Beg For Me by Sierra Cartwright

Chapter Seven

“Black tie required,” Mira said when she hung up the phone.

From his place on the couch in the carriage house, Torin raised an eyebrow. “As in a tuxedo?”

“Yes. Seriously. That was Ms. Inamorata herself.”

He whistled. “I don’t suppose you know her first name?”

She laughed. No one knew Inamorata’s first name. Hawkeye’s right-hand woman was damn good at everything she did, and that included keeping secrets. The office pool to guess her name had five figures in it. Whoever won would have enough money for a heck of a vacation or a down payment on a house. “If I knew, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”

“So you wouldn’t want to take me to Greece with you?”

“Greece?” All of a sudden, she was on a lounge chair on a white sandy beach, drinking a frappé while Torin stretched out next to her.

She shook her head to banish the image. They didn’t have a future. Letting herself think about one, even momentarily, would lead to heartbreak.

“Araceli?”

Torin’s voice penetrated her haze. “Sorry?”

“Where are we headed?”

“The Maison Sterling. Trace and Aimee Romero have a personal security client attending a fundraiser.” In addition to being recently married, they were both well-respected agents. Aimee was the younger sister of the enigmatic Ms. Inamorata. A brainiac if there ever was one, Aimee was a scientist who had recently taken up running ultramarathons. The extreme running thing made Aimee’s brainpower somewhat suspect, in Mira’s opinion. “In the last few minutes, there’s been a credible threat against their client.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Nathaniel Sinclair.”

He whistled and nodded. “No wonder they’re calling in backup.”

The man was a media magnate. He owned newspapers, magazines, a cable network, and there was a stadium named after his family. He wasn’t popular with everyone, though, and there was no shortage of people who would like to prevent him from becoming President of the United States. “Inamorata is emailing the hotel layout to us.” Even though Mira had been to the hotel for happy hour, she wasn’t familiar with the ballrooms. “Evidently, he refuses to be seen as weak, so he’s sticking to his original plans. He’ll be arriving at the front entrance, and press is expected.”

“Hence the dress code.”

They needed to blend in, not look like security.

“When are we due there?”

“The party starts at seven. Inamorata wants us there by five.” She checked her watch. “That gives us about an hour to get ready. I think I’ll take a shower.”

“I’ll join you.”

She looked at him pointedly. “And then we’ll be late.”

He swept a gaze over her, as if calculating whether they should take the risk. “You’re probably right.”

Mira was glad he agreed, because all of a sudden, she was tempted.

“A hot tub and a scene after we get back?”

“I’ll look forward to it all night.”

He headed for his room but stopped in the doorway. Mira ordered herself to continue past him, but she didn’t, because the only thing she wanted was to be in his arms. “Shower,” she said aloud, reminding herself as much as him.

“Shower,” he affirmed, taking hold of her shoulders.

He claimed her mouth, kissing her deeply. He tasted of coffee tempered by a hint of cream, then drizzled with sin.

She couldn’t resist him.

Responding, Mira lifted up onto her tiptoes and wantonly grabbed hold of a fistful of his black T-shirt. He pressed his free hand against the small of her back, holding her tight. She wiggled about a bit, growing more and more aroused beneath his sensual assault. Torin Carter made her want to be very naughty.

Very slowly, he ended the kiss. Her mouth was raw and ravaged, ensuring she’d spend their night hungry for more.

Torin looked at her intently. The color of his eyes never failed to startle her, but now she read the heat of arousal in the smoky blue depths.

“Shower,” he said, letting her go.

Despite the time pressing in on them, it took her a couple of minutes to shake off the effects of his dizzying kiss.

He knocked on the door. “I’m going to think you’re taking so long because you want company!”

Mira quickly finished up. After she wrapped a towel around her, she opened the door.

He stood there, naked, erect.

Her mouth dried.

“Figured I’d undress to save time. Bad strategy?” His slight grin made her tummy flip over.

“You’re impossible, Commander Carter.” She ducked to dodge past him. When she reached her room, she closed the door.

“Araceli?” he shouted. “Skip the underwear.”

She laughed. There were ways their D/s relationship crossed over to their professional life. But the truth was, it was so unobtrusive and such a turn-on that she didn’t mind. In fact, she would miss it when she had a new partner.

When she didn’t respond, he called out, “Excuse me?”

