Liam sat beside me again. “From what I can tell, he’s damned serious about you, but what I’ve uncovered about his past relationships isn’t promising.” I had a feeling I wouldn’t like his next words. “They don’t last more than three months. At most, four. If you do go to Boston, it may not be a lasting move.”
I laughed without mirth. “So why risk exposing myself?”
“Once I go after the person who has the physical evidence, it could turn ugly—our cover, blown. This cabin may no longer be secure. I may not be able to warn you or protect you in time, but Grant has the resources to provide you security.”
“For at least three or four months?” I said sarcastically. “I guess the clock is ticking then.”
My friend exhaled heavily. “I’ve done my own research on Thorne. I couldn’t get the data on the type of security he has on his properties for obvious reasons, and he doesn’t have personal security teams unless he goes out of the country. You’ll need to lay low. Can you do that?”
“I told Grant I’m an introvert, that I don’t do well with crowds.”
Liam broke into a slow, proud smile. “Atta girl. It’s easier to stay anonymous in a city like Boston. Most of my leads are on the east coast, so if you get an inkling your relationship with Thorne isn’t working out—give me a heads-up as soon as you can, so I can make plans to extract you.”
I shot him an apprehensive look.
“It might take me a couple days …” he explained. “Maybe a week to make sure I can cover my tracks and get you some place safe if this cabin is compromised.”
“Or you can simply take me along,” I suggested.
Liam gave me a wry grin, but instead of answering, he asked, “So where’s loverboy?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s in Vail. Said the Wi-Fi was faster there.”
“Is he coming by today?”
My cheeks burned. “He’s been staying over every night.”
“You work fast.”
I scowled at Liam. “When do I tell him I’m willing to make the move?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tonight?”
Liam looked at me strangely.
“He asks me every night before bed,” I explained.
“Persistent son of a bitch.”
“That he is,” I agreed.
Looked like I was moving to Boston.
7
Blaire
Early April heralded the arrival of brisk spring weather in Massachusetts. Boston Commons was alive with a sea of vibrant emerald, the grassy landscape a tempting invitation to lay down a blanket and laze the day away. I leaned back under the canopy of an ancient elm tree, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Knees pulled back, I laid my sketchpad on my lap and outlined the arresting landscape before me. The equestrian bronze statue of George Washington stood tall and proud among an army of tulips in shades of red, pink, orange, and yellow. It was one of Boston’s most impressive sculpture with both horse and rider hewn in graceful and natural lines. A ghostly weeping willow served as a backdrop in the distance. The promise of new life in the air inspired my fingers to work the charcoal pencil feverishly over the textured drawing paper.
I moved to Boston at the end of January. Grant took time off from his work at Thorne Industries to show me New England living. The architecture and history provided instant appeal. I also relished capturing on canvas the everyday life of bustling municipalities like Provincetown and other quaint communities that speckled the Northeast corridor. But Grant himself was the biggest selling point of this temporary move.
Three months had already passed, and Grant, instead of losing interest, had become more determined to bind me to him. Last week, he’d been after me to give up my cabin in Colorado. He told me that as long as I had a place to run away to, I couldn’t commit to him. He actually used the word “commit.”
His success, good looks, and stature in life should have intimidated me, but when he was in my company he had a way of making me feel special, not to mention he’d been giving me the best sex of my life. I exhaled heavily. And yet it was the little things …
As if my thoughts conjured him up, I saw a tall familiar figure approaching me with easy strides. My heart stuttered, before a bubble of happiness burst inside me. What was Grant doing in Boston on a Wednesday morning? He usually left Monday afternoon for Manhattan and returned on Thursdays. The muscles of my cheeks hurt from grinning too wide as I lowered my sketchpad on the blanket to admire the man dressed in faded jeans and Henley—a far cry from the sharp suits I was used to seeing him in during the week. The nylon cooler he was carrying in one hand did nothing to disrupt the controlled grace of his movements, like a jungle cat prowling its territory with confidence.
