12 February 2005

Jen had never felt so relieved as she did when she climbed out of the sea and planted her feet once more on the deck of Hartono's yacht. While she'd been swimming with Wesley - and Frank and Marcy - she'd felt oddly vulnerable, felt the weight of Hartono's eyes on her while she tried to smile, tried to behave as if nothing were amiss, as if there were nothing at all strange about this, frolicking about while a gun running murderer looked down on her with a sneer painted across his lips. Back on the boat she felt safer, somehow. She'd toweled off as quickly as she could and slipped her thin robe once more round her shoulders; the sun was hot, and the robe did little to hide her skin from the heat of it, or from the heavy gaze of Muhammad Hartono. The bikini she'd chosen had been a mistake, she could see that now; there simply wasn't enough of it, and when Hartono looked at her she felt as bare as if she were naked. But there hadn't been many to choose from at the store, and she'd been short on time, and now here she was, tied into a few scraps of damp green fabric and desperately hoping the knots at her hips and the back of her neck would hold.

Once they'd had their fun, the real business began; without bothering to change they all settled into chairs gathered round a sturdy table on the deck, and the two gentlemen who served Hartono as waiters and gophers and sailors and anything else he might need laid a meal out in front of them before melting back below decks. The yacht was massive; the thought of how much it must have cost Hartono was mind boggling, particularly because he was a man who seemed otherwise unconcerned with the trappings of wealth. He ran an empire of two dollar stores, to launder his dirty money through, and he did not wear designer suits or diamond watches. His clothes were plain, his manner brusque, and as they talked that afternoon Jen found herself wondering what he spent his money on, if not himself. The yacht, for a start, given that it must have cost at least ten million dollars, not to mention paying for the men to crew it. Upkeep on a beast like that would be a small fortune, she thought, but surely the yacht wasn't his only luxury.

Unless he doesn't spend the money on himself, she thought, picking absently at a cluster of grapes on her plate. Some of it he'd invest back in his businesses, to be sure, but there was the dark hint Frank had given them about human trafficking to give her pause. What if he was involved in other, even more unseemly pursuits?

The afternoon wore on; he had two ships, each with a massive cargo, coming in on the same day, and would need Frank to take care of one while Wesley managed the other, and then coordinate pickup so that the two cargos could be gathered together at one of his many warehouses. The men discussed logistics; Marcy disappeared downstairs for a change of clothes and a nap, and Jen considered doing the same, but when she glanced at Wesley, still bare-chested and tanning nicely in the sun, she changed her mind. It had angered her, in the beginning, when she was left out of the loop. She wouldn't cut herself off from the details now. A few times she tried to assert herself into the conversation, but Hartono grew testy with her, and she kept her mouth shut after that.

They enjoyed dinner on the deck, music playing softly from somewhere; Wesley had located his shirt, and Jen felt just the tiniest twinge of disappointment when he tugged it on. She wanted to change, didn't want to continue gallivanting about in her bikini and her gauzy robe, but she didn't want to leave him, either, and so stayed as she was. Let Frank leer at her all he wanted, she thought; she wouldn't leave her partner without backup. Hartono was liberal with the champagne - though Jen noticed he didn't drink a single drop himself - and Frank and Marcy stumbled below decks when the sun went down, laughing like fools. Jen would have given anything to join them.

That wasn't the job, though. Hiding in her cabin downstairs with Wesley wouldn't get them the information they so desperately sought, so she sipped absently at her own drink, and watched them both, wondering.

"I want to thank you for having us here, Mr. Hartono," Wesley said, as the conversation stalled. "I've often wanted a boat like this for myself. Trish loves the water, don't you, sweetheart?"

The three of them were settled in heavy wooden chairs on the top deck, watching the stars beginning to sparkle in the inky black sky above them. They had dropped anchor for night in that quiet little cove, and no other boats had joined them; they were alone, on the water, with Hartono.

