What he needed was some hot, sweaty sex with her to get the frustration out of his system. Physically he craved her with a need that made his blood rush. Mentally, he liked her, admired her grit, her chisel-sharp mind. She didn’t deserve... no, not going there. He couldn’t afford to feel more than heat.
For now he’d opt for a different kind of exercise. He had plenty of time for a good work-out in the mini-gym that took up the third bedroom. On his way to the bedroom, he heard feet pounding on the treadmill. He was pulling on shorts when his cell rang. Kaplan.
“You’ve been a busy boy,” the FBI agent said.
Damn, the detective got to him first. And double damn, Cort hadn’t informed Kaplan he was headed west. “I suppose the cop told you all about it.”
“I got the official version. I’d like yours.” The rapid clicking of his nails on his desk was a measure of his irritation.
Cort gave him the CliffsNotes version before adding, “We’re going to try to talk to Danita Inglish’s daughter. Maybe she knows about the ring piece. It’s a long shot but it’s all we have.”
“Now you see what the FBI has faced.”
At least nobody’d died while the Feds investigated. But Danita Inglish would’ve been targeted regardless of what he did. “Now it’s worse. Leon’s death has invited a free-for-all.”
“I do have something for you. Three days after the Jeweler’s death, a man named Rolf Rousso took a Lufthansa flight from Munich to Boston. My contact at Interpol said they believe he’s an agent of Centaur. Rousso’s only one of several aliases. Traveled on a Polish passport. They’re sending me a description and photo.”
“He could be the big-nosed guy who followed me in the Metro.” Maybe Cort would recognize the man. “You have any news about the break-in at Hauptman’s house?”
“Hauptman? First I’ve heard of it.”
Cort sat on the king bed and jammed his feet into sneakers. “Mara phoned Twyla Hauptman on Sunday. The woman complained about a break-in Saturday night. Didn’t say what they took, only that they trashed the place. Said she told the cops about us, that we hassled her. Accused us of the burglary. But the local cops there haven’t contacted either one of us.”
“I’ll check with Montgomery County PD,” Kaplan said. “Anything from her on a ring piece?”
“Claims she went through her husband’s stuff and came up empty.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I don’t believe anybody. Not until this plays out. Will you clear it with the detective here so we can head back east?”
“Not up to me. I verified your story. That’s all. How do I know you’re not involved?”
Kaplan had another call and disconnected. What the hell? Now he was pulling back? Afraid he’d get burned if Cort and Mara had something to do with killing Inglish? Cort was right in the first place not to trust the FBI. Bunch of suspicious paranoids.
Shit, how long would he be stuck in a holding pattern? Picturing Inglish shot and bleeding out in the wreckage of the ambulance, he grimaced.
They needed to return to D.C. Mara had to get back to work and he had other possible accomplices to chase while they continued to play house for the Clone Brothers. The week remaining wasn’t much time to interview two more security guards and the museum director. He grabbed a gray T-shirt as he headed for the “gym.”
He froze in the doorway, mesmerized. In lime green nylon shorts and a tank top, Mara jogged on the treadmill. The flexing of her toned body and strong legs made his mouth water. But she wasn’t in the mood for sex, he reminded himself. Biting back expletives, he sketched a wave as he headed for the free weights. She dipped her head in greeting. Maybe she was so in the zone she wouldn’t notice his body’s condition, all too obvious in thin cotton shorts.
Warm-up had a whole new meaning. Eyeing the banana seat on the stationary bike, he scowled. Symbolism and more torture. And a ride meant staring either at the floor or at Mara on the treadmill. He swallowed and eased onto the torture seat before pumping his legs. The exertion would distract him.
Yeah, right.
Then his gaze zeroed in on the damp spot on the cotton between her breasts.
His leg rhythm faltered and the bike’s sprocket protested loudly. Shit. Enough. He’d grab the treadmill when she was done. He mopped his face with a towel from a stack, then tossed off his already soaked T-shirt. He selected a weight. His biceps routine would be something he could get into. He’d forget all about the delectable female across the room.
