Killer Curves

by Naima Simone

  “If I can’t get you to have some pride in how you look after two years, no wonder your family has given up trying after so long. God, you’re an embarrassment.”

  “Your parents must wonder where they went wrong with you.”

  “Look at your sister’s body. If you had an ass and tits like that, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

  A big palm slid up her spine, under her hair, and circled her neck, much like the soothing caress on the front porch. She shuddered underneath Ciaran’s touch, and unlike earlier, leaned into it.

  For just a moment, she allowed herself to rely on it.

  But not depend on it.

  “John,” her mother called out, entering the room. “Sloane has arrived. Come greet her, darling.”

  Her father turned away from a group clustered near the fireplace, wearing a broad smile. Sloane flinched, at the last second swallowing a gasp. It’d been several months since she’d seen her father, having visited her parents at the beginning of the summer. In that time, her normally robust father had grown thinner, paler as if unwell. Though handsome in his casual jacket, shirt, and slacks, he seemed tired, worn. More salt peppered the dark brown hair he’d bequeathed her. Jesus. Fear thrummed through her, discordant and loud. Was he sick? Worry propelled her forward. Why hadn’t anyone told her? Was this why her mother had been so adamant about her coming to the anniversary party?

  “Sloane.” He reached them, pulling Sloane into a tight embrace. Which did nothing to allay her concerns. John Barrett wasn’t a hugger. She’d never doubted his love for her, but still, he didn’t do public displays of affection. “I’m so glad you could make it with the school year beginning.”

  Mallory scoffed, waving away her husband’s words. “Don’t get me started on that job.”

  “Then don’t, Mother,” a dry voice drawled. Chelsea Barrett Winters, her younger sister by two years, joined their circle. Petite, slender, blonde, and gorgeous, she was a reflection of Mallory—a wife, mother, hostess, socialite. The opposite of Sloane. “Good to see you, Sloane.” Chelsea brushed a kiss over her cheek. “And who’s this?” she practically purred, slanting a glance at Ciaran.

  “Dad, Chelsea, I’d like you to meet Ciaran Ross, my…”—Sloane hesitated—“friend. Ciaran, this is my father, John Barrett, and my sister, Chelsea Winters.”

  Her father moved forward, his hazel gaze steady and assessing. “Nice to meet you, Ciaran. I would say we’ve heard so much about you, but…” His eyebrow arched high, his scrutiny shifting to Sloane.

  Though the need to fidget wormed through her, she arched a brow in return. “Message received, Dad.”

  “Well he’s certainly a vast improvement over the last one,” Chelsea grumbled.

  “Chelsea!” Mallory hissed, her frown forbidding.

  Her sister rolled her eyes, and Sloane struggled not to gape at the other woman. What the hell? What alternate universe had her figurative Kansas farmhouse plummeted into? This one, where her father hugged her and her sister muttered under her breath, was as strange as one with a gold brick-paved road, talking apple trees, and munchkins.

  “Fine,” Chelsea said, green eyes wide and blinking in a façade of innocence. “So, how long have you two been”—the corner of her mouth quirked—“friends?”

  “About a month.” Ciaran’s palm slid down her back, over her hip, and he tangled her fingers with his. “A mutual friend, Fallon Wayland, introduced us.”

  “Ah, Fallon.” Her father nodded. “I know her father. He’s a good man.” To John, that meant he was a good business man. “He recently told me she was engaged.”

  “Yes, sir. To my friend and partner, Shane Roarke.”

  “Partner?” Mallory tipped her head to the side, studying him. “You own your own company, Ciaran?”

  “Yes. A private security firm in Boston with Shane and two other partners.”

  Sloane waited for one of her parents or her sister to call bullshit, but her father seemed impressed, her mother intrigued, and her sister…gleeful. God, this day was weird.

  “I can’t wait to get to know you better over the next few days,” her mother said. “John, why don’t you introduce Ciaran to the others while I borrow Sloane for a moment.”

  Oh shit. Here it comes.

  “You good?” Ciaran murmured in her ear, his lips brushing against her hair.

