Man in Black

Chapter 13

Black Knights Inc.

The spicy scent of Fisher’s aftershave lingered in Eliza’s nose as she paced at the end of the bed. Her father’s voice boomed through her cell’s speaker as he once again attempted to browbeat her into flying to Washington.

“Dad,” she interrupted line-item number six on his ongoing list of reasons why she needed to pack up and leave Black Knights Inc. behind until the mystery of the shooting at the cocktail party was solved. “I’m sorry Professor Chastain died.” She wasn’t surprised her father had heard the news mere minutes after it’d happened. No doubt he’d told his contacts in the bureau to phone him with any and all new information regarding the case. “But that changes nothing. I’m safer here than I would be anywhere.”

Fisher tossed off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Without sparing her a glance, he began pulling on his biker boots.

First there’d been Senator Chastain’s cryptic phone call. Then she’d had another mini-emotional breakdown. And now her father had called.

Three strikes and you’re out!

Her opportunity to do something terribly wonderful—or terribly foolish—looked like it was about to walk out the door. A tension that matched the roiling chaos of the storm clouds outside took hold of her.

She needed to get off the call with her father. Now. Before Fisher could leave and the moment was lost. Maybe forever.

“Surely you don’t suspect foul play,” she said hastily into the phone. “I mean, the man was shot in the head and then spent an hour in surgery having his skull cracked open. At his age, is it any wonder he had a heart attack?”

“I don’t discount any possibility. And neither should you.” She detected notes of concern and weariness beneath her father’s usual bombast.

It was the weariness that stopped her pacing and had her forgetting Fisher—or at least deprioritizing him—to give her father her full attention. Leonard Meadows was such a larger-than-life figure that sometimes she forgot he was also seventy-one years old and saddled with one of the most stressful jobs in the world.

“How about we revisit this discussion in the morning, once I’ve gotten some sleep?” she offered placatingly.

He didn’t answer her immediately. Instead, she heard him shuffling paperwork and knew he was still at his desk in the anteroom off the Oval Office.

Glancing at the clock on her bedside table, she noted the time. It was nearly one in the morning in Chicago. Which meant it was almost two AM on the East Coast.

“You should get some sleep too, Dad,” she added quietly. “Weren’t you the one who always said things are clearer in the light of day?”

“No.” He harrumphed. “That was your mother. I always say why put off to tomorrow what can be done today. I also always say better safe than sorry.” She opened her mouth, sure she would have to argue her case further. But she snapped her jaws shut when she heard him sigh heavily. “But you’re right. You need rest.”

“So do you, Dad,” she told him softly.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“You keep burning the candle at both ends like this, and that’s likely to happen sooner rather than later.”

Silence greeted her pronouncement. She blinked at her own audacity and instinctively curled her fingers around her locket.

She and her father didn’t have the type of relationship where she could say things like that. In fact, she wasn’t sure they had much of a “relationship” at all.

As a child, she’d always felt like she was simply another task he needed to complete. Head up a campaign? Check. Outline policy for the next candidate he’d decided to put his substantial political clout behind? Check, check. Make sure to pay his daughter’s boarding school tuition? Triple check. And once she’d become an adult, their interactions had evolved into something she’d describe as more of a “professional partnership.”

“I’m going to assume it’s the bump on your head that’s making you sassy.” His voice was gruff, but she thought she heard a note of affection. At least, she hoped so.

She desperately wanted—nay, needed—to end the conversation before Fisher took off. But she felt obliged to ask, “Are you well acquainted with Senator Chastain?”

“Bethany?” Her father’s tone sharpened. And even though she couldn’t see him, she knew his gaze had sharpened as well. “We find ourselves on the same side of most issues and so we work together often enough. Why?”

“She called me a little bit ago to ask me what I told the FBI.”

Silence met her announcement. And then, slowly, “Why would she do that?”

“That’s the thing. I have no idea.”

“Tell me exactly what was said, Eliza. Word-for-word.”

