by Karen Rock
A clarinet player wailed a long, sultry note.
Right on cue, Erica sashayed out from behind a large changing screen with that killer walk of hers, her long legs teasing him via the slit in a sarong of red, gauzy fabric. His mouth went so dry all the champagne and cognac clutched by her enthralled audience wouldn’t have been able to cure him.
Sheer red panels drifted around her scantily clad body as she moved her hips sinuously, undulating her taut belly. Inch by tantalizing inch, her skin revealed itself to his avid stare. He tracked her fingers’ progress as she eased the sarong down one shoulder, then the other, tugging it lower each time. In his mind’s eye, he inserted his hand over hers, his palm against that smooth back. He could practically feel the slide of her silk sarong on his knuckles, the warmth of Erica beneath his fingers. Finally, after he’d held his breath for as long as he possibly could, the expanse of exposed creamy white flesh gave way to a glittering, beaded red bra top and a coin belt holding chiffon hip scarves that sent his jaw to the floor.
Every inch of his body leapt to complete, intense alert. One look and she consumed him with a lust more potent than even the first time they’d met. He was shackled by an all-consuming desire to make love to her.
Her and only her.
Even now, standing across a room crowded with possible conspirators, he couldn’t stop his gaze from seeking her out, couldn’t believe the powerful sizzle as he drank her in. Tension thrummed inside as she paused her seductive unveiling. The wicked sparkle in her eyes promised the best was ahead as she fiddled with her hip scarves. One by one, they fell to the floor in a pile of rich, red silk.
She was beautiful. Not reed-thin like some of the fashion-conscious types. No, she had enough curves and muscle tone to make a man want to linger. Explore. He absorbed every inch of Erica’s voluptuous body, from the micro-top barely restraining her overflowing breasts to her bare thighs, pausing for heart-stopping moments on the places in between.
A thong appeared when a twirl lifted the remaining scarves in a jingle of metal coins. Blood pounded through his veins.. The scrap of cloth complemented her beaded top, red silk with matching lace. The color contrasted with her alabaster legs, making him ache to touch those bare thighs, to slide his palms over her hips, to smooth his thumbs down the front of her lace thong….
The knowledge that he’d made love to this gorgeous woman, the mind-blowing satisfaction she’d given him, chose that moment to torment him. He tried to ignore the red-hot jolt of possessiveness darting through his veins as she unhooked her coin belt and dropped it with a ringing clatter to wild applause and hoarse shouts. The remaining bra top and thong left most of her body bare and glowing, pearl-like beneath the soft lights.
The room temperature jumped at least ten degrees. He imagined the soft red curls nestled behind her undergarment and her nipples beading beneath her top. His fingers gripped harder around the edge of his tray. When he’d given in to temptation earlier and stroked her thigh, it’d been as smooth as he remembered, satin.
He’d come damn close to kissing her senseless. Swathed in nothing but his old Star Trek T-shirt, her hair rumpled, her face makeup free, she’d been even more tempting, soft and warm and tart, the way he liked his cherry pie and his women….
Woman.
No one had ever measured up to Erica, not before or since.
And she’d been right about Greg Pullman—her mind as brilliant as her out-of-this-world looks. When she’d asked him on the ride to Dallas Heat what time he’d pick her up for his father’s birthday party tomorrow, he’d nearly withdrawn the invitation. He shouldn’t have extended it…shouldn’t feel like he needed her to run interference between him and his closed-off family.
He didn’t want to need her at all.
He took deep breaths. He could handle this. After all, he was trained to endure unimaginable torture without breaking, right? But Erica… She was breaking him down, not just on a physical level but an emotional one, too. Her humor when she’d teased him about his efficiency room, her compassion when she’d asked about his father, her determination to find Al Monitor and take down al-Nusra no matter the risk, all added up to a person he deeply respected and admired. No denying it.
With superhuman effort, Ryan forced his gaze away and returned to cataloguing other details in the room. So far, no sign of Al Monitor, if he even was in the US as Erica proposed, or of the weapons dealers. They’d disappeared after dropping the dancers at the hotel’s entrance. Why not attend the lavish party they’d organized? The food and booze had been flowing freely for over an hour.
