Emotionally Compromised (Emotionally Compromised Series) (8 page)

He nods. "Unless you have any objections?" He looks glorious standing at the edge of the bed, naked from the waist up. He wants me, and I want him.

"Only one." I give him a coy look
, which triggers an eyebrow raise. "I'm still wearing my pants."

This boyish grin appears on his face, and I am terrified that its power could coerce me to do nearly anything. I want to wrap my arms around him, but I stay put. He grabs for my feet, and pull
s off each shoe, then my socks. The anticipation is killing me.

He
climbs over me, but stops at my waist and places tender kisses around my navel, worshipping my body. His hands deftly work on removing my jeans. I lean back in response. I close my eyes and revel in his touch, trying to be patient, keeping my eyes on the prize.

He brings his face up to mine, watching me squirm with need as I claw at the sheets. He leans down and kiss
es me, dipping his tongue into my mouth. Neither of us can hold back any longer, and the kiss becomes rough and possessive as hunger rips through us. His other hand grabs at the back of my head, taking handfuls of my black hair, anchoring my lips to his.

"I want you right now," I manage before I continue licking his bottom lip.

Marcus Gibbs who? Biological weapon what?

Good Morning

MARCUS GIBBS

I splashed cold water from my bathroom sink on my face, trying to wash away the layer of self-loathing that cake
s my skin.

I make eye contact with my reflection, and wipe away the white powder that still lingers around my nostrils. I hate that it reminds me of that French creep, Luc Olivier.

I rub my eyes and wonder how long its been since I have had a solid night's sleep.

Shrugging, I grab a towel as I walk through my room to the balcony
, wearing only my boxers.

I take a seat on the lone folding chair and light a cigarette.
Going from one fix to the next, are we?

It is
nine on a crisp Sunday morning, and I still haven’t gotten a reply from Alex. All I want is a drink with her, and some friendly conversation. She liked me, didn't she? She wouldn't have given me her number if she didn't, right?

My cell
phone rings as if on cue.

Its incessant, high-pitched ringing hurts my ears. The ringing, even if it brings a welcome call, screeches through to my drug-enhanced eardrums. I claw at my ears, bobbing a cigarette between my fingertips as I run to the kitchen. My only goal is to make it stop, so I answer without looking, praying for it to be that sweet girl's voice.

"Hello. Gibbs speaking."

"Mr. Gibbs, good morning."

Shit. The mere thought of that greasy French fuck annoys me. His accent slinks through the phone, and I think I prefer the ringing.

"Mornin'
, Luc."

He wants all the formalities:
mister this, mister that, please and thank you. Bullshit. I don't want to give him the time of day. Let him blame it on my culture. Americans are known to be rude, right? I am not calling that bastard mister anything.

Quit being such a child
. I wonder if coke can make you schizo.

"Mr. Gibbs, I have a shipment change."

My skin tingles in fear. I take a drag of my cigarette, and before exhaling, I sputter, "E-excuse me?"

"My contact wants a change to the amount we discussed."

"More?"

"Yes. More."

"How much more?"

"Double. The liaison will be in town in a week or so to follow up."

"Follow up? You told me a day ago I had weeks. It will take me a little over a week to replicate a second batch, Luc!"

"I said to follow up, not to pick up, asshole."

My breath catches in my throat at his tone. His foul language is an indirect way to tell me to watch myself or there would be consequences.

I gulp down the breath and continue.
"OK, OK. So, to check up on me, then?"

"So to speak. My client needs to put this on rush order. We thought we had a month, but now we have
two weeks."

My face grows hot. The least he could do is apologize, but I know that is a long shot. I hate these men.

Doubling the batch means more work on company time, and it takes twice as long to create the cure.

My plan is to sell the disease, wipe out a few small towns
, and then it's Marcus Gibbs, scientist and biological genius to the rescue. I smirk at the bittersweet plan.
I am duping this fuck
. Screw the Nobel Prize committee. I want credit, and this time it'll be mine. I will be the hero. Finally.

This idiot doesn't know what's coming, and I am in no mood to argue, because, let's face it
, it doesn't matter, does it? He can have his double batch, and I will have my glory.

I take another drag, feigning indifference. "Understood."

He chuckles.
Slimy fuck.

"Well
, Mr. Gibbs, that was easier than I thought. We will be in touch, then."

"Yea
h, yeah, yeah, we will be in touch." I hang up.

It might be the coke talking
, but I need to get to the lab, today, if possible, and get those culture samples going for the new batch.

I wish I had more coke. It would at least keep my engine running longer.

I need a way to work off steam before I do anything though. Maybe Jeremy will want to play a game of basketball, or hit the gym. He is probably home. That's it. I'll work out, and then hit the lab.

