Authors: Lauren Rowe
Jonas looks totally confused.
“Okay. The first recipient is Mariela Rafaela León de Guajardo, Jonas’ former nanny, currently living in Venezuela with her husband and three teenage children.”
Jonas’ face turns bright red. He looks down at the table.
“Special Agent Sheffield has tracked down Mariela’s contact information. Will you be so kind as to provide that to everyone, Agent Sheffield?”
Eric’s face lights up at the mention of his name. “Yes.”
“Mariela was deported to Venezuela in 1994. From what I can see, it looks like Jonas’ father, Joseph Faraday, pulled some strings with friends in high places to make that happen.”
I look at Jonas. He’s biting his lip, staring at the table, apparently trying to contain himself.
“I was thinking you might characterize Mariela’s payment as some sort of compensation relating to her deportment.”
“She’ll get her money,” the FBI guy says curtly, taking notes. “How the payment will be characterized, I make no promises.”
“Okay, that’s great. Thank you. The second beneficiary is Mrs. Renee Westbrook Santorini—mother of two and widow of Navy SEAL Robert Santorini.”
Jonas shakes his head at me—but it’s a “you never cease to amaze me” gesture, not a chastisement.
“Special Agent Sheffield has Renee Santorini’s contact information, as well.”
Eric nods. He’s trying to look serious and professional, I can tell, but he looks like a kid blowing out his birthday candles.
“Mrs. Santorini was Jonas’ grade-school teacher. Her deceased husband was Navy SEAL Robert Santorini, based in San Diego and killed in action in 1999. I was thinking you could characterize Renee Santorini’s money as something connected to her deceased husband’s naval service?”
Mr. FBI guy nods. “I’m sure we can do something along those lines.”
I’m on a roll. “Georgia Marianne Walker of Seattle.”
Jonas’ face contorts with emotion. He clears his throat and looks down again.
“I’m not sure how you should characterize her payment. She’s a single mother, a recent cancer survivor, works for the U.S. Postal Service.” I pause, thinking. “I don’t know what—”
“I think Ms. Walker is about to receive an inheritance as the only surviving kin of a third cousin removed she’s never heard of,” Mr. Bigwig FBI says, suppressing a smile.
I grin. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“Okay, anyone else?” FBI man says, looking up from his notepad. He’s noticeably warmed to me during this exchange. I guess he’s decided he’s not too annoyed with me for making these requests, after all.
“Nope, that’s it,” I say, smiling at my new best friend. “Mariela, Renee, and Georgia will each share equally in two million.”
“No, wait,” Jonas says firmly, and my stomach drops into my toes. Have I misread his reaction to all this? Is he upset with me?
“There’s one more recipient,” Jonas says. “Four beneficiaries will make it an even five hundred thousand per person—and that’s a nice round number.”
Oh, thank God. He’s on board. But who’s his fourth? I hold my breath.
“Gloria Cruz of Seattle,” Jonas says.
I put my hand over my mouth.
Jonas flashes me the briefest of smiles, but then he’s quickly all business again.
Oh, my sweet Jonas. He’s already donated a ridiculous amount of money to my mom’s charity—and now he wants to give her a piece of this pie, too? This is a huge kindness to my mother, but it’s also a windfall for me, seeing as how I’d planned to use half my finder’s fee money to buy my mom a house. I beam at Jonas and he plants a soft kiss on my cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He smiles at me warmly but then flashes hard eyes at Mr. FBI guy.
“Gloria Cruz runs a nonprofit for abused women, but we want the money to go to her personally, tax-free. You’ll have to figure out a reason for her windfall, too.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Mr. FBI guy says. “Is that everyone?” He looks down at his notes. “Mariela, Renee, Georgia, and Gloria. Five hundred thousand each, tax-free, assuming you hand over all the data as promised and successfully transfer the full half-billion.”
“Yes, that’s everyone,” Jonas says. “And we will.”
“Any other conditions?” Mr. FBI guy asks, but his tone makes it clear the answer had better be no.
“That’s it,” I say, exhaling with relief, but Jonas speaks over me at the same time.
“Yeah, one more thing,” Jonas says.
More? What more? Holy crap. Whatever it is, he’s clearly pushing our luck.
