Gluttony

by Lana Pecherczyk

  “Taking a shower. Want to join?”

  There went those brows again, but she didn’t speak.

  “Didn’t think so,” he added and then gestured into his room. “I stink. I itch. And I need to be at this party soon.”

  She cleared her throat. “Um. What time?”

  “About an hour.”

  She checked her watch and then met his eyes again. “You don’t need to go anywhere else before then?”

  He shook his head. Unlikely the family needed him, or if they did, they wouldn’t ask.

  “I’ll be back in fifty.”

  “I’ll only be a few minutes. Help yourself to a drink in the fridge and make yourself at home.”

  She didn’t even consider it. She just checked her watch again. “I’ll be back for you. Don’t go anywhere.”

  He frowned. “Where exactly do you have to go?”

  Instead of answering, she cast her eyes around his place. “Do you ever think about using your celebrity status for something else other than making money?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She sighed. “Nothing. I have to go.”

  “It doesn’t mean nothing.” He strode back toward her, only to have her back up from him. Then she planted her boots squarely on the floor and folded her arms.

  “Fine. You want to know what I meant?”

  “I’m all ears, babe.”

  “You’re a big-budget movie star, yet you squander your income away on booze and things—”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” He held up his finger. “Conjecture.”

  She frowned. “Don’t you ever have a serious conversation?”

  “I do when there’s something serious to talk about. Besides, I’m practicing. What do you think, does lawyer look good on me?”

  “You could be using your celebrity for good, for giving back to the community, but… never mind. It’s none of my business. I don’t know why I said anything.”

  It wasn’t her business, that was the truth, but she was the first person who had ever asked him to do something better with his money—with his status. Strangely, this meant something to her. She didn’t think he noticed the way her cheeks heated and her eyes brightened when she spoke about it. Whether she was just an opportunist who’d seen the chance to get in the ear of a celebrity, or a woman with altruistic tendencies, Bailey Haze had ideas about the world, and Tony didn’t fit into them.

  Or she was hiding something. Unease squirmed in his stomach, and he had to remind himself the woman was ex CIA. She was adept at keeping secrets. He didn’t get a chance to push the subject. She holstered her gun and left, leaving him watching the empty space she’d vacated.

  The woman intrigued him. She’d kept checking her watch during the drive. At first, he’d thought she was just eager to get her shift over, but...

  He slipped his cell phone out of his back jeans pocket and dialed a number.

  Two rings later, Sloan picked up. “Bras,” she greeted.

  “Sloanie.”

  “Wassup?” Muffled giggling came through, then it sounded like a hand covered the handset and—

  Tony held the cell away from his ear. He did not need to hear his sister making out with her man. Jesus. If this is the reason why Max couldn’t meet him at the studio.

  At least someone was seeing action. Since his rehab stint, he’d been encouraged to step back from all gluttonous activities. No drinking. No drugs. No gambling. No sex. That last one wasn’t in his contract, but he’d still followed the rehab rules.

  He had to, or risk falling.

  His stomach rumbled. Yep... hungry. On all accounts.

  Sloan came back. “Sorry, about that. Max is... um”—more giggling—“did you want something?”

  “You owe me.”

  “Max!” More shuffling, then the sound changed. “Okay, okay. I’m in another room. What do you need?”

  He paused. “I want information on one of Max’s employees.”

  “Bailey?” she teased. “The same woman you so gallantly offered to go and speak to a few months back?”

  “She’s the bodyguard Max assigned to help me. I don’t trust her. I want every piece of information you have on her.”

  “Well, it just so happens that I’ve already presented my background checks on Max’s staff, so I’ll just shoot that information through.”

  “Presented? When did you do that?”

  Sloan paused. “The other day at a family meeting.”

  “Without me?”

  “Don’t act so surprised. You were probably told.”

  Except, he didn’t think he was. They’d just stopped asking. And he’d stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.

