Take It Down

by Kira Sinclair

  There wasn’t another chair opposite the desk as most executives had. Again, Zane knew this was no oversight but a deliberate attempt to convince whomever did manage to get inside the sanctuary to keep their visit as short and painless as possible. He guessed it was most often Marcy. And he had no doubt she ignored Simon’s blatant rudeness.

  Zane also chose to ignore Simon’s psychological warfare and plopped down onto the corner of an overstuffed sofa that sat along the far wall.

  Almost before Zane’s butt had connected with the cushions, Simon waded straight in. “I’m worried about you.”

  Zane took a moment to settle his body, using the delay to gather his thoughts. “Why?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. I’ve known you for too long. Tom told me about your little episodes with the redhead. And then you disappear into the jungle with her for hours at a time.”

  “That’s a complete misrepresentation of what happened.”

  Simon waved away Zane’s protest. “Semantics. We both know nothing innocent happened in that jungle. First, you were gone too long. Second, your clothes are all rumpled and slightly damp.”

  “It’s hot out there, man.”

  Simon leveled a laser stare at him, daring him to continue pushing the story they both knew was a lie.

  This was where working for your friend got a little screwy. Up to this point, he and Simon hadn’t had a problem at all. Sometimes, it didn’t pay for your employer to know you too well.

  “Look, since when do you have a problem with guest fraternization?”

  “Since I’m worried it might interfere with your ability to do your job.”

  Now, that pissed him off. Never mind that he was just lecturing himself about the same issue. It was one thing for Zane to remind himself of his priorities. It was entirely another for Simon to question them.

  “Fuck you. I’ve busted my ass for you over the past eighteen months. I’ve given you no reason to question my ability and commitment.”

  “I don’t question your ability. Or commitment. I question whether you can evaluate this woman objectively anymore. I know you. And I know what happens on my island. You haven’t slept with a woman since you got here and I’m guessing since Felicity died. If you didn’t screw the redhead in the jungle, you’ll probably do it the next time you see her.”

  Zane opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again because he couldn’t.

  “I’ve seen the tapes, Zane. You practically devoured each other in the middle of the ballroom.”

  Zane’s molars began to grind. Simon wasn’t bringing up anything he hadn’t already thought… It just sounded worse when it came from his friend and boss.

  “Look, I don’t care if you feel like screwing every bimbo who walks through the door. And if that’s what it’ll take for you to get over Felicity, I’ll start lining them up myself. But you’re on dangerous ground with the redhead, man. As your friend, I thought I should tell you. As your boss, I have to say that if your personal relationship with her leads to a problem, I’m going to have to fire you.”

  Zane stared at him. What else could he do? He hadn’t needed the reminder. He knew what was at stake. The problem was, his dick thought the price—whatever it turned out to be—was worth paying.

  Simon leaned into his chair, slowly rocking it back and forth, the squeak of the mechanism grating in the charged silence that had settled over them.

  “So, you wanna give me details. What’s she like?”

  Zane’s entire body stiffened. They were a long way from their days of being frat brothers, sharing everything—including women on occasion.

  An overwhelming wave of possessiveness washed over him as he shot up from the sofa. “What the hell, Simon.” It took him several seconds to register the glint of mischief sparkling deep in those damn blue eyes.

  “Bastard,” he mumbled as he walked toward the door. He didn’t care if Simon was done with him. He was done with Simon.

  ELLE HAD GONE TO ANOTHER one of the single’s mixers the resort specialized in. It was better than sitting alone in her hotel room, her mind racing with thoughts she didn’t know what to do with. This party was themed…togas, if you could believe it. And she, apparently, had been the only one reluctant to relive that college experience. Everyone else had been having a ball. She was all for cutting loose, but it was ridiculous. Perhaps she would have enjoyed it better if she’d been drunk, but after her up-close introduction to the pool, she’d tried to limit the pink drinks.

