Kept

by Jami Alden

  KEPT

  Also by Jami Alden

  CAUGHT

  UNLEASHED

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Kept

  Jami Alden

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To my parents, Patty and C. B.,

  who always believe in me, no matter what.

  And to Gajus, for everything.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I have so many people to thank, people who offered everything from brainstorming and idea generating to emotional support as I cranked this book out under the wire. First, to Bella Andre and Monica McCarty, for the daily sanity checks, endless encouragement, and help getting me out of tight spots. To the SF lunch crew—Barbara Freethy, Candice Hern, Anne Mallory, Carol Grace, Tracy Grant, Penelope Williamson, Veronica Wolff, Bella and Monica again—for helping me hammer out the details at the beginning of the book. Special thanks to Veronica, who came up with the hook, and to Penny, who reminded me to keep the body count high! To Karin Tabke, who put up with my endless heavy sighs that weekend in Tahoe. To my editor, Hilary Sares, and for the invaluable afternoon we spent locked in a room at the Marriott. And finally, thanks to my agent, Kim Whalen—your enthusiasm and support mean the world to me.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 1

  WHERE THE HELL does she think she’s going? Derek Taggart watched the woman dart around a matron dressed in a heavily beaded ball gown and a thickset older man in a tux as she made her way to the back corner of the ballroom. Derek had been tracking her movements for the past twenty minutes or so from his vantage in the gallery above, ever since a bloated, self-important toad in a tux had run his fat finger up and down her bare arm and said something that had made her smile falter and the color leach from her carefully made-up face. Even from a distance, he’d seen the way the muscles in her slim bare arm had tensed, like she’d wanted to smack the guy.

  Derek found himself hoping she’d do it and was a little disappointed when her smile came back double strength as she said something and walked away. Too bad. A little tussle between a hot woman and an old lech would provide a little excitement to an otherwise snooze-worthy Saturday evening spent working security. This high-society charity function benefiting some socialite’s desire to save the wetlands was so boring, Derek resisted the urge to sink into a padded, upholstered chair and settle in for a nap.

  Emma Bancroft had requested Gemini; he’d gotten stuck with the assignment. Remembering her strained smile when he’d showed up a few days earlier to go over the mansion’s floor plan, he wondered if she regretted it yet.

  Derek couldn’t blend in if he tried. Too big, too muscular, too uncomfortable in the confines of his expensive suit. He wasn’t good at polite smiles and idle chitchat. He was there to do a job—mainly to make sure none of the party goers went where they shouldn’t. Especially given the Bancrofts’ concerns after last year’s event, when several pieces of jewelry had gone missing from Emma Bancroft’s bedroom as well as from the necks of several guests.

  Which brought him back to Miss Thing, winding her way through the crowd, offering a smile here, an arm squeeze there, but never pausing as she moved purposefully across the room. It wasn’t hard to pick her out of the throng, her slender, red-clad form moving like a lick of flame. Unlike the stiff gowns of most of the female guests, her short, silky dress left a good portion of her arms and legs bare, coming up to her throat in the front, dipping almost to her waist in the back. Even from this distance she seemed to glow, her skin and hair catching the light cast from the gaudy crystal chandelier hanging high above the ballroom.

  She cast a quick glance over one silky shoulder and then ducked through a door hidden in a dark corner of the ballroom. He knew damn well she wasn’t headed for the bathroom. Not only was the guest bathroom on the other end of the ballroom, but there was a low velvet rope propped in front of the door. The most polite KEEP OUT sign he’d ever seen. Now she was in a hallway that led to David Bancroft’s study and a back stairway that led to the second story.

  Maybe she just needed a quiet moment. Maybe not. Derek wasn’t about to give her the benefit of the doubt. The last time he’d let something slide based on gender, one of his informants had ended up dead, along with his wife and two kids.

  Big surprise that Derek didn’t fall for the damsel-in-distress thing anymore.

  Not that Miss Thing had enough room for a bomb under that dress, but the way she’d looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching told him she was up to something she didn’t want anyone to see.

  He started to speak into his headset—to tell one of his guys on the floor to check it out—and then stopped himself. Something—curiosity—nudged at him. Curiosity that had nothing to do with the supple curve of her back or her lean, tanned legs, or the silky fall of light brown hair across her shoulders, Derek thought as he moved quickly down one side of the gallery to the back stairway. He spoke quietly into his mic, alerting Alex Novascelic, the Gemini specialist who was working the main floor, to move up to the gallery to keep an eye on the crowd.

  A caterer in a white shirt and black vest gave him a wary look and a wide berth as he passed. Derek did nothing to soften the expression on his face as he jogged down the stairs in hot pursuit. He was a cold, hard motherfucker, and the quicker Miss Thing realized that, the quicker she’d abandon any illegal activities she might be entertaining.

  He slowed his steps as he hit the dim hallway, his feet silent on the Persian runner. As a sniper for the Army Rangers, he’d perfected the art of moving silent and undetected through all kinds of terrain.

