Power to the Max (31 page)

“I don’t think they completely trust me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Told you that last night.”

“Angela wouldn’t take no for answer.” Max couldn’t remember quite how strenuously she’d fought against the woman.

“Insane, Max. Totally insane. I wanted the room.”

God. Witt was insane.

No. Surely he didn’t mean it that way, not the way she’d thought of it. He meant a room made the charade easier. “They won’t be able to get close enough to really see what we’re doing.” She gulped air, then covered her nervousness with a sip of champagne. “I mean that we’re really not doing anything.” Damn the over-explaining. “I’ve got the money.”

“How much am I supposed to pay?”

She couldn’t help it. “How much am I worth?”

He didn’t answer, let his eyes travel from hers to her lips to her breasts and down. It was answer enough. In red neon, the word flashed across her mind’s eye.
Power, power, power.

Panic clutched her throat. “Why are you doing this?”

His eyes went all secretive again. “Same reason you are.”

Power? No, it couldn’t be. “You want to know what they want. But why’d you change your mind about how to find out?”

“Seems like playing their game is the way for now. So how much do they want?”

She’d forgotten to ask. “Five hundred dollars.” She chose the amount because it made her feel expensive, not cheap. “And all I’m supposed to do is—” She stopped.

“All you’re supposed to do is what?” Voice low, harsh, almost a whisper, striking an answering chord inside her. Eyes so blue they seemed to burn like flame, looking straight into hers. Breath short and sharp, his hot hand pressuring her arm, a scent rose off him, like the afterglow of good sex.

She swallowed. “You know.” She bit her lip.

“Hand?”

She shook her head.

“Mouth?” She only saw his lips move, the sound whisked away in a drenching of laughter from the next table. Somehow she’d forgotten they weren’t alone.

She nodded.

His pupils dilated.

Sexual games. Power games. He was thirty-six, she was thirty-three. They’d both been married, one divorced, one widowed. They shouldn’t have needed to play these games at all. Yet she’d been playing with him since he’d first held her hands captive in his large grip two months ago. She remembered the exact moment the sexual tension began. She’d had her nails done. He’d checked out the paint job. Her flesh had heated. Her bones had melted. He’d accused her of murder. She’d wanted to take him home.

She’d been scared then.

He terrified her now.

“Let’s get it over with.” She sounded good. Offhand. Like the charade was a chore. He’d never know how much she wished they’d gotten the room. She started to rise.

He stopped her with a big, warm hand. “Are you going to pay for my help later?”

She swallowed. “If I have to.”

He shook his head. His mouth quirked. “Never give an inch, do ya? I’m beginning to think there’ll never be a day that you’ll touch me without a price tag or an ulterior motive.”

He didn’t know she already had touched him just for the sake of feeling his skin or his mouth or his tongue against hers. If she told him that, he’d hold the power, and she’d be lost. She couldn’t even come up with a pithy reply, so she rose to her feet. This time he didn’t stop her.

“I’m supposed to go first,” she told him. “You follow a few minutes later.”

His hand fell away from her slowly. Reaching for her glass, he held it out to her. “Finish your champagne.”

Once again, the glass was almost empty. How the hell did that keep happening? She took it, drained the contents, then licked the sugar and bitters from her lips.

Witt watched.

The look was enough to make her come.

Her silk skirt swishing across her thighs, Max scurried away from the hungry look in Witt’s eyes.

Jeez, she might have bitten off more than she could chew. So to speak.

Angela Rocket sat with Hammerhead at his table by the entrance. The man’s hand had disappeared beneath the lacquered top. His whole arm moved, starting from the shoulder. The scent of sex swirled in the air. Or maybe it was merely in Max’s head.

She deftly grabbed the car keys as she passed, amazed she didn’t drop them considering her agitated state.

Even in the lobby outside the bar, the air-conditioned atmosphere tasted musty, but at least she could breathe again without the cramped feel of the tables and too many bar patrons watching her put the moves on Witt. The dizziness of that last gulp of champagne faded away but its warmth settled into her belly. She punched the Down button, and when the elevator came, she hit G2. The doors began to close, stopped suddenly by a big male hand.

Witt’s hand. She adored those big hands.

He boarded. The doors closed. They were alone. Her pulse pounded, as if this were actually some clandestine, illegal rendezvous.

She thought of that sexy elevator scene from some movie, the title of which she couldn’t remember anymore. Witt stared. He wasn’t pissed anymore. She wondered if he ever had been or if anger was part of their peculiar dance.

The elevator stopped with a lurch. He held the door open with one hand, waved her through with the other. “Ladies first.”

She’d never been a lady. Had never wanted to be. Did Witt want a lady?

The keys dug into her palm, and she could almost hear the crackle of the foil condom packet in her velvet bag. They wouldn’t need it. She had no intention of doing what Angela had suggested.

Max led them down an aisle of the parking garage to a black
Lincoln
. She pushed the remote. Nothing happened.

