Justify Me Google

by Julie Kenner, Lexi Blake

  He’s silent for a moment, then he says, “Is that what you want?”

  I lick my lips, suddenly unsure. I can’t imagine living with that fear every day. I don’t know how my mother did it. She died of complications following surgery three years before my father did. I sometimes wonder if in some way that was a relief to her. Or is it just simply proof that worrying about the obvious dangers is foolish, because the unexpected ones will get you anyway?

  “I don’t know,” I say after a moment, realizing I haven’t answered his question. But how can I? I want the man. But I also want certainty and safety. Or at least as much certainty as is humanly possible.

  “You love this town,” he says after a moment.

  “I do.” I want to turn and see his eyes, but I don’t. These are things we’ve never talked about, and they’re important. And I don’t want to stop—or risk doing anything that makes him stop. “But it’s mostly my job that I love,” I admit.

  “Lyle?”

  “Partly. Working for him is great. But I truly love Hollywood. If they moved the heart of the film industry somewhere else, I’d follow.” I draw in a breath, and then tell him the real truth. “I want to be part of making happy endings,” I admit. “I can’t act or produce or direct or any of that. But I can help. I can make a difference for the ones who craft the stories, and that matters.”

  “It does,” he agrees.

  “The stories matter, too. To the public, sure, but also to me. I need to be part of the fairy tale. Honestly, even though I was born in LA, I sought out Hollywood. I came to it because it was my due. Because in my real world, when Cinderella lost her shoe, it ended up tossed in a junk heap. And Sleeping Beauty got tetanus from that damn needle prick.”

  I take a breath. “I wanted to help make happily ever afters, and if I couldn’t do it in real life, then I’d help do it on the screen in whatever way I could wrangle.”

  “I get that,” he says. “There’s not much that’s more important than making your own happy ending.”

  I smile, more pleased than I’d anticipated that he seems to understand why my work, which probably looks to someone on the outside like something I could do for any exec in any industry, is important to me.

  “What about you?” I ask. “How’d you end up on a SWAT team with my dad? Were you following in your own father’s footsteps?”

  “No,” he says. “Honestly, I don’t know why. I just know that it’s what I’ve always wanted. I like order. I appreciate respect. And I like to live in a world where there are rules. You break them sometimes, sure. But for the most part, the idea is to mold a world that makes sense. That’s sane and safe.” I feel him shrug. “I guess the bottom line is that I want to help people. And by doing that I go a little ways toward making the world that I want to live in.”

  “That makes sense,” I say.

  “Bottom line, I’m selfish.”

  I laugh. “Bottom line, you’re one of the best men I know. You didn’t have to help me. You could be off in China right now.”

  “But I’m not,” he says. “I’m here right now. And at least for the moment, I’m not going anywhere.”

  I sigh, then I break my own rule and turn to face him. “Hold me,” I say. “Hold me, and then find me in your dreams.”

  Chapter Nine

  Thank God for friends, Riley thought as he shook Zac Tyson’s hand. And for Ian Taggart.

  “Not sure how much help I can be,” the burly man with the shaved head and Chicago Cubs T-shirt said as he greeted Riley in the now-deserted reception area. “But if Taggart says you deserve the open door policy, then you got it, my friend.”

  “Appreciate it.” Riley had texted Big Tag with a quick and dirty summary of the situation, then asked Tag to reach out to Jared for an intro to The Firehouse’s owners so that he could get access to the security set-up. Instead, Tag had gone one step further and hooked Riley up with the club’s security guru. Apparently Zac had done some surveillance work for Taggart. Which Riley probably should have anticipated. Never underestimate Ian Fucking Taggart, after all.

  Riley and Nat had slept until eight, when Pumpkin had decided she was hungry and had taken to batting Riley’s face until he woke up. He and the cat had bonded over tuna and coffee, and then he’d returned to the bedroom where he’d very methodically kissed his Sleeping Beauty awake.

  They’d made love in the shower, after which she’d pulled together a breakfast of eggs and toast. The whole morning had felt ridiculously, wonderfully domestic, especially after the heated decadence of the night before. And Riley, who never stayed over at a woman’s house, had sat in the chair watching her cook, all the while thinking that he could get used to that.

  The text had come in while they were eating, and since the only time Zac had available that morning was when Nat needed to be on a conference call, they’d decided he’d go by himself.

  He saw her safely to the condo office, double-checked to make sure the elevator and door security were working properly, then told her not to go out for any reason.

  With her assurance ringing in his ear, he’d headed downtown to The Firehouse and his meeting with Zac.

  “We only have security in this area,” Zac said, a sweep of his arm encompassing the reception area, where members checked in before being admitted through to the bar. “And it’s not as if we require them to look straight into a camera before entering,” he says.

  “Do you scan membership cards upon entry?”

  “No,” Zac said. “Our members appreciate the fact of membership, but once they’re in the club, they don’t want to feel like they’re flashing a bus pass. And, to be honest, some of our members are well-known celebrities. Without an entrance scan, they have deniability.”

  “Sure, I joined,” Riley said. “But it was just as a joke. I never actually went there.”

