Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  Interesting. Kit hoped she hadn't made a mistake borrowing the exorbitantly expensive, and very revealing, designer dress she was wearing. Success depended on her being able to attract the Southern aristocrat's attention.

  Well, who knew, maybe he'd developed a conscience and didn't want to cheat. After all, he wasn't a cardsharp, but a jewel thief.

  Unconsciously, Kit's hand went to her throat and touched the impressive string of sapphires draped there. Beaulieux caught the movement. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly and he watched her fingers for a few seconds before lifting his gaze to hers. She gave him a little smile and caressed the necklace.

  The very corner of his lip curled. She couldn't figure out if it was a smile or a snarl, but decided that either way it looked good on him. Real good. She was still looking when she realized the guy to her left had scooped his cards aside and quit the game. Damn, she really had to concentrate.

  She glanced around the nearly empty table. The only remaining players were her, the guy to her right, the bimbo and Beaulieux.

  There was a knock on the door. A waiter rushed in with a tray of refills of their drinks. One thing about these Vegas hotels, they kept you happy while you went broke. Especially in a no-dealer, invitation-only, backroom game. Kit waited patiently as the waiter exchanged a new daiquiri for the one she'd barely touched, then lifted the drink to her lips. Her nerves could definitely use the boost. It wasn't every day she played for her whole future.

  If she didn't get what she came for tonight, she could say farewell to the job she loved. Moorefield Insurance was downsizing, and all but one of their small pool of insurance investigators had to go. She had a perfect record, but her boss thought she was reckless and her methods risky. And she'd already gone way past the line on this one.

  Usually, she investigated specific claims by Moorefield clients, but there had been a string of robberies involving jewelry insured by the company, such that she was able to talk her boss into going after the man the police and FBI believed to be responsible.

  Beaulieux was the classic gentleman thief, using his own social graces and charisma—and lots of money—to set up his jewel heists. Moorefield clients had made hundreds of thousands of dollars in claims, thanks to his handiwork. But to catch him, Kit had to follow his trail in person rather than by computer, and move in circles which demanded flaunting an extravagant wardrobe and similar accommodations. She was way over budget, and her boss, Mr. Potter, was not a happy camper. She'd finally managed to get a hot lead and had tracked Beaulieux to Vegas.

  This was her last shot. If the sting on Remi Beaulieux didn't work, her boss would wash his hands of her when the grit hit the fan at the end of the month-just fourteen short days away.

  "I'll see your, um, how much is it?" The redhead batted her fake eyelashes at Beaulieux and leaned close, oblivious of the two cards in her hand waving around for all to see.

  Oh, brother. Out of habit, Kit checked her own cards to make sure the woman's bunch of nothing wouldn't mess with her game. Not that it possibly could. A hidden pair of kings was one hell of a hand.

  "It's two thousand dollars to you, ma'am," Beaulieux answered in his lazy Louisiana accent.

  Man, oh, man, his voice conjured erotic images of smooth satin sheets on hot, sultry afternoons, the scent of honeysuckle and the taste of icy mint juleps sliding down kiss-parched throats.

  The sound of chips clickety-clicking onto the table roused her from her reverie.

  "Easy come, easy go," the bimbo declared with a giggle as she surveyed the one red chip remaining in front of her.

  Beaulieux lifted his cheroot to his lips and glanced at his dwindling pile. His gaze moved to Kit's even smaller stack for a moment, then rose to her neck—and it wasn't the plunging neckline of her borrowed Karl Lagerfeld he was fascinated by. As he casually studied her sapphires, she tipped her head and wound a finger languorously through the strand—a subtle challenge.

  Come on, baby. Come to mama.

  Gripping the cheroot in his teeth, he drawled, "I'll see that two thousand." He added four chips to the heap. "And I'll raise you… "

  He paused, his hand hovering above his stash, and looked at Kit again. A long, thorough look. His eyes glittered with calculation and unmistakable interest. Whether it was for her or the necklace, she couldn't say, but her mouth suddenly went as dry as the Mojave Desert in August.

