Kathleen Creighton - Undercover Mistress

“About the accident. But…you haven’t seen-”

“And you thought…what-I was gonna run screaming at the sight? Get turned off by it? That it?”

Too miserable even to nod, she lifted one arm to cover her eyes. Her face burned, though her body, except for the place where his hand was, burned with a cold sharper than ice.

“Celia-open your eyes. Look at me.” Now his voice was harsh…commanding; she wouldn’t have thought of disobeying it, though she wished she could have. Even through the ice-blue contact lenses, the hurt in his eyes stabbed at her, so fiercely she flinched. “Lady, I know you’ve got some strange ideas, but I’d have thought you’d have more trust in me than that.”

She held her breath, unable to reply because of the sob that waited shuddering just beneath the words. I’m sorry…

“Celia…” His voice softened as he lowered his head to lightly brush his lips across her stomach, then grew ragged as he lifted it to say it again: “Celia…” And then, “I’m going to touch you now, love. Don’t stop me. Don’t think about anything…”

He lowered his head once more. She felt his mouth on her belly. His tongue stroked her with liquid warmth. And as he did that, his hand was gliding up and down her legs with a touch both sure and gentle, relaxing her, easing her until her inner shaking ceased and she opened for him without thought.

His fingers moved over her delicate, heated flesh in the most intimate exploration…slowly and with exquisite care, sometimes a feathering touch that half maddened her…sometimes deeply, rhythmically, pushing…throbbing with the beat of her own pulse.

Her breathing unraveled in a series of gasps and mindless whimpers. And just before all thought left her and her body spiraled completely and deliriously out of her control, she heard him say, in a voice as smug and thick and sweet as syrup, “From now on when you think of your scars, I want you to remember this…”

Later that day, after Max had come and gone, Roy went with Celia for a walk on the beach. It wasn’t something he normally did-that particular beach had some less than pleasant associations for him-but on this occasion, for some reason, when he saw her heading out into the evening in her bare feet and jogging clothes, he felt a strange sort of yearning…a disquieting reluctance to be separated from her. A need-dangerous though it was, to be alone with her for the first time since breakfast that morning.

Roy had put in a call to Max before he’d even showered, knowing how much there was to do and only a week to do it in. It had been hard, coming straight from Celia’s bed, with the scent of her still in the pores of his skin and the taste of her in his mouth, to know what to say to the man who’d been his handler, mentor and friend, just about from the first day he’d joined the DHS. Guilt made him edgy; he was sure Max was gonna take one look at him and know.

And if not him, then Celia for sure.

Once again, though, he’d underestimated her. Or he’d forgotten how good an actress she was. By the time Max showed up, she was fresh out of the shower and looking about nineteen, with her cheeks scrubbed and her hair tied up in a ponytail, and that incredible body-of which his intimate knowledge gave him continuous guilty and haunting images-hidden away in its customary T-shirt and jogging pants camouflage. And if she seemed a little bit more than usually excited and keyed up, Max would most likely put that down to the obvious fact that the operation was heating up-looked, in fact, to be heading for its conclusion, whatever that might be.

Which was a thought that gave Roy cold chills. For a whole lot of reasons.

In any case, after the briefing in Celia’s living room, the only comment Max had made as he’d taken his leave was a stern and cryptic, “Stay focused, you two.”

Which, Roy told himself, could mean just about anything.

Stay focused. Which went without saying. And was easier said than done.

It wasn’t that late by the time Max left, though at that time of year it seemed the day was already almost gone. Only a few days past winter solstice, the twilight would come early. Still, the air was unusually balmy, thanks to the mild Santa Ana that had been blowing all day. The sunset promised to be spectacular. A nice evening for a walk on the beach.

Especially since, walking on the beach at sunset, it was easier to pretend things hadn’t just drastically changed between them. Easier to avoid saying things that had to be said.

Though even the most difficult things couldn’t be avoided forever.

“It’s going to be a beautiful sunset,” Celia said, as they paused to watch waves break against a jagged ridge of volcanic rock. Her voice had a kind of tightness to it that told him she’d most likely been wanting to break the silence, but hadn’t known how, and had finally given up hoping he’d do it for her.

“Yeah,” Roy said dryly, “it’s because of all that air pollution the Santa Ana wind just blew out there.”

She laughed and threw him a crooked smile. “You’re in a romantic mood.”

“Got a lot on my mind.” He said it gently, because he’d heard vulnerability in her voice, too.

“Yeah, me too.”

There was silence, then, while he struggled with the temptation to simply let it go, knowing she must be doing the same. Then a stray puff of wind carried her scent to him, and he was hit with a wave of memory so powerful he had to catch his breath. The taste, touch, and feel of her…images, the way she’d looked this morning, so vulnerable, so frightened…and flushed with desire for him, too…

He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened when it was in his mind every waking moment. Couldn’t let it happen again no matter how much he wanted to. How much they both wanted to.

“About last night-” They both began at the same time, then broke off with uneasy laughter.

To give them both time to rebuild defenses, Roy bent down, picked up a piece of driftwood and hurled it into the surf. Aiming a wry grin at the brilliant horizon, he said, “Yeah, that’s definitely one of the things on my mind.”

He glanced over at her, but she, too, seemed to find the western horizon intensely fascinating. Her expression seemed thoughtful. Or guarded, he thought.

