by Naima Simone
Not that he probably gives a damn about little things like appropriate, polite distance. The thought popped into her head, and though she couldn’t possibly know that about him, she didn’t doubt the veracity of the statement, either. She had a feeling the “inches” were for her benefit, not his.
She inhaled a shaky breath—then immediately wished she hadn’t. But too late. She couldn’t scrub the woodsy, earthy fragrance of his cologne from her nostrils. Damn. Before this moment she wouldn’t have believed a man’s scent could be foreplay.
He said hello, the part of her brain still functioning hissed. Get it together, dammit!
Right, right. Oh Jesus Christ. Wasn’t talking to oneself a precursor to Prozac and rubber-walled rooms?
Again, she forced her social smile to her lips. “Hi.”
That inner voice sighed at her inane stupidity.
A corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile, and a dent in his cheek made a brief appearance. Dimples. Really? Because beautiful eyes, a gorgeous face, and hard body weren’t enough? Butterflies took to flight in her belly. Damn butterflies. Raptors. Freaking pterodactyls.
“Ciaran.” He held out his hand, and for several long seconds she studied his big, wide palm. Something instinctive, primeval, yelled a warning not to touch him. That if she did, there would be no turning back, no do-overs. But in spite of her earlier thoughts of comparing herself to lonely, aimlessly circulating cruise ships, she wasn’t a fanciful woman but a realist. A pragmatist, a rationalist, she reminded herself as she pressed her hand to his…
And an idiot.
His big palm nearly engulfed hers. Electric. Stunning. She swallowed a gasp as a jolt speared her chest and traveled at lightning speed to the faintly pulsing flesh between her thighs. A handshake. He’d set her sex swelling and quivering with a simple handshake.
She shouldn’t have touched him.
“Nice to meet you, Ciaran.” Kee-ran. She silently repeated his name, rolled it on her tongue like a delicious, decadent treat. It suited him. Unique. Strong. Sexy. “Sloane Barrett.”
“Sloane,” he repeated. “It’s my pleasure.”
She’d never been a fan of her name. Her parents had christened their youngest daughter Chelsea—perky, pretty, bright, fun. Perfect for her sister. As the first-born child, Sloane had received her mother’s maiden family name—Sloane. Stately. Stodgy. Gender generic. Boring. Hell, if she’d been a boy, she still would’ve been Sloane. Her parents had deliberated, considered, and finally selected the ideal match for their second child. They hadn’t done the same for Sloane. Probably from the moment they’d discovered her mother was pregnant, the decision had been made, regardless of whether the name would fit. Regardless of whether the weight of it was too heavy for a child. All that had mattered was Mallory Johanna Sloane Barrett’s legacy.
So, no, she’d never been a fan of her name.
Until now.
Until the moment a midnight-and-sin voice stroked that one, resented syllable and transformed it into something—someone—sexy and mysterious instead of dull, stuffy…flawed.
God, he was dangerous.
“You’re staring,” she whispered. Like she wasn’t doing some major ogling right back at him. Jesus Christ, lust had eradicated all but a few brain cells.
Amusement flickered in his bright gaze. “I am,” he agreed. “I like looking at you, duchess.” His voice lowered as if imparting a secret. A secret that should only be voiced in the darkest part of the night when sighs and whimpers are the only form of communication.
Heat scorched her throat and face even as she latched on to the one part of his admission, choosing to ignore the rest for her sanity—and panties’—sake. “Duchess?”
He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug again. “You look like one. Beautiful, wealthy, composed…untouchable.”
His description unnerved her. She was none of those things. Her parents were wealthy, but she lived off her teacher’s salary. And her mother had never been able to drill a proper lady’s composure into Sloane; she’d always been too shy, too sensitive. Now she could pretend with the best of them…but the mask only lasted a little while. Sooner or later the emotions inside her landed on her sleeve for all to see like a Hell’s Angel patch. And beautiful? Well, her father called her so. As had Phillip at one time. But he’d changed his tune soon enough.
