Caught

by Tessa Vidal

  Snooping around like this felt wrong.

  I repacked everything with care and zipped the bag.

  Back in the kitchen, I found three bottles of red wine with bright ribbons around their necks. A heavy gold card was propped up against the bottles:

  Welcome, Clarissa and Veronica!

  Feel! Free! Help yourself to anything you find in the kitchen or bar!

  The exclamation points certainly expressed a lot of enthusiasm.

  I examined one of the bottles. Opus One. I was a gemstone appraiser, not a sommelier, but I knew that was an expensive bottle. How much did this place cost per night? Movie stars definitely knew how to live.

  What the hell. I picked up the waiting corkscrew and opened the first bottle. Might as well let it stand and breathe.

  Chapter Eight

  Clary

  I settled Yukon in for the night and paused at the door to kick off my shoes. A mouth-watering aroma lured me to the kitchen. Ronnie also went barefoot inside the house. Her toes sparkled with a shade of pink I hadn't expected from an FBI special agent.

  “So,” I said. “You have some little-known talents as a chef.”

  “Hardly.” She handed me a glass of wine, then tilted the bottle in my direction so I could read the label. “They left us a Beef Burgundy in the fridge with some instructions on how to warm it up in the oven. It'll be a few minutes more.”

  Toes can't be suggestive. And neither can long, sexy fingers.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

  “It smells marvelous.” I kept my voice light.

  Drifting into the next room, I sat down on a long sofa that left all the emptiness in the world next to me. Following, she hesitated for only a moment before she sat too. Her knee swung out wide by habit, then snapped away again when she brushed against my leg.

  Not very smooth, special agent. Do I have you a little flustered?

  We clinked glasses. I sipped. She swished her wine around to check its body, then inhaled deeply to sample its bouquet. Her eyes closed a moment so she could concentrate.

  Ronnie wasn't a gulper. She was an appreciator. A good quality in a woman.

  Not for the first time, I wished I could be myself and tell her who I was.

  An impossible wish.

  This was bigger than me. Bigger than Malory Maine. There were too many other girls just like me who might not be able to rebuild their lives as successfully as I did after Hurricane Ronnie. Not everybody gets up after they're knocked down. And nothing knocks you down like being accused of a crime you didn't commit.

  She put down her wine glass and gazed into the middle distance.

  When I sipped, she picked up her glass again.

  “Good, isn't it?” I asked.

  “Too good. Dangerous.”

  The sexual tension between us crackled. I experienced another twinge of regret. If only we were two completely different people. If only we could explore each other without all this history.

  A history she didn't even know we had.

  “It's good to live dangerously sometimes.” Now I was the one who put down her glass. “I'm free and single, and so are you, or so you said. What's wrong with a little kiss?”

  She did gulp that final mouthful. “Clarissa...”

  “Clary.”

  “Fine. Clary.” Her knee swung out again. She'd forgotten to control it.

  I tingled where our legs brushed together. Turning easily, I leaned into her, and she leaned a little back. This push-pull dance wasn't something I'd often encountered, especially once I became Clarissa Stanton, Oscar-nominated movie star. People chased me, and I let them.

  Somehow, this time, I was one who had to chase, Ronnie the one playing coy. “I don't know that I want to be a notch on a movie star's bedpost,” she said.

  “Everybody wants to be a notch on a movie star's bedpost.”

  “One-date Clary.”

  There was only one tabloid that regularly ran that nickname. “I had no idea FBI agents read that kind of trash.”

  “You got me. I don't know the industry gossip as well as an alleged movie consultant should so, well, I Googled you.”

  “If I was a man, people wouldn't bat an eye at my love-em-and-leave-em reputation. They'd expect me to enjoy my celebrity.”

  “Oh, I'm not judging you.” She touched my knee, an awkward gesture, like she wanted to squeeze it but wasn't sure if she should. “I'm just saying what I read.”

  “All right.” When I touched her knee, I gave it a real squeeze. “I'm not trying to persuade you to do anything you don't want to do.”

