Sweet as Sin

by J. T. Geissinger

  Nico exhaled hard. I peeked out from under the jacket. He had a death grip on the steering wheel. His hands were curled so tightly around it his knuckles showed white.

  I took his nonanswer as a “yes.” I pulled the jacket off, but kept it on my lap just in case. My heartbeat was beginning to slow to prefreakout levels, but I was still hungover, and not operating on all cylinders. I needed a shower, and about ten more hours of sleep.

  “You got to my house really fast.”

  Nico didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Not fast enough. You sure you’re okay?”

  The mirrored aviators he wore reflected back harsh glints of sunlight over the dashboard and windshield. I closed my eyes, and rested a shaking hand on my forehead. “Other than feeling like death, I’m fine.”

  I felt his sharp gaze examining me. “Birthday party hangover?”

  I nodded. He reached out and took my hand, rubbing his thumb against mine. I heard his hard exhalation again, followed by a muttered curse.

  I glanced at him. A muscle in his jaw flexed, over and over. He stomped on the gas, and we barreled through a yellow light, narrowly missing a Prius trying to make a left turn.

  “I’m okay, Nico,” I reassured him softly, squeezing his hand. “Really. Just a little weirded out.” Hello, understatement of the year.

  “Those fuckin’ jackals!” The words were snarled from between his clenched teeth. His pulse was pounding wildly in a vein in his neck. On impulse, I reached out and stroked it. He looked over at me, his jaw tight.

  “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  He cut his gaze back to the road. “Yeah, I’m a real knight in shinin’ armor.”

  I realized he was as mad at himself as he was at the paparazzi. He really did think this whole thing was his fault. I suddenly felt very protective of him, and angry at them. But considering his mood, I didn’t want to say anything that could be misinterpreted as blame. So I just kept my tone soft and sweet.

  “Okay, maybe not armor.” I glanced at his jean-clad thighs. “You’re my knight in shining denim.”

  This earned me a small, wry smile. It looked more like a grimace, but I’d take it. Leaning over the console between our seats, I pressed my lips to that angry pulse in his neck. He wound an arm tightly around my shoulders, kissing my temple. I tucked my face in between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in. I loved the way he smelled: purely masculine.

  “Do you smoke?”

  It took a while before he answered. “Only when I’m really stressed out. It’s bad for my voice.”

  I’d only smelled smoke on him twice. Now, and that first night at Lula’s, when he’d been waiting outside as he called. It gave me a little thrill to think he might have been worried about calling me. Maybe I hadn’t been such a foregone conclusion after all.

  We drove a while in silence, until we hit Sunset Boulevard and started into the hills.

  “So. Your house.” I sat back in my seat, but Nico kept his hand on the nape of my neck, gently squeezing. It was big and warm, and made me feel better.

  “Yep. My house.”

  “Where your bedroom is.”

  Now his smile was genuine. I even got a flash of teeth. “Easy, Tiger. I’m not that kind of guy. You want me, you gotta work for it.”

  Playing along, happy that his thunderstorm mood might be lifting, I pretended outrage. “But it’s our third date! You’re supposed to put out on the third date!”

  His head snapped around. Above the aviators, his brows shot up. His smile couldn’t have been more brilliant. “Yeah? That how it works?”

  Oh, shit. Foot, meet mouth. I mentally flailed around, grasping at straws. “Uh . . . unless you follow Steve Harvey’s advice, which is that you shouldn’t give up the cookie for, like, ninety days.”

  To his credit, he didn’t crash the car. He merely stared at me, those blue eyes burning me straight through his sunglasses.

  I looked out the window, pretending to examine the view. When I heard Nico’s low chuckle, I knew I was in for it.

  “Okay, darlin’. Game on. Consider your cookie safe for ninety days.”

  My mouth fell open. Ninety days! He had to be joking! Only I had the terrible suspicion he wasn’t.

  Commence Operation Backpedal.

  “I mean, I’m not saying that I necessarily follow Steve Harvey’s advice. I’m just saying there are a few different schools of thought on the subject.”

