Into Temptation

by Pam Godwin

  She wasn’t the only one asking the question. It took two to engage in eye contact, and when she and Cole stared at each other, both of them sizzling in the charged air, she saw her reaction on his face. She saw her shock, her curiosity, her what if?

  Under no circumstances was she expecting his gaze to grab her and twist her up like it did. She wasn’t expecting the sheer intensity in his eyes as they imprisoned hers, seeing her as something other than an enemy.

  Deep down, beneath the scars of loss and the vitriol that had led her here, she was a woman like any other, with longings and vulnerabilities and dreams that had nothing to do with violence and death.

  She’d done well enough to bury that softer side over the past eleven years, and in one goddamn look, Cole Hartman brought it to life.

  She blamed the dimples.

  And his mysterious confidence.

  Not to mention his alluring sex appeal, the rugged build of his powerful body, the sculpted flex of his ass, and the untamed beard that should smell disgusting in its unwashed state but instead only added to his masculine potency.

  Damn him for being so devilishly, unfairly handsome.

  And damn him for putting these foolish musings in her head.

  Watching him heave stone after stone wasn’t helping her concentration. She shouldn’t be affected. This was a job. If she started warming to him, years of training and sacrifice would be forfeited.

  She couldn’t afford to lose all the progress she’d made just because the job happened to be a sexy son of a bitch.

  She. Could. Not. Fail.

  No more what-ifs. No spontaneous explorations of possibilities. Any deviation from the plan was bad for her and this operation. Because one thing was certain. Cole was precisely the type of man who would use her and leave her for dead when he finished.

  As he trudged between the pallets, his teeth clenched with exertion. He’d lost muscle mass, but he’d started out with so much. Far more than the average man.

  He still had a decent amount of brawn flexing through his frame. And a golden complexion. Pillowy lips. A chiseled face. His expression, when at rest, wore a natural smile. Flirtatious without even trying. Dangerous to the core. He was a gorgeous, tattooed beast.

  If she had a type, it was Cole Hartman. She imagined he was every woman’s type. Including the one he let go.

  Danni Savoy.

  The pretty dancer was inked on his forearm amid a collage of unrelated designs and symbols. She glimpsed a motorcycle, an inverted cross, several suns, a leaf, chains, a spider web, and dozens of other illustrations too small to make out at this distance.

  The artwork sleeved both arms and half of his chest. And though she hadn’t stolen a glimpse of him naked, Mike had mentioned there was a large black snake coiled around his thigh.

  This wasn’t a guy who put fortuitous ink on his skin. Every piece told a story, a secret, and she wanted to learn them all. Starting with the dancer.

  She knew very little about Danni aside from his relationship with her. They’d dated for ten months. Got engaged. Then he took a job that separated them for three years. That job was the reason he lost her to his best friend.

  It was also the reason he was here.

  Danni was his greatest weakness. She was also untouchable. Married to an obscenely wealthy casino owner, she was surrounded by a team of bodyguards at all times and hadn’t left the security of the casino since Lydia’s team started watching her.

  Cole must’ve alerted her husband of possible danger. Not that it mattered. Lydia had what she needed to coax Cole into compliance.

  If he thought his time in that cell had been unbearable, he had no idea what she was saving him from. She was the only thing standing in the way of his unspeakable suffering.

  But if she failed to hold up her end of the bargain, he was a dead man.

  Keeping him in the dark—literally and figuratively—was for his own good. And hers. She needed him alive.

  Strangely, though, he wasn’t demanding answers about why he was here and what they wanted. Wasn’t he wondering why she used isolation and thrash metal over common methods of torture? Maybe his silence was some sort of tactic.

  Hard to tell what he was thinking. Right now, he appeared fully engrossed in his task. A task that had been designed to test his cooperation. He was smart enough to realize that. But there were so many things he didn’t know.

  Halfway through the pallet, he took a break, standing beside her and breathing heavily. As he licked his lips, she couldn’t look away from that diabolical mouth.

