Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (24 page)

He made her miss the naive, hopeful person he’d inspired her to be.

The person who had never existed with anyone but him.

In the soft lamplight, as she stood at his bedside, his obsidian eyes were on her. Still lustful, but now tinged with concern.

Dammit.
He could always read her, and now he saw that she was hesitating, as though this was more than sex-play, as though this was a momentous occasion.

Which it isn’t.

Her hand shaking, she reached for one of the leftover neckties.

The days of showing vulnerability are long in the past.

Bending over him, she kissed the frown in the middle of his eyebrows. “Close your eyes.”

When he did, she slipped the red necktie around his head and blindfolded him. Better that he not see, because she didn’t trust herself.

Knowing at her very core that what was about to happen was ephemeral, she lay on top of him, her chest pressed to his, her hands holding onto either side of his head. Drawing in a deep breath, her eyes clouded with tears.

The first one can’t fall.

It did. Another one dropped, on his chest.

She shut her eyes tightly, tried to stop the flow, tried to keep her hands from shaking as she touched him. She gave up and allowed her tears to fall freely. Shimmying up his chest, she pressed her lips to his. Lingering touches. Gentle touches. As though each soft, slow connection mattered. Lingering at his lips, she memorized the soft texture, kissing the corners that throughout each day reflected just a trace of his emotions. Would she ever tell him that she watched for each slight smile, smirk, frown?

No. Never.

He was still, his entire body rigid. As though he was holding his breath, waiting for her next move. Applying pressure, parting his lips, she slipped her tongue into his mouth, moaning with him as he groaned. As he kissed her back, lifting his head from the pillow and joining his mouth with hers with all the force he always used when kissing her, as though he knew he’d never get enough, more tears fell.

She broke away for a second.
Stop crying. Stop crying. Oh God, what is wrong with me?

She kissed the hard ridge of his jawline, feeling the sharp hair of his evening shadow, and moved her lips to his neck and chest. With each kiss producing a yearning for something that could never be, she stopped caring about the fat tears that slipped from her eyes.

He couldn’t see. He had no idea.

She allowed herself to kiss him like she loved him, as though each touch of her lips on him mattered. The woodsy-clean taste of his skin blended with the salty taste of her tears and still she kept kissing, her hands shaking as she held onto him at his shoulders and his chest.

Kneeling at his shoulders, she placed her right breast in his mouth, aching for his touch there. He lifted his head, using his teeth and tongue with the desperation of a man having his last drink of water. Her insides clenched with the force of it, leaving her breathless. She shifted and offered the other breast to him, seeing stars when he closed his mouth around her, sucking hard as he tongued her nipple.

Her tears fell in earnest as she traveled lower, while his groans intensified. When she finally put her mouth on his hard, straining penis, he thrust his hips up and down as much as the restraints would allow. She gripped the shaft as she slid her tongue around the smooth head. Glancing up, vision filmy with moisture, she saw that he was shaking his head from side to side, drawing in deep breaths. His jaw clenched. His chest covered in a sheen of perspiration. He was close. So close.

She glanced at the condom packet. Not going to happen. She wanted to feel him.

She positioned herself above him and held onto his shaft, pausing for a few minutes to give him time to recover. She slid her hips down, inch by delicious taking him into her.

“Hey. Put that cond—”

Eyes closed, focused on the feel of him filling and spreading her, she said, “No talking.”

He took a few harsh breaths. “I give up. Feels fucking fabulous.”

With her walls clenching around him, electrical shocks blew her mind, prompting her to forgive his breaching her rule that he not speak. When she absorbed the full length of him, she tried to stay still. Involuntary twitches, from her and him, happened where they were joined, as her internal muscles magically clamped around his length and girth, adjusting to him and accommodating him.

She had no control over what was happening deep inside of her, but the feeling of her body slowly welcoming him was more powerful than anything she’d ever done. The only other movement was the rise and fall of their chests that came with their deep, heavy breathing.

Samantha held the back of her hand against her mouth, choking back a loud sob, believing with every fiber of her being that this was as close as she’d ever come to making love to him. To anyone. Her need for release built, edging out the raw emotion that had overcome her
.

Panting, she braced her palms at the bottom of his ribcage, and her knees at his waist. She rode him, lifting up and down in smooth moves designed to let him slide in, and almost all the way out. Her thrusts became more urgent, while her inner walls clenched around his girth. Within seconds, she was moaning with him, grinding down onto him and rocking her entire body with the effort.

