Face of Danger

by Roxanne St Claire

  Could Vivi even think of something like that? Doubt shadowed his mind.

  She slowly zipped up the boot, standing as she finished.

  “Everybody loves these on me,” she said, her voice kind of like Vivi’s, but kind of not. “Reminds them of—you know—that movie.”

  He nodded. Maybe. He thought about nodding. “Yeah.”

  She started on the other boot. “You like your job, FBI Man?”

  “Most of the time.” Right now he loved it.

  “You look like you’d be good at it.” Still the little throaty sound of Vivi, but her diction was perfect, the trace of a Boston accent was gone, and—

  Jesus Christ, it was Vivi, wasn’t it?

  For the first time since the woman had gotten on the plane he seriously wondered if maybe he was wrong. Maybe this really was Cara Ferrari. Maybe Vivi, was right about the resemblance.

  She bent over again, pole-dancer style, her hair draping on the floor, but the hat must have been pinned in place.

  But what about that hair? If that was a wig wouldn’t it come off? Was Vivi Angelino even able to move like that? Look like sin in leather and lace? Vivi, who favored cargo pants and shapeless T-shirts?

  When she finished the zipping, she turned to him, hand on one hip, head tilted flirtatiously. “If you want, I’ll skip the dress, but it does kind of complete the outfit.”

  A speaker crackled and she visibly startled, glancing side to side for the source of the sound.

  “Ms. Ferrari, this is Captain Wahl. We’re just about ready to taxi out of here, so if you and Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lang would be kind enough to buckle up back there, we’ll get you on your way to Nantucket promptly. Looks like smooth flying ahead.”

  It certainly looked smooth in the back cabin.

  She smiled. “That’s quite a title you’ve got. What should I call you?”

  Of course, Vivi would joke about the title. So was this Vivi? “Call me crazy for letting this go on so long.”

  With a sex-kitten laugh, she strutted like liquid sin to the two leather recliners on the other side of the small cabin, side by side, there for the sole purpose of buckling up during takeoff and landing.

  He followed, of course. Because keeping an eye on her was his job. And figuring out what the hell she was up to was also his job. Was this Vivi Angelino’s version of going undercover? Then someone was in big trouble. Like him.

  She slipped into one of the chairs, stretching out like a cat. A cat in white wisps of lingerie and thigh-high black boots. The netting stayed securely over her face, but this close, he could scrutinize her features. That was Vivi. It had to be.

  Right?

  Uncertainty gnawed as he sat next to her and automatically pulled on his seat belt, aware that a bit of a tent had already grown in the crotch of his khakis.

  She skipped the seat belt, but leaned close to him, stared at that rise, and slipped one glossy lip under a tooth, biting the blood right out of it. “I’m sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable, Mr. FBI Agent?”

  “I’m very comfortable,” he said, not pulling away. “Ms. Ferrari.”

  At the use of her name she dropped back, seemingly satisfied as the whine of the engines filled the cabin.

  “How long are you going to play this game?” he asked.

  She bristled. “This is not a game.”

  “Then what do you call it, Vi—”

  “Please.” She closed her hand over his arm, squeezing hard as she turned to him, the net veil a thin barricade between their faces, her dark eyes pleading.

  “Yes?”

  Very slowly, she slid her hand from his arm to his thigh, spreading white-tipped, diamond-covered fingers. Not the hands of Vivi Angelino, who never wore nail polish and kept her only diamond poked in the side of her nose.

  “Could you buckle my seat belt for me? You know, just to make sure it’s… secure.”

  He said nothing, aware of how close her hand was to his growing erection. “If you’d like,” he said.

  “I think we’d both like,” she said suggestively.

  He dragged the belt over her bare belly, his forearm brushing the bottom of her breasts as his fingers dug for the end of the seat belt. Click. “Got it,” he said.

  “Mmmm.” She rocked just a little in the seat, the plane’s acceleration pushing his arm against the swell of her breasts. “You certainly do.”