  Four

  It was one thing for a client to act cocky, but it was another for him to strip before you and offer to share a shower. What was with men today? Did Bailey have a sign over her head that said Hit on me?

  In her small kitchen, Bailey stewed over the fact as she prepared herself a Cosmopolitan. She also tried not to think about his perfect torso and disarming smile.

  Honestly, what kind of man said things like that?

  Tony Lazarus, that’s who.

  Bailey measured out the cranberry juice and poured it into the cocktail mixer. She added the ice, vodka, triple sec, and lime, then popped the cap on and shook the damn thing like she was Tom Cruise, or rather Tony Lazarus in his latest college-boy film.

  She scoffed and shook her head. The man was blessedly endowed with all the right physical traits, and any woman would have jumped at the prospect of having a shower with him, but she wasn’t a one-hit-wonder kind of woman. She liked to take her time.

  Her ex-partners had called her intense. She just knew what she wanted, and Tony couldn’t give it to her. She liked it long and slow, not hard and fast. She liked it to last all night.

  Unless you’d like to join me. As if they could get any satisfaction with a quickie in the shower before heading out to a party. But then Tony had sardonically added, Didn’t think so.

  Which irritated her more, and she didn’t know why. It wasn’t like she was disappointed... was she?

  Absolutely not.

  She retrieved a martini glass from her cupboard and placed it onto the speckled kitchen bench. She poured the canister contents into it. Then she washed her cocktail shaker and upended it on the sink. When she returned to the Cosmopolitan, she didn’t pick it up. She touched the cool rim. A drip trickled down the stem and a memory rose to the surface.

  The condensation on the inside of a car window, trickling. Her heated breath. Wind buffeting outside. Metal creaking. The pain in her chest at the cold, vacant stare of her dead best friend, her body half through the windshield. Bailey dug the heels of her palms into her eye sockets and inhaled deeply. On the exhale, she glared at the Cosmo glass.

  I will not let you ruin me.

  You destroy lives.

  I am better than you.

  For another two minutes, she watched her drink and reminded herself of all the pain alcohol caused in her life. The loud angry slurs late at night. Her friend’s hair fanned out on the hood of the car. The empty harrowing hallway of the rehab center when she’d visited her mother. The gravestone of her parents at the cemetery.

  What a waste.

  Heartache wrapped around her chest and she used the feeling to steel her resolve before crippling doubt set in. Two minutes was all she allowed herself before she turned her back on the drink. She leaned her butt against the bench and folded her arms.

  Her living room wasn’t much to look at, but it was homey. It featured a cozy high-back winged lounge chair she’d found at a thrift store. Cushions and throw rugs galore. Crossword books on the coffee table—the kind you could win a prize with. A modest flat-screen television on the wall, and two paintings of a tropical hideaway graced the other walls. There was a matching set in her bedroom. In all her time working abroad with the agency, she’d never visited a tropical island. It had been the dreary p
arts of Europe, and not exactly what she’d envisioned when signing up. One day she would visit those places. She’d just rather not do it alone.

  She took a deep breath. Time for a shower.

  Moving to her room, she pulled out a black suit from her closet and laid it on her bed. Next to that, she placed her underwear—a cute blush-pink satin number with a bow between the balconette bra cups. She thumbed through a collection of hanging white dress shirts in her closet and settled on a black one. A white shirt would show her bra, and she felt like a little private luxury under her shirt. She wouldn’t concede to a flesh toned T-shirt bra tonight, especially when her expectations were of a night no doubt dealing with a drunk and intoxicated client. She deserved a little something for her trouble. She didn’t have high hopes that he would stick to his abstinence from booze. Addicts never did. And for some reason, bodyguard was a word synonymous with babysitter in this high-profile world.

  How did she get herself into these situations?

  Heading to her ensuite, she turned the shower faucet on, undressed and went under the spray.

