by Sarah Andre
The reasonable part of her buzzed a warning, but her reporter side rationalized through it. Wasn’t this the opportunity of a lifetime? More information for her article, right? Would Starr News pay more for a series? Her mom’s out-of-pocket medical expenses kept climbing every year.
She hobbled over and sat on the rim, unsure of where to look. In the end she stared out the partially steamy window at the cloudless, blue sky and the blindingly white, snow-burdened pine trees. She sipped her coffee, hoping to appear bored, but peripherally she was riveted by the ripple of his traps and lat muscles with each razor stroke. He seemed completely focused on his task, yet she couldn’t be the only one hyperaware of the sexual tension in here.
“What’s on deck for today?” he asked, and she did a decent job of reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the forest and facing him.
“We’ll concentrate on Roberto.”
“Good.” The word held fury and hope.
She cast about for something else to discuss. “So. Where’s your brother?”
“Dunno. He was gone when I woke up.”
“With the car?”
“I’m the only hell raiser in the family.” His eyes glinted devilishly. “He knows we need to leave for Aspen at nine. Wherever he is, he’ll be back in time.”
She relaxed a fraction. “And um…what were you saying last night about Russell Reeves?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled further. “Do you remember who he is today?”
“Of course.” Heat scorched her cheeks. “He dated Tiffany.”
“He’s also the guy who filmed that YouTube video. I finally remembered.”
She gaped at him. The two guys Tiffany dated the last two weeks of her life were in the same bar the night she ended up dead? No way was that a coincidence. Reeves was definitely on the list to be seen today. Which left one more.
“Do you think once I finish with Vannini and Marcy this afternoon I could meet Wolf?”
His chuckle resonated through her. “Again with this? Seriously, Wolf’s not worth wasting a minute of your time on. I promise.”
“Indulge me. Just call and see if he’s available, please?”
He shrugged, swirling the razor a final time. His face was now baby smooth, and she itched to trail her fingers along his jaw.
“I’ll call,” he said, “but I have no idea where the team is practicing. For all I know they’re already in Lenzerheide.”
“I could speak to him by phone if necessary.”
He didn’t answer, but since it was his turn in the conversation, she figured it would only be polite to keep looking at him.
For years she’d seen his stunningly sexy ads for Calvin and Polo, but the photographs were nothing compared to the hot-blooded, fresh-smelling reality three feet away. And not in her wildest imagination when gazing at those ads would she have guessed she’d be in the same bathroom with him, sitting on the edge of the tub, wishing to God that navy towel would slip. Take a picture of that…
She stared at the travel mug, desperately searching for another topic. “Sooo…for the last ten months, what did you do around here all day?”
He splashed water on his face and turned off the tap. “Not much.” He raised the edge of the towel, flashing a nude hip and the curve of tight ass. She almost fell into the tub.
He patted his chin and dropped the corner, completely oblivious. “I see my lawyer a lot. Chop down dead trees.” He pivoted, leaning back against the sink. When he crossed his arms, she tried to maintain eye contact instead of staring at those flexed biceps. The effort made her swallow with difficulty.
“I visit my friend Sam at the bait and tackle shop. Once in a while I catch a few runs before dusk over at Timberun—there aren’t any tourists. The bowls are so wide you can ski for hours and never cross anyone else’s tracks. Just pure virgin powder.”
His whole face brightened when he switched to skiing. His eyes snapped to life, and he bent forward, completely engaged. His charisma was like a high-voltage vortex she found herself powerlessly sucked into. She cleared her throat. Ask anything, for the love of God!
“How…how’d you get into skiing?”
He grinned. “They tell me I was on skis as soon as I could stand. All I know is the faster I went, the more attention I got.”
“From your parents?”
He shook his head, grin slipping. “Leo got their attention. Everyone else noticed me though.”
She swallowed the last of her coffee, and it seemed to break his reflective spell. He twisted around, opened the mirror, and stored his toothbrush and razor.
“I’ll let you get to it.”