"I do," she said, reaching out absently to stroke her hand across his forearm. In an attempt to avoid drawing attention to the fact that she hardly drunk anything at all she had made an effort to talk a bit more, smile a bit more, touch Wesley a bit more, make it seem as if the champagne had loosened her up, even if her stomach was twisted into knots of restless tension. The smile Wesley gave her when she touched him was warm, and it helped, just a little.

"Perhaps if we continue to work together, one day you will be able to afford one of your own," Hartono said. He wasn't smiling.

"A man could always use more than what he has," Wesley said, leaning back in his chair. "Isn't that the nature of the beast? You get a little, and to keep it you have to spend more, so you have to make more, and it never stops. I'd like to get ahead, if you catch my meaning."

"The work I have sent you hasn't been sufficient to pay your bills?" Hartono asked shrewdly. Jen's heart squeezed unpleasantly in her chest, but Wesley just laughed, unbothered.

"Nah, mate, we manage just fine. But there's the future to be thinking about. Might like to have a couple kids one day. Kids mean a bigger house, and we'd want to get them into good schools, and then there's university and all the rest to worry about. A real man provides the best for his family."

As he spoke about kids Wesley reached out and caught Jen's hand where it still rested against his arm, twined their fingers together and smiled at her gently. As beautiful as that smile was, it grieved her, in a way, for it occurred to her then what an accomplished liar he was. Just how much of him was comprised of lies, she wondered now; was it only Hartono who saw a false face, or did he have a mask saved just for her, too? Just who the bloody hell was he?

"I value forward-thinking in a business partner," Hartono said evenly. "I can appreciate that you are concerned for your future. It may be that we can help one another achieve our goals. I may have a new opportunity to discuss with you."

"Yeah?" Wesley asked, leaning forward eagerly. He was still holding Jen's hand, but in the movement of his body their hands fell to his lap, resting against the warm skin of his thigh.

"We can discuss it tomorrow," Hartono said. "For now, I think I shall go downstairs. You two please, stay, enjoy this wonderful night. Good evening."

Hartono rose abruptly from his chair, nodded at them once, and then marched off towards the stairs leading below decks.

As one, Jen and Wesley breathed a sigh of relief.

"That was interesting," he said.

They couldn't talk openly here, not really. There was no telling who was wandering around the lower decks, or whether Hartono had bugged his own boat, seeking to test the allegiance of his friends. Even in their own cabin they had to be careful; if there were cameras, or mics, one thoughtless word could put their very lives at risk.

"I suppose we'll find out tomorrow," Jen said, a bit too brightly. She stood up, intent on following Hartono down below, but Wesley didn't let go of her hand, pulled her up short when she tried to walk away.

"No need to rush," he said. His tone was bland, but his eyes spoke volumes, and Jen understood him at once. Hartono had told them to stay, to enjoy the evening, and if they turned and fled the moment he departed he might begin to wonder about them, wonder why they seemed so uncomfortable, when they should have been perfectly happy to linger together, alone, beneath the stars. Maybe he had bugged the boat; maybe he wanted to hear what they had to say to one another when they were alone, or only wanted an insurance policy, a way to blackmail them should they decide they no longer wanted to be part of his business. Maybe there were cameras, too.

Jen was used to performing for cameras by now. It was old hat, watching her words, the placement of her hands, never so much as stepping out of the bathroom in a state of undress, conscious, always, of the eyes she could not see. It was unnerving, but discomfort had become familiar to her.

"All right," she agreed, and then she reached out and gently ran the fingers of her free hand through Wesley's hair. Let Hartono listen, she thought, to Trish and Wesley, saying nothing of consequence to one another. Let him watch, if he wanted to, and see only a wife who was gently affectionate with her husband. Those affections would give them an excuse for an early night, she thought, if anyone was watching. And if not, well, then at least she'd had the chance to run her fingers through Wesley's soft, dark hair, to feel it brush against her skin and watch the way his eyes fluttered closed, content with her touch.

