Longing and Lies. Donna Hill
man who wished he’d been a better shot. Elliot clenched his teeth. He’d been distracted that afternoon in the alley, by memories of the argument he’d had with Lynn the night before.
It’s the first rule in his line of work; relationships are a distraction. Hit It and Quit It, was the slogan among the guys. He should have listened. Then what happened later would not have mattered as much, wouldn’t have hurt him so much. It changed him. Now he was a poster child for the boy’s club mantra.
Elliot pulled the envelope he’d gotten from Jean out of his back pocket. He unfolded it and tried to flatten it out on the bed by running his fist over it. It refused to succumb to his manipulations and curled back up.
“Figures,” he groused, flopping spread-eagle across the bed. He tossed a thick, muscled arm across his eyes and a crystal clear image of Ashley popped behind his lids with such preciseness, the near-reality shot a jolt of denied longing to his groin. He felt his shaft throb and jump against the zipper of his jeans. “Down boy,” he grumbled, and forced his mind to the issue at hand—a new, unwanted assignment. He was a field operative. His specialty search and dispose. As a former Navy Seal he’d been trained for combat, for dealing swiftly and with stealth against the unseen enemy before he joined the FBI and worked as a part-time handyman for the CIA in their even shadier operations. This assignment was a slap in the face. Missing babies! He didn’t even like kids. They were a nuisance. Not to mention messy and noisy.
He ran through a laundry list of higher-ups that he may have pissed off to get saddled with this assignment and couldn’t come up with anyone. He lurched forward and sat up, snatched the envelope and opened it.
It pretty much laid out what Jean and Bernard explained earlier. But in reading the documents, he got a sudden chill when he went over some of the painfilled stories of the parents whose infants went missing. Included in the envelope was a list of adoption centers, fertility clinics and local hospitals.
A deep frown creased his brow. What kind of person would steal a baby from its parents? But he knew the answer. Money and greed were great motivators, and combined with persons of no conscience made for ugly scenarios. He released a heavy sigh as the ink began to fade on the pages.
These parents deserved some justice, he concluded. So he’d just suck it up and bring a clean and quick end to this madness. A half grin lifted the side of his full mouth. As a minor benefit he’d get to play hubby with the very sexy Ashley Temple, whether she liked it or not. He chuckled at the thought.
Chapter 4
“So are you feeling a little better about things?” Mia asked once she and Ashley had returned to the office.
Ashley gave a slight shrug of her shoulder. “I suppose.” She turned to Mia, her hand planted on her slender hips. “I’ve never lived with a man. Let alone a perfect stranger.” She frowned. “I like my independence.”
Mia dropped her oversized purse on the desk and looked at her friend. “Is that all that’s really bothering you?”
Ashley glanced away for an instant then looked at Mia. She almost smiled. “He is kinda fine in a pain-in-the-ass sort of way.”
They both giggled.
Ashley dropped her tense shoulders. “I guess it will be all right. The main thing is finding out who is behind the stealing and selling of babies.” A shiver ran through her.
“Exactly.”
Ashley pushed a smile onto her face, highlighting her prominent cheekbones. “So,” she said on a breath, “what’s on the agenda for today?”
But even as Mia ran down the list of upcoming events they had to take care of, Ashley’s mind was elsewhere. Elliot Morgan. Babies. Twenty years. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.
Ashley walked through her small one-bedroom apartment, which she’d worked diligently on to transform from the drab place she’d originally rented into her cozy abode. Being an R&B music buff, she had one wall in her living room dedicated to some of her favorite artists: Smokey Robinson, Stevie, Luther, Gladys, Anita Baker, The Temps, James Brown, Michael Jackson, Jazmine Sullivan, Earth, Wind & Fire, Frankie Beverly and Maze, and Maxwell to name a few. Her collection was extensive, going back to some classic 45s and collector’s items album covers.
The sparkling wood floors were dotted with oversized pillows, low tables and standing plants. Rather than curtains or blinds in the windows, they were covered with hanging philodendrons.
But her bedroom was truly her sanctuary. Her queensized bed with its downy pillow-top mattress took up much of the small space. But it was truly fit for a queen. To conserve room, she had her flat screen television mounted on the wall. The one great amenity was the walk-in closet that housed her extensive wardrobe, another one of her addictions—clothes.
That brought to mind these new living arrangements. How was she going to get along without her music and all of her clothes and shoes? Sighing she tugged off her cropped sweater and put it in the bag for the cleaner.
She sat down on the foot of the bed and pulled off her ankle boots, just as her cell phone began to ring. She pulled it from the case on her hip and frowned at the unfamiliar number. She pressed the talk icon.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Ashley?”
The low timbre shimmied up her spine. “Who is this?”
“Sorry. It’s E—uh, Elliot Morgan.”
Her heart bumped against her chest. She cleared her throat. “Oh,” was all she could sputter as she tried to get her brain to catch up with the fact that he was on the phone.
“Look, I know I was being a jerk earlier today. And we, uh, probably got off on the wrong foot.”
Her brows rose in surprise. “Probably,” she teased and could almost see a smile on his face. She crossed her legs.
“So I was thinking that before we do this live-in thing maybe we should try to get to know each other…first.”
“Meaning?”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No, I haven’t.” She swallowed over the sudden knot in her throat.
“Can I interest you in dinner?”
What the hell! Was he asking her out on a date? Her pulsed pounded and her thoughts short-circuited.
“Hey, maybe that was a bad idea. Guess I’ll see you on moving—”
“No. I’m sorry. You just caught me off guard. Dinner. Sure.”
“I can pick you up in about an hour. Is that enough time?”
Her eyes widened even further. A real date. “Okay.” She started to give him her address.
“I already have it. In the file,” he added by way of explanation.
“If Jean is nothing else, she’s thorough. I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Right.” He hung up.
Ashley sat with the phone in her hand for a good two minutes mesmerized by what had transpired. Maybe the “real” Elliot Morgan would show up at dinner. She shook her head, her spiral curls and twists dancing on her head. Taking a quick look at her watch, she hopped up from her bed and began peeling off her clothes as she darted for the shower.
After numerous wardrobe changes, she’d finally settled on elegantly casual. She selected a pair of black straight-legged jeans, a pearl-gray blouse that shimmered in the right light, with a black silk button-up sweater. She was only five foot six in bare feet and Elliot was well over six foot, so she opted for her Ferragamo black ankle boots that oozed comfort even after long hours on your feet. She captured her hair carefree away from her face with a sparkling gray head band, pulling it into a halo around her face. Minimal makeup, a dab of African musk behind her ears and on