Aftershocks

“But…but the prosti—the woman involved. Surely she’ll testify on your behalf.”

“She might, if she hadn’t died more than five years ago. She was a drunk. Drove her car off the road.” He laughed mirthlessly. “They set me up pretty good.”

“This isn’t right, Uncle Cecil. There must be something we can do to stop this injustice. Tell me. I’ll do anything.”

At the time, she’d had in mind letters to congress to initiate some kind of internal inquiry within the Courage Bay police department, getting the media involved, but her uncle stopped her. “I’ll only make a fool of myself if I try to fight these boys. No. I’ll never be mayor now.” He sighed heavily and in that moment she knew how much becoming mayor had meant to him. “But revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. Your support means the world to me, honey. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

And two months ago he’d done just that. Patrick O’Shea, the man who’d beaten her uncle by a landslide at the polls, needed a new administrative assistant. Her uncle was chuckling with glee at his perfect plan to arrange for the new mayor to be forced to resign for the same reasons as the former mayor. “As soon as he makes a pass at my beautiful niece, we’ve got him.”

Although Briana was happy to do almost anything for her uncle, she wasn’t at all keen on the idea of tempting a man sexually to destroy his political career. “I’m a feminist, Uncle Cecil. This sounds like something from the fifties.”

“Darling girl, I’m not asking you to seduce him. If he’s the moral saint he pretends to be, then nothing will happen. You’ll do the job, I’ll naturally make up the salary difference between your current salary and this one, and in, say, six months, if he hasn’t acted inappropriately or made a pass at you, then we drop it.”

Briana hadn’t felt nearly as confident. But she did want to help her uncle, and she’d wanted to move to California, where she felt there were better employment opportunities, for a long time. “And if he does make a pass?”

“We’ll have the tape to the media faster than you can say Monica Lewinsky.”

“I’ve always pictured myself more as the Hillary Clinton type.”

“Of course. You’re bright and ambitious. You’ll go places. But I know you’re also deeply concerned about justice, and hate dirty politics. I’m offering you a chance to see justice done, and one ugly political wrong put right.”

She bit her lip. She didn’t like the plan. Didn’t want to bring a man down. But she owed her uncle her loyalty. And he was right about her love of justice. Besides, if her new boss was an honorable man, he wouldn’t make a pass at a female employee.

But if Patrick O’Shea was an honorable man, he never would have faked evidence against a decent, good person like her uncle. She’d do what her uncle asked in the name of justice and family loyalty, help clear up some civic corruption and then move on. With her work record, glowing letters of recommendation from former employers and an honors degree in government studies, she wouldn’t have much trouble obtaining a challenging position, maybe in Los Angeles or Sacramento. Reluctantly, she agreed to Uncle Cecil’s plan.

Briana hadn’t been thrilled about the part she was to play before she arrived in Courage Bay and interviewed for the job, but she was even less happy when she met Patrick O’Shea and felt her mouth go dry.

The man was gorgeous in an understated, rugged, pick-a-woman-up-and-carry-her-across-a-raging-river kind of way. He had black hair with a few silver strands beginning to show, and Irish blue eyes that could twinkle with amusement or turn a hard, cold pewter when there was trouble. When he gazed at her, his eyes darkened in intensity. He might not say anything, but she knew what he was thinking. She didn’t think seducing him would be much of a trial.

Men came on to her all the time. It was something she’d been used to since she was a teenager. With her Nordic genes and statuesque body, she was accustomed to male attention. However, it was unusual for her to respond as forcefully as she did to Patrick O’Shea. She was only sorry that someone she found so attractive should be so corrupt.

Of course, whatever his standards, she considered herself a woman of integrity. She wouldn’t make the first move. It was up to him. But her tape recorder was always in her purse and the batteries fresh.

She’d discovered in the first week of working for the mayor that when he was out of the office, he sometimes made notes into a small personal recorder. Periodically, he’d give her the recorder and ask her to transcribe his notes, which ranged from budget issues to ideas for future speeches.

