She eased the tension from her arms, looking up into his face. And sure enough, she couldn’t see any of what she’d come to recognize as lust there, not even a flicker. She made a small movement with her hips, and yeah, despite the fact that she was nearly naked, there was no tell-tale hardness pressing against her there either.
Fuck.
His smile widened as if he’d read her mind. “Looking for something?”
Okay, so this was unusual. She wasn’t vain, but again, men were simple. If a nearly naked chick got in their laps, they were usually pretty interested. But this man? Nothing. Why not? Did crime lords lose the ability to get it up after a certain length of time?
Temple raised an eyebrow. “Did you forget your little blue pill?”
He laughed, a soft, deeply sexy sound that had her almost shivering. “Or maybe you just don’t have what it takes to be in my bed.”
She let her lashes fall. “Hey, I can be whatever you want me to be.”
“I’m sure you can.” His grip tightened on her wrists, and he lifted his free hand to a lock of her hair, twisting it absently around his fingers, that scalpel-sharp gaze running over her. Dissecting her. “But if you don’t know what I want, you can’t be anything at all.”
“Give me a hint, and I can try.”
His gaze narrowed. “You don’t like this. You don’t like me holding you like this.”
She had to fight not to show her shock. She’d perfected the art of hiding her feelings, of never letting anyone see what she didn’t want them to see. And she couldn’t imagine how this man had managed to spot what she herself was only barely aware of. How the hell had he managed that? She was sure she hadn’t let anything slip.
Discomfort built inside her, but she ignored it, trying to think about how to respond instead. If he didn’t want her, she had to figure out how to make him, because currently the only thing holding him here was the fact that she wasn’t acting like all the rest.
She needed him to want her and badly enough to keep her, at least for a little while. Until she’d gotten the information she needed from him. Then she’d kill him as she’d promised Zac Rutherford and his friends. Kill him and collect the money she was owed.
Jericho was always going to be her last contract. And her most satisfying.
Temple looked at him from underneath her lashes. “I wouldn’t have thought it would matter to you what I like.”
He stared at her for a second, bright and sharp as a blade. “It doesn’t,” he said. Then he smiled again, like a tiger, lazy and hungry. And the finger in her hair pulled suddenly tight, a small shock of pain flashing over her scalp.
She couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped her, nor did she miss the sudden flare in his eyes as she did so. “So,” she said, and this time the breathlessness was completely unfeigned. “I guess you’re into pain?”
He let the lock of red hair fall, his hand dropping to the side of her neck, his finger stroking lightly, gently down the side of it. And though she didn’t want it to, the touch sent goose bumps rising all over her skin. “Not in particular. I was just proving a point.”
“Let me go and I’ll prove another.”
“Really? What point would that be?”
“That I’m sitting here for a reason. And it’s not because you don’t want me.” Her throat had gone weirdly dry, his finger stroking up and down the side of her neck. She could feel the touch acutely.
His finger moved again and this time didn’t stop, brushing over her throat and down farther to the swell of her left breast. And in spite of all the years she’d spent expertly hiding and controlling her responses to just about everything, when he opened his hand and cupped her breast, for the second time that night all the air escaped her lungs in an audible rush.
And the bastard, the fucking bastard, saw it all with those cold, clear green eyes while that maddening smile lingered on his mouth. “Interesting,” he murmured, studying her like a scientist. “You want me, little girl. Don’t you?”
Her nipple had hardened beneath the pastie and he wasn’t even doing anything, just cupping her breast gently in one hand. Fuck. How had that happened? She didn’t want him. He was the very last man on earth she’d ever want. And this—all of this—was just pretend.
So just go with it and fucking pretend.
She fought to keep her breathing even, to keep her head clear. It seemed that he liked her wanting him, that her responses were fascinating to him, so why not? She had to hook him somehow, didn’t she? And being different from all the rest seemed to be the way to do it. Which meant … perhaps she should just keep going.
