by Anthology
Her heart thundered in her chest, and real fear, the kind made of rejection, balled in her chest. No way was she going to wonder what he meant through the rest of the party. “There’s nothing to talk about. You want me or you don’t. Which is it, Royce?”
His reply came in actions, not words. He tipped his head down and brushed his lips across hers. The touch was brief, but somehow possessive and powerful, and a shiver of pure arousal charged down her spine and spread to other, much more intimate places.
“Oh, I want you,” he said, his voice whiskey rough, where it had been a cool breeze only moments before. “Which is exactly why we need to talk.”
Her stomach lurched. Not the ‘talk’ thing again. Why did they need to talk? Talking was what she wanted to avoid. She needed an escape, not an inquiry.
Royce surprised her and laughed. “Stop frowning.” He chucked her lightly on the chin. “Go celebrate with your father so we can get out of here.” His mouth was so near her ear, she felt the warmth of his breath. “Together, Lauren.”
***
Ten minutes later, Lauren was on stage in the front of the room, trying to focus on her father and the birthday gifts he was opening, not on Royce and what would come after the party. But truth be told, her father’s public persona meant far more to him than she did. Oh, he wanted her here, and he wanted her to run for office, but only because it was good for his image, for his politics, for that damn dynasty he, and his father before him who’d also been a politician, aspired to create. And because her political career would keep him in the spotlight without the pressure of holding office.
As usual, her stepmother Sharon stood quietly by his side, her long brown hair swept into an elegant knot at her neck, her exotic features carefully crafted into a mask of happiness and dedication. The press loved her. Her husband adored her for all the wrong reasons.
Sharon’s gaze rushed over Lauren and she moved toward her, her clingy light blue dress bringing to mind the word inappropriate. She was so tired of that word, but the truth was, Sharon was inappropriate. Sharon knew it too, and she knew Lauren knew it. It was her father who didn’t seem to see things clearly. Mr. Practical and Conservative looked the other way for a set of surgically enhanced breasts that made him feel vibrant and young.
“Lauren, dear,” Sharon drawled, stepping to her side. “You seem distracted.”
Lauren’s teeth ground together but she managed a nonchalant shrug. “You know how I feel about these events.”
Sharon cast her a reprimanding look. “This event, as you call it, is your father’s birthday party.”
Lauren fought the childish urge to roll her eyes, and with it, the pang of hurt inside her, a longing for the family she’d once had, and lost. “I’m going to suggest we have a backyard picnic or intimate dinner next year. You know, the normal things families do.”
Sharon smiled, smugness radiating off her like a second skin. “We’re not most families, and thank God for it.”
“Exactly my point,” Lauren mumbled and accepted a champagne flute from a waiter, feeling Royce’s hot stare without even looking at him. But she knew he was in the far corner, leaning on the bar, waiting for her. She tipped her wrist back to drink and silently vowed that tonight was about indulging, about living a little.
“I see you received the watch,” Sharon said, glancing at Lauren’s wrist. “At least thank us for it.”
Lauren didn’t bother commenting. Sharon would never understand the difference between giving love and buying it. “Where is my dear brother Brad?” she asked instead, unable to stop the intended jab from slipping past her lips. She didn’t like Sharon’s son any more than she liked Sharon. He’d been eighteen and Lauren seventeen when her father had remarried, not three years after her mother’s cancer had shattered her world, and though they were siblings by marriage, his creepy flirtation had been almost instant. Now, seven years later, nothing had changed.
“Brad,” Sharon replied, “is off taking depositions in an important case for your father’s firm, and your father would expect nothing less. In case you forgot, he runs it now, after you refused the job.” Sharon's eyes darted toward Royce. “I see you have caught the eye of the oldest Walker brother. You should be more discreet.”
No, Lauren thought, downing the rest of her champagne. She was tired of discreet. Really darn tired of it and Sharon. She might have said as much, had Sharon stayed by her side one more second.
Lauren’s gaze immediately sought Royce’s and found it. He was watching her exchange with Sharon. He knew they’d fought, she realized. He was too attentive not to have noticed. And oddly, considering the man was a complete stranger, she had this sense that if she needed him, he was primed and ready to act, to be there for her. For a girl who normally valued her independence, Lauren was shocked to find that idea beyond sexy, while still dipping into the realm of being downright comforting. And for the first time all week, she let herself admit that she’d been feeling uneasy, like she needed to look over her shoulder, for no explainable reason. Correction, Lauren thought. No explainable reason besides the obvious: she was preparing for a murder trial and dealing with her stepmother in the same two week span. If those two things didn’t deserve a dose of comfort Royce Walker style, she didn’t know what else did.
***
If Royce had ever seen a woman looking for escape, it was Lauren. She didn’t like the politics of her father’s world, nor most definitely her stepmother’s disposition. It was clear to him that Lauren was realizing that she had no real control, that it all belonged to her father. She wanted out, was desperately yearning for freedom. He’d spent years as a hostage negotiator, seen how people dealt with the feeling of being trapped, of having all control stripped from them. So when Royce watched Lauren reach for yet another glass of champagne, he knew she was in trouble. He knew she never had more than one drink. He knew a lot about Lauren that he’d venture to say she didn’t want him to know. Most importantly, he knew it was time to escort her home before she did something she’d regret in the morning.
