by Dianna Love
Was that all she expected now? No intimacy? Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to do it. Correction. She would ultimately get what she wanted, but he intended to make love to her even if waiting to get inside her was going to bruise his balls from being denied.
He kissed her.
She’d opened her lips before, but not now. She was intentionally keeping this all about sex. He kept kissing her and, while he did, his fingers got busy between her legs, going to the spot she’d been warming up for him.
She opened her mouth on a gasp and he kissed her, his tongue joining hers in a dance. Just like that, he felt the switch in her from hunting a fast release to engaging with him. Wanting more.
He would give her everything she could take.
Pleasure flooded him from head to toe at that small concession.
He kissed his way to her neck and whispered. “You’re soft and hot and I want to taste every inch of you.”
She muttered, “This is a fast food menu.”
He smiled and kept moving his finger back and forth through her folds. She slowly arched up and slid her hand to his back, holding him to her and kissed him with an intensity that rocked him. He changed the pace, teasing her until her thighs tightened against his arm.
Sharp fingernails curled into his back.
He’d missed that.
Without warning, he drove a finger inside her and pumped. A sharp noise escaped her. He kissed the breast he hadn’t touched and nipped her nipple, holding it between his teeth as he ran his tongue back and forth over the tight bud.
She bowed off the bed and cried out. Fingernails scraped his skin, clinging to him as she shook. Her inner muscles clenched around his fingers and he wanted to smile. He kept stroking her with his thumb until he drained the last shudder from her.
She’d soaked his fingers.
His balls were ready to explode and all it would take was diving into that wet heat. But that was a line he couldn’t cross until they talked. If she didn’t try to kill him first.
Her chest was still heaving from the exertion.
He dropped down beside her and traced his finger along her shoulder. “Is your arm okay?”
“It’s fine,” she answered, breathless.
That could mean anything from just sore to aching painfully since she’d rather cut off that same arm than admit a weakness. “Now, will you sleep?”
“Sleep?” She moved fast, cupping his thick erection. “That all you got?”
She’d challenge the devil in his own territory.
“That’s enough for now.”
“You don’t want yours?”
They were back to her trying to distance herself from the intimacy. Turning this into tit for tat on the orgasm scoreboard. What had happened to her? He kissed her forehead and down the side of her face, then her neck where the T-shirt had bunched.
“Don’t you have a condom?”
He had them. “I’m saving it.”
“For what? Someone else?”
What? She’d said that with a casualness that didn’t match the suspicion lying in wait beneath her words. “No. I told you we have to talk first.” He couldn’t think of another woman when he had Margaux in his arms. He could spend hours enjoying this body, but not tonight.
Stop now or you’ll never get your dick under control.
“What’s with this talk you want to have?”
He was not going there right now, no matter what. “Tomorrow. Get some sleep this time. I’ll be back later.” He turned to roll off the bed.
She caught his arm. Not a strong grip yet.
He twisted back around. “What?” How many times could he say no before he caved?
“Stay.”
That caught him off guard. That was as close as she got to asking for anything. Of all the things he could have said no to, that wasn’t one. He laid back down and scooped her over to him until he had her hugged up against him using his shoulder for a pillow.
She didn’t say another word, just breathed in and out slowly until she turned boneless, sated and snoozing.
He whispered, “I hope you remember how much you enjoyed this tomorrow when you’re pissed off.”
He wouldn’t forget.
Worse, he’d never expected to find the woman who had turned his heart upside down in his chest. He’d given up on ever feeling that deeply for a woman again. Now that she was tucked inside his arms, he wanted every second of tonight.
He’d thought back over France and was convinced that she had only been a waitress and nothing more. Then.
But somewhere over the last six years, she’d changed. Gone was the happy young woman who lived to love and in her place was a trained operative. Who had trained her and why?
Tomorrow, he’d have to figure out what to do with her because she couldn’t stay, but neither could he turn her loose when she knew what he looked like and he was sure she knew about the Banker.
But what exactly did she know?
CHAPTER 21
Margaux squinted when she opened her eyes. The room did have a window, but the shade had been pulled down. Someone with rustic tastes had decorated this place. But it had air conditioning. She searched for vents. None. Why was it so cool inside?
Was this one of Sabrina’s many safehouses?
Where was Dragan?
Had he been taken away? She pushed up on her elbows too fast and the room played whirlygig with her brain. Her stomach rumbled.
Good idea. Eat something and get her strength back.
Better idea was to find a bathroom. She swung her feet to the floor and noticed a short wood wall that could be a screen. “You have to be kidding me. Where did Sabrina stick us?”
With some effort to maintain her balance, Margaux crossed to the wall and, yes, there was a self-contained toilet with the obligatory roll of paper. “Whatever.” Her bladder didn’t care as long as it found relief.
She’d just gotten back to the bed to sit down for a moment when someone tapped at the door.
Before she called out, she took in her state of dress, which was still an oversized T-shirt and no underwear. Even this XXL would only hit her at mid thigh. She leaned back and pulled the sheet up over her legs.
