by Tiffany Snow
Logan was already home when I arrived, and he was none too pleased.
“Where have you been?” he asked when I walked in the door. “I’ve been blowing up your phone, worrying about you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shucking my coat and setting my purse aside. “I . . . ran into a . . . friend. And we had dinner.” The lie came easily, which was strange. I never lied to Logan. And yet, I didn’t want to tell him about Devon.
“Oh,” he said, the irritation fading from his expression. “Who?”
“You don’t know him,” I said, heading toward my room.
“It’s a him?” I heard Logan call after me, but I could pretend I hadn’t.
I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed on autopilot. Devon knew where I lived, had broken in here before, and maybe it was a testament to my irrational state of mind that a part of me hoped he’d show up again tonight.
In that, I wasn’t disappointed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Devon came in the dead of night.
When I opened my eyes, I was disoriented for a moment, then I saw the outline of a man standing over me. His form was a deeper shadow than those around him and the instant I realized someone was in my room, I sat straight up and dragged in a ragged breath to scream.
A hand was instantly over my mouth, stifling me before I let out a whisper of sound. My heart was in my throat and I froze in terror, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin.
“You left before dessert,” Devon said. “And without a thank-you, though I suppose thanks aren’t necessary.”
Oh, God. My eyes slid shut in overwhelming relief and I slumped back down on the bed. Devon’s hand lifted from my mouth and I took a deep breath. I could smell the faint aroma of his cologne and it had a calming effect on me.
Opening my eyes, I focused on him. His face was cloaked in shadows, though light slatted through the open blinds from the street outside, sending bars of illumination across my bed, and my tree was still lit in the corner.
Turning away from me, Devon locked the bedroom door, then discarded the jacket he wore, draping it over the chair. My eyes had adjusted and I watched as he carefully set aside his gun before divesting himself of the holster, then he approached me again and I promptly lost all train of thought.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand moving to where my leg lay tangled on top of the sheets. My love for clothes extended to pajamas and tonight I wore my favorite despite the cold outside, a slip of a dove-gray gown that came to mid-thigh, held on by spaghetti straps, a panel of soft lace in the deep V neckline. His fingers brushed my calf, sliding up slowly to catch in the tender skin behind my knee. My heart was pounding so loudly, I was sure he could hear it, yet he said nothing.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You have to ask?”
I swallowed. So this was it. Was I going to allow this to happen, to possibly mark a third awful sexual experience to the other two? But this was different—Devon felt different. My body, my mind, both responded to him in a way I’d never felt before. The way he’d so blatantly stated his intentions, while perhaps not romantic, was freeing in a way. Sex with Devon wouldn’t be about a relationship or love—it was only about two people finding pleasure in each other’s bodies. No need to overthink or overcomplicate it.
Devon leaned over me and now I could see his face, fierce in the low light. His hand brushed the hair back from my face, his eyes looking so deeply into mine that I felt naked, stripped to my soul. The light trail of his fingers went from my knee up my thigh, catching the thin fabric and moving it upward with his touch until his palm cradled my hip. His thumb brushed the soft skin of my abdomen and the butterflies inside my stomach took flight.
“Who’s the man you live with?” he asked.
It didn’t occur to me to lie. “Logan. A friend.”
“Just friends?”
I managed a nod, embarrassed at the rapid rise and fall of my chest as I breathed much too fast. The linen of his shirt was almost rough on my sensitized skin, the smell of him enveloping me. The cage of his body over me made me feel trapped, but in a way that left my body humming for more.
Devon caught the hem of my gown and tugged. I sat up, my heart in my throat, letting him raise the fabric and slip it over my head. The silk drifted to the floor, leaving me clad in just a pair of thin bikini panties.
I hadn’t been this naked in front of a man in a long, long time. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest. Fear warred with excitement inside me, but I was determined not to let the fear win. Not this time. Not with this man.
“Don’t,” Devon said, catching my wrists and pulling my arms inexorably downward. “You have nothing to hide. You’re exquisite.”
The flush of pleasure those words brought made my spine straighten. I’d always been self-conscious of how thin I was, my breasts barely able to fill a B cup, but the way Devon looked at me made me feel beautiful. Desirable.
Devon took my hand and lifted it, palm up, to his lips. Bending his head, he pressed his mouth to the inside of my wrist. Eyes wide, I watched him slide his lips down my arm to the sensitive skin inside my elbow, the touch of his tongue warm and wet.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his lips moving against my skin. He lifted his head, now much closer, our faces just inches apart. “Still quite afraid of me, sweet Ivy?”
Was I afraid of Devon? He’d killed a man. Broken into my apartment. Taken off my clothes and touched me. He was so much larger than me, his presence and physical size overwhelming.
Was I afraid of him? Yes. But God help me, that wasn’t enough to stop me wanting him or wanting to bury the part of me that cringed from being sexually vulnerable to a man.
“Does it matter?” I asked.
A frown creased his brow at this and he didn’t answer. His hand lifted to cup my jaw, the strength and size of his fingers making me realize just how easily he could break my bones if he so chose. But his touch was gentle, the pad of his thumb brushing my lips, then he was kissing me.
