Too Wicked to Keep (2 page)

Present Day…

“I
F YOU NEED SOMETHING
slick to rub on there, I think I have just the thing.”

Daniel Burnett stopped tugging at the ring caught on his knuckle. He must have looked like a moron, sitting in a New Orleans casino, tugging at his finger as if the gold band was cutting off his circulation. He couldn't imagine why any woman would proposition him under these circumstances, especially since he probably looked like a schmo trying to hide the evidence of his marital status.

But when he looked up at the woman behind the sultry proposition, he nearly slid right off the bar stool.

Everything about her was different. Her hair, once a straight, unadorned brown, now glimmered with striking copper highlights. Amber eyes once muted behind square-shaped red-framed glasses now flashed from the center of long, dark lashes. Lips she'd once coated only with balm or a pale gloss were now outlined and plump with a rich cognac shade that made him crave a burning, fortifying sip.

“Abby?”

She arched a brow. “Wow, and here I thought you wouldn't recognize me after all these years.”

“I'd know you anywhere.”

The words were out before he could stop them, before he could put a lid on the Pandora's box of emotions flying through him. He never thought he'd see her again—never wanted to. He'd avoided taking any jobs in Chicago—hell, he avoided the whole Midwest altogether. He'd survived Abby once, but barely. A woman like her was lethal.

Dangerous.

Gorgeous.

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged into it. He eyed the door. His flight wasn't leaving for another six hours, but maybe he'd be smart to head out to the airport now. Maybe he'd rent a car and drive back to California.

Or maybe he'd just crawl under a rock.

She leaned in close so that her breath, sweet with mint, caressed the skin on his neck and ear. “Come on, Daniel. After all these years, you're not going to at least tell me how beautiful I look?”

This was the advantage of meeting up again with a woman who already knew you were an asshole. He could look his fill and she wouldn't think any less of him—it wasn't possible. She took a step back, hooked one hand onto her slim waist and waited while he drank in the whole delectable picture.

He deserved this. The torture of dragging his gaze up her long, tanned legs cut at his core. Her curved hips, trim waist and slim belly taunted him so that he nearly squeezed his eyes shut before he reached her sweet,
round breasts. But as much as he wanted to look away, he couldn't.

The flavor of her skin danced on the memory of his tongue. The sound of her pleasured moans echoed through his dreams. The feel of her lips lingering on every intimate part of him was like a chained ghost, haunting him with the sins of his past.

The irony that Abigail Albertini would show up in New Orleans the very night Danny had done the first good deed in his life couldn't be denied. He glanced at the stupid ring his brother had shoved onto his finger less than an hour ago, as a reward for Danny's help in rescuing Michael's lover from a crazed rapist. His younger brother had spouted some nonsense about how the two-hundred-year-old heirloom would change his life, but Danny hadn't believed a word.

Now he wasn't so sure.

“Like what you see?” she asked boldly.

He tried not to groan as she twisted sideways so that the full impact of her curves hit him like a battering ram.

He reached for his drink.

“Marriage agrees with you,” he muttered.

The edge of her mouth quirked at the corner. “Thank you.”

As much as he didn't want to look, Danny made a quick survey of the bar. He'd never met Marshall Chamberlain, so he just looked for any man whose veins were popping out of the side of his skull. That's what he'd look like if the guy who'd tempted his fiancé to cheat on him had suddenly appeared in their vicinity. But none of the guys nursing their beers or strolling through the casino looked the least bit interested in him or Abby.

Danny clicked his tongue. The guy really was a
moron. If he had a wife as passionate, beautiful and barely reined as Abby, he'd never let her out of his sight.

Of course, he didn't have a wife like Abby and that was no one's fault but his own.

“So,” he said, wanting to put himself out of his misery sooner rather than later. “Where is the lucky guy? I never did offer my congratulations on your nuptials.”

“That's probably best, don't you think?”

“I'm not known for doing what is best,” he reminded her.

“Sure you are,” she said, sliding on the bar stool beside him and signaling for the bartender. “As long as it's best for you. Trust me, you and Marshall running into each other would not have been good for anyone.”

