His remarkable blue eyes watered, and he tried to move his arms. They pushed against the inner walls of her thighs and she clenched. Strangely, she had the sense that he could break from her hold but didn’t. He relaxed and his cheeks colored.
For the second time since she’d met him, she saw a crack in the veneer of his movie-star composure. Sweat beaded across his brow, but he wasn’t afraid of her. It was something else. Was he ill? She eased off his neck, but kept her forearm gently there, ready to push at a moment’s notice. Her face was inches from his when she lifted a brow. “I’m waiting.”
“I-uh... I...” He swallowed, and then he groaned in an almost sexually, pained way.
His eyes darkened. The scent of hot-blooded male filled her senses, hitting every nerve and instinct, and when his mouth parted on a hissed breath, she was overcome with how divine those lips looked. Soft. Wide. Moist.
“It’s you,” he murmured again, as if that explained everything.
The baritone of his voice worked with his drugging scent to loosen every muscle in her body and warm her blood. She melted against him until her aching breasts touched his hard chest. The physical connection snapped something inside her—a slap in her mind’s eye. She shook her head to dispel the amorous feelings. What was wrong with her?
He was an intruder in her home! Not some sex toy.
She fisted his shirt on either side of his neck, lifted and shoved. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”
“I got tired of waiting. So sue me.” The words came out of his mouth, but his eyes drank in her features as though he were a thirsty man and she was an oasis.
Tired of waiting? For heaven’s sake. “How did you know where I live? Did Max tell you?”
He shrugged. The action moved his arms still pinned beneath her thighs and, damn if it didn’t bring an infuriating awareness there again.
“How did you get in?” she pressed, her voice huskier than intended.
Again, another shrug. Another minute flash of attention—there.
A moan escaped her lips. Her eyes widened in surprise. He craned his neck, reaching for her with his mouth.
Every logical thought fled her mind. All that was left was his intoxicating scent tickling her senses. Musky, heady and natural. He wanted to kiss her, and—goddammit—she wanted to let him. Inch by inch he strained closer. Closer. Electricity and anticipation hummed between them. There was no other reasoning but his lips as they met, and the seismic reaction afterward. The earth moved. The sky tumbled. The air thickened. He was the destruction of her world, of her inhibitions. This was raw, powerful and inescapable. She tunneled her fingers into his damp hair, and he slid his hands out to grip her waist and hold her to him until the pressure between their hips became unbearable and she rocked. Her mind began to shut down to make way for all the sensations of pleasure Tony brought as his tongue dueled with hers.
They kissed, lost in each other until a single word pierced her haze: ruin.
She pulled away and reason flooded in. Connection severed, she blinked, catching her breath as Tony resumed savoring her with his eyes.
This was wrong. She knew that, but she hadn’t been able to stop. Her lips felt tainted, bruised, wet. She wiped the back of her hand across them and huffed. Then her face twisted into fury and she slammed her palms on his chest.
“Ow,” he groused.
“You don’t get to come into my home, eat my cucumber, accost me, and then kiss me like...”
“Like I’ve been waiting for your taste my whole life?”
“I’m not one of your groupies, Tony. Those lines don’t work on me.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes, and then his attention dropped from her face down to her chest. They were back up in a flash. “Sorry. Shit. I’m not looking, I swear.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Not looking at wha—?” She glanced down. Her robe gaped, giving him unfettered access to her precious cargo. Both parts. Upstairs and downstairs. She readjusted to cover up. “Boy, I’m not going to ask again.”
His eyes opened and crinkled. “Boy? I like that. Cute.”
Goddamn it. It was what her grandmother used to call her father when he was in trouble, and the trouble had lasted well into his adult years. Tony wasn’t a child, but she felt like he needed schooling, and the word had just slipped out. She climbed off him. He gave a disappointed sigh. She started stalking to her bathroom, but pivoted at the last moment and came back to him as he lifted himself from the ground.
