A little line appeared between her eyebrows. “Stay here? In the house? Without ever going out even if I’m with you? Until when?”
Mike clenched his jaws. “Until we know more about who attacked you.”
“But—one is dead and one is in the hospital, apparently not talking. Am I correct?”
He clenched his jaws even harder. He had to focus to unlock them. “Yeah.”
The line between her brows deepened. “But . . . does that mean you think I should stay in here indefinitely?”
This was the hard part, the part that was driving him crazy. If he knew anything about women—and he did—she was not going to like being ordered about. Though to his mind, Chloe was now definitely his, his to protect and to care for, Mike realized he hadn’t actually said the Words. And females liked the Words. Or at least he thought so, because here he was treading in unfamiliar waters. Nothing more than the occasional “honey” in bed when he couldn’t remember the woman’s name had ever passed his lips.
The fact was that Mike felt bound to Chloe by bands of steel, immutable and unbreakable. She was his family now. He’d lost one, and he was not going to lose her. No way.
How to say any of that to her? To propose that she be locked up in his house 24/7 until he was sure it was safe to come out? And who knew when that would be?
Chloe liked moving around, quite natural for someone who’d spent her childhood years basically in a hospital bed. She enjoyed her daily walks along the beach, she enjoyed coming into the office, she liked shopping and going to bookstores and tea shops.
She also liked soft, welcoming surroundings. Her apartment was a delight to be in, as opposed to Mike’s place, which was functional and bare.
He winced as he looked out the kitchen door into the living room area. Spare, unwelcoming, with one huge sofa, one huge coffee table and a humongous TV. Nothing else, not even a rug on the floor. This was so not Chloe, and yet he was proposing to lock her up in here.
She was going to rebel and he was going to put his foot down and he hated the thought. Just hated it. As far as he was concerned, Chloe was It. He wanted to love her and pamper her. He wanted to give her whatever she wanted. He wanted to shower her with presents, do what she wanted to do, go where she wanted to go.
He wanted to make her happy. And one day into their being a couple—and that might be entirely in his own head—he was proposing locking her up for an unknown period of time.
Because there was no question. There was no way he was letting her out while there was even a suspicion of a fucking Russian gangster targeting her. No way.
If she got mad at him, screamed at him, he’d take it because no way was she stepping into danger.
He might lose her by keeping her safe.
The thought of it—the thought of losing Chloe . . . well, it was unthinkable. Not going to happen.
“Mike?” she repeated softly. “You want me to stay here indefinitely?”
His jaws hurt, he was clenching them so hard. He could actually feel a gritty shard of enamel breaking off. “Yeah.” His voice came out guttural and hard. “That’s what I think.”
He was vibrating with tension, ready to do battle, ready to do what it takes, but sick in his heart at the thought.
“You think I’ll be safer here than elsewhere?”
“Fuck yeah!” The words shot out of him. “Yeah,” he repeated, forcing his voice to be a little less insane-sounding.
He and his brothers had done a few modifications to their apartments. He had a door that wouldn’t be too shabby in a bank vault, to be opened only by a keypad. He’d lined the walls next to the door with steel panels, then covered them with drywall and painted them over. All the windows were ISO 9001, ten layers of Mylar-coated glass. Essentially, you’d need an RPG to get in.
There was no real platform for a sniper to get them. A sniper on the ground wouldn’t have a shot. Too acute an angle, too high up. And a sniper on a boat would have a very long shot on a moving platform.
He was a sniper himself and he’d gamed it all. He’d even gone out on a boat to see if a sniper could make the shot. He couldn’t.
He had motion sensors on the balcony just in case some insane fuckhead got it into his head to lower himself from the roof, and to do so he’d have to overcome the spiked covering he’d placed over the balcony.
No, this place was safe. Now he just had to keep Chloe in it.
He was sweating and could hear his own heavy breathing in the room, like a bull’s.
This was not going well and he had no clue how to make it better.
