26. Calista
Chapter 26
Calista
M y blood bubbles as I stare at the senator. He’s as good-looking and respectable as always.
I try not to fiddle with the rings Smith gave me on the car ride from Brooklyn.
Smith never asked me why I basically jumped him.
Maybe he knows I’m trying to ingratiate myself on a faux intimate level to slow down the inevitable handoff.
Riley could be my downfall or no help at all. As it is, he looked at me once and didn’t even blink or acknowledge me. The building we’re at could be any high-end luxurious and discreet business. The brass plate on the outside reads Grey and Associates. It looks like a law firm or an arm of some kind of moneymaker that needs a tax write-off.
A perfect cover for all sorts of illegal goings-on. One of those impossibly monied nonprofits that are layered in so much gauze that whoever they help changes on the daily, and the real nuts and bolts of the true business are hidden.
I’d need to get hold of their computer servers to find out more.
“But that isn’t your job,” I mutter, trying not to jump every time someone looks my way.
Rich people stuff is nearly always dipped in shady practices. Or worse.
Smith catches my eye. He’s talking to one of the names he gave me from that list, or rather, an associate of that person. The only reason the name Jean Wentworth stands out is because she’s linked to Trenton. On paper and in passing. But still. There’s information there.
Her ties to Bobby Moore, a man with money in Bolivia and relationships with the Collectors, is stronger. She used to be his secretary before leaving to start her own business.
I sip the wine in my glass.
I’m no field agent, but I can hold my own. I just don’t like exposure, and people looking at me makes me incredibly paranoid. It’s probably why my hair’s usually wild like my clothes; people look at that and don’t see me .
But not now.
Now they look.
Except Riley, who?—
I stop and frown. Wait, where is he? I turn and take a canapé from a passing waiter as I search the room. Over to the right and down a darkened hall, I can see him in his dark-blue suit with a man I don’t recognize.
Slowly, I make my way over, weaving through people. Light music plays in the background.
I can’t help but do the rookie thing and look back for Smith. I hold my breath until I see that he’s not there. A wave of relief passes through me. Not relief that I can run, because I’m not an idiot, but relief that I can focus, maybe do something, find a way out.
I slip into the hall.
I have a story. I am looking for the bathrooms. I know damn well they’re in the other direction. We’re about twelve stories up, on the executive floor. As I follow down the hall with voices leading my way, I hear the ding of an elevator and the senator’s smooth tones of, “I’ll see what I can do.”
When the doors slide closed, I step into the hallway. Riley stands there, the back of his head bent as he stares at the screen of his phone. “Aaron?”
He whirls to face me and a muscle tics in his jaw. “Who?—”
“You know who I am.”
His gaze darts around, and then he hurries over and grabs my arm. “My silence was a hint, Calista. You’re wanted and there’s not much I can do to help.”
The unsaid part is so loud it makes me want to slap hands over my ears.
“Unless you give me information, help expose ? —”
Those are the words left hanging in the air between us.
“You’re the one with a missing agent and stolen blueprints. If you’d sent them to me, I could have helped.” Riley pulls me in close and it takes everything to keep my face as neutral as I can. I asked him for help. He knows something. I can feel it. But he moved into politics and…
Fear bites cold and deep.
And this is an indicator of just how much trouble I’m in.
Because he hasn’t lifted a finger to help. And now he knows I’m here.
Fuck.
“Where did you hide all the information? Right now, it looks like you’ve committed treason. I can’t help without you helping me. Who else did you get involved? Last I heard, you were in Germany, on the run. If you give me the hard drive or thumb drive with everything I need, I’ll help. And that will also help your brother.”
It’d be so easy. I trust Riley. He saved me from a life either behind bars or so stripped back, I might as well have been imprisoned. He recruited me, became my mentor. He’s way more trustworthy than Smith.
So why is the fear chewing on my bones, making them numb?
And why am I not giving him even a crumb of information?
