Sure Bet

by Maggie Price

  Alex slid an engraved card from the envelope. "Spurlock's throwing a Fourth of July party."

  "He got confirmation last night that we live like the married couple we claim to be," Morgan said. "That, combined with our conversation picked up by his bugs this morning must have convinced him we're on the level." Her glossed mouth curved. "His party is my chance to search upstairs for the gold bedroom."

  Alex kept his gaze locked with hers, and felt a punch low in his gut. He realized he could no longer look at her and see only a cop. She was the woman he loved.

  Christ, he loved her. He had broken all his own rules. Broken them for a woman who he knew could never be content to stay with him. Not forever.

  Yet he couldn't stop himself from wanting her. Couldn't hold back the churning need he felt.

  That need had him fisting his hands against his thighs. He and Morgan could have been killed last night. Neither of them could afford to be distracted for a single second.

  And here he was, stupidly, irresponsibly in love with her.

  Nothing could be more impossible or more dangerous.

  Chapter 13

  By late that night Morgan had put into perspective the fact that the nameless male intruder had, for a time, possessed total control over her. She was a cop, after all. Had grown up around cops. Her brother-in-law had died in the line of duty; she knew full well the danger that came with the job. She'd had her eyes wide-open when she signed on with the department.

  Going undercover was dangerous. So was working traffic detail when every time you pulled over a car, you had to wonder if the driver had a gun. Responding to domestic violence calls was worse—people drinking, doing drugs, sometimes would just as soon waste a cop as one another. When you carried a badge, any assignment spelled risk.

  So Morgan acknowledged last night's possible brush with death, accepted it and sent up silent thanks that all was well.

  She also took comfort knowing that anyone who attempted a similar break-in would receive a brain-scrambling electrical shock, compliments of the inventive Sergeant Wade Crawford.

  The dangers that were an inherent part of police work, however, weren't the only ones facing her. She had run head-on into another kind of danger just as great, just as real, coming from her own heart.

  Which was why she presently stood in the mansion's kitchen at nearly one o'clock in the morning, whipping up a batch of cookie dough loaded with white chocolate chips, macadamia nuts and pecans. All because of the man bedded down on the couch in the living room.

  Blowing out a breath, she tightened her hold on the mixing bowl propped in the crook of one arm and used a wooden spoon to give the dough a final jerky stir. She had known, just known, the roller-coaster thoughts that hit her while she and Alex stood in the shower's steamy, intimate confines had been nothing more than emotions gone haywire. Yet, try as she might over the hours that had followed, she'd been unable to write off those emotions as a result of a sudden attack of vulnerability. She had let Alex Blade sneak through the walls she'd erected. She wasn't on the verge of falling in love with him, she had fallen. Smack on her face.

  She was sure of that. And it scared her to death.

  The last time—only time—she'd given her heart to a man, she had lost her direction, her sense of self-worth, her college scholarship and wound up in an accident that put her in a coma. Her party-hearty boyfriend couldn't even be bothered to wait until she regained consciousness before moving on.

  She'd woken up to an "it's been fun, see you around, babe" letter and a shattered heart.

  Not her best experience. Nor one, she had promised herself, she would repeat. She had resolved to finish college, then begin her career without outside distractions. To excel as a police officer. To stay in control. She had succeeded by keeping a close watch on her heart and running for cover the instant she got near a man who made her pulse throb and her mind go blank.

  A man like Alex Blade.

  If only she weren't forced day after day to live with him, be with him. She felt as if she were existing in a cocoon with nothing in the world but Alex's dominant figure, the mansion, the need to find the evidence to put Spurlock away so they could call it quits and go home. Home.

  The assignment had taken on such a surreal quality she was beginning to think of the mansion as home. It wasn't.

  What was real, very real, were her feelings for Alex. He was there, in her heart. And she had no idea how to handle that.

  Which meant she needed a sensible plan. If she had a plan, she reasoned, she would feel more in control. Since she did her best thinking on a full stomach, she intended to settle in bed with a plate of cookies and get to work formulating that plan. Figure out how to deal calmly, logically with the emotions that had avalanched on her.

