Killer Curves

by Naima Simone

  His fingers tightened around his coffee cup, and he detonated the tracks on that train of thought before it could pull any further out of the station.

  Yet, the knowledge and back-the-fuck-off warnings blaring in his head hadn’t stopped him from following her out on the patio. And even when she’d walked away from him, avoiding him from the rest of the evening, he’d been consumed with a mixture of relief and hell no. When she’d left the restaurant, part of him had wanted to turn around and return at least a little of the interest the blonde flirting with him exhibited. And the other half…that half burned to charge after her, guide her into the back of a cab, and carry her to his bed where she belonged.

  Where she belonged. Shit, even the thought—the unfamiliar possessiveness behind the thought—had caused a fist of panic to tighten around his throat.

  Like it did now in the lobby of his firm.

  And damn, the sight of her. His cock jumped, pressing against his zipper like a fucking voyeur vying for a peek.

  At some point between soothing a client over a brick arriving unannounced through his front window and arriving at work this morning, he’d convinced himself Sloane Barrett couldn’t be as gorgeous as his sleep-deprived brain had convinced him. Yeah, well his memories hadn’t lied. If anything, they’d fucking low-balled the truth.

  Eyes still the vivid green of a rain forest. Face as smooth and lovely as a painting. Mouth as lush and ripe as the juiciest piece of fruit. A body—shit, a body so wicked, it should’ve been the eighth deadly sin. Even the simple lines of the strapless, floor-length dress couldn’t hide the sexy-as-hell curves. Strapless. Hell. He deviated between envying and hating the material that supported the generous weight of those beautiful breasts.

  The low lighting of the restaurant patio hadn’t allowed him to catch the smaller, less obvious details. Such as the faint mark at the lower end of her eyebrow. Surprise and delight sparked within him. Apparently, at some point, the duchess had been pierced. He also noticed the light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones, the specks a slightly darker shade of gold than her skin…

  Sloane blinked up at him and swept the tip of her tongue over her parted lips. He smothered a pained groan. Just like the night before, the nervous gesture had him imagining the same moist swipe over his cock instead of her bottom lip. “What are you doing here?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “I believe that’s my question, since I work here, duchess,” he drawled.

  A flare of satisfaction and need sparked in his chest at the firming of her mouth and the anger that flickered in her eyes at the “duchess.” She hadn’t appreciated the nickname while on the patio. But with all that rich, dark brown hair drawn away from her face to stream in a luxurious, sleek fall down her tautly held shoulders and straight back, she earned the title. Regal. Gorgeous. Distant. But, goddamn, his fingers itched to discover if she was touchable.

  She frowned. “You didn’t mention…” Shaking her head, she waved a hand. “Never mind, I supposed it doesn’t matter.” Turning to Willow, she smiled, but now it was his turn to frown and edge closer. Something about that smile was off… “I have an appointment to see Fallon Wayland and Shane Roarke, please. My name is Sloane Barrett.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Willow said, her curious and way-too-perceptive gaze darting back and forth between him and Sloane. “I’ll give ’em both a heads-up.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” He narrowed his gaze on the slow grin spreading over Willow’s lips as she circled the desk and picked up the phone. “What’s wrong, Sloane? Did something happen?”

  Unease wormed under his skin. Since she’d just seen Fallon at the party hours earlier, he doubted this visit to the office was social.

  “No. Yes,” she stammered, pinching her nose and briefly squeezing her eyes closed. When she looked at him again, her lovely features had shaped into an aloof, reserved mask. But she’d been seconds too late. He’d detected the traces of fear before she concealed it. What the hell happened? “I’m fine.”

  “Ms. Barrett, they’re waiting for you in Shane’s office.” Willow rounded the desk. “Just follow me—”

  “I’ll show her, Willow,” he interrupted, eliminating the space between them and placing a hand on her lower back.

  She stiffened. “Thank you, but—”

  “No problem. I was headed there myself.” Giving her no choice, he gently but firmly pushed her forward in the direction of Shane’s office.