No free show for the Slye Temp men. “Come in.”
Damn, that sounded weak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Come in.”
The door opened and a guy walked in carrying a plate and a canteen.
Not just any guy, but the shorter one she’d originally thought was Dragan at the Trophy Room. Except he’d exchanged his hot Manhattan suit for camo cargo pants and a green T-shirt that stretched across the bulge of muscles making up his chest. Dark gray eyes filled out the face that had been all smiles that night, but there was a sharpness in today’s gaze he’d hidden behind dark glasses at the night club. He moved with the grace of a predator that could sneak through the night and kill without a sound.
He worked with Dragan. Not Sabrina.
“Morning,” but it sounded like “mahnin” from Boston. He asked, “Ready for some grub?”
His too-chipper attitude ran up against her stony silence.
He placed the plate down on the bed and lifted another plate that had been stuck on top like a lid. Steaming scrambled eggs, sausage, biscuits and hashbrowns. The food smelled amazing. Her body was craving protein and carbs.
But this was the wrong person to be serving her.
What the hell was going on? “Where’s Dragan?”
“Right here,” called from the doorway. He looked over at the guy who served her and said, “Thanks, Nitro.”
“You got it, Cuz.” Nitro walked out.
Margaux had lost interest in him, the room, the food, everything except the man standing in the doorway who had just turned her world on its axis.
That sounded like Dragan, but he was not Dragan. His name was Pierre. No last name.
They’d never gotten to that point in Paris.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
>
They’d spent the best part of two weeks in bed doing far more than they had last night. Back then he hadn’t filled out so much. His voice had gotten deeper and rougher, like everything else about him. This was not the carefree young man she’d laughed with ... and loved.
The one she still woke looking for on some mornings.
No, this one was a man who’d been chiseled into a deadly warrior.
Her mind was determined to connect the dots.
The Pierre in Paris had been nothing more than a man on holiday until the morning he’d gotten a phone call and left her apartment without any explanation. Then he’d called to tell her to run, that dangerous men would come for her if she didn’t. She’d found out later that there had been a bombing at a Russian consulate.
If Pierre had been an operative back in Paris, too, then he’d only been with her as part of his mission. He’d only slept with her to use her for a cover or for her apartment. She’d nursed a broken heart for six years, wondering if he’d survived.
He’d been off on another mission, seducing another woman.
“You son of a bitch.” She reached for the plate.
He lifted a hand. “Don’t. You need to eat and the cook just left to go out on patrol. If you toss that, you’re stuck with eating an MRE.”
Decisions, decisions.
She wished the smell wasn’t twisting her stomach into fits because it was worried about not getting fed. Her heart was doing a bang-up job of putting dents in her breast bone. The stupid thing was thrilled that Pierre had survived after all.
Her brain brought up all kinds of arguments like the fact that he had to have recognized her at some point in the jungle.
Last night.
He’d known who she was last night. “You bastard.”
“Just eat. Please.” He rubbed his forehead and walked forward. “You may think you can kick my ass right now, but I’ve been eating food for the past three days and you’ve been on a drip.”
Now there was motivation to eat. She did want to kick his ass. She picked up the spork. Escaping would depend on being in better physical shape.
That first bite was five-star level to her deprived tastebuds. Swallowing past the lump of hurt in her throat took some effort. She ate slowly. Chowing down hard the first time would end with tossing it back up.
The taste hit her. The food was spiced heavily with black pepper, just the way she peppered her food. Jalapenos were mixed in with the hashbrowns. The sausage was split and crispy on the bottom, and the biscuit was perfectly cooked, not doughy in the middle.
She looked up at him. Did he think fixing her favorite food would smooth over anything right now?
“What’s wrong with the food?” He waited. When she didn’t reply, he said with the patience of speaking to an invalid, “I had him cook everything I could think of that you liked so you could pick what you wanted.”
He was trying to make sure she ate. That sounded considerate, but the same person had spent nine days making love to her then walked out one morning to meet someone and she’d never seen him again.
He’d only called long enough to tell her to run as far and as fast as she could. To disappear and forget about him. Never try to find him again.
She’d tried, but some things were beyond a person’s control. She’d never allowed anyone to get that close again though.
He’d pulled a chair up on the far side of the bed.
Wise move. That would give him time to react if he had to, but she had no intention of striking out. Yet. She chewed a little more, determined to be the perfect prisoner until the opportunity came to slip away.
Another moment passed until he said, “You’re pushing food around and thinking.”
“Sure. How did your men find us so quickly?”
“I had a tracker inside a button. They followed my signal until the kidnappers stripped us then handed us off in Cartagena to their leader. That put them close enough to get to us fast once I called them on the sat phone. Now, you ready to talk?”
“Not really.” She raised her gaze to his, daring him to think he mattered as much as her silly heart claimed he did. She’d known those eyes and she might have put two and two together if he hadn’t worn a beard and his face hadn’t been swollen so badly.