“I heard you!”

The shower water turned on. “And what you meant by that was, ‘yes, Sir.’”

Her grin only deepened. His challenges were sexy, and she looked forward to them. “Yes, Sir!” she called out dutifully. And she skipped the underwear. She wouldn’t tell him, but the dress looked better without them, anyway.

After she was ready, she transferred her identification and a credit card to her dressy handbag. She double-checked that her gun was loaded, then placed it inside a special interior compartment. Finally, she added her stun gun and her cell phone.

By the time she was in the living room, Inamorata had sent over a 3D rendering of the ballrooms and service areas, including kitchens.

Mira printed them out and placed them on the kitchen table to study them.

Moments later, he joined her, and he was adjusting one of the cuffs on his snow-white shirt.

Damn. Her heart dropped to her toes. His hair, the color of midnight, flirted with his collar. His eyes seemed all the more electric against his dark clothing. In a tuxedo, with a fresh shave, he was devastating.

He perused her, as if drinking in every nuance. “Show me,” he said.

“Show you?”

“That you followed my command. Bend over.”

“Torin…”

“Bend over, Araceli,” he repeated in a tone that allowed for no argument. “And lift your dress.”

Unable to deny him anything, she turned around and exposed herself to him

“Lovely.”

Against her will, her pussy became slick. He walked to her, footfall firm, a staccato threat.

He stroked her, finger-fucked her, then gently spanked her vulva until she whimpered.

“That will have to hold both of us over for the foreseeable future.”

He smoothed her dress back into place. After she stood, she brushed imaginary wrinkles from the fabric.

“Are those the blueprints?”

She shook her head to clear it. “Yes.”

Like she had, he picked up the pages, studied from different angles, committed the schematic to memory.

He snagged the vehicle keys off a hook. “Shall we?”

“Are we driving?”

“I figured we can valet park at the hotel. We’re early enough that none of the principals will be there.”

“And we can expense the cost.”

“There is that.”

As they approached the French Quarter, Inamorata sent a text message. “We’re meeting in a suite. Third floor.”

When they were inside the hotel, Torin cupped her elbow and led her toward the elevators.

Inamorata responded instantly to Torin’s knock and invited them in. As usual, she wore a pencil skirt, and her hair was pulled back. Surveillance equipment covered the large table. She handed each of them an earphone, and a technician secured the radios in place.

Afterward, Mira and Torin each went through a sound check.

When everything was satisfactory, Inamorata continued on, outlining the plan in her usual straightforward way. “You’re a couple tonight. Aimee Romero will be arriving with Mr. Sinclair. She’ll be posing as his date for the evening. Trace will be arriving in a limo at approximately the same time as Sinclair so that he’s onsite without arousing suspicions.”

“Got it,” Mira acknowledged.

“Cocktails are in fifteen minutes. When you arrive, hotel staff and a few members of Mr. Sinclair’s staff will already be onsite, including his campaign manager.”

“Who’s verifying the guest list?” Torin asked.

“Sinclair’s executive assistant. She should know people. Laurents will be nearby in case she notices anything amiss. Barstow will be stationed at the back of the room, near the entrance. He’ll be close enough to assist either you or Laurents should the need arise. Here’s your official invitation.”

She handed over the sturdy hand-addressed card to Mira, who tucked it into her handbag.

“Let’s use the service elevator. I want to show you the kitchen and the ballrooms.”

Even when blueprints were available, Hawkeye Security preferred their agents walk a venue when possible. Seeing a picture was different than being in a room that was prepped for an event. Knowing where the exits were and how to use the back of the house to move the principal if necessary could save time and lives.

“After that, I’ll introduce you to Sinclair’s staff. We’ve timed it so that you’ll be among the first at the event so you can watch all of the arrivals. Any questions?” At their silence, she gave a sharp nod. “In that case, come with me.”

* * *

At one minute after seven,Torin placed his fingers intimately in the small of Mira’s back and guided her toward a space cordoned off with velvet ropes. “Showtime, Ms. Araceli.”

Sinclair’s assistant pretended to look at their invitation before putting a checkmark next to their names on the official guest list. “Enjoy your evening,” she said with a genuine smile.

Before they proceeded into the reception area, Torin nodded toward Laurents, their fellow Hawkeye operative.