I put my cigarette out and grab for my phone. One more thing would be nice to add to that plan. I dial Alex's number.

It rings four times before going to voicemail. Is she avoiding me? My shoulders slump in defeat. I hate that it bums me out.

I decide to go pack a gym bag to push the image of that pretty face to the back of my mind. I have other things I have to handle now.

JEREMY HUNT

I stretch, feeling deliciously sore, and grin. I have spent most of the last day—and night—making love to Alex. Just to double-check that I am not dreaming, I turn my head to make sure she is still here.
Nope, not dreaming.

I cannot imagine a better way to spend my Saturday
—and Sunday. Fucking and lying in bed for hours, talking with the girl who, for reasons I cannot figure out, makes me happy.

What a concept.

I lean over, analyzing her sleeping features. Her hair cascades over her face and shoulders, complementing her flawless light-olive skin and her beautiful, exotic features. She is too easy on the eyes. The pink pouty lips I spent most of the evening kissing hang partially open. Sleeping Beauty is surely exhausted from last night, and she is all mine.

Her face is calm, serene even, which is a
remarkable sight and delightful to witness. Even through the evening, as we lie naked together, tangled in the sheets laughing and giggling with each other, she always had a comeback, a witty response, a coy look, or an adorable smirk to retort with. She was always ready for a playful fight.

If any girl
is my match, it might be her. The thought frightens and excites me at the same time.

I take advantage of her serene state to admire and appreciate her.
Appreciate her?

I bounce the new idea in my head, and yes, for some reason
, I do appreciate this beautifully frustrating being.

I learned so much about her. Her favorite color is green. Her favorite book is
Pride and Prejudice.
She enjoys mint chocolate chip ice cream, and her favorite movie is
The Usual Suspects
. But she steered clear of real questions. Where are you from? What about your family? Where did you go to school? She came back with the same answers:

I can't tell you yet
; please give me time.

I am dangerous; those aren't things I can tell you.

Family is something I can't talk about; it's too personal.

I'm not good for you
, Jeremy. You deserve more.

She
could be my more, couldn’t she? I told her I am willing to be patient. I assume this emotional wall she has built is due to some catastrophic life event. Therefore, I'm not going to push it, and I hope in time she will trust me enough to open up.

The large scar on her shoulder catches my attention.
I knit my eyebrows as I analyze it from afar. I reach out and graze the old wound with my fingertips, eager to understand.

The streak of scar tissue
is evidence of a previously deep wound.

A dark past maybe? Abuse? Drunken father? An angry boyfriend? These musings anger me, filling me with a deep need to protect her.

I brush it off, and instead lean in and kiss the scar chastely, giving it the only remedy I can offer for now.

She stirs
and lets out a breathy gasp at the brief touch. I watch her pull the comforter closer to her body, as if to give her a sense of security.

She plays the tough girl, but I wonder what's under that tough exterior.

I know I got a glimpse of it yesterday. Her wonderful giggle is proof of what's there—a person aching to be happy, but completely overwhelmed by the idea.

That makes two of us, babe.

I decide to get out of bed to make some calls. A CEO never sleeps.

Body Language

ALEX TURNER

My eyes flicker open. I don't know at first what has woken me, but through my half-lidded eyes
, I see Jeremy's wonderfully blurry physique slip on his underwear and make his way out of the bedroom. I wait until he is out of view to allow myself to stretch. I take a moment to absorb my surroundings since Mr. Professional Flirt Jeremy has kept me distracted until now.

My joints are sore from last night's exertions. I grin like a dumb girl, and then try to shake it off like a professional.

A professional what, Agent Turner? Because right now you are no government-trained assassin, but an infatuated twenty-five-year-old.
I scoff at my ever-present subconscious. She always has to ruin the fun.

Am I allowed to be unprofessional for a little bit longer? I will give myself the rest of the day, and then call Derek. I have so much explaining to do, but if Jeremy is teaching me one thing, it's that I should act on my impulses.

I sit up and realize his room is vaster than it seemed last night. Expansive floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the Charles River and downtown Boston. It must be nice being master of your universe, looking down upon all the lowly townsfolk below.

I can hear Jeremy on the phone somewhere and decide to go see what he is
doing. Will he want me to leave? Was this a one-time thing? Should I assume it was just a nice night and sneak out?

The idea is gut
-wrenching. Just because I read his file and it describes him as the love-them and leave-them type, is it safe to assume he'll treat me the same way and leave me in the dust?

The secret agent in me peeks her head around the corner and whispers,
You better make sure you aren't. You have to own this, Agent Turner!

I won't disappoint you, subconscious.

