I took a deep, steadying breath, and then I dug into my bag to check Wil's gear. The doohickey attached to a burner phone. I had no idea what any of it did, and fortunately I didn't have to. We were set to meet back up at Mom's brownstone in an hour.
“Darling?” I heard Lock's whisper and felt his shadow at the same time. A comforting warmth. We'd arrived separately, but I had the feeling he had no intention of letting me leave alone. And I was okay with that. Because I wanted to cling to him. I wanted to hold on tight in case none of this worked.
I rose from my seat, shouldered my bag, and slipped my hand into the one he offered.
We walked down to Water Street side by side, in a taut sort of silence. Companionable but delicate. I knew his conversation with Attwood couldn't have been easy. I'd heard most of it and felt his anger as deeply as I felt my own.
I'll agree to your terms. Sign over my profits. All of that garbage. Under one condition.
He'd lied. But he also hadn't. There had been so much fierce truth when he barked at the smarmy lawyer to stay away from me.
I curled against him as he tapped an app for a black car and we waited at the windy intersection. It was like cuddling a bear. Not that I had a lot of experience with that...unless you counted the German leather daddy kind.
“I could've killed him,” he said, quietly. “I could've reached across and wrung his neck like a free-range chicken.”
“No, you couldn't have. Not with me there.” I squeezed his hand, rested my head on his shoulder. “Besides, I don't think that's how free-range chickens get killed.”
My brooding chef managed a chuckle, and he looked down at me with amusement instead of turmoil. “What? You think there's a gentle physician-assisted chicken suicide or something?”
To be honest, I hadn't given it that much thought. But now I couldn't dispel the mental image of sleepy chickens just passing out in their fancy hand-crafted coops. And I wasn't sure if it was better or worse than the images Kyle Atwood had Photoshopped of me and Lachlan. I shuddered. “Thanks. I might have to look into becoming a vegetarian.”
The black SUV pulled up just as Lock pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Nonsense,” he drawled. “You like having my meat in your mouth far too much for that.”
It was a wonder I didn't pounce him the minute we settled in the back seat. Somehow, I managed to keep my hands to myself for the duration of the ride to Brooklyn. Though we poked each other and snarked like we were teens again and I nearly exhausted my trove of sexually suggestive food jokes. I'm sure our driver had heard, and seen, much worse.
And then, less than an hour later, we were all diving into the morally grey area of hacking Attwood's cloud. A few Heinekens and a hastily thrown together charcuterie tray (complete with hidden salami) had eased the way a bit. Wil and Lachlan managed to get through an entire round of greetings and small talk without insulting one another.
But I was still unsettled. Still angry. Especially as the tech stuff unfolded. Lots of unhooking and re-hooking and uploading and furious typing, punctuated by swear words in multiple languages and Lachlan pacing around looking thunderous. I had no idea how Wil had gotten two laptops and so much wiring through airport security, and I honestly didn’t want details.
When Wil popped out to the small second-floor balcony for a quick cig, Lachlan followed. I itched to do the same. Half to keep them from further macho posturing, half to eavesdrop...even if I could guess the tenor of their dialogue.
“I know. You’ll kill me if I hurt her.”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter. I’ll hire someone to kill you.”
I watched them instead, taking in their body language. Savoring the visual, to be perfectly honest with myself. Tall, russet-haired Wil reclined against the railing, a skinny brown cigarette caught in two fingers as he ashed into the night sky. Lock was a few inches shorter, but wider. A pugnacious rugby player to Wil’s shining quarterback. They were both beautiful to me, and for very different reasons. I cared about them both for very different reasons, too.
The only people missing from this lovefest were Paulie and Mom. And, frankly, I was grateful. There was no telling what my mother would do to a blackmailing creep like Attwood. Probably drop him into boiling water like a lobster. And Paulie would join Wil in giving Lock hell. Luckily, she had a gallery show in Dusseldorf. Two of her mixed media pieces and three paintings.
Don’t let Wil have all the fun, she’d texted me. Save some for when I meet this naughty beast.
