This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (29 page)

“I’m sorry,” he began.

“No, I’m not objecting … it’s just … let me brush my teeth—” He silenced me by pressing his mouth firmly down on mine. His tongue teased at my lips. I gasped and opened to him. Our tongues touched, fenced. I pulled back again. “Look, you’re an Álfar—”

“I try to forget about that—”

“So I feel gross and gauche and—”

“Shut up,” he said, amusement lacing the words. He swept me up into his arms and started carrying me toward the bedroom door. “You’re smart.” He gave me a kiss. “Funny.” A kiss. “Brave.” Another kiss. “Loyal.” Kiss.

“Woof,” I said.

John started laughing and lost his balance, and we went down in a tangled heap on my bed. Once we’d untangled we lay side by side, gently kissing, our fingers exploring each other’s faces. I especially liked running my fingers through his hair. It was incredibly thick and surprisingly coarse. I had thought an Álfar’s hair would be like silk dipped in silicone.

We didn’t seem to be moving toward any other body parts, so I reached down and began unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his chest. I ran my nails from his sternum to his belt buckle, making him gasp and arch his back. I felt perversely pleased with myself, and his excitement elevated my own anticipation.

I sat up, and he grabbed hold of the bottom of my tank top and pulled it over my head. I leaned into him, and his hands sought the clasp of my bra. I wasn’t terribly well endowed, and I wondered if he’d be disappointed. But he didn’t rush. He rubbed the palm of a hand across my nipples, then cupped a breast in each hand and bestowed feather-like kisses while his thumb continued to flick across my now painfully erect nipples. I gasped and cried out, and he pulled me against his chest, bare skin to bare skin, and just stroked my back.

I reached down, undid his belt, unzipped his slacks. His erection was very evident, pressed against the white cloth of his boxer shorts. That was another thing I hadn’t expected. I thought an Álfar would be a jockey kind of guy. It was like John had read my mind. He pulled back a bit and smiled down at me. His eyes were dancing, filled with mischief.

“A real Álfar would go commando,” he said, and I choked on a laugh. “Remember, I’m the blue-collar elf.”

I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of his underwear. My exploring hand noted the ripped muscles in his abdomen, and then I gently cupped his penis. He groaned, his eyes rolled back, and he bucked against me. I drew my fingernails down the back of his member and gently touched his balls. This time the groan became a growl, and he flipped me over and began kissing me. His lips were hard and demanding now, his tongue like a rapier.

I was gasping, burning up, and my clothes felt way too tight and confining. I wanted to press myself against that lean body and feel John’s warmth. He seemed to feel the same urgency, because we tugged and wriggled until we were out of our pants and underwear.

There was another pause while John pulled back, leaned on his elbow, and let his eyes explore my body, taking in every inch. And I felt every inch blush. I tried to cover myself, but he grabbed my hand.

“You’re beautiful.”

“No. I’m cute.”

He shook his head. “Never argue with a connoisseur. You’re beautiful.”

I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him close. His skin was hot to the touch, and the heat seemed to enter my body. Something deep in my groin gave a flip, and I gasped. Never in my life had I been this aroused, this quickly.

I discovered he was very sensitive on his throat and ears. Kissing him there made his eyes roll back and hoarse gasps puff from between his lips. He kissed the hollow at the base of my throat, then took one breast in his mouth. His tongue teased across my nipple. I struggled to take a breath, and my back arched like a stroked cat’s. His erection pressed against me, tumescent and sticky. We were both so ready.

I tried to guide him inside me, but he resisted, and instead he flipped me onto my stomach and began kissing and nibbling along my shoulder blades, paying special attention to the small of my back.

Somehow he had known that I loved to have my back fondled. Maybe he really
was
telepathic.

“You have such a beautiful back.” His finger traced the line of muscles.

“Horses,” I managed to gasp, and I gripped the pillow with both hands and writhed beneath him, emitting little mewing noises. He put his lips next to my ear and whispered, “You sound just like a kitten.”

“Oh, great, so much for sexy and seductive.”

