Facing Fear

A
martini at lunch. Preferably alone. Classified files on everyone. Tabs on women he slept with. Dark navy business suit and black tie. A briefcase of papers. And the careful suspicion of everyone working under him.

Ricardo Harden had become what he hated most in life—A bureaucrat. Worse, a bureaucrat who followed the rules, shoved all the right papers, dotted his
i
’s and crossed his
t
’s. He was getting gray from just the drabness of his existence, and if he would just take that final step, he’d stop jogging five miles every other morning and let his body turn into what he was in real life.

And now, despite walking the straight and narrow line of red tape, he had become the object of suspicion. Again. Internal Investigations, the self-governing arm of covert activities in the government, had all but officially put him in the crosshairs. It wasn’t stated in the front page article in today’s newspaper, but he could read between the lines.

Rick stepped out of the shower, wiped the excess water from his wet body, and threw the towel into the hamper. He strode nude out of the bathroom, picking up the newspaper and small plastic bag on the antique stand. His body ached happily because he had forced another three miles on it this morning. His legs, toned from years of running, felt bulkier and heavier as each group of muscles came into play when he climbed the small staircase that led into his bedroom in the tri-level apartment.

There were two rooms up the short flight of steps. One was the master bedroom. The other was his office, which was always locked. And as he had every day in his life for the past ten years, Rick checked his office door, making sure nothing was touched. Satisfied that the safeguards were still there, untampered with, he turned to his room.

It was still silken dark inside, the other occupant in his bed fast asleep. He walked over to the window and drew the shades open, letting in the morning light. His companion from the night before frowned and turned away from the source, giving him a view of her naked back.

Rick stood over the bed and watched her for a long moment. He must have been in a strange mood last night. He hadn’t had sex four times in a night in Lord knew how many years, but he had been hard all night. Hard and wanting, and needing something. His companion had loved it, but he felt empty. Because what he was looking for didn’t come with sex.

He blamed it on work. His lips twisted. Well, not work exactly, since he couldn’t work with the Big Scandal getting bigger every day. David Gorman, the deputy director of Task Force Two, had been caught selling classified information to the enemy and Rick knew it wouldn’t be long before Internal Investigations came after him. He was Gorman’s operations chief after all, though no one would have ever guessed that Gorman was his enemy, that he had been living a lie the past ten years.

Last night Rick had gone out to relax, to celebrate having an old enemy finally out of his hair, and who did he spy sitting in the best seats of the opera house but reminders of what a failure he had been. Steve McMillan and Cameron Candeloro, the two heroes of the department, the ones who had taken down Gorman. Rick couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy at the happiness radiating from the two men sitting down with their female companions, so satisfied with life and what it had to offer.

Of course, they had to be attending an opera called
Turandot
, about a cold-hearted princess who schemed to put her
men to death. The happy ending was so obviously manufactured that Rick didn’t even bother to consider it part of the story. In true life, he knew, Princess Turandot wouldn’t have succumbed to love. She would happily send that suitor to his death for being so stupid and generous with his heart.

But he saw Steve McMillan caressing Marlena Maxwell’s back as they walked off in the lobby, saw the way she smiled up at him when he pressed a kiss on her forehead. He saw how Cameron danced attendance on his girlfriend. Rick had smiled bitterly. What love could do to a man.

Something dark and needy had risen inside him then. Something forbidden. He had crushed it down with ruthless practice, but knew he needed to give it an outlet.

The pale flesh of the woman on his bed caught his attention. Sex. Hard, calculating sex. The kind that was all taking and not giving.

He had taken his companion here to his place and given in to that part of him that was always locked up. She hadn’t protested, and he would have kept going all night long if he hadn’t run out of condoms. No, he was more careful than that. Animal desire was one thing. Getting carried away was another. And he never, ever, got carried away. Not anymore.

He sat down on the bed, contemplating whether to wake his sleeping companion. He shrugged, then slid a hand down her bare back, under the covers, and between her legs. She was still sticky wet from the night before.

