Black Satin (LS 675)

by Donna Kauffman

  About the Book

  By the time she enters the last seedy bar on Key West, Kira Douglass is desperate. She’s looking for the one man who can help her: Cole Sinclair, an ex-smuggler turned musician with a highly refined set of skills and a keen knowledge of the reefs and waterways of the Keys. But what she finds is a man whose dark eyes and powerful manner send a frisson of desire to her very core. Kira needs Cole’s help to recover the dolphin that was stolen from her charitable organization, but now she realizes that she needs his body and his soul, as well.

  Cole Sinclair isn’t looking for a job. He has worked hard to isolate himself from the world, to be alone with his own tortured past and the pain left in its wake. But the attraction he feels simmering with Kira leaves him unsettled and uncertain. If he agrees to help this beguiling woman recover the stolen dolphin, he could be risking more than just his life. He could be risking his heart.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  About Loveswept

  Excerpt from Samantha Kane’s The Devil’s Thief

  Excerpt from Adrienne Staff’s Paradise Cafe

  Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s The Perfect Catch

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to Violet.

  Thank you for making me a better writer.

  (And for knowing what really happened to Elvis.)

  I would like to acknowledge and give special

  thanks to Howard Siegel of the Society for

  Environmental Awareness, Dr. Betsy Smith,

  Russell McFee, and the staff at Dolphins Plus

  in Key Largo for the very important work they

  are doing and for so generously sharing their

  hard-earned knowledge with me.

  ONE

  Cole Sinclair glanced up as the door opened. His hand stilled, the shot glass an inch from his lips. She looked about as out of place as a Sunday-school teacher at a bikers’ convention, he thought, then tossed back the shot of tequila. More from habit than interest, he quickly scanned her from head to toe as she squinted into the dim interior of Repo’s bar. His trained eye registered everything down to the tiniest detail, but her casual slacks, sensible flats, and yellow windbreaker only confirmed his first impression. And Repo’s was not the sort of place a lady patronized, unless she wanted an advanced education in how to get down and dirty.

  He rolled his shoulders lightly to loosen them up and surveyed the room. It was a typical Friday night. Thick smoke hung over the pool tables, and the raw language was second only to that on the nearby shrimp docks. But if an attractive, unescorted woman had a thirst and chose to quench it in a dive with some of Key West’s more unsavory characters, it was no skin off his butt.

  His break was almost over. He reached behind him for his mouthpiece and loosened the ligature. He slipped in a new reed and retightened the clamp, ignoring both the urge to see how the schoolteacher was handling invitations to “rack ’em up” with the boys and the fact that no one here gave a rat’s ass when, or if, he played the sax.

  He was more successful at the latter.

  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have another shot. He leaned back to lay the sax in the case at the edge of the stage. Only a slight pause in his movements belied his surprise when a soft voice called his name.

  “Mr. Sinclair? Cole Sinclair?”

  The voice was soft, cultured, and reached his ears easily over the raised voices and cracking ivory balls. The schoolteacher. Now what? He shoved the unwanted nudge of curiosity aside. Whatever she wanted, he didn’t have it.

  He took his time before slowly turning to face her. “No.”

  That caught her off guard. Good. He knew she wasn’t familiar with the joint. He’d also noticed how she’d deftly avoided graphic propositions from Two-Finger Tony and Iguana Man. And she’d done it without brass knuckles or firepower. Quite a feat at Repo’s. The lady was determined.

  Or desperate.

  He absently wondered what would have stopped her. He also wondered what shade her eyes were, but didn’t care enough to find out. In fact, he was so uninterested, he tilted his chair back against the stage, then pinned her with a stare he knew would shake up Repo himself. He shot a glance at the potbellied Cuban behind the battle-scarred bar, picturing the sawed-off shotgun he kept hidden behind it. Crowd control, he called it. Repo served great tequila, but he could be one evil-tempered son of a bitch.

  Cole turned his full attention on the schoolteacher. She didn’t look away as he purposely let his gaze drift over her. The slight shifting of her weight indicated she wasn’t quite as cool and calm as she let on, but she held her ground.

  He started to tell her where the door was and what part of her anatomy he wanted on the other side of it, but she chose that moment to moisten her lips. He closed his mouth. It couldn’t hurt to indulge himself in the cheap thrill of watching those wet lips move.

  “You have to be him,” she stated. “I could have sworn Miller specifically said—” She broke off as his chair slammed back down on all fours.

  “Miller?” Cole didn’t have to search his mind for the name. He never forgot one and knew he’d never met anyone named Miller. He didn’t know who she was, either, but apparently at least two people knew who and where he was. In his old line of work those were bad odds. He couldn’t ignore the warning sensation that made the back of his neck prickle. He’d ignored it once before, a mistake he’d never make again. “Who are you, and what in the hell do you want?”

  She started at the leashed violence in his tone. She broke eye contact, smoothing her hand over light brown hair that brushed her shoulders as she took a visible steadying breath. Squaring her shoulders, she looked at him again.

  Cole had to concede her some admiration. It was a rare occasion when someone stood up to him.

