by Jianne Carlo
“Deal.” Two lines bridged his nose. “What's the catch?”
“While I'm at work this week, why don't you start looking for a bigger place for the two of us?”
“Whaaat?” A muscle flexed over his jaw. “Say again.”
She snickered, then burst into a series of guffaws. “Payback. Cripes. I never thought I could do it. You should see your face. For the first time, I think I threw you off balance.”
“Shush.” He gave her a little shake. “Are you toying with me, Destiny? This is not a joking matter.”
“I'm sorry, Linc. I'm sorry.” She cradled his jaw, stroking the soft fuzz. “No. I am not toying with you. I know what that feels like, and I'd never do that to you. Do you still want us to live together?”
“With all my heart and soul.”
“Let's do it, then.”
He slid her down his body without breaking their locked gazes. “I'm riding a cliff, Baby Doll. Undress.”
They undressed in a silence broken only by the running shower, which pattered like gentle spring rain, the occasional rustle of cloth, and the clink of a belt buckle hitting the floor. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his emerging thighs; the erection jutting toward his belly quickened her racing heart, drowning all sounds save the thunder in her ears.
Certain her frequent swallowing echoed through the bathroom, certain the molten cream slicking her thighs and folds glistened from her obvious arousal, Destiny shimmied out of her jeans. She jerked her shirt over her head and unhooked her front-clip bra. He'd long discarded his clothes and stood there naked, penis engorged, the crown swollen.
Her mouth watered; the pulse at her throat and wrists galloped. Her lungs burned.
“You've no idea how happy you've made me tonight.” One finger outlined her breast, another slid up her throat to angle her chin back. “Thank you.”
His arm slid under her hip.
She pushed off the floor and wrapped her legs around his waist.
Forehead to forehead, they entered the shower stall. Water streamed over their scalps.
He whispered something she didn't catch, and then in one hard thrust he filled her tightness. Eyes wide open, he moved so no space remained between their joined bodies.
She locked her ankles on his back.
One hand cradled her neck. The other supported her hip to waist. His first thrust and withdrawal seared her insides.
“Touch yourself,” he demanded.
She obeyed without blinking, without thinking, resting the pad of her forefinger at the juncture of their genitals.
“Lower,” he ordered, his voice gravel rough.
She set her thumb to her clit and a whimper erupted from her throat when he thrust again. The pressure set off explosive convulsions, and she climaxed right there and then.
“Don't move that finger,” he commanded and plundered her pussy, thundering in and out, faster and faster. Orgasm after orgasm racked her inside out, and she screamed his name when he bit her shoulder and shuddered against her.
•●•
“Tell me again,” he ordered half an hour later.
Destiny rolled her eyes. “We're moving in together.”
“Uh-uh, the other part.” He brushed a cube of gravy-coated beef across the seam of her mouth. “Open.”
“I can't eat and answer your question at the same time,” she protested, shifting her naked bottom more into the center of his lap.
“True. Answer, then eat.”
“I'm going to meet your family next weekend.”
“And?”
“I'm dreading it?” She chomped down on the beef and chewed.
“Destiny?”
She swallowed—the wine-flavored, juicy meat suddenly tasting like dry saw dust. “Omigod, is that the time?”
“You're not about to distract me, Destiny Driven.”
“I have to get up in a couple of hours, Linc Chapman. One of us has to earn a living.”
“Wrong.” He tapped her nose. “You don't need to work. My investments earn enough to afford us a very luxurious lifestyle.”
“That's it,” she sputtered. “You're pushing it. I agreed we'd live together.”
“With marriage in mind.”
“I'm not ready to ring shop. And I don't for a second believe your mother will throw a hissy fit”—she hung finger quotation marks around the last two words—“if I'm not wearing some giga-carat diamond ring.”
“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he pronounced, wearing a decided “I didn't do it” expression.
The alarm bell rang way too early that morning.
Not that she needed an alarm, since she'd woken to Linc's tongue buried inside her, his thumb generating cinders on her clit.
