Authors: Radclyffe
Catherine took a few steps, chiding herself for her overactive imagination. She’d barely slept in the last few days and had been stressed and apprehensive in the weeks leading up to the raid. It didn’t matter that she knew Rebecca was superb at her job, or that the odds of a mortal injury were low. She didn’t believe in statistics, not where the woman she loved was concerned. So she’d worried and tried to keep her fear from distracting Rebecca. Because Rebecca would do what Rebecca would do, and she needed all of her mind on the job to do it safely. Then Catherine had opened the door in the middle of the night to find Sloan on the porch, and for one terrifying second the rest of her life gaped empty and barren before her. Rational thought or even the reality of Rebecca beside her could not mitigate the agony of that moment. It would haunt her forever.
Let it go,
she thought, although she suspected that was one battle she wouldn’t win.
Then Rebecca climbed out of the passenger side of the sedan.
She didn’t notice Catherine but walked slowly up to the house, obviously exhausted. For a few seconds, Catherine hovered on the verge of turning and walking away, she was that angry. Not only angry. Hurt. At times like these, being a psychiatrist was not the least bit helpful. It didn’t matter that she knew what she
should
do, what she should say, what might help defuse the emotional situation. It didn’t matter that she understood some of the things that drove Rebecca to drive herself. At this moment, she didn’t care about all the things she knew or sympathized with. She was hurt and disappointed and frightened, and thinking her way through this was not going to be easy.
She waited until the Crown Victoria pulled away because she didn’t want Watts to witness anything personal between her and Rebecca. Rebecca would hate for a colleague to get a glimpse of their private life, and Catherine was far too personally reserved to allow it either. Rebecca, moving at only a fraction of her normal pace, had just reached the landing in front of the door when Catherine fished her house keys from her briefcase and climbed the four broad marble stairs to reach around her.
“Are you just coming home?” Catherine fitted her key into the lock.
“Yes, I—”
“Don’t,” Catherine said softly. “I’m not quite ready to hear it just yet.”
Rebecca hesitated on the threshold. “I can call Watts. Have him come back and take me to my apartment.”
Catherine looked back at her for a second. “Rebecca, I’m upset.” She deposited her briefcase on the parson’s bench in the foyer and shrugged out of her coat. “You look exhausted.”
“I didn’t do—”
Catherine shook her head. “Now is not the right time to talk about this, but what’s happening is part of being together. Come inside.”
“I hate this,” Rebecca said.
“I know. So do I. Are you hungry or do you want to go straight to bed?”
“I’m not hungry, but you must be. I’d like to sit in the kitchen with you while you have something to eat.”
Catherine took her hand. “Come on, then.”
*
Kratos Zamora poured another glass of Bollinger Blanc de Noirs and leaned across the table in the private dining alcove to light the redhead’s cigarette. He enjoyed watching her slowly exhale a thin stream of fragrant smoke. Even in the candlelight he could make out the emerald tones of her eyes. Her shoulder-length curls were the color of a summer sunset over the ocean, the same blood-red that often heralded a storm. She regarded him with a hint of amusement, but rather than be annoyed, he was intrigued. Women usually fawned or primped or seduced, but they never laughed at him. Or challenged.
“You think very highly of my talents,” she said.
“You’ve never disappointed me.” Kratos never ate at the same restaurant twice in a row, and there were half a dozen private dining areas like this one in the restaurant. The likelihood that a listening device had been planted was slim, but his men had swept the space earlier, and he felt secure discussing business here.
Talia raised an eyebrow. A smile played over her perfect lips.
Kratos shrugged. “Where business is concerned.” He’d tried to seduce her once, and she’d refused. He’d been surprised and that was rare. He wasn’t deluded enough to believe women were drawn to him rather than his power and wealth, but he was used to getting what he wanted. This woman had merely said no, but when she refused she’d held his eyes in a way few men dared, and he understood that persisting would be to no avail.
“Five years ago almost no one had the skill to detect electronic intrusion. That’s no longer the case.” Talia tapped the delicate ash against the edge of a crystal ashtray and it shattered into powdery shards. “What you ask is difficult.”
