by Meryl Sawyer
Zach looked at her strangely for a moment, then said, “Too bad you didn’t bother to check for your wallet.”
Nine
Zach glanced sideways at Claire, who was seated beside him. She hadn’t said anything since they’d left The Hideaway. Seeing that filthy room and realizing what she’d done—with a total stranger—had badly upset her.
For too long now, Claire had acted bitchy, waltzing around town with her snoot in the air, pretending never to notice him. She thought she was too good for him; she always had. Years ago, she’d liked him, but he’d always known part of his appeal was being dirt poor and having a bad-ass reputation.
Now, Claire thought he was a crude bastard, an image he deliberately cultivated by cursing and doing his best to disgust her. Seeing that room in The Hideaway had reminded her of what she’d done, so she could hardly priss around acting so superior. She’d made love to a man she couldn’t remember.
And she’d willingly done it.
Zach almost laughed out loud. He stared into the headlights of an oncoming car, but his mind wasn’t on the traffic. It was on Claire. He could smell a faint trace of floral perfume, the unique brand she dabbed behind her ears and on the pulse point at the base of her neck.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the provocative scent and imagining the other places she’d sweetened with perfume. The thought alone made his body respond with a rush of heat. He could just see her on his bed, her sexy body naked on the tangled sheets, her wild blond hair across his pillow.
With a quick glance sideways, he saw the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Her nipples thrust against the sort fabric of the blouse which was knotted at the waist. He could almost taste those tight buds and smell the sweet perfume laced with spice that she sprayed between her breasts. Untying that blouse and claiming every inch, of her luscious body with his mouth would be his first move.
His heated groin muscles contracted with an upward surge. Christ! What she could do to him even if he wasn’t touching her. He struggled to be rational. For the hundredth time he wondered what made this woman so appealing.
She didn’t give a rat’s ass about him. Never had. Never would. So? Who cared? Claire was a challenge. That’s all she’d ever be to him. Any man crazy enough, stupid enough to love her would get his balls cut off in a New York minute.
“Zach,” Claire said unexpectedly, breaking into his thoughts. “Ah …”
He sat up straighter, the hard heat in his jeans making him uncomfortable. Aw, hell. Why deprive himself just to tease Claire? Last night he’d proved how hot she was for him. Tonight, he’d get her where she belonged—beneath him.
“Did you find … ah … anything else in that room besides my wallet and underwear?”
It took a split second for him to realize what she wanted to know. When he did, he let her dangle, hardly able to resist the urge to laugh. “A few cigarette butts beneath the bed. They looked old, but the crime lab will let us know for sure.”
“That’s all?”
He deliberately took his time answering as he guided the Bronco around the corner onto the narrow lane where Claire lived. “The tecs vacuumed the room, collecting evidence. They probably picked up a lifetime’s worth of fibers and hair and God only knows what else.”
“Was there anything in the wastepaper basket?”
Again, he almost laughed. Prissy Claire. Why couldn’t she just come out and ask? “What wastepaper basket? The Hideaway is a no-frills joint.”
“Oh-h-h,” she moaned.
“What did you think they’d find?”
“Well … I … was hoping they would find ah—you know—a prophylactic.”
He jerked his head toward her. “A prophylactic?”
“A condom. Surely, you’ve heard of them. Maybe you’re even smart enough to know about safe sex.”
He pulled into her driveway and slammed on the brakes. There were times he’d like to lift her skirt and tan her cute fanny with his bare hand. She was so damn uppity and had a tongue that doubled as a lethal weapon.
He turned off the motor, then faced her, leaning close, and she plastered herself against the door. “Sweetcakes, I know exactly what prophylactic means. I’m just blown away by the way you talk. You sound like a Sunday-school teacher. Why didn’t you just say condom or, better yet, life jacket. That’s what they’re calling condoms these days.”
