Too Hot to Touch and Exposed

by LETO, JULIE

  Except, perhaps, a tiny piece of Alex’s heart. But since she’d be leaving him with a bit of her own, she figured it was an even trade. No harm, no foul. Pleasure for pleasure.

  But now, Alex had the ring.

  Damn him.

  Where had it come from? Why was he suddenly wearing it? Had he had it on last night in the shower, when the combination of uncertain lighting and their erotic activities had kept her from noticing it?

  Then she remembered the old box he’d had on his desk. Its time period and origin matched what little she knew about the ring. How could she have been so blind?

  The glitter of emerald, opal and gold drew her attention no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. She salivated for a closer look, both as someone who appreciated the fine craftsmanship of the antique piece and as the woman who’d relentlessly pursued it for six weeks. Since Alex was on the phone, arranging for a locksmith to meet them at her apartment in a few hours, he didn’t seem to notice her staring.

  But as they neared the lobby exit, she ripped her gaze away. What if her sudden interest in the ring gave credence to Michael’s accusations? Alex had come to her defense, but Michael’s suspicions might have planted seeds of doubt. If Michael had remembered precisely where he’d first met her, he’d eventually find proof of her real identity, though she had gone to visit Danny under another false name. But once he made the connections, Alex would have no choice but to accept that she could not be trusted.

  Michael was his brother. Michael would have proof. She was just some woman he’d taken to bed.

  A sudden fear seized her. What if Michael already knew where he’d first made her acquaintance, but simply lacked proof that she was the woman who’d signed in to see Danny?

  “Wait!” she said, tugging on Alex’s arm as he started through the hotel’s revolving glass door.

  “Hold one minute, please,” Alex said to the person on the phone, then pressed it to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot something upstairs.”

  He eyed her quizzically, but turned to go back to the elevator.

  “No need for you to go up, too,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “Finish your call. I’ll just run up, if I may have the key?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Alex extracted the key card, which he handed her as he continued his discussion in rapid-fire Spanish.

  As she hurried back to the suite, she tried not to think about the fact he hardly knew her, and yet trusted her so easily. She also tried not to imagine the bitter depth of darkness she’d see in his fathomless eyes once he realized she’d lied to him. When was the last time anyone had looked her at like Alex did—without a single hint of suspicion that eventually she would rip him off?

  Her entire life, she’d associated with cheats and liars and thieves—her parents first and foremost. Even Danny hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her exactly how a ring that wasn’t worth more than a couple of thousand dollars could save his life.

  He’d said his silence was for her own good—the less she knew, the less she could reveal if caught or interrogated. But what if he was lying, too?

  Everyone in this scenario was lying about something—even Michael, who hadn’t told Alex about the third Murrieta son. Everyone except Alex, who possessed no instinct as strong as his need to be honorable.

  When the elevator doors slid open in the penthouse, she filed away her worries about everyone’s lies but her own. Right now, she had to make sure that she hadn’t left anything behind that Michael could use against her.

  She darted into the living room and searched for the coffee cup she’d had in her hands when Michael had come up for his impromptu interrogation. She wouldn’t put it past him to return to his brother’s suite and retrieve the mug so he could run her fingerprints. As an adult, she’d never been arrested, so she shouldn’t be in the system.

  But she had a juvenile record. What if the court had never sealed it? Or worse, what if the FBI had the power to crack it open?

  Luckily, none of the cups were missing. She dug underneath the sink in the wet bar for liquid cleanser and gave them each a good scrub. She then darted into the bedroom and wiped down the surfaces she’d touched—the vanity, the mirror, the handle of the blow dryer, the bedside table. If Michael came back while she and Alex were out, he’d find nothing to use against her.

  Before she left, she collected the things she’d left in the basket from the concierge—including a toothbrush, hairbrush and lip gloss. With no purse, she dropped them all into the bag with her clothes. Before she called the elevator for her return trip downstairs, she rummaged through the pockets of her pencil skirt and found the check Alex had given her.

  She’d cash it at the first opportunity, but for now, she kept it safe by tucking it in her bra. Maybe the cash could buy Danny more time.

  No matter what secrets he might be keeping from her, she couldn’t let him down. If Danny suffered because she’d been too blinded by sex or guilt to finish what she’d started, she’d never forgive herself. Danny had never been a brother to Alex or Michael—but he’d always been one to her.

  When she reappeared downstairs, Alex was not in the lobby or in his car. On the off-chance Michael was lurking around, she refused the chauffeur’s offer to take her bags. She doubled back into the hotel and spotted Alex inside a boutique, admiring a brown leather messenger bag—as well as a coordinating purse and wallet.

  “The hotel is arranging for a new cell phone for you,” he said when she entered. “My driver will collect it while we have lunch. I won’t feel safe leaving you until I know you have a way to contact me. In the meantime, you can put your belongings in here.”

  She stared at the gifts with openmouthed awe. She wanted to refuse his generosity, but she couldn’t manage more than, “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I get to a bank.”

  He waved her offer aside. “No need.”

