. By taking this deal, Chason has given up control over everything. With a guy like him, it’s probably worse than prison. Sure, he’s thinking about getting out. But where would he go?” Beecham swung a hand along the black horizon, a fringe of pine trees rising in a dark line against the sky. “We’ll talk to Banning and Edgewood. Weston too. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right,” she grumbled and he chuckled, the low warm sound that never failed to send an intimate tingle through her.

A gentle hand on her arm, he tugged her closer. “I am.”

She rested her nose against his shoulder and closed her eyes. She’d be glad when morning came, when they could leave the house and Chason behind them for a couple of days. When they could be normal with one another.

One hand resting lightly at the small of her back, he turned his head and brushed his mouth against her temple. “You need to get some sleep.”

Probably, but she didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to sleep alone. She moved, pressing her cheek on his smooth shirtfront. She fingered one button.

“Who is Tessa Marlow?” She gave voice to the question that had been bouncing around her mind for days, ever since Tick Calvert had thrown the name at Beecham in tense anger. As on that other day, his body went tight. She lifted her head. “Beech?”

He dropped his hand from her spine and she shivered at the sudden loss of warmth. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. “Tessa…Tessa was my responsibility. I failed her.”

Residual pain vibrated in the quiet, broken words. She waited, sure if she pushed, he’d only close off, retreat into silence. Instead, she stroked one palm over his biceps, a soft, silent show of support.

“About four years ago, OCD sent Calvert into Mississippi on a deep-undercover assignment to infiltrate a pocket of the Dixie Mafia.”

She pulled back and frowned. “What? They don’t really exist, Beech—”

“They’re loosely organized, but yes, they do exist, babe.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Anyway, Calvert’s job was to get inside this group that was mixed up in a ton of shit—illegal gambling, prostitution, drugs, even a little bootlegging. You name it, these boys were doing it. Tessa had been one of their girls, had worked in one of their brothels since she was fourteen or fifteen. Somehow, she ended up as the mistress of one of the two brothers who ran this particular rat’s nest of the Dixie Mafia, and she ran the brothel in Biloxi.”

She rubbed her thumb along the inside bend of his elbow.

“Once we got Calvert in, and goddamn, that was hard enough to do, as closed to outsiders as these people are, they had him working ‘security’ at the Biloxi whorehouse.”

“I’ll bet he loved that,” Jennifer murmured.

“Yeah. Said it took him a month of showers to wash the grime of that off. For whatever reason, Tessa took a liking to him. She pretty much tended the bar in the house and she’d talk to him most nights. Inadvertently gave him a shitload of information.”

And that would have been gold. Jennifer was sure of it.