Kept

by Jami Alden

  Alyssa’s cheeks blushed hot pink. “N—no, not really.” She lowered her eyes.

  The damn woman couldn’t lie to save her life. He wondered if the reporter noticed.

  Meredith gave her one of those conspiratorial, “hey, it’s just us girls here” smiles. “Please. You can’t convince me you don’t have tons of guys knocking down your door.”

  Derek was locked on her face, waiting for her to give him a look, to betray some sign to the shark of a reporter that their relationship wasn’t strictly personal.

  Then another thought hit him. Maybe the stammering and blushing wasn’t all about him. He’d seen the articles linking her to everyone from a skinny, eyeliner-wearing rock star to the French-Lebanese dude who supplied the Van Weldts with the majority of their diamonds.

  Who knew what—or who—Alyssa had been doing since Derek had seen her last?

  “I’m single right now,” Alyssa said, and this time the conviction rang true. “My relationship track record hasn’t been so hot lately.” She gave the reporter a sheepish smile, and Derek fought the urge to warn her not to let her guard down.

  “You’re referring to your relationship with Eddie Bennett?”

  The dusting of freckles across Alyssa’s nose stood out in stark contrast to skin gone pale as marble. “That’s one example, yes.”

  Meredith cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “Do you regret your relationship with Eddie Bennett?”

  He could see the moment Alyssa finally went over the edge, when her fragile hold on her composure snapped.

  “Considering he told me he loved me and then put naked pictures of me on the Internet for the entire world to see and then told everyone I was the worst lay he’s ever had, yeah, I’d say I regret it.”

  Even Andy was startled out of her BlackBerry coma by Alyssa’s mini tirade.

  Derek bit back a smile. Even though the reporter’s expression spelled doom for Alyssa, he couldn’t help but admire her for standing up for herself.

  Alyssa stood up from her chair and stuck out her hand. “I’m really sorry to cut this short,” she said as she pumped a surprised Meredith’s hand, “but I have a photo shoot in about half an hour.”

  “It’s not—” Andy started to say, only to be shut down by Alyssa’s stony look.

  It was the first evidence Derek had seen of Alyssa’s supposedly divalike behavior.

  She straightened her spine, threw back her shoulders, and sashayed out of the restaurant, never faltering on her four-inch stilettos. She motioned for him and Andy to follow, a princess summoning her lackeys.

  Her poise crumbled the second they hit the sidewalk. “I am so screwed,” she moaned, burying her face in her hands.

  “It’s not that bad,” Derek said, compelled to console her even though she was probably right.

  “It’s not good,” Andy said, shaking her head and tsking like a schoolmarm.

  Derek shot her a glare over Alyssa’s bent head.

  “I’m not trying to be negative,” Andy said defensively. “But this is the first time Alyssa’s commented publicly about the pictures. Everyone’s going to pick up on it.”

  “Andy, why don’t you go get the car,” Alyssa said, rubbing at her temples like she was in pain.

  Andy nodded and hurried off.

  “Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?” Alyssa asked. “I know better than this. They’re always asking, and then the next thing I know I’m saying things I know I shouldn’t.” She shook her head and broke off.

  “She was pushing your buttons,” he said, shoving his hand in his pockets so he wouldn’t slide his arms around her in a reassuring hug.

  “Still, I shouldn’t have talked about Eddie. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. It’s like my brain totally loses control over my mouth.”

  “Did he really say you were the worst lay he’d ever had?” The question was out of his mouth before he could call it back.

  “What, you didn’t read all about it when you did your research?” Her face was pale except for two streaks of red on her cheekbones, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “I must have missed that article.” Truth was, other than reading the headlines, he’d avoided the articles about her relationship, because it made him unreasonably, illogically angry to think of her with another man.

  “Well, you’re the only one.”

  “If it’s any consolation, it’s not true,” he said. “The part about you being the worst lay, I mean.” Now his cheeks were red with embarrassment as she looked up at him. “Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing or something, but the problem couldn’t have been you.” He told himself to shut up, but he couldn’t stop the words from stumbling out. For the first time in his life his need for detachment was outweighed by the need to make a woman feel better. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best—that I’ve ever had, anyway.” His head was so hot he was surprised flames weren’t shooting out of his ears.

