by Julie Kenner
She stroked lazy circles on his chest, her fingers twisting in the smattering of chest hair. Enough to be masculine, and yet not too much. He hit, as always, the perfect blend.
In fact, so far nothing about this man had urged her off her first impression—perfect.
And, so help her, she was ready for a taste of perfection.
She cast one simmering glance toward his face and saw the need building there. Good. Slowly, she trailed her kisses lower and lower, delighting in the way his body shimmered and stuttered as he fought the building passion. Her fingers teased and stroked, but her mouth tasted and tormented, taking him close to the edge, then back again, and silently daring him to demand more.
And his body did demand—bucking and tightening and thrumming with a heat that she could feel and touch and smell. But his lips never begged. Never gave a hint of the sweet agony he was suffering. And, ultimately, that she was suffering, too.
“Damn you,” she said, as she eased herself up and over him. And then, when she knew by the tiny smile that played on his lips that he understood the reason for the curse, she impaled herself on him.
Oh, sweet fires of Hades.
Had she ever experienced such delight? They moved together, and Lucia was certain that, somehow, she was going to lose herself. That she was going to come free of this body that she’d known for so many years and simply end up a bit of vapor in the sky, burned up by the heat that they were generating together.
A dangerous heat, and one she couldn’t let stop. It built and built as they moved together, bodies damp from the sweat of exertion, limbs gliding and twining. Now, she thought. Now, now, now!
She exploded in his arms, the tremors continuing as he milked her orgasm, pulling her further than she’d gone—and then bringing her back, gently, to rest in his arms as they watched the moonlight streak in through the window that overlooked the sea.
“I—” She started to speak, but he hushed her with a gentle finger to her lips, and she closed her mouth gratefully. Minutes had passed, but she was still sated, languid. And the thought of not moving—of not speaking—of simply remaining in his arms held such sweet delight.
That, however, wasn’t his plan. A fact that became apparent as he slid off the bed, taking the covers they’d loosened in their erotic fever with him. She started to protest—she didn’t want him to leave—when the point became moot. He gathered her close, then carried her bride-like across the room and into the bathroom. A bath had already been drawn, and now he gently settled her into the bubble bath, the hot water still flowing so that the water was kept at a perfect temperature.
Rose petals decorated the floor, leading up to the oversized, sunken tub. And the entire thing was surrounded by candles, each already lit.
How had she not noticed this before?
That, of course, was easy. She’d let down her guard. She’d entered the suite with him, and she’d never once examined it, a behavior totally contrary to her well-honed survival skills. Even an innocent liaison can turn dangerous, especially in her profession. And yet she’d never even hesitated in this man’s arms.
The thought sent a shiver running through her, but she wasn’t sure it was fear. It was . . . she didn’t know. And at the moment, she couldn’t quite think, because suddenly he was in the tub as well. He settled himself behind her, then leaned her against him, her back against his chest.
“I’m glad you lost the wager,” he said.
“Did I lose? It really doesn’t feel that way.”
He licked the back of her ear. “Good.”
“Are we—”
“Shhh. We’re bathing. Let me bathe you.”
And because she’d never in her life had anyone ask to bathe her, Lucia nodded, then closed her eyes and lost herself to the sweet sensation of the soapy sponge against her bare back.
The attention was undeniably erotic, yet at the same time it was somehow sweet. And it was that sweetness that piqued her senses.
She’d always liked sex fast and hard—and this man had more than delivered. No emotional entanglements for a girl like her. But lately, soft thoughts had been entering her head. Her hesitation to undertake her past jobs. The tug at her heart when the baron had shown her his family pictures. And now this sense of sweetness as a man she barely knew rubbed her back with gentle touches. And during their lovemaking there’d been a gentleness under the heated passion. An emotion that made the act more than simply coupling. It made it special. And damned if she didn’t like that, too.
She was a study in contradictions and the direction of her thoughts scared her. Right now was not the time for distractions. She had her purpose, and she needed to follow through quickly and efficiently.
She said a silent thank-you that he’d be gone tomorrow. That knowledge alone quelled her fears. Yes, her reaction to him was uncomfortable and strange. But what did it matter? He’d be gone soon enough. And she could get on with her plan.
And with her future.
‡
Chapter Five
Dante woke up slowly, the woman soft and warm in his arms. He had no desire to be anywhere else. No thoughts of moving, no plan to get on.
And yet that’s exactly what he had to do.
He closed his eyes, fighting the inevitable, and instead shifted closer, the heat of her body firing senses that by all rights should have been dulled from sheer exhaustion.
They weren’t. They weren’t dulled at all.
If anything, his body was ready to stand up, salute, and jump right back into the fray. And it took every ounce of willpower not to kiss her shoulder, roll her over, and do exactly that. He couldn’t, though. The bright green numbers on the digital clock made that perfectly clear. He had three hours to get dressed, get packed, and get to the airport.
He actually considered staying. Not for his father, of course, but for this woman. But he knew that wasn’t possible. No matter how much he might wish otherwise, the woman beside him was little more than an illusion. A sexy, hot, responsive illusion, but fantasy nonetheless.
