Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
What? He could only do it with strangers for cash? Fine. She’d stuff a hundred-dollar bill in his pants, if he’d just let her
finish
.
Before he said another word, she reached between his legs and grabbed him. At the same instant, she sucked his finger into her mouth with a noisy squeak. His jaw went slack, and his eyelids half closed as he watched her lips, watched her devour his finger while his erection grew like a tree trunk in her grasp.
“I said that’s twelve fifty,” the driver repeated with an edge in his voice.
“Okay,” Johnny whispered. He flung a twenty through the plastic opening, then closed his fingers over hers, pressing her hand down on his erection. “Let’s go.”
He got out first and reached for her, and before two raindrops had hit her head, a heavyset doorman had an umbrella over both of them and pulled open the brass-trimmed entrance to the dimly lit marble and mahogany of one of Boston’s best-kept secrets. Oh, God. How long would it take to get a room at the Eliot?
From behind an old-fashioned registration desk, complete with “keyhole” cubbies, a man smiled. “Evening, Mr. Christiano.” He glanced at Sage. “Miss.”
He was staying there?
She glanced up to question him, but he kept her tightly under his arm, and practically swirled her around to a curved staircase trimmed with gleaming brass rails. “I’m on the second floor,” he said, hustling her up.
She almost tripped on the plush, oriental carpeting. “You have a room here?”
“Actually, a suite.”
A
suite
? At the Eliot? That slowed her, but he urged her on, his step as eager as her humming body, his focus dead ahead, presumably in the direction of his room. Suite. But the questions started to buzz louder than the sexual pull.
“How—how can you afford this?” The suites had to be three hundred a night. “How long have you been here? Is this part of the gig—like where you bring women after you rescue them? Do you—”
He pushed her against a door. “Shut up, Sage.”
He made sure she did, kissing her so long and so thoroughly, she could barely breathe, let alone talk. Behind her, she sensed him fumbling with a key, then the door gave way and he backed her into a pitch-black room.
It smelled like wood and silk, all dark shadows and heavy furniture.
How did he manage
this
?
She threw the nagging questions into the back of her mind and let the sensation of his mouth, his clever, talented mouth, take over. He opened her jacket, sucking her tongue while he slid the sleeves down her arms. She responded by thrusting his coat open and shoving it to the floor.
Their heavy breaths echoed in the room, the only sounds the swoosh of clothing and her moan of frustration when he pulled away to flip the dead bolt and the privacy lock.
“C’mere,” he demanded the minute they were locked in, yanking the bottom of her sweater up. The angora stuck to her wet lips as she raised her arms, desperate for what would come next.
The sweater disappeared and he reached around for her bra clasp, but she tugged at his T-shirt. He let her rip it over his head, then went back to work on her bra. He moved her backward through the shadowed room, through a set of open French doors just as he released her bra and she shimmied out of it. A bed hit the backs of her knees and she collapsed onto it, pulling him on top of her. Brocade and silk and soft mounds of pillows met her back as his sleek, hard body pressed down on her.
“Wait,” he whispered, reaching to the nightstand. “Now, baby,” he murmured as he climbed back on top of her. “Now. Here.
Now
.” The hint of franticness in his voice almost put her away. Then he closed both hands over her breasts, kissing her cheek, her ears, grinding his hips against hers. “You’re so damn perfect.”
She wasn’t, but maybe that was his line. No, no, don’t think about that. Don’t think about his lines or his women or his job. Don’t
think
. Feel. Enjoy.
He pressed her breasts together and licked her cleavage, then one nipple, then the other, in quick, desperate succession like he couldn’t get enough.
Maybe that was a trick, too.
His hands were shaking when he popped the button of her low-rise jeans; they were actually trembling as he scraped the zipper and thrust his fingers into her panties. His quick, helpless breaths mingled with a low, slow growl so real that it couldn’t be practiced, it couldn’t be something he learned at
work
.
Could it?
He palmed her mound, slid one, then two fingers into her, and sucked so furiously on her nipple, she knew he’d leave his mark on her flesh. She rocked into his hand and fumbled with his pants, struggling to undress him as he pushed at her jeans and managed to get only one leg out. His desperation was so sexy, she almost came in his hand.
She unzipped and released him, grabbing the hard, hot shaft and stroking it furiously, feeling his whole body quiver. “You’re not faking this.”
He managed a rough laugh. “No, I’m not.” The last word was strangled as he thrust himself into her hand, all size and man and blood engorged. One more twist got rid of his pants, and he produced a condom. Oh, God, so many tricks, so many moves.
She had to stop imagining he practiced this, used this. She had to
stop
.
“Stop?” he asked. “Now?”
“Did I say that?”
He nodded, a little terror darkening his eyes. “I will. I can.”
