Good to Be Bad (Double Dare Book 1)

by Patricia Ryan

  A rivulet of sensation made her gasp. He’d licked her, a sleek glide, heat against heat. Her fingers tightened on his head. She watched him in the mirror, kneeling before her as he stroked her lightly with his tongue, a soothing caress that grew gradually more inquisitive, more purposeful and rhythmic.

  “Gage...”

  He closed his lips over her and she moaned. His hands tightened around her trembling hips, steadying her as the dancing heat gathered up inside her. The pleasure was almost unendurable; she ached with it, shivered as it swelled within her.

  She heard herself cry out, a low, guttural cry of fulfillment. Closing her eyes, she literally saw stars; the blood roared in her ears. Her climax crested and ebbed and crested again, over and over. Gage pleasured her until she begged him to stop; she was panting and shaking, and her legs wouldn’t hold her up anymore.

  She sank to her knees; he gathered her in his arms, kissed her endlessly, murmured her name and told her how beautiful she was, how sensual. His hands roamed over her, pulling her against him. She felt his erection through the rough denim of his jeans. “Do you want to... be inside me?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You’re too sore.”

  That was true. “Would you like me to... do what you did to me? I could if you told me how.”

  He made a kind of despairing groan, but he was smiling. “You can’t imagine how much I’d like that. But we don’t have time. Central Park, remember?”

  He handed her her panties; she stood up to wriggle into them. “How much time do we have?”

  “Just enough for a cup of coffee.” Rising, he kissed her quickly and left, saying, “I’ll go pour it.”

  Emma threw on her jeans, sneakers and sweatshirt, then went in search of Gage. She found him on the terrace, setting a pot of coffee onto the bistro table next to a plate of buttered toast and a jar of marmalade. There was a jug of orange juice, a bunch of bananas... even that morning’s New York Times, which had presumably been left outside the door. He’d been busy while she was showering.

  She picked up the paper. “Do you really think we’ll have time to read this?”

  “I won’t.” He stepped into the living room and slid the glass door shut behind him. “You will.”

  It took her a second, and then she flung the paper aside and launched herself at the door handle just as she heard the lock click. “Gage!” She yanked at the handle, to no avail. It didn’t budge. “Open this door!”

  He grinned crookedly from the other side of the glass door. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  She slammed a fist on the glass, right over his smug face. “This isn’t funny, Gage! Open up!”

  “You should be pretty comfortable out there till I get back.” He turned and strode to the hall closet, retrieved the gold raincoat and wrapped it into a bundle around the ray gun.

  She pounded on the glass. “Come back here! Take me with you! Gage!”

  He blew her a kiss and left through the front door.

  Emma fumed for a minute, then sat down with a cup of coffee and contemplated the situation. Ever the white knight, Gage had tricked her and gone off by himself to hand over the ray gun to Mac, regardless of the fact that it was her problem, not his, and that he might get hurt, or even...

  With a groan of despair, she rose and paced furiously in what little space wasn’t consumed by furniture and plants. He should have let her go with him. It was too risky going alone. Mac had wanted them both there; maybe Gage’s showing up alone would enrage him.

  Could she break the glass with one of the iron chairs? Maybe, maybe not. Should she do it? Not if there were any better alternatives.

  If only this terrace faced the street, she could call down to passersby to have the building superintendent come let her out, but there was no one in the little courtyard. She looked down at the half-dozen terraces beneath her and saw no sign of life. Ditto those to the right. But when she peered around the brick wall on the left-hand side, she saw a hint of movement—not on the terrace next door, but in the apartment itself, through the glass door.

  That was Ronald Harrington’s apartment. She swiftly weighed the disadvantages of enlisting Ronald’s help against the advantages of getting out of here, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ronald! Ronald, it’s Em—Zara Sutcliffe, next door! Ronald!”

  The movement continued; she saw the edge of something round and black going up and down, up and down. If that was Ronald, he hadn’t heard her.

  It took Emma a few minutes to talk herself into her next move. Do it. Just do it.

