Most of the cars at that time of night were cabs. Adam wove through them like they were standing still. Maddie held her tongue, but when they skinned past one with nothing to spare, she sucked a breath through her teeth.
“Jesus, Adam. Why do you let Dakota get to you?”
“He doesn’t get to me,” he lied, but he eased off the gas.
“He’s a joker,” she said. “He doesn’t take anything seriously, least of all himself.” Which was a disappointment to a fan who preferred his rare dramatic roles to his usual action fluff.
Adam braked at a red light, glanced her way. “Dakota’s a good friend. He wouldn’t have thought twice about punching a sitting senator if it came to that. But he has an irritating habit of wanting what he can’t have.”
“He’s Dakota freaking Rain, what can he possibly want that he can’t have?”
Adam’s smile was razor-thin. “At the moment, that would be you.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“No, I’m not. He wants you.”
“I meant you’re wrong that he can’t have me. Turn the car around and I’ll prove it.”
The look he shot her was dark and dangerous. When the light turned green, he did zero to sixty in two point five seconds, leaving her stomach back at the intersection.
“Shit, Adam!” She almost swallowed her tongue.
“You could’ve driven,” he said as if that excused him.
She looked out the side window at the Broadway lights, knew she’d have to tell him. “I don’t have a license.” She mumbled it out.
He throttled back to a reasonable speed. “I beg your pardon?”
She set her teeth, kept her gaze on the street. “I said I don’t have a license, okay? I live in New York City. I don’t need one.”
Silence.
She broke it. “Just say what you’re thinking. Spit it out.”
“I’m thinking about pizza.” He coasted to the curb in front of a hole in the wall. The unremarkable sign said “Luigi’s.”
“We can’t leave the car here,” was her first thought.
“We’re not getting out.” He beckoned to a dark-suited giant who stepped out of the shadows. “Roberto,” he said, and let loose a stream of Italian as the big man nodded along. Then Adam passed him a fifty and he disappeared inside.
She eyed the unassuming storefront skeptically. “The pizza’s good?”
“The best in New York.”
“No way. Anthony’s is the best, down the block from my place.”
“Twenty bucks says Luigi’s.”
“You’re on.”
Roberto emerged with a box. Adam handed it off to Maddie.
“That was fast.” She sniffed the box noisily as he jetted into traffic.
“I called it in after you left me.” His voice hardened. “Obviously, I should’ve stayed with you instead. I’m sorry Warren cornered you.”
“Forget it.” She flipped up the lid. “Oh God, oh God.” Thin crust, thick sauce, and cheese . . . lots of cheese.
Adam downshifted for a turn. “I didn’t know you’d been lovers.”
“Good. Because it’s none of your business.”
Even though she knew better, she went for a slice, ended up sucking burnt fingers.
“He fell in love with you,” Adam persisted.
“Michael falls in love twice a week. He’s a smart lawyer and he’s probably a good senator, but he’s an idiot about his love life.”
“So it was one-sided?”
“Remember how I said it’s none of your business?”
“Humor me.”
“Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He showed his teeth, and she laughed.
He pulled up outside his building. The doorman hurried over. “I’ll garage it for you, Mr. LeCroix,” he said, palming the bill Adam slipped him.
As they crossed the lobby, Maddie griped. “You must be down two large in tips tonight. I’d be better off as your doorman than your lawyer.”
Adam keyed in the code to call his elevator. “But you’d miss out on the city’s best pizza.”
“We’ll see.” When they stepped out into the penthouse, Maddie twirled her finger at the splendor. “Luigi’s seems a little lowbrow for a guy who lives like this.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Ah. Like Henry’s a friend, and Bridget. And Fredo too, I suppose?”
He looked surprised, but he let it go. “I knew Luigi in Sicily. He dreamed of his own restaurant, and I dreamed of his pizza.”
He took the box with one hand, traced the other lightly up her bare arm. His eyes glinted, an impossible blue. “And you, Madeline? What do you dream of?”