His phone screen lights up and I can see it’s a text before he has a chance to pull it away. Bolivia jumps out at me, and the entire text is in that Balto-Slavic language.
Riley pockets the phone. “Who are you here with?”
“I came looking for you. I read… I saw you were here, and I thought I’d come to ask for your help. Can I get your card?”
His gaze catches on my finger with the rings on it but he doesn’t respond. I need to get out of this before he calls for backup, before he takes down my chance… Smith. I force myself to breathe slow and steady. “Card, Aaron? A number to reach you on.”
He reaches into his pocket and my heart’s slamming against my ribs so hard I worry he’ll hear. But all he does is hand me a heavy card made of high-grade cotton. “I need those blueprints.”
“We’ll talk.”
“I’m only here until tomorrow. Call by seven in the morning.”
And before I can say anything, he hits the Down button, and when it arrives, he steps inside. I look forward, long after the doors shut.
“Ten out of ten for composure, sweetheart.”
My legs wobble at the low, deep tones of Smith, that smoky, dark jazz of him winding around me. I know it’s dangerous, but right now, he’s comfort, and when he touches me, I melt into the arms that close around me .
His mouth brushes the top of my head. “He asked for the blueprints, huh?”
“Aaron was?—”
“CIA. Not in any of the areas I worked, so I don’t think he knows me, and I’ve been out a long time.”
“Yes, but I meant he was my mentor. He recruited me and… Smith?”
I raise my head as he drops a kiss on my lips. It’s for show but I take it, hold it close because I need the magic of that caress, even if it’s not genuine, even if it’s a lie.
“On his phone? I saw the word Bolivia. And it was in that language.”
His fingers rub over my hand, touching the card I’ve got clenched in it. “You’re not meeting him.”
“He wants blueprints.”
“Of course he does. I’ll tie you up if you even think of meeting him.”
“He knows I’m here,” I whisper, pulling back. “That means time is?—”
“Not to be wasted on panic. We spend a little more time in here, and then we’re going out.”
“Where?”
“O-Ring.”
I just stare at him. Anything with that as a name has to be some kind of sex club. And he grins slowly. It’s a feral grin. One that drips with promises and intent. “Like the thing used in sex? Is this another sex club?”
“Smart girl,” he says, spinning me and pinning me to the wall like lovers, but he’s not anywhere near that to me. “I’ve got some meetings scheduled. I need to make an appearance.”
“Smith—”
“Calista.” His gaze rakes my features as one leg slides up between my thighs. I’m wearing a slinky black dress that’s sexy, simple, and when he does what he’s doing, he shows just how thin the material is, how with a touch he can make me feel naked and exposed.
Or maybe that’s just him. And my God, I want to rub myself against him. All over him.
“Fuck, I can feel the heat of your sweet pussy, and I’m betting you’re wet. Ever think of taking up sweet femme fatale as a side hustle?”
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” I say. “And why are we at some stupid boring party instead of?—?”
I stop before the words leave my mouth.
But he picks up the slack as he shifts his leg, lifting it to rub against me. “Fucking wet. I can feel you.” He drops his head to my throat, lips skimming my flesh, his tongue shifting over a spot where he’s bitten, making me way too aware of all the things we’ve done. “Instead of running? Instead of finding out about who’s responsible for the weapons? What’s your game? Because you know what the end is here.”
“I told you. I want to bring down the bastard who raped my mother.”
“The bastard who might be your father? The bastard who might be dead?”
“The bastard who might be alive,” I correct. “And if we do that, if I can find the wife and then him, and you promise to make sure my brother’s okay, then you can have all the stuff I have. Whatever it all is.”
Some of it’s the blueprints, some of it might be a coded buyers’ list. I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know. Because I can almost hear his next words before he says them.
“I’ve got eyes on your brother. Protection,” he says. “Whatever you have’s worth money. And taking people down with the stuff you have is gonna take more time than you have.”