He padded to the door, and she remained professionally poised until the door clicked shut. Then she indulged in a silent scream of pent-up arousal.
Rather than the long bath she’d planned, she efficiently performed her ablutions, eager to get back to her fascinating subject. When she hobbled into the bedroom half an hour later though, Lock lay diagonally across the queen bed, propped on an elbow. He was still bare-chested, and his jeans were zipped but not buttoned. Although he appeared absorbed in a magazine, the moment he glanced up she recognized the take-no-prisoners gleam in his eyes.
She hadn’t imagined the chemistry in the bathroom. This was it. Her nipples pebbled under the thin turtleneck even though she suddenly felt boiling hot and sticky.
He slid the magazine aside.
“Com’ere.” He nodded to the tiny space of red coverlet he didn’t dominate, his body language oh-so-casual, even as that predatory stillness vibrated off him. She tried to swallow, but the saliva just up and fled her mouth.
Brilliant, unimportant details synapsed through her brain. The tucked position of the skier on the glossy magazine. The gray bottoms of Lock’s thick, white socks. How he hadn’t even bothered to comb his hair yet, for crying out loud. She glanced back at his face, and her breath stilled. His hungry gaze blatantly roamed her body, the tautness in his jaw carving deep hollows in those smooth cheeks.
She shook herself, remembering her no-kissing vow from this morning. She didn’t need this complication. “I—I think we should prepare for Vannini’s interview.”
“Not yet.”
“It’s important—”
“Not yet.” His voice remained steely soft as he held out a hand. Eyes the color of storm-soaked slate held her spellbound in a long, meaningful look.
Holy Christ. She could be clutching a live wire, she shook so badly. This was such a bad idea on so many levels, yet her feet limped their way towards him completely of their own accord, and her trembling fingers grasped his outstretched palm. He gently tugged her down, and just like that, she gingerly sprawled in the crook of his arm gazing up at him. He smelled of shaving lotion and musky soap, and she inhaled forever.
Feather-light knuckles stroked the side of her face. The wolfish look in his hooded eyes was indescribable, and she was struck at the polar opposites of a man obviously reigning in the fiercest of urges with gentle caresses. The combination seared lust into every cell.
But her article. The money. Through a haze of white-hot desire, she cleared her throat. “We should—”
He silenced her with his mouth, immediately coaxing her lips apart and plunging in a minty tongue. The supple muscle swirled and probed, tantalizingly aggressive but unhurried. The erotic kiss robbed her of oxygen, and she felt as drugged as last night, except that her heart-pounding, limb-trembling reaction to his soft lips was very real.
He angled his head and explored further, deeper, and she savored the unique masculine taste of him. She sighed blissfully into his mouth, stroking his satin-smooth cheeks and burying her fingers in his thick, still-damp hair. Final, wispy remnants of her resolve melted under the dizzying pressure of his mouth, and she existed only for this perfect, sensual moment. A moment that went on and on and on.
In some dim recess of her mind, she became aware of their ragged breathing and her tiny sighs. Her palms eased down the long stretch of m
uscles bracketing his spine and stealthily crept under the loose denim, caressing the valley where his lower back ended and the hills of his butt began. He made a primitive sound deep in his throat that almost sent her over the edge. Opening her eyes, she found him staring intently, his face taut with arousal, and a lovely sense of feminine power shuddered through her. He wanted her, as badly as she wanted him.
He dragged his mouth along her cheek until he got to her earlobe. “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?” he murmured, swirling the tip of his tongue in and around the folds of her ear until she squirmed, a move her rib immediately protested.
“Ouch! That’s driving me crazy,” she gasped.
He leaned on an elbow, eyes dark with mischief. “Ain’t payback a bitch?” he said gruffly, sifting fingers through her wet hair. “You’ve driven me batshit crazy all week, Jo.”
Before she could respond, he settled his mouth on hers again, intoxicating her with that flicking, curling tongue. The arm she lay upon flexed and contracted, gently guiding her head to yet another angle he wanted to explore. Each kiss felt like a full-body caress, his approach relaxed and achingly slow, yet very much in command. She closed her eyes again and savored the delicious sensations erupting throughout her body, the taste and feel of him.