Against his will, his eye strayed back to Erica’s legs, her toned stomach, her lush body. Dammit. That outfit should be just for him, not these clowns. He closed his eyes and opened them again, trying valiantly to see anything other than his gorgeous ex-lover.
Mercifully, the penthouse door opened. A bowing waiter ushered in Greg Pullman and a tuxedo-clad Middle Eastern man. Conversations muted, and many turned to nod and smile at the arriving guest. Clearly a VIP. The guest of honor? The catering crew Ryan had conned his way onto served a birthday party for some Middle Eastern tycoon.
Careful to observe the man in quick flicks of his eye while circling the room, Ryan noted a hawkish nose in an oval face, deep-set, dark eyes and an affable smile. The man’s booming laughter caught Ryan’s ear, as did his dialect.
A Saudi, as were many of the attendees.
Ryan stopped when a couple of men waved him down. The scents of meat, allspice, and cinnamon assailed him as they grabbed the stuffed grape leaves and zucchini he carried. From the corner of his eye, he observed the Western-dressed Saudi…who? A name teased the edges of his memory.
When the men moved off, he turned from the crowd and murmured, “Any idea who the tuxedo is?” into the small mic pinned beneath his white shirt collar.
Erica gave the barest of nods before she twirled, presenting her shapely ass to leering men. His teeth gnashed as he fought the urge to smack every one of them into the next century.
“Emir Fahad al Saud,” her voice whispered in his earpiece, barely audible.
He stiffened. Emir Fahad al Saud, a prince, member of a royal Saudi family who owned a major oil company.
Was there a connection between the weapons traffickers, the royal prince, and the congressional aide? Saudis were allies in the fight against terrorism. What’s more, the prince was quite Western in his lifestyle, a playboy by reputation…coming to the US often and entertaining politicians to curry political favor for the family business. No known connection to terrorists.
Fahad was the PR face of the company his father had run until a US drone strike killed Fahad’s family while they were attending a distant cousin’s wedding in Syria. With Fahad too young to take over the oil empire, his uncle seized control and became the crown prince. Now, Fahad worked for the company and was no longer in line to inherit a majority stake. So, what was up? Was he in the US lobbying for political favor, or was something more nefarious at work?
Thunderous applause signaled the end of Erica’s dance, and he lost sight of her when she disappeared in the crowd.
Another waiter tapped Ryan’s mostly empty tray. “Better grab another in the kitchen. Chef’s on a tear.”
Reluctantly, he shoved his way into the hot galley kitchen. The pungent aromas of sumac, paprika, and cumin stung his eyes as he grabbed a new tray and hustled outside. Through the throng jostling around the seated prince, Ryan glimpsed Erica, now semi-clothed in her coin belt, bra and tunic, gyrating provocatively before the seated, spellbound prince. Jesus. How many classes had she taken at Dallas Heat? She danced like a pro for someone who could also pick off a target with an M24 from eight hundred meters.
When Fahad slid a possessive hand around Erica’s waist, hauling her closer, Ryan’s world turned red. Air hissed from between his clenched teeth. The fucker. The sight of another man touching Er
ica hit him with atomic force, blasting his insides to ash, a mushroom cloud of fury.
He set down his tray, snatched a bottle of champagne and glasses from the bar, and shouldered his way to the prince’s side. Erica shot him a back off glare without pausing in her seductive one-on-one lap dance.
Too bad.
“Eid Milad Sa’id.” Ryan forced an obsequious smile at Fahad. The popping cork drew a gasp from the prince’s entourage, followed by applause.
“Your birthday wishes are much appreciated.” The prince continued toying with the coins encircling Erica’s belt. A dazzling diamond-encrusted gold watch sparkled on his wrist.
The impulse to punch the asshole in the throat gripped Ryan as he poured bubbly into each glass. Its fizzing sweetness teased his nose but didn’t calm the beast inside.