“Oh, you’re that too.” John gently rolled me over, and looked down into my face. His expression was serious. “Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?”

“Oh God, yes.”

He still held back, gently brushing my clitoris with the tip of his penis. It was wildly arousing. I let out a cry of frustration, clutched him tightly, and pulled him against me. He slid into me, all the while murmuring endearments. We fit together very well, and we found each other’s rhythm almost instantly.

Over and over John brought me to climax, thrusting deep into me, then slowing to a tickling caress. Each time he tried something new he asked: How was it? Did I like it? Did it feel good? Half the time all I could manage was a nod and a strangled “Uh-huh.”

I started to stress over his lack of an orgasm. He must have sensed the subtle tensing in my muscles. He slowed down and ran a hand through my hair. “Too much? Am I doing something you don’t like?”

“No, I just worry that you—”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m having a
very
good time.”

“But you haven’t come yet.”

“I will. I want this to last for a while. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh God, no. You’re wonderful, you’re amazing. I just want it to be good for you too.”

“Stop worrying about everyone else, Linnet.” He gave me a devil’s grin and began to pick up the pace.

My hips rose to match him. An orgasm later, John began to groan and gasped out, “I can’t hold back any longer.”

“Don’t,” I cried, clutching at his shoulders.

He drove in deeper, and my cries matched his. He gave a final, shuddering yell. I felt his release, a wash of warmth deep inside me, and John collapsed onto my chest. I tightened my core muscles, closing my vagina around him. He gasped and shivered.

“What are you doing? And how are you doing it?”

“Horses,” I said again with some smugness.

“Jesus, woman, that feels amazing.”

We lay together for a long time, still connected, my hand stroking down his back. He played with my hair, and I dozed off. I awoke to find him looking down at me with amusement.

“What?” I said defensively.

“Isn’t it supposed to be the man who falls asleep?” John teased.

I made a face and pulled his hair. “You’re just not typical because you’re not a man.”

“Really? What am I?”

“Annoying. What time is it?”

He lifted up an arm, canting it to catch the light from the window, and checked his watch. “Three thirty.”

“I’m going to be wasted at work tomorrow … today.”

“You could not go in,” John said.

“I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Linnet, have you not noticed that you are the Golden Child?”

“Yeah, maybe, but pretty soon they’re going to be asking
What have you done for me lately?
”

“So take advantage of it now.”

“Why? What did you have in mind?” I teased.

“More of this,” he said, with an expansive gesture that encompassed the bed.

“That sounds good,” I said, and snuggled in close to him. He spooned me against his belly, and this time he slept too.

20

But I awoke with a different plan. John was still sleeping. I set some cinnamon-raisin bread to soak in a mix of cream, eggs, orange juice, orange zest, and Grand Marnier for French toast, put bacon in the oven to bake, brewed a pot of coffee and got a cup, and sat down with my laptop to do some research on Thomas Gillford.

Everybody’s on the net, whether they use it or not. It didn’t take long to locate Gillford’s old office address in Red Oak Hollow, Virginia. Securitech had its headquarters and training facility on 700 acres between Red Oak Hollow and Roanoke, where Chastity had danced and won the love of Henry Abercrombie.

When lawyers retire, they have only two choices regarding the files they’ve accumulated over the years—return them to the clients, or store them. Even after lawyers die, the files have to continue to be stored, or their heirs have to try to return the papers to the clients. I realized lawyers were rather like Marley’s Ghost, dragging behind us vast reams of paper instead of cash boxes.

There had been no sign of filing cabinets in the rented house in Bayonne. Granted, I hadn’t seen every room, but Gillford’s bio in
American Lawyer
gave his birthdate, and when I did the math I figured out he had been eighty-five at the time of his death. He had started practicing law at twenty-three by doing an apprenticeship and then taking the Bar, something that was permitted in certain jurisdictions. Judging by the length of his career, he would have had a ton of files, and I didn’t think they could have been stored in the remaining upstairs rooms of his house.

