Edge of the Enforcer (6 page)

It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, but the distant vibrations kept ramping up her arousal until she was angling her hips to press his hand firmly onto the device.

“Want more?”

“God.” She couldn’t possibly come again, and yet the erotic sensation shivered over her skin, settling like a heavy weight in her pelvis.

“Thought so,” he murmured. After moving the vibe down until the ends barely bracketed her clit, he drove into her hard. Mercilessly. Over and over.

The vibrator buzzed on her even as his cock pounded from inside. She tightened, tightened.

“Lindsey,” he growled.

She raised heavy lids, seeing his intent face.

“Come for me now.” He moved the toy so the brutal vibrations hit her clit fully on both sides. His hips rotated, mercilessly grinding into new places inside her.

Her breathing stopped as every…single…nerve in her whole body fired simultaneously. A massive outburst of sensation broke over her, twirling her in pleasure, tumbling her away.

She gasped right before another hit. And another. One tornado after another.

Little by little, the convulsions eased. When she managed to pry her eyelids open, he was staring at her, his gaze intimate. Perceptive.

“Nice.” As she shuddered under him, he set the vibrator aside, put an elbow under her other knee so her legs were lifted into the air. He drew out and plunged deep, pumping fast and long, followed by shorter shocking stabs. When he sheathed himself completely, he was so huge and hard, she could feel every pulse of his shaft as he released inside her.

Risking a reprimand, she ran her hands over his shoulders, the velvet skin stretched tight over bunched muscles, a tactile symphony of sex.

With a measured breath, he eased his cock in and out, like a sweet farewell. His lips curved as her vagina clenched around him in tiny after-tremors before he pulled out. “You’re a treat, all right,” he rasped.

She wouldn’t be calling him a treat—he was more like the iceberg that sank the
Titanic
.

After giving her a brief hard kiss, he headed for the bathroom, and she managed to turn her head to watch. The man was simply gorgeous. He always wore a shirt at the club; naked, his shoulders seemed even broader. The line down his spine to his ass was bounded by muscle, and his butt was world-class. He was even tanned, despite the overcast San Francisco skies.

With a frown, she realized white lines of scars marred his smooth skin. She’d felt the tiny ridges while they were making love. And he had a long, stitched-up gash. Jeez, she didn’t even know what he did in real life. Maybe a cop? Her stomach clenched at the thought.

Hearing the shower come on, she considered joining him for one more wonderful chance to watch water flow down the valleys created by his bunching muscles. To run her fingers over his tight, tanned skin. She giggled as she rolled out of bed. She sure couldn’t see him in a tanning salon. He didn’t seem to have an ounce of self-consciousness or conceit.

Not like me.
She donned the cheap terrycloth robe with the fraying hem. A secondhand purchase. Not pretty. Not sexy. But hey, it was what she had.

Her mouth turned down. Before she’d married Miguel, she’d felt pretty. Before she’d married Victor, she’d felt sexy. Neither feeling had lasted very far into either marriage. Experience had taught her a guy would say anything and act any way to get what he wanted. Intellectually she knew she was pretty enough; unfortunately, her subconscious still heeded Victor’s and Miguel’s opinions.

At least deVries had honestly found her sexy to desire. Had liked her enough to want to be with her. Totally awesome.
He likes me.

She tied the robe closed. Didn’t it just figure that now she had someone over who might appreciate hot lingerie, she couldn’t afford any? Her life sure had changed in the blink of an eye—from a Texas ranch, to college, to Victor’s fancy San Antonio house, to being on the run and broke.

She bit her lip. She couldn’t live like this the rest of her life. Not only for herself, but for everyone else being hurt. Victor’s brother, Travis, wouldn’t have shut down the smuggling operation. Guns, drugs, slavery. Travis had to be stopped. Somehow.

The last time she’d talked to a cop, she’d almost died.

Her cheerful mood was broken as a chill swept over her. She’d slept like an exhausted puppy with deVries in her bed. Not worrying about whether Travis Parnell might have found her and sent someone to silence her.

She glanced back at the shower and headed for the kitchen.

A few minutes later, she set the small café table in front of the bay window. Pretty convenient she’d baked quiche the day before—it made a great ready-made breakfast. He’d probably think her an idiot to feed him, but Mama had exacting notions about hospitality.

