by Naima Simone
“I’m not asking permission, Sloane.”
The words echoed in her head, rebounding against the walls of her skull. Panic, fear, and anger coalesced and congealed into a lump in her chest. Already she could feel the worn ropes of the fragile control she’d just managed to weave back together over her life unraveling. For two years she’d been subject to Phillip—to the thinly veiled, and then not-so-thinly-veiled barbs and criticisms that had ruled her opinions, her movements, her decisions. Her life had become a shadow of his, determined by his needs. In the months they’d been over, she’d begun the process of recapturing herself, of being in control after handing it over to someone else for so long.
And now, Ciaran wanted her to submit everything—her decisions, her opinions, her power—to him. Yes, she got his primary concern was her safety, and she was grateful for the protection. But only those who’d experienced being helpless, fucking powerless could understand the fear of it being ripped away again. The panic at returning to that place where her concerns, her thoughts, her choices didn’t matter. The anger at allowing herself to fold under…again.
He, with his confidence and strength, couldn’t comprehend why she detested giving away the pieces of herself she’d just managed to hold together after two years of emotional and verbal abuse. Even in his concern, he was forcing his will on her, making her bend to his decisions. She couldn’t do it again. She couldn’t be imprisoned by someone else’s orders again. Not when she’d tasted freedom.
She set her purse and messenger bag on the beautifully upholstered couch with its peach and gold pillows, the deliberate motion belying the storm whirling in her head like a Kansas twister. A glance over her shoulder revealed Ciaran scanning the room, and no doubt the quiet elegance and obvious opulence confirmed his “duchess” impression. Beautiful chairs with sumptuous cushions and gleaming woods. Paintings that looked like they could grace the walls of the Louvre. Everything from the wallpaper to the dark but large fireplace radiated wealth. Usually she eschewed the luxury hotels that catered to the affluent and privileged. Unlike her family and the society she was born into, she wasn’t a slave to the trappings of wealth. But leaving her home with the shattered and torn evidence of violation and assault still littering the floor, she’d run to a place she would feel safe—or at least offered the illusion of safety. And this hotel, with its security and discretion, had been ideal and necessary. She wasn’t an idiot incapable of making intelligent decisions about her safety.
She could try to explain this to Ciaran, but part of her detested having him see her as weak. Again. Since she’d met him, she’d been running from him, then running to him for help. No wonder he saw her as pampered, spoiled—a duchess who needed to be contained.
Crossing the room toward the bar, she twisted her fingers in front of her.
Antarctica is the only continent without reptiles or snakes.
Bypassing the wine and cocktail mixes, she slapped down a squat, thick tumbler and poured herself a finger of Scotch. She fortified herself with a large sip, and waited for the smooth but fiery burn to slide over her tongue and down her throat before turning around to face Ciaran.
“If I agree to this plan,” she began, her fingers tightening around the glass as he arched a dark eyebrow, “you going as my significant other is out of the question.”
Okay, so on the elevator ride up to her floor, she’d reconsidered taking a guard with her to the Hamptons and her parents’ anniversary party weekend. It wasn’t an awful idea. A: She would be leaving Boston for a few days. B: After the attack tonight, she would feel safer knowing someone was there guarding her.
And C:
She wouldn’t be pathetically alone when Phillip arrived with his new, gorgeous girlfriend.
In the hidden, most honest depths of her soul, she could admit that A and B edged out C by the smallest of margins.
Still, showing up with Ciaran…Ciaran. The man she simultaneously wanted to strangle and lick like a man-pop? Not likely.
“Forget it,” he said, his hard voice brooking no argument. “That point is non-negotiable.”
“Nothing is non-negotiable,” she countered. “This is my life—literally. So as far as I’m concerned, everything is up for discussion.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “This is your life, and protecting lives is my job. And I’m damn good at it.”
She emitted a sound caught somewhere between a growl and a moan, and one hundred percent frustration. “Surely as the owner of a business, there is plenty of work keeping you busy. I can only imagine being away from the office for several days at a time will be a huge inconvenience.”
“I have three partners who can handle whatever comes up until I get back.” He slid his hands in the front pockets of his cargo pants, that infernal eyebrow still arched. “Next.”
“My parents, sister, their friends. They’ll never believe we”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“are a couple. They’ll never buy it,” she reiterated.
A hard-edged coldness descended over his face, flattening his gaze and the sensual curves of his mouth. “I assure you, duchess,” he drawled, the lazy tone belying the hardness of his features. “I clean up well.”
His words slapped her in the face. Quickly, she rewound the last part of the conversation and hit play. Shit. He’d misunderstood. She hadn’t meant to insult him. No, with his stunning male beauty and heir of steely confidence, her family would more than approve of him. What none of them would be able to fathom was why someone who looked like him was with her. Not the other way around.
“You don’t understand.” She whirled around, setting the glass on the bar top with a snap. The amber alcohol sloshed against the sides.
“Then, please, by all means. Explain.”
