by Cassie Miles
Thinking of him soothed her nerves. Her eyelids gently opened, and she was pleased to see the pale yellow she’d chosen to paint the walls. She inhaled the vanilla and cinnamon scent from her homemade potpourri. She didn’t mind being here. Maybe Davidoff had been on to something when he’d arranged for a duplicate bedroom.
Rafe tapped on the door. “Are you decent?”
“I’m dressed.”
He stepped inside, carrying a tray with two tall glasses of iced tea and a small bag of Zapp’s spicy potato chips. “The tea is sweet,” he said.
“That’s how I like it.” Iced tea in Chicago wasn’t typically sweetened, but her mom had clung to her southern habits, and Alyssa was fond of the sugary flavor. “Thanks, Rafe, but I have to ask. Are you buttering me up?”
“You insult me.” He placed the tray on the dresser, handed her a glass of the tea and took the other for himself. Then he tossed the bag toward her. “Chips?”
“There’s nothing yummier than the Cajun gator flavor.” She tore open the bag. A sip of cold tea and a crisp bite of spicy heat made a perfect combination. “How did you know that I love these chips?”
“Remember, cher, I’ve been watching you for two and a half weeks.”
The idea of having him stalk her had been insulting when he first told her, but now his constant observation felt like a compliment. “What else did you learn about me?”
“You like to go running in the morning and don’t mind working up a sweat. The gym doesn’t hold your attention as well, not even the swimming.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I never got into the lap swim. And I don’t like diving into cold water.”
“I guessed as much.”
When she realized that he’d been watching her in the pool, she wondered what he thought of her sleek one-piece swimsuit with the high-cut legs. She didn’t want to seem conceited, but she was proud of being fit. She nibbled another chip. “What about you? Do you work out?”
“But of course.”
Their conversation was beginning to sound like pickup lines at a bar, which was crazy, because they ought to be past that kind of chitchat. “You know a lot more about me than I know about you. I don’t have to tell you my astrological sign, which is Aries, by the way.”
“I know.”
“And you know that I’m terrible at crafts, except for making stinky potpourri. I’ve already told you about the places I’ve lived and the important things that have happened in my life. It’s like we’re jumping into the middle of a friendship instead of poking around the edges.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I think you’ll like where we’re headed.”
Her pulse began to accelerate. He’d kissed her within moments of introducing himself at the parade, but that had been a polite kiss on the forehead. If she was reading his intention correctly, Alyssa knew she was in for the real thing. “You’re in the driver’s seat, Rafe. Where do you want to take me?”
Chapter Fifteen
Alyssa had lobbed the ball into his court. There was nothing to do but sit back and wait for Rafe to make the next move. Another kiss would be good—a serious, sexy kiss that was a whole lot more than a polite greeting. She made bold eye contact, staring deeply into the splintered facets of his gray eyes. Then she lost her nerve and looked away. Her breath tangled in her throat. Her heart beat faster.
Every passing second felt like an hour, and she mentally prepped herself for the possibility that he’d reject her advance even though she felt their attraction when they touched, heard it in the way he called her cher and saw his appreciative glances. He liked her looks, and she knew it. But other stuff stood in the way, like his need to protect her, the temptation of the missing millions, which he had to be thinking about, and—most importantly—trust.
She hadn’t been completely honest with him. Did he know it? Did he sense it?
He reached toward her and took the glass of iced tea from her hand. Without a word, he carried both glasses to the dresser and set them down where they wouldn’t spill. When he came back to the bed and sat close to her, her pulse was racing faster than a drumroll.
Gently, he took her hand and said, “I want you to trust me.”
Had he been reading her mind? Were they on the same page? Please don’t ask about Horowitz, please. She felt her lips quiver. “Same here.”
“There’s something I need to tell you, cher. This might be difficult to hear.”
Was he married? He hadn’t mentioned a wife or a girlfriend. Neither Sheila Marie nor Chance had brought up the topic. But that might be Rafe’s big secret. She snatched her hand away from him. Darkly, she said, “There’s another woman.”
The expression of surprise on his face would have been comical if she hadn’t been so ticked off. He rattled off a stream of French that was liberally punctuated by denial before he switched to English. “I am not a perfect man. For years, I made my living undercover, telling lies. But I have never betrayed a woman I love. If I were married or involved with another, I would have told you from the start. No, ma chérie, there is no one else.”
“Then what is this big, fat secret and why will it be hard for me to hear?”
“I spoke to Davidoff on the phone.”
Five minutes ago, those words would have sounded a disturbing note of fear in her belly, but not anymore. Compared to the idea that Rafe might be hiding a secret wife, the mention of Davidoff seemed trivial. She had to wonder if her priorities were askew. “What’s up with Diamond Jim?”
“The photo of you that we took in the cemetery lit a fire under him. He thought you looked frightened, and he wants to meet.”
“With me?” She flapped her hands, waving away the request. “That’s not going to happen. Davidoff is a criminal.”
“I’m not so sure that he wants to harm you.”