Of course, her mama would consider deVries more of a devil than a guest, and she’d be right. Be that as it may, if Lindsey fed the man, maybe he’d mellow and actually talk to her.
Breakfast with the Enforcer. God.

On the way back to the kitchen, her gaze fell on the antique rolltop desk. And the newspaper clippings showing Craig’s body, his police uniform stained with blood. More articles were there about the hunt for Lindsey Rayburn Parnell who had apparently shot her husband, Victor, then murdered a cop to escape.
Lies, damn them.

Footsteps reminded her of her guest. Breath catching, she shoved the rolltop down to cover everything even as deVries walked out of the bedroom. Her voice shook as she said, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” His gaze ran from the desk up to her face.

“I have some breakfast for you.” She hurried over to the kitchen island, picked up the plates, and carried them to the table.
Be cool. Be cool.
After a calming breath, she turned and gave him a bright smile. “I hope you like quiche.”

He hesitated, obviously surprised. “Long as eggs are cooked, I’m good.” He joined her, nodding when she lifted the coffeepot. “Thanks.”

While he ate, she burbled about the weather, the club, anything she could think of. She’d never had trouble talking with people. Psychology and social work degrees had perfected her ability to plow through the most awkward of moments.

If only he would stop looking around the room. The worry she might have left something else out made her squirm. Even worse, every time his eyes met hers, her brain emptied of thoughts like water swirling down the drain.

As he took his last bite and leaned back with coffee in hand, she finally asked, “So, what do you do for a living?” Aw heck, she sounded dumb. Nonetheless, she was dying to know where those scars came from. “Are you a cop?” Her fingers tensed on her cup.

His eyes were more green than gray in the morning light, and she could have sworn amusement lurked in the depths. “I work for Simon.”

Right.
Rona’s husband owned a security and investigations firm. “Is it
that
dangerous?” Oh shit, she’d blurted her question out.

“What?” He paused with his cup halfway to his mouth.

Her gaze dropped to where his leathers covered the stitches on his hip.

“Happened during my time off. A buddy tripped—the clumsy bastard—and I ended up with this.”

Jeez, was his buddy playing with a knife or something? “Oh. That’s a crappy thing to happen on a holiday.”

“Guess so.” Although his eyes had somehow darkened, his lips twitched.

She eyed him suspiciously. Sometimes she got the definite impression he thought she was funny, even that he was teasing her—but surely not. Honestly, as a social worker, she had awesome instincts about people. Normally. However, the Enforcer somehow managed to wipe her mind as if she were a computer and someone hit
Delete File
.

“So where in Texas were you raised?” he asked.

“Um. Did I say I was from Texas?” Why had she been stupid enough to ask him questions?

“Got the accent, babe.”

“Oh.” Here she’d thought it wasn’t very noticeable.
Where in Texas
… Hmm, she sure wouldn’t mention her town on the Mexican border where everyone knew Lindsey Rayburn. “A-around Dallas. How about you?”

His gaze was on her fingers…and the napkin she was crumpling. “Born in Chicago.” He glanced around the room. “Guess you don’t have to do anything to make a living.”

At least she could tell the truth for this one. “Oh, but I do. I work as a receptionist.” Well, she would work for another day or so until the woman whose position she’d filled returned from maternity leave.

“Receptionist?” He straightened. “Right. Bullshit.”

WHEN THE PRETTY submissive’s gaze jerked up, deVries almost winced at his rude statement. Still—no receptionist could afford this place. The table where they sat would take a year’s salary. The rest of the furniture was of the same pricey level. Not possible.

He’d already been annoyed over her
“raised around Dallas”
bullshit. She was a piss-poor liar. “Did you inherit money or something?” Like this condo.

She gave him an incredulous look. “I wish.”

Curiosity drove him on. He’d never been able to release a question once his teeth were dug in. “Guess you must have married for money, huh?”

“I—” Red swept into her face, one shoulder went up, and damned if her head didn’t give an unconscious affirmative. “I—” She picked up her cup as if it could provide a shield.

Married for money. One major kick to the gut. It brought a partnering thought. “You telling me I fucked a married woman?”

“No. No, I don’t have a husband.”

That, at least, looked honest. “Divorced, huh?” Was that how she’d ended up rich? His mouth tightened.

