The Professional

by Addison Fox

  He scanned the home page, then her bio, taking in the references to heritage, home cooking and the fact that she came from a large family.

  And still no mention of a husband or children.

  He scanned to a photo page and saw some of her accomplishments. She looked as if she’d won every cooking competition in Dallas and the surrounding areas, her smile broad and welcoming in every shot. Each photo also showcased a large cadre of family surrounding her, a proud set of parents flanking her in every situation.

  Interesting.

  Knox flipped back to the database details, noting her age was thirty-two. Three years younger than him. They were even born in the same month.

  He knew it was patently unfair to question why she wasn’t married yet—he’d roundly avoided that noose since his first sexual escapade—but it still left a curious open spot in his mind.

  Especially when you factored in how she looked. The woman must have any number of men beating down her door.

  You could learn a lot from observation, Knox mused, and he toggled back once more to the photos. People who were obviously family members surrounded her in the various images on screen, many showcasing couples with small children. And the woman beside her was clearly her mother.

  The mother wore a warm smile in every shot, but there was something implacable beneath the glowing facade. And in a flash of insight, he suspected the delectable Gabriella Sanchez just might be fighting an uphill battle to live her life.

  Parents who were proud of her accomplishments but who questioned her method for getting there.

  Recognizing the observation hit a bit too close to home, Knox snapped the laptop closed and crossed his hotel room to retrieve a bottle of water. He’d hit the gym and forget about Miss Sanchez.

  And instead, he’d figure out how he was going to get in, get out and get what he came to Texas for.

  * * *

  Violet woke on a start, a slight crick in her neck dragging her fully awake. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but she was half-curled into Max with the rest of her body squinched oddly between his large frame and the end of her office love seat.

  How did they...

  The question faded as she slowly came back to herself.

  He’d followed her into her office after she’d gone on all squinty and sad. Which meant everyone else was still outside her office.

  Max’s even breathing suggested he was asleep, but she didn’t dare turn her head for fear of waking him with the movement so near his face. Instead, she moved inch by inch, sliding from his arms. She nearly fell onto the floor of her office but caught herself in time and rebalanced to a standing position.

  Thank goodness for squats three times a week.

  Her door was closed, so she turned the knob with careful movements.

  “They’ve all gone home.”

  She slammed a hand on the door frame, nearly screaming at the surprise of Max’s words in the quiet room. Summoning up some sense of calm, she turned in the direction of that dark, sexy voice. “How long have we been in here?”

  “A few hours. I don’t know. Two or three, maybe.”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Light sleeper.”

  She tugged on the hem of her blouse. “Why didn’t you wake me? I could have gone home with everyone else.”

  “You were asleep. It’s as easy for me to take you home now as it was three hours ago.”

  Home.

  The thought struck her so hard she felt her knees buckle. Her own bed. The comfort of her things around her. “Let me just get a spare set of keys.”

  “Lilah brought your purse back from the wedding.” Max gestured toward the desk. “I think she stowed it in your bottom drawer.”

  Violet retrieved her purse, oddly touched to see her belongings. “She thought about it.”

  “Your friends don’t miss much. Lilah did a sweep for your things while Cassidy closed out the event.”

  The wedding.

  She’d initially worried about Kimberly and Jordan when she first awoke in Lange’s house but had forgotten them in the ensuing hours. Had it really been only two days since the wedding?

  Max laid his hand over hers. “You okay?”

  The thick strap of her purse hung from the tips of her fingers like an anchor, steadied by his firm grip. “I can’t get my bearings.”

  “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “I know.” And she did know. No matter how strong she believed herself to be, nothing changed the fact that two days ago she was drugged, kidnapped and attacked. She’d survive—she was counting on that—but it would be nice to feel like herself again. “You certainly seem bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “Like a bunny.”

  The image did the trick, and she laughed in spite of herself. “Sure you are.”

  “Well, you know, the big and brave ones who sort of clod around.”

  Her words—albeit mixed up—came back to haunt her, and she touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”

  “I liked it. Not the clod part, but I can do big and brave.”

  Before she could reply or make up for her remark, he had her back against the door, his hands on either side of her face.

  His lips drifted down to her ear. “I can definitely do big and brave.”

  The comment was so like Max, and Violet toyed with being obstinate just because, but the large warm male body currently boxing her in quickly pushed her thoughts in another direction.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Absolutely.”

  And then there were no words—stubborn or otherwise—as his lips came over hers, enveloping the sigh that drifted up her throat.

  Nothing was rational with Max. But everything was just right. The upheaval in her life might still be fresh in her mind, but she also knew the moment for what it was. Desire, yes. Need, yes. But there was something even more potent that beat underneath.

  Life.

  He made her feel alive, and that was something to hang on to.