Since party nominations were still more than a year away, Sinclair hadn’t been afforded Secret Service protection. But Barstow—stationed at the back of the room— looked rather official.

Even though only one other couple was already in attendance, a live band played forties music, and champagne flowed freely. Obviously no amount of money had been spared.

Though Torin and Araceli each accepted a flute from a server, neither took a sip. Instead, they found a tall table near the entrance and watched as guests arrived. At first, it was a small trickle, but around seven thirty, crowds flooded in. Still, nothing looked unusual.

Just before eight, agent Trace Romero walked in.

Moments later, there was a buzz of activity near the door. Music ceased. Paul Kauffman, Sinclair’s campaign manager, took to the stage and accepted a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the next President of the United States, Nathaniel Sinclair!”

Shouts of approval and loud claps filled the room. The mogul came in with a wave, Aimee at his side.

Sinclair made his way to the stage and said a few words of thanks. He seemed completely at ease, without a care in the world.

Immediately creating a security nightmare, he left the stage and started glad-handing all the attendees. People queued up to meet him, blocking a smooth exit. Torin figured Aimee would unobtrusively move Sinclair toward safety and keep her body between him and the guests as much as possible.

“I’ll be back,” Mira told him.

“Araceli—”

“That man…” She leaned in closer to him so she could be heard above the din. “About six foot two. Blond. He came in after Sinclair when there were a bunch of people. I’m not sure he was cleared. He could be fine. I don’t know. Check him out.” Without waiting for him to respond, she walked away.

Frowning, he went to talk to Sinclair’s assistant.

At the doorway, Torin looked back to see Araceli change directions, veering away from the man and toward a woman who was in line to talk to Sinclair.

He paused.

Araceli took hold of the woman’s hands, as if they were old friends.

A slow alarm beating in him, he waved to Laurents. “We need to go over the guest list,” he said to Sinclair’s executive assistant.

Then, even though they were some distance apart, Araceli’s voice rose above everyone else’s.

Awareness prickled at his nape. Something was off. He keyed his mic. “Everything okay, Araceli?”

She didn’t respond.

“Laurents, take over here. I want to know who Araceli’s talking to. And she was interested in that blond guy.” He pointed. With a nod, he started back toward Mira. He keyed his mic. “Heads-up, team. Blond male, six-two. Twenty feet from our principal. Araceli’s on a brunette.”

“Roger,” Barstow acknowledged, making his way toward the target.

Trace also confirmed the transmission.

Looking like an attentive girlfriend, Aimee slid in closer to Sinclair.

Torin neared Araceli. Her voice was even louder now, with a fake, gushing tone woven through it. “I’m sure I’ve seen your picture before. You look so familiar. Are you famous? You are, right?” Mira inserted herself in front of the brunette.

Her stiff smile, obviously surgically enhanced, started to fade. “You’re mistaken,” she snapped. “Get your hand off me!”

“May I have your autograph?” Mira asked. “You will make me so happy. Please?”

Torin moved in next to Mira. “Everything okay, honey?”

“She’s a movie star!”

“I’m sorry.” Torin shrugged, as if he were a helpless male while he tried to see the world through Mira’s eyes. “She’s an autograph hound. If you’ll humor her…”

A sheen of sweat dotted the brunette’s upper lip.

“Wait! I have a pen right here,” Mira said. She opened her purse. “Oh. No!” She got louder and more animated. “I don’t have one. What am I going to do? Do you have one?” she asked the woman. “Can I borrow yours?”

She was drawing the attention of a lot of people, and Aimee whispered something in Sinclair’s ear, then kissed him on the cheek, looking like a lover who was anxious to have her man all to herself.

“Darling, I’m so excited! She’s going to sign an autograph!” Mira babbled to Torin.

The brunette snapped. “I don’t have a pen.”

“Just look,” Mira implored. “Please?”

Her expression more a snarl than even a politely civil smile, the woman made a show of opening her pocketbook.

Mira acted. She jostled into the woman, forcing her to loosen her grip on the purse.

Metal glinted in the overhead lights

Fuck!Torin keyed his mic. “Gun!”

Pandemonium erupted, and hysterical screams rent the air.

Aimee and Trace hustled Sinclair toward a side door.

The brunette grabbed the revolver. Before he could act, Mira surged forward.

The gun discharged. The percussion deafened him, and he was helpless as the bullet ripped into Mira.