Senator Chastain’s words drifted through her head. “I called to tell you to be careful of who you trust. Careful of who you talk to.”

But the senator couldn’t have been talking about her father.

She relayed the conversation as best as she could remember and ended with, “I think she thinks tonight’s bloodbath was politically motivated. I think she thinks one of her colleagues had had enough of Senator McClean’s fire-branding tactics and decided to take him out.”

“And attempt to kill everyone else too, just so there’d be no witnesses?”

Eliza shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Mmm,” her father hummed noncommittally, and she could tell his wheels were turning. Instead of sharing what he was thinking, he simply said, “I’ll wish you a good night, Eliza. Please call me the moment you wake up.”

“I will, Dad. I promise.”

He grunted his approval and then, as usual, ended the call without saying goodbye.

She felt better having told her father about Chastain’s call. If anyone could make heads or tails of it, it was certainly him. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he was phoning up the senator at that very moment to demand she tell him what she knew or, leastways, suspected.

After carefully setting her phone on her dresser, she gave herself time to make sure she’d removed the heavier notes of disappointment from her voice before turning to Fisher. He stood beside the bed, and one look at his face told her all she needed to know about his intentions.

“I take it this is goodbye?” She managed to hold off her frown of defeat and turn it into a wry twist of her lips.

He shoved his hands deep in the front pockets of his jeans. She didn’t notice how the move made the tendons in his forearms pop.

Okay, so maybe she did notice. She’d always been a sucker for a good pair of forearms. And Fisher had some of the nicest she’d ever seen.

“Like ya told your pops, everything will look clearer in the morning. How ’bout we revisit our conversation then too?”

She rubbed at the unending ache behind her browbone. An ache that she could only partially blame on her concussion. “I’m beginning to think it’s my lot in life to be railroaded by stubborn men.”

“I just want to make sure it’s you doin’ the askin’ and not your concussion.”

She lifted her hands and let them fall in frustration. “Why does everyone think my head injury is making my decisions for me?” She realized he hadn’t heard her father’s comment and clarified. “Just because I have a golf ball growing from my temple”—she pointed to the swelling—“that doesn’t mean I’ve lost the ability to think for myself.”

“We’re all just tryin’ to do what’s best for ya, doll f—” He stopped himself and finished with, “Darlin’. That should make ya feel good.”

It did. She felt very protected and cared for and coddled. But she worried if she waited until the morning to revisit the subject of kissing him, she’d lose her courage to ask for what she wanted. Or, more likely, lose her ability to forget all the reasons why she shouldn’t ask for what she wanted.

Plus, there’d undoubtedly be more chaos, more turmoil. Surely Agent O’Toole planned to drag her down to the local FBI office to give a formal statement. And just because she’d been witness to a massacre, that didn’t mean life stopped. The Knights still had work to do. She still had work to do in supporting them.

So if it was going to happen, it needed to be tonight. Now.

“I’ve told you what would make me feel good,” she declared with a challenging cant of her jaw.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. When he dropped his hand, his expression was the picture of indecision.

Okay, fine, she thought. Let him stand there and vacillate. As for me? I know what I want.

The first step she took in his direction had his chin jerking back. The second had him shuffling backward. The third saw the backs of his legs hitting her nightstand, effectively ending his retreat. And the fourth brought her within six inches of him.

Close enough to hear his subtle growl of unease. Close enough to feel his body heat radiating out to tease and tantalize. Close enough to hook one finger into the waistband of his jeans and give him a little tug.

It wasn’t hard enough to move him. But her eyes were level with his strong, tan throat. So she didn’t miss the jerky bob of his Adam’s apple.

It was the most gratifying sight she’d ever seen. She decided she quite liked turning the tables on him. Being the one who was propositioning, who was…pursuing.

Gone was his confident swagger. Gone was his practiced charm. In their places stood a man who wasn’t quite sure what to do with the determined woman in front of him.

But Eliza knew exactly what to do.

Framing his face with her hands, she went up on tiptoe.

