by Susan Sey
“I do,” she said. “And French. And a little bit of Portuguese. Curses mostly.” She smiled at the memory, selected a wafer-thin cookie from the plate between them and bit in. “One of my roommates had a Portuguese mother and a foul temper.”
“Were you an international studies major?” He studied her over the rim of his own wineglass, and Liz shook her head.
“No, criminal justice. I picked up the languages during high school.”
“Just picked them up?” He quirked a brow. “Must have been some high school.”
She raised her glass in sarcastic salute. “The finest Swiss boarding school money could buy.”
“I never would have guessed you grew up with money, Liz.”
She smiled over her wineglass. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“You have something against money?”
She took another sip of that lovely, fruity wine. “No offense to you or your buckets of money, but rich people aren’t really my cup of tea.”
He leaned forward, his blue eyes laughing in the flickering light. “Liz. Darling. How can you say that? Unless I miss my guess, you’re very much one of us.”
She frowned at him. “Hardly. Money and education do not a rich person make.”
He made some noise she couldn’t interpret, but it made her feel petty for complaining. “What about you?” she asked suddenly. “Where did you go to school?”
His eyes danced. “I, ah, squandered my college years pursuing ill-gotten gains.”
She sighed. “I know that, Patrick. I’ve practically memorized your case file by now. I meant high school.”
“Oh.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t go to high school.”
“Didn’t go?” Liz tipped her head and studied him. “Your folks homeschooled you, then?”
“Ah, no.” He gave her that devastatingly crooked smile again. “I didn’t go to school at all.”
She set her wine down with a click. “Ever?”
“No.” He shrugged. “We were on the road a great deal. It wasn’t feasible.”
She frowned. “So, what, your parents just let you order room service and watch TV?”
“They provided an education of sorts. I read, after all. My math skills aren’t lacking.”
“A photographic memory doesn’t make up for that kind of neglect.” She frowned darkly, her heart breaking for the child he’d been. She shoved that aside, let a welcome anger surge in to take its place. “Somebody should have arrested your parents.”
“Believe me, people tried.” He leaned forward to prop one elegant elbow on the table and study her. “I don’t believe it was ever on my account, though.”
“They should have. Your parents robbed you.”
“They robbed a lot of people,” Patrick said blandly. “But they also exposed me to a side of life most kids don’t ever see.”
“You weren’t most kids,” Liz shot back with a vehemence that startled even her. “You were brilliant, damn it. Gifted beyond what most people can even imagine, and curious along with it. You could have been anything, and they chose profitable.” She pressed a hand to her pounding temple because it was easier, less revealing than pressing it to her heart. “It was beyond criminal, Patrick. It was cruel. And I ought to know.”
She broke off abruptly. She hadn’t meant to talk about herself. Her own childhood. The reasons she recognized, instantly, what a brilliantly selfish parent could do to a child. Would do, given the chance.
A beat of silence passed, and Liz was intensely aware of his eyes on her, pale, sharp, discerning. He’d noticed her stumble, she had no doubt. He didn’t miss a thing, but he let it go.
“It stung to miss college, I’ll admit that,” he said, smoothly picking up the conversation. “But by then, it was my choice. Money is a powerful incentive. And it buys a lot of books.” He set aside his wine, leaned forward and took her hand. “But it’s lovely, Liz, truly lovely, to see all that outrage of yours from this perspective.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, stupidly. Because she felt stupid. Slow. Drugged. All because he’d taken her hand.
He rose, drew her to her feet as well. Then she was in his arms, one warm hand spread smoothly over her hips, the other lightly clasping hers, and she responded without thought to his movements. She swayed in the circle of his arms to the whisper of music that had been in the background all night like the scent of unseen flowers.
“Up until now I’ve only seen you outraged with me. I hadn’t even thought what it might be like to have you outraged for me. All righteous and defiant and valiant. I’ll admit, it’s going to my head a bit.”
“That’s the wine.” She smiled at him, unable, unwilling to resist giving him that much. Somebody ought to love this man, she thought. Not her. But somebody. Surely he deserved that much. Somebody at least to smile at him without expecting something in return.
“Oh, no. I gave you most of the wine. It’s definitely you.”
She tried to stiffen, to glare, but she felt so loose and light still, and his hands felt so wonderfully at home on her body. “That’s a shame, because the wine was very nice.”
He shifted her fractionally closer, until she could feel the heat of his body through the layers of her dress. Everything in her yearned to move closer, to close the gap he’d left between them. She wanted to snuggle her cheek right into that gorgeous shirt of his, twine her arms around his neck and be the woman who loved him. Who gave him whatever it took to fill up the sad, empty spaces she could feel inside him.
She had enough to share, she thought drowsily. Enough heat, enough energy, enough passion, enough strength. She could give him what he needed and never feel the loss. Because he’d return it, in spades. And she knew he would. With Patrick O’Connor in her bed, she’d never be cold.