His chest tightened with longing, because the truth was that he wanted her name. He wanted her name and her phone number and her address. He wanted to knock on her hotel room door, take her arm, and escort her down to a romantic dinner.
Last night with the anonymous vixen had been beyond incredible, but now he wanted more. He wanted real.
And damned if he couldn’t have it.
Best to just go as planned. Besides, if he stayed, he’d just get sucked into some damned power play with his father. Even more, though, he knew that the woman in his bed didn’t want the date. Didn’t want the romance.
Above all, she didn’t want to tell him her name.
They’d uttered no promises, and yet the rules were clear all the same. One night. No names.
And then he’d leave Monte Carlo.
As much as he now regretted that silent promise, he knew that he wouldn’t break it. He couldn’t.
With a sigh, he moved slowly, curling himself out from under her arm and sitting up. He bent forward, stretching as he tried to work up the enthusiasm to move to the shower.
A warm palm pressed against his bare back, and all semblance of motivation vanished. Staying here was fine; the bed was just fine.
“Hey.” A soft whisper from behind, accompanied by a subtle shift of the mattress. A quick brush of lips on the back of his ear, and soft hands snaking around his body to stroke his chest. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you,” he said, his body testifying to just how good a morning it was suddenly becoming.
“It is rather exceptional, isn’t it?” Her words were soft, laced with a tease, and punctuated by the fingers dancing over his bare skin.
“And getting better by the second.”
“You’re getting up. Taking a shower?”
“That was my plan.”
“You have a plane to catch,” she said. It was a simple statement, and yet Dante ripped it apart, trying to analy
ze nuances, tone. Did she want him to hurry and leave? To stay? He didn’t know. He knew only that he wanted to hold on to the fantasy that this woman wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“I do,” he finally said, which was completely inadequate, but the best he could do.
“When do you have to leave?”
A hint of invitation colored her voice, and Dante jumped all over that. “Why do you ask?”
Her hands slipped down, gliding beneath the satin sheets to stroke him. He was already hard as steel, and her little moan of pleasure when she discovered that fact simply made him harder. “Well, I’d hate to make you late, but . . .”
“I’ll make up the time somehow,” he assured her as he turned, leaning back so that he could see her face. “Actually, I have a better idea.”
One perfectly formed brow lifted. “Oh, really?”
He stood, then held out a hand. “Nothing like multitasking,” he said with a quick glance toward the bathroom and the eight showerheads that waited for them in the stall.
She grinned wickedly, then slid out of bed. “I’m a big fan of multitasking.”
The shower was amazing, even by the Moreau standards, and it was one of the reasons that Dante had wanted this suite. Large enough for even more than two people, with an overhead “rain” showerhead and rows of side heads on either side, the place was practical, decadent, and potentially erotic.
He turned the water on full blast, then adjusted the temperature. He stepped into the spray, the dual sets of heads pummeling his body from all sides.
He reached for her, but she shook her head. “Too rough,” she said.
“For you? I’m surprised.”
She grinned, then leaned past him, turning the ornate lever to shift the water from the side-facing heads to the overhead flow. The ceiling seemed to open up, and they were standing in a soft spring rain. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body close to his, her crotch nestled against his ready cock. “Now isn’t this better?”
“Most definitely,” he said, bending down for a long, slow kiss as the water sluiced over their bodies. Hands followed the trail of water, and when she reached past him to one of the many soap dispensers filled with fragrant cleansers, her breasts brushed gently against his skin, sending coils of heat ripping through him.
Her hands were slick, filled with lavender-scented soap, and she rubbed them on his chest, the minimal friction as erotic as a gentle kiss. Too gentle, though. Her touch was driving him crazy, and he pulled her close, crushing his mouth over hers. She responded instantly, and just as eagerly, her legs clinging to his body, then sliding down because of the damnably slick soap.
He grabbed her, lifting her as she hooked her legs around him, pulling her in tight as he slid into her sweet center. Hard and fast, yes, but he couldn’t wait any longer, and from the way her breath was coming in desperate gasps, he knew that she couldn’t, either.
They writhed together, bodies joined, skin slippery, steam billowing around them. Her hand splayed out, seeking purchase on the cut-stone wall of the shower, even as her back arched and she thrust herself against him. “Yes,” she cried. “Oh, please, yes”
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t answer, simply let his body respond. And soon he felt her tighten around his, watched as a tremor shook her frame. She gasped, her head thrusting back until she was facing the gentle spray of water from above. He thrust again once, one hand clinging to a showerhead for support. He seemed to explode with sensation, and he thrust his own head back, the shower’s water seeming to dissolve into steam upon the inferno of heat they were generating.
He held her close, their bodies sinking together to the marble floor. They clung to each other, breath coming hot and fast. After a few moments, when he was sure his body could handle the strain of speech and thought, he shifted a bit. He needed to look into her eyes and see if he saw there the reflection of his own satisfaction. He did, and when she smiled like the cat who’d caught the canary, his heart gave a little leap.
