The bugs were Kobi’s doing. A pitiful attempt to get the goods on Baine, and prove himself more valuable to his boss than the man’s own son. Baine would dig quietly to verify, but it seemed likely. Every beady-eyed stare the slick-haired twitch-nose gave him was a piss off and die, if he’d ever seen one.
When the hot water hit his skin all thought turned to her. Gooseflesh raised every hair on his body. His dick raised too. Damn the thing. Never in his life had he faltered from a kill decision. He made a judgment and it stood. The four men he’d ended with no more than a twitch of his index finger. They were loose ends that needed tying.
He lathered the rag to a sheen of frothy bubbles and started with his face. His lats were tight from shimmying down the side of the apartment building in his scramble to get away. Had his rifle case not had a shoulder strap, he would have had to leave it, and that would have been worse than parting with any woman. No sooner had the thought run through his mind, than he knew it was no longer true.
The water beat his back as he scrubbed the cloth over his abdomen. Her face flickered in his mind. Irises like amber jewels, encircled by pure white. Cheeks made for smiling after a good toss in the sack. Thick supple lips, the red of garden buds, for sucking him hard and swallowing him deep.
A feral growl rumbled in the glassed space as the suds slicked his raging erection. Blast that mouth of hers, and her for being there at all. For now she was inside his head, making him lose the death-grip he’d always had on his control.
His hips rocked into his hand and there was nothing he could do to stop the intense pleasure, since he could only experience her in this safe way, in this fantasy. She was alive. He could have killed her. Loose ends and all, but there would have been no way he could have had her like this, if she were dead. He leaned over, bracing his left hand on the wall. He lowered to his forearm as the pressure inside pulled him down. The force of his release tensed every muscle in his body. A roar of frustration and visceral satisfaction threatened to break free from deep within, but he clenched his teeth against it.
More wrung out than when he entered, Baine exited the shower to dress for dinner, the dressing-down, and parade of whores awaiting him—all of which held zero interest for him.
8
They were ushered into a living room like cattle about to become slabs of beef. The muscular butler, who looked more like an assassin than a purveyor of tea and crumpets, said in a luxuriant British accent, “Master Devereaux and the other gentlemen will join you shortly. Please, be at ease in the parlor.”
Two of the three high-class escorts eyed the handsome man in black and white as though he were the first course in a bevy of cock they planned to devour that evening. He winked a green eye at them, which was playful and quite out of character from the stern, all-business man Sloan had covertly studied since he’d picked them up at the airport in Nelspruit. Up until now he’d played the perfect manservant. Instinct told her it was an act. Several times she’d caught him stiffening the ease and efficiency naturally allied with his movements. Maybe he was one of those bodyguard servants, but the cool calculation in his behavior whispered trouble. She’d have to keep an eye on him.
As if sensing her attention, Lawrence slanted his gaze in her direction, but didn’t turn. Interesting. He bowed at the waist. “If that will be all, ladies, I’ll have your bags brought up to your rooms. You’ve been shown your rooms, but Master Devereaux asks that you not wander about unescorted, unless you would like to make use of the pool and patio.”
Yep, she’d caught the emphasis the first time. In the parlor. Then he left the four of them in the decadent room. They stood in a row before a towering fireplace and three sofas that cost more than her car. What looked to be an original Monet, the face of a young man blotted in acrylic, hung on a wall book-ended by floor-to-ceiling French doors which led out to a lovely side garden.
The same two who’d blatantly lusted over the butler spun around, drinking in the opulence of the space. More like gulped, since their mouths hung open. The third escort, Lana, stepped forward to address them all. Sloan made four in this party of pussy.
In a surprisingly stern voice, given the slightness of her build, Lana said, “Ladies! You are not sidewalk hookers. We are dignified. Educated. Worldly. High-class companions. You would do well to remember that. Master Devereaux deserves the very best we have to offer. So, class it up or you’ll be dismissed. For God’s sake, he was the help. Gorgeous, but not our concern.”
