Baine ignored his dick as it stirred at the sight. And refused to let his mind wander up her muscled thighs to her sweet apex.
Can’t go there, McCord.
When she prowled the room looking under every cushion, opening every drawer, and quietly tapping the walls and floors, Baine knew exactly what she was looking for. His blood boiled. No way in hell was she getting her hands on his father’s black book. It was his by blood right or by blood, whichever came first.
She wouldn’t find anything because he’d already been through that room on three separate occasions looking for leads to the book. And she wouldn’t get an opportunity to look anyplace else. He should’ve killed her the other day and saved himself a world of trouble.
11
The shakes woke Kobi. Sadly, there was no earthquake or hot humping female to blame them on. Need burned from the inside out. Just one hit to tide him over. Take the edge off. A swipe of his hand over his forehead confirmed he was melting, as sweat ran down his arm and dotted the sheets. His skin lied with its chill.
Oh, it hadn’t been this bad in a while. Not since the day Baine popped up, out of nowhere, and showed interest in his father’s business then refused to leave.
The big broody fucker.
The fuzziness of Kobi’s mind and ache of his body stopped that train of thought with another tremor. He needed another line. A short one to ease the burn. He crawled to the edge of the bed and pulled the silver tray to his face. The inhale burned his nose, but in the best fucking way. Almost instantly, the shivers stopped and the fire in his head smoldered. He flopped onto his back and blinked several times before his eyes adjusted to the blinding sunlight streaming in the window and the ceiling came into focus. His tongue stroked along the points of his teeth. The film it found there forced him to move.
He needed a drink and a shower. Maybe another little hit. He’d been good for a while now, holding things together for the boss. He eyed the powder, and his heartbeat sped in response. Now wasn’t the time to screw up. No way was he going back to slum life. Devereaux plucked him from the streets and gave him everything he’d ever desired. He owed it to the man to protect him, even from his own son.
Kobi levered up on an elbow to find his Jimmy hanging out and his room, or at least the bed area, destroyed. He palmed his still sleeping dick and searched his brain for any memories of the festivities that had caused the mess. None came to life. No, that wasn’t true. He remembered snorting. Always did. And he remembered a fucking goddess. Trouble was, he couldn’t recall her naked and on him like he usually did, no matter his altered state.
When he stood a cold wet puddle greeted his left foot.
“Son of a bitch.”
He hobbled to a brown and white patterned rug and wiped the liquid onto the coarse material. From the state of his bed it appeared he’d had a hell of a good time. It pissed him off he couldn’t remember any of it.
Time to get dressed, find that cunt, and make some new memories.
12
Stroke. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe. Sloan’s sun flushed skin prickled quickly in the cool water. For the next twenty minutes, she focused on the rhythm. She released every concern from her mind and swam. No, in hooker mode her legs couldn’t kick as furiously as she wanted nor arms stroke as hard, but her muscles still sang. The effort gave her brain a welcomed respite from the restless night.
Covert work had always been Sloan’s forte. Morphing into someone else. Hiding who she was. What she’d endured. But this assignment held in the balance every desire she’d clung to since the day she’d quit mourning her parents and started fighting, everything she’d thought beyond her grasp after so long struggling to make it a reality. This assignment had also tapped a well of emotion she’d thought long ago drained.
“Nice stroke.”
His voice destroyed her solitude. The dark timbre resonated down Sloan’s spine like a cellist’s bow being dragged across the C string. A fresh wave of gooseflesh crested over her. She curled the water’s surface and turned toward Baine. Words froze in her throat. Thick and unruly dark hair cropped neatly around his ears, but dipped and swayed wildly at his forehead. The perfect handle for screwing. Jezuz. If that one wasn’t enticing enough, the swells and dips of his traps, shoulders, and biceps provided a feast of options to grip while riding the sculpted V of his hips. Everywhere she looked his swarthy skin wrapped taut—over a defined eight pack, thick and sturdy legs, corded forearms. The short crinkles of brown hair that peppered across his chest and peeked out from the waist of his swim trunks sizzled her brain.
