by Debra Webb
“I think …” Carson offered the key card. “ … there’s been a miscommunication.”
She accepted the card with her free hand. “That’s regrettable.”
His respiration quickened. “Well. Good night then.”
“You’re wondering …”
He shouldn’t have paused as she spoke, but he did.
“ … who paid me to try and seduce you.”
Carson turned his head, looked directly at her to examine her expression, her eyes, for some indication of precisely what the lady was up to. To spot the deception.
“Or …” She lifted her shoulders in the barest of shrugs. “ … you’re wondering just how much a night with a woman like me would cost. And if it would be worth the price.”
The challenge in her voice, in her eyes, coerced him into once more abandoning his plan to just walk away. Experience told him he would regret that flaw in his personality. He never could resist a challenge.
“Prostitution is illegal in this state,” he reminded her, though he suspected this woman was no hooker. She had an objective. She wanted to play. With him. The only remaining issue was the source of her motivation.
“I’m aware that prostitution is illegal.” She inclined her head and studied his face a long moment before wetting those luxurious lips with the tip of her tongue. “Are you in law enforcement?”
“It so happens I am.” The urge to loosen his tie an inch was overwhelming. If she knew who he was, she was damned good at not letting it show.
Would Luttrell go that far?
“Well,” she offered, “perhaps you should investigate.” She turned her back to him and disappeared into the room, leaving the door open for him to follow.
Carson glanced right, then left: The corridor was deserted. There was no one to watch, to witness him crossing the line she had drawn in the sand. This is a mistake.
He had work.
He should go.
Now.
And still he followed her inside. He closed the door and, despite mounting evidence that this was indeed a setup, waited to see what she would do next.
She lounged against the French doors that opened to the balcony and lit a cigarette. When she’d savored a first then a second drag, she looked directly at him, her gaze resolute. He braced for the battle of wills, for anything she could possibly conceive to throw his way.
“Take off your clothes,” she ordered.
Anything except that.
Chapter 4
Carson choked out a laugh.
Then he frowned.
The lady was serious.
As intrigued as he was, it was time to cut to the chase. This whole clandestine rendezvous had gone far enough.
Tomorrow Keller Luttrell was dead meat.
Carson took control of the encounter by taking a step away from the door, in her direction. “Let’s back this up just a little bit.” Pushing aside the lapels of his jacket, he slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Is this a business transaction or a social encounter?”
First he would give her a chance to save face.
She tamped out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table next to the French doors, then returned her full interest to him. “This is not a business transaction.” She moved a step toward him, calling his bluff. “This is about birthdays, celebrations, and physical attraction.”
Her confidence ignited a new kind of anticipation before he could check the reaction. Whoever had given her cues had known all the right buttons to push. Carson hated celebrating birthdays and holidays alone … that was why he didn’t do either anymore. More telling, there was nothing he liked better than a challenge. No one knew that better than Luttrell.
“I like what I see and I’m certain the feeling is mutual,” she added frankly as she took a long, slow survey from the classic cut of his hair to his polished oxfords. Unhurriedly, she retraced her path until her gaze collided with his once more. “Have I misjudged what I see?” She glanced pointedly at his crotch.
Heat ignited beneath his skin. The gauntlet was definitely on the ground. She wasn’t cracking without a battle. This was a woman accustomed to having her way with men.
A battle it would be. “Do you pick up men in this manner often?” Another step disappeared between them, this one his. Matching her maneuver, his gaze traveled down those long legs, all the way to the devil-red polish glinting on her toenails and over the strappy stilettos in the same sizzling color. Another blast of tension tightened below his belt, fueling the fire her words had kindled far too quickly.
“Often is relative, don’t you think?” She removed her dangly earrings and tossed them onto the table next to the ashtray. “For some, there aren’t enough days in the week. For others, waiting is the best aphrodisiac of all.”
The muscle in his jaw tightened. You need sex, Carson. But not like this. He acquired the next step, decided to up the ante. Put her on the defensive. “So this isn’t the first time you’ve lured a stranger to your hotel room.”
She abided the roundabout insult without a flinch. Instead of telling him to fuck off or slapping his face, she blatantly and deliberately assessed him a second time.
Another of the smiles that mesmerized him so easily glided across her sleek lips. “If I confess my sins, will you be afraid to play with me?”
Excitement shot through him. He dismissed it, refused to allow his baser instincts that kind of leverage twice in one day. He hadn’t run out of angles just yet.
Make it personal. “I assume you have a name.”
She moved closer, one more step then a second. “For tonight, why don’t we pretend we’re anyone but who we are?”
Temptation nudged him harder. Made him hesitate, but not for long. He gave his head a shake. “I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong man.” He didn’t take risks outside the boundaries of a case; didn’t play these kinds of meaningless games. He was done.
“I see.” Impervious, she claimed the final step between them. A subtle whiff of her perfume teased his senses. Made him long to be closer still … close enough to taste her.
