Thrill Me to Death

by Roxanne St Claire

  Euclid.

  Interesting choice of passwords. Either she had a fascination with the father of geometry…or she remembered the name of the street he’d lived on in Berwyn. In a Chicago-style bungalow where they’d spent almost every night for a year.

  Well. He had only a few minutes to dig through her computer and look for evidence. And while he was there, he’d grab the files on the Petaluma Mall for cover.

  Cori stared out the sedan window, a thousand miles away.

  Max turned around in the passenger seat. “You want to talk?”

  She blinked at him, visibly pulling herself into the moment. “Not here,” she replied. “Not now.”

  The driver, David, stared ahead and said nothing.

  “How about lunch?” Max suggested.

  She brightened a bit. “Yes, I’m starved,” she agreed, and leaned forward to address David. “Azul, at the Mandarin.” Then she resumed her study of Miami traffic, elevating an invisible wall as effective as privacy glass. Max knew when to wait out an interrogation.

  Half an hour later, seated at a wide table for two surrounded by six fawning servers flipping napkins and opening menus, Cori finally focused on him.

  “Did you get what you needed from my computer?”

  No. “I found the files on that mall and copied them.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Good. Did you scan the forged signature and send it to your ‘resources’?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “What did you think of the board meeting?”

  He notched an eyebrow. “You’re not the most popular girl in school.”

  She barely shrugged. “Look at it from their perspective. I’m the dead founder’s trophy wife with too much voting power and no business degree.”

  “I thought you had the chops.” But then, he was biased. “Your buddy Breezy told me that everyone loves you.”

  “She likes to forget Andrea Lockhart exists. And Breezy refuses to acknowledge that a whole lot of people dislike me because I married well.”

  “Or because you widowed well.”

  A young Asian woman approached their table, her saffron-colored dress matching the sunshine outside. She bowed, welcomed them, and then shared a long list of specials that included something she called “a study in the tuna roll.” Max resisted rolling his eyes, but shared a quick look with Cori.

  “No cannibal sandwiches,” she said with a wink.

  He just smiled and after they ordered, leaned closer. “Tell me what you found out today.”

  “Absolutely nothing. No one knows much about that property. The person managing it is out for a few weeks, ostensibly in California at the site. I did talk to his assistant who showed me the original document. It had the same date, but was signed by Giff on William’s behalf.”

  “Is that normal procedure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then why don’t you ask Giff about the signature?”

  She hesitated just a moment too long and Max remembered the affectionate way the lawyer had touched her. Avuncular, yes. But could there be more to it? Could Cori be involved with her best friend’s husband? No.

  “Giff is thinking like a developer, not a lawyer.”

  “How’s that?” Max asked.

  “The Sonoma property is a highly controversial development in the heart of wine country. There’s this incredibly picturesque town called Petaluma, and Peyton Enterprises has put a bid in for a five-hundred-thousand-square-foot mall, which will essentially change the town.”

  “The locals are fighting it?”

  “Oh, of course, some of them. Others recognize the positive economic impact a giant Peyton mall brings to an area, especially one that, despite its location, is floundering. We own a home not far away, in Healdsburg,” she said. “The project was personal. I love the area and, although he hadn’t spent much time there, William knew that. He didn’t want to ruin the town, but help it. He’d mentioned alternatives, including donating the land to the county as a reserve.”

  “A move that probably doesn’t sit well with the executive committee of Peyton.”

  She shrugged. “Some are for, some are against. William ran a very democratic company, but always made the final decision. He died before making this one. So, Peyton owns the property, and I learned today that all of the permits have been pushed through and a vote is moot, because they’ve broken ground already. Construction’s started. I talked to people, but it was all a dead end. If I want to stop it, I’d need to go out there. I might.”

  “So what happens if you don’t? The mall goes up?”

  “I made a motion to stop construction temporarily. We voted, but tied.” She smiled wryly. “Seems like we needed Billy after all. Without his vote, we had a stalemate. Can you tell they’d like me to stick with the Foundation and nothing else?”

