Embracing Midnight (9 page)

S
tripped down to a sports bra and shorts, Callie concentrated on her push-ups. Her arm muscles were burning, and she was nearing exhaustion. Whenever her thoughts threatened to take her into the “bad place,” that dark box inside her mind, she had the urge to cut. Fortunately time and training had taught her to channel her self-destructive impulses into other outlets.

A lot of things were packed inside her skull. Memories, the graves littering the ground inside her brain. Some memories were well covered, grown over, barely leaving any impression. She’d made peace with them and refused to look back. Others refused to rest. Buried alive, they struggled to return to the forefront, exhuming themselves to point accusing fingers.

Her father’s ghost was one.

The first important man in her life. Daddy. A long shiver ripped through her, and she felt a chill creep into her bones. Her heart beat heavily; she had difficulty breathing. Clayton Whitten had been the first to teach her not to trust the male sex. Nobody could fail to be unnerved by the concentration of sheer hatred her father projected for the women in his life. Clayton subscribed to one inflexible and fast rule when he came to dealing with his womenfolk: beat them, fuck them, repeat process liberally.

Whether going after his wife or his daughter, Clayton wasn’t particularly concerned whom he destroyed in the process of his drunken rages. He beat and belittled until he made people hate him, the humiliations and physical blows he dealt like cards were simply the by-products of his own wretched childhood. Instead of breaking the cycle of abuse, he perpetuated what he’d learned from his own father.

Jaw tightening, Callie fought the gripping squeeze of icy fingers around her heart. Thinking of her father never failed to unnerve her. She’d hated being a little girl, hated being smaller and weaker than a full-grown man.

Her whole miserable childhood had come to an abrupt end with her father’s murder. A bullet to the brain—delivered by the hand of his bitter wife—had ended Clayton Whitten’s life.

No one blamed her mother for pulling the trigger. Except that she hadn’t pulled it once. She’d pulled it twice. The second shot had made Callie an orphan and ward of the state.

She pressed on, forcing all her nervous energy into her efforts. Too much. It sometimes felt like her head would explode. She grimaced between breaths. She needed to focus. Concentrate. She’d hoped a good workout would drive her parents from her mind. Fat chance.

She pumped her body harder, forcing fifty more push-ups out of her tired arms. Thank God she’d discovered exercise as an outlet for her frustrations. Getting into top shape had been a focus and a goal, one leading down her future career path. Education had been the second key to help lift her out of despair. Early on she’d discovered schoolwork remained constant, even as the foster homes she occupied changed with frequent regularity. Maintaining straight A’s was a goal she never let waver. She went straight into the army at eighteen years of age to help pay for college.

Ending her push-ups, Callie rolled over onto her back for a set of crunches. She liked a nice flat belly and trim waist. Men certainly seemed to like it, too. Once she’d gotten out of the gawky stage of being too tall and too skinny, her body had filled out in ways that men found pleasing. Very pleasing. One of her foster fathers had claimed her virginity when she was fifteen. She’d cut a lot after the bastard had returned to his wife’s bed. Forced sex didn’t feel good or right.

She stopped her exercise routine, going dead still.

For a long time, she’d avoided sex, putting her energy into her studies. The military had discovered and honed her talent with computers. Thanks to her training, cracking and hacking any system in the world was a piece of cake. Graduating at the top of her class had put her squarely in the sights of the bureau.

Roger had been the lover to teach her that sex was to be enjoyed, was more than a physical act. For a long time she didn’t invest any emotions into their affair, simply learning to enjoy the pleasure of a man’s body. Time had passed, and her resistance dropped. Just when she’d come to view the act as one of deep love, she’d gotten burned. Badly.

Their affair had ended, but her need for sex hadn’t lessened. She enjoyed the intimacy of intercourse. She’d simply have to learn to keep head and heart separate. Given the tenets of her assignment, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t enjoy making love to Iollan Drake. Last night had felt good. Excellent, in fact.

Callie drew a breath to fortify herself. Another twenty-five sit-ups and she’d quit. She attempted to keep her focus on her workout, but every time she closed her eyes or let her thoughts stray for a moment, she daydreamed about the outlaw. Iollan fluttered around her skull like an elusive butterfly, tantalizing, teasing, always out of her reach. He wouldn’t leave, no matter how she tried to shove his image out.

Feeling exhaustion nibble, she sighed and flopped back on the carpet. “You’re attracted because Drake’s forbidden,” she puffed. “He’s a criminal, nobody to be attracted to.” But she
was
attracted, damn it. More than she had a right to be.

Shut down brain, please quit working.

Callie tried frowning him away. Didn’t work. Something about him reached out to her. Her intense attraction had caught her totally by surprise, opening up her mind to a world of possibilities. More than a rebound, more than an infatuation with the forbidden, Iollan Drake tantalized. His look, his accent, everything about him felt right when she was in his arms. He felt familiar. How or why, she didn’t know. It was a foolish idea.

Thinking about him sent a slow ribbon of desire through her insides. The tingle of current passing between them when they’d connected was all too enticing. His touch, like his strange mark on her skin, was hot, sweet, and intoxicating. If she didn’t take care, she’d soon be giving her heart away to the man.

Callie felt a lump rise in the back of her throat. She swallowed, forcing it down. “Silly idiot,” she muttered. “He’s work, not play.”

A burning iron stabbed through her stomach when she remembered how Drake had taken her. His experience wasn’t to be believed. He knew how to touch a woman’s body, where, and with the perfect pressure guaranteed to induce furious orgasm.

Callie closed her eyes. Her palm spread over one breast. She felt the tight bud under her hand. Using a single finger, she traced slow circles around her distended nipple. Warmth trailed a path to the center of her belly, then lower. Her breathing grew shallow. Anticipation building inside, she sucked in a breath, moaning softly. Currents of desire rippled through her as she guided her hand lower. Her hand slipped under the elastic band of her sweatpants. Wet heat between her thighs, the throbbing ache.

