Sexy Little Sinner

by Kenner, J.

  Then I head home, change into shorts, and go for a quick run around the river. After that, my routine gets fuzzy. Before, I tended to stay in with Kerrie. We’d cook, maybe watch a movie, maybe read. Often we’d take nighttime strolls along the river. And we always ended up in bed. Sometimes wild and desperate. Others times, slow and easy. Hell, sometimes we just held hands and talked.

  Now, I tend to watch a lot of reality TV. What can I say? I sacrificed the bliss of those nights for the promise of her future. I don’t regret it. But if I’m being honest, I have to admit that I don’t like it.

  Scowling, I cross the street and head toward Brew. Really not the kind of thoughts I want in my head while I’m trying to make a clean break. Especially since that break just got messier. Because even if we can fake what happens behind closed doors, we can’t pull off even pretend intimacy without physical contact.

  Damn Leo and his sister and Amy.

  But at the same time, I’m glad it’s me and Kerrie going, and not her and Leo. I’d be a jealous fool waiting behind in Austin for them to complete this operation. This way, at least, I have a few more moments with her. A few more touches and kisses. A few more memories.

  Just a little bit more to hold onto after we get back and finally, truly, cut the lingering ties between us.

  I’ve hit Brew at just the wrong time, and the line for coffee is out the door. I wait, using the time to scroll through messages on my phone. Once the line moves enough for me to enter, I glance automatically around the room. Occupational hazard—I’m always assessing my surroundings.

  Right now, my assessment reveals Kerrie. And, fuck me, she’s sitting at a table with Leo, deep in conversation.

  Obviously, they’re doing prep work, and the green demon in my gut needs to chill. I’m trying to tame the jealous beast, when Kerrie pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, and in the process turns in my direction. She’s looking right at me, but her eyes are unfocused, and though I lift a hand in greeting, she turns away as if I’m nothing more than a shimmer in the air, then takes Leo’s hand as she laughs at something he’s said.

  My gut tightens, and in that brief moment, I have a sense of what it will really feel like when there’s a new man in her life. I don’t like it, but I can’t change it.

  Because I know that my decision is the right one.

  I just never expected that doing the right thing was going to hurt like hell.

  Chapter Eight

  “We’ll stop at George’s for lunch, right?” Kerrie asks as the soundtrack to Wicked blares from the Mercedes S-Class sedan I rented for the trip.

  Correction: The Mercedes that John London rented upon his arrival in Austin last night.

  I reach over and turn down the volume. Kerrie’s musical taste runs to Broadway musicals, classic country, and hip-hop. My girl is nothing if not eclectic.

  We’ve been driving north on Interstate 35 for the last forty-five minutes and we’re about halfway to Waco. We’ve already run through Into the Woods, and Kerrie’s already downed half a bag of jelly beans.

  As I glance over at the bag in her lap, she flashes a grin, then grabs a handful of the candy and holds it out to me. “Share?”

  “Keep eating those and you won’t want George’s.” The long-established Waco dive is famous for its burgers and beer. And for good reason.

  “It’s not the burger I want,” she says, adding a sultry lilt to her voice. “It’s the Big O.”

  “Kerrie…”

  She laughs. “That’s Lydia to you, bud. And I think that under the circumstances I’m entitled to a little naughty talk. Gotta stay in character, right? Besides, all I want is a beer.”

  “Uh-huh.” The Big O at George’s is a glass of beer. A very big glass of beer that has sustained many Baylor University students over the years.

  She rolls her eyes. “Your mind is so in the gutter.”

  “Fine. Lunch it is. And you can have all the Big Os you want.”

  She reaches over and gently presses her palm on my thigh. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Kerrie…”

  “I’m just teasing,” she says, but she pulls her hand back. “I mean, we are still friends, right?”

  “Of course we are.” As hard as it is, I can’t imagine not being her friend, no matter what I might have said in desperation a few days ago.

  “Well, I’m Cayden’s friend, too, and we flirt.”

