by J. R. Ward
Guess Levi's and a clean flannel shirt offended their leather-and-lace sensibilities.
Jim chose a path that kept him far away from Blue Dress, and once he was outside, he took a deep breath like he'd passed some kind of test. The cold air didn't bring quite the relief he wanted, though, and as he walked around to the back parking lot, his hand went to the pocket of his shirt.
He'd quit smoking, and yet a year later, he was still reaching for the Marlboro Reds. His frickin' habit was like having an amputated limb with phantom pain.
As he made the corner and walked into the lot, he went past a row of cars that were parked grilles-in to the building. All of them were dirty, their flanks spackled with salt from the road treatments and months-old white-snow grime. His truck, which was way down at the end of the third row in, was exactly the same.
He looked left and right as he went. This was a bad part of town, and if he were going to get jumped, he wanted to see what was coming at him. Not that he minded a good fight. He'd gotten into a lot of them in his younger years, and then been trained properly in the military—plus, thanks to his day job, he was in rock-hard shape. But it was always better to—
He stopped as a flash of gold winked at him from the ground.
Crouching down, he picked up a thin gold ring—no, it was a hoop earring, one of those guys that plugged into itself. He cleaned the grunge off and glanced over at the cars. Could have been dropped by anyone, and it wasn't very expensive.
“Why did you leave without me?”
Jim froze.
Shit, her voice was as sexy as the rest of her.
Straightening to his full height, he pivoted on his work boot and stared across the trunks of the cars. Blue Dress was about ten yards away, standing under a security light—which made him wonder if she always chose spots that illuminated her.
“It's cold,” he said. “You should go back inside.”
“I'm not cold.”
True enough. Hot as fuck would cover it. “Well…I'm leaving.”
“Alone?” She came forward, her high heels tracking across the pitted asphalt.
The closer she got, the better-looking she became. Shit, her lips were made for sex, deep red and slightly parted, and that hair of hers…All he could think about was it falling over his bare chest and thighs.
Jim shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He was much taller than she was, but the way she walked was a sucker punch to the solar plexus, immobilizing him with hot thoughts and vivid plans: Staring at her fine pale skin, he wondered if it was as soft as it seemed. Wondered a whole hell of a lot about what was under that dress. Wondered what she would feel like beneath his naked body.
As she stopped in front of him, he had to take a deep breath.
“Where's your car?” she said.
“Truck.”
“Where is it?”
At that moment a cold breeze rolled in from the alley and she shivered a little, raising thin, lovely arms to wrap herself in a hug. Her dark eyes, which had been seductive in the club, abruptly became pleading…and made her nearly impossible to turn away from.
Was he going to do this? Was he going to fall into this warm pool of a woman, if only for a short time?
Another gust came barreling in, and she stamped one stiletto, then the other. Jim took off his leather jacket and closed the distance between them. With their eyes locked, he encircled her with what had warmed himself. “I'm over here.” She reached for his hand and took it. He led the way.
Ford F-150s were not exactly great for hooking up, but there was enough room if you needed it— and more to the point, the truck was all he had to offer. Jim helped her inside and then went around and got behind the wheel. The engine started quick and he turned the fan off, halting the blast of frigid air until things heated up.
She moved across the seat to him, her breasts rising above the tight bands of her dress as she got closer. “You're very kind.”
Kind was not he way he saw himself. Especially not now, given what was on his mind. “Can't have a lady cold.”
Jim ran his eyes all over her. She was huddled in his beat-to-shit leather jacket, her face turned down, her long hair falling over her shoulder and curling up into her cleavage. She might have come across as a seducer, but the truth was she was a good girl who was in over her head.
“Do you want to talk?” he said, because she deserved better than what he wanted from her.
“No.” She shook her head. “No, I want to do…something.”
Okay, Jim was definitely not kind. He was a man who was a palm's reach away from a beautiful woman, and even though she was giving off vulnerable vibes, playing therapist with her was not the sort of horizontal he was after.
As her eyes lifted, they were orphan sad. “Please…kiss me?”
Jim held back, her expression putting the brakes on him and then some. “You sure about this?”
She swept her hair over her shoulder and tucked it behind her ear. When she nodded, the dime-size diamond in her lobe flashed. “Yes…very. Kiss me.”
When she held his stare and didn't look away, Jim leaned in, feeling ensnared and not minding in the slightest. “I'll go slow.”
Oh…God…
Her lips were every bit as soft as he'd imagined, and he stroked her mouth carefully with his own, afraid he would crush her. She was sweet, she was warm, and she trusted him to set the careful pace, welcoming his tongue inside of her, then later shifting back so that his palm could ease down from her face to her collarbone…to her full breast.
Which changed the tempo of things.
Abruptly, she sat up and took off his jacket. “Zipper's in the back.”
His rough workman's hands found it quick, and he worried about marring the blue dress as he drew the fastening downward. And then he stopped thinking as she took the top from her breasts herself, revealing a satin-and-lace bra that probably cost as much as his truck.
