by Cherry Adair
“I’ll put a lid on it.”
“One more thing. When you talk to Black Raven, have them run a background check on a Cruz Barcelona.”
“Sexy. Is this your hot contractor?”
“I want everything they can dig up as soon as possible. I’ll contact them directly for the results. Tell them they have twenty-four hours to find out everything about him from birth to today.”
“Intriguing. You got it. Candice dropped by the fortieth floor this morning to see how I was doing in your absence.”
Mia let out a mirthless chuckle at the thought of her father’s self-centered trophy wife giving a crap about anyone but herself. “How are you doing in my absence?”
“I’m being a brave little toaster,” he said with a laugh. “Between us we have enough assistants to run the world. I’m fine, but you know that, or you wouldn’t have left me in charge. Candice was fishing to see if I’d let the cat out of the bag about who’s doing your surgery and what you’re having done. I hinted at boobs. Either she doesn’t read the Wall Street Journal or she’s just oblivious.”
“Bless her heart. Shallow as a puddle. You know she’ll just keep pestering you until I get back, don’t you?”
“Annoying bitch,” Todd said without heat.
Mia laughed. “Maybe, but she’s very decorative.”
“She is that. A decorative bitch.”
“I know she can be annoying, but I think she’s lonely in that big house. Oddly, I think she really cared about my father. She misses him, and wants to be part of something. We’ve talked about this. Have Allison give her a job.”
“Isn’t being on the board of directors enough?” The annoyance in his tone grew, and she heard the gurgle of liquid being poured over ice.
“You know it’s just a title; she doesn’t have any power. She doesn’t want any power. Just somewhere to go a couple of times a week where she can wear her pretty outfits and shoes and boss people around for her amusement. Find her something to do, sweet pea, then she’ll get out of your hair.”
“I’ll talk to Human Resources tomorrow. She wanders around here like a damned lost fart in a thunderstorm. I’ll tell Allison to give her an office with a door. Speaking of closed doors, how’s your hunky sex slave?”
“I wish. He’s brooding at the moment.”
“Does he ride a motorbike?”
Mia laughed. “No. Would that help him not to brood?”
“Brooding and motorbikes go together. Very sexy.”
“How about brooding and campers?”
“Not quite so sexy.”
“You’d be very, very surprised, cousin.” They talked for a few more minutes and then hung up. Mia rolled over and looked up at the water-stained ceiling. Just because Cruz was sulking/annoyed/distracted didn’t mean she couldn’t persuade him to change his mind.
She could knock at his door. . . . Bake a pie? Take too long. He seemed to like her cookies. Too bad he’d eaten them all that afternoon. She could cut up those lemon bars—
She eyed the discarded sheer purple garment tossed on the foot of the bed.
Fresh-from-the-oven lemon bars and a wet negligee? Mia grinned. Skip the bars. If the negligee didn’t lure him out of his cave, he was made of granite.
And she would never, ever try to seduce him again.
• • •
Cruz whipped his head around to get his rain-drenched hair out of his eyes. Both hands were occupied fighting the slick tarp he was attempting to stretch over the damn leaky roof of the camper. Uphill battle. His wet fingers slipped, and the tarp became a fucking sail billowing in the wind, slapping him in the face and almost knocking him over the side.
Have you ever hit a woman? Jesus fucking Christ. It had taken every atom of Cruz’s self-control not to go outside the second he’d seen the bruises on Daisy and her reaction to her child’s screams, and show Latour what it felt like to be beaten on by someone stronger and bigger than himself. It was like fucking seeing what his old man had done to his mother all over again. Unacceptable. He’d look into the situation before he left tomorrow, then take action. But that wasn’t for Mia to know. Not that it mattered what she knew, since she wasn’t going to live to see the sunrise.
As for him striking a woman— Hit as in killed, yeah. But strike a woman? Never. He’d never raise a hand to anything, or anyone, smaller and weaker than himself.
