Sins, Lies & Naughty Games: A Blackwell-Lyon Security Collection

by J. Kenner

  “Because of you,” I say simply. “Because that’s what’s been destroying me.”

  She turns away, looking down so that I can’t see her face. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t even go there.”

  I hear the vulnerability, and I know I should stop. But I can’t. I have to make her understand. Because I’m hollow without her, and I’m so desperate to be filled.

  “Just go,” she says. “Please.”

  “I can’t.” I take a step closer. “Jez—everything you said yesterday—”

  She interrupts me with a harsh scoffing sound. “How stupid was I to show you my heart?”

  “Jez, please.”

  “I trusted you. With my body. With my secrets. With my sister and her whole career. I thought you were worth it.”

  “I am. We are. But I fucked up.”

  “Damn right, you did.” I hear the thickness in her voice, and I know she’s on the verge of tears.

  I step closer. I’m right in front of her now, and I have to force my hands to stay at my sides when all I want to do is touch her. Comfort her.

  “I let my past get in the way,” I admit. “I thought about Margie and about the way she hurt me. The way she left. But she shouldn’t have been anywhere near my head. It should have just been you. Only you.”

  “Then why wasn’t it?”

  “Because I’m an asshole.”

  She lifts her head, her expression wary. “Keep going.”

  “Because I was scared.”

  Her brow furrows. “Of what?”

  “Of you. Of everything. Of the way you make me feel.”

  She licks her lips, the anger in her eyes starting to dim. “How do I make you feel?”

  “Like maybe I have a chance at forever.” I draw a breath for courage. “Like maybe I’m falling in love with you. And I think you’re falling with me.”

  I hear her breath hitch. “Pierce, I—”

  “No, let me finish. Jez, I know this has been fast—crazy fast. And maybe we’re both wrong, but I don’t think so. And I want to put in the time and the work to find out. More than that, I want to make it work. Mostly, I want us to stay us.”

  A tear trickles down her cheek, and I reach up and gently brush it away. “I was afraid, and I hurt you. And I’m so goddamn sorry. Please, Jez. Please say you forgive me.”

  She licks her lips and sniffles a little. “Your timing sucks. We don’t even have those three days. I’m leaving for LA tomorrow.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh.

  Her brow arches up. “That’s funny?”

  “It’s wonderful,” I say. “Because you didn’t tell me to get lost. All you did was tell me you’re leaving. And baby, that’s just geography. We can make geography work.”

  She says nothing, so I take a step closer, then slide my arms around her waist. “Move here. You and Del. You said you want out of LA, right? So come here. Rent a house. Buy a condo. Live with me. But give it a chance. Del’s not a struggling actress. She can live wherever she wants.”

  “She’ll want LA,” Jez says, and I smile again.

  “And she’s old enough to live there on her own,” I say. “There’s this cool invention called the Internet. Texting and video calls and all sorts of magical stuff. And these metal tubes that fly through the sky and get you to LA in only about four hours.”

  She smacks me playfully on the shoulder.

  “You shouldn’t hit in anger, you know.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Maybe I’m not angry anymore.”

  “Really?” I press a kiss to her jawline. “I’m very glad to hear it. Of course, I still have a lot of apologizing left.” My hands cup her waist, then start to slowly slide up, taking her T-shirt with them.

  “You hurt me.”

  “I know,” I say, then gently nip her earlobe.

  Her body trembles under my hands, and her breath comes out in a shudder. “I think you need to apologize more.”

  I step back so that I can gently pull her T-shirt over her head. “Sweetheart, I’m going to spend the rest of the night apologizing in every way I know how.”

  I kiss along her collarbone, then over the swell of her breasts. I tease one of her nipples between my thumb and forefinger, then bend my head to take the other into my mouth, my cock hardening at the sound of her sweet moans of pleasure.

  I stay like that, sucking and teasing, soaking in the feel and then scent of her. Then I ease back, releasing her nipple with a wet, erotic popping sound.

