Dangerous Games: A Standalone Second Chance Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  I run my hands through his disheveled hair. “Sleeping with a rockstar has always been on my bucket list. Now I can cross it off.”

  He nips at my skin, and a tremor rushes through me. “Is that the only reason you invited me over?” Eyes locking with mine, he feigns disappointment, an adorable pout pulling on his lips. “Because of a bucket list item?”

  “That, and I’d hoped you’d make me sing.” I waggle my brows.

  “Is that so?” With slow movements, he lowers his mouth to my chest, dragging his tongue along my flesh, my body humming with need. When he scrapes his teeth against my nipple, I moan. “And did I?”

  “God yes.”

  He chuckles, then pulls back. “Coffee?”

  “No sex?”

  “Damn, darlin’. I’ve turned you into a fiend.”

  “What can I say?” I scrape my hands down his back, nails digging in. “You’re my drug of choice.”

  He gives me a gentle kiss. “I like the sound of that, but I need a little while before I’m ready to go again. Let me make you coffee. We can spend a few minutes talking and pretend to like each other for reasons other than ridiculously hot sex.”

  I playfully groan. “God, that’s torture. You should know I’m only using you for your body.”

  “Think you can survive a half hour?”

  I arch a brow. “A half hour?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fine.” I push him off me. “Make me a coffee. But I’m holding you to that half hour.” Rolling to my side, I grab my phone.

  “Are you setting a timer?”

  I type on my cell, then hold it toward him so he can see the countdown I labeled “Rockstar Sex”.

  His laughter fills my tiny studio apartment as he raises himself from my bed. “You’re something else.”

  “Hopefully a good something else.” I sit up, pulling my legs into my body.

  He leans over the mattress and brushes his lips against mine. “A wonderful something else.” He grabs his jeans from where they landed on the floor during our mad rush to disrobe each other, about to step into them.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He stops. “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you’re about to put your clothes on. Seems like a waste of energy, especially considering you now have…” I glance at my phone, “twenty-eight minutes and fifty-three seconds before you need to be inside me again. I’d save your energy if I were you. You’ll need it.”

  His laughter grows even louder, the lines around his eyes wrinkling. Before I can react, he crawls back onto the bed, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss. “God, I love you.”

  Three simple words, yet they turn me into complete mush. I hope they always will.

  “I love you, too.” I linger near his lips another moment, the warmth they give off like a magnet. “Now, if you really loved me, you’d make me a coffee.” I reel back, landing a playful smack on his ass.

  “Naughty girl.” He winks, then pushes off the bed, padding on light feet through my apartment.

  “You have no idea how naughty I can be.” I chew on my lower lip, watching him make himself at home in my kitchen as he brews two cups of coffee.

  When he suggested he come to my place instead of the other way around, I was hesitant. But he thought it best, just to avoid any surprise visitors. I couldn’t fault him there. The likelihood of the paparazzi hanging out here is slim to none, even less chance of Jessie making an appearance.

  It should seem odd to have Asher in my apartment that’s probably smaller than the hotel rooms he stays in. But right now, I don’t see the rockstar who played to screaming fans last night. That man vanished the second he left Madison Square Garden. Now I see my Asher.

  “Oh, I think I do.” He passes me a knowing look, a single brow arched, a silent reminder of the things we did last night.

  “You’re right. I think you do.”

  Once he’s finished preparing our coffees, he makes his way back to me, which only takes a total of five steps. After he hands me my mug, he places a soft kiss on my forehead.

  “Twenty-four minutes and forty-seven seconds.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I know.”

  He heads to what I now consider his side of the bed and slides under the duvet, sitting with his back against the headboard. “What is all that stuff?” He nods toward the boxes on the coffee table. “Is it related to your birth mother?”

  “You saw the article?” I bring my coffee to my lips, savoring that first sip. Since we reconnected, I haven’t had a chance to tell him I’d begun my search, like he encouraged me to a few months ago.

  “Read it once a day every day since it was published.” He smiles a small smile. “I’m proud of you. I imagine it was difficult for you to reopen those old wounds, but it’s important you try to fill in the blanks.”

  “Actually…” I cock my head to the side. “This investigation is probably why we’re together.”

  “I thought it was because the boomerang knocked some sense into you.”

  “That had something to do with it. But there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Remember the other night when you called me out for running when I got scared?” I ask, and he nods. “You were right. Whenever something scares me, I run. I always have. I figure if I push people away first, they won’t have the chance to leave me.”

  “A lot of the foster kids I taught had abandonment issues like that. They never let anyone get close.”

  “I’ve always assumed my birth mother didn’t want me. When I started falling for you, it scared me. All my life, I’ve had this nagging voice in my head, telling me if things seem too good to be true, they most likely are. And that voice told me you were too good to be true, that you’d never choose me, that you’d always choose your brother.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, but I quickly hold up my hand.

  “And that’s okay. You should choose him over me.”

  “But it’s not even a choice.” He angles toward me, his lips caressing mine. “Not when it comes to you.”