Through the fine material, her nipples were peaked, and in the shadows thrown by the dim light of the dash, they were feast-for-the-starved spectacular.
“My breasts are real,” she said softly. “He wanted me to get implants, but I…I don't want them.”
Jim frowned, thinking that whatever pig asshole had come up with that one deserved an eye operation—performed by a tire iron. “Don't do it. You're beautiful.”
“Really?” Her voice wavered.
“Truly.”
Her shy smile meant too much to him, piercing through his chest, going too deep. He knew all about the ugly side of life, had been through the kinds of things that could make a single day feel like it lasted a month, and he wished her none of that. Seemed, though, she'd had plenty of hard cracks herself.
Jim reached over and turned the heater on to warm her.
When he eased back, she swept aside one of the bra's cups and framed herself with her hand, offering the nipple to him.
“You're amazing,” he whispered.
Jim bent down and captured her flesh with his lips, sucking on her gently. As she gasped and thrust her hands into his hair, her breast cushioned his mouth and he had a moment of raw lust, the kind that turned men into animals.
Except then he remembered the way she'd looked at him, and he knew he wasn't going to have sex with her. He was going to take care of her, here in the truck cab, with the heater going and the windows fogging up. He was going to show her how beautiful she was and how perfect her body looked and felt and…tasted. But he wasn't taking anything for himself.
Hell, maybe he wasn't all bad.
You sure about that? his inner voice cut in. Are you really sure about that? No, he wasn't. But Jim laid her down on the seat and wadded his leather jacket into a pillow for her head and vowed to do the right thing.
Man…she was drop-dead gorgeous, a lost, exotic bird who'd found a chicken coop for shelter. Why on God's green earth did she want him? “Kiss me,” she breathed.
Just as he braced his weight on his heavy arms and
leaned over her, he caught sight of the digital clock on the dash: 11:59. The very minute he had been born forty years before. What a happy birthday this had turned out to be.
Chapter 3
Vin diPietro sat on a silk-covered sofa in a living room decorated in gold, red and creamy white. The black marble floors were covered with antique rugs, the bookcases were filled with first editions, and all around his collection of crystal, ebony, and bronze statuary gleamed. But the real showstopper was the view of the city over to the right.
Thanks to a glass wall that ran the entire length of the room, Caldwell's twin bridges and all of its skyscrapers were as much a part of the decorations as the drapes and the floor coverings and the objets d'art. The sprawling vista was urban splendor at its best, a vast, glimmering landscape that was never the same, even though the buildings didn't change.
Vin's duplex in the Commodore took up all of the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth floors of the luxury high-rise, for a total of ten thousand square feet. He had six bedrooms, a maid's suite, an exercise room, and a movie theater. Eight bathrooms. Four parking spaces in the underground parking garage. And inside everything was exactly as he wanted it, every square of marble, slab of granite, yard of fabric, plank of hardwood, foot of carpet—all of it had been handpicked from the best of the best by him.
He was ready to move out.
With the way things were going, he figured he'd be ready to hand over the keys to its next owner in another four months. Maybe three, depending on how fast the crews were at the construction site.
If this condo was nice, what Vin was building on the banks of the Hudson River was going to make the duplex look like subsidized housing. He'd had to buy up a half dozen old hunting lodges and camps to get the kind of acreage and shoreline he wanted, but everything had fallen into place. He'd razed the shacks, cleared the land, and dug a cellar hole big enough to play football in. The crew was framing now and working on the roof; then his fleet of electricians would install the house's central nervous system and his plumbers would put in the arteries. Finally, it would be the detail crap with thecounters and tiles, the appliances and fixtures, and the decorators.
It was all coming together, just like magic. And not only about where he would live.
In front of him, on the glass-topped table, was the velvet box from Reinhardt's.
As the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, Vin sat back into the sofa cushions and crossed his legs. He was not a romantic, never had been, and neither was Devina—which was only one of the reasons they were perfect together. She gave him his space, kept herself busy, and was always ready to hop on a plane when he needed her to. And she didn't want children, which was a huge plus.
He couldn't go there. Sins of the fathers and all that.
He and Devina hadn't known each other for all that long, but when it was right, it was right. Kind of like buying land to develop. You just knew as you stared over the ground that here is where I need to be building.
Looking out at the city from a perch high above so many others, he thought of the house he'd grown up in. Back then, his view had been of the crappy little two-story next door, and he'd spent a lot of nights trying to see past where he was from. Over the din of his mother and father's drunken fighting, the only thing he'd wanted was out. Out from under his parents. Out of that pathetic lower-middleclass neighborhood. Out of himself and what separated him from everyone else. And what do you know, that was exactly what had happened.
He infinitely preferred this life, this landscape. He'd sacrificed a lot to get up here, but luck had always been with him—like magic.
But then, the harder you worked, the luckier you got. And damn everything and everyone, this was where he was going to stay.
When Vin checked his watch again, forty-five minutes had passed. And then another half hour.
Just as he reached forward and palmed the velvet box, the click and release of the front door brought his head around. Out in the hall, stilettos clipped on the marble and came down toward him. Or passed him was more like it.
