As for right now, Ryan just shook his head. “No,” he assured his friend. “We’re keeping this close and aboveboard. Randall Cartwright’s dead. The will’s been probated, and that’s public record. Harder to get on a weekend, but not impossible or illegal. If it turns out that we have to dig deeper and cross lines, I’ll see if Quince can fly over or make a few calls.” A former MI6 operative, Quince had been one of the first agents recruited to the SSA. If strings needed to be tugged, he’d know how to do it.
“Sounds good.”
“Buzz me when you know something,” Ryan added, then headed out while Baxter picked up his own phone to start making more calls.
The mention of Quince, however, stuck in Ryan’s brain. As it stood, if Felicia no-showed again, they’d only be able to get in touch if she initiated it.
Unless…
He wondered if Quince could get MI6 to utilize facial recognition software in real time via the traffic cams. It was doubtful they’d be given permission—that would be a hell of a drain on the system—but they could possibly hack in.
He shook his head. He was frustrated and leaping to places he had no business leaping. Not yet. Not until he had a better understanding of what was going on. And why.
Right now, he had to deal with the fact that they were at an impasse. And as he rode up to the penthouse, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he was going to see Jamie, get some lunch, and then head back down at one to, hopefully, meet Felicia.
The Do Not Disturb light was still engaged, and he pressed his keycard to the lock and entered. The place was dead silent, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d told Jamie not to move. And Jamie was very good at following directions.
He smiled to himself as he corrected that thought—when she wanted to be.
He tossed his jacket on the back of the sofa, ripped off his tie, and started to unbutton his shirt. “Have you been a good girl, Kitten?”
Christ, he was already hard and he wasn’t even to the bedroom door yet. Just the anticipation of seeing her like that. Facedown, spread-eagled and wet for him. Knowing that she’d waited. Knowing that she wanted.
He cupped his hand over his cock, now stiff beneath his trousers, then stroked slowly as he crossed to the door. He wanted to open it, then lean against the doorway and tease her with his voice while he took them both almost to the precipice. Then he’d take her from behind, holding her by the waist as he buried himself deep inside her.
“Christ, Kitten,” he murmured. “What you do to me.”
He paused outside the closed door. “Tell me you want me, Kitten. If you want me to fuck you, I want to hear you say it.” He increased the pressure of his hand over his cock, anticipating her words.
Except there were no words.
“Kitten?” He frowned, then called out more loudly, “Jamie. I’m back.”
Still nothing. He pushed open the door and saw that she’d turned over onto her back.
But it was the tiny trickle of drool on her stagnant face that had him bursting forward with a terror-filled cry of, “Jamie!”
Chapter Thirteen
“Jamie!”
The sharp edge of Ryan’s voice pulls me from the thick molasses of sleep in which I’m currently wrapped.
“Jamie, dammit, wake up!”
I shiver, suddenly cold despite the weight of a blanket on me. I’m aware that my back is pressed against the mattress and that is totally against the rules. I try to sit up, jolted into action by the shock of that realization.
Try, yes. But I don’t succeed. Instead, it seems as if the blanket is made of lead. I can’t seem to make my body do anything. I can’t even open my eyes. All I’m aware of is the yellow-gold glow of a light shining down on my still-closed lids.
“Ryan.” My mouth is like cotton, and I’m not sure if I’ve even spoken his name. I try to peel my eyes open, but it’s as if they are glued shut. I want to lift my hand so that I can use my fingers to aid my waking, but I can’t even manage that.
“Fuck, shit, goddammit.” There’s panic in his voice—more than I’ve ever heard—and fear rushes through me, the adrenaline forcing my eyes open.
“Ryan?”
He’s standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes on his phone as he sends a text, his expression tense and tight with worry. He doesn’t react at all to his name, and that’s when I realize I haven’t said a single word aloud.
I concentrate, then try again.
“Ryan.”
My throat feels like sandpaper and his name comes out low and cracked and broken.
Immediately, he tosses the phone onto the foot of the bed and hurries to my side. “Jamie.” He cups my face with his palm, his voice and his expression reflecting both love and terror.
I try to prop myself up, my heart beating faster with a rising panic, but my muscles still aren’t working properly. “What’s—?”
“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
His words sound like an order rather than a statement, and they do nothing to quell my fear.
He must realize that he’s not soothing me, because he draws in a breath. “I’m sorry. I just—when I came in and saw you. And then you didn’t wake up even though I kept calling your name and shaking you. Christ, Jamie, can you tell me what happened?”
Now I’m totally confused. “What happened?” My voice is still rough, and he slides off the bed, then hurries to get a bottle of water from the small fridge, ignoring the glass on the table beside the bed. He brings it to me, then helps me sit up enough to swallow.
“I’m okay,” I say as he starts to lay me back down. “Just help me scoot back. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”
His brow furrows as if he’s confused, then he sits at the edge of the bed and strokes my hair with one hand as he clutches my fingers with his other. “Kitten, baby, tell me what you remember.”
“I did what you said. Facedown on the bed, waiting. I didn’t move,” I assure him.
A muscle twitches in his cheek. “So you didn’t turn over?”
“You made me promise, so I didn’t. And then when you spanked me, I thought—” I trail off, managing a pathetic shrug. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. I promise it wasn’t you.” I offer a small smile. He knows damn well there’s nothing about him or his touch that I find sleep inducing.
I expect him to smile in return. Instead, I see a fire in his eyes. And it’s not of a passionate nature.
I shift some more, managing to sit up even straighter. “Ryan, what’s—?”
But my question is cut off by a loud rap at the door that makes me jump.
“Come in!” Ryan calls.
I hear the snick of the lock and immediately wonder who the hell else has access to our suite. That thought leads to another, but not one I can quite wrap my head around. Just a rising sense of dread. As if there’s something bad happening—something horrible and close—and yet I can’t quite see it, much less run from it.
“Dustin, thank God. This is my wife, Jamie Hunter. Jamie, this is Dr. Dustin Fields. He’s one of the doctors on call for the hotel.”