On her, fierce looked good.
She didn’t smile back.
“CNN is getting ready to air a story I think you should know about,” she said without preamble as she walked past him into the living room.
Must be bad if she was coming to warn him, Joe thought with resignation as he closed the door behind her and immediately felt dog tired all over again. It was one more thing to deal with, and he was fresh out of both patience and time.
“About what?”
She turned to look at him. “You.”
HE WAS WEARING a dark gray T-shirt with a Miami Heat logo and worn jeans, Nicky saw with a sweep of her eyes. His hair was unruly and faintly damp, and his feet were bare. The faintest suggestion of soap and steam hung in the air, although they were standing in the living room, with nary a bathroom in sight—but then, it was a small house.
She was watching him for a reaction, but the one she got wasn’t what she expected. He gave her a small smile.
“If it’s the pig again, Dave’s going to be directing traffic for the rest of his life.”
“It isn’t the pig.” As she spoke, he was moving, closing the curtains, stepping past her to pick up the remote from an end table by the couch and turn off the TV; she had to turn to keep him in sight. “It’s you.”
“Me.” He blew out a sigh, turned to look at her, and gestured toward the couch. A single lamp lit the living room, which seemed to lack any ornaments or pictures, even on the walls, but it was neat and clean, with functional if not especially well-coordinated furniture. “Want to sit down while you tell me all about it?”
She didn’t move. Her pulse was elevated. Her stomach was in a tight knot. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She became aware of all these things only as she looked at Joe and tried to reconcile this man who now loomed large in her life with what she had just learned.
“You were a dirty cop,” she said.
He went very still. Then his face changed. It tightened, hardened, and his eyes went flat and black.
He didn’t say anything.
“You took payoffs in exchange for providing protection for a drug ring you were supposed to be investigating.”
His hands flexed at his sides. Except for that, he stood motionless, as if he was waiting. She knew what he was waiting for: the rest of the story.
“Unfortunately for you, the DEA was investigating this particular drug ring, too, and they set up a sting. They got you on tape accepting cash, ten thousand dollars at a time. Several times. You were caught red-handed, along with three other cops. When the feds sprang the trap, you were all in a warehouse with the drug traffickers. Somebody started shooting, and when it was over, nine people were dead, including the other cops. You were critically wounded, shot twice in the head. They expected you to die. When you didn’t, they arrested you in the hospital, charged you with multiple offenses, including murder, and sent you off to a prison hospital to await trial. You were still there when the charges were dropped on a technicality. Only you couldn’t get your job back. No way. So you wound up here.”
A beat passed in which they stared at each other. Then his eyes flickered.
“Now you know my secret,” he said lightly, mockingly.
Her heart plummeted right along with her stomach. She sucked in her breath as the pain of it went through her like a knife. He was still Joe—still tall, dark, and sexy, with the power to make her go weak in the knees; still a man she would unhesitatingly trust with her life. But she had sensed before that there was another side to him, a dangerous side, a side she hadn’t met and didn’t want to, although she now knew irrefutably that it was there.
“It’s true.” Her tone made it a statement rather than a question.
He moved then, heading, she thought, for the doorway that led into the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he asked. “I know I do.”
She caught his arm, stopping him as he walked past her. His biceps felt warm and hard with muscle beneath her hand.
“Is it true?” She had to ask even though she knew that it was, even though CNN was going to do a feature on it, even though Sarah Greenberg had confirmed it for her.
He looked down at her. His mouth curved into the smallest of sardonic smiles, but his eyes, dark and unreadable, didn’t match.
“What do you care?”
Nicky looked deep inside herself and realized something.
“I care,” she said.
Then he moved his head, and the way the lamplight hit his face changed. She saw two pale, ragged scars gouged out of the bronzed skin of his temple that disappeared into the unruly thicket of his black hair.
Her gaze fastened on them. She caught her breath.
“Is that where you were shot?” Even as she asked it, her hand was rising of its own accord to gently touch the puckered flesh.
He caught her hand just as her fingers slid over the roughened skin, his grip hard, his expression savage, and for a moment, as their eyes met and held, she thought he was going to fling her hand away from him, utterly rejecting her instinctive soothing of the terrible marks.
But instead his eyes flared and his hold gentled.
“Yeah, that’s where I was shot,” he said, his voice husky, and, still holding her gaze, he carried her hand to his mouth. He kissed the back of it, then her fingertips, one by one. Nicky felt the touch of his lips against her skin like a brand. Her breathing suspended, her heart lurched, and when he lowered her hand and his head dipped toward her mouth instead, she closed her eyes and tilted her head and kissed him back, their mouths soft and hot.
Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her harder and her brain went a little fuzzy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoe and kissed him with all the pent-up emotion that had been locked inside her since she had spoken to Sarah Greenberg on the phone.
It was a soul-shattering kiss, electric with desire. He felt so warm, so solid against her, and he smelled just faintly of soap and tasted just faintly of cigarettes, which was another way she knew it was Joe, and she wanted him so much that her heart pounded and her stomach clenched and, deep inside, her body tightened and began to throb.
