Indiscreet

by Alison Kent

  “Then I’ll be around for a while.”

  “Well,” she began, feeling strangely impish, as if the decided course of action allowed her to push away her misgivings as well as her fears. “I have been meaning to finish furnishing the guest room.”

  “Guest room?” His arms came down with a splash. “What kind of crap is that?”

  Teasingly, she went on. “You can choose your own color scheme, of course. And accessorize the space yourself.”

  “I’m not staying in the friggin’ guest room, Annabel. I’m staying with you.”

  She pressed her lips tight to hold off a laugh at his endearing adamancy. “Do you realize that when you’re thirty-six I’ll be forty-three?”

  “Yeah, and when I’m ninety-six you’ll be a hundred and three.” The hoop in his nipple twinkled, as did the one in his ear. “What about it?”

  “Nothing really.” Looking down, she swirled her fingers through the water between them, brushing ever so lightly over his groin.

  He gasped, sucking in a sharp breath. “You think I’m too young for you?”

  “I think you’re young, yes.” She leaned forward, took his nipple ring between her teeth and tugged, letting go and teasing his tight nub with her tongue.

  “And you’re just entering your prime,” he managed to mutter from between gritted teeth.

  She sat back, cocked her head, moved her fingers down beneath his balls. “Is that so?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and groaned. “By the way, have I ever told you how glad I am that you keep your nails short?”

  “I see,” she said, demonstrating thoroughly how very short they were.

  “You’re not a guy, so I doubt that you do.” He blew out a series of short panting breaths, then released a seriously satisfied sigh. “But you can definitely feel.”

  “Like that?”

  “God, yes. You’re the only woman I’ve let touch me like that. Hell, you’re the only one who’s ever wanted to.”

  “I like touching you, Patrick. It…stimulates me.” She circled her clit before testing her own readiness.

  “And here I thought I was the one getting a rise out of it.”

  “And what a nice rise it is,” she said, wrapping her hand around him.

  His eyes burned brightly. “Then a proper show of appreciation is in order.”

  “There’s nothing proper about what we do together, Patrick.” At that, she took him deeply inside.

  Neither one of them moved. They simply sat there, joined in the most intimate mating of bodies, staring into each other’s eyes. She felt as if for the very first time she knew the purity, the immeasurable depth, the passion of Patrick’s soul, and she could no longer deny her love.

  “I want to kiss you,” he finally said, his voice a raw whisper, his eyes growing red-rimmed.

  She shook her head, although she couldn’t deny how much she wanted the very same thing. “No, you don’t. You’ll taste too much of yourself.”

  “No,” he said, shifting his hips forward so that he buried himself even deeper within her body. “I’ll taste us.”

  And then he cupped his hand to the back of her head, pulled her to him and drove his tongue into her mouth.

  ANNABEL DIDN’T CARE that Patrick wanted to stay at the loft to do what advance prep he could for Friday night’s showing. She wanted him with her at Devon’s gallery for Luc Beacon’s Tuesday morning travel-ad shoot.

  Since the incident with Dega a week ago, she hadn’t let Patrick out of her sight. She had no idea why she thought she could keep him safer than he could keep himself. But there it was. Her need to know he was out of harm’s way was as real as the cast immobilizing the leg Russell Dega had fractured.

  The depth of trouble Patrick was in went beyond what she’d convinced herself she was willing to overlook. She was still too scared to tell him that she loved him. Admitting it to herself had been hard enough. But speaking the words, lowering her walls, opening her heart to a man whose stability she still wasn’t sure she could trust…She shook her head.

  Soon, but not yet.

  Once this shoot was out of the way. Or maybe once they’d made it through New Year’s Eve in one piece. Only three days remained until Devon’s showing. Her stress level, which had skyrocketed this time last week, still hadn’t safely splashed down. It would, though, of that she was fairly certain. What she didn’t know, couldn’t anticipate, was the frame of mind she’d be in once it did.

  Standing in front of the single floor-length mirror in the gallery studio’s small dressing room, Annabel adjusted the belt on the cargo-style jumpsuit she wore and pondered again her current pickle. Not the pickle of wearing what looked and fitted like a leopard-print parachute and did nothing for her very fine ass, but the pickle of loving an unsuitable, dangerous and inappropriate man.

  She would have to tell him how she felt. But dealing with the emotion had her reeling and unbalanced, even while feeling strangely…giddy. She smiled for no reason way too often. Patrick had caught her in the act and once actually backed away. That, of course, had started her giggling.

  She’d chased him threateningly through the loft, giving his gimpiness a head start, laughing maniacally as they’d tumbled onto the sofa. For a long time after, they’d simply lain there in one another’s arms, breathing together, silent in their communication, speaking with their heartbeats and their fingertips and quiet brushes of lips.