Their eyes narrowed, but their shoulders straightened and their hands folded neatly in front of them. “Now then,” Lana continued with a quarter turn toward Sloan. “I’ve worked with Cynthia before,” she said, gesturing to the blond. “And Nena worked with Madame Walters, personally. But I don’t know anything about you, other than Madame highly recommended you.
“You’re striking enough,” she said, her thin brow severely arched. “But I like to know who I’m dealing with, especially in a crucial job like this. Tell me, Sloan, who have you worked for?”
She hadn't done this kind of work, ever. Sloan hadn’t even done this kind of play in years and years. Even then it had been more of an experiment. The kind of work she did do, however, would make the regal woman with the low-slung bun and stunning blue dress faint.
“I can’t divulge that kind of information.”
“Good girl,” Lana said, but her words were drowned out by the sudden roar in Sloan’s ear.
The doors opened and in walked The Devil.
For a thousandth of a second everything froze and she was five again. Small. Powerless. Terrified of the man looming before her. His dark eyes condemned and large frame threatened.
Her heart thundered inside her chest, sending shocks of lightning scorching through her limbs. The entourage that followed blurred in a sea of unadulterated rage that erupted so ferociously it overrode every life-preserving tendency she’d honed over the last twenty-six years of her existence. Every bit of glacial ice liquefied in her chest as it burst with molten fury.
No options presented themselves. Only one action could douse the boiling hatred steaming the blood in her veins. Sloan scanned the buffet against the wall nearest her for a weapon. Not that her hands wouldn’t do the job just fine, but to get to Devereaux she’d have to go through two linebacker types. She’d have to move fast, but she could slit their throats before the men knew what was happening. There was no way she’d make it out alive. There were two guys behind her life’s target. Plus a handful of armed guards throughout the grounds. And Baine was here somewhere.
She was ready for death. His. Hers. Sloan sidestepped toward the antique wood. With a discrete slide of her hand, the cool metal of the butter knife nestled into her palm. She inhaled one last time.
A voice in her ear stopped her dead.
“Here, miss. Let me get that for you.” Lawrence’s warm fingers encircled her wrist and squeezed. The move shocked her back to sanity. The red faded from her eyes, and her muscles uncoiled. She’d nearly thrown away years of work and potentially hundreds of thousands of lives over her hatred for this one man. “Would you like jam or butter on your biscuit?” he asked, taking the knife from her loosened grip.
What?
“Jam. Thank you,” she replied in a hoarse whisper. Her pulse continued to thunder, but the winds of common sense moved the black clouds a safe distance away.
“My pleasure. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Sloan slanted a look at him, but he ignored her, going about his duties. Slathering jelly. Pouring tea. Adding milk and sugar. When he turned, his expression was butler-blank. Did he know what she’d intended to do, or did he just think she was incapable?
His neatly coiffed hair, clean-shaven jaw, sharp suit, and manner said innocuous, but the breadth of his shoulders, power in his grip, perception in action, and depth of his eyes screamed trouble.
“Here you are, miss,” he said, ushering her toward the gold settee. Once seated, he placed the food on the
small table near her knee, stood, and addressed the room. “Could I offer anyone else tea or a biscuit?”
Before long, Devereaux and Lana snuggled on the divan across from her, ignoring the appetizers the butler laid out. Behind her Cynthia batted lashes with a bodyguard while another smoothed his hand down her back. She arched into him, and smiled over her shoulder.
Sloan sensed eyes on her before she saw him. Kobi Ross, Devereaux’s second in command for the better part of a decade, advanced on her like predator to prey. If he only knew how reversed their roles were.
Now that she’d reined her emotions and focused on the importance of the job, Sloan morphed from killer to Mr. Ross’s entertainment for the night. She smiled coyly as he approached, looking at him through a fan of lashes. The only thing harder than acting pleased by his attention had been pulling back from the brink earlier. And she had a feeling in the knotted pit of her stomach that things would only get more difficult over the next few days.
