Locke and Key (Titan Book 12)

by Cristin Harber

  FLAMETHROWER: Not that I’m following him. But if I were, he’s at another event with Russians. *sideways stink-eye* Don’t tell me that doesn’t make your Titan sensibilities say what the…?

  Locke glanced back at Flamethrower and smiled. Maybe he should save Cassidy under a different name in his contact list. She had a serious problem with his red-hair-inspired nicknames. But Flamethrower was less about her hair and more because the woman liked to drop bombs. She made people think, caused fires, and gave no fucks. Locke dug that about her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The party at the restaurant was in full swing, and Cassidy was hanging nonchalantly near the bar and coat check. The two staff members had been called to help with the valet as no one in their right mind had coats that night. She was all alone with the occasional shawl and sweater, essentially standing in a dark and empty closet with a full view of who came and left, depending on which way she turned. There were pillars she could post against and—

  A hand tugged Cassidy back, and in a red-hot, Russian-chasing instant, she knew that it was Locke and that she shouldn’t bite—even if she wanted to. His very presence awakened a hunger that she was trying to ignore. The bastard wore a peppery cologne that seemed to be an automatic arousal trigger.

  Wait—was that cologne and gunpowder? Cassidy inhaled deeply, clenching her inner muscles at the reaction to his arrival.

  “Shhh,” he whispered against her neck.

  Oh, God. That grab-and-shush move might’ve been more dangerous than his wink. Coupled with how he smelled—damn, it was just the whole Locke Oliver package. Still, she mumbled. He ground against her, tugging her closer, and pressed his hand over her mouth again.

  Truth—she had fantasized about this. Maybe it was fucked-up. Maybe it was hot. But hell, it was happening. He was dominant and forceful and covering almost every inch of her. The fact that she let him cover her mouth meant she trusted him, and damn it, that turned her on. Even her nipples were painfully erect.

  Cassidy inhaled deeply through her nose, easing back against him. “What is it with you?” she mumbled against his palm.

  His long fingers clamped loosely, but his harsh grip around her waist did nothing but swell her lack of self-control and excitement.

  “Just checking in on our conspiracy theory.” Locke’s stomach pressed to her back, and he towered over her—another embrace she had imagined when her vibrator was between her legs. Her vivid imagination had him unfasten his pants, lift her skirt, and slide her panties to the side. He could take her against the wall. In her mind, she had no willpower…

  Back to real life. Locke abruptly jerked them into the shadows of the restaurant. The sudden, forceful move should’ve made her screaming mad, but it only heightened her awareness of his strength. He handled her as though she weighed nothing. His power was intoxicating—she stopped her thoughts short.

  Work. They were there for work. She tried to concentrate, even though her clitoris was throbbing at the thought of him pulling her skirt up and sliding his cock inside her. A hot flash ran down her neck.

  “Do we know anything new?” His lips brushed against her earlobe.

  A fire started where he’d touched her skin and set every nerve ending ablaze. It wasn’t right, but it was what she wanted. She was craving interactions where they danced around… this.

  He was holding her. Still.

  Possessively. Dominantly. Determinedly.

  Her breathing burned loudly—so loudly she could hear it. He had to also—Locke’s lips brushed her skin again. Shameless. Was he testing her? Teasing her? Didn’t matter. She couldn’t fight it even if it was flirting—though lips on skin was a step beyond flirting.

  “What’s going on here?” she whispered breathlessly. Her lips tickled as they grazed over his palm.

  “What’s that, Cass?” His words might well have been a ruthless stroke to her most tender areas for how deftly he delivered the gravelly vibrations against her neck.

  They had a game of cat and mouse. Cassidy raised her voice. “You have to take your hand off my mouth to find out.”

  He squeezed it over her mouth—firmly—before releasing, and her eyes nearly rolled back into her head. Still, he kept the other arm wrapped around her stomach. A wave of arousal threatened to make her weak in the knees.

  Locke ducked close to her ear, purposefully rasping a five o’clock shadow against her neck, and again asked, “Do we know anything new?”