The recorder was common enough, and by the second week of her employment, she owned an identical one. She reasoned that if Patrick ever caught sight of hers, he’d naturally think it was his own. Not that she intended for him to notice she had a tape recorder, but she believed in covering all her bases.

In two months, nothing had happened.

Nothing that you could put on tape, anyway. Things like sizzling eye contact. A sudden rise in air temperature that had nothing to do with a faulty air conditioner. And a longing deep inside her that was as rare as it was potent.

Briana had never found herself in a worse predicament. She wanted Patrick O’Shea. She wanted to run her fingers over the rugged planes of his face, trace the shape of his ears, the scar that bisected one eyebrow.

Even though his next birthday would be his fortieth, he still had the lean hard body of an active firefighter. She knew he trained frequently at the gym with the guys from his former station.

She wanted to touch that powerfully built body. She had fantasies of coming together with him naked. Fantasies that shamed her because he was her boss and it was inappropriate for her to think about having sex with him.

The curse of her situation was that if he did make a pass, she’d know he was as hot for her as she was for him.

And if he made a pass, she’d also know that he was a hypocrite. A man who would make sexual overtures to a female employee after promising to act with squeaky clean ethics was beneath contempt.

But now here they were, in this dark elevator, and it was Briana’s body, not her brain, that was in charge. Still thrumming with adrenaline after their brush with death, she suddenly didn’t care much about ethics or campaign promises.

As his lips crushed hers, Briana responded helplessly, even as she wished deep down that Patrick had turned out to be a better man.

Five minutes. She’d give him five minutes. Enough time to get some moaning and groaning recorded. If he was like every other man she’d ever kissed, he’d try to get her out of her clothes.

She’d say no.

He’d beg her for sex.

And she’d have him. On tape.

The man is a hypocrite and a liar, she reminded herself as Patrick’s lips found her throat and she tipped her chin to give him better access.

Five minutes. She traced the shape of his eyebrow, noting the indent of his scar, then let her hands roam his face, his shoulders. His arousal strained against her, hard, seeking her softest parts, and she couldn’t stop the rush of longing.

Stuck there in the dark, suspended between floors was like being caught between reality and fantasy.

Patrick O’Shea was a bad man.

She knew it. He’d destroyed her uncle’s chances of ever becoming mayor of the town he’d served for a quarter of a century. Now, the minute they were stuck in an elevator together, he was jumping her bones. Intellectually, she knew he was a hypocrite and a liar. But the trouble was, her body didn’t care. Her flesh and blood responded to him in a purely physical sense that had nothing to do with morals or ethics, elections or earthquakes.

Well, earthquakes maybe, in their crudest “the earth moved” definition.

“I want you so much,” he murmured against her neck.

Damn. Too soft for the tape recorder.

Her breathing shallow, she raised her head and spoke as clearly as she could. “What did you say?”

“I want you so much, Briana,” he repeated. “I want to make love with you.”

“Yes,” she said, not certain whether she meant yes as in Yes! I got it on tape, or Yes! He wants me, he wants me.

Patrick seemed to take it as Yes, she wants me. He went back to kissing her neck, which was fine, because she did want him. More than she ever remembered wanting anything.

He made it to the base of her throat, and she found herself arching up to give him easier access to her breasts.

His hands, so capable and strong, cupped her breasts with hot abandon, surprising a moan out of her.

As though impatient to reach bare skin—and he couldn’t be more impatient for it than she was—he plunged a hand into the vee of her blouse, then cursed in frustration.

“Buttons,” she cried, desperate to feel his hands on her. She’d have undone them herself, but her arms were supporting her and they trembled beneath her.

He made such clumsy work of her buttons that Briana realized he was shaking as badly as she was.

The tape, she recalled dimly. It would be impossible to register what he was doing on tape.

“Are you taking off my blouse?”

A low chuckle answered her. “I’m trying, but damn it, I’m out of practice.”

That blunt admission gave her pause. Of course, she knew he’d been a widower for three years, but surely…He was a man. He must have…

Anyway, none of that mattered. What mattered was getting him to incriminate himself on tape so she could do her buttons back up and be done with this unpleasant task of entrapping a man she’d grown to like.