  She settled the bowl onto the cooking island and began dropping spoonfuls of dough onto a greased baking sheet. Yes, she thought, coming up with a plan was practical, rational—

  "What are you making?"

  Spoon in hand, she whirled.

  Alex stood with a shoulder propped against the doorjamb; he wore a black T-shirt with a damp vee down the chest and gray gym shorts. His dark hair was rumpled, his jaw stubbled. A fine sheen of sweat covered his flesh.

  He looked tanned and tough. Incredibly sexy.

  Morgan's heart bounced high and hard. He had amazing muscles. Everywhere. "I…thought you were asleep on the couch."

  He roamed into the kitchen, settled a hip against the island. "And I thought you were asleep in your bed."

  His dark, seductive, overtly male scent had her throat going hot and dry. "Guess we were both wrong."

  "Guess so." He glanced at the baking pan. "What kind of cookies?"

  "The kind with a gazillion calories."

  His mouth curved. "My favorite."

  She felt pressure building in her chest, felt her flesh heating as they stood there not quite touching. Nerves jittering, she dug the spoon into the bowl, dropped another glob of dough onto the baking sheet. "Do you often exercise at one o'clock in the morning?" Her voice was as unsteady as her grip.

  "When I can't sleep."

  She raised a brow. "Something bothering you?"

  His gaze slicked down, taking in the white crop-top tied beneath her breasts, her snug shorts. "That would be an understatement." He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her while she dropped more globs of dough onto the sheet. "Do you often cook at one in the morning?" he asked finally.

  "When I can't sleep."

  "Something bugging you?"

  "I've got things on my mind." You.

  The intense, measuring way he studied her brought out her need, a low and nagging ache. Her pulse hammered everywhere at once. All thought of taking her time to plan how to sensibly deal with her feelings for this man flowed out of her brain. She wanted him. Desperately.

  "Things on your mind," he repeated quietly.

  "Yes." She scooped up more dough, plopped it onto the pan.

  "Morgan, stop what you're doing and look at me. Just look at me."

  When she did, he stared into her eyes with such intensity she knew instinctively he could read every shift and flicker of emotion. Then she saw his own eyes darken with desire and felt the raw echo of that desire curl deep inside her belly.

  He dipped his head. "Think it's possible the same problem is keeping us both from sleeping?"

  "I…think so." She dragged in a breath. "I'm not sure how to deal with the problem."

  He remained silent for the space of a dozen heartbeats, then said, "I've got an idea."

  Turning, she watched him move to the counter near the huge stainless-steel refrigerator. He swiveled the coffeemaker around, opened a small slit on its back. Anticipation snaked through her when she saw him switch off the microchip surveillance camera inside.

  He retraced his steps, stopping inches in front of her. Leaning back, she felt the edge of the island against the small of her back. She didn't realize she was still holding the wooden
spoon until he took it from her hand. She didn't move, didn't speak, just waited.

  He laid the spoon aside and used his hands to grip the counter on either side of her body. "I promised to touch you only in the line of duty. I'll keep that promise," he continued, his breath warm against her lips, "unless you tell me you don't want me to."

  Heat had flooded beneath her flesh and her heart was revving like an engine. "I can't think when I'm around you. I need to think, but I can't."

  "I was right, we both have the same problem."

  To stop herself from reaching out to him, she fisted her hands against her thighs. "I'm not sure touching each other is a smart thing to do."

  "I'm positive it's not," he agreed. "But I'm at the point where I don't give a damn about smart. I want you, Morgan. I want the hell out of you. If you don't want my hands on you, tell me now and I'll back off."

  Everything that had once seemed so dream-like to her became stark reality. And the only reality that mattered at the moment was the flesh-and-blood man standing before her. Without another thought to reason or consequences, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "If you don't put your hands on me, I'll go crazy."

  "Another thing we have in common," he said, bringing her against him with one hard pull. He fisted his hands in her hair, tugged her head back and crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that tasted of dark, swirling frustration.