“Liza, I?—”

She placed a finger over his perfect lips. Goose bumps lifted the hairs on her arms when his warm breath bathed the digit. “Shut up and kiss me, Fish.”

When he opened his mouth to protest, she silenced him by leaning forward and pressing her mouth to his.

The instant she made contact, she smiled. His gorgeous lips were just as she’d imagined, simultaneously soft and firm. And yet it was all better than she’d imagined. Because his breath was wonderfully warm and tasted of hot chocolate, and his beard stubble was deliciously raspy against her palms.

Humming her pleasure, she tipped her head slightly and softly ran the tip of her tongue along the seem of his lips. Just a quick caress. Just a delicate taste.

And…that’s when her courage failed her.

The movies made it seem like that’s all it took. Just one small kiss from the heroine and the hero was overcome with passion, crushing her to him, ravaging her silly. But that was fantasy and this was reality. And in reality, all Fisher did was go stalk-still and stiff as a board.

She was tempted to step back and drop her hands. To chalk the entire experience up to one massive failure and an exercise in abject embarrassment.

Maybe if I slink away now, I’ll be able to salvage an infinitesimal amount of my pride. Because despite all his propositions and suggestive words, he’s obviously not into this.

Then again, if she slunk away, if she left things as they were and didn’t try to press her advantage, she’d probably never work up the nerve to try again.

This is it. It’s now or never. Make him lose his reservations.

Right. Right! But how was she supposed to do that?

She had no idea how to play the temptress. The handful of men she’d been with over the years had been the eager, excitable sort. All too willing to take the reins and ride off into the sexual sunset without waiting for her to do much in the way of persuasion or even participation—Charlie included.

Not only had that proved to be terribly unsatisfying, but it also meant she’d never been given the opportunity to practice her skills of seduction.

For all intents and purposes, she was a novice. Which shouldn’t have mattered because he was supposed to be the professional when it came to this stuff. Ugh!

She was about to raise the white flag when a thought occurred…

She had recently gotten hooked on a series of alien romance novels—thanks to Hannah Blue. And the books were nothing if not…well…educational.

Racking her brain, she recalled how the heroines of the series seduced the big, blue aliens when the latter were being stubborn or recalcitrant. As she replayed the titillating scenes in her head, she noticed a pattern.

A pattern that was easily repeatable.

Let’s just hope it works on big, reluctant humans as well as it seems to work on big, blue aliens.

First step, lessen the distance between their bodies.

According to the books, the aliens with the vibrating penises—if only that existed in real life—couldn’t resist the feel of breasts pressed against their hard, muscled chests.

She closed the gap separating her from Fisher until not an inch remained. Until her breasts flattened against his pecs. Until her hips pressed into his pelvis. Until she could feel the shape of him through the denim of his jeans and?—

Wow. Okay. So…he’s a big man all over.

Second step was to rub herself against him. All of herself, lips and boobs and pubic bone.

The lips were easy enough. She moved hers across his, delicately testing the texture of his amazing mouth and gently taking another taste by flicking out the tip of her tongue.

He groaned and the sound had delight fizzing up her spine like champagne bubbles.

It’s working. My master plan to seduce the shit out of Fisher Wakefield is working!

Who knew reading alien erotica would come in so handy?

The boobs were a little more difficult when it came to knowing what to do with them. Was she supposed to do a side-to-side motion? Up and down? The books lacked specificity in this area, so she was left to go with her gut.

When she did, it was her doing the moaning. The silk of her pajama top combined with the hardness of his chest to create the most delicious friction. Her nipples instantly hardened, becoming achy, needy points. And she was no longer thinking about how she should be moving. She worked on instinct, undulating in any way that produced the most pleasure.

Her hips naturally followed suit, gently rolling, softly pressing. And to her unfettered delight she felt him respond.

He hadn’t been soft to begin with. But he grew hard as a rock against her.

The feel of that long, thick column of maleness had an answering wetness slicking the insides of her thighs. She couldn’t help but whimper.

