Weird Girl (33 page)

Quick as lightning, she grabbed his necktie and yanked him
toward her, kissing him hard and fast. “I don’t feel very tired, do you?” she
said, pulling him toward her bedroom.

She had never felt so powerful, and he had never looked so
nervous. She closed the bedroom door and pushed him up against it, rising up on
her tiptoes to kiss him again. The moment he began kissing her back, her
fingers went to work on the knot of his necktie. Within seconds, she was
tossing it over her shoulder and working her way down the buttons of his
wine-colored dress shirt. As she started to tug the shirt out of the waistband
of his pants, Jackson broke the kiss and grabbed her wrists.

“Are you sure about this?” he said, breathing heavily, a
mixture of elation and dread on his face.

“Jackson, take your pants off,” she commanded, yanking on
his belt buckle for emphasis before taking several steps back.

He looked terrified. “Ummm…maybe we’d better turn the lights
off first,” he stammered, walking toward the switch. She hooked a finger in one
of his belt loops and jerked hard to halt his progress.

“I don’t think so,” she said with a grin. Gesturing at her
own body, she added, “You’ve seen this show already. Twice. Now it’s my turn.”
He didn’t move a muscle. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Oh, fine. If that’s what
it’s going to take,” and took off her dress, tossing it in the corner.

She saw the change in his expression as he looked at her,
standing in the sheer red bra and boyshort panties. “Ahhh…there’s the old Jackson,” she said softly. Looking down at herself, and then back up at him, she added,
“You know, I have it on good authority that red is your favorite color. I must
confess, that little nugget lingered at the back of my mind when I was shopping
for this particular ensemble.”

Slowly, his confidence returned. With his trademark wicked
grin, Jackson pulled off his shirt and kicked off his shoes, causing Cleo to
lose her train of thought (as well as her power advantage) when she caught
sight of his muscular arms and perfectly toned abs above the black leather
belt. “I haven’t been able to get that image out of my mind all day,” he said.
“Of you, in my bedroom, in that red bra. I think I’ll remember it forever.” He
closed the distance between them and kissed her again, until she was weak in
the knees. Then, he walked her backward until the backs of her legs met
mattress, and with a slight shove, pushed her onto the bed.

He stripped to his underwear and climbed up beside her, his
perfect blue eyes hinting of sinful deeds to come.  Just when she was reaching
for the clasp of her bra, he pinned her arms to the mattress and started
kissing her again. Very slowly. Every so often, he would skim his fingertips
over a part of her body, the feather-light touch sending tingles in all
directions—a collarbone, her ribs, her forearm, the outside of one thigh, her
navel—setting her skin on fire with the skill of a master craftsman. He deftly
unhooked her bra with one hand while the other lightly traced the scalloped
outline of the cups before slowly easing a strap down one arm. Several minutes
later, she realized that the bra had vamoosed without her knowledge, and Jackson was expertly nibbling on her neck.
Damn, he’s good at this,
was her last
coherent thought before she suddenly became aware of the fact that she was no
longer wearing underwear, and neither was he.

The first time was slow and intense, as though Jackson had spent months planning every move, every moment (which was close to the truth).
The second time was Cleo’s show, and she turned the dial to fast and reckless.
They adjourned for a very informative and enjoyable shower, and then hit the
sheets one more time before collapsing into the deep sleep of the totally
exhausted.

***

The next morning, she woke to find Jackson watching her, a
lazy, self-satisfied expression on his face. He was slowly stroking her arm
with his fingertips, and when he saw her eyes open, he said, “Morning,
Cleopatra,” and kissed her bare shoulder.

“My name’s not fucking Cleopatra,” she muttered, flashing a
quick grin before yawning and rolling onto her back.

“Yes it is,” he said, still stroking her arm. “In this bed,
naked, you’re the queen.” He kissed her shoulder again and whispered, “With
skin so soft, you must take baths in fresh milk.” He kissed her neck and
sniffed her hair. “Anointed with oils and spices from exotic lands.” His lips
moved to her jawline. “Ready to captivate armies, win the hearts of generals,
and rule the world.”

She giggled and rolled on top of him. “With a line like
that, I hope you’re planning to cook me breakfast.”

He did, although he had to call and have one of his
employees go to the grocery store for supplies. While they ate, she brought up
the matter of Lisa the Lips, and asked Jackson what his plans were.

“It’s interesting you should ask that,” he said around a
mouthful of bacon. “As I’ve been meeting some people for the last few days to
discuss what our options are.” He drank some juice to clear his throat before
continuing. “With the files that you saved, we have the information we need to
protect Lisa directly, and to eventually eliminate the threat against her
entirely. That’s where you come in. I can’t be seen within a hundred miles of Harper
Valley, but you’ve changed quite a bit since you were ten years old.”

“Well, I would hope so,” she said, winking at him and
marveling at the slight tinge of blush that crossed his cheeks.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I need you to go back, find
Lisa, and get her off the property. My team will get her to a safe house until
we can reunite her with Marco.”