  Although his hands never moved from either side of her head, she used his arms-up position to run her palms over his chest, then down the sides of his body without restriction. Firm muscle bunched and tensed beneath her fingers as she traced the thick line of muscle over his ribs before narrowing on his stomach. The hard ridges she’d already seen firsthand on the train rippled beneath her hands as she touched his stomach, the tactile exploration an erotic counterpoint to the play of lips and teeth and tongues as he deepened the kiss.

  “What do you do to me?” He exhaled the words on a hard groan before tracing another line of kisses over her jaw and on down to her throat.

  What did they do to each other?

  She wanted him. She’d known that for days—months, really—but in that moment, Violet was forced to admit the truth. She wanted him with a fierce need that refused to be sated. “I want you, Max.” She kissed his chin. “I want to be with you.”

  “I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I’m a man. That part’s usually immaterial.”

  She wanted to be shocked—knew she should be—but again, the honesty was refreshing. And the exact opposite of her lifetime of experiences.

  “Of course,” he drawled, his words as smooth as the hand that had drifted down to trace a line across her stomach, “I do like you. A lot. And I have from the start.”

  Violet could only stare up at him, her mouth gaping like a fish. “But you don’t like me.”

  “Of course I do. You’re smart and talented. You don’t take crap from anyone. And you’re sexy as hell. What’s not to like?”

  “But we argue. And snap at
each other.”

  Max shrugged, those large shoulders lifting and dropping with enticing movement that seemed to beg her to just hang on. “It’s foreplay.”

  And there it was. Raw truth, plain and simple.

  A conversation she’d had briefly at a party the previous spring came back to her at Max’s words. She’d struck up a conversation with a woman on the elevator ride from the lobby to the host’s condo. Marina, as she remembered. The two of them had quickly fallen into conversation, discussing those light and airy odds and ends that filled party conversation.

  It was only when the woman had remarked about her lack of a date that Violet had thought of Max. Unbidden, an image of him filled her thoughts, and she’d made a few comments about how stubborn he was and how ill-suited they were.

  Marina had lit up at the discussion, and Violet could still remember the woman’s gentle tease as she probed for details about Max. Even more curious, Marina had ended up using the same descriptor, despite Violet’s protests that Max wasn’t at all suited to her.

  Foreplay.

  Was this what they’d been working up to? All the long months of sniping and lingering glances had brought them here.

  Unwilling to analyze it any further, she smiled for the sheer joy of it and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I like the way you think, Baldwin. But first, I need a shower.”

  With aching slowness, he traced the line of her cheek, over her jaw, before following her neck to the hollow of her throat. Violet gave herself up to his touch, the delicious counterpoint of such a large, capable man so gentle and delicate in his movements. It was only when he hesitated, his fingers stilling, that she questioned him. “What is it?”

  “You’re—” A light flush colored his cheeks. “It’s just that you’re so soft.”

  “I’m filthy.”

  “Doesn’t make you any less soft.”

  “And as we confirmed earlier, I smell like train.”

  He traced the line of her cheek once more. “No need to go fishing for compliments. I already told you I like that smell.”

  Now it was her going still, the gravitas of the moment striking somewhere deep inside. She didn’t fluster easily, so it was more than a little shocking to realize the effect of his words.

  Soft.

  He thought she was soft. It wasn’t a term she typically associated with herself, nor was it an image she tried to cultivate. Yet she felt the compliment all the same.

  Half amused, half annoyed with herself for analyzing the moment, Violet felt her brain cells vanish as he took her mouth once more, his tongue playing over hers and coaxing forth a need she’d never experienced. Shockwaves pulsed through her body, tightening her skin with delicious sensitivity. Her fingers flexed at his waist as she pulled him closer, anxious for the contact of Max’s large body flush against hers. But it was the hard length of him, more than evident in the press of their bodies, that sent an answering need rocketing through her core.

  Oh, how she wanted him.

  His fingers drifted over her skirt, moving to the front and flicking open the lone button at her waist.

  An image of closing that button two days before had her hands covering his, stilling his movements. “I don’t want to ruin the moment.” She whispered the words against his lips.

  “Then don’t.” Clearly intent on ignoring her, he covered her mouth again. Violet felt herself going under before finally pulling away.

  “I mean it. I can’t think when you do that.”

  “Good.” He nipped her lips. “Thinking’s overrated.”

  “Yes, but clean isn’t.”

  Recognizing he wasn’t going to make things easy on her—and knowing full well a few more minutes in his arms and she likely wouldn’t care—Violet slipped away, putting a few feet between them.

  “We probably should head home. I definitely need a shower.”

  “You’re a determined woman, Richardson.”

  “It’s only right. We’re—” She stopped and acknowledged it was way more than just a few layers of dirt that needed to be washed off.

  Before she could say anything, his quiet sigh punctuated the moment. “We need to wash off what the last few days meant. Let’s get out of here and do just that.”

  He understood. Way down deep, Max understood.

