Game On (The Bod Squad Series Book 1) (5 page)

As she lay shaking, he gently guided her dress off, undid her bra, and saw the still-hard nipples on her spectacular breasts. He took one in his mouth, sucked and bit until he could feel another orgasm shudder through her. Then he ripped off his clothes, unwrapped and rolled on a condom he had grabbed from the bedside table, and entered her in one clean thrust. “Oh god,” she moaned, “Oh, Chas. Oh, yes, yes.
God, yes.
Take all of me.”

He moved deeply inside her, slowly and sensually, coming almost completely out before entering her again. He had never felt a woman so soft, so wet, so ready for what he had to offer. He grabbed her ass with his hand as he reared back for more, his breathing getting heavier with each stroke. “Susannah . . .”

“Oh,” she breathed, “go deeper, Chas. Deeper and harder.”

He had never been this deep in anyone before, cupping her beautiful round cheeks and moving inside her again and again and again. Finally he thrust the deepest of all, and shuddered with his own climax, falling on top of her in exhaustion and pleasure. He stayed there for a moment, then rolled off her to settle beside her on his back. They lay in stunned silence, looking up at the sky.

“Well,” she finally said, “not disappointing. Not disappointing at all.”

He grinned, and she could see his teeth glow in the candlelight. “Really, Legs?” he murmured. “’Cuz I’m just getting started.”

‡‡‡

JACKSON, THE BOSS,
and Lisa Bee sat around the banquette couches in the downstairs living room of PH8. A couple of half-eaten pizzas littered the table along with scattered gold Godiva chocolate boxes, bags of chips, empty beer bottles, and a near-empty bottle of Blanton’s. The Boss was balancing the company books, Lisa Bee was listening to Madonna on her iPod, and Jackson held his face in his hands, occasionally stealing a glance at Lisa Bee. A radio transmitter sat in the center of the table, and from it came the sounds of Susannah and Chas having sex for the third time that night. Jackson groaned.

“I can’t do it, Bossman,” Jackson complained. “I can’t listen to it again.”

“Come on, Jackie,” chirped Lisa Bee, “ain’t it turning you on, just a little bit?”

“No,” Jackson said emphatically. “Maybe a little the first time. But now? This is just too extreme.”

“Hmph,” huffed Lisa Bee. “Well, that’s disappointing. I thought for sure—”

Jackson rounded on her. “If it was me, baby, I’d go all night. There’s no question of that. But listening to someone who feels like my little sister? Enough is enough.”

“Surely,” the Boss said, breaking his silence, “we can give credit where credit is due, right? I mean, I knew Legs had it in her, but you have to admit this is . . . exceptional.”

They all listened to the crescendo of a mutual orgasm that lasted for minutes and seemed to fade, like a haunting melody, slowly into the night.

“Well, hot damn,” said Jackson. “Talk about downloading his hard drive!”

Lisa Bee let out a long, musical laugh. “I guess that’s one way to hack in.”

The Boss smiled. “Now, now. I’m just glad Legs is having a good time. I think she needed it. If she can get what we need as well, that’s just a bonus.”

Jackson turned to him with a smirk. “When did you become Father Christmas?”

The Boss chuckled. “Since I realized Legs might save my ass
yet again
. I think she deserves an early Christmas bonus. Though judging by the sound of this night, I think she already got it.”

As it appeared Susannah and Chas were going for round four, Jackson moaned and then got to his feet. “I’m gonna go grab some more beer. Anyone need anything?” Secretly, he hoped Lisa Bee would come with him—he’d had his eye on her for months, but he couldn’t tell if she’d even noticed.

“How ’bout some air freshener?” Lisa Bee said with a smile. “It smells like the bayou in here. And if you can find me a Dr Pepper and a Slim Jim, I’ll go double on both.” Then she turned up the volume on her iPod to blast “Like a Virgin.”

‡‡‡

PIERRE DESCARTES SAT
in the sunken living room of his Paris apartment and downloaded the new specs. It was going to be a big job, involving most of his usual crew, with a few more added for security. As a general rule, he was uncomfortable doing jobs in his own country. He preferred not to shit where he ate, as the saying went, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. He had been given intel involving a famous Hollywood producer’s estate in the south of France, and it would be a heist valued at more than $50 million. This was enough to cover the costs of his team, pay them and himself handsomely, and give the Italian enough to make him stop complaining. If there was one thing Pierre could not stand, it was an irate Italian. Particularly an irate Italian who was taking out his anger on him.