  “You’re obviously very good at that job.”

  “It’s dear to my heart. It’s the closest thing to what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “Help the underdog,” he said. “So why don’t you sell the company or your shares and go back to law school?”

  She gave him a wistful smile. “Because William wanted a Peyton at the helm and Billy is MIA.”

  Their food arrived on wide, white platters containing minimal portions. He thanked the waitress and touched his sirloin with a fork. “Grilled, out of deference to you.”

  She picked up a seared scallop, the smell of sea and butter wafting toward him. “I’ll ask Marta to make you some meat dishes. She’ll be delighted. I don’t eat red meat.”

  “You used to.”

  She held a bite of scallop midway between her plate and mouth. “I used to do a lot of things.”

  “Yeah, like drive your own car. Cook your own food. Laugh and make jokes.”

  “I laugh and make jokes,” she shot back. “And I lost my husband three months ago, in case you forgot. I haven’t exactly felt lighthearted.”

  “Think you’ll remarry?”

  The look on her face confirmed he’d caught her off guard. “I don’t know.”

  “Think you’ll date?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Sometime.”

  “You will.” Her sexuality was too powerful. He swallowed a bite of meat, along with the memory of her response to his touch early that morning.

  “You seem sure.”

  “I know you.”

  “You used to know me,” she corrected. “I’ve changed.”

  “You’re more guarded,” he noted, stabbing at some greenery in his salad. “That happens when people get money.”

  “That happens when people get hurt.” She put her fork down to take a sip of water. “Honestly,” she mused. “I’m not really comfortable with anyone but Breezy anymore.”

  “You were comfortable last night. Playing poker.”

  A soft flush colored her cheeks. “Okay. Breezy and you.”

  A direct hit, delivered with an enticing sparkle in her eyes, riveting enough to keep his attention from the room behind her. But instinct took over, pulling his gaze to a large man who moved purposefully toward them. Max dropped his hand to his lap to be nearer to his weapon.

  The man, damn near as tall as Max, sported shoulder-length blond hair and a single diamond earring. He nodded to a patron but continued a dead-on approach, his brilliant blue eyes locked on Max, unsmiling.

  Max’s fingers inched closer to the Ruger.

  “What is it?” Cori asked, glancing over her shoulder. “What’s the—oh! Swen!”

  Max put his napkin next to his plate and stood swiftly, stepping away from the table in a move that was both polite and protective.

  But Swen didn’t notice him. He’d zeroed in on Cori and in a flash, she was wrapped in a tight embrace. Max’s fingers twitched toward his holster.

  He kissed her, just a millimeter off the mouth, then pulled away to grin and bare a perfect set of bleached teeth. “So this is where I have to come to find you.” Swen squeezed tighter and
tsked, adding a slow shake of his mane. “Eating and drinking with another man.”

  Cori laughed lightly, pulling back but keeping her fingertips on his shoulders. Shoulders that had definitely seen some gym time.

  “I’ve been very busy, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Oh, yes,” Swen answered, his accent about as real as the model in a Finlandia vodka ad. “By the way, I’m so sorry I missed the fund-raiser the other night. I hope you got the check I gave to Breezy.”

  “Of course, and that was extremely generous of you.” She frowned and asked, “Was she in today?”

  “No, I didn’t see her. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a little worried about her. She seemed…off this morning. Never mind.” She let go of him, and turned toward Max. “This is Max Roper. Swen Raynor, the manager of the Mandarin’s world-class spa.”

  Max shook his hand, unsurprised by the power in the man’s grip. Swen gave him an approving nod, but quickly turned his attention back to Cori. “Are you almost done? I have a suite upstairs and a bed waiting for you. Let’s go.”

  Cori looked at Max, then laughed. “It’s not how it sounds,” she assured him.