“Oh. Zeus. Oh.”

He answered her with a loud, low groan and a slight shift up in his hips, as much movement as the ties would allow. As she felt him explode into her, she leaned forward, onto his chest, and held on.

After some time, she realized she’d drifted off. Her face felt like it was glued to his chest, with her hair tangled in between. His soft inhalations and exhalations told her he had no problem that she’d fallen asleep on top of him without untying him, because he’d managed to fall asleep as well.

His penis had slipped out of her. What a shame, because she could feel it against her thigh. He was now semi-erect, even in sleep. The man was insatiable when it came to sex.

Thank God.

She slid off of him, ran her fingers through her hair to get it out of her eyes, and sat at his side. His steady, even breathing didn’t change. Planning to untie him and go catch a few hours of sleep in her own bedroom, she undid the ankle ties. He didn’t move. When she reached for the tie that bound his wrists to the headboard, she gasped. Although the tie remained wrapped around his wrists, it was loose. The end of it was no longer attached to the headboard.

In a quick move, Zeus shifted from his supine position to tackling her, gently pushing her onto her back, chuckling as he laid her head on his pillow. He shook the red necktie off his eyes as he covered her with his body.

“Bastard! You were faking. When did that come untied?”

“Somewhere between your right breast and your left. I deserve an award for pretending I couldn’t touch you.”

He drank her next words of protest with a deep kiss. Travelling down her body, marking his progress with a trail of kisses, she realized that having sex with Zeus would always be a double-edge sword. One deep cut was sensual bliss. The other cut was a deep gash that would make her long for someone she’d never be again, while making her want something she’d never admit to wanting.

Wasn’t much to be done about that when the man had his face just inches away from her mound, when he was using his thumbs to part her folds, and when she felt his warm tongue slip into her. As she moaned, he shifted his mouth upwards and closed his lips around her clitoris, sucking and tonguing the hard nub. Suddenly, his fingers were thrusting in and out of her, hard, as though he owned a claim to her vagina and could use it any way he desired. Exactly how she liked it—plunging in and out of her with so much force it almost hurt, but not quite. As he manhandled her in a manner that no one else had ever mastered, all she could do was moan his name, lift herself up on her elbows, and enjoy the show.

Each time she was on the precipice of a mind-blowing orgasm, his touches became gentle and soft, prolonging her agony as his gaze swept up to meet hers. It was torture and, as he met her gaze, he gave her a look that said he knew it and was damn well enjoying it.

Hell.

It was, really, nothing but a pure heaven that made her forget anything else but the two of them. He finally let her peak, and as she did, he applied steady, sucking pressure on her clitoris, tonguing the hard nub while holding it steady with his teeth and lips. As her hips bucked into his mouth, he thrust his fingers deeper inside of her, anchoring her to his mouth. She screamed her release, loud, at first, then remembering they were in a house with others, she grabbed the pillow and muffled her cries.

He covered her body with his, pressing flat against her. Along her right thigh, she felt his erection. He was hard, hot, and straining, when she was flat on her back, almost too spent from her orgasm to do anything but spread her legs.

“Sorry. I. Don’t. Think. I. Can. Move.”

He kneed her legs further apart, giving her a concerned glance. “Should I stop?”

“No. Please. Don’t know if I can help. Or make this good for you. I’ve lost every ounce of strength.”

Gripping her hips, he lifted her up while sliding down her body. He hooked her knees at his shoulders, positioning himself for entry. “I’ve got enough for both of us. All you have to do is…”

He thrust into her, burying himself to the hilt, filling her.

“Be. You,” he whispered, “God, you’re heaven.”

Their eyes held as their bodies melted together more with each thrust. Her hips started flexing to accommodate his thrusts. His chest became flushed as he buried himself in her and brought her to the peak again. As her muscles clenched tightly around him, she whimpered while she came, riding higher with each of his hard thrusts. When she cried out his name, he responded by throwing his head back, groaning, and arching into her. His body trembled from head to toe. She felt his release, deep inside of her. When he was through, he fell to her side, half on her, half off.

She’d have given a year of her life—or more—to have curled up in his arms and fallen asleep there. Problem was, if she did, she’d wake up a different person, and she’d be giving up far more than time off her life. She’d be losing everything that mattered. When his ragged breathing eased, when her own body stopped trembling from the intensity of her orgasm, she shifted away from him and eased herself off the bed.

“Stay.”

“No.” She stood, glancing at him as she bent to snag her panties and camisole.

