by Christa Wick
I already don't like him but only seconds remain to make some kind of connection. If I can, maybe he will slip up and reveal information that will help me, Tommy, and Rose, out of this mess. Approaching the door, I decide to try.
"My brother—"
"Wait inside." Sliding his access card, he unlocks the door and pushes it open. "Luke'll be in when he's ready."
Bracing my palm against the door frame, I look up at him. A cold void stares down at me. My pulse skips nervously and anger heats my skin. This guy is no different than Masters or Solandro or my father. I am trash to be used, ignored, or abused.
Fuck this guy and the high horse he rode in on!
"Your ass ain't so big I can't move it." He wraps a hand around my elbow, his fingers expertly finding the same pressure points Masters used earlier to move me from the table to the cashier's cage.
Studying his face to see just how far I can push, I quietly resist. His expression turns ugly in a heartbeat. The thick lips thin. His eyes become narrow slits.
"Not a hair out of place, Tony."
A hand lands lightly on my shoulder, the thumb extended so that I can feel it where my skin is exposed. When I stiffen, the thumb begins to rub lightly and the man continues speaking. Unless Masters has more than one Eastern European male on payroll, the slight trace of an accent gives the newcomer away as Mikhael, the man who took my purse.
"You're already in hot water with him over the kid," he warns Tony.
Looking over my shoulder, I confirm my suspicion. Standing this close, without Solandro's damn contact lenses interfering with my eyesight, I notice a network of fine scars around his cheeks and jaw that only add to his rugged good looks. As big as he is, this Mikhael guy has spent time as someone else's punching bag.
Catching me staring, he mocks me with a stately bow, his gaze holding mine throughout the gesture. "Mikhael Nazarov, at your service, Mademoiselle Lafayette."
Finished, he brushes Tony's hand from my elbow like it was lint then turns me. His gaze crawls down my body. One brow lifts in feigned interest.
Do they really think I'm that malleable and stupid? Especially when they are using the same technique in an attempt to manipulate me and throw me off balance.
The question makes me reconsider how I should react. Clearly, they do think I'm some kind of idiotic mess who will melt at the first smile they offer. Rolling my lips, I take one second too long in deciding whether there’s any leverage to be had by playing along.
"Don't tempt me, Queenie," Mikhael rumbles in warning.
Planting a hand against Tony's chest, he pushes the man out of my personal space then steers me into the room. Taking my bag, he hands it to Tony then closes the door, leaving just the two of us inside.
"Masters would kill me. As for what he would do to you..."
With his words trailing off, Mikhael's gaze drops once more to circle my thick hips and round thighs. He takes a step forward, his tongue darting out to wet the center of his bottom lip. His foot lifts, holds for a heartbeat and then he shakes his head. Pulling back, he reaches for the door handle.
"What about me?" Part of me—the bit that rests above my shoulders—cringes at the sensual cruelty lurking in his blue eyes before his attention plummets down my torso. All my other parts flush, the heat making the zone between my thighs humid and swollen as I think of seeing that same hungry look on Luke's face.
A leering smile plays across Nazarov's mouth before he forces a bored mask into place. "You'll find out soon enough, beautiful."
With that, he closes the door, its electronic lock instantly engaging. Alone, I look around. The room contains a couch, glass coffee table, side chair and big screen television.
On the off chance I might hear anything useful in the outer room, I sit on the couch because it’s closest to the door. Assuming someone is charged with monitoring me on a security camera, I allow myself one deep breath that I slowly exhale in a failed attempt to expel the tension running through my body. After that single luxury, I work hard to appear calm and in my element while straining to hear beyond the heavy door.
Sitting there, eyes closed for concentration, I replay the events of the long night behind me. There’s little worth recounting of my time at the card table or my meeting with Solandro. I expect that Masters' men took surveillance photos of Solandro's crew and vehicle and are in the process of finding out everything they can.
