by Lisa Childs
But that was probably her plan, keep him so sexually charged that he couldn’t think straight, so that he wouldn’t catch her in the act of stealing case files. Why else was she wearing lingerie around the house?
Unless...
He glanced around the apartment. “Are you alone?” Or had she stayed home because she was entertaining a lover?
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Yes, I live here alone. I don’t have a roommate.”
“Then how can you afford this place?” There were doors off the main living room, so it had at least one bedroom. Street Legal paid their employees well enough that she should have been able to afford more than that tiny two-bedroom in Queens that John Paul had admitted they’d shared with another roommate, apparently his boyfriend.
So maybe she’d saved up some of that money but she couldn’t have saved enough to be able to pay the rent for a one-bedroom in the Garment District with a full kitchen. She actually had full-size appliances, not just a two-burner stove top and half-size fridge like she’d shared with John Paul and his partner. There was also a big bay window where a table would fit if she had one. She didn’t. But then she’d obviously just moved in. Boxes sat on the hardwood floor. Maybe that was why she’d called in to work—so she could unpack.
He looked back at her and arched a brow as he waited for her answer.
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “That’s really not any of your business.”
He nearly growled in frustration. “That’s what you said about your reason for resigning.”
“I don’t have to give you one,” she reminded him. “Your own contract says that.” She gestured to where the document was laid out on her reclaimed-wood coffee table. While the place wasn’t totally furnished, he liked the pieces she had. He liked her taste but not just in furniture.
He could taste her on his lips yet. She tasted like some kind of citrusy tea and dark chocolate. A cup and a piece of foil with chocolate crumbs on it sat atop the coffee table, as well.
“Why don’t you want to give me one?” he asked. Usually people told him why they were quitting. I’m in love with you and I know you’ll never love me back.
It’s too hard to work with you.
You expect too much.
Bette had claimed none of those reasons. In fact, she’d never complained about the workload or about him. So why did she want to leave?
“Like I told you before,” she replied, “it’s my business. Not yours.”
“You didn’t mind my being in your business last night,” he reminded her as he stepped closer again. “I was all up in your business...”
And he wanted to be all up inside her again.
Her lips parted on a gasp as she stared up at him. She wanted him to; she had to after last night, after how incredible it had been.
Or hadn’t she felt it?
He’d never lost control like that before, had never come so quickly. Usually he made sure his partner had many, many orgasms before he found his own release.
He wanted her to be as out of control and crazy as she’d made him the night before. So he reached for that bow between her shoulder blades. The bodice of the long negligee loosened and released her full breasts before it pooled like a green silk puddle around her bare feet.
She was bare all over. She didn’t even wear panties beneath that gown. And he was damn glad of that. His hand was shaking so badly he wasn’t certain that he could have untied another bow. Not that he figured all her panties were made that way. But he wanted to find out.
“Why are you so damn sexy?”
Her mouth curved into a smile. “It’s the lingerie.”
He reached out and traced his fingertips over the curve of her breast, then over her flat stomach to the curve of her hip and ass. “You’re not wearing anything right now.” But that sexy smile. “And you’re gorgeous.”
She sighed. “When you turn on the charm like that...”
“What?” he asked. Did he tempt her to reveal all her secrets? To admit that she’d betrayed him?
“You make me crazy,” she murmured. And she reached for him. After pushing his suit jacket from his shoulders, she attacked the buttons on his shirt, frantically freeing them. And each inch of his chest she revealed, she pressed her lips against in silky kisses. Then her tongue flicked over his nipple.
And he groaned. She was the one making him crazy, making him lose control. But he couldn’t risk that again. He was the one who was supposed to be seducing her.
Besides the coffee table, she had a couch—thankfully—or he would have taken her on the table. The couch was big and deep, nearly the size of a bed with soft cushions and pillows. He pushed her onto it and followed her down.
And he went down on her. He didn’t just taste her like he had the night before. He feasted on her. While he used one hand to massage her breast and tease the nipple, he used the other on her pussy. As he slid his fingers inside her wet core, he nibbled and sucked on her clit.
She screamed as she came. And he lapped up her sweet release.
He groaned. And damn it, his control snapped again. He had to be inside her, had to be in all that wet heat. He shucked his pants and briefs and fumbled with the condom. She took the packet from him and tore it open. Then she rolled it over his pulsating cock. He nearly came as she pumped him through the latex. But he wasn’t having it...
He was having her. So he dragged off her hand and spun her around. Then with her clutching the back of the couch cushions, he moved his dick between her legs. As he stroked her ass, he found her core and slid inside her. Then he cupped her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers and thumbs while he thrust inside her.
She arched her luscious hips and took him deeper, grinding against his groin as she sought her orgasm. She came again with a scream of pleasure. His balls ached, stretching as they filled. Then he found his release.
