Too Wicked to Keep (8 page)

So he'd learned. And in that learning, he'd fallen in love.

Or at least, that's what he'd called it at the time. After pining for her for six full months in Mexico, though, he hadn't been so sure. From what he'd heard about love, it required two people to share things like trust and honesty. He'd done neither with her then—but he was ready to do it now.

He couldn't help but glance down at the ring and wonder.

“I didn't make it common practice to get so closely involved with my marks,” he said, shifting so that his hand was out of sight. “In fact, in my business, it usually pays to stay in the background and do reconnaissance without interacting with anyone. That way, no one remembers you well enough to describe you to the police.”

“I could have described you very vividly,” she mused, her voice deepening to throaty levels that scraped against his skin like fine-grade sandpaper.

“More vividly than you know,” he said, trying to ignore her perfume, which was suddenly invading his space with alluring hints of vanilla and spice. “You knew things about me I'd never told anyone.”

She snickered. “I didn't know anything about you! I knew about David Brandon, but he wasn't even real.”

He shrugged. “He wasn't entirely made up. A good lie is one that's based on truth.”

Her expression turned curious. “What was the truth, then? You told me that you were a military brat who traveled all over the world. Was that true?”

“I did travel a lot, but mostly because my mother was a junkie who had a thing for long-road truckers.”

“How old were you when you ended up in foster care?” she asked.

He arched a brow.

“I told you I'd done my own research, Danny. But I'd like to hear about it from you.”

Danny chuckled mirthlessly. He didn't like to talk about his childhood. Few foster kids did. Living the life of an unwanted brat shuttled through a cold and broken system had hardened just about every child it touched. But Danny had, eventually, found a situation he could manipulate, if not thrive in. The Burnetts had been far from perfect, but they'd, at the very least, given him a trade and a sister in their daughter, Lucy.

“I don't remember much about the first years. I never stayed anywhere longer than six months because I had a habit of taking things that didn't belong to me and trading them in school or on the street for stuff I needed. Then when I was around twelve, I ended up in the Burnett household.”

“And it was different?”

“Not really, except for one thing. Lucy. She was their only biological child amid a houseful of ever-changing fosters. She and I—I don't know—connected, I guess. We were best friends. Still are, which is convenient since she's about to marry my brother.”

“Which brother?”

“Alejandro,” he affirmed. “After I was framed for the attack on the security guard and arrested, a hired thug named Jimmy the Rim paid me a visit in jail and
offered me a trade—my continued good health for this ring. Trouble was, I didn't know where the ring was. Ramon, my biological father, had owned it, but he was dead. Lucy…” Here, Danny decided to alter the facts. He could share his own secrets with Abby, but Lucy's private life wasn't his to reveal. “Well, let's just say she went to Alejandro to find out about the ring, and in the process, they fell for each other hard.”

“And the person who wanted the ring?”

“Jimmy got pinched for attacking Alex and Lucy, but wouldn't give up who hired him. Alex's lawyer got the charges against me dropped and Michael kept the ring, just to make sure it was safe. Then, last night, he gave it to me.”

“And you don't think the person who wanted the ring badly enough to set you up for attempted murder is going to try again to get it?”

He shrugged. “No one knows I have it. Michael's off the grid and Alex is on his way to Spain. The only person who knows I'm here is Lucy.”

Abby smiled. “So you did call someone in your family to tell them where you are.”

He matched her grin with one of his own. “I'm not inhuman, Abby. I fell into a life of crime for survival, and I'll admit, excitement. Then, from Lucy's dad, who is currently serving time for grand theft, I learned how not to get caught, and how to manage my money so that I've got something left when I decide to quit.”

“But it's wrong,” Abby said.

“It's not that simple.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it and frowned. “No, I guess nothing is ever that simple.”

She slid her hand onto his knee. Her touch lacked any sexual intent, but it was intimate all the same.

Danny stood and stalked to the other side of the room. The window gleamed with a clear and crisp view of the city, along with a far-off glimmer of Lake Michigan. He had a sudden urge to get outside. Maybe walk. Explore the stunning Chicago architecture amid streets that burst with the gold and reds of autumn-topped trees.

“Didn't you say we had some shopping to do?” he asked. “I mean, I like your friend's taste in clothes, but I'm going to need to diversify my wardrobe.”

“Shouldn't we talk about the painting first?” she said, lifting up the file folder from the table.

He marched across the room, took the folder in one hand and reached for hers with the other. “Business can wait a couple of hours. I have a sudden need to get out of here and I know you don't want to let me out of your sight.”