“Life jackets? That’s, that’s—”
“Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?” He edged a little closer, silently cursing the console space between the seats. “Why don’t you just come out and ask me what you really want to know? Did you have unprotected sex with a stranger?”
She swallowed hard and slowly shook her head. “If you didn’t find one, I guess I must have.”
“One?” He put his hand on her shoulder. She tried to pull away, but her back was already against the door. “Suppose it had been me in that dark room with you? For damn sure I would have screwed you over and over and over. A case of life jackets wouldn’t have been enough.”
She grabbed his wrist with both hands and pried his hand off her shoulder, saying, “You’re disgusting.”
“True. It’s hereditary,” he said and was rewarded with a slight squint, which meant she was royally pissed. God, he loved teasing her. He ran one finger slowly along the strip of bare skin exposed by the blouse knotted at the waistband of her jeans. She squirmed, trying to move away, but there was nowhere to go. He traced the soft flesh across her midriff with the pad of his fingertip, moving a fraction of an inch at a time, then back again so slowly his finger barely moved.
“Don’t—”
“No one can touch you, princess, least of all me. Is that what you’re trying to say?” He flattened his whole hand against her bare skin, shoving his fingers up under the blouse. Her shocked gasp made him smile, and he grinned even more when she tried to stare him down. He didn’t move his hand, even though his fingertips were temptingly close to the edge of her bra. Instead, he cupped his palm against the curve of her rib cage, savoring the softness of her skin and the heat rising to warm his hand.
“Stop calling me princess,” she said, but the quaver in her voice gave her away. He was getting to her, and that sent a bolt of arousal lancing through him.
“You’re right,” he said, moving his hand slightly upward until his fingertips touched the bottom edge of her bra. “Princess sounds like some icy-cool type. That’s not you, Claire. You’ve got the hottest pants in town. Screwing a total stranger—”
“It was the Roofie. You said so yourself.”
True, but he was having too much fun baiting her to admit it. “Last night, I kissed you and you were all over me like a bitch in heat. You’re just like your mother—so hot for a Coulter you can’t keep your hands off me.”
For a second, he thought she was going to punch him. Instead, she turned and coolly reached for the handle to open the door. He shackled her wrist with his free hand.
“You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
“Let go of me—now.”
His response was to move his other hand up a little until the soft fullness of her breast brushed his knuckles. “You know, last night you tried telling me what to do. Didn’t work, did it?”
“You creep. What do you want?”
He released her, taking his hand off her rib cage and letting go of her wrist at the same time. “You know exactly what I want, so stop fighting me. You’re in no position to give me a bad time unless you want everyone to find out your panties and wallet were found at the murder scene. Imagine how upset your old man would be. It’ll probably put him six feet under.”
“This is nothing short of blackmail,” she said, shock and anger underscoring every syllable.
“True,” he said with a reckless grin as he reached for the knot holding her blouse together. “Works for me.”
He expected her to try harder to talk him out of it. After all, Claire was the type who could talk to a cigar store Indian for
hours. But she didn’t say a word as he untied the knot, then worked his way upward quickly unbuttoning the blouse.
He should have been ashamed of himself, but he wasn’t. He’d wanted her so much, for so long that nothing was going to stop him from proving to Claire that at least on a sexual level, they were meant for each other.
He brushed the blouse aside to expose a lacy black bra. It was one of those Wonderbras that pushed up her breasts, making the cleavage even deeper. Her breasts weren’t huge, and they weren’t pumped full of silicone. They were smallish, but nicely rounded with pert nipples that stretched the lace. Sexy as hell.
He touched the clasp holding the bra together. “Hey, my favorite, a front loader.”
“You jerk. You’re going to regret this. I can’t stop you now, but when the murder is solved, I’m going to fix you.”
He grinned; she was so damn cute when she was pissed. “Fix me, huh? Sounds like a winner. I want you to fix me right now.”
He grabbed her hand and shoved it down to his crotch. That got her. She let out a gasp that could be heard across the border in Texas.