While she ordered a bottle of champagne, Danny swigged the last of his scotch and wondered how the hell the past couple of days had gone from bad to worse. First, he'd left California for Louisiana, hoping to find his brother Michael and maybe make good on his plan to steal their father's ring, sell it and use the profit to start a new life somewhere fresh…or at least, somewhere that didn't have Wanted posters with his name on them.

The Netherlands, perhaps? Outer Botswana?

But once he'd arrived in the Crescent City, he'd ended up helping his brother, an FBI agent, solve a case and save the woman he loved. On top of that mess, Michael had ended up giving Danny the damned ring voluntarily, which took all the fun out of it.

For revenge, the stupid gold-and-emerald heirloom was now nearly cutting off the circulation in his right hand. And as the pièce de résistance, the one woman who'd broken his heart had, for some unknown reason, now traveled cross-country to rub his nose in her long and happy marriage.

This was karma. It had to be.

“So, what are you doing here, so far from the man who stole you away from me?”

She laughed, but there was no trace of humor in those brandy-colored irises.

“Is that how you remember things? Because as I recall, you were the one who did
all
the stealing.”

Five years of time and distance, plus wearing, even under duress, his infamous ancestor's ring, gave him the balls to snag her by the waist and pull her in close.

Five years of marriage gave her the confidence to remain still, a curious grin playing on her lips while she waited to see what he'd do next.

Those five years did not, however, protect him from the instantaneous slam of need that exploded through his system from the scent of her perfume and the silky warmth of her skin.

“You stole my heart,” he murmured.

She twisted away from him, but she probably hadn't even heard him over the music and clanging sounds of the casino. “You lost the right to touch me a long time ago.”

He leaned back into his chair. Maybe if he exuded his typical casual air, the heartbeat ramming against his chest wouldn't be so obvious.

She hadn't meant to lose her cool. Danny could see the combination of anger and shock in her eyes. But her intense reaction proved one thing—she hadn't gotten over him. Maybe she still hated him. Maybe she spent every day cursing his name. But at least she hadn't forgotten him. That was something.

“You're right.” He took another drink, grateful for the smooth burn of the scotch as it slid down his throat. “But you know exactly who I am, Abby. If you wanted to
rub my face in how hot you look after five years of marriage, then you've accomplished your goal. If you want to slap my face or have me arrested, then go ahead.” He leaned forward, his newly acquired ring glittering on his hand. “But don't parade that luscious body of yours so close to mine and expect me to keep my hands off. Every man has his limits. Even me.”

“I'm counting on you to push past those limits, then,” she said stiffly.

For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the haughty, privileged princess he'd met five years ago. But only a glimpse.

“What are you talking about?”

“I came here to find you.”

“And your husband let you? What is he, a moron?”

“Don't speak that way about Marshall,” she shot back. “He was a good man who didn't deserve what I did to him.”

Was?

Danny stood. “No, he didn't deserve any pain we caused him.”

She pressed her mouth into a tight line—a line Danny couldn't help but want to breach. On a normal day, at a normal hour, Abigail was a classic Mediterranean beauty, with her thick, dark hair, smooth olive skin and expressive amber eyes. But when she was angry—when she let her control slip even a little—she knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Very true,” she conceded. “But I didn't expect to hear compassion from Daniel Burnett, or is it David Brandon again?”

“I haven't been David Brandon for—” He cut his claim short. He'd actually used the name the day before. He'd developed a habit of trying it every so often, to see
if the pain of losing Abby had lessened any in the years since she'd kicked him out of her life.

It hadn't.

“Why'd you come looking for me?”

His voice was as strangled as the skin beneath his ring finger. Her mouth curved into a tiny smile—the first one that flashed all the way up to her irises. His pain gave her pleasure. He couldn't blame her.

She sidled closer, then danced the tips of her fingers up his shirt, from his waistband to his collar. “I have a job for you.”

With a flick of her nail up the underside of his chin, a fire sparked through Danny's body that made him want to drown himself in the moisture of her mouth. She was taunting him. Making him pay, one hormone at a time, for nearly destroying her future.

He not only didn't blame her—he wanted more.

His brain might have registered all the reasons why he should stay half a country away from Abigail Albertini Chamberlain, but his dick hadn't gotten the memo. Blood rushed down so fast, Danny had to grab the edge of the bar to keep from losing his balance.

