by Bruhns, Nina
But he wasn’t listening. He’d snagged back on the “handsome” comment. Yeah, and the fact that when she’d shrugged, her dress had slipped even farther down her breast, exposing a rosy sliver of areola.
The temperature in the room spiked up. Among other things. He started to sweat again.
Fuck.
Fisting his fingers into a tight ball to prevent them from reaching out to touch her, he forced his gaze back up.
She’d been watching him stare at her breasts. She was blushing again, this time all the way from her delectable décolletage to the tips of her ears. But she made no move to cover herself.
She didn’t look scared anymore.
“Who are you, really?” she whispered.
Uncertain, tentative, guarded, yes. Frightened, no.
Uh-oh. He backpedaled fast. “Lorraine—”
“Rainie.”
“What?”
“My name. Call me Rainie.”
He wiped his free hand over his mouth. “Okay, look, Rainie, I don’t think—”
“Do your friends really call you Kick?” she interrupted again.
She hadn’t asked his actual name, he noted. He searched her eyes for a sign. Of what, he wasn’t exactly sure. But what he was sure of was that the one-eighty this conversation had suddenly taken was probably not a good idea. Definitely not a good idea. The whole kidnapping/held-against-her-will thing put a very different spin on having any kind of physical relations with Lorraine Martin. Legal-wise.
And also blackmail-wise. His old unit, the ZU, was very good at blackmail. Not that they used the term. But the consequences would be just as real, for both of them.
“Well?”
He pushed back stomach-churning memories. “Yes. They really call me Kick.”
“Okay,” she said carefully. “Kick. So, are you?”
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what she was talking about. “Am I what?”
“Undercover?”
Lying had been part of his professional life for so long that he almost let another one slide off his tongue without thinking. But he was done with all that. Another of the myriad reasons he’d wanted out. He’d always hated the lies and deception. And was trying his damnedest to put it all behind him now. Which meant telling the truth. As far as he could.
“No. I’m not a cop.”
An emotion he couldn’t identify flitted through her eyes, which were suddenly pooling again. Damn. Now what?
She licked her lips, raised her hand, and pressed it haltingly to his chest. “Kick?”
“Yeah?”
“I really need you to tell me the truth about something.”
“What’s that?”
Her fingers bunched the fabric of his shirt. “Are you a good guy or a bad guy?”
He felt the corner of his mouth curl up sardonically. Now, there was the five-million-dollar question.
Tentatively he felt inside himself, searched his shadowed soul. Good or bad?
For him, despite it all, despite everything he’d seen in his life of betrayal, lies, and deception, and everything he’d done in his bloody and violent world, in his own heart he knew the answer.
He lifted his fingers and traced them along her jaw, feeling the creamy softness of her skin, and the impressive strength beneath it. He felt the fine trembling of her body’s desire for him, lurking just below the surface. And saw the desperate need in her eyes for it to be okay to want him. That he wasn’t a monster.
He wanted to reassure her. To tell her without reservation he was one of the good guys. But would that be another lie? On the final day of reckoning, would he be judged good or bad? He just didn’t know. Not for sure.
So he did the only thing he could. He told the truth.
“I wish I knew, Rainie,” he murmured softly. “I really wish I knew.”
THREE
RAINIE felt like she’d been dragged down a rabbit hole.
She didn’t know what to think. Or do. She tightened her fingers in the front of Kick’s white shirt. Then abruptly pushed him away.
“What kind of an answer is that?” She couldn’t help the sob that escaped with the words. Or the visceral reaction. She wanted to pound her fists against his chest but he grasped and held them in his steely grip.
“An honest one.”
Angry disappointment welled up like a storm surge. Why was this happening to her? Why not to Gina? Or someone else? She was so attracted to this man! God, she wanted him. More than any other man she’d ever met. Why did he have to be a—
Her frustration spilled over and her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Her pulse pounded.
“What if I don’t want an honest answer?”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, jetting out a breath. “You have no idea how sorry.”
“Kick, please . . .” Her voice caught. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her, the strange chaotic emotions roiling within her.
He let loose a swear word, and pulled her against his chest. “Come here.” He kissed her forehead and tried to put his arms around her but one was stopped by the handcuff. With an impatient jerk at the metal, he soothed his free hand over the bare skin of her neck and shoulders as though to comfort her.
She wanted to writhe and scream against the comfort. Against the unfairness of it all.
Because that wasn’t where she wanted his hand.
With a mewl of anguish, she rolled onto her back, pulling him down over her.
“Please lie,” she choked out. With shaking fingers she guided his palm to her breast. “Pretend you’re a good guy. Just for tonight.”
Shocked, he locked his gaze with hers. At first he didn’t move a muscle. Then slowly, hesitantly, he rubbed his thumb over the taut, aching nipple. “Sweetheart, a genuine good guy would roll out of this bed and run like hell straight out of your life.”
His blue eyes were tempest dark, his skin an inferno of heat. Like the devil’s. A tempting, handsome devil. One she knew instinctively would demand her soul for even a taste of what he offered.
But right now she didn’t care.
“In that case,” she whispered, “pretend you’re a bad man. A very, very bad man.”