Pierre looked at the clock. It was twelve noon—six a.m. in New York. He would wait a bit, then call his contact. He’d need a lot of prep work done. Only one man he knew could hack into a security system like this one, as well as doctor the online files, create fictional profiles for his men, and sort out the sale of this much stolen art. He posed as a rich businessman, but inside he was nothing more than a filthy little street thief. Pierre had known Chas Palmer since he was a boy, and he was just like his father, Chuck—polished, suave, and easily turned. Pierre laughed, a short, sharp, dry sound, like the scrape of a knife on wood. “Smart and useful, just like Papa,” he mused aloud. “Let’s just hope you don’t make his mistakes.”

With that he closed his computer and stepped out into the startling Paris sunlight.

5

SUSANNAH WOKE WITH
a beam of sunlight in her face and the powerful scent of coffee in her nose. Shading her eyes, she looked up to see the silhouetted form of Chas Palmer holding a cup of coffee and smiling down at her. He wore a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, and she took a moment to admire the sculpted muscles of this extraordinary specimen. He wasn’t perfect—he was human, after all—but he was all man, top to toe. His cut chest boasted just enough hair to be entirely masculine without being overwhelming. His arms were perfect, biceps that looked like carved tree trunks. A tattoo band around the top of his right arm sported writing that looked Gaelic.

“Morning, sexy,” he said with a smile. “Like some coffee?”

“Love some,” she responded, hair falling down around her shoulders as she sat up, sheet slipping down to her waist. “Oops.”

As she tried to wrap the sheet back around her, he stopped her. “Wait,” he said, huskiness in his voice, “let me just look at you.”

She sat there in a sunbeam, naked from the waist up, hair in her face. She liked watching him watch her. He was very taken with her, burning her with his gaze, raking every part of her skin with his searing deep blue eyes. Then they held eyes for a long moment, as they looked deeply within each other’s soul. She wondered if he was seeing more than just her body—was he seeing the woman inside as well? Finally, he handed her the coffee and breathed, “You look like a painting, Susannah. Like something done by one of the old masters.”

She blushed, feeling it from her collarbones to the top of her head. She pulled the sheet around her self-consciously, and tried to change the subject.

“What’s on the arm?”

“Oh,” he said, coming to join her on the bed. “It’s my motto. My mantra, you might say. My mother was Scottish, and it’s something her people always said.
Tada gan iarracht
: nothing without effort. It’s a statement I try to live by, and what I wanted burned into my skin.”

She pondered that, drinking her coffee. “Like being a self-made man, right?” she asked.

“Right,” he said. “Like that.”

“Hmm . . .” she breathed, looking him up and down. “I’d like to know more about you, Chas—if you’d like to share more with me.”

“Sure,” he said, cocking his head and then deflecting her question. “Happy to tell you anything you like. But you first. Tell me something I don’t know.”

She paused for a moment, put on the spot. Then she figured she’d reveal a bit of herself, hoping he would do the same. “Well,” she said, “it might sound kind of strange, but I have a ritual I’ve never told anyone about.”

“A ritual?”

“Yeah. Before I make any big decision about anything, I like to ask my dad what he thinks, and wait for a sign. I know it’s silly. But before I went to Georgetown I asked his opinion, and the lights in my bedroom blinked several times. And before I started to work for my current company I asked him for a sign, and the next day I bought a winning lottery ticket. Silly, huh?”

“No,” he said, his eyes deep pools of compassion, “I don’t think it’s silly at all.”

She breathed an inner sigh of relief that he got what she was talking about. It felt good to share stuff about her dad like that, especially with a guy. “Do you think about your parents like that?”

“No,” he said with a far-off look in his eye, “not like that. In some ways I try not to think about them. Too weird, I guess. In other ways they completely govern the path I’m on.”

“How do you mean?” she asked, riveted by the deeper side of him.

“Oh, just how I navigate the world. I’m grateful for what I have, since I know what it is to have lost.”

“Right,” she said, taken in by his trust. “But it’s still a big giant hole in your heart, right? I feel sometimes like something started the day my dad died, something got put into motion, and it’s never stopped since.”

“Wow,” he breathed. “I feel the same.”

“What doesn’t kill you . . . right?”

He laughed. “Right.”

