The Closer (7 page)

From what little she knew about the military, the men who went through the grueling process of Special Forces training were typically the ones who were committed to their careers, the soldiers who put in their twenty years, then retired and went to work in the private sector or for the government. They didn't simply
exit
without good cause. Her speculative gaze slid to Griff.

And this one certainly wouldn't have done so.

More questions, Jess thought. He was a bona fide mystery man.

“What's makes you think I was talking to Justin?” he asked.

“Because you mentioned the ‘bro code' and were giving him girl advice,” she said. Rather good girl advice. She'd been impressed and said as much. “You were right. Girls do appreciate that kind of sentiment, like knowing that a guy's thought about what would make her happy.”

He shook his head, seemingly further mystified by her behavior. “You caught every word, didn't you?”

“Not on purpose,” she said, feeling a bit defensive. “But I couldn't just go deaf because you were on the phone. If you'd wanted privacy, why didn't you go out into the hall?”

He'd been too busy watching her comb through her hair, that's why, and she knew it. She hadn't opened the bathroom door to give him any kind of show, though admittedly his lingering gaze had been gratifying. She'd opened it because the overhead fan had been broken and she'd needed some cooler air. And after he'd watched her—the weight of those glorious smoldering eyes following her every move, sliding along her body—she'd needed more than cool air, she'd needed a cold shower.

Mercy
.

It was going to be a miracle if she got through the next few days without embarrassing herself. Or having some sort of psychotic break due to chronic, intense sexual frustration.

“It
was
Justin,” he grudgingly admitted. “And, yes, he'd asked for my advice.”

She smiled, pleased that he'd finally answered her. “He's younger, right? Your tone had the older-sibling ring to it,” she added. “That's something I've got a good deal of experience with.”

“You're the oldest?”

“I am. There are two years between me and my brother, and four between me and my sister. One or the other is always calling about something, though usually it's Bethany. Once the baby, always the baby,” she said with a fond sigh.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sounds like my little sister.”

So he had a sister, as well? But she wasn't a half, or he'd have made the distinction. “How old are your siblings?”

If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she would have missed the slightest tightening of his jaw and the effort it took to relax it. How odd, Jess thought, feeling a strange tension hover around him. Much as she liked to know things, she wasn't in the habit of introducing subjects—or pressing them, for that matter—that were a source of pain. Griff didn't looked pained, per se, but this was clearly an area of his personal life he didn't relish discussing. She'd just opened her mouth to tell him to forget it, when he spoke.

“Glory is twenty-one,” he said, narrowly avoiding a biker who'd swerved into their lane. “She just graduated from nursing school.”

“That's quite an accomplishment. You must be proud of her.”

“I am,” he said. He let out a small, almost bracing, breath. “Justin is seventeen and I've known him less than a year,” he said levelly. “But I probably wouldn't have known him at all if he hadn't needed my kidney.”

* * *

J
ESS
GASPED
SOFTLY
and her eyes widened in shock, before melting with admiration and concern. He was hard pressed to decide which sentiment affected him the most. Or why
she
should affect him, when no one else had.

“Your kidney?” she breathed. “You gave your brother your kidney?”

Griff had no idea what had prompted his admission to her when he'd been doggedly silent on the subject with everyone else, but there it was. He'd done it. Whether it was the long hours trapped in the car with her, the longer night when he'd been achingly aware of virtually every breath that moved in and out of her lungs, or her simple “I like to know things” confession that he'd found refreshingly glib, he couldn't say. He just knew that he could tell her—
wanted
to tell her—which was as liberating as it was terrifying.

He nodded. “Six months ago.”

“Ah,” she breathed knowingly, as though something had just occurred to her.

“What?” he asked, sliding her a suspicious look.

“The scars,” she said, gesturing to his abdomen as a blush rose on her cheeks. “I, uh, noticed them last night.”

She had, had she? Griff thought, pleased to know that he wasn't the only one who'd done a little looking. And those scars were negligible, little more than scratches, really. She had to have been looking quite closely to notice them. He felt a smile move over his lips, knew that more than a smidgen of masculine pleasure clung to it, as well.

Her color deepened and she looked away.

“So he's fine, then? Your brother?”

“He is.” He explained what happened, how Justin had gone from being a healthy teen—an all-star baseball player—to deathly ill in a single week. “It was bad. Dialysis was a stopgap measure, but it wouldn't have worked long term. His kidneys were too damaged from the virus.”

“He's lucky that you were a match,” she said. “And only seventeen.” Her speculative gaze swung to his. “That's a pretty big age gap between the pair of you.”

An image of his father's car as it disappeared down their old street surfaced and he beat it back, along with the bitterness and frustration it brought with it. “Twelve years. Justin was born less than six months after my father left.”

