by Naima Simone
“So nothing on their computers? Okay,” he said to the person on the other end of the phone. “She hasn’t received any more calls, but some more emails came through. Anything on that?” He quieted, listening, eyes narrowed. “All right, good. Keep me posted.” Pause. “Yeah, thanks.”
“One of your partners?” she inquired as he lowered the phone from his ear, trepidation curling in her stomach. Worry and fear were two very effective killjoys of lust.
“Yeah.” Ciaran set the cell on the small table in the sitting area. “Several days ago, Maddox set up eyes on the internet café where the emails originated from. He traced the recent emails you received back to the same café and is going to view tape on the place tonight. Maybe we’ll have a picture of the person sending you the messages.”
Relief tumbled through her in an avalanche. She pressed a palm to her belly as she crossed the room and lowered to the couch. “That’s great, right?” She frowned, taking in the rigid lines of his face, the unsmiling, firm mouth. “Why don’t you look like that’s great?”
“Because the last email came through at 12:08 last night when we were here in the Hamptons. Which means whoever is sending the mail is in Boston and not here trying to drown you.”
Realization dropped on her like an Acme anvil. “Damn,” she whispered. “I didn’t think of that.”
He nodded. “We’ve been working under the assumption that these are several perpetrators working for one person. But something doesn’t fit. A couple of things don’t fit.”
“Such as?”
“First, the tire slashing, the vandalism, and attempted kidnappings, I can see the mastermind behind this hiring people to take care of that for him. But the emails? The phone calls? Those are personal actions most stalkers use to get close to their victims. To either hear, see, or know they’re touching them in some way. I can’t see someone letting a hired thug carry that out. Which brings me to my next issue.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, the motion drawing his shirt open wider. Jesus, girl. Focus. “Boston is hours away from here. If the person who attacked you last night intended to knock you out—which I’m not too certain about—wouldn’t the person they were working for be close by? If what we assume is true—that the purpose is to abduct you—then why would they attack you here and transport you hours away? Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait until you returned to Boston? Or better yet, for the mastermind to be in the Hamptons?”
Her brain whirled with his questions, and she pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead as if she could press them into submission. “Wait, wait. What do you mean you’re not too certain about the attack last night?” she asked, latching on to one thing at a time.
His frown deepened. “It doesn’t fit. Even the assault in your home, we don’t know what his intentions were. It could’ve been to subdue you and remove you from the scene. At your school, I’m almost certain the goal was to move you to a secondary location. But last night…” A muscle along his jaw flexed. “It seemed as if the goal was to hurt you, render you unconscious at the least, drown you at the worst. Which doesn’t fit the MO. It sounds like two different offenders.”
She shook her head. “What are the odds of two different people harboring a vendetta against me? I know I’m not Miss Popularity, but that’s kind of stretching it.”
“True,” he agreed. “But that leaves us with three options. One, our first assumption is correct, and one person is behind the entire thing. Two, there are two different perps involved. Or three, one person behind the emails, calls, and assaults in Boston. And the attack last night was a completely different assailant.”
She absorbed his assessment. “You’re still thinking Phillip might have something to do with it.”
“I’m just not ruling him out.” He tilted his head, studied her in that silent, piercing way he had that reminded her of a scalpel. “Does that bother you?”
“Does it bother me?” she repeated, scoffing. “Of course. It bothers me that anyone wants to kill me.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking,” he said, voice quiet but firm, demanding an answer.
She surged to her feet, dragging both palms over her hair. “Didn’t we discuss this already?” She didn’t want to talk about Phillip. Especially not with Ciaran.
“No. Earlier I asked if you thought he was capable of coming after you. That’s not what I’m asking you now.” Again with the unsettling scrutiny. “Are you still in love with him?”
She flinched, shock almost rocking her back on her heels. “What?” she rasped.
“Are you still in—”
“No!” she shouted, then sucked in a breath, shook her head. “No,” she reiterated, softer this time. “We’re over. Been over. He’s moved on.”
