Hearts Under Siege Read online

She checked the locks on the door—training, not that she expected them to be unsecured—and stowed her things. She stood for a few seconds, watching him, wondering if he’d even noticed she was in the room.

  “Brady.”

  He didn’t move, but said evenly, “No sign they tracked us.”

  “Good.” He still didn’t move, not a single muscle, and the room almost vibrated with his tension. Molly murmured, “Fitz, come here.”

  The curtain bunched, and Molly’s heart seized as if his fist clutched it rather than the padded polyester fabric. She circled the beds and squeezed up next to him, prying his fingers off the drapery. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’re safe here. You can let go.”

  At first, she thought he would. His face went from stoic to tortured, crumpling like a tin can, and a sharp noise forced itself out of his throat. She leaned into him, offering herself as support, and he clutched her against his chest, burying his face in her neck. His entire body tightened, harder, harder, and Molly held her breath, waiting for the explosion. And also because his arms were banded so tightly across her back she had no room to draw in air.

  The explosion didn’t come. Instead his muscles slowly loosened, a deliberate progression as he held tightly to his control.

  He couldn’t go on like that, she knew. Mustn’t. He had to give in now, while they were safe, so he didn’t cave at the worst moment, later.

  “Brady, love,” she murmured, raising her head and cupping his face in her hands. “It’s okay. Let go.”

  …

  I can’t.

  Brady couldn’t form the words. Couldn’t explain to Molly that he was afraid if he released the rage and hatred and bone-deep sorrow caged within him, he would never be able to regain control. If he was uncontrolled, he couldn’t protect her, or the data he was trying to get home. He stood still, his hands resting on her waist because he couldn’t seem to let her go, and she stroked his hair back from his face, murmured to him, comforted him. He wanted to accept it, to sink into her and let her absorb his pain, and he knew she’d let him. But she had her own grief, her own burdens. She didn’t need his, too.

  Somehow, her body had curved closer, and suddenly, his awareness of her shifted. It wasn’t comfort he craved anymore, and his brain clicked off just as a sharp warning flashed across it. He closed his eyes, dropped his head, and for the first time in their three-decade friendship, he kissed his best friend.

  Her mouth was soft and warm, and tasted familiar and strange at the same time. She didn’t hesitate, just opened to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body— Oh, God, she was so soft and curvy and clean and smelled so sweet and she was strength and power and so many things he’d pretended for twelve years he didn’t miss, didn’t need. He tugged her closer still. She arched, rubbing against his sudden erection, and hunger blazed through him, blinding in its intensity. His hands roamed up and down her back, over her hips, and her surprisingly tight ass. The noises she made in the back of her throat inflamed him even more.

  “God, Molly,” he gasped, tilting his head back but not seeing the ceiling above him, only a red haze. “I need you. Please—”

  “Yes,” she said, and pulled his head down to kiss him again, her tongue stroking his, her mouth open, carnal. He slid his hands under her tank top and the feel of her skin was so soft, so hot, he stripped it up over her head, and dropped his hands immediately to her breasts. Her nipples were tight and hard—a sign of her arousal that some minuscule, rational part of his brain catalogued with relief. She wanted this, too. He wasn’t pushing himself on her.

  She tugged and shoved his shirt off, too, then her hands were rubbing him, all over, her fingers digging in to the muscles of his shoulders, his arms, his back, sending flares of desire every time she clutched at him. Once her nails pricked him, and he gasped, thrusting forward and nearly knocking her over. That fleck of rationality grew slightly larger, nagging at him. He latched on to Molly’s neck, breathing in her clean, musky scent, her arousal now noticeable that way, too. He told the rational nag to shut the fuck up, but that only made it fight harder.

  “Shit.” He squeezed his eyes shut, hard, and set Molly off him an inch or so as he tried to regain a measure of control.

  “What?” She was breathless, too, her fingers undoing his fly and dipping—

  He grabbed her wrist and ground his teeth. “Whoa. Hold on.”