Witt stood beside her, so close the sleeve of his jacket brushed the delicate material of her blouse. She felt it as if she wore nothing, sucked in a breath to keep a shiver from running the length of her arms, her body. She looked at him. She shouldn’t have. She’d always thought the coldest part of a flame was the blue, but his eyes weren’t cold, they damn near sizzled like fire. Her body went up in smoke. Her mouth went dry, and she could barely swallow, but she managed to tear her gaze from his before she did something unimaginable like throw herself at him right there in the middle of the garage.

He wanted her. She’d known that. But she kept hearing Angela’s words and wondered how far she could push him and still keep the upper hand. What could she get him to do? Her legs moved simply to get away from her own unbearably tantalizing thoughts.

Threading through the cars, they entered the next aisle. Another Lincoln, black, a classic model but no less luxurious, was backed in and parked against the concrete wall. With another tap of the remote, the car beeped in answer and the snick of opening door locks.

“Front or back?” Witt asked too close to her ear, making her jump. His body heat enveloped her.

“What would a hooker do?”

“Back.” He opened the door—it was one of those that opened in the center—then paused. “Unless you wanna take a drive.”

Her eyes widened. “That’d really piss them off.”

He smiled that devastating sexy smile. “Yeah.”

She gave it serious thought. “I could always say the customer insisted.”

“Yeah.”

Tempted, very tempted, Max pursed her lips. “But then she might not answer any of my questions. We’d have to go through this all over again.”

The smile broadened. “Yeah.”

She tipped her head and put her hands on her hips. “You’re enjoying the fact that this is making me uncomfortable.”

He tipped his head. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.” Denial rather than truth seemed appropriate. “And you’re dying to see how badly I handle it.”

“Front or back?” he asked again, ignoring the remark, which she knew was true.

A moment’s hesitation. A brief flare of terror. “Back.” Consummate gentleman, he held the door as she climbed in and slid over. Then he was in beside her, the door closed, and they were alone.

Vanilla swirled around the interior. Subtle. Unusual. Pleasing. She tugged her skirt hem down to her knees. It didn’t quite reach. The backseat made her tense and fidgety. She’d done things in backseats of which she wasn’t exactly proud. Beyond the leather headrest and through the windshield, the bank of elevators lay straight ahead, two rows away.

Hammerhead had parked the car with extreme intention.

Two aisles away, the elevator doors opened on an empty box, stayed that way a second or two, then closed.

Witt pointed. “I think that was a warning to you.”

“Warning?”

“Next time, they’ll be on it.” He turned to her. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

Okay, that was certainly a challenge. Maybe he was still pissed.

“I’m going to move closer.” She didn’t.

“Better hurry.”

She sat frozen. The elevator doors started to open. Witt reached across and pulled her to his side. Her head hit his shoulder, her arm flew across his chest. She felt like a rag doll.

But damn he smelled good.

“Here are your friends. Better kiss me or they’ll know you’re a fraud.”

Damn, he was baiting her, which meant he was pissed. Because she seemed a tad reluctant and nervous? What else did he expect? All right, to hell with him. Two could play this particular game.

She didn’t look to make sure Angela really was watching. Instead she put her hand to the back of his head and pulled him down to her. He tasted of beer. And chocolate. Like he’d been eating candies before he’d arrived. She opened her mouth, tentatively ran her tongue across his lips. She’d never been the aggressor with him, had merely taken what he gave when he insisted on it and never given more than what he asked for. It wasn’t a power play. It was fear. Now she indulged herself, taking the situation as an excuse because then Witt would never know how badly she wanted him.

His arms went around her, flexed across her back, crushed her to him, her breath expelling into his mouth. He groaned, a minuscule sound she might have imagined. She wanted to climb on him, into him. Instead she deepened the kiss, a delicious touching of tongues. She angled her head, twisting around so that her feet curled beneath her, one shoe slipping soundlessly to the carpet. She now lay across his chest.

His hand went to her butt through the thin silk. Her hip lay against his tense thigh and erection. She felt every touch of his body against hers, each contact searing through her clothing. And she couldn’t get enough of his mouth.

Idiot. She should have known how good he would be, should have known she wouldn’t want to stop. She would eventually, yes, she would. But not yet. Her hands rose between them to pull at his tie, her lips slowly pulling away from his.

“What are you doing?”

“Your tie’s too tight.” She loosened it; he didn’t stop her. Nor did he stop her fingers from undoing the first four buttons of his shirt. He wore no undershirt beneath the dark teal; his skin smelled of soap. She put her face to his chest, breathed deeply, felt his sharp intake of breath as her tongue lightly traced the center of his breastbone. Slightly salty, clean. She wanted more. A little more. Then she’d stop.

“Taking this a little too far, aren’t you?” His voice was shaky, but he didn’t push her away.

Sliding down, she smoothed her fingers over his abdomen. “I thought you liked living on the edge.”

“I’m on the edge. So don’t do this now.”

“They’ve got to think we’re”—she looked up into his eyes, dark and hooded in the dim light filtering into the car—“you know ... doing it. It’s just an act.” Her softened voice lingered, swirled around them. His nostrils flared. Beneath her, his body moved, twitched, his erection hardened. She imagined she could feel it pulsing. She pulsed, too. With power.