Illicit Intent, page 22
So, with unwavering determination, she set her mind to reuniting the pieces. For her and only her. Reynard had explained the unfortunate events that had transpired with the young woman and the late Phipps Van Gent. Her next acquisition was going to be that pair of Degas sketches, and as was the case with most things in her life, she needed to take matters into her own hands.
New York City
May 1
Tox knocked on the door, hesitant to use the key Calliope had given him. She hadn’t given him a key. She’d simply lent it to him. He’d need to return it, but after her recent brush with the intruders, he was happy to hang onto it for the time being. From behind the door, Calliope tilted her head and looked out the sidelight, not checking her visitor but rather scanning the street behind him. Tox turned around and did the same. The sidewalk was empty. When he turned back, Calliope was standing in the open doorway wearing a sultry smile and a dab of Gucci Bloom... and nothing else.
“Where’s the dog?”
“Outside. Digging a hole. She’s fine.”
Calliope had been to Pamplona for the running of the bulls. She’d never really faced one coming right at her though. With a squeal she turned and sprinted for the stairs, Tox hot on her heels, shedding clothes as he ran. By the time they got to the bedroom, Tox was stumbling over jeans caught on combat boots as he staggered after his prey.
“We made it to the bed this time.”
“Not yet we haven’t.”
Tox freed himself from his boots and jeans then lunged. He roared. Calliope screamed as he hoisted her up and slammed her against the closet door. Tox staggered around the room holding Calliope up by her ass as he kissed and fondled her. He set her on her high dresser knocking over framed photos and a small clock. He wasn’t practiced or suave. He wasn’t precise or methodical. Tox buried his face between the apex of her thighs like a starving man.
Calliope held his stubbled head in her hands and wrapped her legs around his shoulders. He was skilled but his control had snapped and the combination was intoxicating. She shattered and clenched, begging him to stop, then to never stop.
He kissed her inner thighs, nipped behind her knee, then picked her up like she weighed nothing, face still at her center, legs on his shoulders, and carried her over to the bed where they fell with a bounce.
“Now we made it to the bed.”
Calliope scrambled out from under him and shoved Tox onto his back. He conjured a condom and sheathed himself as she straddled his narrow hips.
“Easy does it.”
Calliope gave a brief nod. Their eyes locked and she lowered herself inch-by-inch…by inch, by inch, by inch onto Tox. She stopped. Retreated. Lowered. Widened her knees. The feeling of fullness was indescribable. In an enormous pantry of pots and lids, she had found the perfect match. She squeezed her inner muscles in pleasure at the realization, eliciting a series of thrusts beneath her. With her hands on his chest, she began to move in earnest, Tox syncing his hips in perfect rhythm. She circled her hips, finally accommodated to his size. Her ebony hair brushed his stomach as he urged her forward to cup her breasts. He pinched her nipples and held them in the vice of his fingers, eliciting a gasp. When he released the buds, a searing burst of pleasure surged through her. He stayed her movement, lifted her gently then leaned forward. She ran her hands down the glistening ladder of abdominal muscles as they tilted until Calliope was on her back. Tox repositioned himself, pushed her knees back to her chest, grabbed her ankles, and draped them over his shoulders all the while continuing a relentless rhythm. His milk-chocolate eyes never left hers. He swelled within her as he licked his thumb and pressed it to her clit. She detonated with an incoherent shout drowned out by Tox’s own roar of completion.
He collapsed on top of her, buffering his weight only slightly with his forearms. Calliope loved the crush, loved feeling the weight of her man. His face was buried in her neck and she cradled his nape. When he regained the use of his muscles, he deftly rolled them until Calliope was sprawled across his chest boneless and replete.
“Remind me to answer the door for you naked more often.”
“I’m in no way discouraging that practice, but it wasn’t the naked. It was the look.”
“What look?”
Tox smoothed a hand down her back. “You get this look on your face, like a sexy challenge. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”
Calliope lifted her head from his chest.
“That’s the one,” he rumbled.
“I’ll go let Coco in. She’s barking.”
They climbed out on opposite sides of the bed. “Oh, I meant to tell you, Ren’s friend called from Columbia. The sketches are real.”
“You waited this long to tell me?”
Tox’s eyes took a leisurely walk down her still naked body. He cocked a brow.
For a long moment, they stood facing one another on opposite sides of the bed. Their thoughts seemingly floating from their heads, colliding in the air and fluttering down to the tousled sheets.
I could fall in love with you.
I’ve never felt this way before.
You heal my heart.
I ache for you.
Closer always closer.
I can’t get enough.
I may never get enough.
I’ll keep you safe.
I’ll guard your heart.
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid.
Don’t be afraid.
The moment was broken when Tox tilted his head slightly, his face taking on a cold look of intensity. Pressing a finger to his lips, he quickly disposed of the condom and stepped into his jeans. He sent a text and got an immediate response that seemed to satisfy him. Then he grabbed a boot but didn’t put it on, rather he withdrew the small Sig Sauer P320 from a holster. He signaled to Calliope that someone had entered the house, and for her to stay behind him. She nodded her compliance wide-eyed and threw on Tox’s t-shirt. Tox cupped her face in his large hand and kissed her softly. She smiled. He winked.