  “Brady, come on,” she growled. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is this— Are you— I can’t, if—” He couldn’t even form a coherent sentence.

  But she understood. “Yes, God, yes, fuck me, Brady.”

  It was exactly the right thing for her to say. He’d heard that word from her a million times, had laughed when she got her mouth washed out with soap for using it. But never had it had this effect on him. His cock pulsed and swelled and she shoved off his jeans and underwear, and then her own shorts and, Jesus, she was naked underneath. She fell backward onto the bed, pulling him on top of her, and for a split second, he almost lost himself and plunged into the hot wetness between her thighs. If he’d moved another inch, let his cock touch that slick heat, it would have been all over. But too many years of care stopped him.

  “Condom,” he ground out, but couldn’t remember where or how to get one. Her breasts were too close, and he bent to lick her nipple, then bite when she arched and cried out. God, she tasted good. He feasted, vaguely aware that her body twisted under him, that she reached for something. There was a thud, something falling, but he didn’t care. Hell, forget condoms. He moved down her body, kissing and nipping her smooth abdomen, her hipbone, tongue to belly button, inhaling deep, savoring, craving. Another few inches, and there it was. He spread her thighs, lifted them over his shoulders, reveling in her cries as he tongued her. Her clit throbbed, swollen, and she shuddered with every stroke. She was close. He pressed a finger into her—God, she was tight, and she tightened even more, her body tensing, bowing. He lunged upward, needing to be inside her, and let out his own cry when Molly’s hand wrapped around him, squeezing. He dimly realized she’d found a condom, was rolling it onto him, the very act almost making him come.

  The instant she released him he pushed inside her. She was so wet there was almost no resistance. Her body stroked him, accepted him. He thrust as deep as he could go, his whole body sighing in relief. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, and he slid one arm beneath her back to hold her close while he braced with the other arm, giving himself leverage to pull out, plunge in, and then he went insane with lust and need. He was lost in himself, lost in her, and all he could do was bury his face in her neck and thrust, over and over, until she screamed and closed around him, and he exploded into a million pieces, his yells mingling with her panting moans.

  Fucking bliss.

  He tried very, very hard to stay in that place, that floating mist of ecstasy, to avoid any hint of reality. Her hands stroked softly up and down his back, and just as he was about to admit to himself he couldn’t hide any longer, blackness descended.

  Grateful, he let it carry him away.

  Chapter Four

  Brady fell into unconsciousness so abruptly Molly panicked, fumbling at his neck, trying to lift him enough to find his pulse or check to see if he was breathing. She shoved at his shoulders. His head and arms remained limp, but she felt a slight gust of breath against her cheek. He was alive. She relaxed a little, finding the pulse in his neck. The beat was normal, though still slightly fast from exertion. He was just exhausted, overwhelmed. She stroked her hand through his hair. Poor guy.

  That was why he’d had sex with her, of course. She had no illusions about that. But lack of self-deception didn’t keep her from holding him close until his weight became too much. She shifted out from under him but stayed near, especially when he curled his arm around her waist. She closed her eyes, trying to succumb to her own exhaustion, but sleep eluded her. Too much swirled through her brain.

  Mostly, it was a video of tomorro
w morning’s conversation. More like Brady’s half of it. Because in her mind, it never changed, no matter what she said in her half. He was going to be appalled. He’d apologize over and over. Make a dozen excuses—over and over—that were meant to reassure her but would simply make her feel like shit. She desperately wanted to avoid all that, but had no idea how.

  If he knew how she felt, and for how long she’d felt that way, it would be even worse. He’d think he was leading her on, and would hasten to explain that the sex had been cathartic, releasing of emotions he couldn’t handle any other way. That he was oh-so-grateful to her for letting herself be used, but it would never happen again.

  If she didn’t handle it right, he’d send her away. He would think the distance important for both of them, especially if she protested. Brady had that sexist streak that was built into every guy. He’d believe that just because they’d had sex, she would think she was in love with him, and if they stayed away from each other, the feelings would go away.