He shoved off the bar, intending to go after her, when Lauren headed down the stairs, and began weaving or rather wobbling her way in his direction. In several long strides, Royce was in front of her, gently shackling her arms to steady her. Her hand went to her forehead, distress in her delicate features.
She looked at him with wide eyes. “Thanks. I think.”
“You drank too much.” He kept his voice low, and then leaned down near her ear, and whispered. “Perhaps regretting the invitation you gave me earlier?”
He felt her shiver, and then watched defiance flash in her eyes. “No. I’m not.” She paused. “It’s not you. It’s me.” She let out a breath. “It’s my stepmother. It’s the party. It’s my… I’m rambling and I never ramble, but I’m only a little bit tipsy. That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I am doing, though. I do.”
She might know what she was doing, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t regret her actions in the morning. He wasn’t in the habit of causing regret in women, and he wasn’t going to start with Lauren. The best thing he could do was get her home safely, and walk away. Lord, please give me the will to do that and nothing more. “Did you drive to the party?”
She shook her head. “I’m a sensible subway and taxi girl. I won’t pay to park a car I barely drive.”
“That leaves you with two options to get home. I can get you a taxi or I can drive you home.” He wanted her to say ‘taxi,’ for her sake, for his. But he couldn’t let that be her answer, not and do his job. He needed to be her ride, to get to her home, to get closer to her.
She didn’t blink, didn’t look away, her voice soft and raspy, and oh so sexy as she said, “You know I want you to take me home.”
The obvious reiteration of the earlier invitation he couldn’t accept, no matter how much he wanted to, punched him in the gut. “Consider me your ride then.”
A few minutes later, the two of them stood in the lobby of the hotel w
hile a valet pulled his truck to the bottom of several flights of outdoor steps. He slipped his arm around her waist and they headed into the unseasonably cool April evening air. They managed to make it as far as the bottom of the first set of stairs on the terrace area when they were suddenly swarmed by reporters. Cameras flashed and microphones were shoved in their direction.
“Ms. Reynolds, how do you feel about the Sheridan execution?”
“Ms. Reynolds, tell us about your new murder trial.”
“Ms. Reynolds, do you consider yourself a legal vigilante?”
“What is Senator Reynolds’ feeling on the death penalty?”
Lauren tried to hide from the flashes.
“Get back,” Royce ordered. “Leave her alone.” He bent close to Lauren’s ear. “Just keep walking, and stay close.”
Someone stuck a microphone in Royce’s face. “Who are you? Are you her date?”
They were only a few steps from his truck when something ice cold splattered all over them. Lauren jumped and screamed. Several reporters cursed. Royce didn’t take time to consider what had been thrown or if there was real danger. Instinct and training had taught him to assume the worst, and act.
He yanked the passenger door open and helped Lauren inside the vehicle. At that moment, an egg smacked into the panel beside him and Lauren gasped at the thump. “What was that?” she asked, leaning toward him. He eased her back into her seat.
“Stay inside,” was his only reply, before he shut her inside the vehicle.
The hair on the back of Royce’s neck lifted as he moved to the driver’s side, and climbed inside the cab. The FBI had taught him to never ignore his instincts, and his instincts were screaming of trouble where he might otherwise find only irritation.
He locked the doors and started the engine. “You okay?” he asked, glancing Lauren’s way as he maneuvered them onto the highway.
She ignored his question. “That was an egg that hit your truck, wasn’t it?”
“It’ll wash off.”
“We should go to a car wash before it destroys your paint job. I feel horrible about this, Royce.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “You have no idea how much I want to wash the cobwebs from my brain right now while we’re at it.”
“Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You don’t control what people do.”
“But I should have considered how I might put you in the line of fire. And I would have, had I not stupidly drank too much champagne, which is not like me, by the way. I have a murder trial starting in two weeks, and when I juggle a high profile case, on top of the attention I get because of my father, it can get intense. I feel really, really horrible that I dragged you into my mess.”
“You said that already,” he said. “My truck will be fine. Stopping somewhere will only make us a target for ambitious reporters who might be following.” Or someone else who intended for them to stop, and intended to take advantage of the seclusion of a late night car wash.
“I’m willing to take the risk to save your truck.”
“I’m not and I have insurance for a reason.”
She hesitated and nodded, then touched her dress and smelled her fingers. “Champagne. I think someone threw champagne at us. Either that or I spilled it on myself and I’m more tipsy than I remember. But then, drunks don’t remember, now do they?”
“You’re not a drunk, and don’t put yourself down for relaxing a little. And yes, what was thrown on us was champagne, which is far better than getting hit with an egg.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I guess there’s that to cling to.” She hesitated, then said, “Maybe it’s the tipsy part of this equation for me, but that scene back there rattled me way more than it normally would.” She shivered and hugged herself. “I’ve been around my share of creepy bad guys and I got that same feeling of malice rolling off the crowd.”
“It’s called a typical Friday night in Manhattan,” he said lightly, not about to tell her he’d felt it too, and because he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived, he added, “I need your address for the GPS.” She murmured a reply and he punched the information into the program. “Why don’t you rest your eyes until we get there?”
