House Rules (4 page)

Luke…

Thinking of him, I cannot keep a calm façade. The hours at the table and Solandro become ghosts dancing through an empty house. It is Luke who dominates my memories and, through them, my body.

A dozen details compete inside my head. None of the reasons why I should be wary of Masters surface first. Instead, I remember his eyes, the way they moved over my body, his hold on my head as he kissed me, how I yielded to him, and his gentle erasure of my tears so that Tommy would not witness me vulnerable and weak.

At that last memory, fresh shame heats my cheeks. I cannot deny my temporary surrender to the illusion that a man like Masters could be sexually interested in me. Even knowing better, I could not control my body's response. He is a sensory feast. His touch is like lightning in the distant desert sky. He smells and sounds so sinful I can taste him on the tip of my tongue with just the thought of him. And he is beautiful in a way that makes me hurt. Transparent or not, his feigned sexual interest has trebled my body's response.

Rule number 5 -- If you can't spot the sucker at the table, it's you.

Guilty as charged. I have plenty of experience in my life handling men -- cops, affable con artists, and hardened criminals like Solandro and my father. I have zero experience handling admirers and less than zero handling lovers. I will correct the omission once this whole damn thing with Rose and Masters ends. I will at least go out on a mother-loving date.

Repeating the promise inside my head, I hear the lock click on the door. It may not be Masters but my body reacts as if it certainly is and I have to fold my hands in my lap so that no one will see them shaking.

"Marie."

Hearing Luke's voice, my body tingles as if zapped by electricity. I don't respond beyond a small shift in the tilt of my head and the direction of my eyes. I can see he has discarded the disguise of a working man and I am glad for the change. The silk suit adds distance, reminding me that he exists in a world entirely different from mine.

Reaching the couch, he cups my chin and forces my gaze up. His lips move from relaxed to a flat line and his nostrils flare. "You gave the contact lenses to Solandro?"

"Yes." Expecting recriminations, I nervously fist the fabric of my skirt.

"That's what I get for letting you distract me." His grip on my chin lightens, his thumb moving to stroke beneath my bottom lip. "I sent the cards for chemical and spectral analysis, but why don't you save me time."

This is not the reaction I expect. I re-assess, my mind shifting through everything I learned as my father's star pupil. I must assume everything Masters does is an attempt to influence and manipulate me. The strokes against my flesh and the false confession that I distracted him are meant to suggest he finds me attractive.

He is starting with Ego Up and I wonder how long before he shifts to Ego Down or Fear Up. I can only pray he is impatient and the change happens soon. I cannot withstand this technique, not when he is the one deploying it.

Already, my body is relaxing beneath his touch. I stiffen my spine and close my eyes. I picture dreadful things, things that will happen to Rose if I fail her. It gives me the strength to resist those soft, sensual strokes.

His hand retreats. "Look at me, Marie."

I obey. His gaze has turned hard and I decide it is time to tell him at least a little of what I know -- things he will discover soon enough.

"The contacts pick up marks on the cards. They--"

He raises a hand, stopping me, then opens the door, calling for paper and something with which to write. Leaving the door open, he sits down in the side chair. He folds his arms across his broad chest, his body language closed off except for the way his eyes roam my flesh despite the audience in the open bay of desks and cubicles.

Tony appears, pushes a pad of paper and a pen at me then slinks away, shutting the door as he goes.

"Draw the marks."

The edge is gone from Masters' voice, leaving it low and sexy once more. Only it isn't the purr he offered the waitress. I am only good enough for the one he clearly reserves for oversized women cheating his casino.

"Your sheet says you have a remarkable memory." He grips the arms of the chair, irritation leaking into his tone. "You looked at the marks for several hours last night."

"I haven't forgotten." I begin drawing the symbols, my vision blurring with hurt as I recall the exchange between Masters' and Tina, his hand on her body, that sensual rumble running through his words as he offered to come back later.

The pen digs into the paper, ripping it. I force my hand to relax and label the marks for suits and values before I draw the back of a card and mark where the symbols can be found. "They show as a silvery white."

Leaning forward, I offer him the pad, my face averted so that he cannot see my unshed tears. The pad begins to shake from his delay in taking it. I look at him. His gaze rests slightly south of my collar bone and I fling the paper at him.

"Stop wasting time with your stupid game, Masters." Throwing my body against the back of the couch, I cross my arms over my breasts. I do not want him looking at them, do not want him to see the response he so easily draws from my body. "You have the code. Now tell me how you're going to get Rose away from Solandro."

Masters stands, tosses the pad of paper on the chair then slides onto the couch. His left thigh rests warmly against my right leg and I struggle to remember Rule number 5.

I will not be the sucker at the table.

"We've only scratched the surface of your compliance, Marie." He threads his left arm behind my back, his body slightly turned so that his chest presses against my bicep. "Tell me how you hooked up with Solandro."

His right hand lands on my knee and everything is suddenly far too intimate.

I jerk my leg but his hand moves with me. "I did not 'hook up' with--"

"Look at me when you talk." In a strong contrast to the way he is almost cradling me, anger laces his voice. "I said look at me, Marie."

Disobedient, I close my eyes and lick my lips. All of this is a compliance technique, right down to his constant use of my first name. The familiarity and intimacy are meant to sucker me in.

Fear, anger and arousal collide inside me. I start to shake. His hand leaves my knee. Cupping the opposite side of my face, he forces me to turn my head. Eyes still closed, I cannot see him, but I can feel the tension running through him. Certain he is about to explode, I can't keep my lips from trembling right along with the rest of my body.

"I'm not your father or Solandro, Marie. I don't hurt women."

