by Mallory Rush
"That's good, challenge me." He traced a pattern on her knee. She thought it was the shape of a heart before he rubbed it away with the pressure of his palm. "What do you suggest I should say in a crucial moment like this?"
She shut her eyes while the world tilted at a skewed angle. "I think you should tell me that you like your women seasoned and sure and that you're way out of my league."
"Am I now? You mean you can wave a pistol and likely hit your mark, bluff your way through a game of penny ante poker and win with a pair of deuces. But you're off your turf when I'm hard and you're all but melting against me while we're both thinking of a dozen different ways we'd like to be kissing... and more. Oh yeah, a whole lot more."
He touched his forehead to hers; she could hear the mingling of their breath, sharing the air, sharing the illusion he was weaving with consummate skill.
"Now it's your turn," he murmured. "Do you fight me? Do you succumb? Or do you simply fight yourself because you want to believe this is only business and business can keep you safe from the man who owns you and shares your desires, even perhaps, your bed?"
She'd been kissed. She'd been fondled. But she'd never encountered anything like this. Whether his words were sincere or not, he was right. She was off her turf.
She was also scared crazy because she wanted to believe they could kiss a dozen different ways and more. Lord, so much more. But to do that would dictate she remain as emotionally removed as she'd have to in a relationship with a man who could hurt her with his distance if she let him get too close.
Then she remembered their earlier conversations: She always told him too much while he returned little more than hints, dark looks that reached for her only to retreat behind a shuttered window. That was the root of her resistance. His sister, yes, and that should be what had her drawing the line.
But it wasn't. When she finally gave her heart to a man, Rachel knew she wouldn't be able to hold anything back. She needed a man who could return his heart just as freely.
Rand didn't seem to be that kind of man.
"Rachel? What do you say?"
"I would say that I'm not easy. And that succumbing to you, for any reason, is not going to happen. At least not until this case is over and Rand Slick's a mystery to everyone but me." A Rubik's Cube. How apt his self-description.
"But your job is to unravel them. And while you're at it, I'd have to give every appearance of trying to sway your judgment." He tugged at her hair and wrapped a strand around his finger only to tease it to her lips, using the silky texture to arouse her. He did it amazingly well, her breasts, pressing intimately into his chest, throbbing to a near hurt while her lips felt needy with want. "If tender words or logic didn't work, I would have no choice but to pretend force."
He tangled a hand in her hair and tugged until her neck was arched. It was a maneuver she'd never encountered, though his adeptness was that of a man in his element. His mouth grazed over her throat and he made a gutteral sound. His teeth nipped a lobe while his whispered words were rough, demanding.
"Fight me, Rachel. Just remember that whatever you've uncovered on me doesn't even scratch the surface. So if you really want to escape, you'd better fight me tooth and nail."
She pushed at his chest while an unstaged cry of desire caused her to grip his shirt and begin to pull him closer rather than thrust him away.
"Let me go. Get your hand out of my hair, quit rubbing against me and leave me alone."
"Not convincing enough. You don't say it like you mean it, and therefore I'm not buying." He jerked his hips forward and tightened his hold. "You're no match for my strength anyway, so fight me by telling me the real reason you can't be doing this. Don't use Sarah for an excuse, because you've told me involvement is a potential risk, not an absolute. Get me where it counts. Up front and personal."
"It's you, Rand." Honesty, she decided, was her only means of escape. And if she didn't escape soon, she wouldn't have a chance. This time she pushed him away, with more strength than she was feeling.
"What about me? Specifics."
"All right." She groaned, while her woman's needs screamed for more, more, more. "I can't afford to tangle with a man who flirts with the edge and gets his kicks from outwitting the devil. A man who's probably had a lot of triple-X rated nights but slips out before the sun comes up. Long on technique. Short on stayability. I'm sorry, Rand. As much as I wish otherwise, that's not the kind of resume I'm in the market for. You're one puzzle I'd be better off not trying to solve. Jagged edges have a way of drawing blood."
He released her hair and turned so that she couldn't see his face. The silence was taut, distorting the seconds that passed into an immeasurable length of time.
"Let me tell you something, Rachel. You did a damn good job of reading between the lines but maybe, just maybe, there comes a point in a man's life when he wonders if it's time to revise his resume." He paused, seemingly caught by what he'd just said and not quite able to believe he'd said it. "Guess that's an item I'll have to put on hold. After all, we're just playing. Aren't we?"
"I don't know," she admitted, then realized how ingenious she must sound to him. "Yes, of course we are."
"Of course. But this game's left me with a very real problem. I've only got so much discipline and at the moment it's too thin for my own comfort. Comfort, actually, is the last thing I'm feeling in our current position." He shifted and a pained expression twisted his lips.
"You're right. This is uncomfortable. I'd better move."
"No, wait." He tightened his hold but it was the softening of his tone that kept her in his arms. "You did give me some comfort tonight. A kind I didn't expect. It's something I'm not quite sure how to deal with." He seemed unfinished while the clock tic-tic-ticed in the background, stretching out the elastic silence. "I don't know how to deal with it, but I'd like to try."
He rushed his words as if quick to get them out before he could take them back.