But then cold wasn’t exactly the issue, was it? It was more what he’d ask of her once she was warm and loose and his. Because a soul like Patrick’s had empty spaces in it she’d never be able to fill. Men with supercomputer brains, beautiful faces and this raw, powerful charisma had appetites and needs far beyond anything the law and polite society generally sanctioned. Far beyond anything Liz was capable to providing, anyway. And she refused to wreck herself on those rocks. Not again.
After escaping her father’s grip, she’d worked herself bloody to find something approximating true north on her own moral compass. Hell, it had taken her a couple years after landing in her grandmother’s care to even locate her moral compass. She couldn’t afford to take a flier on Patrick.
But even as the thought wandered through her mind, she allowed him to pull her in. Allowed him to brush his lips against her hair. Even with doubt whispering through her veins, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder, greedily soaked up the heat and vitality of him. Even as some part of her brain hung back, waiting for him to trip up and expose some connection to Villanueva, she wanted him.
God, what was wrong with her? Even if he wasn’t in league with Villanueva, he was still the bait in her trap. She was using him, and she wanted to let him run tame in her bed? In her house? Damn it, in her heart? She was no fool, but that’s where she was headed. And it wasn’t a path she meant to take.
“Liz.” His voice was a rumble against her cheek, warm, intimate. “Are you ready to move along with our evening?”
She stumbled to a halt, pushed herself out of his arms, snapped out of the sensual haze he’d woven around her. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she said flatly. She shook the hair out of her eyes, the wine out of her blood, the feel of him off her skin. God, she hated to do it.
His eyes widened, then warmed with silent laughter. “Liz, darling. I had no idea you were considering capping the evening off so . . . personally.”
“Don’t screw around with me,” she said tightly. It was more painful than she’d imagined, letting go of something she’d never even admitted she wanted. “We both know that’s where you were heading, and you need to know rig
ht now that it’s not happening. Not now, not ever.”
He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Fair enough. But the next item on my agenda wasn’t sex.”
She propped a hand in the froth of her skirt and cocked a hip. She let her skeptical gaze rest on the intimate little table for two, the lush suite, the empty bottle of hand-chosen wine. “No?”
“Not the next one, no.” He smiled at her benignly. “I thought we’d play poker.”
Chapter 13
“YOU WANT to play poker.” She stared at him, with all that narrow-eyed skepticism he found so unaccountably enchanting. Suspicious, law-abiding women weren’t his usual fare, but there was no arguing with the fact that Liz in cop mode really turned him on. Maybe it was the juxtaposition with the soft, yielding woman he’d held in his arms two minutes ago, he thought. He never knew exactly who she was going to be next.
He shrugged. Life was unpredictable. God knew he’d learned that lesson the hard way often enough. He had a weakness for this woman that apparently wasn’t going away. He’d just have to go with it. What he couldn’t change, after all, he felt honor bound to enjoy. Life wasn’t exactly easier that way, but it was certainly more fun.
The fact that indulging himself kept Liz disgruntled and off balance was just a bonus.
He rocked back on his heels and studied her, from the top of her coiffed head—no other word for that kind of careful, old-fashioned style—to the bows on her provocative shoes. God, he wanted to muss her all over.
“Poker wasn’t my first choice, no.” He let his gaze linger, just a moment, on her mouth. “But it’ll do. I thought a small wager would liven up the evening.”
“Patrick, you won the World Series of Poker like eight times running. Why on earth would I play poker against you, let alone bet?”
He pursed his lips, considered her. “Tell you what. If you can win even one hand before midnight, you can name your prize.”
She gazed at him suspiciously and Patrick tried not to think about the lake-sized bed in the next room. “One hand?”
“One hand.” He shrugged. “It could happen. Poker can be just as much luck as skill. The question you need to ask yourself is, what do you want to win that’s worth the risk of losing?”
“I can name my prize?”
“Anything you like.”
“Even a halt to this ridiculous sexual thing you’re doing?”
He let his gaze touch on her mouth again. “There’s nothing ridiculous about wanting to get you out of that dress, but yes. Even that.”
“Fine,” she said. “Deal ’em.”
“Aren’t you even interested in what I want if you don’t win a hand?” At her flat, challenging gaze, he simply smiled and said, “A kiss, Liz.”
“A kiss,” she repeated warily. “That’s it?”
“I’m a very good kisser.” He smiled at her, hot and intimate. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Deal.”
LIZ STALKED to her own car, allowed Patrick to open the door for her and plopped into the passenger seat. “You cheated,” she muttered, just before he clicked the door shut on her. She could see him chuckling as he rounded the hood, and she shoved irritably at the mountains of crinoline rising up from her lap.
“I don’t cheat,” he said once he was ensconced in the driver’s seat—her driver’s seat—and had adjusted it and all the mirrors to his liking. “The cards just weren’t running your way, that’s all.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Not my lucky night?” she asked acidly.
“It could be very lucky for both of us,” he returned, sliding her a sideways look. “Unless you’re thinking of crying off?”
She glared straight out the windshield at the inky night. “I don’t renege on a bet. But I’d rather have just gotten it out of the way and driven myself home.”
He tsked. “A gentleman always sees a lady home, especially after she’s indulged in alcoholic refreshment.”
“The wine was hours ago, and I ate like a farmhand. I’m fine to drive.”