  She whimpered. He had to have heard the quiet groan, and he swayed them together and—damn, she felt him. Cassidy’s eyes went wide as he held her backside against his crotch.

  Was Locke turned on? Locke was turned on. And he wanted her to know. The realization was as potent as a narcotic. It hit her blood, and she was high.

  But he’d asked about work—and he moved his arm away. What was she supposed to do? She tried to recover. Shaking and stupidly pretending this wasn’t a thing, she turned. Face to face, she couldn’t read him!

  He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. Was the ball in her court? He’d asked about Alex, twice. But he had a hard-on!

  Cassidy was so confused and turned on that she couldn’t trust her instincts. She needed to do what she did best—work. Focus on the job.

  “He’s in there.” Cassidy, failing to regain her composure, was still breathless.

  Locke smiled. “Good to know.”

  She’d made the right choice in focusing on work. She was there for Alex. If Locke wanted to… pursue something, he could do it when she wasn’t busy. He had her number.

  “Cass…” His eyebrows challenged her to admit to their tension escalating.

  There was Cass again. She hated nicknames—until they flowed from his mouth. They needed space, but she didn’t trust her legs. They were as weak as her mind was wild. She tried to swallow, shifting away—

  “Don’t go.” He moved close, and again, he was holding her, hugging her. Locke cupped her cheek and let his fingers slide along her jaw.

  She was drowning in him as Locke’s hand moved down her neck, letting the thump of her pulse jump against his fingertips. “I—”

  “Excuse me,” a woman snapped as she bustled in, grabbing her shawl, and she sneered on the way out.

  “Oh, God.” Cassidy jumped, her cheeks hot and her embarrassment swallowing her alive. She choked on the knot in her throat and covered her face, backing away from him. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Cassidy.” Locke reached for her.

  “So, so sorry.” She tilted to face him, and they stood in the dark shadows. She was the reporter; he was the protector.

  His voice rumbled, not judgmental or embarrassed. “You have nothing to say sorry about. To anyone.”

  “We might disagree on that.” She’d staked the rebound of her career on Alex, but when Locke came around, she always seemed to forget.

  “I don’t try to upset you.” The pregnant pause hung heavily. “Not on purpose anyway—maybe for fun, playing around, but I won’t do that again.”

  “Okay…”

  He was playing down their moment of intimacy. Maybe for him it had been nothing but an erection and a tease, while for her it was the stuff of nightly fantasies. How foolish was she? Embarrassment made her stomach drop.

  But still.

  Again, they were almost stomach to stomach. Too close. Too intimate. Too… much. “I’m not upset.” But that wasn’t true.

  “You’re something,” he said.

  “Something,” she agreed. “True.” Something she’d never, ever admit to. Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, she couldn’t map out his intentions—

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Cassidy froze, wondering what she’d done wrong.

  His gaze lasered in on her lips. “That.”

  Finally, she saw the same desperate hunger on his face. The authority in his command made her shiver. Unquenched lust boiled in his eyes, and Cassidy didn’t know how to handle this Locke—the uncontrolled
and unscripted one. “Oh… um. I…”

  In a tailspin, she couldn’t decide whether to fight for what she could finally read on his face or pull her act together and act like they were working together. She did neither, standing there, still unsure.

  “You keep biting that lip, Cass.” Locke lifted an eyebrow and scorched her panties. “Don’t do that.”

  “Okay.” The devil on her shoulder whispered, Bite your lip again. Or bite his. Maybe they could kiss and work.

  Locke lifted his chin, his gaze falling past her. “Alex is leaving.”

  Wait—what? Damn it. Surprised, her arousal went cold in a microsecond. She pulled away, and he grasped her arm.

  “Hold on,” Locke murmured, all business, as though he were faking an embrace, unlike before.

  “I need to follow him.” She batted his arm away. “Whether you agree with what I’m doing or not—”

  “Not.”

  Goddamn it. She’d screwed up. Frustration and aggravation were building at record levels. “Did you do that on purpose?”

