Naked Love

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  “If I did, I can honestly say that I don’t remember it now. And I don’t think you forget love.”

  “What about the fuck buddy?”

  “Did I love him? No. Who was he? Lance Parish. A professional sculptor, and where Mitch was a shark, Lance was a goldfish.”

  “How long did your sculptor stay your fuck buddy?”

  “He wasn’t my sculptor, and six months. It was sex. I told you that. He got the job done.”

  “That is not the way a man wants his bedroom skills to be remembered.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, and you know it.”

  “I get the job done.”

  “Yes.” I laugh, stroking his jaw. “You do get the job done, and for the record, I’m avoiding a joke with a certain nickname right now, despite the opening you’re giving me. Because I know you hate it.” I dive past the joke and turn the topic. “There has to have been some woman in your life.”

  “In my early career, there was someone. But to her, my work was king, and that left no room for her.”

  “Was she right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “If I had loved her, maybe my work wouldn’t have been number one. If she had loved me, maybe my work would have been more important to her, and less important to me. She wanted more. I didn’t understand her version of more.”

  “And since her?”

  “I don’t bring women to my apartment. I don’t take them into my bed. I don’t share this view. I don’t talk about my work or my life. I don’t fuck without a condom.” His hand slides to my face. “I don’t just want more. This is more to me, and I want to know where that leads. If you don’t—”

  “I do,” I whisper. “But please don’t turn out to be an asshole.”

  His eyes light with mischief, a hint of starlight in the depths of his blue eyes. “Since you said please.” His cellphone rings. “What do you think the odds are that this is my client actually calling me the fuck back?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket to glance at the screen and then me. “Royce. Let’s hope he has some good news.” He answers the call. “What do you have for me?”

  He listens a minute, his leg tensing under my palm and calf that has landed on top of it. “When?” he bites out, followed by a pause, in which more bad news must follow, since his next reply is “Fuck,” followed by “Fuck.” He stands up, pressing two fingers to his temple to once again ask, “When?”

  Feeding off his energy, I stand up, listening to the rest of the short exchange, with little understanding, on pins and needles, waiting to hear what has happened. Finally, Reese ends the call and looks at me. “Nelson Ward decided to leave the city by way of private jet.”

  “Oh my God. You don’t leave on a plane while on trial for murder. What are his restrictions?”

  “He had a liberal travel agreement compliments of me,” he says, “but it did not include traveling during the trial.”

  “What does your gut say? Is he running?”

  “He hasn’t returned any of my calls all day. He has to be running.” He shoves fingers through his dark hair. “Holy hell, Cat. I would not have defended him if I believed he was guilty.”

  “I know that. Everyone who knows you knows that. Maybe he’s just taking a quick overnight flight and returning tomorrow.”

  “Or he’s running.”

  “He could be,” I concede. “But that could be about fear, not guilt. This is scary stuff he’s facing. How did Royce find out?”

  “Walker Security oversees a huge portion of the airport security now. He got a flag. And he’s also got a private plane I can use to follow the asshole when we figure out where he went.”

  “I know you want to talk to him for about ten different reasons, but if you follow him, you might look complicit.”

  “That won’t happen. If necessary, Royce’s team will take him into custody and I’ll arrange for him to be taken into police custody. Unfortunately, it’s too late in this trial for the judge to allow me to get the hell off this ship.” His hands come down on my arms. “I want you to come with me, but I won’t put you in the sights of a man who might be a killer. Stay here at my place. Be here, in my bed, when I get back.”

  “I’m in your bed for you and with you, not without you. Not yet.” I push to my toes and kiss him. “I’ll come back when you get back.”

  “I’m not going to win this argument in the ten minutes I have before I have to leave, am I?”

  “Not when you have to pack and leave.”

  His phone pings with a text. “As if making your point,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket and reading the message. “Royce is five minutes out, per his wife.” He slides his cell back into his jeans and kisses me. “I need to get ready, but know this, woman. I am going to come and get you when I get back.” He turns and starts walking away.

  “You need to pack an overnight,” I call after him.

  He pokes his head back into the room. “Can you grab me a razor and a new shirt?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.” He winks and disappears into the hallway, and I’m left in his room with his trust.

  It matters.

  And every single time he calls me “sweetheart,” I feel it with a flutter of my belly. I’m like a silly schoolgirl, and I was never a silly schoolgirl. I’m not sure what that says about me with him, but I’ll analyze it later. I change out of Reese’s shirt, put my clothes and shoes on, and then refocus on Reese’s overnight bag, which needs more than a shirt and a razor inside. I dart into action and cross to what I assume to be the closet. Flipping on the light, I find an incredible, wonderful closet fit for a hundred pairs of high heels with a few modifications, like actually buying that many heels. It’s all gray wood with a center dresser and rows of clothes framing it, with drawers and shelves stacked between rails.