“What do you think, babe? Bigger than the guy you screwed in The Hideaway?”
Her eyes narrowed and she squeezed her fingers around the turgid heat of his sex. His heart soared, then settled back to jackhammer against the wall of his chest. He was more than a little surprised. He’d expected her to be totally grossed out, but there was a teasing glint to her eyes. She squeezed him again, harder this time.
“No, you’re smaller, much smaller than the sexy man in The Hideaway.”
She was lying through her teeth, but he didn’t call her on it. Amazing. Claire Holt had more guts than he’d thought. He was positive this crude move would send her flying out the Bronco’s door screaming for her daddy.
“He had the most incredible technique,” Claire informed him as she slowly moved her hand up and down. “He wasn’t like you. He was sweet, sensitive, and unbelievably sexy. The perfect lover.”
He yanked her hand away from his erection. His little stunt had backfired. Instead of being upset, she was trying to turn the tables on him. And it was working. If she had kept moving her hand, he would have lost it like some horny teenager.
“I thought you didn’t remember very much about that night.”
“I don’t.” She gave him a coy smile. “But I had the distinct impression that he was a very good person as well as an accomplished lover.”
If he hadn’t been so close to losing control, he would have laughed. But rather than let her get the better of the situation, he hauled her into his arms. He kissed the curve of her neck where she had sprayed perfume. It tasted as sweet as it smelled, and he brushed the tip of his tongue across the soft skin.
She didn’t put her arms around him, but she let him kiss her. He took his sweet time, nibbling his way downward while his hand roved up to cradle her breast. He stroked the nipple with his thumb until it was a tight, hard bead straining against the lace fabric.
Claire tilted her head to one side with a sharp intake of breath followed by a soft sigh. Who in hell did she think she was fooling? He smiled inwardly as he turned his attention to the other breast.
When he’d coaxed the other nipple into a firm peak, he thrust his tongue into the hollow between her breasts. Then with agonizing slowness, he withdrew it, then edged it into the narrow channel again. The rasp of his tongue against the tender skin elicited a shudder from Claire. Suddenly, her arms were around him, her nails digging into his back.
“You don’t want me at all, do you?”
“You’re blackmailing me into this, you bastard,” she muttered.
“Bastard? Watch it, Claire. Next thing you know, you’ll be using four-letter words like a truck driver.”
There was just enough moonlight filtering in from the window to see her close her eyes and catch her bottom lip between her teeth as he cupped her breast in his hand, the taut nipple hard against his palm.
“You’re not a very good liar,” he whispered into her ear. “I’d give anything to see how you act when you admit you’re crazy about a man.”
She didn’t respond, and she didn’t open her eyes either. Her breasts were rising and falling more rapidly now, the moonlight playing softly across the pale skin and filmy black lace. God, he loved those Wonderbras. Her breasts were thrust upward, all lush fullness and impressive cleavage. Again his tongue delved between the pliant mounds, then he slowly withdrew it only to plunge back again with even more force. The move was intended to suggest another, more intimate penetration.
“Your breasts are really sensitive, aren’t they?” he commented as he unhooked the clasp on the bra.
“Yes,” she whispered softly, taking him by surprise because he hadn’t expected her to admit it. “Very sensitive.”
His blood beat against his temples and the swelling hardness confined by his jeans ached to be set free. But with those physical reactions came a primitive elation that he remotely acknowledged as masculine pride. He had her number, all right. And she had his, came an echo from some distant part of his brain.
He ran his hand over her bare breasts. Freed from the contraption known as the Wonderbra, they were smaller, with a less pronounced cleavage. But still, they were the sexiest, most erotic breasts he’d ever touched. The nipples jutted upward, dusky-rose in the moonlight and begging to be kissed.
He lowered his head and took one hard nipple into his mouth, applying a touch of suction as he ran his tongue over the tight bead. Claire arched against him and furrowed her fingers though his hair. The sensation of having her in his mouth—finally—was exactly as he had imagined. Only better. He never knew he could be this aroused. The iron heat of his sex was almost painful now, but he wasn’t going to rush something he’d waited so long to get.