A low, guttural growl sounded at the back of his throat in response. And finally, finally his arms came around her. Crushing her to him.

One big hand splayed across the middle of her back and the other curled possessively around her hip to help her in her bump and grind.

Thank goodness. She needed all the help she could get. She’d stopped being able to think coherently the minute she felt him swell and harden.

Now, he’ll ravish me like they do in the movies.

Except, when his lips parted hers, he didn’t shove his tongue inside her mouth to dart and devour. Quite the opposite. His kiss was slow and thorough. Gentle, tender, and so profound she found her emotions rising right along with her passion.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Hours. Years?

She lost track of time, lost track of herself, lost track of everything but the motion of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the slow suction of his mouth.

This is so much better than the movies, she thought a little deliriously. Because he wasn’t simply kissing her. He was making love to her mouth. Learning all its tastes and textures.

She’d been kissed before. Quite a bit over the years, in fact. Her first tongue tango had occurred at the tender age of thirteen when she’d bowed to peer pressure and joined a game of spin the bottle at Tara Turlington’s birthday party. She’d enjoyed the experience enough to repeat it often.

But she’d never been kissed like this. Kissed as if her mouth was the most fascinating landscape he’d ever explored, and he was determined to map every inch of it. Kissed as if the secrets to the universe existed somewhere on her lips and tongue and he wasn’t going to stop investigating until he’d uncovered each one.

Part of her wanted to blame the novelty of the experience on having never been kissed by a man she loved. But she knew that was taking credit away from where credit was due.

Fisher Wakefield simply knew what he was doing. He knew how to leisurely lick and suck and stroke until her eyes crossed and her toes curled, until her heart—the heart that had always been his—beat feverishly against her breastbone in a desperate bid to get closer to him.

“Liza.” Her name rumbled from his mouth into hers. It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

She moaned in response and that seemed to be all he’d been waiting for, because he redoubled his efforts.

I love him so much, she thought desperately. She loved him and now that she knew what it was to be held by him, to be kissed by him, nothing else would ever do.

She was doomed. Doomed to pine for a man who wanted nothing more than this. Doomed to long for a love he wouldn’t…or couldn’t give. Doomed to always fantasize about a life that would never be hers.

The futility of her situation mixed with her already frayed nerves to have tears burning behind her eyes. But she refused to give into them. Refused to ruin this singular, shining moment.

Her hands fell from his face to grip his shoulders, seeking an anchor as the storm of her emotions swirled around her as surely as the storm outside swirled around the factory building. The taste of her unshed tears mixed with the chocolaty goodness of his breath to create a bittersweet symphony of flavors on her tongue.

“Fisher,” she breathed against his lips, desperately wanting him to experience what she was experiencing. To admit that what they shared was so much more than passion.

Couldn’t he feel how special it was between them? Couldn’t he feel how much her heart ached for him and the tenderness he showed her?

“Lord, you’re sexy,” he growled.

She should’ve been flattered. But that wasn’t the declaration she was after. Those weren’t the three little words she so longed to hear.

The hand that’d been splayed against her back slid down to cup her ass. He used the other to grip the back of her knee and bend her leg up until the part of her that was hot and needy pressed tight against the part of him that was hard and ready.

Her arms went around his neck and she was lost to the sensation of his lips and tongue, to the ferocious desperation that gripped her body, to the carnal way he rubbed against her.

After twirling her around so he could lay her down on the bed, his hips found the welcoming space between her legs. Despite their clothing separating them, she gloried in the feel of him nestled tight against the part of her that needed him the most. Gloried in the feel of his weight pressing her down into the mattress. Gloried in locking her heels together behind his ass to aid him in his movements.

Unfortunately, the moment she settled into the age-old rhythm of bump and grind, the quiet voice that lived in the back of her head began screaming a warning.

Too far! Too fast!

This was more than a kiss. And if she let it continue, there was only one place it would end.

She didn’t want to sleep with him.