When her cup shook, she set it down. “Why all the questions?”

Receptionist married a wealthy man only to divorce him. The guy had probably owned the condo before she took it and everything else the poor bastard had. She sure as fuck wasn’t paying the mortgage on her salary. “Bet you didn’t have a friendly divorce, did you?”

Even as she flinched, she averted her gaze, confirming his suspicions.

Goddamn women. The guy probably worked his ass off; then wifey decided she was entitled to everything he’d earned.
“Sorry, Mr. deVries, your account is overdrawn.”
He’d never forget the bank teller’s voice when he’d asked why his debit card hadn’t worked. A decade later, the memory still kicked him in the gut. Nothing like having a “loving” wife clean out the account while he served his country in hell.
Yeah, thanks, Tamara.

He inhaled deliberately and tried to control his temper.

“Um. More coffee?” Lindsey ventured, lifting the pot.

Such big brown eyes. He felt as if he’d kicked a puppy. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she hadn’t cleaned the guy out. “I guess your ex is living in ritzy shit like this too?”

The coffeepot thumped onto the table as she paled. He saw guilt on her face, plain as hell.

He didn’t need an answer. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I got to be going.”

She rose as he did, silently watched him retrieve his toy bag and electro-case.

When he glanced at her, she took a step back, and her arms wrapped around her torso. All big eyes, innocent as a baby. Damned if she wasn’t even smoother than his ex. Lindsey’s poor bastard of a husband probably hadn’t seen the viper beneath that smooth skin until the poison flooded his veins.

He yanked open the apartment door.

“DeVries?” Even her voice sounded sweet.

Made him want to puke. Before the door closed behind him, he looked back. “Debt’s paid.”

LINDSEY FELT HER knees buckle. She dropped down into the chair, staring at nothing.

What did I do?
Everything had been going fine. Last night, he’d actually smiled at her a couple of times. The sex had been rough, yet somehow gentle. He’d even kissed her as if he liked her. Not sexual kisses—friendly ones.

Yet the minute she’d told him what she did, he’d turned all cold. And his face… He looked at her as if she was a-a slut or something.

Her heart was shriveling up like a winter-blasted weed.

What had gotten his panties all in a wad? Because he didn’t like her job or didn’t approve of divorce? Seriously?

Indignation flickered to life, attempting to overcome the empty feeling inside her. What a jerk. He’d deliberately made her feel like a whore.
“Debt’s paid.”

Well, he’d sure gotten everything she’d owed him. Her face heated as she remembered what all she’d let him do. How crazy he’d driven her. She’d let him face-fuck her. Take her anally. Laugh at her and call her greedy.

Now he acted as if she was a slut. Her lips trembled.

I’m not a whore.

He’d
used her
like a whore, hadn’t he? When would she learn?

Miguel hadn’t desired her—he’d needed to marry her so he could get a green card. Victor had wanted her ranchland that bordered Mexico, not her. She drew in a shaky breath.

She’d thought maybe here, away from everything, she could get herself back together. Dark Haven had been a refuge, a place to swim free, to rediscover who she was.

At least until now.

She drew the robe tighter, covering her legs. Maybe she
had
acted like a slut. After all, she’d known her time with deVries would be a one-night stand. Just sex.

She’d told herself it was okay for a girl to have fun as the men did, without obligation or guilt. Surely no one in the lifestyle would disagree.

But to find out deVries hadn’t even liked her when he…fucked…her. As with her husbands, she’d been something to be used. And once he’d finished, he’d tossed her away like garbage.

Her hand shook as she forced herself to drink the coffee. He was wrong. She was a good woman. A fine person. Not a slut.

Oh God, I’ll never be able to face him again.

At least she could avoid Dark Haven for a while since Saturday would be her time with Rona and Abby. She squeezed her eyes shut. If enough time passed, she’d find the courage to share with them what had happened. Surely they’d have some insights.

She’d known he was a weasel. She’d
known
.

Chapter Four

“I love girls’ night out.” The next Saturday, Lindsey popped a stuffed mushroom in her mouth, smiled at Rona and Abby, and checked out the room. The place was one step up from a fern bar, with great appetizers, strong drinks, and lots of good-looking men. Yet no matter how good-looking, no male was going to tempt her for a long time.