“But not impossible.” Kratos watched her maroon-tinted lips close deliberately around the end of the cigarette. Her mouth tightened slightly as she inhaled and her flawless high-boned cheeks hollowed. His erection throbbed, and he enjoyed the sensation, but didn’t let the pleasure distract him. “Disrupt the communications and you create chaos. Chaos leads to inefficiency and distrust.”
“What about the new investigative division at One Police Plaza?” she asked. “How much of a threat are they?”
“My friends there tell me that the unit is barely functional. I doubt there is any danger from that direction.”
“And yet you said our plant inside City Hall was identified. That took a sophisticated cyberinvestigation.”
Kratos waved a hand. “He was careless.”
He was not about to admit his concern that the HPCU might be able to trace the man they’d had inside back to him. Besides, he was always careful to keep several layers of people between himself and culpability. If by some miracle the authorities were able to determine who had placed the spyware in the PPD computer systems, they would not come up with his name. But he doubted that was a possibility.
Talia regarded him through narrowed eyes as the smoke curled in the air between them. “Tapping into computer files is different than actively sabotaging a police communications network. The government no longer takes cyberterrorism lightly.”
“Of course,” Kratos said. “And your payment will reflect the risk.”
“Three hundred thousand,” Talia said evenly. “Fifty percent to be wired immediately to my account.”
Kratos nodded.
“I need everything you can tell me about the principals. Can you be certain of your sources?”
“My family came to this city almost a hundred years ago. Politicians and lawmen have always been our friends. Nothing has changed, it’s only more subtle.” Kratos handed her a piece of paper folded lengthwise and covered in single-spaced typing. “The names and background briefs.”
Talia took the paper and slipped it into her purse. “Which one is my target?”
“Her name is JT Sloan.”
*
The first thing Sloan saw when she stepped off the elevator into the loft was Michael curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace, a book on her lap and the firelight casting her face in a soft, warm glow. She wore a loose white shirt and silky black slacks, and she was barefoot, her legs drawn up beneath her. When she turned in Sloan’s direction and smiled, Sloan’s heart stutter-stepped in her chest. Michael was the calm center of her universe, solid ground in the surging seas of her unrest and barely contained anger. She didn’t deserve her, and she knew it.
“Hi, baby,” Sloan said, her throat tight.
Michael patted the couch beside her. “Come sit down and tell me about your day.”
“Sorry I’m so late.”
“You don’t have a curfew. Did you eat?”
Sloan shook her head as she dropped onto the sofa next to Michael. When Michael put her book aside and shifted to lean against her, Sloan drew her close and kissed her. “Do potato chips count?”
“I’m not answering that.” Michael stroked Sloan’s face. “There’s a plate with chicken and pasta in the kitchen. It should still be warm.”
“How was your day?”
“I asked you first,” Michael teased.
“Routine.” Sloan rested her chin against the top of Michael’s head. Michael’s hair was fragrant, her body supple, her breath warm against Sloan’s throat. Sloan saw herself stretched out in a green glade in the warm sunshine, a breeze ruffling the leaves overhead and teasing over her sweat-damp skin. She caught her breath as Michael eased her T-shirt from her jeans and slid a hand underneath. The breeze carried a hint of distant thunder now and Sloan tensed.
“Your days are never routine,” Michael murmured.
“How was yours?”
“Tiring but good.” Michael kissed the hollow of Sloan’s throat, then the side of her neck, then just below her ear. She laughed softly when Sloan shivered. “I had a nice talk with Sandy, and then I took a nap while I was waiting for you.”
“That sounds…nice.” Sloan’s voice was strained. Michael, for all her sophisticated elegance, could seduce her with the barest touch of her fingers, a mere brush of her lips. Sloan bent to her will as a seedling bends to the sun, trembling and needy. She knew with absolute certainty that all her strength was a ruse, a handful of sand that would slip through her fingers and disappear on the wind without Michael by her side. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not tired now.” Michael pressed more tightly against Sloan, continuing to kiss the side of her jaw and her neck. She let her fingertips dance over Sloan’s breasts and up and down her abdomen before skating lower and streaking beneath the top of her jeans. “What, darling?” she asked, hearing a groan.