Even if her judgment was suspect, she did like him. She wanted to get this over with. Record the incident. Get out of here alive. Give the tape to her uncle and leave town.

Playing this devious undercover game was no fun. She’d discovered within hours of meeting Patrick that she wasn’t cut out for entrapment. She liked plain dealing and honesty. He might be a lying, devious career-destroyer, but at this moment, so was she, no matter how she tried to justify her actions.

Mentally, she reviewed the tape. There’d be kissing sounds, heavy breathing, Patrick admitting he wanted her…

That would have to be enough. She couldn’t do this anymore.

She opened her mouth to stop him but at the same moment he managed to unsnap her bra. In the dark, her nipples tightened, then she gasped as his hot tongue slid across her aching flesh.

“Oh,” she cried, her entire body shuddering. “That feels so good.”

His tongue curled around one nipple and he sucked the tip of her breast right into his mouth. He was so greedy, so eager, and his obvious delight in her thrilled her more than any refined technique.

From one breast to the other he moved eagerly, as though he’d been in prison for years and had only now rediscovered women.

He was panting, she was panting. The tape must be moving into R-rated territory.

His hand was working its way under her skirt. She was supposed to stop him, she had to say…

“No.”

The word was a piteous groan, and Briana realized it hadn’t come from her.

“God, Briana, I’m sorry.” It was Patrick who’d spoken.

“No?” She felt stunned, rejected. “What do you mean, no?”

He stroked her hair, touched her cheek.

“I want to make love to you right now, more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But—”

“No buts.” Her body burned for him, her flesh felt as though steam must be rising from it. They’d obviously denied the powerful attraction of each other’s pheromones for too long.

She kissed him, hard and deep, teasing his lips with her tongue, the sensations so much stronger in the dark.

“But I—”

A finger across his lips silenced him. “I believe in fate,” she told him. “Fate stuck us in this elevator and turned out the lights. What happens tomorrow doesn’t matter. Hell, Patrick, we almost didn’t have a tomorrow.”

“I know, but—”

“I don’t want to think about how long we’re going to be trapped here. I don’t want to think about how awful it would be to develop claustrophobia in the next ten minutes. The best way to fight boredom and fear is to occupy your mind.”

“You think?” Reluctant humor threaded his tone.

“I know.” She smiled in the dark, smug, knowing she’d won.

“I…You’re still a female employee.”

She loosened his tie. “So fire me.”

That surprised laughter out of him. She felt it rumble up his throat beneath her fingers. “Fire you? You’re phenomenal. Competent, smart, hardworking. Hell, why would I fire you?”

“So we can have sex. It’s temporary. You can rehire me whenever we get out of here.”

There was a long pause, and she could almost hear him thinking. She held her breath. She hadn’t been entirely joking about needing to take her mind off their current situation.

She wasn’t claustrophobic, but she knew that Patrick was keeping her thoughts and feelings more pleasantly engaged. As it was, the reality of being trapped in a warm black box tickled the edges of her mind. And that box was hanging from a cable that had sustained a major earthquake and some hefty aftershocks in the past month. Who knew how long it would hold?

No. She needed a distraction. And sex with Patrick was about the best damn distraction she could imagine.

“Briana?”

“Yes?”

“You’re fired.”

A great rush of pent-up breath left her chest, and the next second she wished she’d saved a little, for Patrick was kissing the life out of her.

Somehow she was on her back, the elevator tile hard beneath her spine, but as for the rest of her…oh my. Now that Patrick had let himself go, he was all over her.

He kissed her hungrily while his hands roamed everywhere. She heard a small tear and then the bounce of a plastic button on the tile.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice so husky with passion she barely recognized it.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, loving his eagerness, finding the clumsiness endearing. He was so gorgeous and confident it hadn’t occurred to her that his technique would be less than smooth.

Then his mouth found her breast again and she put all rational thought away.

“Oh, yes.” Her body arched beneath him.

