by Naima Simone
If he hadn’t followed her… He shoved the stomach-churning thought aside and focused on Maddox’s continued report.
“Also Dodger retrieved the information from the computers and laptops in Drake Morriston’s home. She passed the flash drives on to Jake.”
“Good.” It was a long shot, but Sloane had seemed adamant about her former student being involved in this somehow. So, though he didn’t necessarily agree, Ciaran had instructed Willow to infiltrate the Morriston’s home and copy their computers so Jake could examine them for incriminating evidence. “You’ll let me know if he finds something?”
“Will do. If anything at all develops, I’ll hit you up.”
“Thanks, Maddox.”
“No prob, Key-Key.” The line clicked in Ciaran’s ear before he could snarl out a comeback, picturing that motherfucker laughing at getting in the last word.
He tossed the cell on the mattress as the closet door creaked open behind him. He turned. “I’m just about—”
And the breath stalled in his lungs. Goddamn.
On another woman, the simple, clean lines of the sleeveless dress would’ve been…nice. Safe. But not Sloane. Beautiful, firm breasts, that small waist, and feminine, sensual flare of hips transformed the black sheath into an accessory that accentuated the gorgeous body beneath. Jesus Christ, she could tempt a saint into throwing aside his halo, Bible, and salvation just for a sip from the shallow bowl at the bottom of her collar bone. Just a lick of nipples he instinctively knew would be a dark, lovely cinnamon. Just a taste of the liquid heat between her soft thighs.
And he was far, far from a saint.
“Sexy as hell.”
He hadn’t intended to vocalize the thought or for the hoarse rumble to reflect the lust tightening his gut and balls. But when her eyes widened and her lips parted on a gasp, he couldn’t regret his outburst.
“I need your help,” she murmured.
All his flesh computed was “I need,” and it leaped in joy behind his zipper. He couldn’t admonish his dick. Not this time. Because, dammit, he needed, too.
“Would you mind?” She pivoted, presenting her back to him. With her hair brushed to the side and over her shoulder, the slice of honeyed skin in the V of the unzipped dress called to him like a siren calling sailors to their watery doom. Like those entranced seamen, he crossed the distance of the room toward the siren who offered heaven and hell. Because touching her would be both.
Anticipation and dread coiled inside him, so entwined, he couldn’t separate one from the other. As if from a distance, he watched his fingers pinch the tab and slowly drag it up. His knuckles skimmed the petal-soft skin, and he caught the fine tremble of her body. A corresponding shudder rippled over his skin.
He tugged the zipper to the top, and unable to help himself, he leaned forward, inhaled the graceful column of her neck. Moonlight and sin. Fresh, welcoming air and sultry, hot sex.
She shivered, loosing a soft, muted sound that was abruptly cut off.
But too late, he’d caught it.
Dropping his hands to rest on her hips, he waited. Waited for her to shift out of his hold. A desperate part of him screamed at her to do just that. Because as he studied the back of her dress and the sexy, sheer panels of material that revealed the elegant line of her spine, he could easily imagine dragging his tongue over every vertebra before nipping the indention at the base.
Nipping, hell. Corrupting. The duchess looked like she’d never been dirtied, used—or invited to use in return. God, he wanted to be used, taken, fucked. Maybe in the hot, milking clasp of her sex, the black, yawning hole surrounding his soul wouldn’t feel so, so…desolate. Maybe just once sex wouldn’t be a physical release, but an exorcism of guilt and pain-riddled memories. Maybe he would finally find forgetfulness. Even if only for one night.
“Ciaran.” She moved forward. Thank God. But his relief was short-lived as she turned around. And laid her pretty, hungry gaze on him. The same hunger that clawed at him. She eased forward, resting her slim hand on his forearm. “I—”
He inhaled a deep breath, abruptly moved back a step. And then another. Distance. He needed distance. “We should go,” he said, tone flat.
Damn, she was dangerous.
Sloane Barrett, with her regal bearing, lush curves, and simmering sensuality, was dangerous. Forgetfulness was a fairy tale, an urban legend as elusive as rainbow-shitting unicorns and sewer-dwelling gators. Yet, for a moment, she had him believing in it. Believing she could offer it to him.
