Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  My brown furrows. “How was that running?”

  “It was in your eyes.”

  “It wasn’t in my eyes.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  I wrap his hair in my hand. “Why does an attorney of your stature get away long hair?”

  “I am nothing anyone expects. And that works for me. Does it work for you, Faith?”

  I release his hair, and my fingers curl on what I now know to be perpetual stubble on his jaw. “It pisses me off,” I say, honestly, because I still don’t want to want this man, and I am so far from fucking him out of my system, as he’d suggested, that it’s almost laughable.

  His eyes darken. “I’ll take that for now.” He covers my hand with his and brings it to his mouth, kissing it. “Where’s the bathroom, sweetheart?”

  “My bedroom is the closest one,” I say. “The door right behind you.” He kisses me and grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, to cover me. “I’ll keep you warm when I get back.” He stands and adjusts his pants.

  I sit up. “You didn’t even get undressed.”

  “The night is young,” he says, giving me a wink that sets that flutter in my belly to life again, before he heads to the bedroom.

  I watch him cross the room, the muscles of his back flexing, confidence in his every step. He’s gorgeous and unexpected in every way. I’m unexpected with him. I’ve been tied up, flogged, paddled, displayed, clamped and more, and as time went on, to extremes that didn’t arouse me or make me cower. They made me angry. They made me withdraw, but not out of fear. Out of self-respect, something the past few months made me lose, I realize now. And so I went with Nick, telling myself he would take me back to that punishing place, but he was right. On some level, I knew that wasn’t true.

  He is the unexpected.

  Different than what I’ve known. And I’m different with him. He didn’t spank me hard, he didn’t push me to uncomfortable places, and yet he pushed me. I felt exposed and vulnerable with him in ways that I have never felt before. I don’t want to be exposed, and I glance at the bedroom, and in light of these thoughts, I wonder why I’ve sent him to my most private space alone. I stand up, and the straps at my ankles cut into my skin, reminding me I still have my heels on. I sit back down and quickly unclip them and kick them off, then wrap the barely there throw around my shoulders, and hurry across the living area. Entering the bedroom, I hear Nick talking on the phone. “It’s nearly midnight, kid. I give you an A for dedication but an F for strategy. You still aren’t going at this the right way.”

  Relief washes over me as I realize his delay isn’t about nosing around my room, like a man like Nick would care about my personal items. He’s talking to his associate again.

  “Okay,” Nick says. “Let’s try this another way. How do you think he perceives himself? That’s what you need to find out in questioning him, then use that to finish the questioning.” He’s silent a moment before he says, “Because how he perceives himself reveals strength and weakness, and we need to know what both of those things are.”

  My brow furrows with Nick’s comment. How do I perceive myself? I think about this. And I think some more and I don’t have an answer. I don’t know me anymore. Maybe that’s why I don’t know the woman who Nick just brought to her knees in so many ways. Who Nick seemed to know when I did not. My gaze catches on the card on the bed and I walk to it. I stare down at my father’s script, a knot in my belly. I pick it up and sit down, the low pedestal allowing my feet to easily touch the ground, and when the blanket begins to fall from my shoulders, I don’t even try to catch it. I just stare at the card, trying to convince myself to open it but what’s the point? It won’t surprise me the way Nick has. I know what it says. I know what he thinks of me and what he expects. Those thoughts and expectations have driven every moment of my life for two years. I just don’t want the reinforcement of him saying it again from his grave on this particular day.

  “Faith.”

  I look up to find Nick standing in front of me, and I never even heard him approach. He goes down on one knee, draping my pink silk robe around my shoulders. “I thought you might want this.”

  There is a protective quality to his actions, again unexpected, and unfamiliar in every way. No one protects me, and I don’t know what to do, how to react. It scares me how good it feels to have someone actually care, what I feel or need, and I know that I cannot allow myself to want or need. But it’s a moment in time, one night, and I cannot wish it, or him, away, any more than I could the chance to experience that art display tonight.