Oh, God. That was his very best trick of all. The sweet, kind, protective prostitute who could stop the madness whenever his client wanted to.
“No, no,” she assured him. “I just don’t want to think about…” She touched his cheeks, his mouth, his jaw. “Please. Inside me.”
He shoved his boxers down, stabbed himself into the condom, and in one swift move spread her knees with his, one panty leg still hooked to her calf.
“I know what you’re thinking, Sage,” he said as he slid against the wet slickness between her legs, his erection massive and threatening now.
“No, you don’t.” She lifted her hips to take him in. “And I don’t care.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, his tip entering her, opening her. “And yes, you do care.”
He plunged into her with a long, low grunt of satisfaction, the width of him shocking her muscles, the tip of him touching her womb. Pleasure and pain collided and crashed; their hips met violently with each thrust. He kissed her and held her and filled her so much, she couldn’t do anything but take it.
She didn’t care what he did, who he was, how he lived. She squeezed his shoulders, his hips, his shaft, and let the first wave wash over her, dragging her higher, higher, higher to the peak, then slamming her over the edge into a spiral of pure ecstasy.
He came seconds later, his face contorted, his eyes closed, the powerful tendons in his neck strained as he lost the fight for control. Then he collapsed on her, sweat-soaked and spent.
For a long time, the only sounds were labored breathing and pounding hearts. Finally, he managed to push back a strand of hair and press his lips against her cheek.
“Hey,” he breathed.
“Hey yourself.” She didn’t care that just looking at him was like a kick in her stomach, because he was so damn gorgeous with damp black hair kissing his eyebrows. She didn’t care that his first question would be
Was it good for you, sugar?
He shifted to take some of his weight off her, but remained very much inside her, still hard. “You know what?” he whispered.
“What?”
You’re really something, baby doll. That was amazing, honey.
“Now I’m your boyfriend, Sage.”
Chapter
Fourteen
“M
y boyfriend? Are you kidding?” Sage laughed, making him slide partway out of her, so Johnny deliberately gave a push to let her know he could go again without a break.
“Does this feel like kidding?”
“Why do you want to be my boyfriend so bad?”
Tell the truth when you can, no matter how sticky the situation.
He lifted himself and heard the suction of their skin separating. This definitely qualified as
sticky.
“So I can be around you twenty-four/seven.”
In the moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains, he drank in her creamy complexion, all rosy from coming so hard, with a few blond hairs stuck to those incredible cheekbones. Man, who wouldn’t want to be her boyfriend? And that was just her face. The rest of her was just as delectable. Narrow, with a few choice curves. Tight. Hot. Sweet.
His cock stirred in agreement. “Twenty-four/seven,” he said again. “That’s what I want.”
She shifted to separate them, taking away her silky, warm envelope.
“I don’t believe half of what you say. You work for some fantasy company, or you used to, doing God knows what. You keep a suite at a tony hotel but drive a rented Toyota. You lie about where you went to culinary school, you carry a freaking revolver—”
“It’s a pistol, actually.”
“Whatever—it shoots. You go through a crime scene like NYPD blue, for God’s sake, and you…you…”
“I have a black belt in shaolin. And I make a cheese-cake that would bring you to another orgasm.” He propped himself on his elbow. “Haven’t you ever heard of a Renaissance man?”
She laughed again. “Or a con man.”
Or just the lousiest undercover professional in the history of the Bullet Catchers. “Hey, I know I’m a little slick for you. But I’m a good guy, honestly.” He trailed a finger over her jaw and grazed her lower lip, swollen from kissing him. “Good at a lot of things that make you happy.”
“And you want to be my boyfriend.”
“Let me ask you something. Do you give every schmuck such a hard time when they like you, or am I special?”
She reached out to touch his face again. “You’re special.”
With a loud sigh of relief, he dropped off his elbow and let his head hit the pillow next to her. “Thank you, God.”
“But I don’t really want a boyfriend. They tend to get in my way.”
He reached for her, turning her on her side to face him. “Then let’s just be lovers and friends. I don’t care what you call me, I want to stay with you. And I won’t get in your way.”
“You’re always in my way,” she said, closing her eyes with a smile that said she didn’t mind. “So, boyfriend. What’s your middle name?”
“Anthony. My name is John Anthony Christiano. I’m thirty-one, six feet tall, never been married, and I love…” He leaned close to her ear. “Big secret now, one I would only tell my girlfriend. This is it, my intimate revelation. You ready?”
She nodded, with a grin. “Tell me.”
“I listen to Dean Martin music.”
“Dean Martin? Isn’t he dead?”
“Good music lives forever.”
She laughed softly and turned to him, sympathy softening her expression. “Johnny, I’m really sorry I pushed you about your sister.”
