RESIDENT EVIL PIERSHERRY

Chapter 11

WHILE WAITING IN the lobby, Sherry slipped on her Pierset and tied
the belt around her waist. It was a warm night for October in Chicago, but
given that it was nevertheless still October in Chicago, the concept of "warm"
when wearing a sleeveless dress was relative.
"I can take it from here, officer. Thank you."
At the sound of Piers's voice, both Sherry and the police officer
Slonsky had substituted for Kamin and Phelps turned. She watched as Piers
strode down the escalator.
"Thank you, Agent Nivans, but there's no need," she replied coolly. "I'll
stick with Officer Zuckerman until Kamin and Phelps arrive."
Piers ignored her and showed his badge to Zuckerman. "Piers Nivans.
You spoke with my partner on the phone a few minutes ago, so you're aware
that the FBI has jurisdiction over the investigation Ms. Birkin is involved in. I'll
make sure she gets home safely."
Sherry watched as Officer Zuckerman nodded and wished her a
good night. After he left, she glared at Piers. "Why did you do that?"
"Because we're not finished with our conversation."
"Believe me, we're finished."
He shook his head. "No." He moved toward her, close enough that
Sherry had to tilt her head back to look at him.
"What did you mean, when you said that I saw what I wanted to see
that morning?" He studied her face, searching for answers. "What else
should I have seen?"
Sherry held her ground. "If this is some kind of interrogation
technique, it's not working."
"I'm awfully good at this when I need to be, you know."
"How fortunate then that I don't plan for us to do a lot of talking."
"Maybe you'll warm up to the idea on the way home."
It took Sherry a second to catch that. "I'm not going home with you."
Piers nodded. "I already called Kamin and Phelps and told them to
meet us at your house."
"Why?"
"I told you, we're not finished with our conversation." He smiled slightly.
"What's wrong? Don't trust yourself around me?"
Sherry raised an eyebrow. Hardly. "Fine. Let's get this over with.
Where's your car?"
"Parked on the street in front of my apartment." He pointed behind her.
"We're taking that."
Sherry turned and saw a motorcycle parked in front of the building.
She was no expert on motorcycles--far from it--so later when Collin
interrupted her at this point as she recounted the details of the evening to ask
her five thousand damn questions about what kind of motorcycle Piers drove,
the best she could tell him was that, no, it wasn't a Harley, and no, it wasn't
one of those crotch-rocket sport bikes either.
It was silver and black, and it was definitely a bad-boy bike, she
decided as she looked it over. But bad-boy in a refined, understated sort of
way. It suited Piers well.
But still. It was a motorcycle.
"I'm not getting on that," she told him.
"Never been on a bike before?" he guessed.
"Ah, no. Not my thing."
"How do you know they're not your thing if you've never been on one?"
"For starters, they're dangerous."
"Not in the right hands." Piers walked over to the motorcycle and
climbed on.
Sherry had a retort ready, but it died on her lips. Holy shit, he looked
ridiculously hot on the bike.
Piers nodded. "Come on--let's go."
She walked over. "How am I supposed to ride that thing in a dress?"
He didn't so much as blink. "That slit at your thigh should do the trick."
So.
He'd noticed the slit of her dress.
Sherry hiked up her dress and climbed on, showing a lot of leg in the
process. Oops. She adjusted her Pierset to cover up, wondering how much
Piers had seen. From the look on his face when she glanced up, he'd seen
plenty.

"Oh yeah--the dress works just fine," he said with a warmer gleam in
his eyes than she was used to seeing.
Sherry looped her purse around her wrist and settled it into her lap.
She searched around the seat for her handles. "What do I hold on to?"
"Me."
How convenient. "Maybe I should just stick with Phelps and Kamin,"
she said nervously.
"Too late to back out now." Piers reached around her and pulled a
helmet off the back of the seat. "You never know, maybe you'll surprise
yourself and actually like it." He handed her the helmet. "Put this on."
"What about you?" she asked.
"I'll get by."
At least it would make him drive more carefully. Or so she hoped. She
slid the helmet over her head as Piers fired up the engine with a loud roar.
Without thinking, she grabbed his waist and slid closer to get a better grip.
Before they took off--since these could very possibly be her last
words--she flipped up the helmet visor and leaned forward to speak over the
bike's engine. "Don't do anything crazy. I'm the maid of honor in my friend
Amy's wedding, and she'll kill me if I have to be wheeled down the aisle in a
body cast. Plus I got these new four-inch heels just for the occasion and they
will not go well with crutches."