“You’re free to meet Mr. Hatcheron Sunday?” Pullman asked, referring to his boss, the Speaker of the House. He grabbed a filled flute from Ryan without taking his beady eyes, the ones Ryan wanted to gouge out of his rat face, from Erica.
The prince nodded, now sliding his hands around Erica’s circling hips to cup her ass. The tips of Ryan’s ears burned so hot his head must have caught fire. “Nine o’clock. Medina’s. Now. If you will kindly excuse me? I have pressing matters I must attend to.” He lifted one of Erica’s hands to his mouth, kissed her knuckles, and inclined his head to the small hall that undoubtedly led to the suite’s bedrooms. “Veux-tu m’accompagner, chérie?”
“Mon plaisir,” Erica purred, casting Ryan a quick side-eye, warning him not to intervene as she accompanied the playboy to a private room. Jealousy tasted bitter on Ryan’s tongue.
The fuck he’d let that happen. Pretending to stumble, he tipped the champagne toward the prince and doused him.
Shocked cries circled the small group.
Fahad stared down at his drenched shirt and jacket, mouth parted in surprise.
“My apologies.” Ryan grabbed a discarded, stained cocktail napkin from a side table and blotted the prince’s wet tuxedo shirt, smearing it with something green and noxious.
“Hands off his highness,” barked one of the prince’s entourage. At Ryan’s scowl, the mouthy dude zipped it and subsided.
Fahad released Erica, rose smoothly to his feet, and slid a finger down her cheek. “Later, chérie?”
Erica nodded, lashes lowered in what resembled a demure expression, but Ryan knew better…knew her better. She was seething, just like him. Just for very different reasons.
The prince snapped his fingers, and his hangers-on galloped after him as he strode down the hall to change.
“Let’s go,” Ryan murmured in his microphone. “Meet me at the service elevator.”
Erica folded her arms over her chest, and her bottom lip jutted.
“Now,” Ryan ordered, then exited the suite.
A tortuous few minutes passed as Ryan paced the dimly lit space around the corner from the penthouse’s entranceway. Had she defied him and followed the prince? Images of them together, Fahad’s fingers running over her body, his lips sampling hers, flashed painfully in his mind’s eye. Earlier, Erica had accused him of being jealous, and he’d denied it. Now, faced with his desperate need to have her to himself, to prevent anyone else from having her, he couldn’t deny his possessiveness. He didn’t want Erica with anyone….
Anyone else but him.
The jingle of Erica’s coin belt and her light, exotic scent, jasmine with a hint of citrus, announced her arrival.
“How dare you!” she stormed when she rounded the corner. Her blue eyes sparked beneath a thick tangle of lashes, and red blazed in her cheeks.
He pulled her deeper into the shadows. “You were going to leave with him.”
“Of course I was. You heard Pullman. He’s arranging a dinner between the prince and his boss. There’s a connection—”
“One we’ll uncover when we go to Medina’s Sunday night.”
Her fists landed on her hips. “I might have discovered it tonight if you hadn’t overreacted and pulled me too early.”
“Early?” Unable to stop himself, he grabbed her shoulders and restrained himself from shaking her…barely. And who the hell was overreacting?! “You were practically in his lap. How much closer did you plan on getting?”
“A close as I needed to!” Her breasts heaved with each fast breath, the sight flooding him with greedy want. “If things got out of hand, I would have stopped it.”
“In a locked room guarded by his security?” he demanded, his gaze on her lips, her body that’d nearly belonged to another.
“I can handle myself. Better than you ever could,” she fired back, challenge in her voice. Her red hair danced around her flushed face.
Handle her? Christ. Handling Erica was like trying to navigate a launching rocket. No control at all. And in this charged moment, the ground beneath his feet rumbled, the countdown echoed in his ears. He couldn’t deny himself. Jealousy and desire drop-kicked him over the edge. Logic, caution, and good sense fled.
For once, he didn’t care.
For the first time in months, years, two years to be exact, he felt alive.
The recessed lighting glowed on Erica’s cascading hair. Her eyes raged like a stormy sea, churning with the emotion trembling on her lips. She was sexy, so temptingly sexy.