It was still bruised.
So? She should add a few.
The Pierre she’d known had caramel brown hair, not that thatch of black locks, but the biggest difference was how much he’d changed physically. He’d been muscular before, but in a different way. More athletic and sinewy instead of a body carved up with hard muscle.
He studied her just as silently as she studied him.
The stare down lasted several minutes until he shook his head. “You may not want to talk, but I do.”
She shrugged. He wouldn’t get anything for free.
Just like years ago, Pierre was not easily put off. He’d chased her for two days until he landed in her bed. Undeterred again, he asked, “What were you doing in the Trophy Room?”
“You show up after six years and that’s your opener?” she asked, snorting. “Okay, let’s go there. What were you doing in San Francisco?”
“Meeting someone.”
She didn’t say a word.
“I answered. What were you doing there?” he asked.
“Working as a trophy girl.”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on his hands. “I need straight answers. Can you do that, Margaux?”
Hearing her name roll of his lips pinched her heart. She’d dreamed of hearing his voice again. The last time she’d heard it this close, he’d said, “I need you to wait here for me. Can you do that, Margaux?” And she had.
But a lot of things had happened since then and he was the one on the wrong side of the law. Again.
She tilted her chin up in a thoughtful pose and tapped her cheek with her finger. “So you expect me to just spill my guts and all you’re going to say is that you were at the Trophy Room for a meeting. No deal.”
“Did you know who I was there to meet?”
“How would I know anything about you? I thought you were dead all this time, Pierre. Or is it Pierre?”
He gave his next reply a lot of thought first. “It’s Logan.”
“This time.”
“I know you thought I was dead,” he said, so quietly that she almost didn’t catch it. “But even though you didn’t know who I was in the Trophy Room you came on to me.”
“That was my job.”
“Cut the crap. Start talking.”
Yeah, that worked like never with her. “You want to talk, tell me what happened in Paris.”
“I can’t.”
“Won’t,” she argued. “Big difference.”
“I still need to know why you were in the Trophy Room.”
She leaned back, feeling exhausted even though she’d just woken. Her eyelids wanted to droop, but she forced them open. “Give me one reason why I should tell you anything?”
“Because I’m trying to keep you alive.”
That hadn’t been what she was expecting to hear. “Thanks for the concern, but you should have realized by now that I can take care of myself. That’s what you told me to do. Run and don’t look back.”
He was up and around the bed so fast he gave her whiplash. Then he was looming over her, hands pressing down on the matteress at each side of her hips. “This isn’t a joke, dammit. We were lucky to survive what happened out in the jungle and when they figure out we escaped they’ll come for us. I need to know what they wanted with you.”
“Me? What did they want with you?” She’d take responsibility for screwing up whatever Logan had in play at the Trophy Room, and she’d messed up the meeting with the Banker, but she hadn’t brought the rest of that down on his head.
His head dropped until his face was inches from hers. “They kept you alive. There had to be a reason.”
“Not necessarily. I was just in the wr
ong place at the wrong time.”
“Bullshit. You’re no hooker.”
She fisted the sheets, twisting them and wishing it was his neck. “How would you know? A lot could’ve happened in the years since you left me in Paris?”
His jaw was rigid. “I. Know. Just tell me what you were doing at the night club.”
“Same as you.”
“Not possible.”
“Why? Did you corner the market cutting deals in this business?”
“What. Deal!” he growled between clenched teeth.
Damn him. He didn’t get to walk back into her life, accidental or otherwise, and start demanding answers. She didn’t care what had crawled up his butt and homesteaded. Having him close and not touching him shredded her.
She would not let him know how much it hurt to see him again. But stupid her, she couldn’t take her eyes off his lips.
He’d used her in Paris. She’d been nothing more than a cover.
Keep thinking that. Maybe it would blot out memories of that mouth on hers.
“My deals are none of your fucking business,” she told him in an even voice that didn’t give away what she hid inside. “Just like your deal in Paris was none of mine. You said to forget you, so I did. Sugar.”
Veins pulsed in his neck. His eyes blazed an angry shade of brown. He stayed that way, fixated on her for several seconds, then he seemed to give up on whatever held him back and he kissed her.
She refused to respond. Her pride screamed at her to hit him, hurt him somehow to make him feel a glimmer of what she’d gone through.
His mouth molded to hers, kissing her with a gentle power that was overriding her brain.
She should be pushing him away. Biting his lip. Anything to make him think twice about kissing her ever again.
Years of hurt poured through her. Enough that it should have drowned any feelings she had for him, but he was still kissing her and she couldn’t make herself break away. The longer his lips touched hers, the more indecision yanked on her until she thought her body was going to split down the middle.
He whispered, “God, I missed you,” against her lips.
Damn him. She finally gave in.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the remaining soreness and the bite of her stitches, and held on, kissing the lips that she’d dreamed about for years. And never replaced, no matter how many other men had tried to sway her with their seduction techniques.