by Lora Leigh
As Trent Daylen, he’d done that somehow. Through the months that they had worked together, he’d found some way to earn that respect and trust. A respect and trust that John Vincent wasn’t earning quite so easily.
“I’ll make certain I don my finest threads, then.” He quirked a smile in her direction and yet still received that strangely somber look in return.
He wondered if she knew what that look did to him. If she knew that he wanted to wrap her in his arms and protect her from the world when she looked so sad.
“That would definitely be a good idea.” She nodded. “Tomorrow you’ll come out to the cabin. I’ll have my father’s tailor there fit you with some new suits. You’ve done very well as a successful broker, but now you need to show your intent to rise higher in the world. You’ll have one of a very few of the richest heiresses in the world that you’re courting. You need to show your intent as well as your seriousness in the matter.”
His brow arched. “Should I be looking for engagement rings then?”
She tilted her head and stared back at him coolly. “Call Cartier’s in England, make an appointment with the manager to see his finest diamonds in, say, six weeks’ time. That will prove your intent as well as give you ample opportunity to complete your job here before you have to actually buy the diamond.”
He snorted at that. “I have my own diamond sources, my dear, I think I can take care of this on my own.”
She shrugged. “However you wish to deal it, as long as word leaks out. Now, we’d better be leaving soon or we’ll be more than fashionably late and end up insulting our host and hostess. That’s something we really don’t want to do at this point.”
Insulting the Waterstones wasn’t one of the things that was high on his own list of problems to avoid, but he would take her word for it.
“And once we arrive?” He moved from the bar, stepping over to her slowly, letting her feel the heat of his body as it mixed with hers. “Are we lovers, Bailey, or still tiptoeing around each other like a couple of teenagers?”
She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring with a hint of nervous excitement as a glitter of hunger lit her eyes. She wanted it just as damned bad as he did. The need that had erupted between them five years ago hadn’t abated. If anything, it had only grown hotter.
As she stood still and silent, he let his hand caress her hip, feeling the heated flesh beneath the silk of her gown. Then looping his arm around her waist, he jerked her to his chest.
Soft, silken hands flattened against the bare muscle as her gaze widened and flew to his.
“This isn’t necessary,” she retorted breathlessly.
“Don’t think you can dominate me, Bailey,” he warned her carefully. “Don’t think you can dress me, or tell me how to conduct my part of this little operation. I’ve been handling my own tailors as well as my own jewelers for years.” His head lowered as he spoke until his lips were only a breath from hers.
Damn her. She was strong, resilient, but she hadn’t yet learned that he was stronger and a hell of a sight more stubborn. She’d learned that lesson about Trent; now she had to learn it about John.
“This isn’t a game we’re playing between ourselves,” he continued. “Don’t pretend that it is.”
“Isn’t it?” A challenge flared in her eyes, like fire inside the purest emerald. “Don’t lie to me, John. Don’t pretend it’s any more than it really is. It’s a job. One we’re both determined to complete, nothing more.”
“Like hell.”
He’d be damned if he would allow her to leave here, on his arm, believing that load of crap that she was trying to convince herself of.
She wanted to deny what was between them because she didn’t understand it, because she didn’t know who or what he was to her. He understood that. That didn’t mean he would tolerate it.
Using one arm to hold her in place, he gripped the side of her face with his palm. As she parted her lips to blast him with that sharp tongue of hers, he took possession of it.
Kissing Bailey was like being engulfed in flames. The damp heat of her tongue, the satiny softness of her lips beneath his, were like a narcotic that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of. The more he had of her, the more he wanted.
He felt her hands slide slowly up his chest, hesitant, trembling, her fingers stroking against his flesh until they clasped his neck.
She shuddered in his grip, as she had that first night in Australia. Tremors of need raced beneath her flesh as a soft, almost unwilling cry passed her lips.
John kept the kiss gentle. There was no need to take her roughly, to assert his dominance, his hunger. It was there in each lick of his tongue against hers, in the rub of their lips, the way her hands gripped his neck, the way he held her to him. Her body softened into his, as though it realized what her mind didn’t. That she was his. That her heart, her body, belonged to him.
That slender, sweet body conformed to his now. Her hands held tight to his neck as she leaned into him, burning in his arms like a flame as he began to kiss her with hungry demand.
She asserted her own demand. She took what he gave and then pushed for more until lips and tongue were working together with heated moans and hands that couldn’t stay still.
He wanted to slide the fabric of that dress up her thighs until he reached what he knew were the dew-shrouded folds of flesh between her thighs. She would be wet for him, hot. The remembered feel of her sweet pussy drove through his head and sent pulses of need clenching in his balls.
His cock was a wedge of pure steel, straining at his slacks as he lifted her closer, unwilling to release her for even a second, wanting more of her than he had ever imagined wanting of a woman.
She was his.
His hands tightened on her as he lifted her impossibly closer. His palms slid to her rear, tightened in the smooth, toned muscle as a groan tore from his chest.
His hips bunched, grinding his cock into the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling the heat of her pussy, flexing and throbbing for the remembered sensations of being buried deep inside her.