He didn’t deserve to forget.
The stains on his soul couldn’t—and shouldn’t—be erased. The blood painting his hands shouldn’t be washed away. He’d earned every blemish, every splash of crimson. Nothing could absolve him.
Not even a duchess with the seductive promise of oblivion in her haunting green eyes.
“I was just about to come look for you two. Mother is getting anxious. Thank God I popped a Valium a couple of hours ago, or she would be tap-dancing on the last good nerve I have left,” Chelsea grumbled by way of greeting as Sloane and Ciaran descended the staircase into the entry. “Oh my God, you look gorgeous.” Her sister grinned, changing conversation tracks with headache-inducing speed. She leaned forward, green eyes twinkling. “I’ve always loved your boobs. I had a full C while pregnant with Madison, but after she was born? Right back to the itty-bitty-titty committee.” Chelsea sighed, glancing down at her cleavage.
Holy shit, Sloane mused not for the first time in the last twenty minutes. The first time being when Ciaran emerged from the bathroom—shirtless. Good God, the man was ripped. Muscles on top of muscles adorned his deceptively lean frame, and he possessed an eight pack. An honest-to-God eight pack. Up until then, she’d believed abs that defined were the product of over-sexed female imaginations or air-brushing.
She’d seen him in what she labeled his battle gear—cargo pants and long-sleeved shirt. She’d glimpsed him in casual wear like what he’d worn to his office and the dressier slacks and shirt he’d worn today. But Christ on the cross, none of those compared to Ciaran Ross half naked. Even with the wrapping of clothes, she’d sensed the sexual, male animal beneath. Wearing only his taut, golden skin, the trappings and pretense of civility had been stripped bare, leaving the sleek, beautiful predator unadorned.
Then there’d been the tattoos. Warmth poured between her legs, moistening her sex, setting up a faint but erotic pulse in her clit. She squeezed her thighs against the sweet ache. Red, blue, green, and black swirls of art inked into skin, covering his right arm, shoulder, and pec. She’d never been one who found tattoos sexy; it seemed like every Tom, Dick, and Harry had one. Like some ridiculous, frat boy rite of passage. But there’d been nothing ridiculous or juvenile about the mural of swirls, geometric shapes, and pictures staining his skin. Art. He’d been a breathing work of art like the erotic frescoes that had once decorated the walls of the doomed city of Pompeii. Stunning, hedonistic…forbidden.
And then he’d called her sexy as hell…
“I wanted to catch you before dinner.” Chelsea clasped Sloane’s hand, pulling her down the last step, and to the side. She paused, and the laughter evaporated from her gaze, leaving it hard, glacial. “Phillip is here.”
The warm slide of heat in her veins congealed into a thick, sickening sludge.
“Is that the ex-fiancé?” Ciaran murmured from behind her.
Shit, she didn’t want him to overhear this. But she suspected, even if she asked him to let her speak to Chelsea alone, he wouldn’t budge. Dammit.
“Yes, the smug bastard,” Chelsea replied to Ciaran, her mouth puckered in a disgusted moue that still managed to look adorable. “I have no idea why Mother and Dad didn’t kick his ass off the guest list,” she grumbled, shocking the hell out of Sloane. Never—ever—had she’d heard her sister disagree with or criticize their parents. At the risk of sounding like a scratched CD…What. The. Fuck. “I didn’t want you to walk in there and be caught unaware. Especially
since he brought his girlfriend,” she sneered. “What a prick.”
“Mother said he was bringing her with him.” That shouldn’t hurt, because as all the nasty, hurtful insults he’d hurled at her on his way out the door echoed in her ears, she could admit that, yes, Chelsea had nailed it. Phillip was a prick. Yet, he’d gone to the next woman as if their relationship had meant nothing, hadn’t impacted him at all. As if she’d meant nothing. Acknowledging that she’d been so inconsequential to him stung.
Chelsea snorted, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, you can’t miss her. She’s the chick in serious need of a cheeseburger and a dress all the way up to her See You Next Tuesday.”
Behind her Ciaran sounded as if he were choking.