  I sigh, basking in his heartfelt declaration.

  “So what changed? What made you stop running?”

  “Right.” I lean back, taking another sip of my coffee. “Lincoln asked a body language expert to review the airport security camera footage from the day I was left, and some of what she said made sense.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That I wasn’t abandoned out of choice, but out of desperation. The expert believes my birth mother was on the run from someone. That her actions and the way she carried herself evidenced a high level of anxiety and fear. Based on this, Lincoln thinks when she realized she couldn’t get away, she did the only thing she could in order to protect me.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “It makes sense. If you’re going to abandon a baby, an airport terminal is the last place I’d do it.” His brow scrunches. “But what was she running from?”

  I shrug. “Not sure. But maybe all that stuff on the table will help.”

  “And what is it?”

  “All the leads the tip email address has received over the past several weeks. Maybe we’ll find a needle in the haystack that can help steer us in the right direction. But for now, I can find solace in the fact that my mother seemed to make the ultimate sacrifice for me.”

  “What kinds of tips? Anything helpful?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I reply sarcastically. “So helpful. Like, for instance, it’s possible my mother was abducted by aliens!” I feign excitement over the prospect. “Or she may have undergone gender transition surgery and is now living as a man in Alaska. How amazing is that? It makes perfect sense!”

  Asher laughs. “What is it about a tip line that always brings out the nutjobs?”

  “People just want their fifteen minutes of fame. But that’s not even the craziest.” I step out of bed, swiping an expandable folder off the coffee table before ret
urning with it, crawling back under the duvet.

  “What’s that?”

  “These are the real crazies. Most of them are religious zealots, telling me to repent for the sins of my birth mother or I’ll never arrive in the Kingdom of God, or something like that.”

  “There are people who truly believe that.”

  “Oh, I know.” I wave the stack of papers in the air. “I have proof of that.”

  “May I?” He arches a brow, eyes floating to the folder.

  “Be my guest.”

  He pulls out a bunch of papers and flips through them, shaking his head more and more with each supposed lead.

  “Told you. These people need to be in straitjackets, or at least a padded room.”

  “I can’t disagree with you there.”

  “I particularly like the one who equated me to Jesus and believes I’m the second savior. It would be convenient. Then I could call up my pops and be like, ‘Hey, Dad. I had some really kinky sex last night. My step-dad wants me to say a slew of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Can’t you wave your hand and forgive me?’”

  Asher bursts out laughing, the deep rumble light and carefree. “Even if you were the result of some immaculate conception, I don’t think it would matter. You’d go to hell just for saying that, for thinking that. Isn’t your mom Catholic? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “A lot. You should know that by now. And it’s a shame I’m not some second savior.” I lean toward him, my lips poised over his.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I plan to do a lot of sinning with you in approximately eighteen minutes and twelve seconds.”

  Laughing, he presses his mouth firmly against mine. “And damn, darlin’. I love sinning with you.” He kisses me once more, then returns his attention to the papers.

  “Eighteen minutes and two seconds,” I murmur, more for myself than him. Asher’s right. I am a fiend for him.

  He shakes his head, flipping through more and more of the crazy tips. Suddenly, his body stiffens, eyes focused on the paper in front of him.

  “What is it?” I run my hand along his back, a soothing gesture.

  He blinks, jaw agape.

  “Ash?”

  He snaps out of his daze. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Tell me,” I push.

  On a long sigh, he hands me a piece of paper. “This.”

  I read the quote from Leviticus. “But if in spite of all this you do not obey Me, but continue to walk in hostility toward Me, then I will act with furious rage against you, and I Myself will punish you sevenfold for your sins. You will eat the flesh of your own sons and daughters. I will destroy your high places, cut down your incense altars, and heap your dead bodies on the remains of your idols; and My soul will despise you.”

  I place the paper back onto the bed. “These zealots really like Leviticus. Deuteronomy is high up there, too. It’s like they get hard-ons over the concept of punishment. They’re probably secretly into BDSM.” I nudge him, trying to lighten his mood, but it doesn’t work.

  “When Emilia disappeared, I helped go through tips, since I was so close to her.” He brings his eyes to mine. “We received one with this exact quote. It could be nothing, but what if the cases are related? What if the people your birth mother ran from are the same ones who took Emilia? Your mother was pregnant. So was Emilia. After she disappeared, I started researching human trafficking. Do you know what I found?”

  “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “When most people hear about human trafficking, they think low-income individuals who are sold into forced labor or sexual servitude. But there’s another group of women who are trafficked.” With each word he speaks, he becomes more and more impassioned.

  “Pregnant women,” I breathe, recalling all the training I’d received about looking for the signs of potential trafficking victims while attending to patients.

  “Exactly. Parents who are desperate to adopt will pay a fortune for a baby. What if…” He blinks repeatedly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What if someone is preying on pregnant girls? What if your birth mother wasn’t running from an abusive partner but something bigger? What if the reason Emilia disappeared was because someone wanted her to have that baby so they could sell it?”