God, she had been so tight. She would be tight around him now. She hadn’t had another lover in five years, but soon, very damned soon, she was going to have him again.
“Call it a game now, damn you.” He tore his lips from hers as he stepped to the couch several feet behind him. Turning, he bore her to the cushions, pushing her dress up her smooth, silk-covered legs as he slid between them. “Tell me you’re not as damned hot for this as I am.”
He made the mistake of glancing away from her face. The draped material of her dress fell over one swollen breast, revealing the hard, velvet-covered tip. Tight and flushed, her nipple beckoned his lips, his tongue.
He felt starved for the taste of her, the feel of her.
“Look at you,” he rasped. “You want me just as bad as I want you, Bailey, and you refuse to admit it.”
“I don’t deny it.” Her breathing was rough, hard. “I never denied wanting you.”
She denied herself the chance to take it, though. He wasn’t denying himself.
Flattening his hands against her knees, he ran his hands up her thighs, feeling the silk stockings she wore until he reached the lace band.
She shook her head as he pressed her legs farther apart, her fingers clenched into the cushions of the couch, but she didn’t ask him to stop, she didn’t deny the touch.
Pushing the material of the dress higher, he finally found what he was searching for. A sapphire-blue thong, the small triangle covering her pussy already damp, the folds of her flesh outlined beneath the material.
“Spread your legs farther,” he ordered roughly. “Let me see, Bailey.”
Had it ever been this hot before? John knew it hadn’t been. Never had he seen her like this, watchful, waiting, uncertain in her femininity and her response to him.
Her legs parted, the silk tightening over her sex as he slid his fingers to the edge of the panties.
“This is mine.�
� His palm covered the mound and the feel of the wet heat beneath it nearly had him coming in his pants. “Mine, Bailey.”
She trembled beneath him as his fingers slid beneath the snug material and found the syrupy heat he’d dreamed of for five long years.
He couldn’t stop the touch. He couldn’t keep from dipping a finger inside the snug, clenched entrance or delving inside to caress the sensitive tissue inside. He couldn’t stop the hunger that dragged a ragged groan from his chest or the demand that he take more, that he have more of her.
Another finger. Pulling the panties aside, he watched as his fingers took her, thrusting, working slowly inside her as her hips arched and a strangled cry passed her lips.
She was tight around his fingers, her muscles fluttering, vibrating around his flesh. He tore the panties from her, the scraps of material fluttering to the floor as he gripped her thigh with one hand and watched as he possessed her. Fucking her with his fingers, loving her cries, the way she arched to him, and finally the way her body tightened, jerked, and heat surrounded his fingers as her orgasm rushed over her.
The folds of her pussy became flushed. Her clit stood out like a tiny dark pink pearl that throbbed and glistened as her juices coated his fingers and the swollen curves.
It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. This, watching the effects of her pleasure on her body, seeing her release, feeling it. Owning it.
“You’re mine,” he bit out roughly. “Mine, Bailey.”
She shook her head even as she shuddered through the final pulses of release.
“All fucking mine.”
CHAPTER 5
ALL FUCKING HIS.
John’s words echoed through her mind that night and into the next morning as she fought her body’s demand that she give in to the utter possessiveness that had filled his tone.
He had been very unTrent-like. Trent hadn’t been that dominant, that possessive. He had been more casual, more fun-loving. But hadn’t she always sensed a darker core in him?
Driving along the mountainous road that led to Aspen the next afternoon, she fought to put aside the conflicting feelings that were making her crazy. She couldn’t get her heart, or her body, to meet with her mind where he was concerned. Was he, like Micah, a dead man walking? A man much closer to her than he wanted her to know?
No, she didn’t believe in coincidence, but she knew that she couldn’t depend on her emotions right now, either.
That left the man and the mission. For the moment, those two things she could control.
As she reached the city limits her cell phone rang imperatively, drawing a grimace to her lips as she pulled it from the console of her Mercedes SUV. She checked the number quickly.
Her brows lifted. She’d expected John, not the man she had always considered her nemesis.
“Hello, Raymond,” she answered as she slowed down to weave into the mass of tourist traffic entering ahead of her. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“Good afternoon, Bailey. Mary was wondering if you’d like to meet us for lunch at Casamara’s. That is, if you have nothing else planned.”
Her brows lifted. “I’d love to. I always enjoy Mary’s company.”
He chuckled at that, another surprising reaction. “Perhaps we should allow the past to remain in the past,” he said smoothly. “After all, there’s no reason for us to remain at odds, as you said the other night. We’ve both learned our lessons the hard way where the agency is concerned.”
“Trial by fire is more like it,” she muttered into the link.
“Yes, the betrayal can often be a hard one,” he said sympathetically. “Meet Mary and me, my dear. I think you’ll find the afternoon a rewarding one.”
She thought perhaps it was very possible.
“I’ve just entered town actually,” she told him. “When would you like to meet?”
“Let’s say an hour,” he suggested. “That should give us plenty of time to arrive. I’ve already made reservations.”
“I’m looking forward to it then.” She added just the right touch of relief to her voice. “Thank you, Raymond.” And that last touch nearly choked her.