  She licked her lips in what she hoped was a distracting manner and took a sip of daiquiri, wishing to high heaven she could pick up her cards and fan her face with them.

  "I'll raise you two thousand."

  The bimbo groaned and slapped the two cards in her hand to the table. "I'm done for." She rose, her dress shimmying down over her hips so close to Beaulieux that if he'd turned his head, he would have been in danger of arrest for indecent acts in public. Plucking up her last chip from the table, the woman leaned over and slid it into his breast pocket, whispering something in his ear. Something that sounded a lot like a room number.

  Fighting back an uncharacteristic urge to scratch the woman's eyes out, Kit pretended to count her own remaining chips and frown over the bet while the redhead and her tacky dress wiggled their way past the guard and out into the casino proper.

  Good grief, what was with her tonight? Her job was at stake! Moorefield Insurance was not paying her to make a fool of herself over the handsome thief sitting across the table from her. They were paying her to put Remi Beaulieux in jail and recover their client's jewels. She had to get a grip. She was not about to lose her job over a set of shoulders with a drawl. She would succeed with her mission. She had to.

  The man between her and Beaulieux tallied his chips, shook his head disgustedly and rose to leave. "Looks like it's down to you two."

  Suddenly, the room grew very still. The whisper of the big hotel casino on the other side of the door—the muted ringing and whirring of the slots, the muffled laughter and music—all faded away. She looked at Beaulieux and he looked back at her.

  "You seem to be short," he said.

  She swallowed. "Yes." The word came out a bit breathy. At last, she was completely alone with her prey. So why was she suddenly feeling as if she was the one being hunted?" I guess I win," he said, making no move to rake in the sizable pot.

  "I was—" She moistened her lips.

  He quirked a brow, watching her tongue.

  "I have this necklace. I was hoping…"

  His gaze meandered to the sapphires, then up again. "Well now, I do believe that would be against house rules." His expression made it clear he didn't give a damn about rules, house or otherwise.

  "I won't tell if you don't."

  Again his lip curled in that roguish smile and her temperature kicked up about ten degrees. Man, oh, man, it should be illegal to look that sexy.

  "And how much would you say that little trifle is worth?"

  "Five thousand, nine hundred and eighty-seven dollars."

  He leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "Is that so?"

  She lifted a shoulder. "I had it appraised recently. So, what do you think?"

  He picked up what was left of his cheroot and slowly took one last, long pull at it. As she watched his lips, her imagination went into overdrive.

  Lord, who was she kidding? The man was a thief, suspected of stealing a million dollars' worth of jewelry from Massachusetts to California -a good portion of which had been insured by Moorefield. Influential family or no, he was going to spend years behind bars, and she had every intention of being the one to put him there. She had no business wondering what his lips would taste like, pressed against hers.

  "Okay, it's a deal."

  She snapped out of her fantasy, wondering for a second if he'd been reading her thoughts.

  "Let's say it's worth an even six thousand," he added.

  Giving herself a mental shake, she smiled. "Most generous of you, Mr. Beaulieux."

  "Please, call me Beau. It's a bit silly that we've been playing half the night and
I don't even know your name."

  "Beau, then."It was the first time he'd said his name, and although both she and her assistant, Ricky, had thoroughly checked his identity before setting up the sting, it was nice to hear it from his own mouth. "Katherine Colfax. I go by Kit."

  His eyebrows shot up. "Kit Colfax?"

  "Is there a problem?"

  His gaze held hers assessingly for a moment. "Not at all." This time, both corners of his mouth curled up. He stubbed out the cheroot. "I believe the bet stands at four thousand. Shall we continue?"

  "By all means." Forcing her eyes from his wicked smile, she reached up to unclasp the necklace. She didn't know which was making her more nervous, the thought of losing her job over this outrageous plan, or losing her cool over this outrageous man.

  "Uh-uh," he admonished, wagging a finger at her.