  “I’m serious,” Swen insisted, then ran a possessive finger along her jaw. “You look very tense, Corinne.”

  Max clenched his jaw, keeping his expression blank.

  Swen glanced at Max, then his gaze dropped to his plate of half-eaten steak and a salad he’d barely touched. He whispered something that made Cori smile, and then ran his hand over Cori’s back, settling way too close to her backside.

  Maybe it was time to open his jacket, reveal the Ruger and suggest Finlandia was a little too close to his principal.

  “Come and see me after lunch,” Swen said to her, his accent rich with invitation as he patted her hip. “I can heal you.” Then he looked pointedly at Max. “You’re welcome in the spa anytime, Mr. Roper.”

  “I don’t need healing.”

  “Is that so?” Swen’s blue eyes sparked in amusement, then his gaze dropped to Max’s salad plate. “Must be all that red clover.”

  With one more kiss on Cori’s cheek, he ambled away, and Max stood watching him leave, guessing he was at least six two and two hundred pounds. No match for Max, but no doubt he appealed to the ladies.

  “You were rude,” she said, sitting back down and glaring at him. “He’s been good to me and only has my best interests in mind.”

  “He’s got more than that in mind.”

  “Swen?”

  “He’s…touchy.”

  “Touching me is his job, Max. He’s my massage therapist.”

  Max stifled a grunt, picked up his fork, and stabbed the offending pink flower in his salad. “What is he, an herbalist and a masseuse?”

  Cori stifled a laugh. “Nobody calls them that anymore. He’s a massage therapist.”

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. And yes, he is an herbalist. His mother was a well-known Finnish chef who wrote books on spices and herbs, so he’s very smart about homeopathic and holistic treatments.”

  After their plates were removed, Cori opened a compact and discreetly reapplied some lipstick.

  “So what does red clover heal?” Max asked. “A bad mood?”

  She smiled at him over the edge of her mirror. “Come to think of it, it might.”

  “Seriously, what did he mean?”

  “I think it does a lot of things. Makes you relax. He’s had me take it in the past because it’s supposed to enhance fertility.” She snapped the mirror shut and tucked it in a side pocket. “Obviously it didn’t work.”

  “Maybe the problem wasn’t your fault,” he suggested.

  She kept her attention on her handbag, her head still down. “Our fertility problems had nothing to do with William. I’m the one incapable of conceiving. He was fine.”

  There went the theory that she wanted to get rid of the husband who was too old to make a baby. And she certainly didn’t hasten his death so she could take over the boardroom. That left only money as her motivator, which didn’t fit at all.

  Maybe Beckworth Insurance was sniffing around for the wrong reasons. Maybe William Peyton died of a heart attack, just like plenty of other sixty-three-

  year-old men.

  But that didn’t explain who shot at Cori, he thought as they strode over the black river rock that decorated the oriental-themed lobby.

  “Maybe we ought to pay Billy a surprise visit,” Max announced.

  She stopped midstep. “Are you crazy? I don’t want to see him.”

  “I’d like to see the two of you interact when he’s sober.”

  “Trust me, it’s not pretty.” She nudged him toward the lobby doors. “You go grill Billy, I have something better to do.” She headed in the other direction and he watched her disappear around a corner.

  He knew where she was going and who she was going to, and swore under his breath. That long-haired Viking wasn’t going to heal her.

  “Is it so bad that you need to eat meals with your bodyguard?” Swen had rubbed oil on his hands for a full minute before he touched her, and still his fingers weren’t as warm as Max’s had been that morning.

  “Is what so bad?”

  “Your love life.”

  Cori smiled into the soft suede cushion that surrounded her face, looking through the hole at the single orchid in a vase, a signature symbol of relaxation that could be found in every nook and cranny of the four-story, five-star spa. “I don’t have a love life, Swen. I’m a widow who likes to play solitaire and do charity work.”

  He pressed the muscles along her spine, rolling his thumbs. Still not as comforting as Max’s touch behind her knees.