"Deal with what—comfort?"
"Accepting it, that's what."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you? Tell me why agreed and don't play any games. Your answer's important."
Tell him when she couldn't accept the reasons she didn't completely understand herself? Reasons that reduced her to a refrain from The Wizard of Oz: I'm melting, melting, melting... Ahhh. It was the same tortured sound, the same sense of being thrust into a fantasy world that dazzled her even while she chanted, "There's no place like home..."
How could she tell him this when her own control was too precarious? If Rand had been dangerous before, he was lethal now. Holding her close, stroking her hair, letting her see inside just enough to touch the softness beneath the razor edges that could indeed draw blood.
Go ahead, Rachel, tell him, came the inner taunt. You know it's about as safe as handing an arsonist a Bic. You're about to go up in flames as it is with his mouth flirting with your neck. Don't you want to feel his teeth take a bite or two before you find out how good his tongue feels slipping around yours? He's bound to be good at it, maybe he'd even stick around long enough to teach you a few tricks to remember him by. Go to bed with him and get some more practice for the case. You can handle it. Right?
Oh God, so wrong. Every instinct she had rebelled, but desperation demanded that she pull some of her own shutters before she committed a very foolish and irrevocable act.
"Why did I agree? You promised to pay me well." How brittle her voice sounded in her ears. And as abrupt as his mouth's jerk from her neck. "My career's just getting started and this is the chance of a lifetime to make my mark."
Chapter 6
"No," he bit out. His fingers tightened, his eyes narrowed to a slit. He looked as if he wanted to shake her and kiss her senseless too. "You care. You're a good actress, Rachel, but not good enough to fool a master of the game. Whether you'll admit it or not, you do care."
He got up so fast she nearly tumbled to the floor. Rand grabbed his coat and slung it over his sho
ulder.
"I'll be leaving now. We can discuss details tomorrow. Call me at the motel if you need a ride."
Rachel smoothed her skirt with shaking hands, feeling too ashamed about what she'd done and too unnerved by his sudden brusque demeanor, to look at him.
"That's okay. My car should be ready in the morning. What say we meet at ten a.m. in my office?"
"Fine." He was leaning against the door, his chest filling her vision, when the smooth tip of his finger insistently lifted her chin.
Rachel stared into a face that was both filled with and devoid of emotion, a perplexing face that had upended her safe world in a matter of days. If this was what he could do in so little time, where would that leave her in a month or maybe three? She shuddered to think.
"If it's a matter of money, Rachel, be warned I always get the most out of my investments." He leaned in, his mouth hovering perilously close to hers. "Judging from your convincing performance, I'm certain that whatever the price you're going to be worth double."
She was still staring at his mouth, the threat that it posed, when threat became reality from an unseen source. She felt the hard length of his leg slide smooth between hers, the shock of her immediate moistening. She tried to protest but no words would come, only a moan escaping her lips.
Into the wedge he lifted, shifting to a sure, steady rhythm. Slow and deep. Quick and teasing. She tried to move but she seemed paralyzed, unable to tear herself away from his intimate stroking. Leg strokes that were so incredibly wonderful that her body turned traitor, her own legs parting then clenching, now returning thrust for thrust.
She thought she was half crazed. Her breathing, so strange and choppy, quick rushes of it like gasps, and then no air at all. His palms were cupping her hips and urging her higher, faster. He was saying things that were disjointed and arousing and she tried desperately to hang on to his murmurs.
Beautiful... yes, angel, that's it, so good... feel the heat... but you're empty. Poor angel. Care... care... you do.
What was happening to her? She didn't know, didn't—just this thing she was grasping blindly for that escaped her reach while she was so empty she hurt.
She whimpered his name, knowing he held the means to her release. He made a low, pleased sound. Then quit moving his leg. Her own were trembling and he gentled her frantic hips that she couldn't stop from jerking against him. He soothed her with a touch that was generous and tender until she found a measure of control. And then his palms pressed tight on either side of her hips, stilling the last of her movements.
"You're okay," he said in a quiet, reassuring voice.
He kissed her forehead. Then he slowly moved away.
Rachel couldn't catch her breath. He thought she was okay? She could hardly stand. She was close to hyper-ventilating. She hurt between her legs and felt a frustration so terrible that a scream was trying to claw its way out of her throat. Did it show on her face, was that why his held a mix of kindness and male satisfaction that came close to smug?
His gaze lowered and she suddenly realized what held his attention. Her skirt was hiked up to her panties. She glared at him and jerked it down with shaking hands. Actually, she was shaking from head to toe. In passion and passionate anger.
But then he did something else and anger was replaced by distress. His attention was now on his pants leg, or rather the evidence that she'd had intimate knowledge of it.
"Definitely worth any price," he said with approval, "Virgin or not."
He turned to leave. She caught his hand at the knob, not knowing what she would say because she was speechless. She only knew her pride demanded retribution for his blatant coup de grace. It staggered her, humiliated her, and worst of all, why good Lord, it aroused her. What kind of man was he?
What kind of woman was she to respond to him?
