At Any Cost (5 page)

They rode up to the top floor, which was dominated by a glitzy international law firm. Fallon and Tom walked toward the red exit sign at the extremity of the hall. There was no access to the roof. At the other side of the hallway, they were confronted by the same problem: it was impossible to get up to the roof.

Puzzled, Fallon tossed up her hands. “What in the world?”

“Fallon—Miss Hughes—I wasn't sure at first but now I am. I was on the advance team when the Vice President visited an office in this building two years ago. The blueprint for the building showed there were escape routes on every floor except this one. I remember it because it threw the advance team into havoc trying to figure out how to get him out of the building in case of emergency.”

Fallon suddenly grinned. “You are so bloody useful.”

As they exited the elevator one level below, they walked to the end of the hall to the exit sign. Opening the door, Tom presented a narrow metal ladder welded to the wall that led to the sixth floor. Behind that, in a narrow crawlspace, a ladder went all the way to the roof.

Fallon mused aloud, “How would Antoine Campbell know about a secret pipeline from the fifth floor to the roof?”

“I'm wondering the same thing.”

“If police were chasing him, they would have stopped him on the sixth floor and he'd never have jumped.”

“Maybe he had some connection to the building,” Tom said, his voice low and thoughtful.

Fallon adjusted the purse on her shoulder and stepped up to the rungs.

“Hold on,” Tom said, and lightly gripped her by the waist. Fallon yelped with surprise as he effortlessly lifted her off the ladder and set her on terra firma, leaving her a little giddy from the unexpected contact.

“I'll check it out,” he said.

Fallon watched him climb the ladder, admiring his body in action. At the top, he pushed open the hatch roof. A wedge of gray sky appeared over Tom's head. “All clear.”

Fallon climbed up and emerged on the roof. The strange perspective of the city rooftops spread out before her was exhilarating. The Gothic spire of the National Cathedral glimmered through the low clouds to the west. The rest of the city looked strangely anonymous—a grid of grayness.

Fallon walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the vertex where M and 22nd Streets met. A queue of yellow taxis was shockingly bright in the pale pearl-gray morning light. Around the corner, her two glossy, bulky black limos were idling.

This is where Antoine Campbell would have jumped, from this very spot. Relatively speaking, the distance down didn't seem too terrible. Curiously, if Antoine Campbell had chosen to cross the street, he would have been able to jump from one of the District's few actual skyscrapers—the Verizon Building. Jumping from that building would have been much more certain to cause death than the relatively short six stories of this building. Fallon studied the cell antennae on the roof of the Verizon building. In addition to the height, it was also newer than this one, meaning it would have a modern fire code, one where the top floor would lead directly to the roof.

A dark certainty passed over Fallon. Tiny pinprick tears stung her eyes. She looked to Tom. His expression was soft and compassionate and she felt that he knew it too, that the truth had somehow been shown to them both in that instant.

“Somebody … did that to him ….” Her voice was a trembling wisp.

Tom's lips tightened into a grim line.

“Come here,” she said. “Look.”

Tom shook his head.

A slow, bitter smile touched her lips. “I remember. You're afraid of heights.”

He looked at her evenly—reading her mind, she thought. Fallon felt her face heat, embarrassed to have mentioned her past knowledge of him, which opened up the subject that both were politely avoiding.

A dry, kind smile of acknowledgement came to his lips. He reached for her arm, gently urging her from the edge of the rooftop. “Come on.”

Fallon stepped away from the edge. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body, trying to fight the cold and confusion.

“You got two calls yesterday.”

Fallon blinked in surprise, jostled by his businesslike words. “Pardon?”

“At the coffee shop, you said there were two calls. One from your friend Gwen and another. Do you still have the message on your phone?”

“Yes, but it recorded just dead air.”

“We can send your phone to Electronic Crimes. The geeks might be able to get some info from that. Maybe a number, maybe the origin of the call if it was made from a cell.”

She shrugged. “Would they do that?”

“Someone who said he was in imminent danger of being killed called my protectee, then he dies under mysterious circumstances. That puts you in danger.”