Two heartbeats later his mouth crashed down on hers. His hand tightened around her breast and she moaned in anticipation of the inevitable. Deep down she’d known this would happen from the first moment she laid eyes on him across that crowded ballroom at the hotel. She just hadn’t known how complicated things would get first.
But she didn’t want to think about that now. All she wanted in this moment was to melt to his touch. And experience everything a man like him could give her.
She felt the silk of her dress jerk down over her body along with her panties, and gasped at the sensation of suddenly being naked beneath him. The caress of his hands and his lips on her bare skin and the rough brush of his suit against her sensitive inner thighs made her flesh ripple and convulse with excitement.
Amazingly, she had no fear of his superior size and strength, nor of his obvious mastery over her body. She only wanted to feel more. More.
She reached for his belt but the handcuff brought her up short. “Your clothes,” she urged, breaking the kiss, her voice breathless. She was literally dizzy with need.
“Later.” His mouth trailed wetly down her throat and kept going lower, until it latched onto her breast. He pulled hotly on her nipple, sending an agonizing ribbon of pleasure zinging through her center. His fingers pinched and rolled the other one, bringing her up off the bed. She cried out, grabbing at his hair, and nearly came.
He growled low in his throat. “Oh, sweetheart.” He ripped her drawer open and grabbed a fistful of condoms, spilling them onto the bed. The next second he slid down between her legs and spread her thighs wide apart. Then his tongue and his lips were on her, working and circling her need. Almost at once bringing her to the brink of a sharp, thrillingly brilliant crest.
It must be the residual adrenaline rus
h from her earlier terror, but she’d never felt anything so incredibly—Oh, God!
She exploded over the edge, screaming her pleasure as white-hot sensation ripped through her, over and over.
He gave her no respite, no chance to refill her lungs with precious air before he rose, his clothes half on, half off, and mounted her, plunging into her deep and hard. She gasped, her legs tightening instinctively around his waist as she again gave herself over to the blinding pleasure.
He was hard and huge, and he made it last. Lacing his fingers with hers, he held them fast over her head as he pounded into her, groaning her name with each powerful thrust.
There was no finesse, no subtlety. Just good hard sex. It was exactly what she needed. He made her forget everything. Her work, her past, her fears; her dismal future. There was just the here and now. Just Kick and Rainie, the two of them together as they hurtled full-speed into a shattering, body-ravaging climax in each other’s arms.
After quickly releasing the handcuffs and peeling off his disheveled clothes, he held her close as they gasped for breath, recovering from the tumult, hearts beating out of control and bodies slick with sweet-smelling sweat.
She never wanted to let him go. Ever.
“Damn, Rainie,” he groaned. “What the hell was that?”
She laughed through an answering moan, light-headed with pleasure. “You’re pretty amazing yourself.”
But it was more than pleasure. Much more. She felt an extraordinary, almost frightening connection with this man, one that was sure and strong and flowed through her veins like a powerful elixir of nurture and . . . safety. As she held him tight and breathed in the earthy scent of his skin and their lovemaking, she wondered what in the world was happening to make her feel this way. And also wondered . . .
Did he feel it, too?
After all, it was her name he’d been calling, her pleasure he’d been bestowing. This wasn’t some anonymous hookup. He’d been making love to her, Rainie Martin, not to anyone else.
The thought was incredible, really.
And also . . . impossible.
She had to be imagining it all.
These feelings couldn’t be real. They couldn’t be. She was a nurse. She knew very well that the body’s chemical reaction to acute fear felt identical to a rush of sexual desire. She knew that.
In her mind.
So why did it feel so different in her body . . . and her heart?
It couldn’t, that’s what. The very idea was ludicrous. Can you say Stockholm Syndrome?
Not that the sex hadn’t been fantastic. It so was. It just wasn’t . . . imbued with some miraculous, magical bond. Because that sort of thing only happened in fairy tales. Not real life. Especially when the man rolling on top of you didn’t even come close to being Prince Charming, but far more resembled the Big Bad Wolf. . . .
But before she could accept the logic of her own argument, his mouth found hers and plied her with a long, slow, bone-melting kiss. His cock leisurely thickened and lengthened again, gradually finding and filling her with its iron-hard hunger.
And she decided that, after all, princes . . . and logic . . . were highly overrated.
HE wasn’t bad.
How could a man so generous with his body and so tender with his emotions possibly be a bad guy?
Rainie lay back on the bed with a silly smile, twirling the handcuffs around and around on her forefinger while Kick was in the bathroom. The whole situation—and her uncharacteristic reaction to it—was so bizarre she had no clue what to make of it all. The only thing she knew with any certainty was that she did not regret a single moment with him.
Well. Okay, maybe some of the moments she regretted. Like when he’d first held her at gunpoint and she’d been sure she would die any second. That moment had been absolutely terrifying. So then . . . how had he ultimately succeeded in making her feel so . . . safe? Something was just not right about this whole picture.
She needed to find out more.
“What’s the deal with the travel posters?” he called. “Have you been all these places?”
She almost choked. “Um. Not exactly.” The day she got on a plane—or any other mode of transportation for that matter—would be the day . . . well, hell froze over. “I just like dreaming about different places.”