Moving like a ghost down the old stairs, avoiding the few that creaked, he immediately saw the intruder. A few more steps down, and he amended, intruders. The man in charge was standing in the living room in profile looking at the graffiti mural that graced the interior wall. He held a Homberg with a pair of gloves set in the bowl of the hat as he studied the painting with an impassive expression. Was this the fuckwit that put hands on Calliope?
Tox moved down low enough that the man couldn’t step out of his line of sight—or fire—and pointed the Sig at his target. The movement caught the visitor’s eye and he turned, startled by the shirtless hulk pointing a gun at his head.
“You so much as twitch and I will blow your fucking head off your shoulders. Do I make myself clear, motherfucker?”
Immediately, two suited goons unholstered their weapons and aimed at Tox. Then the front door opened and the Bishop Security operators Tox had texted joined the party in the front hall. Why were they walking in the front door?
“Tox? What the f—what the heck is going on?”
It took Tox a second to realize the question hadn’t come from Ren or Chat who stood in the doorway with their hands in their pockets. It had come from…Herc Reynolds? Hercules was new to the team. Why was he wearing a suit? Why was he defending the bespoke gentleman in the middle of the living room? Then Steady, also in a suit, ambled into view doing his damnedest not to burst out laughing as he holstered his weapon. An instant later, Cam was at Steady’s side. Before Tox could demand to be let in on the joke that everyone else seemed to get, Calliope poked her head out from behind him and answered his unspoken question.
“Hi, dad.”
Clemente Acosta walked up to the half-naked gigante in front of him. “If you would be so kind as to lower your weapon, Master Chief Buchanan, I’d like to hug my daughter.”
Tox, drowning in mortification, quickly shoved the Sig into the waistband of his jeans, realizing too late, they were still undone and the weapon and jeans slid down to his thighs. He stepped out of the way and turned his back to correct the situation while Cam faked a coughing fit to mask his laughter. Steady stage whispered, “Tox is doing a de-brief.” The men made no attempt to conceal their laughter after that.
Clemente Acosta, former Prime Minister of Portugal and career diplomat, took Calliope in his arms and they spoke in low murmurs. After a moment, Acosta nodded to Tox who was now standing behind his buddies who were making no effort to shield him.
“I’d like a word, Master Chief Buchanan.”
Tox nodded mutely and followed the impeccable man into the kitchen. Steady took pity on him and tossed him the dress shirt he had been wearing over a tee shirt. Too small, but better than nothing. Acosta opened a cabinet and removed a bottle of Glen Livet clearly kept there for him. He tilted the bottle toward Tox who gave a silent shake of his head.
“Cat got your tongue?” There was amusement in Acosta’s tone.
“Sir, I apologize…”
Acosta waved Tox off with the glass he was holding and poured himself a hefty amount of scotch neat.
“Pfft. No need. A man you didn’t know entered the home of a woman I’m going to assume you care for, and you responded. Correctly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Fortunately, you’re trained well enough to ask questions first and shoot later, not the other way around.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve never been assigned to my detail before.”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t see that changing in the foreseeable future.”
Oh shit. Here it comes. “I understand, sir.”
“If you continue seeing my daughter, I’d expect you to be sitting at the dinner table with us. Not standing behind it with a gun in your suit.”
Tox’s relief was palpable. His enthusiasm propelled him forward.
“I hope so, sir. Although to be honest, I’ll probably still have the gun.”
Acosta chuckled. “I would expect nothing less.”
He pulled out the other chair at the table, and Tox joined him, wishing he had accepted the offer of the drink.
“Hell of a thing you did in Afghanistan, son.”
“Sir?”
“That rescue of your teammate was insubordinate, ill-advised, and risky at best.”
The only acknowledgment Tox had received after rescuing Finn McIntyre from eight extremists was a slap on the wrist for ignoring an order to stand down. Nathan Bishop, their naval intelligence contact saved him from more serious repercussions by claiming communications had been disrupted by a windstorm. They hadn’t. Tox hadn’t been bothered by the higherups’ response; he didn’t need another medal. He needed his friend.
“And about the bravest thing one man could do for another.”
Tox picked at the paint on the table without reply. Clemente Acosta stood and retrieved another glass from the cupboard. He poured another scotch and set it in front of Tox.
“I know you boys don’t think of it that way, but I do.”
Tox swallowed and looked up.
“I’m proud to know you, Master Chief.”
The bump of Acosta’s glass hitting the wood of the table marked the subject change.
“Now. Calliope.”
Tox shifted in his chair. Clemente Acosta was not a tall man, and he was pushing seventy. But at that moment he may as well have been ten feet tall.
