by Juliet Lyons
Instead he asks, “Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head, wondering how Leery disappeared so fast. I don’t have to wonder for long though. I catch a scuffling noise from the other end of the balcony and when I glance over, he’s picking himself off the deck and swearing under his breath, beer splattered all over his face.
“Did you throw him?” I ask.
“Of course I did,” Vincent says. “I heard what he said to you. Did he touch you?” His fingers squeeze harder into my flesh. A lick of flame ignites at the contact.
I shake my head. “Not this time.”
He does a double take. “You mean he has before?” Without waiting for a reply, Vincent releases me. “Mila, go and wait inside, will you?” A pulse in his jaw pounds like a hammer.
“Why?” I ask.
Short of cracking his knuckles, his intense stare tells me everything. Leery O’Geary is about to get his just deserts.
I place a hand on Vincent’s arm, feeling the solid bulk of muscle through the sleeve of his thin sweater. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”
Vincent flashes me a terse smile. “Mila, I’m a police officer. Of course not. This won’t take long.”
Still unsure of his meaning, I step back into the noisy bar. I barely have a chance to sit down before Vincent returns.
He jerks his head toward the exit. “Shall we leave?”
I nod. He doesn’t look like he’s just punched a man’s lights out. He is as cool and calm as a politician on News Time.
“After you,” he says, waving me ahead.
As soon as we’re out on the dark street, I ask, “What did you do to Leery O’Geary, exactly?”
“Nothing overtly physical, I assure you.”
“So what did you say?”
“I didn’t really say anything.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Just tell me. I still have to work with the weasel.”
Vincent shakes his head, jaw clenched. “If he touched you, Mila, you should have reported him.”
“It was my third day on the job. I could hardly waltz into the CEO’s office and say, ‘Hi, I’m Mila. I started two days ago, and I’d like to sue the company for sexual harassment.’ Besides,” I continue, “it was awkward. He made it look like an accident, like he’d only been reaching for a coffee mug.”
Vincent’s hands ball into fists. He mutters an expletive. “Don’t fret about work. I doubt he’ll come near you again.”
“Tell me what happened.”
He sighs, staring over my shoulder into the distance. “I showed him my fangs.”
I screw my face up. “That worked?”
“Yes, it worked. I can be pretty menacing when I want to be.”
“Well, go on, then.”
“Go on what?” he asks, frowning.
“Show me your fangs.”
“Mila, no.” He looks faintly appalled, as if I’ve asked to peek inside his underwear. “Now, you’ve had a fair bit to drink. Will you manage walking back to the car?”
“Oh, please. Of course I can. I should be asking you if you’re okay, considering the number of pheromones you were drowning in back there.”
“Those women?” he asks with a baffled expression as we cut back across the square. “I thought I was supposed to act like a bad boyfriend.”
“You were.”
I should probably stop speaking soon, but the alcohol and the O’Geary incident has made my tongue looser than the dodgy exhaust on my rusty Golf. “But you didn’t have to look as if you were enjoying it quite so much.”
He exhales sharply. “You were having quite the time of it too, if your talk of sexual nirvana is anything to go by.”
My stomach drops like a stone, my heart freezing in horror. “What?”
He cocks a brow and says nothing.
“Hang on. Were you listening to my conversation?”
A middle-aged man and woman holding hands pass us on the street and throw us knowing smiles, clearly thinking we’re a couple bickering after a night out.
I give them a look of daggers before saying in low tones, “Unbelievable.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s some imagination you have, Mila.”
I’m grateful the street is dark, so he can’t see my face burning. “You shouldn’t have been earwigging,” I point out.
He shrugs. “Probably not.”
For the entire drive back, neither of us speaks. I sit, arms folded, staring out the window, wishing my cocktail buzz hadn’t packed up and left so soon.
We don’t talk in the parking garage either. All the way up in the elevator, I stare at the numbers, lips pursed. It’s not so much that I’m angry with him for listening in—it’s more that I’m angry with myself for always getting into these situations. My life is nothing short of ridiculous and now he knows it. My pride is wounded.
Inside the flat, I kick off my heels and turn the cold tap on full blast, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. “Do you have any aspirin?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Vincent shakes his head, face glum. “I’m sorry I listened to your conversation,” he says, picking at the edge of the kitchen island with a finger.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quietly. “Thanks for sorting out O’Geary for me.”
He nods, frowning. “Mila—”
“Look,” I say, interrupting him. “I know what you must think of me.”
His frown deepens, eyes dark. “What do I think of you?”
“That I’m totally flaky and pathetic. What with dead rats in my bed and going on dates with serial killers and getting felt up my first week at work. If you think I don’t know how ridiculous my life is, Vincent, you’re wrong, because I do, and the truth is, I don’t know why I told my work friend you like to be tied up with silky scarves. Maybe I’ve watched too many dodgy French movies. But my point is, I know I’m not like you, with the fancy view and the starch spray in the cupboard and all this.” I circle a finger wildly in the air. “So I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me, and I’m sorry you had to show your fangs and lose your chance at a hookup with Leggy Layla from Marketing. I am sorry.”