He shifted to nibble and lick his way along her jaw and neck. She tilted her head, clutching the smooth skin of his shoulders, feeling their sheer power and fluidity as he hunched lower, kissing the edge where skin and turtleneck met.
“Here,” she breathed, and yanked the fabric down helpfully. He chuckled, licking and nipping, sending sparks of arousal through her. She clutched his broad back, a mass of sleek interwoven muscles, and moaned.
So intent was she on feeling his sinewy strength, she gasped when his thumb grazed her nipple. Already stiff, it peaked to a sweet ache, and her turtleneck began to feel claustrophobic and humid.
He cupped her, his large hands gentle and confident as he kneaded and squeezed. His erection poked insistently against her hip, and a thrill shot through her at what lay ahead. God, how she wanted him!
His palm slid down the turtleneck, and seconds later she felt the callused tips of his fingers stroking the quivering flesh of her lower stomach.
“Let me in,” he whispered, claiming her mouth once more. Shedding the last of her control, her thighs parted for him like the petals of a bud opening to the spring sun. And like a choreographed dance, he simply enfolded her in his arms and eased his body weight onto her without breaking off seducing her mouth or her senses.
…
“Owwww!”
He knew an instant before her shriek that he shouldn’t have dropped onto her. He jolted back on his side.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I forgot about your rib.” He paused, torn between true remorse and the intense urge to plow on. That fiendish little way she had of tonguing him blew his goddamn mind. He shook with need, for God’s sake. He couldn’t ever remember routine foreplay wrecking his control like this.
“I’m okay.” She rubbed the injured area with her palm. He covered it with his own, both making gentle circles while he gauged her pained expression. Her eyes were the darkest shade of ocean blue he’d ever seen and still held heat for him.
He was going for it. Bracing himself in a low push-up on either side of her, he hovered over her. “How’s this?” he whispered, capturing her lips.
She twisted her head. “Wait…”
Somewhere in his mind a primal scream roared, furious and insistent on relief.
“Aw, come on, Jordan.” In his entire life he’d never pleaded for sex. He tried to communicate his desperation in his gaze and the instinctive, rhythmic thrust of his erection on her thigh, but halted at her expression. “What?”
“What are we doing? This isn’t helping prove you’re innocent.”
He swallowed the “so what” response. For the first time in ten months, he didn’t give a shit. “A few more minutes won’t make or break my case,” he muttered, his voice raw with need. He ran the tip of his tongue over her lower lip.
She twisted her head again, pushing his bicep. He was an expert at interpreting a woman’s sexual mood, and hers had clearly tanked. He rolled to his side, wondering if he cracked some teeth clenching them so tight. Ten goddamn months of celibacy, then turning down her drugged pleas to be kissed last night, and now this. How much could a man take and still survive?
He fell onto his back with a guttural sigh, reaching for her hand. His hard on became a merciless throb in jeans that felt two sizes too small. He stared at the ceiling and began reviewing his stats at Innsbruck last year. It didn’t help.
She remained motionless beside him, staring at the ceiling too.
“What just happened?” he finally asked.
Her hand in his felt so small and shook a little. “We don’t need this complication, Lock. We’re both dealing with enough problems.”
“This wouldn’t have been a problem.”
She laboriously hauled herself into a sitting position, her back to him. “Maybe not for you,” she said, without turning her head, “but I don’t want to chance becoming one of your ‘remember-when’ babes that you don’t remember.”
“Zero probability, Jo.” Sub-zero. She’d be in his dreams, nightmares, and fantasies for a long, long time.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll meet you downstairs. We have a lot more work to do before Aspen.”
The reporter tone was back with a vengeance. She gathered her toiletries from the nightstand and limped out of the room without a backward glance.