  As he drew away, her fingers tightened on his thigh, the pressure and heat shooting more life into his already stiff cock. “Takeoff scares me a little,” she whispered.

  “You scare me a little.”

  She laughed. “Thank you.”

  Centimeters from her face, he could feel the warmth of her breath and inhale a flowery, feminine smell that was so not Vivi.

  His fingers itched to lift that veil and study the angles of her face he knew so well. Without giving into the urge, he looked hard through the net. Where was the nose piercing? Not so much as a pore was visible on her creamy skin, let alone a pierced hole for jewelry. Could she hide that? He’d never seen it out before.

  The G-force of takeoff pushed him back to his seat, the Rolls-Royce engines on a plane so new it still smelled like the Gulfstream factory escalating to a nice, loud scream.

  “Are you really scared?” he asked.

  “Are you?” She smiled, enough for him to see she had perfect teeth—with no teeny-tiny chip on one in the front.

  Christ alive, it wasn’t Vivi.

  The landing gear rose up and the nose shot through the clouds like the knife through his gut at the realization.

  He reached for the net but she backed off, finally releasing her grip on his leg.

  “Uh-uh,” she warned. “No touching.”

  He snorted softly. “That doesn’t seem to go both ways.”

  “Are you complaining?” She laughed, low and sweet. “Just forgive me if I’m a little silly tonight. I haven’t slept for two days, and I won an Oscar last night. I’m feeling—wild.”

  Her voice, her eyes, her essence was Vivi. But everything else was something else altogether. Something raw and sexy.

  Still, damn it all. He wasn’t sure.

  “I know Cara Ferrari won an Oscar. And you”—he pointed at her—“might win another for this. So, let’s cut the crap and—”

  She put one hand over his mouth and unlatched her seat belt with the other, rolling closer, pressing those barely covered breasts against his biceps.

  “You call this crap?” she whispered, the warmth of her breath tickling his ear.

  “I call it game over, Vi—”

  She snapped up the armrest and flipped one boot-clad leg over his thighs. “This is so not a game.” She slid her leg right over his erection.

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.” He ground out the words as his dick stiffened against the pressure.

  “I’m trying to prove”—the Ferrari tattoo rode right over his erection—“who I am.”

  “I know who you are.” Didn’t he?

  “Only one woman in the world is known for…” She climbed right on top of him, wedging her knees on either side of his legs and arching her back just enough to put her breasts inches from his mouth. “The most memorable lap dance in film history.”

  He almost laughed, but his blood had done another brain drain and his cock hummed like an electric buzzsaw.

  “It wasn’t that long ago, one of my earliest films.” She kneeled high enough that her lace crotch didn’t quite touch his growing tent. “So I remember all the moves.” It took some powerful thigh muscles to hold the position, but she didn’t flinch.

  Could Vivi do that? All that skateboarding made her strong, but this was crazy. Everything about this was crazy. He had to know who was doing this to him. Reaching up to the hat, she dodged again, leaving him with nothing but a handful of her hair, thick, smooth and definitely real, or firmly attached.

  But some fake hair felt real. The wisp of a thought took hold of what was le
ft of his working brain cells. Fake hair. Fake hair was why he was here. But before he could process that thought, she flipped her hair out of his touch, flinging the locks over her shoulder like a weapon she was completely familiar with.

  “You know the rules, honey. No hands. Just eyes. Just… watch. Just feel. Just lose control.”

  He tried to shake his head.

  “Never lose control, do you?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Let’s make this one of those rare times, then.” She breathed the last word, rolling her hips achingly close, then away.

  “What the hell are you doing?” His voice was rough with arousal. And frustration. And dismay. And—shit—a complete loss of sanity and control.

  “You have to ask? What do they teach you in that FBI academy?”

  “Control.”

  She laughed softly and leaned over him, her breasts against his chest, her mouth to his ear. “You know what I say?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Control is overrated.”

  Now if that wasn’t a Vivi-ism, what was? One more time, he peeked under the veil. If this wasn’t Vivi, he was in a boatload of trouble. But if it was…

  He was in a different boatload of trouble.

