by V. K. Sykes
“Beckett, no,” she whispered as she broke the kiss.
Not this time, sweetheart. He pulled her closer. “Don’t fight what you really want. Not anymore.” He claimed her mouth again, and she gave a soft moan that sounded like surrender. But still, her hands resisted him and her body remained taut, unyielding—obeying the part of her brain that must be demanding she push him away.
Not that he could blame her since they were making out in a police parking lot, in full view of anyone passing by.
Sighing, he slid his lips along her cheek until they brushed the soft flesh of her ear. She shuddered against him.
What the hell, he thought. He might as well take the risk. “I want you to come home with me, Amélie. Tonight.”
She made a distinctly unladylike grunt and gave him a short but powerful push that threw him back onto his seat. Only half-surprised, he watched her toss her hair and straighten into a ramrod posture, hands on the wheel at ten and two.
“What I may or may not want, Beckett, doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. Now, get out of the car before I throw you out.” She sounded both pissed off and frustrated.
Luke had a hard-on like a Patriot missile, but did as she asked with as much dignity as he could muster. He figured he could look at what had just happened either as a rejection or as a beachhead. He chose the latter.
Robitaille had thrown up her walls again. But, after tonight, it was only a matter of time until her defenses gave way under the relentless siege he had planned.
* * *
Amy’s nerves jangled like wind chimes in a gale. She’d almost succumbed to her desire for Beckett and straddled him right in the front seat of her car, giving him exactly what he obviously hungered for. And in the middle of the goddamn PBSO parking lot, no less. Her body had taken charge for those couple of minutes that had seemed more like an hour—a skyrocketing, sensual hour. Denial was out of the question. When Beckett kissed her, her brain had gone AWOL, completely checking out. The seductive heat of his mouth and hands made her forget everything but him and what he was doing to her.
If he hadn’t broken the spell by asking her to go home with him, she might have been well and truly lost. But his bold invitation had short-circuited the blazing sexual connection and shocked her brain back into reality mode, even as images of the two of them tangled up in his sheets danced around in her head.
No way could she have sex with him. If she did, she knew in the depths of her heart that everything would spiral out of control. Beckett would use her and then discard her, and that just couldn’t happen.
Never.
Hot sex wasn’t worth the emotional pain. Nor was it worth the damage it would do to their working relationship, at what could be a critical point in the investigation.
Amy blasted up the interstate heading home, her jaw clenched so tight she knew it would bring on a migraine if she didn’t snap out of it and relax. Damn Beckett. Why did he have to jump her like that? And why did she have to respond like a love-struck cheerleader when the quarterback throws his arm around her for the first time? Tomorrow, she’d demand that he back off completely. If he balked, she’d go to Cramer and recommend he be removed from the investigative team. That would suck, but she couldn’t let him mess with her head in the middle of the most important case of her career.
Ten minutes later, she pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. But she didn’t make a move to get out. Instead, she stared straight ahead at the dark outline of her house, her mind still stuck on Beckett and wondering if he’d decided to head home or…
Well, she didn’t exactly know what rich, retired baseball players did with their evenings. Since she’d turned him down and left him in something of a state, maybe he’d look for other company. More compliant company.
It sure wouldn’t be hard for him to find .
Her stomach twisted at the thought of him in the arms of some tarted-up, twenty-something bar chick like the hotties they’d seen at Chester’s. Would he take someone like that back to his fancy house?
Yesterday, on a whim, she’d looked up his address from his license record and plugged it into Google Earth. It turned out he had a good-sized piece of property in one of the classiest sections of Palm Beach. One of those El-something streets south of Worth Avenue. The street view had given her a reasonable glimpse of the house’s exterior, but it had only served to whet her curiosity. The sprawling, two-storey home overlooked the Intracoastal Waterway, but appeared relatively modest by Palm Beach standards. Given what she knew about the salaries of baseball superstars, she was surprised he didn’t have something considerably more grandiose.