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to still love a man after the relationship has ended, even if he has started dating someone new.”
“Really? Are you speaking from experience?” she shot back. “I can imagine a few of the women you ‘don’t sleep with’ have a hard time letting go.”
Ciaran stared at her, and his features could’ve been carved out of stone, a sexier, fiercer addition to Mt. Rushmore.
God, she was such a bitch. Throwing something he’d confessed back at him like a verbal bomb was low. And beneath her. Or so she’d believed.
“I’m sorry. Forget I said that,” she whispered. Bowing her head, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “But I don’t know what you want from me. It’s almost like you need to hear me say I’m holding a torch for my ex.”
“Maybe,” came the rough, muttered response.
She jerked her head up, eyes widening. “Why—”
“You said he’s moved on. You didn’t mention yourself, Sloane.”
Frustration welled up in her, and she glanced around the room as if searching for an escape route from his relentless pursuit. Only instead of chasing her, he cornered her, prodded her with questions she didn’t want to think about, damn sure didn’t want to answer. Because they weren’t simple. What Phillip had done, had stolen from her, wasn’t black and white. But Ciaran, with his overwhelming masculinity and exuding confidence, wasn’t her idea of a Mother Confessor.
“You don’t understand. You don’t know,” she murmured, pushing her arm out, palm up as if the gesture would physically halt his inquisition.
“Then explain it to me, Sloane,” Ciaran urged, low and insistent. “It’s only been two months since your engagement ended, and he shows up here with another woman. He might be enough of an asshole to move on that quickly, but you?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You even admitted you’d given him your heart, your body. You were prepared to marry him. It has to feel like a betrayal. Especially if you still lo—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she pleaded. “Stop.” Please stop.
He quit speaking. But it didn’t stop the emotional pressure from building inside her like a hot spring geyser. It built. And built. And…
“He hurt me,” she blurted, her chest rising and falling on harsh, rapid breaths.
Silence boomed in the room like a bass drum, deafening, its heavy beat pulsing through her. A deep, menacing growl rumbled across from her, and seconds later it vibrated under her palm. Ciaran had moved so fast, she gasped, blinking as his hard, bare chest filled her vision. Her hand flattened between his pecs, the heat from his skin branding hers. Jesus, did a furnace burn inside him? Or was the heat all her? The arousal that had flared to instant life like a struck match as soon as his body came into contact with hers?
“He. Hurt. You,” he bit out. “I thought you said he didn’t lay a hand on you.”
“He didn’t.” She sighed and dropped her hand, but his shot out and grasped her wrist, holding it to him again. “Ciaran…”
“Explain.” Pause. “Please.” Another pause. “Sweetheart, I won’t bully you into talking to me, but I’m here. I’ll listen. No judgment.”
When she didn’t immediately start
talking, he kept his promise. He didn’t press her, but waited.
“He…” She averted her gaze to the bank of windows over his shoulder. If she glimpsed pity in his eyes… “I’ve never been naive about my looks. I have a pretty face. That’s what most people say, including my mother. What they really mean is ‘if only you’d lose weight so your body could match your face, you would be perfect.’ The men I’ve dated in the past claimed I was pretty, and that they weren’t bothered by my size-two-challenged body, but eventually they were. And those men were never shy about telling me. But Phillip was different, at least in the beginning. He called me beautiful, was charming, solicitous…until he wasn’t. There were little signs, but so tiny and subtle I didn’t pay attention to them, when I should have. ‘Let’s eat healthier.’ ‘Do it for me.’”
Her voice trailed off, and she became submerged in the memories of her slow, two-year descent into a controlling, emotionally abusive relationship.
“But soon, the criticism became more overt. Especially after the engagement. And the insults didn’t stop at my weight. I was too uneducated or stupid to understand his work. I was obviously weak and lazy because I couldn’t lose twenty pounds. I was a needy bitch. In front of my parents, he was the perfect future son-in-law, but behind closed doors…” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I stayed so long. Maybe I was as weak as he called me.”
