Guarding the Socialite

by Kimberly Van Meter

  She pressed little kisses along his jawbone to his lips, inhaling the unique scent of his skin, impatient to get him out of his clothes and into her bed before she completely returned to her senses and realized what a mistake this was. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said, rising to meet her lips in a hard, openmouthed kiss that shot sparks of red-hot lust straight south, searing a path down her synapses until she completely lost any inkling of pulling back. She’d already vaulted over the line of propriety…there was no sense in stopping now. Besides, she’d never been one to do things halfway, so when they rolled to the floor, their fall cushioned by the plush carpet, she simply closed her eyes and told herself she’d deal with the aftermath…later.

  Much later.

  Dillon stared at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling sharply from the workout he’d just given to—and received from—the woman who was lying beside him and wondered what had come over him that he was willing to sacrifice his bollocks for a wick dipping. Albeit a fantastic, mind-blowing wick dipping but…holy shite. He’d done screwed himself out of a career in grand style and yet…he hadn’t jumped up, grabbed his clothes and split like he probably should’ve.

  For that matter, she hadn’t kicked him out yet, either.

  “I don’t do this,” she said, breaking the silence.

  “The random sex with a handsome stranger who’s in charge of your protection from a possible serial killer?” When she nodded slowly, he shrugged. “That makes two of us.”

  She rolled to her side to face him. “I’m not joking,” she said. Her nakedness seemed to be a nonissue, which in spite of his British roots he found quite refreshing. Either that or he just enjoyed the view.

  “Neither am I,” he returned with mild affront. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  “You’re joking again. Be serious, please.”

  “Now, where’s the fun in that?” he retorted, but when she failed to smile he sighed and said, “All right. Serious faces now. What would you like to talk about? I’m all yours for the next…oh, eight hours. After that I’ll have to check my calendar.”

  “Where are you from?” she asked, gazing at him with that steady stare that had nearly mesmerized him the first time they met over the unfortunate circumstance of a body identification.

  “Hammersmith, London.”

  “London,” she said, testing the word on her tongue. Then she looked at him quizzically. “How did a Londoner find himself in the FBI?”

  “My parents split when I was a lad and my father moved to the States while my mum stayed in London. I had dual citizenship until I became of age and when it came time to choose, I became a U.S. citizen. From there, it was the same as anyone else who decides to join the Bureau.”

  “Do you ever visit your mother?”

  “Every summer. She’d skin me alive if I didn’t,” he said with a smile. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just curious. Are you close?”

  He thought of his mum with her upper-class upbringing and all the silly things she considered important and grinned. “Yeah, she’s a card. I find her endless attempts to find me a wife entertaining.” He wondered at the odd questions given the way they’d spent the past two hours, tangled up in each other. He tossed one question her way. “What’s with all the questions? And since you’re feeling chatty, why were you crying earlier?”

  She considered both questions a moment, and he thought she was going to blow him off. But she didn’t. She answered with a small sigh. “I figured I should know at least a little about the man I just slept with. And the reason I was crying…that’s not a very interesting story.”

  He lifted a brow. “I don’t recall much sleeping. Though I am a bit wore out at the moment, and a nap does seem the thing but let me be the judge of what’s interesting or not. Chances are I’ll find the reason riveting.”

  “It’s just family stuff. My father is an overbearing control freak with a limitless checking account. He and I had a disagreement and I let it get to me more than I should.”

  “See? You were wrong. Fascinating.”

  She chuckled. “Agent McIntyre—”

  He interrupted her with a finger against her lips. “Now here’s where I must insist that you call me Dillon. Agent McIntyre is so pre–sexual contact. We can’t possibly go back to that time now that I’ve seen your naughty bits. It’s just not possible.”

  “Not possible?” she repeated, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Sure it is. We’ll just pretend that it didn’t happen.”

  “Ah, but for that to work I’d have to be a good liar, and while I don’t know about you, I’m a terrible liar.”

  “Well, you’re lying right now, so I’d say you’re pretty good at it because you seem quite earnest in your declaration that you can’t lie.”

  He couldn’t help himself and leaned forward, asking softly, “And what makes you think that?” His lips hovered near hers, a scant breath away.

  “Because you work for the government,” she answered before closing the distance and sealing her mouth to his.

  Can’t argue that, he thought, his body leaping to life, ready for round three…er…four with an eager surge of blood to his shaft. She straddled his hips, that warm, wet center causing him to strain for control as he tried to recall the many important reasons why he should put a stop to this reckless behavior. But when she sheathed him completely, her eyelids fluttering shut as a moan escaped her parted lips, rational thought fled. And he didn’t really give a damn about good sense or the rules because, hell, beautiful women were meant for loving and rules were meant to be broken.

  Chapter 9

  Emma let the hot water sluice over her deliciously aching body, each twinge and lingering soreness a reminder of the hot interlude with the agent she’d left snoring lightly in her bed. After another tumble on the floor they’d guzzled some Gatorade and headed to the bedroom for more, as her knees had picked up some uncomfortable rug burns in their escapades and she’d been ready for the soft cushion of her pillowtop.