  The necklace glided into her palm in a glittery pool of blue. "You've changed your mind?"

  "Oh, no. But to be strictly fair, you must first use up all your chips."

  She blinked. Now, why would he want her to do that? She recounted the chips in front of them. "But then you'd have to ante up to match it. It would take everything you've got."

  He grinned. "Worried about me?"

  "Of course not. I just thought—"

  His grin turned positively diabolical. "Or maybe you're afraid to risk everything you've got."

  "Certainly not." She glanced over at his up cards. Eight, three and a queen of hearts. One of his down cards had to be another queen. She'd been watching him carefully all evening and he played like a pro. His eyes said he was sure he'd win, but the cards said otherwise. Her kings beat his queens no problem. Unless he had three. She prayed he did. Everything depended on him winning the necklace, so she could lay her trap to arrest him.

  She gifted him with a smile. "There's no way I'll lose."

  She pushed her little pile of chips into the pot and dropped the necklace on top. "That's a raise of thirty-five to you."

  He pursed his lips. "So it is." One by one, he tossed his remaining chips to the center of the table, counting them off as he went, until the last one was gone. "There's your thirty-five."

  Kit reached out to turn over her kings, but his hand shot up in a gesture to halt. "I'm not quite finished yet."

  Frowning, she opened her mouth to protest. Her jaw nearly dropped off when he oh-so-casually reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the red chip the bimbo had placed there.

  "And I'll raise you five."

  Outraged, she leaped to her feet. "That's not fair!"

  "Why not? You saw her put it there yourself. And if looks could kill, she'd be six feet under right now." He gave her an impudent wink.

  Oh, the nerve of the man!" Don't flatter yourself."

  "Now, me, I don't need to. You're doin' a fine job all by your lonesome."

  She gasped at the sheer audacity of his statement. The fact that it was true just made it all the more annoying. Damn, it was going to be a pure pleasure to toss his butt in jail.

  She struggled to regain a semblance of composure. "All right. I have matching earrings. They'll cover the five hundred."

  She didn't like this. It was not part of her plan. But what choice did she have? It would look incredibly suspicious if she folded now over a mere five hundred dollars. He'd never trust her. Besides, she'd have the earrings back in no time, together with the necklace.

  In a supple movement, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Her breath caught. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, lean hips, powerful thighs—all were encased in perfectly tailored black evening clothes. His jet-black hair fell disarmingly over one eye. She nearly sighed out loud. The women of the world would be losing a prime piece of real estate when he got sent down.

  With deliberate ease he sauntered around the table, coming to a halt beside her. She grasped the edge of the table. He was way too close. So close, the heat and the scent of him, smoky from the cheroot, a hint of spice-and-sandalwood cologne, surrounded her. Her pulse tripped madly.

  What was with her? She didn't do men anymore. They were demanding, selfish, shallow creatures.

  With an unsteady hand she reached up and pushed her blond hair behind her ear so he could examine one of her earrings. They were emerald-cut studs, matching the sapphires in the necklace.

  "Exquisite," he murmured. His fingers softly collided with hers, then moved on to brush the outer shell of her ear. His warm breath fanned her cheek, causing stray hairs to tickle her neck. A finger traced around her earlobe.

  "They're worth—"

  "I'm not interested in the earrings."

  Her eyes flew open and she turned her head, alarmed. His face was so close, their noses practically touched. The angled slash of his cheekbones and square strength of his jaw should have made his expression forbidding, or at least severe. Instead, he looked sensual and provocative.

  "But I've got nothing else to offer."

  As she watched, his whiskey-colored eyes darkened to a deep mahogany. "Darlin', you've got plenty to offer."

  Oh, Lord. This was not in the plan, either. No way was this in the plan.

  "What—"Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "What is it you want?"

  She knew what she wanted. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her so badly her knees were shaking and she could hardly stand in her high heels.

  She swallowed heavily.