  She pressed her mouth against his ear. “Just don’t say my name. Ever.”

  What name? Before he could get the question out, she rose again on her knees, her fingers brushing over a button on the armrest. Instantly, music came out of tiny speakers built into the chair behind his ears, filling the small cabin with a pulsing, bass-heavy song. A slow song, a female artist, he had no idea who or what, but Vivi—Cara—someone, moved her body in perfect rhythm.

  She undulated and dipped, her crotch grazing his erection, her breasts rising and falling with each beat, each breath. His cock hardened to a painful plank of wood that strained his pants and his composure.

  She mouthed the words of the song, licking her lips and slipping a finger into her cleavage. Sliding it over her nipple, arousing the peak.

  His jaw hurt from how much he wanted to close his mouth over that lace, tear it off with his teeth—and suck. He dragged his attention to her face, hidden in shadow enough to make him question his certainty that this was Vivi and not some pole-dancing, moviemaking, strip-teasing—

  She rubbed both breasts and glided her hands down her belly, slipping one into her panties, then out again, her body jumping slightly as they hit turbulence.

  Vivi. Like he’d never imagined her before. And he’d done some pretty thorough imagining of her.

  Blood surged and slammed and his balls tightened up to needy, swollen walnuts. A drop of semen darkened his khakis. Jesus Christ, she was going to make him come.

  “You better…” he rasped. “Not…”

  “Better not forget the best part?” she coaxed. “Of course not. Who else could do this but me?” She lifted one booted leg and planted her foot on the armrest. The tattoo, a perfect replica of a Ferrari logo, was inches from his mouth. It looked real. It looked permanent. It looked edible.

  Would Vivi get that tattoo just to play a part?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. Not why he was here, not her name, not his own. He just knew—

  She closed her teeth over the zipper of the boots, dragging it a few inches. The move put her crotch against his, and, holy hell, she was wet.

  That was all it took.

  His dick jerked, needing to rub, needing to roll against her, needing to be deep inside that wet, white lace and shoot the wad that was ready to burst. He gripped the armrests so hard he could feel the skeleton of the seat under the leather pad. If he let go, he’d touch her. He had to touch her.

  She finished the boot zipper with her fingers, stretching her leg to kick it off, exactly as she had in the movie. It was burned in his memory. He’d shot a few loads to that image in his life, and was about to again.

  “Please,” he whispered. “I… can’t… control…”

  Her eyes flashed with victory. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  Vivi. Only Vivi would say that to him. At the confirmation that this woman was no stranger, but Vivi, he just got harder.

  She repeated the whole boot-teeth-kick move on the other leg. There was only one move left in this famous dance.

  Would she?

  She flattened her palms on his chest, no doubt feeling the insane hammer of his heart. She drew her hands down, over his stomach, lingering on muscles with an appreciative moan.

  “No hands,” he reminded her. If she touched his dick, even just got within a hair’s breath of it, he’d implode.

  “No hands for you. Hands for me are fine.” She unbuttoned his pants. Unzipped his fly. Spread his boxers and out he came, as massive and hard as he could ever remember, a swollen, throbbing, desperate dick that owned him right now. “But tongue is even better.”

  He almost broke the armrest, his breath jagged and furious now. Sweat trickled down one temple, rolled down his back, soaked his balls.

  She zeroed in on his cock, sliding her body lower, her thighs dragging over his, her breasts scorching his chest, her mouth inches from his jutting hard-on. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He seized the hat and pulled it off, taking some hairs with it as she let out a small cry of dismay.

  She looked up at him, the netting barrier gone, her face completely familiar, and shockingly beautiful.

  Vivi.

  Instantly she put her face back down, hiding herself.

  The song reached a crescendo. The plane reached cruising altitude. And she reached his shiny wet tip and—“Oh, my God, Viv—”

  Licked.

  The lights went out in his head.

  CHAPTER 4

  Vivi knew she’d gone too far. She shouldn’t make him come.