The reminder of her ex swilled in her gut like sour alcohol. “Yes, well, looks can be deceiving.” She tugged her hand but his fingers tightened, refusing to release her.
“Which one,” he challenged.
“Which one, what?” Frowning, she tried to pull free again. But once more, his hold tightened. She narrowed her eyes on him, and his hooded gaze dropped to their clasped hands before lifting back to her face. And he still didn’t let her go.
“Which one is deceiving?” he clarified. “I have eyes, so I know you’re beautiful. Composed, too. You walked in here tonight like you owned it and chose a beer when every other woman in this place has a glass of champagne. Which was hot as hell.” His scrutiny briefly dipped to her mouth as if he envisioned her drinking from the bottle at that moment. “From the cut of your hair and the red soles of those shoes, you can afford material things. So that leaves untouchable.” He cocked his head to the side. “Are you untouchable, duchess?”
“First, my name isn’t duchess. And second, my touch-ability or lack thereof is usually reserved for people I’ve known for twenty minutes, not two,” she bit out. And the Louboutins had been a gift from her mother, who firmly believed the designer shoes should be a staple in every woman’s closet. Buy the expensive shoes on a teacher’s salary? Not hardly.
His smile widened, those damn dimples flashing another appearance.
Hell. So much for putting him in his place. Apparently sarcasm was wasted on him.
She jerked on her hand again, and this time he released her. But it wasn’t lost on her that her freedom was a direct result of his choice, not her strength. The knowledge shouldn’t have turned the screw of lust inside her, but damn if it didn’t.
“Wedding or engagement?”
“What?”
He grasped her hand again and brushed his thumb back and forth over the pale strip of skin on her ring finger. The tell-tale sign of a recently removed ring.
Just that quick, the reminder of her ex and their spectacular failure of a relationship doused the desire simmering within her in a frigid wave of humiliation. Pain and something darker—uglier—convulsed inside her chest. With Herculean effort, she schooled her features into a smooth mask and extracted her hand from his grip.
“Engagement,” she said, interjecting a whole bunch of let it go into the flat monotone.
He tipped his bottle and sipped from it. The silence stretched between them as he lowered the beer, his brooding gaze fixed on her face.
“Does he need maiming or killing?”
She frowned, her aloof facade slipping into surprise and then confusion. Uh… What the hell? “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Does who need maiming or killing?”
“The man who made you feel…” He paused, his full, sensual lips firming into a grim line.
“Feel like what?” she pressed, although part of her didn’t want to hear his answer.
Another beat of silence passed before he murmured, “Small. Like you didn’t matter to him.”
Ouch. That hurt. Did she wear her hurt and shame over Phillip’s betrayal so vividly that even a stranger noticed? Forcing a laugh that sounded serrated and bitter even to her ears, she waved off his observation. “Small,” she repeated with a wry smile. “Well, no one’s ever called me that before.”
“Ah.” He nodded, eyes narrowing with a piercing intensity that had her fighting the need to turn away and hide from that too-perceptive stare. “Killing, then.”
She blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Unbidden pleasure at his unsolicited—and unconditional—defense crept through her like a stealthy invader. It was silly; at twenty-six,
she was too old and cynical for a white knight on a liveried steed. Yet the sinuous slide of warmth in her veins belied that belief. No one had ever championed her like this hot, blue-eyed stranger. Even if instead of a sword and shield, he wielded a proposal to off the man who’d hurt her—a proposition she was only half convinced he said in jest…
She shook her head, chuckling under her breath. “You just don’t give a damn about proper decorum or manners, do you?” She shook her head, bemused. “Because I am quite certain offering to carry out a contract killing violates at least two of Emily Post’s etiquette rules.”
He laughed, and the low, sexy rumble stroked over her skin. Lowering her lashes, she sipped from her beer. But the cool alcohol did nothing to quench the thirst that went so much deeper, burned so much hotter than something capable of being doused with a cold beverage. Suddenly nervous, she slid her tongue over her bottom lip.
A dark, growling sound—a sound caught somewhere between a groan and a purr—emanated from him. She sucked in a breath and her gaze jerked up to meet his.