Several of the more uptight guys in the room moan with exasperation and two guys share a “what an asshole” glance.
What the hell is Jonas talking about?
Jonas pauses. “But I’ll reveal our final condition to the highest-ranking members in the room only,” he says flatly.
What the hell is he talking about?
“This last demand is on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
Everyone looks around, not knowing what to do. Stay? Go? Tell him to fuck off? After a bit of low murmuring and hushed conferring, several underlings stand and leave the room, including poor Eric, who looks none too happy about it.
As Eric walks past Jonas toward the door, he shoots him a long, pleading look, clearly hoping Jonas will exempt him from dismissal. But Jonas does no such thing.
I glare at Jonas with my arms crossed over my chest, tapping my toe under the table. Man, oh man, I can’t wait to hear this.
After the door has closed behind the departed underlings, including poor Special Agent Eric, Jonas leans into me, his face an inch from mine. “Will you excuse us, too, baby?” he asks softly. He looks like he’s asked me if I’d like one lump or two at teatime.
My jaw drops.
A low-frequency rumble erupts throughout the remaining crowd. Every man in this room just flinched with anxiety on Jonas’ behalf—they know they’re looking at a dead man.
“There’s something I prefer to say to these guys out of your presence,” Jonas adds politely.
I blink quickly. Did Jonas just say he
prefers
to say something to all these nice gentlemen (and one lady)
outside
of my presence? I touch my cheeks to prevent my head from spinning wildly on my neck in three-sixties. Jonas
prefers
to say something outside of my presence, does he? Well, what if I
prefer
to hear whatever the
fuck
my fucking boyfriend plans to say to these fucking men (and one woman) about
my
fucking life? After all,
I’m
the one with fucking scars on my body.
I’m
the one who almost bled to death in that fucking bathroom.
I’m
the one looking over my shoulder everywhere I go and waking up in a cold sweat almost every fucking night. And
I’m
the one they’ll come after if this whole fucking strategy blows up in our faces.
I open my mouth to protest, but Jonas beats me to the punch.
“Remember that promise I wouldn’t make to you?” His eyes are granite. “When I wouldn’t say, ‘I promise to always tell you everything?’”
I nod. Yes, of course, I remember that conversation. It pissed me off.
“This is why.” He clenches his jaw. “Right now is exactly the reason I wouldn’t make that promise to you.”
A shiver runs down my spine. Jonas anticipated this exact moment?
Jonas’ gaze is firm.
Someone in the room coughs. I’m not sure if the guy has a tickle in his throat or if he’s just too damned uncomfortable at the exchange he’s witnessing to contain himself—but either way, my face flushes. I look around. Well, this is awkward. Everyone in the room is waiting on me to make a decision—will I stay or will I go? I can feel them placing mental bets on whether I’m going to burst into tears, shriek like a banshee, or flip the goddamned table in the next five seconds.
I look at Jonas. His eyes are fierce. Unmovable. He’s a savage beast. But he’s also my sweet Jonas—the man who loves me like no one ever has. The man I love without condition or reservation. The man who’d lay down his life for me without a moment’s hesitation. He’s the man I trust with my life.
I sigh. If my sweet Jonas needs to say something out of my presence to protect me, if that’s what it’s going to take for him to do whatever he thinks needs to be done, then so be it. I’ll just have to take yet another leap of faith.
I lean in and kiss him on the mouth. I’m not instigating a make-out session with this brief kiss—I’m demonstrating to everyone in the room, including Jonas, that, yes, I trust this man unconditionally. I pull back from our kiss and lean my forehead against his. He touches my cheek. After a brief moment, I look around the room, defiant. There’ll be no crying, shrieking or table-flipping today, fellas (and one badass-looking lady).
“Gentlemen,” I say, standing. “And lady.” She grins at the acknowledgment. “I’m extremely grateful for all your time and attention today. Thank you. Please know that, whatever Jonas is about to say to you, whatever it is, I’m one hundred percent on board.”
Sarah
I’d wanted so much to see the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol building, the Washington Monument, the Smithsonian, and the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial during our stay in D.C., a place I’ve wanted to visit my whole life, but it wasn’t meant to be. After yesterday’s marathon meeting with “the feds” (the term I prefer to use because it sounds so damned cool), Jonas and I were escorted to our hotel—yes,
escorted
—by two men wearing suits and guns and earpieces—yes,
earpieces—
and deposited into our suite and told in no uncertain terms to stay put.