He’d make Mia’s death quick and painless. She wouldn’t know—
But he’d know. He’d always know. Fucking hell. What a shit job to perform as his swan song.
The gator’s deep, forlorn croak echoed in the black cypress swamp. The bullfrogs bleated with a hollow, resonant sound that dissolved into the gator’s croaking bark and the tinny thunder of the rain pelting the metal of the camper. The tarp vibrated in his hands as rain slid icy fingers down his bare skin. Pulling a shirt on to climb around outside would’ve been useless and only gotten his one pair of extra clothing soaked. The muggy heat of the day was squashed by the deluge after dark. It was cool but not cold.
It was pretty damned hard to imagine lying on a beach in Brazil while cold rain sluiced down his neck and his dripping hair slashed across his eyes, making it even harder to see.
Suddenly Oso erupted into frantic barks. His excitement rocked the small camper, causing Cruz to stagger several steps to maintain his balance on the curved roof. “What the fu—”
“Hey! Need help?”
Mia. Illuminated by the only light source, face upturned, drenched to the skin. Bare-assed naked. What. The. Hell.
“Oso! Quiet! What are you doing out here?” Naked.
“Coming to help you?”
Since she couldn’t see the camper from inside the house, he doubted that was her original intention. His dick rose in eager anticipation. Down boy! “I don’t need h— Fuckit!”
The tarp flexed as if it were alive, snapping and whipping at him as he fought the updraft, wrestling the blue beast back to the roof, where he anchored one corner with his bare foot. Tying this son of a bitch down was going to take all his ingenuity and a good deal of strength. He didn’t know why the fuck he was even bothering. He’d slept outside, cold and wet, many times and survived.
By this time tomorrow . . .
“Go back inside.”
“You won’t be able to secure that in this wind,” she shouted up at him, her skin shiny and wet and mouthwatering, even with those gorgeous curves mostly hidden in silvery shadows of slashing rain and darkness. “Get down and come into the house before you slip off that thing and kill yourself. Oso wants to come in, too.”
The dog, on hearing her voice, whined frantically to get to her. Cruz knew the feeling. Oso would be inside, standing at the narrow door, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He was male, wasn’t he? Cruz figured the only difference between himself and the dog was that his tail was in front.
He could stay up here being an ass and looking like an idiot, or climb down and go with Mia into the house and get it over with. He’d planned on waiting until she slept, but awake would be better. Not for him, but for any police investigation—if they suspected foul play. Which they never did.
Cruz climbed down. The only reason he felt leaden was because of the slipping and sliding of his bare feet on the wet metal rungs of the ladder, not because of any doubt in his mind that Mia deserved her fate. Although the absence of those three freckles stuck in his head. By the time he was on the ground, she’d sprinted back inside the house, leaving him to follow or not follow.
Fuck. He wasn’t made of steel. What red-blooded man wouldn’t follow a naked running woman? The predator drive was coded into his DNA.
He quickly checked on the dog, left Oso dozing in the camper on a dry corner of the narrow bunk with a rawhide chew sticking out of his mouth like a cigar, then raced across the wet grass to the back porch.
The open door spilled golden light onto her watery footprints on the worn wood floor, and the new patches. If he’d decided to hang around, he�
�d sand the deck until it felt like satin underfoot, then give it a couple of new coats of paint. . . .
But he wasn’t hanging around. He never did once the job was complete.
Running his hand through his hair, he squeezed out as much moisture as he could as he walked inside. The house still held the heat of the day—no savory smells of dinner, but something tart and sweet filled the air. She’d offered him dinner, and when he’d declined she probably didn’t bother to heat up the kitchen.
She heated him up. What the fuck was she doing, running around bare-ass naked in the middle of the night? She was just asking for trouble.
She was nowhere in sight. The stepladder he’d used earlier when applying the wallpaper steamer was propped against the wall near the foot of the stairs, the drop cloths still spread on the floor and shoved against the wall along the stairs. The unplugged steamer was filled and ready for the next round, supposedly in the morning.