She had kissed him, at Christmas, because she had forgotten, just for a moment, that the affection between them was staged. She had treated him as if he was, in fact, her husband, a man she loved, and touched him because she wanted to, because she wanted to offer him comfort, because it was what they did. That kiss, though, had been playing through her mind for months now. That kiss, and their quiet Christmas morning, and his birthday when she'd woken to feel him hard at her hip, though he'd done his best to hide it. He was a handsome man, a good man, a kind man, the only person in the world she could trust. He was the rock she clung to in a sea of madness, and there was a part of her that wanted, very much, to kiss him again.

It would be the height of folly, she knew. They'd never be able to hide a romantic entanglement from SIS, and it would add an unnecessary level of danger to their work, a messy complication they could ill afford. What if they started something up, but it went sour? How were they meant to go on working together if they had grown to despise one another? And worse, what if she came to love him, love him truly, and then had to leave him when this thing was done?

"I'm glad you were with me today," Wesley said softly. "I couldn't have done any of this without you."

His eyes were dark and warm, watching her, and she shivered despite the fact that it was a warm night. What if he was asking himself the same questions? She wondered now. What if when he looked at her he wanted to kiss her, too? What if he felt, as she did, that they had come to know one another, their true selves, that there was more between them than artifice and desperation? Or what if he was a prick, just looking for an easy shag, thinking now would be a good moment for it?

No, she thought as she looked at him, no. He lied to everyone else, but he did not lie to her. The secrets he'd confessed to her, whispered in her ear while they laid in bed together, the pergola he'd built to keep the sun off her, the breakfasts he cooked for her, smiling in his stupid apron, the way he held her hand; it was all genuine, she thought. No man could be that good a liar. She could look in his eyes, and see the truth of him, and what she saw now was a want that matched her own.

"I'm cold," she said, though she was nothing of the sort. "Let's go to bed."

It was an excuse for the potential mics, should they be listening, and the best she could come up with. Jen felt herself drifting into dangerous territory, alone with him without their SIS babysitters, out on the water. If he pulled her to him now, she'd go to him, and she knew it. For months she had been lonesome, confused, and afraid, and Wesley had been, always, the only thing that made sense in her world. Handsome, and strong, and wanting her, he was a temptation too great for her to resist. If they went downstairs they could roll into bed the way they did every night, and fall asleep staring at the ceiling, keeping their own counsel. If they stayed out here...Jen wasn't sure what might happen, in this unfamiliar place, with this unfamiliar longing settling in her belly.

He didn't move, at first, so she thought to encourage him, and leaned down to brush her lips against his cheek.

It was a mistake. The moment her lips brushed against his skin he drew in his breath sharply, and she realized that she had, yet again, touched him not because the situation required it, but because she wanted to. And he knew it, damn him. He could read her as easily as she could read him, now, and he must have known-

"Sweetheart," he whispered, and tilted his head back. Beneath her he was open, bare, vulnerable; the heavy muscles of his arms and legs that spoke of strength enough to hold her, to shelter her, the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard against the rising tide of his need, the corded vein that ran the length of his neck begging for kisses, his soft lips parted, his dark eyes open wide and watching her, every piece. She wanted more, wanted to fold herself into his embrace, to taste his kisses, to know his name; she wanted him, not the charade they were forced to play or the lies or the scheming but him, sweet, and funny, quiet and strong. And he wanted her to; he wanted, and she wanted, and her heart pounded in her chest, her mind screaming at her to leave, now, before she did something she might regret, while her very soul seemed to cry out for him.

Jen had always been a cautious woman, but Trish was bolder, and she had been living in Trish's skin for so long now that some of that selfish need must have rubbed off on her. Why shouldn't she take what she wanted? Why should she hesitate? Because SIS said so? Damn them, they were the ones who-

It was Wesley who made up her mind for her, in the end. He was still holding her hand, and with one gentle tug he pulled her down to him, and she sighed as their lips connected, relieved. Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed her softly, gently, and in the space her sigh created his tongue rushed forward, flicking against her lips, and she let him, eager, now. His free hand rose up, and tangled in her hair, held her close, and a shiver ran through her at the sensation. Softly, gently, their lips slid together, neither of them daring to breath, tongues brushing tentatively, growing bolder by the second. Perhaps he meant it to be a short kiss, a brief one, but Jen had no such designs on brevity. The heat of him, the taste of him, left her burning alive for want of him. Wesley was no fool; surely he could feel the need in her kiss, her desperate desire for something normal, for a heart that understood her own, her yearning to cast aside the loneliness of the last few months and all the lies and simply be herself. He must have done, because as she continued to kiss him he reached for her hips, and pulled her neatly down onto his lap.