“Fuck that,” Ciaran snapped.
She shifted her attention back to him, a smile breaking through the shroud of sadness and shame that had wrapped around her since she’d started airing the dirty laundry that had been her relationship.
“He was fond of telling me no other man would ever want me or put up with me, and at some point, I suppose a part of me started believing him. But after dinner with his co-workers where he said one of his snide comments in front of them, I suddenly had this vision of what life would be like with him. It was the first time he’d criticized me in front of other people, but something inside me knew it wouldn’t be the last. So I told him I refused to put up with it anymore. That if he didn’t love me for me, didn’t accept me for the woman I was—the woman he’d supposedly fallen in love with—then he could walk. And he did. A couple nights later, he left, but not before calling me names, telling me I wasn’t good enough for him, and informing me of the great disappointment I was in bed and out.”
Those last few moments rolled through her head like a horror movie. Only scarier because it was based on true events.
“Phillip made me believe in the possibility of the future my mother and sister had—husband, family, happiness. Before him, I didn’t think I would have that, it’s why I put my all into my career. But he gave me hope, and then he took it from me. When he walked out that door, he carried every dream with him. My pride and self-esteem. And I’m so damn mad at myself for giving it to him in the first place. I can’t forgive myself for that.”
“Sweetheart,” Ciaran murmured, cupping the nape of her neck with his big hand.
“I don’t want your pity,” she said, pushing back against his hold on her.
His dark eyebrows arrowed down over the bridge of his nose as his fingers tightened. “Good,” he countered, voice flat, deliberate. “Because you don’t have it. The defenseless, the helpless, the fragile—they deserve pity, not you. Nothing about you is weak.”
His words penetrated her protective shields, infiltrating her head, her heart…her spirit.
“Phillip is a bastard. A small-minded, manipulative bastard with a yellow streak a mile wide running down the middle of his back. Some people are so terrified that others will look closely at them and see their own insecurities and imperfections, they try to rip up someone they perceive as a scapegoat. That’s Phillip. A coward who probably never felt smart enough, strong enough, successful enough, so he tries to tear down someone who is what he’s not. What he desires to be. You, Sloane. Since he couldn’t be you, he tried to smother your spirit, your fire. And when you stood up for yourself, and he saw he failed, he left, leaving you to believe you were the failure when the exact opposite is true.” He drew her forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.
She huffed out a laugh, but not an ounce of humor filled her. This time when she pushed out of his grip, he let her go. Avoiding his gaze, she crossed the room to the dresser. A sense of déjà vu tripped over her. Just this morning, she’d stood at the same dresser, in the same outfit, having the same conversation.
And as she started to remove her earrings, the same body crowded her and the same hands gently shoved hers out of the way. Silently, he took over the task of taking out the diamond studs. Once done, he leaned forward, planting his palms on the dresser, his arms and chest caging her in. They stood there, neither of them moving. Hell, she was afraid to move—afraid to stay there in his embrace, afraid to leave it. And Ciaran…
His earthy scent enveloped her, and she closed her eyes, inhaling it so he filled her as well as surrounded her. God, she hungered to be filled by him. And not just with his fragrance. She’d had his fingers inside her. Even now, she could feel the thrust and press, the slick caresses. Her thighs trembled before she firmed them. But there was nothing she could do about the heat rushing through her veins, the sweet ache beading her nipples, the blood pounding in her sex. Jesus, all he had to do was glance over her shoulder to catch the effect he had on her. She cringed at the thought…and yet a part of her wanted him to. Wanted him to see it, do something about it.
Not that he would. He’d made that clear last night when he hadn’t finished what they’d started in front of the fire, and confirmed it when he told her he didn’t sleep with women. He fucked them, but didn’t sleep with them.
He hadn’t done either with her.
“Ciaran,” she said.