“The board called,” I hollered when he was twenty paces out. “They said you’re fired.”
His lips fractured into a broad smile, his teeth flashing as he looked to the side before cutting his glance back to me, eyes crinkled in humor. “I got tired of their squabbling. I told them I had better things to do.”
I laughed as he reached me. He lowered the cooler, stooped to kiss me and, before I knew what was happening, I was flat on my back with one hard-bodied male pinning me to the ground. I wrenched my lips away. “Grant! We’re in public.”
He stared down at me, unrepentant. “Missed you so much,” he murmured and captured my lips again. The undisguised yearning in his kiss filled my own heart with longing that was strangled by conflicting emotions.
I love him.
Without a doubt, I love him.
I shouldn’t. It wasn’t part of the plan. And yet, the way his kiss demanded my response, stripped of control, I articulated my love in the way I kissed him back, in the way I molded my body against his. It might had been a few seconds, it might had been long minutes, but for that fragment of time, we lost ourselves in each other. Grant ripped away from the kiss and swore. He rolled off me, lying flat on his back with his arm across his eyes. I propped up on my elbows, panting, and tried my best to cool off my heated flesh.
He was breathing raggedly, his erection pressed painfully against his jeans, and then in small degrees, I watched him reel it in.
“Fuck.” Grant grinned crookedly as he lowered his arm and looked at me. “You little witch.”
My brows quirked. “I’m the little witch? Aren’t you the one who invaded my little space of tranquility?”
“Yeah, but …” his face turned serious. “What just happened felt different.”
I started at his perceptivity. How could he tell from a kiss that I had let go of my reservations about falling in love with him? Walls quickly slammed up around my heart.
His eyes narrowed. “Blaire … don’t.”
Flustered at being laid open, I changed the subject. “Why are you back in Boston so early?”
I held my breath as he regarded me for long moments before he expelled a hiss of frustration. He recovered quickly though, and grinned. “Making a lunch delivery?”
“Okay, be serious,” I said, relieved that he didn’t force the issue. “I thought you had a lot of meetings and paperwork to get through?”
He shrugged those powerful shoulders. “I do. I had Heather clear my day and move all my meetings to tomorrow. Might as well make use of web-conferencing technology. I brought all the paperwork with me. Most of them are on our FTP site anyway.”
“So, you’re all mine for the afternoon?”
“I’m yours all day,” he paused. “Might have to do some work tonight though.”
“I don’t like the idea of you working late because you have to spend time with me.”
Grant didn’t immediately respond. He sat up and scooted back against the elm tree and then dragged me into the circle of his arms. “Blaire, I was successful in business because nothing made me happier than closing that next deal.” His fingers combed through my hair. That felt good. I snuggled closer and his arms tightened. “Now nothing makes me happier than being here,
exactly this way with you.” He pressed his lips to my temple. “You’re my new high, my drug of choice. Are you going to deny an addict his fix?”
I took a good look at Grant. His grin supported the levity of his statement, but his eyes spoke of deeper emotions. This was confirmed when his smile faltered and his jaw tightened briefly. We were left at this awkward impasse because we were both holding back.
“Well now, I don’t want to be that cruel,” I said lightly. “I guess I can put up with your company this afternoon.”
“Witch,” he murmured.
“I’ve got a couple of hours of sketching,” I warned.
“As I said, Angel, I’ll be right here,” he gave me a chaste peck on the lips then surveyed the scenery. “Are you going to translate this to oil?”
“Yes. The scenery would be perfect for my Medici colors, but I think I’ll stick to Windsor and Newton,” I said glumly.
“Why?”
“I’m saving the Medici for Provincetown. You know I can’t get those paints anymore.” The Medici oil paints were handmade, and the paint maker, Stephen Vasari, had retired. The paints were made from the highest quality alkali-refined linseed oil, free from fillers like wax and chalk. The resulting pigments were vibrant and lush. Each tube was filled individually by hand. It was an artist’s dream medium.