“See you next Tuesday?” Sloane repeated, even as part of her shouted don’t ask!
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “See”—she drew a C in the air—“You”—sketched a U—“Next—”
Sloane snatched her sisters hand mid-N. “Okay, damn. I get it.” She scowled. “No, really. Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”
“She woke the hell up and realized what a blind, self-centered, vapid bitch she’s been.” A grim smile curled her mouth, resembling a sharp blade. “Not that being a bitch is bad. I’m just choosing to use my powers for good these days. Speaking of which”—she squeezed Sloane’s hand—“I need to go run interference. See you in there.”
Sloane watched her sister sail off in stunned silence.
“I thought you said the two of you weren’t very close.” Ciaran’s hand cupped her hip, and his fresh, earthy scent enveloped her. Embraced her. She stiffened, but at the last moment remembered they were supposed to be a loving couple.
“We weren’t. Or aren’t,” she said, deliberately relaxing into his touch
“I like her.”
Sloane arched an eyebrow, staring after her sister’s retreating figure, picturing the funny, blunt, and sarcastic woman she’d met since arriving at the house.
She woke the hell up and realized what a blind, self-centered, vapid bitch she’s been.
“I think I do, too.”
Chapter Ten
“Sloane. Come here, darling.”
Smiling, Sloane stepped out onto the wide, covered porch, slipping her hand into her father’s. John Barrett pulled her into his side, pressing an affectionate kiss to her hair.
“Don’t hog her, John. After all she’s my goddaughter, and I haven’t seen her in months, it seems.” Matthew Daniels arched an eyebrow, and Sloane chuckled at her father’s best friend’s not-so-subtle admonishment. Sliding out from under her father’s arm, she crossed the short space to hug her godfather.
“Months, huh?” She snorted and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I was just over for dinner a couple of weeks ago.”
So thin. She held on to Matt a moment longer as worry for both men clenched her heart. While she didn’t understand the change in John’s appearance, she fully comprehended why Matt’s cheeks were gaunter, his dark hair more liberally sprinkled with gray, and his tall, slender frame even more spare. Even when she’d spent the evening with him and her aunt, Sloane had noticed the transformation in both of her godparents. Their son’s suicide had exacted a heavy toll on them, physically as well as emotionally.
Maybe concern for his oldest friend explained why her father seemed so tired and…old. The thought of losing either man… She cleared her throat of the knot of emotion tightening it.
“Well, that was my subtle way of telling you we want to see you more often. Not for me, you understand, but your Aunt Grace. She misses you.”
“Un-huh.” She laughed again. “Funny, because not ten minutes ago, Aunt Grace told me the same thing about you.”
“In thirty years, that woman has never met a piece of gossip she didn’t love or spread,” Matt grumbled.
Her father shook his head, smiling. “So,” he said, shifting his attention back to her, “getting ready for the new school year?”
She nodded. “We had our open house earlier this week. When I return home, it’ll be time to go back.”
She studied her father, the need to tell him about the charter school hovering on her tongue. She longed to discuss the career option with him—especially since the day before she’d been offered the opportunity to teach there. Excitement and nerves quivered in her chest, like a baby bird on the edge of its nest, yearning to take flight but terrified of the fall. She hadn’t accepted yet, but like that hatchling she desperately wanted to, even if the unknown scared the shit out of her.
John Barrett was considerably less, uh, high-strung than Mallory, but the knowledge that his oldest daughter planned on teaching in inner-city Roxbury wouldn’t go over well no matter how laid-back he was. Though he’d hoped Sloane would join him in the family’s investment management company, he’d conceded to her dreams and even commandeered the Kennedy-Lewis position for her. Leaving would seem like an ungrateful slap in the face. God, she hated disappointing him.
Inhaling a deep breath, she briefly closed her eyes. “Dad, I need to—”
“Hello, John. Matthew.” A pause. “Sloane.”
Oh shit.
The last time she’d heard that voice it’d been spouting spirit-destroying vitriol.
I can’t even pretend to get my dick up for you.
Men put cows out to pasture, not marry them.
No self-respecting man is going to want you.