“M-maybe I do.” The stutter was a nice touch. Pity it was utterly unfeigned.
He examined her closely. “I think there’s no maybe about it.” With a flick of his finger, he got rid of the pastie covering her nipple, then brushed his thumb over it.
She trembled, a lightning strike of sensation arrowing through her. Shocking her. And a small knot of something she didn’t recognize at first curled tightly in the pit of her stomach. Then she did recognize it. Panic.
His thumb made another pass over her nipple, a second jagged bolt of lightning flashing through her body. And before she could stop herself, she’d broken his hold on her wrists and had leaped from his lap like a scalded cat, coming to stand in front of the chair, her hands raised, ready to fight.
Jericho stared at her for a long moment, his expression utterly impenetrable. Then he leaned back in the chair, his elbows resting on the arms, long fingers loosely linked. “Something tells me you’re not a stripper,” he said mildly.
Her heart was thundering in her head in a way it had never done before, not even when she’d taken her first kill and she couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. What the fuck did she think she was doing?
Focus.
She inhaled silently, forcing herself to get a grip, then she lowered her hands. “Actually. I was … studying dance in Berlin. As an exchange student. I was stripping for extra cash.” The backstory she’d concocted. A poor American college student all alone in Europe, doing what she could to get by. “I didn’t like being touched, so I took a few self-defense lessons.”
The cold look in his eyes glittered. “And here I was believing you weren’t scared.”
“I wasn’t.” Dammit. She was going to have to give him the truth. It was either that or she lost the thing that had drawn him to her in the first place. “I’m just not used to … wanting a complete stranger.”
He didn’t reply, his intense green-gold gaze moving over her, right from the top of her head down to the soles of her stripper heels. Reassessing her. Again. “What’s your name?” The sensuality had gone from his voice now, nothing but hard authority in each word.
Briefly she debated telling him it was whatever he wanted it to be, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew the time for flirtation had passed. Shit, she’d fucked up majorly. “Kirsten,” she said, going with the name she’d settled on for her current persona.
Jericho was up off the chair in a sudden, fluid movement, coming toward her so fast she forgot she was wearing eight-inch stilettos, nearly stumbling as she shifted instinctively into a defensive posture. He caught her around the waist, hauling her up against him, one hand fisting in her hair and pulling her head back.
Every instinct she possessed told her to move, to bring her knee up to his groin then twist, pulling out of his grip. A hand on the back of his neck, jerking down then another knee to his face. That would take him out, easy. And it would all give her away completely, because those kinds of moves you didn’t pick up via self-defense lessons.
So she had to ignore her instinct and stay where she was, letting him tug her head back, her hands pressing against the hard, hot wall of his chest.
“You’re lying.” His tone was casual, at odds with the ruthless way he held her. “You’re lying through your fucking teeth.” His smile was mirthless, cold, and if she hadn’t been who she was, now she might have be
en afraid. “So let’s try that one again. What’s your name?”
She stared up at him. This was a test. He was pushing her, trying to frighten her, and she knew that because Jackson had done the same thing when she’d first started training with him.
Now’s your chance to fix things. Do not fuck this up.
“Temple,” she said, meeting his gaze. “My name is Temple.”
He narrowed his eyes, not relaxing his hold on her one bit. “Temple? What the fuck kind of name is that?”
“The one my stupid mother gave to me.” No lies this time. Only the absolute truth. “She wanted to call me Shirley Temple because of my curls. But my father didn’t like Shirley, so they compromised with Temple.”
The expression on his beautiful face was unreadable, but his gaze was like a laser beam, stripping her down layer by layer. Studying. Dissecting. Assessing.
Then all of a sudden he smiled. Fierce, bright and sharp. The tiger in all its fearsome glory, making her heart miss a beat at the savage beauty of it. His hand in her hair tightened, almost painfully so. “Pleased to meet you, Temple,” he murmured.