She brushed her fingertips over her pulsing clit. Pressure built, fast and furious. She moaned and shifted her hips, sinking two fingers inside her tight channel. Inner muscles gripped and rippled. Unable to endure the torturous tease, she thrust. Tension coiled, then exploded in a blast of heat and dazzling light.

Violent shudders wracked her body. Splayed out on the carpet, she took a deep breath, forcing her heartbeat back to normal. Slowly her breathing evened out. She didn’t feel any better, though. She still felt empty. Masturbation had only whetted her appetite for a man’s touch. She wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotions she felt when she realized Iollan Drake was the man she wanted.

No other man had ever touched her the way he had. With every brush of his lips, every caress of his fingertips, she’d felt cherished. He understood her darkness, the devouring emptiness that had once driven her to mutilate herself. He’d accepted that, and in doing so had embraced her.

She traced her lips with the tip of one creamy finger. Drake’s mouth had ravished hers, devoured her, his actions completely focused on nothing but possessing her in every way possible. Goose bumps tripped over her skin when she remembered his tall, well-muscled frame. Their bodies had fit perfectly together, and when he sank within her depths it was as though he was doing more than entering. He’d claimed her, marking her in an animalistic way. He’d taken her to the edge, only to draw back at the last second, leaving her hanging, wanting, needing more. Hot and wild, their lovemaking had gone on and on. She’d lost count of the times orgasm had claimed her.

Don’t think about that.

Curling into a ball, Callie drew her knees to her chest. Her hands were locked around her legs, a parody of a woman expecting a high-speed collision. There were too many things in her mind right now.

How could she
not
think about sex with Drake? The bureau had just given her sanction to seduce the man! What would her bosses think if they were to find out she’d already bedded their suspect once, and thoroughly enjoyed it?

Careful
, she warned herself. Seducing Iollan Drake was supposed to be nothing more than a part of her job for the bureau, most certainly not for her pleasure. Entertaining personal feelings about him would be stepping over the line. It would also be a mistake.

A tic of frustration tugged at the corner of her mouth. She lifted herself with a jerky heave. Her entire body trembled with the effort. Nevertheless, she drew back her shoulders and called on all her willpower to appear calm. Her stomach was churning acid. Her job was to get close—closer—to him. Moreover, her superiors expected results.

Unspoken but hanging in her mind was the fact that Drake was a target. Because of her attraction the thought bothered her. The idea that she’d be setting him up for the fall wasn’t exactly appealing.

A frown wrinkled her forehead. She didn’t want him to be an outlaw. She wanted him to be…“innocent
until proven
guilty.” Totally stupid, but she couldn’t stop the thought, or the hope. If only.

Struggling to maintain objectivity, Callie ran her fingers through her damp, sweaty hair. She was smart enough to know the agents’ belief in Drake’s innocence was a myth. More than likely Drake was guilty and his hide deserved to be nailed to the wall. Her job was to prove his guilt. A tall order. But someone had to do it.

She needed to focus on her objective. Now wasn’t the time to get emotional over any man, past or present. No man would ever hurt her again. She’d taken too many strikes to the heart. Never again. Sex with Drake would be strictly to scratch her carnal itch.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Workout over, she walked into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “Be better if it were vodka.” She lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. The water was like a balm on her soul. She’d forgotten how refreshing cold water was to a feverish body.

A whiff of armpit odor wrinkled her nose. Yuck. She stank like a boar. She also needed to run the razor over her stubbly legs. Limbs aching, she decided a bath would be just the thing to soothe her. She wanted heat, a total, all-over body soak. Her apartment’s tub wasn’t large, but if she bent her knees, everything fit just fine.

Heading toward the bathroom, she reached in and turned on both taps, adjusting the temperature to a comfortable level. Steam filled the air as she stripped off her workout clothes, tossing them into the hamper.

A tap on the glass behind her caused her to turn her head. Since her bathroom window looked onto the solid brick wall of the building next door, she never bothered closing the blind. She hadn’t considered the fire escape outside the window. Anyone who wanted to could climb up and peek inside.

Snatching a towel to cover her nudity, Callie gaped at the man outside. He smiled back, tapping the glass a second time. He wanted in.

Think of the devil and here he comes.

Recognizing her quarry, Callie gasped and her heartbeat jumped into a double-time dance. She hesitated, caught between surprise and relief. When she’d gone to work at the bar earlier in the evening, Drake hadn’t shown up. Considering the body cooling in the morgue, that wasn’t a surprise. If she were suspected of murder, especially if she’d actually committed one, she’d be inclined to lay low, too. The fact that Drake had chosen an alternate route to her apartment solidified her suspicions of guilt. An innocent man didn’t try to conceal his actions.

Gaining his trust meant she had to play along.

Callie threw on a cloak of composure to make up for her lack of clothing. It would have to suffice. Fortunately she was fairly comfortable with her own nudity, scars and all. Tucking the towel around her breasts, she turned off the faucets before the tub overflowed. She unlatched the window, tugging it up. The screen had fallen off a long time ago, never to be replaced. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Iollan Drake grinned. “I wanted to see you again, love.”

“I have a front door, in case you’ve forgotten.”

His grin widened. “This route’s much more interesting.”

She blushed, glancing down at her towel. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have put on something more appropriate.”

He ducked and guided his lanky frame over the waist-level sill with the ease of an experienced burglar. Getting in and out of places unseen didn’t seem to present a problem. He straightened, his full height dwarfing hers by at least six inches. “What you are wearing is more than appropriate, love. In fact, it’s perfect.”