Ian leaned against the desk, watching her let the others in. He’d done it—brought back that rare smile to her lips. For the first time since he’d seen her in that prison cell, there was color in her cheeks, a bounce in her step.
As the volunteers filed in, there were a lot of looks thrown around. At Vivi, at him, and then between those in the group. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he and his wife had been doing before they’d interrupted.
Sabrina had recruited Ranger and Zeb. The instant Vivi spotted the former spymaster, she brightened even more. They’d obviously crossed paths at some point in her career, and Zeb accepted her hug with a pat on the back, acting as though he was embarrassed by her show of affection.
“I thought you were dead,” she said, shifting back and looking him over. Her voice had a note of teasing in it.
“I like it that way.” He rubbed her head with his knuckles. “Prison doesn’t suit you, Doc.”
“It sucked.”
He ran his hands down her thin arms and wrinkled clothes, sliding his eyes to Ian and back to Vivi. “How you gettin’ on?”
“Better now that I’m not dead,” she answered with a dry snicker. “I had no idea you were part of the Cult of Beatrice.”
He chuckled and winked at her. “All the best folks are.”
Sabrina tossed down tarps and a bag of brushes, towels, and blue tape. Mick hauled two gallons of paint to a corner of the room. “Gonna need a ladder,” he said, surmising the height of the ceiling.
Vivi pointed at the hall. “I’m going to put on some old clothes. Be right back.”
Ian boosted himself off the desk, his gaze locked on her backside. “I need to change, too.”
“Sure you do,” Mick said with a cunning tone in his voice. “Go take care of your woman. We’ve got this.”
He was going to take care of her all right. Ian left the smirks and knowing glances of the others behind and raced after his wife.
He heard the ding of the elevator around the corner and picked up his pace.
Wife. He loved the term. Never thought he’d have one. A year ago, he hadn’t even wanted a long-term commitment. His career had been everything. He’d loved the military, loved the discipline as well as the adventure. When he’d been required by the Navy to routinely see a psychologist after every mission, he’d balked at the idea. Like most guys, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about his feelings.
And then he’d met Vivi.
The elevator doors were shutting, Vivi’s eyes widening when she saw him closing in. He slipped sideways through the tight opening, caught her up and pinned her against the back wall.
She squealed and wrapped her arms around him. He ground his pelvis against her and she pressed her breasts into his chest.
It was one floor, one goddamned floor, and not nearly enough time for anything more than a kiss before the ding announced they had arrived at their destination.
He carried her out, barely noticing one of the guys take a step back to allow them to pass. Her room was too far and she was so warm, so willing in his arms. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.
He was never going to let her out of his sight again. Never stop touching her. Never let her go.
Kicking the door to her room open, he loved the way she laughed and then stretched herself out on the mattress once he dumped her there. “So caveman,” she quipped.
“Here I thought it was romantic.” He locked the door and flipped on the lamp next to the bed. She had no windows, no natural light save for a narrow bar along the south wall near the top of the room. While he didn’t mind a sexy tussle in the dark, today he wanted to see every inch of her.
He planned to take his time, savor it, because it had been so long, and he’d believed for months that he would never get to touch her again.
Her eyes were pools of lust as she watched him remove his shirt and unbutton his jeans. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge, reaching for him. Her hands yanked his pants down, his erection jutting through the material of his underwear and into her face.
He would never get tired of hearing her laugh. She tugged the briefs away and took him in her mouth before the sound of it died out.
His body jerked, his hand going to the back of her head, the tickle of her hair under his palm. She clasped his ass cheeks with both hands and gorged herself on him.
“God, Vivi,” he moaned, hips bucking in rhythm with her mouth. She took him deep and pressed her tongue up against the underside of his cock, increasing the sensation.
His back arched and he came in a rush, her continuing to suck every last drop out of him. His knees went weak and he could barely stand, falling onto the bed beside her when she released him.
He lay there for long moments, appreciating her fingers stroking his chest, his legs. She tugged off his boots and pants, tossing them aside.