She nodded and slid down into the seat, a little too willing to do as he suggested from what he knew of her personality. She was rattled all right. She knew she was in trouble.
Chapter Three
Fifteen minutes later, Royce had paid the doorman a hefty tip to park his truck without hassle. Now on the fifth floor of the twenty-story Upper West Side residential building Lauren lived in, he waited while she fished a key out of the small beaded purse she’d gotten from the coat clerk back at the hotel. She produced a silver key chain which she proceeded to drop to the ground.
Royce scooped it up. “Let me,” he offered, and when she nodded, crossing her arms in front of her, he couldn’t help but notice how adorably nervous and vulnerable she appeared. He was being allowed to see what he doubted many had before him. This was a glimpse of what lay beneath the confident Assistant DA’s public persona, and it was so much more than what he gambled on. Lauren wasn’t a spoiled senator’s daughter, or even an arrogant public servant with too much power, as he imagined she might be. She was so much deeper, so much more than her beauty, and she didn’t even seem to recognize it.
He slipped the key into the lock and shoved open the door, flipping on a light and illuminating a marbled floor. He stepped back into the hallway to let Lauren enter, then followed her inside, shutting the door and locking it behind them. He took a step forward, noting the kitchen to his left, at the same time that Lauren said, “Royce,” and whirled around and right into him.
He closed his arms around her, righting her footing. “Easy, sweetheart. Big guys like me take up a lot of space.” He swiped a strand of hair from her eyes, fighting the rush of desire. “What were you going to say?”
“Kiss me,” she said, and pressed up on her toes and melted her mouth against his.
His will to resist this woman, to make sure she was inside her apartment safely, and then leave, faded with the touch of their lips, damn near crumbling into ash when he felt her tongue press past his teeth. A low growl escaped his lips as he deepened the kiss, his hands sliding around her back to mold her closer. There was innocence in the kiss, sexuality undiscovered, a trait so rare, so raw, so intimately just for him, that he knew nothing but need. Possessive, hot need.
Before Royce knew what he was doing, he had her pinned against the wall, his legs trapping hers, his body molding her close. He deepened the kiss, drinking her in, craving more of her, wanting more of her. And when she whimpered, there was no right or wrong. There was only the moment, the woman, the…cold gust of air coming from his right. He stilled, his ears registering the too evident sound of car horns coming from the street level.
Royce tore his mouth from hers, his breathing ragged, hers as well. “Is your window open, Lauren?”
Another loud horn sounded and she stiffened, her eyes going wide. “I never leave my window open.” Her brows dipped. “Is it broken?”
He pulled her into the kitchen. “Stay right here to be safe and let me check it out.”
She nodded. “Yes. Okay.” He started to turn and she grabbed his arm. “Be careful. I have a fire escape. It would be easy to crawl into my window.” She let him go and reached for her purse. “I’ll have my phone in hand in case there’s trouble.”
Royce was already rounding the corner by the time she finished the statement, making sure he was out of her sight when he pulled the gun from under his pant leg. He eased into the darkness of what appeared to be a living room, a fireplace in the center of the wall directly in front of him which was framed by windows, one of which was open, a curtain fluttering wildly around it. No obvious sign of forced entry, but that didn’t mean anything.
He flipped on a light, taking in the huge, overstuffed blue couch and matching chairs with plush cushions that would be far
too easy to turn into a bed. The image of slipping Lauren’s naked body beneath his on that very couch sent a wave of pure heat through his loins, his cock thickening uncomfortably against his zipper. Royce scrubbed his face and loosened his tie. Holy hell, he was in big trouble when he was holding a gun, and thinking of turning a living room into a bedroom, instead of who he might need to shoot with that gun.
With the dining room to his left, Royce could see Lauren staring at him over the bar from the kitchen.
She’d seen his gun so he stopped trying to hide it. He motioned to the only other room, which had to be her bedroom, warning her he was headed to her private space.
He entered the room and flipped on the lights, illuminating the elegant antique furnishings that included a large, too suggestive, sleigh bed. The now familiar scent of vanilla and honey flared in his nostrils, taunting him.
Quickly, he surveyed for an intruder, checking the closet, bathroom, and yes, under that damnable taunting bed. When he returned to the living area, he called out, “All clear,” and went to the window, using the curtain to shove it closed, intending to get finger prints later, if he decided the situation merited it.
She appeared at the end of the hallway, her lipstick smudged, her gorgeous green eyes wide with worry. Her gaze lowered to his weapon, then shifted to the curtain he’d pulled shut, dismissing his gun as if it were expected, but then, she worked around law enforcement, so maybe it was expected for her. “Was my window open?”
“It was,” he confirmed and shoved his gun back into the holster at his calf. “But nothing’s out of order that I can see. Why don’t you take a look and be certain?”
She was already scanning and heading to her bedroom. He wanted to follow her, but would not. He stayed by the window and waited until she returned, her shoes gone, and somehow that little detail made his cock twitch. It was as erotic as if she had taken off much more. This woman got to him; she got to him in a bad way.