  “Yeah, but you never slept with Cayden. Did you?”

  I get her eye roll in response. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want to lose your friendship. Am I attracted to you? Of course. Would I jump all over you and dive head first into my fuck buddy plan if you said go? Absolutely. Am I going to push you on it? No.”

  She shifts in her seat so that she’s facing me more directly. “I’m all grown up, Con, and I’m moving on. And I’m mature enough to talk about this reasonably.”

  She’s still talking, but my mind stopped processing after moving on. Is she?

  I can’t help but think of Leo and the image of the two of them laughing and talking in the coffee shop. And me, right there, but completely apart.

  I don’t like it. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Especially considering I’m the one who told her to move on in the first place.

  When I tune back in, I realize I’ve lost the thread of the conversation. “Sorry. What?”

  “I said that I don’t want to lose having you in my life. You weren’t just my boyfriend, you were my friend. Probably my best friend. We’re not going to toss that all away just because we’re going through an awkward period, are we? We can get past this. And in a few years when I have kids, I want them to adore their uncle Connor as much as I do.”

  Mentally, I cringe. And despite the fact that her last bit really twisted the knife, I can’t deny that her speech makes sense, and I tell her so.

  What I don’t tell her is that her words only emphasize all the reasons I love her. Kerrie is one of those people who sees the world with crystal clarity. And for a man who works in a world where people usually aren’t who they seem, that’s a pretty damn refreshing trait.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as we speed north on the highway, leaving Belton and Temple in our wake.

  “For what?”

  “For knowing that what you just said is true. For believing it since the first moment I walked away. And for still acting like an asshole and avoiding you.”

  “Oh.” She breaks into a wide smile, looking happier than I’ve seen her in days. “You’re forgiven,” she says. “On one condition.”

  “Buy you a beer?”

  “Buy me two.”

  * * *

  I don’t know about Kerrie, but I’m still stuffed when we reach the turn off to Michael Rollin’s North Dallas ranch, over a hundred miles from where we grabbed lunch.

  Kerrie’s been dozing—she’s a lightweight with alcohol anyway, and two beers did her in—and I’ve been cruising along dead cold sober with only my racing thoughts to occupy me. Everything from memories to past drives with Kerrie to worries about how the hell we’re going to share a room without her ending up naked and hot beneath me.

  Be strong, Connor.

  That’s all well and good. But tonight, I’m John. And God only knows how much willpower that man has.

  I turn off the asphalt and onto the crushed stone drive leading up to the huge mansion that sits on what I’m guessing is a four-hundred-acre ranch. The land is flat and raw and beautiful, green from the frequent summer thunderstorms, and dotted with color from wild flowers. I see horses and cattle and goats and a few critters I can’t identify from this distance.

  I drive slowly, taking it all in and giving Kerrie a chance to wake up beside me.

  “It’s pretty,” she says. “And that house…”

  “I’m not sure that’s a house. I’m thinking it’s an embassy.”

  She laughs, but it’s true. The red brick and white-column two-story ranch house is huge and stately and lo
oks like it could house the key players of a small country. Michael Rollins clearly has the kind of money that normal peons like me can’t even wrap their heads around. John London, however … well, to him this is old hat.

  I force my face into a bland expression as I glide the Mercedes to a stop in front of the door. A young valet in jeans, cowboy boots, and a starched white button down hurries to my door as another opens the door for Kerrie. Or, rather, for Lydia.

  “Ready, Lydia?”

  “Ready, John.”

  I give the keys to the valet and pop the trunk. Our bags are whisked efficiently away, presumably to be searched before they arrive in our room. Ditto the car. I’m not worried. We packed and traveled in character.

  I doubt they’ll run prints since the car is so obviously a rental and must have quite a variety of prints on the interior, but if they do, they’ll come up empty. Prior to setting out, we wiped down our luggage and then both used liquid latex and a thin layer of powder on our fingertips to conceal our prints during the drive.