“Thank you.” Sloan aimed for courteous and non-solicitous, tamping down the resentment, warring curiosity, and wicked lust he stirred inside her with every bit of self-control she possessed.
The bespoke suit he’d worn so well the night before had been traded for charcoal swim trunks and a towel slung over one shoulder. He moved toward her with grace that belied his bulk, before dropping his towel on the chaise next to hers. Of all the chairs and loungers in the place, he’d chosen the only occupied lounger on the entire patio. The act, though in all likelihood innocent, rang in Sloan’s ears like a war cry. A deliberate move in a complicated game of chess. Having just finished her laps, his timing was too perfect to be coincidence.
Baine turned and settled his gaze on her. Sloan searched for any sign of recognition in the sky blue orbs, in the tautness of his square jaw, or the furrow of his brow, and found none. Good. If he recognized her, the mission would be ruined. Not that she’d live to see the fallout. It was good that his eyes hadn’t alighted with remembrance, but heedless of the boon, emptiness pitted her belly.
Every battle honed instinct screamed for Sloan to retreat. In submission, she pushed off the bottom and glided to the stone outcropping only a few feet away from the enigma that was Baine Kendrick. She should hate him on sight. Anger roiled just under the surface, but the sudden and undeniable physical awareness of him played bumper-cars with the ire and her brain.
“It’s all yours,” she said, levering herself out of the water. Thousands of droplets rained off her body, and Baine’s intent study likely cataloged each. Like a damn schoolgirl, her cheeks heated.
“That’s good,” he said. A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. Then he added, “I think you would put me to shame in a proper race.”
Sloan shook her head, unable to speak. The twinge of memory of two forgotten children racing over the green grass was too sweet and painful to rouse.
He held out a towel, and she forced her feet to close the distance. Proximity sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her, similar to the energy that surged before a fight, but different. She swallowed hard, struggling to ignore the nuance, which made her hyper aware she wore only strategically placed strips of spandex. When her fingers closed around the terry cloth, Lana and Cynthia ambled through the doorway onto the patio. Their conversation quieted once they saw her and Baine. The women waved.
“Good morning, ladies.”
They beamed at him as they walked by, then settled on side-by-side lounges at the opposite end of the row. Sloan nodded and soaked up the excess moisture from her hair and body in preparation for her escape. She secured the towel around her body with a tuck of its tail at the top of her breast, and gave him the best smile she could muster.
“Enjoy the—”
“Lotion me,” he asked. Though his tone made it sound like more like a command.
Sloan turned a palm up. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any.” She motioned toward the other women. “They might have some, and I’m sure they’d happily help.”
“And you wouldn’t,” he countered.
While she sputtered, something she didn’t recall ever having done in her life, he reached across her to a side table and plucked a tube from a decorative bowl. His body came so close to hers the heat he radiated seeped into her marrow. As he retreated, the dusting of dark hair on his chest tickled her arm.
“Here,” he said, s
lapping the lotion into her hand.
He sat on the end of the chaise, elbows on his knees. Hunching didn’t diminish his presence in the least. In fact, it drew Sloan’s attention to the sloping topography of his chest and the spread of his shoulders, which dwarfed the chair under him. When she didn’t move he tilted his chin up and directed her behind him with a thick arm.
She circled him in a wide arc, but surrendered, tucking behind him on the hard wood. Clinically, like she treated a field wound, Sloan uncapped the sunscreen, deposited a dollop on her palm and began rubbing it onto his back. From his nape she worked her way out over his shoulders, denying the tingle the friction created below her waist. Until he leaned into her touch.
Her belly skittered, then churned at the absurdity. Of all the horrible things she’d done in the name of greater good, this topped them all. Because a small twisted part of her enjoyed the closeness to Baine. There were layers of deception, anger, and betrayal between them, but hope hid underneath like a tiny, dingy marble under a landfill of trash. And wasn’t it ironic that he’d been the one to instill that hope inside her.