She missed the first subway train by a pulse beat, the second while reliving their morning session, and barely hopped onto the third one, she was so distracted.
Destiny's ecstasy bubble shielded the crowded subway ride, the fetid smells of the homeless, and the aroma of urine lingering in stairwells. Uncaring of the misted fall drizzle and a sky armored with gray clouds, she swung her purse on the short walk to the office, humming to herself.
The minute a heating vent blasted dry, hot air in her face, Destiny remembered her book.
She'd sub it to Jess today. Cripes, what if Jess hated it? What if she really had no talent?
Thank the Lord she hadn't blurted everything to Linc last night. Not that they'd talked much this morning. She'd have to get up two hours earlier if he continued to insist she eat breakfast naked on his lap.
Who knew dry Cheerios could be so sexy?
Dampness coated her palms, so she tugged off both gloves and hit the elevator button. The ride seemed interminable. Someone had stinky BO, and even smothering her nose with her bunched gloves didn't help.
Every floor dinged.
“Hi!” Destiny smiled at the temp filling in for the regular receptionist.
A bigger morning crowd than usual hugged the water cooler and coffee station, and the conversation buzz seemed louder than normal. But then she'd grown fond of the quiet of the countryside, even fonder of snoozing and then finding Linc propped on an elbow tickling her nose with a lock of her own hair.
On autopilot, she ambled down the hallway and turned into her cube. The intercom dinged. She dropped her purse onto her desk and snatched the phone to her ear. “What's up, Jess?”
“You didn't read the entertainment section of the Times yesterday, did you?”
Something cold and damp and all too much like Gollum from the Lord of the Rings fork-tongued her nape. “No. Why?”
“You made the news, honey.”
Chapter Twelve
Man up.
Lincoln scowled and scraped a hand over his beard stubble.
Get a fricking move on.
Cold raindrops wet Linc's too-long hair, coating his lashes and making him blink as streaming rivulets ran down his cheeks. He'd been walking the neighborhood after tailing Destiny to the subway, weighing her pissed level versus his desperate need to know she'd arrived at work safely.
A twinkling, fat diamond in a jeweler’s showcase window drew his attention.
What kind of ring would she like? How soon can I propose?
The cell in his jacket pocket vibrated.
He ducked into the jewelry shop's alcove, noted the hours of operation, absently retrieved the phone, and thumbed Receive. “Chapman.”
“Yo. Got a minute?” Satan's drawl couldn't be mistaken.
“Yeah. What's up?” Linc studied the diner across the road. Lucifer's latest report on Destiny mentioned that she brunched there with Mrs. Charles the last Sunday of every month.
Now why did that pop into my brain?
“We may have a problem.”
Linc snapped, “Stop the dramatics.”
“No confirmation yet, but pirates may have attacked the Indonesian Express.”
The Indonesian Express, launched the day he and Satan signed the security contract
with the young whippersnapper, Guido Medici, who'd inherited the Italian shipping line, was on its maiden voyage.
Linc repressed a groan. He so did not need to be out of town right now. “Details.”
“According to satellite reports, the ship went off course around 0400 hours EST today. The GPS isn't functioning, and the control center hasn't been able to raise anyone on board.”
“How many hours difference their time and ours?”
“Eleven.”
“Last report?”
“Mandatory when the ship crossed Malaysian waters at 0200.”
“Status?”
“Wait mode. Guido's dispatched two of his security men to the area. Search plane deployed from Sumatra an hour after dawn. Nothing unusual sighted.”
“Kid's on the ball,” Linc mused.
Though he'd judged twenty-five-year-old Guido Medici brash and arrogant, Lucifer's backgrounder revealed a confidence rooted in centuries of solemn aristocratic adherence to duty. Guido's every waking moment since birth had been designed to ensure success when he inherited the family empire.
“Yeah, he did good,” Satan agreed.
“Where are you?”
“On my way home. The bank called—Guido wired the money to Geneva. We're all set. We need to go over the details.”
“I'll meet you at your place in a couple of hours.”
Linc turned up his jacket’s collar, rocked on his heels, and debated calling Destiny for three seconds.
