Hard To Tame

by Kylie Brant

  She dampened a paper towel and dabbed at her neck, finding relief in the action. Her body had been jolted from one response to another in the last few hours, and coupled with the jet lag just beginning to make itself known, she was starting to feel the effects.

  Two other women entered and came to the counter to repair their lipstick. One of them, a tall, slender blonde with watchful eyes, looked at Sara. “Are you all right?”

  Reaching for her composure, she shifted back into role. “Ah’m fine, thanks. Too much champagne on an empty stomach.”

  The taller of the two, another blonde with a mass of curls piled atop her head, said, “The waiters with the red sashes have the trays of hors d’oeuvres. You should snag one of them before the auction starts.”

  Sara studied the woman. “You have something to do with this auction, don’t you? Ah’ve seen you rushing back and forth, answering questions.”

  The woman shrugged. “I’m on the committee that arranged it.”

  “Don’t let her kid you,” her companion interjected. “She’s practically pulled this thing off single-handedly. The only thing she refuses to do is emcee the auction and get all the publicity. I’m Addison Jacobs, by the way.”

  “Meghan Patterson,” the other woman said.

  “Raeanne Backstrom.” Sara tossed the paper towel she’d been using in the trash container, and opened her purse for her lipstick. The act would give her a few more moments before she had to go back and rejoin Nick, and confront that onslaught of emotion once again.

  “I saw you speaking with Victor Mannen earlier.” Addison blotted her lips and crumpled the tissue. “Do you know him well?”

  Pretending to repair her makeup gave Sara a much needed diversion. Peering intently into the mirror, she outlined her lips. “He just came up and introduced himself this evening. Ah’m afraid Ah don’t know anyone in the city.”

  Addison Jacobs opened her purse and dropped in her lipstick. Then she pulled out a card. “Then you probably aren’t aware of Mannen’s reputation. Just be careful of him. If anything comes up that you’d like to discuss, anything at all, just call the number listed here.”

  Slowly Sara reached for the card, her gaze going from one sober-faced woman to the other. After the two had turned to leave, she looked down, read the print:

  Addison Jacobs

  Cook County Assistant State Attorney

  239-555-1326 ext. 204

  Chapter 9

  After some internal debate, Sara gave Nick the card when they got back to the house that evening. He frowned down at it. “Which woman was she?”

  “The tall blonde in the red dress.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Sara raised her eyebrows, looked at him. “There were only two of them. Do you think I’d get them mixed up?”

  “No, but the other woman was with a guy I’m sure was a cop.”

  It was her turn to frown. “I didn’t notice any policemen in there.”

  “He wasn’t in uniform.” He didn’t say more—he didn’t have to. Sometimes she’d been able to pick out cops herself just by looking at their eyes. Although come to think of it, Nick had that same impassive, watchful manner about him. She almost pointed that out to him, but thought he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

  Wandering into the drawing room, she carefully set the picture Nick had bought for her against the wall. Without lights on, the moonlight streamed in through the open drapes and reflected in brilliant shards off the mirrored pillars. She stopped, transfixed by the sight. It was almost as if the room had been built with this scene, this moment, in mind.

  Nick went to the bar in the corner. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, I had enough champagne.” Her mind went back to the card she’d given him. “What interest do you think Jacobs has in Mannen?”

  “Law enforcement has been bearing down on him recently. From what Whitmore said, the state attorney’s office had a hit man ready to flip on Mannen. Even gave up some tapes of conversations he had with Mannen hiring him for jobs. Someone got to him in jail, though—he OD’d on his own heart medicine. Justice has something else in the works—a money laundering operation Mannen was involved in.”

  Sara went still. “A hit man?”

  “As far as I know, he was never hired to hunt you.”

  There seemed to be a sudden draft in the room. She rubbed her arms. Maybe that particular assassin hadn’t been set on her, but others had over the years. Mannen probably had someone trying to pick up her trail right now. “Sounds like they’ve got enough against him. Why do they need me? Or you?”