“Since that day,” she said, moving closer to him, “I think my life has been one long series of lessons. Recently I started saying a new mantra: enough with the lessons, just give me the candy!”

“God, I know,” he groaned. “Life can really kick you in the ass, can’t it? And just when you’re hoping for a little comfort . . .”

“You get kicked a little harder.”

They sat in stillness for a moment, just studying each other. Then Susannah said, “So do you still try to figure out what happened to him?”

“No,” he said abruptly, “it’s not something I want to talk about.”

“Oh,” Susannah said as she could almost see his walls rise up around him. Just when they were getting somewhere! “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Not at all,” he said, seeming like he was covering. “It’s just that I don’t really think about them much. Maybe we can enjoy each other a bit more before getting serious?”

“Sure,” she replied, “love to.” In truth, she was a bit put off. He clearly had his guard back up, and just when they had almost gotten to a deeper level of conversation. It was totally frustrating. They engaged with each other again but this time at a cautious distance. Susannah looked into his eyes and felt he was only partly there. After they both climaxed and lay down to sleep, she wondered if she’d ever really get to see his true self; then she immediately wondered if she was really thinking thoughts like these. Had he literally screwed her brains out? Frankly, this was the first time in years that her mind had actually begun to think about the possibilities. She began to imagine this time with Chas as more than just the sex she’d come to seek—could this be something real? Or was this simply another casual affair that would bring a moment’s peace and nothing else? If she had her head on straight she’d view this as only a job perk, a bonus in the midst of working a case. As she fell asleep, she ignored the voice inside that longed for something more.

‡‡‡

SHE WOKE A BIT
later to the ringing of her cell phone. Chas was nowhere in sight. She let the call go to voice mail, then noticed the rose on the pillow next to her and the note beneath it:

Legs. I had a beautiful time. Sorry to run. Business calls. Thank you for such an enchanting evening. Hope we get to do it again. Make yourself comfortable, and stay as long as you like. Tex

“Dammit,” she said as her cell starting ringing again. “Lost him.” Turning to the phone, she saw it was the Boss calling, and she picked it up on the third ring.

“Bossman?”

“Well, it’s about goddamn time. Have a nice night?”

“It was okay. But now he’s gone for the day, I think.”

“Legs, it’s more than that,” said the Boss, with frustration in his voice. “Looks like he’s on his way out of the country. We put Jackson outside his brownstone in the middle of the night just to have backup in case you called an SOS. Jackson then followed him to JFK and found him getting on a plane to Paris.”

“Paris?” she exclaimed, sitting straight up in bed. “What the—”

“No time for niceties, babe. This is our one chance to catch him. And you’re our only hope.”

She caught her breath. “Meaning?”

“Put on some clothes, Legs. You’re on the next flight to Paris.”

‡‡‡

CHAS STEPPED INTO
his regular suite at the Hotel George V in Paris. Personally, he preferred something less ostentatious, but he always stayed at five-star hotels to impress his clients, and these gentlemen were no exception. If one stooped to call them gentlemen, that is. He bristled at the thought of meeting with Pierre and his cronies. The only reason he associated with them was that he knew with each step he came closer to figuring out the story behind his father’s murder, the cover-up that followed it, and the people involved. He knew Pierre was integral to the plot, but he didn’t quite know how. All he knew was that he was getting closer. He felt it in his gut.

He also knew Susannah would track him. He had left a trail of breadcrumbs as big as sofa cushions for her colleagues and knew she’d be onto him. That’s how he wanted it. He was enjoying this game very much, but there was something more. He was enjoying
her
, every single aspect of her. Her wit, her strength, her heart, her body. And there was something else: her soul. He was enjoying how natural it was to connect with her on this level. He wanted to impress her, and
dammit
, he wanted to woo her like the lady she was on the inside and on the outside. He wanted to taste her on top of satin sheets while looking out at the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to share fine champagne while he licked French chocolate off her sumptuous nipples. He wanted her lips on every part of him as he ran his fingers through her silken red hair, fanning it all over his . . .

Whoa. What was happening to him? Time to cool down. He had a job to do, and it required all his concentration, effort, and grit to do it. Chas put his suitcase down and picked up the manila folder that was waiting for him on the coffee table. As usual, it was addressed in the same beautiful cursive he’d come to find revolting.

