Undercover Lover

by Kylie Brant

  “I don’t have a smock that will fit you.” Her face was bland when she added, “Maybe you should take off your shirt.”

  Seconds ticked by. “My shirt.”

  She nodded. “No use taking the chance of ruining it with spattering clay. And you don’t need to worry about me being overcome with lust, either. Remember, I am an artist. The human form is merely a collection of lines and angles to me.”

  He saw the glint in her eye, and played along. “Okay, then.” With one smooth move he pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it in the direction of the couch. He noted with satisfaction that the detachment she’d promised was missing in the long, avid gaze she sent over his chest. “Now you.”

  That pulled her gaze back to his face. “Pardon me?”

  His fingers went to the buttons on her smock, and she stepped back hastily. “That won’t be necessary,” she said with a hint of laughter in her voice.

  He looked down at the wheel. “Now what?”

  She reached down and turned the bench lengthwise. “Sit down.” She pushed at his shoulders and he obliged, straddling the bench awkwardly. She sat in back of him and stretched her arms around his waist, her hands reaching for his.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered.

  “I disagree.” The warm notch between her thighs was pressed snugly against his hips, and her bare arms wrapped around his middle. “I think it’s working great.”

  “Uh-uh.” She got up. “Slide back.” He did so, and she settled herself in front of him, reaching around to catch his hands and bring them forward. She pulled away the towel covering the damp clay and dropped it to the floor. “Wet your hands in the water and then put them in the clay.” When he hesitated, she took his wrists and directed them. “C’mon, don’t be a baby. Afraid you’re going to get dirty?”

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” he muttered.

  “You’ll be fine.” When his hands were in the bowl of clay, she flipped a switch, and the wheel started with a gentle whir. She placed her hands over his. “Let yourself get used to the texture first. No, don’t tense up. Relax your wrists.”

  The cat, finished with its meal, padded over and sat at a safe distance to watch. Sully could have sworn it was wearing a smirk below its whiskers. “Ellie, I don’t know...”

  “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

  “What?”

  “Close your eyes. You’re thinking too much. Right now all you need to do is feel.”

  Reluctantly he did as she requested.

  “Now relax. Feel the texture. Picture shapes in your mind.”

  Texture. Shapes. They filled his mind as ordered, but it wasn’t the clay he was concentrating on. Instead, it was the feel of her hair as he leaned forward, his head above hers, her hair tickling his chin. The shape of her waist against his arms, the glide of her hands against his as the slick, wet clay slid between their fingers. Unconsciously he moved closer, dipped his head to inhale more deeply the fragrance that was uniquely Ellie.

  “Good. Now open your eyes and watch our hands.”

  Again he did as she requested and watched fascinatedly as the damp clay began to take shape under their fingers. With the gentle guidance of her hands on his, sides began to form on the clay in front of them, Ellie dug out the center with her fingers.

  He moved his head until it was beside hers, pressed his lips against the sensitive area below her ear. A quick shudder ran through her.

  “The clay responds to each movement of your hand.” Her voice was breathless. “Each action gives it a different shape.”

  His mouth cruised down her neck and lingered at the spot where it curved to meet her collarbone. Her skin quivered beneath his lips, responsive as the clay she’d mentioned. From memory he knew she would respond to each small touch of his hand, as well. A gentle brush, a long smooth stroke, and her skin would heat beneath his palm. His heart thudded as he remembered the shape of her breast in his hand, the smooth curve of her thigh, the hollow of her lower back.

  Her neck arched to give him better access, and he took immediate advantage by nibbling his way to her jawline. Her fingers never moved from his, and the clay swirled around their hands. Her hair trailed over his shoulder, and it only took a turn of her head to meet his lips, only took a touch of her mouth to pull him down into a pool of sensation.

  Her lips molded to his, and her tongue tasted of wild, sweet delights. Her taste churned through him, chugging in rhythm to the pounding in his blood. Her mouth was soft under his, but made its own demands. He tilted his head to better oblige them.