Oh God.
Such focus. It was intoxicating. Stimulating. Arousing. The hot intensity of his eyes branded her. Whew, boy. Her fingers tightened on the beer bottle as if the touch could ground her to reason, to logic, and not allow her to get swept away and lost in feeling. God, he made her want. Made her crave things she’d only read about or watched on late-night cable shows. Made her consider doing things…
She’d never been that sleep-with-a-man-you-just-met kind of woman. It smacked of low self-esteem and no respect. And in this day and age, a girl might go home with Mr. Nice and Normal, but wake up shackled to the bed by Mr. I-Have-A-Nice-Hot-Bath-of-Hydrochloric-Acid-to-Dissolve-Your-Body-Parts. So yes, entertaining a one-night stand with a guy she barely knew smacked of stupidity. But that had been before tonight. Before a man with eyes the color of a flawless gem, the face of a pagan fertility god, and the body of a Celtic warrior had asked her if she was untouchable. And then offered to kill someone for making her feel “small.”
She shuddered.
“Cold?” Ciaran murmured.
Cold? God, no. Any hotter, and she would make the Human Torch look like a little kid playing with matches.
A dragonfly has a lifespan of twenty-four hours.
“That really sucks for it,” he said.
She frowned. “I’m sorry?”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “For the dragonfly.”
She’d said that out loud? Well, shit. She swallowed a groan. He must think she was the village idiot’s long-lost twin.
“Sloane.”
He shifted closer, and the glow from the hurricane lamps highlighted the angles and shadows of his face. Her belly clenched, and traitorous warmth unfurled, winding its way south. Apparently her body chose not to remember the last time she’d fallen for a handsome man. She’d been so enamored with Phillip’s pretty looks, she’d failed to recognize the ugliness hidden beneath the mask. She hadn’t heeded the signs of control and mental and verbal abuse until she’d been ensnared in their insidious, sticky webs. Logic argued that not all good-looking men were narcissistic assholes. Still, feeding on her issues about being the chubby, shy, more-tarnished-than-gold Barrett, Phillip had hammered home the doubts and insecurities of why a handsome man would find her attractive. And Ciaran…well, he exceeded mere “handsome.” Describing him with such a bland and anemic description was like calling the Sistine Chapel a pretty church.
“We should return to the party,” she murmured, not waiting for his agreement. She eased past him and headed toward the patio entrance. Yes, strategic retreat presented itself as the wisest course of action. She needed to return to the safety of the party with people she didn’t know, where she could wrap herself in the protective and cold distance of polite conversation. Escape before she did something to embarrass herself—like beg him to touch her and end her four-month celibacy streak.
“Sloane.”
Keep it moving! Her mind blared the order, but as if of their own volition, her feet jerked to a halt.
“If you keep running from me, I’m going to start taking it personally.”
Running? That was ridiculous. Absurd.
And she would’ve told him so…if she wasn’t already making a beeline for the restaurant.
Chapter Two
Okay, so her vagina was really, really pissed off with her.
Sloane snorted, striding up the sidewalk to her Bay Village brownstone. Not that she could blame her lady bits. Even two hours after the weird and stimulating conversation with the mysterious and sexy Ciaran, she still tingled like a lightning rod drawing electricity to her body, transmitting currents to her breasts, belly, and sex. It was a wonder she didn’t light up like a freakin’ glow stick at a Lady Gaga concert.
She sighed. And yet, here she was, walking up to her home—alone.
Because she was a coward. After scurrying off the shadowed restaurant patio, she’d spent the rest of her time at the engagement party avoiding the temptation and…hurt Ciaran represented. Like a child burned by a flame, she only needed to look at the thing responsible for once hurting her to shy away. Not that Ciaran had inflicted the pain, but he represented the source. A handsome, charismatic man. The wonder of attraction. And ultimately, the disappointment of knowing she wasn’t enough.
Been there, done that, had the matching T-shirt and refrigerator magnet to prove it.
