At the moment, she could barely sit up by herself let alone seduce him, and that was a good thing. Honestly, if she'd truly put a move on him earlier, he'd have had a hard time holding out. Resist her he must, however, because the only way to raise his odds of becoming her boyfriend was to keep her wanting him.
"Finish it," he cajoled when she put her half-eaten sandwich down.
She glared at him and shoved a huge bite into her mouth.
"You got a bathtub?" he asked, figuring she probably did.
Her bleary eyes cleared. Feeble flames of lust flickered in them.
"Just off my bedroom," she said around her mouthful of food.
Still hiding his grin, he walked toward the master bedroom.
"Oh, sure, help yourself," he heard her mutter. But her tone lacked acerbity. If he didn't hurry and draw a bath, she'd fall asleep waiting for him.
Her oversized Jacuzzi tub incited his envy. Now, this is a tub. He'd give both his eyeteeth to get in there with Juliet, but that wasn't going to happen.
In good time, he assured himself. Twisting the faucets, he set about filling the tub with warm water. To his surprise, Juliet had amassed a collection of girlie bath stuff in a basket—proof she had a softer side even if she rarely showed it.
He sprinkled bath salts under the gushing water. They started to foam, releasing the scent of lavender. Turning to fetch Juliet, he found her standing at the door. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes half closed.
"What're you doing?" Her words slurred.
"Gettin' you ready for bed." Before she could protest, he marched up and started to undress her, unbuttoning her persimmon-colored blouse. She wore a pink lace bra beneath it.
With uncharacteristic docility, she submitted to his ministrations.
When his hands dropped to the button at the front of her trousers, he thought for sure she would stop him, but she didn't. He released the button, lowered the zipper, and peeled her gray slacks over her hips and down her long, toned legs. Tristan crouched to pull them off her bare feet. At eye level with her pink panties, he forced himself to avert his gaze.
Standing up swiftly, he ordered her to turn around.
With the appearance of holding her breath, Juliet did so, and he efficiently unhooked her bra. Before he caved to temptation, he pushed the straps off her shoulders, divesting her of both her undergarments, all with a practiced swipe of his hands.
"In you go." He palmed her elbow and turned her toward the tub. His gaze went straight to her pink nipples, both flushed and taut with arousal.
She thought he was going to make his move on her—no question. If that kept her cooperative, he wouldn't bother to correct her assumption.
"You look amazing," he said, unable to withhold a comment. "Just like I remember."
"Thanks." She stepped into the tub, shaking off his assistance and groaning with unabashed enjoyment as she collapsed rather ungracefully into the fragrant bubbles.
"Not too hot?" he asked, reaching for a washcloth and a bar of soap.
"Un-unh." Sliding lower into the water, she eyed him from beneath half-closed eyes as he wet the cloth and rubbed soap into it.
"Aren't you coming in?" Her question betrayed confusion.
"Nope. This is all about you. Hold your arms out."
"I can bathe myself," she said, but she offered him an arm, all the same, while dropping her head against the end of the tub. "Mmmm." She moaned her appreciation as he ran the washcloth from her hand to her shoulder then reached across the tub to do the same to her other arm.
"Sit forward," he instructed. "Better get your back before you fall asleep."
"I am tired," she admitted, adjusting her position. Her head nodded, and her hair concealed her face.
By the time he pressed her back into a reclining pose, her eyes were closed, making it easier for him to apply the washcloth to her full, pert breasts without bending toward them to flick them with his tongue. They puckered at his ministrations, a treat that turned him as hard as a rock under the confines of his zipper.
This ain't about you, hotshot, he reminded himself.
Still, he had to confess to a teensy bit of self-interest as he slid the washcloth to her waist then underwater to sluice it over her hips. To his immense gratification, she parted her legs wordlessly. He drew the washcloth lower, wiping it slowly and sensually along the insides of her thighs. Her knees emerged from the water as she bent her legs. Her pelvis tipped subtly to give him better access.