He continued, “As you know, she’s not my child by birth, but she’s mine in every way a father can love a daughter. When I met her mother…it was like being hit by a train.” Acosta smiled as he twirled his glass with his fingertips. “I looked at her, and I thought, how could I ever call what I felt for other women attraction? That’s what it was, attraction. She was like a magnet pulling me. She was buying a fish at the market in Lisbon. My God, she took my breath. She was a goddess with the tongue of a devil arguing with the fishmonger. And propped on her hip, her daughter, a magical, mischievous little fairy.”
Acosta glanced over Tox’s shoulder. He turned in his chair to catch an eavesdropping Calliope scurrying away.
“I looked at Elara holding Calliope, and she had such fire, such love in her eyes, I thought to myself, I would work my fingers to the bone every day of my life to have that woman look at me with such adoration. That was the moment I knew I loved my Elara. She created this strange duality within me: excitement and calm, passion and peace.” He lifted his right hand, then his left, then pressed them together.
“Calliope was just five when I met her. Her mother set her on her feet and the little imp walked right up to me and kicked me in the shin. Then she smiled—her two front teeth were missing—and curtsied.” Acosta shook his head, enjoying the memory. “The little witch. Then she got distracted by a butterfly and ran off.”
Tox’s lips tipped. Not much had changed.
“It was also the moment I knew, at the age of forty-eight, that I wanted to be a father. No, not a father. I wanted to be her father. She’s our beija Flor, our hummingbird.” He chuckled. “I chase her all around from flower to flower and never seem to catch her.”
He paused, sipped his scotch. “She is very different from you, yes.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not such a bad thing. Esteja com alguém que abre seus olhos para o mundo.” He translated: “Be with someone who opens your eyes to the world.” Acosta met Tox’s gaze. “There’s always another layer to uncover with these women of ours, my boy. Appreciate that.”
Tox gave a confused nod.
“And I know you can protect her.”
“Yes sir.”
“Protect her heart too, and we have no problems.”
“Understood.”
Acosta stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I don’t know the story of how you two met, but the tale of our first meeting is going to entertain my friends and guests for years to come.”
Acosta poured himself another measure of scotch and walked out of the room, leaving Tox sitting at the table feeling like a teen who’d been given a firm but affectionate father-son speech. He looked over his shoulder then grabbed his glass and downed the drink, and for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, Tox smiled.
When the last man in Acosta’s entourage had left, Calliope closed the door and fell against it with a sigh.
“Something you forgot to mention?”
Calliope scrunched up her face. “Maybe?”
Tox stood in the hall facing her. He pulled himself to his full height and, on a deep inhale, popped the buttons on Steady’s dress shirt. Calliope grew wide-eyed and raced up the stairs. He rounded the newel and followed her up the stairs at a much more leisurely pace.
New York City
May 3
Early the following evening, on silent feet, Roman Block’s hired assassin made his way up the attached wrought iron fire escape ladder to the roof of the brownstone across the street from the target. With the utmost care, he removed his Heckler and Koch 417 bolt-action sniper rifle, flipped down the retractable bipod, and set up. His target kept an irregular schedule so he tucked in for a long wait.
Not that he wasn’t used to it. He once spent three days in the bell tower of an orthodox church in Eastern Europe to eliminate the pro-democracy rival of a threatened incumbent. He had spent a week in a rock outcropping in the Chihuahuan Desert, hidden by Yucca plants and Prickly Pears, in order to take out a particularly nasty cartel jefe—so he could be replaced by an even nastier one. It took about seven-tenths of a second to take out a target at this distance; ninety-nine percent of his job was waiting.
Calliope emerged from the Borough Hall subway station in Brooklyn Heights and made her way home. It had been an uneventful and thankfully drama-free day. After a particularly steamy shower that morning where Tox had demonstrated his prowess at multitasking by shampooing her hair while he wrapped her legs around his waist and drove into her, she had headed off to work with a smile. She did end up with some lingering suds, but oh, so worth it. After a pleasant lunch with her father, Calliope submitted her Gentrify Capital story, marking the end, she hoped, of a harrowing assignment. Now she was ready for a quiet night with Coco and a rom-com.
Two hours later, the shooter tracked his target. The woman, black hair, five-eight, walked toward her home. She wore jeans, Chucks, and a raspberry-red turtleneck sweater. As he predicted, she climbed the stairs, slipped the key in the lock, and pushed open the door. He lost her behind the front door while she was most likely disengaging the alarm. He chambered the round and sighted her through the scope. The assassin hoped she wasn’t turning in for the night. It was only nine-thirty, and he really didn’t want to be perched on this roof until morning or move to a new position.
Through the big bay window, he noticed the slightest change in the lighting inside and was relieved to know she had gone into the kitchen. He clocked the movement of a big dog as it lumbered off the couch and headed for the kitchen as well. The living room, where he hoped to acquire his target, was still dark, but the television was there, and that’s where most people ended up at this time of night. If all went well, the woman would finish popping popcorn or open a bottle of wine and head to the front of the house to watch a movie. He shifted to take some weight off his hip and clocked his target through the scope.
Calliope threw the deadbolt and entered the code into the panel. She plodded to the kitchen in desperate need of a glass of wine and a bag of something salty. She patted her thigh for Coco to join her.