She hated thanking Raymond Greer for anything.
“In an hour then,” he reaffirmed. “It will be nice to merely visit rather than snipe at each other.”
But sniping at him was so much fun, especially considering that she detested him.
The call ended, and as Bailey flipped the phone shut she drew in a hard, deep breath. She was certain she should call John and let him know about the upcoming meeting.
She grinned at the thought. Maybe five minutes before she actually met with Raymond would work. It wouldn’t do to give him too much time to rush to the restaurant, not after last night.
Driving to the restaurant, Bailey left her car with the valet before entering and moving to the bar. Casamara’s was one of the more elite restaurants in the city, with a cozy little bar for customers who stopped in for a drink rather than a meal.
There were several couples sitting inside the intimate atmosphere of the bar. Coffee, hot chocolate and lattes were in heavy demand with tourists and residents alike. Moving to the back of the room, Bailey slid into a booth that afforded her a clear view of the entrance and ordered coffee as she watched the maître d’ greet guests and escort them into the dining room.
Casamara’s had been one of her mother’s favorite restaurants, she remembered. Shopping trips always began with coffee in the bar and then lunch in the dining room when she and her mother had been together.
As much as she hated shopping, Bailey had always loved shopping with her mother. Angelina had always made their trips fun, her witty asides about both friends and strangers, as well as her exceptional ability to convince Bailey to wear clothing creations she would have otherwise turned her nose up at, had never failed to amaze her.
She missed her parents. Ben Serborne had been loving and kind. He had seen the world clearly, but often ignored the parts of it that he didn’t enjoy. The dirty, corrupted parts. He had ignored those traits in his friends as well, she thought. If he hadn’t, perhaps he wouldn’t have died.
Lifting her coffee cup to her lips, she considered the meeting Raymond had called. His wife Mary would be with him. Frail and kind, Mary couldn’t possibly be a part of Warbucks’s circle. The other woman was like a child sometimes. She’d been ill for most of Bailey’s life, but she’d always been a gentle, guiding influence during Bailey’s teenage years.
It never failed to amaze her how easily Raymond had stepped into her life, though. Bailey had always thought Mary had exceptional taste in friends, until she had met Raymond.
Bailey wondered if her friend had ever realized that her meeting with Raymond hadn’t been an accident? Ten years before, Raymond’s assignment had been to find a way to get close to Ford Grace and to learn if his European transportation company had been infiltrated by terrorists. There had been suspicion that Grace’s interests there were being used to transport both people and weapons through Europe and into the United States.
It had been determined that the quickest way into Grace’s inner circle was through the sister. One of the few people in his life that Grace didn’t abuse.
Funny that, she thought. Ford Grace had terrorized his wife and his daughter, but he was known to spoil his sister outrageously and to worry constantly about her welfare.
Raymond had taken that assignment seriously. Within a year he had quietly resigned from the CIA and his engagement to Mary had been announced. An heiress in her own right, Mary had transformed Raymond from a stooped, studious appearance to a weasel in silk.
“Bailey. Bailey Serborne?”
Lifting her gaze from the coffee, Bailey felt a smile curl her lips as she lifted her head and met the frank, light green gaze of Wagner Grace.
“Wagner.” Sliding from the booth, she came to her feet, her arms wrapping around his neck as he lifted her from her feet in a tight, carefree hug.
&nb
sp; She hated Ford Grace, but Wagner had been her best friend’s brother and the brother Bailey had never had.
“Damn, you’re looking good.” He laughed as he set her back on her feet and flipped the end of her nose gently. “Look at you, all grown up and pretty as a damned picture.”
“And you’re as handsome as sin.” Standing back, she gazed up at him, seeing the face of the young man she had once treasured.
At thirty-nine Wagner was trim and lightly muscular. Dressed in a heavy sweater and jeans, he was the epitome of the successful mature male. His light green eyes gleamed with laughter, his sun-darkened face was creased in a smile.
“Bailey, you remember Grant.” He moved back and only years of training kept Bailey’s expression friendly.
Where Ford was the epitome of a successful mature man, Grant Waterstone was the epitome of a spoiled little rich boy.
At thirty-five Grant was handsome in a clinical sense. With his black hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders, he gave all appearances of success. Jeans, a light pullover sweater, and leather coat completed the look. But there was something in his gaze that set off warnings in her gut.
“Bailey and I saw each other at Rhamie’s little party in Paris several months ago.” Grant smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s looking as exquisite as always.”
“Isn’t she though,” Wagner chuckled before turning back to Bailey. “May we join you for coffee? We were getting ready to hit the slopes later. You should join us.”
Skiing was one of Wagner’s favorite hobbies. It had been one Bailey had never quite been able to enjoy.
“Of course you may.” Bailey smiled as she slid back into the booth, wishing the two would have continued on to the slopes rather than barging in on her thoughts.
“Father mentioned you were still here last night,” Wagner stated as the waitress materialized with extra cups and another pot of coffee. “Actually, I believe I heard him screaming it over the phone.” He winced slightly. “Still not getting along with him, dear?”