He was on his side, head resting on his hand, eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Dammit, we have to talk. Really talk.” He moved fast, sitting up, then standing, and walking to her side. “This is insane.”

With her other hand, she grabbed her laptop, and continued walking towards the door. “There isn’t anything to talk about. We had sex. End of story.”

“Why were you crying?” His voice was low as he stepped closer to her, concern etched in his dark eyes.

Oh hell. Could the man see through a silk blindfold?
“You’re imagining things.”

When he lifted his arms to reach for her, she stepped away from him. “I felt your tears. I tasted them on my lips. Your hands were shaking when you touched me. Dammit, Sam. Talk to me.”

She opened the door.

“Coward.”

Ouch.

She turned to him as a blast of uncontrollable anger simmered up through her veins. “You have no right to call me names. No right to pass judgment on me on any matter. As a matter of fact, if you weren’t so good at sex, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you. Do you understand that if you weren’t such a good fuck, we wouldn’t even be having this much of a conversation?”

Ah. There. His anger was back.
Cheeks flushed red, he drew a deep breath, shook his head, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t act like what we just did means nothing. I know what a meaningless fuck feels like and I’m willing to bet, at this stage in your life, you do too. It doesn’t feel like what we just did. I know it, and you know it. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty damn certain that when you masturbate you don’t goddamn cry and your hands don’t shake.”

Only when I remember you.

Which is something you will never know.

Never.

As she slipped out of the bedroom door, she glanced back at him and said, “Wouldn’t you love to watch and find out?”

Chapter Twenty

Five degrees Celsius. Not freezing, but the light breeze made the damp air cold on H.L.’s face. The sky was gray. Glancing over his shoulder as he walked on the Ile St. Louis, he made sure no one followed him.

He should be enjoying the walk to the apartment on the Ile de la Cite, relishing the cold air as he mentally relived the highlights of the day before. The bomb blast of Wednesday afternoon and its aftermath had been stunning, even viewed from his safe place. The moment of eerie silence afterwards had been electrifying. The screams thrilling.

Of course, at first, he had reacted to the event not as H.L. but as his public persona. He’d behaved appropriately post-explosion, yet dignified and calm. He’d been articulate and tried to make others feel safe, all the while rejoicing on the inside.

For the rest of the evening he’d celebrated a job well done. Returning to his hotel room, he was just in time to catch the first news report. They had it on every channel, and he flipped between stations as he settled in for a working evening. It was gratifying to see how much coverage the event garnered. He was damned proud of what they’d achieved today. Damned proud.

Later, a nightcap of bourbon had been followed by one of life’s great pleasures—a blow job from a beautiful, young woman, who knew precisely what to do with her hands, mouth, and teeth. Watching the television news as she sucked him dry, he was as excited by the graphic images of death and chaos as he was by her mouth.

Afterwards, alone, he’d slept his deepest sleep of the New Year, in his dreams reliving each moment of the day. He’d woken up feeling wonderfully alive. Economic analysts opined about a possible yearlong slow-down in the economy, due to the blatant attack on the ITT. They stated it was now apparent the ITT would be ineffective at stopping the current wave of terror.

He’d been ecstatic.

Like a meteor crashing to earth, at precisely 9:15 in the morning, his feeling of self-satisfaction had ebbed when he logged into the ITT database and read pleadings that had been filed that morning. Two motions had been filed, both consisting of requests to expand the ITT record and both as unique as they were unexpected.

The court had responded promptly to the filings. They were set for a hearing at noon, before the continuation of Duvall’s examination.

Now, stepping into their working apartment for his mid-morning meeting with J.R. and M.C., H.L. did so with an awareness of bright yellow caution flags fluttering in his thoughts. They weren’t foremost on his mind. They were there, at half-mast, a constant reminder they were now navigating a delicate operation.

H.L. reminded himself he was up for the challenge. If what they were doing wasn’t tricky and complex, it was boring.

The heat was turned up in the small apartment. The living room felt stuffy, all the more so due to J.R.’s incessant smoking. Drapes were drawn. The three large screen televisions played news coverage, much of which showed the bombing from the prior day. Volume was muted.

M.C., sitting at a table with his laptop open, sipped tea from a delicate cup. J.R., on the couch, basked with pride at success of the bombing and the murder of Judge Devlin’s wife.