  I stuff an arm into the robe, and shift the card to my opposite hand, then do the same on the other side. Nick reaches down and grips the silk, his gaze raking over my breasts, a touch that is not a touch, my nipples and sex aching all over again. But he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t turn this into sex. He pulls the robe closed and ties it for me, our eyes locking and holding as he does. And it is then that I see the shadows in the depths of his stare, and for the first time since meeting him, I see beyond the arrogance and sexuality of the man. I see his own torment. I see a man as damaged as me, and I think, maybe, just maybe that’s why our connection is so very intense. That something I felt when we were naked and lost in each other, moves between us again, a living, breathing thing that bands around us. “Is it from him?”

  I don’t play naive. He means the card and he knows there was someone in my life. “No,” I say, and I shouldn’t say more, but yet, I do. “I don’t talk to him.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “For how long?”

  “Most of that two years I mentioned.”

  “But the card—”

  “It’s from my father. He died two years ago, but apparently left it with Frank for me on my thirtieth birthday.”

  Nick glances at his Rolex but I am looking at the craftsmanship of the black and orange tiger tattoo covering his entire right forearm. “You still have fifteen minutes to read it on your birthday.”

  I give a humorless laugh and set the card on the bed. “If I read that, I might need you to spank me again but harder and longer this time.”

  “Then you should read it before I have to go back to San Francisco Sunday night.”

  I don’t miss the inference he’s going to stay with me until then, but any right or wrong I might feel from that is muted by the fact that he’ll be gone. This will be over.

  He sits down next to me and as his hand settles on my knee, allowing me to catch another glimpse of his tattoo, the black and orange ink evident now. Curious, I reach for his arm and turn it over to study the detail of the beautifully detailed blue-eyed tiger etched into his skin. “It has your eyes,” I say, glancing up at him. “Tiger.”

  “That was the artist’s idea.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I had it done six months ago by someone Chris knows in Paris, actually. A guy named Tristan.”

  “He’s incredible. I’d be terrified to ink someone’s skin.”

  “Your ink would be as incredible as your art, Faith.”

  I look up at him. “You don’t have to keep complimenting me.”

  “I’m no sweet talker, Faith. Surely you know that by now. You’re talented, and like my tattoo, your art is a part of you, Faith.”

  Rejecting the many places those words could take me right now, I quickly grab his other arm and study the ink there. Just words that read: An eye for an eye.

  “That one I got in college,” he says, but I barely hear him speak, the phrase replaying in my mind: An eye for an eye, clawing at me, to the point that I feel like I’m bleeding inside. I can feel the rise of emotions, when only yesterday I was afraid because I could feel nothing. I jump to my feet, and try to escape Nick, but he grabs my arm and turns me to face him.

  “What just happened, Faith?”

  “I don’t know if I should admire you or fear you, Nick Rogers. Tiger.”

  His eyes narrow, his energy sharpening
and he pulls me between his legs, hands on my hips. “Why would you fear me, Faith?”

  I STARE AT FAITH, WAITING for her reply, and while I do not share my father’s name, I cannot dismiss the possibility that her reaction to my tattoo is about her knowing who I am. That she always knew and she’s a damn good actress. That she knows that the words “an eye for an eye” etched in my arm motivated me to come for her and she’s trying to manipulate me as I suspect her mother did my father. And the idea that he and I, men who do not get manipulated, could be by a mother and daughter, grinds along my nerve endings. Or maybe my tattoo, and the words it spells out, simply stir guilt in Faith over the sins I suspect her of, which isn’t much better. Or it could be something else entirely, and considering the way she’s rocked my world, I hope like hell it is.

  My fingers flex at her hips where I’ve pulled her between my legs, I repeat my question. “Why would you fear me, Faith?”

  “I said admire or fear.” Her hands close down on mine. “Why are you honing in on the fear?”

  “It’s a strange thing to say, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart with that condescending tone. And you’re shocked about the word fear? Really? This from a man who admitted to me in the gallery bathroom that people fear you?”