And before she could move, he bent his head and kissed her. Hard.
* * *
At first Temple’s mouth shut tight under his, her slender body going rigid. Then, as if she’d changed her mind, she relaxed, leaning against him, her mouth becoming soft, opening up, letting him in.
She tasted of peppermints from the breath mints his men gave all the girls before they danced for him, and yet there was another, subtler flavor there as well. Something sweet and dark. That took his curiosity and twisted it, deepened it.
But he hadn’t kissed her because he’d wanted her. He’d kissed her to test her, see what she’d do.
The way she’d pulled away from him before had been unexpected and he hadn’t missed the briefest flicker of shock in her eyes; she hadn’t meant to do that. And he didn’t think it was because she didn’t like him touching her. No, he’d smelled the delicate scent of feminine arousal, felt the hard little bud of her nipple. Seen her fascinating amber eyes darken, the pupil widening.
She’d been turned on. Yet something about it had panicked her, and he didn’t buy that it was because he was a stranger. If she’d been afraid and cowering before then, sure. But she hadn’t been. So it was something else.
And then there was the way she’d broken his hold and sprang off his lap like a singed cat, landing on the balls of her feet despite the ridiculous shoes. Her hands had been up in a classic martial-arts pose, which meant her bullshit about self-defense lessons was exactly that. Bullshit.
There was something “off” about this girl, and he was going to find out what it was.
She was hot against him, her palms pressing against his chest, the softness of her breasts pressing there too. Her hair felt like skeins of silk in his hand, her skin like satin. He had his other hand on the curve of one buttock, and he stretched out his fingers, squeezing, feeling the taut muscle beneath. She shuddered in response, her body arching against his.
Years since you’ve kissed a woman.
Yeah, it had been. Though how long, he couldn’t remember. But Christ, her mouth. So soft. Hot. That dark, sweet taste elusive, tantalizing … Another shift inside him, a crack running through the walls he’d placed carefully around his desires. Fuck. Who was this woman and where was all this curiosity coming from?
She definitely wasn’t lying about wanting him, he already knew that. And she hadn’t lied about her name either, at least not the second time. He’d used intimidation to try to scare her, but she’d told the truth when she’d said she wasn’t scared of him. Which only left one other way to get under her guard. Sex.
Of course he could just send her away like he’d initially intended, find another girl to rescue. But his gut told him she was a threat, and his gut was usually right about these things.
You could just kill her.
Finally he lifted his mouth from hers, keeping his hand tight in her hair, looking down at her. She had high, slanted cheekbones and a determined little chin. A finely sculpted nose. Her features were elfin, catlike. There was a flush to her cheeks, her pupils dilated. Her mouth was full and pouty from the kiss.
A pretty thing.
But then, he’d killed pretty things before.
Once he would have found that thought horrifying, back when he’d been Theodore Fitzgerald, the privileged oldest son and heir to the fortunes of one of New York’s oldest families. When he’d had a law degree to complete, a fiancée to marry, an illustrious career to start.
Until his father had introduced him to the Lucky Seven casino.
Until Theodore Fitzgerald had apparently committed suicide.
So he didn’t find the thought horrifying. Because he was Jericho now, and Jericho had no problem with killing, pretty or otherwise.
Except then you’d lose the first thing you’ve found so intriguing in years.
Her eyelashes fluttered, gold gleaming from underneath copper. “Don’t tell me,” she murmured, her voice husky. “You don’t know whether to fuck me or kill me.”
Something shifted yet again, a heat that shouldn’t be there. She was sharp, this woman. Perhaps too sharp. “Perhaps I’ll do both.” He flexed his fingers on the tight flesh of her buttock, testing himself. “I always like having my cake and eating it too.”
She shivered at the touch, a faint, nearly imperceptible movement, and he caught a glimpse of it again, moving like quicksilver in the depths of her eyes, an expression like shock or trepidation. Ah, so it was his touch that did something to her. Made her want, definitely, but also made her wary. As if she wasn’t used to it.