  His gaze raked down her body and lingered on her legs. Then it made a return trip, stroking her like fire. A fire she intended to play with.

  He met her eyes. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “To keep you guessing.” She handed him a bottle of water.

  “Here’s my guess.” He drained the bottle in one long gulp and tossed it aside. “You’re an attention whore.”

  “Do you think I’m a whore because I have your attention? Or do I have your attention because you think I’m a whore?”

  “I think you’re trying too hard. You’d get a lot further with me if you spoke clearly, dropped the act, and washed that shit off your face.”

  Ouch. He didn’t like her makeup? Or her accent?

  “Oh, Cole.” She rose to her feet, the heels putting her at eye-level with his lips. “I want you to accept me for who I pretend to be.”

  “You’re a fucking freak,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. No judgment. All heat. “That much is real.”

  “Yes, and you like it. You like it so much you want to ride it. See where it takes you. But here’s a spoiler.” She pressed closer, letting her chest brush against his. “It’s a ride you won’t ever get off.”

  “Is that what happened to Mike? He hopped on the ride and lost his balls?”

  She glanced over his shoulder and found Mike’s hard eyes tracking her like a hawk. His scowl conveyed his displeasure, but he wouldn’t intervene unless she was in trouble.

  “Mike is my partner.”

  “Do all your partners love you?”

  Nope. Just one.

  She rested a palm on the warm, hard ridge of his pec. “I have that effect on people.”

  “Not on me, darlin’.” He bent in, his breath hot against her mouth. “If you want to turn me into a boy toy, if that’s your big plan, you need a new one.”

  Slowly, he edged closer, deleting the space between their lips. His hand slid beneath her hair and around her nape. Warm fingers. Calloused and strong. His beard tickled her chin. Scratchy. Musky. All man. The heat of his mouth blanketed hers. Taunting. Not quite touching.

  Her throat went dry, and uncertainty dipped in her gut as she waited, dreading, anticipating. It was the longest second of her life.

  But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he scraped his teeth against her upper lip, biting at the flesh above. Then he surprised her again by stepping back, his gaze strangely vacant.

  Her skin tingled where his teeth had been. She reached up to touch beneath her nose and… “The fuck?”

  The piercing was gone. He’d bitten the jewelry right out of her lip.

  He angled toward the pallet and spat the tiny stone stud into the rock debris.

  “How?” She trailed her tongue along the inside of her lip, seeking the tiny hole. “There was a back on it.”

  “Not anymore.” He gave her a smile that he’d borrowed from Satan himself. A beautiful smile. Cruel. And far too smug for her liking.

  She wanted to smack it off his face. So she did. With an open palm, she slapped him hard, sending an echoing whack through the warehouse.

  It only made his smirk widen, lighting up his eyes. He didn’t even flinch.

  “Mighty arrogant,” she said, “for a guy who’s looking at another two weeks in isolation.”

  “You won’t put me in there that long again.” He turned away, grabbed a rock from the pile, and trucked it toward the other pall
et.

  “Why is that?”

  “You’ll miss me.” He chucked the stone, landing it perfectly onto the platform and saving himself a few steps.

  Miss him? She didn’t even know him. That was the problem.

  She knew he was allied with the Colombian cartel, was in love with a married woman who lived in St. Louis, had a team of criminals whose identities couldn’t be traced. And he had information. Extremely valuable information that she needed.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t a job she could just aim a gun at and demand compliance. It required discretion, delicate handling, and perfect timing.

  She met Mike’s narrowed gaze across the warehouse. He looked angry. And concerned. He didn’t think she could pull this off, but she didn’t have a choice.

  Cole lumbered back and forth between the pallets, hauling rocks, working muscles, silent and watchful. His eyes were always watching, studying everything and everyone around him.

  As he neared the bottom of the pile, he bent to snatch a large chunk of granite. A sharp hiss sounded beneath his breath, and he jerked back, empty-handed.