  He cornered her in Bancroft’s study, taking a moment to observe her before making her aware of his presence. So far, she wasn’t doing much of anything, leaning her butt up against Bancroft’s desk, her fingers tunneled in her thick, sun-streaked hair as she massaged her scalp and temples.

  From a distance, she’d looked attractive. Up close, she was beautiful in a slight, delicate way that didn’t usually do much for Derek. He tended toward taller, sturdier, more understated types. Women who looked like they had more on their mind than what color of lip gloss to wear, women who looked like they could take care of themselves, because Derek sure as hell didn’t have the time or the interest to cater to anyone’s needs but his own.

  But she was small and slender, like she might break if he grabbed her too hard with one of his big, calloused hands. She was leaning against the desk, but he’d bet that even in those lethal-looking heels, the top of her head wouldn’t come much past his shoulder. In profile, her nose was straight and small, her chin pointy.

  Dainty. Or some other stupid word you use to describe china or glass or something he could snap with one flick of his wrist.

  She let out a low sigh and grabbed her minuscule purse in a sudden movement. She rummaged around, and when she pulled her hand out he could see a small metal box. She popped it open, her hands shaking slightly, and drew out a couple pills.

  His mouth tightened. He wondered why the bathroom wasn’t private enough to pop her pharmaceuticals.

  She placed a pill in her mouth and gulped at a glass of c
lear liquid. Vodka? Water? Hard to tell from here.

  She was lifting the other pill to her mouth when he finally spoke. “Bartender not mixing them strong enough tonight?”

  She jumped from the desk, wobbling a little on her spiky heels, and the pill went skittering across the floor. “Oh, my God, you scared me!” she gasped, her hand flattened against her chest. She whirled on him, eyes big and startled, a nervous smile pulling at her lips. The impact of seeing that face head-on hit him like a Mack truck. Big green eyes framed with heavy black lashes and made smoky with makeup. A full, plump mouth glossed in a way that made it impossible for any red-blooded man not to fantasize about how it would taste under his own. How it would feel wrapped around the tip of his cock.

  He jerked his thoughts out of his pants. Yeah, she was hot, but Derek never let himself be distracted by a beautiful face and a hot body. Never.

  “I hate to be rude,” she said, pulling her mouth into a smile that showed flawless orthodontia but didn’t come close to reaching her eyes, “I came here looking for a little privacy, so if you could just give me a moment.” She nodded at the door as though expecting him to turn and trot away like a little lapdog.

  Entitled brat. Ethan would know how to deal with this. He’d shoot her his ladykiller grin, say something charming, and end up with the woman’s phone number, if not an out-and-out invitation to spend the night in her bed.

  All Derek could offer was a smile more like a baring of teeth. “If you want privacy, the restroom is right off the foyer. The Bancrofts don’t want anyone back here.”

  She was busy searching the floor for her lost pill but spared him another phony smile. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  Spotting the pill, she knelt down to retrieve it. Derek couldn’t help but admire the subtle ripple of lean muscle under the golden skin of her bare thigh. This time he couldn’t stop his fingers from tugging at his collar.

  His eyes drifted back to her face as she straightened. Her fake smile faded as those green eyes stared into his with a knowing look. She cocked her hip, deliberately taunting him. “Was there something else you wanted?”

  His mind spun with a thousand different scenarios, each one more spine-meltingly hot than the last. What the fuck was wrong with him tonight, getting all jacked up and spun out from the taunts of a pampered society girl? “Listen, sweetheart, you need to find another place to pop your pills. The Bancrofts hired me to keep guests confined to the ballroom, and I’ll do it if it means I have to carry you out over my shoulder.”

  Her lips parted in surprise, as though no one ever had the nerve to talk to her like that. Then her mouth tightened as she gave up any pretense of friendliness. “It’s ibuprofen,” she said, holding the pill up for his inspection. “And I was just drinking water, okay? The last thing I need is some rumor starting that I’m popping pills.”

  “It’s not my business what you take—”

  “It’s everyone’s business,” she said, her voice sharper now. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You know how many times I’ve heard that at parties like this? Now be a good girl and go duck into the bathroom for privacy like everyone else.”

  She swallowed her second ibuprofen before taking a few steps closer to him. She stared at him, an almost wondrous expression in her eyes. “You really don’t know who I am?”

  Her full, glossy mouth curled into a smile, a real one this time that made her eyes crinkle and tip up at the corners.

  “Should I?” he said, in less of a hurry than he should have been to get her out of the off-limits study and back out to the crowd.

  The pouty frustration disappeared from her face, giving way to a self-deprecating smile that worked its way into his chest and slid down to curl low in his belly. “No,” she said with a throaty laugh. “No, you really shouldn’t. I’m Alyssa Miles,” she said, offering her hand.

  It was small, fine boned, and slender as the rest of her, tipped with short, manicured nails and decorated with a canary-yellow diamond ring on her middle finger. He automatically reached out his own, swallowing her hand in his broad palm and long fingers. “Derek Taggart.”