  She snorted softly. What a blow it would be to his ego if she told him the sex hadn’t been good enough to inspire the illusion of love. Okay, sure, she’d had a pretty damned good orgasm, and the arousal had been real enough. But the whole time, her brain had kept up a running commentary about how this was all grief with a side helping of adrenaline, and would change nothing between them. Not the way she wished it could.

  So the morning would be awkward and uncomfortable in a way their relationship had never been, not even that Christmas when she heard him kiss Jessica in the back hall. She’d already known about his feelings for his now sister-in-law, and he hadn’t harbored any guilt for doing what he’d felt he had to do. He’d told Molly that at least it was all out in the open and he never had to wonder or hope.

  Of course, after that, he’d distanced himself from his entire family, including her, but still.

  Hell. This was going to be much more acutely painful.

  Eventually he released her and rolled onto his back, and she pulled on her tank and shorts before trying again to sleep. But as she started to drift off, he jerked, muttering something, and it startled her awake. He flailed and growled in an obvious nightmare. She shifted up on the bed and tried to soothe him back into restful sleep, smoothing his hair off his forehead and putting a hand on his chest, murmuring in his ear, even singing. Nothing worked until she cradled his head against her chest. He rolled toward her, nuzzled, and then, of course, subsided into normal sleep again. And she spent at least the next hour trying not to think about his mouth so close to her nipple.

  She managed to drift off half an hour before dawn, not really sleeping, but semi-lucid, dreaming about Brady waking her with lovemaking, this time tender and caring and about them rather than about…other stuff. But she knew it wasn’t real, wasn’t going to happen, and when her watch alarm beeped, she’d been waiting for it.

  Might as well grab another shower. She needed it after…well, after the thing that didn’t happen. That was how she was going to have to handle it. Cut Brady off before he got to say anything at all. He’d get the message. He was smart, and it would be what he really wanted, anyway. She swung her legs out of the bed and tried to sit up.

  “O-ohh.” Cramps rippled up her back and down her legs, even around her sides. The moan of pain reversed to an indrawn hiss. Every muscle in her body was stiff, proving that training and real fighting were not the same thing. Layer tension on top of that, plus the…thing that hadn’t happened, and she was lucky to stand.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed, wincing as she rolled her shoulders and hobbled to the bathroom.

  This shower was the second best she’d ever experienced. Slowly, her muscles loosened with the warm water and stretching, and after she felt halfway normal, she climbed out and got dressed while she worked at putting on a mask of normalcy and shoving every single emotion into a box. A steel box. With no opening. Just solid steel riveted right around her heart. She sealed it by running through a mental to-do list. Six times.

  Then she was ready to face the other side of that bathroom door. She took a steadying breath and opened it.

  Brady rose from the bed, closing his cell phone as he did. He didn’t make eye contact, but started moving around the bed toward her.

  “Shower’s free,” she announced stupidly, and hurried on in as normal a voice as she could muster—if “normal” meant “uninflected.” “Did you check the flight?”

  “Yeah, it’s on time. We have a couple of hours before we have to be at the airport.”

  “Okay, good. You have time to get cleaned up. I’ll—” She waved a hand vaguely around the room. Neither had left anything unpacked, and Brady had made the bed. Kind of. Pulled up the covers. Crap. She couldn’t look at it. Window. She’d look for suspicious characters.

  She started toward the window as Brady said, “Moll, about last night.”

  “How did you sleep?” she cut him off, still aiming for the window but unable to get by him.

  “Surprisingly great, actually.”

  His hand came up to her upper arm, his fingers squeezing gently, and Molly fought not to close her eyes, to give into the comfort of touching him. It had been far too long since they’d been this close, in any capacity, and she was on pleasure overload. Or something.

  “Good. Better get in the shower. Water’s nice and hot.” She slid past him and hid her face in the gap between curtain and wall. What a moron she was. So much for normal.