Man up. Stop being so needy. Why can't she work remotely?
Before dashing out the door this morning, she'd told him she usually came home at seven. He didn't like her working such long hours. Scowling at the now-solid gray cloud blanketing the sun, he abandoned the idea of phoning her. With no need to return to her apartment, he shoved off the jeweler’s glass door, set his iPhone searching for the nearest car rental location in Satan’s neighborhood, and marched to the subway.
City traffic and the weather made for a longer than expected travel time, and Linc pulled into the secluded driveway leading to the expansive seaside mansion Satan called home ninety minutes later. His thoughts returned to Destiny.
Why did she clam up about her time in the Adirondacks?
Located in East Marion on Long Island, Satan's five-bedroom, six-thousand-square-foot home boasted a two-seventy view of Gardener's Bay, and Bug Light and Orient Point. Belvedere, one of nine properties scattered across Europe and North America that Lorcan inherited from his deceased parents, glowed sparkling amber in the gray drizzle and mist.
Why'd you return here, buddy? You hated this place growing up. Took any excuse to get out from under it.
Lincoln and Lorcan had met in primary school. Bonded. There'd never been any question they were anything but best friends and that they'd work together one day. Even after his parents sent Lorcan to military school the day he turned thirteen, nothing changed.
Lorcan returned to Long Island only for a scant month every summer. He spent more time at the Chapmans' crowded, crammed home than he ever had at this mansion. Linc'd met Satan's folks maybe five times during their two-decade friendship. Cold couldn't begin to describe his trust-fund, patrician mother. His father worked on Wall Street, spoke little, noticed little—certainly none of his son's accomplishments.
Neither had attended Satan's graduation. The Chapman clan adopted Lorcan—Linc's sisters mothered him, and his brothers toughened him up. He spent every holiday with them, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Linc knew something had happened the summer before they enlisted. Satan's parents cut off his trust fund when he told them he had enlisted in the Navy. They sent him to military school, for Christ's sake—what the hell else did they expect?
So why are you back here, Satan? What devils are you confronting?
No doubt about the beauty of the two-storied mansion or the setting for that matter. The house stood on the edge of a precipice nestled into carefully planted wild foliage. The spectacular view upon entry made even people who knew the house well pause and take in the vista.
One of the twin oak doors centered in the rectangular brick façade opened as Linc exited his rented Hummer.
Satan, shoulder jammed against the doorframe, carried two mugs, one of which he sipped from.
“You're late,” he called.
“City traffic.” Linc strode up the inclined cobbled drive, his throat anticipating the first java dose for the day.
He accepted the ceramic mug the other man proffered, gulped two mouthfuls of the much-welcomed coffee, closing his eyes as the hot brew traveled his gullet. “Perfect.”
“How'd it go?” Satan motioned him in and shut the door behind them.
“Better than expected. We're moving in together.” Lincoln grinned like a teenager announcing his first lay. Mist dampened the view from the picture window that dominated the other wall. Bits of a maple that had seen more years than the two of them combined poked through the fog. A half-lime, half-canary leaf peeked in between tattered and browning leaves that weaved and waved when a breeze ruffled the tree's plumage.
“You're going to live in the city?” Satan halted midstride. “What happened to a cottage in the old neighborhood?”
“On hold for the moment. This editor gig seems to be essential to Destiny. I'm taking it one step at a time. I'm supposed to be looking for a place for us today. You should see the matchbox she lives in.” Coffee aroma teased his nostrils, and he drank half the cup.
“You're welcome to the Park Avenue penthouse.”
Lincoln grimaced. “If I can persuade her into it, I might take you up on that.”
“Persuade?” Satan snorted. “You have to fucking persuade a woman to live in a nine-million-dollar Manhattan penthouse?”
“You've met her. The way she talks about the blue-blooded author she used to edit—let's just say I have a strong notion she's gonna insist on going Dutch on everything.” He grimaced at his empty mug. “I need another cup.”
“There's more in the den. Lucifer's here. Demon and Devil are AWOL.”