  “Oh,” Alyssa said, astonished, and in her eyes he could see her remembering, like a movie trailer, every touch, every kiss. “Uh, likewise.”

  Her lips were pink, shiny, soft, daring him to bend his head and trace them with his tongue. He might have done exactly that had Andy not pulled up to the curb in Alyssa’s gold Mercedes at that exact moment.

  Two hours later Derek sat in a photo studio while Alyssa posed for a series of photos for an ad campaign that would launch in the new year.

  Derek had figured they’d put Alyssa in a dress, throw a necklace on her, snap a few photos, and that would be it.

  He wondered what he’d done that God felt the need to create Derek’s own personal hell on earth.

  “Alyssa, tilt your head this way. No. Back more. And arch your back. Bring your right knee up just a hair. Perfect.”

  Derek tried not to look but couldn’t stop himself. Alyssa was on a platform made to look like a satin-draped bed, reclined back on her elbows with her head back, throat arching up to the ceiling. One slim leg was bent.

  Oh, and she was practically naked. She wore a flesh-colored bikini bottom decorated with diamonds at the crotch and a pair of pasties over her nipples. A diamond choker circled her throat, and thick cuffs sparkled at her wrists and ankles. A bra thing that looked like it was made out of fishing line and diamond studs was draped over her small, firm breasts.

  Dozens of black-clad people buzzed around, touching, primping, tweaking. A makeup woman went at Alyssa’s face and body with a tool chest full of cosmetics until every inch of her was covered in powder and glitter. A lanky, goth-looking guy interrupted after every shot to move the swath of gold fabric one nanometer to the left or to instruct another assistant to change the angle of the lights by a degree.

  Then there was the beefy-looking guy with a black goatee who was in charge of “wardrobe.” Meaning he was abnormally focused on Alyssa’s tits and crotch and the way the diamonds were positioned over those parts of her body. The guy ran his fingers under the fishing-line diamond contraption covering Alyssa’s breasts after nearly every shot, claiming he wanted to catch the light at precisely the right angle.

  It was just an excuse to feel her up, and they both knew it. After about the hundredth time, Derek stood from his chair, ready to fuck protocol and pop the guy in the face. But as he moved toward the dais, Derek caught the guy’s attention. And it didn’t take world-class gaydar for him to see that Alyssa wasn’t this guy’s primary target.

  He sat back down, rubbing his neck as sweat itched under the collar of his shirt. Derek had already ditched his sport jacket. With the lights blazing from every direction, it was about a thousand degrees in the studio, and the constant motion and noise was starting to give him a headache.

  But Alyssa didn’t complain once, suffering through the touching, the tweaking, the groping, holding the same uncomfortable pose for as long as it took for the photographer to get the right shot.

  Long enough for Derek to wonder if he had the self-restraint it was going to take to keep his han
ds off Alyssa. Lying there, her honey-colored skin sparkling with diamonds, her soft, perfect tits arching up at the ceiling, Alyssa made him want to throw everyone out of the studio, join her on that satin-covered bed, and peel off those barely there bikini bottoms so he could check out her Brazilian up close.

  He stared hard and saw a tiny bead of sweat trickle down her rib cage. It was all he could do not to run up there and catch it with his tongue—to hell with their audience.

  “Now let’s change it up,” said the photographer, a skinny Asian guy whose purple pants matched the streaks in his hair. “I want you facing forward, on your knees.”

  Yeah, that sounded about right to Derek, too.

  He watched as Alyssa rose to her feet in one sleek move. “Hold on a sec,” she said and raised her arms above her head. “I have a knot I need to work out.”

  A shot of heat went straight to his groin as she arched her back, making her tits jut out behind the jewel-encrusted mesh that functioned as her top. Derek didn’t need to see her bare nipples to remember what they looked like. Their soft pink color that darkened as he sucked was burned into his brain.

  Then Alyssa almost killed him by bending at the waist and flattening her palms against the floor, raising up first on one heel and then the other to stretch out her hamstrings. “Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by her heavy hair. “That last pose made my butt go numb.”