He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. They were wide open and dark with desire. Her lips were parted, her tongue peeking out from between her teeth. She was aroused and slightly awestruck, and that sent another heady surge of excitement through him.
He whisked the pad of his thumb over the damp nipple that he’d been kissing. “When I touch you here, you feel it some place else, don’t you?”
Again she surprised him by answering, “Yes … yes.”
“I’m real good at blackmail,” he said. “An expert.”
He sounded cocky as hell, but he didn’t care. He had her number. She knew it; he knew it. Yet something was missing. He was suddenly consumed by a yearning ache for her to kiss him.
He hadn’t kissed her tonight, having chosen instead to make his point another way. He could kiss her now, and she would respond by passionately kissing him back. But the desire to have her kiss him had nothing to do with sex. Longing rose, swift and sure, from some place deep inside him, revealing a galaxy of uncharted emotions that he refused to fully explore.
He could say he was blackmailing her, and on some level he was, even though she willingly responded to him. He had an emotional, gut-level need for her to make some gesture to him. He gazed at her, more than a little shocked at his feelings, and time halted, seconds fragmented and became a full minute while neither of them moved or said a word.
Under his breath, he cursed himself. Since his first sexual experience at the age of thirteen, Zach had controlled his feeling for women. Only one had gotten to him—and had gotten the best of him. Claire.
He’d be damned if he’d let it happen again. So what if she didn’t kiss him. Who cared?
Wonk! Wonk! The sound of the Bronco’s horn cut through the still night while its headlights flashed off and on. Aw, hell, Zach silently cursed as Claire pulled away from him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, covering her bare chest with her arms.
Zach struggled to ignore the thrusting pressure of his arousal as he flicked on the radio. “There’s an emergency. When the radio’s off, the car’s specially wired to alert me.”
By now she had her bra hooked and was buttoning her blo
use. Talk about bad timing. He picked up the transmitter and gave his call sign, then waited to see what the night dispatcher thought was so damn important.
“We’ve got a Code 49 here at the station,” the dispatcher informed him.
“Code 49?” Zach repeated, certain he must have misunderstood. This was a secret code used to circumvent the numerous hackers who loved to listen to the police radio calls. When something needed to be kept top secret, Code 49 was used. The only other time he’d heard it was the night Duncan Morrell had been murdered.
“That’s right, Sheriff. Code 49. Get back to the station.”
Facedown on the cool floor of her pantry, Angela Whitmore eyed the sleek vibrator that Carleton Cole had stuck between the two bottles of extra virgin olive oil that she’d had flown in from Italy last week. She hadn’t bothered to try either of them, she thought as Carleton worked on her, smoothing rose petal lotion over her naked body.
Nothing was working anymore. Nothing seemed to alleviate the profound boredom that weighed her down like a slab of concrete. Cooking, her great love, no longer seemed worth the effort. And kinky sex with young hard bodies, once an obsession with her, now made her irritable.
Carleton tried so hard to please her that it was embarrassing. True, she craved kinky sex, but being slathered with rose lotion on the limestone floor of her pantry, surrounded by bags of jasmine rice and chains of dried garlic, was not her idea of great sex.
What was? She had absolutely no idea—anymore.
Except for art, nothing interested her. She adored collecting Southwestern art. In the long run, it would prove to be much more rewarding than sex with men young enough to be her sons. But would it pull her out of this profound funk?
“How do you want it babe?” Carleton asked.
Angela hadn’t realized they were quite at that stage yet. Actually, she much preferred the vibrator, but didn’t say so. Carleton had been so touchy since the night Duncan Morrell had been murdered. Undoubtedly, he regretted investing his meager savings in the prints Duncan had touted. She’d warned him to invest only in originals, but, of course, Carleton hadn’t listened.