  “This really isn’t necessary—”

  “Trust me, duchess, it’s necessary.” He opened the door to Shane’s office just as she jerked to a stop and glared fire and brimstone at him.

  “Can I please finish a sentence without you interrupting?” she snapped.

  “Umm…hi?” Fallon greeted.

  Heat flooded Sloane’s face, staining it an adorable shade of Embarrassed as Hell. He grinned as she turned to face a fascinated Fallon, who watched Ciaran and Sloane with a gleam most people reserved for chocolate and football.

  Shooting him another irritated scowl, Sloane recovered with an admirable quickness and entered the office. She crossed the spacious but Spartan room and hugged Fallon. Shane, Ciaran’s business partner and best friend as well as Fallon’s fiancé, rose from behind his desk. He glanced at Sloane, then cocked an eyebrow. Ciaran shrugged a shoulder in silent reply.

  “I’m so glad you came in,” Fallon said, kissing Sloane on the cheek. “I couldn’t sleep last night, I was so worried about you. I still wish you would’ve come over and slept at our place.”

  Worried about you? Slept at our place? All traces of humor evaporated like fog burned away by the mid-morning sun.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded of everyone. He didn’t care who answered, as long as someone did. And five seconds ago.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Shane murmured, rounding the desk and leaning against the edge, arms crossed. Again, he arched a dark brow. “Why don’t you join us?” he invited, voice dry.

  “I, uh, take it you two know each other?” Fallon asked, her gaze shifting from Sloane to Ciaran.

  “No,” Sloane stated firmly.

  “Yes,” Ciaran contradicted at the same time.

  “Well, that certainly clears that up,” Shane drawled.

  “Later,” Ciaran growled, stalking to the nearest wall and propping a shoulder against it. He returned Sloane’s stare with one of his own. Fuck that. She could aim as many frosty glowers and frowns his way as she wanted, he wasn’t going anywhere. “What’s going on?”

  “Someone broke into Sloane’s house yesterday evening. He grabbed her, but she escaped before he could hurt her,” Fallon explained softly, clasping Sloane’s hand as the other woman sank into one of the visitor chairs flanking the front of the desk.

  A cold fist smashed into his chest, seized his heart, and squeezed. He straightened and fought the instinctive urge to charge across the room and draw Sloane into his arms, shielding her from not just the horrifying violation that must still be tormenting her, but also from any more threats and danger. The need to touch her, soothe away the fear, and murmur his promise that no harm would come to her was a living thing inside him. But he smothered it, forcing himself to remain at his post against the wall. Not only would she reject any overture from him, but he didn’t comfort clients. He didn’t soothe. And he damn sure didn’t issue promises.

  “Start at the beginning, Sloane,” Shane instructed gently. “Leave nothing out.”

  Sloane sighed, and her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, weariness settling on her like a heavy blanket. “Three weeks ago, I started receiving late-night phone calls with no one speaking on the other end. And”—she paused, and he caught the slight shudder that rippled over her body—“unsettling emails.”

  “What do you mean by ‘unsettling?’” he asked before Shane or Fallon could.

  She didn’t glance at him, but the fatigue disappeared, her body going rigid. “They’re images of women,”
she explained, voice flat. “Dead women.”

  Fallon sucked in an audible gust of breath while Ciaran swore, harsh and hot. Shane’s mouth straightened into a grim line.

  “How do you know they’re dead?” Fallon asked, her face pale.

  “The eyes. They’re glassy. Empty,” Sloane whispered. Then, shaking her head, she cleared her throat. “There are also bruises around their necks as if they were strangled.”

  “The emails. You don’t recognize the sender’s address?” Shane questioned.

  Again, she shook her head. “The address is yourenext at yahoo-dot-com.”

  “And the emails and phone calls? They started three weeks ago? Just out of the blue?” Ciaran stalked across the office, halting at the edge of the desk.