  He shifted in the metal folding chair and crossed his leg over his knee, hoping no one noticed the growing bulge in his crotch. Jesus Christ. First the woman tempted him into an uncharacteristic one-night stand. Now she had him popping wood like a thirteen-year-old in gym class.

  Derek had learned to master his breathing, slow his heartbeat, trained himself not to react to anything during his missions when the slightest move might give away his position. Now his ironclad control was unraveling like a cheap sweater, thanks to about a buck-ten worth of light brown hair and silky skin.

  Even worse, he was starting to like her. Really like her. Admire her even, for her professionalism, her attempt—however failed—to keep her composure when she’d been poked and prodded by the reporter. Liked her enough to breach bounds of professionalism and tell her she was the best lay he’d ever had—a boneheaded move if there ever was one.

  He would be the last to ever admit it, but despite all evidence to the contrary, he was starting to think maybe she wasn’t the wild, overprivileged mess the press made her out to be. Derek certainly hadn’t seen any signs of her supposed drug use since he’d been with her. Maybe she was misunderstood, victimized by a media machine that wanted her to be the wild and crazy diva whose face and antics sold magazines.

  “Is there anything we can get for you?” asked the photographer’s assistant, a rail-thin girl with dyed black hair and a tattoo, creeping up the back of her neck.

  “You know what I’d love?” Alyssa said, her voice muffled as she bent and stretched. “That grilled wild salmon from Farallon and some mixed wild greens.”

  Never mind that it was three in the afternoon, well before the dinner hour, and the restaurant—one of San Francisco’s finest—didn’t do takeout.

  When Derek pointed that out, Alyssa stood back up, flipping her hair back over her head in a motion straight out of a shampoo commercial. “Just tell them it’s for me.”

  So maybe her diva rep wasn’t totally unfounded.

  The assistant called to order the food as Alyssa moved to kneel on the fake bed. She shifted into the pose, and as she turned to the camera, her gaze caught Derek’s. Heat pulsed through him, arcing between them in an electrical charge so fierce he was surprised the lights didn’t explode under the force.

  “That is exactly the look I want,” said the photographer, scrambling for his camera. “Sexy, knowing, like you’ve got a secret you’re dying to tell. Whatever you’re thinking, go with it.”

  Derek had a good idea what she was thinking. He was thinking the same damn thing. About them in a sweaty naked tangle on his bed, hair-roughened skin meeting silky smoothness. His rock-hard cock sliding into her slick heat.

  Her sultry green gaze sucked him in, pulled him under. It was there again, that tight ache in his chest that tried to sneak up on him whenever he looked at her.

  He couldn’t look away, her steady stare holding him like a tractor beam. Her glossy pink mouth curved in a slight smile. A remembered taste of peaches flooded his mouth. “See something you like?” She pursed her lips at him in a little air kiss.

  You have no idea. But he schooled his face into a hard mask, unwilling to let anyone—least of all her—see how powerfully she affected him. He had no business flirting back, no business treating her like anything other than a client.

  His phone rang, and he seized the excuse to leave the room as he took Danny’s call. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Just checking in. Have you been running?”

  “No? Why?”

  “You’re breathing hard.”

  You would be, too, if you were trapped in a furnace-hot room with a nearly naked woman you want more than any woman you’ve ever seen. “I’m at a photo shoot. It’s hot in here.”

  “How’s it going with the train wreck?”

  Everything in Derek bristled at Danny’s word choice. “Don’t call her that. She’s not as bad as they say.”

  “Wow. You must really like her for me to hit a nerve. Don’t tell me you’re contemplating going where so many have boldly gone before?”

  His shoulders bunched in irritation at Danny’s crassness, but it was a good reminder of how the rest of the world saw her. Yeah, the press could exaggerate things, but most stories had a kernel of truth. She’d had a hand in creating her public image, no matter how bad she wanted to change it now.

  “Not in this lifetime,” Derek replied.