She let him take her hand, and when he pulled her up, she shifted her weight a little so that she accidentally-on-purpose slammed against his chest.

“Sure you want to go out?”

Her tone was suggestive, but something in her eyes clued him in that there was more to her reluctance to leave than desire.

“Yes, I'm sure.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “We can shop online and call a few stores that will deliver. I do it all the time.”

“Maybe that's your problem,” he assessed.

“Who said I had a problem? Other than wanting to get my painting back?”

He shrugged. “No one. But you do.”

She grimaced and pulled away. He supposed they should come up with a cover story before they left the apartment, one that would fit easily into whatever ruse they might construct later in their bid to retrieve her
painting. But he'd masterminded enough criminal plans in his lifetime to know Abby wasn't worried about how going out would affect theirs. She was worried what people would think about a recently widowed woman like her being seen outside with a guy like him.

When she spun toward him, her expression was so small, so sad, he thought he felt something crack in the middle of his chest.

“I haven't been out with anyone, any man, since Marshall.”

He put on his best reassuring grin. “It's not a date, Abby. It's a shopping spree.”

“And how will people know that?”

He put up his hand, forcing her to stop objecting while he took a minute to think.

An idea popped immediately into his mind, but he groaned at the drastic nature of it. Still, it would work.

He took her hand and hurried her into her bedroom, swinging her past the bed and into the dressing area. He stopped in front of the mirror and with a silent gesture forced her to stay put. He'd rummaged through her things enough to know where he could find what he needed—an old pair of her glasses, a chic scarf, and hair gel.

While he used the three items to transform himself, she stood behind him, trying to hide her giggles behind her hand. He tucked the sweater into his jeans and borrowed a belt he could barely fit around his middle to shore up the look. By the time he turned around, the perfect picture of the quintessential gay best friend, she nearly collapsed in a fit of laughter.

“Now do you feel safe being seen in public with me?”

She managed a nod—which he figured was probably the best he could get.

N
ORMAL
.

The entire afternoon had been normal.

And that, in and of itself, had been the weirdest thing of all.

Abby had envisioned quite a few fantasies about Danny when she first decided to track him down, but none of them had included strolling hand in hand down Michigan Avenue, mingling with tourists while they shopped for his wardrobe, purchasing, among other things, pants, sweaters, a blazer, a coat, a fitted suit and a tuxedo she thought she might have torn off him just outside the dressing room of the men's department if he wasn't pretending to be gay. With a promise to have the tailored garments delivered to her apartment in the next day or two, they moved on to shopping for her, something he insisted they do, even though she had more than enough clothes in her closet.

He played up his flamboyant persona to the hilt, cooing over outfits in the windows at Nordstrom's and conspiring with the saleswomen until she'd tried on a sexy emerald-green wrap dress with high-heeled Louboutin's and lingerie by La Perla. The experience
had been freeing and she realized that she hadn't really bought anything new since before the funeral. Maybe a pair of sneakers for the walking tours she gave or yoga pants or T-shirts she could wear to the gym that didn't have holes, but otherwise, she'd eschewed all retail therapy.

What a mistake.

She spun around on the raised dais in front of the three-way mirror, feeling sexier than she had in years.

Last night's little black dress, which she'd bought years ago but had never worn, had been short and revealing—seductive in an obvious way. This dress, with its slim lines and clingy fabric that flared at her backside into a kicky skirt that barely kissed the top of her knees, was classier but still enticing.

She turned to Danny, seated in a cushioned lounge chair behind her. While the saleswomen had been in the room, he'd played up his effeminate persona to the hilt. Now that they'd scampered off to help other customers, the look in his eyes had turned purely predatory.

“What do you think?” she asked, glancing out of the change room to the main floor. They weren't alone—and it was a good thing. Judging by his expression, if they hadn't been surrounded by shoppers, he'd have got up out of that chair and showed her exactly what he thought of the dress by ripping it off her.

“I think you should wear that when we go to the party.”

“What party?”

“The one where the collector plans to show your painting,” he replied.

She stepped off the dais, surprised. “You read the file?”

“I glanced through it while you were feeding the cats,” he said.

“I can't wear this. His event is a masquerade. I'll need a costume.”

“So buy a mask. Trust me, if you wear this, he'll hand over the painting without argument.”

Again, his dark green eyes turned feral. He untucked his sweater, tore the fussy scarf from his neck and with a move that would have made Superman proud, whipped off her old glasses and tossed them on the chair as he stood. Even with the metrosexual spiky hair, Danny transformed from fop to fine in the span of a heartbeat—even one beating as rapidly as hers.