  He inched closer, as though they didn’t already have a microscopic minefield brewing between their lips. “Do what on purpose?”

  She wouldn’t verbalize their flirtation. She couldn’t. Besides, Locke hated her!

  Or did he? There was a finger’s length of distance between them. “When did you stop hating me?”

  Locke spun her around. Before she could blink, the oak-paneled wall was at her back, and his muscled chest and waist were leveled against her front. Everything about Locke was harsh and hard and hungry once again.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cassidy hissed.

  He pinned her wrists overhead. “Nothing.”

  Her body vibrated in dark corner of the abandoned coat closet. “Locke Oliver.”

  “Nothing,” he whispered. “At all.”

  He’d growled and rolled a hundred misconceptions into three words.

  “Good. Me either,” she said in a husky rebuttal, her wrists held high above her head. “You just screwed me. I needed to watch him. Follow him. And all I did was… spend time watching you.”

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

  Cassidy met Locke’s harsh blue stare and bit her lip.

  “Fucking hell, Cass.” Locke gave her no time to understand the range of emotions that played on his face in the zero point five seconds it took for him to lean forward and tug her lip between his teeth.

  His bite sent a bolt of lightning straight to her pussy, overwhelming her with how fast he could take her from wanting to kill him to wanting to come. A strong hand cupped her cheek, and he leaned forward, biting her bottom lip—and he tugged, making it hurt just enough that she groaned for more.

  She pulled back, shocked and surprised, her fingers spiking out only to ball again as she relished his teeth on her lip. Locke eased the pull and let her hands loose. They fell and knotted into his shirt—tight cotton spread across a rippled abdomen. Once more, he bit her bottom lip hard enough to make her yip—and make her wet and helpless to the pleasure from the bite—and his tongue ran over it, soothing away the sting.

  Fresh air tickled her lip as he pulled away. He thumbed over where his teeth had been. “Go home, Cassidy.”

  She blinked as if she couldn’t believe it. “You just kissed me.”

  “No, Red. I bit you.” His hand smoothed over her cheek and threaded into her hair. “If I kissed you, you would know.”

  Her eyes went wide. Reality splashed over her like a cold wave. This was all a diversionary tactic to put distance between her and Alex. “You had to reach deep for that one.”

  His eyes narrowed, questioning. “You’re going home now?”

  Damn him. Hell. Alex was gone. Locke had played her for a fool. She was the laughingstock of journalists everywhere. Nothing would change about her situation that night. “I was just leaving.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Eighteen Years Earlier

  “Young man, come here.” The man’s Russian-accented words curled through the air along with the smoke from his cigarette.

  When the Cadillac parked at the mouth of the alleyway, Alexander’s blood had run cold. Now his eyes tracked side to side, as though maybe he’d missed anyone else the boss could be speaking to.

  No. There was nobody else sitting in the frozen alley beside Alexander, and the man stood out like a pariah. He wore a thick black jacket and fur hat, while Alexander shivered with his legs tucked underneath him for warmth. Curled on the dirty, pocked asphalt, he nursed a bottle of cheap vodka he’d stolen for both warmth and escape.

  “Come here.” His black leather gloves gestured, fingers beckoning.

  Still, Alexander looked again on either side in case there was a reason why this Mikhailov boss had decided to speak to him.

  Not wanting to show disrespect, he said, “Me?”

  “Dah.” Even with a simple word, the man sounded better educated than the Bratva and the caliber that hung out with his Dad.

  “Can I help you?” Alexander offered all the manners and formality as he could muster with numb lips. That was the work of the alcohol. It wasn’t that cold outside. Or maybe it was—he didn’t know.

  “I have a proposition for you. Would you like to go to lunch?”

  His stomach growled as if answering for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he should question who this person was and what he wanted of him, but Alexander hadn’t had lunch for some time now that school was on winter break. He’d eaten on and off several times, but nothing that would constitute a meal. “Sure.”