Inside, deep inside where the razor-sharp words had left wounds barely scabbed over, she cringed. Nausea roiled and churned in her stomach, scalding her like acid. She’d managed to avoid Phillip all evening, but her luck had apparently run out.
Slowly, she turned and faced the monster.
On the surface, he appeared as handsome as ever. Close cropped, neat blond hair. Pleasant features and a charming smile. Tall, fit body. At one time she’d considered herself lucky to claim him as hers. But that had been before he’d systematically tried to chip away at her esteem and heart, trying to mold her into who and what he wanted. And when she’d refused, he’d become mean. Not physically—never physically. But the verbal and emotional jabs had still been torture…and the bruises had yet to fade.
And her parents, oblivious to what skulked beneath the polite and charismatic facade, had welcomed the bastard into their home. Of course Phillip had never, ever been less than the perfect, solicitous boyfriend in front of them. And Sloane had never said anything to contradict their perception of that image.
Her father extended his hand to Phillip, greeting him with a smile.
“Have you come to join us for some fresh, gossip-free air, Phillip?”
A shiver tripped over her skin at her ex’s chuckle. This one was warm, amused. It was scary how he could appear so damn nice.
“Actually, I came out to finally catch Sloane. I haven’t had the chance to speak with her all evening.” His gray gaze shifted to her. Why couldn’t anyone else see the icy sleet in his eyes? Or was his contempt reserved solely for her?
“Well, you two don’t need us old men listening in.” John nodded, and after brushing a kiss across the top of her head, disappeared inside the house with Matt.
“Aren’t you the hard one to pin down?” Phillip purred, sauntering closer until mere inches separated them. Recognizing the intimidation tactic, she resisted the urge to backpedal, but stood her ground. His signature Armani cologne enfolded her, causing the bile in her belly to inch toward her throat. The cloying fragrance differed from Ciaran’s earthy, woodsy scent like the sticky, sour aroma of a fading, aging beauty couldn’t compare to the fresh, vibrant scent of brash youth.
“Not really,” she said, proud of her steady voice.
“How have you been, Sloane? You’re looking”—he scanned her in a slow, long perusal, the corner of his lip curling into a faint smirk—“well.”
She remained silent, and his mouth slightly thinned.
“I was surprised to find out you were attending the party this weekend,” he continued
, voice silky and at odds with the ice chips in his gaze.
“Really?” She tipped her head to the side. “Why is that? They are my parents.”
“True. But once they informed you they didn’t intend to un-invite me, I expected you not to show up. I’m sure Mallory told you I was bringing Tammy.” Tammy would be the gorgeous teacher’s assistant with the dress all the way up to her—how had Chelsea put it?—See You Next Tuesday.
“Mother did mention you were bringing a date with you.” She curled her fingers around the porch railing. Why in the hell were they doing this? Ah, yeah, of course. Phillip needed to gloat, to carve out his pound of flesh. “I don’t understand why that would keep me from celebrating my parents’ anniversary, though.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t, but you had knowledge I didn’t,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing. “I underestimated you, Sloane. You aren’t as slow and innocent as you pretend.” He inched closer, further violating her personal space. The curl of his lip deepened, became darker, more sinister. “You had a ram in the bush, huh? So what’s the truth? Were you fucking this guy behind my back the entire time? Are you that good of an actress, Sloane?”
“Are you kidding me?” The. Fucking. Nerve. “Are you really asking me that? You walked out, remember? And you arrived here with someone else. But because I did, too, I was cheating? I don’t owe you an answer. I don’t owe you anything.”
“And I don’t want anything from you. Now. The only thing I wanted from you back then you must be giving to this guy now. So is that it, hmm? Did you promise him Daddy’s connections?” he mocked, shoving his face closer to hers. The ice had melted from his eyes, leaving a roiling, furious storm. “That must be it. Otherwise why would he be interested in a fat, boring—”
“You have five seconds to back the fuck away from her, and four and a half of them are already gone.”
The flat, arctic tone sent shivers racing down her spine, somehow the utter lack of emotion menacing. And one look at Ciaran’s face ratcheted the shivers into quakes.
