The Sex Files

He’d taken in her tall figure, the wavy blond hair falling over her left eye and the green raincoat she wore over a black knit dress. Before he’d been aware he’d moved, he’d given chase. He’d grown up in Manhattan, and even after he’d moved to the D.C. area and his parents retired in Utah, he’d continued visiting because Anna was here, so he knew the subways like the back of his hand.

He’d jogged upstairs, passing turnstiles as he headed for the uptown platform, but just as he’d reached it, another train pulled in. The electronic doors opened, and he’d cursed inwardly as people spilled out of cars, then back inside. He’d reached the doors just as they glided shut. Cameron had been right on the other side of the glass! Her brown eyes had widened, and she’d swung her head, so hair fell across her face as if to disguise herself. She’d tried to back away, but she’d been hemmed in by other passengers. Futilely, Oliver had lifted a hand as the train pulled away, as if to wave goodbye.

Now he shook his head to clear it of confusion. None of this made sense. He was haunted by a woman who didn’t even exist. As a psychologist, he knew the mind could play tricks, so his best guess was that Anna was right. He was overworked and lonely, a state that had made him ripe for suggestion when he’d seen the image of “Cameron.”

Besides, what man wouldn’t fantasize about America’s most erotic woman? Yeah, this was definitely a case of wishful thinking. That, or his subconscious was trying to tell him something. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, his body still aching with need. “That you need a woman.” A real woman.

Memories of the X-rated dream came back, and he couldn’t believe what lurked in his subconscious. He wasn’t really sexist, and he dated smart, levelheaded professional women, not stacked blondes who painted their nails come-love-me red and whispered to him as if he’d just called a 1-900 number. “Edible briefs,” he whispered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Wow.

“Why don’t you settle down, Midnight?” he added as Anna’s black cat scampered along the windowsill, drawing back the curtain. As light shined into the bedroom, another siren sounded, and Oliver glanced at the digital bedside clock: 2:00 a.m. So much for peace and quiet. During the day, when he’d visited Anna, this neighborhood had been deserted, but sometimes at night it was a different story.

Rising, he moved to the third-floor window, but instead of closing the curtain, Oliver stared through the rain into Nite-Lite, a club across the street. Usually the club’s curtains were closed, but tonight, black-light strobes illuminated a packed dance floor. Everybody was gearing up for the holidays. It was depressing. Despite what he’d been saying to the contrary, Oliver wasn’t thrilled about spending Christmas alone.

Usually he and Anna went to his folks’ place in Utah. He felt a sudden, uncharacteristic tug at his heart when an image of the white farmhouse flashed in his mind. He could see the candles his mother put along the front walkway, as well as the wreath on the front door that Anna had made years ago in a crafts class. The tree, always cut by him and his father, was visible through the windows. This year, he’d miss taking long walks with Anna through the snow-dusted streets of the rural countryside….

Suddenly, Oliver leaned forward. “No,” he muttered. “This is crazy!” He’d seen her again! Cameron had been at the window, wearing that same green raincoat. When the lights strobed off, she vanished. “A trick of the night,” he whispered without any real conviction. He was a logical man. Computer-generated images didn’t come to life. But it had looked so much like the woman on his computer….

Rain was mixing with exhaust fumes and smoke rising from subway grates. Everything looked eerie. Smoky. Besides, it was the time of year for phantoms—Halloween had just passed. Winter was almost here. Nevertheless, he considered getting dressed and going to the club to hunt for her. She didn’t exist, though. Right? Between being on the road for a year and doing the promotion for his book, he was simply stressed, and he had every reason to be. With his upcoming time off during the holidays, he’d do himself a favor and take it easy.

Closing the curtain, he climbed into bed again, uttering a frustrated grunt when the water surged beneath him. Who had he seen in the window? he wondered as he drifted.

“Here…let me help you, Oliver.” Her breath was closer now, so near that he caught whiffs of peppermint. At first, he thought it was toothpaste, then a breath mint—and then Oliver remembered the mentholated massage oil. Burying his face in a pillow, he realized the soft cushions were really Cameron’s breasts…

“You don’t mind if I lie beside you, do you, Oliver?” she was whispering.

“Be my guest, Cameron.”

Naked, she glided a thigh over his hip. He was throbbing as he slid a hand between their bodies, gently guiding himself inside her slick, wet heat. Moments ago, he’d been ready to explode, and now, once more, with her hands reaching between them to stroke him, he was teetering on the brink.

He gasped as her hips rocked. She whispered, “Take me deeper, Oliver. Deeper. All the way.” He lost control then. Suddenly, his mouth was everywhere. It closed possessively over her lips, and after he’d plundered her mouth, he dripped liquid kisses down the length of her neck until he went low enough to lather her breasts, lightly scraping his teeth against the puckered tips—gently biting, urgently coaxing. She arched and panted, begging him, “Love me, Oliver. Oh, please love me. You’re so hot. I can’t get enough of you.”

He couldn’t get enough of Cameron, either. Flames seemed to lick inside his limbs, and the wild need for her was spinning inside him like a dancer. He danced along with her, his mind turning somersaults, then fading to black as he thrust harder, quicker, deeper. He was so close, almost there…

He was fast sleep when he came.

3

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Peggy Fox whispered, hugging her green raincoat to her waist to stay warm and nervously pushing away the strands of blond hair falling over her eye. How could she have lost Oliver in the crowd? Just a second ago, he’d been standing across Sixth Avenue, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.

Now he was gone. She shuddered, either because of the chill air and fog, or because she couldn’t decide whether or not to approach him. As soon as she’d left the Plaza Hotel, things had taken a turn for the worse. She’d found where Oliver was staying, all right—a downtown apartment on Barrow Street that belonged to the sister he’d mentioned on TV—but before she could solicit his help, one of the men he worked with had chased her through the subway. He was a tall, bald, massively built black man who bore a striking resemblance to Bruce Willis.

“Halt!” he’d yelled. “I’m Kevin Hall. FBI. You’re wanted for questioning.”

She’d bolted, somehow losing him. But why was an agent chasing her? And why would she be wanted for questioning? She hadn’t done anything wrong. If Kevin Hall thought she was guilty of something, did Oliver Vargo think the same?

He, too, had spotted her in the subway, in the West Fourth Street station, and he’d given chase, although unlike Agent Hall, he hadn’t looked as if he wanted to arrest her. She’d had the distinct impression Oliver had realized she was following him, but until she knew for certain what was going on, she meant to play her cards close to the vest. Which was why she’d been spying on Oliver from Grand Central; unfortunately, from what she’d seen so far, he was chummy with Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall. Maybe that didn’t mean anything, though. The men were co-workers, after all.

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?”