Two is a Lie

by Pam Godwin

  Tendrils of heat curl through my body, hardening my nipples and prickling my flesh. Taking off the swimsuit is a no-go. I’m tempted to grab his tie and tip him—suit and all—straight into the water with me. But he’d have to remove his ruined clothes. Then he’d be all wet and naked and irresistible.

  Damn my no sex rule.

  I twirl out of his grip, take a running leap toward the pool, and cannonball into the deep end. The water temperature is perfect as it rushes over my head and saturates my skin.

  Skimming along the bottom, I swim toward the shallow end and come up for air near the stairs.

  Trace lowers onto the edge of a lounger a few feet away. In his shiny shoes, starched black slacks, and tie, he should look out of place. But it’s the other way around, like the lapping sound of water and chlorine-dense atmosphere shouldn’t be here. The clothes and the surroundings don’t make the man. He sets the ambiance and commands the space, no matter what he’s wearing or where he is, as if his aura defines the very air that touches him.

  Perched on the end of the lounger, he bends his knees, supporting his elbows and the lean of his upper body. His bearing exudes lazy nonchalance, but the glare in his arctic blue eyes reminds me he’s not at ease, not tonight. There are too many uncertainties about us and the future.

  I wade over to him and fold my arms on the decking. “What did you and Cole talk about?”

  “I will not spend my time with you discussing Cole.”

  “So you’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist?”

  “For now…yes.”

  “We need to talk, Trace. Sooner rather than later. Like tonight.”

  He stares at me, motionless, expressionless, without a glint of capitulation on his beautiful face.

  I release a frustrated breath. “I’d like to swim for a few minutes. What are you going to do?”

  “Watch you.”

  He’s already watching me. Intensely. Compulsively. I look away, chewing the inside of my cheek. Sweet Jesus, this man…this buttoned-up, rigidly-layered, wickedly good-looking man with a gooey center is so deeply under my skin I can’t swallow the thought of separating myself from him. The agony of pushing him away would be unbearable.

  Shaking off those thoughts, I propel my body into motion and slice through the water. Back and forth, I dive and float, without direction or purpose. But each time I come up for air, my gaze falls unerringly to his.

  Still as a statue, his posture is that of a powerful man, as if to say, I’m the biggest and meanest in all the land and you better pay attention.

  What’s remarkable is that he’s a leader without being aggressive or loud. He captures my attention with sophisticated subtleness—the cool tone of his voice and the calm calculation in his body language, like the know-it-all mannerism he always slips into with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s comfortable in his position no matter where he is or who he’s with. Including sitting in a humid pool room wearing a heavy suit.

  I finish my swim and use the stairs to exit the water, studying him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his gaze to stray. It doesn’t.

  He’s told me time and time again he enjoys looking at me, but that isn’t the only reason he watches me. It’s his nature to be in charge of everything, to be aware of everything going on around him. And around me. If he had it his way, he’d control the air I breathe, the water on my skin, and the beat of my heart.

  I love that about him, and I suppose it means I’m submissive. But I also like making him work for it. To keep things challenging and interesting.

  When he gets his way—he usually does—I don’t mind. Because his intent is genuine. He doesn’t try to oppress or harm or degrade me. He wants to protect me from all of life’s dangers, like drowning in a pool, getting robbed in my unlocked house, and spending years mourning a dead man.

  My chest clenches. I might whine about him being an overprotective controller, but he knows as well as I do his overbearing ways please me to no end.

  As I dry off, he stands and follows me to his bedroom and into his closet. I drop the towel and reach for the straps on my shoulder, eying his hovering frame in the doorway.

  “A little privacy?” I give him wide, innocent eyes.

  He knows I’m not modest about nudity. He also understands my need for inhibition during this confusing point in our relationship. Yet he makes no move to leave.

  Instead, he stands taller, hands on his hips with his chest open. Like a fluffed rooster with a make-me-if-you-dare attitude.

  The simplest way to battle stubborn Trace Savoy is to simply not submit, which I think he actually gets off on.

  First step is to out-stare him, and I’m not above cheating. The trick is to look at the bridge of his nose because seriously, his eyes are bone-melting lasers, and no one can compete with that.

  His nose is perfect like the rest of him. It fits his face, proportional and aristocratic with sleek sidewalls that support a blocky masculine shape and a natural degree of flatness sloping down the bridge tip.

  Okay, it’s just a damn nose. I really want to fall into the luster of his cerulean eyes, but I also want to win.

  “I can do this all night.” I feel myself caving by the second.

  “Or you could just remove the swimsuit.” He adopts a wider stance, legs apart, shoulders back, with those pools of ice blue never looking away.

  Time for the second step. Touch him, before he touches me. Because if I make the first move, I get the upper-hand, right?

  I reach out and glide my fingers along his jaw, dipping into that sexy hollow behind his necktie. “Turn around. I’ll just be a second.”

  He slowly releases a breath and scowls his nonconsent.

  My gaze slips, as if pulled and grabbed by his tractor-beam eyes. It’s a trap. I’m not holding his unflinching eye contact. He’s holding me. With just a look, I’m caught and shackled.