His hand was warm, slightly leathery as it slid beneath her skirt and trailed up, up to where she was so very hot.

Even as he cupped her through her panties, she felt everything tighten, all those wonderfully concentrated sensation centers started tuning up ready to sing.

Her blouse was open, her bra gaping, but he was still dressed. She attacked his buttons with barely more finesse than he’d shown. She wanted to feel his naked skin against hers. Wanted the warm roughness against her sensitive skin.

She got the buttons out of the way and parted his shirt, running her hands over the strong muscular planes of his stomach, the bulge of his pecs, lightly fuzzed with hair.

She pulled him to her, rubbing against him like a cat against a favorite couch. He was fuzzy, warm, strong and so very alive.

His fingers slipped inside her panties and she jerked her hips up against him, begging wordlessly and shamelessly to be touched.

As his fingers played over her, she began to sigh, her breath coming in panting gasps.

“I want you inside me,” she cried.

His fingers slowed and he kissed her softly. “I don’t have anything with me.”

“Hmm?” she murmured, feeling slightly muzzy.

“Protection. Condoms. I don’t—”

“Oh. Right.” She was on the pill, but still, a condom was sensible. That’s why she always carried a few. “I think I have some in my purse.” Once again she dug around in her bag.

Briana wasn’t a promiscuous woman, but she believed in being prepared. She had a discreet little zip-up bag in blue Chinese silk in there somewhere.

Trouble was, a woman as prepared as she was tended to have a lot of other junk filling her bag, as well. Cell phone…she paused with her hand on it. She could at least try to phone out, maybe get them rescued sooner. But then she’d miss her chance to make love with Patrick, and right now her body’s urges were overpowering her common sense ten to one.

She dug deeper, fingertips searching for the touch of silk. She felt the tape recorder. Once again her hand stilled. Oh, lord. She’d forgotten all about the tape. She bit her lip in the dark. She should turn it off. After all, Patrick had fired her temporarily so they could avoid any hint of scandal.

But…

She’d think about that later. She could always erase the tape.

She kept digging, feeling Patrick’s breath on her belly, his hands roving with growing confidence, warm and sure as they drove her slowly, but inevitably higher.

He put his mouth on her nipple and she drew in a sharp breath. Longing rippled through her. She couldn’t hang on much longer.

Silk. Purse. There it was, right at the bottom. She pulled it out, along with a travel pack of tissues, and handed it to him.

She heard the zip as he opened the silk pouch. Then she heard the rustle of plastic tearing.

“What the—”

“What is it?” Briana asked.

“I know I’m out of practice, but have condoms changed?” He sounded not only puzzled but mildly grossed out.

“What are you—”

He shoved the small package in her hand and she felt inside. At first she registered only confusion as her fingers touched something soft, wet and cold. Then the spring-fresh scent hit her and she giggled. “That’s not a condom. It’s a travel wipe.”

A pause. Even in the dark she felt him staring at her.

“You’re kidding me.”

She stifled another giggle. He sounded amazed and put out at the same time. “I keep them in the same bag. I like to be prepared.”

“You got cigarettes and brandy in there for afterward?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” she teased, digging in to the silk pouch and identifying a packet that definitely contained a condom. “Here.”

This time the ripping sound was much slower, and she could tell he was examining the condom before withdrawing it from its package.

He must have been satisfied, for she felt a movement beside her that suggested he was putting it on.

It was so dark, and he felt so good, she wouldn’t think about tomorrow—or even tonight, after they were rescued.

There was only now. Her body yearned for him, open and wanting, their isolation only increasing the sense of intimacy and mystery.

Because there was no light, she learned his body by touch, as he learned hers.

Darkness, she discovered, was a potent aphrodisiac.

CHAPTER THREE

PATRICK KNEW that as long as he lived, he’d never forget this night.

The dream that had haunted him for two months since Briana walked into his office was turning into a reality. She was so warm and soft, womanly and exciting, so exactly as he’d imagined.

She smelled like fresh rain, felt like soft velvet, and her skin tasted like warm, willing woman. With a rush of potent longing he wanted to taste all of her. But right at this moment he needed to bury himself deep inside her body more than he needed to breathe.