Well…she did. She’d wanted to sleep with him pretty much since the moment she’d laid eyes on him. But that hadn’t been what she’d asked for.

She’d asked for a kiss. A taste. A brief glimpse of what might have been had she been the kind of woman who could make love to the man who’d stolen her heart without the act simultaneously breaking the fragile organ wide open. Or had he been the kind of man willing to offer more than just his body.

Stop him! the voice screamed. Stop this!

Before she could take heed, however, Fisher released her mouth to leave a trail of warm, wet kisses down her jaw. The instant he wrapped his talented mouth around the pulse-point on her neck, sucking rhythmically to the beat of her own heart, she lost touch with each and every one of her reservations.

All her internal warnings faded away as she gave in to the undeniable physicality that was Fisher Wakefield in seduction mode. He was so hot she wondered how the bedsheets didn’t burst into flames. So skilled she understood the dreamy expressions on the faces of the women who’d been lucky enough to share his bed.

It was that last thought that had reality and all its harshness crashing back in.

“Fish.” She threaded her fingers into his hair. The strands were silky and cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of his scalp.

“Mmm,” he hummed against her throat, laving her pulse point with his tongue before catching her earlobe between his teeth and sucking the delicate skin so gently her eyes crossed and she considered throwing caution to the wind and simply allowing him to make love to her even though it would undoubtedly prove to be her ultimate undoing.

No! Stop this right now! the voice of reason demanded.

“Fisher.” This time her tone was forceful. She fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth away from her.

“Yes, darlin’?” The smile he gave her was as sweet as angels, but his eyes were the devil’s own when his gaze fell to her kiss-swollen lips. “What can I do for ya?”

“We have to—” It sounded like someone had shoved a wad of uncooked sourdough down her throat. She had to swallow and try again. “We have to stop.”

“We do?” One thick eyebrow winged up his forehead. “Why?” Concern suddenly clouded his eyes. “Is it your head?”

It’s my heart! she wanted to scream.

“I asked you to kiss me.” He was still positioned perfectly between her legs, still moving subtly and creating a mind-melting friction. “I asked you to help me forget for just a moment. And you’ve done that.”

His hips stopped their delicious movement. Even though it was for the best, she wanted to cry out with disappointment.

His expression turned broody in the low glow of the bedside lamp. But his tone was neutral when he said, “Ya sure that’s all ya want?”

No! I want everything! All of you! All the things you’ve sworn you can never give me!

Aloud, she admitted, “Like I said, I won’t be just another notch on your bedpost. And you won’t consider letting me be anything else. So we’re at an impasse.”

He blinked and went so still she thought he’d stopped breathing. His voice had been deep with passion. Now it was full of something different. “Do ya want to be somethin’ else?”

Here was her chance. She could tell him everything. Tell him how much she loved him. How much she dreamed of building a life with him. How much she wanted to spend each and every day waking up to him in the morning and lying beside him at night.

But what good would that do her?

He didn’t feel the same. He’d never feel the same. He’d made that abundantly clear. And so…she lied.

“No.” She shook her head.

Something flickered behind his eyes. Something that made her want to grab his cheeks and force him to look at her so she could study it. But he pushed himself off her and stood beside the bed with his hands on his hips.

His hair was wild and wavy from her fingers. His full mouth was blushed red from her kisses. And the evidence of his desire was starkly outlined against the fly of jeans.

He looked like man personified. Sex personified. And it took everything she had not to pull him back on top of her…screw the consequences and screw that screaming voice of reason.

He made a face of misery before reaching down to adjust himself.

The sight of his long, tan fingers curling around the length of his erection was so erotic she felt her womb contract. And his utter lack of self-consciousness shocked her when he said, “Alrighty. I reckon I better head next door to take care of this myself, then. Ya want me to call in one of the others to come sit with ya ’til ya fall asleep?”

The prim and proper lady she’d been raised to be tried to make her blush bashfully. But the wanton woman he’d awoken in her responded in kind. “No. I need to take care of some business myself.”