Jule Mcbride - The Sex Files

Still, all this had thrown a wrench into her plans to contact Oliver, and now she felt even more ambivalent about going to the police. Why was an FBI agent chasing her? Her eyes darting, she searched the street as people surged around her. Oliver couldn’t have gone far. Moments ago, she’d tried to get closer to him by crossing the street, but both sides of Sixth Avenue were barricaded by police officers and saw-horses. Oliver had to be as trapped by the crowds as she.

The parade was a sight to behold, nothing like the well-known Macy’s parade. Here, in Greenwich Village, the atmosphere was more akin to Mardi Gras. Downtown revelers were costumed, dressed as turkeys, pilgrims and Native Americans. Irreverently ignoring the usual solemnity of the family holiday, the merrymakers scattered firecrackers in the street while a jazz band played the Wizard of Oz theme song.

She glanced around nervously. Oliver had seemed to recognize her in the subway, but maybe he’d just been running late and trying to catch a train. Now, even though she was wearing a simple, black Lone Ranger’s mask she’d bought from a street vendor, she feared the disguise would never fool Oliver Vargo, much less Susan Jones. Was the woman looking for her? If Peggy was found, would Susan try taking another shot?

Stress was taking its toll. Shivering, Peggy wished she’d eaten dinner. She was hungry and cold, even though the temperature was hovering in the forties. The wind had picked up, turning brisk, and the rain had tapered to an icy drizzle. The skimpy white dress beneath her coat had gotten damp.

She hugged her arms around herself. “Where are you?” she whispered again. How, in all this madness, was she supposed to find Oliver? She could only pray he wasn’t really as friendly with Miles as he’d looked when she’d spied on them. If it was Peggy’s word against Miles’s, who would Oliver be most inclined to believe? Peggy Fox, whom he’d never even met—or one of his own colleagues, a man he lunched with every day?

Shoving ungloved hands deep into the raincoat’s pockets, Peggy shivered again. Despite the body heat enveloping her, the gutters were gushing and her feet were soaked. She wanted to return to the hotel, take a shower and dry her wet clothes on the steam-heat registers. Just as she turned, preparing to fight her way through the crowd and back to the hotel, a hand curled around her upper arm.

Susan Jones! Fear bubbled in her throat as the fingers tightened purposefully. The woman had found her! Peggy was about to die! Her body tensed, and her throat closed in panic. She waited to feel a gun prodding her ribs. Cocking her head, she strained her ears. She didn’t know what command she expected. Don’t say a word, Ms. Fox. Just do exactly as I say, maybe. Or, One wrong move and you’re history. Or even worse, If you tell anyone what you know, your mom and Aunt Jill will pay.

She wished with all her heart that she hadn’t caught Miles in bed with Susan Jones—and that she hadn’t seen the money in the suitcase. Pain sliced through her. Her mom and Aunt Jill would be devastated if something bad happened to her. She’d do anything she could to protect them. When no one spoke, she tried unsuccessfully to wrench around, realizing in the process that the tall, hard body pressed against her back was decidedly male, which meant it wasn’t Susan Jones.

Was it Miles? Had she spoken his name aloud? She was so scared, Peggy wasn’t sure. Or was this his sidekick, the black man, Kevin Hall? Trapped by the crowd, she couldn’t turn. Or run. Or hide.

She squirmed, but every inch of the man’s muscular body moved with her. It was definitely the wrong time to notice how well suited she and this stranger were, at least from a physical perspective. His thighs molded to hers, his lap curved over her behind, his solar plexus fit into the groove of her spine, and finally, the steady thud of his heart seemed to take up residence inside her own chest, in the space just below her left shoulder.

Her pulse was racing, and when she sucked in another breath, hoping to calm herself, she knew it was useless. The man leaned closer, angled his head down, and she felt his breath against her neck; in the cold night, it was as warm as a fire. Suddenly, her heart ached. A wave of homesickness brought tears to her eyes. Blinking, she whispered, “Stop.”

He didn’t move or say a word. His breath kept teasing her, though—stirring strands of hair that traced her neck and the curve of her ear. What was going on? Was some crazy stranger about to try to steal a kiss? Was some psycho behind her? Half expecting his tongue to trace the shell of her ear, she felt her pulse catapult, jolting over the top.

“Gotcha,” he whispered simply.

Oliver Vargo.

She’d never felt the man’s touch before, but she’d recognize his voice anywhere. The distinctive bass was exactly as it had sounded during his televised interviews—and it sent a shiver of longing down her spine. He must have caught her watching him and doubled back to confront her.

“What are you doing?” she managed to say, ignoring traitorous sensations as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he returned, his low voice dropping a seductive notch as his fingers flexed around her arm. “That might be a better place to start.”

Jerking her head in his direction, she struggled to keep her voice noncommittal. “I’m watching the parade.”

“Following me,” he countered.

Silently, she berated herself. Of course he’d noticed. He was an FBI agent—and one of the best. Oh, that day in the subway, she’d worried that he’d seen her, but she’d told herself that throwing her hair in front of her face had worked as a disguise. Guess not.

Oblivious of how his physical proximity was affecting her, he inched closer, and her heart missed a beat as heat flooded her. Yes, this was definitely the wrong time to contemplate how many fantasies she’d had about him rescuing her….

But she’d had plenty. Which was why, when the crowd behind him swelled, pushing him against her, she knew the man wasn’t really aroused. Oh, no. She was the one who’d been fantasizing about him—not the other way around. What Peggy felt was the result of her overactive imagination. Nevertheless, hadn’t she felt…something? And before she could stop herself, hadn’t that hard, powerful something brought a soft sigh to her lips? Well, no matter how sexy Oliver was, she had to stay in control. She had to keep her wits about her, in case whatever had prompted Kevin Hall to chase her might also prompt Oliver to…

On a surge of fear, she pivoted. Struggling as a second arm circled her, she continued fighting. She was sorry she did, too, because all the maneuvering brought the front of her body flush with his—and while Oliver wasn’t exactly aroused, he wasn’t not-aroused, either. Even more unsettling, she found herself gazing into his heart-stopping eyes. Darker than on television, they looked the color of liquid ink in the night, and they were scrutinizing her without apology.

“Let me go,” she said, trying to tell herself that the male awareness she saw was only her own wishful thinking.

When he didn’t release her, she swallowed hard. Was he helping Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall find her? Moving on instinct, she tried to run again, but there was nowhere to go. Oliver reflexively drew her nearer, and her cheek wound up pressed against a white shirt he wore beneath his trench coat. Heady scents assaulted her. He smelled just the way a man should.

Veering back, she slammed a fist to his chest, using the wall of muscle to steady herself, vaguely aware that her own coat was opening in the process. When she registered his skin quivering under her fingertips, she snatched back her hand. Inhaling audibly, she said, “Could you give me some breathing room?”