She moaned and turned around, squinting against the morning light. “Richard?” she murmured sleepily, then smiled. Rick knew she thought it was something to do with her, this sudden insatiable side of him. “Hmm, no more condoms, remember? I can’t believe you’re ready again.”

He didn’t bother to tell her that it wasn’t she, that after this, he probably wouldn’t ask her out again. She knew his reputation when they had started down this road—they all did. To the women, he was Dick Hard-On, and no one could get more from him than sex.

“I bought a new box on the way back from jogging,” he said, tossing the plastic bag on the pillow next to her. He
spread her legs apart, moving his fingers skillfully, letting her know it was time to wake up, whether she wanted to or not. One thing he had never relinquished from his past training was this—sex on demand. He easily found her weakness—deep inside her—and had her moaning in seconds.

Hard, punishing sex. He closed his eyes and let the sexual animal in him take over. She quivered under him, her sensual urging turning into screams, and then low, breathless moans. His bedsheets turned damp as she helplessly gave him total control of her body. He made sure she lost consciousness at least twice from prolonged pleasure. He was good at that.

It gave him satisfaction that he was in control of the situation during sex, that she couldn’t fight him, even if she wanted to. That she didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t even think of doing anything while he was doing this to her. That she didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t dream of killing him, if that was part of her seduction plans. Because he was doing something to her that no woman could resist. He was giving her total, mind-blowing sexual satisfaction.

She lay there, eyes closed, her breath coming out in hiccups, but he was far from finished. He still wanted. He still needed. And if it took all weekend to stamp out the emptiness inside, he would keep her here in his bedroom. That was why he had bought the biggest box of condoms he had ever seen. Just in case.

She moaned but didn’t protest when he slipped a small metal ball inside her, taking a moment to find the spot. He pulled on the attached cord and turned the switch on. Her prone body came alive, and she jerked up with a little scream.

Rick pushed her down as he mounted her. He reached for the box of condoms. The woman scratched his chest violently as she climaxed. He ignored the pain, turning the switch to high. She stopped scratching, lost in her own swirling world. Then, and only then, did Rick thrust into her body to ride the waves. Because he was sure she was out of it, and not a danger to him. His breathing came faster. He moved in tandem with the hum in the room, but was still unable to truly let go.

A whole weekend. Maybe he would tire himself out, and when he returned to work on Monday, he would be himself again.

Dick Hard-On. Sans heart. Sans conscience. And as all his men said behind his back, a total prick.

He escorted her to the elevator on Sunday night. She hadn’t brought any of her work clothes and had to leave him. He didn’t mind. She was leaving in good spirits, and he was in a generous enough mood not to spoil it with his own dark one. He watched as she sashayed before him, stopping in front of the lift. His silent sigh was self-directed. She was curvy and sexy, and could actually hold an intelligent conversation. Plus she was good in bed. But she wasn’t the one either.

The elevator door opened, and there were three occupants inside. Out of habit he checked them out, even as his companion turned and threw her arms around his neck for a goodbye kiss.

“Call me,” she murmured in his ear, her voice huskier than normal. “Soon.”

He allowed a quirk on his lips. Still looking straight into the lift, he lied, “Yes.”

He frowned a little as the door closed with a quiet swish. Two tall men and a short woman he couldn’t see standing behind them. At least, until they parted a little to make room for the new arrival. Before the door slid shut, he thought he had seen a ghost peering back at him with gleaming dark eyes.

Washington, D.C., Monday morning TIARA Task Force Two, Office of Operations Chief

Rick reread the new orders that had come down for TIARA. There was going to be a major revamp of the department. He had expected that. With the Gorman scandal, and without a department director, change at TIARA was imminent. He reread the article from the day’s paper and compared the information in his memo and the piece. At least
they had one thing in common: Gorman, former deputy director of Tactical Intelligence and Related Activities, was being charged for expanding on the meaning of “related activities” in the most traitorous way.