  She nodded. “Yes. And yesterday afternoon when I left school, two of my tires were flat. I think”—she hesitated—“I think they were slashed.”

  “Slashed tires?” Fallon frowned. “Sloane, you didn’t say anything last night.”

  Sloane lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It was your evening. I didn’t want to spoil it. And besides, it’s my belief they were, I don’t have proof, yet. I asked my mechanic to check, so I’ll know today when I pick my car up.”

  “How often do you receive these calls and emails?” Ciaran gently steered the topic back to the immediate threats.

  “That first week, it was only a few times. But the following two, I received them every day. I turned off the ringer on my cell at night so I could get some sleep, and I blocked the email address, but somehow, they keep coming through.”

  “And last night?” Shane prodded.

  Sloane closed her eyes, but her lids immediately popped open, almost as if she couldn’t bear the momentary darkness.

  “I arrived home and noticed that my door was open…”

  As Sloane relayed the events of the night before, anger and fear rolled through him. And that old motherfucker helplessness washed up right behind them. For several long moments, he slowly, silently inhaled through his nose, exhaled through parted lips. He blinked back the walls of black that darkened his peripheral vision, threatening to blind him completely.

  Sam had been killed the same way. The safe house broken into. Dragged to another location. Gunned down in front of him.

  Ciaran pressed a hand to the middle of his chest. Right over the circular scar that had once been a bullet hole. For a second, the searing blaze infiltrated his flesh, radiated from behind his rib cage…

  “Ciaran.” Shane’s deep rumble penetrated the dark fog wrapping around him and halted his spiral into the blood-soaked past. Back then, Shane had seen him at his worst, had yanked him back from the abyss… And he recognized the signs of Ciaran teetering on the edge of it now.

  “Yeah,” Ciaran rasped. He thrust his hands in the front pockets of his pants, hiding the fists his fingers had curled into. “Do you know how he got into your house? Do you have an alarm system?”

  Sloane studied him, those emerald eyes incisive and questioning. Apparently she hadn’t missed his momentary furlough into hell. He struggled with the urge to return to his post against the wall and hide from her stare that seemed to cut too deep.

  “The police haven’t verified it, but I assumed through the front door, since it was unlocked. I always lock the door and set the alarm. I’ve been even more conscious than usual with the emails and calls,” she explained. “I’ve been trying to figure out how he disarmed the system…” she trailed off, frowning.

  “Is the code your birthday?” The slight widening of her eyes affirmed his guess. He nodded. “Most people use either their own or their kids’ birthdays as codes. Which tells us whoever did this must know you in some way. At least enough to have knowledge of your birthday or have access to the info,” Shane added. “Sloane, do you have any thoughts to who might be behind this?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” she said with a grim smile. “Drake Morriston.”

  “Who?” Fallon demanded. “You’ve never mentioned that name to me before.”

  “He’s a senior in my government class. Well, was.” She went on to tell them about Drake, his rage at the failing grade she’d given him and the voicemail he’d left on her phone. “He’s the only person I can think of who has anything against me.”

  Ciaran snorted. “True, he sounds like a spoiled douche, but that’s thin. And a B&E and attempted assault is a steep upgrade from a tantrum and voicemail.”

  “I can’t think of anyone else who would hate me enough to destroy my home and come after me,” Sloane admitted softly.

  Truth be told, he couldn’t either. From the short amount of time they’d spent together, she’d struck him as strong but vulnerable. Reserved but sensitive. And sweet. So fucking sweet.

  Jesus H. Christ, focus.

  “Does your school have security cameras installed on their campus?” Ciaran’s mind already turned, setting on the methods he and his colleagues could use to identify the asshole stalking Sloane.

  “Inside, yes. But I’m not sure about whether they cover the parking lots.” A rueful, humorless smile twisted her lips. “Either way, good luck with convincing the principal to let you have access. The administration is very…careful of their privacy and reputation.”

