by Lisa Childs
She snorted in disbelief.
“You did,” he insisted. “I couldn’t stop staring at your ass...”
A giggle slipped through her lips. Then she suggested, “Maybe Miguel has a friend. Another reformed gang member.”
“Too damn few of his friends are even alive yet, let alone reformed like he is,” he said.
“How long have you known Miguel?” she asked.
“A hell of a lot longer than two years,” he said. “I knew him from when I lived on the streets.”
“Why were you living on the streets? Did you run away from home?” she asked.
And he was glad that she had, that she actually wanted to know something about him. Other women had pried for information about his life, about his past. Until now, Bette hadn’t seemed to care. She hadn’t wanted to get to know him.
But maybe if she did, she would open up to him, too. So he told her everything: about never knowing his mom, about his dad training him to con people before he’d hardly known how to walk or talk, about how the only way he’d been able to escape that life was to run away from his father.
“Didn’t he try to find you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She stroked her hand over his heart as if she was trying to soothe away the hurt. Miraculously, her touch seemed to do just that. It didn’t bother him like it usually did when he talked about his father.
“It would have been hard for him to look for me,” he said, “since shortly after I ran away, he got arrested.”
She gasped, her breath brushing warmly across his skin.
He chuckled but without any humor. “Fortunately for me, he is still serving that sentence.” If he wasn’t, Simon would have suspected his father of somehow being the mole. Hell, even with him being in jail, it made more sense for him to be the mole than it did for Bette. But she had access; he didn’t.
“Why is that fortunate?” she asked, her voice soft.
“Because he blamed me for his getting arrested,” he said, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him. But it did, and she must have known because she pressed her lips to his chest in a gentle kiss.
“Were you responsible?” she asked.
He’d never told anyone else this, but he felt compelled to tell her. “Yes. I turned him in, had some evidence.”
“Did you do that just to get away from him?”
“He had to be stopped,” Simon admitted. “He was conning people who couldn’t afford it. I had to do some things...when I was living on the streets. But I made sure nobody got hurt. He didn’t care.”
Least of all about his son.
She must have heard what he left unsaid because she reached up and pressed a kiss to his lips and nuzzled her hair against his cheek. “Sounds like both our fathers disowned us.”
He had never realized how much he had in common with Bette. She was an amazing woman, even if she was the damn mole. He hoped like hell that she wasn’t, though.
He moved her hand from his chest to his groin. “Look, I’m recovered.”
Her fingers closed around him, and she began to stroke him up and down. While she teased him with her touch, he reached for his pants and fished a condom from the pocket. Before he could sheathe himself, her mouth slid over his shaft—up and down. He nearly came then. But he wanted more.
He pushed her onto her back and feasted on her body, on her full breasts with the ultrasensitive nipples, on the curve of her hip, on her dimpled knee...then he moved between her legs. And he made certain she had recovered, as well.
Her fingers clutched his shoulders, and she dragged him up. Then she guided his cock inside her. They moved with less urgency this time. Taking their time with slow strokes and long kisses...
And when they came, they came together—shouting each other’s names. Simon had never felt as connected to another person. Or as scared...
* * *
Bette felt connected to Simon in a way that had nothing to do with the physical. She felt connected to Simon emotionally. She’d seen him naked, truly naked. And she knew she should return the favor.
What he’d shared with her was far more personal than her career goals and dreams. What he’d shared with her...
Scared the hell out of her, not because of what he’d done or who he was. But because she was really beginning to fall for him. Panic coursed through her, like moments ago passion had, and she tensed.
She should tell him to leave, show him to the door. He’d already been here too long, too vividly. Now she would always imagine him here. It hadn’t been bad when he’d been in just the living room. But now he’d been in the bedroom, in her bed. And like Goldilocks, he was still there. He must have fallen asleep, for his body—his beautiful body—was relaxed.
Instead of pounding on his chest to wake him up, she rested her head on it and curled up against his side. Sure, she had work to do. But she was tired. And she only had a few more days with him.
She would take a moment to enjoy just being with him. It wasn’t as if he would actually spend the night. She was certain he would wake up and slip out before morning. If not much sooner.
The thought of him leaving relaxed her enough that she began to drift off to sleep. While her mind told her she wanted him gone, her body wrapped around his, holding him close. And she had to admit the truth.
She didn’t want him to leave. Not just tonight but maybe ever.
That thought filled her with such terror that she jerked fully awake. She must have been asleep longer than she realized because he was gone. Her arms clutched nothing but the pillow that smelled yet like him. She should have been relieved that he’d left.
But a chill chased over her bare skin, raising goose bumps. She wasn’t just cold, though. She was scared for a couple of reasons.
One—the disappointment that filled her over his slipping out. Sure, she’d suspected that he would. She’d even thought that would be a good thing. But she hadn’t realized how good it would feel to actually sleep with him.