“Hmm …” Grant mumbled, absentmindedly stroking my hair.
I should be irritated that he probably asked the question to make small talk. Every time I talked about painting, he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, so maybe he was just tired. After all, he was here when he was supposed to be running an empire.
“So, what’s in the cooler?” I asked, deciding to redirect the conversation.
Grant untangled our limbs and yanked the cooler by the strap. He unearthed a bottle of wine, some cold cuts, and cheese. There was also cold pasta salad and roast chicken plus a variety of fruit. I got on my knees and dug through my bag for the wet wipes to clean my hands.
“You know you’re making this a perfect day,” I said. “Blue skies, calm breeze, tulips in full bloom.” Our eyes locked. “Sexy man at my beck and call.” I leaned in and teased him with my lips and was gratified when I registered the rumbling of a growl deep in his throat. “You look hungry, Mr. Thorne.” I plucked a grape from a cluster. “Have a grape.”
He snatched the berry from my hand but deliberately caught the tip of my fingers between his lips and let his tongue lick me. I inhaled sharply and his eyes flashed. We were treading on very risqué ground. His face was a stark canvas of a starved man and it had nothing to do with food.
“Blaire,” he said thickly as he swallowed the fruit with difficulty. “I want to fuck you so bad.”
“I know,” I whispered and my tongue darted over my lower lip, my mouth suddenly dry. “Are you going to pour us some wine?”
“You know you’re going to pay for this later, right?” he muttered as he handed me wine in a plastic goblet. “The first thing I’m going to do is lick that pussy and make you come on my mouth so many times you beg me to stop.”
Oh dear.
“Roast chicken?” I held out a slice of breast; he accepted without taking his eyes off me.
“Then I’m going to force you down on your knees and fuck you from behind.”
I squeezed my legs together as a pulse twitched my pussy. My goblet shook as I took a sip of red wine.
Our banter continued throughout lunch, I’d offer him food and he would describe the ways he wanted to fuck me. By the time we got to the chocolate mousse in shot glasses, he’d taken off his Henley, revealing his fitted white tee. That did nothing to calm my raging libido because I knew how those sculpted muscles looked beneath those last layers of threads. Meanwhile, I’d taken off my spring jacket and I was pretty sure my panties were soaked.
“Maybe we should leave the mousse for later,” Grant suggested. “I can find better places to eat this from.”
I raised a brow. “I’m sure you can, but I want mine just where it is.”
He chuckled, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “We sure worked ourselves up into trouble, didn’t we?” He stared mournfully at his hard-on.
“I had nothing to do with it,” I returned. “I was busy feeding you.”
His gaze softened. “That was sweet, baby.”
And my heart just melted into a puddle. Getting scorched by a lust-filled stare was one thing, but when his eyes warmed with tenderness, they were actually more lethal.
I held out a spoonful of mousse to him but he shook his head and instead continued to stare at me.
“You’re making me self-conscious,” I chided, lowering my gaze to the ground as I felt a blush steal up my cheek.
“I just love watching you,” he murmured. “Sue me.”
I shook my head in amusement and finished my mousse. Grant told me he’d pack up our lunch and I should finish my sketches.
He laid back on the blanket and closed his eyes. He untucked his white tee to cover his erection. Poor man. I resumed drawing, but I was finding it hard to concentrate.
All I could imagine was Grant fucking me the way he laid it out over lunch. And it didn’t help that his fingers were lightly brushing my leg as he relaxed. After an hour, I hadn’t really gotten anywhere because I kept erasing what I drew.
“That’s it,” I fumed.
Grant’s eyes popped open. “What, baby?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Let’s go,” I announced. “I need my man naked.”
We couldn’t leave that park fast enough.