  She had no idea where Zane was. What he was doing. When she might see him again. If she might see him again.

  Elle didn’t often battle insecurity, but it was certainly rearing its ugly head at the moment. The feeling was far from pleasant.

  Her life might be full of chaos—artistic bursts of inspiration, unwashed dishes piled in the sink and papers falling off the hall table. But when it came to relationships, she kept things simple. Easy. Uncomplicated.

  There was nothing about her relationship—for lack of a better word—with Zane that was easy or uncomplicated. It had turmoil written all over it. Hell, they could barely come together without some kind of argument or misunderstanding.

  And that damn key card was always in the back of her mind. If he found out she had it, that would only reinforce his low opinion of her. She really didn’t want that to happen. She didn’t want to see disappointment fill those multicolored eyes.

  She’d seen that enough growing up with her father. She’d worked hard not to experience the kind of guilt that emotion could cause.

  She’d give the key card back. It was that simple. She just needed to figure out how. Then maybe if she was lucky, she’d spend the rest of her vacation with the sexy head of security. She’d have to find another way to recover Nana’s painting. Only God knew what that was. She was completely out of ideas.

  Melancholy settled over her as she rode the elevator up to her floor. Halfway down the hall, she glanced behind her just to make sure she really was alone.

  She looked up into the face of the security camera mounted in the corner of the hallway and thought briefly about doing something naughty, but decided she couldn’t be certain Zane was actually the one behind the bank of monitors. And, frankly, she’d embarrassed herself enough with the security staff over the past several days.

  All night, she’d looked out for him, hoping he’d appear in the crowd of sheet-draped drunks to sweep her away from the juvenile chaos. He hadn’t appeared. Nor had the sensation of being watched returned.

  She’d gotten so used to the constant itching at the back of her neck that she’d reached up to rub the spot several times before she’d realized it was gone. Had been ever since she and Zane returned from the jungle.

  Elle fought back the rising tide of disappointment as she pushed into her room.

  And nearly screamed when a man rose from the chair in the dark corner.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  His body was in shadow, the drawn curtains blocking out the bright Caribbean moonlight. The only light in the room spilled from the hallway. It barely touched where he stood, leaving his face completely indecipherable.

  But she could see his eyes, sharp and bright. They cut through the gloom, the intensity and desire burning there sending a wave of goose bumps across her skin.

  She let the door slam behind her, plunging them into total darkness. It was sensory deprivation of the most delicious kind. She could hear the rustling of his clothes as he moved across the room. The rasp of denim, the soft shuffle against hardwood.

  Even before he touched her, the scent of him drifted out to caress her skin. She gulped in large pulls of air, drawing him even closer. Tonight, overlaying his normal masculine musk and sex smell, she detected something tropical. Not flowery or fruity…lush and very manly, possibly left over from their foray into the jungle. Memories ripped through her body, bringing a heat and need that nearly drove her to her knees with the intensity. She wanted to burrow her
face into his neck. She wanted to pull him so close that nothing could stand between them. She wanted to taste and touch and absorb him into every pore.

  But she couldn’t find him.

  She reached out into the dark, a blind woman searching for a touchstone but not finding one.

  Something sounded to her right and her head whipped toward it. “Zane?” she whispered. She had no idea why, other than the inky darkness seemed to demand it. A quiet reverence. A prayer that he hadn’t been a figment of her over-stimulated imagination.

  He didn’t answer.

  Her body jerked in surprise when his mouth touched down onto her shoulder. Languid heat spread through her body, weighting her limbs. She’d worn a strapless top, a band of elastic holding the blue-and-green fabric as it flowed away from her body and skimmed just to her hips. She’d paired it with some white capris, enjoying how it made her newly tanned skin glow.

  Apparently, she’d made the right choice. Her body melted against his solid frame. She fought the urge to just give in and crumple beneath him, offering anything and everything he wanted. But that wasn’t her. She didn’t give in that easily.