  “He has a way of slipping out of the tightest of nooses. Matching his voice to the one on the tape will be dicey, and white collar crime can take years to untangle. They want him bad, and they want a pile of charges high enough that he’ll never escape them.”

  She heard the slight clink of ice against crystal. Either Kim had stocked the bar, or Nick had had that taken care of. Just like he’d taken care of renting the house and hiring a driver.

  “What did you do with the picture?”

  “I set it next to the door.” Thoughts of the gift he’d presented her with summoned a welter of emotions. The clothes and jewels were easy to dismiss; they were part of this whole charade. But the picture he’d bid on was harder to disregard. It depicted a coastal village, hazed with fog, with the sun sending splinters of color through the mist. The painter had lent the common scene an almost holy light.

  The painting was totally inappropriate for her, of course. She had no illusions about anything in this world. She’d been too busy dodging storm clouds to search for the silver linings. But something about it had drawn her, although she’d never mentioned it aloud. Nick had either noticed the way her eyes had repeatedly returned to this painting, or he’d instinctively known she would find it compelling. She wasn’t certain which possibility was more disturbing.

  But she did know that it was the first present anyone had given her since her fifteenth birthday. Her mother had sprung for a case of Old Style that day, and urged Sara to invite all her friends over to tie one on. Even a delinquent girl of fifteen knew a mother like that just didn’t give a damn. But then, that was hardly the worst example of Janie Parker’s parenting. Not even close.

  “You did a good job tonight.” Focusing on Nick’s words was a way to skirt the memories, one she seized gladly. He strolled back toward her, minus his tux jacket, the first button of his shirt undone. “You stayed in character—even when Mannen appeared.”

  She asked the question that had been bothering her ever since she’d been unexpectedly confronted by the man. “You knew he’d be there, didn’t you?”

  Nick brought the glass to his lips, drank. Lowering it, he said, “If you’d known you were going to meet up with him tonight you would have been nervous.”

  His evasive response made a few other things begin to make sense. Her voice brittle, she said, “Nervous at seeing the man determined to kill me for the last six years?” She made a disbelieving sound. “Why would you think that? You took him by surprise, too, didn’t you? He didn’t expect to see you there.”

  “The element of surprise is often an invaluable weapon.”

  “Well, here’s a news flash for you. Don’t use me like that again. Not if you still want to be walking upright.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought you understood our cover.”

  “You established us as lovers with your show of possessiveness all evening. That wasn’t your intent with that final scene. You saw him there, didn’t you? Knew he’d approach us. So you made a point of enacting that little drama in the corner for my benefit.” The memory of the ease with which he’d ignited her desire, while remaining largely unmoved himself, still had the power to humiliate. “Something to distract me so that when I came face-to-face with him I’d be completely blown out of the water.”

  There was something in Nick’s eyes, a dangerous glitter. Then he stepped closer, out of the blade of moon
light, and they were shadowed again. “I thought the meeting would go better if—”

  “You thought.” Because her voice had risen a bit, she stopped and drew a breath. “Well, I don’t appreciate being manhandled for show. To have my feelings manipulated for—”

  Two quick steps and he reached her, his face lowered to hers. “If you think you were the only one affected by our kiss, you’re not as observant as I thought.”

  She remained stubbornly silent, unwilling to debase herself further by reminding him that he hadn’t been the one left staggering for composure, vulnerable to the next huge shock when she’d realized who had approached them.

  Somehow, without moving, he managed to loom closer. Sara took a quick look at Nick’s face and moistened her lips. Her retreat was involuntary, and short-lived. The column was at her back. When he took another step forward, she was caged between his heat and the coolness of the pillar.

  “If you’re saying tonight was all for show, you’re kidding yourself.” His voice was edged with a measure of the frustration she’d experienced earlier that evening. “I’ve never made any secret of wanting you. Maybe what really makes you angry is that you want me, too.”