It wasn’t that he went through life ignoring temptation; he’d simply trained himself not to see it. But there was no denying that he saw her, in all her sensual glory. His gaze shifted from Erica’s face, drifting down her body. Curves showcased by scraps of red and glittering crystals.
And those legs. Ryan’s gaze took in their coltish length. They’d feel as silky as they looked. She was tall, and her legs were long. Long enough to wrap around his waist and hold on tight.
Want hit him hard, hotter and faster than he’d felt since they’d last made love. Lust was the only word for it. Desire was too tame, passion too soft. This was edgy, needy, demanding.
She leaped before she looked. And him? He was tired of just. Fucking. Looking.
His gaze locked on hers, Ryan stepped closer. Her coin belt jangled, and her lips parted. Without another word, he took her mouth. This kiss was soft. A brush of the lips, sweet and tasting of champagne. He shifted the angle, his tongue sliding along the seam of her mouth.
It was as if he’d flipped a switch.
Hers, his, he had no idea.
But the kiss went wild.
She nipped his bottom lip.
His tongue demanded entrance, thrusting, swirling, taking. Giving. Tiny explosions, a minefield of emotional bombs, burst inside him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus.
He could only feel, taste. Want.
Oh, God, he wanted.
Erica wrapped her arms around him, one across his shoulder so the purse she held smacked him in the back. The other slid lower, her hand cupping, squeezing his butt.
Ryan wanted to reciprocate.
He wanted to touch her. To feel her skin beneath his palms, under his mouth.
But not here.
Somewhere private.
Because once he started, he wasn’t going to be able to stop. He didn’t care whether it was lust alone or an escape from the soul-deep exhaustion of denying his emotions this past week….
She was the answer to the questions he couldn’t face.
A question tearing at his heart, cutting at his soul.
The answer was temporary.
He didn’t care.
For one night, he wanted—needed—what she could give him.
Unable to resist, he backed her closer to the elevator door, his hands diving into her soft cloud of hair, holding her head steady so he didn’t have to release her mouth.
He stabbed the down button, then lost himself in the delight of her until the doors slid open.
&n
bsp; The elevator arrived with a muffled ding.
“Inside.” He guided her into the car without taking his mouth from hers. Once the doors closed, he pressed her against the elevator wall, only letting go of her long enough to punch the lobby button.
Their tongues danced, sliding over each other in the same seamless rhythm their bodies moved against each other.
His brain was blessedly blank, his senses focused solely on Erica. On how she felt. On how she made him feel.
Incredible.
She gently took his hand from her hair, sliding it down her face, over her throat. She didn’t stop until his knuckles were brushing the soft flesh of her breasts, just where her bra top started.
Ryan’s heart battered against his ribs, his fingers itching to touch more. To slip beneath the top and feel her skin, to rub his thumb over her nipple and feel it bead beneath his flesh.
But they were in an elevator. And the lobby was only twenty-five floors down.
Then Erica arched into his palm, her breasts heaving up over the top to reveal her rosy areolas. A groan ripped from his throat. He slid the satin fabric off her shoulder, the strap catching on her elbow.
And baring her breasts.
He hated to leave the delicious haven of her lips, but he had to look. Just had to.
With one last slide of his tongue over her lower lip, he leaned back, his eyes dropping. Holy hell, she was gorgeous.
Milky pale, with a glistening of freckles, her breasts were full, the tips a dusky rose, beaded and begging.
Unable to resist, he brushed his thumbs over her nipples.
A faint ding signaled they’d reached the ground floor. He pressed the stop button to keep the doors from opening. He couldn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t resist rubbing the pebbled velvet again. Her breath caught against his lips, and he reveled in her reaction. Power, intense and gratifying, surged through him, hardening his cock. Her fingers dug into his arms, kneading, then soothing.
Another vague ding rang as he slid his lips down the slender length of her neck, breathing in her scent. Jasmine, orange blossom, and moonlight, tangy-sweet and mysterious. He wanted to lose himself in her.