Chloe was watching his face carefully, her own face completely blank. She could do that. He couldn’t. He knew that right now, his own face reflected every ounce of the tension he was feeling.
And then, to his astonishment, Chloe placed her hand over his and squeezed gently.
“If that’s what you want, Mike, okay.” She searched his eyes. “You wouldn’t feel comfortable with me out and about until you figure out what’s going on. Am I correct?”
His throat was stopped up, gripped in an unbreakable vise. He nodded his head jerkily.
Her voice was soft, gentle. “I spent a lot of my childhood locked up. Staying here while you clear things up won’t kill me. If it gives you peace of mind, Mike, I’ll gladly stay here.”
Oh God! He felt like falling to his knees. She wasn’t going to put her foot down on principle. She wasn’t going to make him be the bad guy, the villain of the piece, because he’d do it if he had to, but man, he didn’t want to.
Though he’d never encountered this in his dealings with women, he recognized it instantly. This was teamwork, like in the Marines. Like in SWAT. Like with Sam or Harry. Do the hard thing for your buddy. Make a sacrifice if necessary.
She didn’t want to stay indoors but she would, if it gave him peace of mind.
They were a team. He had his own team, now.
Mike turned away horrified, blinking away a spurt of tears. What the fuck? He never cried. Ever. He hadn’t even cried at the funeral of his family he’d been so angry. Here he’d cried last night and damned if he wasn’t leaking water right now.
It baffled him. He had all these raging . . . things inside him he didn’t have a clue how to handle.
“Mike.” Chloe touched his hand softly again and he looked up at her. She was smiling. “Let’s go out on the balcony and get a little fresh air. Because you’re probably going to want me inside when you’re not here.”
“Yeah, absolutely.” Okay. Now that he knew how to handle. He wiped his face and rose. “Let me check first.”
He went out onto the balcony. Almost every room in the place had a balcony that looked out over the ocean. It was what had sealed the deal for him, not counting the fact that his two brothers, Sam and Harry, already owned apartments in the condo.
The kitchen balcony was narrow but deep, big enough to hold a small table for two so they could eat outdoors. Something he’d never even thought of doing up until now. When all of this was over and Chloe was living with him and, presumably, he’d decorated a little so it wouldn’t be like living on the space station, that was something he’d do. Set up a little table out here on the kitchen balcony so they could eat outside.
Not Chloe’s food, of course. He’d have Sam’s cook, Manuela, send something down. Or order in.
He leaned on the balcony railing and looked out carefully. Like a soldier would, dividing the area into four quadrants. One quadrant, blink to black, two, blink to black, three, four. The entire horizon was blank. Nothing out there, not even fishing boats. Nobody walking on the beach, either. A completely empty landscape.
“Come on out, honey. It’s clear.”
Mike stepped back so Chloe could lean against the railing. She lifted her face, smiling, and took in a deep breath, then placed her elbows on the railing. “It smells so wonderful. And the colors are so intense. You’re so lucky to have this view, Mike. I love my view over the bay but this is something
else.”
He stood behind her, hands next to hers on the railing, making a cage of his body. She’d be living here soon enough if he had anything to say about it. She could watch the ocean all she liked then.
“Glad you like it.”
Her face turned and she smiled at him and he smiled back, all nerves gone. Completely relaxed.
Well, except for one part of him. That part wasn’t relaxed at all and was getting tenser by the second.
She was looking back out over the ocean. He lifted her hair, the soft waves falling over his hand, and placed his lips on the nape of her neck. She shivered. He was so attuned to her, he felt her pleasure against his lips, like a swell of honey transferring itself from her to him.
Oh yeah.
He opened his robe and moved closer, pushing against her. She couldn’t help but feel his hard-on. She turned her head slightly and he could see the faint smile. He pushed against her bottom and felt her pushing slightly back.