Grant hauled me into the house and kicked the door close. Then his hands grabbed my face and slammed his mouth on mine, stealing my breath. I dropped my things to the floor as his body pushed me deeper into the house and I had no choice but to scuttle backward. His hands left my face and ripped my top from my body, and as he gripped the bottom of his tee, my own hands swept under it, desperate to touch his bare skin.
We were a tangle of frantic limbs and lust. My nails raked down his shoulders even as his fingers worked my jeans. He bore me down to the living room floor, kneeling before me as he stripped me of my clothes, cursing as he encountered a problem removing my boots. I didn’t know how he got them off, he might have ruined them, but then my back slid on the area rug as he peeled off my jeans along with my panties. He tore off his belt, dropped it to the floor and unbuttoned his jeans.
Feral eyes roved over my form before he wrenched my legs apart and plunged his fingers in my pussy, growling as my back arched with the invasion. I writhed beneath his hungry gaze, his wicked fingers, plunging and seeking, my breath hitching as he pressed against my sweet spot. Arousal flooded my entrance and then with my legs on his shoulders, he lifted my hips off the floor and buried his face between my thighs.
His tongue tore through me, licking my slit, lapping at my sensitive folds. He sucked on my clit and I came on his tongue, gushing, slicked and slippery, and he ate all of me. I couldn’t count the times he brought me to orgasm, all I knew was I was begging for him to stop. That I couldn’t take anymore and I needed him inside me.
Grant finally pulled back and his hand gripped my ankle, and with the other on my hip, he flipped me over. His hard chest hit my back, curling an arm under my belly as he pulled me up to all fours. I felt his hand work between us and the sound of his zipper ratcheted up my anticipation. The head of his cock swiped at my entrance once, twice and then he plunged deep, stretching me with the silky hardness of his shaft.
He took me fast and hard. His thrust so deep and powerful, that if he wasn’t holding me up, I would have flattened on the floor. Grant’s hand moved to my breast, squeezing, then he dragged me upright and my ass was on his lap. His hand shifted to my jaw, turning my head into his kiss as he continued to fuck me. His front to my back, sliding me up and down on his cock, we were reduced to skin stroking against skin, breath and sweat mingling, two people moving to the symphony of grunts and moans. And as our climax crashed around us, we co
ntinued our dance until our rhythm turned erratic and the movements ebbed. Grant kissed my shoulder and dropped his head in the crook of my neck, maintaining our connection as if he didn’t want us to be parted. Minutes passed before he lifted me off his lap and carried me to the couch. He stretched beside me and tucked me close. Neither of us said a word as we absorbed the aftermath of our intense coupling.
I listened to his steady breathing. Grant had fallen asleep, so I decided to clean up. I freed myself from our naked embrace. Well, I was naked and he still had his jeans on. How was that fair? He mumbled in protest but didn’t even open his eyes. I climbed over him and got off the couch, staring at him for a while. No man deserved to look that handsome. A pang of regret swept through me again. I wished circumstances were different, but this thing with Grant wasn’t going anywhere unless Liam found a way.
Forcing myself to turn away, I bent over to pick up his white shirt, inhaled his scent like a stalker and decided to put it on. I collected my clothes and padded to the foyer where I had dropped my backpack and sketchpad. Balancing all the items in my arms, I made my way to the room Grant had converted into my art studio. I lowered my backpack on the chair and the sketchpad on the drawing table and that was when I spotted it. A rectangular package covered in brown paper.
Baffled, I picked it up. My name was scripted on the paper in Grant’s handwriting. Curious now, I tore off the wrapper to reveal a plain looking box. I flipped open the top and my breath caught.
Tubes of Medici paints laid neatly side by side.
“How?” I whispered to the four walls of the room.
“I tracked down Stephen Vasari,” a voice said behind me. Grant stood there, leaning against the door frame, shirtless, with his jeans still undone.
Words congested in my throat and tears burned behind my eyes as the sheer perfection of the day overwhelmed me—this beautiful man before me, this box in my hands that held the breath to my art, this life I desperately wanted to hold on to.
Captive Lies Page 6