I rise from bed and find my shirt, but cannot find my underwear for the life of me. I walk over to his dresser and find a black pair of Jeremy's boxer briefs. I slip them on, rolling them up into short shorts and only half-buttoning my flannel shirt in order to reveal my stomach. I peer in the mirror before leaving the room, and decide there is nothing I can do to my just-fucked hair.

I tiptoe down the hall, following the sound of his voice to the balcony. His back is to me as he lies on a patio lounger
, talking to someone on his cell phone.

I linger at the screen door
, listening for a moment, because it's another window into who Jeremy is. The loveable, love-struck man has been left tangled in the sheets down the hall, and now I can hear the tough, hard-ass CEO that I read about. His tone is brusque and demanding, and I feel sympathy for the person on the other end.

"No, I told you he did not call or leave a message
. ... He did not say he wanted to meet again. ... No one prepped me, and I went in blind. Whose fault is this? ... No, dammit. I need him to agree in order to proceed with the green energy project. ... No, it is not an option. He doesn't understand what he needs.
We
are what he needs. ... Who made that decision without my clearance? … Well, of course. Has my ticket been arranged for the gala? ... No! If he is going to be there, I need to be there, plus I’ve already told the Sheridans I’d be a key speaker."

I
tiptoe onto the balcony in hopes that my presence won’t annoy him. I walk around to the foot of the lounger, smiling as I take in the sight of him. His eyes widen in delight and surprise, and he rewards me with that boyish smirk again. I nod to signal to him that I do not want to interrupt his call. It's obvious that it's an important one.

He continues with his demanding tone, but his smile is still there as he watches my every move. Yesterday
, I would have found his blue, piercing stare unnerving, but now I welcome its steely depths because I can tell that they are appreciatively devouring me. I love it, and it gives me a gust of confidence.

I lean down where his feet are and climb over his legs. His smirk turns into a pantie-dropping grin as
I clamber up over his half-naked body.

"Yea
h, send me those tickets. ... No, get me a plus one. ... Yes, you heard me: plus one. ... Yes, I will have a date, and schedule the driver. I will be in touch. Let me know if Dyvornychenko calls."

A date? Does he mean me? Why am I smiling?

I climb all the way up his body, and my face inches closer to his. I ache to kiss him. It's a novel ache for me to have. My lips briefly touch his, and I pull away, not wanting to be a nuisance.

"Thank you
, Rebecca. E-mail me the details."

He hangs up his phone, and an odd feeling sweeps over me.

Who is Rebecca? My brain identifies the emotion as jealousy. I can't process the thought. I have no idea what to do with this emotion, just as I had no idea how to deal with embarrassment. Granted, I know I am doing this to myself, but still.

His hands come to my face. "Alex, what's wrong?"

Can I not hide a single damn emotion from this man?

He presses his lips against mine as if he misses them, and I forget the previous
spike of emotion.

What a dangerous remedy to troubling thoughts.

He pulls away, cuing me to answer.

"I don't want to talk about it
," I quip.

He rolls his eyes, and it annoys me.

"You don't want to talk about it? Like the many other things you don't want to talk about?"

I pout because he cuts to the chase, and I hate that he is right.

"I will tell you everything once I get clearance, OK?" Did I just say that?

"Clearance? What does any of that even mean?" He shakes his head as if to take back the question entirely and continues, "Actually, I don't care about all that stuff. I just want to know how you feel right now."

I bite my lip, but manage a smile. He mirrors my look, and I swear my insides turn into goo.

"Now, why are you smiling?" he asks.

"Because of you."

"Me?"
He impishly points at himself.

"You're kind of wonderful sometimes, you know that?"

"Funny, I think that might be the nicest thing you've said to me since we met. Usually, I have to fight you." He raises a playful eyebrow.

I laugh as I glance at his gorgeous features, realizing that I am in all sorts of trouble.

"Tell me what was wrong two seconds ago." Ugh, does he let anything slide?

"Now I don't want to tell you because it
is silly."

"If we are going to continue seeing each other
, you can at least give me the benefit of the doubt, and be honest with me from this point on. Your past, you can leave at the door, but this is the present, c'mon."

Did he say continue seeing each other?

I know what I'm about to say is ridiculous, but I blurt it out anyway: "Who's Rebecca?"

Jeremy responds with a belt of laughter, making me feel stupid.

"Jealous much, Miss Turner? Who would have thought?" He tuts.

"You want to make me feel worse th
an I already do? If you must know, Mr. Hunt"—I enunciate the T sharply—"jealousy is not an emotion I have ever really experienced. My line of work doesn't really allow me many personal relationships."

"Waiting tables?"