Explain. The request sounded so simple, yet it was anything but. He wanted her to say that not only would her family and their friends find the notion of him being her boyfriend—her lover—laughable, but also reveal that she didn’t trust herself. Not with him. And not just because he wanted to strip her of the control she’d fought for and scraped together over the last few months. That entailed only half of her issue with him accompanying her.
This…charade would require acting. As if they were in a relationship. As if they cared for one another. As if they possessed intimate knowledge of each other.
As if she knew what his kiss tasted like. Knew whether he preferred long, lazy licks and a sensual tangling of tongues or a wild, greedy clash of mouths and harsh moans. Knew if he would leisurely allow her to take his cock into her mouth, slowly engulfing him, or if he would grip her hair in his large fists and hold her head steady for a demanding, rough face-fuck.
If he growled low and deep when he came or if he roared his pleasure.
A lover would know all these things.
The problem was, she hungered to discover the answers to all those questions.
Since the night of Fallon’s engagement party, she hadn’t been able to exorcise Ciaran from her mind. Electric blue eyes. A stunning face of elegant and hard angles. A body worthy of commemoration in chiseled marble. The heat she’d imagined had darkened his gaze when he’d stared at her on that shadowed patio.
A shiver coursed through her, pebbling her skin. That heat made him the most dangerous to her. Because she would long to warm herself in that heat. Bask in it. Lose herself in it.
With a stranger—a stranger who didn’t cause lust to tighten her belly or her sex to clench with empty need—she could endure the casual touches, kisses, and displays of affection required of couples. With a stranger she wouldn’t lose sight of the reason why she required his presence. With a stranger she wouldn’t permit her heart and need to convince her make-believe was reality.
So, no, Ciaran couldn’t accompany her.
“You’re not like the usual type of man I date,” she hedged. Because Ciaran, with his smoldering, tangible sexuality, was like no man she’d encountered, much less dated.
“Turn
around, Sloane.” From the way her nipples perked up and her panties dampened, he might as well as said “fuck me” in that dark, velvet-soft murmur. “Look at me when you lie.”
Now that brought her around.
“I’m not lying,” she gritted out. Omitting the whole truth? Yes. But lying? No. Ciaran was nothing like the men she’d previously been involved with. None of them possessed a face capable of stopping traffic…or were capable of stirring an unprecedented hunger inside her with just a glance.
“Then, tell me, duchess, what’s your usual type?” He didn’t wait for her to reply, but advanced, erasing the safe distance between them. “Polite? Boring? Harmless? Great manners….even in the bedroom?” He stalked even closer. “Well, you might have me there. I’d never mistreat a woman, but I’m damn sure no gentleman. Especially when she’s under or over me. I’ll be courteous and place my hand along her back in public, but in private, I’ll push that same hand to the back of her neck, lowering her to the bed as I fuck her from behind. I’ll pull out her dinner chair, but I won’t pull out of her until she’s screaming and coming around my cock. I’ll eat with the right fork at the table, but when I have her spread and wet before me, I only use my hands. And tongue.”
Only the harsh rasps of her breath echoed in the silent room, reverberating like bellows in a fiery forge. Jesus Christ. The images he’d created with his carnal, raw, exciting words bombarded her with quick, jabbing blows not unlike those he’d delivered to her attackers earlier. How had he known? He’d described the men in her past with eerie accuracy. Boring. Average. Polite—in and out of the bedroom. Screaming and coming around his cock? She’d never had that, but holy hell, did she crave it now. Craved it with a fierceness that terrified her.
Terrified because he’d also omitted some characteristics in his sketch of her ex.
Dismissive. Uninterested…in her.
Controlling.
Phillip hadn’t started out this way in the beginning of their relationship, but he’d eventually grown domineering, tired of her, critical of her flaws, rejecting her in bed and out.
Ciaran might not be polite, boring, or harmless, but inevitably, he would share the most hurtful traits with her former partner. But while Phillip’s had injured her spirit, self-esteem, and heart, she suspected Ciaran—beautiful, strong, brave, dominant Ciaran—would crush her.
She stepped away from him. Then took another.
As soon as she placed enough space between them where a deep breath wouldn’t contain his fresh, earthy scent, she halted and tipped her chin up. The illusion of courage, when inside she shook with desire and wariness, helped her meet his hooded gaze.
“This charade is going to include”—she paused—“displays of affection. We’ll need to appear as a couple who—who—”
“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘have sex.’”
Yes, that would be the phrase. And really, the matter-of-factness of the term shouldn’t have heat barreling through her like a blow torch. And maybe uttered by another man, it wouldn’t. But by him? She squeezed her thighs against the dull throb in her sex.
“Yes,” she ground out. At this point, she would have lockjaw from all the gritting and grinding of her teeth. His derisive snort didn’t help. “Do you have someone you’re involved with?” Of course he did. Men who looked like him almost always had someone waiting on them at home—or in their bed. “Wouldn’t she have a say or objection in your playing another woman’s lover?”
Something flashed in his eyes, but the emotion vanished as quickly as it appeared. “No.”
The one-word answer warned her not to walk in that particular minefield any farther. O-kay. “Fine. Still, can you maintain that pretense for five days?” Hell, Phillip hadn’t been able to pretend he still cared for her toward the end of their relationship, and he’d been her actual partner, not a “pretend boyfriend.”