Anything they uncover should help Rose, especially if they can tap into the city's surveillance cameras and track one of the men back to where Rose is being held. No doubt some of the intel gathered will hurt my rapport with Masters. He's bound to learn the details I withheld from him earlier.
Thinking of Luke, I cannot keep a calm façade. The hours at the table and Solandro become ghosts dancing through an empty house. It’s Luke who dominates my memories and, through them, my body.
A dozen details compete inside my head. None of the reasons why I should be wary of Masters surface first. Instead, I remember his eyes, the way they moved over my body, his hold on my head as he kissed me, how I yielded to him, and his gentle erasure of my tears so that Tommy would not witness me vulnerable and weak.
More distressing is how he touched me after that in his office, his hands up under my skirt, fingers digging into my thighs and then his thumbs centered over my pounding clit. At this last memory, fresh shame heats my cheeks.
I can't deny my temporary surrender to the illusion that a man like Masters could be sexually interested in me. Even knowing better, I couldn't control my body's response. He’s a sensory feast. His touch is like lightning in the distant desert sky. He smells and sounds so sinful I can taste him on the tip of my tongue with just the thought of him. And he’s beautiful in a way that makes me ache in places I never knew I could. Transparent or not, his feigned sexual interest has trebled my body's response.
Rule number 5—If you can't spot the sucker at the table, it's you.
Guilty as charged. I have plenty of experience in my life handling men—cops, security guards, affable con artists, and hardened criminals like Solandro and my father. I have zero experience handling admirers and less than zero handling lovers. I’ll correct the omission once this whole damn thing with Rose and Masters ends.
I’ll at least go out on a damn date!
Repeating the promise inside my head, I hear the lock click on the door. It may not be Masters but my body reacts as if it certainly is. I have to fold my hands in my lap so that whoever enters won't see them shaking.
8
Marie
"Comfortable, Marie?"
Hearing Luke's voice, my body tingles as if zapped by electricity. I don't respond beyond a small shift in the tilt of my head and the direction of my eyes. I can see he’s discarded the disguise of a working man and I’m glad for the change. The silk suit adds distance, reminding me that he exists in a world entirely different from mine.
Reaching the couch, he cups my chin and forces my gaze up. His lips move from relaxed to a flat line and his nostrils flare.
"You held back on the contact lenses," he started. "You knew they weren't just part of a disguise."
My eyes drift shut as I worry my bottom lip. "I couldn't trust you not to keep them. He would have killed me and Rose if I came back without them."
Air leaves him in a grim rattle.
"See, there's another problem. Solandro is hardly a stranger to you, is he? He was arrested on a scam with your father. The complaining witness disappeared. You know what happened to the man?"
I shake my head. It's a truthful answer, but I don't expect Masters to believe me.
"This is what I get for letting you distract me." His grip on my chin lightens, his thumb moving to stroke beneath my bottom lip. "I sent the cards for chemical and spectral analysis, but why don't you save me time."
This is not the reaction I expected. I re-assess, my mind sifting through everything I learned as my father's star pupil. I must assume everything Masters does is an
attempt to influence and manipulate me. The strokes against my flesh and the false confession that I distracted him are meant to suggest he finds me attractive.
He’s starting with the classic Ego Up strategy and I wonder how long before he shifts to Ego Down or Fear Up. I can only pray he’s impatient and the change happens soon. I cannot withstand this technique, not when he’s the one deploying it.
Already, my body is relaxing beneath his touch. I stiffen my spine and close my eyes. I picture dreadful things, things that will happen to Rose if I fail her. It gives me the strength to resist those soft, sensual strokes.
His hand retreats. "Look at me, Marie."
I obey. His gaze has turned hard. I decide it’s time to tell him at least a little of what I know. With the cards off at the labs, he will discover everything about them soon enough.
"The contacts pick up marks on the cards. They—"
He raises a hand, stopping me, then opens the door, calling for paper and something with which to write. Leaving the door open, he sits down in the side chair. He folds his arms across his broad chest, his body language closed off except for the way his eyes roam my flesh despite the audience in the open bay of desks and cubicles.