  Tony may have pointed out that it wasn’t her job to investigate the stalker, but she couldn’t let it go. Not only had his comment hit too close to home, but she hated that he was hiding something. Besides, being told not to do something was the quickest way to ensure she did it.

  On her way back from his place, she’d not only grabbed a bite to eat, but put in a request with his studio for the security footage near his trailer. Unfortunately, because it was after hours and the indisputable fact that everyone in that industry worked on their own time, she’d have to wait until someone got back to her.

  To get to the bottom of the stalker, she’d have to work on discovering what Tony’s secret was. Probably an affair, these things always were. But something else tumbled in her gut... intuition, premonition... an inkling. Call it what you will. She only knew it meant something was not right with that family. She’d known it since Max disappeared on a secret mission for them and ended up with a bomb strapped to his chest.

  The part of her brain she’d fostered in the CIA was screaming at her to pay attention, and every cell in her body wanted to investigate further, but she’d promised herself that she’d put all that behind her. No more cloak and dagger business; she was on the straight and narrow. Stick with the stalker. Not everything was some grand conspiracy she had to crack. Being paranoid with life was one of the reasons she got out. She wanted something real. She wanted a nice life, not ruin. After years of loneliness, the Cosmo had started to look too good.

  Maybe she was over-thinking things. Maybe Tony wasn’t coming onto her. Maybe he was just being himself, and she didn’t even know quite who that was. There had been an obvious shift in his body language earlier, after he’d accused her of not liking him. It had been more than conceit. He’d been hurt. He wasn’t the person the public saw. He was guarded, obstinate, and perhaps even caring. Despite what he’d said, she knew he’d wanted his sister to work it out with Max. That blush of his had proven it.

  Tony was a hopeless romantic.

  That last word hadn’t meant to slip out. She held her breath and dunked her face under the hot stream of water. But... while she was at it, she may as well explore those thoughts. She couldn’t very well do her job tonight if she was focused on his good looks. And boy were they good. Better than good. Damned hot. The kind of sexy that shouldn’t exist. The kind that made you lose your words and hold your breath and squeak like a little mouse when he popped the top button on his jeans as you glimpsed a taste of the hard sacrilegious flesh beneath... his lack of perceived underwear.

  Good Lord.

  Another dunk under the water.

  The silver screen didn’t do him justice. She’d watched a few of his films after her first encounter with him months ago. For research. But seeing him in person today, in the hot-blooded flesh, was an experience she hadn’t been prepared for. It was different this time. Last time, he’d stunk of alcohol and acted like a slobbering loser. This time, he had his shit together. She saw the man who earned the multi-million-dollar paycheck. Charming. Charismatic. Playful. From his picture-perfect face, square jaw, wide lips, to eyes that smoldered and made you feel as though you were his whole world—simply by landing on you—he had presence. His shirt had fit his body like a glove. Every ropy muscle, line and curve demonstrated the gym in his trailer had gone to good use.

  She shut her eyes. His intense gaze was right there, stealing her breath. Goosebumps erupted over her flesh. Her nipples hardened. Desire bloomed low, and she pressed her thighs together to dispel the feeling.

  Maybe if she just… her hand slid down her wet body, bumping over her sensitized breasts and went lower… and then she remembered her interaction with him two months prior, when she’d accosted him in the Lazarus House lobby. He’d been with a woman at the time, but the moment he’d seen Bailey, he’d discarded the model on his arm like she was an afterthought.

  Nope. Hell, no.

  You will not ruin me, Tony Lazarus.

  She stepped out of the stream and shivered. He may not be a cocktail in a martini glass, but he would be an addiction all the same. He was a client. A playboy film star. There were quite literally millions of other women in the world who wanted to be with him, and there always would be. He would chew her up and spit her out. She was better than this.

  He couldn’t give her what she wanted.

  Packing her lust away—because that’s all it was, run-of-the-mill handsome-boy, lonely girl lust—she turned the faucet off, opened the shower stall door, and froze.