“No way.”

“You owe me,” she said.

“So? You're playing with fire, Abby. I can't promise you won't get burned again. And this time, Marshall won't forgive you. I wouldn't.”

“You wouldn't have the first time.”

She took her time tracing her fingers up his neck and then tousling the strands of hair at his temples. When her gaze locked with his, he saw none of the naive, uncertain girl she used to be.

She was all woman now—and she had something up
her sleeve, figuratively speaking. Something that wasn't going to be good—at least, not for him.

“No,” he conceded. “I wouldn't have forgiven you.”

“Good,” she said, pushing away from him and snatching the flute of champagne the bartender had delivered. “Then you haven't changed. I'm counting on you being the same lowlife, conscienceless thief you used to be.”

He forced a chuckle. “Why would you hope for that?”

She sipped her champagne. After enjoying half the glass, replete with appreciative hums and slides of her tongue over her rich, luscious lips, she put the flute back onto the bar and stretched up onto her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

When she did, her breasts brushed against his chest. The sensation caused a domino effect of ignitions that sparked his every nerve ending.

“Because I've found my painting and I need you to make good on your promise and steal it back.”

A
BBY SPUN ON HER
four-inch heels, grabbed the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket and started her hip-swinging parade out of the hotel bar. She measured her steps and the rhythm of her walk. She needed him to follow. She needed him to prove he wasn't so much of a scoundrel that he'd break the last promise he made to her before he'd disappeared.

She supposed she could have offered him money. She had plenty of it, not that it had helped her thus far in averting a scandal for her family. She'd thought about offering her forgiveness, but she wasn't sure he cared about it or that she had any to give. Time, distance and four years of marriage to a man who loved her had lessened the sting. She was still pissed off at Danny for nearly wrecking her life, but she no longer wanted to curl into a whimpering ball of loss and regret.

But he probably didn't need her money, and if he cared one bit about forgiveness, he would have made good on his vow to retrieve the painting years ago. If she wanted him to follow now, she was going to offer him something she hoped he still craved—a chance to win her back.

It wasn't going to happen, of course. She might have put on her sexiest dress and flown across the country to lure him back to Chicago, but she wasn't going to sleep with him. She'd been there, done that and had the heartache to prove it.

Though she had to admit—he was still hot.

She knew better than anyone that any living, breathing woman within close proximity to David Brandon, aka Daniel Burnett, would be subject to a raging surge of lust. But while she'd come here anticipating a tug of attraction from the leftover riptides of their fast and furious affair, she hadn't expected to nearly drown.

The minute she'd seen him from across the crowded casino, she'd fallen backward in time. Her nerve endings had sizzled and her brain, conditioned over the past five years to block out the memory of the night he'd approached her for the first time in a darkened museum gallery, had betrayed her with images vibrant with sex and sensuality. From that first whispered innuendo, he'd turned her inside out, exposing the desires she'd kept so carefully hidden from everyone in her life, her fiancé included.

But she was older now. Stronger. She'd tried other avenues to reclaim her painting before it exposed her family—mostly her father—to derision and ridicule.

Lust aside, she couldn't allow her fears to stop her plan. It wasn't a wise plan. It certainly wasn't remotely ethical. But that ship had sailed a long time ago. Trying to reclaim her good-girl status now was like trying to win back her virginity. The only thing she had left from her days before Daniel had charmed his way into her life was her reputation. If she didn't act soon, that would be at risk, too.

“Abby, wait.”

His voice traveled over the retreating sounds of the casino, but she didn't break her stride. The doors from the lobby to the street slid open, blasting her head to toe with cool night air that had, only hours before, clung to her with the warm, wet heat that made Louisiana so infamous. Tracking Daniel down to New Orleans had been no small feat. She might never have found him if he hadn't made the unexpected mistake of getting himself arrested in California. “Abby!”

He grabbed her arm and his touch was electric. The sensation of his palm wrapped around her wrist ratcheted up her heartbeat until she was certain he could feel her pulse. She tried to yank herself free, but he held her fast.

“Let go of me.”

“We need to talk.”