As Devina walked by the living room's archway, she was taking off her white mink, exposing a blue Herve Leger dress she'd bought with his money. Talk about knockout: Her body's perfect curves were showing those fabric bands who was in charge, her long legs had better lines than the red-soled Louboutins she had on, and her dark hair gleamed brighter than the crystal chandelier over her head.
Resplendent. As always.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
She froze and looked over at him. “I didn't know you were home.”
“I've been waiting for you.”
“You should have called.” She had spectacular eyes, almond shaped and darker than her hair. “I would have come if you'd called.”
“Thought I'd surprise you.”
“You…don't do surprises.”
Vin got to his feet and kept the box hidden within his palm. “How was your night?”
“Good.”
“Where did you go?”
She folded the fur over her arm. “Just to a club.”
As he came up to her, Vin opened his mouth, his hand tightening on what he'd bought for her. Be my wife. Devina frowned. “Are you okay?” Be my wife. Devina, be my wife.
He narrowed his eyes on her lips. They were puffier than usual. Redder. And for once she had no lipstick on.
The conclusion he slammed into teed off a brief, vivid memory of his mother and father. The pair of them were screaming at each other and throwing things, both drunk off their asses. The subject was what it always had been, and he could hear his father's raging voice clear as day: Who were you with? What the hell you been doing, woman?
After that, the next thing on the agenda would be his mother's ashtray banging off the wall. Thanks to all the practice she got, she'd had good arm strength, but the vodka tended to throw off her aim, so she hit his father's head only one out of every ten shots.
Vin slipped the ring box into the pocket of his suit coat. “You have a good time?”
Devina narrowed her eyes like she was having trouble judging his mood. “I just went out for a little bit.”
He nodded, wondering whether her hair's tousled effect was styling or another man's hands. “Good. I'm glad. I'm just going to go do some work.”
“Okay.”
Vin turned and walked through the living room and into the library and down to his study. All the while, he kept his eyes on the walls of glass and the view.
His father had believed two things about women: You could never trust them; and they would walk all over you if you gave them the upper hand. And as much as Vin didn't want any legacy from that son of a bitch, he couldn't shake the memories he had of his dad.
The guy had always been convinced his wife was cheating on him—which had been hard to believe. Vin's old lady had bleached her hair only twice a year, sported circles under her eyes the color of thunderclouds, and had a wardrobe limited to a housecoat that she cleaned with the same frequency the Clairol box made it home. The woman never left the house, smoked like a bonfire, and had alcohol breath that could melt paint off a car.
Yet his father somehow thought men would be attracted to that. Or that she, who never lifted a finger unless there was a cigarette to light, regularly summoned the gumption to go out and find joes whose taste in chicks ran toward ashtrays and empties.
They'd both beaten him. At least until he'd gotten old enough to move faster than they could. And probably the kindest thing they did for him as parents was killing each other when he was seventeen— which was pretty fucking pathetic.
When Vin got to his study, he took a seat behind the marble-topped desk and faced off at his office away from the office. He had two computers, a phone with six lines on it, a fax, and a pair of bronze lamps. Chair was bloodred leather. Carpet was the color of the bird's-eye maple paneling. Drapes were black and cream and red.
Tucking the ring between one of the lamps and the phone console,
he swiveled away from business and resumed his watch over the city.
Be my wife, Devina.
“I've changed into something more comfortable.” Vin looked over his shoulder and got a load of his woman, who was now draped in see-through black.
He swiveled his chair around. “You certainly did.”
As she came over to him, her breasts swayed back and forth beneath the sheer fabric and he could feel himself harden. He'd always loved her breasts. When she'd told him she wanted implants, he'd nixed that idea fast. She was perfect.
“I'm really sorry I wasn't here when you wanted me,” she said, sweeping that translucent robe out and easing down onto her knees in front of him. “I truly am.”
Vin lifted his hand and ran his thumb back and forth over her full lower lip. “What happened to your lipstick?”
“I washed my face in the bathroom.”
“Then why is your eyeliner still on.”
“I reapplied it.” Her voice was smooth. “I had my phone with me the entire time. You told me you had a late meeting.”
“Yes, I did.”
Devina put her hands on his thighs and leaned in, her breasts swelling over the bodice of her gown. God, she smelled good.
“I'm sorry,” she moaned before she kissed his neck and dug her nails into his legs. “Let me make it up to you.”
She closed her lips on his skin and sucked.
As Vin let his head fall back, he looked at her from under his lids. She was any man's fantasy. And she was his.
So why the fuck couldn't he get those words out? “Vin…please don't be angry at me,” she whispered.
“I'm not.”
“You're frowning.”
“Am I.” Exactly when did he ever smile? “Well, why don't you see what you can do to improve my mood.”
Devina's lips lifted as if this were precisely the kind of invite she'd been angling for, and in quick succession, she undid his tie, opened his collar and popped free the buttons of his shirt. Kissing her way down to his hips, she unbuckled his belt, pulled out his shirttails and scraped her nails and her teeth across his skin.