Right arm and then left, he strained with each set of curls until his arms screamed and sweat poured from his chin and ears. Satisfied he’d given his muscles enough stress, he deposited the weights in the rack. He mopped his head and chest with the towel, and then glanced at her.
His gaze tangled with hers. The naked hunger on her face made him gasp for breath. She was walking her cool-down but there was nothing cool in her gaze.
“Like what you see?” He spread his arms and grinned.
“Not anything I haven’t seen before.” The cheeky toss of her head flipped her ponytail.
“But something you want. Your eyes don’t lie, sweetheart.” His speeding pulse had nothing to do with his workout. He crossed to the treadmill. “Enough of a workout.”
“Time for stress reliever sex?” Another flip of hair and she kept walking. But she was chewing one corner of her lips.
For the first time he noticed her eyes were red. “You’ve been crying. I damn near broke down myself. Inglish didn’t deserve that, no matter what she did.”
“I started changing clothes and it all came crashing down on me. Guess I needed a good cry. I’m okay now.” Her chin quivered but she shook off the emotion. “I heard your phone ring. Kaplan?” Her gaze flicked from his face to skim his body.
She hadn’t cooled off. Neither had he. “Yeah. I don’t want to talk about that.”
And then he did the damnedest thing. He hauled her off the treadmill and into his arms. Before she could resist, he lowered his head and captured her mouth. Damn, he loved her taste. Her mouth felt soft as silk under his, and she smelled of spring beneath the sweat. Gradually she swayed into him with a little sigh, becoming soft and pliable, fitting just right against his body.
“You don’t want me,” she murmured against his lips even as she pressed her breast into his palm. “It’s just the stress. We don’t—”
“Have anything in common but our mutual goal. I know. But this chemistry between us says that doesn’t matter. We’re combustible in bed. And we need a break from reality.”
She clutched at him, her cheek against his shoulder, her short nails scraping his skin.
Heat burned through his skin, and his body clenched so hard he ached. Heat poured through him. She had to feel his straining arousal pressing against her belly.
She lowered her lashes and swayed in his arms. And then she kissed him back.
Their tongues met and danced together as she gave herself up to the moment. He pulled her tank top loose and found the soft skin of her belly. As if on auto-pilot, his hand glided upward to push her sports bra aside and cup the fullness of her breast.
After a moment, she leaned back, gasping. “We’re both all sweaty.”
“There’s a remedy for that.” Grinning like a fool, he scooped her up in his arms.
Mara would’ve protested but he kept her mouth too busy as he carried her down the hall. And the man could kiss. A hot mouth that grazed and nipped and melted, urgent sweeps of tongue that sent shock waves of need along her spine and made her lips cling to his. She reveled in the heat and rough texture of his skin, inhaled his scent. Something about him was different, something addictive, and her inability to hold back a measure of herself scared her.
The warm shades of the tan and umber bathroom tiles seemed to wrap around them. He let her slide down the length of his big body until she stood, still wrapped in his arms, still captured by his mouth. If he released her, she wasn’t sure her legs would suppor
t her.
He caressed her skin from her throat, to her breasts, and across her stomach. The calluses on his hands heightened the sensation, heating her skin every place he touched. His index finger teased back and forth beneath the waistband of her nylon jogging shorts. She closed her eyes, hunger tingling, throbbing, licking through her belly and up her spine.
When he removed his hand, she opened her eyes to see him staring at her with an intensity that stopped her breath. Somehow without her realizing, he’d divested himself of his shorts and sneakers. She’d seen all that hot, smooth skin, the roughness and power, bared for her before, but not glistening like wet marble. The urge sparked and flared to touch every line and angle—the contours of his shoulders, the bulges and sinews of his muscles.
More scars marred his skin, slashing white ones across his torso, knife scars from defending himself in prison. She wanted to kiss each one, soothe him with her mouth. How had he come out of that hellish place as whole as he was?