  Instead, she chastised him. “You weren’t there tonight.”

  “I was there. You just couldn’t see me.” His words and lips brushed against her skin as they traveled over the ridge of her collarbone and across to her other shoulder.

  “Liar. I would have felt you. Even when you were watching through the cameras, I knew when you were there.”

  He trailed warm kisses down the length of her arm, stopping at her elbow to let his tongue swirl there for a moment before continuing down to her wrist. Goose bumps erupted across her skin. The sensation was unexpected. She’d never thought of her elbow, hand and wrist as particularly sexy. And surely not erogenous. But warm heat flooded her body and she felt the urge to squirm beneath his caresses.

  Her palm curled, her already sensitive fingertips rubbing against his stubble-roughened jaw. Maybe it was the lack of vision, but her senses seemed on high alert. Waiting. Anticipating his next touch.

  But that wasn’t really her. She wasn’t the waiting sort.

  Using his hold on her wrist as an anchor in the dark, Elle turned until her body was behind his. Her breasts pressed against his back, tingling and puckering with their demand for a more direct stroke. He kept hold of one arm, making it almost completely useless.

  With the other, she wrenched the tails of his shirt free from the jeans he wore. Her palm surfed across the valleys and peaks of his well-defined abs. This thirtysomething man had certainly not let time and complacency ravage his body. She wasn’t surprised. It was one of his weapons—considering the hard coil of muscle beneath her hand, probably one of his best.

  Zane Edwards took everything seriously. For a moment, she had the urge to make him laugh. Really laugh. She wondered what it would be like, to hear him simply let go—of the pain, the guilt, the memories of death and destruction that he held on to. That all law-enforcement officers seemed to hold on to.

  And if Elle was anything, it was impulsive. Giving in to the urge, she went straight for his ribs, digging her fingers in and tickling instead of teasing.

  Zane jumped, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even chuckle.

  His hand flattened her own against his skin, holding her prisoner. “What are you doing?”

  “Tickling you.”

  “I’m not ticklish.”

  “Everyone is ticklish…somewhere.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then let go of my hand.”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, I have better plans for it.”

  “Nothing could be better than a good tickle fight.”

  His hand wrapped around hers, bringing it up his body. His head bent down, she could feel the pull of his shoulder and back muscles against her chest. She had to stand on tiptoe to keep her own shoulders from protesting the awkward movement. It only pulled her tighter against him.

  His mouth touched her palm, a cascade of tingles exploding through her body. She undulated against him, an unconscious effort to get closer. A rumble of approval vibrated through him. She felt it everywhere—where his lips touched her, where his back caressed her breasts, where his rear pressed into the cradle of her thighs.

  How could this man arouse her so completely and barely be touching her at all?

  Her eyes were adjusting to the dark, able to pick out shades of gray. Shades of him.

  Using his hold, he tugged her around to face him and began backing her through the room. His eyes smoldered with intensity. He was about to rock her world and she was about to let him.

  She gulped, her throat suddenly dry. She wanted him to touch her, to please her, to fill her. And yet, that look in his eyes scared her.

  It wasn’t Zane necessarily, but the all-consuming way he gazed at her. As if everything in the world could be found inside her body. And that made what they were about to do much more important than she wanted it to be. If it was everything, then what would she do when it was over and he was gone?

  What if she couldn’t live up to his expectations? She hadn’t felt this…insecurity in a very long time. This fear of disappointing someone who mattered.

  For the past several years, she’d paraded through life, one experience after another. Wild. Exciting. The more outlandish and eccentric, the better. She wanted a store of life experiences to pull from—it made her a better artist. But none of the experiences—and none of the men she’d shared some of them with—had ever touched her. At least, not deeply. If something or someone didn’t work, she moved on to the next adventure. Life was to be savored and experienced.

  But Zane could touch her. Zane could matter. Zane could make her want things she shouldn’t want to have, things that her experience had taught her would be bad. Like a life with a driven, guilt-ridden, egotistical and demanding man.

