Emotionally Compromised (Emotionally Compromised Series) (24 page)

I can't take it any longer. I take her face, forcing her hands to her sides, and kiss her hard. She tenses, but the moment my lips command hers to relax, she does. I pull away when I am satisfied. "It's
OK. Stop trying to hide who you are from me. I have told you a million times. I want all of you. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I don't condone killing anyone, but I understand why you might want to. Plus, being locked up with me for twenty-four hours can't be
that
bad."

Her face softens
, and her gold eyes flicker with adoration. I receive a little glimmer of hope as she holds back her smile.

The lines around her face look strained. "Do you have any idea what you mean to me?"

I get the impression she has spent a good chunk of time thinking about it. I'm baffled by her question. She isn't normally one to let me know how she feels without me probing.

Before I can respond, she says, "Everything. You mean everything to me." Her tone is stern,
direct, and crisp. It sends a spark of electricity down the back of my neck.

Her eyes are wide as she watches me. She's doing it. Putting herself out there, making herself vulnerable
... for me.

And she
is absolutely terrified.

MARCUS GIBBS

I walk into my kitchen around 4
p.m. I have done nothing but fuck that girl senseless for the past day, and it feels wrong. Or do I want to say right?

Quit thinking with your dick. She's a brat and you know it.

She hasn't asked me to take her to my lab, and to be honest, I missed a day's work because of it. This woman's sexual appetite rivals my own. I wonder what her daddy would have to say to that!

I walk onto my balcony
, and pull out a cigarette, needing any sort of fix right now. I inhale, and look out onto the streets of Boston.

How long is this woman going to stick around? She mentioned transport. Will she be the one who takes the product off my hands? And if so, does that mean she's staying a while? She's easy to get information out of. All I need to do is ask, really. It's the weird warnings that come with the answers that irk me.

Speak of the devil. I catch a glimpse of movement inside. I peer through the open sliding glass door, and the devilish woman walks out in her bra and panties, shamelessly putting her curves on display. Her large breasts are barely contained by her pearly pink, lacy bra, and the matching panties that hang on her wide hips are incredibly distracting even after all of last night's exertions. I can't help but ogle. Her flawless mocha skin is inviting, and she knows it too. Who knew biological warfare came with perks? I snicker.

She strolls up to my kitchen table and nosily fingers through the papers on it. "Marcus? What's this?"

She holds up two sleekly designed tickets with the Museum of Fine Art and the words "Giving Hope" on them.

"Tickets to a charity benefit slash art gala type-thing tomorrow. They are taking donations and such. Sunscape gives a lot of money to them." I take another drag of my cigarette as I watch her slink toward me, and then lean against the doorframe still holding up the tickets.

"Well, are you going?"

I squint, annoyed at the question. "Jeremy requires most staff to go."

My breath catches in my throat, and I choke on the smoke.
Jeremy.
Luc told me that my hit on Jeremy was supposed to happen today. Yet I haven't heard a damn thing.

"Jeremy Hunt?" She lets the corner of her mouth rise into a smirk.
A sense of panic spikes over what might have happened. Did I really pay someone to kill him?

Without fresh powder in my system
, I get a sense of clarity that makes my bones ache at what I've done, but then again, wasn't I justified?

I inhale, realizing she has asked me a question. "The same."

She wickedly grins and I have to admit, I like her Cruella smile. "As far as I know, he's dead."

Huh?
Her bluntness shocks me, and my stomach plummets. I struggle not to let my emotions show, and instead give her my own (fake) grin. "Good."

So she was the one who provided the
hit man, then. A woman of many talents and many connections. Yikes.

"So, are you still going to the event, then?"

I shrug and take another drag, aching for another line of snow rather than this cancer stick. "I suppose."

"I want to go
, and you have two tickets." She bounces on her heels like an eager little girl.

I chuckle. "You don't even know if I already have a date."

She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Do you?"

I shrug it off, and smirk only mildly, because the truth sort of hurts. "No, I don't, I guess."

Another devilish grin. "Then can I go with you?"

"Are you actually asking me to go, Miss Moradi?"
Brain-to-mouth filter malfunction.

She taps her bare foot, annoyed, but smiles through hooded eyes
. "I am. Can I go please?"

I take one final drag from my cigarette
, and then flick it off my balcony, tossing the idea around in my head. "Sure."

Her gleeful smile is almost comical.
"Great! I want to get a dress, but first I guess we should attend to why I am here. I'd like to go to your lab."

Now
that was a demand, most definitely not a request. The mood shifts. No more playing or flirting, just business. I get the sense that I am merely her toy, and it bugs the shit out of me. I immediately go back to hating her.

"That's fine," I quip.

She pouts, purses her lips, and nods. "I'm going to shower. Care to join me?"

Before she lets me respond, she turns on her
heels and heads to the bathroom.

I have not known Adessa Moradi long, but I have learned to understand her language of tone
.
That was not a question, even though it seemed like it. It was another God dammed demand.

I walk back inside
, grab my cell phone off the kitchen table, and do one final thing. I need to know if Jeremy is dead.

I need confirmation.

I dial his personal assistant.

"Sunscape Biotechnologies, Rebecca speaking, how may I help you?"

"Rebecca, this is Marcus. Is Jeremy there?" I try to keep my tone calm and collected.