  “Hmm.” He slid his fingers down my arm, picking up my hand in his own. Then he looked at me over the rim of his sunglasses, and sucked my thumb into his mouth. He bit it, lightly, eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Son of a bitch.

  He must’ve read my dismayed expression, because he looked mighty pleased with himself. “No, I think Steve Harvey has it exactly right, Kat. Man knows what he’s talkin’ about. A girl can’t just be givin’ away her golden cookie to every dog that comes sniffin’ around. Gotta keep that cookie in the cookie jar. Keep it fresh, right?”

  I retrieved my hand with as much dignity as I could muster. It was my turn to utter a noncommittal, “Hmm.”

  Okay. If the game was on, I wasn’t about to lose. I was going for the gold. Even if it killed me.

  I decided to change the subject by texting Chloe to make sure she and Grace were all right. She answered back that they were almost at her house, and Barney had promised to show her how to use his taser. I hoped Grace hadn’t been volunteered as the subject.

  “Will Barney get in trouble for using a stun gun on that guy?”

  Nico shook his head. “Barney’s ex–special ops. He knows the law inside and out, knows when he can reasonably plead self-defense and when he can’t. The guy he tasered took a few swings at him, which equals the former. Plus he’s in tight with the LAPD; he was a cop for a few years before he went into private security.”

  “Oh. So he’s your bodyguard?”

  Nico said quietly, “He’s my friend. He’s someone I trust implicitly.”

  His tone hinted at mysteries, at tangled history and buried bodies and closets full of skeletons. More secrets. Worried again, I fingered the charm on the necklace he’d given me, wondering exactly what having Nico’s trust entailed.

  I was lost in thought for the remainder of the drive. When we pulled up to a stainless steel gate at the end of a long cul-de-sac, the gate swung open on silent hinges, and we began to climb a steep gravel road lined with huge Italian cypresses. It went on for what seemed like forever, until finally we crested the top of a hill.

  There sat Nico’s house, a sprawling compound of glass and stone, perched right on the steep hillside so it seemed suspended in air.

  I was flabbergasted. He actually did live in a cloud castle.

  The views stretched all the way from Malibu to downtown LA. The city was laid out beneath us, vast and shimmering in the morning light. Far off in the distance on the winking blue Pacific, I caught a glimpse of the Channel Islands. I’d never seen anything quite as spectacular.

  “Welcome to the Shack.”

  Awed, I laughed in disbelief. “Yeah, it’s very shack-like. So small, and ugly. You poor thing.”

  Nico’s voice grew dark. “It’s a lot different from the trailer I grew up in, that’s for sure.” His face clouded with memory. After a moment, he shook it off. “So. I expect you’ll wanna see my bedroom first. Get that outta the way, since you won’t be spendin’ any time in there for the next three months.”

  I stuck out my tongue. He laughed. He got out of the car, retrieved my bag from the backseat, then strolled around to my side and opened my door, grinning and so cocksure I had to roll my eyes.

  “Outta my way, Romeo.” Brushing past him, I lifted my chin and sniffed like a duchess dismissing the stable boy. He grasped my arm, spun me around, dropped the duffel on the paved driveway, and took my face in his hands.

  “Get it right, baby. My name isn’t Romeo.” His voice was husky. His nose was touching mine, his body was pressed against mine, those blue
eyes searing straight down to the bottom of my soul.

  “No?”

  Slowly, Nico shook his head. He brushed his lips against mine, gently sucked my lower lip into his mouth, and pressed his teeth against it just hard enough to sting. He released it and whispered, “I’m the Cookie Monster.”

  God, that voice. Those eyes. That wicked grin. The man was sex incarnate. Forget ninety days. Alone with him in the house, I’d be lucky to last ninety minutes.

  My widened eyes made his grin grow wider. Without further ado, he grabbed the duffel, grabbed my hand, and led me into his house.

  Here’s the thing: I’m no hick. And I don’t say that in a mean way. My point is simply that I’m not an innocent country girl who’s never been away from her little hometown to see the world. I’d moved all over the States as a kid, I’d met all kinds of different people, I’d lived in LA for years, and I’d worked in the industry, which meant even if I didn’t personally have wealth, I was exposed constantly to people who did.