It occurred to him then that no matter how good an actress she was, there were times he was starting to be able to read her. Times when he could tell what was real and what wasn’t. He never doubted last night had been as…he tried to think of a word for it, but the only thing he could come up with was real. As real for her as for him. And as certain as he was of that, he was just as sure right now that she was going to use all her acting skills to try to keep him from knowing that.

She’s in love with me, he thought. Or thinks she is.

Which made it that much harder for him. If she believed it, it would be too easy to let himself believe it, too.

And if he did believe it? Where did that leave him? Given his lifestyle, the choices he’d made? Loving someone-really loving-knowing they loved you back, belonging to someone, making a life together…joining. Being responsible for-and to-someone…

He gave his head one hard shake. No way. Not for him. It just didn’t compute.

But there was last night. This morning. How in the hell was he supposed to make himself forget about that?

He took a breath, stared at a retreating wave near his feet and said gruffly, “What Max said…”

Her own quick intake of breath interrupted him, as she rushed to be the first to say it and he paused to let her. “Yeah. I know. He’s right. What were we thinking?”

He looked at her and she looked back at him, the question she’d asked lying unanswered between them. But though her face…her eyes…seemed outwardly composed…even serene, with his newfound ability to read her he found the signs easily enough: the bruised, transparent look of the skin beneath her eyes…the blurred softness of her mouth. She’s in pain, he thought. I know. I can feel it.

Then, he thought, who the hell am I kidding? That’s not her pain I’m feeling. It’s mine. I’m hurtin’, too, dammit. I guess we both are.

He swallowed, and even that hurt. “Bad idea,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” she said, “bad idea.”

Then they simply looked at each other in helpless silence, and in the faraway calling of the gulls he heard aching denial, and the question they couldn’t bring themselves to ask: Why? Why is it so bad when it feels so good?

“Not so much a bad idea, as bad timing,” Roy answered it gruffly. Regret, because he couldn’t give the answer they both wanted so much, made his voice harsh. “We’ve got no business getting…you know, emotionally involved. Not in the middle of an operation. Not with God knows how many lives at stake. Like Max said-gotta stay focused.”

“I know…” She said it on an exhalation and turned her face to the setting sun, not before he caught the tiny spasm of pain that shivered through those delicate tissues around her eyes.

She reached up, and with a swift, almost violent motion, pulled away the elastic band that held her hair in its ponytail, then gave her head a shake that tumbled her hair into the wind.

Watching her do that-face lifted to the sun, and her fingers scrubbing that Santa Ana wind into her hair-made Roy think of a song from his childhood; his momma had been a big fan of Broadway musicals, so he’d been a captive audience for probably every Rodgers and Hammerstein movie ever made. Right then he was thinking of “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair.”

Which was maybe why, when she turned to walk on again, he didn’t take her hand, although the impulse to do so was a powerful ache inside him.

After a few minutes of watching her bare feet make prints in the wet sand, she caught a quick, lifting breath and said, “Do you think maybe…” He glanced at her, waiting for the rest, but she looked away and shook her head, smiling a little.

He was pretty sure he knew what she’d almost asked. Do you think maybe…after this is over?

He knew, too, why she hadn’t finished it. Neither of them dared to think that far ahead.

Drawing a breath to quell the queasiness in his stomach, Roy said with false brightness, “So-what’s on our agenda for Christmas?”

Celia squinted at him, shading her eyes with her hand against the setting sun. “We were going to party-hop. We’ve got several different invitations. But now I’m thinking-” she shrugged “-you know, what’s the point?”

“Yeah…” They’d accomplished their purpose; that part of the job was done. He watched his feet for a few steps, then glanced over at her. “So…you don’t much feel like partyin’, is that what you’re sayin’?”

“Not really,” she said warily. “Do you?”

He gave a dismal huff of laughter. “Hell, no.”

Fact was, he’d never felt less like partyin’ in his whole life. He’d never felt less like Christmas, either. What he did feel was heavy and dull and sad. He’d never been much of one for moods-sure as hell couldn’t recall ever having been depressed before. He wondered if this was what depressed felt like. Because if it was, he could kind of understand why people made such a big deal about it.

“Then let’s stay home.” There was a gay lilt in her voice that, though masterfully done, didn’t fool him. After a little pause just for effect, she added slyly, “I’ll cook dinner.”

Because he knew she wanted him to, because she was trying so hard, Roy laughed, rolled his eyes, groaned and said, “Oh, my Lord, save us…” in his very best Southern drawl.

“I’m serious,” Celia said, and her eyes gleamed bravely. “I, Celia Cross, am going to cook us a traditional Christmas dinner. With all the trimmings-whatever that means.”

“Tell me the truth, you poor little Hollywood princess, you,” he said, grinning skeptically at her. “Do you even know what a traditional Christmas dinner is?”

She gave him an insulted look. “Of course, I do-I’ve read A Christmas Carol. I know all the songs. Aren’t you supposed to cook a goose? And roast chestnuts, right? Then there’s something called figgy pudding-I have no idea what that is, but I bet I could find a recipe for it online. Did you know, there’s this wonderful thing called Google…”

“Turkey,” he said with a sigh.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what we always had-turkey, roasted in the oven. Sometimes a ham, too, with pineapple rings and those little cherries stuck all over it. And candied yams with little marshmallows melted over ’em, and corn bread stuffing and mashed potatoes with giblet gravy. Collard greens…little baby peas. Cranberry sauce, and Grannie Calhoun’s homemade rolls…pumpkin and apple and mince and pecan pies with real whipped cream…”