I was pretty sure there was plenty of barb-riddled but good-natured grief to go around.
Lachlan’s arms, initially crossed, fell to his sides. He seemed to heave a deep sigh, his shoulders rising and sinking. And then he plucked the cigarette from Wil’s grasp and took a puff.
Well, that was interesting. Were the boys actually making friends? I felt one of the many balls of tension in my chest dissolve.
Moments later, they were trooping back in through the French doors.
Break over, we went back to the swearing and pacing...until Wil announced, “It's done!” and pushed back from his laptop with a satisfied huff. “I've scrubbed the files from his phone, his computer and his online storage.”
“So it's really over?” I stared at him. And at the screen depicting the blessedly empty cloud storage folder. Done? It couldn't really be that easy, could it? “What about hard copies? What if Attwood had thumb drives stashed all over the place? Locked away in a bank vault somewhere? What if this wasn't really the end? How do we make sure? How do we know Attwood won't still come after us?” I shook my head even as Lachlan's hand closed around my shoulder and he bent to murmur “stop” in my ear.
Stop? How can I stop? I wanted to be one hundred percent certain this was over.
“Naya.” He pulled me back against his chest, arm banding across my waist. “I mean it. Stop. You put this into motion. Believe in it. Accept that your pretty-boy friend did his part.” His tone brooked no argument—not that it stopped me from wanting to protest.
It was like our roles had reversed. He, the eternal cynic, was suddenly the one with hope while I was second-guessing everything, wondering how best to protect us.
“Pretty boy?” Wil scoffed and said something rude in German. “But, yes, I have done my part. The only digital footage of the two of you that exists in the world is whatever exists in your private collection.”
I made a face. I was into a lot of things, but I don't think I would ever consent to be recorded having sex. Not after this mess.
“Once he realizes he no longer has leverage, Attwood will have no choice but to back off,” Lachlan assured. “I've yet to sign any agreements. A verbal concession to blackmail won't stand. And I can contest the legal elements of my father's will in court.”
There were legal elements in the will? Who knew?
I rubbed my arms and burrowed deeper into Lock's embrace, chilly despite the brownstone's perfect temperature of 71 degrees. We'd been apart so long. And these past few weeks had been a crazy whirlwind of sex, angst and paternal manipulation from beyond the grave. Could it all really be solved in one day? It was like a soap plot, wasn't it? A few slashes of a writer's pen, a few key-strokes, and boom! Problem solved.
“Naya, liebchen, it's all fixed.”
“Darling, let's enjoy our victory.”
Just like they'd done a few days ago, the two men in my life pulled me from the tangle of my thoughts.
But only one stayed the night.
Only one made me scream.
Chapter Twenty-seven
He gave it four hours, perhaps five, until their nemesis noticed his ammunition had gone missing. There was, after all, an obligatory period of self-congratulation. Attwood would glory in his villainy, probably toss back a few whiskeys and gloat to whoever was nearby. But then he would have to reassure himself, look back over the architects of his triumph. Probably wank to the footage. And as he fumbled to do so, he would discover what they’d done.
L
achlan was dreading it as much as he was anticipating it. So he was happy to banish both emotions in Naya’s bed, between her thighs. Nearly the instant the door closed behind the intrepid Herr Karlsen, they fell upon one another like hungry beasts.
In the back of his mind, he had a vague notion that this was impractical. That this was hardly the moment to sweep her against him and claim her mouth in a soul-searing kiss. But a larger—harder, more insistent—part of him reasoned that they weren’t on the run from a psychotic killer, didn’t have to worry about dodging bullets or explosions, and fucking while waiting for a threatening text message was a perfectly acceptable activity.
So, that was exactly the activity they engaged in.
They left a trail of clothing from the foyer to the upstairs bedroom that Naya had claimed for her own. “Mom’s in India,” she reminded, breathlessly, as they stumbled up the stairs in a flurry of kisses and gropes. “She won’t care.” And it was a testament to their wild lust that a mention of Jyoti didn’t instantly deflate his erection.
