No Limits

by Alison Kent

  And now that he’d met her, he understood her chagrin. “Who noticed?”

  “I don’t know. Someone with a cell phone camera and an up-skirt fetish, I guess. Or just a member of the paparazzi devoted to his art.”

  He didn’t want to accuse her of inviting trouble, but the obvious question was still sitting there unasked. “Why did you take them off?”

  She pulled the sleeping bag closer to her chest, held it there. “You first. Why were you drinking? And why did I tell you to stop?”

  “You told me to stop for the obvious reason. A weeklong drunk never did anyone any good.” Though it had seemed the perfect solution at the time.

  He’d been on assignment with Eli McKenzie, one that should’ve been a quick in-and-out package retrieval for a friend of Hank Smithson’s. The members of the Russian mob hadn’t been amenable to letting it go.

  When Simon and Eli had learned the package was living and breathing and had a name, it was too late into the operation to regroup. The girl had taken a bullet in her shoulder, but she was returned to her grandfather without further harm.

  In retaliation, the mob had gone after Eli’s woman, Stella Banks, holding her hostage and demanding a trade everyone involved knew would never happen.

  Stella had choreographed her own escape, chiseling loose the mortar from between the cinder blocks of her basement prison and shorting out the building’s electrical system with the wires she’d found behind the wall.

  Unfortunately, she’d started a fire, and suffered smoke inhalation and burns that still had her confined at Weill Cornell. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been less than three weeks. Simon had spent the first on a bender, refusing to take Eli’s calls.

  It had been Hank who’d finally gotten Simon to open his door, but it was Michelina who’d heard his confession, who’d brought him back from the dead. Michelina who’d told him to go see Stella, to deal with the guilt and the grief like a grown-up.

  Knowing that she had as much trouble facing problems as he did made the whole thing even more of a joke than it was. They were some kind of pair, even if that pair was nowhere but in his mind.

  “Hey,” she said softly, as if she’d given Simon all the time she thought he needed. “Where’d you go?”

  He wondered how long he’d been gone. “Not to sleep, which is where we both need to be.”

  After a long quiet moment, she said, “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know. This is a full-size bed.”

  “If it was a king, I might consider it. I take up most of a full by myself.”

  “You can wrap up in one sleeping bag, and I’ll wrap up in the other.”

  Someone, anyone, deliver me from temptation. “I think I need more personal space than that.”

  “Then at least take one of these,” she said, balling up the sleeping bag she’d been huddled beneath.

  She tossed it to him, squirreled around, and wrapped up in the one covering the mattress, lying on her side rolled up like a bug in a rug. He sat up and arranged the second bag similarly, half of it as a mattress, half as a cover to keep off the chill.

  They laid like that for a long time, awake but not speaking, close but distant, aware of the big empty house around them and how the two of them were sharing the same small space, breathing in and out the same air.

  For however long she stuck around, he needed to think of her as the victim of an accident, as someone who’d asked the wrong questions and found herself in someone else’s way. He couldn’t think of her as the woman who knew all his secrets, the one he’d told things he didn’t want anyone else to know.

  If he made that mistake, thought of her as his, he wouldn’t be able to keep a safe distance, maintain his objectivity, or give this mystery the attention it deserved. Then again, were he to be honest with himself, he’d have to admit it was already too late.

  He’d lost anything resembling detachment the moment he’d seen the fear in her eyes—eyes he’d looked into for his own salvation so many times they were the only eyes he ever saw in his dreams.

  Seventeen

  C helle could not wait for the weekend. There’d been enough office drama the last few days to spread out over a month, and today was going to be just as bad as—if not worse than—all the others combined.

  After today’s meeting with Simon, things would settle down, and Chelle wouldn’t feel like she was sitting in a basket of eggshells, wincing every time the door opened or the phone rang, waiting for them to crack.

  It wasn’t that she had a problem doing her job or dealing with the public. She’d tended bar in the French Quarter long enough to get over any people issues she’d had. But if Lorna didn’t stop hovering, Chelle was going to snap.