“The press reported that Judge Calante died during the night,” M.C. explained, as H.L. poured piping hot coffee into a mug. “The alternate judge from Colombia will take his place. The Colombian prosecution team, already in shambles from the Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing, has tendered two resignations. That leaves only the lead prosecutor in place for the proceedings next week. Judge Devlin, of course, has returned to the United States to make plans for his wife’s funeral. Alternate Judge Amanda Whitsell will take his place. Among bystanders there were twenty-two fatalities and numerous other injuries.”

“All well and good. We may have injected fear into the proceedings and the world,” H.L. said, standing as he sipped his coffee, facing the two of them. “But today is a new day, my friends. The landscape for us is changing, and not for the better.”

J.R. lit a cigarette off one that was almost burned to the filter, casting H.L. a questioning glance. “How so?”

“Two electronic filings caught my attention this morning. Both are motions to expand the record. The first is from the French prosecution team, expanding subpoena requests for telephone records. They are seeking to enlarge the time frame and reach more telecommunication companies.”

M.C. frowned. He took off his glasses, then pulled a cloth out of his pocket and started cleaning the lenses. He looked up myopically, as his hands were busy with the task. “But the discovery period has been closed for weeks now. Hasn’t it?”

H.L. nodded, then shrugged. Well-steeped in the world of trials and court rulings, he knew judges often changed their minds. “Doesn’t matter. If the French provide a good enough reason, the ITT judges will grant the request. Given the urgency of the proceedings, and the power of the ITT, the phone records could be produced within twenty-four hours. Give analysts a few more days to look at the information, and clues could be developed.”

“After today there is only one more day of proceedings in Paris,” J.R. said. “Why would the French have the right to expand the record now?”

“While we’re almost through in France, this ITT trial has three more weeks,” H.L. explained. “With the permission of the court, the parties can introduce documentary evidence into the record at any time, as long as it is appropriately authenticated.”

“I don’t think we have anything to fear from phone records,” M.C. said. Tortoise-shell glasses freshly wiped and clean, he placed them on his face, adjusting them as he glanced again at his laptop screen.

“You don’t think?” H.L. asked. His imaginary yellow caution flags were hoisted higher as he heard the uncertainty in the voice of the man who was in charge with managing the details of their business. “I want absolutes, dammit. I want you to tell me we have absolutely nothing to fear, on any level.”

M.C. gave him a cool look. “You can lose that imperious tone with me. I can’t give absolutes and I won’t say something just to make you feel good. We’re operating in a world where sometimes a phone needs to be used. That is the harsh reality of dealing with terrorists.” He gave an eye roll, as though the people they used as tools weren’t worthy of the name. “More often than not, they are in their twenties and their phones are as much an extension of them as their hands. Give a twenty-eight year old a task and he can’t resolve it without using an electronic device.”

Silence fell heavily among the three men as J.R. drew a deep drag on his cigarette. He ground the butt of it into an ashtray and didn’t light another. He stood, folded his arms, and glanced at M.C., then H.L. “While I have made every effort to minimize our risk, the truth is everyone has something to fear in phone and data records.”

“We should not,” H.L. said. “We’ve taken every precaution. Believe me, if I could always communicate with you via telephone, I would. The stink of your cigarettes is something I’d rather not experience.”

J.R. shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “I believe the motion by the French prosecutors to expand the record has the potential to be a problematic development.”

“Yes.” H.L. nodded. “It depends on the depth of the search, the data that’s produced, and how experienced the forensic experts are who are looking at the data. It also depends on who might be questioned about the phone records.”

“Yes, to all of that,” J.R. said. “But would you please stop and think like a human being for a goddamn second? Keep it simple, stupid. This motion represents a change to the status quo. The real question is why now? What are they really looking for, and what provoked it? And for this commonsense approach, you should be calling me Mr. Brilliance.”

H.L. fought the urge to wrap his hands around the man’s neck and throttle him.

“I’ll have to talk to our contact,” M.C. said, somehow remaining calm. “We need more details.”

“In due time,” H.L. said. “We have to assume that telecommunications and cyber exchanges are now subject to being intercepted by Black Raven.”

M.C. nodded in agreement. “Will the court grant the subpoena request?”

“We have to assume yes and do damage control from there,” H.L. said. “Assume the worst. Assume there is some link somewhere in phone records to someone who might reveal who we are. Where we are. What should we do about that?”

“Send out a strong message so that no one talks,” M.C. said. “Scare the crap out of them so they keep their mouths shut.”

