Chapter 1
I gape at the closed circuit image on my terminal, completely flabbergasted by the extent of my assigned agent-candidate’s idiocy. “Left! I said left.”
I stare at the screen, then I throw up my hands in surrender as Agent Idiot turns to the right. “Left,” I repeat into the microphone. “Your other left.”
He immediately corrects, which is more than I can say for some of the applicants I’ve tested, and continues through the course. When he gets to the ordnance area, I pull off my headset and lean back in my chair, glad to be passing him off to another unfortunate operations manager.
“A little frustrated?”
The male voice is smooth and deep, and I turn in my chair to find myself staring at my immediate boss, Ryan Hunter, the Security Chief for Stark International. He’s tall and lean with chestnut hair and patient blue eyes. More patient than my green ones, I fear. Especially today.
“Sometimes I wonder where you find these candidates.”
“That’s why we call it an evaluation.” I hear the humor in his voice, and I sigh loudly as he pulls out the chair at the empty station beside mine. He sits, his elbows on his knees as he looks earnestly at me.
“What are you doing, Denise?”
I’ve worked for Ryan for years, and we’ve become good friends. I adore his wife, and I know that they’re both genuine, caring, talented people. Honestly, I couldn’t have found a better place to work.
But that doesn’t mean I want to be coddled. Especially not today when I’m feeling particularly raw.
“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Hunter.”
One of his brows rises almost imperceptibly. He’s no fool. He knows he’s treading on dangerous ground. But Ryan doesn’t pull his punches where his friends are concerned. And as much as I want to just go home and sleep straight through this horrible night, I know he’s not letting me out of here until he says his piece.
“You should be in the field,” he says. “Not operating a desk. Not putting agent candidates through their paces.” Stark International has a private security force, the highest level being the newly formed Stark Security, which is where I’m currently assigned. At all levels of the organization, though, the security officers are called agents. And with Ryan at the helm and Damien Stark overseeing the entire organization, the team is at least as well-trained as any government operative.
I should know. I used to be one of those government operatives before I signed on for field work at Stark International. But that feels like a lifetime ago.
“I like what I’m doing,” I say, unable to silence the defensive note in my voice. “We both know how burnt out on field work I became. And this way I can—”
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Have a life. A normal schedule.”
“Review confidential files? Tap into international resources? Monitor communications channels?”
I swallow, but say nothing. Just hold my body stiff. I didn’t realize he knew how much I’ve been using—and abusing—corporate resources.
He watches me, then sighs. “Dammit, Denny,” he says, calling me by the same nickname that Mason used to use. “Why didn’t you just come talk to me?”
I lift a shoulder. How can I tell him that I’m drowning. It’s been two years. Two long, lonely years since my husband went on a deep cover assignment. I haven’t heard a word since the day he walked away. Not a postcard. Not a phone call. Not a single rose on my birthday. Just days upon days of empty, lonely hours. And today is one of the hardest days of the year. Not only Valentine’s Day, but also our anniversary.
“I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”
My voice is so low that I’m not even sure Ryan hears me. But he takes my hands in his, then leans forward earnestly, looking me in the eye. “We tried to find him.”
“What? Who?”
“Damien and I. We used all our resources. Put out feelers to every government agency we could contact. Reached out to mercenary organizations, anyone and everyone. I’d hoped he’d get wind. Figure out a way to reach out to you. I’m sorry, but we didn’t hear a word back.” He exhales, and I hear genuine regret in his voice. “We all know you’re hurting, Denise. And we’re all your friends.”
I lick my lips, fighting back tears. I’m not going to cry in front of my boss. That is just not happening.
“You know you’re not happy in this work. He wouldn’t want you stuck at a desk. It’s not you.”
I lift a shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the me I’ve become. But I can’t think about it now. Not today of all days.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nod, knowing he means it. I try to conjure a smile, but it’s just not in me. “Thank you,” I say. “Tell Jamie I said hi. Do you guys have big plans for Valentine’s Day?”
“We’re using a company limo to go down to La Jolla for dinner. But I’ll be back at work tomorrow. I better not see you. You need to take a day off.”