Opening his eyes, he watched as she began a slow striptease. Once again, the blouse came off and fell to the floor. She turned her back to him and slowly peeled down her slacks inch by inch over her hips, butt cheeks, and down her legs. Bending forward, gave him the full view of her ass.
He reached out and touched her between her folds and she gasped. Then she moved barely out of reach and glanced over her shoulder at him as she dropped one bra strap, then the other down her arms.
Damn, he was hard all over again.
She strolled around the bed, and just out of reach, her eyes full of wicked delight as she watched his erection grow. She undid the bra and dropped it on his belly. “Are you sure you want this?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not the sex,” she said, “this.” Her finger waggled between them. “Us.”
“Are you torturing me on purpose? You want me to beg?”
Her expression turned thoughtful and she placed a finger to her cheek as if considering it. “I do like it when you’re on your knees.”
He growled, sitting up and grabbing her in one swift move. She yelped like she had in the elevator, and then she was falling on him as he lay back.
Nothing about her was easy, and he didn’t care. She refused to let him take his time with her, mounting him in a rush, her sweet folds wet and ready for him. As he looked up into her face, caressing her breasts, he was a goner all over again. Like he’d told her, she wasn’t the same woman, yet she was still all consuming.
Moving with the fervor of a person starving for a climax, he let her ride him to the brink and drive herself over it. As she came with a gasp, squeezing around him hard and tight, he followed her over that edge and went free-falling.
Hours passed with barely a notice as they became reacquainted with each other’s bodies. He’d forgotten all about painting her office until they came up for air because they were both starving.
“Shit,” she said, staring at the wall clock. “Sabrina’s going to kill us.”
“Worth it.” He yawned and trailed a finger along her ribs as she sat on the edge of the mattress putting on her bra.
“They don’t have room service in this place, right?”
“Only if you’re in the med ward. We have to brave the mess hall.”
She cringed, rising to walk to the wardrobe and sorting through a scant amount of clothes. “How can I make it up to Sabrina and the others?”
“Don’t worry about them.” He tugged on his jeans and shirt. “They’ll understand.”
On the ride down, she pulled up her hoodie, covering her head. He said nothing, knowing it bothered her to still look like a prison inmate, even though no one here cared.
The cafeteria was fairly empty, a couple of the Rock Star security guys trading stories over energy drinks at a table in the corner. Ian didn’t know them, but they exchanged nods—everyone was a brother here—and then he went to work loading up a tray with food.
Vivi kept her gaze turned from the others, grabbing a few frozen burritos and microwaving them. There was always an assortment of easy-to-make meals on hand. If you had special requests, it was up to you to buy and stock them. Anything without a name on it identifying it belonged to someone was fair game.
They’d just sat down to gorge themselves when Ian’s phone rang with a text from Rory. Come to the center. Bring Dr. Greene.
He stared at the message for a moment, wondering if it had something to do with his request to ignore her demand to obliterate the trail regarding their marriage. He sent a reply, asking for five minutes to eat. “Rory wants to see us.”
“About what?” she asked around a spoonful of yogurt.
The app was still open and Ian watched the bubble with the dots, telling him Rory was typing. “No clue.”
The bubble disappeared, then came a command. Now.
Great. He picked up the tray with the remnants of uneaten food. “Grab what you can. We’re taking it to go.”
She quizzed him in the elevator, gobbling down the rest of the yogurt before she unwrapped the still-warm burrito and dug in to that. It was good to see her eat.
“Must be about our marriage,” Ian guessed, “or maybe the prison break.”
Her hand holding the snack dropped and her eyes widened. “You don’t think someone figured it out, do you?”
His gut tightened, but he shook his head as if unconcerned. “If they had, it would be Beatrice calling us in, not Rory.”
Somewhat mollified, she returned to her food and said around a mouthful, “A mission, maybe? For the two of us?”
“Beatrice or Cal would hand out orders for that.” He chucked her chin. “What kind of mission do you think they’d assign to us, anyway?”
“You doubt my field skills?”
Yes. “Of course not,” he lied.