  I take Kerrie’s hand as we walk together toward the door. Both because I imagine she wants the support, but also because I want to confirm that she remembered to rub off the telltale latex. She has, and I presume the remnants are now unrecognizable in her purse or pockets.

  Probably overkill, but I’d rather overdo caution than find myself screwed.

  The front door opens as we’re walking up the steps, and Michael Rollins steps out, tall and commanding, with blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a wide mouth. He stands with his feet just slightly apart, and one hand behind his back. He looks like a king about to give a speech, and I have a feeling that’s the way he thinks of himself. He’s the man in charge, and the rest of us need to just fall in line.

  This weekend, that’s the plan. Get in, make nice, and draw absolutely no suspicion.

  “John London,” he says, extending his hand to shake. “I would recognize you anywhere.”

  I make it a point not to react. Leo had already papered the John London persona for anyone who might be searching the internet. But he’d included no pictures. Last weekend, we had our media-tech consultants upload some fake files and images for Rollins to find on the chance he was looking. Apparently he was.

  “And you must be Lydia,” he adds, his voice full of charm and charisma.

  “I sure am,” Kerrie says, letting her natural Texas twang shine through. “I just love your place. I’ve been to Dallas many times, but I never even knew there was so much ranch land this close to the city.”

  “Most of it’s been developed. I’m holding out,” Rollins says, still clutching Kerrie’s hand as he looks into her eyes. “I like my privacy.”

  She giggles, and I want to punch him. A reaction that doesn’t really bother me. I do my best work when I think the mark is an asshole. Clearly, I’m going to excel at this job.

  Rollins leads us over the threshold and into an elegant foyer. It pushes toward garish—hell, it crosses the line—as does what little of the rest of the house I can see through the archways leading to the adjoining rooms. But none of it seems erotic or decadent or remotely like what I imagined the forum for a sex party would look like.

  Apparently Kerrie is thinking the same thing, because she smiles, revealing a dimple, and says, “It’s a lovely home, but not what I was expecting.”

  “No?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “I guess I was picturing it with ropes and chains. Or at least red satin sashes. I’ve never been to this kind of party before.”

  She’s flirting with him—which is what she’s supposed to do. The plan is for her to distract Rollins to give Amy and me time at his computer. But even so, that flirtatious lilt aimed in his direction acts on me like fingernails scraping a chalkboard.

  He hooks his arm through hers and leads us into a living area. “I’m honored to be the one popping your party cherry,” he says, making me roll my eyes and Kerrie titter. “But I assure you that by this evening the house will have a much more sensual allure.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  He starts to put his arm over her shoulder, but Kerrie gently breaks away and returns to my side. I slide my arm around her waist and pull her close, feeling ridiculously smug.

  “What’s the dress code tonight?” Kerrie asks. She’s already chastised me for not thinking to find out from Amy, forcing her to pack for contingencies ranging from slutty to sensually formal.

  “Elegant,” Rollins says, going to a wet bar and offering us each a drink. We both take a bourbon, and when he puts Kerrie’s in her hand, Rollins adds, “Of course, we will undoubtedly loosen up later in the evening. If formal wear seems too restricting.”

  “Right.” Kerrie smiles, her cheeks going red.

  “My Lydia is an innocent,” I say, brushing the pad of my thumb over her lips.

  “That’s deliciously sweet.” He runs his gaze possessively over her, and though she smiles, I see the fire in her eyes. Under other circumstances, she’d slap his face.

  “So, do we have to wear masks?” she asks.

  “Not at all, though you certainly can if you want to. Just think of it as a cocktail party where everyone skips the social niceties and goes straight to getting to know one another. Intimately. The idea is to be comfortable. Play. Explore. Or just watch, if that’s your particular predilection.” He steps closer, then trails his fingertip down her arm. “But I do hope you play.”

  Kerrie’s bright smile is tightening into a grimace, but the click of high heels on the marble floor thankfully draws Rollins’ attention.