“Even so,” he said, lips twitching. He didn’t deny the farmhand analogy, she noticed. Some gentleman. “I won’t rest easy until I’ve seen you to your door.”
“And my door is all you’ll be seeing,” she muttered.
He pretended not to have heard. Fine. She tucked her arms more firmly across her bosom and turned her face resolutely out the window.
ALONE IN the darkened house, Villanueva slid a sheaf of bank statements back into the filing cabinet in Agent Brynn’s home office and closed the drawer. Now what, he wondered, was an FBI agent doing with that kind of money? And what was she doing with that dazzling collection of party dresses he’d found in her closet?
It seemed the lovely Agent Brynn wasn’t who she presented herself to be. Or maybe she was running from something. Who knew? Either way, O’Connor was falling in love with a mirage and Villanueva couldn’t have been more pleased.
Because, as any connoisseur knew, pain was a complex and layered experience. Villanueva intimately understood and appreciated each facet—loss, grief, terror, heartbreak, humiliation, rage. He fully planned to enjoy the hell out of walking O’Connor through each and every one before he killed him. Agent Brynn was shaping up to be an enormous help.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He tapped his ear-bud and said, “Yes.”
“Hey, it’s Oz. They’re coming. O’Connor and the girl.”
He moved swiftly out of the office and toward the front hall. “ETA?” he said.
“What?”
Villanueva squelched a sigh. “When did they leave, Oz?”
“About ten minutes ago?” Oz paused. “So they should be there, like, any minute.”
He shifted course to the back door. “Thank you, Oz.”
“Dude, sorry. But there’s, like, this waitress, see? She’s totally into me. I think she’s trying to get me to take her to her prom or something and I had a hard time getting away to make a private call.”
Villanueva let the silence play out, stretch into an uncomfortable blank.
“But I’m passing bills left and right here, no problem. I told you Brightwater’s was easy,” Oz said. “So, there’s, uh, that.”
Patience, he told himself. Chanted it in his head like a mantra. Patience was a virtue, knowledge a weapon. Research relentlessly, plan precisely. Set up the endgame, then put it in motion. “We’ll go forward tomorrow as planned,” he said.
Gravel crunched in the driveway. Villanueva hung up without waiting for an answer, killed his red-tinted pen-light and slipped out the back door.
PATRICK SHIFTED into park, and Liz turned to find him watching her, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift between them, his eyes hooded and unreadable.
“Liz,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if it was a question or a command.
“Oh, hell,” she said, “just get it over with, will you?” She leaned over the gearshift, closed her eyes and offered him her mouth.
She’d become almost accustomed to it, she thought in that suspended moment of anticipation, the way this man could hijack her good sense and liberate her sexuality with the most careless touch. And this touch wouldn’t be careless. It would be an assault. He’d be laying siege to her castle, so to speak. And she had no idea whether her defenses could withstand such a thing.
Even so, she steeled herself against it, but he hesitated. At first she thought he meant to take his time, use the delay to let her nerves do some of the legwork for him, but then she heard him sigh and open the car door. Her eyes fluttered open in time to see him step out and click the door shut behind him. Shame and relief waged a silent war inside her—relief that she’d been spared what would surely have been a vicious assault to her self-control, shame that she was so undeniably disappointed at it.
She half expected him to just walk off into the night, but he only rounded the hood of the car and opened her door w
ith a flourish. “Liz, darling,” he said, a quick smirk lighting that perfect face of his. “If you think I’m going to be satisfied with a quick peck over the gearshift, you’ve been dating entirely the wrong sort of man.”
She scowled at the hand he offered her and stalked out of the car without aid. She’d nearly forgotten that men were supposed to do things like this—open your door, help you to your feet, see you to your door. It made her feel small, cherished, valuable. And while the cop in her wanted to snort at the idea that she needed help getting to her feet, for God’s sake, the female in her stretched and purred like a cat under the attention. It was purely mind over matter that she managed not to arch into the warm hand he laid at the small of her back as she led him up the walk at a march.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said primly at the front door, her purse clutched in front of her body like armor. He wanted old-fashioned manners, she could perform with the best of them. But old-fashioned girls didn’t kiss like hookers, so he’d get a chaste little peck on the cheek for his trouble and see how he liked it.
He smiled at her, slow and warm. Her entire scalp prickled at the lazy intent she saw in it. But he only said, “Keys?”
She goggled at him. “Now you’re going to open my door for me?”
He laid out his hand. “Yes. That’s how it’s done. What kind of cretin have you been dating, anyway?”
She blinked, perplexed, but dug into her purse for the keys. “The kind who assumes I’m capable of working a dead bolt all by my little old self, I guess.”
“It’s not a question of capability, but of courtesy,” he said, smoothly dispatching all her locks and pushing the door open. He gestured her through with a gallant sweep of his arm. She stepped into the foyer and turned, reached for the keys he held out. He dropped them in her hand and before she could even formulate her next move, he’d backed her up against the far wall of her tiny foyer where, apparently quite finished with being a gentleman, he kissed her with a burning ferocity that incinerated every rational thought kicking around in her brain.