He pressed his thumb intimately on her pulse point. The pounding intensified in her ears and heat suffused her system until tiny beads of sweat trickled at her nape and between her breasts. Her brain flashed with a memory. The two of them, naked, in front of her fireplace. Ice cubes. His thirsty tongue.

She pulled harder. “Don't touch me.”

His face twisted with confusion, but he instantly let her go.

“What the hell, Abby? You came on to me back there, not the other way around. Now I can't lay a hand on you just to stop you from running?”

“I wasn't running,” she said, gulping in air. “And yes, that's the deal.”

“What if I don't agree to the terms?”

She took another deep breath and released it slowly. She hadn't come here to give him an ultimatum. She'd meant to entice him to do this one favor, to repay her
for what he'd put her through. She'd expected residual chemical attraction to him, but she hadn't expected fear.

“If you won't help me, I'll find someone else who will.”

He eyed her warily, but didn't immediately walk away. She had to get herself together. Remember her endgame. Stick to her plan. She'd banked on Daniel still caring about her. She'd hoped, stupidly perhaps, that he'd cultivated a bit of real remorse since she'd left her bedroom the night before her wedding with her dress unzipped and Daniel long gone.

“Why do you need the painting all of a sudden?”

“The man who owns it now plans to not only display it, but auction it off. I have less than a week to get it back before everyone knows about my grandmother and her affair with that artist.”

“I don't get it,” Daniel said, his voice doubtful. “You're the original owner. If he puts it on display, the whole world will know it was stolen.”

“After you took it, I never reported it stolen. My father hated that portrait. To him, it's salt in the wound of his mother cheating on his father and all the years of bullying and taunting he suffered through as a kid because of it. He's had years to forget about that pain, and now it's going to be dragged up again because I let you steal it. My grandmother gave the painting to me to keep it safe, to keep our family secrets just that.”

“Why didn't she destroy it?”

Abby's blood heated. “I don't know,” she lied. “Maybe she appreciated the artist's talent. Maybe she intended to keep it as financial insurance. All I know is that I was supposed to keep the painting out of the public eye. Once this collector shows it, art historians will trip over themselves trying to figure out who the subject is. She
was the wife of a prominent Chicago businessman. Her picture dominated the society columns every other day. It won't take long for our family secrets to be made very public—including mine.”

Daniel snorted. “No one cares about scandals anymore, sweetheart. With the publicity, your father can probably double the per-square-foot price of his properties.”

“Do you know how hard it is, still, for someone with the last name Albertini in a city like Chicago? Italian last name? Whispered ties to the old mob? It never really stops, no matter how many charities you fund or legitimate businesses you own and operate without so much as a fine from the IRS. And how do you think my father will feel, personally, when a nude portrait of his mother is all over the papers?”

“As I recall, she was a gorgeous woman.”

Abby growled. “That's not the point. The painting is proof of an affair my grandmother had with the artist—an affair that has been a family secret for a long time. But people gossiped like crazy and my grandmother's greatest regret was how those whispers hurt my father, who was just a little kid. I can't let my mistakes drag out all that old pain again. Besides, once art experts start digging into the painting's authenticity and history, someone is going to connect the dots about us, too. Ever consider what that kind of publicity will do to your business?”

His eyebrows shot up, but only for a second. “You had an affair with some jerk named David Brandon. No one will connect him to me.”

“Oh, really? I did.”

“I told you who I was.”

“And the police in California made note of that same
alias when you were arrested for attempted murder. It won't take long for a good reporter to make the connections. And I expect it will be hard to sneak into people's homes or famous museums when your face is splashed all over the latest news feeds. You have as much on the line as I do.”

She turned back to the street, hoping to spot her limousine from the line outside the casino entrance. Maybe this was a mistake. Five years felt like five seconds with Daniel standing so near. The emotions he provoked, from lust to anger to passion to betrayal, rushed at her from every direction.

The deeper she tried to dig herself out of this mess, the worse it got. She'd managed to keep the details of her relationship with Daniel secret from everyone, even her parents. They knew that she'd been duped by a con man, but she'd never told them that she'd slept with him or that she'd practically handed over the safe's combination when he'd coaxed the story of her grandmother's rebellious affair with the artist, Bastien Pierre-Louis, out of her.