Abandoning the washcloth, he skimmed his palm lightly over the petals of her sex, watching her response before repeating his caress. Her breasts rose as she gave a light gasp, but she didn't attempt to stop him. He stroked her again.
In spite of her exhaustion, she lay as open and inviting as a flower in bloom. He traced the silky soft folds with his fingertips and felt them swell. Her clitoris made itself apparent, firming beneath the pad of his thumb as he teased it.
Juliet whimpered, but her eyes remained shut. Her lips parted as though she were suddenly short of breath. He took that as his cue to continue, thumbing the sensitive nubbin with a skill he had learned the good old-fashioned way. When her thighs began to tremble, he teased her slick opening with his middle finger.
Her breathing grew faster, shallower. A shimmer of sweat appeared on her upper lip. Beckoned by the slippery moisture at her opening, Tristan slid his middle finger inside her and was rewarded with a lift of Juliet's hips. Hidden muscles squeezed him. He added a second digit, pushing them both into her snugness to caress her G-spot. As he drew them out, she gave a whimper of deprivation.
He thrust again, and she rose to meet him.
When she covered her own breasts with her hands, squeezing and rolling her nipples right in front of him, he thought he might disgrace himself.
God Almighty. He took a mental snapshot of how sexy she looked with her head thrown back, tongue riding the curve of her lush lips. Lost in the throes of ecstasy, too tired to care what she revealed to him, she gave herself to him unabashedly.
Did she even realize it was he who was doing this to her? Or would she have let any old Joe have his way?
"Tristan." Her ragged cry reassured him. "Please!"
He'd have given anything to drive his aching flesh into her responsive body, but that was not his plan. For the moment, he let his fingers do the talking.
Her muscles clamped down on him and her face contorted with rapture. She issued a keening cry that was almost a scream.
His testicles responded helplessly. A small spurt of semen wet the insides of his boxer briefs in what had to be the world's most unsatisfying climax. But triumph took the edge off his frustration as Juliet slowly relaxed, heaving a gratified sigh.
She'd think about this night every time she took a bath. Mission accomplished.
"That was wonderful," she whispered, her words running together as he gently withdrew his hand and reached for the washcloth like nothing had happened. Her eyes remained shut. Her breathing slowed. He finished rubbing down her calves and feet.
Not a word more was spoken. Suspecting Juliet was fully asleep, Tristan opened the drain on the tub, wrung out the washcloth, and set it aside. He stood and reached for the fluffy blue towel hanging on the towel rack.
Getting Juliet dried off and into bed would take more than a feat of strength. At five foot seven and made of lean muscle, she wasn't exactly a featherweight. It would also be a real test of restraint. But what the hell, he'd been celibate for six long months. A couple more days wasn't going to kill him. He'd fulfilled his objective. Come morning, when Juliet awoke refreshed and hankering for more than he'd given her last night, she was going to reconsider her hang-up with relationships.
* * *
Juliet squinted at the alarm clock by her bed. Reading 10 a.m., she jerked up onto her elbow to find her room awash with morning sunlight and her apartment smelling of coffee and bacon.
What the hell? She hadn't slept this late on a weekday in her life!
Kicking off the covers, she sat up to realize two things at once. First, she was completely naked. And secondly, someone had slept next to her, given the imprint in the other pillow. She bet she knew who that someone was.
Tristan had shared her bed. No, wait. Pleasant memories flowed through her. First, he'd fondled her in her tub, giving her the most fantastic orgasm in recorded history. And then what? Had they had sex after that?
She put a hand to her forehead. No. Recalling the physicality of their sex in Mexico, she was positive she would remember if Tristan had ravished her as he'd done last spring. Besides, she would surely be tender down there, if they'd done the deed, considering how long it had been.
So... he'd only slept beside her. And he'd apparently switched off her alarm clock because it hadn't gone off at six as it should have.
Bastard! He couldn't just show up in the middle of an investigation and take over her life. She had work to do!
Stalking across her bedroom in search of her robe, she was still tying it around her waist when she stormed into the kitchen. Tristan stood at the stove, cooking breakfast.
