AFTER A STRENUOUS hour spent working out, Striker took a shower. Coming back to the bedroom, he dressed while Margo slept. She still lay spread out on top of the bed, naked. He took the corner of the bedspread to cover her. Seeing her without any clothes was too much temptation.
Even covered up, she looked sexy. Her head was no longer hiding under the pillow and her hair was in disarray all over her head. She was sleeping peacefully, and, as far as he was concerned, she was the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. In clothes or out. Asleep or awake. Smiling or frowning.
He wondered if she could tell she’d been the first woman he’d ever ejaculated inside of. Knowing that she was the first had made him anxious. He had wanted to know how it felt to be skin to skin with a woman. But not just with any woman. With Margo.
Being inside of her without a condom had felt like heaven. His shaft had felt her wet heat, had nearly drowned in it. She had gotten wild on him, stroke for stroke. He was certain her fingernails had left marks on his back and shoulders, but he didn’t care if they had. He had loved every minute of making love to her and didn’t regret a single thing.
Striker checked the time. He had just strapped on his gun and holster when his phone vibrated in the back pocket of his jeans. He quickly left the bedroom to answer it, glad he’d had the presence of mind to place it on vibrate so it wouldn’t wake Margo.
“What’s wrong, Quay? You miss bringing us our breakfast?”
“No. I got plenty to do here. Charlottesville is getting crazy, man. It’s been leaked to the press that the policewoman who was shot down yesterday was one of Erickson’s insiders. It’s also rumored there are two others, so they’re all looking at each other with suspicion.”
“Why is Erickson turning on his own people?”
“To be honest, I’m not even sure it’s Erickson. Word on the street is that someone else is vying for the position Erickson held within the mob before going to jail. Nobody knows what’s going on.”
Quasar paused as if to catch his breath. “The mayor is holding a press conference at noon. The people are calling for some of the top officials to step down, including him. The citizens are running scared and don’t think they can trust law enforcement.”
Striker decided not to comment on the latter because he didn’t trust them the majority of the time either. But then, Roland trusted them even less. “How’s Roland?” he asked.
“We got him to go home last night, but he was back today at the crack of dawn. Stonewall and I decided to leave him alone and let him feel useful.”
“That’s probably not a bad idea.” He, Stonewall and Quasar had known Roland long enough to know that he used work as a way to deal with a lot of things that still haunted him.
“I heard about the guy who thought he was kidnapping Margo. Glad that he and the guys who were helping him are behind bars.”
“So am I,” Striker said, wondering if Dylan really had been involved.
Striker conversed with Quasar a little while longer before ending the call. He glanced at the closed bedroom door and moved in the opposite direction, heading down the stairs. Margo definitely needed her sleep. It had been one orgasm after another last night, for both of them. Each one more intense than the one before. But even more special had been the times when they’d lain there afterward, their gazes locked and their limbs entwined while trying to get their breathing back on track.
There had been something singularly profound about it. Something akin to sheer bliss. Sheer bliss? When had he ever experienced something like that in his life? When had he thought something like that even existed? Especially with a woman? He’d enjoyed women in bed before, but when it came to Margo, it went beyond mere enjoyment. He would admit, and not even grudgingly, that the time he’d spent with Margo, even considering the circumstances, had been pretty unforgettable. And maybe, quite possibly, if he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t change a thing.
He had a feeling Margo would sleep until close to lunchtime. He might as well cook a pot of soup. Forecasters predicted the weather would take a turn and cold temperatures would be returning. Wood had been chopped for the fireplace and they had plenty of food on hand. There was even a generator in case they lost power.
Under different circumstances, he would love to be snowed in with Margo. Just thinking of all the possibilities made him hard. But he couldn’t forget the reason they’d sought refuge at the cabin. A crazed killer was out there. And although they’d taken every single precaution to make sure that as few people as possible knew where she was and that they hadn’t been followed, for some reason, he had a funny feeling about something he couldn’t put his finger on quite yet.
He lifted his hand and looked at one particular finger and smiled. He now thought of it as Margo’s finger since he liked having it inside her when triggering her aftershocks. He shook his head, knowing he needed to get his mind off what he would like to do with Margo anytime and every time he got the chance. Instead he would get started on that pot of soup.
*
PERCY WEAVER HAD a feeling his days were numbered. Ever since hearing about Alyson Blackshear and her connection to Erickson, he’d begun looking over his shoulder. Although he didn’t know Blackshear and hadn’t realized that, like him, she was on Erickson’s payroll, all that mattered to him was that she was dead. And from what he’d heard, she’d been gunned down by the same assassin who was going around killing everyone who’d been in the courtroom that day.
Percy wondered what he’d been thinking to get involved with Erickson in the first place. He knew the answer, though. Greed. At least if anything was to happen to him, his family would be taken care of. He had set up everything to ensure they would live comfortably for the rest of their lives. With all the money he would leave his wife, she could return to Italy, her birthplace, and live lavishly rich. Or she could buy her own damn island if that was what she wanted. And just so the feds wouldn’t try to confiscate anything, he’d transferred everything into a Swiss bank account.
He glanced down at the package in his hand. It was the final piece to the puzzle he needed to take care of. To be on the safe side, just in case someone was onto him, he had put a plan in place, one he hoped would work. The package in his hand was a fake. He’d hired a courier to make sure the real thing got to its intended destination.
He stepped out of his office and the first person he ran into was Special Agent Felton. Damn, just his luck. It seemed the man had been too visible lately, asking questions and making Weaver wonder if perhaps Felton was onto him. The last thing Weaver needed was to start getting paranoid. Felton had no reason to suspect him of anything. As far as Felton was concerned, Weaver was one of the good agents.
“Going someplace, Special Agent Weaver?” Felton asked, noting the package in his hand.
Why had Felton called him by his full title today, not Agent Weaver or just Weaver? Was it deliberate? “Yes. My wife wants me to mail this off to her parents in Florence.” Just in case he was stopped for some reason, the package was addressed to Leigh’s parents in Italy, just like he’d told Felton. Inside the package were souvenirs Leigh would send to them on occasion.
“That’s nice of her.”
Weaver forced a smile. “I have a nice wife.”
“Yes, you do,” Felton responded, looking at him strangely. “Tell Leigh she hasn’t invited me and Harriet to dinner in a while. The four of us should get together.”
“I’ll make sure I tell her that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in a hurry to get to the post office before they close.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.”
Weaver left the FBI building and kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked to his car in the parking garage. He had opened the door and slid in the seat when a text message came across his phone. He checked it. It was a reminder from Leigh to pick up a dozen eggs on the way home.