She scowled. “I don't like your father.”

Griff chuckled at both her expression and her comment. “Neither do I.”

“I'm sorry,” she told him, shooting him a repentant look. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“No worries,” he assured her. “There's not much to like. I hadn't spoken to him since the day he left until he contacted me about Justin. Neither of them—Dad and Priscilla, his latest wife—were a match. If either of them had been, I'm certain I wouldn't have ever heard from him again.”

She was quiet for a moment, her jaw momentarily locked tight. “So is that why you left the military? To do the surgery?”

He nodded. “I could have stayed, but I wasn't sure what my future would have looked like. I'd be driving a desk or training, more than likely, and that's not my style. Besides, my mother and sister had been hounding me for years to come home.” He shrugged. “It seemed like the right time.”

She grunted under her breath. “It doesn't sound like you had much of a choice.”

He hadn't, really, but ultimately, what difference did that make?

She lifted a brow. “Your sister wasn't a match?”

Traffic inched along as they entered Times Square, making him twitchy and impatient. “She was never tested. Once I'd been deemed a viable donor, there was no point.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her ordinarily open gaze curiously closed and unreadable. Finally, she swallowed and when she eventually spoke, her voice was raspy and not altogether steady. “You're a remarkable man, Griffin Wicklow. I hope your family appreciates the sacrifices you've made for them.”

He shifted, uncomfortable with the unexpected praise, and looked away. “I only did what anyone would do.”

She shook her head and smiled sadly. “I don't think so. It's easy to do the right thing when there's no personal cost,” she said. “But doing the right thing when the price is more than just an organ, it's a career? A way of life? An identity, even?” She caught his gaze, held it, making his heart kick hard against his rib cage. “That's extraordinary.”

She got it,
Griff thought in amazement, an odd airy vibration resounding through his middle. When no other woman, least of all his mother or sister, had understood what coming out of the military had meant to him, this woman—who'd known him less than a day and with fewer facts—genuinely got it.

That
was extraordinary.
She
was extraordinary.

And, as he wheeled the SUV into the hotel driveway, watched as red-clad valets hurried forward to assist with their exit, Griff knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was in trouble. In fact, he could safely say that the Owl was the least of his worries.

Jessalyn Rossi, on the other hand, posed an imminent threat.

7

T
HANKS
TO
THE
skinny, mostly braless models littering the lobby of the hotel, Jess was keenly aware of the additional bulk on her ass and tried to compensate by sucking in her stomach as she and Griff made their way to the check-in counter. Because she was fully under his protection now as well, she'd been forced to resign herself to rooming with him last night, so hearing that the same arrangement was in place now that they'd arrived in New York wasn't a surprise.

Finding out that they'd been booked into the honeymoon suite, however, was.

“The honeymoon suite?” she hissed at him before he could respond. “Really?”

She seriously doubted there'd be two beds in the damn honeymoon suite. Sleeping in the same room was difficult enough, but sleeping in the same
sheets?
Her mouth parched at the thought and her pulse hammered with panic as it moved faster and faster through her veins.

Sleek bare skin, muscles and masculine hair, auburn curls against a blindingly white pillow...

Griff leaned forward, his smile tense. “I think there's been some sort of mistake,” he said. “We're supposed to have a two-bedroom suite. My boss called earlier and made the requested changes to our reservation.”

The clerk stroked a few keys, regarded the computer screen, his brown brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice reminiscent of an island accent. “Here's the notation. Mr. Payne
did
call, but upon reviewing our availability decided that the honeymoon suite offered the best location in the building for your purposes.”

Griff's gaze sharpened. “It's on the sixteenth floor?”

The clerk nodded. “Shall I key your cards now?”

Jess didn't know what was so significant or special about the sixteenth floor—some safety measure, no doubt, which made it the most desirable—but despite her racing heart and mounting panic, Griff accepted the suite and, looking equally grim-faced, followed her onto the elevator. The doors closed, leaving them alone once again. Before an uncomfortable silence could fully stretch between them, George Michael's “
I Want Your Sex”
sounded from the interior speakers.

Really?
Really?

Jess felt her eyes round and cast a conspicuous look at Griff, who was looking heavenward, an I-can't-believe-this expression on his tense face. His jaw was clenched so tight it was a miracle she couldn't hear the enamel grinding off his teeth. A teenage couple joined them on the third floor, smiled significantly at each other when they heard the music, then really got into the spirit of the song and started making out.

Enthusiastically
.

Loudly
.

Honest to God, Jess thought, squeezing her eyes shut to avoid looking at them. She hadn't heard that much slurping since the watermelon-eating contest at the Shadow's Gap Town Festival last summer.