"What you just did... it wasn't fair or appropriate or—" She was sputtering, unable to string her feelings into a simple sentence. Rachel had never been so upset in her life; she silently counted to ten and took a shuddering breath. "Manipulative, that's what you were. You manipulated me and I don't like it."
"Oh?" His gaze angled to her apex. "Could've fooled me."
Her cheeks burned while her stomach bottomed out. Rand played dirty. Well, he was going to find out she could too.
"Don't you dare try something like that with me again or you'll be looking for another PI."
"Don't worry, I won't. You gave me the answer I was looking for. Too mad to ask? Since you're probably curious, I'll tell you anyway. I needed to find out if money was the only thing that's really motivating you. Now I can leave with the feel of you riding my thigh and know at least that much was genuine."
She was compelled to disguise her weakness, to cover the shame of her lie that had caused this, with another one.
"An impromptu performance. Nothing more."
"Are you up for an encore to convince me you're telling the truth?" He took a menacing step forward and she quickly moved from his reach. He chuckled, apparently satisfied with her reaction. "Just kidding. You pulled out the big guns. I'll behave."
"You'd better. And don't even suggest another rehearsal. We have our roles down as pat as they'll ever get."
"Bravo. With an exit like that you deserve an Oscar." He winked. "Curtain's closed, angel." The door shut.
Rachel rested her forehead against the hard grain of wood. At least it was solid, when she was coming apart at the seams. She rolled her head back and forth. Something wet slid down her cheek.
Tears of a clown, she thought. Some were for Rand in his ivory tower, where he knew how to cope alone and probably too well, even if he might want more. But mostly they were for her because she didn't know how to cope when she needed more from a man than he might have the capacity to give.
For all she knew it had all been nothing but a power play, a well-executed performance on his part, or a test of her stamina to see how she held up under undue duress. But not for her. She felt. Her emotions, her words, the physical responses he commanded were very, very real.
Rachel wiped her wet cheeks with a determined swipe of her arm. "Get a grip on yourself," she snapped. "You're being ridiculous. He turns you on. So what? He won't pull this crap again so you're safe. Now quit crying. He's a client, nothing more. Take his money, do your job, and you'll be okay."
You're okay, came the wisp of his voice. She heard the soft reassurance again, felt his gentleness when he could have just as easily taken her on the floor with nary a protest from her. She still burned for him to do just that. How in heaven's name was she going to cope in Zebedique?
Water music. Palms amidst sand. Turrets swirling into an indigo sky. Sandalwood and incense and...
Bay and night spice.
The image she'd conjured in Rand's car that first day was suddenly too vivid. She was there again, could see the woman turning her head as Rand released the catch to her sheer veil.
Her fair skin was flushed with anticipation. She wore passion's maturity well, standing proud while he shed the fragile garment, and then naked as he leaned her into the bed with the sound of a mating growl.
Rachel swayed against the door, her legs refusing their support as she stared into the vision. She saw the woman's face. And something more:
Fate winked, then vanished through a dark, steamy window.
* * *
Rand's foot pressed into the accelerator, as though the faster he drove the farther he could distance himself from what he'd spent nearly a lifetime outrunning.
Unfortunately he just got himself to the motel that much sooner. Rand gripped the wheel, hearing his own harsh breathing fill up the silence. Claustrophobia pressed in. But he didn't move, didn't want to go to his empty room anymore than he wanted to sit at a bar alone or waste his time picking up a willing woman. He'd done it before, knew the emptiness of waking up next to someone he cared nothing about.
Care. He still couldn't believe he had the capacity to hurt as much as he had when Rach
el said she didn't. But he knew better; she did care, and nothing could have prepared him for the shock of realization that he desperately wanted her to... care. He'd actually called her "angel." Endearments weren't his style, and angel was the most treasured of all.
The sound of a couple laughing as they strolled through the parking lot arrested his attention. His eyes narrowed as they kissed and exchanged a verbal intimacy. A tight sensation stitched through his chest. He wanted what they were sharing—intimacy. A commodity of rare supply in his life. Until now the lack had been of his own choosing.
What was happening to him? How had Rachel infiltrated the ice water blood of a man most people considered little more than a money-making machine? He felt as though she had triggered twenty-odd years of gathered momentum that smashed his hardened heart with the grace of a two ton velvet hammer.
It hurt. It felt damn good. A lot like doing emotional gymnastics after decades of no work outs. But was it worth riding out the pain to get to the gain? And how much hurt would Rachel have to endure while he bungled his way through?
He had to give this some careful consideration. Sarah was a commodity he couldn't risk—though there was a good chance she might resent him more than welcome him. What he had to know was if Rachel been honest about the potential consequences of getting involved. She could have been simply groping for an excuse to avoid exploring the boundaries of a relationship with a man as risky as him. He suspected it was some of both. That left the burden of priorities on him.
He frowned while a final, crucial question emerged: Could he play his role convincingly and manage their proximity until Sarah was found? Even better, could he navigate a dual mission, save Sarah and explore this compelling relationship with Rachel too?
Rand flipped on the CD and water music filtered through the whirlpool of his thoughts. Zebedique. An exchange of money and paper. Rachel, his possession, in a country that gave men absolute control over their women.