She wasn’t playing that game. It led straight to his bed. Instead, she tapped the lid. “Three slices with one of your fancy reds, and another piece of that cheesecake.”
He walked his gaze down from her eyes to the hollow of her throat. His lips curved up on one side. “That seems a little lowbrow for a woman wearing emeralds.”
She’d forgotten about the necklace he’d loaned her, a thumb-sized stone on a braided gold chain. “It belonged to a princess,” he said, “in the fifteenth century. A betrothal gift.” He touched it, then her skin, with one fiery fingertip. Her heart, already drumming, sped up like a bongo.
She faked flippant to cover her jitters. “Sounds pricey. How’d you end up with it? Five-finger discount?”
“No, Madame Prosecutor, I didn’t steal it. I won it in a poker game.”
Whoa. “What did you put in the pot? A tropical island? The space shuttle?”
“The Bugatti.”
She gasped. “Are you nuts? I was kidding!” Then the full force of it hit her—she was wearing a two-million-dollar necklace!
“Shit! Shit! Get it off me!” She went for the clasp, but he brushed her hands away, laughing.
“Darling, it’s just a necklace.”
“And the Bugatti’s just a car. To you. Not to me.”
“I’m accustomed to the best.” He traced a finger along the chain. “You do it justice.”
It was exactly the right thing to say. But then, seduction was his second language. He was fluent in it.
Proving it, he hefted the pizza. “Speaking of bets, we have twenty riding on Luigi’s.” His hand drifted down her arm. He laced his fingers through hers. “I’m willing to go higher if you are.”
She tried to look unaffected by his touch, by his tone. “Sorry, no sports cars or priceless jewels here.”
“I can think of other things.” He raised her hand to his lips, did that knuckle kiss again. It was a killer move. She had no idea how to counter it.
Magically, Henry appeared to relieve him of the box. “My suite,” Adam told him. “And another Brunello.”
Then he tugged her back into the elevator, and like a bubble-eyed starlet, she went with him.
AN HOUR LATER, Adam was pacing his suite when Maddie rolled in like thunder. She tossed John’s leash on the desk. “You do think I’m helpless. You sicced Henry on me.”
He refused to apologize. “The park isn’t safe at midnight.”
“I can take care of myself.” She waved her Mace. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
She spoke in a singsong for John’s benefit, but steam whistled from her ears.
After pizza, she’d shed the emerald gown that he’d never forget and changed into blue jeans and a sweater the color of ripe plums. Her hair was windblown, and her eyes, pearly gray, were narrowed to slits.
He wanted to eat her up.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Somewhere between the elevator and his suite, his smooth seduction had hit a bump. He wasn’t sure how it happened, what he’d said or done, but things had gone downhill with a bullet.
It started when she plopped the third largest emerald in the world on his desk with a short, severe lecture on how two million dollars could be better spent on the starving children. Granted, he hadn’t helped mat
ters by mentioning her lack of qualms about the Bugatti, but really, she was asking for it.
Then she’d fussed about the candlelight, claiming she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, much less her pizza. She wouldn’t quit until he lit the place up like Wal-Mart. Talk about killing the mood.
Finally, after sourly handing over the twenty bucks she damn well owed him for the bet, she’d announced her intention to walk John. Solo.
As if he’d let her wander nighttime New York with only a rickety dog to protect her. And he shouldn’t have to take shit for it, either.
He paced to the window, feeling surly, looking for trouble. “Did you speak to your sister?”
“I did,” she bit out.
“Crash has a passport?”
“He does.”
He checked her reflection in the glass—arms crossed, brow lowered, staring holes in his back.
“I’m sure they’d like privacy,” he went on, throwing gas on the fire. “There are several guest houses on the property—”
“No!” She clutched her head. “No, no, no. Main house, separate bedrooms. In fact, Lucy can bunk with me.”