“Please. Darling,” he scoffed. “We both know she’d cheer.” He swung Naya up into his arms and kicked open her door. Her head fell back against his shoulder, exposing her slender golden throat as she laughed with delight. Before too long, her giggles turned to low moans as he draped her across his lap and buried three fingers deep within her. She was so wet, so willing, parting her legs for him and writhing and panting.
Was it always going to be like this? Hot, needy, instant magic? He couldn't imagine an alternative. He couldn't imagine not wanting her. Not having her. Hell, he could come like this. In his trousers like a schoolboy. Just watching her and listening to her breathless little noises of pleasure. Luckily, he didn't have to. He was allowed to be a participant. To drive her to the edge again and again.
So, he bore her down to the mattress, stripping her of her clothes and then removing his own. Could he make her beg and cry and scream without striking her? “I dare you,” she whispered when he cockily floated the idea. His gorgeous little rebel, always pushing his buttons.
“I'll take that dare,” he said into her ear, before he shoved her knee up on the pillow right next to it. Positioned like that, she was spread wide. Open. Lewd. He gave her his fingers again. Three and then four. Grabbed lube from the bedside table with his free hand and eased his way, though she was plenty lubricated already. “I'll take the dare...and you'll take my fist.” Her cunt squeezed round his thumb, so hungry as he turned his hand inside her. She squirmed and yelped, and when he looked up from his task, he saw that her eyes were squeezed shut.
“Look,” he commanded as he slid deeper, almost to the wrist. “Look at what I'm doing to you. Don't shut your eyes, Sweetheart.” She was so tight but so perfect. Like a glove. And he began to open his hand, slowly uncurling his fist and pushing against her slick walls.
Naya went wild, her legs coming up off the bed, her entire body thrashing. She rode the line between too much and not enough, rode his palm as well. She bit her lip, though, holding back the cry he demanded. So he bit her lip, too—leaning over to punish her with hard, harsh, kisses.
They were drenched in sweat, bent like bow-strings. Violent and sexual and everything good in the world. And he needed to be inside her. Really inside her. She whimpered and keened when he pulled out his fist, tears of frustration leaking from the corners of her dark eyes. She was so close. So fucking close. He couldn't let her get there without him. Not when he was so hard that his prick was practically pointing to the ceiling. So he sank into her, all the way, in one swift and brutal stroke.
God love her, that was when she screamed for him. She called out his name, her lovely voice hoarse. He chanted hers as he came.
Twenty-four seconds later, his mobile rang from somewhere across the room. Still in the pocket of his trousers. He didn't want to pull out of her to answer it, didn't want to leave the sticky warmth of her embrace. But it rang and rang. Attwood. Angry. Impotent. The antithesis of the joy he and Naya had just shared.
Lachlan rested his forehead against hers and breathed in.
She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers, pupils blown wide and mouth curved in a sleepy, sated, grin. And then she gently shoved him up. “I'll get it,” she said. “Let me talk to him.”
So, he did.
* * *
My knees were wobbly, like I’d just finished the spin class from Hell but capped it with an epic orgasm, and my brain was still muddled—sexed into near-stupidity. But somehow I managed to scoot out of bed and go in search of the ringing menace that had interrupted our filthy idyll.
If it was time to pay the piper or gloat or whatever, I was happy to do it. Lachlan had done enough. It was my turn to take a stand, to make a statement. Extortionists beware: Don’t fuck with my man. Especially after he’s fucked me nearly senseless.
“Lock’s phone!” I greeted in my chirpiest sorority-girl voice after pulling the offending device from the pocket of his hastily discarded pants.
An expletive burst forth from the speaker, followed by a demand I had no inclination to listen to: “Give the phone to Christie.”
Kyle Attwood was not a happy camper.
“I’m a Christie,” I pointed out, settling back on the bed. “Besides, Lachlan’s a little busy right now. Doing all the things you were trying to blackmail him NOT to do.”
The man in question was actually nowhere near my nether region at the moment, and he gave me an incredulous look, pale eyebrows rising toward his hairline. “Minx,” he mouthed while I swatted his knee.