She flipped the visor down.
Piers spun around in his seat and flipped the visor back open. "Don't
worry--since it's your first time, I'll be extra gentle." With a wink, he flipped the
visor shut.
She flipped the visor back open. "Nice innuendo. Am I supposed to be
charmed by--"
Piers reached around and cut her off by flipping the visor shut again.
"Sorry, no more talking, it distracts the driver."
From behind the helmet, Sherry clamped her mouth in frustration. If
he killed them both on the stupid bike, it was really going to piss her off that
she didn't at least get the last word in.
But as they drove away from the building, her fear of motorcycles
quickly surpassed her annoyance with Piers. She wrapped her arms tightly
around his waist. They drove down Michigan Avenue for less than half a
block before pulling to a stop at the light that would take them onto Lake
Shore Drive. Through the helmet visor, she watched as the light for the cross
street turned yellow, then red, and she closed her eyes as their signal turned
green and they took off at a breathtaking speed.
When she opened her eyes, they were shooting through the Oak
Street underpass, then suddenly they were up and out in the open air with
nothing but the wide expanse of Lake Michigan on their right. The formidable
waves of the lake crashed against the breakers and, unable to help herself,
Sherry glanced over her shoulder at her favorite view of the city: the
Hancock building and the other sky-scrapers rising majestically next to the
lake along with the twinkling lights of the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. Every
bitterly cold February when she asked herself why she lived in Chicago, this
view was the answer.
She turned around and pulled closer to Piers as they raced along the
drive past Lincoln Park Zoo and the harbor. The air was brisk, but she had
her Pierset and he blocked most of the wind. And as much as she hated to
admit it, the ride was . . . exhilarating. Her adrenaline was flowing, and
several minutes later when they slowed to exit off Lake Shore at Belmont
Harbor, she flipped open the visor of the helmet.
"Take the long way," she said breathlessly in Piers's ear.
It was hard to tell over the motorcycle engine, but she was almost
certain she heard him chuckle. When they slowed down, she relaxed and
loosened her grip around his waist. Without thinking, her right hand just sort
of happened to graze along his stomach, and she felt his abdominal muscles
tighten in response, firm and hard as a rock.
And that was pretty much the moment she started thinking about sex.
In her defense, to start things out, he was the hottest man she'd ever
laid eyes on--and now her hands, too--and it certainly didn't help that she
was straddling him between her legs. As they drove, nice and slow along the
side streets, Sherry tried to pull her mind out of the gutter. But then they
stopped at an intersection and she noticed how Piers's hands worked the
handlebar/clutch thingy as he revved the engine--almost like a caress--and
she began imagining other things his hands could caress, strong hands that
could lift her up, hold her down, flip her over, pin her against a wall . . . and
she realized then that her mind was already so far down in the gutter she'd need an extension ladder to get it out so she might as well just give in to the
whole darn fantasy.
They were just getting to the good part in her head--in her mind she
had revised the scene from the other day when Piers and Wilkins came by to
tell her about the surveillance, only this time it was only her and Piers (no clue
how he actually got inside her house, useless details) and this time she had
just stepped out of the shower (with perfect makeup and hair, of course) and
he was waiting in her bedroom (an act that would be stalker-ish in real life but
was necessary to advance the storyline) and he said some sly bit about was
she going to be a cooperative witness and she said something equally sly
back (she hadn't come up with the exact line yet but at this point the dialogue
became superfluous) and then she dropped her towel to the floor and walked
over and without saying anything else they tumbled onto the bed and--
Pulled in front of her house.
The motorcycle came to a stop, and Sherry blinked as she came
back to reality. She sat there, needing a moment to regroup, trying to focus
on the fact that the man she was with was Piers Nivans, who had only meant
trouble for her in their brief, but bad, history together.
Noticing that she hadn't moved, he turned around and flipped open the
visor of her helmet.
"You okay in there?"
Sherry snapped out of it. "Sure--I'm fine." She pulled off the helmet,
handed it over to him, and even managed a nonchalant look. Or so she
thought.
Piers looked at her closely. "Are you blushing?"
Sherry shrugged. "I don't think so. Maybe there's a little color on my
cheeks from the wind."
"You were wearing a helmet."
Right.
Time to go.
She climbed off the bike as quickly as she could in her dress and heels.
