HiddenDepths

by Angela Claire

  “I promise,” he whispered again, as if that made up for it. She was scalding hot and whether it was the actual feel of her or just the symbolism of it, taking her barebacked, he found it wildly satisfying. So satisfying that as he slid in and out of her, listening to her little pants of pleasure, feeling her inner muscles clutch his cock, he wondered if he would even keep his promise.

  Some wild, impossible impulse was upon him now, a weird claiming thing. He wanted not only to fuck her without anything but to come inside her body, deep, like an animal marking his possession.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, prompting him to thrust faster. “I promise” quickly became a tortured “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  He pushed deeper anyway, but when she planted a heel in his butt and squeezed her pussy muscles some way that made him gasp, he only just had time to pull out, ejaculating over her flat, heaving stomach as she grinned up at him.

  “Next time, you can come on my breasts,” she whispered, rendering him rock-hard in just that second.

  He groaned. “You’re actually not half bad at that talking-dirty thing.”

  And he gathered her close.

  * * * * *

  Andrea Prentiss was a mirage. And Athena Bennett Stavros was a survivor.

  She hadn’t meant to fake her own death on that hazy summer afternoon when she was eighteen. She had just been lying on Stavros’ private beach, alone with the two bodyguards who followed her everywhere, staring out at the waves. She had tentatively touched her midriff exposed by her swimsuit, confirming her broken ribs had healed, and stood up on the sand, stretching. Her collarbone was fine now too. Of course Stavros had been gone on business for a few weeks. It wouldn’t be long before he was back and using his meaty fists and powerful backhand to prove his “love” for his little angel. Usually after he’d pounded down a couple rounds of ouzo to deaden whatever inhibitions he still possessed.

  “I think I’ll go for a swim,” she told her bodyguards in her flawless Greek. Raised as a diplomat’s daughter, she supposed she didn’t really have a mother tongue. Her father had been Greek. Her mother…not. And she was…nothing.

  How nice it would actually be to be nothing. At the thought, she glanced sideways at her bodyguards. Actually, they weren’t really bodyguards, or rather they weren’t really guarding her body for her. They were guarding her body for him, their boss, Fredrico Stavros.

  The two men nodded politely—they were new—and one of them started to strip down to his boxers to accompany her. But he’d barely gotten his belt unbuckled when she took off at a run into the pounding surf and swam as if her life depended on it. Swam so far, she began to believe perhaps she had died and hell was perpetual motion and exhaustion. After a while it was so dark, she couldn’t see one meter in front of her, but still she swam. And when she could swim no more, she stopped, willing herself to sink into oblivion. But instead of oblivion, she got a bright pink foam lifesaver suddenly tossed her way, hitting her in the head. She grasped it automatically and felt herself tugged toward a small wooden boat and lifted over the side. She was crying, hysterical almost, thinking her captors, er, bodyguards, had caught up to her when she realized that it was an old man who had pulled her from the sea. He spoke to her in a dialect she didn’t recognize at first, but like all languages picked up soon thereafter, and patted her on the back and rowed his boat to some nearby rocky shore, bringing her to his cabin.

  When she saw the reports of her disappearance on the old man’s tiny black-and-white television a day later, she knew she really did have a chance to escape.

  She wanted no part of Fredrico Stavros or the Stavros fortune, which was all her uncle wanted in the end. It was why he had married her mother when he was really in love with Aunt Frannie. It was why he had done what he had done to her mother.

  Uncle Freddie was a monster and not coincidentally a crook. Languages weren’t her only skill. She was pretty good with computers as well, helping herself to funds from the Stavros coffers to make her escape possible and taking a little extra to make sure money would never be a problem, all without leaving a trace that she was the one who took it. Once free, she anonymously sent Interpol some coded bank information that led to a score of arrests in the Stavros organization for money laundering. Never up to the top, but she had done what she could, eventually landing in New York in the position at Reynolds Industries. And Andrea Prentiss was born.

  Until Tottingham recognized her.

  Her memory of her mother had faded with the years and, truth be told, she had not realized how much she resembled her. If she had, she would have made more of an effort to disguise it. But she had gotten careless with her past and all she could try to do was not let it haunt her present. If she hadn’t disappeared again, Tottingham’s recognition might have come to nothing. Maybe she had caused her own doom. She didn’t know.

  But all things happened for a reason.

  And waking up in the arms of Evans Reynolds, sticky with his cum on her belly from that last time he had shuddered against her, his legs tangled in her own, was like nothing she had ever experienced. Maybe everything had just brought her to this.

  Evan’s lips lightly pressed along her temple.

  “No bad dreams?”

  “None.”

  The kiss on her lips to seal it was too brief.

  “Then get up, sleepyhead. I want to really show you around the island. And don’t try to use the excuse you’re not well enough.”

  She grinned at him as he leapt out of bed.

  “I happen to know every delectable little bit of your body is in full working order.”

  “And then some,” she agreed easily, rising at her own languid pace, stretching her arms high above her as she did so. There were no blinds on any of Evan’s windows or sliding-glass doors. No curtains. No shades.

  No reason to have any, she supposed. And yet decadently satisfying privacy all around them.