"Mornin'." His grin made her stomach cartwheel. The memory of his fingers stroking her G-spot derailed her thoughts for several seconds. "Hope you slept as good as I did. Hilary called," he added, nodding toward her phone which was now sitting next to her purse. "She says she got your note last night, and she's got stuff about Goebel that you can look at when you make it in. Also, she found another match for the composite of your suspect."
Juliet processed several things at once. Tristan had violated her privacy yet again by digging into her purse and answering her phone. Moreover, he'd forced her to sleep in when she had work to do. What's more, he intended for them to share a hearty breakfast. It took another second to find her voice.
"Get out," she said. Her ears started to burn, and her hands curled into fists when Tristan sent her an unruffled glance and picked up two eggs.
"How do you like your eggs?" he asked. "Over-easy or sunny side up?"
"Scrambled." Juliet forced the words between her teeth. "Because that's what I'm going to do to your brains if you don't stop trying to run my life!"
He glanced at the eggs in his hands, shrugged, and reached for a bowl to break them into. "Suit yourself." A strange light twinkled in his eyes as he glanced at her again.
The gall of the man! Juliet took closer stock of him, wondering why he looked so at home in her galley kitchen. Watching him break open the eggs, two at a time, and dump them into a bowl, it occurred to her that some time while she'd been fast asleep, he'd gone shopping for groceries. While she resented his nerve, she had to admit she was ravenous. Her stomach rumbled noisily. Scrambled eggs and bacon sounded really, really good right then.
"Did you get any bread?" she asked, venturing closer.
"Yep." He glanced at her toaster, and she saw two slices peeking out of it. "Toast is on the way."
His cheerful tone annoyed her. And so did the fact that he hadn't taken her threat seriously. Surely, he realized he had overstepped his bounds. If any other man tried to pull the stunts Tristan was pulling, she'd have given him the boot hours ago. Juliet was only letting Tristan slide because she was hungry—and that was the only reason.
Besides, he looked incredibly sexy in the navy crewneck sweater he had paired with cargo pants.
"Hey, where'd you get those clothes?" she demanded. They weren't the same ones Tristan had worn yesterday.
He shot her an innocent look. "From my suitcase."
She cast an eye around but didn't see it. "You didn't have a suitcase yesterday."
"Sure, I did. In Bullfrog's Jeep. I picked it up this morning while I was out getting groceries."
Although they were staying with friends of Emma's, her sister and brother-in-law were obviously aiding and abetting Tristan's cause. "You brought your suitcase here on your motorcycle?"
"Uh—" Tristan cast her a wary glance. "No, actually, I had to borrow your SUV to carry groceries anyway. Hope that's OK."
A pulse began to tap at her temples. She felt herself sizzling in tandem with the milk-and-egg mixture Tristan poured into the hot pan.
"Sure," she bit out tartly. "Is there anything else of mine you'd like to help yourself to while you're here?" She gestured sarcastically at the interior of her apartment.
His gaze slid with unmistakable appreciation over her silk-clad figure. Given her question, she expected him to say, How about I help myself to you? Instead, he turned his attention to stirring the hardening egg mixture.
"No thanks. I'm good," Tristan said lightly.
Juliet realized both her hands were buried in her hair. "I'm going to get dressed," she muttered, turning away before she killed him.
"Don't take too long," he sang out as she marched back to her bedroom. "Breakfast is just about ready."
Closing the door firmly behind her, she leaned against it a moment feeling her heart thumping in her chest.
Damn it! What was this game Tristan was playing? He'd babied her last night in a way most women would find endearing, if not downright seductive. But Tristan had also invited himself to stay in her apartment. He'd even helped himself to her vehicle without her permission.
The man had some gall. He must think that simply because he'd pleasured her last night without asking for anything in return, she owed him her hospitality.
Bullshit. Juliet owed him nothing. And as soon as she could comfortably extricate herself from his unwanted company, she would do so.