Stupid, Carson. Incredibly stupid.
He drew in a breath, wished he hadn’t. The fragrance that had tickled his senses now permeated his lungs, renewed his forbidden desire. It was either get the hell out of there or risk passing the point of no return. “I should go now.” He hesitated before following through. “Tell my friend that payback is hell.”
When he would have acted on his intent, she reached for his tie and dragged her fingers down its length. “You believe your friend had something to do with this?” Slowly, she inched her fingers upward again and worked loose the silk knot at his throat. “A birthday gift, maybe?”
Well, there was his answer. Luttrell would so regret this. “My friend has a predilection for skirting the fringes of ethics. Usually mine.”
Her palms skimmed his chest. Already tense muscles hardened. “You should relax. I’ll bet you don’t do that often.”
Before he could decide whether to counter her statement or simply walk out the door, she pulled away and crossed to the bar. She picked up the bottle of liquor waiting there. Bacardi. Memories bombarded him, set off an alarm. He hadn’t tasted rum in fifteen years. Hadn’t partaken of any alcohol.
Had to be a coincidence. She couldn’t know that about him. Even Luttrell didn’t know his onetime drink of choice.
“Do you prefer it straight or mixed?”
His mouth parched as if fifteen years had not elapsed since his last topple into that particular temptation. “Thank you. I’ll pass.” He told himself to go. To leave now as he’d planned. “You have your key,” he explained for her benefit as well as his own. “That’s why I came.” Even as he said the words he understood he was lying to himself.
It had been way too long since he’d had sex. His gaze roved her slender curves as she filled the glass despite his veto. He started to remind her that he wasn’t staying, but then she lifted the drink and swallowed deeply.
Watching her do so inexplicably rendered him mute. The delicate muscles of her throat worked, welcoming the warming liquid.
The image of her sucking him, taking in his release that same way barged into his brain. Exploded there. His already thickening cock hardened.
She made an appreciative sound as she moved in his direction and offered him the glass. “One drink. No strings. If you still want to go … I won’t try and persuade you to stay.”
The glass settled against his palm. Her fingers closed around his. Electricity crackled where their skin touched.
“One drink.” The flavor of rum was on his tongue before he fully realized he had made the decision to taste it, much less said the words.
He didn’t drink.
Never allowed his guard to fail this way.
And still he could not resist. She intrigued him on every level. Made him want her with a desperation he hadn’t felt in years.
No one should be alone on a night like this. Maybe she was right. He emptied the glass. Felt the burn. His tongue slid across his bottom lip to taste the last drop.
She was watching. “One dance?” She took the glass from his hand and pulled him toward the center of the room, her actions slow and teasing like the music. “Just one.”
Just one.
He watched her place the empty glass on the bar, walk back over to him. Felt her palms glide up his chest and her fingers lace behind his neck. She started to sway and, again, he didn’t resist. His body fell into rhythm with hers. She leaned in. His arms instinctively went around her waist, pulled her closer. He thought of all the reasons he should have left already …
… and then he closed his eyes and stopped thinking at all.
Her forehead rested against his chin, and he relished the feel of her skin. The smell of her hair.
She pressed her body against him more fully and the battle of wills was over.
Whether it was his prolonged abstinence or the one drink or both, he needed … this.
He drew back, pushed the dress off her shoulders, exposing her bare breasts. He wanted to touch her. He needed to have sex. Here. Now. With her. There was no more denying it.
Her fingers tangled with his buttons, swiftly freeing each one. Together they dragged off his tie … his jacket and shirt. She ushered her dress past her hips, allowing it to float to the carpet.
In one sweep she was in his arms, then on the bed. His shoes and socks, his trousers, and then his boxers landed on the floor. He ripped the delicate panties from her hips and would have driven straight into her but the last brain cell still functioning with any semblance of intelligence sent a warning.
Condom.
As if she had read his mind, she reached beneath the pillow and withdrew a shiny package. She ripped it open and sheathed him in one smooth motion.
He thrust inside her without a moment’s foreplay or the slightest inkling of finesse. She wrapped herself around him and met each flex of his hips. The heels of her stilettos scraped his thighs, urged him on.
And then she kissed him. Not slow. Not soft.
She kissed the way she fucked, hard, furious, and without pretension. Her fingers rammed into his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss. “More,” she murmured against his lips, undulating her hips provocatively.
He gave it to her.
At some point he told himself this was crazy … over the top. But that didn’t stop him … didn’t even slow him down. The single viable idea remaining in his head was to have even more … to have all of her.
Chapter 5
9:55 PM
5900 Leeds Road, Wainwright estate
Donald Wainwright prepared himself a double of the Kentucky bourbon he preferred and settled on the sofa to savor the burn. Lately, though, even his favorite whiskey seemed bland.
Life at home was bland.
His wife had already drunk herself into oblivion and gone to bed as she did every night. Claimed it was the only way she could endure being married to him.