The question flings me back to reality. "Yeah, waiting tables."

I try to think of
a way to get out of the lie, but being wonderful and all, he ignores the obvious hole in my statement.

"Rebecca is my personal assistant."
Hallelujah.

I get bashful all of a sudden.
Of course, he has a personal assistant. I wonder briefly if she is attractive. Jeremy seems like the type of person who would only hire attractive people.

I toss the thought aside and kiss him. He is mine, at least for right now.

He pulls away. "Hungry? It’s nearly noon." I sit up and nod. "I hope pizza sounds good. I already ordered us a pie, so it should be here any moment now."

I grin, and
he bestows his boyish smile upon me. "Oh, and do help yourself to my underwear. I think you look better in it than I ever will." He skims his fingers under the waistband of the boxer briefs I am wearing. The maneuver calls my whole body to attention.

I lean in for a chaste kiss
. "I beg to differ." I pull away to keep him wanting, but find it more difficult that I thought it would.
I always want more.

Jeremy does something I would have never expected. His hands come up to my stomach, and he runs his fingers down my abdomen. "How often do you go to the gym?" He sounds impressed.

The question throws me, and I am not sure what he is asking. "What do you mean?"

"I have never known a girl to be so toned. I can see your muscles everywhere, especially here
." He caresses my torso. "You must not have any body fat. It's impressive, really."

I sit back on him and tilt my head
. "Oh ... yeah, I do go to the gym a lot. Um, I do a lot of kickboxing." It’s kind of the truth if you consider kicking and boxing trained male agents.

"Noted. Didn't know kickboxing could make you look like a mean machine."

I laugh. Mean machine?
Oh, Jeremy, you have no idea.

"Well, you aren't so bad yourself
." I run my hands down his six-pack, and then hop off him and head inside. I can feel Jeremy's penetrating gaze following me. I never realized my physique could be a giveaway, but then again, I rarely let anyone see me naked. Oh, jeez.

I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl
—at least, what I imagine most sixteen-year-olds feel like. I didn't feel like this at sixteen. When I was sixteen, I was too busy finding ways to ditch school and running away from my foster parents.

Who knew
taking a chance on a guy could be so … fun? Fun is another unfamiliar concept. My kind of fun involved finding ways to pin Derek to the ground while in the sparring room, or fine-tuning my aim with a gun. My version of
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
always takes on a twisted meaning.

For the first time
, my life feels fresh. Each approaching moment is like unknown territory. I have to admit it frightens me, but fear tends to be something that drives me. Adrenaline rushes push me forward. However, this adrenaline rush is entirely different. I trust my aim more than I trust my emotional decision-making.

As if on cue
, a knock sounds on the front door. I can't wipe the grin off my face as I skip to the door, giddy beyond words. Noticing there is a twenty-dollar bill on the table, I help myself to it to pay the pizza guy, and note to tell Jeremy I took it.

I approach the fog-tinted glass front door and see someone waiting, but the blurry shape doesn't look like
it is holding a pizza.

I tense for a moment as I make my way to the door.
I have been trained to mistrust the unexpected. I debate whether I should run and grab the gun in my backpack, but that would expose me to Jeremy. Maybe I could spin it as self-defense for a serious waitress. I snicker at the thought.

I take in a deep breath, and open the front door, trying to seem normal and not like a cop.

The worst person I can imagine is standing there, and trust me, I wish it were an assassin or a burglar instead. At least then I would have known how to deal with it.

But no, Marcus Gibbs stands there
, looking dumbfounded. I think we have matching expressions.

I take a moment to peer down at my clothes,
and reflexively I begin cracking my knuckles knowing exactly how this looks.
Good grief.
My appearance is all sorts of incriminating.

Before I can stutter a response
, Marcus beats me to it. "Well, this explains a lot." He is matter-of-fact and sounds wounded.
Good job, Turner.

I open my mouth to respond, but Jeremy, with the worst timing ever, comes in from the kitchen and kisses me on top of my head before making eye contact with
whom he thinks is the pizza boy. It doesn't help that Jeremy is still only in his underwear as well. His eyebrows shoot up in shock as soon as he grasps the situation.

Jeremy fills the void before I do. "M-Marcus, oh
, hey."

His tone is shaky. I don't know their dynamics well, but if I am not mistaken
, this breaks bro code.

Marcus answers, but it's obvious he is beyond pissed off. "I should have guessed
." He sighs. "Well, I wanted to see if you wanted to hit up a game of ball, but I can see you are indisposed." His tone is bitter cold.

"Marcus, please
. I—"

"Don't
, Jeremy. In a way, I am used to it. It's cool, whatever. I am going to go now." He rolls his eyes before heading toward the elevator.