Her cell rang, and the muffled notes of LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” reverberated from her purse. Groaning, she removed the phone and, for a second, considered not answering it. Like that would stop her. Gritting her teeth, Sloane swiped her thumb over the Accept Call bar. “Hello, Mother.”
“Sloane, I have been trying to reach you all day and evening,” her mother, Mallory Johanna Sloane Barrett, complained without preamble.
Sloane swallowed another sigh. “School starts in another week. And besides preparing for it and the open house Monday night, I’ve been pretty busy.”
“You also have next week to pack for. I won’t take no for an answer, Sloane. Nor will I accept any excuses. It’s your father’s and my anniversary, and you will be here.”
Sloane paused at the low, wrought-iron gate bordering her building. God, she pinched the bridge of her nose, her lips moving in a soundless prayer for patience. Oblivious to Sloane’s plea for divine assistance, her mother continued to drone on in Sloane’s ear. Usually, all her mother required was an occasional “uh-huh” or “yes, Mother” to ensure Sloane was listening, but today she wanted actual conversation. Or rather, acquiescence.
“Mother, I’m just arriving home from Fallon’s engagement party,” Sloane said, interrupting her mother mid-admonishment. “I haven’t even walked into the house yet. Can I call you back?”
“Fallon’s engagement party.” Mallory tsked. “This is precisely what I’m talking about, Sloane. Even Fallon has found a husband. And here you are, school hasn’t even started yet, for goodness sake, and you’re already wrapped up in work. How do you expect to have any kind of social life or relationship when that’s all you ever do? A paycheck cannot keep you company or marry you or give you children. No man wants to play second fiddle to a job.” Most people usually reserved the sneer her mother applied to “job” for dog poop on the sidewalk or Justin Bieber. Only Mallory would consider honest employment to be on the level of shit and spoiled, mop-bucket-peeing pop stars.
“Yes, Mother, I know.”
This line of conversation was so old, cobwebs dangled from it. If her mother would allow her to breathe, then maybe Sloane could wedge into the exchange that she already planned on driving down to the Hamptons next Thursday. Yes, for her parents’ anniversary party, but also to get out of Boston for at least a few days.
She shifted her attention to the front door of her brownstone, and a slight shiver skated over her skin. She hated it—hated the unease that tripped through her when her home should only bring comfort and relief. But her h
aven had become tainted by ominous phone calls that ended in hang-ups and emails containing disturbing images like the one she’d received earlier that evening. Calls and emails bombarded her daily, fraying her nerves until she dreaded the ring of a phone or the notice of an unread message in her Inbox. A report to the police had resulted in a “There’s not much we can do” that infuriated her even as she understood the response. Their resources were limited, and with nothing to go on but a bogus email address and untraceable calls… She shook her head. At least they’d offered to subpoena Yahoo for the owner of the email address.
But God knew how long that would take or even if the records would reveal the identity of the person harassing her. As for the other incidents… Even if she could convince the police her tires hadn’t been a coincidence, no one had witnessed the incident. Because the vandalism hadn’t been a coincidence. A shiver crawled down her spine. She’d seen tires punctured by a nail or flattened by a slow leak before. Hers, on the other hand, had been slashed.
Yes, she needed to escape her home and the total helplessness she’d been experiencing these last few weeks, if just for a little while.
“Guests are arriving Thursday afternoon, so you need to be here by then to help greet them with the family.” Mallory’s world-weary sigh interrupted Sloane’s morose thoughts. “And with all that’s going on with your sister, now more than ever we have to appear like a strong, united front.”
“What? Wait. What’s going on with Chelsea?” Sloane and her younger sister didn’t speak often, but Chelsea was busy with her life as wife to a very successful attorney, mother to two gorgeous children, and a social titan. The two of them had almost nothing in common except genetics—and Sloane had questioned that at times.
Another heavy sigh. “She and Greg have separated. Chelsea’s tossing around divorce.”
Shock ricocheted through her. Divorce? What? How? God, Chelsea—
“So if work crops up between now and then,” her mother continued, “it needs to take a back seat to your obligations. I can only handle so much this weekend.”