Tony appears, pushes a pad of paper and a pen at me then slinks away, shutting the door as he goes.
"Draw the marks and their locations on the cards."
The edge is gone from Masters' voice, leaving it low and compelling once more. Only it isn't the playfully sexy tone he offered Tina the waitress. I’m only good enough for the intense, indecipherable one he clearly reserves for oversized women cheating his casino.
"Your dossier says you have a remarkable memory." He grips the arms of the chair, irritation leaking into his tone. "You looked at the marks for several hours last night."
"I haven't forgotten." I begin drawing the symbols, my vision blurring with hurt as I recall the exchange between Masters' and Tina, his hand on her body, that sensual rumble running through his words as he offered to come back later.
My emotions ricochet from one extreme to the other. I'm mad at him, then I'm mad at me for feeling anything for the man.
The pen digs into the paper, ripping it. I force my hand to relax. Focusing on the task he’s given me, I label the marks for suits and values before I draw the back of a card and mark where the symbols can be found.
"They show as a pale, silvery white."
Leaning forward, I offer him the pad, my face averted so that he cannot see my unshed tears. The pad begins to shake from his delay in taking it. I look at him. His gaze rests slightly south of my collar bone.
I fling the paper at him.
"Stop wasting time with your stupid game, Masters!"
Throwing my body against the back of the couch, I cross my arms over my breasts. I do not want him looking at them. And I definitely don’t want him to see the response he so easily draws from my flesh.
"You have the code. Now tell me how you're going to get Rose away from Solandro. Were you able to track their vehicle?"
Masters stands, tosses the pad of paper on the chair then slides onto the couch. His left thigh rests warmly against my right leg and I struggle to remember Rule number 5.
I’ll not be the sucker at the table.
"The lab will give me the symbols. That was just to see what you might continue to hold back. When it comes to your compliance, Marie, we've only scratched the surface of what I’ll demand."
He threads his left arm behind my back, his body slightly turned so that his chest presses against my bicep.
"Tell me how you hooked up with Solandro—this time."
His right hand lands on my knee and everything is suddenly far too intimate.
I jerk my leg but his hand moves with me.
"I did not 'hook up' with—"
"Look at me when you talk." In a strong contrast to the way he’s almost cradling me, anger laces his voice. "I said look at me, Marie."
Disobedient, I close my eyes and lick my lips. All of this is a compliance technique, right down to his constant use of my first name. The familiarity and intimacy are meant to sucker me in.
Fear, anger and arousal collide within me. I start to shake. His hand leaves my knee. Cupping the opposite side of my face, he forces me to turn my head. Eyes still closed, I cannot see him, but I can feel the tension running through him. Certain he’s about to explode, I can't keep my lips from trembling right along with the rest of my body.
"I'm not your father or Solandro, Marie. I don't hurt women."
To prove it, his mouth covers mine, shocking me and robbing me of my ability to protest. He chews at my bottom lip, his finger hooking inside my mouth and forcing the lower jaw down. His tongue slips in, his chest pressing more insistently until my body curls into him.
He runs a hand along the length of my skirt, toward my knees. Words hammer my senses between the strokes of his tongue and the small bites he takes at the corner of my mouth.
"Baby, I can't think straight when your lips quiver."
He’s under my skirt now. A finger traces the edge of my underwear before slipping beneath the thin elastic band. I’m wet, responsive in a way that shames me. He buries his face against my throat and groans. He sucks at my flesh while his finger ghost walks against my clit.
My body no longer cares if he’s faking it. I arch against him. My hips lift as heavy contractions roll through me and my breath breaks down into labored panting.
With my bottom off the cushion, he reaches up, secures the panties' waistband and tugs them down my hips. Cupping my mound, he squeezes even as he continues to interrogate me.
"Tell me about Solandro."
Fuck—seriously?