The second reason she was scared was because she heard a strange noise. The creak of floorboards and a weird scraping noise. It wasn’t coming from the living room. So it wasn’t Simon walking to the door. The noise emanated from her walk-in closet. She reached for her nightstand where she’d stashed her purse in the cabinet beneath the drawer, and she pulled out the canister of Mace she always carried.
With it clutched tightly, reassuringly, in her hand, she slipped into her robe, tied up the sash with her other hand and headed toward her closet door. She jerked it open and prepared to spray her intruder in the face...until she recognized him. Then she demanded to know, “What the hell are you doing?”
Chapter Thirteen
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing?” Bette demanded to know, and like he’d done the day he’d caught her in his office after hours, she had to ask him twice.
But he still didn’t know how to answer her. Heat rushed to his face with embarrassment that he’d been caught snooping. He’d wanted to know what the hell she’d hidden in her closet. He’d noticed the clothes knocked askew on the bottom rack, and he’d reached behind to find what she’d stashed there.
It wasn’t a man but a sketch pad. She had a portfolio full of them. Then he’d found the box of lingerie, which he was on his knees leaning over at the moment. And he understood that all those sexy outfits weren’t gifts from a married lover or from any lover at all. Next to the box, he’d found a sewing machine and some reams of lace and silk. And he’d figured out what her big secret was and it wasn’t selling any of Street Legal’s secrets.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked.
Her face flushed a bright red that nearly matched the color of the corset he held in his hands. “I don’t have to tell you why I’m quitting,” she said. “Even your employment contract states that.”
“I know,” he said. “You didn’t have to tell me. But why wouldn’t you?” Was she ashamed of what she did, because of her upbringing?
Her face flushed an even deeper shade of red. “You would have laughed.”
That wasn’t the reply he’d expected. “What? Why would you think that?”
“Boring Bette Monroe designing lingerie?” She uttered a short chuckle of her own, but it was full of bitterness. “Even I think that’s funny.”
He was more confused now than when he’d discovered her secret. “Why in the hell do you think you’re boring?”
She snorted. “Come on, you thought that, too—the past two years.”
His face heated a bit, and he had to admit that he had. But in his defense, he explained, “I was going off the way you pull your hair into such a tight bun and how you dress. I had no idea what you’ve been wearing under your clothes this entire time.” He held up a handful of the lingerie. But even then he’d still been attracted to her; he’d seen her beauty no matter how hard she’d tried to hide it.
“Why do you dress that way?” he asked. “Why do you wear your hair that way? And the glasses, I don’t even think you need them.” He stepped closer to her. “What are you hiding from, Bette?”
She took the lingerie from his hand, but she wouldn’t answer his question.
“Are you hiding from me?” he asked.
“Given your reputation, I thought it was a good idea to dress a little more conservatively than I used to,” she said.
He flinched as a twinge of pain struck his heart. “You were afraid of me? Afraid that I’d force myself on you?”
Then he glanced down and saw that, in her hand not full of lingerie, she clutched a canister of Mace. He sighed. “I guess you are afraid of me.”
“I thought you left,” she said. “I didn’t know who was in my closet. I can’t believe you’ve been snooping through my stuff.”
“I knew you were hiding something,” he said. He’d thought she’d been hiding the evidence that she was the mole. But she wasn’t. And he was so relieved that he laughed.
Anger flashed in her eyes. “See, I told you that you’d laugh at me!” She threw the lingerie at him and stomped back into the bedroom.
He rushed after her so quickly that he was still knocking G-strings off his shoulders as he joined her near the bed. “Guess I should be glad you didn’t mace me.”
“I almost did,” she said. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For scaring me or for snooping?” she challenged him.
“For scaring you,” he admitted.
He’d hoped she would sleep through his search. And that he would be able to slip back into bed with her before she’d even noticed he’d left it. He hadn’t wanted to. She’d felt so warm and soft and somehow comforting sleeping in his arms, her head against his chest.
“You’re not sorry for snooping,” she said with disgust.
He was unapologetic. “I had to find out the truth.”
Her brow furrowed. “The truth about what?”
He couldn’t tell her—not now. She was already mad at him. If he told her that he’d suspected her of selling secrets from Street Legal’s case files, she would be furious, so furious that she would throw him out of her place and out of her life.
And he couldn’t have that because then he couldn’t have her. Now that he’d learned her secret, he wanted her even more.
“I already told you,” he said. “I knew you were hiding something.” He just hadn’t realized that something was herself. “And you never answered me. You never told me why you were hiding from me. Are you afraid of me?”
* * *
Bette had never been as afraid of Simon as she was now. She was afraid that she was beginning to have feelings for him. She nearly laughed now over the irony of that. For days she’d wanted him to believe she was in love with him, so that he would cut her notice short. But now that she was actually falling, there was no way she wanted him to know.