  “Are you or aren’t you Cole Sinclair?” she asked evenly.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want,” he said. “Then I’ll decide.”

  He noticed her knuckles whiten as she gripped the backrest of the chair. Determination and intimidation. Interesting opponents. He wondered which part he was going to enjoy more: winning—or the battle itself.

  “I have a proposition for Mr. Sinclair.”

  Cole laughed. The sound was low and rough and spoke of too much bar smoke and too many tequilas. “Baby, you don’t have anything I want. But I’m sure you could get some interest over there at the bar.”

  Now it was her turn to smile.

  “So, you are Sinclair.”

  Thinking back over his smart-ass answer, he had to chalk up one for the schoolteacher. “The answer is still no.”

  “You haven’t even heard me out.” She hurried into her explanation before he could respond. “P.J., my, er … Well, the thing is he’s missing. Miller Jantzen told me you were the one who found Toby and brought him back to Marathon. I need your services, Mr. Sinclair, and I’m willing to pay.”

  Someone had kicked the old jukebox, and the sudden blare of music muffled most of her words. Except for that last part. She’d shouted it so loud, he figured the whole bar heard. So, the lady wanted him so bad, she was willing to pay for it? Unbidden, images of those full lips drifting over his body burned hot and bright inside his head. He doubted she was looking for that particular service, but h
e had to admit the possibilities were almost tantalizing enough to pursue. Almost.

  “Sweetheart, the only work I do for pay or play is done with this sax. You want to get serviced, see Repo at the bar. He’ll line the guys up.” A lazy smile curved his lips. “Even without the cash incentive, I doubt you’d have to do more than name your man and your position and get all the … ah, servicing you need.” He leaned forward, his gaze heated and predatory, victory in sight. “And if that isn’t enough, then you come back to me. But I’ll warn you, you take me on, and it won’t be over till I say it’s over.”

  Cole dropped his gaze to the table and reached for the bottle of tequila. He knew from the shock and anger that had crossed her face that he’d gone further than necessary to prove his point. But he figured he’d done her a favor. He doubted she’d be frequenting Repo’s establishment anytime in the next century. Hell, she should thank him for it. He reached for the shot glass.

  Slender fingers closed tightly around his wrist, trapping it against the table. He went completely, totally still. He instinctively drew into himself, searching for and eventually finding the control she’d neatly robbed him of with her surprise move. He barely registered the fact that she wasn’t all that soft; or weak, that part of her palm was callused, and her grip was fairly strong.

  His muscles coiled into tight springs of tension. After the explosion two years ago, he’d dealt with the devastation and guilt by creating an impenetrable wall around him. It had taken a few broken bones and a pint or two of blood to get the point across, but he’d gotten what he needed. Space. A lot of it.

  He stared at her hand on him. It had been a long, long time since anyone had touched him.

  “Please.” Her voice was low and close enough that he could feel the intensity of her request.

  The need to yank his arm away was sudden and overwhelming. Using considerable restraint, Cole kept his arm still, hoping he wouldn’t betray the cost by shattering the glass gripped tightly in his hand. He shifted his gaze from her hand on his arm to her face and received another blow.

  Her eyes were gray. Not a flat, dull, uninteresting gray. Instead, they looked like shattered diamonds; as if hundreds of tiny shards of dark and light had been tossed up and fallen in a mosaic pattern that hinted of color, but no matter how deeply he searched, he found none. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just looked into the eyes of his soul. “It must be the Cuervo,” he muttered.

  He forced his gaze away, purposely letting it drift to her mouth. This he understood. Full, wet, inviting. He knew just what to do with lips like hers. He was barely a tongue’s length away from tasting them. They were slightly parted. His mouth watered. He needed another drink.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was taut, the fine tremor more noticeable. “You can threaten me all you want. But the fact is you are my last hope. And I’ll be damned if I’m leaving without you at least hearing me out.”

  Cole leaned closer to her until his mouth almost brushed against her ear. “Sweet lips, if I’m your last hope, then you’d better say your prayers.”

  She jerked back. Her diamond eyes looked more like hard chips of ice. “Call me ‘sweet lips’ or ‘baby’ again, and you’ll be saying yours,” she shot back. “My name is Kira. Kira Douglass.”

  Cole arched a brow, truly amazed at her continuing show of bravado. Maybe she needed a lesson in just how dangerous it was to play with explosives. Not betraying his intentions by so much as a blink, he let go of the glass and flipped his wrist over, trapping her hand under his, all in the space of two seconds.

  He lifted her hand up to his chin. With her weight on her other hand, if she moved, she’d fall against the table and him. He rubbed his thumb slowly over her rapid pulse. “Do I make you nervous, Ms. Douglass?” He watched as her eyes widened and her pupils rapidly dilated. “Nod yes.”

  Visibly wary, she still managed to keep her eyes locked with his. Very slowly, she dipped her chin.

  “Good. I hate to be lied to. Remember that.” His thumb drifted up across her palm to the base of her fingers. He slowly traced the ridge of calluses on her palm. “You didn’t get these from grading papers,” he murmured distractedly, surprised he’d given voice to the thought.