When he’d be comfortable ensconced on a private jet to Brazil.
The setup couldn’t be more perfect.
“Mia?” Hopefully she’d gone upstairs to get dressed. It would be hard to dress her, but he’d have to if he wanted the fall to look accidental.
She stepped out of the downstairs bathroom halfway down the long hallway, a towel in one hand. “Just getting a dry towel. The one you used earlier is still wet, so we can share.” Padding toward him, she rubbed the towel over her dark hair, making it stand out like a dark, spiky halo around her head. She looked hot, sexy, and fucking adorable.
She wasn’t naked.
Better.
Worse.
The skimpy bit of transparent, clinging wet fabric looked as though she’d been wrapped in purple plastic wrap. Every curve, every hill, every valley, plain to see. The dark wedge of her pubic hair shadowed the juncture of her inner thighs. Cruz’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his traitorous and noncompliant dick rose uncomfortably inside the tight, wet denim of his jeans. He told his dick no, in no uncertain terms. It told him to fuck off.
Even he had a line he wouldn’t cross.
Tonight he’d do his job.
Chapter Nine
You should go up and put on something dry.” He was damned annoyed at how husky his voice was as she walked toward him like a stealthy cat stalking its prey. Slow, deliberate, sinuous steps that took her forever to get close enough to touch him. The scent of wet tuberoses made him almost dizzy with lust.
“Better grab a hot shower while you’re at it,” he instructed, voice harsh. “I’ll take one too while I’m here, then get out of your hair.”
A slip in the shower would work even better than a fall off a stepladder. Falls were the number one cause of unintentional deaths in the home.
Shower.
Stepladder.
Either.
He wouldn’t have to dress her if she fell in the shower. A bonus.
“I’m not cold—just the opposite, in fact.”
Her wet skin gleamed like pearl as she held out the hand towel. Cruz did not want to touch her. He looked at her extended hand as though she carried a machete and was about to chop off his arm. Less fucking painful than trying to control his rampant erection with no hope of release.
He was hot for her. That was a given. Great body, beautiful face. Undeniably smart and witty. He liked her, God damn it. Genuinely liked her.
But he always finished what he started.
Cruz knew he was grasping at straws as to why he hadn’t done it. Yet.
Cool, wet, gossamer-thin fabric brushed his bare chest as she stepped up against him, tilting up her chin so she could meet his eyes. “You’re dripping on my floor.” Her voice, husky and low, poured over him like hot honey. A fucking aphrodisiac that filled his senses until all he could think about was tasting her, touching her, fucking her until neither of them could move for days.
Damn it to hell, he couldn’t think straight when she was near him.
The hard buds of her nipples nestled in the hair on his chest as she dropped her hand clutching the small, useless towel. He didn’t need it. No doubt any water on his body had already turned to steam.
He didn’t grab her, but it was damn hard not to put his hands all over her sleek curves and valleys. Hands balled, he resisted her lure with everything in him until he shook with the effort of it, and sweat prickled his skin.
“I’ll clean up when you’re upstairs.” He kept his voice cool, controlled, impersonal.
No attachment. No emotion.
Clenched fists at his sides, he noticed that Mia was mimicking his no-hold policy, arms at her sides, posture tense. Good. Fine. It would just throw gasoline on his fire if she put her hands on him.
Ah. Hell. She put her pale, elegant hand on his chest. Lightly, just a brush of skin against skin. Cruz felt as though he’d been branded, and jerked instinctively.
She touched his jaw, then glided a finger across his mouth. “Come upstairs—we can shower together.”
“I prefer my showers alone,” he lied. Shower sex had always been good. He knew damn well it would be incredible with her.
Face flushed, she frowned slightly, and for a second she looked away, face shuttered.
Damn it. He’d hurt her feelings. He was being too callous. She wanted him, and he was rejecting her. He could just say no instead of making up shit. He was hurting her feelings, and he didn’t like it. As soon as he thought that thought, though, he almost groaned.
