by Lisa Childs
Bette sighed. “It’s sad.”
“So you’re not looking to get married anytime soon?”
She opened her mouth. And he expected an adamant no to come out of her lips. But then it was as if she caught herself and forced out a wistful sigh instead. “I would have said no,” she admitted, “a few days ago...”
“What’s changed?” he asked.
“You.” She slid forward and dropped to her knees on the floor between their seats, and she was between his legs. “You’ve changed. You notice me now.”
“You’re kind of hard to miss,” he murmured. And he wondered again what the hell she was up to...even as he was up again, his dick hardening and pushing against the fly of his pants.
Even though he couldn’t trust her, he wanted her. But then he couldn’t trust anyone. So it didn’t matter much. He just knew that he would never be able to trust her.
* * *
Bette glanced at the dark glass separating the front seat from the back seats. There was no way the driver could see back there. Was there?
Did she care?
As a preacher’s daughter, she should. But hell, Daddy had consigned her to hell long ago when she’d professed her love of fashion over bible studies. And she didn’t consider pleasure the sin that Daddy did.
She’d never felt as much pleasure as she had with Simon Kramer. And she knew it was going to end soon like all of his liaisons did. She was unsettling him with her actions and her words. While he was off balance, Bette wanted to push him over the edge, to the madness that he’d driven her to just a short time ago on her couch.
So she stayed on her knees between his legs, and she reached for the zipper on his pants. His breath hissed out with the sound of the metal sliding down as she lowered his zipper. She pushed aside the fine cotton material of his briefs and freed his penis. It pulsated and vibrated in her touch, veins bulging on it like the veins bulging on his neck as he arched his head back.
“Bette...” Her name was just a groan on his lips. “What are you doing?”
She peeked up at him through her lashes. “You don’t know? And here I thought you were the experienced one.”
He narrowed his eyes and stared down at her. “You’re really a preacher’s daughter?” he asked, and there was skepticism in his deep voice.
“I’m the black sheep,” she admitted. “The one who left for the big city and a life of sex and drugs.” Even though it was what her family believed, she laughed like it was all a joke. “Since I’m not into drugs, I guess I will have to settle for the sex.”
“You should never settle,” he told her.
She felt the same way, that her mom and sister had settled for security. But in that security, they were insecure because they had no idea who they were anymore. Because they had had to change so much for their partners.
If Bette ever really fell for anyone, he would have to love and respect her for who she was and not try to change her to fit into his life. Not that she wanted to fall for anyone.
So she didn’t risk settling for a person, she’d rather just settle for sex. But sex with Simon wasn’t a consolation prize. It was the grand prize.
Like most lottery winners who couldn’t make the money last, she knew the pleasure would eventually end, as well. So she had to make the most of it. The most of her time with him...
She lowered her mouth and closed it over the tip of his penis. It moved against her tongue, which she swirled around the girth of him.
He groaned and reached out, tangling his fingers in her hair. She’d have to redo the pins later because she felt some slip free. But she didn’t care.
She didn’t care about anything but driving him crazy.
He was too big for her to take all of him in her mouth. So she used her hands, too, sliding them up and down the length of him while she sucked on the head. Then she’d draw in a deep breath and take him as deep as she could manage in her throat.
Teasing him...
His hands moved from her hair to her shoulders and gripped them as if trying to pull her up from her knees. “Bette, you’re killing me...”
With his cock in her mouth, she looked up at him. Then she swirled her tongue around the tip.
And that control he seemed so reluctant to let go of must have snapped again. He arched his hips with the need to thrust. So she took him deeper in her throat.
Then she slid her mouth up and down him.
His hands gripped her shoulders as his body tensed, and a deep growl sounded as if it was torn from his throat. Then he came, hot and sweet on her tongue.
She licked him from her lips and smiled up at him.
He stared down at her, his eyes still dark with the dilated pupils swallowing the blue like she’d swallowed him. He shook his head.
“What?” she asked.
“How could I work so closely with you for two years and know nothing about you?”
“You didn’t ask,” she reminded him.
“Would it have mattered if I did? You’re not inclined to answer the other questions I ask you.” He tucked himself back into his briefs and pulled up his zipper and shook his head again as if he was unable to believe what had just happened.
And she was unable to believe that it hadn’t happened before. Women probably gave him blow jobs in back seats all the time. He was that damn gorgeous...
And irresistible.
She licked her lips again, loving the taste of him. Loving that she gave him that pleasure. And maybe that was what had taken him aback, that mousy Bette Monroe would do something like that. That was what kids had called her in school. She’d even been dubbed that in fashion college because she hadn’t had the piercings and tattoos, or worn the wild clothes her classmates had.
But what she designed wasn’t meant to be seen by everyone. Just the women who wore them and the men those women cared about enough to show.