“I'm not in danger,” she replied lightly. She found the whole Secret Service apparatus a little absurd; she was a struggling attorney—not a political operative. She still bristled when she wanted to jog and they were right behind her or when she went shopping with Gwen and they were just out of her peripheral vision. She didn't feel like anyone's “protectee,” though she was amused to find herself in that role with Tom. It felt like an act. Antoine Campbell's death might have been wicked, but she felt too far removed from it to be in any actual peril.

“It's my job to decide when you are in danger,” Tom said sharply.

She was taken aback by his seriousness. In that moment she saw a glimpse of his real life, the life she had not been able to see in Paxos. He cared about his job, obviously, but so did all of her other agents. Tom cared somewhat uniquely, she thought. He cared with a particular intensity, and it stoked her curiosity.

He was very near. His green eyes were intense, concentrated full of distances and heat.
Yep, I am in danger. Code Red. DEFCON 5.
But it had nothing to do with Antoine Campbell. It had to do with the man whose job was to protect her.

She felt herself becoming dangerously close to overstepping her boundaries and asking him straightforwardly what he remembered about her in Paxos, if she ever meant anything to him. It was a curse, her inability to hide her emotions—or even control them very well. But to ask would be to open herself to the possibility she really did not want to face: that he had simply not cared about her the way she had about him.

She looked away, suddenly frustrated with herself and with Tom Bishop. How absurd that she should feel guilty for wanting some clarification about what happened between them.

“Miss Hughes …”

“Stop it,” she said with sudden force. Adrenaline pumped through her. “Stop the
Miss Hughes
and
Avalon
and
Ma'am
stuff. You know who I am.”

He looked surprised by her outburst, and it gratified her. His stoicism had a crack.

“I want you to relate to me as a human being, not a protectee,” she continued in a rush. “This is weird for me and I'm sure it is for you too. There aren't any social rules for this territory. But it would be easier if we just acknowledged that we know each other from … from before. You don't have to pretend you care about me … you just …”

A wash of pink appeared under his cheekbones, and she was pretty sure it wasn't from embarrassment though she couldn't tell what he was feeling. His jaw tightened. A cord in his throat twitched. She'd slalomed right over the line. Touched that sensitive bruise that existed between them. The Past. Paxos. It was her chance though. If she didn't just get it out in the open it would antagonize her forever.

“We should at least be … friends,” she finished lamely.

He did not reply. His gaze was cold and level. Back to the stoic Robot Man, his de facto state. He couldn't even stomach the thought of being friends? Stunned, Fallon forced herself to mimic him, remaining perfectly still, looking back at him with what she thought was proud impassiveness to disguise the acute disappointment that caused her heart to accelerate and tears to pinch the corners of her eyes.

He glanced behind her, then met her gaze again. “I cared about you back then.” The words came out in a halting whisper. Everything about him seemed reluctant, restrained. “I still do. I have to … maintain … some sort of …” His voice trailed off and he looked out toward the dramatic spire of the National Cathedral in the silky gray sky. Fallon stood quite still, watching him, trying to ignore and control the welling wave of expectation that was struggling to break through her feeble emotional ramparts. He swung his gaze back to her. “I have to maintain some formality. For work.”

“Why?”

His green gaze met hers levelly. The Siberian wilderness flickered with signs of life. “You know why.”

Shots of light began to dance in her mind. Yes, she did know why—she knew it instinctively. He still felt it too: the wild, ungovernable attraction between them. In his indirect way, he was acknowledging it—confessing his feelings. The sudden shock of elation nearly knocked her to her knees. She wanted to dance. To laugh. She had to think of something to say but had no idea what it might be. She looked into his eyes and saw the old unmistakable longing there, the raw emotion, and before she could say anything, her body answered for her. She stepped closer and pressed her lips to his.

Worst idea ever.
But oh God, he could not stop kissing her. How had he lived this long without having something this good? After the initial shock of the sweet contact, his body shifted gears, plunging into overdrive. Her lips were silky soft, yielding to him instantly as he deepened the kiss. She tasted as luscious as he remembered—like vanilla. Delicious and sweet. She felt even better. Soft and warm and scrumptious all pressed up against him.