Kobi took her hand in his clammy grasp. “Good Lord, you fell from the heavens.”
Yep, right into hell.
He raised her hand, his head lowered, and cold lips smeared a kiss on her skin. This close, the aroma of hairspray and gel stung her nostrils. She giggled when she wanted to gag.
“You smell divine. Like chocolate and a dream.”
Sloan didn’t laugh much, but the absurdity of his comment had her biting back a deep chuckle. What a sleaze. Men didn’t talk like this. Not any men she’d ever been around. And she smelled like soap. Really nice soap, but soap none the less. Why chocolate? Because of the color of her skin, probably. Her earlier inner tantrum had flushed her creamy, light-brown skin to a deeper tone.
“You should taste me,” she purred.
Kobi Ross puddled into her hand. A stupid look of lust washed over his sharp features. The lines around his mouth lengthened as it fell open and his tongue lolled out like a dog. His pupils dilated and his brows shot up. As much as she hated it, this man was the most logical place to start looking for information about the black book. Well, Baine was, but she didn’t want to wander into that mine field. Not ever, if she could help it. Not that she’d seen him since, well, they were kids. She’d only felt the barrel of his gun in D.C.—and the butt, apparently.
After hours of research and lobbying with Commander Tucker and Ryan for her plan, they’d come no closer to answering the burning questions about why he’d killed his father’s men, and why he hadn’t killed her. If it had been him at all.
Maybe Baine was a good bad guy who didn’t kill women or children, if he could help it. Not outright anyway. The work he did with his father killed them, regardless. So, he was a bad bad guy. Period.
The big hand that had been on her arm crept over her shoulder and along the nape of her neck. Gently, Kobi shifted her long hair to the opposite side. Without visibly tensing or losing the pleasant twist of her cheek, Sloan steeled herself for the touch to come. The cushion dipped as he eased closer.
“I’d love to taste you, but just a nibble now. You’re my dessert.”
Warm, moist breath tickled the sensitive skin below her ear. The door behind them opened and closed, and then Devereaux’s booming voice stalled Kobi’s advance. “Ha! My son’s finally arrived. Let’s eat.”
The man too near her huffed
A large shadow cast over them, and a voice filled the air. “I can’t believe you’re not happy to see me.”
Sloan dared not move. But she couldn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from prickling. If he’d spoken to her, the death reprieve he’d given a few short days ago would be shorter than she’d hoped.
“You’ve interrupted an important tasting,” Kobi answered.
“She’ll wait,” Baine said in his husky voice. “I’m starved.”
Lawrence nodded to Devereaux and opened a door. “This way, please.”
The group transitioned into the dining room. Somehow she got sandwiched between Kobi and Baine, who she’d yet to look at directly. Head down, she walked, or rather was corralled, toward a center seat at a long dining table. It could easily sit three times as many guests than were present and was decorated with creamy linens and vases of splashy green flowers. To her right Baine sat, his gaze also straight ahead. To her left Kobi crowded. Across from her, Devereaux took a seat and coaxed his escort onto his lap. She was spared his gaze as his mouth lingered on the woman’s porcelain flesh. All around, tension rippled through the air like a heat wave in the Sahara.
Coming in late, the other two escorts and bodyguards made their way to the table arm-in-arm. Devereaux spoke up, “I’m sure, after his days away, my son would enjoy some company.”
Both women’s gazes shot up, searching the room. When they found him, both smiled easily. Only Nena, the bobbed-cut redhead, was able to wiggle out of the men’s grasp. Triumphantly, she sashayed around the table. In a throaty voice she said, “I apologize. I didn’t know your son was joining us. It would be my pleasure to give him some...” she lingered for a moment, before adding, “…company.”
He stood, pulled out Nena’s chair, and the woman exaggerated her movements, poking her round ass at him before sitting. Sloan hadn’t liked the other woman before. Now she grouped her in with the bodyguards and butler as expendable. With the ring of a bell, tray upon tray of food arrived on servant’s hands. They distributed plates piled with slabs of meat, bowls of stew, and an array of sauces and jellies that imitated the colors of the rainbow. Without fanfare the men began filling their plates.