  The piece he’d attempted to lift had a wicked sharp edge, and now, it was stained in blood.

  For a moment, he just stood there, his brown eyes fixated on his hand. Beads of crimson welled from a deep gash on his palm and trickled down his fingers, dripping from the tips.

  Momentary shock held her immobile, her pulse propelling through her veins. He didn’t move, either, probably stunned by the pain.

  The gush of blood didn’t slow. Rivers of it collected in a growing puddle on the floor between them.

  “Put pressure on it.” She glanced around for something to stanch the flow.

  There was nothing soft or clean in the vicinity. It was a stone factory, for fuck’s sake. All hard surfaces and layers of dust.

  “Shall I use my filthy hand to put pressure on it?” He cocked his head, chillingly calm. “Or some other part of my unwashed body?”

  There was a first-aid kit somewhere in the private quarters. She shrugged.

  “You didn’t throw me in that room for sixteen days to let an infection take me.” His gaze lowered, scrutinizing the material of her dress.

  She stepped back, gripping the skirt. “I’m not destroying my clothes to bandage your hand.”

  “Give me your underwear.”

  Her head jerked back, her mind running at top speed. But once she got over the shock of his command, she saw it as an opportunity to negotiate.

  “There’s a rumor going around.” She toyed with a lock of her hair. “They say you won’t touch a woman.”

  His jaw twitched, his expression otherwise blank.

  “Is it because of her?” She directed her eyes to the dancer tattooed on his arm. “I know you still love Danni. But it’s been seven years. You let her go and yet, you’re still faithful to her?”

  That prompted a reaction. His nostrils pulsed. His shoulders tightened, his whole body fighting to rein in his temper.

  “That’s right, Cole. I know her name. I know what she means to you, and I know she lives in the penthouse of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel in St. Louis.”

  He squeezed his hands into fists, wringing a torrent of blood onto the floor.

  “I’ll give you my panties if you give me something in return.” She winged up a brow.

  His eyes fired menacingly, his mouth a slash of unholy objection.

  “Calm down.” She softened her accent. “This is easy. Just tell me the last time you had sex.”

  He drew in a long breath through his nose, released it, and said nothing.

  “Be reasonable,” she said. “You’re so close to eating a decent meal. Just give me an honest answer. Then you can wrap up that hand and finish the last few stones.”

  He straightened his spine and took a step forward. She held her ground, gazes locked.

  His heat enveloped her, his scent ripe with sweat and dark masculinity as he put his mouth near her cheek.

  “Seven years.” His head tipped, his eyes sharp, confident, and oh-so-close. “The panties. Now.”

  Seven years.

  Holy.

  Fuck.

  Her heart galloped at his proximity, the authority in his voice, and the implication of his words.

  Seven years ago, Cole ended his relationship with the woman he loved. Yet he’d remained faithful to her all this time?

  Whatever the reason, his answer filled Lydia’s chest with giddy warmth. Too much. Damn her, but she respected his self-restraint at a depth that had nothing to do with the job.

  There was something so very appealing and admirable about a man who didn’t fuck everything in a skirt. And let’s be clear. He absolutely could. With a crook of his finger, he could have any woman—single, married, or cloistered in a convent—on her back and moaning beneath him. The man was virile. Sexually charged. A deadly ladykiller.

  And celibate.

  How rare was that? It told her that sex meant something to him. It also confessed an inhuman degree of self-control. She couldn’t abstain like that. She’d never even tried.

  Christ, what would it be like with him? Seven years of pent-up intensity? The hunger and urgency? The explosiveness? She couldn’t fathom it.

  She would soon find out. Except it wouldn’t be real. The only relationship she could entertain with him was a false one, steeped in lies and coercion.

  Even so, she never backed out of a promise.

  Without breaking eye contact, she reached beneath the dress and dragged down her panties. He didn’t give her space, not an inch, as she carefully worked the silk past her hips without flashing the room.