  For a moment he stared at her mouth, then his gaze dropped to her throat, her collarbone, and lower, until it settled on her breasts. His eyes lifted to hers, filled with lambent invitation. There was little doubt what he wanted, either.

  "Your dress."

  She stepped back, confusion addling her brain even further. "My dress?"

  "It must be worth five hundred."

  She choked. It was worth ten times that. More, in fact. And it was borrowed. She shook her head. "Impossible."

  He shrugged. "You forfeit, then?"

  "No!" For crying out loud, this was ridiculous. She could not lose the dress. Her boss would kill her in addition to firing her. "It-it's worth much more than five hundred," she stammered.

  He gave her a level look. "I have only your word on that."

  "You took my word about the necklace."

  "I know a lot more about jewelry than fancy dresses."

  No kidding.

  "Five hundred. That's my offer."

  The man was a menace. Now she'd have to get the dress back, too. She gritted her teeth. "Okay. I'll wager the dress." His eyes glittered with anticipation. "On one condition."

  "And what would that be?"

  "If I lose—not that I will, mind you—but if I do, I want a chance to win it back."

  He looked more than pleased. "That can be arranged."

  She took another step back, eyeing him suspiciously. "Let's finish this, then. What cards do you have?"

  Slowly, he shook his head. "First the dress."

  Shock nearly knocked her over. She didn't know exactly what she had expected, but this wasn't it. "What? Now? Here?"

  "You are wagering it, aren't you? Turn around."

  She froze in panic at the thought of standing before him in nothing but blue silk panties, push-up bra and black thigh-high stockings. "Yes, but … I'm going to win."

  "Then you can put it back on. Turn around, Kit."

  Gathering her badly scattered wits, she realized she had no choice. To keep her job, not only did she have to go through with the game, but he had to want to keep her around after it was over so she could lure him into stealing more jewels, catch him in the act, then have him arrested.

  Besides, the lingerie she had on wasn't so different from a bikini. Right? She turned around and felt him draw near.

  Touching nothing but the tab, he leisurely teased the zipper down the back of her dress. A shiver tingled along her spine at the slight contact of metal on skin.

  "And what happens if I lose?" she asked, suddenly breathless.
<
br />   "I did promise you a rematch." Hooking a fingertip under each side of the neckline, he pushed the dress off her shoulders. "Say…at breakfast." Goose bumps shimmered down her arms along with the dress, which landed in a puddle around her feet. "We can cut for it. High card you win, low card I lose."

  Tempting. So tempting, she had the irrational urge to accept his scandalous proposition.

  Man, oh, man, she had it bad. She'd better get this guy behind bars quick, before he could do some serious damage to her life-style. She didn't do stuff like this. She didn't even think stuff like this. She wasn't interested in romance, or affairs, or one-night stands. She wasn't interested in having anything to do with a man. Any man, let alone a thief. Especially the thief who was going to get her her job back.

  Pretend it's a bikini, she repeated over and over in her mind as she did a deep knee bend to retrieve the dress from the floor—deliberately ignoring the fact that she'd never dared to wear one of those in public, either—and turned to confront him.

  One look at his face gave her renewed strength. He hadn't moved a millimeter—in fact, he seemed incapable of movement at the moment. His eyes had turned the color of bitter chocolate, roaming the front of her body with the hungry look of a man who hadn't eaten in a year.

  Ha. Served him right, the scoundrel. Now she had him just where she wanted him. Success was as good as hers.

  She gave him an innocent smile, dropping the dress on the table and leaning back against the edge. "Sorry, I don't eat breakfast," she said, idly adjusting one lace-top stocking. "So, are you finished betting?"

  He studied her, his expression subtly shifting.

  "Beau?"

  He turned on a heel and ambled back to his chair. "I'll pass," he said, easing his tall frame down onto the velvet plush.

  "All right. I guess that means I call." She leaned over and flipped her down cards faceup. "A pair of kings."

  Beaulieux gave a nod of approval. "Impressive."

  Though obviously not impressive enough. Kit released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Better luck next time, sugar." She reached for the dress.