Reckless Games

by M. J. Lowell

  Rhys made another choking sound.

  Skullcap and Cigarette exchanged skeptical glances. “What kind of name is that?” said Skullcap.

  I mustered as much dignity as I could given that I was naked and still dripping wet. “In my family all the women are named after the day we were born. Do you want to call my sister and ask her? Her name is Thursday. Or you could try my Great-Aunt Sunday if you still don’t believe me, or Grandma Saturday. And while we’re all introducing ourselves, what are your names? The police will want to know.”

  They stared at me like I was completely insane and then turned to each other. “You sure there’s nobody else back there?” Skullcap asked Cigarette.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” said Cigarette, frustrated. “Should we kill him anyhow while we got the chance?”

  Skullcap thought it over and shrugged. “The boss said to have the lady watch. No lady, no job.”

  Cigarette’s face fell. “What a waste.”

  “Indeed,” said Rhys.

  Skullcap narrowed his eyes and gave Rhys a hard look, like he was reconsidering. Everyone was silent for a tense moment that seemed to last forever.

  But finally Skullcap shrugged again and propped Rhys against the counter. He gestured to us both with his gun hand. “Looks like your lucky day. However, I suggest you two keep our little get-together to yourselves unless you want us to pay you another visit. We’re a lot less friendly the second time around.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” said Rhys, reaching for a towel to wipe the blood from his nose.

  “And keep your hands off other people’s wives while you’re at it,” Skullcap added. “That sort of thing can be bad for your health.”

  “So I see,” said Rhys.

  Skullcap gave him another hard look. “As long as you got that straight we’ll be on our way,” he said. He paused and grinned at me again. “Excuse me. I meant to say we’ll be sashaying on out of here.”

  He was chuckling as he left the room. Cigarette gave one last wistful look at Rhys and followed him out. A few seconds later we head the door to the suite slam shut behind them.

  Rhys erupted in laughter. “Floozy?” he roared. “Sashay? Grandma Satu—”

  I slapped him across the face, hard.

  He went silent and completely still.

  With precise movements he backed me into the granite of the counter. Deliberately he planted a hand on either side of me, pinning me between him and the cool stone. Our bodies were inches from one another, not touching, yet anything but chaste.

  The sheer massiveness of him sent spears of desire through me, a firestorm of heat. His presence was intoxicating, dizzying. I was afraid to encounter his eyes and afraid to look away as they swept from my face to the hollow of my neck and down to my breasts before returning to linger on my mouth. My lips parted slightly, unconsciously, under the weight of his gaze, and I felt him stiffen slightly.

  The room seemed to contract around us. His eyes slid up to meet mine. There was a darkness in them now, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Cold. Fathomless. And completely, terrifyingly controlled. I thought two things at once:

  First, that this man was completely capable of murder.

  And second, that I wanted him to kiss me more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.

  He said, “Playtime is over.”

  Chapter Five

  “Playtime?” I repeated inanely, my dazed mind still stuck on what it would feel like for that mouth, those lips, to come down on mine, for his tongue—

  My god, what was happening to me?

  “You wanted my attention, you have it.” His voice was as stony and unyielding as the granite pressing against my back. “You can start by telling me who bloody sent you here and why.”

  The ice in his tone brought me back to my senses, at least somewhat. I swallowed, forcing myself to focus. “No one sent me. I- I was just trying to save your life.”

  “So you said. And how exactly did you happen to know what those gentlemen had in mind?”

  There was no way I was going to tell him I’d been following him. If he really had been involved in my father’s murder, I couldn’t risk provoking him. If not, he’d probably have me arrested for stalking. “I- I overheard them. In the bar downstairs.”

  “Right, in the bar,” he said, his tone dripping sarcasm. “You just happened to be there, and so did they. And you just happened to overhear them plotting my demise.”

  I could only nod. I had to admit, it did sound flimsy.

  “How convenient,” he said, even more sarcastically. “And yet, instead of summoning security or the illustrious New York Police Department, you decided to traipse up here, completely unarmed, and— what was it you intended to do, precisely?”

  Flimsy or not, his sarcasm rekindled the anger in me, mercifully clearing the last remnants of dizziness from my mind. “Warn you,” I said. “I intended to warn you. And I did try calling the police. They said there was nothing they could do about a hypothetical murder. They could only act on a real murder, after it had been committed. But by then it would have been too late. So it seems like instead of giving me the third degree you should be thanking me.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, briefly weighing this possibility then discarding it just as quickly. “Why didn’t you simply lie and tell them a murder had already occurred? They’d have come running then, certainly.”

  He was right, I realized. That was exactly what I should have done. But it was too late now, and I definitely wasn’t going to admit his point. Instead, I tried to pump more indignation into my voice as I said, “I’m done with this interrogation.”

  “No,” he answered evenly. “This interrogation ends when I say it ends.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You pushed your way in here. You aren’t leaving until I’m satisfied.”

  His tone had changed again, warming slightly, with a huskier edge that made me aware of my nakedness all over again. My heart began to beat faster. “What do you want from me?”