“What is the difference between me and an employee I assigned to escort you, Sloane? He would need to act the part same as I would.”
“Because it would be an employee’s job. You’re too close to Fallon, and I don’t want to be your responsibility.” God, she was reaching. She didn’t even believe the reasons tumbling out of her mouth. But how could she say, your need to control and watch my every move makes me want to break out in a panic attack? Or even worse, how could she explain, I wouldn’t want to climb your employee like a kindergartner on a jungle gym, and maintain her dignity?
“You were my responsibility the moment you walked through GDG’s door. And before you try to come up with another excuse, let me save you the trouble, duchess. I’m. Going. With. You. No one else. Me. So what other conditions do you have?”
“No touching,” she blurted. Fire surged up her neck and streamed into her face, but she held firm. Self-preservation kicked in, and her heart pounded in her chest like she was fighting for her life. In a sense, she was doing just that. A life not shattered by Storm Ciaran. “Outside of what’s necessary to pull off the pretense.”
“And?” he prodded, voice soft, eyes narrowed on her.
“This is a business arrangement. I’m a client, and I will pay you for your time.”
Anger gleamed in his gaze, hardening it and his lips into a straight, grim line. “No.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “That point is non-negotiable,” she said, lobbing his previous statement back at him. “Either I pay your firm for this job, or I don’t go to the Hamptons.” Christ, she could hear her mother now, but she refused to back down. She needed this to feel like she had at least a little power in this situation.
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “You’re a friend of Fallon’s—”
“Which is serendipity, not a reason to turn down payment.” She crossed her arms. “So what will it be?”
Silence throbbed in the room like a thunderous heartbeat. Even if the fireplace had been lit, the flames wouldn’t have been able to dispel the deep freeze seeming to crystallize the air.
Finally, when her nerves stretched so taut they cried uncle, he dipped his chin in an abrupt nod. Quietly, she expelled the breath that had been trapped in her aching lungs, relief pulsing through her in overlapping waves.
Ciaran might believe her demand was foolish, but she needed the stipulation, or rather, the reminder the stipulation provided.
This was a business transaction—cold, necessary, an exchange of money for services. As long as she remembered this simple fact and didn’t forget why he was there, she wouldn’t lose her head or her heart…again.
Chapter Seven
For Ciaran, a fine line existed between a lie and a deception. As an ex-DEA Agent-turned-private-security specialist, he understood the distinction.
The difference all came down to motivation.
A lie was told to hurt, to hide, to betray. Most times it was self-serving and mean.
A deception, on the other hand, was employed to gather information, maybe to mislead, but also to uncover. It was often used for the greater good.
Not to mention “deception” just sounded better than “lie.”
And while this charade of pretending to be Sloane’s lover for five days to protect her from possible harm definitely fell into the “greater good” category, he suspected he would pay for this sin. He smothered a groan as he helped her climb into the passenger’s seat of the luxury Range Rover. The skirt of her dress rode up her smooth thigh, and he briefly closed his eyes, shutting the door on the tempting, sexy sight.
Pay dearly for this sin.
Yet years of Sunday masses and acts of contrition would never atone for the lust that clawed at his gut and pounded in his cock every time he came within ten feet of Sloane. His only absolution was his refusal to act on the dark need. She was his client, his responsibility. History had taught him with bloody reinforcement that involvement with someone under his protection could only end up one way: disaster
All his focus needed to be centered and fixed on keeping Sloane safe…alive. Nothin
g—not even this inconvenient, greedy hunger—could come before that.
He clenched his jaw. Fuck, the next five days were going to be a special kind of hell. Touching her arm, back, or hair with the casual caresses of lovers in public, and in private, maintaining a firm distance he couldn’t dare cross.
Maybe God hadn’t really forgiven him for the time he’d substituted the communion wine with prune juice as an altar boy set on pulling a stupid prank to impress his friends. Maybe this was His divine punishment. Well played, God. Well played.
Jerking open the driver’s side door, he nodded at Mark, who parked a discreet distance away in the hotel’s underground lot. The ex-soldier would tail Ciaran and Sloane the entire four and half hours to Southampton, New York, to ensure they weren’t followed. Spending that length of time cooped up alone with her seemed like a lesson in masochism. But he’d weighed the option of flying to their destination, and with strict TSA identification security measures, they would leave too much of an obvious trail if someone was tracking them. So nearly five hours of self-imposed torture had been the best, safest choice.
He climbed into the vehicle, and her light but sensual moonlight-and-sin scent immediately reached out with delicate chains, wrapping around him. It filled the interior, granting him a preview of what her skin—those shadowed nooks between her neck and shoulder, the tuck of that hour-glass waist, the crease where legs met torso—tasted like. Mysterious, fresh, sultry…decadent.
He twisted the key in the ignition and jammed the gear shift into drive.
Hell yeah. A long-ass five days.
“You look nice,” she murmured, speaking for the first time since he’d guided her into the SUV ten minutes earlier.