  “Exactly,” Zac nodded “And if there’s no entrance scan, who’s to say otherwise?”

  “That camera.” Riley pointed to the two high-mounted—but camouflaged—security cameras.

  “Good eye, but you see the problem. If a client keeps his head down or wears a mask or sunglasses, any identification will be a problem.”

  Riley nodded. The man was right. “Gotta give it a shot.”

  “Tag said you’re looking for a stalker.”

  “Someone’s been harassing my girlfriend.” And, dammit, she was his girlfriend whether she knew it yet or not. “I intend to put a stop to it.”

  “You think she picked up the stalker here.” He nodded, not waiting for Riley’s answer. “I like to think that kind of element isn’t among our membership, but I also can’t deny that it’s possible.” He met Riley’s eyes. “She’s the one who came with Holt on that research walk-through, you said?” He flipped through a calendar open on the main desk. “Let’s take a look at the security feed and see who we see.”

  “Appreciate it,” Riley said, though he was feeling significantly less appreciative four hours later after reviewing the tapes from the first night and then comparing it to the previous night, looking for overlap since the stalker seemed to know she’d been at the club last night. Though even that wasn’t certain. It may have simply been coincidence that the stalker had accused her of cheating.

  Riley didn’t think so. More likely the stalker saw her with Riley—and was angry for her infidelity.

  No one, however, stood out as having come twice. He did clearly see a gray-haired man with a cane on the arm of a masked woman with a mole on her upper lip. Not likely that a man who brought his own sub would be a stalker, but anything was possible, and he asked Zac to find out the man’s name. He saw five other men whom he believed showed up again on the second day, but the images weren’t sufficient to be certain.

  “Sorry not to be more help,” Zac said. “But I’ll make you some prints and see what I can find out about our gray-haired friend. And I’ll try to get you some names on those five. I think you’re right. They each came on the second night, too. Espec
ially this one.” He backed up the footage, then focused on a man with broad shoulders and dark hair that curled just past his ears. “See that?” He pointed to a shadow on the back of the man’s neck. “I don’t think it’s a shadow.”

  “A tattoo?”

  “On his shoulder,” Zac said. “I think the shadow is the edge of the ink work.”

  “You may be right,” Riley said. “Good eye.”

  “Gives us a little more to go on,” Zac said, and Riley nodded, though he thought Zac’s optimism might be misplaced. And he told as much to Natasha when he arrived at the condo that afternoon.

  She greeted him at the door with a bright smile, then slid into his arms the moment he shut the door behind him. He drew her close, then lost himself in a slow, lingering kiss. A simple greeting, maybe, but it meant so much, including revealing just how far Tasha had come.

  And, damn, but he could get used to this.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked, but he only shook his head. “A few leads, maybe. I’ll give you the rundown when we get to your house. I dropped a few things off earlier.”

  Her brows rose. “Did you? Like what?”

  He thought of the items he’d picked up from both the grocery store and the hardware store. But all he did was smile. “That,” he said, “is my little surprise.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I don’t think I’ve noticed any of these people,” I say, flipping through the printouts that Riley handed me as soon as we got into his rented BMW. He’d insisted we take my car in to have the hood repainted. And, frankly, I was fine with erasing that particular memory. “You really think one of these men is my stalker?”

  “I think the odds are good, but honestly the position of the security camera makes it hard to compare guests across the course of days. Zac agrees that the setup is lame—he didn’t install the system and only started working there a few months ago.”

  “So now that he knows, he’ll fix it.” I lift a shoulder. “Too late for me, but that should help someone else.”

  “Not necessarily too late for you,” Riley says. “Zac’s going to try to get me names, and we’ll see what we see. Oh, I do know that we can rule our gray-haired suspect out. The one with the younger woman on his arm.”

  “Yeah? How do you know that?”

  “Zac texted as I was setting up the house earlier. He visits the club at least four times each week, often brings a guest, and left yesterday about an hour after he arrived because he got a call that his daughter was in labor. The girl who works the door said he was positively beaming when he left, and I checked with the hospital. He went straight to Cedars and was there through the night until his grandson was born this morning.”

  “A happy ending, at least,” I say, my mind shifting to Aly as I make a mental note to call and update her. After all, a lot’s happened in a short time.

  I lean back in the leather seat, then frown as I recall our conversation. “What do you mean by setting up the house? My house?” I turn to face him. “What did you do?”

  “Hopefully something you’ll like. Don’t worry. Nothing too invasive. Just one trip to Home Depot and I was good to go.”

  I narrow my eyes. He’s teasing me, of course. I’m guessing he either installed an alarm system or he bought me flowers. Either way, I’m good.

  As it turns out, though, I’m not good enough. Because when we get home, I realize I’m completely off the mark. There is no alarm system—although he tells me that he did talk to Ryan Hunter about finding someone to install one at cost—and my living and dining areas are entirely lacking in flowers.

  “You were just pulling my chain,” I say. “You haven’t done a thing to my house. Unless…” I trail off, looking toward the kitchen. “Are you cooking me dinner?”

  “Not exactly,” he says.

  “Hmmm.” I’m still trying to get it out of him when he grabs me from behind and spins me around, catching me in the circle of his arms. “Is this the surprise?” I murmur. “Because I like this very much.”