  Freeing his hands from hers, he pushed them under the loose smock she wore and discovered warm, silky skin beneath it. Her breasts were bare, and he cupped them in his palms, shaped them just as her hands still shaped the clay it was steeped in and ran his slick fingers over her nipples.

  She went boneless and molded against him, her hands stilling, her head heavy on his shoulder. Her hands went to his wrists, and she traced those cool, wet fingers over him.

  This was art, he thought dimly as his mouth ate at hers. A woman who gave until a man didn’t know where he stopped and she began. Each time with her it started the same, the slap at the senses, the rush of desire, a fresh onslaught of pleasure. And each time was unique. The twist the passion took, the unexpected curves and turns, from wild, violent need to dark, languid arousal. He tore his mouth away from hers to bury it at the base of her throat. Each time new. Each time a rebirth.

  Her hands slid up to cover his, and he raised his head. Her eyes fluttered open, then she glanced down at the clay that had toppled from their inattention.

  “A masterpiece,” she murmured, her voice faint and dazed.

  His eyes never left her. “Yes.” They were the masterpiece, what they created together each time they touched. He felt like a guilty thief, hoarding a stolen treasure, knowing he had no right to it. Caring less by the day.

  He leaned forward and flipped the switch off, rose and picked her up easily in his arms. Her breath was a gentle sigh against his mouth. He didn’t release her until they stood in the shower, his back to the pounding spray. He drew the smock over her head, the shorts down her thighs and let them lie on the bottom of the tub. His now wet jeans were more difficult to manage. Ellie helped push them over his hips, and then he was lifting her again, pressing her against the cool, wet tiles and sliding into her with one smooth stroke.

  He pulled her legs tighter around his hips and braced himself with one hand against the tile. Pressing farther up inside her, he let the pleasure create anew.

  Long after darkness had fallen, long after Ellie had slipped into slumber, exhausted and peaceful, Sully lay awake in her bed. She was cradled in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest, her hair fanned over his shoulder. Sleep didn’t beckon. He stroked the velvety skin along her back, lightly enough to avoid awakening her.

  These were the times that were the most dangerous, when logic retreated and reason was difficult to summon. In the night, with this woman in his arms, her warmth reflecting his own, things had a way of seeming simpler than they were. He’d never been one to believe in hope, but there was no denying that it burst forth in moments like this one, made him think foolish, improbable things.

  Like maybe the luxury of dreams wasn’t just for other men. Maybe there was a chance, just a chance, for him to have a normal life. Maybe it wasn’t a fool’s prayer to believe in a future that included Ellie.

  The darkness had a way of shrouding the doubts, making the realities of his life fade to shadows. One word continued to swirl across his mind like clouds of mist.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 13

  “You look as smug as a cat with a pitcher of cream,” said Monica, sidling up behind Elizabeth. She kept a practiced eye out for Nathan. “Anything you’d like to tell Auntie Monica?”

  A small smile crossed Elizabeth’s lips. “I have a few more pieces ready to show Simon.”

  “Yeah, right.
Like that’s enough to put that satisfied look on your face. C‘mon, ’fess up, Elizabeth,” she wheedled. “You’re positively glowing. Only one thing can be responsible for that, and it’s a three-letter word that starts with M. Could it be that hunk you’ve got locked in your bedroom?”

  Elizabeth’s head jerked. “I do not have him—anyone—locked in my bedroom.”

  “Then you ignored my advice, and a perfectly wonderful opportunity.”

  Letting loose an involuntary laugh, she said, “Honestly, Monica, you’re incorrigible.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m also insatiably curious. So tell me all about it. It’s that positively yummy guy I met at your apartment, isn’t it? Is he as delicious as he looks?”

  “You make him sound like a hot fudge sundae.”

  Monica’s brows rose. “Now that you mention it, I’d bet he would look great wearing nothing but a little whipped cream.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks fired. In a war of double entendres with her friend, she was definitely outclassed. “You should be writing for Playgirl.”

