Hidden with you, p.3
Hidden With You, page 3
But while his target’s ill-gotten inheritance might have bought her freedom from a corrupt judicial system, it hadn’t been able to buy her protection from the grieving sister-in-law.
Once he’d completed the job, his client had inherited the fortune. And, as promised, she’d donated every last penny toward housing and healthcare for abandoned children in the UK and adults suffering from Alzheimer's.
As for Jasper, he’d used his extremely large fee to fund his own investigation, finally tracking down an unidentified woman whose picture had been sent to him by an anonymous source, along with a scribbled note: Find her. She knows.
It had taken years before he’d finally been able to confirm her identity as Melinda Barrett and locate her in London.
Melinda hadn’t known much, but with her information, he’d forged the next two links in the chain that had drawn him to the States. Now he was trying to track down a sleazy, retired bookkeeper named Tarlton Raleigh. A man about whom Jasper knew next to nothing. Only that he’d retired somewhere in America. That, at least, was a start, and Jasper intended to put Stark Security’s excellent resources to work for him.
With luck, Raleigh would give him the second link that would lead Jasper to finding The Maestro, the shadowy sick fuck of a human who was Jasper’s ultimate prey. The dead man walking who had killed his family. Who’d made them suffer.
And against whom Jasper was going to extract sweet, painful revenge.
He exhaled, letting the memory and anger flow out of him. Today wasn’t about retribution, and Zelda had nothing to do with his family’s death. She played no role in his mission. Yet there she was, filling his thoughts. And damned if she wasn’t a welcome distraction from the pain and loss and memories that usually weighed him down.
And so he was going to find her. Touch her. He didn’t know why it was so important. He wasn’t prone to infatuation, and he didn’t believe in fate. But something about her had called to him. She’d become a talisman. If he could find the elusive woman in gold, then surely he could also, finally, track down The Maestro.
“Or maybe you’re just losing it, Kent,” he said, only realizing he’d spoken aloud when he heard the chuckle behind him. He turned to face Quincy Radcliffe and his wife, Eliza.
“I always said you were a bit mad,” Quincy said, even as Eliza pulled Jasper into a hug.
“It’s so great to see you again,” she said, offering him the wide smile he remembered from the few times he’d joined her and Quincy for drinks in London’s financial district. “Let me guess,” she continued, pulling away with a stern expression, softened only by the gleam of amusement in her sky-blue eyes and the tease of the dimple in her cheek. “You were never really in finance either.”
Jasper eyed Quincy. “I always told you she was both smart and a keeper. And no. I wasn’t in finance. I served in MI6 just like your husband.”
“So you left Queen and country to work for the SSA?”
“Actually, I left years ago. Been working freelance security.” He didn’t mention that he’d been working primarily as an assassin, using the extremely high fees he commanded to fund his search for the man who murdered his family. Not a career choice he talked about, but he needed the cash. And he was very selective about the jobs he accepted, taking cases only where the justice system had failed and a vile criminal was walking free.
Considering the rumors about Quincy’s former work with an organization called Deliverance, Jasper was sure his friend would understand. Eliza, however, might not.
“Congratulations, by the way,” he continued. “I heard through the grapevine that you two had found each other again after my idiot friend here bailed on you. I’m really glad.”
“Me, too,” she said as Quincy drew her close in a way that made Jasper’s heart ache. He’d had that once. A love that was both easy and intense, sweet and wild, deep and all-consuming and painfully, wonderfully real. A once-in-a-lifetime love that he would cherish always. He’d never feel that way again, he knew that. But as a vision of Zelda filled his thoughts, he knew that at least he could take the edge off.
He took a step to the side, intending to make some excuse so that he could continue looking for the gold-clad writer, but then Quincy lifted his hand in greeting to someone approaching from behind. Jasper turned, hoping it was her, only to find himself looking at a green-eyed man with dark blond hair and a surfer’s build.
“Simon Barré,” the surfer said. “You’re the new guy?”
Jasper shook Simon’s extended hand. “Looks that way.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“You’re new?”
“I’m the newest field agent. But I’ve been at the SSA for awhile. I’m pretty settled in now.”
“Settled?” Quincy chuckled. “At work, maybe. But I’m not sure he’ll ever be settled here. Although I am impressed you came to this party. Or are you just a masochist?”
Simon narrowed his eyes, scowling at Quincy. But there was humor there, too.
“What’s the joke?” Jasper asked.
“Los Angeles. Hollywood,” Quincy said. “Our man Simon’s not a fan.”
Simon scowled. “I like the weather. I like the beach. I hate the industry. And I’m not particularly fond of the people who work in it.” He shot a glance toward Jamie. “The breed, anyway. Some of them are tolerable.”
“And yet there’s San Diego,” Jasper said. “Orange County. But here you are.”
Eliza laughed. “You just met him, and you’re already trying to get rid of him?”
“Just analyzing the contradiction that makes up the man.”
“Don’t even try. I’m a walking enigma.” Simon flashed an easy grin. “Speaking of, have you seen Owen?”
Quincy shook his head. “Wasn’t expecting too, though.”