But given the stubborn twinkle she'd glimpsed in his eyes earlier, he had more plans up his sleeves. Getting rid of him wouldn't be all that easy. Good thing she had Hilary working on his consolation package. If anything could tear Tristan away from her, it would be the promise of a reunion with his long-lost birth mother.
* * *
"Goebel was a huge patron of the arts," Hilary announced swiveling her chair to face them as Tristan and Juliet blew into the office.
Tristan blinked at the woman's outfit. Today, Hilary wore a hot pink jacket over a lemon-yellow, figure-hugging dress. A beaded necklace that contained every hue of the rainbow drew his gaze straight to the dress's plunging neckline and her voluptuous bosom. Surprisingly shapely legs sheathed in sheer, cream-colored stockings emerged from beneath the dress's high hem, held up by a garter belt, if the eyelet and satin strap he glimpsed were any indication.
Holy hell. He averted his gaze with difficulty to take in her five-inch, hot pink high heels.
"Show me," Juliet demanded, unaware of her assistant's effect on Tristan's ocular nerves.
Tugging primly at her skirt, Hilary swung her chair back around to display her findings.
Juliet tossed her purse aside and went to stand over her right shoulder. As Hilary brought up an image of a whitewashed brick building, Tristan flanked Hilary's other side.
"Goebel collected artwork, specifically works of Art Nouveau and Art Deco."
"I have no idea what that means," Juliet admitted, though her mother most certainly would have.
"I'll show you some," Hilary promised. "He displayed his collection in this building just blocks from the Stasi's headquarters in Lichtenberg. The pictures would have looked something like this," she continued, directing their attention to a different monitor. "Though these aren't actual pieces in his collection because that was seized by West German officials when the Wall came down."
Hilary clicked through a series of oil paintings that displayed gritty images of downtrodden factory workers, farmers in the field, and small, grubby children.
"You see, Goebel was a Marxist," she continued, warming to her history lesson. "He was born into a Jewish family, and when Hitler gained power, Goebel's family moved to Russia where he attended school and got involved in politics. When Russia gained control of East Germany, he was appointed as head of the Main Directorate of Reconnaissance.
"You've heard of how the Stasi spied on Germany's citizens to weed out potential d
issidents? Well, Goebel was behind that, detaining, torturing, and coercing his own people. He was also in charge of espionage against the West, and he sent hundreds of moles, whom he called his Romeos and Juliets, to seduce unsuspecting government workers, NATO employees, and scientists, all with the objective of squeezing intelligence out of them and reporting back to the East."
"Moles like my mother," Juliet murmured, thinking it ironic that her mother had named her Juliet, considering its Cold War meaning.
"Right. Anyway, Goebel's efforts ultimately failed. The Cold War ended, and East and West Germany united. Goebel was thrown out of office, sentenced, and imprisoned. Only, he disappeared from prison, and no one ever saw him again."
"Right, I read about that last night." Juliet shifted impatiently.
"Anyway, back to the art, which I found interesting. Goebel was a painter and an art collector. He saw art as a means of propagating Marxist ideals, and he proudly exhibited his own original paintings in a building close to where he worked each day."
She clicked her mouse, and the picture of a white brick building reappeared. "It's now an elementary school."
"What happened to his art when he went to prison?" Juliet asked.
"It was seized and sold," Hilary replied. "But that got me thinking. If Goebel was that proud of his collection, he might have tried to get it back in the last few decades. Maybe if we track down the art, we can track him down."
Juliet expelled a long breath. "Then we don't yet know if he was alive in 2006."
"Not yet," Hilary admitted. She glanced over her shoulder at her boss and added, "But he would be eighty-one by now, so there's a good chance he's dead."
"I need to know for sure."
Hearing the stubborn note in Juliet's voice, Tristan realized she wouldn't give up until she had an answer.
"You know," he said, "I've got a friend on the team who could help. You want me to ask him to look for Goebel, too?"
Juliet and Hilary shot him identical looks of affront.
Hot Target (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 4) Page 6