  Holding firmly on to the railing, she squeezed her eyes shut and hooked a leg over it. Her stomach seesawed as she thought about how high up she was.

  I can’t do this. She unhooked the leg and sucked in a few deep breaths.

  Wuss. Just do it. Pretend you’re only one story off the ground instead of seven. Emma grabbed the railing again and stepped over it quickly, with both legs, before she could think about what she was doing. She was standing on the outside of the railing now, her sneakered toes balanced on the lip of the terrace, shaking and trying to convince herself she was only one story up.

  Carefully she edged toward the brick dividing wall, grabbed it and eased one leg over until that foot made contact with the lip of Ronald’s terrace. She clutched his railing and pretty much crab-walked her way over until she was standing on the outside of his railing.

  She had a clear view inside Ronald’s apartment now. He lay flat on his back on a weight bench, red faced and sweaty in purple gym shorts and nothing else, lifting a barbell laden with huge plates up and down, up and down.

  Careful, now. It ain’t over till it’s over. First one leg... there you go... and then the other...

  “Yes!” Standing on Ronald’s terrace now, she turned and leaned over the railing, gulping at this reminder of how high up she was. One false move and... “I must be nuts.”

  Now to deal with Ronald. Emma rapped on the glass door. Ronald turned, saw her and dropped the barbell onto his throat. His eyes bugged out; his face turned purple. He kicked and strained as he pushed at the iron rod, but with his arms bent back the way they were, he evidently couldn’t get the purchase he needed.

  “Ronald!” Emma tried the door; it was locked. “Omigod, Ronald!” She hammered frantically on the glass.

  Finally, after a heart-stopping eternity that probably lasted only a couple of seconds, he heaved the barbell up with a roar and settled it onto the uprights. Emma leaned her forehead against the glass, mumbling a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t inadvertently killed this man. She didn’t dislike him that much.

  “Zara!” Ronald slid the door open, grinning broadly, his brush with strangulation instantly forgotten. “Wow! This is great! How’d you get out there? Boy, you’re full of surprises. Lemme look at you. Come in, come in. You look...” He nodded wanly at her big green sweatshirt, which she knew made her look like a giant version of one of those lime-shaped juice squeezers. “So, to what do I owe the honor?”

  Emma shook her head to clear it. “You’re not mad at me?”

  He blinked at her.

  She pointed to the weight bench. “For...”

  “That?” He made a pfft sound and waved a ham-size hand. “Serves me right for bench-pressing without a spotter. I’m just so glad you finally came over.” With a sweep of his arm, he said, “What do you think?”

  His living-room floor was covered with mats, the walls with mirrors. It was furnished exclusively with workout machines. “Nice.”

  His face fell. “Just nice?”

  Emma didn’t have the time to play this scene out. She had to get to Central Park ASAP. Of course, she had no way to pay for a cab, a complication that hadn’t occurred to her till just now; of all the stuff she’d carried around in that quilt bag, the only thing she really needed, it turned out, was cash. “Uh, Ronald, I don’t suppose you could lend me a little money. I need cabfare, and I… well, my purse got stolen, and it had my wallet in it, and my ph
one, so I can’t get an Uber.”

  “Gee, I would, but I have to go to the bank myself. I’ve got about two bucks in change, maybe, but that won’t get you far in a cab.”

  Thinking fast—she was getting better and better at that—she said, “Can I ask you a big favor, Ronald?”

  “Anything.”

  “I need to borrow your car.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Emma raked her fingers through her hair. “I really need a car, Ronald. I need it desperately.”

  “Yeah, but my car? My new Porsche? Jeez, it hasn’t got a hundred miles on it.”

  Emma wasn’t above begging. “Ronald, please. Please.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Zara, really, but that car’s my baby. Nobody drives it but me.” He grabbed a towel off the bench, scrubbed it over his face and slung it around his gargantuan shoulders.