She came again before he pulled out. Her inner muscles clutched him as she whimpered with pleasure. He hated to separate. But he had to clean up. He found the bathroom through the first doorway off the living room. After disposing of the condom and washing up, he came back to find her lying limply against her couch cushions.
Her glorious breasts rose and fell and shimmied as she panted for breath.
“Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?” she asked breathlessly as she stared up at him with those big dark eyes of hers.
He waited for the panic he usually felt when someone professed feelings for him he knew he’d never return. And when he noticed how closely she watched him, he wondered if she was looking for that panic, too.
He grinned and replied, “Just trying to get you to work.”
Instead of looking hurt or even disappointed, she laughed and sat up. “All right. I’ll shower and come into the office.” She gestured toward the door. “I’m sure you can show yourself out.”
He had no intention of leaving.
Yet.
* * *
Bette should have gone into the office that morning. But then she had never imagined that Simon Kramer would track her down at home. Not that she would ever feel entirely at home in her new place, especially now that he’d been inside it with her. That he’d been inside her.
She’d showered but she could still smell him on her skin. Just like he’d been in her body, he was inside her head, as well. But she wouldn’t let him into her heart. Despite what she’d said to him, she knew better than to fall for a man like Simon Kramer.
He would break her heart for certain. But hell, that would probably be better than falling for some man who wanted to keep her heart. Or her...
Like the men for whom her mom and sister had fallen. Dad had forced Mom to give up all her dreams and live his as the preacher of a small-town church. Her mother had once been wild and full of fun. But Bette had never seen that except in th
e old photo albums her mother had hidden where she hadn’t thought anyone would look.
Her sister should have known better, but she’d fallen for a man just like their self-righteous father. A youth minister—and she lived the same quiet, boring life their mother lived.
Bette shook her head in disgust of their choices. Of course they acted like they were disgusted with hers, especially her father. He’d disowned her years ago. At least Mom and Sissy still sent her cards on her birthday.
Carrying her heels, she hurried out of her bedroom. She needed to get to the office quickly or Simon might return for her. But apparently, he hadn’t left because she found him standing over her coffee table. She dropped her shoes and pressed a hand against her madly pounding heart. “You scared me!” she said.
He glanced up as if he’d been caught unawares, too. And he almost looked guilty. What had he been doing while she’d been showering? She’d left the employment contract lying out on the coffee table. But he wouldn’t have to read that over; he’d written it.
That wasn’t all she’d left out in the living room, though. Her purse was lying beside the table. But he wouldn’t have been going through that. Would he? It wasn’t as if Simon Kramer needed to steal any cash from her wallet. She didn’t carry much else in it but some makeup and her checkbook.
She hadn’t shaken all of her damn old-fashioned, small-town upbringing because she was too cautious to do everything online. Or maybe she needed the checkbook because she needed the peace of mind of keeping track of everything she spent and earned. And finally, after years of barely getting by in the city, she was getting those things in the right order. She was finally earning more than she spent.
“I thought you left,” she said. “I told you I would meet you at the office.”
“And I thought I better wait for you,” he said.
For what? Another romp on her couch? Her heart flipped at the thought but then she noticed his face. There was no disarming grin. No teasing twinkle in his blue eyes. He didn’t trust her for some reason and she felt that it was more than her calling in sick.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she said. “I know you’re busy.”
He was so busy that she was surprised he’d taken the time to track down where she was, let alone wait for her after he’d done that—after he’d done her.
“I am busy,” he said. “That’s why I needed to make sure you didn’t have a sudden relapse of whatever illness you claimed was keeping you from coming into the office today.”
She faked a cough, then laughed as he glared at her. Unintimidated, she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am feeling a little warm still...” But that was because of him, because even though he’d dressed, she could still see him gloriously naked. He was so damn good-looking. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t.
“Don’t try to con a con,” he warned her, and his eyes were as cold and hard as they’d been the day he’d found her leaving the resignation letter in his office.
“Con?” she uneasily repeated as a chill chased down her spine. “Are you admitting that you’re a con artist?”
Was he not even really a lawyer? She’d seen his college degree and law license framed on his office wall. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t been forged. As infamous as Street Legal was, someone would have discovered if the managing partner was a con artist. Wouldn’t they?
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t call myself a con artist,” he said. “Not anymore. But I still recognize a con.”
She smiled and assured him, “I’m not trying to con you.” But could he say the same?
What exactly would he have to con out of her, though? Sex? She’d given that freely enough. No con required. He hadn’t even had to pile on the charm very much, except for the compliments he’d given her.
“When were you a con artist?” she asked. “And why would you tell me that?” Obviously, he was onto her little game of pretending to fall for him. But now he’d made it a challenge for her to be able to convince him.
He shrugged. “It’s not exactly a secret that my partners and I were teenage runaways. To survive on the streets, I had to run a con or two.”
