Claire dove onto the bed and pulled the blanket over her head. What had she done? What had possessed her to do that? She'd noticed the state he was in—it had been pretty damned impossible not to—and she had taken advantage of it. "How could you," she hissed into the cocoon that surrounded her. Her mind flashed to the feel of that hard bulge in her palm. With a groan, she turned to her other side and squeezed her eyes shut.
Oh, God, his face. His reaction had driven her on, the way he had closed his eyes and tilted his head up, then the deep swallows down his throat, the muscles on his neck tightening and releasing, his lips parting with a low moan. God help her, she'd wanted to know what he would look like as she took him over the edge.
Hearing a click, she sat up, clutching the cover to her chest. Silence. He's gone, you idiot. You scared the poor man away.
She switched on the lamp by her bed, not yet ready for sleep. With all the twisting around, her nightgown had shifted, bunching up above her waist. With a muttered curse, she grabbed its hem, wiggled it over her head, and tossed it to the floor before easing back down under the covers. The blanket felt rough against her bare skin, and her nipples reacted to the friction, tightening almost painfully. Don't, she told herself, but goddamnit, she pulled at the covers again, the tips puckering even more. Closing her eyes, she brought her hands to her breasts, feeling their weight.
Without warning, her mind decided to go on a little joy ride and suddenly it was Bruce's hands on her, warm and possessive, molding and teasing. He hovered above her, bare-chested, his hair wet and messy, the way it had been the day she caught him coming out of the shower. Her eyes skimmed over the hard muscles on display. She reached out to touch him, but her hand only met air.
Crap. She pouted.
Her legs spread wide, pushed apart by the man above her. Rolling his hips, he pressed into her. "You did this to me, Doc," he growled.
Claire's eyes shot open, expecting to find the real Bruce at her ear. She glanced around, seeing the room just as it had been. Man, her imagination might be lacking in the special effects department, but it could have won multiple Oscars in the categories of direction, cinematography, and sound with the way this fantasy was going.
She closed her eyes again, shifting further under the covers, hoping dream Bruce would return with the same vividness as before. She didn't often partake in self-pleasure, hating the depressing, empty feeling it left in its wake, but sometimes it was necessary. Either that or spend the night tossing and turning.
Another low groan in her ear was followed by a whispered, "So beautiful."
He was back! Feeling brave inside the safe environment of her own mind, she reached for his fly, planning on releasing the impressive erection she had been stroking earlier. Again, only air.
"Uh-uh," he muttered.
She moaned in frustration.
"We will have our moment, soon, I promise, Doc," he whispered. Seeming to float down her body, he trailed soft kisses across her breasts and along her stomach, her fingertips showing him the way. "But for now, you'll have to settle for my mouth on you." His hands came to rest on her knees, his intentions clear. After pushing her legs further apart, he lifted one to drape over his shoulder.
Settle? If this was considered settling, she was going to have to learn how to let a lot more things slide. His pathway of kisses had stopped at the apex of her thighs and she jumped when his tongue made contact. Kicking her head back on the pillow, she concentrated on muffling the soft moans and gasps that passed her lips as she got caught up in the sensation, losing herself to the fantasy that was Bruce.
)l(
As the door swung open, the man with the hat turned away from his chat with Rex to meet Virginia's stare head on. He had a ravaged face—pockmarked and thrown out of balance by the long scar that puckered his skin and caused a droop to his right eye. The slow smile only heightened the distortion. For most, the unsightliness would have lead to some degree of timidity, but this man seemed to brandish it with honor.
"Lieutenant Robins?" he asked. His voice was deep and distinctive, middle syllables emphasized by the strong Italian accent. His frame filled the doorway.
"Yes?" Her grip on the gun tightened.
His eyes swept over the men behind her with what looked like detached amusement. "May I come in for a moment?"
When she didn't answer, he shrugged and spread his hands out. "I mean you no harm. In fact, I believe I have just done you an enormous favor. Although, it is not something one should discuss on the street." He winked with his good eye.
"Okay." She pulled her gun to point at his chest and took a few steps back to give him room. "But I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I were you."
With a nod, he stepped forward into the front hallway, removing his hat in the process. One hand ran through hair that was dark and thick and graying at the temples. The cologne he wore matched the way he was dressed: refined, unique, undoubtedly designer.
"I'm not armed," he volunteered. He eased open his suit jacket to prove his point, yet he moved with such lethal precision that she knew he didn't need weapons to cause damage.