"No, sir. He actually hasn't come in today, and
he is not answering any of his calls or e-mails. Would you like me to take a message?"

"No." I hang up
, feeling
free
, but it makes my head hurt. I decide that Adessa can be my distraction as I head to the bathroom, and then after I will do a line.

It actually happened. Jeremy is dead. He is no immortal lady's man
, the impressive entrepreneur that the newspapers rant and rave about. He is dead. Jeremy Hunt is dead.

Mutual Feelings

ALEX TURNER

I cover my mouth in shock
, and get up off the couch. I feel frantic. Jeremy is staring at me, and I can't take it any longer. Murder attempts might not send him running, but a confession of feelings might. Why did I tell him that he meant everything to me? We've only just met! I am an idiot.

I square my shoulders. "Forget I said that." I
make my way down the hall.

"Alex, stop!" he demands. His tone sends an icy chill down my spine, but it only fuels my anger.

I stop and shake my head with my back still to him. I don't want to respond. Haven't I said too much already? I can sense him coming up behind me, and his arms come around my waist, bringing me close. His lips brush against my ear. He feels so good. I close my eyes, concentrating on the bare skin of his chest against me. It's warm and comforting, even through the shirt I'm wearing. His humid breath runs down the nape of my neck, calling my whole body to attention.

"Jeremy
," I whine. As much as his embrace is soothing, I rather enjoy festering in my anger, as weird as that sounds.

"I don't want you regretting anything you say to me. Ever. Do you understand?" he whispers in my ear in a stern voice.

"But—"

"
Stop," he demands, "you're going to make me angry, and I don't want to be mad at you. What if I told you that you mean everything to me too? Because you do. This is new, for both of us."

My breath catches in my throat
, and I tense even more. Jeremy trails light kisses down the back of my neck, and as good as it feels, I want to run.

As if r
eading my mind, he says, "Don't."

I can't seem to get a lock on my emotions
, and it terrifies me. I am woman who relies on control, and right now, I feel frenzied. I absolutely hate it. I need to find a way to get a grip.

Is this all because I almost lost Jeremy? I was perfectly fine earlier, before all of
this
.

I turn around to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck
, and bring him as close to me as possible. What is wrong with me? He pushes my hair out of my face, and cradles my jaw to look at me. He looks perturbed as his eyes dart around my face.

"Tell me what is going on in that brilliant, deadly head of yours. I have to know."

I try the distraction technique. I press my lips against his, and though he is shocked by the move, he accepts them willingly. His lips devour mine in need.

He slams my body hard into the wall, and pins
me with his hips. His hands drag down my torso, gripping my behind roughly, and his fingers dig into my skin.

This is Jeremy Hunt. Commanding and demanding. Another favorite. With this
version, I don't need to think.

He pulls away from me, out of breath. "I need to know we are
OK." I realize this is our way of doing things. Sometimes I suck at talking, and this might be my only way of showing him that we are fine.

His mouth covers mine again, and I can't help but whimper. He pulls away once more
. "That's better."

The bastard knows that talking like this isn't my thing, and he seems aware of his power over me. I return his heated crystal glare with a wry look.
Obviously, he's aware I let him control me. "Fine. Let's not talk, then."

He scoops me up, bridal style. "Jeremy, what are you doing?" I yelp in surprise.

"You don't want to talk. Fine! But I will at least make this more comfortable for both of us." He beelines for my bedroom.

"I am no good at talking
," I blurt out.

He raises an eyebrow at me, starting up the steps. "Oh really? I think you are good at it when you are scolding me."

Before I can respond with something sarcastic, he throws me onto the bed. "Jeremy!"

"Oh, are you angry at me now?"

His grin is infectious as I watch his Viking form, in only his boxer briefs, crawl over the bed toward me. My previous anger vanishes, and I smile. How does he do that?

Before I can finish my
thought, his lips come down on mine hard, he presses his hips into me, and he grabs my hands, pinning them above my head. His tongue dips into my mouth for a brief moment, teasing me, eliciting an involuntary moan to slip from my lips.

He pulls away looking triumphant. "Now that I've got you calmed down, and right where I want you"
—his eyes glitter mischievously—"you need to know that I am glad I am everything to you."

My eyes widen, and the previous panic seeps back into my core. My arms jolt, trying to get free of his grasp, but his grip is firm. I try to speak, but he cuts me off with an authoritative voice. "I am not finished yet." He places a chaste kiss on my lips to soften the conversation. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, and I have to admit that would frustrate the hell out of me, but for now I will let it go. I just want to say a few things. Maybe we don't know what everything means to us, but those feelings are mutual
. You don't need to be scared, or embarrassed by your emotions. I can tell this is something you don't know how to handle, and in a way, it's kind of"—he tilts his head to the side as if pondering it for a moment—"cute."

I furrow my eyebrows at the word cute
. Teddy bears are cute, not trained federal agents.

He laughs
at my look and kisses the soft skin between my wrinkled brows. "You are so much cuter than you let on, but that is beside the point. You are a lot to handle, you know that?"

My lips twitch
playfully, hiding my own secrets.. "Oh, you have no idea."

We both let out a belt of laughter, and things feel back to normal. Whatever normal means to us.