  Her boss gave her a lot of autonomy, and the atmosphere at Savoy Realty had been great, but taking Simon’s phone call earlier in the week had Lorna so on edge, Chelle had been feeling the pain.

  The waiting had sucked up her emotional energy, leaving her spent to the point where she feared making a mistake at work, or making a bad decision that would impact the rest of her life.

  Like telling King Trahan they were through.

  Letting him know of her decision was not going to be easy. Hell, coming to the decision had been no piece of cake. But after yesterday, in her kitchen, the decision was one she’d forced herself to make.

  In reality, the sex they had and the way they had it should have been enough. She’d never planned to stay in Bayou Allain forever. She’d never planned her time here at all. It was a case of having nothing better to do and no compelling reason to move on.

  But those words King had cried out had been weighing on her heart ever since. She’d put herself in a position she’d have steered clear of in the past, a position she’d have smacked her friends silly for putting up with.

  A relationship, even one that had never promised to be more than sexual, had to go somewhere. It couldn’t remain stagnant. It had to get better or get worse. It had to grow or die.

  She knew that, and yet she’d still thought it possible to keep her heart from getting involved with what her body was doing with King. But oh, their encounters. Their second had been even more incendiary than that first night in the parking lot at Red’s….

  She’d run an errand for Lorna to Lafayette and had blown a tire on her way home. She wasn’t incompetent. She knew how to change it. But until she had the back end of the car ready to jack and the lugs on the flat loosened, she hadn’t realized the spare was in no better shape. She was stuck in bumfuck nowhere with no cell service and a five-mile hike to town.

  She had known Lorna wasn’t going to be happy about the delay, but Chelle had been even more unhappy about having to leave her car. It was a classic, and there were too many itchy fingers living along the bayou for her to trust that she’d find it in one piece when she got back.

  She’d been standing there, her hands on her hips, cursing her stupid car, her stupid life, and herself for being so irresponsible, when a big diesel crew truck had come into view and slowed, pulled over to the side of the road, and stopped on a dime.

  The sun had been bright, reflecting off the windshield, making it impossible for her to see the driver. She’d bent for the tire iron in case she found herself needing to bash a skull and kept a tight grip on it even after the door swung open and the driver climbed down.

  She’d seen King Trahan only the one time, a night involving a lot of alcohol, very little light, and a complete loss of inhibitions. But something about this man…Oh, yeah. One and the same.

  Dark sunglasses had covered his eyes. A white T-shirt had stretched to cover his chest and shoulders. His long legs had been covered in worn denim that showcased the lean muscles of his thighs and the thickness behind his fly.

  In the bar he’d been devastatingly handsome. In the parking lot he’d shown her how easy he could take her where he wanted her to go. But none of that was real. Life was not a fantasy. Life was a big flat tire and a worthless spare five miles
from civilization.

  She’d kept that in mind as he’d walked toward her, saying nothing while assessing the situation, returning to his truck for a pump and a plug to fix the hole left by the nail she’d run over. He’d made the repair, done the same to her spare, inflated both of the tires.

  She’d hated feeling helpless, so she’d begun packing things into her trunk while he carried his tools to his truck. She never heard him come back, hadn’t known he was behind her until his shadow fell over hers.

  When she’d turned to thank him, he’d stopped her, moving close, lifting her skirt to her waist, exposing her backside and her panties to the sky. He hadn’t held her against her will, not at all.

  But when she’d heard the rustle of denim as he’d opened his fly, she hadn’t been able to move. They’d been parked on the side of the road in broad daylight. Granted, his was the only vehicle to come by since she’d pulled over, but that didn’t mean a thing.

  Her last thought before he’d torn her panties away had been that at least they were shielded by her raised trunk and the massive bulk of his truck.

  She’d felt his hand as he’d held on to his cock, as he’d rubbed the bulbous head between her legs, smearing and spreading the moisture she’d released and coating himself for entry.