“And when she sneaks out in the middle of the night?”
“She won’t. Not if I stay awake.”
“For a week? A brilliant plan.”
“What, you think I should just deal with it? Pretend some loser called Crash isn’t debauching my sister two doors down the hall?”
“The debauching is well under way. It’s probably going on at this very moment.”
“Thanks for putting that picture in my head.” She stalked to the sofa, threw herself down. John roused from his bed to rest his head on her knee. She scratched him absently.
Hands in his pockets, Adam wandered a restless circle around the room. His ultimate aim was the sofa, but he’d have to sneak up on her like a cat stalking a mouse. If he startled her, she’d bolt back to her room.
He wasn’t in the mood to let that happen.
Pausing at the window, he pretended to ponder the skyline. “Sex needn’t be sordid, you know.”
“Said the man who’s screwed his way across six continents.”
Okay, he’d walked into that one. He tried again. “When two people care about each other—”
Her snort cut him short. “Thanks, but my mother gave me ‘the talk’ when I was twelve. I know all about tender feelings transforming the base biological act into something precious and sacred. Not.”
He drove his fists deeper into his pockets. He couldn’t find his footing with her. He’d never felt so off balance.
Pressing his lips together and determined to keep them that way until he could think of something bulletproof to say, he moved to the bar, poured the last of the Brunello into two glasses.
“Thanks,” she said when he brought it to her. “This whole situation might suck, but at least the food and wine rock.”
That stung, but he let it go. He reached down to scratch John’s ears. The hopeful dog did a drop and roll, sticking his feet in the air, and Adam, taking his cue, sat on the ottoman to rub the scrawny belly.
“If it helps,” he said, “I got the run on Crash.”
“He’s a serial killer, isn’t he?”
“By serial do you mean more than two?”
“Funny. Spill it.”
Shifting to the sofa, he stretched his arm lazily along the back and tried to remember the last time he’d worked so hard to get close to a woman.
He couldn’t, because he hadn’t. They dropped into his lap like ripe peaches.
“George Lemon is his name. Twenty-one, from Ogunquit, Maine. Caucasian, three younger sisters, parents still married and gainfully employed. A nice middle-class home.”
He thought she’d be relieved, but instead she sneered. “You never know what’s happening inside those nice middle-class homes.”
Her cynical tone said more than her words. Had her years as a prosecutor jaded her? Or was the trouble closer to home?
“What else?” she wanted to know. “Drugs? Baby mamas?”
“No arrests, no rehab, no illegitimate children.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Why did he find that so hot?
She bit her lip.
Even hotter.
He shifted slightly and made himself stop staring at her teeth. He was still half hard from playing lovers at the gala. Touching her, kissing her, rubbing against her. A lifetime of experience had programmed his brain and his body to expect sex after an evening like that. With any other woman, things would be well under way.
But Maddie wasn’t like other women, and as much as that fascinated him, at the moment it was causing him some serious discomfort.
“You’re borrowing trouble,” he said, making himself focus. “According to my people, he’s fit, good-looking, and intelligent. He also plays guitar in a band. And reaps the rewards that come with it.”
He held up a hand when she came to attention. “That doesn’t make him a pervert. It makes him a healthy young man with a normal sex drive.”
“And who knows what diseases.”
“Your sister risks that with anyone she has sex with.”
Maddie went pale.
“In any case,” he went on, “he’s an A student with a wide range of artistic and musical talent who’s thriving at RISD and has no obvious violent tendencies or chemical dependencies. He doesn’t appear to be a danger to Lucy. And with a name like George Lemon, it’s hard even to hold ‘Crash’ against him.”
That drew a reluctant chuckle out of her. “Okay,” she said, “he can live. For now.”
She finished off her wine, slid her butt to the edge of the sofa. “Thanks for checking him out. I feel at least ten percent better.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached for her hand. She let him take it, hold it, stroke his thumb over her delicate palm. Protectiveness rose up in him, hand in hand with desire. She was spun glass; he could crush her if he wasn’t careful.