Rick swallowed down a harsh smile. All these years under the man who had given him a permanent black mark in his records, all this time being held back from any worthwhile promotion because the man’s recommendations were always accompanied by this one fatal black mark, and for what? Gorman’s downfall only emphasized how far Rick had fallen. He had been so beaten into the bureaucratic mold of conforming to rules and regulations that he had missed the most important thing happening under his nose. That Gorman had deliberately chosen men like him to work in Task Force Two was a bitter pill to swallow.

But swallow he must. He already had to apologize twice to people he didn’t even like. Steve McMillan and Marlena Maxwell. He owed them that at least, for not being the team leader he should have been to his men, allowing his personal past to cloud his judgment. Then there was Admiral Jack Madison, Steve’s SEAL commander. Rick had to formally apologize for all the leaks that came from TIARA, costing the admiral the lives of his men during covert activities. The admiral depended on TIARA for Intel before instructing his highly covert teams into action, but there was enough evidence of an inside mole that caused the admiral to transfer one of his men inside. No one had suspected that TIARA’s own director would turn out to be the rat that sold information to the enemy.

Rick tossed aside the newspaper article. Nothing else had been mentioned, except that the Department of Justice promised an internal overhaul. That one line and this morning’s memo cemented his suspicions that Internal Investigations would be after him next.

Why hadn’t he seen this coming? There was a SEAL imbedded in his team all that time. Gorman hadn’t protested. Rick should have known it was something more important than petty interdepartmental spying. Now he felt responsible,
for being so blind to everything but following paperwork and rules. He hadn’t thought that his shortsightedness would be a danger to anyone.

“Sir? Bad news, huh?”

Rick looked up, and saw Cameron Candeloro, one of the men directly under him in Task Force Two. “What do you expect, Agent Candeloro? A big party celebrating the fact that TIARA is actually one big flea market for information dealers outside?”

Cam failed to wipe the beginning of a grin. Rick stared at him until the younger man pretended to look serious again. Cam would never make it any higher in his field; he didn’t have an ambitious bone in his body.

“Do you find that funny, Agent Candeloro?” Rick asked.

“Yes, sir. I mean, not what happened to our department, sir, but the flea market comment was good.”

Rick cocked a brow. “Are you standing here for the rest of the day for some witty repartee or do you have something job-related to do?”

“Sir, all our cases are suspended until further notice. I thought maybe the new memo would tell us who the new department director is, and when we can resume our open cases.”

There weren’t any open cases until every one of them was reviewed. And there wasn’t any new department director coming. But Rick didn’t have to let anyone know that. Task Force Two was in more trouble than a mere suspension of operations. “Have you finished the report for your last assignment with Agent McMillan before he retransferred?”

It was Cam’s body wire that had recorded the evidence needed to charge Gorman. It might be the only thing that would save Task Force Two and, more importantly, Rick’s ass.

“Not yet, sir.”

“How hard is it to write a report, Agent Candeloro?” Rick looked at Cam sharply. “I expect it on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cam.” Rick paused until he had the man’s fullest atten
tion, and added softly, “Write it like your job depends on it.”

He stared thoughtfully at the closed door after Cam left. He hoped Cam realized how important the report was going to be. He had been in this business for a long time. A major scandal like Gorman’s selling Intel wasn’t going to fade away quickly, and the Department of Justice certainly wasn’t going to take all the blame. Rick knew the bureaucratic score. First came the red tape, with paperwork shoving from one department to another, finger-pointing one another as the culprit. Then heads would roll.

The memo made it clear to him that Task Force Two was going to be the first target. After all, it was the tool that Gorman used for a lot of his activities, so all those under him were now prime suspects. Of course, it didn’t directly say so, but Rick was an expert in B.S.—bureaucratic shit—and he could read between the lines.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly tired. It didn’t take a genius to know who the number one prime suspect would be. Him.