“I’m not hungry either.” Sloan clasped the back of her neck, tilting Michael’s head so she could slant her mouth across Michael’s. Michael opened to her, and as they kissed, Sloan groaned again, lost in the seductive warmth of Michael’s mouth, a steady pulse of desire unfurling in her depths.
“You’re going to be busy with another case soon, aren’t you?” Michael pushed Sloan down on the couch and stretched out on top of her, fitting one leg between Sloan’s thighs. She slid her hand up to cup Sloan’s breast. “With Rebecca back?”
“Work?” Sloan gasped, opening the buttons on Michael’s shirt with one hand while she caressed her ass with the other. Michael made it impossible for her to think. She was the only one who could do that. “You want to talk about work?”
Michael kissed the tip of Sloan’s chin, then her mouth. “No. I want you all to myself for as long as I can have you.”
“I’m all yours,” Sloan whispered, never meaning anything more in her life.
*
“Babe? You want that last French fry?” Dell reached over Sandy’s prone body and scooped the fry in question from the Styrofoam container on top of the bedside table.
Beneath her, Sandy pushed her butt up firmly into Dell’s crotch. Dell paused, her arm extended and the French fry forgotten. Sandy had nearly made her come on the ride home on her Ducati, and once they reached the apartment they shared south of Bainbridge, Sandy had finished the job. Twice. In between orgasms and takeout, Dell had reciprocated, plus an extra just because it made her feel ten feet tall to hear Sandy cry out her name when she climaxed. Now her clit was swollen and satisfyingly sore and she’d thought they were done. Or maybe not.
She dropped the French fry back in the box, let her weight settle on Sandy’s back, and then bit and sucked a spot in the curve of her shoulder until Sandy squirmed under her. “Still horny?”
“Maybe,” Sandy murmured, her face burrowed in the pillow. “What time is it?”
“About midnight.” Dell eased off to one side and stroked the inside of Sandy’s thigh. She cupped her sex from behind and squeezed gently, slowly circling Sandy’s clitoris with the tip of one finger. Sandy was hot and wet. For her. Lust shot through Dell like a fever and she struggled not to slide inside her right away. Sandy liked it hard and fast, but slow and teasing was good sometimes too. It’s just that Dell had a hard time keeping her head when she was excited, and Sandy always excited her. She rubbed the hard prominence at the apex of Sandy’s center and Sandy made a little sound, halfway between a whimper and a purr. Dell thought her head might explode, but she kept the pressure light and languid. Sandy’s hand clutched the pillow, and just that little movement made Dell’s clit pound. She kissed Sandy’s cheek, then the corner of her mouth. “I love you.”
“Don’t make me come,” Sandy whispered. She groped behind her, grabbing Dell’s hand when she found it. “I don’t want to come until you fuck me.”
Dell groaned, pressing her forehead to the back of Sandy’s shoulder as she ground against Sandy’s ass. She kept up the slow steady massage, careful not to push Sandy over the edge, but she couldn’t control her own runaway clit. “Fuck, babe. I’m gonna come again.”
Sandy laughed, her voice shaking. “Let it go, baby.”
“Oh man,” Dell moaned, her stomach turning somersaults as a cannon went off inside her. She panted against Sandy’s back, openmouthed and trembling like a first-timer. Beneath her, Sandy twisted, pushing Dell away until she could roll onto her back. Then she grabbed Dell’s hand and pushed it between her legs.
“You’re up, rookie,” she breathed into Dell’s ear. “Now fuck me until I come.”
And just like that, Dell felt the power surge through her. She braced herself on one arm and filled Sandy with her fingers. Then she kissed her, stroking inside her mouth to the rhythm of her thrusts between her legs. She used her thumb to work Sandy’s clit because she knew Sandy came harder that way. Distantly she felt Sandy’s hands dig into her shoulders, her nails scratching in anxious circles. Sandy tightened around her fingers, body arching into a tight bow. Dell broke their kiss so Sandy could breathe.