She continued eating while she thought about it. “I guess it
would give me an excuse to stay blonde a little while longer, just in case
anyone sees me,” she said.

“I do prefer the brown,” he said as he took a bite of eggs,
“but the blonde has kind of grown on me over the last twenty-four hours.” His
cell phone vibrated, and she whistled at the sight of him bending over slightly
to retrieve the phone from the coffee table, wearing only his black pants from
the night before, unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips. He winked at her and
walked over to the window to take the call.

Cleo went to take a shower, fully expecting Jackson to join
her. After the third round of washing her hair, she finally realized that he
wasn’t going to. She dried off, wrapped a thick white towel around her hair,
and put on the purple silk robe, not bothering to tie it shut before going in
search of him.

She found him in the kitchen, dressed (and in a fresh
outfit, no less) and reading a newspaper. A cardboard cup from a nearby coffee
shop sat at his elbow. He picked up the cup and took a sip, raising his eyes to
look at her as she walked toward him. Cleo took great pleasure in the shocked
cough and sputter that followed as Jackson watched her strolling forward, naked
but for the robe that fluttered out behind her. She smirked and pounded him on
the back much harder than was necessary. It was always nice to catch Jackson
off guard.

“Let me guess—straight black and strong,” she said, reaching
for his cup to take a swig. Surprisingly, it was rich and sweet, with a lot of
cream. “Wow,” she said, turning the cup to see if the barista had written
anything on the side. “What is this?”

“Mochaccino latte,” he said, reclaiming the cup for another
sip as he folded the newspaper and slid it aside. “Nice outfit,” he said with a
smile as he grabbed the ends of her robe belt and pulled her close for a kiss.

It was long and sweet, and she leaned into him before
pulling back and asking, “Did you get any coffee for me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “What kind would you
like?”

Cleo pouted. “Well, I’m not exactly dressed to go to the
coffee shop. I kind of thought you would have brought me back some.” She
stepped back and tied her robe shut.

With great patience, he asked again. “What kind would you
like?”

“One like yours,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll just go throw
some clothes on.” She turned to head to the bedroom, but was stopped short when
he hooked a finger in the back of her robe belt. When she turned around, he had
a phone to his ear.

“Yeah, one more of the same,” he said. Then he hung up the
phone and tugged her back to him. “I had my guy go back to the coffee shop to
wait for your order. It’ll be up in five minutes.”

She laughed. “You made your minion wait in a coffee shop in
case I wanted something? What if I didn’t want coffee?”

Jackson shrugged. “Then he would have spent twenty or thirty
minutes having a coffee break before doing something else. Trust me, he’s
waited in worse places.”

“Do people always do exactly what you tell them to?” she
asked, absently running her fingers over his closely cropped hair. She loved
the texture of it.

He laughed and kissed her collarbone. “Everyone but you,
Cleopatra.”

“My name’s not fucking Cleopatra,” she said, but there was a
smile in her voice. Minutes later, Jackson went to answer the knock at the
door, returning to her with a fresh mochaccino. She slid onto a stool at the
kitchen island and took her first sip of the boiling brew, and he picked up a
suit jacket from the arm of the sofa, slipping it on and straightening the
collar.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Are you leaving?”

“Yep,” he said, reaching down for a fedora that had also
been lurking on the couch.

Cleo jumped off of the stool. “But where are you going?”

“I have some business to attend to out of town,” he said,
checking his phone and slipping it into his pocket.

She tightened the belt of her robe and started toward the
bedroom. “Give me three minutes to get dressed.”

He shook his head and moved to block her. “Not necessary,”
he said. “You won’t be going with me this time.”

She wanted to slap him. “But why not?” she asked, amazed at
how whiny she sounded.

He kissed her quickly and walked to the door. “Like I said,
this is business. I’ll be back late tomorrow. We’ll go out.” He checked his
watch and opened the door a crack to speak to the man who still waited in the
hall. Then he looked back at Cleo with twinkling eyes. “And for the record, I’m
glad we had that talk last night,” he said. And then he was gone.

41

Cleo fumed. She paced. She wanted to call Jackson and tell
him to fuck off, but she didn’t have his phone number.
I can’t believe he
left. The ass.

She used to have plenty of ways to occupy her time, but
right now, all she wanted to do was Jackson. Knowing that he would be gone more
than twenty-four hours just made her cranky.
Wait—he’ll be gone until late
tomorrow.

“Time to go shopping!” she announced to her otherwise empty
apartment. Twenty minutes later, she was in a cab on her way to a sex shop. It
was the best place she could think of to look for a black leather catsuit,
among other things.

That evening, she packed a thin black backpack with the
essentials: her lock picks, wire cutters, needle nose pliers, a hand mirror, two
balls of raw ground sirloin full of crushed up Valium (from her downstairs
neighbor’s medicine cabinet), a BB pistol, and a very expensive little machine
that was a whiz with alarm panels. She tucked her still-blonde hair up under a
black beanie, grabbed her Gucci gloves, and checked the laces on her black
tactical boots—the same kind worn by SWAT teams because their treads made no
sound. A thirty minute taxi ride later, she was squatting behind a bush across
the street from Jackson’s house, trying to adjust to night vision goggles.