The only person who knew the whole truth had been Marshall. To him, she'd confessed everything. Not the sordid details—she'd spared him that pain—but she'd been brutally honest about her weaknesses and how Daniel had played to every single one.

And yet, for reasons she'd never completely understand, he'd forgiven her. They'd had to work hard to rebuild their relationship, but in the end, they'd been happy. If her past sins came to light, Marshall's memory would be tarnished, too. She couldn't allow that to happen.

She cursed, unable to spot her driver. The delay gave Daniel a chance to walk around in front of her. Though
he'd slipped his hands casually into his pockets, his tight jaw and focused stare were anything but relaxed.

“I'm the last person you should ask for help.”

“No, you're the only person I can ask. You already know the painting's history and you owe me. It was hard to track you down, but no harder than asking you for help.”

“Do you think staying away from you has been easy? For five years, I've pretended you didn't exist. I let you have your perfect marriage with your perfect man. Now you show up here acting like a sex goddess on the prowl, make me an offer I can't refuse, but then freak out after one innocent touch? I'm a thief, Abby. Not a monster. I hurt you once. I won't do it again.”

She swallowed deeply, then straightened her spine, determined to regain her control. He sounded so sincere, but she knew better than to fall for his line, no matter how artfully he delivered it. Daniel Burnett couldn't be trusted with her emotions. She wasn't even sure she could trust herself with them.

“I have no reason to believe you,” she said. “But if you agree to help me, I have no choice but to take you at your less-than-reliable word.”

“So we're both backed into a corner.”

He stretched out his right hand, but stopped just a millimeter shy of touching her cheek. In the span of a heartbeat, his attention shifted from her to the ring on his right hand, the one he'd been trying desperately to get off when she'd first seen him in the bar.

She grabbed the opportunity to change the subject.

“What is that?”

“Recently inherited family treasure.”

He turned his hand so she could see the stone. As jewelry went, it was fairly pathetic. The black opals on
the sides were brilliant with bright blues and greens, but the center stone, which caught the marquee lights with more brilliance than she expected, had a huge, zigzagged scratch.

“Maybe you can barter with the collector who has my painting,” she suggested. The two items were nowhere near equal value, but she couldn't ignore the irony that he now possessed a family treasure when he'd been responsible for stealing hers.

“If I could get the damned thing off my finger. But it's supposed to bring luck, so to speak, to the men in my family. Could come in handy while I'm breaking my rule of never stealing the same piece of art twice.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You're going to help me?”

“Yes, and not because of the threat to my livelihood. You may not believe me, but I'm helping you because it's the right thing to do.”

His voice inflected with his obvious disbelief, but before she could question his sincerity, he gestured gallantly toward the line of limousines and gave her a little bow, as if inviting her to lead the way.

Her shoes were rooted to the sidewalk.

“Without any expectations?”

He looked up at the dark night sky as if asking for divine intervention. “Really, woman, when you have the advantage, take it and run.”

Abby opened her mouth to object, but then decided to quit while she was ahead. The hard part of this operation, apparently, was not getting Daniel on board—but keeping him from running roughshod over her.

She had to stay focused. Eyes on the prize.

And hands off the merchandise.

She finally spotted her limo. With a nod to the driver, she slid into the backseat, adjusting her skirt as the car
dipped slightly while Daniel climbed in beside her. Despite the roominess of the interior, he sat as close to her as he could.

The driver slammed the door.

“There's space in this car for eight people,” she said. “Feel free to spread out.”

He made that clicking sound with his tongue. “Thanks, but I'm fine here.”

She'd had no illusions that he'd make this easy, but she was up to the challenge. She had to be.

She gave the driver instructions to take them straight to the airport, and then didn't object when Daniel closed the glass partition.

“Should we stop anywhere to retrieve your things?” she asked.

“You can buy me whatever I need.”

“What you need most can't be bought,” she quipped.

He chuckled. “Clever. So you've developed a sharp tongue since last we met?”

“I've developed a lot of things. I was a child when last we met.”

He turned so that his body, so close, faced hers. “You were a lot of things, Abigail Alexandra Albertini, but a child you were not.”

She didn't remember ever telling him her alliterative middle name, but his casual use of it reminded her how much more he knew about her than she did about him.