J.R. smiled. “I have that covered. Plans are in place here. Remember, we have access to the prisoners in France and London. By the time we get to Columbia, we should have access there, if we need it. So far, we do not have access to prisoners in the United States.”

“Duvall?” H.L. asked.

“Of course. He is our weakest link. But we have to decide quickly.” J.R. glanced at his watch. “The transfer to the proceeding will take place at 11:00 a.m.”

“Do it,” H.L. said.

J.R. returned to the couch, a humorless smile playing at his lips. “I have to use a phone.”

“Is it a burner?” H.L. asked.

“Yes. Untraceable,” J.R. said. “And after I use it once, I’ll destroy it. There is no way this phone call can be linked to us.”

H.L. nodded, and J.R. made the call. When someone answered, he said, “Duvall. Stat. Kill him with whatever option I’ve given you that is most expedient. Be sure to cut out his tongue.”

When the call was over, J.R. disconnected the call, tore the battery out of the casing, and stepped on the phone with the hard heel of his shoes. Gentle eyes looked as though he’d just had a conversation about something as benign as flowers. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and tapped one out. Lighting it, he glanced at H.L., and took a deep drag. “You said two electronic filings caught your attention. What was the second?”

“Samantha Fairfax made a request of the ITT Judges to interview Vladimer Stollen.”

J.R. sat up straighter. “Well, holy hell. I predicted she’d pick up where Stanley Morgan left off. But you two ignored me.”

“Past time to stop her.” M.C.’s matter of fact statement was made without tearing his attention from his laptop screen.

H.L.’s discomfort grew. Control seemed to be slipping through his grasp. A feeling he wouldn’t tolerate. “No. We didn’t ignore you. If you recall, our attempt at damage control with the cyanide poisoning didn’t work as planned. Rather than focus on the Amicus team, or her, we must continue with our efforts at targeted randomness. Those efforts are working. Duvall’s murder this morning, and continued pressure on the families of participants in the proceedings, as we planned.”

“I disagree with your suggestion that we can’t target individuals,” H.L. said. “Our acts of terror may as well be productive. If we were worried the judges were going to listen to Morgan, we should be equally concerned that Fairfax knows everything that Morgan knew, and we should be concerned that the judges will listen to her. As Amicus counsel, she is the impartial voice of the United States.”

“Her reason for talking to Stollen now?” M.C. asked, his tone reflecting growing concern.

“Her motion didn’t contain details. I’ll learn more during the argument today and we’ll learn more if our contact manages to give us a communication. Given the climate we created with yesterday’s bombing,” H.L. answered, “I’m concerned this motion might have some headway.”

“And if you’re simply considering Fairfax’s role as limited to Amicus counsel, with only the tools that participants in the ITT proceeding have at their disposal,” M.C. clicked at the keyboard of his laptop as he spoke, then turned the screen to H.L. and J.R., “you are sorely underestimating her capabilities.”

Trepidation burned H.L.’s insides as he looked at the photo on the computer screen. On the monitor, M.C. had pulled up images of Zeus Hernandez of Black Raven carrying Samantha Fairfax away from the explosion. There were multiple images. One was a video. M.C. played it.

Hernandez’s jaw was set, his serious eyes grim. He looked like a man who was physically strong enough to conquer anyone, and the intensity in his dark, fathomless eyes suggested he could be damn creative as to how he did it. As he ran with the woman in his arms, there was tenderness in the way he cradled Fairfax to his chest. H.L. stepped closer, staring at the screen. His stomach churned. He hadn’t seen it last night. Oh, he’d looked at the footage and the images of Hernandez with the beautiful blonde in his arms. The images had been hard to miss. But he hadn’t focused on them. Hadn’t stared at them in isolation. He’d been so damn thrilled at how the explosion had been successful he hadn’t realized the depth of what he was looking at, the image of a powerful man who so obviously was carrying something that mattered to him.

“Hell.” H.L. didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t thought of the possibility that Jesus Hernandez and Samantha Fairfax could be working as a team the very instant he’d seen her motion to interview Stollen.

“We have to assume Black Raven is the impetus for the motion to interview Stollen. Yesterday I said I was worried that having Hernandez on the scene, with Black Raven working the bounty hunt and with access to ITT data, was going to be problematic. Rather than relaxing last night”—M.C. shot them both a hard glance, as if the man knew how they’d both spent their evening, and disapproved—“I did some research on Black Raven, including analyzing the records of last year’s Senate hearings examining the tactics employed by the company to rescue Barrows.”