The car’s engine ticked and clinked as it cooled. Other than that, she couldn’t hear another sound in the quiet neighborhood. Darkness enveloped her house, making it look empty, almost eerily so, and suddenly she felt terribly alone. She stared at the front door, her heart beating hard in her chest as she willed herself to go in. Almost hyper, she drummed a tattoo on the steering wheel and tried to push the memory of Beckett’s searing kiss and enveloping warmth out of her mind.
What the hell was wrong with her?
The thought of trudging into that dark, lonely house felt like it would be a sort of surrender. One of those small, seemingly insignificant acts that later turn out to be turning points in life.
Screw that .
She fired up the engine and screeched back out into the street. With a silent apology to the neighbors, she gunned it and headed back toward the interstate.
* * *
When it came to Robitaille, Luke was feeling like he was standing at the plate with the winning run on base and the game on the line. Confident, but not at all cocky or arrogant. Just quietly sure of himself. Sometimes he would get the RBI that won the game; sometimes he would strike out and feel like a goat. But he always knew one thing for certain—he wouldn’t leave anything on the field. If he didn’t get the game-winning hit, it would never be for lack of an all-out effort.
Despite his confidence that Robitaille would eventually come around, he still faced a tricky problem. She’d jacked his hormones so high he just might cripple himself. A multitude of options for a solution had presented themselves as he drove home to Palm Beach. His black book? Nah, that didn’t appeal. Checking out one of his favorite bars? He was in no mood to shoot the breeze with fans. A cold shower? That would have been an unwelcome last resort.
Instead, he found himself pounding a treadmill in his mini-gym, rivers of sweat pouring down his body as he pushed himself even harder than he had in his morning workout. He’d run until his knees started to howl, then he’d work with free weights before grabbing a shower. A long, hot shower. After that, he’d pour himself a snifter of Courvoisier, and by around midnight he’d be dozing off in front of some old movie on AMC, the frustrating encounter with Robitaille not much more than a fuzzy memory.
Over the hum of the treadmill and the pounding of his feet, the gate intercom sounded its distinctive loud ring. Who the hell was out there this late? He shut down the treadmill, threw a towel around his neck, and went to find out.
40
* * *
Monday, August 2
10:45 p.m.
Amy glowered at the intercom box bolted onto a metal post outside the imposing gate.
“Who is it?” Beckett’s disembodied voice sounded annoyed.
“Beckett, you’d better let me into this damn fortress fast before I change my mind.”
She swallowed hard, forcing down the choking sensation in her throat. How could she have let herself give in to this insane impulse? She would look like six kinds of fool to Beckett.
He didn’t answer, but the white metal gate smoothly opened as Amy fidgeted with the gearshift. She was equally divided between keeping the transmission in drive and jamming it into reverse. When she lifted her foot from the brake and the car started to inch up the slight incline of his drive, it felt like the vehicle was on remote control.
Feet planted apart and arms cro
ssed over his chest, Beckett stood in the doorway as she pulled up under a portico. Warm light from twin, lantern-style porch fixtures bathed his buff torso in a golden sheen. Except for a towel around his neck and a pair of low-slung sweat shorts, he was naked. As she let her hungry eyes roam, her doubts fought a losing battle with her libido.
She slid out and slammed her car door. “Don’t talk,” she snapped.
His mouth opened, then shut. His gaze was hot, but he also looked ready to laugh.
Swearing under her breath, Amy pushed him inside, and then shoved the ornate wooden double doors shut behind them. Beckett’s eyes narrowed, amusement replaced with an intensity of emotion she couldn’t read. She didn’t care. She was making a mistake of herculean proportions and she damn well wasn’t going to let herself overthink it. If she had her way, Beckett wouldn’t be doing much thinking for the next while, either.