You’re here to kill her. Why the fuck are you concerned you’re hurting her feelings?
Hell, was it so wrong to want to give the woman one last fuck before she died?
Undeterred, and unaware of his thoughts, she slipped her hand in his. It felt incredibly fragile. Fragile. Vulnerable. And—God damn it—trusting.
Cruz realized that her skin flushed, not with embarrassment but when she was aroused. What kind of man was he that he had been with this woman for two days straight, having some of the best sex of his life, and not noticed this sweetly endearing trait?
The sight of her pink cheeks made his pulse race. As his fingers automatically tightened around hers, he knew he’d made the worst mistake of his life. He should have killed her when he first laid eyes on her. Now he was always going to remember that blush, that sweet, innocent hint of pink in her cheeks that revealed that she wanted him. Ironic that the last job of his life was the one that would tear at him the most, when the first was long forgotten and the ones in between had become nonevents.
His brain screamed time to get this over with, but he stood there, frozen.
Very deliberately he let his gaze wander over her: short hair damp from the rain, glossy under the too-bright lights, the telltale flush on her cheeks, the sparks in her blue eyes.
Horny and pissed were an irresistible combo.
His jaw went rigid with the effort not to touch her.
• • •
She gave his hand a little tug as she backed away. “Come upstairs with me.”
Eyes gleaming fever bright, he was clearly aroused just looking at her, which gave Mia some satisfaction. But the bulge behind his zipper was no match for his annoying willpower. Why he suddenly needed damned willpower was a mystery to her. It was as annoying as hell.
She wanted him, God only knew, but she damn well wasn’t going to beg him. She’d made her intentions abundantly clear, going several extra miles to show him just how much she wanted him. But she wasn’t willing to club him over the head and drag him to her lair to have her wicked way with him. Although the idea had enormous appeal.
Either he wanted her or he didn’t. Now was the time to show her. One way or another.
Just as she was about to release his seemingly reluctant hand, he started moving his large, sexy bare feet. The man did not look happy as he started to follow her up the old, worn stairs. She wasn’t exactly dragging him, but it felt like it.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?” She made sure it sounded neither need
y nor belligerent. She felt both.
He gave her a cool, assessing look that made her reconsider her precipitous decision to seduce him. His reluctance, when she was so eager, was humiliating. Any self-respecting woman would just tell him to fuck off right now.
She took the next step up. So did he, but his pace was slower than hers. Less eager. The light in the hallway and on the stairs was as far from romantic as it could get. She’d told him to toss the cheap chandelier, and now there was nothing but the naked 100-watt bulb hanging above them. Hardly flattering after her drenching.
His slow pace, with his hand in hers, almost pulled her off balance on the smooth, slick stairs. Mia had to do a little jog down two steps, then back up one to keep her balance. Another move like that and she’d accidentally knock them both down the damn stairs. She bit the corner of her lip, now half- irritated and half-amused at his reluctance. Slewing her eyes to look at him, she gave his hand a firmer tug. “I’ve never seen anyone trudge before.”
“You know the alternative.”
“That I finish the walk of shame by myself, and get out an appliance? Don’t do me any favors, Barcelona. All cats are gray in the dark. And as much as I want it, I’m not going to go all cave girl on your ass and force you to do something against your damned will.” Mia didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice this time.
She’d never seduced a recalcitrant male—probably because she’d never encountered one before. But she doubted even a guy with Cruz’s steely determination would be unwilling if she had her mouth on his penis and his balls in her hand.
The smell of soap on his skin made her insides mushy and her brain forget she was the CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation, used to bossing people around and having them jump to do her bidding.
Had he ever asked anyone “How high?”? She doubted it. She talked a good game. But they were halfway there. And it wasn’t a plastic dildo she needed between her legs; it was his lovely hot, thick penis. She’d like to handcuff him, have him lying spread-eagled on her bed, and then see who begged for mercy. The idea had an enormous appeal.
