Dirty Little Lies (19 page)

So hot.

She pushed away. This was too fast. She landed right under the spray from the shower. Cursing, she pushed her damp hair and the veil of water out of her eyes.

“Stop!” she commanded, palm out.

And oddly, he listened.

She sputtered. “What? What was that?”

“You asked me to stop.”

“So? Since when do you listen to me?”

“Since I saw how hot you get when you think you’re in charge.”

She couldn’t deny that Ian’s trust in her earlier had pumped her up. And clearly, that had given Frankie inspiration for this seduction. He’d turned his jealousy into some sort of competition with their boss. But what did she care? If he won, so did she.

He took her hand and, with a gentle tug, swapped places with her in the shower. He leaned his head back under the water, then as an afterthought, unbound his hair. As long and silky as the style was, Marisela had never seen anything more masculine, particularly when those dark strands were stretching over his perfectly muscled shoulders.

He turned and grabbed the soap. She could hardly concentrate as he rubbed the soap sensually over his body, building the lather into silky foam amid his dark chest hair and square-cut pecs. When he dropped his hand lower and created a collection of suds over his cock, Marisela had to lean against the tile to keep from slipping to the bottom of the tub on rubbery knees.

“Stop doing that.”

He yanked his hand away, stepped out of the water stream, and offered her the soap. “I need to get clean, babe, but if you want, take over.”

Was he serious?

She took the soap. Licking her lips, she rubbed the slick bar between her hands, creating satiny bubbles she couldn’t wait to spread over his hot skin.

“You’re really letting me call the shots?” she asked.

The corner of his mouth quirked in a grin. “
Tu deseo es mi orden
.”

Your wish is my command
.

She closed the distance between them. “You may regret this.”

But she certainly wouldn’t.

Their relationship, such as it was, had evolved over the years. At first, they were teenagers stumbling and groping their way to orgasm. Then they’d parted for a decade, and when they’d crashed together yet again, they’d fallen back into the pattern they’d developed in the backseat of Frankie’s car.

She wants him, but she fights it.

He wants her, so he fights harder.

She teases and taunts. He trumps. The sex is hot, hard, and fabulous—but now that Marisela thought about it, Frankie had always set the pace.

How the hell had she let that happen?

The only thing that had changed was that they both had more experience—and thankfully, more finesse.

She handed him the soap. “Lather up your hands.”

He obeyed, his eyes locked with hers, the jade-green jags of color bright with arrogance. Even when taking orders, the man held tight to his confidence.

Tossing the soap onto the ceramic tray built into the shower wall, he held up his bubbly hands.

“Wash me,” she directed.

He chuckled. “And here I thought you’d ask me to do something I wouldn’t enjoy.”

Frankie didn’t miss an inch. Starting with her neck, he smoothed his hands over her skin, painting her flesh silky white. He left her breasts bare while he washed her back and stomach, then dipped to her hips and thighs, again leaving her most sensitive areas free from the scented lather. He dropped to his knees to attend to her calves, and when she lifted her foot onto his shoulder, he moved forward to take her
concha
into his mouth.

“Not yet,” she said softly, even though she throbbed for the sensation of his lips on her. Denying him, even for a few moments, heightened her sense of power.

Again he obeyed, retrieving the soap and replenishing the froth on his fingers and palms. The moment he slid his slippery hands into her wet curls, she grabbed the towel rack above her for support. As he coated every nook and cranny with the cool soap bubbles, he explored her, pleasured her, destroyed her ability to think beyond the sensations.

Reaching up with his other hand, he finally attended to her breasts. The combination of the hot steam, the sleek foam, and his silken touch spawned an electric current that rode over her skin.

“Ready for the rinse?”

Marisela opened her eyes. He waited expectantly, and with her tiniest nod, he removed the handheld showerhead.
Dios mio
. And from the wicked gleam in his eye, she knew he wouldn’t allow the shower feature to go to waste.