  Deciding she wasn’t above certain other tactics either, Emma said, “It’s so warm in here.” She unzipped her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist, exposing the sexy little silk T. Ronald’s eyeballs redirected themselves like two breast-seeking missiles. Gathering her hair up, she held it on top of her head and fanned the back of her neck. “Must be because you’ve been working out,” she suggested throatily. “I can almost feel the testosterone.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He hadn’t blinked since she took that sweatshirt off.

  “I’d take such good care of your car, Ronald. And I’d be so grateful. Extremely grateful. I’d have to figure out some way to thank you. Maybe I could make you dinner, at my place. A nice steak, a bottle of wine...”

  “I don’t drink,” he informed her breasts.

  “All right, then. You can make us up a couple of those protein shakes of yours.”

  He grinned, and now he reminded her more of a dog than a gorilla—a big, sloppy golden retriever. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And then, after dinner, maybe we can work out together. You can show me your moves and I’ll show you mine. How does that sound?”

  He nodded excitedly, words apparently failing him.

  “Good.” She held her hand palm up and took a step toward him, murmuring, “The keys?”

  He patted his bare torso and then frowned. “What about Sam?”

  Sam...?

  “Sam Hill,” he prompted. “The cowboy.”

  The entire population of Manhattan had reduced Gage Foster to a one-word stereotype. “He’s just a... client. A prospective client. We’re not... he’s not... he’s flying away this afternoon and I’ll never see him after that, and can I just please have the fucking keys to the fucking car? Please?”

  Ronald backed away, with Emma advancing on him menacingly, and plucked a key ring off a hook by the front door. “It’s parked in the basement.” He started to hand her the keys, then held them out of her reach just as she went for them. “You can drive a stick, can’t you?”

  “A stick?”

  “Yeah, of course. It’s a—”

  “Yes!” She’d just have to figure it out. “Give me those.” She snatched the keys out of his hand, flung open the door and slammed it behind her. Halfway down the hall, she stopped, retraced her steps and rang his buzzer.

  He opened the door warily.

  “Uh... sorry to bother you again, Ronald, but can you tell me how to get to Central Park? Please?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  GAGE CHECKED HIS PHONE again—11:19. Mac was late. This had to be the right place, HE thought, looking around.

  He was at one end of an irregular lake surrounded by woods. A round pool had been built here, from the center of which rose a gigantic bronze fountain topped with a winged figure. Water sprayed from the figure’s feet, lightly misting the dozen or so people strolling about the brick court surrounding the pool or sitting at the water’s edge. Out on the lake, three or four rowboats lazed on the sun-sparkled water. There were skyscrapers poking above the treetops, and someone was blasting music, but it was the Beatles, so he didn’t mind too much. All in all it was an incongruously bucolic scene for midtown Manhattan; too bad they couldn’t raze the rest of this island and do this to all of it.

  “Mornin’, Hopalong.”

  Gage stiffened, expecting to feel a blade at his back. When he didn’t, he turned around. MacGowan Byrne wore a gunmetal silk suit over a black shirt. The sun glared off his mirrored sunglasses—a different pair this time. Despite the shades, Gage noted with satisfaction that Mac’s left eye was surrounded by an angry blue-black contusion. His bottom lip was split, too. Gage wondered how those ribs felt; he hoped they hurt.

  “You’re late,” Gage said.

  “I’ve been watching you from the woods. Sniffing for cops.”

  “We didn’t call the police.”

  “Speaking of ‘we’,” Mac said, glancing around, “where’s your girlfriend?”

  “I wouldn’t let her come.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need to ask that, after the subway?”

  Mac nodded in acknowledgment of the point. “I’m not happy about it, though. This complicates things.”

  “How so?”

  Mac didn’t answer that. Indicating the raincoat-wrapped bundle under Gage’s arm, he said, “Is that it? Don’t tell me she had it under there all along.”

  “Yeah, we figure you’re not as bright as you let on.”

  The gold eyes narrowed. “We’re going over there, into the woods. I’d like some privacy for this transaction.”

