Dead by Midnight

  He was already hard, his cock springing free.

  She felt a flutter deep in her belly—and reached out to touch him. She knew some women didn’t think a man’s junk was much to look at, but she loved Julian’s penis. It jutted out—erotic, primal, so incredibly sexy.

  She found herself on her knees, taking him into her mouth, licking him, tasting him, stroking him. She heard his quick gasp, the breath leaving his chest in a moan, his fingers sliding into her hair. Oh, yes, she knew his body. She knew what he liked, what burned him up. She knew what made this big man beg.

  She teased him with her tongue, took him deep into her mouth, then began to move her hand and mouth along his length, her hunger growing. She loved the taste of him, loved the hard feel of him against her lips and tongue.

  He stilled her motions, his hands on either side of her head. “Stop. I don’t want this to end before it begins.”

  She stood, saw that his pupils were dilated, his eyes dark, his brow furrowed—and her pulse skipped. She started to unbutton her blouse.

  “Uh-uh. My turn.” His fingers moved over the buttons, and then he tugged it off her shoulders and down her arms, letting it fall to the floor.

  She turned to give him easy access to her bra clasp, heat skittering over her skin where his fingers brushed her as he deftly undid the clasp and tossed her bra aside.

  He reached around from behind, taking the weight of her breasts into his hands and drawing her back against him, his thumbs teasing her nipples.

  She rested her head against his chest, forgetting that she hadn’t really been into this, his touch making her ache inside, leaving her wet.

  His hands moved from her breasts to caress her belly and the curve of her hips, stopping when they found the zipper of her jeans, tugging it down, one big hand reaching inside her panties to cup her, his fingers seeking and finding her clit. Okay, so he knew her body, too, and what he was doing felt … so … good.

  That was the thing about Julian. He never left her feeling unsatisfied, never took more than he gave. And, oh, he knew how to give.

  She rocked her hips against his hand, spreading her legs as far as she could with her jeans bunched up around her thighs, her fingers digging into his forearms. She whimpered in frustration, needing more. “Julian.”

  He turned her to face him, tore her jeans down her legs, then pulled her hard against him, his lips taking hers in a rough and hungry kiss. They fell onto the bed together, legs tangled, lips and tongues teasing, tasting. He reached between her thighs, picking up where he’d left off, drawing her nipples one at a time into the heat of his mouth with tugs she felt all the way to her womb. She spread her legs for him, gave him plenty of room, and was rewarded when he slid two fingers deep inside her.

  Tessa was lost in him, lost in what he was doing to her, her body burning, wanting, needing. But he wasn’t going to let her claim the orgasm she so desperately craved—not yet.

  He kissed his way down her body, nibbling her heated skin, then settled himself between her thighs, parting her for his mouth. “God, you smell good.”

  Then he buried his face in her, teasing, licking, tasting, his fingers still busy deep inside her. Her fingers fisted in his hair, her breath coming in little moans. Then he did that thing he did—sucked her clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue over her—and she came, orgasm washing through her in a tide of bliss.

  For a time, she lay there, barely able to move, her mind blank, her body floating.

  Julian kissed his way back up her body, one hand caressing her, sexual heat radiating through his skin. Their gazes met, Tessa’s breath catching at the need in his eyes. She reached down, took his cock in her hand, and guided him to her.

  He slowly slid inside her, his eyes still looking into hers. Then he began to move, rocking in and out of her, his cock thick and hot and hard.

  “Tess. My sweet Tess.” The tenderness in his voice took her breath away.

  She ran her hands up his chest, over the hard muscles of his shoulders, down his biceps. She’d always been in awe of his strength, more than a little amazed that a man who used his body as a weapon could be so gentle. He was the only man who’d ever loved her like this, the only man she’d ever longed for until it hurt, the only man she’d wanted to share her life with. And he’d never let her down.

  He moved faster now, driving hard, thrusting deep. She lifted her legs, brought her knees all the way back, opening herself to him completely.

  He moaned, his eyes drifting shut. “Oh, Jesus.”

  She’d thought she was spent, but already she was moving toward another orgasm, his strokes hitting that sweet spot inside her. She wrapped her arms around him, drew him down until his heart was beating against hers, skin against sweat-slick skin, chest hair rasping against sensitive nipples. “Yes!”

  Pleasure crashed in on her again, sweeping her away, but this time, it took him, too, and he shook apart in her arms.

  They held each other after that, Julian tracing lazy lines over her skin, Tessa’s body replete, drowsiness stealing over her.

  “You always bring me back. No matter what happens, you bring me back. You make me feel clean again. You know what that is?”

  Of course, she did.

  “It’s love.” She was so very sleepy.

  “It’s a miracle.”

  * * *

  04:30

  Sophie watched Marc doze. They’d given him a big dose of IV pain meds when they’d brought him back from the procedure room. Now, white bandages covered the left side of his rib cage, the IV in his left hand delivering antibiotics.

  The wound was much worse than Sophie had thought it would be. He must have been in pain all night, but he hadn’t let it slow him down. The doctor had removed five lead bullet fragments and bits of cloth from the wound, and stitched him up.