Collapsing onto Leo’s thin pillow, he blew out a long, tortured breath and reached for his zipper. Another epic day in the life of Locklen Roane. Instead of blitzing down slopes, he was waiting for his murder trial to start. Instead of throngs of fans, he was alone in a cabin with a woman he craved. And instead of hot, juicy sex, she wanted to discuss his murdered girlfriend.
A Hat Trick from Hell. He should get that tattooed somewhere.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lock halted halfway down the stairs and watched Jordan below, sitting on the rug with the laptop on the cocktail table in front of her. Her nimble fingers flew over the keyboard, back ramrod straight, hair shining like black fire. Its clean, forest scent still clung to the inside of his nose, and he still tasted her, like sweet after-dinner mints dissolving on his tongue. Frustration and regret swept through him.
He could never let her know how her brilliant insights and determined personality fascinated him. Or how those vivid blue eyes buckled him at the knees. Never. He had to get over this attraction.
Consciously un-tensing his shoulders, he strolled over. “Hey.”
“Reeves confirmed friendship,” she said, her eyes still on the screen. “Thirty-two, single, likes Monster Truck Rallies, fly fishing, and some heavy metal band I’ve never heard of. By the mixed martial arts photos he’s posted of himself, I’m confident saying he’s MMADude. The guy who constantly responded to all of Tiffany’s updates and Tweets. This guy is looking more and more alarming. It says he’s in ‘residential security’ but doesn’t give a corporate name.”
She clicked on her email and scanned a message. “Jefferson says Reeves has two divorces, but while married there were four domestic disturbance calls against him.”
“I’m not surprised.” What did surprise him was why any woman found a live grenade like Reeves attractive in the first place.
She slid a stack of pages in his direction, and it wasn’t lost on him that she still hadn’t looked over. “Here are the phone records and texts Leo helped with. I haven’t gone through the numbers, but I circled some odd texts.”
“Okay.” He couldn’t decide if he was impressed at her speed or embarrassed that he’d stayed upstairs so long. “What are you working on now?”
She glanced up then, her expression intense and professional, as if she’d entirely dismissed the episode upstairs. So that’s how they’d play it. He straddled the sofa
arm trying to adopt the same air.
“I’m working up questions for Vannini. Do you mind calling your brother and seeing when he’s bringing the car back?”
He shrugged. His brother was a Boy Scout about timeliness, but a call might be the first of many Band-Aids this morning’s fiasco required. He speed-dialed in the kitchen, and Leo informed him he was just down the hill at Sam’s catching up on blizzard gossip, and would be back in twenty minutes. Which still left ten minutes before they needed to hit the road for Aspen.
Back in twenty minutes. He grimaced as he returned to the living room. They could’ve done so much upstairs in twenty minutes.
He sat in the club chair, drumming his fingers on the arm. “He’ll be back shortly.”
“Thanks.”
“So what questions are you asking Vannini?”
“Please don’t take offense, but I’d rather not share them with you.” She shut her laptop and grabbed her pad. “I have a few more about Tiffany though.”
He cracked his knuckles. “You know, Jordan, I’d like to spend this short time talking about you.”
“Really?” she snapped. “Instead of finding her killer?” Her gaze was filled with ill humor. It suddenly occurred to him the whole mess upstairs might be playing on her nerves too.
He leaned in until her woodsy scent became his oxygen. “You owe me some kind of information about yourself,” he said. “One dirty little secret.” Like shooting your dad. “Hell, you know fifty of mine.”
Her kiss-swollen mouth thinned in silent defiance.
Muttering an oath, he pushed out of the chair, searching for a physical release. Tell me, Jordan. Stop hiding! He savagely poked the disintegrating logs around, refusing to back off this subject. Refusing to continue his story until she put out too. Refusing to turn around and check on what she could possibly be doing during this silent standoff. Christ, he’d never met anyone this stubborn, and that was saying something.
Eventually, he heard the tiniest of exhales. “My mom and I left my father when I was sixteen. We haven’t seen him since.”
He threw a fat log in. “That’s not a dirty little secret, reporter lady.”