Where did that come from? “It’s all right.” He levered himself from the bed to start flipping the decorative pillows onto the floor. “Why don’t you finish getting undressed and get under the covers with me?”
She didn’t move. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
No, he sure as shit didn’t. “Come on, angel.” He pulled the spread down to where she lay, and tugged. “The sheets are incredible here and I want to see you completely naked.”
“And that’s another thing.” She rolled over. “How can you afford this hotel?”
“I’m loaded. Come on.” He hauled the spread down hard enough to move her. “Don’t make me pick you up and strip you down.”
Reluctantly, she climbed off the bed and he swept the heavy spread right off and let it fall to the floor. As he did, she stepped out of her pants, kicked off her one remaining shoe, and walked straight to the window, making an exquisite silhouette. And an exquisite target.
“Get away from the window, Sage.”
She turned. “Nobody can see into a dark room two stories up.”
He wouldn’t tell her how wrong she was; she’d just want to know where he’d gotten the surveillance experience. Instead, he walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her narrow frame, and shimmied his cock against her taut little backside. “I’m not done with you.”
She turned around, her eyes glistening. “Would you like to know why I chose investigative reporting as a career?”
He’d
like
to get under the covers and take a slow trip over every inch of her naked body with his tongue, his fingers, and a few other appendages. “Because that’s what your mother did?”
“Not really.” She let him lead her to the bed, where she propped up a pillow, slid under the covers, and patted the bed in invitation. Oh, boy. Time to
talk.
“Because I’m obsessed with finding out the truth.”
Just his luck for an undercover assignment—a fact finder with a body that brought him to his knees, and a mouth that could suck the truth out of a black hole. “That’s a noble cause,” he said, getting in next to her and making sure his whole body touched her whole body, praying for a distraction from her search for the truth.
“So was my mother, and that’s actually what killed her. But—”
“How?” He ran one finger over the silky skin of her shoulder. Much better to examine her past than his.
She let out a deep sigh. “It’s really a long story, but, bottom line, she was going to write a story that would have exposed some very nasty stuff about a government organization.” She closed her eyes. “But her sister put a stop to that.”
“Is this the aunt you mentioned before?”
She nodded. “She found out about the story and managed to stop it, but not before she made my mother look like a fool and a liar. She lost her job at the
Washington Post,
and about three months later…” She shook her head. “She lost her identity, I guess. And had nothing to live for.”
“No? What about you?”
The moment he asked the question, he felt her body tense.
“Evidently,” she finally said, “I wasn’t enough to make her want to live. But I blame my aunt. She killed my mother as sure as if she tied the noose herself.”
He’d seen a guy die from hanging once. Only it wasn’t a suicide and he hadn’t stopped it. Revulsion rolled through him, and he curled his leg over her and pulled her closer, knowing that physical contact couldn’t take the pain away but that it might help.
“I believe,” he said softly, “that betrayal is the worst crime you can commit.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “Have you ever been betrayed?”
Had he ever. And he’d betrayed. He closed his eyes and saw Bella’s face. “Everyone has, kiddo.” He rubbed his leg over hers. “But why would your aunt do a thing like that? What did it matter to her?”
“Oh, please.” She pulled the covers up and tucked her chin down. “Don’t get me started on Lucy Sharpe.”
The words hit his gut, sharp and shocking.
“Who?”
“My aunt, Lucy. I hate that control freak.”
His head literally buzzed with the stun. Lucy was her
aunt
? No, it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.
Though…with Lucy? Of course it could be true. He sat up slowly, fighting every natural reaction.
Hang on, man. Do this right.
“You…hate her.” He dug deep for the cool that he’d learned from observing Dan Gallagher, Alex Romero, and all the other Bullet Catchers. And of course their boss, Lucy Sharpe.
“Yes.”
“That’s…that’s a shame.” Whoa. Points for massive understatement.
“No, it’s not.” She shot him a sidelong glance from under thick lashes. “She’s manipulative and cunning and ruthless.”
Not ruthless. Well, sometimes ruthless. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
She snorted softly. “About two weeks ago.”
“Why?” He had to work to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Because I thought she could help me with the takemetonite.com website.” She closed her eyes. “She made me think she could help, too. Instead of just answering my questions, she summoned me to her estate in New York, only to give me nothing. Nothing at all.”
Now it all made sense. There was no benefactor. There was no client. There was Lucy—manipulating and controlling like always. Not telling Johnny the whole story…and now he had one more layer of secret to hide from the woman he’d just slept with.
“What did you expect her to tell you?” he asked.
“I expected her to find something out, because she knows people,” Sage said. “She was in the CIA. She has this elaborate security firm she runs with a bunch of black-ops types, doing who knows what.”