She pointed at his face. “This isn’t going to happen.”
“It already has.”
“You know what I mean.” Smug bastard.
“I know.”
“For the record, we’re not compatible. Men like you and women like me don’t mix.”
“Says who?”
“Me. I’m not into”—she waved at his face—“all that. And you can’t handle all of this.”
They were the wrong words to say to Tony Lazarus. He didn’t cower, he didn’t shy away, he stood tall and let his dark gaze drift down her body. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Go on. I dare you. Just say something about my body and I’ll throttle you to Kingdom Come.
“I mean, I have a big appetite. I need”—he gestured around her body—“all of that.”
Bailey opened her mouth for a retort, but Tony suddenly turned his back on her, hunching over his hands. “Fuck, it,” he cursed. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
Then he left her condo.
Just like that.
“Yeah. You go wait outside,” she said, as though it were her idea.
Stunned, and a little confused, she strode to her room. What just happened? Did he come onto her and then change his mind? Typical. Exactly what she expected from a mercurial movie star.
But as Bailey dressed into her suit, the back of her mind flashed an image of when Tony turned his back on her; a blue glow had refracted against the wall. Had he pulled out his cell? At the idea of him either filming, recording, or dismissing her so suddenly, irritation battered her nerves. By the time she was done preparing her makeup and hair, she was ready to call Max and have a quiet word with her boss.
This kind of behavior from a client was wrong. She didn’t care if he was Max’s future brother-in-law. It was goddamned wrong. She would request to be reassigned first thing in the morning.
Five
Sensing sin was no walk in the park. For a skill steeped in righteousness, it wasn’t The Rapture, and it wasn’t divine. It was grime and damnation wriggling in Tony’s gut, and it was only through sheer stubbornness, or complete intoxication, that he survived this semblance of what some people called life. Gluttony was something that occurred every hour, minute, and second. It was the indulgence of the rich and powerful. It was the meal of an infant or the excess of a friend. And now that he was forced to stay away from the toxins that drowned his discomfort, gluttony was Tony’s nightmare.
When he crossed the studio threshold, the sense of sin grew heavy in his gut. A crowd of revelers would always do that to him. Sickly and like a beacon, the sense tugged him in one direction and then the next. Whoever imbibed the most would cause the biggest reaction. Not all piggish excess was deadly, not all was sin, but he felt it all the same.
Party already in full swing, production staff and actors milled about on the stage set where he’d filmed his last scene. To the world who’d see it from the other end of a lens, it was a city alley and street complete with upturned cars from the action sequence, and other fallen debris. One of the giant gorilla costumes sat on a chair, pretending to drink at the temporary bar underneath the window of a fake barber shop. Music played from somewhere, but Tony’s eyes had halted wandering, and zeroed in on the bar with longing.
His mouth dried, he swayed a little, and he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets to keep them from glowing accidentally. So far he’d managed to suppress the new, strange power, but it crawled
beneath his skin, needing to get out and he had no time to investigate it. So he resisted like a junkie yearning to itch his veins. He’d had plenty of practice stifling his urges, and also plenty of practice succumbing. The sooner he was done with this party and his contractual obligation, the better.
“You okay?” Bailey asked as she came up next to him.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her clever eyes made a pointed dip at his hidden hands. “You’ve put your hands in your pockets. You’re also sweating and your face has paled.”
For a moment, he stared at her, undecided on how to respond. The woman read him like raw post-production footage. He felt naked. Unedited.
“Do you like watching me?” he asked.
She blinked and then turned her gaze back to the crowded room. “Yeah,” she answered dryly. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
“It’s okay. You can admit it. I saw your Netflix watch list.”
She gaped. “You turned on my television?”
“Had to do something while waiting for you to get out of the shower.”
A muscle in her jaw twitched, and he grinned. “Not one, but three Tony Lazarus films.”
She rolled her eyes and waved her hand toward the party. “After you.”