  Confusion filtered through, the wariness in her eyes, and she shook her head. “I’m not a teacher.”

  Yes. Yes, you are, was his immediate thought. You’ve taught me that I can be made to feel again. He didn’t appreciate the lesson.

  “You’re hurting my wrist.”

  He’d felt her flinch and released her before she’d finished speaking. She stood and rubbed her wrist lightly, her expression accusing.

  “I warned you I played rough.”

  “Point taken. I still need your help.”

  Damn, she was stubborn. Cole briefly considered picking her up and removing her bodily from the bar. But holding her in his arms didn’t seem a very wise move at the moment.

  Well, if she wouldn’t leave, he would.

  He pushed his chair back, fully intending to walk away without another word. But he made the mistake of looking at her again, and the words just tumbled out. “I can’t help you.”

  “You have to.”

  “Listen, sweet li—” She actually raised her brow at him, which earned her a surprised lift of his own. Her unpredictable responses made him want to taunt her, tease her, just to see what she would do or say next. He shook that thought right out of his head.

  “Ms. Douglass, the only thing I have to do is get up on this poor excuse for a stage and play some music.” Cole stood, picked up his sax, and started to walk away.

  “You found Toby Jantzen, right?”

  He kept walking, but the name clicked in his brain, and he paused. Toby Jantzen. Yeah, he remembered. Dammit. He turned to face her. “Young kid, dark brown hair, kinda slow.” She took a step around the table toward him, her expression animated. He should have kept walking.

  “Yes! He’s one of my students. His brother, Miller, told me about you. Said you played sax in a club in Key West. I’ve been in every dive here looking for you. I need you to help me rescue P.J.”

  “Look, I don’t track down lost kids. I found Toby picking through the garbage out back late one night and convinced him that maybe he’d get a better meal from his folks. End of story.”

  “Toby doesn’t speak,” she shot back, making it obvious she knew the story wasn’t quite so simple, “And he must have been in a highly agitated state when you found him. Yet you managed to calm him down and get him home. That, along with some other things I found out about you, make you the only man qualified to help me. As I said, I’m willing to pay.”

  He stared at her. What was he was doing still standing here? Why couldn’t he walk away from her? He had no desire to help her. Take her to bed maybe. Find out if the body underneath the shapeless pants and jacket could possibly be as sexy as her eyes and that mouth.

  He gave himself a hard mental shake. She was not the woman for an uncomplicated roll in the sack. Yet thoughts of taking their battle of wills to a sexual playing field lingered, seducing him, exciting him, frustrating him.

  A contradiction suddenly occurred to him. “You aren’t a teacher, yet you say Miller is a student of yours.”

  “I’m not a teacher.”

  He arched a brow at her inconsistency.

  “I operate a school for children with learning disabilities. Miller and Toby have both been enrolled there.”

  Cole considered her explanation. “What other things?”

  “You mean, what else do I do?”

  “No. You said you learned a few ‘other things’ about me. What is it I’ve done to make you want me?”

  Amazingly, she blushed. Or maybe, given the dim lighting and her tanned skin, he just sensed it. That scratchy sensation skittered across his neck again. But if she knew something about his past, he had no choice but to find out.

  “Tell me,” he commanded softly, stepping closer until she had to
arch her neck to look him in the eyes. He’d meant to intimidate her, but it wasn’t until she took a small step back that he realized he’d expected—hoped?—she wouldn’t be. He was enjoying this too damn much. He closed the space she’d created. “You aren’t leaving until I’m satisfied.”

  Her eyes widened, but she remained silent. He could feel her soft breath against his chin. The diamond glitter of her eyes was almost swallowed by the swiftly dilating pupils. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and without thinking, he tilted his head down to hers. Her swift intake of breath yanked him to his senses.

  He abruptly turned and sat at the table he’d vacated moments ago. Stretching his leg under the table, he kicked the chair on the other side out a few inches. “Sit down.” When she didn’t immediately move, he inclined his head to the empty chair. “You wanted to talk.”

  She shot him a tight look, but she sat down.

  “What other things?” he repeated.

  She studied her hands for a moment, then looked up at him. “I asked around. I have a few friends down here, and I tried to find out where you lived. But I came up empty. Miller only knew that you played the sax somewhere in Key West. I don’t even know how he knew that much, but that was all I could find out.”

  “You pumped a kid for info about me?”

  “No!” Lowering her voice, she added, “I wouldn’t do that. But Miller used to accompany his brother to his classes, and for weeks after Toby was found, you were all Miller talked about. To him you were like a superhero or something.”

  Damn her, Cole thought. Damn her to hell. And damn him for allowing her to breathe life back into him just so she could rip it apart with one word: “hero.”

  When he spoke, he kept his voice flat. His tone was chilling. “One thing I am not, and never will be, is a hero.”

  “I realize that,” she replied without hesitation. “In fact, I was counting on it.”

  Amazement warred with anger. Cole fought and maintained his blank expression. She squared her slender shoulders, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He had a sick feeling she was about to put his vow to the test.