When he lifted his head and broke the kiss, she made a tiny sound of protest as she opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He was looking at her, his face just inches away, his eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming, a faint flush high on his cheekbones. She could feel the solid bands of his arms around her, feel the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts, feel the unmistakable proof of his desire for her against her stomach.
“Joe.” Her heart was in her voice.
“I’m a dirty cop, remember? You should go.”
“I don’t want to go.”
To stop him from talking—and to stop herself from thinking—she closed her eyes and kissed him again, pressing her mouth to his, sliding her tongue inside his mouth, rocking into him. He let her kiss him for a moment, his mouth pliant and responsive but no more, but then his arms tightened around her and suddenly he was kissing her like she wanted to be kissed, like she needed to be kissed, like a man kisses a woman whom he’s crazy about. His mouth was hot and wet and hungry, insistent, and his tongue moved against hers, stroking it, coaxing it, staking its claim to her mouth. She returned the kiss with wild abandon and felt fire shoot clear down to her toes.
Then his hand found her breast, covered it, and caressed it through the thin layers of her dress and bra. Nicky felt the heat of that hand, the weight of it, and her legs turned to Jell-O. Her breast swelled into his palm. Her nipple went rigid. She clung to him, suddenly dizzy, as he lifted his mouth from hers.
“We’re not on the beach now,” he said in a low, thick voice as his mouth slid across her cheek to her throat. The whisper of his breath feathered across her skin. The hot, wet glide of his mouth over the sensitive cord at the side of her neck made her shiver. She knew what he was asking, and just the thought of it made her heart thud and her insides melt.
�
��I know.” There was, quite simply, no other answer she could give.
His hand left her breast to slide around her back. When she felt the slight tug at her nape and heard the unmistakable sound of her zipper being lowered, she shivered. Cool air caressed her spine. She could feel his knuckles pressing against the first tender curve of her butt, just below where the zipper ended. The zipper gaped, and his hand slipped inside to glide warm and flat up her bare back. The sensation made her breath catch. In deference to the heat, she was wearing a simple linen shift—easy on, easy off—with little kitten-heeled slides and no hose. His mouth crawled around the base of her throat, his hand stroked down her spine—and she opened her eyes and gave a little shake of her head in an effort to clear it and stepped back, away from him. For a moment, as her hands lingered on his broad shoulders, on his strong arms, she was conscious of a tiny sliver of uncertainty about what she was doing.
This was Joe—but the truth was, she reminded herself, she didn’t really know this man at all.
“Nicky.” His voice was husky, his face hard and dark with desire. But he wasn’t trying to keep her. If she wanted to go, he would let her go. Whatever else he was, whatever he might have done or been, he had never been less than protective of her. The knowledge chased away her last lingering doubt. The look in his eyes—it made her dizzy. Heat shimmered in the air between them, pure chemistry, but something more, too. Something that she’d been edging toward but now, under the circumstances, didn’t want to face. Not yet.
She dropped her arms, gave a delicate shrug, and let her dress slither down her body to her ankles. His eyes blazed at her, heavy-lidded no longer. They seemed to scorch her as they followed the path of the dress in a quick, comprehensive sweep. Her undies were pretty, delicate things, thin coffee-colored nylon and lace. She looked good in them, she knew, and she could tell he thought so, too.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and reached for her. Stepping out of the puddle of citrine linen around her feet, she slid her hands up under his shirt as he pulled her close. His waist felt warm and smooth. The muscles beneath were taut and sleek, resilient, contracting when she stroked them. Her hands moved up over his chest, over a wide, firm expanse of hair-roughened skin. She was still reveling in the feel of him when he made a slight choked sound that caused her to look up.
For a second, no longer, as her hands stroked over the honed contours of his chest, his eyes gleamed hotly at her. Then he kissed her. He let go of her once more to pull his T-shirt over his head. Nicky had just a moment to absorb the splendor of his wide shoulders, his muscled arms and chest, the triangle of black hair that tapered down over washboard abs to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans, before he scooped her up into his arms and started walking and kissing her at the same time.
Twining her arms around his neck, dazzled by the easy strength with which he carried her, she let her head fall against the firm pillow of his shoulder and kissed him as if kissing him was the one thing she most wanted to do in life.
Her shoes fell off, one at a time. They each hit the hardwood floor with a small clatter. She didn’t hear, or notice that they were gone.
She was so bedazzled that she didn’t even notice that they were in his bedroom until he kicked the door shut behind them.
That sound was loud enough to get her attention. Her eyes opened in reaction.