  “Oh, I see.” Swen kneaded gently. “Your bodyguard didn’t like me.”

  “Charm isn’t his specialty.”

  “He was jealous.”

  Something dangerously close to satisfaction hovered over her heart. “He’s protective. That’s his job.”

  Swen was quiet for a moment, knuckling the knots between her shoulder blades. “So,” he finally said. “What do you think is wrong with our little summer breeze?”

  “I don’t know. She just seemed…”

  “Off. You told me.” Swen’s hands paused for a moment. “Sometimes she gets moody, you know that. Last week she said—” A soft, digital beep interrupted him and he let out a frustrated sigh.

  Could that be a phone? In the middle of her massage? It beeped again.

  He swore softly. “I am so, so sorry, Corinne. They would never call me unless it is an emergency. I am very sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Swen. Answer it.”

  He pulled the sheet over her shoulders and picked up a cell phone while Cori settled deeper into the memory foam of the massage table. If it were a spa emergency, wouldn’t they have called on the house phone that hung on the wall?

  “I’m very, very busy,” he said, his Finnish accent lilting over the words. “I see. Yes. Oh. That is a problem.”

  Part of her resented the intrusion, but Cori reminded herself that not only was she a walk-in, but as the manager, Swen took very few clients. She was here to relax, not get more uptight.

  “I really can’t do anything now,” he said harshly into the phone. No, this was not going to be relaxing.

  She looked up from the doughnut hole. “That’s okay, Swen. I’ll wait.”

  “All right, all right,” Swen said, irritation growing. “I’ll be there in a moment.” He hung up with barely disguised disgust. “No one is capable of making a decision around here, and I think there is a very upset client downstairs who is about to ruin the Zen of my spa. I promise this will take ten minutes. Then we’ll start all over and I won’t upset you by talking about your bodyguard.”

  “That didn’t—Just go, Swen. I’ll wait. If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’ll just make a real appointment when I leave.”

  He bent over and kissed her on the head. “K
iitos.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Try to meditate. Inhale the patchouli and reverse the stress damage. I’ll be back to finish this, I promise.”

  “All right.” After all, where was she going to go? She had no idea if Max had taken her car and driver or waited for her in the lobby.

  She eased her face back into the headrest and closed her eyes. Why had she run away from him? Again. It was easy to use the excuse of not wanting to see Billy, but she knew it was more than that. She wasn’t scared of Billy.

  But Max…Her mind drifted back to the kiss they’d shared the night before. The searing heat of his hands on her legs this morning. He’d been aroused and, God, so was she. Past aroused and dipping into desperate.

  How long could they deny the chemistry that still crackled between them? A warm, sexual tingle pulled at her body, the feel of the cool cotton and the aromatic scents of the room sending waves of sensuality over her.

  What was she doing here? She didn’t want therapy. She didn’t want to be healed. She wanted Max—the way he used to caress her and cover her body with his, filling her up with the length of him, groaning her name as he exploded over and over again.

  She clenched her stomach and thighs, growing moist and taut and achy. She moaned softly, imagining Max sliding the sheet down, trailing her skin with his magnificent fingers, and his delicious, creative tongue. Heat rocked her hips in a move so natural she couldn’t have stopped it if she wanted to.

  Years melted away and she gave in to the memory of making love to Max. If she were on her stomach, like this, in her sleep, he would kneel over her, pulling her backside into his stomach and opening her gently before sliding into her.

  She could feel the heat of his hips, the tickle of his sack as it thumped against her, arousal and need and hunger driving her insane, making her clutch the sheets and bite the pillow as he took her harder and faster and…

  The sound of the rice-paper door sliding open doused her fantasy.

  Cori froze, holding her breath and clinging to the tingly sensation. Had someone walked in, or was that her imagination? What if Max had stepped into the darkened room? What if the next hands to touch her were his…what if he’d come to her, as hungry and hot as she was?