He slid his hands onto her hips, swiveling her toward the mirror and guiding her back onto the foot-high dais. To the world beyond the dressing room, he was simply inspecting the fit of the dress on her body, maybe testing out the texture and feel of the fabric. But close-up, Abby could feel his body hardening against hers.

The muscles in his arms tensed. His chest constricted underneath the soft sweater. His face hardened into a mask that betrayed none of his lust—except in his eyes.

God, his eyes gave him away.

“On second thought,” he said, stepping up behind her on the raised platform, “maybe you'd better not wear this dress. I'll never be able to concentrate on anything but you.”

“That would be bad,” she said, breathless as he ran his hand up the curve of her waist. She shifted nearer, needing to feel him pressed even closer than he was. Of course, what she really needed she couldn't get while they were playing dress up in a department store. They needed to return to her apartment, hole up in her bed
room and break the sexual tension spiking between them by surrendering to it. The sooner the better.

She turned to tell him so when the saleswoman who'd shuttled the undergarments from the lingerie department popped in to ask how they were doing.

Danny hopped down from the dais, throwing himself back into character so quickly, she blinked in amazement. Before the woman had a chance to register what might have been going on between them, he'd put his glasses and scarf back on and scooted her out of the room with overblown demands for a second set of bras and panties and another pair of shoes.

Despite how much Abby had enjoyed the fun and folly of shopping, she was done playing mannequin. Suddenly, the only thing she could think about was taking her clothes off.

At the doorway, Danny turned to her, his hands braced on the jamb. “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

“Do you want to get some lunch?” she asked, knowing she was being cruel. To both of them.

His mouth tipped up in a wicked grin. “Oh, we have appetites to satiate, love, but we won't be doing it in a restaurant.”

A thrill shot through her. She took her time unfastening the zipper that ran along her side, watching the heat rise in his face until she thought he might combust right out of his skin. As it was, his knuckles whitened as he gripped the doorjamb. It was taking every ounce of his control to remain on the other side of the small room instead of joining her behind the curtain. Wouldn't that shock the poor saleswoman when she came in to bring her another set of undies?

Abby changed quickly and waited, her foot tapping, while the saleswomen rang up her purchases and
wrapped them in thin layers of tissue before placing them into handled bags stamped with the store logo. Her impatience grew when Danny directed the cabbie to stop outside a bistro a couple of blocks from her apartment and actually made her wait while they filled his order for lunch. They walked the rest of the way, packages swinging from their arms while hunger spread to every cell in her body.

Just before they crossed in front of her building and her doorman jumped into action to help them with their load, Abby was struck again by how normal yet extraordinary the moment was. They'd gone shopping, for Pete's sake. But somehow, Danny had elevated the experience so that for a couple of hours, she'd forgotten about her grief, her regrets, her self-imposed determination to do nothing that would embarrass her friends or her family.

For one brief afternoon, she'd just been Abby.

Abby, who liked to laugh.

Abby, who liked to shop.

Abby, who liked to look beautiful and sexy.

And now, Abby, who liked sex.

The doorman accompanied them upstairs. Danny kept up his act so that the man hardly looked in his direction. It was funny, and not a little sad, how heterosexual men avoided direct eye contact with guys who played for the other team. But in this case, it served them well. If he were asked, the only thing the doorman would remember about the guy with Abby was that he was gay. He wouldn't remember his hair, his height, his eye color or his build. Even when Danny was as “out there” as a guy could be, he'd ensured that people who might be asked to identify him by the police wouldn't recall what he looked like.

Too bad his strategy wouldn't work on Abby. She'd tried forgetting him. Safe within the confines of a happy marriage, she'd thought she had. But without that wall of protection around her, the memories of their affair saturated every fiber of her body and soul. She could set aside the betrayal and the lies, but not the attraction. It was too powerful.

Abby locked the door behind the doorman, then turned to find Danny staring at her from the archway that separated the living room from the bedrooms. He'd torn off the scarf and glasses and removed his sweater and untucked his T-shirt so that he looked every inch the kind of man a woman wanted to devour. With each step she took toward him, her mouth watered. Pearls of sweat beaded between her breasts. Danny held out his hand, daylight streaming through the windows.

With a sigh, she reached out and placed her spirit in his care.

Wordlessly, he led her to her bedroom and shut the door behind them, though she couldn't imagine why, except to keep out the cats. With a combination of need and restraint, he speared his hand through her hair and kissed her cheek.

“I'm just going to lower the blinds,” he explained. “I want you in the light, Abby. But I don't want to share you with the neighbors.”