That was the moment she should have pulled away, but she could not bear to be parted from him. Jen slotted her knees either side of his hips, cradled his face in her hands and held her to him as still they kissed one another, growing messy, needy; she felt him grin against her mouth and could not help but answer in kind. The way he kissed her left her breathless, and hungry for more, made her want to laugh aloud with sheer relief. It was good, it was right, it was beautiful, in its own desperate little way.

His tongue tangled with hers and his hands reached for her, slipped beneath the parted folds of her robe and caught hold of the bare skin of her hips. Jen gasped at the sudden, shocking reminder of just how little she was wearing, of how easy it would be to turn this kiss into something more. The bikini bottoms slung low beneath her hips were tied at the sides; a flick of his wrist, and she'd be bare, and then he could -

She groaned against his mouth, and he nipped at her bottom lip, and she could not help herself, then. Desperate for some way to ease the tension that had coiled tight within her Jen's hips rocked against him, and again, and in a moment he was guiding her, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her hips helping her set a rhythm. Those broad, strong hands of his were gentle against her skin, were not roving, seeking for more, seeking to take and take and take; he only held her, helped her find the friction that left her gasping against his lips. Beneath her she felt the catch of his slowly hardening cock against her aching center, and a whine lodged itself in the back of her throat. She could feel him, hard and hot and there, just there, this beautiful man who meant everything to her, giving her everything she wanted from him now. When the breath left her he pulled away, and her fingers twined in his hair, seeking to bring him back to her, but he just grinned, and began to slowly, so slowly, kiss his way along the column of her throat, from the line of her jaw, down, and down. Her breasts were barely covered by the bikini she wore, and their position and the work of his hands had parted her robe; it would be so easy, for his lips to find the curve of her breast, and the thought of it, while she was grinding herself down against the growing bulge in his swim trunks, left her head reeling. Were they really going to do this? Here, now, on the deck of a boat on the water, with the stars sparkling overhead and Hartono close at hand? It was madness, but oh, he felt so good, and -

"Wait," she gasped, and his hands tightened at her hips, stilling her movement. He had heard her, and he had listened, and she loved him for his willingness to stop as much as she did for his willingness to start.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, bowing her head to let her lips brush against his temple. "I want to, but...not here. Not like this."

It was all she could say, when she did not know for certain if they were being monitored. What she wanted to tell him was that she wanted him, desperately, but she knew that so long as they were doing this job she could not have him, not really. She didn't even know his name; if she was going to let him touch her, let him have her, let him love her, she wanted to at least be able to groan his own name into his ear. There was still the matter of her fear, as well, her fear that he was not as perfect as he seemed to be, or worse, that he was absolutely that perfect, and would never truly be hers. Kissing him, rocking against him, feeling the passion that swirled between them, she was certain that there was more here than lust or loneliness, but it didn't matter, couldn't matter. They had a bloody job to do.

"You're right," he said. Slowly, regretfully, he placed one last kiss against her neck, and then took his hands away from her.

"You go on down," he told her. "I'll be there soon."

She didn't have to ask him why he didn't want to go with her; she could feel the hardness of his cock still tenting the fabric of his trunks. No doubt he'd need a few minutes to collect himself, to let his desire cool, to give them both a chance to come back to their senses.

"All right," she answered, and then she clambered off him, clutching her robe clutched at her chest as she made her way back down to their cabin, trying valiantly not to cry. Kissing him was the stupidest thing she could have done, she thought, because now that she knew how beautiful it was she had no idea how on earth they would be able to keep things professional between them. Now that she knew the taste of him, she did not how she could ever live without it.