  I straighten, then look into her lust-glazed eyes. “Enough?” I ask. “Am I forgiven?”

  She bites her lower lip, then cocks her head as a tiny smile plays on her lips. “Not even close.”

  “In that case,” I say, as I kiss my way down her abdomen, lower and lower towards heaven. “I’ll just have to work a little bit harder…”

  Epilogue

  Eight months later

  I’m standing in a tux beneath a vine-covered arch at the end of a white, linen runway. Above me, the sky is painted a perfect blue. Behind me, the Pacific stretches to infinity.

  From where I’m standing, yards away from the cliff’s drop-off, I can’t see the crash of the waves against the base of the cliff. But I can hear the roar of the ocean, and I breathe deep, letting the sounds and the sea air settle my nerves as the iconic music begins and the guests in front of me rise from their white, wooden folding chairs.

  I look down the aisle, and it’s not until I see her that my breath comes easy again. She’s walking in time with the music, holding flowers in front of her, looking more beautiful than ever before.

  I slide my hand into my pocket and finger the small treasure I’ve put there. A talisman that I hope will settle my nerves.

  Closer and closer she comes until she’s standing almost in front of me. She looks straight at me, then steps off to the side, smiling so broadly her eyes crinkle.

  Now she’s standing opposite me, and we’re like two bookends on either side of Delilah and Levyl, who are holding hands now, their eyes not on each other, but on the man holding the Bible and reading their vows.

  They each say, “I do,” and the guests start to applaud. And as Levyl and Delilah kiss, the director standing off to the left and just out of the range of the camera yells, “Cut!”

  Levyl laughs and swings his arm around Delilah’s shoulder as she leans into him. “One of my favorite scenes,” she teases, and he bends to lightly kiss her.

  They’re not dating again, but they’ve rekindled a strong friendship, and their fans—and the studio—love the continuing will-they-won’t-they drama. The movie actually came about to capitalize on their renewed friendship, and Del urged both me and Jez to be extras in this movie. Supposedly just for fun, but also so that Jez and I would have a reason to fly to LA for a long weekend.

  Over the last few months, we’ve been spending less time in California and more in Texas. At first, Jez was flying back and forth almost weekly so that she could work with Delilah on the basic management of Del’s career. But Del’s been grabbing the reins more, both by making more of her own decisions and by choosing and hiring a team to pick up the slack.

  “Do you miss it?” I ask as I take Jez’s hand and lead her away from the crowd. “Hollywood? The ocean? The California traffic? Handling Jez’s stuff?”

  “I miss the ocean,” she says. “And I miss Del. But,” she adds, as she slides into my arms, “I’m very happy with my trade-off.”

  “You mean the house and the garden,” I say, referring to the central Austin house we bought last month, and into which we’ve been pouring a stream of money, sweat, and elbow grease.

  “Absolutely,” she says, then rises on her toes to kiss me. “What else could I possibly mean?”

  I grin, then step back, still clutching her hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  I take her back to the archway. Nearby, Del and Levyl and Anissa are chatting with Connor and Cayden and Kerrie, all of whom think they flew out f
or my movie debut.

  That, however, is only part of it.

  “What?” Jez says, looking around the decorative set piece. “If you’re showing me the set, I’ve seen it already.”

  “But you haven’t seen this,” I say, dropping to one knee and holding up the ring that’s been burning a hole in my pocket.

  Jez gasps, her fingers going over her mouth, and I’m not sure if she’s holding back tears or laughter. Or maybe she’s just in shock.

  “I don’t think I could ever find a more perfect venue for a proposal,” I say. “And since our friends and sisters are here, I’ll never hear the end of it if you shut me down. But that’s a risk I have to take. Because I love you, Jez. I think I loved you from the first moment I met you. I love your snark and your heat, your warmth and your sense of humor. You’re everything to me. You’re my soulmate.”

  She blinks, and though her eyes are watery, her face glows.