  But even as she savored the memory of last night, the reality of what they’d done was harsh in the morning light. Two hands above her head against the shower wall, she closed her eyes and allowed the water to pour over her in the hopes of washing away her reckless behavior. She didn’t hear the shower door open, but when she felt familiar yet strange hands reaching around and cupping her breasts, she swallowed a groan as he drew her close to his hard body and his erection pressed against her bottom. This was crazy, she ought to say to him. But the man was doing insanely wonderful things with his fingers and it was hard to actually form the words that would complete the sentence.

  She was already slick and her knees wobbled.

  “Careful now, showers are dangerous places,” he said against her neck, the steam filling the room with sensual warmth. “It’s a good thing I came in here…it seems you need a little help.”

  The water, his fingers, and her own greedy need eclipsed her good intention of informing him that last night was a onetime deal. “Ohhh, no fair,” she panted against the tightening of her muscles as an orgasm crested before she realized it was so close and sent her sagging against Dillon’s smooth chest. It took her a moment to catch her breath, but once she did, she pulled away and with a silent request for strength, turned and met his gaze.

  His erection bobbed as he grinned a good-morning. He was devilishly handsome, she noted almost clinically. Not her usual type for certain but there was an undeniable magnetism to his lazy, cocky smile that drew her to him with startling speed. As she formulated a speech in her head, her gaze was drawn to the thick, engorged shaft that she’d become intimately familiar with in a very short amount of time and her resolve weakened. Her hand curled around it before she realized her intent and using a bit of soap for lubrication, she repaid the favor.

  Shower finished, Dillon and Emma dressed apart. He sensed her pulling away even as she’d pumped his shaft to completion, and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn
’t sure he knew what the hell had come over him, but while he should’ve been relieved that she was ready to pull the plug, he was quite the opposite. And that rubbed him raw.

  She emerged from her bedroom, looking every bit the cool, reserved and well-heeled woman he’d met the very first day, only it was hard to forget that beneath that linen pantsuit was a body that made his teeth ache just to think of how it felt moving beneath and atop him. She had a lithe, dancer’s figure with curves in the right spots and small, pert breasts that fit snugly in his palms.

  It was a moment before he realized she’d begun speaking.

  “I mentioned before that I don’t do this sort of thing and I can only apologize for using you like that—”

  His head whipped around. Using? Excuse me? “Come again, sweet?” he said, not quite sure he heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

  Her expression appeared pained, even shamed, as she answered with pinked cheeks. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. I only meant I was an emotional wreck over the confrontation I’d had with my father and I wasn’t thinking clearly. And…it’d been a long time since…well, and you looked so…available…” She stopped, flustered by her mangled attempt at explaining the chain of events that led up to their banging boots, and honestly, he was still stuck on the part where she admitted that she’d used him for stress relief. “Oh,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about anything…I’m on the Pill and clean as a whistle. I assume you’re also clean?”

  Her brows pulled in a slightly worried frown, and he realized she was asking if he was free from any sexual disease. He tried not to be affronted; it was a logical concern when having unprotected sex with a total stranger, and he answered with a short nod. “Also clean as a whistle.” He felt compelled to add that if he’d known he was going to be getting intimate he would’ve brought condoms, but that hadn’t been his intention when Chick had put him in the room to wait for Emma. Or had it? It was pointless to try and say he hadn’t noticed an attraction to the woman. Hardly. In fact, he knew he was inappropriately drawn to her almost immediately. But he hadn’t known that she felt the same. “I don’t make it a habit to have unprotected sex,” he added stiffly. “Just so you know.”

  “Excellent. Neither do I. So we should be fine,” she said, her smile brightening for just a moment as if a huge load had dropped from her shoulders. And it was disconcerting to know that he was that load. “Now, I’d appreciate it if we didn’t speak of this to anyone. I’m feeling much more like myself this morning and I have a full schedule so if you wouldn’t mind…”

  Bollocks. She was dismissing him. To his recollection he’d never been dismissed in his entire life. And, as he shot her a dark look, he realized it didn’t feel very good and he surely didn’t want it to become a habit.

  Perhaps he’d misjudged her response to him. Those breathless moans, the way her cheeks had flushed a lovely shade of pink when he’d teased and coaxed that sweet little nub of swollen flesh to a shuddering completion, or the wild, intense gaze they’d shared as they’d clung together, bodies working up a sweat as they’d brought each other to release multiple times.

  No. He eyed her speculatively, shutting off the indignant male part of his brain and activating the former master interrogator. Even as she spoke, rapid with forced yet cheerful efficiency, her gaze darted to his midsection, bounced from his groin and avoided his knowing stare. He stifled a laugh. The woman was bluffing. Ah…two can play at that game. Suddenly he was intrigued by the challenge and accepted her silent invitation to play.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, startling her with his easy acceptance. “Last night and this morning was an aberrant lapse in judgment that simply can’t happen again. I’m so relieved you realize this, as well. We can avoid all that emotional tediousness that always seems to follow these awkward morning-afters.”

  She crossed her arms but nodded as if in complete agreement while her mouth pinched and her gaze hardened. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. We’ll just forget it happened.”