The first and last lines tell me everything I need to know.
His fingers slip under my chin as he raises it. “You hear me, right? I’ll make sure your brother’s okay, but we don’t have time to solve a mystery of the weapons buyer and save you. It’s got to be one or the other, Calista.”
My heart stops. The breath rushes out.
“What are you saying?”
“That if you help me with the Collectors, give me all you have as payment, I just might help you get out of this alive.”
My knees buckle and he slips a hand around my waist. “Come on.”
I want to ask. A billion questions crowd my brain.
But in pure Smith form, he doesn’t let me. Instead, he moves us down the hall, back to the party. He hands me a scotch after taking two glasses from a passing tray. I sip it gratefully, preferring the leathery smoke of the hard liquor to the sour bubbles of the champagne.
He loops an arm around me, pulling me against the hard lines of him. “I know you feel like you’re spinning your wheels when danger creeps in. You want to do something. Run, seek it out, hide, pick a fight. Shit, any and all the above, but none of that’s going to help from getting in deeper than you already are.”
“I don’t know if I can stop it all.” My voice trembles and I hate that he can see through me.
“What were you doing in Germany?” He pauses. “Unless you were planning to sell to the highest bidder, which I doubt, you were spinning your wheels as you got information on your maybe father, Trenton. Now you’re closer so it all seems to be pushing at your door, but let me work my magic so we can move forward. The CIA wants you, but they haven’t pushed in and ripped everything down for you. What does that say?”
“They’re either watching or I’m not high on their list. Or they’re confident they’ll eventually get me.” I take a shuddering breath. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
I don’t give him a chance to say anything. I down my drink and move toward the restrooms.
When I find the big, opulent room, I lock myself in a stall, sink down on the toilet, and put my feet up against the door. My eyes float closed, my breathing slow.
Maybe the CIA isn’t coming after me, guns blazing, because they know who has me.
That one leaves a bitter taste. And that’s the problem. I don’t trust Smith.
But… I want to.
I just want to curl up and sleep without worry, to feel his body there next to me, knowing he has my back. But only one person has that. Me.
Smith…
He’s got his own agenda, and we’re both playing each other. That tires me to the core.
If I could play sex games, have him chase me down, fuck him wherever, whenever, however we want, I would. No holds. No strings. Just hot, twisted sex that borders on controlled… I don’t know what to call the real deep primal games. It’s not nonconsensual, it’s not dubious. It’s a careful setup of rules and safe words, and then exploration of dark desires in perimeters.
Letting go with someone like Smith in that would be incredible. I’ve had a taste and yeah, I want more. Just like—God help me—I want that dark and sweet vanilla sex we had.
I want it all.
And if I could just indulge, I would.
But the strings are thin and strong and tangled. The strings and agendas we both have as we play each other make me want to scrub the sordid off .
And I don’t even mean the sex.
I mean the nasty little mind games of fake trust. He underestimates me because of my age and I… I’m still trying to work out what I underestimate about him.
Maybe I’m afraid to find out because it’ll turn out that I underestimated how little he cares about me, and how far he’ll go to get what he wants.
I’m playing with pure poison and it’s dangerously addictive.
The door to the bathroom opens.
“No. I’ll be there,” a female voice says sharply “I have the payment… I want this dealt with, too.”
Water flows from the sink faucet, then stops. The door opens and closes again. I push open the stall door. Whoever it was is gone. I hurry out of the ladies’ room because I want to see who it was. I can’t explain it, I just need to find her.
It’s not until I step foot in the hall that a woman in mid-discussion with a man looks right at me. The shock on her face tells me everything, and it matches my own.
She turns on her heel and takes off down the hall.
It has to be the woman from the bathroom. I don’t wait. I run after her, and when the elevator closes on her, I hit the stairs because I know who it is.
Felicity Trenton.
Jon Trenton’s wife.