  “But not you. You said not you.”

  “I don’t fear the Nick Rogers with me now. But the words ‘an eye for an eye’ infer that you might love hard, but you hate harder. That’s who you are, right? You’ll tear my throat out if I ever cross you? Which, I guess makes it a good thing that I have that hard limit. We fuck. You leave. Now, if you want.”

  Relief washes over me, and the intensity of it, my desire for her innocence, shakes me to the core. I do not get personally involved, but then, I don’t fuck my friends or enemies, either. I fuck for release. For pleasure. And she’s personal. In more ways than I expected. “I don’t want to leave and until you saw my tattoo, you didn’t want me to leave.”

  “I don’t want your kind of viciousness in my life.”

  “You knew I was Tiger before you ever invited me here. But let’s clear up who Tiger is. Who Nick Rogers is. I don’t hate. It’s a dangerous emotion that feeds irrational actions. And as for ‘an eye for an eye’… I began my career in criminal law, and in fact, did a two-year stint in the DA’s office that started when I was a law student. I got my tattoo after putting a man on death row for brutally raping and killing a fifteen-year-old girl. So, fuck yeah. An eye for an eye. Only, he’s not dead yet, but you can bet I’ll be in the front row when he does.”

  She breathes out. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.” I fist my hand and show her my forearm again. “Those words,” I say. “They do matter to me. I read them often when I’m protecting someone who’s been done wrong. I deliver justice.”

  She stares at my arm for long seconds before she reaches down and covers the tattoo with her hand, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I reacted prematurely and convicted you for someone else’s sins.”

  “Him,” I say, referring to the man in her past that I have a good idea is the artist she lived with in LA.

  “You keep going back to him.”

  “Because he’s in the room now and he was with us when we were fucking, Faith.”

  “This is one night,” she argues.

  “This is whatever it turns out to be,” I amend. “And for the record, I don’t stay the night with women or have them stay with me, but I’m not leaving without a fight and at least three more orgasms. Yours. Not mine. And as for him, I keep going back to him because he’s the reason you might try to insist that I leave. He’s the reason you just tried to push me away over my tattoo. And if I’m right, he’s the reason you keep everyone at arm’s length.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to make a statement like that.”

  I’ve studied her for three weeks, obsessed over the details of her life like I do every case I take on, because I win. I always win. I know her better than she thinks. But I settle for, “I know enough.”

  She studies me for several long beats, her expression tight, her voice tighter as she says, “Macom Maloy. That’s his name and ‘an eye for an eye’ was his justification for doing something I consider unforgiveable.”

  “Unforgiveable,” I repeat. “That sounds personal.” And, I silently add, perhaps like murder and blackmail.

  “I’m not going to talk about this or him,” she says firmly, her gaze meeting mine, no coyness. No cowering, no lowered lashes and turned head. Just straight up. No more conversation. She’s not having it.

  “I’ll let it go,” I concede, clear on the fact that if I push, she’ll push back and I’ll end up at the door. “But I’m not him.” I fist my hand and show her the tattoo again. “I do believe in these words. I do live by ‘an eye for an eye,’ but I apply that in a controlled fashion, and I fight for those I protect.”

  She covers the tattoo with her hand again, but she searches my face, studying me, looking for the truth in my words before she says, “I believe you, but sometimes the need to punish—an eye for an eye—gets out of control, Nick. Maybe it hasn’t for you. Maybe it has. But be careful. It could.”

  I cover her hand with mine where it rests on my arm, my eyes never leaving hers. “That’s a sign of weakness and I am not weak.”

  “Until you are.”

  “Not gonna happen, sweetheart. I have a spine of steel.”

  “There’s that arrogance again.”

  “Yes. There it is. Like I said. It works for me.” My jaw clenches with my need to ask her more questions that I just promised not to ask. “How about those pancakes, sweetheart? I haven’t eaten since about three today.”