  Once I’ve spied a small leather travel bag, I snag it and head to the bathroom. I pack the razor first, a few random toiletries, and the cologne that smells the most like him today. I return to the closet, opening random drawers until I locate socks and, yes, underwear, of which he has a color assortment. I choose blue and red because, hey, I’m patriotic. I then grab a pair of jeans and pack them as I debate a suit but rule it out. He just needs a few shirts. I rotate and walk to the T-shirt row and reach for one in black and another beside it in blue, but pause when my eyes catch on a pink shirt. Pink? I grab it and my throat goes dry. It’s a female-cut T-shirt with flowers on it and a V-neck. Nothing to hide, my ass. He said he didn’t invite women here.

  “That’s not my size.”

  I whirl around to find Reese standing in the doorway, still bare-chested, but his pants are zipped and his boots are on his feet. “I noticed,” I say.

  “It is, however—or was, rather—just right for my sister, who was here right before the trial started. She left it in my closet, because I shrank it, which, she says, I need to repent for by calling her more often.”

  “Your sister,” I say, my throat dry all over again.

  “Yes, Cat. My sister.” He walks toward me and shows me his phone. “Look.”

  I feel like I shouldn’t look, but since he’s offering, I accept. I glance down at the screen to find a photo of a pretty brunette that favors him, wearing this exact T-shirt. “My sister,” he says. “She sent that photo to me today with this message.” He pushes a few buttons and then presents me with a text message. “From my sister.”

  This time I wave off the phone. “I don’t need to read that, Reese.”

  “I’ll read it to you,” he says. “She says: You owe me a phone call, big brother. I know, I know. The trial. So call me after. Kill ’em while you can.” He glances up at me. “She has a horrible sense of humor,” Reese says. “Almost as bad as you.”

  “Yes,” I agree, “she does, but I’m the one who is bad. I won’t pretend my mind wasn’t in the wrong place. It was. I’m sorry.” I hang the shirt back up. “Did I
mention that I suck at relationships?”

  “You called this a relationship, not a one and done, Cat. You were honest about what you thought. In my book, those are wins.” His phone starts to ring, and he kisses me. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and answers the call. “We’re on our way down, Royce.” He listens a moment. “Yes. Got it.” He ends the call. “Royce is picking us up. He’s downstairs.”

  “Us?”

  “I’m not leaving you to walk home or struggle to get a car,” he says, grabbing a shirt and pulling it over his head. “We’ll drive you home.”

  “Right. Thanks. That works. I didn’t pack you a suit,” I say. “Surely you won’t need it.”

  “I won’t,” he says. “And if we’re lucky, I’ll make it to the airport, figure out what the hell is going on, and get to turn around and come back home to better things, and that means you.” He eyes the contents of the bag I’ve packed, and then me. “You’re officially the first woman since my mother to choose my underwear.” He pulls the bag onto his shoulder. “I like the red, by the way.”

  We both laugh as I say, “I favor the blue,” and we head out of the room and down the stairs, but despite his humor, I sense the edge to him, how bothered he is by the idea that he is representing a killer. And it’s just one more reason to fall for this man. “Does Royce have any idea where Nelson is headed?” I ask as we reach the den and start packing up our work from earlier.

  “Nothing on that yet,” he says, zipping up his briefcase, “but we’re a little too close to the Canadian border for comfort. It’s a common jumping spot to another country.”

  He’s right. We are, and this isn’t looking good. We walk to the front door, and as I pull the handle on my roller bag, Reese turns to me, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close, his eyes searching mine. His expression is indiscernible. “What is it?” I ask, my hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart thundering beneath it.

  Suddenly, his hands are at my face and he’s tilting my gaze to his. “Don’t get spooked while I’m gone and run. I’ll just run faster, because I don’t give up when I want something.” He kisses me then, a deep, drugging kiss, and when it’s over, he adds, “And I want you, Cat.” He doesn’t wait for an answer or allow that statement to become negotiable. He opens the door, and in a few moments, we’re walking down the hall, side by side, my hand in his again. Soon he’ll be leaving, while I’m staying, but it’s not goodbye. After tonight, it’s a whole new beginning. One where you are innocent until you prove yourself guilty.

  19

  Cat

  Reese and I step into the elevator, and as the door closes, a switch flips in my head. “I forgot to tell you,” I say, turning to him. “I can’t believe I forgot this. My agent had a picture of you and me, obviously together.”

  “What picture?”

  “In your lobby, when you held my arm and we were walking toward the security area. Dan sent it to my publisher.”

  “How did you not tell me this, Cat?”

  “We’ve had a lot going on. Your staff was waiting on us, and I really, truly set this aside, but I’m thinking about it now. Dan is the asshole.”

  The elevator opens. “Let’s talk in the hallway,” he says. I nod and we step outside. “Am I right to assume that your agent felt this hurt your book deal?” he asks.

  “I turned down the book deal, Reese. It was never an option with Dan involved. I swear to you.”

  “I’m not questioning you. I’m just thinking she has some agenda with Dan. Because that photo says that you could have a book deal with me any time you want it, if a partnership is what they want. And win or lose, my side of the story is half the story.”

  “I’m close to this. That never crossed my mind, but it should have. And whatever game she might have been playing, it backfired. I fired her. And that’s not my concern right now. Dan is devious. I don’t know what he might do with that photo.”