Crisis averted, the tension in his shoulders eased. He didn’t need her looking too closely at him. Turning back to the crowd, he steeled himself. Showtime. Plastering the playboy persona on his face, he sauntered further into the joint and raised his hands, shouting, “Let’s get this party started!”
Already halfway inebriated, most of the crowd turned and cheered. Before he knew it, he was surrounded by co-workers, strangers, and more—all wanting a piece of him, or rather, the person he wanted them to see. One by one, the carrion picked him apart until only bones remained. Through it all, he grinned and bared it with one eye on them, the other on his mate, standing stoically to the side, watching his back… or more correctly, watching him.
An hour in, his agent sidled up to his side, interrupting Tony’s selfie shot with two winners from the studio fan club competition. Chet Truscott was a man Tony had once identified with. He’d spent the first years of their business together asking Tony what he needed. Now, the fifty-something-year-old man wearing Armani only cared to ask what Tony could do for him. He wasn’t meant to be at the wrap party, but there he was.
“Tony,” the man stated with a dismissive glance at the groupies. “I need a word.”
Tony held his finger up at Chet, then beamed at the two enthusiasts. A robust woman in her fifties, and her younger, pink-cheeked daughter. They both wore T-shirts that had a picture of his face. “Thank you, ladies for your time. I hope you enjoy the rest of the party. Those shirts are hashtag-adorbs.” He kissed each woman gently on the back of her hand. It was pretentious actor shit, he knew, but he didn’t care. They loved the attention, and he loved the response. Giggles and blushes abound. Spending time with his fans was something he’d always loved. There was something in the way they saw him. It wasn’t Tony, nor Gluttony, but the character he played. Some actors complained at being confused with their characters, but he loved it. He lived for it. Any chance he got, he encouraged it.
After the women reluctantly turned away, Tony’s smile dropped, and he focused on his agent. “Didn’t think this sort of party was your thing, Chet.”
“Oh, you know me, always at the beck and call of my clients.” Chet swirled the amber liquid in his whiskey glass.
Tony scoffed. “You haven’t becked my call in years.”
Chet’s eyebrows lifted at Tony’s mocking tone. “Really? That’s how you’re going to play it?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tony averted his gaze unconsciously toward his bodyguard. Bailey stood in a quiet corner, hands behind her back, stoically watching him.
“Let’s get something straight, Tony,” Chet said, drawing Tony’s attention back. “This industry moves fast. You’re already a has-been so don’t get cocky. You’re not my biggest client, yet you’re my biggest time suck.”
“I love you too.”
“Have you read the scripts I sent over?”
“Maybe.”
“For fuck’s sake. If you don’t pick something soon, you’re no good to me.” Chet shot back the remaining whiskey from his glass. “Have an answer to me by the end of the week or you’re dropped.”
The sad truth was Chet was the best agent in town. He had connections. He’d made Tony, and he knew it.
Chet pointed his empty glass at Tony with a warning in his narrowed eyes. “End of the week.”
Then he was gone, lost in the crowd of noisy revelers.
The scent of Chet’s whiskey still burned into Tony’s olfactory and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself at the makeshift bar. The tall lanky barman wore coke-bottle spectacles that turned his eye color a cloudy gray.
“What can I get you?” the barman asked.
Tony considered. The night had taken a turn and the rolling in his gut was becoming unbearable. It was either leave or get a drink and become numb. Make that shell fill up with something.
Just one.
“Scotch on the rocks,” he answered.
The man nodded and left to prepare the drink, pulling out a clean glass from the rack.
Tony exhaled a long, drawn out breath. He placed his palm on the back of his neck and squeezed. Just one drink. No harm, no foul.
A change in the atmosphere to his right signaled her arrival. Talk about a craving. She was the temptation he couldn’t have. The haven in his nightmare. Just touching her would block out all sin-sensing, and she knew nothing about it. She thought he was a jerk. Maybe he was. This is torture.
“You don’t want that drink,” Bailey stated, her velvet voice low enough for his ears only.