He’d been caught, all right, and he didn’t mind in the least.
“We should move,” she said, after an eternity of clinging to each other. “We’re all wet.”
“A small price to pay.”
“We’ll get all pruney.”
“You’ll still be beautiful.”
“You’re a charmer,” she said, a smile in her voice.
“And you know it’s true,” he said, teasing. “You are many things, but modest is not one of them.”
That got a real laugh out of her. “Such a short time, and you already know me so well.”
“It doesn’t feel short to me,” he said, then immediately regretted it. He was crossing the line into date language. Into relationship territory. And that, he knew, was verboten.
“No,” she said. “Not to me, either.”
The lightness in his heart caused by her words was tempered by the fact that she was physically pulling away. She stood up and pushed the door to the shower stall open, then wrapped herself in a fluffy terry-cloth towel. She leaned against the wall and started to finger-comb her hair.
“Hey,” he said. “What about me?”
“You wanted a towel? Too bad for me. I like the view without.”
“Yeah?” He strutted forward, doing a convincing imitation of Mr. Nude Universe. “In that case, I’m just fine.”
She laughed. “You may be fine—in fact, I’m in complete agreement—but you’re also dripping all over the floor.”
“So? It’s not your floor.”
“Good point. Drip away.”
He started to go to her. Started to work up the nerve to cancel his flight and tell her he was staying.
He couldn’t do it, though. The thought that he’d see nothing in her eyes but irritation—or, worse, disappointment—was too much to bear.
The sharp ring of his cell phone from the bedroom drew his attention, and he hurried toward it, grabbing a towel as he went simply because he happened to know the wholesale cost of the carpet in the bedroom area. He glanced at the caller ID, saw his father’s name, and seriously considered letting it roll over to voice mail.
He couldn’t do it, though. It was the same damn thing that had gotten him to Monte Carlo in the first place. That irritating Pavlov’s dog response to His Master’s Voice.
He snapped open the cell phone, and barked an irritated, “What?”
“Ah, bien,” his father said. “You are still there. I had heard you might be aboard a plane.”
“You heard.” Dante resisted the urge to bang his head against something hard. “Well, actually you heard right. I’m on my way out this morning. I figure if you don’t need to be here, then neither do I.”
“Mais non. What you don’t understand is that I do need to be there. And I must be there by Friday.”
“What’s Friday?”
“The opening of the new wing.”
“Right.” He should have known. Anything for the hotel. Nothing for the family.
He shook off the thought. It sounded too damn whiny, and the one thing Dante was absolutely sure of, his father wasn’t worth the grief.
“I need you there with me,” his father said.
“You’ve done this stuff dozens of times. I think you can handle it.”
“I’ve never done one with an assassin on the loose.”
Okay, that caught Dante’s attention. “What in hell are you talking about?”
“Just that. Security received a tip. Someone is trying to kill me. That’s why I called you, Dante. I need your help. Please, son. I can’t live in hiding forever. I have to come back for the opening or my reputation will be destroyed. Stay. Stay and help me find this assassin.”
Lucia forced herself not to pay attention as her Man of the Moment spoke in urgent tones on the phone. What did she care, after all? Wives and girlfriends cared when their men had tense phone calls with colleagues. But Lucia had never been a wife-or-girlfriend kind of girl. And she wasn’t going to star
t now.
He was leaving, and that was good. Hell, he was probably getting chewed out right that very moment, his boss wondering why his tail wasn’t on the morning’s earliest flight. Soon he’d be off to the airport, and the unfamiliar tug around her heart would disappear. That was good. That was what she wanted.
Because what she wanted most was to finish this job. Her last job.
She heard him say something about how he’d handle it, and she forced herself not to smile as she passed by—on her way to retrieve the purse she’d left amid the tumble of clothes by the door. She found her little makeup bag and headed back to the restroom, her thoughts turning to fantasies of making one last use of the bed that he looked so good pacing in front of.
No.
This was over, and that was good. If she was smart, she’d get dressed and leave while he was still on the phone. Direct. To the point. Clean.
But she couldn’t quite do it.
Instead, she concentrated on her eyeliner.
After a moment of concentration, she heard him step onto the bathroom tile. She turned, and couldn’t help but flash him a smile.
Then she turned quickly back to the mirror and covered the gesture by returning to her makeup. “Your boss?”
“My father,” he said. “And my boss. Kind of makes life more interesting, you know?”
“Actually,” she said, “I do know.” And there was another little tightening of the rope around her heart. That familiarity she’d felt with him was real. They truly did have things in common.
Get a grip, Lucia.
“You work for your dad?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” She kept her face still, her focus on the millimeter-thin line of green liner she was applying.
She expected him to respond with commiseration. An anecdote. Anything but what he actually said.
“Right,” he said. “Well, as it turns out, I’m staying here. More work.”
The pencil slipped, and she ended up with a green streak marring the soft skin under her left eye.
“Oh.” She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Oh.”