And those two armed escorts (and, eventually, their two replacements) have remained outside our hotel suite ever since, for close to twenty hours. It’s not clear if those nice officers have been assigned to guard our door to keep the bad guys
out
or to keep the good guys
in
—but either way, it’s pretty darned clear we’re not free to leave our room.
So, of course, Jonas and I have made the most of the situation.
Jonas belly laughs and one of the strawberries I’ve positioned on his stomach rolls off his naked body and onto the bed.
“Oh jeez,” I say, quickly replacing the fallen berry. “Stay still.” I continue building my strawberry pyramid with utmost care, squinting and biting my lip with concentration as I do.
Jonas laughs again and yet another strawberry rolls onto the white sheet beneath us.
“Jonas P. Faraday,” I scold him. “Control yourself. This is serious effing business, man.” I take a big bite of one of my building blocks.
He laughs again.
“A little respect, please. I’m building an edifice of epic importance here.” I carefully replace the latest errant strawberry, lodging it into a deep groove in Jonas’ abs. “I’ve got to get my foundation right or the whole structure will fail.”
“You’re
engineering
a strawberry pyramid?” Jonas asks, laughing uproariously—and another strawberry goes ker-plop at his sudden movement.
“Oh my God,” I bellow. “You are the worst human strawberry shortcake ever.”
Jonas squeals with laughter. I’ve never heard him laugh quite like this. He sounds like a toddler being tickled. “Sorry,” he chokes out.
I replace the latest rogue strawberry and continue building my masterpiece. “Now, hold still, for the love of God,” I command. “Or you’ll ruin
everything
.”
He bursts out laughing again but quickly composes himself at my icy glare. “Yes, Mistress,” he says, trying his best to sound submissive—but when I grab the whipped cream canister off the nightstand, eager to top off my teetering creation with a towering
coup de grace
, he guffaws before I’ve even creamed him.
Oh my gosh, his laughter is divine. It’s the sound of pure, uninhibited silliness—absolute and complete abandon—the sound of joy. And it sends me into fits of giggles, too. I put the whipped cream canister back on the nightstand, laughing hysterically, and begin picking the strawberries off him, one by one, tossing them into the nearby champagne bucket as I go.
“I can’t do it, “ I say, giggling. “You’re hopeless.”
“Oh no, don’t say that, Mistress. Give me another chance. Have mercy on me.” He puts his hands behind his head on the pillow and gazes up at me. “There’s no such thing as hopelessness, remember?”
I don’t know what he’s referring to—but I sure love the way his biceps bulge when he bends his arms like that. I take a big bite of another strawberry.
“Oh come on, My Beautiful Intake Agent,” he says, smiling up at me. “‘We must accept infinite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.’ A really smart intake agent with a delectable ass once recited that quote from Martin Luther King Jr.”
Ah yes. I remember now. I mentioned that quote during our first email exchange, before he even knew my name. I can’t believe he remembers that.
I snuggle up to him and place a strawberry at his lips. He takes a big bite.
“I’ve got a quote for you, too, My Brutally Honest Mr. Faraday. ‘Hope is the dream of a waking man.’ A beautiful, generous, funny, smart, heroic man-whore with smokin’ hot abs and luscious lips and, hey, wow—look at that!—
happy
eyes—”
“Yes, very,
very
happy eyes—”
“Huh. A beautiful man-whore with very,
very
happy eyes once recited that Aristotle quote to me.”
Jonas’ blue eyes crinkle as he smiles at me. He opens his mouth like a baby bird and I feed him another strawberry.
“So, we’re agreed I’m not hopeless?” he asks between bites. “You once said there’s no such thing as hopelessness. Do you still believe that?”
“Of course, I do. There’s always hope—infinite hope.”
“Infinite hope,” he repeats with reverence. “Speaking of which, you ready for another round of Tit for Tat, My Magnificent Sarah?”
“How is ‘infinite hope’ a segue for oral sex, Jonas?”
He laughs. “Everything’s a segue for oral sex. How do you not know that by now?”
I throw my head back and laugh.
“So, is that a yes?”