  “I’ve dealt with press exposure, including speculation about my personal life, for years. I’m thick-skinned and used to the gossip. It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t want this to affect your work any more than it already has.”

  “The trial is over soon,” I say.

  “You were worried about us being a problem for you before, Cat.”

  “We were one and done.”

  “We were never—”

  I press my hand to his chest. “I know. I’m just telling you where my head was. I was protecting myself. I had a wall between us and I believed it to be real, because I needed it to be, but the book deal is done anyway, and I’m not going to lose my column if readership is high, and it is. I only brought this up for you. You needed to know. And right now, you need to leave.”

  “I don’t want to walk into that lobby pretending we aren’t seeing each other. We are. I don’t want to hide it.” My heart squeezes with how vehement those words are, before he adds, “But if you want to wait…”

  “No. I really don’t.” I take his hand. “We need to get you to the airport and find out what’s going on with your client.”

  He cups my head and kisses me. “I’m not leaving unless I have to, so don’t get comfortable for a while.” And with that, he laces his fingers with mine and guides us down the hallway.

  I realize then that he leads often, but not in the wrong ways, and at the wrong times—so far. He worries about my career and makes it easy for me to worry about his. We enter the lobby, and Reese motions me to the security desk. “Let’s stop here a moment.”

  We approach the counter, where a fifty-ish, stocky man in a burgundy jacket with dark, wavy hair with sprinkles of gray awaits. “Mr. Summer,” he greets Reese upon our arrival.

  “Newt,” Reese says. “This is Cat. I need to put her on the approved list.”

  I glance up at him. “Do you have time for this?”

  “I’m making time. I can’t go anywhere until we know where I’m going anyway.” He points to Newt. “Let him set this up.”

  “Okay.” I look at the other man. “Hi, Newt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cat. I’ll need identification.”

  I fill out a form and show him my driver’s license, during which time Reese has his hand resting on my back. It’s during this stop that a prickling sensation forms on my neck, like I’m being watched, we’re being watched. Thankfully, the security process is quick, and in a matter of three minutes, we’re walking through the main lobby.

  The slight tensing in Reese’s grip around my hand tells me he feels it, too. We head toward the front of the building, and a glimpse to the right toward the bar shows it to be packed. Reese must follow my attention, because he answers my unasked question. “Sunday Night football is also big here.”

  “Do you ever join in?”

  “Never. I like football, but in my own living room, and not for a few years. I never have time. What about you? Are you a football lover?”

  “I follow along, mostly to cheer for the team going up against my brother’s love, the Giants. The Cowboys will work just fine for me.”

  He laughs and holds the door for me. I exit into a gust of cold wind, as what is clearly our first cold front of the year is in full force. “Oh God,” I say, trembling and hugging myself as Reese joins me. “What happened out here?”

  He slides his arm around me. “Winter is coming.” He points to a black Escalade. “That should be Royce.”

  We hurry in that direction, and Royce rolls down a window just long enough to confirm he’s the driver. Reese ushers me forward and opens the door. I climb inside and all the way over. “How’s Lauren?” I ask, as Reese joins us and shuts the door.

  “Sick, and everyone that is normally close to her is out of town,” replies Royce.

  “Even Julie?” I ask of his brother’s wife, who is a friend of mine, and darn near a sister to Lauren.

  “She and Luke went to Paris on business they plan to turn into pleasure. Kara and Blake are meeting us at the airport to travel wi
th Reese to get his client.”

  “Oh. Well, you want to just drop me there and I can stay with her?”

  “Already planning on it,” he says, glancing in the mirror at me. “Because I assumed your concern.”

  “I think I just got rolled over, but it’s acceptable,” I say. “I love her, too.”

  “I know that,” he says, and he glances at Reese. “Vermont.”

  Reese follows his lead instantly. “Nelson went to his place in Vermont?”

  “We assume,” Royce says. “He hasn’t landed, but his wife arrived there this morning. I’d bet my right hand, and I really fucking like my right hand, that he’s going there.”

  “They both have to be in court next week,” Reese says. “What the hell are they thinking?”

  “Let’s hope they don’t plan a jump to another country,” Royce says, pulling us into traffic. “However, at this point, I’d bet my left hand she’s your killer.”

  “And what better way to take attention off yourself, but to bait your husband into looking guilty as sin,” I provide.

  “Exactly,” Royce says. “Even Lauren, who was on the boyfriend team, has come around. In between throwing up.”

  “That bad, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Royce says, “That bad, which is why I’ll be staying here. Blake and Kara are a kickass team. A pain-in-the-ass team, but kickass nonetheless. And Blake is the one who’s been hacking a trail on these two.”

  “Anything else on that?” Reese asks.

  “Not yet,” Royce says. “But Blake and Kara feel like if they can pick your brain, and even meet your client and his wife, they will close in on the answers.”

  “The silver lining to this fuck-up,” Reese says. “Yeah. I’m in. I’ll talk their fucking ear off if they can help.”

  We turn onto the street where the Walker family owns a small building they remodeled as home and offices, and Royce glances in the mirror at me again. “I can’t promise how late I’ll be. You can have our spare bedroom if you want for the night.”

  “I’ll take good care of Lauren,” I say.