  “Only because you know damn well I do want to do it.”

  Wine forgotten, we shifted slowly but inexorably into each other― two daisies turning toward the sun. Except our sun was each other's faces. Our lips were a whisper away from another kiss, and my knees were open to let one of her knees slot itself between my thighs.

  Slowly, slowly.

  She smelled, ever so faintly, of something woodsy.

  My heart pounded. It would be so easy to rush this moment. Instead, I kissed my own index finger, then tapped the kiss ever so softly against the side of her mouth.

  “Why deny yourself then?” I asked. “If you want me, take me.”

  She shivered. “Clary...” A sharp breath. “This is a job. And I don't want to fuck up the job on the very first night.”

  I was shivering too. We were so close. My finger slipped down to stroke the strong, smooth line of her chin. “You're not going to fuck anything up. Everything will go more smoothly if we blow off some steam. We'll be able to focus better after.”

  “Uh huh. I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that.” Her voice cracked.

  She wanted to be persuaded.

  “Of course, it works like that. The only way to relieve sexual tension is to... relieve sexual tension.”

  “Uh huh.” A lifted eyebrow told me what she thought of that theory. “You hook up with somebody once, and then the tension's gone, and you never want it again. That's just... not the way it is. At least, not for me.”

  It did sound unlikely. Already, I sensed that one taste of Ronnie Rales might not be enough. But I was in too deep to give up now. Acting on instinct, I leaned all-in to plant another long, lingering kiss on those beautiful lips. No indirect kiss to the finger this time. My mouth sealed itself against her mouth, the better to share the pent-up desire pulsing inside of me.

  Her breath tasted of expensive wine. Sweet and not-sweet. My own breath must taste the same. A rich, juicy heat. The very flavor of physical need. Unable to resist, she answered me with kisses as deep and urgent as my own. Our hands wandered across each other's bodies, and we both shuddered with impatience to be out of clothes that were suddenly much too hot and tight.

  A loud buzzer went off, and Ronnie jumped. She was gone. Just that fast.

  The fucking oven. Pushing myself to my feet, I hurried into the kitchen after her.

  She turned and stood up straighter. There was an odd smile on her face I couldn't quite read.

  “I don't think I can eat Beef Burgundy just this minute,” I said.

  “It's the kind of dish they leave for honeymooners. The kind you can turn down to low, and it keeps. So I turned it down to low.”

  A delicious confession. We were both on the same track. She wanted me as much as I wanted her.

  And that was enough to make me bold. “Tell me what you want, Ronnie. Tonight is for you. Everything I do will be for you. Your night with a movie star.” Wasn't that everybody's fantasy? Wasn't that what everybody wanted?

  Still, she hesitated. “You're so beautiful, Clary. You don't have to play a part. Not here, not tonight.”

  “Who says it's a part? Who says I'm not exactly what I want to be?”

  My hips danced with exaggerated sway as I headed off to the bedroom. All right, maybe I was playing a part, but I was enjoying the part I played.

  The tease.

  The seductive actress.

&n
bsp; Available, if only for a single night of fantasy.

  Ronnie groaned softly behind me. “I should be stronger than this.”

  And, boom, there it was. My fantasy. I wanted to shake her iron control. I wanted to feel all that heat and power moving toward me. Wanted to see the calm, cool, and collected FBI agent lose all that calm and all that cool.

  I whispered a few words, and music began to play. My entire body thrummed with the awareness of Ronnie standing in the doorway, unable to tear her eyes away from me. My French lace boy-shorts felt tight and a little sticky where my sensitive mound puffed with desire. Invisible heat flared the length of my body. My diamond-tipped nipples were in danger of jabbing their way out of the matching French lace brassiere.

  Had I donned those sexy underthings just this morning in the hope that Ronnie would be seeing them tonight? If so, I hadn't quite admitted it to myself at the time. Was my plan too dangerous? Was I confusing her, or just confusing myself?