  But not like this.

  The art collection. The car collection. The guitar collection, which covered the walls of a room larger than my entire house. Larger even than the plot my house was built on.

  Then there was the custom recording studio, the fifty-seat home theater, the elevators, the infinity pools (one on the roof), the terraced gardens, the tennis court, the gourmet kitchen with not one, not two, but three enormous double refrigerators, along with a formal dining room that could easily seat everyone I knew. And then some.

  The décor was what I’d call Architectural Digest Macho Minimalist. All the furniture, wall coverings, and art was either gray, black, or white. Soaring ceilings, recessed lighting, fifteen-foot-tall glass walls that slid back so that inside was out, and vice versa, completed the look. No rugs or draperies softened the angles and starkness. No color brightened the rooms.

  And not a shred of anything personal, anywhere. Other than the room of guitars and the music studio that hinted at the occupant, Nico’s home was as antiseptic as a hospital, as impersonal as a hotel room. The sheer amount of space made it feel worse somehow, like he was living in a rented movie set.

  Enormous and echoingly empty, the house made me feel strangely sad.

  “What do you think?”

  We stood in the living room together, beside a black leather sofa that appeared to have been designed to repel all but the most fearless of guests. The edges were so sharp, the cushions so unyielding, sitting on it might cause substantial bruising. Nico had given me the tour of everywhere but his bedroom. I assumed, contrary to what he’d said, he was saving the best for last.

  I was hesitant to be honest, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “It’s . . . incredible. I mean, really . . . there aren’t words.”

  There. That should do it. Right?

  He looked at me askance. “Pick a few.”

  Oy. “Well, it’s just . . . um . . . very . . . ”

  I glanced away, focusing on the view stretching for endless miles in the distance. A weird thought struck me: was this how God felt, looking down on His creation, watching everyone busily living their lives from far above, alone?

  I said quietly, “Lonely.”

  Silence followed, long and cavernous. Then, to my surprise, Nico pulled me into a hug. He wrapped his arms around me, dropped his face to my shoulder and sighed as if a weight had just been lifted from his own. I held him, enjoying the feel of his body, twining my fingers into his hair. He inhaled deeply against my neck, rubbing his cheek there as if he wanted to mark me with his scent.

  “I knew you’d get it.”

  His words were muffled against my skin. I pulled back to look up into his eyes. He stared down at me, his expression serious in spite of the wry upward curl of one side of his mouth.

  “You knew I’d get what?”

  “Every single person I’ve ever brought here goes apeshit over this place, but I fuckin’ hate it.”

  It took a lot of willpower on my part not to let random images of the “persons” Nico had brought here bother me. “Why do you live here, then?”

  One broad shoulder lifted and fell. “Gotta live somewhere. High-end real estate’s a good investment. And it’s secure.”

  It certainly was. You’d need a helicopter to see into the living room, mountain-climbing gear to gain access from below, or some dynamite to blast through the high, thick stone wall that surrounded the property on the front and sides. For all intents and purposes, he lived in a beautiful, luxurious maximum-security prison.

  “Have you ever thought about moving out of LA?”

  Into his beautiful blue eyes came a look that was almost haunted. “And go where? And do what? Run away? Hide?” Nico shook his head. His eyes grew hard. “No. I don’t hide. My life’s not perfect, but it is what it is. I accepted it a long time ago, that everything good comes with a price. Happiness. Freedom. Success. Nothin’s for free.”

  Oh, there was so much more beneath those words. So much pathos, as Grace would have termed it. Unutterable, unbearable suffering. It brought out my maternal instincts.

  “Some good things are free,” I whispered, staring into his eyes.

  “Yeah? Name one.”

  I bit my lip. Heat rose in my cheeks. Nico didn’t miss it, but he didn’t comment on it, instead stroking a thumb over the flame on my skin, waiting.

  I swallowed, deciding to be brave. “Love.”

  His eyes flashed. The muscle in his jaw flexed. He was quiet long enough for me to want to slink away into a corner and curl into a tiny little ball. But then he closed his eyes just longer than a blink, shaking his head.