She’d pretended to have feelings for him because she’d known it would horrify him. She didn’t want to horrify him. But she did want to be honest with him just as he’d been honest with her.
“I’m afraid of becoming my mother or my sister,” she said. “I don’t want to get so into some guy that I forget who I am and what I want out of life.”
He laughed again. But this time she didn’t mind that he was laughing at her. “I think you know exactly who you are, Bette Monroe,” he said. “It’s the rest of the world you don’t want to know you.”
“My friends know me,” she said.
“You don’t dress in the cardigans and skirts around them?” he asked.
He probably hadn’t seen much else in her closet.
“That’s as much a habit from how I was raised as a way to hide,” she said. “I had to dress conservatively when I was growing up.”
“But you’re all grown-up now,” he said, and his blue eyes darkened with desire.
“I’m still mousy Bette in so many ways,” she said.
And he laughed as if she’d told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Then he focused on her face and stopped. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “You can’t really see yourself that way.”
“That’s how I saw myself for a lot of years,” she admitted. “So it’s a hard habit to break. Designing and wearing my lingerie makes me feel sexy, though.”
“And beautiful,” he added.
She smiled but shook her head. “And you told me you stopped conning people.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “You know the women I’ve dated.”
She nodded. “Models. Actresses. That’s why I know you’re lying.”
Anger flashed in his eyes now. He jerked her into his arms and tipped up her chin so she had to look into his face—his gorgeous face. “You, Bette Monroe, are a beautiful, sexy woman.”
Maybe he was a hypnotist as well as a con artist because she was beginning to believe him, especially since he kept repeating those words between kisses.
His mouth nibbled at her lips. “Women pay to have lips like these,” he said. “Full, silky, sexy...”
He tangled his fingers in her hair. “And this... It’s real, no extensions.” He pushed the robe from her body and skimmed his hand over her breasts. “Like these. You’re real, Bette.”
“I never knew that was sexy.”
“The sexiest,” he said.
And with the way he looked at her, she felt sexy, even without her lingerie. She felt sexy naked.
“And beautiful,” he added.
He pushed her back onto the bed. And he touched and kissed her with an almost reverence, as if she was a work of art. She believed him.
She was no longer mousy Bette Monroe.
She was the siren he’d called her.
And she wanted him to feel what she was feeling. She wanted him to have feelings for her, too. So she pulled him down on top of her and pressed kisses to his chest and his shoulders and onto his washboard abs that rippled beneath her touch.
“Bette...”
“You’re the beautiful one,” she said.
Of course he didn’t deny it. He couldn’t not know how handsome he was. He’d undoubtedly used his looks when he’d conned those people with his father and with his friends when they’d all been struggling to survive on the streets.
And even though he’d claimed he’d stopped conning people, she worried that he was conning her now. Not into believing she was beautiful and sexy; she felt he was sincere about that. But she couldn’t help but think he’d been trying to make her fall for him.
He joined their bodies again, driving his shaft inside her. She clung to him, riding him as he drove them both to insanity. The orgasm shuddered through her body, more powerful than
any even he had given her before.
And she knew she was in trouble, that she was getting in deep...
Chapter Fourteen
“THIS ISN’T TUESDAY,” Simon said as his partners stormed his office.
“Her last day is today,” Trevor said. “So this can’t wait until Tuesday.”
He sucked in a breath, feeling like his friend had punched him. It was true. Today was her last day. He’d been trying not to think about it. But Miguel had kept asking him questions about the going-away party that Bruno was catering at the end of the day.
The last thing he wanted to do was celebrate her leaving. Throwing her a party was the right thing to do now that he knew the truth. She had landed her dream job. While he didn’t want her to leave, he wanted her to be happy. That was why he hadn’t told her about his suspicions.
He knew she would be hurt. That she would feel used that he’d seduced her to find evidence against her. So he couldn’t tell her.
“I hope like hell you found something to prove she’s the damn mole, something we can bring to the police,” Ronan said. His face was flushed and his dark eyes glittered with anger.
Simon narrowed his eyes. Usually Ronan was the most laid-back of all of them. “There is no evidence,” he assured them.
“There has to be!” Ronan exclaimed.
He shook his head, and he stood because he felt vulnerable sitting with the others standing over his desk. Growing up on the streets, he’d always made certain never to be in a vulnerable position.
Never to sleep with anyone else around...
He’d broken his own rule the other night when he’d slept over at Bette’s. He was surprised she hadn’t thrown him out after catching his snooping. But she hadn’t.
“If there was any evidence against her, I would have found it,” Simon assured the others. “She’s not the mole.”
“Then why is she leaving?” Ronan asked.
“Because she got a better job,” he said. “I don’t understand why you’re all so uptight about this. You’re the ones who didn’t believe it was her, that she wouldn’t be leaving if she’d been making money off us. What’s changed?”