  And with that understanding came a wave of roiling confusion that nearly cut her off at the knees. They didn’t know each other. Not all the way down deep where it mattered. Men could be nice—could be considerate or thoughtful or empathetic in a moment—but they always defaulted to their own selfish needs once they got what they wanted.

  Right now, Max wanted sex. If he had to delay it for an hour to appease her, he would. She’d do well not to confuse acquiescence with anything more meaningful.

  Alarm bells jangled in the back of her mind, and she tried to ignore them—did her level best to do so—but the distant memory of voices rose up to swamp her.

  “You have to look so freaking perfect all the time. A damn illusion for Dallas’s finest.”

  “You expect your wife to play a part. Your beautiful doll, projecting the image of a perfect family. It’s your damn illusion and I’m just playing my part.”

  “An act. It’s all an act. For our family. Our friends. Even in front of our child.”

  “Don’t get sentimental on me now. You’re the one who’s created the act. The illusion for others that we’re happy. That we matter to each other. Hell, that we even give a damn about each other.”

  “You’re awfully accommodating.” Violet mentally winced as the accusation slithered out.

  The warm blue of his eyes, hazed over with the heat of passion, cooled off a few degrees. “What?”

  “You say you want me, then are fine with a big interruption to drive home.”

  “I do want you. And I thought I was showing you basic consideration and understanding.”

  “Consideration? Or a play to get what you want? Me, in bed.”

  Max moved up into her space, passion morphing quickly into ire. “What part of the past half hour haven’t you understood? Hell, what part of the past year haven’t you understood? I want you. It’s humbling to realize just how damn much I want you. But I’m not a freaking manipulator, Violet. I don’t operate that way, and I sure as hell wouldn’t insult you by behaving that way.”

  Misery squeezed her in a vise. “It’ll fade. We’ll screw around a bit and then this will all fade. The adrenaline rush will be gone, and we’ll go back to being two people who bicker and argue and drive each other nuts.” Where were these words coming from? And why wouldn’t they stop?

  “What?” Max backed away at that, and she saw the very result she was aiming for.

  Pain. Hurt. Confusion.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Just coming back to my senses. You are quite skilled at scrambling a woman’s brains.”

  Max moved forward once more, retracing his steps back to her. She nearly gave it up right there, because the confusion mapping his face in craggy lines gave way to a small bead of hope that lit up his eyes. “Talk to me, Violet. What’s this about?”

  Holding the ravages of her parents’ failure in an emotional fist, she now took the steps away from him. “Let’s just say I’m coming up from the adrenaline haze I’ve been in since Saturday night.”

  “Whatever’s going on here has nothing to do with Lange. And it sure as hell has nothing to do with being kidnapped.”

  Without giving her a moment to respond, he ground out, “Get your things. I’ll drive you home.”

  He was out the door of her office before she could say another word.

  * * *

  Alex turned the cell phone over in his hands, the tinkering he’d done with the piece paying him sweet dividends. Althou
gh somewhat damaged, he’d managed to retrieve the SIM card and had worked his way through the data. Baldwin was good, Alex had to give the man credit. The ex-soldier had done a pretty solid surface wipe of the data.

  But Alex was better.

  He dug beneath the data and bit by bit parsed out the information he was looking for.

  And was now sitting on a fifty-acre property in the Hill Country that belonged to one Maxwell Paul Baldwin. The land was purchased about a decade ago, but it was only recently built upon, based on some county permit records he’d also managed to unearth.

  Armed with the information, he made his way to Lange. The man had locked himself in his study, his anger over Violet Richardson’s escape and the lingering frustration over the loss of his wife putting him into a state.

  Alex had always believed his boss above reproach, but the past week had given him increasing doubts. Where he’d believed Lange strong and crafty, powerful and wise, he’d begun to see the cracks. The man’s dependence on his wife—and distraction at her disappearance—was downright shocking.

  Alex had come to America seeking a leader. How disappointing to see the veneer of strength he’d always admired crack and crumble, fading away to dust at a few small setbacks.

  That’s all they were. Setbacks.

  Alex believed to his very marrow that they had prepared better. Planned more effectively. And had the sheer drive necessary to reach their ends. They simply had to keep pressing forward.

  Otherwise, what had all the time and effort—years’ worth—been for?

  Tripp Lange had operated in the shadows, hiding his less savory choices behind a public face of charm, hard work and cutthroat business acumen. Even his wife had been unaware of her beloved husband’s shadowy maneuverings. It had been masterful.

  And now it was just weak.

  To allow it to fall to pieces was simply unacceptable.

  Relaxing his face, he set his features in calm lines and knocked on Lange’s door. A muffled “Come in” greeted him, and Alex entered the office.

  And was speared clean through with the evidence of his misplaced trust and loyalty.

  A dim light reflected from the desk, highlighting Lange’s features. He hadn’t shaved in two days, gray stubble painting his cheeks like those of a haggard old man. His hair, normally pulled back from his forehead in an elegant sweep, was disheveled and greasy. But it was his eyes that aged him.