I suck in a deep breath and take a gulp of my water. I must be drunker than I thought.
When I finally summon the courage to meet his eye, I jolt in surprise. His eyes are dark, tortured. He leans against the counter, hands gripping the edges so tightly his knuckles are whiter than bone.
“That’s the second time you mentioned those girls.” His voice is husky, throaty, as if the words are coming from some dark, forbidden place deep inside him.
“Yeah, well. They irritate me. Add that to my list of faults. I’m jealous of a group of women who wear double the recommended amount of mascara.”
“Jealous,” he repeats.
Jesus. What is up with him? He looks like a four-year-old trying to figure out an algebraic equation. “Yes. Jealous. Not usually. Just tonight. Because you were speaking to them.”
Inside, I’m well aware I’ve more or less just announced I have an enormous crush on him. But on the outside, the half-drunk, cocky Mila is still running the show.
He continues to stand, frozen. I snatch up my glass of water and slip past him into the lounge.
“Mila,” he says loudly.
I turn around at the same time he does.
“I don’t enjoy Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I don’t.” He runs a nervous hand through his dirty-blond hair. “It’s the only show where I can sit and not have to pay attention to the plotline to know what’s happening.”
I sigh. “Fine. I give up. We’ll hire a harpist for our evening entertainment.” I continue stomping toward the bedrooms—as much as it’s possible to stomp in bare feet.
A gust of air lifts th
e hair from the nape of my neck and, in an instant, Vincent is filling the doorway with his luscious frame. “I can’t pay attention to the plot,” he says, “because I’m too distracted.”
“Why? Because I’m here messing up your apartment and getting in the way? It won’t be forever, and I’ll tidy up before I go—”
Before I can finish the sentence, he cuts the short distance between us in a single bound, placing hands on my hips. The heat from his fingers burns through the material like red-hot flames. My heart thuds beneath my ribs. Without my heels, my head is level with his chest—his perfectly sculpted, chiseled-from-rock chest—rising and falling as if something is fighting to get out. I lift my gaze, and as our eyes lock, he bunches my dress in his fists. The relaxed look he wore when he lied to the marketing girls and threatened Leery is gone, naked anxiety assuming its place.
“Ask me to stop,” he says, his voice breaking.
I gulp. The only sound is my heart pounding against my rib cage. Is this really happening?
“I can’t,” I say at last. “Because I don’t want you to.”
He releases my dress, looping strong arms around my waist, and lifts me onto my tiptoes until our bodies press together, torso to torso. I drop the glass of water onto the rug at our feet, hearing the loud slosh of liquid as it soaks into the carpet. The water is swiftly forgotten as he leans closer, brushing warm lips over my jawline. He tightens his grip, anchoring me to him as a tremor of pleasure rips through my body.
When his mouth finally fastens onto mine, I mold myself into him like clay, my breasts pushed up against the steely ridges of his chest, my hands twisting into his hair like vines around the branches of a tree. I part his lips, and he responds intensely. He tastes like champagne—warm and fruity—and I devour him like a woman who’s been living carb-free would a loaf of bread. My tongue slides over his, a low, animal groan erupting from my throat.
He cups my face in his warm hands as he begins feverishly whispering my name between kisses. “Mila, oh God, Mila.”
He wants me, I realize in surprise, knowing from the way my name sounds in his mouth—hard and spiky as barbwire—that this is no whim, no spur-of-the-moment fancy. All the times he’s blushed suddenly make sense, those intense stares I mistook as him thinking I’m an idiot.
I stop kissing him, leaning back to gaze into his drowsy, silver-dappled eyes. His face is slack, his mouth half-open, lips moist.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I murmur, dragging my hands down his muscled back. “You haven’t really been enjoying Dr. Quinn at all.”
“No. But I’ve been enjoying watching you—or being tortured by you, depending on how you look at it.”
We gaze at each other in silence.
“So you’re not really such a Good Samaritan after all? The TV, letting me stay—all just part of the seduction.”
His face drops. “No, I never meant for this to happen. It’s wrong, Mila. You’re a witness and I’m a police officer, which makes it—”
My eyes flash. “Forbidden.”
The arms around my waist loosen. “You’re right. We should stop.”
“Vincent, I was kidding.”
He shakes his head, blond hair flipping into his eyes. “I’ve been fighting this ever since we met. The last thing I want to do is to complicate an already terrible situation.”
“Vincent,” I say, brushing the hair from his eyes. “This situation is far less terrible because of you.”
He takes a step backward. “You’ve had a lot to drink, Mila, and I wouldn’t want to take advantage, particularly when I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
I drop my arms to my sides, my heart crashing in disappointment, but as soon as my touch leaves him, he lets out a low hiss of frustration, drawing me back into his arms and running his fingers through my hair.
He slowly releases a deep breath as he rests his forehead on mine. “How drunk are you?”
I shake my head. “I know what I want—what I’ve wanted for weeks now.”