  Rummaging in his dresser, he threw her yet another of his inevitable tees and sweatpants. She glanced at the slogan on the shirt, which proclaimed If you got a warrant, I guess you’re gonna come in and laughed, slipping it on. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Deadhead, Evan.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for recognizing that line.”

  When she would have gone to roll up the bottom of the sweatpants after putting them on, he stopped her, crouching down with a pair of scissors he’d pulled off his desk. “It’s too dangerous going where we’re going today with the possibility of you tripping over these.” He cut four or five inches off of each pant hem efficiently and then stood. “You can tuck what’s left over into the top of your boots.”

  Although she had taken over his sock drawer, she still had her boots. She didn’t know what had happened to the other clothes she had come in and she didn’t ask, since presumably the blood had rendered them useless.

  But today was not a day to think about blood.

  “I should really pop over to the mainland and get you some clothes that fit.”

  Today was not a day to think about that either. “No,” she said in a rush. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  He nodded. “Afraid someone will think I have a woman here?”

  “Of course not,” she lied. “I’m sure you have women here all the time.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  They dropped the subject of his possible female companions and her possible wardrobe and ventured out hand in hand into the sunshine of a perfectly glorious day. On her few forays around the island so far, they had headed down to the beach, where the sound of the pounding Atlantic gave her a proper sense of her own perspective. But this time, Evan steered her in the opposite direction, toward the cliffs at the top of the island.

  They climbed jagged rock upon jagged rock. The sea below them seemed to magnify in its wildness the higher they got, the vantage showing them how hard the surf beat against the cliffs, how insistent its rhythm. From on high, perspective wasn’t what this
tableau spelled to her. Majesty maybe. Wild power perhaps.

  By the time they were at the highest point, hand in hand, both breathing hard and grinning with their exertion, she felt she understood the meaning of the phrase “Rocky Mountain High”. Even though she knew it referred to a region far away and probably not very similar in topography, the point was the same. How easy it was to be high on nature or something to that effect.

  Glancing at Evan’s wind-ruffled hair, in his fisherman’s sweater and boots, she realized there was something very sexy about this man-and-nature thing too.

  Or maybe it was just this man.

  Sidling up to him, she went for a kiss and a toot from somewhere caused her to spring back and look toward the sound in alarm. Silence had a way of growing on a person. She hadn’t realized how much she had come to value it until the sound ripped it apart and she felt that same sense of unease she had felt virtually since her mother had married Fredrico Stavros.

  “It’s just the supply boat,” Evan cautioned.

  “I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  The little motorboat was approaching fast but still would be far enough away for the occupant not to discern there were two figures on the cliff instead of one. She crouched down to the grass automatically and the look of pity he cast her way hurt. But she did not stand up.

  “Go into the cottage.” He gestured to the crumbling stone building behind them. “I’ll meet the boat down at the beach.”

  She didn’t care at this point that he witnessed her furtive run toward the structure. He already must think her no better than a cornered, frightened rabbit. When she got to the cottage, unlocked of course, she paid its interior no mind, posting herself by the side of the window, alert to see who was approaching the island. Although from the vantage of the cottage close to the cliff, she could make out where the beach met the water, she couldn’t see much else. Glancing distractedly around, she saw the binoculars hanging on the wall and grabbed them. Excellent.

  She pointed them to the beach, where Evan with his usual easy stride was making his way toward the boat that just then pulled up alongside his own boat on the dock. A girl jumped out of the boat to tie it to the dock, her long blonde hair whipping around her.

  A gorgeous girl. And though she could not hear what the girl was saying, her bright smile said it all. Great. Another female falling at Evan Reynolds’ feet.

  “Hi, Cassie.” Evan jumped down into the boat to get the packages while she tied up the boat. Climbing back onto the dock, box in hand, he said, “I got them, Cass. You don’t need to dock. I’m all set.”

  She gave him a pretend pout, apparently trying out another of her flirty looks on him. “You’re no fun. I was going to stay all afternoon and let you have your wicked way with me.”

  Evan couldn’t help but smile at her usual taunt. “But then I’d have to get my groceries somewhere else because your father would be hunting me with a gun.”

  Cassie Bailey was a beautiful girl, tall and tanned and blonde with a killer smile and a natural way about her a guy could really appreciate. Some other guy, not the guy who was planning on buying groceries at her father’s store for the rest of his life. He didn’t need that complication. Plus, Cassie was only nineteen and though some men liked younger women—his father for one, in his heyday—Evan wasn’t so inclined. She reminded him of the kid sister of a friend in college he had always had to steer clear of since she seemed to have targeted him for her first big crush and was determined to lose her virginity with him.

  Cassie, from the knowing way she talked and the fact that kids seemed to mature pretty fast in these small towns despite the stereotype, had probably already lost her virginity. But Evan wasn’t interested in letting her bone up on her technique with him.

  She was in short shorts today, despite that it was cool for this time of year, and a halter tied around her waist. Cassie was sexy. No doubt about it. But he’d never even been tempted by the possibility of hooking up with her. He didn’t mind being a sport about the ongoing flirtation, though. It was kind of cute.