Adjusting the head so the water came out in a strong pulse, he doused her, running the stream close to her skin, pounding into her muscles. He took his time on her breasts, letting the water work its magic long after all the soap had dribbled away. Sensations rippled through her in a staccato rhythm sexier than any Latin beat. By the time he turned the concentrated stream of water onto her sex, she climaxed instantly. Flashes of color. Light. Dark. Orange. Red. Her body quaked, and from deep in her throat, she cried out his name.

He grabbed her bottom and held her while she rode the wave of pleasure. Just when she thought she’d had enough and he’d moved the water away, he started again until she cried out for mercy.

She pointed to the faucet, and he put his instrument of delicious torture away and turned off the water. He retrieved a towel, wrapped her first, then tossed a white rectangle around his waist before sliding open the door and carrying her out onto the bed.

“Now, what,
vidita
?”

The air conditioner had kicked on, coating their bodies with an icy shiver. “Blanket.”

He complied, retrieving a blanket from a shelf in the closet. He dropped his towel before climbing beneath the covers with her.

The lingering heat from the water clung to their bodies, even as their skin dried. Frankie curled around her, his hard sex pressed against the small of her back, reminding her of what he ultimately wanted, of what she had the power to give.

She twisted around beneath the blanket.

“Something else you need?” he asked.

“You. Inside me.”

The water had actually parched her skin, but Frankie wasted no time replenishing the moisture with his skillful mouth and deft fingers. Soon, he was poised over her, but even as the tip of his cock pressed against her, he stopped. “Are you sure?”

Cabrόn
. He wanted her to beg?

“You want something different?” she asked.

His chuckle was deep and filled with sin as he entered her and his long, luxurious strokes milked the last drops of pleasure from her body even as he filled her with his. She called out his name again as she came, the sound threaded with his own gratified groan. By the time they both dropped to the bed, Marisela wondered if she’d really been in charge at all, or if she’d just fallen for the most delicious, devious scam her ex had ever devised.

Twelve

“DID YOU DOUBLE-CHECK
the GPS system?” Frankie asked as Marisela attempted, for the fifth time, to close the hidden compartment behind the passenger seat of the sleek, black Corvette he’d requisitioned for the trip to interview Tracy Manning. The garage beneath the Titan home office was temperature controlled, but the exertion was making her sweat.

Winded with frustration, she spun around and knocked her head on the car’s low roof. “Does it look like I’ve had time? Why do we have to pack all this firepower, anyway? We’re just meeting Tracy Manning, tight?”

Frankie clucked his tongue at her in a way that made her shove her hands under her knees so she didn’t slug him.

“Can’t be too prepared,” he said, strapping his 9 mm into his shoulder holster. “We still don’t know who tried to kill us last night.”

“Or scare us,” she mused.

“You scared?”

“Hell, no. I’m just pissed!”

“Good, then fold that vest the right way, get it under the seat so I can’t see it, and make sure the coordinates to this farm in…Natick…are programmed in so we don’t waste time once we’re on the road.”

She arched a brow at him. “Bossy much?”

He winked at her. “After last night, I earned it.”

Marisela rolled her eyes. She knew she’d pay for her domination in the bedroom—more specifically, the shower—one way or another.

She’d finally gotten the lid of the storage compartment to click shut when a touch on her shoulder nearly sent her out of her skin.

“Ian.”

Her employer slipped his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored slacks. “Jumpy?”

“I almost got sliced open last night,” she said bitterly. “Tends to make me a little nervous.”

Ian tilted an eyebrow. “Clearly too much leftover adrenaline. The Marisela I knew a few months ago would have…worked off the excess hormones.” He streaked his gaze down her body. Even though she’d dressed in snug, boot-cut jeans, a two-layered cotton T-shirt, and her favorite thick leather belt with the flashy silver buckle in the shape of handcuffs that she’d found at a shop catering to the biker-chick, S-M crowd, his glance undressed her in a flash.

She unfolded herself from the car. “And how exactly should I do that?” she challenged.

He licked his bottom lip, and then cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. “Solving this case in short order would be a good start.”