  “That’s it?” she asks, sounding dumbfounded. “You aren’t going to press me for more? I’m used to you pushing too much and too hard.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t.” I stand up and cup her face. “I pushed to get you to say yes to me, Faith. I pushed to get here. I’m not going to push to get kicked out the door. And free will, sweetheart, does not just apply to sex. So,” I pause, and ask again, “how about those pancakes?”

  She blinks at me, seemingly stunned by me actually doing what I said I’d do, which tells me more about Macom. I might be a bastard, but not his kind of bastard. “I can’t make you pancakes, Nick,” she says firmly.

  “I pissed you off that bad, did I? You’re going to starve me?”

  She smiles and damn she’s pretty when she smiles. “I actually don’t have eggs or milk in the house. I’m not here often.”

  “I see. What do you have?”

  “Cereal.”

  “But no milk.”

  “Right. And boxes of macaroni and cheese but—”

  “No milk.”

  “Right.” Her eyes light. “But I do have lots of ice cream. This is my cheat place. I eat junk here.”

  “Ice cream it is then.”

  She points to the bathroom. “But I’m going in there first. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m going to the car to get a t-shirt.”

  “You have a t-shirt in your car?”

  “I always keep an extra suit, jeans, and a t-shirt, in the car.” I give her a wink. “You never know when someone might slice off all your buttons.” I pull her to me, kiss her, and head for the door as her laughter follows. I pause under the archway and she does the same at the bathroom entrance.

  She laughs again. “You should have seen your face when I pulled that knife, Nick. I mean, I get it. I should have known it would freak you out. I’m a stranger and all, but you looked like you’d just realized you gone home with Chucky’s Bride.” She turns earnest. “But don’t worry. I’m not as easily provoked as she is.” She laughs again and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to scrub my jaw and run a hand through my hair. Holy fuck. She’s joking about being a killer and the ways that could fuck with my mind right now, if I let it, are too many.

  Exiting into the living room, I head down
the hallway, and when I reach the foyer I stop dead in my tracks as darkness greets me. The light was on when we came into the house. Suspecting a bad bulb, and feeling rather protective of this woman I ironically came here to prove is a killer and who ironically just joked about being one, I walk to the switch and flip it on. Frowning, I decide it must be on a timer the security company has installed. I unlock the door, and exit to the porch, and make my way to my car, where I open my trunk, and when I would grab my overnight bag, I am instead drawn to the identical one next to it. I unzip it and pull out the two death certificates on top, both with the same cause of death: heart attack. A month apart. Also in the bag is every detail of Faith’s life, and her family’s, heavily focused on her mother, none of it leading me to a clear answer. But I’ve looked in the eyes of more than one killer and I’d bet my practice that Faith isn’t a killer, but not my life. Not quite yet. Not when I’m smart enough to know that I want this woman beyond reason. But if I’m right, and she’s innocent, where that conclusion leads me, I don’t know. But the woman. She leads me right back in the door, to her.

  I grab my overnight, open it and pull on a white t-shirt, slipping it over my head, and then pull the zipper, and settle the bag on my shoulder. Shutting the trunk, I waste no time crossing the lawn and re-entering the house. I lock up and flip off the light, having no intention of going anywhere tonight but Faith’s bed. Traveling the hallway, I find Faith in the kitchen, standing at a pantry with her back to me, my lips curving at the sight of her bra hanging on the door handle. Her dress is laying on top of the trashcan and I make a mental note to find that dress and buy her another one, pretty damn certain good ol’ Macom is behind her dislike of other people’s money. Which sure doesn’t lend to the premise of Faith being involved in blackmail.

  Walking to Faith’s bedroom, I’m presumptive enough to drop my bag inside the door, and then return to the kitchen. She obviously hears me this time, glancing over her shoulder from the pantry she’s still studying. “I have cherry Pop Tarts,” she says, facing me. “Cool Ranch Doritos, protein bars, and microwave popcorn.”