Dear Mr. Palmer,

We are so glad you have joined us for another tour. All the information you’ll need is in this file. We’ll see you at the usual spot for drinks and conversation.
Once you meet everyone, we’ll get right down to business. Happy to have you with us. And remember, leave your weapons at the door.

Warmly,

G

Chas gritted his teeth. He didn’t know who “G” was, and he didn’t care. He was always given the same packet, with the details, the orders, the disingenuous niceties in the cursive. Opening up the packet, he looked at the info. He always expected it would explode after he read it, but then this wasn’t
Mission: Impossible
. No, this mission was very possible, albeit difficult, and this job looked to be one of the nastier ones. He looked at the pictures and faces of Pierre’s crew members, all of whom needed forged papers to access the mansion. He knew some of them and noticed the new ones were cut of a similar and equally rough cloth. He wondered about them, wondered who, if any, might give him the clues he’d need to solve his case. It was early in the morning, Paris time, and he hadn’t slept much, but no matter. Taking his hard drive out of a hidden compartment in his briefcase and connecting it to his laptop, he rang for a pot of coffee and got to work.

‡‡‡

SUSANNAH GOT TO HER
B and B in Montmartre and was immediately struck by how tired she was. It had been a long, tough couple of days. Thankfully, the Boss had put her up in a beautiful place, run by a mother-daughter team and decorated like a Victorian town house. Her French was more than passable—a gift from her father’s side of the family—and she had been to Paris several times in her youth. She remembered with fondness splitting her time between her grand-mère’s cottage in the Dordogne and a family apartment in Paris, eating croissants with fresh jam and drinking tea out of beautiful china cups. And the conversations! Her grand-mère had a bunch of female friends (
Les grandes dames
, her father called them) who spent nearly every night together, laughing, drinking wine, and talking about men. Her grand-mère was famous for saying that men were like kitchen appliances: useful and very important, but ultimately, quite dull.

Not having been back to Paris for several years, she realized suddenly how much she missed it. It was a second home to her and the place where her heart rested. She often thought that she would move there if and when she could figure out how. It just seemed like things worked better in France: the lifestyle was easier and filled with leisure; the men were well dressed; the women stayed stunning well into their later years. In France, Susannah thought, life was the way it ought to be. She opened the dormer windows to let in the fresh spring breeze. Looking out over the whole of Paris, she smiled. Well, it wasn’t luxury, exactly, but it was perfect for her. Setting her belongings down, she put her laptop in her bag and went to get coffee and Gauloises. She smoked only when in France, and it was one of her treasured vices. Screw sleep—
I’ll sleep when I’
m dead
—she had a job to do.

Walking down the Parisian side streets to grab a café au lait and a brioche, she vibrated with the anticipation of seeing Chas again.

‡‡‡

THEY WERE MIDWAY
through the meeting when Chas went to take a breather. They were in the back room of an old art gallery in the Marais, a perfect cover for this group of unmentionables. The table was littered with cigarettes, coffee cups, maps, floor plans, and bottles of liquor. He grabbed a pack of Gauloises and raised his voice over the din of several accents. “I’m going to take some time to clear my head, gentlemen. Take a walk around the neighborhood. Back in a bit.”

Pierre looked up from the papers Chas had given him upon entry. He smiled. “Your work is exceptional as always, Monsieur Palmer. Monsieur Bruni will be pleased.”

Bruni. The Italian. Terrifying in his single-minded focus on his goal: power. Power and money. And if challenged? Bruni would kill everything that stood in his way.

Chas nodded, swallowing to cover the bile rising in his throat. “Tell him I send my best.”

“Oh, I will, Monsieur Palmer. Now enjoy the streets of Paris. We have much work to do later today.”

He nodded again and slipped out, feeling a rush of relief at his exit. Once outside, he went to light a cigarette, only to realize he’d forgotten matches. Cursing, he was about to turn the corner to get some when a tall, chiseled blonde held out a lighter inscribed with a pair of red lips. “Need a light?” she asked in an Eastern European accent.

He smiled, eyeing her up and down, lit his cigarette, and took a deep drag. “Is it that obvious that I’m American, and in trouble?”

“Neither is obvious, Mr. Palmer, but I was trying to find you. My name is Tyka. I have been looking for you for some time.”

Chas raised an eyebrow. “Looking for me? Why, if I may ask?”

“We can’t talk here. It’s not safe. Will you walk with me?”