  Marc had watched them explore his torn tissue with the dispassionate interest of someone who’d clearly spent too much time in law enforcement. “Oh, yeah, look at that. That was some seriously cheap-ass ammo.”

  Cheap or not, that bullet had nearly ended his life.

  Oh, Marc.

  God, he was precious to her.

  He was so tall his feet stuck out of the bottom of the gurney, his shoulders almost as broad as the thin mattress. His tattoos—the US Army eagle and shield on his right biceps and the Celtic armband that wrapped around his left—stood out against the bright white of the sheets, the blanket bunched around his hips. Other people saw the exterior. They saw a big, powerful man with tats and an attitude. But to her he seemed vulnerable.

  Was he cold?

  She stood, pulled the blanket up over his chest, her gaze falling on the round bullet scar on the right side of his chest. That bullet had been meant for her. But he had taken it, almost dying to protect her.

  And tonight again…

  Somewhere nearby, a door slammed, the sound making Sophie jump, her pulse racing. She took a deep breath, wrapped her arms around herself, events of the night seeming to press in on her.

  The blast of the gunshot. The brutal crush of grief. Moreno’s cruel laughter.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She fought them back, refusing to give in. If she started crying, she might not stop. Besides, it was over. Moreno was dead. Marc was alive and whole. She had so many reasons to be grateful. She should be smiling.

  What was wrong with her?

  She’d thought he was dead. For long, terrible minutes, she’d believed that the man she loved was dead.

  A warm hand touched her arm. “Hey, sprite. You’re crying.”

  Sophie smiled, wiped her tears away, and dropped the tissue in the trash. “I’m just … overwhelmed, I guess. Are you in pain?”

  Marc shook his head. “They numbed me up pretty well, and with all the pain meds in my bloodstream—hell, I can’t feel it at all.”

  When the anesthetic wore off, it would be a different story.

  “But don’t change the subject.” His fingers clasped hers. “You’r
e crying.”

  “No, I’m trying valiantly not to cry.” She turned her face away, studied the fluorescent light above his bed.

  “I’m sorry. I know you had a really rough night.”

  She shook her head. “A rough night is waiting for you to come home from a raid. Or being awake with a sick kid. Or having the furnace go out when it’s fifteen below. This wasn’t a rough night. It was … It was a nightmare.”

  Oh, God. Here she went. Tears.

  Damn!

  He released her hand, reached up, ran his big thumb over her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you out of that place in time to—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize. You had no idea what was happening. You did everything you could to keep me safe. It’s just that …”

  His dark brows bent in a frown. “It’s just … what?”

  “I thought you were dead!” The tears flowed freely now. “I heard that gunshot, and I thought you were dead. God, it hurt so much. I couldn’t figure out why I was still breathing and alive, because … because the pain was awful. I don’t even know how many minutes went by, but those were the worst minutes of my life. And now I keep hearing that gunshot in my mind and feeling it in my chest …”

  He sat up, kicked his legs over the side of the bed, and drew her into his arms, holding her, whispering soothing words, one big hand cupping the back of her head, his lips finding her temple. She wrapped her arms around him, sobbed out her grief against his chest, the pain caused by those terrible minutes slowly lessening.

  He drew back, handed her a tissue, pressed kisses to her forehead. “When they took me out onto the balcony to shoot me, there was a moment when I realized this was it. Game over. But dying to save your life—well, that felt like a fair trade to me. I was only sorry to be leaving you so soon. Everything I am is because of you, Sophie.”

  She sniffed, shook her head. “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. If not for you, I’d still be in prison. I probably wouldn’t have gone into Special Forces.”

  “Really?”

  “You told me to reach for the stars, remember? So I did.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She’d never realized her words, spoken when she was just sixteen, had had such an impact on him.

  He went on. “I wouldn’t be a father. My Chevy would belong to some … weirdo.”

  This made her laugh.

  Then he kissed her, a soft kiss, sweet and tender. “Tonight is going to be with us—with all of us—for a long time.”

  16

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday dawned, snowy and cold, on a city in mourning. By order of the governor, flags were lowered to half-mast. And the residents of Denver pulled together.

  Signs appeared in people’s yards and on social media reading, “Mile High Strong,” “God Bless Our Police,” and “Thank you, HRT & SWAT!” Some locals organized a blood drive in honor of those wounded in the attack. Others set up a bank account for donations for the families of the slain security guards.

  The Denver Police Department worked tirelessly to get cars, cell phones, wallets, and coats back to their owners. A few officers were assigned to retrieve the bits and pieces of a certain Browning M2 machine gun from the rooftop of the hotel and the surrounding streets, which were still cordoned off to traffic.

  The Palace Hotel expressed its condolences to the families who’d lost loved ones, offered moral support to those who’d been injured, and gave thanks to all the law enforcement agencies involved. Then it closed its doors to repair the damage.