She grinned, then used the time it took him to adjust her windows to dash into the bathroom and freshen up. When she came out, he'd placed a couple of condoms on the bedside table. He'd clearly stocked up on the essentials when they'd gone to the pharmacy for shaving cream and razor blades that weren't made of pink plastic.

But the protection was forgotten when she sidled up to him. He braced his hands on her hips and again placed
a soft kiss on her cheek. The act was neither chaste nor friendly. It was a promise to take things slow—to make this count.

He kissed a path from her cheek to her temples and forehead, then down to the tip of her nose. His hands tangled in her hair, massaging her scalp until she fell into a hypnotic state between relaxation and desire. When he finally pressed his lips against hers, he stepped fully into the kiss so that their bodies were flush, curve to curve, tongue-in-groove, interlocking puzzle pieces that formed a picture of sensual perfection. With a tentative tongue, he tasted her, never allowing her too much pleasure or too much satisfaction. This was a tease. An appetizer. A precursor for pleasures yet to come.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked, his breath hot against her neck while he nuzzled her ear.

“Yes.”

“You won't regret making love to me this time?”

“I didn't regret it last time,” she confessed.

This stunned him. He leaned back, not breaking their body contact, but giving him room to examine her face and see the honesty there.

She'd never said this out loud—she'd never had the chance. But it was true.

“But because of me, you lost your painting. You nearly lost your fiancé.”

“That I regret,” she admitted. “But we're going to get the painting back and Marshall didn't leave me. I had a four-year marriage to a wonderful man and memories of him that I'll cherish forever. But if I was still really beating myself up about you, Danny, I never would have come to find you in New Orleans. I know that now.”

His eyes darkened and she watched his Adam's apple
bob while his lips, a thin line, quaked. “I didn't destroy you.”

She shook her head, her chest tight with emotion.

“No, you didn't. I think, in the end, you made me stronger. Strong enough to know what I want now. And that's you.”

He caressed her cheek. “Then you're going to have me.”

This time, his kiss had a little more power, but he still held back. Her nerve endings prickled with delight—he was going to make this last. He held her face steady while he thoroughly explored and pleasured her mouth, then nibbled her neck until she tossed her head back in complete surrender to his minimalist assault.

She was hardly aware as he worked the buttons of her blouse. His fingers danced down her midriff, magical and quick. The material fell away from her body like a silken cloud. Her skirt followed suit. She forced herself out of the pleasured trance long enough to grab the hem of his T-shirt and drag it up and over his head.

They still stood beside her bed, half-undressed and fully exposed to the light of the late-afternoon sun. She unbuckled his jeans, but he took control of kicking off his shoes and sliding the denim down his body. Once he was as exposed as she was, he took her hands in his and eased her onto the bed.

He positioned himself beside her, leaning on his elbow so he could devour her with his eyes. He ran his hand from her temple to her neck to her shoulder, then across her collarbone where he fingered the beauty mark in the center of her throat. He leaned forward and kissed the dark imperfection.

“I love this spot,” he murmured, running his tongue in tight, tiny circles around the mole, another gift she'd
received from her grandmother, who had exactly the same mark in exactly the same spot.

“My grandmother called it her dot of desire,” she said with a laugh. “I never really knew what it meant, but my father used to shush her whenever she said it.”

“It draws a man's eye to your throat, which is a highly underrated erogenous zone,” he said, continuing to bathe her neck in suckling kisses.

She moved to touch him, but he stayed her hand. “Keep still. I've waited a long time for this and I'm going to take my time.”

“So I'm just supposed to lie here and think of England?”

He chuckled, then did something with his mouth on her pulse point that knocked any thoughts of Britain out of her mind.

“No way, baby. I want you thinking about where you want me to taste you next. Show me where you want me, Abby, and I'm there.”

The challenge was so simple, and yet, so thrilling. She smiled, then pointed first to her lips. She missed his kiss. She missed his flavors. She missed the pressure of his hot mouth and thick tongue. She ran her hand over his jaw, loving the feel of his chin, so square and strong, as it undulated with his mouth.

“Where next?”

The choices were endless. He wanted to take this slow, and as foreign as this concept was to the two of them, she trusted that he had the right idea. She touched a spot between her collarbone and her breast, just above her beating heart.

He smiled, then attended to the spot, skimming his tongue across the lace of her bra, which she suddenly wished she'd removed. As if he'd read her mind, he slid
his hand beneath her back. She arched her spine, and with a flick, the tension broke. Her breasts, full and heavy with want, spilled out of the cups so that when she met his gaze and pointed to her nipples, her vision was blurred.