  His first stroke had been slow and sure. He’d filled her completely, his length and his girth immobilizing her. She’d widened her stance, kept her palms braced on the car’s bumper and her eyes closed.

  He hadn’t moved right away. She’d kept waiting, wanting him to fuck her fast and furiously, wanting him to come so they wouldn’t get caught. She hadn’t expected him to care about her pleasure. But she’d known nothing then of who he was, of how her response was as vital to him as his own.

  So when he’d dipped his knees and reached around with both of his hands, she hadn’t even been able to think about the fact that he’d just changed a tire. All she could do was let him touch her, and relish her body’s response as he did.

  He’d rubbed her clit between two fingers, pulled back the protective hood with a thumb, opening her to the butterfly flicks he’d learned their first time drove her wild.

  She’d squirmed back into the cradle of his hips, contracted around him, and caused him to groan. She’d liked that, liked feeling it rumble through her, liked knowing that he was human, a man, and not a mechanical hard-on.

  She’d shifted her weight to one hand, brought her free one between her legs, reached behind their joined bodies to fondle his balls. The skin around them had been tight, his testes hard and drawn close.

  And it had suddenly become imperative that she take charge, that she delay getting hers, that she make him come. She’d begun to move, sliding forward on his cock, sliding back, repeating the slow stroking motion and refusing to stand still even when he took hold of her hips to stop her.

  She wasn’t going to be stopped. He’d caught her off guard the first time. She’d been determined to own their second encounter. It hadn’t taken much in the way of persuasion to convince him.

  All she’d done was use her hips the way they were intended, rolling them, a sultry figure eight that pulled and squeezed and played his cock until he was a mass of nerve endings and barely able to breathe. When he came, his cry had sent birds out of hiding and into the air, sent her into mindless spasms.

  To this day, she was still surprised she hadn’t stripped down to her bare skin and sprawled across the hood of her car, her heels pulled to her hips, her legs spread wide. It was as if she could think about nothing but sex when he was around.

  Which was why last night while in bed alone she’d made the decision to cut him out of her life. Terrill had been out in the garage and strangely had made the choice easier. He’d lost his wife and was coping. All Chelle would be losing was sex. She’d done without before. She could do without again.

  When the door to the lobby swung open, she gladly buried all thoughts of King to focus on work. It was ten, meaning this was most likely the appointment Lorna had been anticipating. Chelle forwarded the switchboard to voice mail, wanting to give the client her full attention and not miss a word.

  Two people walked through the door. A man and a woman, when she had been expecting only the first. The woman was wearing clothes that had seen better days. Blue jeans, a low-cut black top with what had once been the funkiest scarf, and nothing but socks on her feet.

  Her face was free of makeup, her dark hair pulled back with a red rubber band. Her eyes were dark brown, her forearm wrapped in gauze, and strange appearance aside, she was one of the most gorgeous women Chelle had ever seen.

  But the man…if he was Simon Baptiste, Chelle better understood Lorna’s nervous behavior of late. He was big and dark—his hair, his scowl—and in charge of whatever was going to happen. Chelle couldn’t even imagine Bear Landry standing up to this man.

  He wore an aura of authority as casually as he wore his T-shirt and jeans, and in a really twisted and psycho way, he made her think of King—which wasn’t so twisted and psycho when she thought about them being cousins.

  “Good morning,” she finally said as the door closed behind them and the room filled with tense expectation. “Can I help you?”

  The man stepped around the woman. She took in the small lobby, her scrutiny making Chelle wish she’d worn her Donna Karan knockoff today instead of her usual long skirt and tunic—the wardrobe she’d adopted since coming here, because it was as far removed as she could get from the leather and metal she’d worn during her other life in New Orleans.

  “Simon Baptiste. I’m supposed to see Lorna Savoy. If you can tell her—”

  Chelle held up one hand and reached for the phone with the other. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Simon pressed a finger to the disconnect button. “No need. Just let her know something’s come up and I’ll have to get back with her later.”