She’d been a terrified girl in a haunted house. Alone in the universe. Her loved ones’ dead bodies ripped from her clenched fingers. Trapped as a slave. Utterly hopeless.
Then one day a boy, bigger and older than she by a few years, she’d guessed, had wandered into the basement where she’d been washing linens and asked her to play. When she’d declined, he’d put the bag of marbles in his pocket and silently stepped up to the basin, grabbed a napkin, and scrubbed the cloth against the washboard. For one week he showed up, helped her with her chores, then went about his business. The next week they’d hurried through the chores, and then actually played. He taught her how to shoot marbles, and had even given her one the last time she’d seen him.
But they weren’t kids any longer. And there was no hope for what he’d become.
Sloan snapped the cap closed. “All done.”
Before she could stand, he spun to face her. One brow furrowed. “How is it a woman like you ends up in a situation like this?”
“A woman like me?”
“You could choose another line of work. Toned as you are, you could be a fitness instructor.”
“Sometimes we choose our fate,” she said. “Other times it’s chosen for us.”
The cleft between his dark brows deepened and his jaw clenched then released. “And sometimes it’s what we make it.”
Sloan eased back, suddenly aware that his face was less than a foot from her own. Quietly, against all of her better judgment, she asked, “Is that what you’re doing, making your fate?”
His lips parted, but no words came. She recognized motion by the door, but when she saw Kobi with his arm draped over Nena, dismissed it as a threat. Anticipation jingled her nerves as she waited for his response. She didn’t know what she expected from him. He didn’t owe her, nor the hooker she played, any explanation. But damn that hope.
Abruptly, her head was jerked left and cold lips like those of a dead fish sealed over her own. Sloan clutched fistfuls of the towel, fighting the instinct to pummel the man’s gut. His tongue dampened the edge of her mouth.
“Sod off, Ross,” Baine swore.
The words were quiet, but held a threat that caught the man’s notice. He broke away from her lips. It was all she could do to keep from scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I had her first,” Kobi Ross boasted. “And we have some unfinished business.” Hiking a thumb toward the other escort, he added, “I won’t leave you empty handed.”
The redhead winked at Baine, and reached for his arm. “Let’s go have some fun.”
“No. She’s mine,” Baine said, his voice flat and his intense glare never leaving Kobi.
Sloan’s stupid heart jumped at his words.
In defiance, Kobi’s hand bit into Sloan’s chin and he wrenched it up. Before Sloan had a chance to remind herself not to react, Baine’s arm shot out. A choking sound gurgled in Kobi’s throat as Baine’s hand encircled the column of the man’s neck. Kobi’s eyes widened. His hands flew to Baine’s wrist. He struggled to wrench the hand away. The heels of his shoes heaved against the ground and his body bucked.
“If you want to continue breathing, I suggest you take the redhead and be on your merry way.” With that Baine released his grip.
Kobi stumbled back, heaving in air. Nena placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and he slapped it away. The look on his face oscillated between embarrassment and pure hatred as he stomped past them, the other quirk-browed women, and then through the back gate.
Baine grabbed her hand and pulled Sloan off the lounger, not giving her time to collect her covering as it loosened in the upheaval. He moved with authority. Chin up. Shoulders back. He aimed for the manor, drawing her behind him. The towel fell, entwined her legs and pitched her off balance. Still, he refused to slow. To keep from meeting the stone pavers with her face, Sloan yielded her grip on the fabric.
Through the threshold of the rear entrance, he spun on her. His wide chest crowded her in, until her back met the cold wall. Sloan had no idea what to say or do. So, she kept her mouth shut. Had the whole scene been a tiny turf war between the two men? It was the most logical explanation. But Baine regarded her now with nearly as much hostility as he’d forced upon Kobi. His dark expression made the young girl inside her vanish and the warrior surge forward, smacking a fist to her armored chest.
