A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(41)

“I do.”

Oh, those words.

“And I do, too, baby.” I want to reach for her, pull her into my arms and hold her forever. The space between us narrows, emotion deepening.

“Come here,” she beckons, her good hand patting the space on the bed. She shifts as much as she can, then wipes her tears from her face, wincing. “Be close to me. Be as close as you can.”

I comply. That’s the best order anyone has ever given me.

And good soldiers obey good orders.

Awkward and clumsy, we twist and turn, trying to find a good way to be in each other’s arms. She snort-giggles, I sigh in frustration, and our faces bump against each other, the lightest brush of nose against nose, until suddenly I’m tasting her, and Lindsay’s good hand is on my jacket lapel, clutching it hard.

No kiss has ever been so needed. No kiss has ever tasted so divine. No kiss has ever bridged so many miles, too many traumas. I want to let her lead the way but desire clings to me like her hand and I give in. My body moves against hers. She’s pressing into me, her mouth eager but careful. Soon we’re lost in the swirling vortex of each other. Giving in to the dizzy divine is a relief.

No restraint.

No walls.

No shields.

Just us.

Lindsay pulls back with a tiny cry and holds her fingers up to her swollen lip. Her eyes are an apology. “Sorry. It split.” She gives me a crooked grin, then just looks at me with raw tenderness, vulnerable and real. I hate the torn lip. I hate the bruises. I hate that her face looks like a calico cat, orange and yellow, mottled – yet her eyes glow with an alert love that I hope I’m sending back to her, amplified.

I brush her hair off her forehead and smile right back, blood racing, heart strong and true.

“She’s back,” I whisper, low and sincere. “Lindsay really is back.”





Chapter 16





Drew



Lindsay and I are standing outside Harry’s office, about to go in for the monster of all debriefings. So is Monica, along with Silas and Mark Paulson. The hospital discharged Lindsay yesterday and we spent a quiet night at her house. Monica and Harry were in D.C. I slept in Lindsay’s bed, just holding her.

Neither one of us had nightmares.

Harry’s public relations strategist, Marshall, is in the meeting. And, of course, two guys with faces made of putty who could be anyone and no one at the blink of an eye.

Lindsay reaches for my hand for support – needing it, offering it? Who cares? The difference doesn’t matter. She eyes a tray of pastries in front of Monica.

We walk into the room, all eyes on our linked hands. I don’t blame them. Between my broken finger and Lindsay’s sling, we’re a sight.

The first person I stare at is Marshall.

He looks away.

Not a single piece of paper is in the room. The curtains are drawn, and Marshall has a projector with a USB drive attached to it. Silas will be given the USB drive after this meeting, then he’ll be put on a plane for D.C.

Nothing we’re learning isn’t common knowledge to a certain level of insiders in power.

But just in case...

Mark and I share a look that is nonverbal bureau-speak.

We’ll talk later. He’s already explained most of the basics to me behind the scenes. So basic there’s really just one concept to remember: I was set up. Disentangling that will be a mess, but it’s a manageable mess, especially with his help.

Lindsay and I settle into our seats. Her fingers entwine in mine, our hands resting on my right thigh. Her bad arm is in a sling, the bullet doing its damage but nature taking its course. Young and strong, in great shape and determined, Lindsay will have a full recovery. The doctors said so.

And I’ll make sure it happens.

On her right sits her mother, who is as stone faced as the woman can get. It’s anger, not Botox, driving the look.

“Let’s start. Anya has cleared my schedule -- ”

Monica shoots Harry a nasty look.

He seems bewildered, blindsided, like a little boy who can’t find his pet. “Er, I mean Celia, my new assistant, has cleared my schedule for as long as this meeting takes.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “And I suspect that will be a very long time.”

“Let’s hear Marshall first. I’ll fill in the details afterward, and Paulson and Gentian can give more, too,” I reply.

“What about Jane?” Lindsay asks. “She should be here.”

“That conniving little liar?” Monica huffs. “Absolutely not.” Monica wears an all-cream suit with a pleated wool skirt, gold piping matching her earrings, bracelets and necklace. Her hair has recently been colored, the cut and style capable of remaining intact in an F5 tornado.

She looks like a wall of anger.

“I suggested it. She’s been cleared of everything but hacking charges, and once she testifies against Nolan Corning and his minions, she’ll be cleared,” Marshall says, to my surprise. I have to give him a sliver of grudging credit.

A sliver.

“It wasn’t her fault. Wasn’t Anya’s, either,” Lindsay says, her voice trailing off as she frowns, clearly still processing the emotional fallout.

Monica reaches for Lindsay’s good shoulder, eyes blazing in contrast to the compassion in her voice. “You’re very kind to worry about your friend, but she betrayed you. Double-crossed everyone. Put your father’s campaign in jeopardy and your life in danger.”