When she lunged into him, he was ready, easily absorbing her charge and folding her into his brawny arms. Her face angled up toward his, the tips of her shoes barely touching the foyer’s ceramic floor as he pulled her into a secure embrace. She kissed him hard, diving her fingers into his thick hair as she inhaled his musky scent, all hot and damp. All powerful male. All sensual and wonderful.
Beckett jerked up her tee shirt, the rough heat of his calloused palms almost scorching her naked skin. He deepened the kiss and their tongues played a fiery dance as he quickly found the clasp of her bra, unhooking it to free her aching breasts. As they spilled out, he grasped one in each hand, gently squeezing. When his thumbs circled her rigid nipples, she gave a little whimper and slid her lips from his mouth to trail kisses down the stubble of his cheek and neck.
Beckett made a low, groaning sound, grinding his pelvis into the mound of her sex. It felt like heaven, sending a deep throb between her thighs. She could feel her flesh there turning soft and wet.
“Jesus, Amélie, are you sure you—”
“No,” she gasped. “I’m not one damn bit sure. But I’ve got my gun, Beckett, and I swear I’ll shoot you if you stop.” As she slipped her hand inside the waistband of his shorts, she pressed herself against his rock-hard thigh and moaned.
“There’s not going to be any stopping. Not this time.” His tongue invaded her mouth again, tasting her with a heat that clouded her brain.
Lost in a haze of lust, Amy was barely conscious of Beckett sliding her shirt over her head and tossing it and her bra to the floor. She was far too preoccupied with the feel of the hair-roughened skin of his thighs and the hard, smooth curve of his butt as she inched down his loose shorts. Without breaking the kiss, Beckett stepped out of the shorts while he unsnapped her jeans and pushed them down over her hips.
“Mon Dieu, mercy,” she murmured, kicking off her flats and shucking her jeans and panties.
He shoved down his jock underwear and now they were both naked, except for the long towel that still hung around Beckett’s neck. Amy grasped an end in each hand and swarmed up his body as he drew her to him, her sex driving up against an erection as long and thick and stone-hard as she’d imagined it would be. He pivoted, holding her securely, and pinned her to the foyer wall. The cool, silken texture of the wallpaper on her heated back added another layer of sensation to her overflowing senses.
Beckett left her lips, angling his head down and tonguing one of her beaded nipples, then drawing it into his mouth. Amy fought back a whimper as she locked her legs around his waist. He suckled the sensitized tip of her breast and fire flashed through her. She wanted him inside her so badly that, unthinking, she dug her nails hard into his shoulders.
But he barely flinched. With one last, hard suck, he raised his eyes to hers. She swallowed, both unnerved and excited by what she saw on his face. Clearly, she was about to fall prey to the big, bad wolf. She parted her lips, not sure what she wanted to say, but then he slowly pushed one and then two fingers into her slick, swollen passage, instantly driving all coherent thought from her brain. Nerve endings tingled and burned with a sweet ache, and she arched her back against the wall.
Oh, God! She was so ready.
“Calice, Beckett, I hope you have a condom handy,” she breathed into his ear.
He eased her to the floor and raced up the stairs, two at a time. Amy thought about following, but wasn’t sure her legs were steady enough. It didn’t matter, because Beckett bounded back down in a blink, sheathed himself, and lifted her as she wrapped her legs around him again.
She looked deep into his passion-filled eyes—eyes that held nothing back—and her heart squeezed with an emotion too frightening to voice.
Don’t think about it.
She buried her face in his neck, letting him cradle her securely in his arms. “Now, Beckett,” she whispered.
He didn’t need the invitation. He was already pushing into her, filling her as she shifted her hips to take him deep. Nothing mattered any more, nothing except her need for him, her need for release from this torture. This glorious, insane torture.
He gripped her bottom tight as he plunged into her, again and again, driving arcs of blinding pleasure deep into her body. Amy gave herself up to a coiling tension that was almost unbearable. She pressed her spine against the wall, interspersing her whimpers with a string of soft French curses. Beckett choked out a laugh at her language.