Shock gripped her. “You really did grow up on the streets?”
He nodded.
“I thought that was just a story that PR firm concocted to make you guys sound glamorous.”
Over the past two years, she’d personally witnessed how fast and loose McCann Public Relations, and Allison McCann in particular, played with the truth.
Simon laughed now. “Glamorous? There was nothing glamorous about that life. But we weren’t going to lie about where we came from, so Allison decided it would be smarter to make the most of it.”
Allison.
Resentment churned in Bette’s stomach. She wasn’t a fan of the owner of McCann Public Relations. The woman was cold and ruthless. And so beautiful that there was no way any man would have gone two years without noticing her. Not that Bette was jealous or anything.
She would have rather had Simon never notice her at all. Now she was the liar. She knew that wasn’t the case or she would have never experienced the most mind-blowing sex of her life. What they’d done...
How he’d made her feel...
He’d made her crazy with desire and then with pleasure.
“I’m not conning you,” she said. At least not about calling in sick. “I didn’t come into the office today because I really didn’t think you’d want to see me again after last night.”
“Is that why you ran out while I was in the bathroom?” he asked.
She nodded. Despite his warning, she had to try to con him in order to get him to release her from that contract. “I also didn’t want to risk seeing you again.”
He narrowed his eyes—those gorgeous blue eyes—and his brow furrowed with suspicion. “What’s the risk, Bette?”
“My heart,” she told him and forced a shaky sigh. “I’m worried I’m going to fall for you.” As she uttered the words, they didn’t ring as hollowly as she’d thought they would. And she actually felt a twinge of fear.
But she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—fall for Simon Kramer. There really was no risk at all.
Was there?
Chapter Seven
WHO THE HELL was Bette Monroe? The shy woman with the glasses and her hair in a bun? Or the sexy siren in naughty lingerie?
He studied her across the small space between their seats in the back of the town car. She was wearing the glasses again, and her hair was all bound up. He suspected that was just a disguise—an act, like her worry that she was going to fall for him.
Just a few nights ago she had laughed when he’d asked if she loved him. So what had changed since then?
They’d had sex a couple of times. He was good. But he wasn’t that good, not good enough to make her fall for him just because he’d given her some pleasure. While other women had professed as much, Bette was different. Those women had already been half in love with him because of who he was and what he had: a hell of a reputation and bank account.
Bette had never seemed very impressed with either. But then she claimed money didn’t matter to her. That even if he gave her a raise, she wouldn’t stay working for Street Legal. He knew why now that he’d gotten a look at her checkbook. She’d made some recent deposits. Some pretty damn good ones.
She had to be the mole.
A pressure settled heavily on his chest with disappointment—which was weird. He should be relieved that he’d found the mole. Now he would be able to stop any more information leaks. He would be able to stop her.
All he had to do was fire her and block her access to Street Legal. Delete her passwords, change the locks.
She wouldn’t be able to sell any more of their information. But somehow it didn’t feel right. Maybe she’d received that money another way.
&
nbsp; An inheritance...
“What?” she asked as she lifted her hand to her mouth like she had the night before. “Do I have something on my teeth? Lipstick smeared?”
“Not yet,” he said. But he wanted to smear it. Hell, he wanted it smeared on his cock as she sucked him off.
Her lips curved slightly. “Then what is it?” she asked. “Why are you staring at me?”
She really had no idea how beautiful she was. “I’m trying to figure you out,” he admitted.
She tilted her head and studied him as intently as he’d been studying her. “You wonder how I could fall for you when I laughed the other night when you asked if I was in love with you?”
He laughed now. “That’s the least of my questions about you, Bette.”
She sighed. “Are you still wondering why I’m quitting?”
“Wondering...” He laughed again. “That’s putting it a little mildly.” He was more than curious. He was desperate to know her reason.
“I don’t know why you care,” she said.
“I want to know what your better offer is,” he said. “To see if I can match it.”
“I already told you it’s not about money.”
“Why?” he asked. “Do you have family money? A trust fund or inheritance you just got access to?”
She laughed. “My father is the minister of a very small church in a very small town in Michigan. If he and my mom didn’t have housing provided by the parish, they wouldn’t be able to afford groceries.”
“Your mom doesn’t work?” he asked.
She shook her head, and her lips curled slightly with disgust. “Being his wife is her full-time job.”
So those deposits in her bank account hadn’t come from her parents. Bette Monroe was no trust fund baby. Where the hell had she gotten that money?
He could think of one place. Their opposition in court.
“She’s a loyal wife,” he murmured. As far as he knew, his parents hadn’t been married. He didn’t even remember his mother. According to his father, she’d abandoned them. But that didn’t mean it was true. His father hadn’t had any idea how to be honest. It had always been easier for him to lie than tell the truth. “That’s commendable.”