“I wish you knew how much of a temptation you are.” He shifted closer, and his lips grazed her earlobe and the sensitive skin beneath. The rigid, unmistakable length of his cock nudged her ass. She sucked in a breath. Held it. “I take that back. No, I don’t want you to know. Because if you did, you would run right now. Run hard and fast in the opposite direction.”
Don’t ask, dammit. Keep your mouth shut and just. Don’t. Ask.
“Why would I run?” Damn.
His fingers curled into the wood top. “Because right now I don’t want to protect you… I want to fuck you. Your mouth, your hands, your tight, sweet pussy.” He growled, and the vibration hummed through her back, eliciting a twin response from her. “I want to drown in you so when I walk away, I can still smell you on my skin, still taste you on my tongue, still hear your screams in my ears. I want to corrupt you, get dirty and rough with you because I know this sexy-as-hell body can take it. Can take me. Right now, Sloane, someone needs to protect you from me.”
A shudder quaked through her. She could barely catch the air she sucked into her lungs. A moan escaped her before she could drag it back in. Behind her, Ciaran stiffened, going still as a statue.
“Walk away, Sloane,” he warned, the deep timbre of his voice rolling over her like a molten caress. “Now. I don’t have control anymore, so sweetheart, you need to walk away for both of us.”
Yes, she should turn around, escape out the bedroom door. She knew herself. Casual sex wasn’t her thing, and there would be nothing “casual” about being with Ciaran. He would mark her, and when he left, she would be forever branded. Yet…
Just once she longed to be selfish, to grab a hold of what she desired, needed. Just once she could be the reckless, damn-the-consequences one. Just once she wanted to be wanted.
She’d never been with a man like Ciaran—beautiful, strong, sin incarnate. And he craved her. The long, thick column of flesh nudging her ass attested to his need. Just once she could be on the receiving end of such passion, such hunger…
Just once…
She slowly turned and faced him. He watched her, his hooded stare studying her, waiting. Shivering under the heat of his scrutin
y, she pushed past him, slipping out of his embrace. Something dark flashed in his blue eyes. Resignation. Maybe disappointment. Not relief. And the absence of that emotion bolstered her courage even as her heart thundered in her chest like a jackhammer.
On knees threatening to give out, she crossed the room until she stood next to the bed. Pivoting, she lifted a hand to the wide strap of her jumpsuit and eased it down over her shoulder, down her arm. Then repeated the action with the other.
A loud inhalation of breath reached her seconds before Ciaran did.
He leaped on her.
And God, was it hot.
His mouth crashed down over hers just as her back hit the mattress. Greedy. Wild. Raw. The kiss was all those and more. She whimpered beneath the sexual onslaught even as she opened wider for him. Met his tongue thrust for thrust. Angled her head for a deeper penetration. Sex. The clash of lips and tongues was pure sex. A prelude to a deeper, more carnal connection. One her sex already wept for.
Without breaking the erotic contact, he gripped her hips and slid her higher across the bed. Crouched over her like a sleek, dark predator, he consumed her as if starved. Which seemed appropriate since she was ravenous for him, for his taste, for the hard, solid weight of his body pressing down on hers. She craved all of it, and yet none of it was enough.
As if he could read her thoughts, Ciaran reared up, and shrugged out of his shirt. The air rushed out of her, leaving her momentarily breathless. It was like being up close and personal with a wild, dangerous cat and being allowed to pet and stroke it. Even knowing the animal could bite…even knowing she would relish that bite.
She placed trembling hands on the ridges of his tight abdomen. Gloried in the feel of him, sighing at the heat that seemed to emanate from him. Slowly, fingers splayed wide, she slid her palms up his torso. And when a shudder ripped through him, she hoarded the pleasure and knowledge that she—her touch—was responsible for the reaction from this beautiful male animal. A sense of power she’d never experienced in bed before blossomed inside her, mushrooming like an atom cloud. Moaning her pleasure, she roamed higher, stroking his small, dark brown nipples, and up, over his firm pectorals and the first swirl of blue, black, and red ink…