  And he couldn’t have called to let them know? Saved them all this stress? Chelle didn’t know what to say. She returned the receiver to its cradle, her gaze shifting from Simon to his companion.

  She scrambled. Lorna would have her hide if she let him leave. “I’m sure Ms. Savoy would like to talk to you. At least to say hello personally.”

  But he was shaking his head, on his way to the door, the woman with him fighting a smile. “There’s no need—”

  The door to Lorna’s office opened and interrupted him. “Why, Simon Baptiste. Don’t tell me you’re going to walk out of here without so much as a word. After all these years?”

  Chelle watched him stop, watched him turn, swore the temperature in the room turned from polite and cordial to a bitterly personal cold.

  Now this was interesting. And oh, didn’t she wish she could turn on her cell phone’s video recorder and capture this fly-on-the-wall moment for King.

  Simon took in the hitch of Lorna’s hip where one hand rested, the other resting against the door frame head high. It didn’t matter how long it had been since the two had seen each other. There was no way he could miss the strain around her eyes.

  Quite frankly, Chelle didn’t think she’d ever seen Lorna look worse. As always, her outfit and body were killer. But her lips were tight, the wrinkles at the edges dry, her face too pale for her makeup—all of it making the worst sort of contrast to the woman standing in the corner by the door.

  Lorna suddenly realized Simon wasn’t alone. She seemed to deflate where she stood, as if she’d put more stock in seeing him than in seeing him about business.

  But she was a pro, no matter her personal disappointment, so she walked closer to him and extended her hand. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Simon. Is this your wife you’ve brought with you?”

  “She’s not his wife, Lorna,” Bear Landry said, following her into the lobby and standing in front of Chelle, blocking her view. “This is the woman I told you I met last night at Red’s. A friend of Lisa’s. Michelina Ferrer.”

  Michelina Ferrer? As in Ferrer Fragrances? />
  Chelle rolled her chair to the corner of her desk and peered around the bulk of the judge. Without her hair dressed in the wild mane she wore in the ads, and her face lacking the soft matte glow that showed off the vibrant colors her stylist used on her eyes, it was hard to tell that’s who she was, but Chelle wasn’t about to question the judge.

  Besides, he’d said she was a friend of Lisa’s, not a celebrity spokesmodel…except how many women could possibly be named Michelina Ferrer and look this amazing, even without the makeup and hair she was known for?

  “It’s good to see you again, chère,” Bear told the Ferrer woman. “I wasn’t sure I would ever have the pleasure, or an opportunity to deliver the apology I owed you after speaking to you so rudely.”

  “Any particular reason you weren’t sure, Bear?” Simon asked, stepping between the judge and Ms. Ferrer. He didn’t acknowledge Lorna at all.

  Bear inclined his head. “It’s good to see you, too, Simon. And no reason other than I assumed Miss Ferrer was already on her way home.”

  Michelina lifted her chin, spoke softly. “I’m not ready to leave yet. Not until I learn what happened to Lisa.”

  “Why don’t we all step into my office? We can sit and talk, catch up on old times.” Lorna waved her hands as if directing traffic. “Chelle, make some fresh coffee, or would you all prefer iced tea?”

  Simon put a stop to that. “We’re not staying, Lorna. Some things have come up that I have to deal with now. I’ll have to get back to you on the property and the maintenance fees. I figure the delay will give you time to fine-tune your story, seeing as how you’re going to need a good one to explain the condition of my place.”

  “There’s nothing to fine-tune, Simon. And it won’t take but a minute to explain.” Bear moved closer to the door. “Surely you’ve got that much to spare.”

  Chelle could see the Ferrer woman’s face, and her expression as she looked at Bear was enough to make Chelle wish she’d left the room when they’d entered. The other woman might have been one of the most beautiful and wealthiest in the country, but there was nothing of privilege in her face.