By the time they finally arrived at their floor, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point and the girl's skirt was riding high enough on her ass to reveal a Tigger tattoo and no evidence of underwear. When the doors opened, Jess darted forward like a spooked horse let out of the gate, Griff hot on her heels.

He shot her a look, his mouth sliding into a relieved half smile. “Good grief,” he said. “Where's a hose when you need one, right?”

Jess returned his grin. “I don't think it would have made a difference,” she said. “In fact, they probably would have liked it. Wet 'n Wild in the elevator.”

He grunted in response, inspected both ends of the hallway, then double-checked the room numbers against his key card before turning right away from the elevators. Fully in his element, he held tight to the case and scrutinized every inch of their surroundings—stairwells, windows, the ceiling, the proximity of the other rooms as they approached theirs.

Anxiety tightened in her belly and she found herself holding her breath as he pushed the key into the lock and opened the door for her. His gaze caught hers and there was something equally endearingly and tortured in his, as though he found the idea of sharing a glorified Sex Room with her just as stressful. Though she'd noticed that he, at the very least, found her attractive, it wasn't until that instant that she realized he wanted her. It was there in his gaze, the stark need, the hopeless desperation. She sucked in a startled breath.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

How in the hell had she missed that? Jess wondered, inwardly reeling with joy and feminine pleasure. Had he disguised it that well? Or had she merely been so blinded by her own lust that she'd failed to notice his? Probably a combination of both, she decided.

He blinked then, seemingly disturbed that she'd seen too much, and nudged her forward with a finger to the small of her back. That simple touch sizzled against her spine, spread a thrilling warmth through her limbs, which only seemed to intensify as she walked into the room.

Good Lord...

For whatever reason, when she thought of a honeymoon suite, images of black lacquer furniture, red satin, a heart-shaped tub and a champagne tower immediately sprang to mind.

This honeymoon suite, however, was nothing like her imagination—it was...breathtaking.

Antique-reproduction, cream-colored gilt-edged furniture populated the room, most especially the enormous four-poster canopy bed, which was visible from the open French doors. The walls were covered in sky-blue watered silk, then gave way at the ceiling to a hand-painted celestial scene of naked cherubs, fluffy clouds, various birds, twining greenery and ribbons.

A huge, heavily carved white marble fireplace—were those dogwood blossoms?—stood between two of the lushly draped floor-to-ceiling windows and a merry blaze flickered from the hearth. Plush creamy carpet blanketed the floor in the living room and bedroom, then gave way to dark hardwood in the dining area and marble tile in the small kitchen. Vintage gold-and-crystal sconces flickered light around the room and gilt-framed artwork of various half-naked couples and garden landscapes provided richness and color to the palette.

A bottle of champagne waited in a silver bucket on the coffee table, along with a pair of gold-edged flutes and a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and sugared pineapple. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers were scattered around the rooms and perfumed the air—roses, peonies, gardenias, lavender and heliotrope.

The suite was luxurious and romantic, intentionally overdone but tasteful.

Obviously every bit as stunned as she was, it took Griff a full thirty seconds to remember his job and go into security mode. Rather than get in his way, Jess took the opportunity to investigate the rest of the suite. The kitchen was stocked with a variety of drinks, snacks, a meat-and-cheese tray and a bowl of fresh fruit, and the bathroom was every bit as awesome as she'd expected. Heated floors and towel bars, a huge glass shower with multiple heads and the
pièce de résistance,
a massive marble jetted tub, surrounded by Greek columns and an inset fireplace and television.

Griff walked in, then stopped short and whistled low.

Jess smiled and arched a brow. “Impressive, isn't it?”

“It is,” he said, sidling forward to pick up the remote control.

Out of everything that was in this suite, naturally it was the gadgetry that would appeal to him. She smothered a snort and an eyeroll, and watched him inspect the buttons, then turn on the fireplace.

He beamed, pleased. “That's handy.”

Jess fingered a thick towel. “Is a custom bathroom with a fireplace and a television in your future?”

“It could be,” he said. “Payne did say I could do whatever I wanted to with the space.”

Jess frowned. “You live with your boss?”

He laughed. “No, I have an apartment in the building. Most of the agents do,” he added, then turned on the television...which evidently defaulted to the adult-content channel, because an image of a brunette with her painted lips wrapped around a massive penis suddenly filled the giant screen.

Jess let out a startled little squeak.

Griff fumbled the remote and swore, frantically mashing buttons until the television turned off. “Sorry,” he muttered hoarsely. “I, uh, I...” he stammered.