  She nodded, and with a squeeze to her fingers, he released her, following his father.

  “Chelsea,” Mallory bit out, when her sister didn’t follow the men. “I need to speak with your sister. Alone.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Chelsea shrugged. She backed away several steps, but as soon as Mallory turned to face Sloane, Chelsea mouthed, he’s hot, pointed in Ciaran’s direction, and then popped up a thumb.

  Sloane blinked. Seriously, who was this woman, and what the fuck had happened to her stuffy, snobby sister?

  “Your sister,” Mallory tsked, shaking her head. “I swear, this separation must be taking its toll. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. But anyway, young lady.” She peered at Sloane, curiosity and speculation rife in her eyes. “When I talked to you last week, why didn’t you tell me about this new man in your life? Why didn’t you mention him the last few times we spoke?”

  “The relationship is new, Mother, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking him to a family function so soon,” she recited the excuse she’d readied in preparation of this question. “But Ciaran wanted to finally meet you and Father, so…” She trailed off, and to her relief, her mother seemed to accept the explanation.

  “That’s understandable. He’s certainly…handsome, isn’t he?” She glanced at Ciaran, who stood with her father, talking with a small group of men. Ciaran fit right in—no, that wasn’t exactly true. The…magnetism and vitality that radiated off of him overshadowed the others. Like a powerful, sleek panther among harmless housecats. “Did Fallon tell him who your family was before you met?”

  Right. Because a man as stunning in masculine beauty as he had to possess some ulterior motive for being attracted to her. Such as connections with her successful, rich father.

  “I don’t know. She could have.”

  “Hmm.” Mallory tapped a French-manicured fingertip against her bottom lip. “Just be careful, honey. I don’t want you hurt. But he’s here, so that speaks very well in his favor. So we’ll see. Anyway…” She clapped her hands together. “Given the turn of circumstances, I’m glad I took the liberty of selecting a dress for tonight. I think it will be lovely on you. I hung it in your room.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “You’re welcome, darling.” She looped an arm through Sloane’s and steered her farther into the room. “Also, since I didn’t know you were bringing someone, I didn’t reserve an extra room. Ciaran will have to share your room.” She arched a dark blond eyebrow, a gleam in her eyes. “Will that be a problem?”

  Holy hell. She hadn’t foreseen this. Would dressing, undressing, and sleeping in the same room with Ciaran Ross for the next five days be a problem? Would inhaling his male scent, glimpsing his virile body, and trying to shield her lust for him without any kind of break be a problem?

  “Sloane?”

  She forced a smile to her lips and wondered if it appeared as pained as it felt. “No. No problem.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ciaran tipped his face back under the steady stream of the shower water and moaned. Pleasure pulsed over his body, relaxing his muscles, granting him seconds of contentment. God, it felt so fucking good. He shivered, but stifled another groan. One moan slipping free had been bad enough. Two? Shit, he might as well check in his Man Card. Because no self-respecting man gained this much pleasure from a shower unless his dick was in his fist.

  With a snarl, he twisted the shower faucets and stepped out of a tub the size of his bed at home. Which was apropos since the bathroom was roughly the size of his goddamn bedroom.

  Shaking his head, he grabbed a towel and rubbed down his bod
y before wrapping the soft, luxurious cloth around his waist and ignored the almost sensual caress of the material against his skin. Damn. At some point in the shower, he’d grown a vagina.

  Still, this kind of wealth—he huffed out a breath. The house, the people, the lifestyle… Jesus. True, he’d guarded plenty of high-end clients through GDG, but this was a whole different level. He called Sloane “duchess,” but how could he have guessed the house she’d grown up in was damn near a palace?

  A job. An assignment. He jerked open the closet door and removed his pants from the hanger. He could protect her in a castle just as well as he could in a hovel. And if anything, the sight of her world solidified the differences between them. Reminded him why he was here. As a hired contractor pretending to be her man, but not her man. Not a part of this opulence that would have funded a Third World country.

  No matter how strongly the urge to protect her stalked inside him like a newly awakened, circling beast. But a real partner did those things, not a fake one. His focus was protecting her, keeping her safe…alive.