  In one swift motion he bent, sat his glass on the floor and then rose again, his mouth taking hers. There was nothing controlled about the kiss. It was wet and deep, explicit in its demand. And far too easily it ignited embers of their earlier desire. He crowded nearer, until they were pressed together—chests, hips, legs, while his mouth ate at hers. And she knew, with twin feelings of passion and fear, that this time would end differently than the last.

  He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, his tongue probing at hers, and dimly she felt his hands at her back. Her arms raised to twine around his neck, and held. Their mouths twisted together, fierce and hungry for the taste of each other. The kiss was rough, wild and unrestrained. And it was the wildness that excited her the most. The hint of shredding control that torched her own.

  His flavor was heady, darkly seductive, and she could feel her muscles going lax. This was the real threat of him, always had been. She’d recognized his power even in the café in New Orleans. This was a man who could make her want.

  His mouth went to her jawline, to her throat, and her neck arched. She knew the danger of wanting, the futility of it. Nothing lasted. Nothing was worth sacrificing her hard-won control. But…she’d never experienced anything like this. Even as her limbs grew weaker, something coiled tighter and hotter inside her, pulsing for release. She shuddered as his teeth closed over the sensitive cord of her throat.

  Her dress loosened and Nick pushed it down. Her eyes fluttered open. She hadn’t realized he’d unzipped it. He reared back a little, and his hands went to her bare breasts, fingers stroking her nipples to tight taut knots.

  “You’re beautiful, mon ange. Sexy. You can’t know how I’ve wanted you.” Their gazes met, held. “But you will.”

  The rasped words were still prickling across her nerves when he lowered his head and drew her nipple into his mouth. The pleasure was immediate and electric. A whimper escaped her lips and her eyes closed, weighted shut. She pulled him closer, arched so he could take more of her breast into his mouth, then moaned when he did.

  His hands were everywhere. Smoothing over the fabric covering her hips, then finding the hem and slipping beneath it. He switched his attention to her other breast even as one deft hand glided along her silk-clad leg until it found where the nylon ended on her thigh, and brushed the skin above it.

  Her hips jerked helplessly and he lifted his head. Her nipples were wet from his mouth, aching, and she fumbled for the buttons on his shirt, desperate for contact. He let her undress him, his other hand joining the first, brushing the bare skin of her inner thighs with light deft strokes.

  She’d freed the majority of the buttons on his shirt, but couldn’t find the will to complete the act. Instead, her fingers greedily glided over his skin, tangling in the dark mat of hair covering his chest.

  Touching him was as gut-wrenchingly sexy as having his hands on her. His wide shoulders blocked the shaft of moonlight, leaving them in shadows. She tested the padded muscle beneath her fingers, leaned forward to scrape one tight pec with her teeth. His body jolted, and his hands slid to cup her bottom. She gave a satisfied smile. This time there would be no question of either of them holding back. If her control was going to shatter, so was his.

  She flicked her tongue at one of his small flat nipples as his hands kneaded her flesh, and she trailed her own hands over the tight smooth skin stretched over his ribs, carefully skirting the bandage. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on him, and her hands traced a return journey, stroking sinew, angles and hard male flesh.

  He stroked a finger along the elastic of her panties, close, tantalizingly closer to the apex of her thighs. The bold touch shocked her, tempted her. She was beyond thinking of logic and consequences, beyond holding back. None of what she’d known about sex had prepared her for this mind-numbing flood of sensation, this wanting, that radiated through her system in waves of need.

  She reached for Nick’s belt, loosened it, before he pulled away, knelt down to tug her panties down her legs.

  “Step out of them, ma petite.” The seductive command drifted to her and she obeyed mindlessly, drawing her breath in as he pushed the dress up to bunch at her hips.

  Desire pounded through her, and she gripped his shoulders, trying to pull him up her body. The feeling was fierce, demanding. This longing couldn’t be satisfied until he was inside her, thick and heavy, driving them both to madness.

  But rather than obey her urgings, he remained kneeling and, leaning forward, pressed his mouth to her core.