  Meaning they wouldn’t want even the smallest hint of negativity attached to their prestigious name. Not even if it meant protecting a teacher who might be in danger. Fuckers. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll manage.”

  GDG wasn’t the police. Sometimes, permission was a nicety instead of a necessity. Especially when you had a world-class hacker on your payroll. After outsourcing the technical side of their business for several years, they’d finally hired Jake Reid, ex-CIA and a computer genius-slash-mad-scientist.

  “I’ll get Jake to track the IP address on those emails. Find out what computer they originated from. Even if we can’t get a name, we might be able to come up with a location,” Ciaran said.

  Shane pushed himself off the desk and rounded the piece of furniture to drop into his office chair. “And I’ll get Maddox to install a tracker on your home and cell phones, see if we can trace the calls the next time they come in.” Shane dipped his chin in Sloane’s direction. “If that’s okay with you, Sloane.”

  “Of course, thank you,” Sloane murmured, that cool mask firmly back in place. He would’ve believed this conversation didn’t affect her if not for her twisting her fingers on her lap. The sight of the nervous gesture sent an unsolicited and unwanted tenderness stretching in his gut. He shut it down so hard and quick, a phantom muscle twinged in his chest.

  Ciaran turned to face Shane and away from the temptation to…feel that Sloane represented. He hadn’t allowed anything stronger than lust, anger, and grief to fill him in three years. And unless he intended to crack right down the middle and have all his fucked-up shit spill out, he didn’t see a reason to start feeling now.

  “What about putting someone on her?” Ciaran proposed.

  “Just what I was thinking.” Fallon shot a look at Shane, her fear for Sloane so obvious, Stevie Wonder wouldn’t need braille to read it. The severe lines of Shane’s face softened as he gazed back at the woman he loved, and Ciaran had to look away. He was happy for the two of them, he truly was. But the intimacy in their silent communication jabbed at an emotion he wasn’t too proud of—an emotion that he detested experiencing at all: jealousy. He didn’t want love or even companionship. The females he fucked understood what he offered them—one night. He never failed to make his limitations abundantly clear. Anything more than several hours of pleasure led to hopes of a relationship, and he didn’t do relationships.

  Commitment, love, selflessness—those were his biggest deficits.

  And unlike some knuckleheads, he didn’t need to ride the merry-go-round of insanity over and over again before jumping off. Shane was his best friend, and Ciaran considered Fallon his little sister, but he couldn’t help but call them reckless and crazy for risking their sanity
and their lives, if one of them were hurt…or died.

  Because loving meant losing.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Sloane interjected, drawing Ciaran’s attention back to her like a dinner bell lured a horde of ravenous men. “I’m staying in a hotel now and am leaving town next week.”

  “Leaving town?” he barked. Calm the hell down, a soft voice whispered against his mind. Why should he care? I don’t, he assured himself. Still… “Where are you going?”

  “To the Hamptons for my parents’ anniversary. I’ll be there Thursday through Monday.”

  Refusing to analyze the absurd strength of the relief that coursed through him at the knowledge she was leaving town and would temporarily be out of harm’s way, he nodded. “Okay, but I still believe we need to sit someone on you until then.”

  “Just because you leave Boston doesn’t mean whoever is doing this will wait patiently for your return. I still say you should have someone watching your back on your trip, too,” Fallon insisted. Her expression cleared, brightening as she turned fully toward Sloane. “You mentioned this party to me. Isn’t your mother expecting you to bring a plus one? So take a guard and pretend he’s your date. No one would suspect the truth, and you’ll be protected.”

  Before Sloane could control her reaction, horror flashed across her features. The accompanying flinch was small, but he noticed it. Filed it away to question and examine later. Why did the thought of bringing a “boyfriend” to meet her family disturb her so much?

  “Absolutely not,” she said flatly. “Not only would I hate having to lie to everyone, but my parents wouldn’t buy it. And, like I said, it’s not necessary. I will be surrounded by people the entire time. I’ll be safe.”