  I stare at the wall in front of me, sorting through Asher’s theory. There’s no proof this happened. But there’s no proof it didn’t, either. This is an angle I hadn’t considered. What if he’s right? What if they are somehow connected? What if the answer’s been sitting next to me for years, but I was too stubborn to realize it?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “There’s my favorite rockstar,” I exhale into my phone as I sit in a cab Thursday evening.

  I hated having to say goodbye to Asher Monday, but he had to leave for Chicago to continue his tour. He’d already stayed in New York longer than he was supposed to, which didn’t sit well with Jessie. Thankfully, Asher was able to use his recent purchase of the Gramercy Park townhouse as an excuse.

  “There’s my muse,” he croons. “How was your day?”

  This has become part of our routine, at least the past several days. He calls me a few minutes after five when he’s finished with soundcheck. The first question out of his mouth is always how my day has been. I like that he takes an interest in what is mundane and boring, at least compared to his life.

  “Good. I’m actually on my way to Lincoln’s office right now.”

  This catches his interest. “Really?”

  “Chloe called earlier. Said they may have a lead.”

  “Lead? What kind of lead?” The urgency is clear in his voice.

  “She wouldn’t say over the phone. Just that it’s connected to what we theorized the other day.”

  Chloe was the first person I called after Asher and I made our realization about the identical tips. While she opined it could be a coincidence, much like we did, she also said anything was possible.

  “You’ll call me after? Let me know what she says?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay.” He sighs loudly. I can tell he hates being away from me during all of this. I hate it, too. “I need to get ready to do this meet and greet. Hair and wardrobe are calling.”

  “Well, you’d better get going then. You can’t disappoint your adoring fans.”

  “You’re the only adoring fan I care about.”

  I close my eyes, basking in his husky voice. God, these next few weeks are going to be torture. If I weren’t worried about Jessie seeing me, I’d consider flying out this weekend to surprise Asher. I’ll just have to be content with the few moments we steal during the day. The good morning text messages. The five o’clock phone calls. The goodnight FaceTimes. These things will help pass the time until I can be in his arms again.

  “I love you, Isabella.”

  “I love you, Asher. Go. Sing me a song.”

  “I’ll sing you all the songs, darlin’.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask as Chloe leads me from the reception area of the country’s most circulated newspaper and through the newsroom that’s still bustling, despite it being after five o’clock.

  “You’ll see.”

  I draw in a deep breath to settle my nerves as we maneuver past a maze of cubicles, phones ringing relentlessly, fingers typing on keyboards. Soon, we turn down a corridor, leaving the sounds of the newsroom behind, eventually stopping outside a door, the nameplate etched with Lincoln’s name, Chief General Counsel below it.

  Chloe faces me, grabbing my hands. “I want you to know I’m here for you. If it’s too much, we can stop.”

  “If what’s too much?”

  She pauses, then continues. “We found a woman who knew your mother.”

  Her words all but knock the wind out of me. “Are you telling me we finally know my mother’s name?”

  With a smile, she nods slowly. “Sofia Castro.”

  I exhale a breath. For years, she was a nameless, fa
celess ghost haunting me. I didn’t think we’d ever find out who she is… Or was.

  “How does this woman know my mother?”

  “It’s something you should hear for yourself.” She places her hand over the doorknob, then looks to me before turning it. “Ready?”

  I’m unsure how to answer that. I doubt anyone is ever prepared for something like this. But when I started down this rabbit hole, all I wanted were answers. Hopefully I’m about to get some.

  After I nod, she opens the door, leading me into the large corner office. My eyes fall on Lincoln as he stands from a reading chair in the sitting area. He takes several long strides toward me, offering me a comforting smile.

  “Thanks for coming, Iz.” He kisses my cheek, then places his hand on the middle of my back, steering me toward one of the couches. “This is Oliver Lane. He’s the investigative reporter who’s been looking into this.”

  The tall, lanky man with gray hair extends his hand toward me, and I take it. He looks like I imagined a career reporter would. Wrinkled shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Loose tie hanging around his neck. Scruff on his jaw from not shaving because he couldn’t find the extra few minutes to do so. Uneven fingernails that bear the evidence of being chewed constantly, probably a bad habit picked up when he quit smoking.

  “Wonderful to finally meet you,” he says in a gravelly voice that confirms my suspicion he was once a smoker. “I reported on the JFK baby story when it first made headlines, so when Linc here asked if I was interested in trying to uncover your mother’s identity, I jumped at the opportunity.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate all you’ve done to help.”

  “Certainly.” He drops his hold and we all shift our attention to the other figure in the room.

  In an instant, the tension spikes as I peer at the woman. She doesn’t appear a day over forty-five. Her dark hair is a stark contrast to her alabaster skin. She’s slender, a few inches taller than my five-seven frame. And she has the most dazzling blue eyes I’ve ever seen, a dusting of freckles across her nose completing her unique, yet breathtaking appearance.