I make a face, but I also nod. I can see he’s serious.
He passes me an envelope. “And here. From Damien and me.”
I frown, confused. “What is it?”
He just cocks his head.
“Sorry. Stupid question.” I rip open the envelope and find a hotel card key with a room number scrawled across it with a Sharpie.
“The penthouse,” he says, looking up. The agent monitoring station is deep in a sub-basement of the Stark Century Hotel, forty-six floors above us.
“I don’t understand.”
“We thought you needed to be pampered. Actually, it was Jamie and Nikki’s idea,” he adds, referring to his and Damien’s respective wives. He glances at his watch. “You should get up there if you want some time to yourself before the appointment.”
“Appointment?”
“At seven. According to the girls, a massage is just the thing to help you relax. I hope they’re right.”
Despite myself, I smile. If I can’t have Mason, I can at least lose myself in a good, hard, relaxing massage. And then I can fall asleep watching a sappy movie on the big screen knowing that, at the very least, I’m blessed enough to have some truly incredible friends.
Chapter 2
Despite working in the basement for years, I’ve never actually been in the penthouse, and when I step through the double doors, I gasp. I’m facing a wall of floor to ceiling windows, the lights of the city stretching out toward the dark, moon-dappled Pacific beyond.
It’s as if I’m floating in a calm, dark world, and already I feel more at peace. I want Mason desperately. I miss the man who was—is—husband, lover, and friend. But he has uncommon skills, and I know that he’s doing important work. That doesn’t make it better, not really. But maybe it makes it easier to bear. And the fact that I have friends holding me up when times get tough …
Well, that definitely helps. As do the roses that fill the room, their beauty and their scent making me smile. They are everywhere. Vases on the table tops, and petals on the bed and floating on the surface of the already drawn bath.
There are even petals on a silver tray on which sits a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, my favorite.
I’m definitely feeling pampered.
The only thing that would make it better would be Mason beside me. And since that’s not happening, I may as well enjoy myself.
I pour a glass of wine, then glance at my watch as I explore the suite. It’s almost seven, so I don’t have much time before my massage. But as I wander through the spacious, well-appointed rooms, I consider my options for the rest of the night. There’s a television over the deep tub as well as one mounted opposite the bed. So the question is, do I watch in a bubble bath or snuggled up in the soft cotton sheets?
And, of course, the bigger question of sweet romance or soft-core porn. Because if I let my mind wander to Mason while I’m getting my massage, I just might be in the mood for the latter.
A girl gets lonely after two years, and I’m not the type to stray. Not as long as I believe he’s out there and that he’s coming back to me.
I take a sip and sigh.
Maybe I’ll mix it up. A bath and an orgasm. Then bed and a sweet movie as I fall into my dreams.
I’m thinking that actually sounds pretty good when the doorbell chimes. I hurry that direction, and open the door to a fifty-something woman in a severe white uniform. “I’m Melisse,” she says. “I’m here to get you prepped.”
My brows rise. Prepped? It sounds like a surgical procedure. And when she rolls in a high-tech looking massage table, I wonder if maybe I’ve misunderstood what Ryan and the gang planned. “Trust me. The Master is the best. You will be very relaxed.”
“The Master? I’m not sure this is—”
“Trust me,” she says firmly. “There is no pressure. You can terminate the session at any time.” She finishes setting up the table, then spreads the sheet over the top.
“Should I go change?”
“In a minute,” she says, passing me a spa robe from a duffel she brought with her. “The massage package that was selected for you is the sensory immersion experience. So when you return, we’ll put on your aromatherapy blindfold.”
“Blindfold?” I’ve spent too many years in intelligence. I’m not sure that I like the idea of being naked under a sheet and blindfolded. Even if it is for an incredible massage experience.
“Please. Mrs. Stark and Mrs. Hunter selected this package. I assure you, it is a favorite.”
I take a deep breath, then nod. I trust Nikki and Jamie completely. If they say this is the way to experience a massage, then who am I to argue?