  “Amy, darling. Come meet John and Lydia.” He turns back to us. “May I introduce my fiancée and your hostess?”

  Fiancée?

  Amy is tall and curvy and blonde, with eyes that are just a little too wide and a mouth that’s a bit too small, making her appear meek and naive, an assessment I know to be false if her earlier interactions with Leo are any indication.

  I notice that she does indeed wear an engagement ring, and she’s twisting it nervously. This is a new development, and a potentially dangerous one. She might have been pressured into the engagement, making her even more of an asset as she’ll want to ensure our help extricating her from Rollins. Or she may be so desperate to get away that she takes unnecessary risks.

  Alternatively, she may have decided that she does love Rollins and that she doesn’t want to betray him. I’ve seen it happen. A woman with scruples who loses them once she realizes the lifestyle she’ll be landing in once he kicks her out.

  I study Amy, trying to decide which side of that line she stands on, but I just can’t get a read.

  Meanwhile, Kerrie is playing the game the way it should be, gazing at the stone with a drippy expression and effusing, “Oh my gosh, that is beyond gorgeous. Have you set a date?”

  “Soon,” Amy says, and I hear the quiver in her voice. Amy must hear it, too, because her eyes widen with what I’m certain is fear.

  “You must be so nervous,” Kerrie says, once again stepping in and transforming an awkward, suspicious moment into stereotypical bridal jitters. “I mean, Johnny hasn’t asked me—yet,” she adds, with a Scarlett O’Hara smile in my direction. “But just knowing that I was going to be marrying such a powerful man? That must be a lot to process.”

  She beams at Rollins, looking at him as if he could walk on water, and undoubtedly feeding the man the kind of tripe his ego needs to thrive.

  “Oh, it is,” Amy agrees, her eyes going wide and her face painted with relief. “It’s great to meet someone who gets it. Everyone just says how lucky I am, and I really am. But they don’t understand the pressure of being married to a man like Michael. He’s as sweet as pie, but I’m always afraid I won’t live up to his expectations.”

  “Never,” Rollins says, taking her hand and kissing it. “You’re perfect, my sweet. How could you do anything but make me proud?”

  Again, Amy’s smile wavers, but I’m no longer worried that Rollins will notice. This time, it
just looks like she’s overcome with emotion.

  “Darling, I put them in the Magnolia Suite,” Rollins says to her. “Would you mind showing them the way? Another guest has arrived and I should see to them.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Amy says. “Magnolia is my favorite,” she adds in a chipper hostess voice as we fall in step behind her.

  As we walk, Amy chitters on about the house as if her head was full of soap bubbles. Maybe it is, but that would surprise me, because I saw a sharpness in her eyes.

  The moment we enter the suite, Amy puts a finger to her lips. “The closet is over there,” she says, pointing to a vase and then touching her ear. “And the bathroom is through those French doors.” She indicates the television that sits on the dresser and surreptitiously taps her eyes.

  Great. Audio and video surveillance. Isn’t that just peachy? We brought countermeasures, of course, but I don’t want to use them if the loss of signal will draw suspicion.

  “Let me show you the tub,” Amy says as we follow her once more. “The spigot’s a little tricky, see?”

  As she speaks, she easily turns on the water, then lowers her voice. “There’s no surveillance in here. He tried, but the video would fog up and the water messed with the sound, so he eventually gave up.”

  I nod, and though I believe her, I’ll still do a sweep after she leaves, just in case Rollins added bugs without telling her.

  “Video in the TV and audio in the vase? Nothing else?” I want confirmation.

  “That’s it. And don’t feel singled out. All the guests are bugged. Michael’s not above blackmail. In fact, I think payouts are a pretty large percentage of his annual income.”

  “That fucker,” Kerrie says, to which Amy just shrugs and nods.

  “So tell me exactly what y’all need.”

  “Five minutes minimum at his computer. Fifteen is better in case someone is monitoring usage.”