He knew what. And they weren’t all black ops. Some were just ex-wiseguys who Lucy had saved from the life. One was a former astronaut, another had been in the Secret Service. Dan had been FBI, Max had been DEA. And there were a couple of spooks in there, too. “Did she help you?”
“No, all she told me was what you’ve said. Keisha never showed. And takemetonite.com is a legitimate, profitable, mainstream business not doing anything technically illegal.”
And yet, she still wanted Sage protected. “Did you tell her you were going to sign up to be kidnapped?” he asked.
“Absolutely not.”
But Lucy knew, of course.
“I hate to talk about my aunt,” she said, snuggling closer, her long legs warm against him. “Just like you hate to talk about your sister.”
He used the excuse to cuddle her, to tuck her head against his chest to hide his expression as he swallowed the urge to punch the bed.
Dammit, Lucy! Why didn’t you tell me?
But then, what difference would it have made? Would knowing who Sage was have stopped him tonight? He closed his eyes and remembered how control had evaporated and desire had taken over in the cab. Yeah, he’d have slept with her.
Sage skimmed her fingers over his chest, over his stomach, dangerously low. And he would sleep with her again. Soon.
But all he could think about now was Lucy.
What would Sage think if…when…she found out? Worse than the male prostitute she worried about, he was there at the bidding of the woman she hated. A woman he would never betray.
Oh, man, he didn’t even want to think about this mess.
Sage gave him a smile as she closed her fingers over him. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were rock hard when we got in this bed. What happened?”
Lucy happened. “You hang on to that, doll face, you’ll get me hard.”
“Don’t call me that.” She withdrew her hand and inched away. “Don’t call me those names.”
He let out an exasperated breath. This job had just turned into a freakin’ land mine. “Sorry. I won’t call you anything but Sage.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. She opened her mouth and invited more.
He obliged, his head was spinning with questions and denial.
Lucy’s
niece.
How could this be? She had none of Lucy’s exotic Micronesian blood—she was blond and about ten years younger than Lucy. He abruptly pulled away. “Didn’t you say you were twenty-seven?”
Her mouth was still open as she frowned at him. “You’re worried about my age? Now?”
“I just wondered because, well…” How could he explain that he knew her aunt wasn’t even forty years old? Was it possible they were just eleven years apart? “I just want to know more about you.”
“I’m twenty-seven, five foot five, never been married, and I’ve never heard Dean Martin sing, but I’m a big Elton John fan.” She arched her body against his. “Do you still like me?”
Tipping her chin, he kissed her softly. “Very much, Sage. I like you very much.” And the bitch of it was, he really did.
What would his boss think of that?
And when Sage found out…
No, don’t go there, man.
She wouldn’t find out. Or at least when she did, he’d be long gone.
“Good,” she whispered, her fingers already working magic. “Because I like you, too.”
The bodyguard was gone.
Vivian Masters sensed it the moment she woke up, and tangled her fingers in Taz’s soft fur. The cat mewed, stretched, and curled into her owner’s warm body, not the least bit interested in whether the man Vivian had paid to stand guard at the bottom of the stairs was gone.
The quiet was total. The birds hadn’t started chirping outside the clapboard-covered house. No neighbors walked a barking dog or slammed a car door on the Wellesley cul-de-sac. Not even a trash-can lid rattled, even though it was pickup day. She’d rented the two-story Cape house long enough to know every sound, and when one was absent.
She inched one leg along the sheets, the out-of-
her-price-range thread count silky against her bare skin. The bedside clock said seven twenty, but it was half an hour fast so that she could avoid her perennial lateness.
She had nothing to get up for this morning, however. No radio interviews, no local talk shows, no grand openings of new stores or photo shoots. Vivian maintained a very low profile now. And Vivian maintained a very high-profile bodyguard just in case….
But he was gone. She knew it like she knew how the bare floor would feel against her feet, how Taz would follow her with her green eyes, and act like she wasn’t interested in the effort it took to mew for breakfast. Vivian knew she was alone in her house. And she was scared.
Pulling a worn Patriots sweatshirt over her head, she stepped to the window and looked at the little lawn and garden she worked so hard to keep pretty. Her grandmother would call it a “white folks’ yard,” just like Gammy would call the round table with a flouncy tablecloth and white lace doily a “white folks’ table.” Once she’d told Keisha that, and they’d laughed until they’d choked.
Keisha understood that stuff. Keisha knew.
Her heart clenched, as it always did when she thought about her friend. No matter how she tried to rationalize it, she knew in her deepest gut that she’d sent Keisha to her maker, just as if she’d given the sister the fatal dose of E with her own two hands. Guilt mixed with fear in her churning stomach.