"I wanted to meet you, the woman who has put such a large crack in the foundation of House Chilvati."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you do." His harsh stare bore down on her. "A son who wants to kill you. A surrogate son who wants to save you." His eyes shifted again to the men keeping watch. "Although, I'm surprised to find he has left you under the protection of old men."
"It doesn't take youth to pull a trigger."
He wagged an index finger in the air as he nodded. "True, very true."
"Who are you?"
"Names are unimportant. It is a man's deeds that define him. Besides, my calling card is pretty obvious." He touched his right temple.
She was not in the mood for philosophical games. She had to pee and her arms were getting sore in their straight-out position. "Okay then, how about you tell me what you want."
His arm came up as he leaned toward her. She jerked back and tightened the slack in her elbows at the same time as both Andrew and John brought the butt of their rifle to their shoulder. The man froze and tilted the hat in his hand. Then, moving at a snail's pace, he finished his reach and placed it on the newel post.
"I said no sudden moves," she hissed.
"My apologies," he drawled. "May I?" He pointed to his pants' pockets. When she nodded, he first pulled the things inside out to show their emptiness before placing his hands inside them.
"I chanced upon Gus this morning." He swayed his head side-to-side. "Well, he thought it was chance. In truth, I had followed him . . . to a restaurant not far from here."
Her quick gasp brought a hand out of his pocket, and he raised it to face her. "Rest assured, he's not coming here."
Her relief must have been obvious given that he replaced his hand and continued, "There was a problem with his car when he went out to the parking lot. Slashed tires, all four of them. Do you believe that? In broad daylight of all things." He shook his head. "What is this world coming to?"
"You?"
The smile he gave her was devious. "I felt bad for the man, so I called his father. Augustus and I . . . well, let's just say we go way back." His hands slid free of their confines to spread out in front of him. "And do you know what he told me to do?"
She shook her head, rather captivated by the story.
"It was the damndest thing. He said to put Gus in the trunk and he would send someone to pick him up." He drew in a deep breath and sighed, "The damndest thing."
"Did you?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Why did I put him in the trunk?"
"Why are you helping?"
He paused, moving a hand up to rub along his jaw line. "Being in Mark Spinelli's debt does have some advantages." His hand stilled, then came down to wave in the air dismissively. "But in truth, keeping you alive suits me well. Common interests create the strangest alliances."
She frowned. "And what do we have in common?"
"We both want to destroy the Chilvatis."
Virginia sucked in a breath. He was right, of course. She had spent most of her career trying to do exactly that. But for some reason, maybe it was the coldblooded way he put it, his statement sent a chill running down her spine.
"Gus will just send someone else to do his dirty work," she said.
"No." He shook his head. "Men in this business are like dogs"—he turned to the doorway with a nod—"no different from my little friend outside. They tend to follow those whom they believe to be the alpha-male. Due to his own arrogance, Gus has become more like . . . how do you say . . . ah, yes, the runt. And with the contract cancelled, Gus is out of options, I'm afraid. He couldn't possibly afford someone—let's just say, for example, someone like me—on his own."
He pointed to his hat before reaching for it. Once it was back in place, he bowed his head. "It's been a pleasure."
She kept her eyes trained on his broad back as he walked out the door. Lowering her arms in relief, she followed at a safe distance. Bill and his buddies gathered behind her when she stopped on the porch to monitor his exit.
The man paused at the bottom of the stairs to pat Rex. "Tell me, Lieutenant," he threw back over his shoulder, "will you be going to the wedding?"
"Wedding?"
He turned to face her. "You didn't know? Mark Spinelli is engaged to Loretta Chilvati, Augustus's eldest daughter."
As she stood in shocked silence, he drew his eyes down to her waistline and added, "I guess not." With a tip of his hat, he spun on his heels and walked the path to his car.
"That is one scary looking fella," Bill muttered behind her.
"Yeah." Andrew added. "Wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley."
They continued on, but Virginia had stopped tracking the conversation, too consumed by their visitor's parting words.
For the first time in weeks, she felt like she was going to be sick.
)l(
Multiple dings coming from his computer signaled the receipt of incoming files. Paul grabbed the mouse to take a look and gave off a soft whistle when seeing the volume of scans contained in the transmission. The printer beside him whirred into action, printing each one faster than he could open the next.
Only one word was typed in the chat box at the bottom of the screen, awaiting his reply:
BRUCE: JACKPOT
END OF CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
What just happened???? Engaged??? 😳 Do you believe him?
Oh, Bruce, if you only knew what Claire was up to. Do you think his ears are burning? Or perhaps . . . something else? 😉
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