Piers had parked the motorcycle next to the curb, and the added inches
made it easier for her to get down. With an efficient nod, she said her
good-bye. "Thanks for the ride. Good night." She turned and headed toward
her front gate.

"Hold on--I need to check out your house."
She stopped, having forgotten about that. "Well, let's hurry up, then,"
she said over her shoulder. She got to the gate and reached for the handle
when his hand came down over hers.
"Anxious to get rid of me, are you?" he asked.
Sherry turned around. "Yes."
Piers paused, as if seeing something he hadn't expected. He took a
step toward her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Uh-oh . . . trouble.
She tried to play it off. "Like what?" She opened the gate and backed
toward the front steps.
Piers continued to advance on her. "Like that."
Sherry put her hand on the stone ledge and slowly climbed up the
stairs. "You're imagining things."
He shook his head slowly. "No."
"I must've gotten worked up from my first motorcycle ride," she lied.
And possibly from thinking about riding something else, too.
Shameless.
Piers clenched his jaw. "Christ, Sherry." As he backed her toward
the door, his expression was part angry, part . . . wow--something else
entirely. "What the hell am I supposed to do when you look at me like that?"
"Ignore it. Stay focused on the fact that you hate me."
"I'm trying. I'm really trying here."
He had her trapped against the door. Sherry wondered if he could
hear the pounding of her heart, it was beating so fast.
Piers put his hand on her hip. Such a simple touch, but Sherry's
breath caught nevertheless. With her back pressed against the door, the
only movement of her body came from her chest, her breathing short and
quick in anticipation.
Piers's gaze fell on her parted lips. He slid his other hand to her nape
and tilted her head, pinning her with dark eyes so hot she felt the burn in her
stomach.
She knew she could push him away if she wanted to.
She didn't want to.
His gaze softened. "Sherry," he said huskily, and she felt as though she melted right there. Knowing what he was about to do, she closed her
eyes and felt his lips brush lightly against hers right before he--
Stopped.
Blinking in confusion, Sherry watched as Piers pulled back.
"We've got company," he said in a thick voice.
She looked over his shoulder and saw a familiar unmarked car parked
on the street in front of her house. Phelps and Kamin.
"When did they get here?" she asked.
"Just now. I heard the car pull up." Piers gestured to her door. "Do you
have your keys?"
She nodded, trying to clear her head. "In my purse." She pulled the
keys out and unlocked the door.
Piers moved past her and stepped inside. "Stay in the doorway, where
Kamin and Phelps can see you." Then he went to search her house.
Sherry stood there and waited, trying to process what had
happened between her and Piers. Her mind was quickly coming to terms with
the fact that she'd almost just made a very big mistake, although her body
seemed not as willing to accept this as fact.
Get a grip, she told herself as Piers came down the stairs from the
second floor.
"All clear," he said as he approached.
Sherry stepped out of the doorway, knowing that physical distance
was her best defense against him right then.
Piers noticed her quick retreat. "Don't forget to lock the door behind
me," he said tersely.
He walked out the door.
PIERS  HURRIED DOWN the steps, trying to figure out when, exactly,
he had become such an idiot.
He'd almost kissed her. And if Phelps and Kamin hadn't pulled up
when they had, he would have.
Clearly, a bad idea. On this, at least, they seemed to agree.
He'd been momentarily caught off guard by that look she'd given him
when she'd gotten off the bike--whatever the hell that had been--but now he
was focused once again. She was his witness. More important, she was Sherry Birkin , and that meant hands off. The last time he'd gotten too
close to her, he'd gotten burned. Big time. Not something he wanted to go
through again.
He liked being back in Chicago. Being a solitary person, he didn't have
a ton of friends, but his younger sister and two-year-old nephew lived close
to the city. He planned to stay in Chicago for good this time, and that meant
no screw ups, particularly in cases where Sherry was involved.
Piers  walked the perimeter of the house and confirmed that all the
windows and doors were secure. When he finished, he closed the front gate
and headed over to the unmarked car parked at the curb. He had no idea
how much Kamin and Phelps had seen, but they weren't smirking or gawking
as he walked up, so he took that as a good sign.
The window of the passenger side unrolled as he walked up. Piers 
knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the older cop's expression.
Kamin grinned approvingly. "So that's why you wanted to drive her
home from the restaurant."
Phelps leaned across the seat. "Does this mean she's not going to the
wedding with Max-the-investment-banker?"
So much for hoping they hadn't seen anything.