He squeezed her gently, watching as goose bumps rose all over her flesh in reaction. “Are you a virgin, Temple?”
“Why? You like virgins?”
Another squeeze, harder this time. A warning. “Answer the fucking question.”
Her throat moved in a convulsive swallow, but there was nothing but challenge in her response. “Do I look like a fucking virgin to you?”
He nearly smiled. “Appearances lie. I may look like a gentleman, but I’m as far from a gentleman as it’s possible to get. So, let’s try this again. Are you a virgin?”
A slight firming of her chin. “No.”
Just as well. Jesus, why was he finding her so fascinating? He shouldn’t be wasting time here. He had to check up on the mess that had been left in the wake of the collapse of his father’s trafficking operation following his father’s murder. Jericho’s sources had told him that the whole thing was now being managed by Fitzgerald’s former right-hand man, Elijah Hunt. Which, if it was true, would be a major blow to the delicate edifice of his take-down strategy.
And that was largely because he had it on good authority that his sister was now shacked up with the asshole.
A real fucking problem when taking down this empire involved the collapse of a global trafficking network that spanned continents and countries, all the alliances he’d spent so long building. And all so that when he went down, he took every other fucker down with him.
But taking down the operation in the States meant taking down Hunt too. And with him, Violet, his younger sister.
A sudden curl of unwanted emotion tugged at him at the thought of Violet, distracting him.
She saved you.
Yeah, she had. That asshole Hunt had been going to kill him, but Violet had stepped in front of the gun, saving his life.
Not that you deserve it.
Maybe not. But whether that was true or not, he had to think of a better way to manage the American alliance he’d been hoping to build. A way that didn’t involve Violet.
You could always tell her your plans. She could help.
Ah, but he couldn’t do that either. He’d thought about it on and off, but he always dismissed it in the end. The fewer people who knew what he was planning the better, and that included his sister.
Yes, it was definitely time to leave.
Yet he didn’t.
“What do you want, kitten?” he murmured, tangling his fingers deeper in her red curls. “Because girls like you don’t usually want me to fuck them. They’re usually too afraid, and with good reason.”
Her breathing had gotten faster, her lips parting slightly. She was soft in his hold, relaxing totally against him, her palms warm on his chest. “Why? Because you might kill them?”
Brave of her to say it out loud. Or stupid. “Of course.”
“I’m not afraid to die.” There was something defiant in her eyes. “And I’m not afraid of pain either.”
There it was again, that lightning flash in his blood, that thrill deep in his gut.
He stilled. Holy shit, was that what he thought it was? It had better not be. He wasn’t celibate only because he didn’t feel desire anymore. He was also celibate because desire wasn’t anything he wanted to inflict on the girls that were part of his empire. Any of the girls. There wasn’t much of his soul left after so many years, but he did what he could to save the last few pieces of it. And keeping the seeds of violence his father had planted decades ago in check was part of that.
Like father, like son. Except in a few small ways. He was proud of those ways. They weren’t much, but they were all he had. And he couldn’t allow himself the temptation of ignoring them.
You should let her go then.
Except he didn’t.
Warm, female flesh. The scent of musk. Silky hair against his skin. And no fear, no fear anywhere. She was starting to get to him, he could feel it.
“Only people with nothing to lose aren’t afraid of death,” he murmured.
Her pouty little mouth curved. “Considering where I am, perhaps I don’t.” Her hands slid up his chest to the buttons of his shirt. With a small movement, she flicked one open, then another, and another, the cotton parting. Then she bent her head and pressed that lovely mouth to his bare skin.
Heat, unfamiliar and completely unexpected, glowed suddenly, like an ember from a long banked fire igniting. And his breath caught. It had been a long time since anything had shocked him or surprised him. But fuck, he was both now.
In Bed With the Billionaire Page 3