  Her senses cartwheeling, she tunneled her fingers through his hair and kissed him back with all of the searing, pent-up hunger that had been driving her insane over the past weeks.

  Groaning her name, he gripped the back of her head, holding her still while he deepened the kiss.

  Morgan clung to him, feeling as if she were being swallowed alive. The edge of the counter dug into her back, but she was too aware of his hips, his chest molded against her, to notice the discomfort. His masculine scent filled her lungs, his taste swirled through her system, distancing her further from reason, muddling her thoughts, driving feelings to the surface where she couldn't escape them.

  It had been so long, so very long since she'd allowed herself to tumble into searing, seductive, dangerous oblivion. All she wanted now was to feast and be filled.

  His hands streaked over her, hotly possessive. His fingers slid over her breasts, covered only by the cotton crop-top. Her nipples tightened, then strained beneath his touch.

  Her head fell back on a moan; his mouth moved to ravage her throat, while his thumbs tormented her nipples through the thin material. Her skin was on fire, her blood pumping like a river of lava. She gripped his shoulders for balance while sensation after sensation stormed her system. She had never wanted anything more than him. Any man more than him.

  She felt the hard pulse of his need against her belly. His name slid across her lips with husky passion as her urgent hands shoved beneath his T-shirt, then dragged it over his head and let it fly.

  Her lips conducted a slow exploration of the muscled planes of his chest while the primal male taste of him coursed through her system. Her fingers raked through the mat of crisp black hair. Her pulse pounded thick and fast, matching the rhythm of his heart.

  "Morgan…" His hands slid down her back, cupped her bottom. He lifted her up against him and used his teeth on her throat.

  Vaguely she felt the room shift, then realized Alex was carrying her. He stopped on the opposite side of the cooking island, slid her onto the edge. Moving in, he pressed her back until she lay flat, her legs dangling. She was aware of the coolness of the tiled surface against her back as he stood intimately between her spread legs.

  Leaning over her, he manacled a hand around both of her wrists, stretched her arms over her head. She saw scalding need in his eyes an instant before he fastened his mouth on one of her breasts and suckled greedily through cotton.

  Pleasure arrowed through her system. Her breath escaped in burning gasps while her body melted like wax beneath a flame. His mouth shifted to feed on her other breast while his free hand jerked the crop-top loose. Raising his head, he shoved the cotton aside to expose her breasts. She felt his gaze on her flesh as hot and physical as his touch.

  "You're beautiful." His voice was a rough whisper on the still air. "Magnificent."

  Her gaze slid across the muscled contours of his chest, then dipped lower to his washboard-flat stomach, to the waist that tapered to narrow hips and long legs. "So are you."

  "We'll get to me. Later." The dangerous edge she heard in his voice glinted in his eyes as he used a fingertip to trace the curve of one breast, then the other. Her entire body quivered in response.

  Slowly his hand skimmed downward across her bare midriff, his fingers hovering over the waistband of her shorts. "Much later."

  He tugged the shorts down over her hips, off her legs, tossed them aside. He raised a brow. "Why, Morgan," he murmured, "you forgot to put on underwear." He slid his hand between her legs, cupped her and began a slow massage of her flesh.

  Her body vibrated like a plucked string; the hard, wet pulse between her legs hammered against his palm. "When I dressed…my mind was on…baking cookies," she managed.

  Her vision grayed as his fingers continued moving against her, slowly, erotically.

  "What's on your mind now?"

  She could have sworn the kitchen had started to spin. "Nothing. You melted…my brain."

  He gave her a slow, feral smile as he slid a hand beneath each of her thighs and lifted her hips. "Let's see what else I can melt."

  Her last tenuous hold on sanity rocketed away when he lowered his head and used his mouth on her.

  Staggered by a sharp lance of pleasure, words strangled in her throat, images swirled in her brain. The wanting was huge, recklessly primitive. And for now it was all that mattered.

  Stars seemed to explode in front of her eyes as he brought her to mind-blinding, shattering release.