To prove it, his mouth covers mine, shocking me and robbing me of my ability to protest. He chews at my bottom lip, his finger hooking inside my mouth and forcing it down. His tongue slips in, his chest pressing more insistently until my body turns into him.

He runs a hand up my skirt, words hammering my senses between the strokes of his tongue and the small bites he takes at the corner of my mouth. "Baby, I can't think straight when your lips quiver."

He is under my skirt now. A finger traces the edge of my underwear before slipping beneath the thin elastic band. I am wet, responsive in a way that shames me. He buries his face against my throat and groans. He sucks at my flesh while his finger ghost walks against my clit.

My body no longer cares if he is faking it. I arch against him. My hips lift as heavy contractions roll through my cunt and my breath breaks down into labored panting.

With my bottom off the cushion, he reaches up, secures the panties' waistband and tugs them down my hips. Cupping my mound, he squeezes even as he continues to interrogate me. "Tell me about Solandro."

Fuck -- seriously?

Masters presses two fingertips against the spine of my clit and massages slow circles. "Tell me, baby."

Baby, not Marie. He claims me as his with that one word and, for the moment, I am. I gasp and then my tongue starts working again. "We were in LA."

I cannot believe that I am letting him do this or that I am only a few strokes away from coming. My pussy creams until my thighs are covered with the evidence of my attraction to him.

"And?" He moves down the couch, peeling my panties the rest of the way off.

My skirt is up, exposing the darker hair of my sex to him. He combs his fingers through it before pushing my thighs apart. His mouth opens and he takes a leisurely lick of his top lip. Ever so slowly, his hands smooth across my thighs, moving in the direction of my cunt.

He has stopped asking me questions and I realize he is about to touch me down there and push this farce to the next stage.

"Wait!" I scramble to lower my skirt and squeeze my legs together.

"I've been waiting all night." He rubs his hand along my calf and presses a kiss against my hip. Across the georgette, his mouth tracks to center. Another groan leaves him as he secures the hem of my skirt and lifts his arms.

"Don't! I promise I'll tell you everything." I want to believe his act. I want to believe it and spread my legs. I want to feel his mouth against me, his cock in me. I want to be ridden and to ride and to climax screaming his name, but I can't because it is an act and I know it. I know it because, even if a man like Masters could ever be attracted to me, it doesn't make me the kind of woman someone loses their ever-loving mind over. And he is behaving exactly like a man who has lost his mind.

I push at his head and try to turn my body away from his waiting mouth, but he is too strong. "You don't need to pretend like this," I plead. "Just help me save Rose."

Masters looks up, his pupils so dilated they almost eclipse the brown irises. The hard kisses he pressed against my flesh swelled his lips, making them even more sensual. He lowers his head to my mound, nosing the plump and aching flesh through the georgette as he inhales my arousal.

"Pretending?" Another kiss, his mouth centered at the top split of my labia, the fabric between us scratchy in a way that curls my toes and jerks my hips upward.

"To want me..." Another contraction pushes fresh cream from my cunt and I sob at my body's capitulation. He saw my tears in his penthouse but I have not cried like this in front of anyone for six years. It is wild and raw and I have no chance of containing it.

"Shhh." He grabs my hand, squeezing it roughly as he brings it to his lips. "Don't cry, baby. I stopped -- see?"

I twist on the couch, maneuvering until my legs are drawn tight against the rest of my body. It takes me a few more minutes of rough hiccups and hiding my face against the cushion before I can speak again.

"Can't someone else ask me these questions?"

I am peeking at him just enough that I can see his expression shoot from contrite to frowning. "I can't have Tony do it, not after how he handled Tommy and you."

"Vincent--"

The frown deepens to a scowl, freezing the suggestion at the tip of my tongue. He swipes a hand along his bristled cheek, muttering something that sounds Italian. He stands to pace the two-foot-wide strip of carpet between the couch and wall. Stopping behind me, he places both hands on the back of the couch, framing -- but not touching -- my shoulders.

"I'm not leaving you alone with that bird dog, either."

My gaze stuck on the lacy panties Luke peeled from my eager body, I say nothing.

"Fine." He smooths my hair to one side, exposing my neck to his touch. Light as a feather, he strokes a line from the bottom of my ear to the top of my shoulder. "But after you answer his questions, you and I will discuss this pretending bullshit."

He leaves and I scramble to put my underwear back on then straighten my clothes and hair. My entire body feels as if I am wrapped in a layer of electricity, every nerve ending exposed and tingling. Heat simmers between my legs and beneath my breasts, while the hard tips of my nipples feel like they have been coated in ice.

I can't accept my reaction to Luke. This is not me, not who I want to be, not anyone I have ever been like. There has to be a better explanation for my behavior -- one that I can live with.

Exhaustion.

I draw a deep breath. Exhale. I have been up for more than twenty-four hours.

Hunger.

In the same period of time, I have consumed little more than a single slice of pie and water.

Fear.

Rose might die, Tommy and I could go to jail. Exhaustion, hunger and fear -- that and nothing more. I am not attracted to Masters, I am vulnerable. He isn't attracted to me, he is leveraging that vulnerability. Simple math -- I don't want him, he doesn't want me.

Someone raps at the door, the knock confident and demanding.

I gasp as if just born and drawing my first breath of air, then I answer.

"I'm ready."

********************

With Vincent handling the interview, I recount the last two and a half weeks of my life over breakfast and tea service that arrives a few minutes after the questions start. I am not completely open in answering. I withhold some facts, those that will waste time or hurt Rose's chance of surviving.

We moved to Los Angeles six months ago. Before that, I kept us away from cities where we might run into my father's associates. But work in the last small town we settled in dried up, especially for outsiders. So, faced with the choice of feeding and housing the twins or playing it as safe as possible, I chose food.