  He fastened his pants and removed his shirt from the closet, resolve firmed. With a mental nod, he opened the bathroom door. If it came down to a choice between her life and her feelings, hands down—

  “What the hell do you have on?” he snapped.

  Sloane whirled around and the voluminous folds of the red tent she wore swirled around her body. The long, dark strands of her hair were swept over her shoulder, the curled ends brushing her breasts. Breasts barely visible underneath the knee-length muumuu she wore.

  “Sloane?”

  “Yes?” She stared at him. Blinked. Slicked the tip of her tongue over her parted lips. Blinked again. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded.

  “Oh.” Her pretty mouth twisted into a wry smile. “My mother bought me a dress for tonight’s dinner.”

  He snorted, slipping his shirt on. “Are you sure she didn’t just grab it off one of the tables downstairs?” The deep crimson was pretty against her golden skin and chocolate hair, but goddamn, clowns and acrobats could have performed under the thing.

  She plucked at the sides. “In her defense, I think she believes it’s flattering to my figure.”

  Loosing a short bark of laughter, he started buttoning his shirt. “Sweetheart, there is no defense for that thing. And flattering, hell. You can’t even see your figure in it.”

  Another humorless curve of her lips. “I think that’s probably the point. Fashion rule number one. Emphasize your assets and conceal your flaws.”

  His fingers froze mid-fasten. What. The. Fuck.

  He studied her, and this time noticed what he’d initially missed. The light stain of color tinging her high cheekbones. The faint smudge of hurt darkening her green eyes. The restless clenching and relaxing of her hands against the dress.

  Anger flared in his chest like a struck match. He dropped his arms to his side, curling his fingers into fists. Either that or stride across the room, grab her by the shoulders, and haul her close. Crush his mouth to hers, thrust his tongue hard past her lips, and take what he’d been fantasizing about since the night of the engagement party. Show her in explicit detail just how beautiful she was.

  With a snarl, he stalked past her and toward the huge walk-in closet where an unseen maid had hung their clothes. He knew fuck all about women’s clothing, but as a man, he could narrow the choices down to ugly, pretty, and take-that-off-so-I-can-fuck you.

  Rifling through the dresses, shirts, skirts, and pants, he flipped to a black dress with a similar style to the one she’d worn earlier. He studied the sleeveless sheath with the small slit on the side. Hell yeah. This fell between pretty and take-that-off-so-I-can-fuck you. Perfect.

  Glancing up, he met Sloane’s curious yet wary gaze. He could just imagine how he appeared in her eyes, a grown-ass man going through her clothes. Humor infiltrated the anger, lessening it, but not abolishing it. The anger wouldn’t disappear until that uncertainty in her eyes did.

  “Here.” He extended the dress toward her. “Put this on. And take that shit off. Use it to wallpaper this closet, spread it on the floor as a rug, or upholster the couch”—he nodded toward the small sofa in the corner of the closet—“but just take it off.”

  “Is that an order?” she whispered.

  “Do you want it to be?” he whispered back.

  The thought of directing her, rendering a command and watching her obey stroked his cock like a tight fist. Blood pumped hot and heavy in his veins, pulsing in his gut, throbbing in his flesh. He liked to be in control in the bedroom but didn’t need it like some men. And with her overwhelming family and asshole ex, he would give free rein to Sloane, allow her to take her pleasure, own it. Fuck, he would love to witness that. Still…watching her sink to her knees just at the pressure of his hand on her shoulder or from a simple word, and her want to be there… A growl rolled in the back of his throat. Yeah, he may not need it. Damn sure didn’t stop him from craving it.

  Silent, she stepped forward, reaching for the dress. For a moment, they both grasped the hanger, the tension between them like a living, breathing entity. Sex vibrated in the room, humming against his skin, stoking a need he was finding harder and harder to fight.

  “I’ll change in here and leave you the bedroom to finish getting ready.” Her gaze dropped to his bare chest before jerking back to his face. “I should only be a minute.”

