Hard Target (34 page)

Snow created a monochromatic blur of the New York City skyline outside the windows of the Museum of Modern Art. Simon paced the long gallery and peered at his watch as gusts whipped white sheets of precipitation against the panes. Icy plinks created a bright music that he would’ve enjoyed on any other day. Right now the offending weather elicited only a sharp glance.

Alex was late. The museum would be closing in fifteen minutes and she was late. She was
never
fucking late. Bad weather always created a snarl of Manhattan traffic and the job they were working for a visiting dignitary had all four of the crew on double time for the past week. If Günter hadn’t relieved her on time…

The rapid click of heels on white oak flooring made his heart beat faster. Only one person could be coming down this gallery right now. He’d paid plenty to make sure of it. Nerves and happiness at the sight of the woman approaching him made his stomach somersault with excitement in ways it hadn’t since he was sixteen and in puppy love for the first time.

Dark hair swept away from her face with a velvet band that matched a coat swaying around her like a dancer’s costume, Alex approached him. She smiled and his heart lifted even as he waited for her to notice the objects on the wall to her right.

Her step faltered. She glanced to the side. Slowed, then stopped. Blinking, she opened her mouth. Then closed it. Slowly now, she began to move along the gallery again, examining the sections of Monet’s
Water Lilies
and the words he’d laid out for her.

Slashes of color played across canvases all the way down the long wall. Each section a study in liquid light, serene movement and grace. They were even more breathtaking in person than in any photograph. Words hung above each section, forming the sentences,
You are more beautiful to me than any painting.
A living masterpiece.
My true love.

Eyes shining, Alex neared, her attention held by the last painting—the Picasso they’d rescued together, restored to its original frame. When she reached him, Simon bent to one knee and dug in his pocket for his mother’s engagement ring—a ruby surrounded by diamonds, all set in white gold—and took her hand.

“Alexandra.” He swallowed and cleared his throat.

Pink rushed to her cheeks, turning alabaster to rose. She nodded.

“There is no substitute for your love. What I have with you can never be imitated or replaced. A family with me might be small, but if you’ll let me, I’d like to be that for you. Your best friend, your family, and your husband too.” He faltered and her fingers squeezed his tight. Reassuring. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She pulled him to his feet and stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. Warm and sweet, she met his mouth and whispered, “Yes.”

He slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand where it gleamed in some of the best light the art world had to offer. No sculpture or painting could have been as lovely standing before him as she. Later, he wouldn’t be able to say how he’d gone from kneeling to standing or what they’d said to one another. What he would undoubtedly recall with vivid clarity for decades after was this kiss.

Wrapped in his arms, she fit against him perfectly, face upturned, as he sought out her mouth with his own. Tongues tangling, sighs mingling, they embraced until the lights flickered their five-minute warning and long after. Until the museum guard coughed politely and the library director who’d helped arrange his proposal tapped him on the shoulder.

Reluctantly, he lifted his head. Face flushed and eyes bright, Alex grinned at him.

“Your mouth is swollen.” He brushed his thumb along her upper lip.

She sucked on the pad of flesh and what had been a pleasant hum of arousal kicked up a notch.

“Your place or mine?” she asked.

“Mine,” he answered.

Grasping his hand, she surprised him when she ran down the gallery toward the fire exit. Alarms blared as they shoved through barricades meant to be used only in emergencies. They pushed out onto the street and kept running. Snow and sleet splashed Simon’s face until a subway entrance took them below the wind and weather. The rumble of a train propelled them onward. Faster and faster.

Alex jumped the stile and Simon followed suit as train doors swished open and welcomed them inside an empty car. He stopped. Looked at her. Knew he couldn’t wait. A glance behind him showed an out of service train across the platform. Dragging her with him, he reached the doors of the darkened train and pried one open. God love her, she followed him without question. Her smoldering glance made him sink onto the hard, plastic bench as his knees went weak and his mind lost the ability to access rational thought. The gleam of Alex’s engagement ring winking in much-less-flattering fluorescent lights, but nothing—not even the ambience of a New York City subway train—could dim her beauty in this moment. His love. His life. His future wife.

“I love you,” she rasped, lowering herself onto the length of his cock with painstaking slowness.

Unable to wait, he grasped her hips and rocked upward, seating himself fully in her heat. Arching, she cried out and let him take control. Every thrust upward he timed with the rocking of her body until she found her bliss. Each shudder sent spikes of pleasure coursing through him. Muscles in his thighs tightened. His toes curled against the leather of his loafers and his fingers clutched at Alex’s back as he lifted them both off the seat with the force of his final thrust.

She collapsed against him, breath coming as hard and fast as his own. Minutes later she laughed against his shoulder.

“What?” The languid feeling in his limbs reached into his voice.

“I never had sex on a train before.”

He chuckled. “Me either.”

“Where else haven’t you had sex?” Her tone sent a tingle of desire down his spine.

He grinned into her hair then lifted her off him so they could tidy up. “Just about everywhere.”

“Everywhere might be a tall order to fill,” she said as they finally boarded the uptown train.

As they rode, holding hands, her shoulder companionably leaned against his, the scent of her sex teased at his nostrils, awakening desire almost as quickly as it had been satisfied.

At their station, he took her hand as they exited the train onto an older platform. Its white-and-black subway tiles—carefully restored sometime in the last several years—gleamed around them in the station.

“Want to start with David Tallis’ rooftop garden?” Alex laughed at her own suggestion, bringing them back to the topic. “I hear there’s a Jacuzzi with a view clear to the East River.”

Picturing Tallis’ face if he caught them made Simon shudder. “The man would probably make me floss with his steel-string guitar if he caught us.”

Her grin gleamed wicked in the lamplight as they exited to the street. “I like it when you take risks.”

“With you in my life I’ll never lack for that.” He pulled her close, hoping she’d forget about Tallis’ newly installed private retreat.

Snowflakes kissed her nose and dotted her lashes as she searched his face with her gaze.

“And what do you feel inspired to do now?” she asked.

“Well, Gustav Klimt said,
All art is erotic
…and I’ve always wanted to learn to paint.”

Alex waggled her brows suggestively. “Feel like making a masterpiece?”

“With you?” He pulled her into his embrace. “Always.”

Tibby Armstrong began writing at age eleven when a kiss in a YA book fell short of her expectations. As a teenager, she snuck Kathleen Woodiwiss novels from her aunt’s bookshelves, and devoured a forbidden volume of Victorian erotica.

While she has since broadened her reading tastes to include science fiction, urban fantasy, biographies and a strange addiction to monographs, her favorite books still feature edgy alpha heroes, and the women (and men) who drive them to distraction.

When she’s not writing, Tibby works toward defying librarian stereotypes—yet she lives with four cats, two computers and enough books to collapse a poorly engineered house.

Tibby welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
.

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