  He moved even closer. A fresh wave of heat spiraled through me, pooling between my legs, making my chest feel tight. Our bodies were as close to touching as they could be without touching. His gaze, still intent but with a hint of playfulness now, refused to free mine. “Payback.”

  Unbidden, my nipples stiffened into two tight, straining points, and the heat in my lower body became a throbbing. “What- what do you mean?”

  “You saved my life. I owe you a life-changing experience in return.” He shifted and his bare thigh slipped out from the folds of the towel, nearly touching the knot of soft curls between my legs – nearly, but not quite. I had to swallow a gasp.

  My body ached for his touch, my mind reeled with the desperate desire for it, for him to relieve the almost painful ache he was conjuring. A corner of his mouth flickered, the barest trace of a smile, as if he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. I was torn between mortification and wondering what it would be like to nip the smile from his lips.

  Madness, I thought. This was completely insane. This wasn’t me, this wasn’t my body, this couldn’t be happening.

  “I- I have an appointment,” I told him, my mouth dry, hardly aware of what I was saying.

  “At nearly midnight?” he asked after a pause. There was surprise in his tone, and new interest.

  I managed a nod.

  He shifted again and his arm almost brushed the pointed tip of my breast, intensifying and concentrating the ache inside me. “Cancel.” It was a command again, but this time I could see why people obeyed.

  “That’s not possible.” My voice was a hoarse whisper.

  Less than a hair’s breadth separated us now. His eyes moved down my neck and along my collarbone and dipped lower, tracing a path of liquid fire. His effect on me was staggering, devastating.

  “Come back after your appointment,” he said.

  He looked like he meant it, like he really wanted it. Like he really wanted me.

  And that’
s the thought that finally brought me back to my senses.

  Oh please, snarked the voice in my head. This is Rhys Carlyle. Sexiest Bachelor Number Nine. He could have anyone, why would he possibly want you? You just happen to be here, a consolation prize for missing out on glamorous, curvy Mrs. G.

  I pulled away, trying to escape, but he wedged me in against the counter. “I’m not even your type,” I told him.

  Darkness flickered in his eyes again. “Is that so? What is my type then?”

  “Blondes,” I answered. I took a breath. “Glamorous, curvy blondes. Preferably married.”

  He appraised me, and I could imagine what he was seeing, my short raven-black hair, my over-large green eyes, my slight frame, my winter-pale skin. “You’re right, that’s not you.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed, feeling all the blood in my body rushing to my cheeks as I spoke.

  His expression turned indecipherable, and one of his hands came up to rub his chin. I took advantage of the gesture to duck out from between his arms. Suddenly I’d had enough of— of whatever it was we were doing. I wanted to be away from here and this imperious man and the incredibly disturbing effect he was having on me.

  Not quite able to keep a quaver from my voice, I said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should be leaving.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke again, and when he did the assurance was back in place. “Yes, you should go,” he said, like it had been his idea.

  He bent to retrieve my clothes and froze halfway, his features twisting in a grimace as he grabbed his side. “Bloody hell,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  I’d forgotten all about his beating, and apparently he had as well, but he was clearly in terrible pain. “You need to put ice on that,” I said, and as I reached past him to where a bottle of champagne sat chilling in a silver bucket on the counter, my fingers brushed his wrist.

  I leaped back. It had been only the slightest, briefest whisper of a touch, but it felt like a surge of electricity running from his hand to mine. Had he felt it, too?

  My heart was beating wildly. His face had gone pale, but his expression was even more unreadable than before.

  You’re a fool, I told myself in the thick silence that settled between us. Of course he hadn’t felt it – he hadn’t felt anything but his bruised ribs. I should dress and get out of there already.

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said abruptly, his face still expressionless. But his tone had shifted again. This wasn’t a command – it was an invitation.

  “I can’t.” I had to work. And this man is too dangerous, I thought, flashing back to the dark emotion I’d seen in his eyes. Way too dangerous.

  “The next night then.”

  “I have plans.” Any decent DJ is always booked on weekend nights.

  “You’re a very busy woman,” he observed, his voice tight.

  “I guess so,” I said, bending to gather up my clothes with as much poise as I could salvage. Even without looking at him I was aware of his eyes on my body.

  “He’s a lucky man,” he said.

  “Who’s a lucky man?” I asked. I had my pants, my shirt, my socks, but I couldn’t find my underwear.

  “The man who’s keeping you so busy.”

  I kept my head down to hide my surprise. He thought I was meeting someone else! I almost laughed in spite of myself. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

  But Rhys Carlyle had no way of knowing that, I realized, and I had no reason to tell him. In fact, I could use it to my advantage. I tried to rekindle the anger I’d felt before, the anger that had let me be so confident and fearless.

  “What makes you think there’s only one?” I shot back, scanning under the counter again. Where could my panties have gone?

  “How many are there?” he asked. There was a slight sulkiness in his voice, like he wasn’t used to things not going the way he planned, and he wasn’t enjoying the experience.

  “Many,” I said. Which was also the truth, sort of. My late set at Le Bungalow usually drew a crowd of several hundred. As I sifted through my pile of clothes again I felt him studying me like a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

  “Tea,” he finally announced, with the satisfaction of someone who’d just hit on the solution to a knotty problem.