  “I never thought I would say this again. I never thought I would want to. But Jezebel Stuart, I don’t want to go another minute without knowing that you’ll be my wife. Baby, will you marry me?”

  My heart is pounding so hard I don’t even hear her answer. But I do hear the applause and whistles. And when Jez pulls me to my feet—when she flings her arms around my neck and kisses me hard and deep—that’s when I know her answer for sure.

  It’s yes.

  And as I kiss her back, surrounded by our friends and family, I can’t believe how lucky I am.

  Pretty Little Player

  Chapter One

  There are times in a man’s life that can be counted among the best ever. First kiss. First fuck. First taste of caviar and fine champagne.

  And the first time he meets the woman of his dreams.

  When he sees her across a room, her eyes sparkling. When he holds her in his arms on the dance floor, his thumb brushing the bare skin of her back, revealed by her low-cut dress. When he gets lost inside her the first time they make love.

  When she says, “I do.”

  That should be it, right? The pinnacle of life. The cherry on a sundae.

  If you stop the story right there, then it’s all about the happy ending. That’s where the movies always fade to the credits, right? Those sappy engagement ring commercials? The ads for flower delivery? Every syrupy romance novel?

  They all end on the high note.

  But turn the page, and guess what? That guy who won the girl? He’s not still singing a love song. On the contrary, he’s completely fucked. But not in the literal sense.

  Because in the real world, it’s some pretentious grad student who’s screwing his wife. And the guy wearing the ring—the guy sweating his ass off in fatigues in a foreign desert so his woman can sleep safe at night—that guy’s nothing more than a cuckolded fool.

  Too bitter?

  Maybe. I don’t know. Is there a limit to pain when you have a broken heart?

  All I know is that I’m not alone. And the truth is, misery really doesn’t love company.

  But those pleasures in life I mentioned? A man’s best moments? One of them is when he catches a cheating woman in the act and completely shuts her down. I ought to know. In my line of work, I’ve helped out a lot of guys with that particular problem. And I’m good at what I do.

  Let’s just say I’m highly motivated.

  Payback’s a bitch, after all.

  Chapter Two

  The internet is an amazing thing.

  Not even four hours since I took on my case—a cheating fiancée—and I already have a hefty amount of intel on the two-timing little bitch.

  Excuse me—the suspected near-adulterer.

  I know her name is Gracie Harmon, although to be fair I learned that fact from my client. She’s twenty-nine years old and owns a small house in Travis Heights, although for the past few days, she’s been living in the ultra-classy historic Driskill Hotel on Congress Avenue. Convenient, since my office is just across the street, but a bit odd. Her house is only a few miles away, after all, and as far as I can tell there are no renovations or pest treatments or other maintenance-related activities currently underway.

  Suspicious? A bit. But maybe she’s not camping out in a high-end love nest. Maybe the girl just likes to be pampered. Except I also know she hasn’t arranged for the hotel masseuse, and the concierge hasn’t booked her time at an off-site spa.

  So that’s one mystery.

  But on the plus side, I know the online address for her Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter accounts. So, if she posts about the hotel, I’ve got a window. Although she doesn’t seem to post much at all, and what she does stays far away from the personal. A bit odd in the share-everything-right-now world we live in, but not condemning.

  I know that she makes a decent living as a model—according to her Instagram profile, she primarily models plus-size lingerie and swimsuits—and I know that she’s stunning, with golden blond hair, hypnotic blue eyes, and the kind of curves a man appreciates. Granted, that’s more a personal preference than a fact, but considering what she does for a living, I also know that my opinion is shared by any number of men.

  Maybe that’s why she cheats? The temptation is just too hard to resist when so many men see so much of her online?

  To which, of course, my response would be “try harder,” but in my experience, women often don’t. And I have a lot of experience documenting cheating wives for their mostly angry and sometimes baffled husbands.