He hummed a little in his throat as he pushed his T-shirt up, looking down at the expanse of smooth light-gold skin on her narrow back and slender waist. He placed his hand on the small of her back, almost covering it, then smoothed the palm of his hand over her back. Her skin felt like warm silk flowing beneath his hand, brand-new muscles sleek and tight. A light kiss right where her hair made a little curlicue against her slender neck, and she shivered again. He could feel her breathing change. Becoming deeper, slower.
His lips moved up and down, tongue behind her ear, where she shivered once again. Though Mike had a beautiful ocean view right in front of him, he had eyes only for the woman before him. The sound of her sighs, the soft movements, the arching of her back when he caressed her sides, they were like some addictive substance he could never get enough of.
He was hard as a rock. She was right. Anyone could tell he was raring to go, but what about Chloe? Was she ready? Only one way to find out.
Mike smoothed his hand over her bottom and down, down into her silky depths. She wanted him, oh yeah. When he slid a finger into her she clamped tightly around him like a tight wet fist. She whimpered and he kissed her shoulder, feeling like whimpering himself.
Oh man, this was so exciting. Though he couldn’t count the number of women he’d fucked, this felt so new, as if he’d never done this before. And he hadn’t. Certainly not like this.
He was glad he’d had a phobia about bringing women home because this made it all new and fresh with Chloe.
He nipped her shoulder, just a little, though the way he was feeling it could have been a sharper bite, and felt her little start of surprise. Moving his lips slowly, slowly from her shoulder, up her slender neck, to her ear, he said, “Open your legs for me, Chloe.” He could hardly recognize his own voice, hoarse and low.
She slid her legs apart and he nearly fell to his knees. Oh yeah, right down on his knees, turn her gently around and just lap her up. Kiss her right there just like he did her mouth. A vibrating sound rose in his chest just at the thought and he could see it, clear as day. Chloe, knees wide apart, shaking as he loved her with his mouth.
But that scenario worked best in bed and was going to switch from theory to practice just as soon as he could manage it, but not right now. Because the railing was just low enough that if Chloe arched backwards she could conceivably fall four stories down and he didn’t even want one molecule of that possibility in his head.
There’d be time enough—the rest of their lives in fact—for him to lay her out on the bed like this scrumptious vanilla ice cream cone he’d just lap up.
But for now . . . he circled her with one arm and anchored his other arm on the railing. Chloe would not fall down. If it rained fire from heaven he wouldn’t let her fall. He’d never let her fall.
With a long sigh he slid into her, into all that heat. He could feel how her body welcomed his, how with every inch, she made way for him. He started moving slowly, hunched over her. He placed his palm on her belly, holding her still for him, and was rewarded when he felt her internal muscles pull on his cock, the movement so strong he could feel it against the skin of the palm of his hand.
He could stay like this forever, moving in her like the ocean tide, in and out, slowly, like an eternal force made just for this. Made exclusively to love Chloe.
Another pull from her little cunt and he moved even closer, thrust more deeply. She moaned and her legs shook. Christ, this was going too fast. He wanted to spend the entire morning on this balcony, making love with Chloe, with the smell of the ocean and burnt toast in his nostrils, but it wasn’t going to happen.
“Mike,” she whispered shakily, head down, small fists on the railing. Her hair swayed back and forth with his thrusts. She arched back against him, fully open to him, and he stepped even closer, movements short and quick now as he felt a hot liquid line run down his spine. He was sweating, panting, movements quick and hard.
Chloe let out a keening sound that rose high in the morning air and began coming, hot liquid pulls that were impossible to resist. Mike set his feet and pounded in her until something sweet and hot rushed through him and out his dick, strong hard pulses that seemed to echo the beat of his heart.
Mike stayed wrapped around Chloe for long minutes afterwards, coming slowly back into himself. With a sigh, she relaxed, moved her head back to rest against his shoulder. Mike kissed her hair. They were so close it was hard to tell where he stopped and she started.