He’d almost gotten used to her cutting remarks, had thought that nothing else she could say or do would get to him. But he’d been wrong. This evening she had announced that she planned to have an affair. With the mailman, of all people. How cliché was that?
For God’s sake, why had she felt compelled to tell him?
There hadn’t been much to say after that. He had mentioned, however, that discretion would be in her best interest if she had any aspirations of making it to the governor’s mansion alongside him.
But then he hadn’t really needed to point that out. The bitch wasn’t going to screw up her chance to be first lady of Alabama. She liked the notoriety far too much to allow anything to get in the way.
Funny. The first twenty years of their marriage had been perfect. Perfect wife, beautiful and intelligent, perfect kids who grew up to be a doctor and an engineer, and his own career had never stagnated. What else could anyone ask for?
Then, twelve years ago, things had changed. Maybe he worked too much, maybe she drank too much. Whatever the case, they had slowly drifted apart.
He downed a generous gulp of bourbon. His work would just have to continue to make up for the lack of affection his wife showed him. For him, an affair was out of the question. He’d watched too many of his friends fall into that trap and pay the staggering price.
He would simply do what he always did … work.
Today had gone well. Stokes had gotten what he deserved and the city could rest easy knowing that two of the most heinous crimes in its history were now solved. Stokes would never harm an innocent victim again.
It was done.
The past that haunted Carson Tanner was behind him now. He could focus on the future and stop rehashing old details.
If he would. Don had to see to it that he did. Some things were better left in the past. He’d groomed Carson to replace him in the position of Jefferson County district attorney. Don owned Carson’s daddy that much. Don blinked, forced those painful memories away.
The past wasn’t the point. Carson was by far the best man for the job … if that damned past didn’t get in his way.
He didn’t have to worry. Carson wouldn’t let him down.
Don could count on that. Everything was finally falling into place. Nothing was going to get in the way of his bid for the governorship.
The telephone rang, the sound mocking, as if to refute his closing argument.
His wife would call it intuition; he simply called it waning odds. Things had gone far too smoothly for far too long for his luck to continue.
His instincts hummed with dread as he picked up the receiver. “Wainwright.”
“The situation we anticipated has been set in motion.”
Don’s insides cramped. That was not what he’d wanted to hear. There had to be some mistake. Even so, surely it wasn’t too late to salvage the situation. Not like last time. “I could—”
“You understand what has to be done. An accident would be preferable, of course.”
Don sat immobilized for five seconds before he dredged up the necessary response to the irrevocable order. Desperation screamed at him to challenge the verdict. But he knew. Once the decision was made, there was no stopping the momentum.
He cleared his throat. “I understand.”
A resolute click confirmed the call had ended.
There was nothing he could do now.
It was done.
Chapter 6
Wednesday, September 8, 8:00 AM
There was something he needed to do.
Carson slowly opened his eyes.
Sunlight filled the room.
He groaned. Closed his eyes against the brightness.
Why had he left the blinds open?
He started to get up but something stopped him. Something sweet. He inhaled deeply and tried to identify the scent.
Flowers … female.
He scratched his balls through the sheet.
Images filtered into his groggy consciousnes
s. Sleek blond hair. Long, toned legs. Lush pink lips.
Sex.
The woman from the bar.
He bolted upright and looked around.
The Tutwiler.
Damn.
The stranger.
More of those images flooded his brain. Those slender legs entwining his body. Her blood-red nails clawing his skin.
What the hell had he been thinking?
That was the trouble, he hadn’t been thinking.
“Shit.”
Kicking the sheet aside, he sat up. Where was she?
He dropped his feet to the floor and fumbled for his boxers. Dragging them on, he walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Deserted. No toiletries other than the ones provided by the hotel. He checked the closet. No clothes. Just empty hangers, one swinging back and forth from the violent way he’d jerked open the door.
The only evidence that he hadn’t imagined the whole event was the bottle of rum on the bar and the lone cigarette butt in the ashtray.
She was gone.
Luttrell. Carson was going to kick the shit of the guy.
Dread swelled in his chest.
What time is it?
His gaze veered to the bedside table and the digital clock waiting there, taunting him with its glaring numbers.
8:04.
“Shit!”
He was late.
He tugged on his trousers. Fumbled around for his shirt, socks, and shoes. No time for a shower or to go home for a change of clothes.
After one last survey of the room, he grabbed his tie, shouldered into his jacket, and headed for the lobby. He hadn’t drunk enough for a hangover but he still felt like death warmed over. Side effects from the regret and the guilt sitting like an elephant on his shoulders.
How the hell had he let this happen?
Outside on the sidewalk, he took a moment to gain his bearings. He’d parked near the bar. Across the street and a block to the right.
Not far, but nothing was going to change the fact that he was late.
He stepped off the curb.
The roar of an engine bristled the hair on the back of his neck.