But, just as swiftly, her inner warrior stumbled.
The palm of his hand glided over the slope of her chin, warming the abused skin. His thumb scrubbed over her lips. Once. Twice. The rough pad of his finger stung her sensitive flesh again. Then he inclined his head. Baine’s face hovered so close to hers stubble rasped her cheek. Sloan breathed him in on a gasp. Her head spun from the redolence.
He stilled for a moment, save for his breathing, which seemed almost pained, the inhale and exhale ragged. His hand slid up the nape of her neck. His fingers wove in her hair and tugged. Unwilling to fight him, her chin raised to meet his gaze, which honed in on her mouth.
His lips covered hers. The pressure of him was unrelenting. He pulled her in to the kiss with his hand and pinned her to the wall with his body. Warmth engulfed her. From the tips of her lips to the soles of her feet, the chill she’d harbored earlier scorched in Baine’s onslaught. This was no embrace. It was an out and out attack on the tiny space inside her mind where things made sense. Where everything was good versus bad. Black and white. In this space she was a tool for justice and Baine was part and parcel with the enemy. No matter their youthful friendship. No matter how good his mouth tasted.
And Lord, if sin had a taste she’d found it.
His thick lips parted then bracketed her lower lip. Balmy wetness soothed her sensitive skin, but enlivened a nature she had no idea existed inside her. A need so carnal and base screamed to life. Unbidden, Sloan’s hands groped Baine’s hot, hard lats. To her shame, she did not push him away, but held him in place while her body arched against his.
Her lips muffled his curse an instant before his other hand smoothed over the length of her neck. Where his grip on Kobi had meant to harm the other man, it only tormented Sloan, hovering just above her heaving breasts. Her whole body tingled with awareness, but not in the usual way. This had nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with yearning.
A moan of anguish or desire—of which, she couldn’t be entirely sure—breeched her lips. His other hand, which had been still at his side, ran up her thigh. The roughness of his palm heated her from the inside out. Baine’s fingers bit into the bare bottom revealed by the bathing suit. In response her body quickened, nipples tightening, core clenching.
“Ahem. Might I offer you some towels? You look a bit wet.”
Again Baine cursed. This time, however, the words came through loud and clear. He growled it out as he broke the kiss. With one hand he held her to the wall while he created a gap between them. The
sudden withdrawal served the same purpose as a bucket of ice water. In less than a second the world around her refocused.
Behind Baine, Lawrence, the butler, stood, a pile of towels balanced neatly in his hand. The set of his mouth almost disguised his mirth, but the sparkle in his blue eyes gave him away. Once again, Sloan was intrigued by Lawrence’s stealth and uncanny timing, but before she could attempt to figure the man out, Baine turned on him.
He snatched a towel from the pile. “That’ll be all.”
“Are you sure I can’t interest either of you in a drink?”
“Yes.” Baine’s tone bordered on harsh, but he seemed to rein it in when he turned back toward her.
Lawrence bowed his head then retreated down the hallway as quietly as he’d arrived. As much as Sloan wanted to study the servant, Baine’s brilliant eyes owned her attention. They didn’t flit about her face, but bore into her eyes. Searching. She trembled under the scrutiny. Actually freaking trembled like a rabbit staring past the wolf’s teeth down his throat. His size didn’t intimidate her. Though in the few times she’d seen him all grown up, he’d used it for that distinct purpose. His searching eyes scared her because they saw too much. Elicited too much.
He leaned in and draped the terrycloth sheet around her. His breath was hot on her ear when he whispered, “You’re so much more than a dime trick whore. See you tonight.”
While her breathing stilled in her chest he turned and walked away.
13
She didn’t have the time or inclination to be angry or embarrassed while the drama unfolded in the hallway. But she had the rest of the damn day to go over it time and again in her head. Now as she evened her lipstick for the evening’s festivities it was no more than a jumbled heap of ten different kinds of crap.
You’re so much more than a dime trick whore.
Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) Page 7