“Owen?” Jasper asked. He’d been scanning the deck to find Zelda, but the unfamiliar name caught his attention.
“New guy,” Simon explained. “Not in the field. His area’s research and analysis. Former CIA, apparently. Quiet. Sharp as a tack. But you want to talk enigmas…”
Since Jasper had zero interest in talking about any enigma that didn’t center on how Zelda had seemingly managed to disappear entirely from her own party, he excused himself then took off toward the bar. In his experience, bartenders tended to be an observant lot, and that proved true when he asked the woman at the bar if she’d seen Zelda.
“Oh, the writer? Sure,” she replied, passing him the bourbon he’d asked for. “I saw her go inside about ten minutes ago.”
“Thanks.” He followed the direction in which the bartender had pointed and found himself at the glass door that led into the breakfast area off the kitchen. He passed a caterer holding a tray of appetizers and continued inside. A few people from the party were sitting at the round table, and their presence alleviated what little guilt he had about wandering uninvited through Jamie and Ryan’s home.
That guilt ramped up a bit as he left the kitchen area and entered the home’s living spaces. As far as he could tell, no one from the party had wandered this far in, and even after peeking into a room that turned out to be Ryan’s home office, he still had no clue as to Zelda’s whereabouts.
He was retracing his steps back to the breakfast area when he realized what he had missed. A small hallway off the kitchen. He followed it, then found himself at a glassed-in atrium, one side with a view of the ocean, another of the garden at the side of the house and the fence that separated the property from its neighbor. The third wall opened onto the master bedroom, and the final onto the large room in which he was standing, presumably intended to be some sort of playroom if the dart board, ping-pong table, and stereo system were any indication.
The wall seemed to be made entirely from a single sheet of glass, but as he shifted his angle, he saw a thin seam that turned out to be a hinged door, so perfectly cut that he would never have noticed the faint outline had he not been looking for a way in.
And he desperately wanted inside.
Not because of the beautiful, colorful garden that was spread out before him. Not because of the flowing fountain that served as a centerpiece. Not even because of the well-constructed stone path that wove its way through the exotic flora.
No, he wanted in because of the simple stone bench in the center—and the woman seated on it, looking for all the world like a storybook princess lost in the castle garden.
Zelda.
He’d found her.
As if he’d spoken aloud, she looked up, her eyes locking on his. At first, there was no expression on her face. She simply took him in. He felt his body stiffen, as if preparing for a blow.
But then she smiled, that simple movement of her lips making her radiant. He relaxed, soaking in the warmth of her silent invitation as he moved to the door and slowly pushed it open.
He let it close behind him, his body adjusting to the warmer temperature and increased humidity. It was like stepping into an erotic fantasy, lost in a tropical paradise with a beautiful woman he craved.
Woman.
He paused, the word haunting him. She couldn’t be much more than twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three. A girl, not a woman. At least not compared to him. He’d turned forty-four last week, so what the hell did he think he was doing fantasizing about this girl? This kid.
He’d seen her youth the first moment he’d glimpsed her, the girl in gold. He’d seen it, and it hadn’t mattered. He’d only seen her. Only wanted her.
But now, here in this fairytale world, what he craved seemed ridiculous. Wrong, even. She looked like an innocent princess sitting outside the castle. And he was hardly Prince Charming.
“Did you change your mind?”
The words were simple, and she offered no explanation as to what she meant. But he knew. He heard the part she hadn’t said: Did you change your mind about me? About what you want?
He started to say that he had. That she might be of age, but she was still far too young for him. But when he met her eyes, he saw pain. Before, on the patio, she’d seemed to glow with energy and exuberance, like the Fountain of Youth incarnate. Now it was if she’d shed a costume, her youth stripped away.
He saw darkness now. The weight of a life that overwhelmed the years she’d spent on this earth. She was older than her years, he thought. And maybe she was younger, too.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he said honestly.
“You’ve been watching me. You must have had a reason. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
His chest tightened with the realization that she was fully aware that he’d been watching her. Then loosened again when he heard the full meaning hidden in her words: She’d been watching him, too.
He took a step toward her. “What if I told you I’m not sure why I came?”
Her smile was an invitation. “Maybe you came to be alone, like I did. Maybe you came to be alone with me.”
He knew he should just walk away. He had enough darkness; he didn’t need to take on hers.
But he told himself there was no harm in talking. “Yeah,” he said, taking one step toward her. “Maybe I did.”
Chapter Four
I watch as he moves closer, and I try to hide my smile. It’s hard, though. After all, he’s here, isn’t he? As if my will drew him to me. As if I have magical powers that allow me to bend the world to my liking.
I almost laugh at the thought, because god knows, if I had such powers, my life would be so very, very different. Still, he’s here, just like I’d imagined he would be, and my body sizzles in anticipation.
At first, I wasn’t sure he was going to stay, but now that he’s made the decision, I wait for him to come to me. To say something else. But he’s silent now, and though he crossed to the middle of the room, he hasn’t come any closer.
He’s waiting for me.
The realization is delicious, like he’s candy-coated a perfectly choreographed romance wherein I slide off this bench, our eyes meet, and I walk confidently into his arms, both of us meeting halfway.