And she was begging him to do exactly that.

“Please…” Her voice was trembling with excitement. “Come inside me. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Whatever the lady wants,” he said softly, settling between her thighs.

He kissed her deeply. He wanted her to know what this meant to him, what she meant to him.

“Briana, I—”

“Now, please.” She grasped his shaft and placed him at the hot slick entrance to her body.

Raw need took hold of him and he thrust hard and deep into heaven.

Her wordless cry of pleasure filled his ears, her warmth surrounded him, her scent delighted him as he thrust, wishing he could prolong this sensual buildup forever, knowing he’d be done in an embarrassingly short time.

It had been so long.

As her body arched to meet him, as she thrashed mindlessly against him, he slipped a hand between their bodies and touched her. The timbre of her cries changed, becoming deeper, more guttural. Knowing she was close, he let himself go a little more, riding her hard, loving the way she hooked her legs around him and stayed with him all the way.

He felt the moment she surrendered, felt her body clench around his shaft, and he lost his own control, feeling the surge of powerful pleasure as he emptied himself into her.

Then he collapsed, damp and spent against her, and she wrapped her arms around him and stroked his hair.

Finally, he thought dimly, after two months of torment. Finally.

He kissed her softly, thinking he’d never ride this elevator again without remembering….

Along with an awkwardness that his knees felt bruised from rubbing on the hard floor of the elevator came a reminder of his responsibilities. His first thought was for his kids. Had they been scared? He wished he’d been there when the ground started to shake. At least he had a reliable housekeeper. Then he turned his mind to the emergency crews. What was going on in his city while he was stuck in this dangling box?

PATRICK GLANCED at his watch. Even in the dark, Briana knew what he was doing. She could see the pale green numbers glowing in the dark. Did he want to be rid of her already?

An hour or so ago, when they’d rebuttoned themselves, he’d tried the emergency phone installed in the elevator, but it wasn’t working. He’d cursed, frustration coming off him in waves, and she’d thought to herself, Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

Since then, they’d sat side by side on the hard floor. He’d become fidgety and morose. He checked his watch again. She felt his impatience, heard it echo around in the dark elevator as his feet tapped the floor.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Hmm?” For the third time he turned his wrist to stare at his watch.

“Ten-fifteen.” His breath exploded out of him. “The baby-sitter is expecting me home. What’s she going to do when I don’t show up?”

Since that was obviously a rhetorical question, she didn’t answer directly. Instead, she reached out, touching his arm in a comforting gesture.

He wasn’t acting this way because he wanted to be rid of her now they’d had sex. Patrick was a single dad. A fact that she’d allowed herself to forget. He had responsibilities, children who needed him home.

She hung her head, knowing he couldn’t see her guilty face in the dark. Inside her bag was her cell phone—a fact she hadn’t bothered sharing with him because she’d been so busy trying to lure him into indiscretion.

She had a choice.

She could continue to pretend there was no phone in her bag.

Or she could admit to the phone, hoping her acting abilities were good enough that he’d believe she’d forgotten the stupid thing or simply assumed it wouldn’t work.

A long, silent minute ensued. She felt his urgency and her own conflicted feelings.

But most of all, she found herself remembering how it felt to be parentless. That sense of utter desolation—that you didn’t belong to anyone anymore. That the place where you were safest and most special was gone forever, along with those who’d loved you best.

Patrick’s son, Dylan, was nine, little Fiona five. She’d met them a couple of times at the office and she’d liked them. They were quiet, well-behaved kids. Both times they’d come with their Aunt Shannon, Patrick’s firefighter sister, and the four of them had gone out for lunch. She could see that lunch with Dad was a big treat.

They must have been so young when their mother died.

She took a deep breath. He was never going to believe she’d forgotten she had her phone. She’d have to go with the brainless angle, which irked her.

“Is there a chance my cell phone would work?” she asked simply.

The silence thickened. “You have a cell phone on you?”

“In my bag. Yes.”