  “What?” I asked.

  One corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. “Surely you can meet me for afternoon tea. None of your suitors could object to that.” He was suave again, back on solid ground. “Scones and finger sandwiches. A pot of Earl Grey. It doesn’t get more harmless than afternoon tea.”

  “I—”

  He didn’t wait for me to finish. His cobalt eyes held mine, and the mocking look was back. “That’s settled, then. Tea at the Plaza tomorrow at four.”

  And suddenly my underwear magically appeared in his hand. He glanced from where the letters spelled out “Tuesday” to the cold granite of the counter and chuckled. “Is this what you’re looking for, Tuesday Granite?”

  I took the panties from him, careful not to let my fingers touch his. Then he pushed off the counter and headed for the door Mrs. G had used, loosening his towel and tossing it on the floor as he went. At the sight of his body a wave of desire washed over me, so powerful I had to grasp the counter to steady myself.

  “I trust you can see yourself out the way you came in,” he said, the authoritative tone restored.

  “I won’t be there tomorrow,” I informed him. I dragged my eyes upward just in time to meet his gaze as he glanced over his shoulder.

  There was a glint of mischief in his smile. “Oh, I think you will. And Tuesday?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be on time. I hate to be kept waiting.”

  Chapter Six

  “Tea?” said Val. She leaned back against the honey-colored wood of the banquette at La Colombe, our Friday morning coffee place. “As in Lipton’s?”

  I stared down at the heart-shaped swirl of foam on the surface of my latte. For some reason, I was having trouble meeting Val’s eyes. “As in afternoon tea. I was invited to afternoon tea. But I’m not sure if I should go.”

  “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” she said, incredulous. “We’re having Friday morning coffee on Thursday morning because you can’t decide whether to go to a tea party? That’s what was so urgent?”

  “It’s not a tea party. It’s afternoon tea at the Plaza.” I dropped my voice. “With Rhys Carlyle.”

  Val froze with her own latte halfway to her lips. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  She set her mug down so hard that coffee sloshed onto the table between us. “Lucy, you’d better tell me the whole story, right here, right now, and you’d better not leave out a single detail or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “If I told you every detail you’d be late for work,” I said, soaking up the spilled coffee with a paper napkin.

  “My boss is out of town,” Val said, picking up her latte again. “I have all the time in the world. So start talking.”

  But how could I explain to her what I didn’t understand myself? How could I account for the effect he’d had on me, an effect that went far beyond him being the most searingly hot man I’d ever seen in the flesh. That I’d morphed into a person I didn’t know, someone who stood up to killers and Rhys Carlyle, all while stark naked. That he had a magnetism that set off every alarm in my head but also drew me inescapably to him, bringing out a boldness that was irrational and unfamiliar. And exhilarating.

  A boldness he’d thought was real. After all, it was only once he’d decided I – or rather, Tuesday Granite – was as much of a player as he was that he’d shown any interest in seeing me again. This had become increasingly clear as I’d mentally rehashed every detail during my set at Le Bungalow.

  And even if I had known how to explain this all to Val, I couldn’t risk it, not here. La Colombe wasn’t far from Val’s office, but it was also a me
re two blocks from the Bowery Hotel, and three from the headquarters of Carlyle Gaming, which meant Rhys Carlyle himself could walk in at any moment, or one of his employees might sit down at the next table. The best I could do was give her the basics of what had happened.

  “Of course you’re going to tea,” she said when I finished. “Are you out of your mind?”

  I shrugged. “‘Signs Point to Yes.’”

  Val wagged a French-manicured finger. “You’re not getting away with the Magic 8-Ball thing today. Give me one genuine reason that you wouldn’t go meet People’s Seventh Sexiest Bachelor. I mean, besides the part where he’s a player and you get beaten playing Go Fish. And the other part where you think he might have murdered your father.”

  “Ninth,” I said.

  “Ninth what?”

  “He’s only the Ninth Sexiest Bachelor.”

  “Is that your reason? You’re holding out for a guy in the top five?”

  “Do you think I should?” I asked, striving for lightness.

  “Lucy,” said Val in a threatening tone. “Tell me what the problem is.”

  “The problem is that Rhys Carlyle is arrogant, big-headed, cocky, demanding, and egotistical,” I said.

  “You couldn’t come up with anything for F?” Val asked.

  “Ha ha,” I said wryly.

  “Let’s see. A through E describe every man you’ve ever dated plus every man I’ve ever dated. In fact, you’re pretty much describing every man anyone in history has ever dated since you’re describing the entire male species. That’s not a reason not to go. Try again.”

  “How about that I don’t understand why he’d want to see me? At least, not the real me.”

  “Ah,” said Val with sudden understanding. “That’s closer to the heart of the matter.” She shook her head. “But silly. And possibly idiotic.”

  I put my hands up. “Have mercy. I came here straight from work – I haven’t slept in almost twenty-four hours.”

  Val was the oldest of six kids, and she insisted on mothering me and everyone else she cared about. I knew I was in for some tough love when she crossed her arms over her chest.