  On Sunday night, a candlelight vigil was held in Civic Center Park for those who had died and been wounded in the attack, numbers swelling into the thousands despite the snow and cold. At 7:28 p.m., the exact moment when the first shots were fired, the holiday lights on the Denver City and County Building were dimmed in memory of the men who’d given their lives.

  The television news media covered the story nonstop, but it was Laura Nilsson’s coverage that captured the nation’s heart. She flew to Denver and put together a series of interviews, which she titled “Portraits of Courage,” that told the stories of some of the heroes of that terrible night, including the mother who’d been forced to give birth in the midst of terror and death. By Monday, that tiny baby had become a symbol of survival—new life in the face of tragedy.

  One of the tabloids latched onto Marc Hunter and Gabe Rossiter’s stories, running it with the headline “‘Die Hard’ in Denver.” That, too, ended up on social media, much to the consternation of both men, who didn’t like being singled out when so many had done so much to get the hostages out alive.

  One name did not appear in the papers: Holly Andris. Cobra staff worked overtime to keep her identity and her face out of police reports and news stories. When Governor Thyfault announced late Monday that he would be awarding Holly, Marc Hunter, Gabe Rossiter, and Lt. Gov. Sheridan the state’s Medal of Valor, its highest award, at a public reception in January, Derek Tower met privately with him to impress upon him how important it was for Cobra employees to keep low profiles. It was agreed she would receive her award at a private dinner at the governor’s mansion with her husband, the other medal recipients, and Ambassador DeLacy in attendance.

  Then Tuesday came, and it was time to bury the dead. Four of the security guards who’d been killed were employees of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, which oversaw protection details for the Secretary of State. Their funerals were held in Washington, D.C., with Secretary Holmes and the President in attendance. But two had been Denver boys, hotel employees with family and friends in Colorado.

  Lt. Governor Reece Sheridan was asked to deliver the eulogy at a joint service for the two men, which was held in Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, the only church capable of seating the thousands of people who were expected to attend and pay their respects. Reece spoke of the men’s dreams and aspirations, of the love they had for their friends and families, of their courage the night of the attack. His closing words, delivered with a quaver in his voice, made the all the news networks.

  “The Bible says there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. But we weren’t their friends. We were strangers to them. Noah James Mason and Malik Rashad Davis used the last minutes of their lives to save strangers. None of us gets to choose when or how we’re going to die. All we get to decide is how we face our end. Noah and Malik chose to die as heroes. We will not forget them … or their sacrifice.”

  Though the two men hadn’t been law enforcement officers in the strict sense, they were laid to rest with full honors, the Denver Police Department and other agencies treating them like brothers in blue, following their hearses with a police motorcade, lights flashing. Despite the cold, people lined the streets to show their respect, waving Colorado and US flags as the motorcade passed.

  That night, snow fell thick, blanketing the men’s graves.

  And stillness fell over the city.

  * * *

  Megan sat with Nate, Jack, and Janet late on Christmas Eve after the kids had been put to bed, watching a recording of Laura’s interview with Kat on the screen of their home theater. Laura and Javier were there, too, having decided to spend the holidays at the Cimarron, where they could be closer to their friends.

  “And the words of the song just came to you?” asked Laura on the screen, looking beautiful, polished and professional, her pale blond hair in a sleek braid.

  “Yes.” The camera moved in on Kat and the newborn baby in her arms.

  “Did that help you deal with your fear and the pain?”

  “Among the Diné, we believe songs have power. When we build a home for people—a hogaan—we sing it into being. Our healing ceremonies are all songs. I believe the words came to me at that moment to give me the strength I needed.”

  Janet shook her head. “I cannot imagine what she went through.”

  “She is incredibly strong,” said the live Laura on the sofa.

 
“Look who’s talking,” Javier muttered in his wife’s ear.

  Jack paused the playback. “I think we should invite them up on Saturday, have a get-together. We can fire up the grill, hitch Buckwheat up to the sleigh, get out the sleds, maybe break out some skis.”

  “You want to invite Kat and Gabe over to grill, sled, and go for a sleigh ride?” Nate asked. “Do you think they’d be up for that with a new baby?”

  “Not just Kat and Gabe, knucklehead.” Jack chuckled. “The whole gang.”

  “Given what they’ve been through, is now a good time?” Janet asked.

  “I think now is the perfect time.” Jack sipped his scotch. “Let’s give them a chance to get together, to sort things out, to enjoy some fresh air away from the city. What do you think, Laura? You’ve spent time with most of them.”

  Laura looked startled to be put on the spot. “Well … I think they might enjoy it. There’s something very healing about this place.”

  Megan knew that was true.

  “I figure they’ve done their part,” Jack said. “They gave everything they had and more. They’re our friends. Now let’s do our part.”

  “All right, old man.” Nate grinned. “We’ll send out emails tonight.”

  “I’m glad that’s settled,” Megan said. “Now quit talking and hit play. I want to watch the rest of this before Santa comes.”

  Jack raised the remote, started up the program again.

  Nate leaned in, whispered into Megan’s ear. “You’ve been very naughty this year. What makes you think Santa is bringing you anything?”