  “Kissing you shouldn’t be a surprise,” he says. “It should be an everyday occurrence.”

  As if to prove it, he presses me against the wall, cages me in his arms, and kisses me so thoroughly my legs barely manage to keep me upright.

  “No, the surprise has more to do with something you saw at the club. Something that intrigued you.”

  “Oh.” My body fires simply from the mention of the club, but the truth is that I still haven’t got a clue. Because, frankly, the whole damn place intrigued me. “So are we going back tonight?”

  He shakes his head. “I think one day away is a good policy. We’ll see if there’s any incidents tonight or tomorrow. If not, that only helps establish the connection to the club.”

  “I get that,” I say. “But you said—”

  He cuts me off with a chuckle. “I never said we were going to the club. Doesn’t mean the club can’t come to you.”

  Now I’m more confused than ever, but I decide to just give up and let him lead.

  “So you trust me,” he says, and I nod. Because I do. I trust this man with all of me. My heart. My body. Hell, I’d even trust him with my life.

  “Good,” he says, then looks me up and down. When his eyes meet mine again, I see the change in him. As if he’s taking on a persona and is gathering power around him. There’s command in his posture and control in his eyes, and just looking at him makes me weak with desire and wet with longing.

  “Take off your clothes, Natasha.”

  We’re still in the entrance hall, but I don’t even hesitate. I step out of my shoes, then strip off my blouse and bra, then my slacks and underwear. Then I stand naked in front of him, not shy this time, but aroused and curious, my entire body humming with anticipation.

  “Oh, baby,” he says, his eyes dipping to my nipples, already painfully tight from my arousal. “You want me. More than that, you want whatever I have planned for you.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Even without knowing what it is.”

  “Yes.”

  He steps in front of me, then takes my hand and presses it over his erection, straining against his jeans. “Do you have any idea how hard that makes me?”

  I meet his eyes, then glance down to my hand. “I do now.”

  He chuckles, then leads me to the far side of the living room where there is a sliding glass door that looks out over my lush, plant-filled backyard.

  The curtains are open, but I know that the odds are slim that someone is looking in. Still, it’s a possibility, and I have to force myself not to ask him to close the drapes.

  The thought sends my eyes darting to the track, and that’s when I notice the hardware on the ceiling. Two giant hooks. And when I look down, I see more on the ground.

  I look to Riley in confusion.

  “The cross,” he said. “You wanted to try it. But not where everyone could see you.”

  I gasp as a wave of red hot desire crashes over me, making me so wet I feel the slickness on my thighs. And it’s not just the thought of being bound like that, teased like that. It’s the realization that he remembered—and that he took the time to bring me this experience in a way that stayed inside my comfort zone.

  “Riley…”

  He presses a finger over my lips, then leads me to the glass door. It takes some machinations, but soon I’m standing with my arms and legs spread, as if forming an X. He has soft cuffs on my ankles and wrists and they are each attached to the hooks with a mechanism that he assures me provides for a quick release. My back is to the glass, and the drapes are open. And though I really, really don’t think anyone is looking, some small part of me has to acknowledge that the possibility adds to the excitement.

  When he comes forward, he has a single ostrich feather in his hand. “Close your eyes,” he orders, and when I comply, he strokes my body with the feather, paying special attention to my nipples, my neck, my inner thighs, and my sex.

  The teasing is merciles
s, the sensations as wild as he is relentless, and without thinking about it, I realize that I’m gyrating in my bindings, my hips moving as if that will provide some release.

  “Christ, that’s hot, baby. Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

  A memory rolls over me. The first time I saw him in the FBI office when I’d come to visit my dad. My certainty that one day he’d be mine. And then later—the morning of that horrible day—when he’d asked me out with those words. Tasha, he’d said. Do you know what you do to me?

  I didn’t then, but I do now. It’s fire between us. It’s heat and fire and life. It’s passion.

  And right now, it’s driving me crazy.

  When I hear the low thrum of the vibrator, I know it’s about to get even crazier, and though I don’t mean to, I actually whimper.

  “You are so fucking sexy, Nat,” he says, his palm caressing my ass. And before I even realize I’ve spoken, I say, “Call me Tasha.”

  His hand stills. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s who I am,” I say. “Please, Riley. Call me Tasha, and make me come.”

  “Tasha.” My name is like a prayer. A curse. An incantation, and as if the name has conjured it, he brushes the vibrator lightly over my clit, playing me expertly until I’m bucking and begging, unable to truly escape this brutal, beautiful torment.

  He doesn’t, however, give me release. Just takes me to the edge and then pulls me back, so that by the time he releases me from the bindings and carries me to bed, I’m so wet, ready, and desperate that I don’t even let him finish undressing. Instead, I take his hand and tug him onto the bed with me. Then I shove his jeans down just enough to free his beautiful cock, straddle him, and take him so fast and so deep that I not only forget my own name, I swear I glimpse heaven.

  He clutches my hips, and I ride him hard, a second orgasm rolling through me when he comes hard and fast inside me. I cry out his name, then collapse, sated and satisfied, beside him.