The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

Her hands were in his hair, pulling his face to hers so she could kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, but it wasn’t enough. She yanked and pulled on his T-shirt as his hands went under her bottom, stroking up her back beneath her shirt, feeling the soft flesh, smelling the jasmine in her damp hair. She carried her shampoo in her go-bag? Of course she did. He was losing his mind and didn’t care. He butted her head back to kiss her neck, felt her tighten her legs around his waist. His hands found the smooth, stretchy band at her waist, and he wanted to jerk them down even as he moved to the bed.

“Uncle Nicholas?”

They froze.

“Uncle Nicholas? I woke up when you left our bedroom. Is Aunt Mike okay?”

He touched his forehead to hers, managed to grab a breath. “Sean, sure, Aunt Mike is fine.” Was that his voice, all deep and gravelly, like he was in pain?

He felt her heart pounding, cleared his throat, gave her a final fast kiss, then felt her legs loosen at his waist. He lowered her feet to the floor but didn’t let her go. He wanted to cry, maybe howl. He called out, “Sean, I always have to say good night to her or she doesn’t sleep well. And I forgot.”

“Are you telling her a story? Do you want me to sing to her? I know lots of words to Papa’s songs.”

Mike cleared her throat. “Thank you, Sean, but that’s okay. I’m really tired and Nicholas already sang me ‘Soft Kitty’; it’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” Sean said, and both of them pictured his small hand on the doorknob.

Nicholas took a fast step back. “Good night, Mike, sleep well. What’s ‘Soft Kitty’? I don’t know that one.”

She waved him away. He was nearly back to the door. She saw his pajama bottoms were riding even lower and his lovely tight black T-shirt was ripped. How had that happened? Surely she should remember. She stood perfectly straight.

“Good night, Nicholas. I will sleep well, as will you. We will have nothing to speak about tomorrow. This did not happen, do you hear me? This. Did. Not. Happen.”

He gave her a grin and was out the door in the next second. “Hey, Sean, let’s go back to bed.”

“Sean, Nicholas?”

All he needed. Slowly, Nicholas turned to see Savich standing in the doorway of his and Sherlock’s bedroom. Unlike Nicholas, he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, only pajama bottoms.

“Papa, everything’s okay. Uncle Nicholas had to sing Aunt Mike a song, like you do me, so she could go to sleep.”

“I see,” Savich said, and Nicholas knew he saw very well, particularly the tear in his T-shirt. “Both of you sleep well. Sean, don’t keep Nicholas up. He’s had a very long day.”

You don’t know the half of it.

Wednesday

6 a.m.–Noon

65

PAWN TO H4

Georgetown

Mike woke to a quiet knocking at her door. She rolled over to see Nicholas standing in the doorway, already dressed in one of his crisp handmade white button-down shirts, and, oddly, a pair of jeans. Tight jeans. He looked like a prep school boy gone rogue. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she liked him better in the low-slung pjs, but she didn’t. But it was close.

He was all business. “Get dressed. We leave for a briefing in ten minutes with Vice President Sloane.”

“You’re wearing jeans to the White House?”

“We’re heading to her place. And they’ve requested we dress down.”

“What in the world is going on?”

“I don’t know, but you need to hurry. I’ll see you downstairs.”

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