Rebel Love (Kings of Corruption Book 2)

by Michelle St. James

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said. “I had a really wonderful time.”

  He looked down at her with a slow nod. “Me, too.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then seemed to change his mind.

  She smiled. “What?”

  “I never thought I’d see you again. Never thought I’d get to talk to you again.” His eyes met hers through the darkness. “Some things never change, Elle.”

  “A year ago, I would have disagreed with you,” she said. “I would have said everything changes.”

  “And now?”

  She was hypnotized by his eyes. Couldn’t look away. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  There was a long moment when time seemed suspended on a slow-moving pendulum, the seconds stretching into minutes as something powerful and primal swirled between them. She had time to notice the flecks of gold shimmering in his eyes, to catch the utterly male scent of him in the air.

  She even had time to realize he was going to kiss her.

  He stepped toward her, his body half an inch away as he slid his hands into her hair, tipped her face up, lowered his head to hers. He lingered there, his mouth soft and firm on hers, like he was learning her all over again.

  Then his tongue slipped between her lips, the sensation sending a bolt of electricity to her center. Her body responded like it had been programmed for him, her hands sliding up his muscled chest and around his neck as she matched herself to him, molding against all the new ridges and hollows like she’d been sculpting herself to his image for the last eight years, waiting for the moment when they would be together again.

  His mouth was urgent, his tongue insistent, reclaiming her like he was planting a flag on hallowed ground, his hands possessive and sure as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. The rough skin on his finger was like a match to a flame, the friction against her skin creating a ripple effect that traveled down her neck to her nipples, already erect, past the flat of her stomach to the wetness between her legs.

  He tilted his head, kissed her deeply and slowly, his movements languid and erotic. His erection was hard against her stomach and a powerful burst of need opened up in her sex, a call for completion only he could answer. She knew what it would feel like to be naked against him, his thickness pushing into her as he explored her mouth. The knowledge was a promise that finally gave her the strength to break their kiss, and she pulled away breathlessly, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to breathe.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “I just…” She searched her mind for words. Then she searched her heart. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him. It wasn’t even that she wouldn’t let herself have him. But it was all happening so fast. Eight years of pain and longing couldn’t be resolved by going to bed with him. She wouldn’t fool herself into thinking it would be that easy. “I think I just need to take it slow.”

  He reached up to stroke her cheek. “I’ve never had a problem with slow.”

  The words were both comfort and innuendo. Both permission to take her time and a promise that when the dam finally broke — if it broke — he would take his time in the most sensual way imaginable.

  She nodded, drew in a deep breath as she tried to compose her words into something resembling a first date goodnight. “I really did have a wonderful time.”

  He dropped his hand. “Me, too.”

  She pulled her keys out of her bag, aware that he wouldn’t leave until she was safely in her car. Walking away from him took strength. She’d spent too many nights dreaming about him. About being in bed with him, being in his arms. He was so close. It would only take a few steps to make it a reality. She doubted he would resist.

  She kept walking, unlocking her car, forcing herself to throw her purse on the passenger seat.

  “So did I make it?”

  She turned around to find him leaning on the roof his car, eyes twinkling through the dark. “Make what?”

  He grinned. “The second date cut.”

  “You’ll have to ask to find out.”

  His chuckle was still drifting through the air when she got in the car and closed the door.

  14

  Locke was out past the breakers when the first big wave of the morning came into view. He kept his eye on it as it rolled toward him, then turned and started paddling into position until it lifted him up, carrying him along the swell as it barreled toward the beach.

  For one glorious minute there was nothing but the board under his feet, the roar of the water in his ears, the tunnel at his shoulder. He dove off before it could carry him too close to shore and started paddling back out. When he got into position he sat up, his legs dangling on either side of the board. The water was cool, the rhythm of the waves lapping against the board soothing.

  It had been a quiet morning on the water, most of the waves small and easy. It was the kind of day that would have novices out practicing in droves, and while he wished them well, he was grateful for the private cove that enabled him to surf alone with his thoughts. Not that there had been many of them since his date with Elle last night.

  They’d all revolved around her.

  The way she’d looked in the glow of the lights over dinner. The fragile softness of her hand in his. The lusciousness of her lips, opening like the flowers he’d sent to the store and every bit as soft. The need had risen in him like a wild animal. He’d almost been relieved when she stepped away. She’d always been the reasonable one.

  But it was too late. He already wanted her, and he’d already felt her body respond to him in kind. Had felt the urgency with which she’d pressed her body to his. Had known she would be wet for him if he slid his fingers inside her.

  His cock hardened inside the wetsuit, and he forced himself to think of something else, namely Malcolm Glover.

  His background on the businessman was proving even more interesting than he’d expected. Glover was into some shady shit, and Locke was more than a little surprised he hadn’t already been called out for some of his dealings. He’d left his last position at EnerCom suddenly and under questionable circumstances, although the official press release had stated the decision was mutual so Glover could “pursue other opportunities.”