  She grabbed his arm and impaled him with her stare. “I appreciate your giving nature, Alex, I honestly do. But thanks to you, I can afford beautiful things like this.”

  The battle between his gallant nature and his desire to please her played out on his face. God, he was the most amazing man. Handsome beyond imagination, strong beyond measure and yet smart enough to know when to back down.

  “Of course,” he said. “But in the meantime, you’ll allow me to pay for these purchases until we can get to your bank?”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Alex touched the spot on his face where her lips had met his skin. She thought maybe she’d left behind some of her lip gloss, but there was no trace of the pale pink color.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “De nada, mi tesoro,” and then returned the gesture by brushing his lips across her temple.

  Chaste as the kiss was, she flushed. And this time, her trembling wasn’t from fear, as it had been upstairs, but from a build-up of emotion that would have to burn through her skin in order to escape.

  In what seemed like a single spike in body temperature, Lucy had transformed from a woman hell bent on grand theft to one consumed by need and desire. Her mind swirled with the heated memories of the night before. Her body quaked with the hunger to relive every sensation, every convergence, every glorious release.

  In the dark and in his bed, she’d been neither Lucienne Bonet nor Lucy Burnett. With Alex touching her, arousing her, driving inside her, she’d morphed into a new and foreign being—a woman who took her pleasures because they were offered freely and because they felt amazing. She hadn’t worried about the consequences. Not to Alex or herself.

  But now, in the daylight and under his intense gaze, the weight of her regrets nearly crushed her. Nothing she’d ever done in the past had haunted her as intensely as what she was going to do to Alex.

  As he took care of signing the bill of sale, Lucy concentrated on regaining her equilibrium. She’d never experienced so many emotions at once: attraction, desperation, gratitude, resentment, guilt. They swamped h
er with their conflicting depths and shallows. Before Alex, sailing through life had been so much simpler.

  And so much colder.

  But there was no “before Alex” anymore. For the rest of her life, no matter what happened to Daniel or the ring, she’d judge her every happiness or failure against the time she’d spent with the man she might have loved—and who might have loved her—if only she hadn’t lied.

  11

  DURING THE ENTIRE silent ride from the hotel, Alex watched Lucienne silently toy with the strap of the leather messenger bag. She alternated between gazing at the simple tote with a secret smile on her lips and staring sightlessly out the window, the corners of her mouth on the brink of a heartbreaking frown. No matter what demons she was fighting in the privacy of her thoughts, she never let go of his gift.

  And this unconscious gesture made up his mind.

  She was the woman for him.

  Like his father’s ring on his hand, the realization weighed on him with both heaviness and warmth. Though the ring had once belonged to another man—actually, a long line of men—the circle of gold and gems fit his finger like an extra layer of skin. In much the same way, Lucienne had become a part of him.

  In keeping with the ring’s legend, he supposed he should have swept her away on a parasailing excursion across the rough waters of the bay or taken her rappelling in nearby caverns. Instead, he’d arranged for them to enjoy a simple day on Fisherman’s Wharf. He craved the sunshine, the energy of the city in all its kitschy glory. And he wanted to learn more about Lucienne, beyond her erogenous zones or her knowledge of art and antiques. For a man who rarely knew more about his lovers beyond their full names and what they did for a living, this was the truest adventure he’d ever embarked on.

  In the first ten minutes after his driver dropped them off, he learned that since moving to San Francisco, she’d only come to the Wharf once. While they ate Dungeness crab fresh from the ocean and gently steamed in a pot perched on a street vendor’s single burner, he discovered that she adored seafood despite a very bad reaction to her mother’s first and only attempt at ceviche.

  “My mother’s ceviche is passable,” he said, “but my grandmother’s? It sings.”

  “So your grandparents are still alive?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Mi abuela is eighty-three and mi abuelo, eighty.”

  Lucienne raised her eyebrows. “She married a younger man. I like her already.”

  “She’d like you.” He had no basis for this statement. He’d never officially introduced a single one of his paramours to his family. His grandfather and mother had met a few at various charity functions or social events, but neither voiced an opinion—probably because they knew not to bother. None of the women lasted for very long.

  “Well, I’m sure I’d like her, if she had a hand in raising you. Are you still close to them? I mean, do you see them often?”

  “Every Sunday, when I’m in Madrid, or mi abuela would have my head. After my father left, my mother moved back into her parents’ estate. We had our own private wing, but I rarely stayed there except to sleep. My cousins were always at the house and my grandfather, when he wasn’t at the auction house, spent every free moment teaching us chess or taking us to museums or introducing us to his artist friends or celebrities. We were never bored or idle.”

  “Sounds like an idyllic childhood.”

  The longing in her voice grabbed him—and the faraway look in her eyes tugged at his chest until it hurt. He had absolutely no idea what kind of life she’d led in her youth, but he had no doubt it lacked the unconditional love he’d experienced on a daily basis. He may not have had a father, but maybe he’d had something better?

  “As far as childhoods go,” he said, brushing a soft kiss along her temple, “I have little to complain about.”

  “And yet, you still hated your father for a very long time.”