She snorted, knowing he was.
The elevator stopped and they walked into the quiet computer hub. No one was present, except for the department head. Rory didn’t so much as look up. “No food in here, you know that.”
Ian made a face and set the tray on the closest desk, shoving an energy bar in his back pocket. Vivi hurriedly wiped her mouth, swallowing the last bite of her burrito. Together, they made their way past the assorted cubicles and machines, the background hum like white noise to Ian’s nerves.
Rory had an L-shaped station with multiple monitors and keyboards. Ian shifted one of the visitor chairs so Vivi could sit. He stayed standing. “What’s up?”
Rory hit a couple keys and raised his attention to them. As he did so, he swung a monitor around so they could see it. “Look familiar?”
The photo was a grainy black and white, probably from a security camera. A man’s face was caught in profile as he entered a building on a rainy night, the lapels of a trench coat flipped up around his neck.
Ian bent and peered at the shot. At the same time, Vivi leaned forward, her breath hitching. “Is that…?” Her eyes turned to him. “You?”
Distant warning bells were going off in his head. He scanned the part of the building caught in the frame, along with the glass entrance. It didn’t look familiar. “Where was this taken?”
Rory hit a few more keys and turned a second monitor toward them. “The Oliver Hotel in Berlin on the night of November eleventh last year, at 1100 hours. Ring any bells?”
Now his stomach fell. He and Vivi stared at each other. “That’s not me,” Ian said. “I was…”
“In Vegas getting married?” Rory asked.
“Wait,” Vivi said, coming out of the chair. “The Oliver Hotel in Berlin. That’s where the chancellor was assassinated.”
Rory dipped his chin. “On the night of November eleventh at midnight, and they never caught the shooter.”
“Where did you get this photo?” Ian asked, eyeing his profile once more. He’d been nowhere near Berlin. He did the math, confirming it—Central European time to Pacific—he was in a Vegas chapel saying “I do” about then.
Rory leaned back, the chair squeaking in protest. “It was sent to Dr. Montgomery’s private phone by an unknown number two days before she touched down in Germany and walked into Lawrence’s party.”
Vivi sat down hard. Ian could see the wheels turning in her head. “You accessed my records?”
Rory cracked his knuckles. “Of course.”
“You shouldn’t be digging around in that stuff.” Her voice held clear warning. “They’ve probably got trackers on all of it.”
“They do,” he agreed, not the least bit concerned.
“Look, I know everyone here believes you’re the best at what you do, but it’s not worth stirring this hornet’s nest.”
Ian placed a hand on her shoulder. “I want to know who was impersonating me that night and why.”
“So do I.” Beatrice strode in and stopped at the desk. “And we’re going to find out.”
Vivi glanced between her and Rory, fear on her face. “You want them to know you’re looking into it. You want them to come after you.”
“Not me,” Beatrice clarified, standing over Rory’s shoulder and scanning the monitor on his side. “You. I want to know why someone painted suspicion about a U.S. Navy SEAL being at that hotel on the night the chancellor was assassinated, yet it wasn’t brought to anyone’s attention, within our government, or in Europe.”
“How do you know it wasn’t?” Ian asked.
Rory sat forward, fingers flying over his center keyboard. “I’ve accessed records from Homeland, National Intelligence, NSA, CIA, you name it. There’s not a single mention of suspicion being placed on the U.S. for the assassination. No military communications, no DOD reports. Nothing.”
“But someone wanted it to look like we took out the chancellor,” Beatrice said. “My guess? They wanted to use it as leverage.”
Vivi came out of her chair and tapped the desk with a finger. “Leverage to get me to turn traitor and give up national secrets.”
“By impersonating me,” Ian said quietly.
Beatrice and Rory nodded in synch. “Whoever did this played you, Vivi,” Beatrice said. “It has to be someone who knew about you and Ian.”
All eyes went to her and she walked away, pivoted, and stomped back. “That’s not possible. No one knew.”
“Someone did,” Ian said. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Right?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “And we’re going to figure out who.”