Melisse hands me the robe, then nods toward the bathroom. Dutifully, I head in that direction. I strip, slide on the fluffy robe, take a deep breath, and return. The last time I had a really good massage was from Mason, who has the best hands of anyone I know. We’ll see if this Master can top him.
Melissa turns to give me privacy, and I climb onto the table and cover myself with a sheet. She adjusts it, then ties the blindfold over my eyes. I can’t say I like the sensation of being so vulnerable, but I take calming breaths and remind myself that this encounter was orchestrated by my friends.
I hear a tap on the door, followed by Melisse’s footsteps heading that direction. The soft exchange of a conversation, and then the heavier tread of a man’s footsteps.
“Melisse?”
I feel the pressure of a large hand on my back through the sheet, and then the brush of air as it’s pulled down, exposing my back and shoulders. “Shh,” a man says. “Melisse is gone.”
My breath freezes in my throat. I know that voice. Oh, God, I know that voice.
“Mason?” His name is barely more than breath. I must be wrong. Surely I’m wrong. But he doesn’t correct me. And when his large hands spread out on my shoulders, a rush of memories overwhelms me, so palpable I’m surprised I don’t pass out.
I lift an arm, determined to rip off the blindfold, but he holds it down. “No.”
“Please. Please,” I beg. “I have to see you. It is you. Isn’t it?”
“Relax. Just relax.” He takes my arm and moves it to the edge of the wide massage table. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s cuffed my wrist to the bed. I struggle, but he’s too quick, and soon my other wrist is bound as well.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “The blindfold is important, and I can’t risk you removing it. But if you don’t like it, I can unstrap you and leave. It’s up to you.”
“Is it really you? Your voice. Please tell me. Mason, is it you?” I hear the desperation in my voice. The growing need. I want to know, and yet I also understand. If it is him, he must have learned of Ryan and Damien’s efforts to locate him. He couldn’t come officially, and so he came surreptitiously. I’ve worked in intelligence long enough to know that he could have learned of the massage gift and twisted the appointment around to his advantage. It wouldn’t be hard at all
If it is him, he’s breaking all sorts of rules to be here.
And if it’s not him … well, maybe just for tonight, I need to believe the fantasy.
I draw in a breath. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Good,” he says, and then focuses those miraculous fingers on the tight muscles of my back, working and kneading. Warming me. Exciting me.
Lower and lower his hands go, until he’s so close that I’m certain he’s going to trail his fingertip down the crack of my ass. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he comes just close enough to tease, then moves down the table to my ankles.
I gasp when he ties them to the table as well. “What are you doing? I can’t take off the blindfold with my toes.”
He slides his hands up my body, then brushes his mouth against my ear. “You’re beautiful,” he says. “I want you open for me. I want to see you when I touch you. I want to watch your cunt. I want to see your arousal. I want you wet for me, and I want to know that you want me, too. That you crave me. Crave this.”
I swallow, telling myself again that this must be Mason. But damn me, part of me doesn’t care. I’m too aroused by his touch and his raw, evocative words. And too lost in the fantasy. Even if he’s only a shadow of my memory, a manifestation of my desire, I want the touch he’s offering.
I feel a tear trickle down my cheek. Sweet and melancholy. I miss being touched like this. I want Mason, yes. But I need this.
Slowly, he strokes me. Warm hands moving over my calves. Fingertips teasing my inner thighs. My body responds. My sex throbbing. I know I’m wet. Desperate. And when his fingers gently part my folds, I gasp with both surprise and pleasure.
He slips a finger inside me, then another and another. He fills me with slow, sensual thrusts, then teases my clit with one hand as he traces a path from my pussy to my ass, making me writhe with desire, longing for a rough touch along with the sweet caresses.
“Please,” I beg. I shouldn’t want it. I don’t even really know that it’s him. But I do. I want him inside me. I want to feel the weight of him above me and his cock filling me. I want his mouth on my breast, his teeth scraping my nipple. I want the man, the fantasy, the sensation. I want to lose myself in pleasure. And so help me, I’m not too proud to beg.
“I shouldn’t,” he says. “It’s too risky.”
“What is?”
“You. Seeing me. It’s not safe.”
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