  Damn. This is no longer about removing my swimsuit. It’s become a battle of wills, and I don’t know why, but I want to beat him.

  The third step in a stand-off with a man like Trace is to appear friendly and demure while ignoring his finespun signals. Like the way his fingers slide into his pants pockets with thumbs angling toward his cock, as if to remind me who has the biggest tool.

  Seeing how I don’t have a tool and the whole point of this charade is to not draw his attention to the assets I do have, I’m at a loss. But I can negotiate. Somehow I managed to haggle a helluva counteroffer when he hired me to dance at Bissara.

  “Where are you sleeping tonight?” I give him my back and search the drawers for pajamas.

  I won’t find any, because I’ve only ever slept naked with Trace.

  “I’m sleeping in the bed.” His deep timbre shivers up my spine. “With you.”

  “On two conditions.”

  “It’s nonnegotiable.”

  I won’t let Cole share my bed, and I should apply the same rule with Trace. But I’ll make an exception, because I unequivocally trust Trace’s self-control. Cole? Not so much.

  But I’m only doing this if Trace meets my conditions.

  “The first condition,” I say. “I sleep in clothes, and they remain on all night.”

  His hand moves in my periphery, yanking a white button-up from one of his hangers and holding it in front of me.

  The shirt is thin, almost see-through, but I accept it and remove a pair of white panties from a drawer.

  “The second condition.” I peer at the hovering scowl behind me. “Step out while I dress.”

  “This is bullshit, and you know it.” He drifts closer, his chest brushing my back, as he caresses his hands over my shoulders, slipping the straps down my arms. “I’ve kissed every inch of your body. I know each curve, dip, and delicate freckle. You have nothing to hide—”

  “I’m not hiding.” With a hand on my hip, I lift my chin over my shoulder. “Respect my wishes, Trace.”

  His jaw hardens, and he storms around me, walking in fas
t, angry strides deeper into the closet. With his back to me, he kicks off his loafers, and they land in the vicinity of his orderly shoe rack. His breaths heave furiously as he yanks off his suit jacket and whips it toward the hamper.

  He’s beyond pissed, and I know I’m not going to win this. So I turn around and quickly change into the shirt and panties.

  That done, I shift back and find him slipping on a pair of navy boxer briefs over his hips, the long length of his spine taut with frustration.

  He pivots to face me, and our eyes lock. Uncertainty trickles over my skin, and I wrap my arms around my waist.

  Whatever he sees in my expression causes his posture to go from self-assured to anxious. He rubs the back of his neck and shifts from one foot to the other.

  Then he drops his arms, holding them out to his sides. “Come here.”

  At some point over the past six months, scowly Trace Savoy, with his knotted necktie and starched personality, negotiated his way into my heart. He’s given me a whole new perspective on asshole—a perspective that makes me appreciate the rare glimpses of his vulnerability. Like when he stands before me with his arms out, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and naked tenderness.

  Like now.

  I step into his waiting arms and hug his firm waist, breathing in the masculine scent of his bare chest.

  He inhales slowly, deeply, as if it’s the first gulp of air he’s taken in months.

  “Are you hungry?” He strokes my hair, twining his fingers affectionately through the strands.

  “I ate during my break a couple hours ago.”

  Without warning, he lifts me, holding me in the cradle of his arms as he carries me out of the closet and tumbles us onto his bed. He lands atop me with his hips wedged between my legs and his heart thundering against mine.

  Together, we toss the decorative pillows to the floor and wriggle until the bedding is kicked out of the way. Then it’s just him and me and the kiss that’s been brewing beneath every word we exchanged in the closet.

  His lips move sensually against my mouth, his tongue rubbing and teasing and coaxing mine to dance. I cling to his biceps, loving his weight on me, the feel of his tall, muscled frame pressing down and pinning us in the moment.

  Our legs entwine instinctively, and his hands return to my hair, rougher now than before, yanking at the roots as he controls the pace of the kiss. Deeper, harder, he eats at my mouth with fervor, angling our heads and fitting us perfectly together.

  The thick, heavy length of him grinds against the crotch of my panties, but he doesn’t thrust or try to remove the barriers between us. Thank God, because my willpower is plummeting quick.

  He seems to sense that and eases back, positioning us on our sides, chest to chest. His large pupils, hooded eyes, and labored breaths all signal his desire. If I looked down, I’d find his underwear tented.

  I’m torturing him, and the thought clenches my chest.

  There’s nothing wrong with a little abstinence, but I feel guilty about it. I feel like a damn tease.

  “I don’t like this…this distance between us.” I run my fingers over the sculpted lines of his face, relishing the scratch of his five o’clock shadow.

  “It’s temporary.” He tucks my hair behind my ear.

  “How temporary? It’s already been a week. I need to—”

  He touches a finger against my lips. “Don’t force it. You’re not in a race, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  I grip his hand and lace our fingers together between us. “You’re okay with this? Starting over and dating and stuff?”

  “Stuff?” He casts me a smoldering look. “I’m interested in hearing more about that.”

  “I mean it, Trace. Where’s your head at on all of this?”