  The other woman tilted her head, as if considering the suggestion. “You know, I think I could. What I lack in writing skills, I more than make up for in imagination. But don’t think I can be sidetracked that easily. What gives with you, kiddo? You’re positively glowing.”

  Elizabeth sent a look around the gallery. It was a slow afternoon, and Nathan was closeted in the office with the door shut. Although there really wasn’t anything for her and Monica to be doing right now, their boss liked them to appear busy. She strode to a closet and came back with a couple feather dusters.

  “Here,” she said, handing one to the other woman. “Make yourself useful. Nathan will be checking on us any minute.”

  Monica followed Elizabeth around, wielding the duster on the display items in a desultory fashion. “I’m waiting.”

  Elizabeth bit back a sigh. “It is Sully, yes.”

  “Well, well, well.” Her friend looked impressed, and a little speculative. “I have to admit to being supremely envious, and a bit surprised. Until I met him at your place, I never would have pictured you with someone like him.”

  Protective instincts rushed out in a torrent. “What’s wrong with Sully?”

  “Absolutely nothing, from what I could see, and believe me, I was looking. Actually, I guess a guy like him is any woman’s type.”

  “I’ve known him since college. It’s just recently that we...that he...”

  Monica waited, and when Elizabeth stumbled to a halt, she gave a peal of laughter. “Honey, you can’t even talk about it without turning four shades of red. I’d have thought a few nights with your Sully would have loosened some of those inhibitions of yours.”

  Inhibitions. Elizabeth considered the word. They had certainly been part of her makeup until recently. Because she’d never experienced real desire from a man, she’d thought the lack had been hers. There had been a lingering fear that she was at least partly to blame for Carter’s infidelity. If she had been more beautiful, more sexy, more experienced, maybe her ex-husband wouldn’t have turned to another.

  But her time with Sully was rebuilding her self-confidence in herself as a woman. She thought of long, endless minutes in the shower, their loving going from heated to tender, until the water had turned to ice, finally managing to cool their fevered bodies. Or of her legs straddling Sully, his fingers clenching on her hips as she rode them both to satisfaction. Despite what her friend thought, her inhibitions had definitely loosened. They simply didn’t factor into the time spent with Sully. Restraint wasn’t possible; thought wasn’t clear. There was only the need, edgy and fierce, stabbing deep within her like a sharpened sword. Excitement, bubbling up in a froth of sensation. The erotic sexiness of watching Sully’s face, waiting for the moment when his control would shatter and the hunger take over. She wondered if there was a woman alive who could hold on to inhibitions, no matter how deeply ingrained, faced with that depth of desire.

  “There you go, blushing again.”

  Elizabeth turned her attention to the copper sculpture before her. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve shed a few of my inhibitions.”

  “Well, good for you,” crowed Monica, surveying her with the duster tucked under one arm. “And no matter how much I want to, I’m not even going to beg to hear every sweaty, sexy detail. I’m going to give you your privacy.” She waited a beat before drawling, “Unless of course, you’re dying to brag.”

  “Dream on.”

  Monica sighed lustily. “Oh, I will, I will. That’s about the only recourse I have lately.” Then she grew serious. “But I am happy for you, girlfriend. If anyone deserves a break in the man department, it’s you.”

  Elizabeth smiled at her friend. “Thanks. I feel pretty lucky.”

  “Take it from me—you are lucky. I’m having a tough time these days coming up with candidates that fit my lofty standards.”

  “And those are?”

  “Sane, employed and breathing.”

  The two women went into gales of laughter, bringing Nathan out of the office to look down his long nose at them.

  “Ladies? Do you have a problem finding something to do?”

  “No, Mr. Milway,” Elizabeth said meekly, returning to the dusting with studious fervor. She waited until the door to the office was closed before she noted in an undertone, “You realize, of course, your standards actually apply to Milktoast.”

  She ducked the duster Monica sent sailing her way, and this time they kept their giggles low-key.