  Her skin was hot, unnaturally so. Heat from her hand flowed into his, racing up his arm, pulsing thickly in his groin, fusing his skin to hers as he momentarily lost track of space and time. Desire like nothing he’d ever felt before grabbed hold of him as this slip of a girl threatened to make him lose his mind.

  The realization was like a bucket of icy water dumped over his head. He jerked his hand away. “Nice to meet you, Miss Miles, but you really should be getting back to the party.” He moved behind her, keeping careful distance as he ushered her out, grateful that his suit jacket hung down far enough to hide the telltale bulge behind his fly.

  You need to get laid. He’d brushed aside Ethan’s snide comment and Danny’s nod of agreement last week, reminding them both that meaningless sex with a stranger wasn’t everyone’s solution to everything from boredom to the common cold. Derek had needs like any other healthy, heterosexual thirty-two-year-old male, but he didn’t like to slake them with just anyone.

  But, shit, his reaction to the touch of Alyssa’s hand was enough to make him reconsider. It had been a while. He’d had a nice friends-with-benefits thing going for a long time with his friend Melissa, when the woman had up and done the unthinkable and fallen in love with some guy she was dating and promptly cut off Derek’s supply to convenient no-strings sex.

  That had been almost a year ago, and he still hadn’t found a viable candidate to fill her place.

  As he watched the subtle bounce and sway of Alyssa’s ass under the crimson silk of her midthigh-length skirt, his body begged, pleaded, demanded that she be the one to break his dry spell.

  The need churning in his body was unexpected and wholly unwelcome in its intensity.

  He’d forced his body and emotions into submission a long time ago, settling into a state of distance, an alert numbness that suited him just fine.

  Now one touch of this woman’s abnormally warm hand, and he felt like he’d been jerked kicking and screaming back into reality.

  All the more reason to get the hell away from her, take another step back from her, and force his gaze from the smooth skin of the backs of her thighs up over her head, past her down the hall. But he could still smell her perfume, fresh and flowery, mingling with the scent of sweet woman skin.

  She paused at the door leading to the ballroom. He reached around her to open it, taking a long, indulgent inhale before cutting himself off cold turkey. She stared out into the crowd and straightened her shoulders, bracing herself as though going into battle.

  He remembered the sleazy guy with his fat fingers running along the pristine smoothness of her skin, and something else surged in his gut to twist and tangle with the desire that had taken hold and wouldn’t let go. He fought the urge to put himself between her and the crowd, protect her from whatever dragons she might face.

  “Have a nice evening, miss,” he said, an unsubtle hint for her to get back to the party. And the hell away from him.

  She gave him a last, almost wistful look over one bare, creamy shoulder. “It was nice to meet you, Derek.”

  As she turned back to the crowd, her expression changed. The megawatt smile was still there, but it was tight, strained, and about as genuine as Pam Anderson’s boobs, but no one else seemed to notice as she started to work her way through the crowd.

  His lips curled in a knowing smile. Despite her fragile appearance, Miss Thing could take care of herself. Good thing, too. Derek knew he was too much of a coldhearted bastard to slay any woman’s dragons.

  “Where have you been?” Alyssa’s stepmother, Grace Van Weldt, hissed in Alyssa’s ear. Her reaction to her stepmother was the same as to a snake. Her blood went cold, her lungs tightened until she couldn’t take a breath, and a sick pit of anxiety knotted in her stomach. The headache that had tightened around the base of her skull shortly after they’d ar
rived at the Bancrofts’ charity ball redoubled, pounding through her temples with a force that nearly brought her to her knees.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for the ibuprofen to take effect. If only she could have stayed a little longer in the seclusion of David Bancroft’s study, maybe she would have had a chance.

  “You’re supposed to be modeling our auction item,” Grace said, taking Alyssa’s arm in a painful grip. “People aren’t going to bid on these”—she yanked Alyssa’s arm up so the four-carat-yellow-diamond ring and matching bracelet caught the light—“if you’re not working the crowd like you’re supposed to.”

  Alyssa kept her mouth shut, refusing to explain to her stepmother that she’d been doing a damn good job working the crowd, dazzling everyone with her witty conversation and even more dazzling jewels, doing exactly what she had done for the past six months as the face of Van Weldt Jeweler’s campaign “Diamonds for All.” Using her notoriety as one of America’s most famous party girls to sell diamond jewelry to the masses.

  And everything had been going just fine until that sleazoid Mort Zimmer had sent his wife off to fetch him a drink so he could assault Alyssa with a come-on that was nearly as offensive as his breath.

  “I love the latest ads,” he’d wheezed, referring to the most recent photos featuring Alyssa, naked from the waist up, shot from behind with five strands of diamonds set in platinum chains draped down the length of her back. She’d thought the shot was beautiful, sexy, but tasteful and classy.

  The way Mort was leering at her, it might as well have been a spread in Penthouse.