  The bone-deep scary thing was, she couldn’t stop. In fact, when she closed her mouth over Lang’s glorious, masculine, pulsing erection, Vivi was so turned on she was shaking harder than he was.

  So she sucked, the size and sweetness of his hard-on making her head light. For the first time—for the very first time—she felt the ecstasy of making this man helpless with desire.

  For the first time, sex didn’t threaten her, it thrilled her. That was why she couldn’t stop. That and the fact that she’d secretly fantasized about kissing, touching, devouring Lang with her mouth. She was a starved, starved woman and Colton Cautious Lang was a ten-course gourmet meal.

  He climaxed viciously, warm liquid filling her mouth as he grunted and groaned, gripping the armrests, giving in to her completely. He swore, he moaned, he took a few heavenly deities’ names in vain, but he didn’t say her name.

  If that didn’t prove to prying eyes and hidden microphones that she was willing to do whatever it took to convince anyone that she was Cara Ferrari, then nothing would.

  Way in the back of her sex-addled brain, she had to remember that was the reason for this reckless behavior.

  She could hear his strained breathing, her pounding pulse, and the cry of the engines just behind them.

  She kept her mouth on his hard-on, unable to let go, even after his juices slid down her throat. Part of her didn’t want to release him. Part of her didn’t want to face him.

  Why the hell was he here, anyway? Was there a real threat to Cara or was he just the lucky lotto winner of the FBI babysitting job? That was unlikely, considering his level in the Bureau.

  She’d find out. And when she did, she’d also explain why she’d chosen sex to silence him. He was an FBI agent, and he should understand doing “whatever it takes” when undercover.

  She had to keep him quiet, and that, she continued to rationalize, was the only reason she had stripped and sucked him to an orgasm.

  The only reason? Ignore that, St. Peter.

  His hands threaded into her hair. If he felt thoroughly enough, he’d find the extensions. If he looked long enough at her face, he’d see the little piece of porcelain that fixed her chipped tooth and
the makeup that covered her nose piercing and the padding at the bottom of the bra that took her into C-cup land.

  All the trappings that made this act, well, an act. None of this was real.

  Except the salty sweet taste of his release, the sound of his strangled breaths, the smell of sweat and leather and Lang, and, holy hell, the hot knot of need between her legs. All that was very real.

  Slowly, she lifted her head, used her extra-long acrylic tips to wipe gently under her lips, the move clearly killing him as he grunted and dropped his head back helplessly.

  He still couldn’t talk, fighting to calm his breathing and his heart, a sheen of sweat all over his face. She pulled herself up and put her mouth near his ear, hoping anyone watching through a camera would imagine this was the secret whispering of pillow talk.

  “You owe me now.” She breathed the words so only he could hear.

  He tried to shake his head.

  “Yes, you do. I need a promise. I need your word. Don’t say my name for the duration of this flight and we’ll call it even. Don’t accuse me of being a fake, don’t try to trick me, don’t do anything until we are somewhere entirely private.”

  “You mean we’re not?” He whispered the question, but the briefest note of horror came through.

  “I don’t know. And, Lang, everything that ever mattered in the whole world to me or my family is resting on this.” She was certain no microphone, no matter how close, could pick up the words she whispered. “Do you understand?”

  She finally drew back, trusting him to follow the instructions.

  “I don’t understand anything right now.”

  She smiled at the admission, not something she’d hear often from Lang. “Then maybe you should go in the bathroom and clean up. You know, take a shower.” When he frowned she returned to his ear. “Make a lot of noise with the water, do a thorough check for hidden cameras or mics, and then maybe we can talk. Maybe.”

  She didn’t wait for his response but slid back to her chair, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around them.

  He gave her a long, hard look while zipping up his pants but not buttoning them. “Excuse me, then,” he said. The little words of polite chivalry tweaked her heart. Then he leaned over, his mouth on top of hers, so close she thought he’d kiss her, but he didn’t. “Get your ass in there, woman.”