She smirked. Big boss man couldn’t say what he really wanted to. Well,
wouldn’t
was more like it. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. His place in the company had become precarious since Brynn had breezed back into town. He couldn’t go around messing with the help. Besides, if their truce yesterday had unnerved him half as much as it had her, she could understand his reluctance to fuel the fire.

But just for fun, she sidled up closer to him until she could smell the distinctive leather and spice scent of his heady cologne.

“According to Max, you sent Frankie and me home last night. Ordered us to take it easy. You don’t think we found a way to work off the rush?”

His jaw clenched. Not a lot, just enough to display a tiny tic she only noticed because she was standing so close.

“What you do with Frankie is none of my concern,” he explained icily.

“You sure?” she teased. “Maybe we could use a third—”

The slam of a door behind them quashed any additional flirtations, such as they were.

“Any last-minute instructions, Blake?” Frankie asked, keeping a tight, probably tentative hold on his cool.

Ian swept Marisela with an unruffled gaze. “We’ve electronically blocked Tracy’s phone, so if her brother tries to warn her against talking to you, he’ll get a message that the network is temporarily down.”

“What’s to keep Manning from going to his sister directly?”

Ian grinned. “We have Mr. Manning under surveillance and we’re making no secret of the fact. He’ll stay away or risk leading us straight to her. We’ll cut him loose once you have what you need. You’ll relieve the team currently watching Tracy. Do you need additional backup?”

Marisela smoothed her jeans and wiggled until the gun she’d tucked into the back of her waistband wasn’t jabbing her. “I think we can handle it.”

“Unless she’s the wallet behind the muscle from last night,” Ian reminded her.

Frankie slid into the driver’s seat. “We can handle that, too.”

Seconds after the engine purred to life and they’d left the Titan garage, Ian’s voice echoed over the sound system. “Watch for a tail more carefully this time.”

Frankie cursed and Marisela couldn’t blame him. During their briefing this morning, Ian had been ruthless. He’d criticized their every action the night before and he hadn’t been completely out of line. The tampering of the truck had been bait and they’d fallen for the ruse hook, line, and sinker. And they were no closer to figuring out who had sicced the attackers on them. Parker Manning? Yizenia Santiago? Some as yet unnamed player in this game of cat and mouse?

Marisela twisted the rearview mirror so she had a view behind the car, but Frankie instantly moved the device back into place.

“Any other suggestions?” Marisela asked Ian, annoyed.

“Just to reiterate that Tracy Manning should be handled with kid gloves, in case she is as fragile as her brother and her file seem to indicate. Focus on figuring out if she had the cash to pay our shooter or if she has any knowledge of her brother’s involvement. And of course, see what she knows about the night her sister died. Tracy might be our last chance at finding out what really happened.”

“Affirmative,” Frankie replied, then turned the radio off, shifted into drive, and eased the ground-hugging machine onto the uneven cobblestone road outside the Titan International office.

“Shouldn’t we maintain radio contact?” Marisela said, somewhat surprised that Frankie had cut Ian off so absolutely.

“He can call our cells.”

Marisela snapped her seat belt secure. “Now you’re getting all bossy with the boss. Is that what playing love slave does to you?”

If looks could kill, someone should have been dialing Marisela’s next of kin right about now.

With a grin, Marisela eased back into the seat while Frankie maneuvered the car toward the highway, punching up the directions on the GPS. Marisela turned the radio back on, finding a Cuban station playing a great mix of Timba music. As they slipped onto Highway 93, Marisela leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to forget that Frankie was sitting so close to her that his body heat affected the temperature in the car. She opened one eye long enough to consider adjusting the air conditioner, but opted instead to dig into the files Max had provided during their debriefing. She should have read them before she left, but she’d chosen a second cup of coffee and a quick phone call to Lia in Tampa instead.

Nothing interesting was happening at home, other than Lia’s disenchantment with the political process. Her boss, the mayor, was looking at serious opposition and might not be reelected, leaving Lia without an upstanding, well-paying job for the first time since age sixteen. Well, until Lia lined something else up, of course. Which she would. Probably by tomorrow.