His inner resistance was gone, demolished in a torrent of kisses and searching hands.

At the worst possible time. Not that he was in much of a position to care at the moment because for the first time in four years, every single one of his cells was vibrantly, fully alive.

Fallon pulled back, her blue eyes dazzled, color high on her cheeks like a child with fever. Her glossy blonde hair whipped back in the wind. So heartcrackingly beautiful. She was shaking violently and he wanted to embrace her, to share the heat boiling under the surface of his skin, but she resisted. She met his gaze squarely, then slowly, deliberately placed her shaking hand over the massive bulge in the crotch of his pants. Her eyes slightly widened and her breath caught in her throat. “Oh God … Tom …”

Pleasure licked up his nerve endings, swirling and spiraling through him. Some dim voice in the recesses of his mind valiantly urged him save himself. Remove her hand. Protect the life he'd created for himself—the stark independence that he'd come to treasure more than even love or intimacy. But the voice was getting smaller until it was only a faint, indiscriminate din in the cacophony.

Fallon gently scraped her fingernails up the length of his cock; even through the barrier of his clothes, it nearly brought him to his knees. It had been a long time since he had felt this out of control of his own body and yet so fully inside his own body, so aware of every breath, every nerve ending being stroked and teased. He couldn't think about anything but getting her in bed. Didn't even have to be in bed. A wall, a floor, anything. Just needed to be melded against her soft, strong body. Inside her. It was thirty fucking degrees out and he was burning up. He could vaporize the polar caps like this.

“You have three seconds,” he said levelly.

A smile teased the corner of her mouth. “Three seconds for what?”

He didn't trust his voice.

“One,” Fallon breathed softly against his chin. “Two.” She lifted her face and pressed her juicy pink lips to his, then dragged the kiss down his jaw to his neck. Her velvety warmth felt like a luxury he shouldn't be able to afford. Fallon pulled back, a little breathless, and met his gaze candidly. Her teasing smile vanished. “Three.”

For a moment nothing happened. Then Tom grasped her wrist and firmly removed her hand from his groin.

An expression of mortification swam across her pretty features. She pinched her lips together and tears sprang her eyes.

“Come on,” Tom said.

“Oh my God,” Fallon whispered. Humiliated, she hid her face with her hands.

“Come on.” He grabbed her elbow and edged her toward the exit.

Tom climbed down, ensured there was no ambush lying in wait, and then signaled for her to come down. Careful in her high heels, Fallon delicately climbed down and then stepped into vestibule with him. It was warm down here, and private. Not quite private enough to fall apart though. She struggled to bury the embarrassment at having thrown herself at a man who really,
really
didn't want her. Her lips were trembling. She could not meet his intent gaze.

Tom crowded her, so her back was against the ladder. Only then did she look up at him, the hope and light coming back into her huge cobalt eyes. That naked vulnerability crushed him.
Don't look at me like that
, he wanted to plead with her, but in the next instant, the words no longer existed anywhere in the world because he pressed his lips to hers.

Heat leaped and flared between them on contact, like throwing gasoline on a fire. The kiss was wild, out of control. Fallon was moaning beneath him, crushing her strong, small trembling body against his in her innocent eagerness. Her fragrance and female sweetness were intoxicating, sucking him in to a storm of sensations that felt shocking and new. It was like everything before this moment had been in black and white, and now there was color and flavor and texture.

Abruptly, he pressed his face to her neck, smelling the light, soapy, clean fragrance of her skin and wrapping thick silky locks of her blonde hair around his fist, then pulling her head back so her smooth white neck was totally exposed to him. He kissed her jugular with sudden gentleness, loving the fragrant, pulsing warmth against his lips and the way she sighed and whispered, “Yessss.” His hungry mouth moved lower, to the swell of her cleavage, and he pressed desperate kisses to the soft flesh. In those demi-cup bras she wore, it was like her breasts were being offered up to him—a thought that pleased him very much. He began to kiss lower, licking and sucking the erect nipple over the lace of her white bra. Fallon arched her back, pushing herself toward him. Then, with a finger, she slid the cup down, exposing her pink-tipped breast to him.