  The sudden departure wouldn’t have seemed abnormal if not for all the other details Locke had uncovered — the liquidation of assets, the house in Mexico, the new position at Bolton’s that while prestigious from the outside, was a big step down from a blue-chip company like EnerCom.

  Locke’s instincts had been honed through years of dealing with people like Glover. People who had something to hide. People who were good at hiding it. And his instincts told him something was coming. Something besides the stuff he already had on the asshole.

  The question was what to do about it. The guy still had significant financial holdings, but something told Locke they weren’t the bulk of Glover’s assets. The stocks, bonds, and commodities he’d been liquidating hadn’t been reinvested into anything Locke had been able to trace, but it didn’t disappear into thin air either. That meant Glover either had a hell of a lot of cash stowed away or he’d invested it privately.

  And Locke had his bets on the cash.

  The idea appealed to him. More and more of their work was digital — the commanding of funds and information to shut down criminals who had somehow circumvented the law at the expense of society. It had been a relief after the shooting at United Bank and Trust last year, an incident that still haunted him.

  Colton had put in a word for the guy with the trigger finger, but that was no excuse. It was Locke’s operation. The safety of his team and everyone else was on him.

  He looked out over the water, watching as another set rolled toward him. Not a day went by that he didn’t think about the dead guard. It didn’t matter that the man had been diagnosed with terminal cancer two months before the shooting. It also didn’t matter that Locke had set up an annuity for the man’s retired widow. That was Locke’s duty, and doing his duty didn’t make up fo
r his part in the death of her husband.

  Neither did the fact that he’d called Farrell Black to exact his own justice on the guy who pulled the trigger.

  But it was all he could do.

  Colton had been torn up about it. He thought he’d known the guy well enough to vouch for him. The fact that he’d been wrong wasn’t something he would forgive himself for soon. Maybe not ever. He’d even left the organization, although he’d come back in the end.

  They all had demons to slay.

  The focus on digital operations had given them time to process what had happened at United Bank, and it had given Locke time to fine-tune his team. But he was ready for something tangible again. Ready to have something in his hands representing all the damage Glover had done, to give it back to the people who’d suffered at his hands.

  People like Elle, who would probably lose her business.

  The thought of her was all it took to bring her back in living color. Suddenly she was pressed against him, her silky cheek under his thumb, her exquisite mouth hot and urgent under his.

  He replayed the expression on her face when he’d asked about the second date. Tried to analyze it for the hundredth time. Had it been his imagination that there had been a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth? That her eyes had been feverish with the same need to see him again that had been roaring through his body when they’d kissed?

  He didn’t know. But he’d sent a complete set of vintage Nancy Drew mysteries with a note asking to see her again.

  Time would tell.

  15

  Elle locked the door of the store and headed for the corner, her stomach in knots. She shouldn’t be doing what she was doing — it would only make her feel worse — but she couldn’t help herself.

  She waited for the light to change, then crossed the street and started down the walk. She slowed instinctively as she reached the doors to Bolton’s. She could still turn back. Could retreat to the little shop that was her haven. But that would be giving Bolton’s and Malcolm Glover power over her.

  And that she would not do.

  She forced herself through the door along with a crowd of people doing their Saturday shopping. She thought she might have to wander to find the book section, but its location was no mystery; large signs lined the walkways leading into the store, all of them proclaiming the recent opening of the bookstore with big arrows pointing to the back of the cavernous space.

  She picked up the smell of coffee about halfway to the back and silently cursed herself for not trying to get some kind of food and drink license. Sure, there was a time when being a bookstore was enough. When people came just to browse before carefully selecting something special.

  But that time had passed. People wanted more now. They wanted toys for the kids and greeting cards and specialty pens.

  They wanted coffee.

  She silently calculated her paltry savings, wondered if it would be worth it to try and get the license, squeeze in a little coffee bar. Where would she put it? Maybe in that back corner…

  The thought dissipated as she reached the generous opening to the bookshop that was now part of Bolton’s Superstore. It was painted in warm tones of brown and ivory, the coffee counter front and center, bistro tables scattered across the slate tile. Several of the tables were occupied, and the line of people waiting for coffee was five deep.

  The rich scent of roasted beans reached her nose, and she suddenly wanted a cup, thought about stopping at the Bean on the way back to the store. She immediately felt like a traitor.

  She passed the coffee counter and stepped into the shelves of books merchandised by genre. As expected, bestsellers were up front, artfully arranged on tables and endcaps. She wandered through Fiction, Art, Business, and History to the children’s section at the back of the store.

  It was full of kids flipping through picture books, rolling around on the carpet, laughing in beanbags that had been arranged around the space. It was light and bright, prints from Harry Potter and Miss Spider and The Runaway Bunny hung in between the shelves, positioned close to the ground for easy reach by little arms.