  “I need to apologize for last night,” he said from behind her, obviously still standing in the same place.

  Crap. Crap-crap-crap-crap. She scrambled to come up with another topic to head him off. “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. I was selfish.”

  No! She could not do this! She could not have this conversation with him! She blurted, “No, you weren’t. Jessica was probably sedated, and I let your parents know we’d call when we got back in the country.”

  Dead silence. What the hell was she thinking? Bringing up Jessica and his parents and therefore, indirectly, his brother would definitely head off a discussion of sex. But now they were in even more painful territory.

  “I just called them, actually.” His voice was subdued. “I talked to Jess. She’s having a hard time, but said she’s managing without the tranquilizers now.”

  “Good,” Molly managed to choke out.

  “Mom said to tell you how grateful they are that you came to get me. She’s a little confused on why that was necessary, but we’ll come up with something.”

  “Mm-hmm.” The soft rasp of his voice, the sorrow behind it, was killing her. Strap in, she told herself. This is just the beginning.

  “So, that wasn’t what I meant when I said I was selfish. But I get the picture.” She heard the soft swish of fabric. His hand closed over her shoulder for a second, then he moved away. When the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out her breath in a whoosh and leaned against the wall. That had been a narrower escape than yesterday’s car chase. She focused on the scene outside, one she hadn’t paid any attention to, and started cataloging details. Then realized none of them were relevant. She hadn’t seen their pursuers yesterday, could barely remember the vehicle they’d been driving, and there were several on the street below that looked like it. So this was pointless. She released the curtain and backed up to double-check the room for anything they’d dropped. Oh, lovely, there was the condom wrapper on the floor between beds, Brady’s jeans in a heap next to it. She vaguely remembered hearing a thump last night and bent to check. Brady’s wallet had fallen out of his pocket; it lay under the jeans. She picked up both and crumpled the condom wrapper into her fist as he emerged from the bathroom in a billow of steam.

  She straightened, turned, and froze, every nerve in her body jumping to attention and shouting “Hell-o!” Brady stood wrapped in a skimpy towel, water beaded on his sculpted chest and shoulders, dripping off his shaggy hair. She hadn’t seen him like this in…ever, actually. Even last night, she hadn’t
had much chance to look at his body. Part of her told her not to now, that the barrier she was trying to erect wouldn’t hold if she did, but the rest of her said the hell with it, she might not ever get this chance again. So she stood and looked her fill. When her upward-stroking gaze reached his face, his mouth was quirked up on one side. She snorted. Male pride.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Picking up. These were on the floor.” She held out the jeans and wallet, squeezing her fist around the wrapper.

  “That’s what I needed, thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.” He took the jeans and went back into the bathroom.

  She sighed. The next few days were going to be hell in more ways than one.

  …

  When Molly and Brady finally arrived at the Fitzpatricks’ Connecticut home, she was a wreck. Brady had slept more on the plane, which was good for him—he might not get much once they got home. But she couldn’t turn off her Brady radar—the sense that told her every move he made, that spiked her tension whenever he woke up and she’d automatically braced herself for him to talk about the previous night again. He hadn’t, but she hadn’t been able to set it aside, anyway. When she’d managed to close her eyes, her brain insisted on reminding her of all the things she’d never feel again, and prodding the embers of her dying—should be dead—hope. Now that they’d had sex, the faint spark she’d been unable to crush, even after all these years, was growing. So she’d spent much of the flight lecturing herself not to open the steel box, not to let the spark get any bigger. All wasted effort, for two reasons. One, herself didn’t listen. And two…

  As soon as Brady saw Jessica, Molly knew it was all over.

  “Darling, darling girl, thank you!” Donna engulfed Molly in a humongous hug, even before touching her son. “I don’t know what we’d have done.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Molly said into the shoulder covering her face. “They’d have gotten a message to him eventually.” She didn’t say who “they” were, knowing Donna would assume it was the company they thought employed Brady.