  The shock of the intimate kiss drove the breath from her lungs. The unfamiliarity of the act would have had her backing away, but she was locked in place between Nick and the pillar behind her. His mouth was hot on her sensitive flesh, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of her cleft with long heated strokes.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, meaning to push him away. Instead they clung for support as her knees weakened. He pushed her legs farther apart, tilted her hips to his satisfaction and probed her with his tongue.

  Bolts of sensation speared through her, and a high wild cry was ripped from her throat. The pleasure was so exquisite it balanced on the keen edge of pain. Every flick of his tongue, every deft stroke sent wild spirals of need zinging through her. She tangled her hands in his hair, digging her fingers into his scalp, unaware of the tightness of her grip. There was an ache deep inside her, one only he could assuage, but she didn’t have the words to tell him that. She could only twist against him mindlessly, seeking an end to the sensual torment.

  He entered her with one finger, stroking deeply, and Sara’s teeth clamped down on her lower lip. That finger was joined by another, and the tip of his tongue swirled over her clitoris, causing her to jerk helplessly against him. The dual assault staggered her system, the rhythmic thrusting coupled with the quick stabbing motions of his tongue torching what was left of her control. She was sobbing now, her breath heaving, her hips pressing closer for more contact. Deeper. More. Oh, please, more.

  Then a sudden shock as the thrill snapped through her, overheating circuits, scorching nerve endings. A moan ripped out of her, as a long liquid wash of pleasure tossed her high, swamped her system.

  Weak and trembling, she would have sunk to the floor if he hadn’t supported her. He slid up her body, his hands hard and demanding. “’Tite chatte. Mine.” He dropped a kiss on her mouth, then found the sensitive area beneath her ear.

  Her limbs felt drugged. She forced her eyes open, looked into his and felt an unexpected flicker of desire return. His face was stamped with arousal, his nostrils flared. Color flushed across his cheekbones. He looked savagely male, and his body fairly shuddered with tension.

  The signs of his need were a kind of aphrodisiac. She finished unbuckling his belt, then slowly worked the zipper over his st
raining manhood. He wore a pair of dark, form-fitting boxers, and they did nothing to hide his erection.

  Renewed desire thrummed in her veins. Slowly she worked him free of the briefs and took him in her hands.

  He cursed in French. His meaning was unclear, but not his intent. A smile curved her lips as she stroked the hard, pulsing length of him. He fumbled in his pocket, retrieved a condom. Ripping the package with his teeth, he withdrew the rolled latex, placed it over the head of his shaft, then reached for her hands, guided them. She knew instinctively what he wanted, but her fingers turned clumsy, the act unfamiliar. She unrolled the condom down the length of his hardness, taking long enough in the process that a groan escaped him. The sound became strangled in his throat when she finished and wrapped her hand around his length, squeezing gently.

  “Mon Dieu, you’re killing me.” Despite the guttural words, his hand covered hers, showing her the motion that pleasured him, groaning again when she imitated it. He shoved her dress higher, cupped her hips to lift her, and stepped between her spread thighs.

  “Wrap your legs around me.”

  Uncertain of the position, she did as he demanded, then stilled when she felt the head of his shaft probing between her legs. There was a flash of fear; he was huge and it had been a long time for her. That instinct had her trying to close against him, but it was impossible. He pressed against her opening, the liquid dampness of his earlier ministrations and her own desire easing his way. He stopped, breathing hard, seeming to fight for control. Then he withdrew almost all the way, and pushed slowly, inexorably inside her, until he was buried to the hilt.

  She made a small sound of distress at the completeness of his invasion, and he stilled, giving her body time to adjust. She felt impaled by him, helpless, the pose leaving her vulnerable. The dark silk of his voice flowed over her as he whispered in her ear, erotic words of sex and wanting, in a mixture of French and English. She shivered against him, relaxing by increments. One of his hands went to her breast, teased the nipple, then squeezed it gently. His mouth went to the side of her neck, doing secret sensual things that made her body quiver and her hands clutch him closer.