“Uh-uh, left me a voice mail. They're both in Coronado.”
He'd been surprised to get that message and had called a couple of former SEAL buddies out of curiosity. None of the squad had been back to the Naval Special Warfare Center in California since their last stint as trainers more than five months ago. “Refresher?” Satan and Linc fell into step together down the left corridor.
“Nah. They needed a couple extra instructors for Hell Week.”
Satan whistled. “I wouldn't want to be in their class. ’Specially Devil's.”
“Yeah. I wouldn't go through BUD/S or Hell Week again if you put a gun to my skull. Age—such a bitch.” Linc shot Satan a crooked grin. The first three weeks of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training was supposed to prepare candidates for the fourth, the famous Hell Week, five and a half days of continuous training with a maximum of four hours total sleep. Hell Week averaged a 60 percent dropout rate.
“You and me both,” Satan agreed.
They entered the den, which had more of a library ambience with wall-to-ceiling built-in bookcases lining the interior. An avaricious reader, Satan collected first editions the way other millionaires collected centerfolds and Lamborghinis. Lincoln had once turned down a page in one of the books he'd borrowed from Satan's library. They'd come close to blows on that occasion.
“Where's Lucifer?” Palms wedged onto his hips, Lincoln let his gaze sweep the room, taking in the ashes in the triangular stone fireplace. Faint, watery sunlight skirmished with the fog, dusting the windows opposite, which framed a spectacular landscape of sandy beach fronted by pebbles. Snowy foam did a slow bump and grind over the rocky divider.
“Probably upstairs for a sec. He spent the night. Gimme your cup.”
Linc complied with Satan’s command and followed his friend to an alcove to the right of the fireplace that housed an industrial-strength stainless Miele coffeemaker.
Satan shoved the mug under a spout and
stabbed a button. The muted aroma of last night's pine blaze battled the scent of Jamaican Blue Mountains beans grinding as the one-cup-at-a-time appliance erupted. Dark liquid spewed and spurted into the mug, and the pine and ashes aroma surrendered to the fragrant brew.
“The late Sinner has finally arrived.” Lucifer's husky voice came from the doorway. “So how goes the courtship?”
Square jawed with platinum-streaked dirty blond hair grazing mid-chest, Lucifer, aka Sax Anders, folded his arms and propped one shoulder on the side of the ceiling-height bookshelf. He crossed his feet at the ankles and raised an eyebrow a shade darker than birch bark.
“He and Destiny are moving in together,” Satan replied before Linc could even open his mouth.
Lucifer straightened and shot Linc a one-sided grin. “First one of us to hit the dust. And from the broad beam on your face—you’re damned pleased. Congrats, my friend. She’s stunning, and from what I’ve found out so far, not only hard working but intelligent too. You grabbed the brass ring with your Destiny Driven.”
Linc’s cheeks heated. He busied himself adding sugar to his java. “I fucking did. Drummed up anything on her birth mother? Or her bastard father?”
“My PI discovered Destiny's mother had a sister, Patricia Driven. As for Destiny's scumbag father, the man's dirty, Sinner. Robert Parker’s a building inspector in Connecticut. His lifestyle doesn't jive with his purported income.” Lucifer strolled over to the coffee maker, inserted one of the mugs stacked on a tray under the brewing spigot, and hit the start button.
Linc's belly caved as if he'd been sucker punched. He walked over to the sofa opposite the windows, sat, and rested his mug on the table. He’d so hoped Lucifer would uncover that Destiny had a ton of family. “An aunt. No other relatives?”
“No. Charlene and Patricia’s parents died twenty-five years ago. Patricia's the only one left. We’re working on locating her. Found evidence of a Vegas quickie marriage, but so far no details.” Lucifer sniffed his java before taking a swallow.
“Keep digging. Maybe the aunt will turn out to be okay.” And if Patricia had married and had babies, Destiny could have cousins. It’d be fucking fantastic to tell Destiny she had living relatives. Linc well remembered the sad, poignant expression she’d worn when he described his large, whacky family.