  “Baby, that’s the costliest thing of all.”

  After an awkward moment, I said, “Excuse me, Debbie Downer, I was wondering if you could find Nico for me?” When he just looked at me, silent and smoldering, I prompted, “You know, the grand romantic gestures guy? The gold jewelry guy? The lavender roses guy? The unremorseful stalker? Any of this ringing a bell?”

  He stared deep into my eyes. The depth of emotion I saw there took my breath away. “What’s more romantic, Kat? Fallin’ in love because you don’t know any better . . . or fallin’ in love, knowin’ it’s gonna ruin you, knowin’ it’s gonna rip out your fuckin’ heart and smash you into a million little pieces, but doin’ it anyway, because you’d rather pay the price and be ripped and smashed forever than never get a taste of it at all?”

  My lips parted. A funny little noise escaped my mouth. The edges of everything grew fuzzy, because of the water welling in my eyes. “I’m not going to ruin you,” I promised in a vehement whisper.

  His lips curved to a sad smile. “Yeah, you are. You already have. Just the way you’re lookin’ at me right now has ruined me for any other woman.” His quicksilver eyes grew intense. “And I’m gonna make damn sure I ruin you for any other man.”

  I felt the kiss he gave me all the way to my toes. It was hungry—no, it was devouring. I clung to him, feeling what little reason I had left regarding this relationship slipping away.

  Because even if he was right, even if we were destined to ruin one another, I didn’t want to stop. In my heart of hearts, I didn’t care what happened in all my tomorrows, as long as I could have this, right now. His kiss and his smile and the fever that burned so brightly between us.

  The fever that might just leave a smoking path of destruction in its wake.

  He broke away first, breathing hard. His erection pressed against my lower belly. Even through our clothing I felt it twitch.

  I cleared my throat. Trying for a light tone, I said, “I think you should probably show me your bedroom now.”

  His brows slowly raised. “You propositionin’ me?”

  “You complaining?”

  He grinned. “Who, me? The Cookie Monster? No, ma’am, I am most certainly not.” Leaning over to pick up my bag, he asked casually, “By the way . . . you pack any of that nice lingerie of yours, Chastity?” He took me by the hand and led me to
ward the curved staircase that rose to the second floor.

  “Um, no.”

  He looked over his shoulder, and winked. “Good. ’Cause you’re not gonna need it.”

  Yes, I was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

  And I was loving every minute of it.

  My euphoric mood lasted exactly three minutes, until Nico led me into his bedroom.

  It wasn’t the unmade bed; we already know what a slob I am. And it wasn’t that I was envious of the view, or the size of his closet, or that he had an entire home gym in an adjacent, glass-walled room.

  It was the fucking picture of Avery on the nightstand beside his bed.

  There wasn’t a single photo or personal memento in the entire house, yet he slept with a silver-framed picture of his ex-whatever two feet from his head. The shit-eating grin Avery sported in the photo seemed aimed directly at me.

  Murderous jealousy reared up inside me, spitting fire. I had to look away for a moment and stare out the windows to stop myself from saying something really bitchy about how the Cookie Monster was about to die of starvation.

  Nico set my duffel on the glossy black dresser across from the bed, then turned to me. His smile faded. “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  I wasn’t looking at him, but I was pretty sure his eyes narrowed. I swallowed the bile in my throat and tried to maintain my dignity instead of exploding into the fit of screaming shrew threatening to come on.

  Silent as a panther, he stalked toward me. “What’s up, Kat?”

  Damn Eagle Eyes! Can’t you see I’m trying not to have a meltdown here?

  I decided to lie rather than admit how angry I was at him, and how angry I was at myself for letting that picture get to me. He’d already explained she was important to him. He’d already asked for my trust. And I had—allegedly—given it. I knew Avery was a big part of his life, or at least she used to be, and I wanted, so badly, to be mature enough, secure enough, to be the kind of woman who would smile and say, “Oh, isn’t that sweet,” and actually mean it.

  Clearly, I was not that woman.

  But screw that if I was going to admit it to him.