This kiss was different from the one we’d had before that had taken me so by surprise. His lips were soft, coaxing even, rather than demanding. Kissing had always been one of my favorite things, and Devon was very talented. He deepened our kiss and I found my hands creeping up to his shoulders, my body pressing closer to his.
I was breathless when his mouth moved from mine to trail down my jaw to my neck. Taking my hands in his, Devon moved them to the buttons of his shirt. Getting the hint, I started undoing them, eager to feel his skin against mine. His hands moved to cup my breasts, his thumbs sliding sensuously over the tips and sending a bolt of heat through me.
In a corner of my mind, I couldn’t believe this was happening, that I was going to have sex with a man I barely knew. What I did know of him was that he was dangerous, a murderer, and someone whose job required him to lie. He knew even less about me, which was maybe why I found myself able to let go and just . . . feel. Devon wanted nothing from me except my body.
I tugged his unbuttoned shirt free of his slacks and he took his hands from me long enough to shed the garment, then he was laying me carefully back on the bed, his lips on mine, his body resting between my spread thighs.
The feel of him, his weight pressing me into the mattress, made my limbs stiffen. My heart sank even as I fought the feeling of being trapped. I didn’t want to shut down, didn’t want to feel afraid. But my body refused to obey my mind’s commands, my breath coming too fast and my heart racing for an entirely different reason than arousal.
“What’s the matter?” Devon asked, his voice soft. He raised himself on his arms so he could look down at me.
“Nothing,” I quickly denied. I would do this. I’d vowed I would not be a prisoner to the past. Devon wanted me. I wanted him. It seemed so simple, but then again, when had sex ever be
en simple for me?
He gazed into my eyes for a long moment, searching, then abruptly sat up. Reaching for his discarded shirt, he began pulling it on.
My mouth dropped open, aghast. “What are you doing? You’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied, fastening a few buttons. “I’ve seen enough broken souls to know one when one is right in front of me.”
Tears stung my eyes but I blinked them back. I pulled the sheet to me, covering my naked chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m not . . . broken.”
“Perhaps in another time, another life, I might be the man to heal you,” Devon said, standing and reaching for his gun, holster, and jacket. “But I’m not. And as nonexistent as my ethics and moral code are, I’d like to think I’m not a man that would do more harm.”
He stood over me again. His eyes were piercing and saw too much, even in the low light, and I couldn’t hold his gaze. My eyes dropped to the bed, the familiar weight of my hair swinging forward to help shield me. I felt numb. I was being rejected by a man who’d been able to tell instantly that something was wrong with me. That I was . . . broken.
Devon’s hand lifted my jaw, forcing my eyes to meet his.
“That old saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ is quite true,” he said. “I’m a coldhearted bastard, sweet Ivy. And you . . . well, you are lovely.” The last was said with a kind of sigh, his fingers caressing my cheek before tangling gently in my hair. He brought the long strands to his face, his eyes drifting closed as he inhaled deeply. “Yes, quite lovely,” he murmured.
Devon bent, as though he couldn’t help himself, kissing me with a fierceness I immediately responded to, hoping he wouldn’t leave. I dropped the sheet to curl my arms around his neck, rising on my knees so I could push my fingers into the soft strands of his hair. His hands lowered to cup my rear through the thin fabric of my panties. He groaned and I could feel the hard press of his erection against my stomach.
“Don’t go,” I whispered. But he slowly took my arms from around his neck and stepped away. I watched as he disappeared from my room as silently as he’d entered.
Grabbing my nightgown from the floor, I dragged it over my head, then crawled back underneath the covers. I looked out the window to the cold night outside. This hadn’t exactly been how I’d pictured things going when I’d opened my eyes earlier and realized Devon had returned.
I didn’t cry. I just stared out the window until my eyes burned, imagining what it would be like if I were normal, and wondering if or when I’d ever figure out how to fix myself.
My life seemed to return to the usual routine after that. The next few days passed as most of my days did, without incident or any strangers chasing me down the street. I hadn’t heard again from the federal agents regarding Mr. Galler’s death, though his murder had made the papers.
Perhaps it was that very same monotony of my life that had once been comfortable, but which I now found to be tedious. Devon had brought a brief surge of the unexpected, of excitement, which logic demanded I shouldn’t want, and yet I did. Thoughts of him were constantly in my mind. Who he was, what he did, why he’d killed that man. The feel of his body against mine, the touch of his lips, the hard planes of muscle stretched beneath warm skin.
“Hey, look who’s here,” Marcia said in an undertone to me. “Your stalker. And right before quitting time.”
I glanced up and saw that Devon had walked through the door of the bank. He paused and our eyes met. I held my breath as he came toward me. He didn’t pause or look around, just kept walking, his eyes on mine, until he had reached my window.
“You look beautiful today,” he said, his gaze drifting over me. His voice was low, the comment meant for my ears alone. I was absurdly glad that I’d taken the time to curl my hair and leave it long, the black silk dress I wore cut a little low for December, but it looked fabulous against my fair skin.