  “You gotta admit she’s cute. A little on the small side, but that’s not always a bad thing—”

  “Did you call me for a reason? Because if all you want to do is talk about Alyssa and her dubious appeal, you’re welcome to come check her out for yourself. In fact, you could take over this assignment completely—”

  “Dude, don’t get so riled up,” Danny said with a chuckle. “Try to see the bright side. After the Kramer cluster fuck, this is a cakewalk. All you have to do is follow a beautiful girl and keep her out of trouble. Enjoy it.”

  Right. He was enjoying it about as much as he enjoyed a root canal. He went back into the studio, grateful to find Alyssa off her knees and sitting in a makeup chair.

  “We’re almost finished,” she said. “Sorry it’s so hot in here. I know you must be uncomfortable.”

  “I’m fine,” he replied, careful not to look at her as the photographer’s assistant carefully removed the jewelry from her wrists and ankles, along with the fishing-wire-and-diamond bra.

  He heard a faint ripping sound, followed by Alyssa’s pained gasp, and spun around. And wished he hadn’t when he saw Alyssa cupping her own breasts, wincing as she gave them a gentle massage.

  Even under her heavy makeup, he could see the pink bloom in her cheeks when she caught him staring. “The pasties always hurt when they come off,” she said with a little laugh that hit him straight in the gut. “It’s not all glamor, even when you’re dealing in diamonds.”

  Martin sat in the bar of the Grand Hotel, edging deeper into the dark corner he’d found. Even in midafternoon, the dim room was noisy with the din of French, Lingala, and the occasional English conversation as he edged deeper in his corner. A lazy ceiling fan stirred the hot, smoke-filled air as he darted his gaze around the room. Unlike the semicivilized city Kinshasa, Mbuji-Mayi was an isolated wasteland. The only people who came here on purpose were misguided aid workers who thought they could save the savages from themselves, businessmen looking to join in on the rape and pillage of the DRC’s vast mineral resources, and guys like him. Journalists working an angle, trying to sniff out a big story to sell.

  Or not sell, if the price was right.
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  For the first time in weeks, the faintest tingle of optimism fired in Martin’s belly. His story was pulling together, details falling into place even better than he could have imagined.

  First, there was the murder-suicide of Oscar Van Weldt and his wife. Or was it, as Martin suspected, a double murder? Sure, Grace Van Weldt was a boozer and a pill popper and on her way off her rocker, but the timing was a little too close for Martin’s comfort. What were the odds Grace would lose her shit and off Oscar and herself only a few days after Martin had put a bug in Van Weldt’s ear about Abbassi?

  Van Weldt’s death had made Martin’s story a lot more interesting. And potentially a lot more dangerous.

  And now this. Martin sat transfixed in front of his computer monitor. He took another gulp of malafu, his attention riveted to the scene unfolding on screen. When he’d enlisted Marie Laure’s help, he’d dreamed of capturing footage like this.

  Again he checked his video recording program, ensuring the feed was being recorded even as he watched it live. He pulled the laptop closer, even though the privacy filter he’d put over the screen ensured no one would be able to see from the side.

  Though the camera Marie Laure wore had its view slightly obscured by the edge of a tent flap, Martin had a clear shot of all the players surrounding the army truck that had pulled into the center of the mine’s encampment earlier that afternoon. Mekembe and three of his men flipped up the heavy canvas that hid the truck’s cargo. Even in the grainy shot, Martin could see that the back of the truck was bristling with weapons. Kalashnikovs, AK-47s, and Uzis were unloaded from the truck. There were even two rocket-propelled grenade launchers with enough firepower to take down a helicopter or a small plane.

  Then a tall, lean man with dark, Mediterranean features came into view. Louis Abbassi. Marie Laure had referred to him as “the Français,” though he was actually a Lebanese national who had dual French citizenship, thanks to his French socialite mother. His father was a wealthy shipping magnate. When Mohammed Abbassi died, Louis stood to inherit millions. But the promise of wealth hadn’t stopped Louis from making his own fortune in everything from diamonds to aviation. He’d painted himself as a benevolent philanthropist, allowing aid organizations and NGOs to use his fleet of South African–based aircraft to transport goods all over the continent.