Attwood’s mood wasn’t quite as playful. His rage seemed to pulse through the phone like a malevolent force, like an obscene phone caller and a psycho killer’s evil love child. “Trying to blackmail?” he repeated. “So you admit you had something to do with what happened today?”
“Something happened today?” He wasn’t the only one who could play the incredulous repetition game. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Could you please make this quick, Mr. Attwood? I really do want to get back to my evening.”
“Bitch.” He snarled, and I imagined him frothing while doing so. Maybe stomping around his villain lair. “I know you did something to my cloud storage. You and Lachlan hacked into my files.”
“I’m a writer. Lock’s a cook. How the Hell would we know anything about computer hacking?” All of my time penning soaps had apparently taught me more about acting than I thought. I hoped the uneasy tremor that ran through me didn’t translate to my tone. “Maybe you should call the police, Mr. Attwood.”
Lachlan snorted. And he reached for me, tugging me into his lap, resting his craggy chin on one of my shoulders as I cradled his smartphone against the other.
We both knew the lawyer wouldn’t dial the authorities, not when it would incriminate him just as thoroughly as us. What could he possibly say? “Excuse me, but they got rid of the X-rated footage that my dead boss and I concocted in order to keep them under our thumbs”? Good luck with that.
More cuss words came my way. Creative ones, considering Attwood didn’t speak as many languages as I did. He swore for a while, and I busied myself leaning into Lock’s chest, breathing in the mingled scents of our vigorous activities of a few minutes ago. Sweat. Skin. Sex. All beautiful things that I’d almost been deprived of. And I still wasn’t entirely sure why.
Maybe we would never really know why Ranulf had wanted to keep us apart, why my stepfather had so much hate and resentment for us both. But I would be damned if I was going to let his toady continue his legacy of intimidation.
“Shut up!” I cried, finally cutting off Atwood’s pompous and vulgar tirade. “I’ve had enough of you!”
“Fu-what?” It surprised him enough to make him stop mid-syllable.
I refused to let him work up a second wind. “You listen to me, you slimy little worm. I want you to stay away from us. We’re done,” I told him, in as cold a tone as I could manage. No more cheerful cluelessness. Just ice. Just sincerity.
“You have nothing on Lachlan. Nothing on me. And if you ever move against us again, I will go to every single business news publication in the New York metropolitan area and tell them how you’re mishandling Ranulf Christie’s interests.”
Lachlan wrapped his arms around my waist. Solid. Comforting. Here.
But I wasn’t finished. Not just yet. “And you really thought you could come after us with our sex lives? Please. There’s erotica in every airport bookstore from here to Timfucktu. Fifty Shades of Grey made a zillion bucks. All we have to do is a few flirty interviews with Entertainment Tonight and Graham Norton and we’ll be Hollywood’s next naughty darlings. You’re an idiot,” I snapped, trying not to dig my nails into Lock’s thigh from frustration. “Sex is not a weapon. I am not a weapon. And if you dare try to use me against Lachlan again, I will destroy you.”
All of a sudden the phone was plucked from my fingers. I twisted around to see Lachlan emphatically hitting the ‘end call’ button before he chucked it back across the room. “The end,” he said, in what I assumed was his own take on a sorority girl voice. “That was bloody perfect. No need to say anything more.”
Well. I was a writer. I had a good line or two in me. And it was only with the cell phone away from me that I realized I was hot-cheeked, breathing hard. Like I’d run a mile. Maybe I had. Gone a mile for Lock and me, for what we had here in this bed and what we could build outside it.
“Shhh, darling.” Lachlan kissed my hair, my temple, the side of my face, soothing me with his lips and his hands. “It’s all right. You were magnificent. You are magnificent. I don’t know anybody else who could put a boot up someone’s arse after having a fist in their cunt.”
I went from angry to hysterical in 0.6 seconds, nearly doubling over with giggles. “That’s terrible!” Oh, God. There was no one like Lock in my life. No one like Lock in the world. “I love you,” I gasped, as the tears of mirth tracked down my face. “How could I not love you?”
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