The goggles were useless because too many exterior lights
were on, so she stowed them in the backpack and took out the air gun. Luckily,
it only took her twelve tries to hit the bulb of the light on the right side of
Jackson’s gate. She crept into the shadows that now existed on that side,
pulled out the ground beef balls, and hurled them over the gate, listening for
the pitter patter of giant dog feet. After about a minute, she heard snuffling
and low growls, followed by ripping cling wrap and licking sounds. Cleo sat
with her back to the stone wall and waited forty minutes—time enough for two
dogs to fall asleep, and also to determine if any household staff were planning
to come change the light bulb.

Now that she was closer, it only took two shots to get the
other bulb. With the entire gate area in total darkness, she immediately went
to work on the alarm circuits, now making good use of the night vision goggles
because she didn’t want to risk using a flashlight. Once they were deactivated,
she stood very still for four solid minutes, listening to every sound. No
footsteps approached, no dogs snarled….Cleo took a deep breath, reached for the
iron crossbar above her head, and hoisted herself up and over the gate.

When she landed on the other side, she immediately
sidestepped and crouched by the stone wall, again listening and acclimating to
the sounds of Jackson’s yard. Finally confident that no one was waiting to jump
out at her, she started toward the main entrance of the house. Just as she
neared the steps, the front door opened and two men came outside. Both held
flashlights and walkie talkies, but she recognized them from the day
before—they definitely had guns under their jackets. The spoke in low voices
about the two gate lights as they started down the path. Unfortunately, they
failed to lock the door behind them. Cleo rolled her eyes.

As soon as they were out of earshot, she crept up the steps
and eased the front door open just a crack so that she could listen. No one
else was in the foyer, so she darted inside and took cover in the room that
they had put her in yesterday. A few minutes later, she heard them come back
into the house and wander off. Apparently, they had decided to worry about the
lights in the morning.

Cleo stayed in the room for a solid hour, listening at the
door for any activity. Finally, a solid quiet settled over the place, and she
was fairly certain that almost everyone had gone to bed. When she eased the
door open, the lights were out downstairs. Her boots silent on the wooden
floor, she slowly made her way across the foyer and up the curved staircase to
the second floor.

It helped knowing exactly which room was Jackson’s. Cleo took
her time, making sure not to put too much sudden pressure on a potentially
creaky board. Finally, she turned the knob and slipped into the master suite.
Again, she was assaulted by the combined scents of peppermint and Jackson’s
cologne. Enough moonlight streamed through the windows to illuminate the bed
and the general layout of the room. She started toward the closet and did a
double take when she noticed something that definitely had not been there
yesterday. “Well, hello Marilyn,” she whispered to the painting that now hung
above the iron fireplace. Marilyn, in her pink and yellow glory, remained
silent.

Cleo spent two hours plundering in Jackson’s closet, trying
on hats and jackets, digging through drawers, counting the pairs of custom
leather shoes (mind-boggling, really). He actually owned two pairs of jeans and
half a dozen pairs of work pants in black, navy, and gray. There were no
sneakers, but he did have a couple of pairs of motorcycle boots, and she found
a black leather jacket tucked into a corner. She divested herself of the
catsuit and boots, put on one of his black cashmere t-shirts, and slipped into
the giant walnut bed, luxuriating in the feel of cool black sheets on her bare legs.
Burying her face in a pillow that smelled like Jackson, Cleo quickly fell
asleep.

She didn’t realize that Jackson’s men, after being heavily
threatened the day before, would continue to worry about those two light bulbs
after returning inside. While Cleo had been ensconced in the room downstairs,
they had talked with some other security guys in a back room and decided to search
the grounds, just in case—which was why the house had suddenly seemed so quiet.
As she was perusing the contents of the master closet, Jackson’s security was
busy discovering the non-functional gate mechanism and two unconscious dogs.
The entire staff was put on alert, and they began to search every square inch
of the property.

When Jackson got the call, he was pissed. He called Cleo’s
cell, but got no answer. “Fuck!” he yelled, and hurried to get dressed. When he
arrived at the house just before sunrise, the search was still under way. “Do
not use force,” he ordered, much to his staff’s surprise. Jackson typically had
no qualms when it came to enforcing security measures. But this time, he was
afraid he knew who the culprit was—and things could turn nasty.

He took the stairs two at a time and headed straight to the
master suite. Caution forced him to draw his weapon just before opening the
door, but as soon as he entered the room, he couldn’t help but smile. Cleo was
sprawled on her stomach in his bed, somehow managing to take up most of the
king-sized space. He took out his phone and called one of the guys. “Knock it
off. It’s just Cleo,” he said. Then he loosened his tie. Bed sounded pretty
good right now.