He nuzzled her, his breath and heart rate slowing. He was still in her, but if he moved, he’d slip out. He wanted to stay exactly like this for the rest of his life. His arms tightened. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she whispered back.
They stood there, Chloe in Mike’s embrace, watching out to sea, perfectly content. Mike swore when he heard his cell phone ring.
“Gotta take it, honey.”
She turned to smile at him.
Goddamn. Whoever was calling, it better be good or he’d fucking rip them a new one.
He pulled out of her, his dick hating the cold after the warmth of Chloe, picked up the cell, checking the display. Harry.
“Yeah?”
Harry’s voice was low, serious. “Mike, you’ve got to come in. We’ve got a lead on who attacked Chloe.”
Chapter 17
Amerikanski, Nikitin thought with disgust as he watched the two fornicating on the balcony through camouflaged binoculars. Almost as bad as the Russians.
He’d found a photograph of Chloe Mason on Facebook. Amazing, the Americans, how stupid they were. But now he knew what she looked like and that bitch up there fucking someone was Chloe Mason, his best chance at finding out what happened to his men. He was here, hidden in the lush bushes forming a barrier between the buildings and the sea, reconnoitering her apartment, which had its curtains drawn, when there she was, one floor down, fucking some unknown man.
He’d parked down at the beginning of the strip known as Coronado Shores, which he’d reconnoitered on Google Earth. He’d seen right away that there was a good observation post right about fifty meters from the building, across the road that ran along the peninsula. This area—this Coronado Shores—was rich man’s territory. Nikitin served the vory and he knew how the rich liked to live.
But no Russian vor worth his salt would allow a thickly landscaped strip separating the road from the beach to exist. Or if it existed, it would be patrolled day and night by guards.
Foolish Americans, so trusting.
He watched this Chloe Mason’s face as she was being fucked from behind, observing her every move, every expression. Trying to figure out what kind of a woman she was, how she could cost him two good men.
The man fucking her. That had to be it. Nikitin watched to get a glimpse of his face, but for the moment, his face was buried in Chloe Mason’s shoulder. But he was strong, unusually broad-shouldered, thickly muscled, though not tall.
Like the prostitute’s description.
Was this the man who had cost
him two good men?
Nikitin pulled out his iPad from his backpack. The Americans were so lousy at so many things but they were superb at high-tech. Still, whenever brainpower was needed, you had to look to Russia.
Nikitin entered his login and password, took a picture of his thumbprint on his iPhone 3GS and sent it all off.
Forty-seven seconds later, Pirat was online. Nikitin had an open account with him. Just talking to Pirat was $10,000 an hour. He’d like to keep it down to a quarter of an hour.
What do you need?
Schematics of a building in Coronado Shores, San Diego, California. La Torre. Names of owners. Particularly owner of third apartment from left fourth floor.
After a minute and a half, he had the schematics and the names of all the owners of record. The owner of the apartment who was at this moment fucking Chloe Mason—Nikitin lifted his binoculars to check. The man had stamina. The owner of the apartment was one Michael Keillor.
A photograph filled the screen. Dark brown hair, light blue eyes. A hard, even brutal face.
Nikitin started to type in a request for intel, but facts were already scrolling down.
Michael Keillor. A former Marine, Force Recon. It was a huge slap to the face. A warning that a formidable enemy had just crossed his path. A tiger instead of a cat. Americans were, yes, a soft people. But not its soldiers. Force Recon was Special Forces. Spetsnaz.
Yes, this man could certainly have taken Ivan and Lyov down, if he had weapons and the element of surprise.
The data scroll continued. After leaving the Marines Michael Keillor joined the San Diego Police Department as a member of the SWAT team. Nikitin knew they were the tactical officers of the police department.
And now he was a partner in a security company, RBK Security Inc.
Ex-soldier, former policeman, now co-owner of a security company. Nikitin felt his senses sharpen, exactly as if this were the moment before going into battle.