His gaze slid sideways. Standing half a foot shorter than him, she was an impressive woman. Classically beautiful, tall, and striking. How she managed to slide under the radar was beyond him. Throughout the night, rarely a person looked her way. She tried to play down her beauty with boring pantsuits and little makeup.
No colleague asked why she shadowed him. He’d originally assumed word had gotten around about the stalker gift in his trailer, and the need for a bodyguard. Gossip like that was always front and center, and his co-stars were always the first to enjoy a bit of friendly ribbing. But if word had indeed gotten out, he’d have known it by now.
No, he believed no one noticed Bailey because she was good at being a ghost, at pretending she blended with the furniture. There was something about the decor in her condo. It felt thrown together, sparse and almost like a display model home. There was no connection there. No life. It seemed furnished by the salesperson. Not a single family photograph, no identifying paraphernalia. Only the pictures of a tropical getaway merited pause. Sloan’s quick report over the phone earlier today had been lacking in regard to Bailey’s pre-CIA life. Boarding school in her youth. Rich, dead parents she never visited, or took their money. She’d donated it all to charity instead. Before she worked for the agency, she was basically a ghost. Exactly what the agency liked.
Tony tore his gaze from her and brought it back to the barman. He placed the glass on the bench before heading off to the next customer. Tony reached but was stopped by long, elegant brown fingers wrapped around his tanned wrist. The contrast between their two worlds was never so evident as that joining, but when the grimy sense of gluttony in his gut disappeared, he knew he had to have her. He stumbled, adjusting to the new serenity. It was a biological response that had been programmed into his DNA. Each of the Deadly Seven reacted upon contact with their mate with an almost medicinal response. The sick sense in their gut disappeared, and the concentration of sin in their blood reset. They felt human. He could have wept at the sudden absence of queasiness, and he could have gathered her into his arms. Instead, he took her calming scent in and breathed. She smelled like soap with a hint of coconut.
Mistakin
g the reason for his fumble, Bailey’s grip on his wrist tightened, and she steadied him.
“Are you okay?” Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd for danger.
That was the second time she’d asked that tonight. The awareness hit him squarely in the chest. He’d only a moment to comprehend, maybe she doesn’t hate me, but then he remembered her wiping her mouth with the back of her hand after they’d kissed.
No, she was disgusted with him.
His power—whatever it was—throbbed beneath his skin. It started with a light drum and strengthened to an aching hammer. From his legs up his torso… in his neck.
Aghast, he looked down. A blue glow pulsed in his veins, keeping time with his ever-increasing heart rate. Anyone with their eyes on him would see. Something powerful, untamed, and hot wanted to get out of his body. Here. In front of everyone.
This could be dangerous.
Bailey’s grip released, and she took a step back, stunned eyes on his forearms, on the light coalescing in his hands. “What the hell, Lazarus?”
He shook his hands, flexed his fists, and instinctually suppressed the powerful urge. “It’s nothing. Special effects I forgot to wash off. The paint glows under these lights.”
Pulsing. Throbbing.
He ground his teeth and held his breath.
Need to release.
Come on, come on. Hold it together, Lazarus. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re an actor, so act normal.
Tony calmed, the blue glow faded, but it was too late. The look on Bailey’s face said she didn’t believe him. Casting a glance over his shoulder revealed they were alone in their observation. The party-goers were too busy ingesting whatever substance was their poison. None had seen his slip up.
Scotch forgotten, Tony turned and headed for the exit. Barging through the crowd, he ignored greetings thrown his way. He had to get out. Had to go home.
His Ducati was still in the parking lot.
The instant he slipped out of the studio warehouse, he broke into a jog, knowing full well that Bailey would come after him, and he couldn’t explain what happened. Not yet. Not without knowing if he could trust her. Even then, what would he say? Oh, that blue glow? It’s nothing. Doesn’t do a thing but look pretty. Typical.
Gluttony Page 5