She'd done more blushing in the past twenty-four hours than she had in her entire life, Jess thought, feeling the sting of heat climb her neck. “Aren't those ordinarily part of the pay-per-view service?”

He cleared his throat, carefully set the remote aside and walked over toward the shower. “It's complimentary with the suite,” he said, his voice still a bit strangled.

She crossed her arms over her chest, nodded once. “Oh.”

He still hadn't looked at her. “Inspiration for the honeymooners, I reckon.”

She felt a droll smile curl her lips. “One would hope that honeymooners wouldn't need any inspiration.”

She certainly didn't. In fact, if she were any more
inspired
she'd be in serious danger of self-combustion. She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, tried to think of something besides how Griff would taste against her tongue, how he'd feel in her mouth. Her belly melted into a muddled mess and an achy heat swept through her loins, making her resist the urge to squirm. Her nipples beaded behind her bra, ruching into sensitive peaks that craved the rasp of his tongue, the warmth of his mouth. Her hands shook and she clasped them together to disguise the tremor.

He still hadn't turned around, was still pretending to look at the shower. He had a white-knuckled grip on the case and his shoulders were tight with tension. She caught his profile when he shifted and noted the immovable line of his jaw, the firm set of his lips.

Clearly, he was mortified, and her continued presence seemed to be compounding the issue. Rather than make things worse by prolonging the awkward porn discussion, she jerked her finger toward the bedroom and headed toward the door.

“I'm just going to go ahead and put my things away,” she said haltingly.

He nodded. “Excellent. I need to...uh, make sure this area is secure.”

Jess frowned. There was only one door and no windows, so she didn't know how it couldn't be “secure,” but inclined her head all the same.

How sweet that he embarrassed so easily, she thought with a small smile. He was truly one of a kind.

And he wanted her.

The only question that remained was...what was she going to do about it?

* * *

M
ONUMENTALLY
RELIEVED
THAT
she'd left the bathroom, Griff gritted his teeth and glanced helplessly at his crotch, willing the stubborn hard-on to recede. He'd been playing mind games with his dick for hours, conjuring images of gore from the last
Walking Dead
episode he'd seen in order to make the damn thing wilt every time it stirred into action. His gaze slid to the door Jess had just gone through.

And with her around—her succulent mouth, her sly misty-gray eyes, her lush breasts and mouthwatering ass—he'd spent more time thinking about putting a screwdriver through a zombie's eye than his job, which was a whole other problem.

But between the friggin' honeymoon suite—a room designed exclusively for sex, for God's sake—the baby-making music in the elevator, the horny teenagers rubbing all over each other, that huge-ass bed and the porn...

He'd just about reached the end of his rope.

And to think that he'd thought this trip was going to be simple. Easy, even.

He smothered a laugh, then pushed away from the shower glass and shoved an unsteady hand through his hair, scouring the lowest part of his soul for the last bit of his willpower. He needed to focus on something besides the thought of Jess's lovely mouth sucking him dry. Honestly, if he didn't know better, he'd be certain that someone was screwing with him, testing him, setting him up.

Ridiculous, he knew. He was just looking for an excuse, someone to blame—other than himself—for completely losing focus. But he'd never been one to pass the buck or shirk his responsibilities, and he damn sure wasn't going to start now.

He was, however, going to call Payne.

“I was hoping you'd call,” Payne said by way of greeting. “I'm assuming you've made it to the hotel without incident?”

“We have,” Griff confirmed. “We've only just arrived in our room, but I've been through it and am confident that it's not going to be easily breached. It also offers the best escape route, should we need to flee.”

Located on the northeast corner of the building, the sixteenth floor connected to the second tower of the hotel and provided a rapid service elevator to the kitchen, which opened into the parking garage. Though he hadn't timed it yet, he was certain they could be out of the hotel and into the SUV in less than two minutes, should the occasion arise.

“And the suite?” Payne asked. “I know it's not ideal, but I was assured there was a comfortable couch you could sleep on.”

“I'm not here to be comfortable,” Griff told him, which was a damn good thing since he was as friggin' uncomfortable as he could possibly get. “This is an ideal location and was the best choice for our purposes.”

“And Ms. Rossi? How's she holding up?”

Griff felt a grin turn his lips. “She's fine,” he said. “Doesn't seem the least bit worried.”

Which was as flattering as it was concerning. He had absolutely no intention of letting the Owl steal her father's work, but he sincerely hoped her unwavering faith in his ability wasn't misplaced. This wasn't just any old ordinary thief after any old ordinary bra. This was a notorious professional who'd lifted items worth a whole helluva lot more than this two-and-a-half-million-dollar bra.

Regardless, the guy would have to pry it out of Griff's cold dead hands before he'd let him take it.