“Because he hired you as a bodyguard? Ha! That’s no reason.” She scooted away from him on the bed, pulling her knees up and pressing her back against the headboard. “Did you forget about Jessop? He’s after the money, and he is most definitely in Davidoff’s pocket.”
“And possibly Charlotte, as well.”
Davidoff was the ringmaster, snapping his whip and directing the clowns, tigers and acrobats in this crazy circus. She didn’t want to believe that Rafe was part of the show, but he’d done Davidoff’s bidding. His orders had been to follow her and to decorate this room to match her own.
Moments ago, she’d thought the similarity was comforting. Was she falling under Davidoff’s spell? “I don’t understand what kind of game he’s playing, but I want no part of it.”
“He told me a secret that makes sense of everything,” Rafe said. “I promised not to tell, but it’s unfair to withhold this information. You need to know everything before you make your decision.”
The anticipation was nearly unbearable. “Spill it.”
“Viktor Davidoff claims to be your father.”
She was stunned. All her life she’d fantasized about the identity of her father, praying he was a prince and fearing that he was a monster. Her mom told her that he’d spent time with her when she was an infant. He’d held her and sang lullabies, but she couldn’t remember the words. There were no photos, no cards, not a single note from him. She had a hazy memory of her fourth birthday party, when he gave her the music box, and she seemed to recall him telling her that she was his favorite girl and he would always take care of her.
If Davidoff was that man, he hadn’t lived up to the promise. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
“Think about it,” Rafe said. “He didn’t want to put you and your mom in danger from his enemies. When he first moved to Chicago, there were clues that he was escaping from the Russian mob in New York.”
“I heard those rumors but I never paid much attention.” She shook her head. “He hasn’t been my father for twenty-seven years. Why now?”
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“I don’t know.”
In the back of her mind, a tiny spark of hope ignited. Was it possible? Having a father would change her core identity. If he truly was her father, Davidoff couldn’t be such a terrible person. Her mom never would have fallen in love with him. Maybe if she got to know him, she could accept him. And then she remembered...
As quickly as hope had been born, the light was extinguished. She glanced at the bedside table, where the lamp with the fringed shade stood beside the potpourri. “Where’s my music box?”
He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. “After you threw the box at the wall, I figured you didn’t want it anymore.”
“Give the thing to me.” As soon as she held the box in her hand, she knew it was a fake. The wood wasn’t as smooth as the original, and the patina was lighter. “My father gave me a music box when I turned four. Not this box but another. Before I went to sleep, I’d rub the wood against my cheek. And I’d open the lid and listen to the music—my music, ‘Lara’s Theme’ from Dr. Zhivago.”
She flipped open the lid and heard “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
“Davidoff never mentioned the tune,” Rafe said. “Your real father wouldn’t have allowed me to make that mistake. He would have given specific instructions.”
The trick Davidoff had tried to pull on her was beyond cruel. He had played on the emotional needs of a fatherless child who had also lost her mom. She had no family. Asking Charlotte to be part of her life was like trying to bond with a feral cat. “He’s truly a bastard.”
“His claim was strange but somehow made sense,” Rafe said. “He hired me to protect you, which is what a father would do. When he talked about you, he seemed sincerely concerned about your well-being. And Lara is a Russian name, short for Larissa. Davidoff might have chosen that name for his daughter. Lara Davidoff?”
“Yuck! Mom picked my name because she thought it sounded pretty. And it’s not like Davidoff is the only Russian I know. Lots of people come from that part of the world, like Mr. Horowitz. His first name, Max, is short for Maksim. And one of the McGill brothers married a Russian woman who blames me for testifying against her husband.” Alyssa’s temperature was rising, and the initial hurt she felt was turning to rage. She rose up on her knees. “Why are we talking about this? I’m not Davidoff’s daughter. There’s no way I’ll agree to meet with him.”
“I’ll find a way to get rid of him.”
Still angry, she climbed off the bed and stalked across the bedroom to the dresser, where she grabbed her iced tea and took a long drink. The cool liquid failed to quench the fire burning in her belly. “Why would he make up that particular lie? What did he hope to gain?”
“Your trust.”
She steamed across the bedroom and back to the bed. After she placed her glass on the bedside table next to the Zapp’s bag, she hopped onto the chenille spread. Rafe watched her warily as though she were an exotic creature in a zoo.
“I’ll never trust Davidoff,” she said.
“Is there anyone, cher? Anyone whom you trust?”
Though she could have run down a long list of associates and friends who watered her plants when she wasn’t home, that wasn’t really what he was asking. Rafe wanted to know if she trusted him—a fair question. He’d proven his loyalty many times over. Now that he’d told her about Davidoff’s grand scheme to pose as her absentee father, she had the feeling that all his cards had been played. He had nothing left to hide.
There were dozens of other questions she could ask, teasing out the details of how he’d learned the colors in her bedroom and if he’d followed her home after a party at work when one of the servers tried to kiss her. She could ask about his time undercover and his other FBI assignments. But trust was a feeling, not an accounting.
She believed in him and didn’t need proof. “I trust you, Rafe.”