  The sound of her fridge door closing filtered through. Glass and metal tinkled. Someone was here.

  The shock of revelation drilled down to her bones, petrifying her, and then a muffled bang sounded from somewhere outside the ensuite. Maybe from the bedroom. Maybe still in the living area or kitchen because the bedroom door was open.

  Every muscle tensed. Every sound amplified as she reached with her ears. Another boot scuffle. Someone was definitely in her apartment.

  And she’d left her firearm on her bedside table.

  Shit.

  As quietly and efficiently as she could, she grabbed her dusky pink silk robe from the hook and then wrapped herself in it, drawing the strings closed across her waist. Water on her body darkened the silk in blooms of deep maroon, reminding her of blood. Holding her breath, she inched the ensuite door open with a toe and assessed through the crack.

  Her gun was on her bedside, locked in its holster. Her laid-out clothes were untouched. Nothing had been ruffled. The big duck-blue pillows were immaculately placed, and not a wrinkle existed on her matching coverlet.

  On the count of three, she opened the door a tad more. She waited. The intruder was quiet. Too quiet. As though he’d heard her turn off the shower and lay in wait.

  Who would be in her condo?

  Tony’s stalker, that’s who. Damn, she hated being right. She’d known it was a real threat. She just didn’t think the stalker would come after her first. Whoever it was must have seen her take Tony to his place and then followed Bailey home. This could be a misplaced preemptive strike.

  She opened the door wider, but as she did, the open doorway on the other side of her room filled with a shadow. On instinct, she moved. Forget the gun. Rush him. Get him down.

  She took two light-footed strides across her carpeted floor, but the shadow kept moving. She’d barely caught a glimpse of a purple covered shoulder, and then he was gone. He hadn’t seen her. Slowing her trajectory, she eased and flattened herself against the bedroom wall two feet from the door that led to the living room. Her chest lifted and fell with each schooled breath.

  Bailey craned her neck to see out and glimpsed a masculine hand rifling through her crossword puzzles. There was a crunching sound. It took her a moment to realize what it was. The damned bastard was eating something he’d taken from her fridge. From the crisp, clear intonation, it was probably the cucumber she�
�d been saving to use in her salad tomorrow.

  Darting a glance back to where her gun was on her bedside table, she considered going for it, but that would mean leaving the safety of her spot. She’d have to cross the open doorway zone, and that meant he’d see her. If he had a gun, he’d get to her first.

  From the casual way the hand rifled through her things, and his eating, it didn’t seem like he’d noticed her finishing her shower after all. She had the element of surprise.

  She used it.

  She rushed toward the stranger with his back to her. She slipped one hand under his arm, and the other around his neck to take him in a chokehold. She dragged him back to throw him off balance. It was supposed to give her more time to apply pressure to his throat, but his big hand came up to cover hers, and he rolled to the side.

  In a blink, she found herself on the ground beneath him.

  The wind knocked out of her lungs. Her eyes watered from the thud. When her vision cleared, she saw Tony Lazarus’s perfect face looming over her... still holding her hand. His hair was messy and a touch damp from his shower.

  Tony Lazarus.

  In her apartment.

  And he’d outmaneuvered her.

  “What the fuck?” she burst. That move had always worked on someone bigger than her.

  He frowned, eyes on their joined hands as if she’d burned him. “It’s you,” he murmured.

  “Of course, it’s me. This is my condo. What are you doing here?”

  Her response shocked him out of his daze, and he tugged to pull her up. Screw that. As he lifted, she hooked her heel around his ankle and used the changing momentum to push him backward. This time, it was he who landed with a jarring thud, and she who landed on top of him, trapping his arms to his sides with her thighs.

  The cucumber knocked from his hand and rolled across the carpet until it hit the base of her kitchen bench.

  Throwing her forearm onto his windpipe, she applied pressure with all her weight. “What the hell are you doing in my home, Lazarus?”