  “Right. We’ll just strike it from our memories.”

  “Of course.” Yeah, right. Good luck with that, sweetheart. You’re already running images through your head. He knew this because he was, too. “I can do it if you can.”

  She stiffened slightly. “No problem on my end.”

  “Fabulous,” he said with good cheer, grabbing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder. “So, we’re good, then?”

  “Better than good,” she said, though her voice had lost some of its professional edge.

  He stuck his hand out, and she seemed reluctant to shake it until she must’ve realized how that would come across. Finally she gave his hand a good, honest squeeze, and he returned it. As she pulled her hand back, he gave her palm a subtle caress that he hoped sent a shiver dancing down her back. She narrowed her gaze at him as if trying to ascertain whether he’d done it on purpose, but when his expression remained neutral, she backed down with a faint pull on her brows. Lord, she was a beauty, he mused as she walked him to the door.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, drawing a surprised look from her. He explained with professional courtesy, “There’s still a killer out there, Ms. Vale—a killer who seems to have an obsession with Iris House. Until we figure out how to keep you and your boarders safe, I’m going to be your personal night guard.”

  “Oh,” she said, drawing a short breath, distress evident in the fidget of her fingertips as she absently smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her suit. “Well, if that’s what you think is best,” she murmured and glanced away, her gaze straying to the spot where they’d christened the floor before skittering away to focus on him again, her voice firming. “No funny business, Agent McIntyre. I meant what I said about the onetime deal.”

  “If you recall, you were the one who kissed me,” he reminded her dryly then enjoyed the subtle flush in her cheeks as she did indeed remember that fact. “You have nothing to fear. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

  The look she shot him either said I don’t believe you or I believe you and I’m disappointed. He chuckled as he followed her out of the room. Either way, it ought to be entertaining to find out.

  Emma couldn’t get away from Dillon fast enough. She’d thought she had things under control, but somehow he’d turned the tables on her and she was left feeling as if she’d just lost a battle in a war she hadn’t realized they’d started.

  She suppressed a shiver as a memory assailed her mind of their naked bodies moving in tandem and nearly mowed Chick over as she hurried to her office.

  “Where’s the fire, turbo?” Chick asked, irritated as she nearly lost the stack of papers she’d been carrying. “I just got these papers organized and it took me all night.”

  “I’m so sorry, Chick,” she said, smoothing the flyaway hair that managed to escape her French twist. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  A speculative look crept into Chick’s expression and Emma nearly blurted nothing happened! which surely would’ve given away that something had indeed happened. It mortified her to her designer shoes that her best friend knew it. So before Chick could voice her suspicion, Emma moved forward as if nothing were different or unusual about her or the fact that the whole house knew Dillon McIntyre had spent the night in her room. “Are these the donation histories by donor and alphabetized by last name?” she asked, walking briskly to her office as Chick trailed her.

  “Yes,” Chick answered, closing the door behind her, causing Emma to frown as she took her seat at the desk. “Don’t give me that look. You’re going to tell me what happened last night.”

  Emma offered her best blank stare. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “Cut the crap, Vale. I can see right through you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Paula,” she said, using Chick’s given name, which always served to communicate she was on the edge. “L
anguage please. We have a teenager in the house.”

  Undeterred, Chick snorted. “A teenager who can outcuss a gangsta rapper on any given day. Now, my intuition tells me you’re hiding something. Either you slept with the agent—which if you did I say it’s about time someone knocked the rust off those pipes—or you had a fight with your parents and consoled yourself with a quart of Ben & Jerry’s. So which is it?”

  Not much of a choice. Perhaps she should’ve buried her heartache and soothed her temper with a quart of Chunky Monkey but she doubted her appetite would’ve been satisfied with a caloric overload. No, her hunger had been for something lean and muscled with a sexy accent. Good heavens, she had to flush him from her mind if she was ever going to pull off this balancing act. The fact remained that while she may have lied about wanting just the one-night thing, she’d been quite truthful in her belief that it wasn’t in either of their best interests to keep tearing each other’s clothes off. She suppressed another delicate shudder, and Chick made a noise of exclamation that sounded a lot like a victory crow.

  “I knew it!” she said, dropping the stack of papers with a dull thud to the desktop. Emma glared and she lifted her hands in surrender. “Listen, no judgment here. That guy is Grade A Choice for a Brit. I’ll bet he has Scottish blood in him somewhere. Or maybe Irish. Anyway, no harm no foul. You were just getting your game on, and frankly, we all need to blow off some steam now and then, right?”

  “Chick, please,” she started, her cheeks flaming. “No more talk of rusty pipes, steam or any other metaphor for sex. I didn’t—” She stopped before offering Chick another bold-faced lie, realizing it was pointless, and decided to go with honesty, embarrassing as the truth was. She sighed and slid the papers toward her as she fidgeted. “Well, I didn’t plan to sleep with him, if you must know. It just happened and I feel wretched enough about it so if we could just drop it I would appreciate it.”

  “What happened?” Chick asked, ignoring Emma’s request.