But that’s not what I do.
Instead, I stay right where I am. I might crave those fantasies, but I know better than most that the only place we can live in is reality.
And in this, he needs to come to me. Because how else can I know that this moment is real and not something I’m rewriting in my imagination?
I wait, my chest tight with anticipation, but he doesn’t come any closer, and the uncertainty is almost painful. Has he stopped because he doesn’t want what I want? Or has he stopped because my fantasy is also his, and he’s waiting for me to come to him, and we’ll both stay firmly rooted despite desire, like two lovers in an O’Henry short story?
I’m writing our dialogue in my head, trying to see where any possible thread could lead, when his voice, low and steady, fills the room. “Tell me why you’re really here.”
My brows rise in genuine surprise at the question. “I thought we were past all that. If we’re going back to the beginning, shouldn’t you start with hello?”
“Hello,” he says. “Why are you here?”
“I told you. I wanted to be alone.”
“And yet you invited me to stay. So why are you really here when the party in your honor is out there?”
I wait a moment to answer, mostly so that I’m certain the delight I’m feeling won’t escape in the form of a laugh. I’m not entirely sure why I’m so delighted—maybe because he’s asking the very question I want to avoid. Maybe because the question makes clear that he actually sees me. That I’m not just some ghost floating through the moment. Whatever the reason, his question fills me up. But at the same time, I don’t want to answer it, so I parry with a question of my own. “Does it really matter?”
He takes a step forward. Just eighteen inches or so, but my entire body tenses in anticipation. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”
He takes two more steps. Thirty-six inches. An entire yard that had been separating us now gone.
“I’m not a people person,” I say, but whether I’m answering his question or commenting on his increasing proximity, I really can’t say. Probably the latter. Ironic, I suppose. After all, while I’d been outside of this glassed-in bubble, I’d done more than my usual share of fantasizing about this stranger’s touch. Now that he’s almost close enough to make that fantasy come true, my insides are all twisted up.
I thought I knew what I wanted.
Now, I just know that I want. And I’m nervous as hell about getting it.
“Not a people person,” he repeats, and I find I can’t take my eyes off his mouth. It’s wide, with full lips of deep red that accentuate his white teeth. It’s an expressive mouth, too. I notice that much when his lips curve down into a frown. “I’m surprised,” he says, and I have to play back the conversation in my head to remember what we were talking about.
“Why? You hardly know me.”
“So let’s get to know each other. As for the why, I saw you out there. Moving through the guests, you and Jamie talking to your adoring public.”
I have to laugh at that. “Jamie’s the one the public adores, and she adores them right back.”
“You don’t?”
“I love my readers. But being the center of attention? It’s not my happy place. Really,” I add, seeing the disbelief on his face. “I probably should have been an actress, because I can pretend with the best of them, but no. Bamboo under the fingernails would be a much better pastime.”
“Then you really are an excellent actress.”
He crosses the rest of the way, then sits on the bench beside me. We both shift so that we’re facing each other, and when our knees brush, I’m suddenly, acutely, sensually aware of how close he is. Very, very much inside my personal bubble.
“As far as I could tell, you were perfectly at ease in that crowd,” he continues.
“You watched me?”
“I already told you I did.”
“Right. You did.” I’m flustered, and I’m afraid it shows. “I just meant—oh, hell, I don’t know what I meant.”
“You mean that I watched you.” He slides a bit closer as he speaks. “I wasn’t listening to the questions or the answers. I wasn’t translating the sounds you made into words. I was just watching. You bewitched me, I think.”
His cheek dimples when he smiles, something I hadn’t noticed from far away since he sports a closely shaved beard. Right now, I’m obsessed with that tiny, kissable indentation, and it’s taking all my strength not to reach out and touch it. Instead, I repeat, “bewitched,” because it’s the only word that has lingered in my head. And because at the moment it seems pretty damn apropos.
He shifts slightly, and his denim-covered knee strokes my bare one, this new movement sending an arrow of heat up my thigh and right to my core. I bite my lip, fighting to restrain a shudder of sensual pleasure right through me.
Maybe he’d bewitched me, too.
I clear my throat. “Funny,” I say, trying to make my voice sound casual. “I didn’t notice you at all.”
His grin is slow, sexy, and ridiculously tempting. “Liar.”
“I am,” I say. “I’m an expert at weaving lies. Better be careful.”
He reaches up and strokes the pad of his thumb along my jawline. “I’m always careful.”
“I—I don’t even know your name.” I’m on sensory overload. The way our knees are brushing. The lingering sensation of his thumb on my face. And now his hand is on my other knee, the tips of his fingers on the bare skin of my thigh.
I fight a ragged breath even as I fantasize about him sliding his hand higher up my leg. The short dress is designed for standing, and I’m showing far too much thigh as I sit like this. It would be so easy for his fingers to sneak under the dress. To tug aside the tiny thong I wore to avoid panty lines. I’m wet just thinking about it, and right then, that’s all I want. For him to touch and tease me until I’m open and begging. For him to lay me down on this bench, yank my skirt up, and pound himself into me.