He lowered his arms and crossed the small bedroom in a few quick strides. First, he went to the two windows near the bed and pulled down the blinds to block the late-afternoon sunlight. The room dimmed, and she turned on her bedside lamp with the fringed shade. The glow was soft, soothing and intimate.
The first thing he took off was his shoulder holster, which he hung over the wooden chair by the tiny desk. Then he returned to the opposite side of her bed and held out his hand as though asking her to dance. She was so ready for this tango. When she grasped his outstretched fingers, he pulled her toward him. Rising up on her knees again, she closed the space between them.
His arm encircled her, and he gently rested his hand at the small of her back. She hadn’t felt her bruises for most of the day, but his nearness heightened her sensitivity. There was a twinge. Her nerves were humming. The surface of her skin prickled.
He leaned close and whispered, “I trust you, cher.”
She didn’t deserve his trust. She was still holding on to a secret. But she wasn’t about to switch gears and talk about Mr. Horowitz. Not right now. She was ready for this special dance with him and had been expecting it from the moment he’d introduced himself as a pirate at the parade. She glided the back of her hand down his cheek and held his jaw. Her thumb traced his lower lip and explored the dimple in his chin.
Her head tilted back, ready to receive the kiss that she knew was coming. His mouth joined hers with a firm but gentle pressure that elevated her desire into the stratosphere. She suspected he’d be a skillful lover. The man was French, after all. If this kiss was any indication, she wouldn’t be disappointed.
At just the right instant, the tip of his tongue tasted her lips and pushed inside to probe the interior of her mouth. Excitement pulsed through her. She wanted him to be closer, wanted to feel the weight of his body atop hers. Leaning backward, she pulled him off balance onto the bed.
Her maneuver wasn’t exactly graceful, and they ended up in a tangle of limbs. When they got their bodies sorted out, she was on her back. She wrapped her legs around his hips and reveled in the full-body contact. Her need was maybe a little too aggressive, because he slowed the pace and separated from her.
Breathing hard and wanting more, she gazed up at him. She was so mesmerized by his smoldering, sexy eyes that she hardly noticed when he started unbuttoning his white shirt. He was using only one hand, and it was taking too long.
“I’ll help.” Her fingers trembled as she unfastened the buttons. “Is there some word for what we’re doing in French? Some romantic phrase?”
“We call this sex,” he said.
“Oh good, we’re on the same page.”
With the buttons out of the way, she opened his shirt. Though she’d seen him bare-chested in the morning before breakfast, being this close was better. His skin was darkly tanned, and the hair across his pecs and washboard abs made an intriguing pattern. She drew a line down the center of his chest with her index finger, pausing to swirl the hair and admiring the tight muscularity from his collarbone to the waistband of his trousers.
“Your turn,” he said, interrupting her quest.
Within seconds, he’d removed her T-shirt and slipped off her bra. “Speedy,” she commented. “I didn’t even feel you unfasten the hooks. That must take years of practice.”
“I like looking at you,” he said. “You are magnifique.”
He used that word a lot, and she liked being in the same category as the Mercedes. Before she could make a smart comment, he lowered his head and nuzzled her breasts, paying particular attention to her nipples.
Her back arched, and she closed her eyes. A low moan slipped through her lips and hung in the air. There was no time for comments or chatter. She abandoned herself to the pleasure he coaxed from her body with his light caresses and kisses that covered her torso. She wanted more.
Wordless, they tore off the rest of their clothing. She pulled him against her with all the strength she could muster. She wanted him inside her. Clinging
to the last thread of conscious control, she felt truly alive. More, more, more! She didn’t want him to stop, not now, not ever.
Vaguely aware of what was happening, she realized that he’d put on a condom. Where did he get it? Did he keep a supply in the bedside table? She didn’t care but was glad that her bodyguard had taken the need for protection seriously.
He rose above her on the bed and spread her thighs. Shivering and shaking, nearly weeping, she endured gentle nips, licks and kisses that descended from her breasts to her belly to her groin. His fingers teased and manipulated, raising her level of arousal to amazing heights.
He covered her with his body. His heat flowed through her. His heartbeat synchronized with hers. Finally, he penetrated her. Her gasps became moans as he drove into her, harder and harder until she completely lost control and exploded like fireworks into a million sparkling pieces.
After the first glittering bursts, she lay back and enjoyed a rumbling earthquake of sensation that shook her from head to toe. It took a while for her breathing to return to normal and for her racing pulse to resume a sensible pace. Then another aftershock hit. She whimpered like a kitten.
He stroked her hair off her forehead. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, I’m fine. I’m fine.” Another tremor rippled through her. “How about you?”
He spoke to her in French. Though she didn’t know the language, she caught a few words about champagne and roses. “Translation?”
“It’s poetry, cher. I’m comparing your mouth to a rosebud and the taste of your breasts to the sparkle of champagne.”
She liked the musical French version better. “Whatever you’re saying, thanks.”
He lay back against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “At a time such as this, I hate to bring up unpleasant subjects, but we have an investigation that we might pursue tonight. Chance gave me a thumb drive with raw data from the accounts of the pawnshop and the inventory. I’ve glanced at the information. It means nothing to me, but you might be able to translate the numbers into leads.”