“Why not go? Don’t they give nurses vacation time?”
“I, uh . . . don’t like to fly.” She didn’t talk about this. The only person who really knew about her . . . problem . . . was Gina. Rainie was not about to discuss it with this man, who oozed peril and adventure from every pore of his body. Even if he wasn’t Nathan Daneby.
“Tell me about these people,” she called back instead, tossing the handcuffs on top of his jacket, which was still on the nightstand. “The ones threatening you.”
He popped his head out of the bathroom and drilled her with a frown. “No way. It’s too dangerous.”
There. See? He was a good guy. Trying to protect her.
“But don’t you think I should know something about them?” she reasoned. “Just in case.”
His frown deepened. “In case what? Forget it. These are not people you want to mess with.”
A frisson of gooseflesh sifted over her arms at the distinct warning tone in his voice. “I don’t plan to mess with them, Kick,” she assured him. “But what if something really happens to you? Someone should know what’s going on. To report it.”
He made a derisive noise. “Report it to whom?”
“The police?”
“Trust me, that wouldn’t help,” he said, sliding back into bed, wincing as he did. He tugged her into his arms.
His skin was scorching hot. She pulled back a fraction and looked up at his face. His pupils were dilated and his face flushed. But not in a sexual way. More like, a fever way. Or . . . an anxiety attack way. Surely, not . . .
“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned.
He gave a deep yawn, his body shivering a little at the end of it. Then he yawned again, squeezed his eyes shut, and grimaced. Cursing under his breath, his expression was suddenly filled with . . . guilt?
“Kick?”
“I’m sorry, baby. I really wish . . .”
He looked so miserable, a tremor of unease went through her. “What’s going on?”
He swallowed, swiped an unsteady hand over his sweaty brow. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to blurt it out.”
Her pulse inched up. Now what? “Okay . . .”
“You were right about me. I denied it, of course, but you hit it right on the head.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“About the drugs.”
“But . . .” Suddenly she remembered that first thought when he’d pointed the gun at her outside the hotel. And her chest squeezed. “My God!” she gasped, scrambling backward across the bed, out of his embrace. “That’s what this was all about? You’re after drugs?”
Her heart felt like it had been run over by a truck. How could she have been so wrong about him? So totally fooled?
“You bastard!”
“No.” He shook his head with another wince. “Trust me, I’m not after drugs. But”—he swallowed again—“I am . . . an addict.” His face screwed into a portrait of angry frustration. “And I’m about to go into withdrawal.”
He leaned forward and reached for her, but she backed safely out of range. Trust? She didn’t think so. She stared at him in numb disbelief. Had he deliberately stalked her? Somehow found out that she was the go-to person in the ER when it came to drug overdoses and withdrawals? “What exactly do you want from me?”
“Help.”
“Help?”
“To get through it.”
Hurt seeped from her heart through her whole body as the awful truth dawned on her. So he had stalked her. “You planned this all along! You came to the hospital’s speed dating night specifically to find me! Deliberately set out to seduce me and then use me. Didn’t you?�
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“Rainie, no—”
“Didn’t you?” She almost spat the words. She didn’t know whom she was most mad at, him, or herself for all those naïve, idiotic things she’d been feeling about him just moments before. What a romantic, delusional fool!
He shuddered out a pained breath, flopping back onto the bed. “No! Not you. Not specifically. But yes. That was the plan. To find someone with medical knowledge to help me through these next couple of days. But I never thought I’d meet someone who—”
She thinned her lips. “Save it.” She’d worked with hundreds of drug addicts in the ER. She knew all about their manipulation and lies. “Give me one good reason I should help you.”
She tried not to think about the gun lying right next to him on the nightstand. Or the fact that even hurt as she was, she doubted she could turn down a genuine plea for help. It was how they’d talked her into heading the most hazardous program in the ER. She was too damn gullible for her own good.
“I’m sorry. Believe me, if there’d been any other way—”
“There is,” she gritted out. “It’s called a rehab center.”
“Too public. The people after me would know where I was within an hour of checking in. I need to be completely off-grid for the three days it takes to get clean.”
“Three days?” It was her turn to snort. “What are you addicted to, caffeine?”
“Oxycontin.”
Hell. She did a small mental backpedal. Oxycontin was a painkiller. A notoriously and severely addictive one. And to be fair, a lot of innocent people got hooked on it before they even knew what was happening.
Which didn’t excuse Kick’s actions last night. But . . . at least he wasn’t talking about cocaine, heroin, or eX. Something disgusting like that.
She sat up Indian style on the bed, drawing the sheet over her nakedness. “You were injured?”
“You could say that.” He sat up also, and stretched out his left leg so she could get a good look. Her stomach clenched. The skin was riddled with scars. He extended his left forearm, also scarred. Then turned his back a half turn to her. Thin scars crisscrossed the tanned expanse of his left shoulder. She vaguely remembered feeling them last night, but because of what she saw every day at the hospital they hadn’t really registered as unusual. Or maybe she’d blocked them from her consciousness, afraid of what thinking about them might trigger within her. Like it was now.