The living room had been well and warmly lit. The bedroom was dark and cool. Mini-blinds over a single window were striped with slivers of moonlight. A small air conditioner purred busily. Her eyes found an easy chair in the far corner, and then, as Joe lifted his mouth from hers and rested a knee on something, she realized that they had reached his bed. He hadn’t actually slept in it for a while, she remembered, as she realized that the bed was made. At least, she felt the soft, smooth thickness of what appeared to be a light-colored comforter beneath her back, and as far as she could see, the pillows looked tidy, so she assumed it was made. Then he came down beside her. The mattress sank beneath his weight, tipping her toward him, and she lost all awareness of everything except him.
His mouth was hard and hot and urgent as it found hers, and his hands were, too, sliding over her body, stroking her, finding and caressing her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She quivered, trembled, pressed herself close, her hands and mouth as greedy for him as he was for her. They were in a hurry, both of them, pulling at each other’s clothes until they were naked. She felt the moist heat of his mouth on her breasts, on her nipples, and moaned. His hand slid between her thighs, working its magic until she gasped and squirmed with pleasure and came arching up off the bed. Just as she thought she was going to climax, had to climax, he stopped what he was doing and kissed her mouth again, leaving her trembling and dizzy and empty, and she slid her hands down his warm back, over the firm, round contours of his butt, lightly scoring his skin with her nails, as a kind of tender punishment.
“Jesus,” he said, his voice so low and hoarse that it was almost a groan. His thighs, rough with hair and warm and strong, slid between hers. Then he pushed inside her, and he was huge and hot and she was on fire, burning up, melting as he moved in and out, thrusting deep and fast, taking her with him on a wild, hot ride that had her clinging to him and crying out and climaxing at last in a shattering series of fast, furious explosions that sent her rocketing away to some mysterious Technicolor universe where she had never been before.
“Nicky,” he groaned against her neck, then drove into her quivering body with a fierce, deep thrust that sent her over the edge one more time as he found his own release. “Oh, God, Nicky.”
Afterward, all she could do was breathe. She was limp with exhaustion and sated with pleasure and totally mindless.
But not for long. The thing about reality is that there’s no escaping it, even after some truly mind-blowing sex. So after her mind returned from orbit and her body calmed down a little, she was left to face the situation she had put herself in—which was, in a nutshell, the fact that she was naked in bed with Joe.
Her eyes were accustomed to the dark by this time, and the tiny slices of moonlight filtering through the mini-blinds helped, too. She could see him fairly well. He was lying flat on his back beside her, staring up at the ceiling, one arm tucked beneath his head. The set of his jaw looked grim. The hard line of his mouth looked grim. In fact, everything about his expression looked grim, and she realized once again that she didn’t know this man at all.
Which was not an especially comforting thought to have when she was curled naked against his side with a hand splayed across his chest, a thigh curved over his thigh, and his arm around her shoulders.
To say nothing of the fact that just beyond him, on the night table, rested his shiny black gun.
He was a dirty cop, an accused murderer, who had been involved in drug deals.
As far as new boyfriends went, none of the above was particularly promising. Taken as a whole, it was downright scary. She’d always made safe choices before: doctors, lawyers, accountants.
Boring maybe, but safe.
Never in her wildest dreams had she ever pictured herself getting naked and horizontal with someone who was not certifiably one of the good guys.
But here she was.
His eyes cut her way. Nicky almost jumped.
“If your eyes get any bigger, they’re going to pop right out of your head.” His voice was dry. He pulled his arm from beneath her and rolled out of bed. Nicky got an eyeful of tight, round butt and a lean, muscular back, and then he turned to face her and she got the full Monty. Of course, everything was veiled by shadow, but even without a clear view, it was obvious that what she was looking at was a very impressive package.
Then she realized that he was looking at her, too. The set of his jaw and mouth was still grim, but there was something about his eyes. . . .
Clearly, grim or not, he liked what he saw.
“So-o,” she said, because he wasn’t talking and it seemed somebody should. She sat up, tucking
her legs beneath her as gracefully as she could and resisting the urge to wrap up in the tangled sheet—the comforter and pillows had hit the floor long since—only by reminding herself that such a display of modesty might make her look less than in control of herself, him, and the situation, which, since she wasn’t, was an excellent illusion to maintain. Besides, it was dark. Reasonably dark. “What happens now?”
Without answering, he reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed. Nicky barely swallowed a squeak as the action threw a soft circle of light over the place where she was sitting. His eyes moved over her, touching on all pertinent areas, and she watched them darken and heat. He stood there, casually naked, and she couldn’t help but look, too. He was lean and muscular, and so hot that her heartbeat speeded up even though seconds before she would have sworn that she was so sated that there was no possible way she could ever be in the mood again, and she realized that whatever she might now know about him, the physical attraction between them was so strong that she wasn’t just going to be able to turn her back on him and walk away.
And, while she was being honest, she might as well admit that the attraction went deeper than the mere physical—which left her exactly where?
“So, what happens now?” she asked again.
His lips compressed and his eyes narrowed. “We get dressed and get on with our lives.” He was already on the move, rounding the foot of the bed, scooping up his jeans as he went. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she said, but he was out the door by that time. If he heard, he didn’t reply.
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