  In the bent position, her gaze went straight to his fly. It was right there, clinging precariously to the bulge beneath and exposing a trim patch of hair. Amid the short brown curls lay the base of his cock, thick and angled down, trapped by the sagging waistband. Even in his flaccid state, the root was substantial, promising the rest of him would be more than satisfying.

  She wanted it. The dirtiness. The wrongness of it. She wanted him.

  But this wasn’t about her.

  “I’m waiting.” He yanked up his jeans, covering himself and breaking the spell.

  She swallowed and let the underwear drop to her ankles. Then she straightened and met his eyes.

  If he wanted the panties, he would have to get them himself.

  He didn’t waver.

  Lowering to a crouch, he touched his uninjured hand to the back of her heel. She lifted it just enough to allow the garment to slip free. He moved to her other leg, repeating the action. Only this time, his hand lingered.

  She stared straight ahead, trying not to react, even as every molecule in her body homed in on his touch.

  Four fingertips, like four low-burning flames, ghosted up her ankle. The pressure was so subtle she wondered if she imagined it. But the goosebumps… Dear lord, she was shivering, burning up, unable to rein in her breathing.

  The pads of his fingers traveled up her calf and teased the back of her knee. Her legs liquefied, her thighs aching to part, causing her heels to totter ever-so-slightly. He noticed and closed his hand around her leg, steadying her.

  Her cheeks caught fire, her palms hot and clammy. She lifted her foot, stepping out of the panties and away from his torturous touch.

  Slowly, he rose to his feet, all six feet and then some soaring over her. Her heart beat uncontrollably. Her lungs panted, her entire body flushed and overheated. And he looked aloof. Unfazed. Disinterested.

  Cold as ice.

  His indifference didn’t thaw as he lowered his attention to the red silk in his hand. With a clinical efficiency, he wrapped the material around his injury, staring directly at her as he used his teeth to tie it off.

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t. The man was fucking potent.

  Then, as if nothing had happened, he returned to the pallet and resumed his task.

  Really, nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.


  Except the entire atmosphere had changed. It felt heavy and loud, buzzing along her skin and choking her lungs. Fucking hell, she needed to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air.

  But the masochist in her waited.

  She waited until he finished. Then she waited as he sat on the floor and tucked into his hard-earned meal. She couldn’t detach her gaze from his strong throat as he drank deep swigs of beer. The pleasure on his face was glorious, breathtaking, and inconceivably mesmerizing.

  He didn’t speak while he ate, but his eyes stayed with her, watching her while he chewed, contemplating her while he finished off the beer with relish.

  The muffled conversation between Mike and the guards drifted from across the warehouse. They’d remained within eyeshot, but she barely noticed them.

  When Cole swallowed the last bite, he set the empty containers aside and stared at the red silk around his hand. Moments passed before he met her eyes and asked the question she’d been waiting to hear.

  “Why am I here?”

  “You have something I need.” At his silence, she sighed. “Eleven years ago, information of political value fell into the hands of a bad actor.”

  His stare was steady, unflinching. “Was it stolen from the U.S. government?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Digital property?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who stole it?”

  “Marie Merivale.” She pursed her lips. “You caught her and put her in prison for life, but the digital property is still missing. I need you to tell me who bought it from her.”

  He made a low whistling sound and leaned back against the crate behind him. “Who do you think I am?”

  Retired military? Undercover operative? Secret agent? The sexiest James Bond in real-life and fantasy? Who the fuck knew?

  All she had to go on were rumors. His name was whispered in the shadows of the underground criminal world from Bucharest to Bogota. Too much talk from the women about his sex life—or lack thereof. Not enough talk from the men about his business dealings—no one really knew. But the gossip about his alliance with the Restrepo Cartel had proved true.

  As far as she could discern, he once worked for a U.S. agency. But now, he reported to no one and operated outside the boundaries of the law.