He kisses me again and I drown in it—his warm lips opening onto mine, the scent of aftershave and fresh linen pulling me under like a dangerous current. I push the front of his sweater up, exploring the hard, satiny ridges of his abdomen, curling my fingers into the soft downy hairs that lead a tempting path into the waistband of his underwear. He moans as my hand drifts south, brushing the bulge straining against the front of his jeans.
“Mila,” he growls. “I can’t let anything happen tonight. You might wake up in the morning and regret everything.”
I take his hands, threading my fingers through his. “I won’t regret anything, I promise. Now get those trousers off.”
He holds my wrists to keep me from pawing at him. “I’m not going to get any rest tonight.”
“Not in my bed, you won’t.”
“We can’t. Not only have you had a lot to drink, but you should also sleep on it. Not me,” he adds, as I flash a mischievous smile.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But you should probably lock your door.”
He grins. “Because you’ll be doing what, exactly? Prowling around the hallway in your nightie?”
“Maybe without a nightie.”
He groans. “Stop.”
I lay my hands against his hard chest. “So I guess I should go to bed then, wait to be sober.”
He nods, grimacing. “I think it’s for the best.”
“Okay.” I’ve never regretted drinking as much as I do right now. Not even the time when I was sixteen and threw up all over the next-door neighbor’s prize-winning chrysanthemums.
I let go of him, walking backward into the hallway toward the bedrooms. My fingers have just gripped the door handle to my room when he’s on me again, spinning me around and pinning me to the wall with his hands and mouth. I liquefy as rough fingertips skim my breasts, his tongue tangling with mine. When we finally break apart, his sweater is rucked up and I’m panting like a dog, my nipples hard as bullets from where he touched them, a throbbing ache between my legs.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
“I have to,” he whispers before placing a soft kiss on my bottom lip, making me shiver. “Good night.”
He steps away and I see resolve in the tense set of his shoulders, his fists clenched tight.
Somehow, I extract myself from the wall and cross to my room on wobbling legs. I push open the door, taking one last look at him—eyes dark in the low light of the hallway, blond hair all over the place from where I ravished him.
I will not be sleeping well. Probably not ever again.
“Good night.”
Chapter 10
Vincent
There isn’t enough cold water in the world to dampen the desire rampaging through my veins.
Standing beneath the icy jets in the shower, I’m consumed to the point of madness by the lingering aroma of Mila’s sweet scent, the rub of her skin against mine. No amount of scrubbing can loosen the feel of soft fingers under my shirt or the taste of her hot, wet mouth. She is buried deep inside me, locked in a place I can’t reach, too far under my skin to wash off with soap and water.
Outside the bar, when she punched my arm and told me to chat up women, I was sure my desire was one-sided, that any hint of mutual attraction I felt was a mere figment of my imagination. Then she made those remarks about the women I was chatting with, mentioned the word jealous, and suddenly all my resolve packed up and flew right out the window. I wasn’t thinking about her being our witness or that I’ve long sworn to never love again. All I could see were her magnificent tawny eyes narrowed in anger at me for listening to her conversation, and the way her legs looked in that dress that kept sliding up every time she fiddled with her hair. All I could think about were the nights I’ve sat beside her on the sofa, watching that daft period drama, when really all I wanted to do was lean across
and kiss every inch of her soft, curvy body.
“Dammit,” I growl as blood rushes to my groin.
Accepting my erection is here to stay and that no amount of jerking off is going to relieve me, I towel off and step onto the mat. Maybe I should have agreed to her locking her door. How will I get a moment’s peace knowing that not only is she in bed in the next room, but that she also wants me to join her? Possibly do all the dirty things I’ve been fantasizing about since I first clapped eyes on her?
A single moment of weakness and my resolve is shattered. Because tomorrow, if her feelings are unchanged, I won’t be holding back any longer. I can’t. Not now that I’ve felt her lips on mine, held her in my arms.
I usually sleep in my underwear or naked, but tonight I pull on a pair of track pants and a T-shirt, hoping the extra layers will smother the sensation of her touch. It doesn’t work, of course. All night long I stare at the ceiling, tenting the covers with my arousal and extending my hearing into the next room to listen to the steady drum of her heart. I fantasize about how good it would feel to have her nestled up against my chest, our limbs tangled up like vines, my fingers wound into her hair.
By the time the first gray needles of light filter through the blinds, I already have a plan of action for the day ahead. I will visit Catherine Adair after I’ve dropped Mila at work and beg—or pay if I have to—for her to visit Ronin for me. I already asked her over the phone, of course, the day after my visit to Ronin’s club, and she responded in the way I expected, repeating no like a toddler in a shopping center. Now the stakes are higher for Mila and me. Before last night, I was happy to bumble along in our new routine. I was enjoying it. But now, the thought of someone wanting to harm her is eating at me like acid. Catherine will go to that club, if I have to drag her there myself. If she doesn’t, then I’ll have to beg Ronin instead, or track down another willing ancient. Either way, the killer must be found.