  “Hey, hey, hey, lovely lady.”

  The familiar voice sent a whisper of dread racing up her spine, leaving shivers in its wake. Deliberately Elizabeth kept her gaze forward. She finished paying for her takeout food, picked up the container and headed for the door.

  Before she’d gotten more than a few feet, her way was blocked by a young black man holding a pool cue and sporting a wide grin. Elizabeth searched her memory for his name. Nushawn, Sully had called him. He’d said he was bad news, but she wouldn’t have needed the warning. It was there in the man’s stance, in the attitude that fit him as sleekly as his skintight T-shirt.

  “Get out of my way.” Elizabeth kept her voice steady, despite the wariness prickling under her skin. She knew better than to show fear to a man like this. He’d sense it and take immediate advantage.

  Nushawn raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey, no sweat. I ain’t gonna hassle ya, not me. I just wanted to let you know, I din’t mean nothin’ that other day. Din’t have no idea you was Roarke’s lady, ya know what I mean?” His grin grew wider, but the look in his eyes was calculating. “Don’t need that kind of trouble, no way, no how. You tell Roarke we cool, okay?”

  She stared at the man uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

  He seemed to a move to a beat heard only in his head. His entire body bobbed to the rhythm of it. “I mean your man, the man, Roarke. Tall dude, blond hair, mean temper.” He gave a mock shudder. “I don’t need me that kind of trouble, and since that time, Roarke, he looks at me like he wants to slice me in half. Dude could do it, too.” There was a flicker of real fear in his eyes, and his grin faded a few degrees. “I just seen ya here, and thought I’d apologize.” He sketched a half bow. “’Cause I’m a gentleman, ya know what I mean? Now, you tell Roarke Nushawn said he was sorry.”

  He stepped aside, but Elizabeth didn’t move. She couldn’t.

  “I don’t want me any kind of trouble with the boss man. Tell Roarke that for me, pretty lady. You hear?”

  The roaring in her ears was deafening. Her feet moved without conscious command from her brain. Out the door. Down the street. Around the corner. The same path she’d taken that day with Sully.

  With her body shifted into automatic, she waited for a bus, boarded it, sat down. Her mind was a jumble of half-formed thoughts and questions, and she seemed incapable of picking through them, of making sense of the recent scene.

  There had to be s
ome mistake. The words were a litany whispering inside her head. Nushawn had mistaken her for someone else...had mistaken Sully for someone else.

  She gazed out the window unseeingly. But the two men had been too close for mistaken identity the first time she’d seen Nushawn in that bar. She’d wondered where Sully had come from so quickly, how he’d seemed to know Nushawn....

  Nushawn works with me. She remembered Sully’s words, but she’d assumed the man worked with him at the freight company. If the men worked together, surely Nushawn would know Sully’s name.

  And surely it was too much of a coincidence that he’d call him by the same name Carter had called him, when he’d come to her, spreading what she’d been certain were lies about Sully.

  ...someone by the name of Roarke... your friend has lied to you since the beginning, Elizabeth....

  She sat perfectly still, unseeing, unaware of anything but the thoughts spinning inside her head like a whirlpool. The bus paused at her stop and then continued on. She never noticed. Nausea rose in her stomach, and tangled with the nerves collected there. Amid all the questions, all the snarled possibilities, one stood out with crystal clarity. She’d thought she’d finally come to understand John Sullivan.

  It had never been more apparent that she didn’t really know him at all.

  “Why were you sitting in the dark?” Sully asked as he followed Ellie into the apartment. She’d taken a long time to come to the door, long enough to send worry trickling through him.

  “I was thinking.”

  He bent to switch on the lamp next to the couch. “You can’t think with the light on?”

  “You’d be surprised how illuminating the darkness can be.”

  He straightened, eyeing her carefully. “Something wrong?” The answer was clear. She stood facing him, her spine straight, her eyes distant. Instincts, honed by a lifetime on the streets, had unease snaking down his back.