He tugged her closer, and she came against him without resistance. Why, he wondered, had he worried so much, struggled so hard? She was supple as clay. He stroked up her side, let his thumb glide over her breast. Jesus, he wanted her. He could hardly breathe with wanting her.
She lifted her eyes to his, her lips a scant inch from his own. Her voice, when she spoke, was a whisper.
“If you think I’ll fuck you because you did me a favor, think again.”
His hands froze. He backed away slowly.
“Madeline.” His lips felt rigid. “That’s not it at all.”
“You don’t want to fuck me? You’ve been working up to it all night.”
“No, I do.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I mean yes, I do. Of course I do. But only if you want me to.” Her flat gaze made him feel like an amateur.
“I can see that you don’t,” he added. “I misread your feelings. Please accept my apology.”
She wavered, wanting to hate him; he could see the struggle on her face. But she recognized the truth when she heard it. Her shoulders softened. So did her jaw.
Not that she rushed into his arms.
“Whatever.” She rubbed her stomach like it ached. Then she kissed John on the head and went out without even a good night.
He watched the door close behind her, then he looked down at his dog. “That went well.”
John’s brown eyes were all sympathy.
Henry knocked twice and walked in, smirking. “You can direct Fredo’s next paycheck to me,” he said. “Your perfect record’s been broken.”
“Since when have you started betting on my sex life?”
“Since it finally got interesting. Tell me, how does it feel to strike out for once in your charmed life?”
It felt like shit, but he wouldn’t give Henry the satisfaction.
“If you’re done gloating,” he said, heading for the bedroom.
“Not nearly.” Henry rubbed his hands together. “But I’ll pause long enough to tell you I spo
ke to Gio.”
“And?”
“It’s definitely an inside job. External security was never breached. Not the perimeter, not the villa. The only system affected was the alarm that should’ve triggered when the painting was lifted off the wall. It had to be overridden from inside the villa.”
“Well, fuck me.” Adam dragged his hands through his hair. He’d tear the thieving bastard apart. “Gio doesn’t know who did it?”
“Not yet.” Henry paused. “Maybe not ever.”
“Unacceptable. There must be electronic fingerprints.”
“The only fingerprints of any kind are yours.”
Adam swore again. “When Hawthorne hears this, he’ll never pay up.” But the money was insignificant beside the breach of trust. “I want the fucker, Henry. I want my hands around his ever-fucking throat.”
He took a breath, thought it through. “Maribelle?”
“She hasn’t the skills, Adam. All she knows how to do is spend your money.”
“She hates me enough to pay someone to do it.”
Henry shrugged, acknowledging the obvious. “But if you caught her, she knows you’d boot her out. Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”
“People do all kinds of things for hate. More than they do for love.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever been in love.”
Adam wasn’t so sure. But he couldn’t argue with the fact that love had eluded him. Of the handful of women who stood out in his memory, his infatuation with each had been short-lived, and in Maribelle’s case, disastrous.
“My money’s on Maribelle,” he said. “You can put up your next paycheck. If I’m wrong, I’ll double it.”
He dug out his phone, put through a call to Gio and grilled him. When he got nothing new, he issued an icy reminder. “I want the bastard who fucked with me. Turn everyone at the villa inside out. And look hard at Maribelle.”
“She’s at the top of our list.” Gio paused. “Sir, about Ms. St. Clair. We found no reports of sexual assault in her youth. No abusive boyfriends either.”
“You’ve gone back through her teens?”
“All the way to the cradle. Her upbringing appears unremarkable. Her mother was a homemaker. Her father’s been mayor for twenty-five years and sells real estate on the side. They were married for thirty-five years and lived together until her mother died. As far as we can tell, sir, she grew up in a nice middle-class home.”
The Wedding Vow Page 11