She’d showed Simon more of her designs than she had other men. But it wasn’t because she cared about him. That wasn’t why.
“You remind me of the Mona Lisa,” he said.
She laughed. “What?”
“It’s obvious in that painting that she has some salacious secret,” he said. “And it’s obvious that you do, too.”
“I guess we share a salacious secret now,” she murmured as she stroked her finger across her bottom lip.
He groaned. “Damn it...”
“What?”
“You just made me hard again,” he admitted. “And I wouldn’t have thought that would be possible yet...”
Neither had she. But she was kind of glad that he was—because her pulse was pounding in her core, demanding release from the tension pleasing him had given her. She wanted to feel what he had, wanted the pleasure they gave each other.
And now he was the one sliding off his seat onto his knees on the floor between them. But even on his knees, he was taller than she was sitting. So he had to lean down to kiss her. His mouth sliding back and forth across hers. He groaned, probably because he could taste himself on her lips.
She touched him, moving her hand from his chest to his groin. And sure enough his cock was pressing against his fly again—long and hard and hot. She smiled against his lips.
“Siren,” he murmured.
She lifted her head and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
His mouth curved into a slight grin. “You,” he said. “You’re the siren.”
“The mermaid who lures sailors to their deaths?” she asked. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
He laughed. “Oh, it’s not a good thing,” he agreed. “At least not for me.” His fingers shook a little as he moved them to the buttons of her cardigan. “Ever since you walked out of your bedroom all dressed up like this, I’ve been dying to know what you’re wearing underneath.”
But h
e took his time with each button, undoing them slowly as if he was building up the anticipation. That was probably how he unwrapped presents, as well—slowly to savor them.
But as a runaway growing up on the streets, had he had presents? How had he survived let alone thrived like he had?
She didn’t know him as well as she’d thought she had. There was much more to him than his charm and his ruthlessness—because now she understood why he had both.
For survival...
She wasn’t sure she would survive his slow, sweet torture of her. At last, he parted her sweater and pushed it from her shoulders. Then his breath hissed out between his teeth.
“Damn, Bette...”
She’d put on another bustier instead of a camisole. This one was leather, with cups, and of course her signature bow. It was tied at the bottom of the leather strap that bound the bustier together.
“Where the hell do you find this stuff?” he asked. “I’ve never seen anything as sexy.”
Pride suffused her. She could have told him he’d never seen it before because she’d designed it. But he would be seeing it soon since she would have her own line at the fashion house for the premier retailer of lingerie in the country.
He was already so surprised that she wore lingerie that she didn’t know if she was flattered or offended. If he laughed, like so many other people had, when she said she designed it, she would definitely be offended. So offended that it would be impossible to work out the rest of her notice for him.
Unless she could get him to cut that notice short...
But then he untied that bustier and released her breasts so he could play with them, and she wasn’t so certain she wanted to cut that notice short anymore. Because that would mean cutting short the pleasure he gave her...
And he gave her pleasure now.
While he suckled on one of her nipples, he moved his hand beneath her skirt. He pushed aside her panties and slid his fingers inside her. She was already wet and ready for him. When he moved his thumb over her clit, she came, crying out his name.
And he cursed.
Blinking away the desire, she stared up at him.
“We’re at the office,” he told her, his voice gruff with desire and disappointment. “We’ll have to finish this later.”
Her hands were shaking so badly that he had to bind her back into the bustier and button her sweater back up. But he did it, even as a muscle twitched in his cheek—just above his tightly clenched jaw.
“Definitely a siren,” he murmured.
She wasn’t one. But she heard one, a warning that she was getting in too deep with him. So she was almost honest when she said, “I really think I could care for you.”
But she wouldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t let herself fall for anyone, least of all someone as ruthless and charming as Simon Kramer.
Chapter Eight
DESPITE HAVING THE partner meeting every Tuesday morning, Simon had nearly forgotten about it. But a lot had happened in the past week.
A lot of sex with Bette. A hell of a lot of crazy, mind-blowing sex. That was the reason he’d nearly forgotten the meeting. Losing his memory was probably a side effect of having his mind blown so often and so completely that he’d nearly forgotten the reason he’d begun the seduction of Bette Monroe. He’d nearly forgotten that she was the office mole.
Probably.
He still had no proof. Sure, he’d gotten a look at her checkbook. But those deposits could have come from something else. Maybe she’d sold something other than that information from their case files.
Like her body...
He would certainly pay if she started charging him. She was so damn passionate and sexy and generous.
And distracting.
He needed to focus on finding evidence. Real evidence. Because right now he had nothing but his suspicions.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one with suspicions. Ronan and Trevor studied him through narrowed eyes. And Stone wouldn’t even look at him as if he was too disgusted.
“What?” he asked them.
“We heard about you and your assistant,” Ronan said.