  “You’re breaking my heart, Evan.”

  “I don’t believe it. Girls as pretty as you don’t have a heart when it comes to men.”

  He turned to walk back up the dock, hoping they could leave it at that.

  “Do you really think I’m pretty, Evan?” The plaintive voice behind him stopped him. What was it with chicks? No matter how good looking or smart or funny, they all seemed to harbor some deep insecurity when it came to guys. Whereas guys, no matter how ugly or stupid or dull-witted, seemed to consider themselves great catches. It apparently was Mother Nature’s way of giving a break to the poor slobs comprising the male half of the human race.

  Maybe that was why he’d been so attracted to Andrea Prentiss in the first place. Well, not in the first place. Then he’d just fucked her because he thought he was entitled to and she was so sexy. But when he had gotten to know her as Andrea Prentiss, even for as short a time as that was, she had seemed so confident, as if she didn’t give a damn about what he or any man thought of her. To see her scared, as she had been since she’d gotten here, just pissed him off even more.

  He turned back to Cassie, and despite fishing for the compliment, she put on a saucy smile.

  “Of course I think you’re pretty, Cassie. I’d have to be blind not to think you were pretty.”

  “Tommy says you’re gay,” she offered, referring to the asshole kid he’d seen lurking around her a few times when he was at the store.

  “And if I was that would concern Tommy how? Is he looking for a date with me?”

  She laughed. It would probably be easier if he let her think he was gay. But she had to learn that she didn’t have to come on to every man she met and that it was okay if she didn’t hook up with them. More than okay. Better. Better that she value herself more highly and have sex only when she felt something for the guy.

  Christ, he was feeling old right now.

  “I’m going to tell Tommy you said that. It’s going to make him so mad.”

  “Tommy is a jerk, Cassie. You deserve better.”

  “Like you,” she pointed out and he shook his head wearily. “Why don’t you like me, Evan? I want to know.”

  “I do like you. That’s the point. That’s why I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”

  But the look on her face told him he probably was messing it up. He was familiar with hero-worship. This was so what he didn’t need right now.

  He turned his back again. “So get lost, beautiful.”

  And then he walked briskly back to his house, hearing the motorboat pull away.

  Without unpacking the groceries, he headed back to the cottage on the cliff. Why there was even a cottage on the island he didn’t know. It hadn’t been habitable when he first got here and it wasn’t much better now, the windows long since having lost their glass and the stone walls crumbling a bit. But he had put a padded bench in and a table and some other bare necessities. He liked to read in there once in a while. And now that he had finished every home improvement imaginable on the lighthouse itself, he didn’t doubt that he would turn to this structure next. He needed physical labor to keep him occupied.

  Wondering if Andrea had fallen asleep, he found her wide awake as he entered the cottage, watching him. “She’s gone now,” he said.

  She nodded. “Is that your girlfriend?”

  “Cassie? Hell no.”

  “Why not? It seems like it would be extremely convenient.”

  “On the contrary, it would be extremely inconvenient.”

  “Meaning what? You’d have to see her after you had sex with her because she delivers the groceries?”

  “Yeah,” he said immediately, only at the last second realizing what a jerk that made him seem like. But hell, it was true. “Her father owns the main store in the nearest town and she’s barely legal.”

  “She looked pretty legal to me. Or do you really just sleep with whores?”

  Actu
ally, he pretty much did these days, Andrea Prentiss being the glaring exception even if he hadn’t been clued in to that fact initially. He chose not to take her comment as picking a fight with him. “I’m not interested in relationships with women usually, just sex. Paying for it seems fairer all around.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Come on. Let’s go back to the house.”

  “Are you sure your little blonde girlfriend isn’t lurking around?”

  “What the hell’s your problem, Andrea? You saw the boat drive away. Don’t get paranoid on me. Or even more paranoid than you already are.”

  “Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean someone’s not out to get me.”

  “Thanks for those words of wisdom.”

  “I don’t believe in monogamy,” she offered, apropos of nothing.

  “What?”

  “Really. It’s always seemed the most ridiculous concept in the world to me.”

  “I’m not sleeping with Cassie.”

  She laughed—a funny, completely-not-like-her sound. There was too much wildness in it to sound like Andrea Prentiss. “I mean it. I really don’t care. I always wondered why men got so caught up on the concept.”

  Evan neglected to point out that men usually weren’t the ones caught up on that, but he wasn’t following her train of thought too well anyway, so he hesitated to jump in.

  “I mean ‘crime of passion’ and all that. Why would anyone really care if they came home and found their spouse in bed with somebody else? What the hell difference would that make to anything?”

  Well, he sort of saw why it might be annoying.

  “I mean if you loved the person, what would it matter? And if you didn’t love the person, well…what would it matter? Sex has nothing to do with anything.”

  “Let’s go back to the lighthouse. I think you need a nap.”

  “I’m not your fucking puppy!”

  He went for her arm and she slapped him, hard. So hard it whipped his head back and he gasped. Nobody had ever hit him. He didn’t have a very physical family and he was never the roughhousing kind of boy at school. As an adult, he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who got in bar fights either or anything.