Her heart gave a solid kick against her sternum before taking off like Serena Williams chasing a corner power serve. She held his hard-hewn face between her hands, studying the raw, primitive need in his eyes. She reached into the double-size, tiled shower stall to flip on the hot water. She yanked off her sneakers and scooped off her shorts and panties. “What I said before still goes. We’re all wrong for each other.”
He swallowed, seemed to force himself to meet her gaze. “Still warning the ex-con?”
“Ditch the ex-con crap. You say you don’t trust others but it’s really yourself you don’t trust. This is casual, a temporary affair, nothing more.” She crossed mental fingers she could keep that promise to herself.
A shadow flickered in his eyes before he shuttered his expression. Most men would do handstands of gratitude for a woman who wanted no strings. Most of the time he was stoic and remote. Wasn’t he the one who insisted on casual? She didn’t get it. But the pain she’d glimpsed in his eyes was real and raw.
“Sweet,” he finally said, his voice rough. “We’re clear on that.” He grabbed protection from the stash someone had left in the medicine cabinet and reached for her. His dark pewter gaze promised sensual, slow pleasure.
And then they were mouth to mouth, skin to skin, the water sluicing over them, washing away second thoughts, rinsing away all thought. She licked his skin, tasted his salty passion. Giving herself up to the deep longing within, she reached for him, felt him jerk in her hand, hot with the same need that stirred her.
He delved into her with his fingers, driving her higher until she went boneless. “I have to have you now.”
And then nothing was slow. Not his need, not hers. He lifted her against him so her legs gripped him, and pleasure exploded as he entered her. The three shower nozzles wrapped them together in a curtain of water and steam. He continued to caress her and kiss her, his skillful touch stoking heat, unfurling pleasure, unraveling control. He knew what she wanted, what she needed without her speaking, not that she could utter anything but a strangled cry.
Pressure lapped higher and higher as he moved within her, and her senses reeled. It was too much. He wanted more than she wanted to give of herself. She flung her head back, breathless, gasping, panic sharpening to an unbearable pitch. His possession shot shock waves through her—too intense, too primitive, too powerful. No, I can’t.
“Mara, let yourself go.” His whisper was rough, his breath hot against her skin. “Fly for me. Don’t fight it.”
Water beat on her head, coursed through her hair as she searched for balance and sanity. She found only him, around her, inside her, body and soul. A hot flash of sensation flooded her legs, her belly, her entire being in a huge, pulsating wave and she clutched at him and cried out, unable to fight him or herself anymore.
And then he surged against her and gasped his release in a guttural roar.
Moments later, rubber-legged and blissed-out, she realized she was again standing—with his support. He soaped them both and turned her to let the water rinse her. Dazed, she barely noticed when he turned off the now cold water and tossed her a towel.
As he stepped out of the shower stall to dry, he watched her, studied her with those penetrating eyes.
She angled away to hide. As if it wasn’t already way too late. Oh God, she’d let go with him and flown. Dangerously high. He’d wrung from her every drop of pleasure and emotion the way she was twisting the water from her dripping hair. And God help her, she wanted him again. With the towel he tossed her, she wrapped the long, tangled mess turban-style. She accepted another towel and dried off, still standing in the shower stall. Away from him.
A glance at him tightened her stomach. He seemed to take up the entire bathroom. Naked, all sexy-eyed and gorgeous. What the hell could she do now to resist him? Necessary, until she got her emotions under control. So casual it was. Wrapping the towel around her for some modesty, she stepped onto the soft bath rug and steadied herself before she met his avid gaze.
He closed the gap between them and pressed her power-button tattoo. His eyes held a wicked gleam and his grin dented the dimple in his cheek. The man didn’t play fair.
She batted his hand away. Already his touch was arousing a shivery sensation. “Down, boy. Hey, it must be getting late. We ought to get dressed and go find some dinner.”