Now he knew why Stone wouldn’t look at him. “Thanks a hell of a lot,” he told his friend.
Stone shook his head. “I didn’t tell them.”
“You knew?” Trevor asked.
“Yeah...”
“And you didn’t stop him from risking the whole damn practice getting sued?” Trevor asked.
“She’s not going to sue me,” Simon assured them, although maybe he should have been worried about that. If she would steal secrets from them, why wouldn’t she sue?
Stone sighed. “I’m not as sure as you are about that. Just because she’s given her notice—”
“She’s given her notice?” Ronan asked. Then he groaned. “Damn it, we’re certain to get sued if she’s quitting over sexual harassment.”
“I’m not harassing her,” Simon said.
“But you are sleeping with her,” Ronan said.
They had never actually slept together. But they’d had a hell of a lot of sex.
“Everybody’s talking about it,” Trevor said.
So much for him and Bette sharing a secret, their salacious one. He glared at Stone. “What—you’ve been gossiping like a little old lady?”
“I’ve got a hell of a lot more important things to worry about than your love life,” Stone said.
Simon’s heart slammed against his ribs. Love life? Hardly.
“You’re not in love, are you?” Ronan asked.
Simon’s heart slammed against his ribs and he exclaimed, “Of course not!”
“Then what the hell are you up to?” Trevor asked.
“I’m trying to find out if she’s the mole,” Simon admitted.
The color drained from Stone’s face. “You didn’t tell me that.”
He sighed. “Because I don’t know for sure if she is. I need proof.”
“Why do you even suspect her?” Ronan asked.
“Because she’s leaving,” he said. And because of some of things he’d seen in her purse, specifically in her checkbook, like the ATM receipt for the deposit of a big check. The slip had also shown that she carried a very healthy balance. No wonder she’d been able to afford her new place. And she’d admitted she hadn’t inherited any money or come into a trust.
“So?” Ronan said. “That doesn’t prove her guilt.”
“I got close to her so I could find proof,” Simon admitted. But he felt a pang of guilt over that. What if she wasn’t the mole? And what if she was starting to care for him like she’d been warning him she was?
Then he’d been seducing and using her for no reason. No. There was pleasure. More than pleasure.
“Have you found any proof?” Trevor asked skeptically.
Maybe he knew that Simon had gotten sidetracked—with her beauty, with the sex...
The incredible, mind-blowing sex. She was the most responsive and generous lover he’d ever had. And the way they moved together, the way they fitted...
She matched him in a way he’d never been matched before, but he was worried that it wasn’t just with sex. Not that he was falling for her or anything. These unsettling feelings he had for her weren’t anything more than desire and attraction and suspicion. Maybe she didn’t just match him as a lover but as a con, too.
“Nothing that would hold up in court,” he said. And because these were his friends, he was honest with them and admitted, “But she’s come into some money. She’s moved. She’s bought stuff.”
Her lingerie collection alone probably cost a fortune. The materials were decadent and the designs were works of art. But to him, the outfits were just like a light bulb showing off the work of art that was her perfect body.
“Maybe she inherited some money
,” Trevor said.
He shook his head. “I checked around.” He hadn’t just taken her word for it. “She’s not been anyone’s heir.”
“Mistress?” Ronan asked.
Anger surged through Simon. “Of course you’d think that.” He had, too. But when would she have time for a man—even a married one—with as much time as she’d been spending with Simon?
Ronan snorted. “I’m a divorce lawyer. Of course I’d think that. And you, being the con, would think she’s the mole. But it doesn’t track.”
“Why not?”
“I agree that it makes no sense,” Stone said. “If she’s making money off us, why would she leave?”
The others nodded in agreement. They didn’t understand a con the way Simon did.
The trick was to get out before getting caught. He figured that had been her intention. But it was too late for her now. He’d caught her. He just needed the evidence to prove it. To his partners and to the police and to himself. He didn’t want to believe that it was her. Still, it was the only thing that made sense—for her leaving and for her coming into that money.
As much as he’d wished it wasn’t true, he had to face the fact that she’d conned him. He wasn’t buying that she was falling for him—no matter how many times she’d claimed that she was.
He wasn’t sure which con he was more pissed about: her selling information from their case files or trying to make him believe she might genuinely care about him.
* * *
A sudden chill raced down Bette’s spine and raised goose bumps on her skin. She shivered and glanced up from the computer monitor she’d been studying and discovered three men standing in her small office.
Why were all of Simon’s partners paying her a visit? Like Simon, they had barely paid her any attention the two years she’d worked for Street Legal.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Unlike Simon, they were all dark haired. Ronan Hall’s hair was black. Stone Michaelsen’s was dark brown like hers and Trevor Sinclair’s was more of an auburn. They were also all bigger than Simon. The three of them barely fitted into her office, their broad shoulders rubbing against each other’s.