  “What transaction?” Gage challenged. “I’m giving you the ray gun. I can do that right here.”

  “You could have anything wrapped up in there,” Mac said. “I need to see what I’m getting, and I don’t think it’s such a hot idea, displaying a big metallic object the size and shape of an assault rifle in a public place.”

  Conceding his point, Gage accompanied him down a path into the woods. About a hundred yards in, Mac led him off the path, into a remote and densely treed section. It was cool and shadowy here, and Gage could just barely make out the faraway strains of “All You Need Is Love.”

  “It’s all yours.” Gage held out the bundle.

  “Put it down there.” Mac pointed to a spot on the ground between them.

  Gage dropped it.

  Mac took off his shades and tucked them inside his jacket. Emma was right; he had wolf’s eyes. “Now open it.”

  “You open it.” Gage turned and strode away.

  Something whispered past his ear, embedding itself with a thunk in the tree next to him. It was a knife, about eight inches long and cast entirely of glimmering stainless steel, with a small hole in the handle end.

  Turning, he saw Mac, now several yards away, standing with another one of these things in his right hand, a whole cluster of them in his left.

  “Throwing knives.” Squatting down, Mac slit open the gold plastic bundle until the ray gun lay exposed. “You did bring it.” He grinned at Gage, the kind of grin a cat makes before it pounces. “I guess you’re not as bright as you let on either, cowboy.”

  “Why’s that?” Gage asked, striving for calm in the face of all those maliciously gleaming blades.

  Mac rose and rotated his neck, then his shoulders. “Because now that I’ve got the ray gun, your usefulness is at an end. From now on, you’re just a liability. You’ve seen me—you can identify me.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Gage lied.

  “You could point me out in a lineup. So could that tasty little girlfriend of yours.”

  “Look, all she wants is her mother back. She won’t identify you.”

  “But she could. You both could. You’re loose ends. I hate loose ends.”

  “Look, fella...”

  Mac reared back, his whole body coiling, as if he were about to pitch a baseball. Gage threw himself on the ground as the knife rotated overhead, bouncing harmlessly off a tree behind him.

  As Mac released another knife, Gage scr
ambled to his feet, lurching to the side to avoid it as it spun past his right arm. It wobbled after it passed him, burying itself in the ground some distance away. He could turn and run, but his back would make an excellent target. His heart pumped a mile a minute as he racked his brain for some way out of this.

  “Those knives are cute,” Gage drawled, scanning the immediate area for the biggest tree, one that might provide decent cover. “But your aim could use some work.”

  “It’s not so bad.” Mac pointed to Gage’s arm. Looking down, Gage saw that the forearm of his leather jacket and flannel shirt had been sliced clean open. Blood trickled onto his hand from beneath his shirt cuff, but he didn’t feel a thing.

  “It’s not exactly a mortal wound,” Gage said, “and somehow I doubt you’re gonna inflict one with those.”

  “But trying is so much fun.” Instantly, Mac had another one in the air. Gage dove for the nearest tree as the knife hissed past. Panting, he leaned against the tree and put pressure on his forearm, which was beginning to sting.

  “Anyway, I don’t have to kill you right off,” Mac said smoothly. “All I have to do is immobilize you, and then I can finish you off up close and personal.”

  “What about me?” called a woman’s voice. “How many of us are you planning to murder before this is over?”

  Emma! How’d she get off that terrace? Gage stepped out from behind the tree to see Mac—too far away for him to stop—aiming a knife toward a flicker of lime green among a stand of paper birch.

  “No! Emma!” Gage raced toward Mac as the knife flew to its target. “Emma!” Christ, no! No!

  Mac sprinted toward the birch trees. Gage followed after him, but pulled up short when he heard his name whispered. Turning, he saw Emma—Emma!—gesturing from the trees behind him.

  “Oh, thank God!” He ran to her and gathered her in his arms. “I thought... Jesus, I thought you were—”

  “I hung my sweatshirt on a tree to distract him.”