  “The situation is less than ideal, but it’s a hell of a lot better than you starting over without me.” His mouth twitches, and he nudges his thigh between mine, inching us closer. “I can handle the competition.”

  I wish his confidence would rub off on me, because I’m feeling pretty sucky about my indecisiveness. “Who were you with before you came home tonight?”

  His eyes darken. “Cole.”

  All that time? And they didn’t kill each other? My curiosity is wildly piqued as I try to picture them hanging out together. “Where were you guys? For hours?”

  “In my office.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking.”

  “No more curt answers, dammit. What did you talk about?”

  “Things.” His eyes glimmer.

  I groan. “You’re infuriating.”

  “You’re stunning.” He kisses my bottom lip and slowly draws it into his mouth.

  “Stop flirting.” I pull back, fighting my grin. “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.” He clutches my thigh beneath the oversized shirt and tightens our hips together. “You’re seriously breathtaking.”

  “Thank you.” Basking in his compliment, I snuggle closer against his hard body and try to remember what we were discussing. Oh, right. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but the two most important people in my life worked together, used to be best friends, and I just…I want to understand more about your relationship. It’s important to me.”

  He plays with my hair absently, and his eyes lose focus for a few seconds before clearing and latching onto mine. “Before I was his handler, I was an operative, like him.”

  I perk up, lifting on an elbow. “An operative? I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’ll stay that way. Don’t go searching on the Internet. You won’t find answers, but someone will know you’re digging.”

  “Someone?” A chill sweeps across my scalp. “The government? Are they watching me?”

  “The government watches everyone. Especially those who are linked to people like Cole and me.” He rests a hand on my cheek and strokes his thumb across my lips, back and forth. “We were in the field together, inseparable for a few years on several missions. When you’re with someone like that, doing what we did, you get to know them on a level I can’t explain. You trust him with your weaknesses, your fears, your…life. You become brothers.”

  His throat bounces, and his entire expression hardens. I wrap my hand around his and bring it to my mouth, kissing his knuckles, one by one.

  As his ruminating silence lingers, everything inside me goes still, silently urging him to continue. But I force myself to be patient.

  He doesn’t make me wait long. “I was offered a promotion to be his handler.”

  “Like his boss?”

  “Yes, I was his boss, but it’s different than what you think. It’s a relationship built on trust. I guided him through every operation, and he trusted me not to get him killed.”

  “Guide him how?” I strain toward him, tense with the need for answers. “I know you can’t give away trade secrets, but I keep imagining him killing people, like an assassin. Surely, you can tell me if I’m on the right track.”

  Grooves form across his brow, as if he’s considering his response. “It isn’t a secret that gathering information plays a significant role in national security.”

  “Like secret intelligence? Cole was an intel guy?”

  His lips quirk in a smile that says, Aren’t you cute? “Sometimes the only goal in a mission is to retrieve a piece of information. Sometimes it takes years.”

  “Information from who? An enemy?”

  “An enemy, informant, defector, or from our own internal agencies. I’m generalizing here, but there are those who make the laws, and those who enforce the laws on the law-makers.”

  “Jesus. That sounds sneaky. And dangerous.” My heart speeds up as I search his flinty eyes. “But you can’t steal information by donning a ski mask and breaking and entering. It takes finesse, right? If you’re spending years on a single mission…”

  …had to change my appearance, assume another alias, and stay far, far away from you…

  My eyes go wide with real
ization. “It’s undercover work, isn’t it?”

  “Processes and style of operation are off-limit topics. I haven’t given you classified information, but some of the terms I used might raise flags if you repeat them.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Not to Bree or your parents—”

  “I promise, Trace.” I lower to the pillow and lean my face to his. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  It’s far more than Cole gave me, and now I have a clearer understanding of the job they did. I lean back, studying Trace’s relaxed expression.

  Suspicion creeps in. Why is he telling me this now?

  He and Cole are at war. I don’t put it past either one of them to leverage every angle they have to one-up each other. And Trace just gifted me something Cole wouldn’t. Candidness. Is it just a play in his game? I hate thinking that way, and maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am.

  I run my fingers through his hair. “What did you and Cole discuss tonight?”

  His nostrils flare. “You already know the answer to that.”

  Me, probably. “I don’t want to assume. Will you tell me?”

  “He spouted threats. I returned some of my own. Now we’re on the same page.”

  “What kind of threats?”

  “Danni—”

  “Please?”

  “Death threats.” He blows out a breath. “I’ll admit his were more creative than mine. But the one about my mother…”

  I narrow my eyes. “What did he say?”

  “If I put my dick in you again, he’ll skin me alive, dry my hide in the sun, and use it as a condom to fuck my mother’s corpse.”

  My body goes cold, my voice a horrified whisper. “He did not say that.”

  “He was pretty fired up when that one slipped out.”

  “Oh my God.” I roll to my back and glare at the ceiling. “And you made threats on his life, too?”

  “Yes.” A steadfast response, shameless in its delivery. “If he has sex with you—”

  I whirl toward him, mouth gaping. “You can’t kill each other.