He cupped her chin, his eyes probing her face, consternation crimping his brow. “Don’t act like nothing special happened between us, Mara. We nearly flew over the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“No, we did. I mean... I just—”
She didn’t know what he saw on her face but suddenly he wrapped his arms around her. “You’re afraid. And this time it’s not our bad guys. What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing. You’re reading too much into the situation.”
“You were struggling with something a minute ago. You afraid of me?”
Yes. And of myself and how much I dare give, how much I care. She wriggled away. “Get out. Aren’t you the one who said this was casual? Then chill.”
“Chill? With you, sweetheart, cooling off isn’t possible. It’s still early. Dinner can wait. You’ve whetted my appetite but not for food.”
Before she could object, he scooped her up—again—and marched off to the master bedroom. “Hey, what are you doing? Put me down,” she sputtered. But an old sci-fi line came back to her: Resistance is futile. Especially when down deep she wanted the inevitable.
He dumped her in the middle of the king bed and followed her down, kneeling over her. One side at a time, as if opening the petals of a flower, he peeled back her towel. “I rushed you in the shower. This time’s for you.”
***
Later they ate dinner at a sidewalk bistro down the block. With color in her cheeks and her lips plumped from his kisses, she looked sexy and well loved. And elegant as always, dressed in black pants and a black silk shirt under the new grass-green jacket she’d bought that afternoon to replace her ruined one. He couldn’t wait to get all that off her again.
He ordered steak and she pasta.
“Need to replenish all that testosterone with some red meat, big guy?” she teased.
“Read into it whatever you want, sweetheart. I notice you ordered carbs.”
She laughed and lifted her wine glass to him. “Touché. Enjoy your steak.”
He told her about Kaplan’s call. When she heard the agent offered as much support as the trap door beneath a hanged man, she dropped her forkful of seafood linguini. “Suspects? Us? He’s an idiot!” If Kaplan were there, her irate look would’ve reduced him to cinders.
“Ex-con here, remember?” Cort said.
Her eyes widened in comprehension. So did his.
Did she forget he’d spent four years in prison? Did she forget he’d committed that robbery along with Leon? The honest bewilderment and affront on her face said she did. He’d never known anybody to think of him without his damn sins on their mind. Then there was that odd thing she’d said about not trusting
himself. Made sense in a weird sort of way. Not that he’d let himself get all mushy. Best not to read too much into anything.
She twitched her shoulders in dismissal of his reminder. “You were in for burglary, not cold-blooded murder. Besides, we called 911 to report the attack.”
“Happens all the time. I heard cons talk all the time about reporting their own crime to draw suspicion away from themselves that way. Didn’t work. They were in prison.”
Her look of rebuke and disgust before she returned to her pasta was for the cops or maybe the dumb crooks, not him. He hoped.
When they arrived back at the condo, he expected to pick up where they’d left off. She burned hot and bright in his arms, and he wanted her again. She popped into his mind when he least expected. When he was trying to figure out the puzzle of the ring pieces and their murderous competitors, she wrapped herself around his thoughts and he wanted to know what she thought, felt, wanted. He wanted to bounce ideas off her. And hell, yes, he wanted her in his bed.
But his craving for her was because of the danger. Nothing more. He’d had great sex before. He couldn’t remember when exactly but he must’ve. He could keep their relationship just friends, just business except for the sex. He was fine alone. No problem.
As they reached the top of the stairs, he started to follow her to the master suite.
She turned, placing a hand on his arm. “Casual, remember, Jones?”
“Affair, remember, Marton? That means sex, or it meant sex in our recent past.”
“Sex doesn’t have to mean always sleeping together.” When he gaped at her, she rose on tiptoes to brush a light kiss across his mouth. “Not tonight. Please. First flying on the red-eye, then... well, I need a good night’s sleep before facing Mom tomorrow.”
Chapter 18
Cort opened his eyes and stretched, thinking of the woman who’d kept him awake hoping she’d come to his bed. Or invite him into hers.
Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) Page 16