  Usually, I limit myself to cases involving adultery. But once or twice I’ve been retained by a guy wanting to check out his girlfriend before he pops the question. In those cases, I always point out that the fact they’re in my office is a sign that there are some trust issues, and that kneeling at her feet and offering a ring might not be the smartest move under the circumstances.

  Most of the time, they take the advice. Occasionally, they insist I poke my nose in where she really doesn’t want it.

  Today, I’m working for one of those insistent fellas.

  His name is Thomas Peterman, and he’s head-over-heels for our little Gracie. Has been for years, apparently. He told me they dated before, when she lived in Los Angeles, but that it ended when he found out that she’d hooked up with another man. He was heartbroken, but they recently crossed paths again in Austin, and now things are sunshine and roses and the tinkle of wedding bells.

  Or he wants them to be.

  He has concerns, especially since she left him once before. Now, he’s afraid that not only does she bump up against a lot of men in her professional career, but that she’s also bumping uglies with them. He saw her with another man having a drink at a local bar. Maybe a friend, maybe an innocent after-work thing, but he had a bad feeling. And considering their history, he thought he should trust his gut.

  And so Mr. Thomas Peterman called Blackwell-Lyon Security, asked to speak with whoever could best handle a case of possible pre-marital infidelity, and our office manager, Kerrie, told him that yours truly, Cayden Lyon, was the man.

  Which brings me back to Gracie. Because after a consult with Mr. Peterman and the delivery of our standard retainer, I’m now holed up in the dark, atmospheric bar of Austin’s Driskill Hotel, sipping bourbon on a leather couch and pondering the enigmatic Gracie as she sits at the bar, chats up the bartender—with whom she looks quite cozy—and scrolls through emails on her phone.

  This, however, is not a surveillance gig. Or, rather, not yet.

  When we talked, I explained to Peterman that in cases like these—when the client is absolutely-sure-but-has-no-solid-proof—the best plan of attack is to get the proof he needs. Forty-eight hours minimum of surveillance. Video and still photography, interviews with shopkeepers and similar civilians to the extent the chats won’t tip off the subject, and detailed reports of comings and goings. If possible, phone records and credit card statements are analyzed, though that’s rarely possible in a pre-marital situation in such a limited time frame. And sometimes surprisingly difficult
even when a couple is in the throes of matrimony.

  You want to be cynical? Start diving into other people’s marriages. You’d be surprised how much the parties in question don’t know about each other. My naïveté was dispelled a long time ago. Trust me when I say that most illusions about the institution of marriage and the concept of fidelity disappear like smoke when you walk in on your naked wife with her feet in the air and another man’s face between her legs.

  But I digress.

  As I explained during that initial call, at the end of the forty-eight hour surveillance period, the investigator—that would be me—and the client—that would be Peterman—would sit down and review the information together.

  In my experience, if the subject is cheating, there are clues within those first few days. Then the client decides if he wants additional surveillance to better make his case in court. Or, in a pre-marital situation, to gird his loins for the inevitable cancelation of the wedding.

  Usually that’s the end of it. But sometimes the results suggest that the client’s suspicions are wrong and that the subject is completely faithful. Maybe the client is simply paranoid. Or maybe the subject is doing something outwardly suspicious but actually innocuous. Like the time a client’s wife was planning a massive tenth anniversary party. (And, I should note, she filed for divorce less than a week after learning that her husband had the temerity to question her faithfulness.)

  In one of those maybe-she’s-not situations, I always suggest that the client take a deep breath and take her on faith. I suggest it, but I don’t necessarily recommend it. Because ten-year anniversary parties aside, my personal and professional experience suggests that where there is smoke, there’s fire. And if you think she’s fucking around on you, she probably is. Just one more pretty little player in a world full of cheaters and liars.

  And in that situation, I suggest to the client that we move on to Plan B.

  All of which is to explain what happened today. Because I ran through the Plan A process with Peterman. I explained why surveillance made sense. How it was tried and true, and that he’d walk away with real and valuable information. Only after that initial assessment was made, could we decide the next step.