  He glanced down at her, surprised. Had he discussed his feelings toward Ramon with her? As far as he knew, he’d kept his resentments to himself, except for Michael.

  “How do you know that?”

  Guilt flashed across her wide dark eyes. “You don’t look at his portrait. And when someone comments on the physical similarities between the two of you, you flinch.”

  He straightened, knowing she spoke the truth, even though he’d hoped he’d been a little less transparent. “Yes, well, that’s where things weren’t quite so idyllic.”

  He’d considered turning the conversation to her own childhood, but the set of her forced smile convinced him otherwise. Pressing her for self-revelation—particularly if her memories were painful—was completely counterintuitive to his plan to enjoy the day in a relaxed and buoyant atmosphere. Instead, he took her hand, and after consulting a large map painted on a weatherworn marquee, headed leisurely toward Pier 39.

  In a million years, Alex never would have figured himself for the kind of man who’d laugh over pithy sayings on T-shirts hanging in tourist shop windows or toss a large bill into the overturned cap of a man playing guitar on the sidewalk outside a bar. But the shirts were funny and the musical strains, strummed with a rhythm born on the cobbled streets of Madrid, reminded him of home.

  After he exchanged greetings in Spanish with the musician—clearly down on his luck if the holes in his shoes were any indication—Lucienne whistled in surprise.

  “You object to my giving him money?” he asked.

  “Give all you want, but don’t be surprised if we soon have a half-dozen vagrants trying to explain how we can use the cable car system or find Ghirardelli Square. For a fee, of course.”

  Alex eyed her warily. She suddenly didn’t sound like someone who had only come to the tourist area of her new city once.

  “I’m from Spain, not Mars. I understand about…cómo se dice…street smarts.”

  “Right,” she said.

  Without warning she tugged her hand out of his. She made a show of reaching toward the bags and purses hanging from a vendor’s lopsided cart, but Alex wasn’t fooled.

  Lucienne had inadvertently given something away. Had she lied about her familiarity with this area of San Francisco? And if so, why?

  And could she be lying about other things as well?

  Alex met her forced smile with one he hoped was more natural. He refused to believe that Michael’s instincts about Lucienne had any merit, though he had to admit—at least to himself—that his brother’s unsubstantiated claims had planted a seed of doubt. Maybe he’d misconstrued her innocent observation. She had traveled widely and the rules of engagement with panhandlers did not vary much from city to city.

  But it wasn’t so much the comment that set off his warning bells; it was the way she suddenly did not meet his eyes.

  “Is everything all right, Lucienne?”

  “What?” she said, and this time, her surprise seemed entirely genuine. “I’m having a wonderful time.”

  He took her hand and reeled her in close so that her knuckles brushed his cheek. “Then why are you shaking?”

  Her eyes flashed with something so reminiscent of fear, he thought for a moment that she might run. To keep her still, he smoothed the back of her hand over his cheek, and then kissed the spot on her wrist where her pulse thrummed against her flesh. In moments, the tension building up within her released on a sigh.

  “You’re too good to me, Alejandro.”

  Her mouth curved into a tentative smile. Now he thought he understood. He was unaccustomed to treating a woman with gentle care and consideration and she was unused to accepting it.

  “I’ve only begun to be good to you, Lucienne. That is a promise.”

  LUCY BIT THE INSIDE of her mouth and silently cursed herself for the slip.

  It was a small mistake. Barely noticeable. But to a man poisoned by his brother’s suspicions, one minor error could cost her everything.

  Alex might not be a native, but he was no rube. Next to Danny, he was the smartest man she’d ever met. Actually, he was s
marter than Danny, as evidenced by the fact that to date, Alex had never spent a single second inside a jail cell.

  Maybe it was the soft, salt-scented breeze. Maybe it was the warmth of her hand in his or the lazy tempo of their steps, but she was forgetting who she was—or, more accurately, who she was supposed to be. He spoke about his childhood and his family with such aplomb, she couldn’t help but envy him. Alex might have been abandoned by his father, but he’d turned out fine. Damned fine.

  She, on the other hand, had grown up in a seemingly perfect nuclear family and had ended up using her considerable brain power and eye for art to support an illegal trade in stolen goods.

  She wasn’t sure if this qualified as ironic, but it was close.

  When Alex had made love to her wrist with a single, tender kiss, she knew she was safe with him—but not for long. The more time she spent with him, the greater his chances of figuring out her scheme. And yet, she couldn’t muster quite enough fear to bolt. She was feeling too safe, too comfortable with her arm hooked in his and his shoulder the perfect pillow for her cheek as they strolled.

  “You’re one surprise after another,” she said as they crossed from the sidewalk onto the busy, noisy pier.

  “Why? Because we are taking time to enjoy our afternoon instead of setting up a mobile office at the hotel and working?”

  She laughed.

  He stretched his hand out in front of him—the one with the ring. He seemed to be observing the scratched stone from several different angles before he caught her looking and tucked his fingers in his pocket.

  He tightened his arm around her waist. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Every day since you arrived in San Francisco has been beautiful,” she argued. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ordered up Chamber of Commerce weather along with your room service.”