  "Alex…"

  "Again." His dark eyes warrior bright, he tightened his fingers on her hips, lifted her higher, spread her even more. Something close to a purr sounded in her throat as he urged her up again and sent her soaring.

  When he lowered her hips she reached for him, panting his name. At the same instant he hauled her off the counter.

  His face was set in almost savage lines, his eyes so intense they seemed to burn her flesh. "My turn."

  "Yes." With her body still shuddering from his onslaught, she wrapped her long legs around his waist and fused her mouth with his.

  She could taste herself on his lips, feel the urgent hammering of his heart against hers. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Beneath her palms his muscles felt hard as iron. "I want you," she murmured against his mouth. "Inside me. Now. Now."

  The next instant they were on the floor. Driven by her own need, she tugged off his shorts, desperate to feel his body against hers, in her.

  Gripping her hips, he dragged her over him, lifting her up to straddle him. Arching back, she took him into her, all of him. Her body trembled as he opened her, filled her. She gave herself over completely, moving with him, welcoming the deep, smooth strokes of his body inside hers. She rode him, her muscles milking him.

  His fingers dug into her flesh when he reached his peak. Groaning her name, he lay back, panting, his chest heaving as he gulped in air.

  She slid down on top of him, her body boneless, her flesh slick with sweat. Pressing her face into his shoulder, she gasped for air like a woman drowning, then expelled it on a long, languorous sigh.

  * * *

  Later Alex watched Morgan as she lay beside him in exhausted sleep. She was on her side, one arm flung across his waist, one long, sleek leg intertwined with his, her hair a wild, golden tangle over the rumpled sheets. Her breathing was even, relaxed. In the soft moonlight streaming in through the bedroom windows, her skin glowed like warm honey.

  The same way it tasted.

  If he'd harbored any lingering doubts over his feelings for her, those doubts had been erased during their frantic mating in the kitchen,
then later when they moved upstairs and taken each other slowly, tenderly.

  He was totally, crazily in love with Morgan McCall.

  It was, he knew, the biggest mistake he had ever made. A mistake that had several very real, very serious problems staring him in the face.

  One being the fact he wasn't—couldn't be—the type of man she needed. A man whose ambition paled in the face of hers. He acknowledged she wouldn't believe the difference in their outlooks could someday matter to her, but he knew differently. He had, after all, experienced a similar nightmare with his ex.

  As Morgan rose through the department's ranks—and she would—the difference in insignia on their collars would dig a chasm between them, one that couldn't help but widen over time. She would wind up getting bored with him and slowly lose interest in the relationship. Just the thought of her treating him with cool aloofness sometime down the line sliced him to pieces. He knew he needed to start trying to build some sort of defense against that, against her. He would. Still, that wasn't the biggest problem he had at the moment. Morgan's safety was.

  He stroked a palm down the length of the exquisite curves and hollows that had driven him mad since the first moment he'd laid eyes on her. He could no longer think about her and not feel cold fear over what the vicious bastard Colaneri could have done while locked with her in that bathroom. Nor could Alex ignore the panic that jabbed into his gut at the thought of what might have happened to her last night while she lay drugged and at the intruder's mercy.

  Alex was very aware that Spurlock had been ultimately in control of the above events. He pulled the strings. Issued orders. Decided who lived and died. And he had just sent over an embossed invitation, summoning his new neighbors back to his turf, where geography alone gave the slime the advantage.

  The knowledge that his and Morgan's assignment could turn deadly intensified, crouching darkly in Alex's brain.

  He shifted his gaze to the shadowy ceiling and turned his thoughts to the six people who had died because of Spurlock. The jockey, Frankie Isom. Spurlock's former lover, Krystelle Vander. When Alex ticked off George Jackson's name, his chest tightened against a shimmer of pain for the man who'd been the only father he'd ever known. Then there were the two FBI agents, poisoned while guarding Spurlock's accountant, Emmett Tool, who'd been on the verge of implicating his boss in at least three murders. And Tool himself, his body burned so badly that ID had to be made by using dental records.