But suddenly, his restraint vanished. She sensed it in his breathing and felt it everywhere their bodies touched—in his driving, pounding loss of control. At that moment, he needed her as much as she needed him. But before she could even fully process the thought, shudders began rippling from deep within, pulsing around his cock. “Oui, tabarnak,” she groaned.
Blood surged through her veins, making her lightheaded. She gasped, crying out his name—Beckett, Beckett, Beckett. His body straightened and tensed, and with one final thrust he groaned out his own release.
Panting, Amy slumped against his shoulder, shattered and lost in his arms.
* * *
Luke eased Robitaille to the floor, not completely dazed but still almost flattened, as if he’d survived a gale force storm that had blown down the house around him.
Tropical Storm Amélie.
She’d ordered him not to talk, so he stayed silent, his arms stiff against the foyer wall as he loomed over her. Beneath him, gorgeous and exhausted, she slumped against the wall, her dark hair damp and tousled, her face glowing. He’d never seen her look as beautiful.
But if he said a single word, he figured the moment would shatter and she’d throw her clothes back on and bolt for the door. Detective Robitaille was all about self-control, and she’d just sent hers down the sewer. He had to give her the space she needed to get it back.
Seconds seemed like hours as Luke waited for her to speak, to move, to break the silence that made him feel like a volcanic eruption was imminent.
“Sex,” she finally said, exhaling a growly little sigh.
“Amazing sex,” he said.
She pushed by him and retrieved her panties. “A crazy impulse born of physical deprivation.”
Shit. “What a romantic,” he said, watching in frustration as she covered her smoking hot breasts with a decidedly unsexy beige bra.
She snorted. “We’re alike, Beckett. We get a bad enough itch, we scratch it. But we don’t get all starry-eyed and stupid about it.”
Suddenly uncomfortable standing there naked, he yanked on his shorts, not bothering with the tight underwear he used for workouts. “Maybe there’s a little more to it than that.”
Robitaille wriggled into her jeans. “Come on. You’re thirty-six, right? Never married, but never without company for very long, according to what I’ve gathered. I don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to make a deduction.”
Now that pissed him off. Those were her insecurities speaking, not his.
“You don’t really know me.” He took two steps toward her but she backed away as she pulled her tee shirt over her head. “But we should change that.”
“Su
re, and you probably want to start by having me check out your bedroom, right? I’m sure that’s where all your women start the house tour.”
What a hardhead. She’d practically assaulted him, and yet now she was snarling like a trapped wild animal.
“All my women, huh?” Luke said, not even trying to disguise his irritation. He sat down on the stairs and leaned back on his elbows. “Well, I suppose we could try something different. Like talking. I hear it can be good after sex. You could stick around for a nightcap and a little conversation.”
“No thanks,” she said in a tight voice as she went for the door. Then she looked back at him, and his heart softened. She looked lost and kind of scared.
“Beckett, I’m sorry. This was my mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Luke jumped up and took two long strides, reaching out for her. “Your only mistake is not giving us a chance.”
She dodged him. “Goodnight, Beckett,” she said, and was gone.
41
* * *
Monday, August 2
10:50 p.m.
Heath Harrison clutched the champagne bottle under his arm as he got out of his car. He’d stopped at a twenty-four hour supermarket and picked up a chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot. It was Megan’s favorite. He couldn’t wait to blow her away with his news.
Halfway to the door, he stopped. The porch light cast its yellow glow over the front step, but he couldn’t see a single light on inside the house. He fumbled with his keys, opening the front door of their townhouse with one hand. Stepping into the dark foyer, he wondered why Megan had turned off all the lights. He knew she must be home—her Corolla was parked in the driveway.
Megan?” He flipped on the foyer lights.
No answer. He carefully set the champagne bottle down on the ceramic floor, took two steps and glanced into the living room.