  Ronnie's brown eyes seemed black as night. Her pupils dilated because of the dark doorway, or so I told myself, but I knew it was more.

  She wanted me. Just one push more, and she'd take me.

  Neither of us could resist the force of this moment. Instead of turning on the bedroom light, I whispered another word or two, and the smart bank of electric candles lit up. Between tucking Yukon into bed and finding Ronnie in the kitchen, I'd strung them along the mantelpiece of the antique fireplace.

  Her eyes, already wide, went wider. “When did you do all that?”

  “There wasn't a lot of ‘all that’ to do. Stringing up some electric candles takes, like, two minutes.”

  “But... but...” She clamped her mouth shut.

  Aha. “But where did they come from? Is that your question?”

  She blinked away.

  “You wouldn't have been rooting through my luggage, were you, Special Agent Rales?”

  “I should have told you.”

  “Well, whatever you were looking for, I'm sorry to disappoint you.” I smiled. “No mysterious diet drugs from Hollywood doctors. No thousand-dollar face creams made from the ground-up parts of endangered tigers.”

  “I really am sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I'm used to being an investigator, not a movie consultant. Call it force of habit.”

  “It's all right. It's a Rimowa. If I'd really wanted to lock it, I would have. And you'd have hell to pay trying to break in.” Which was nothing more nor less than the truth. I'd wanted to know if she'd go snooping, and she'd fallen right into the trap.

  She didn't really make much effort to hide it or to lie about it, though. Interesting. What was her game? Or was she not playing any game after all?

  Don't let her turn your head. You're supposed to be turning hers.

  Probably I shouldn't want to kiss her. Shouldn't want to hold her. My body shouldn't crave her touch like an essential vitamin. And yet I did. Was it some scent she carried? Some addictive pheromone? All I knew was that I was pulling her into my arms again, and she wasn't offering any resistance. Our fingers began to feel for buttons here and zipper tags there.

  “So, anyway, that's an interesting story where it all came from.” My voice came out huskier than I meant it to. “The casserole isn't the only thing designed for a honeymooner's convenience. Didn't you notice that little treasure chest of naughtiness at the foot of the bed?”

  She twisted in my arms, then dropped to her knees in front of the treasure chest in question. Her button-down shirt was completely unbuttoned now, the better to reveal the clean lines of her practical white bra. Was that FBI special issue?

  “Holy shit,” she said.

  “Maybe they've got a similar toy box in your bedroom. It might not be a honeymooner's place. It might be a swinger's playground. Who knows what kind of people rent these crazy out-of-the-way hideaways?”

  “I bet you're right. There was a chest in my room, but I didn't open it. I just thought... interior decoration.”

  She seemed hypnotized by the open chest in front of her. Electric candles and strings of little twinkly lights were the least of it. Our unseen hosts had supplied a selection of blister-wrapped dildos, strap-ons, and other sex toys in a bewildering variety of sizes, colors, and textures. “Do people really use so many gadgets?” she asked. “I've always thought of myself as more organic.”

  “I assume you're supposed to take what you can use and leave the rest.” I touched her shoulder to get her back on her feet. “Right now, the organic approach is sounding good to me. Toys can be fun, but skin-to-skin...”

  She shook herself and stood. Determined to knock her off her feet again, I used a sexy stripper's bounce as I danced away my shirt and shorts. Underneath were the bra and boy-short set. The lime-colored French lace was the perfect color to set up my creamy skim― and the delicate fabric was translucent enough to reveal the pink flush of my erect nipples, not to mention the tiny, tender contours of my throbbing clitty bud.

  Ronnie's knees sagged. Fast and not too far, but I saw.

  Smiling, I bundled up my long waves of red hair and tossed them easily over one shoulder.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Let me help you undress.” I stepped in close, my hands wandering boldly in search of any button that remained in its buttonhole.

  “Are you trying to drive me insane?” she asked.

  “‘Trying?’” I asked. “I'm not just ‘trying’ to do anything.”