  The Mikhailov man pulled out a cell phone, and then the car in which he’d arrived revved its engine. “The heat is on. Let us go. My name is Ivan.”

  Ivan Mikhailov? That couldn’t have been correct. He was like a king! Why would Ivan Mikhailov talk to him? In an alley? Maybe Alexander had had more to drink than he realized.

  The man walked away with the clear understanding that Alexander would follow. Lunch involved getting in that car. While he should have been concerned, alcohol and hunger made him stupid. But stupid was relative—he was hungrier than he was stupid. He pushed himself up and followed the man into the waiting car.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Present Day

  The restaurant’s patio was packed with the happy-hour crowd from Embassy Row and neighboring think tanks. Cassidy never liked nightlife that had a DC feel, where everyone had security clearances and the more they drank, the louder they talked about how they knew things they couldn’t share. Power begot power begot privilege begot attention. And wasn’t that what this town was all about?

  “Excuse me.” Cassidy quietly caught the attention of her server as her sparkling water was refilled. “The man over there.” She tilted her head, gesturing nonchalantly. “Is he a regular? Do you know his name?”

  “No, sorry,” the waitress said.

  “Could you find out his name?”

  The waitress blankly stared and waited. Most folks had a price, and the young woman, maybe a college student, would probably stand there until Cassidy made an offer. Wait staff had helped Cassidy sniff out the start of more stories than she could count. For them, she’d forever be grateful. She opened her clutch and pulled out a fifty. “Last name too. It’s that important.”

  Cassidy had turned in her Times op-ed on St. Andrew’s to the board of trustees, and they, as expected, needed clarification on Alex’s remarks. Again, like pulling teeth, it took days to get him to commit to meeting her. Finally, he’d made plans to meet her here to work on the comments—which would take no more than fifteen minutes of back-and-forth—but, so far, he was a no show.

  He’d also ignored her texts. Marvelous… and suspicious, because he’d mentioned that later that night he was meeting people from his non-St. Andrew’s job at the same restaurant. Which was why Cassidy had stuck around.

  An hour after her arranged meeting time with Alex, who she guessed were the non-St. Andrew’s crew showe
d up.

  Thirty minutes later, they too were pissed, but they were pissed in Russian, so she didn’t know how annoyed they were, but she could read body language. That and facial expressions were a universal language—except when it came to Locke.

  Her server came back as the other table began to stand and leave. Shit. Cassidy’s heart jumped. She wanted to know more about them. Quickly, she snapped a picture as her server looked on with disinterest.

  “His credit card said Ivan Jacobs.”

  Cassidy made a face. “Ivan, I might believe.” But how many native Russians had the surname Jacobs?

  “That’s what I said too.” The waitress preened. “Not my first rodeo. Last name Mikhailov.”

  Ivan Mikhailov. “You’re amazing,” Cassidy said.

  “I’ll still need a tip on the food and drink.”

  “Absolutely. Not my first DC rodeo.”

  As the waitress was stepping away, a hand touched Cassidy’s shoulder. In an instant, she knew it was that lip-biting bastard she hated to fall for and had thought about nonstop since the days she stormed away.

  “What are you doing here?” Cassidy waited until he took a seat so he could take full advantage of the professional-league eye roll awaiting him. “Because I am all kinds of not interested in talking to you.”

  He scooted his chair in as if he didn’t notice the sarcasm and eye rolling. “Hey, Shortcake.”

  “And the nicknames do you no favors with me.”

  He gave her a closed-lip smile as if to say he didn’t care if she liked the nicknames or not. “I like them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you do.”

  He was right, and she disliked him even more because of that.

  “What are we doing here tonight?” he asked.

  Cassidy folded her hands primly. “We aren’t doing anything.”

  “I passed the Russians on my way in.”

  “Good.” She clenched her jaw. “I hope you told Mr. Mikhailov hello.”

  Locke’s eyes immediately jumped to the exit, but he didn’t respond. Damn it; she couldn’t read him, other than seeing that he recognized the last name.