Beside her Baine’s suit-covered arm didn’t move. His hand, nearly as large as the dinner plate, rested on the tablecloth only a foot from her. It looked nothing like the small grit-and-grime covered hand of the kid that used to play with her behind the woodshed of his father’s old estate. His fingernails were cropped short and free from dirt. Two prominent veins curved from wrist to knuckles just under the tanned skin, which boasted a light sprinkling of dark hair. Looking at this man’s hand, her insides quivered once. It was no more than a phone would vibrate when receiving a text, and she had no idea how to interpret the message her body sent. She knew enough to be completely befuddled by it though. Concern knit her brow until Kobi’s hand on the fabric of her mid-thigh stole her attention. Mindlessly, he strummed his fingers over the ruched material of her cocktail dress as he ate with his other.
Sloan tuned out the infuriating sound, and struggled to tune out the little shakes of awareness Baine’s nearness stirred. She pushed the food around her plate like any good waif would, and tried to keep the sneer off her face when glancing at the horrid man across the table. All of a sudden, Devereaux lifted his head from Lana’s neck and turned his gaze to Baine.
“Where the fuck are Ty and my team? They should be here to celebrate. And why the hell didn’t Walters send more of these lovely creatures? I’m sure these ladies are talented beyond belief, but there are four of them and ten of us. Not exactly fair odds.”
The breath stalled in her lungs. She’d known this would be a volatile situation, but she’d expected this explosion to take place behind closed doors. Not here in front of the paid entertainment—which went to show how expendable they were as commodities.
Baine raised his chin from where he’d been studying his plate, and looked Devereaux head on. “They’re dead, and I told Walters to cut the order in half.”
“What do you mean, they’re dead?” The older man’s cheeks reddened.
“Never coming back,” Baine replied coolly.
Kobi stood, knocking into her chair, which screeched over the wooden floor. She breathed sharply in response to the jolt, ready for anything. “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded. Spittle flew from his mouth, and from this angle she noticed his crooked teeth.
Devereaux shook his head. “I’ll handle this, thank you.”
Kobi quieted, but remained standing, leaning over her. Devereaux’s jaw clenched and brow scrunched, and for the first time she noticed how much the man had aged.
Wrinkles of time creased his forehead. Brown eyes lit with anger sunk into the framework of his face. The darkness of his hair lightened with grey, not only at the hairline, but sporadically over his head. For more than twenty years the image seared into her brain, the one that haunted her daylight and dreaming hours, had stayed the same, a stagnant sneer of youthful ambition and malevolence.
Through gritted teeth the old man asked, “What happened?” After a breath, he added, “I want details. Don’t make me find them on my own.”
9
Baine chuckled, and the acrid sound burned Sloan’s ears. His laughter, healing in the past, now frightened with its hollow peals. His profile dominated her periphery. Dark, rumpled hair barely touched the slope of his forehead, which peaked gently at thick brows. Below them long lashes protected eyes she’d yet to regard. A prominent nose gave way to thick lips invented for loving and a wide, sturdy jaw made for boxing.
His humorless laugh died abruptly. “You requested a hit on a nation’s president on American soil, in its capital. You want a hit in a first world nation, you deal with first world problems. Heightened security. No access. A population with a bloody load of time on their hands to poke their noses where they don’t belong. Then you insist on sending a mob of knuckle-dragging fools with me. The situation was fucked from the outset.”
A small part of Sloan had held out hope that Baine hadn’t been there, since no one actually saw him in D.C. Well, that plane just got blown out of the air. A thousand questions shot across Sloan’s mind in an instant. None had answers. Each question spawned only new questions. The most critical one at the moment—would he recognize her from the bloodbath in Washington? Thank holy hell she hadn’t made eye contact with him. But realistically, how long could she avoid his gaze?
Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) Page 5