  She turned this way and that, a life-sized doll allowing me to strip her bare. There were odd moments of hesitation, and I remembered that she'd been with the same woman, on and off, for fourteen years. This was new to her, getting to know a new woman, moving under new hands. She wasn't used to casual encounters, and nothing she did was slick and calculated. None of it was planned out to spin my head around.

  An intoxicating thought. I was special. This was special. And it seemed a little evil to remind myself yet again this was supposed to be my chance to spin her head around.

  But I had to.

  Don't forget who she is. Don't forget why you have her here.

  Empty words, for the most part. Minute by minute and second by second, I forgot about anything except the sweet sight of her long naked body emerging in front of me. The white bra did cause me to fumble, but only for a beat or two. The clasp was between her breasts, and it had been a while since I'd encountered a bra that snapped in front. A delicious scent filled my nostrils as I figured things out.

  Pay attention. Where's the Glock?

  “Wait,” I said. “Aren't you supposed to carry a service weapon? Do you want to make sure you know where it is?”

  “I do know where it is, sweet Clary. I left it in my gun safe in the trunk of your Fleetwood.” She touched the side of my face with one hand, the curve of my breast with the other. “Sometimes, I do know when to turn it off.”

  And maybe I needed to know when to turn it off too.

  Forget the plan. Forget everything.

  She's here. You be here too.

  Nothing exists right now but this moment.

  With her bra gone, her firm breasts were on full display. “I want to gobble you up from top to bottom. I want to taste every inch of you.” My lips clamped on the goose-pimpled flesh of her right nipple. Sucking, pulling, I teased a squeal out of her. And then another. And another.

  “Oh, fuck.” Her hands fluttered impatiently around to find the clasps that secured my bra. “You have to be naked too.”

  Squirming back in a fancy two-step, I finished the dance out of my bra. It was a technique calculated to show off the sleek, cream-colored curves of my edible body. Something I'd done a thousand times. And yet all those other times felt like nothing more than endless rehearsal.

  The light in her eyes electrified me. The heat.

  “This is... we shouldn't... it's too much...” But she too was doing a little wiggle-waggle dance out of her oh-so-proper white underpants. Her bush was trimmed down to a tiny, teasing triangle intended
to point the way.

  My boy-shorts felt glued to me in all the wrong places. Using both hands, I rolled them carefully to mid-thigh, at which point I couldn't contain my impatience any more. With a rip, I yanked the fine French lace off my body.

  She gasped. “You're so beautiful.”

  “You too. You too.”

  All that long, trained muscle. All the length of those glorious legs. Did she have any idea of how amazing she looked to me?

  Our naked skin glowed in the light from the electric candles. We looked like we'd been rubbed in glycerin for a movie scene, but the gloss of sexual desire was all-natural. As was the way we tumbled together onto the double bed, my legs twining around her legs and her legs twining around mine.

  “Organic,” she'd said, and it felt that way. Natural, animal, full of raw heat.

  Length to length, we rubbed, kissed, and caressed each other. Lips slipped hot against lips. Nipples poked into breasts. Deltas tilted into thighs. The more fiercely we humped each other, the more pleasure we seemed to be grinding into each other's naked bodies.

  My clit was on fire. My core was soaking wet.

  Fire and water. Heat and more heat.

  The reasons I had for seducing her, for confusing her, were forgotten. Nothing mattered to me now except making her feel good.

  I did a slow slide down the length of her. My tongue lingered as it learned how to draw a silver track down the side of her chin to her collarbone and around her breasts and then down her belly.

  And then lower.

  Chapter Nine

  Ronnie

  Clary's people had investigators to rival the FBI. It's just that they tended to investigate different things. How did you find a hidden house in the hills where you had Opus One on the counter, a dog run in the back, and a treasure chest full of naughtiness in the bedroom?

  Right now, the only naughtiness I needed was Clary's evil tongue. She worked it down and down, and I was powerless to resist. Indeed, I rolled onto my back, the better to open myself to its tireless attentions. Was it the scent of me that excited her so? The fragrance of my own arousal?