“Thank you,” I replied stiffly. “You look . . . nice, too.” Nice wasn’t exactly adequate to describe Devon. He had on another expensive suit that I could tell was hand-tailored, overlaid with a designer-brand black wool coat. His dark blond hair was cut to the perfect length, the strong square jaw had just a hint of shadow, and his eyes . . . his eyes were a clear blue that stripped away my clothes until I was back in my bedroom, Devon’s hands and mouth on me.
With a jerk, I pulled myself back into the present. “Um, how can I help you?” I asked.
Devon smiled slightly, as though he knew exactly what I’d been thinking . . . remembering.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “I should have some sort of excuse for coming here, other than I could smell your perfume on my skin the other night and I haven’t been able to get the image of your body out of my mind.”
My eyes flew to his, trepidation and pleasure curling in equal measure in my belly. “I get off in a few minutes,” I offered, somewhat hesitant. I had to be insane. I hadn’t liked Devon, should be glad he’d left my apartment. But I couldn’t deny the palpable attraction between us, the pull he exerted on me. I’d say I was becoming obsessed, but that thought scared me, so I shied away from it.
“Shall I test that theory?” Devon asked.
It took me a moment to get his joke, and when I did, I could feel a blush stain my cheeks.
“How delightful you look when you’re embarrassed,” he said, his lips turning up in a flirting grin that made my toes curl.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” I replied with a raised eyebrow, remembering only too well my mortification when he’d said I was a “broken soul” and left me naked and alone.
“I could say the same for you,” he replied. “Did you decide I wasn’t so horrendous after all?”
“Maybe,” I hedged. “Though I have to say I generally don’t like it when a man walks out on me.”
Devon leaned forward, resting his arms on the marble counter. “Maybe I was a bit hasty,” he said.
I felt a surge of joy at that, but I needed the answer to a question. I leaned forward, too. “Are you a criminal?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Does my answer affect yours?” he whispered back.
“It should.”
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question,” he said, his lips still twisted in a half smile.
“And you’re avoiding mine,” I retorted.
Gunshots startled a shriek from me, and I jumped back. Three men with masks and guns had entered the bank and now surrounded the handful of customers in the lobby. Phil, our security guard, went to draw his gun but another shot rang out and he dropped to the floor. He didn’t move. One of the armed men threw the locks on the door to keep people out. A woman screamed.
“Oh my God,” I breathed in horror.
“Everybody get down on the ground!” one of the gunmen yelled, but no one moved. He fired two shots in the air, startling people out of their shocked immobility. Customers began dropping to the floor, facedown.
One of the men ran to the teller booths, pointing his gun at me and Marcia. “Out of the booth!” he yelled. Then he turned his gun on Devon, who I just realized hadn’t lain on the floor like everyone else. “Get down!”
Devon was slow in complying, his body stiff with tension. The look on his face was hard and ice-cold, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Surely this couldn’t be the same man I’d just been flirting with? This was the man I’d seen in the alley, the man who’d shot someone dead.
I followed Marcia to the door, and she had to punch in her code twice to unlock it, her hands were shaking so badly. The armed robber was waiting for us on the other side.
“You,” he said, motioning to Marcia. “On the floor. You”—now he looked at me—“get the keys to the safe deposit boxes.”
I gave a jerky nod, then headed for the back office. Another gunman was back there already, herding e
mployees out into the lobby. I passed my boss, whose strained expression looked terrified.
It was when I was heading back to the lobby, keys in hand and gunman at my back, that I heard the sirens.
“Fuck,” growled the man behind me. “Hey, we got company,” he called to his partners once we’d reached the lobby.
“No shit,” the man who appeared to be the leader replied. “Get her over here.”
The man gave me a rough shove from behind and I stumbled, nearly falling. I gasped in surprise, my heart racing with fear and adrenaline. Regaining my footing, I hurried toward the leader, who stood in front of the door that led downstairs to the safe deposit boxes. I glanced at where Devon lay on the floor. He was watching the man behind me, his gaze narrow and calculating.
The safe deposit boxes were down a half flight of stairs and behind an iron cage. Two of the men followed me down while one remained behind in the lobby. I heard a phone begin to ring.
“That’ll be the cops,” the leader growled to his partner. He pulled off his mask. “I told you not to let them hit the panic button.”
“I didn’t see who did it,” his partner said, pulling his mask off as well. “Could’ve been this bitch, for all I know.” He turned his malevolent gaze on me.
They were both older than I’d thought, perhaps late twenties to early thirties, with lean builds that spoke of time spent working out. The leader had a scar down his cheek, a jagged white line that made his cruel face even more terrifying.
“Let’s go,” he said to me, taking my arm and pushing me toward the cage. “We need in box 928.”
I knew as soon as he said the number that I was in trouble. “But, I-I can’t get in that box,” I stammered.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” the leader said. “You’re holding keys. Now open the box.”
“But that box is in our high-security range,” I said. “All the nine hundreds are.”
His hand shot out and grabbed me around the throat, shoving me against the wall so hard my head cracked against the hard surface. I cried out in fear and pain, then found I couldn’t breathe.