Masters presses two fingertips against the spine of my clit and massages slow circles. "Tell me, baby."
Baby, not Marie. He claims me as his with that one word and, for the moment, I am. I gasp and then my tongue starts working again.
"We were living in L.A. That's Solandro's base of operations."
I cannot believe that I’m letting him do this or that I’m only a few strokes away from coming. My pussy creams until my thighs are covered with the evidence of my attraction to him.
"Continue," he orders as he moves down the couch, peeling my panties the rest of the way off.
My skirt is up, exposing the darker hair of my sex to him. He combs his fingers through it before pushing my thighs apart. His mouth opens and he takes a leisurely lick of his top lip. Ever so slowly, his hands smooth across my thighs, moving in the direction of my pussy.
He’s stopped asking me questions and I realize he’s about to touch me down there and push this farce to the next stage.
"Wait!" I scramble to lower my skirt and squeeze my legs together.
"I've been waiting all night and into the day," Luke murmurs.
He rubs his hand along my calf and presses a kiss against my hip. Across the georgette, his mouth tracks to center. Another groan leaves him as he secures the hem of my skirt and lifts his hands.
"Don't!" I beg. "Just stop and I promise I'll tell you everything."
I want to believe his act. I want to believe it and spread my legs. I want to feel his mouth against me, his cock in me. I want to be ridden and to ride and to climax screaming his name, but I can't because it’s an act and I know it. I know it because, even if a man like Masters could ever be attracted to me, it doesn't make me the kind of woman someone loses their ever-loving mind over. And he’s behaving exactly like a man who has lost his mind.
I push at his head and try to turn my body away from his waiting mouth, but he’s too strong.
"You don't need to pretend like this," I plead. "Just help me save Rose and keep Tommy out of the repercussions."
Masters looks up, his pupils so dilated they almost eclipse the brown irises. The hard kisses he pressed against my flesh swelled his lips, making them even more sensual. He lowers his head to my mound, nosing the plump and aching flesh through the georgette as he inhales
my arousal.
"Pretending?" he asks.
Another kiss lands, his mouth centered at the top of my wet slit, the fabric between us scratchy in a way that curls my toes and jerks my hips upward.
"Pretending to want me..."
Another contraction pushes fresh cream from me. I sob at my body's capitulation. He already saw my tears in his penthouse, but I have not cried like this in front of anyone for six years. It’s wild and raw and I have no chance of containing it.
"Shhh." He grabs my hand, squeezing it roughly as he brings it to his lips. "Don't cry, baby. I stopped—see?"
I twist on the couch, maneuvering until my legs are drawn tight against the rest of my body. It takes me a few more minutes of rough hiccups and hiding my face against the cushion before I can speak again.
"Can't someone else ask me these questions?"
I’m peeking at him just enough that I can see his expression shoot from contrite to frowning.
"I can't have Tony do it, not after how he already handled Tommy and you."
"Nazarov—"
His frown deepens to a scowl, freezing the suggestion at the tip of my tongue. He swipes a hand along his bristled cheek, muttering something that sounds Italian. He stands to pace the two-foot-wide strip of carpet between the couch and wall. Stopping behind me, he places both hands on the back of the couch, framing my shoulders without touching them.
"I'm not leaving you alone with him, either. He's lived like a monk for too damn long."
My gaze stuck on the lacy panties Luke peeled from my eager body, I say nothing.
"Fine. I'll bring him in. But I'm staying."
He smooths my hair to one side, exposing my neck to his touch. Light as a feather, he strokes a line from the bottom of my ear to the top of my shoulder.
"But after you answer his questions, you and I will discuss this so-called pretending bullshit."
He leaves. I scramble to put my underwear back on then straighten my clothes and hair. My entire body feels as if I’m wrapped in a layer of electricity, every nerve ending exposed and tingling. Heat simmers between my legs and beneath my breasts, while the hard tips of my nipples feel like they have been coated in ice.