  Her heart sank and she turned around, hurrying from the section, her throat closing. This had been a mistake. She’d been right to avoid it. She didn’t have the capital of a corporation like Bolton’s. Of course it would be nicer than Matheson and Matheson. Of course they would have coffee and beanbags and carpeted surfaces for little ones to play.

  She kept her eyes forward as she passed the coffee counter, crossing from the bookstore’s rustic flooring to the white tile of the main store. She continued past athletic wear and women’s clothes, past shoes and accessories. She couldn’t get to the doors fast enough. Needed to get out of there. Back to the refuge of Matheson and Matheson where she could think.

  She was approaching the doors when a man in front of her opened them to allow her through. She was halfway through when she heard the little voice behind her.

  “Look, Daddy! It’s the bookstore lady!”

  Elle turned to find Abby Chapman staring up at her, eyes sparkling.

  “Oh…” She forced a smile. “Hi, Abby. It’s so nice to see you!”

  “We bought books!” Abby said.

  “You… you bought books!” She tried to sound excited as she glanced at Abby’s father. “It’s always a special day when you get new books.”

  A flush crept up his neck and into the five o’ clock shadow on his cheeks. “We had to run some errands for Eileen,” he said. “Figured we’d check out the new store.”

  Elle nodded, then glanced back at the little girl with a smile she hoped was sincere. “Enjoy your books, Abby!”

  By the time she stepped onto the street her own cheeks were burning. She didn’t know why she should feel ashamed, but it was the only way to describe the sinking feeling in her stomach, the embarrassment that was radiating through her body. She had no right to be upset; Abby and her dad could shop anywhere they wanted. And yet she couldn’t help feeling like a jilted lover who’d just run into her ex shopping for his new girlfriend.

  She forced herself to breathe as she made her way to the crosswalk. It was just one customer, and it didn’t mean they would never come back to Matheson and Matheson. They were just checking it out, like Abby’s dad said. It was natural to be curious. It didn’t mean all her customers would permanently switch stores.

  She still didn’t believe it by the time she stepped back into the cool confines of Matheson and Matheson.

  She leaned against the glass door for a few seconds before she made her way to the desk. She was momentarily grateful for the dim lighting, the lack of customers. Sitting on the stool behind the counter, she reached for the matches, lit the candle near the Buddha.

  Forcing herself to focus on her breathing, she watched the candle flicker in the votive, casting shadows over the resin statue. A couple minutes later, she felt slightly more centered, and she looked up, her eyes coming to rest on the stack of books that had arrived earlier in the week.

  She picked up the one on top, smiling as she took in the faded image of two girls making their way through a cavern, an old-fashioned lamp lighting their way. She’d known it was from Locke the moment she’d opened it. She hadn’t even been surprised that he remembered her fondness for Nancy Drew.

  She opened the book and looked at the note inside.

  Did I make the cut?

  There were two boxes under the question, one marked No and one marked Yes. She’d considered sending it back by messenger but decided to save the money and time by calling. Not to mention the incentive of hearing his voice, deep and sexy, on the other end of the line.

  Now she was doubly glad she’d said yes to a second date. The last thing she needed was to sit at home with a pint of ice cream and Netflix after running into two of her best customers leaving Bolton’s with a bag of books.

  She turned her thoughts to the night ahead, her cheeks growing warm as she thought about the new black bra and thong she’d bo
ught on an impromptu shopping trip the night before. It had been ages since she'd bought herself nice underclothes. Ages since anyone had seen her in her underclothes. She deserved something nice. It's not like buying them meant she was planning on sleeping with Locke.

  The thought brought a series of forbidden images to mind: Locke pulling the new bra down to expose her nipple before taking it in his mouth, his powerful body flexing as he moved inside her, his cock joined with her body when she looked down between them.

  The images sent a rush of wetness between her legs, proof of what her body wanted even if her mind wasn’t willing to admit it. Why was she so resistant to the idea? Was it really just the past? The old wounds that had taken years to heal and the fear of reopening them again?

  She didn't think so.

  This was something else. A new fear that rattled her to the core: the possibility of losing control, of giving herself so completely to someone after years spent exercising control over every facet of her life.

  Because if she was going to be honest, there hadn’t been a lot of surprises in her life since she’d left college. She kept to the same work schedule, went to the same yoga class, ate at the same places, ordered the same food. For the first time she realized it had all been by design, a way to fool herself into believing nothing bad could happen again.

  She suddenly saw herself as if from afar, a sad, lonely person trying to hold onto every detail of her life with an iron grip. Patrick had dealt with the loss of the business and the death of their father by disappearing into the unknown, backpacking through Europe, exploring remote sections of Africa, immersing himself in the far reaches of India. She’d done the opposite, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who was happier. Patrick was in Iceland, hiking to an untouched glacier while she agonized over the superstore across the street and planned for the only second date she’d had in the last two years.