Large law firms rent warehouses to store the files, but small firms and sole practitioners often go with storage units. It’s an expense, and many human firms were in the process of scanning and storing these files electronically. I figured there was no way a White-Fang firm would ever part with the paper. I pulled back my wandering thoughts and took a sip of coffee. Gillford had been a sole practitioner. I figured he was more likely to have rented a storage unit, and going digital seemed unlikely. Somewhere in those files would be the executed copy of Abercrombie’s will.

John wandered in, a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hands, vigorously drying his hair. The thick thatch stuck up like a rooster’s comb. It made me smile.

“Something smells good,” he said.

“Bacon. My coffee isn’t as fancy as yours, but there’s a pot ready. Let me start the French toast.”

I left the table and turned on the electric skillet.

“How are you doing this morning?” John asked as he sat down.

“I have had sex before.”

John actually blushed a bit. He shook his head. “I thought you might have. No, I was talking about Finkelstein. You were feeling pretty bad last night.”

“Not so much now. Now I’m just mad,” I said as I watched butter melting on the hot skillet. “And when I get mad, I get even.” I looked over my shoulder to give John a smile and found him looking alarmed.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“We’re going to find the other will, take the company away from Deegan, and give it to Chastity Jenkins.”

John dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she’s a madwoman.” I presumed he was talking with the Holy Family, since this clearly wasn’t directed at me. His next remark was, “And just how do you propose to do that?”

“Thomas Gillford.”

“I’ve got a news flash for you—he’s dead.”

“Yes, but our works live on after us.” I slid the soaked bread slices into the skillet. They sent up a merry sizzling, and the rich smell of cinnamon and frying food filled my small apartment.

“Hello. Not your case. Syd getting hurt … also not your fault.”

“Last night you implied it was.”

“Last night I was a dick.”

“Yes, you were, which is why I need you to find out if Gillford had a storage unit rented for his files. It’s probably in Red Oak Hollow, Virginia. He probably wouldn’t have wanted to move them to New Jersey when he and his wife moved.” I frowned at that and turned the toast. “One wonders why they moved to a colder, uglier place? Maybe she had family in New Jersey.” I shrugged. “You can check on that too.”

“I’m not checking on nothin’ because nobody is going to be paying me.”

“Chastity will pay you after she gets control of Securitech. I’m going to contact her and explain that Syd has been hurt and that I’m taking over for him.”

“You are so in conflict-of-interest territory. Assuming you succeed, Chastity is not going to be happy that you took twenty million of her money.”

“Okay, good point. So I won’t be the attorney of record. But I’m still going to find that will.”

“Do you have a death wish, or are you just interested in seeing if you can cheat death for a third time?”

I dished up the French toast and set down our plates. “Would you get the bacon out of the oven?” I asked John, then said, “I thought you were like super-detective or ninja-detective. You can make sure we’re not being followed.”

John grabbed hot mitts and pulled out the cookie sheet. “If you think Deegan hasn’t had an army of investigators looking into Gillford’s background, you’re smoking opium.” The bacon sizzled and popped as if to contradict the harsh statement.

But his words deflated me. I sat down abruptly. “So, you’re saying it’s hopeless. They will have already found his storage unit and destroyed the will.”

“That’s what I would do,” John said as he placed the bacon on paper towels to drain.

“Yes, but you’re clever, and Deegan has been more of a blunt instrument. Burning down the courthouse in Virginia—”

“You know for certain about the courthouse?”

“No, but it seems likely. Killing Chip, killing Gillford, attacking me, attacking Syd.”

“He can’t be that stupid,” John said as he brought over the bacon. He grabbed a few pieces, slathered his toast with butter and syrup, and tucked in.

I doctored my toast and began to eat. “No, but he is arrogant, and he thinks he’s dealt with all the problems. And sometimes arrogant can be dumber than stupid. Or something,” I finished lamely as I got tangled up in the sentence.

“You’re really determined to go to Virginia, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to go with you so you don’t get killed.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.

John tossed his napkin on the table, leaned back, and gave me a look that was both ironic and leering. “Well, there goes my dream of a day spent in bed.”