  With a sharp nod, he exited the closet, closing the door shut behind him. Closing her in. Keeping him out.

  “Shit,” he muttered, jerking the lapels of his shirt together, and with rough movements, buttoned up his shirt.

  Minutes later, as he tugged on his suit jacket, his cell rattled against the dresser where he’d tossed it before showering. His mouth flattened as he shot a glance toward the walk-in closet and hurried to grab the phone. A cursory peek at the caller’s name had grim satisfaction settling inside him. Good. He’d been waiting on this call.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, Key-Key” his best friend and partner, Maddox Wright, greeted in his usual laid-back manner, complete with irritating-as-hell nickname. “I have some intel for you.”

  “Fuck you, and what is it?”

  Maddox tsked, and Ciaran could just see the other man shaking his blond head, wearing his trademark smart-ass grin. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Before Ciaran could snap out a reply, Maddox barreled on. “Through the tracer on your girl’s cell, I tracked down that number.” His voice lost the lazy affectation and hardened, revealing the tough, ex-police officer who’d served seven years as a beat cop and detective with the New York City Police Department. “It led to a burner phone. I was able to determine where it was shipped to and what store received and sold it, which is a convenience store in Dorchester. Other than that, without knowing what timeframe the phone was bought, we pretty much have a dead end. Especially if it was purchased more than a week ago—which is as long as the store keeps the video feed before the footage is recorded over.”

  “Damn.” Ciaran frowned. He wasn’t surprised about the burner phone, but dammit, he’d hoped Maddox would’ve had better news.

  “Yeah, but if this bastard switches phones and calls from a new number, we’ll have a better chance of tracking it and him down since we’ll have a tighter timeframe along with the location. It’s a long shot, but…” Ciaran detected the shrug in his friend’s voice. “Also, Jake traced the IP address on that yourenext Yahoo email account. I saw the pictures this guy’s been sending Sloane, Ciaran,” Maddox murmured. “It’s some sick shit. And the fucker is smart enough to cover his tracks. The account and emails originated from an internet café on High Street. And get this: they don’t have video surveillance cameras to protect their customers’ confidentiality.” He snorted. “It’s all fun and privacy until your ass gets robbed,” he grumbled. “Doesn’t matter, though. I paid them a little visit last night. They have surveillance now wh
ether they want it or not. If this guy returns to the café, we’ll have an image of him.”

  “Shit.” Ciaran shoved a fist into his pants pocket. More ifs. “What about the two assholes from Monday? Did Jake find anything from the ID I gave him?”

  “Benjamin Russell and Ronald Anders. They’re not talking, just like we figured. And they’ve lawyered up,” he added, disgust dripping from his tone. For Maddox, criminal defense attorneys ranked right above shit on a stick but under flaming shit on a stick. “According to Jake, their rap sheets would put Baby Face Finster to shame, but nothing having to do with kidnapping. Assault, robbery, drugs, even fucking shoplifting, but no kidnapping.”

  “Confirms my suspicion that they were working for someone else.” Someone else who was still out there, most likely with pockets deep enough to hire another to carry out the plan Russell and Anders had failed to execute. “Kind of makes you think someone who wouldn’t verify if the people he’s hiring possessed more credentials than common street thugs isn’t an amateur himself.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Maddox agreed. “But then again we all know novices can be more dangerous than the professionals. Anyway, I asked Tristan to see if he can hit up one of his friends on the force. Let us know if anyone comes to visit them in county, and if they make calls, who they’re to.”

  “Thanks, that’s a great idea.”

  Tristan Scott, a childhood friend and newly ex-Boston police officer had joined GDG about a month ago after resigning from the department. Though his departure had been under less-than-stellar circumstances, Ciaran didn’t doubt that as a once highly respected detective, the other man would still have connections he could tug if needed. Especially since they’d pulled the school’s security footage before Ciaran had left town. It’d revealed what they already knew. Two assailants had approached Sloane after she’d exited the building for the evening and accosted her. Even though he’d been there, watching the attempt and Sloane’s struggle to escape on video had sent ice cascading through his arteries.