  Unfortunately, she was afraid that she already wanted those things, that man.

  As the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she realized it was too late to do anything about it. He’d gotten under the defenses she’d built. He was already inside. And she was too far gone to push him back out again.

  Her body tilted. Her core muscles engaged to fight gravity and keep her up. Zane’s palm lifted to the center of her chest, his fingers spread between the valley of her breasts, the heat of him like an electrical surge in her blood.

  One little push and she toppled over. Her body bounced against the mattress. She didn’t move. He followed her down, wrapping his arm beneath her back and pulling her up higher as if her weight were insignificant.

  She arched, her eyes slipping closed.

  But he wouldn’t let them stay that way. “Look at me.” His voice was gravel, tight with control.

  Her eyes popped open as he’d ordered, without her even realizing she would comply. His face was close to hers, his breath tickling the wisps of hair that had fallen from the upsweep she’d piled on the top of her head.

  “I want you to look at me when I touch you. I want to see your eyes when I slide home. I want to watch them glaze over when you come. I want you to know who’s fucking you. Not some guy from tonight. Not some guy from home.”

  With a growl in the back of his throat, Zane ripped her top down to her waist. She hadn’t bothered with a bra, so when his lips latched on to her breast, there was nothing but heat and the moist suction of his mouth.

  His hand kneaded the other side. His fingers pinched and pulled at one erect nipple while his teeth worried the other. She felt an answering tug deep inside her body, an ache that was quickly building to unbearable.

  Her fingers buried in his hair, the silky strands of deep brown almost black in the darkness. They were soft against her skin, a contrast to the rough play of his hands over her body. His fingers were calloused. She wondered briefly what had caused them, certainly not playing with his guns. He was a man who wouldn’t balk at hard work, if it needed to be done. He could get down and dirty if nece
ssary.

  She liked that about him. Hoped he was willing to get a little down and dirty with her.

  Unwilling to sit passively by while he played her like a well-tuned fiddle, Elle yanked at his shirt, not caring if the seams ripped, as long as it revealed some skin.

  The minute she’d torn his shirt off over his head, Zane went to work on her capris. He opened the zipper, but instead of pulling them off, he let his fingers play into the open V he’d revealed. He reached beneath the material, filling his hands with the curves of her ass, arching her body and pulling her aching sex closer to him. The bulge of his own arousal pressed against her hip, a tantalizing temptation. She squirmed in his hold, hoping to get him to shift and press it against her. She wanted to feel him, to rub against him and drive them both crazy. But he wouldn’t let her.

  His teeth nipped at her throat, sending the pulse point there racing.

  But two could play. Lord, she wanted to play with him.... She reached for him, intent on yanking open his fly and filling her palm with the heat of him. But he pulled away from her, just out of reach.

  She looked up into his face. Shadows shifted across his features, sharpening the blades of his cheekbones and making his lips appear fuller. She wanted to kiss them. And she wouldn’t let him tease her this way. With a surge of her body, Elle rose beneath him. Her fingers wrapped around the waistband of his jeans and wouldn’t let go.

  She made quick work of his fly, but knew she’d never get the tight denim down his thighs unless he let her. Scrambling out from under him, Elle quickly shed her own pants and panties, shoving them into a pile on the floor that she’d deal with later. Much later.

  She knelt on the bed; her thighs spread apart, her hands on her hips, a smirk touching her lips.

  “Lose ’em, mister.”

  She’d never been shy with her body. When your grandmother was a nude model and you live in a house with three men, modesty just doesn’t seem to have a place to survive. She’d sketched her first nude when she was barely seventeen. The woman had been overweight, with sagging breasts and the rounded belly of a mother who’d borne several children. She’d love to sketch Zane, the way his bones and muscles connected, the sinewy grace beneath that hard exterior. The fluidity that spoke to a man who knew his body and knew exactly what to do with it.