  She’d never in her life experienced anything like those amazing moments, lying on him as much as at his side, their legs tangled, her head in the curve of his shoulder, his arm around her back, keeping her from tumbling to the floor. This love business was frightening, exhilarating and too uncertain—all emotions she’d long thought unhealthy in their inability to be controlled.

  Of course, here she was out of control and wearing a parachute; each time she moved she expected the material to deploy, what with its swish, swish, swish as she walked and its refusal to cling to any of her curves. She’d worked with Luc Beacon often in the past and had always trusted his judgment. But, good grief, what in the world had he been thinking? She looked so much better in Lycra.

  The travel agency that had hired the photographer to shoot the ads for their summer campaign was looking to promote a new “Sex and the Safari” tour package. Said package was aimed toward single female professionals who wanted to let down their hair, kick out of their Manolo Blahniks, and run wild with nubile young jungle boys.

  The running would all be done in a climate-controlled and catered environment complete with Grecian pool and spa, Finnish sauna and twenty-four-hour Swedish massage. The pool, spa, sauna and massage sounded like heaven, but Annabel doubted that before knowing Patrick Coffey she would have been able to see the jungle boy appeal. Now, however, she was a full proponent of getting naked and savage. At least with her savage.

  What she was not the least enamored with was this outfit.

  Muttering to herself, she gave up on doing any sort of accessorizing with the belt she’d been given to wear. Her hair had been slicked back, her makeup appropriately applied in sweeping strokes of olive and dust. She’d laced the drawstring hems of both pant legs tight above the Manolo Blahniks out of which she would be kicking. She’d even ditched her bra and left the jumpsuit open from stem to stern.

  She turned this way and that in the dressing room mirror. It wasn’t a bad look; it just wasn’t her. She cast a frowning glance at Luc’s assistant for a second opinion. “Well?”

  Gennie smiled, taking the belt Annabel offered and grasping it close to her chest. “You look awesome, Ms. Lee. Luc is so going to die.”

  “I’d rather he wait until after the shoot,” Annabel said, heading for the door. “I don’t plan to star in his skydiving fantasy again.”

  The dressing room opened onto the hardwood floor at the rear of the dark high-ceilinged studio. Camera strapped around his neck, Luc stood off to the side talking to Patrick, who sat in a plain f
olding chair.

  He still didn’t look thrilled that she’d appointed herself his baby-sitter, but at least he hadn’t called a cab and vanished while her back was turned. And, really. She did like having him around. In fact, just as it had on Christmas Eve, his decision to stay put a new bounce in her already swishy walk.

  Umbrella reflectors and lighting equipment clamped to C-stands sat clustered around the room. Luc’s safari set consisted of a bamboo hut mock-up with a hammock suspended from the thatched roof. Nearby, handler at the ready, two parrots perched on a bamboo bird stand. As critical of the backdrop as of her own appearance, Annabel decided Luc was just not in his element today. The set needed serious sexing up.

  She considered how to do just that while she followed Luc’s posing instructions. Bracing a hip on the hut’s porch railing, she stood with a parrot on one shoulder, another on her arm. Lounging in the doorway, she turned her head in profile. Standing with her feet spread wide in the stilettos, she held on to the porch support beams as a wind machine tried to blow her away.

  Finally Luc stopped. He scrubbed a hand over his near-white buzz cut, rubbed behind his black-rimmed glasses at his eyes, which were bleary. “I’m not in love with this, Annabel. It just doesn’t say sexy to me.”

  Taking a deep breath and stepping out of the glare of the lights, Annabel glanced over at Patrick, who was standing now and leaning on one crutch. He shrugged, his earring twinkling, and reached one arm overhead and stretched, left, right, back, twisting one way, then the other. The motion of his body was so naturally sexy…Inspiration struck. “Gennie, would you bring me that belt?”

  With Luc looking on, Annabel took the belt from his assistant and motioned Patrick forward. Eyes rolling, and obviously reading her mind, he stripped off his shirt. Gennie twittered. Luc cleared his throat. He started to speak but stopped—Annabel had predicted he would—as he watched Patrick peel off the snap-away warm-up pants he wore over his cast and the single sandal he had on.

  “Amazing,” the photographer muttered, his gaze taking in Patrick’s coiled tattoo. His eyes widened further as Patrick clumped past him toward the set across the room, grumbling under his breath the entire way.

  “What do you think, Luc?” Annabel asked, knowing the effect the head of the snake in the small of Patrick’s back had at first viewing.

  “Brilliant,” the photographer said, looking down to adjust his camera’s settings. “Utterly, frighteningly brilliant.”

  Annabel turned to Patrick as he ducked beneath the thatched porch, his expression petulantly glum, the thud of his crutch on the hardwood floor emphasizing his mood. “I know, I know,” she said, reaching a soothing hand to his cheek. “You feel like a freak.”

  “Freak, hell,” he grumbled. “I feel like a piece of meat.”

  “You are a piece of meat,” she whispered into his ear, biting the lobe and slipping the belt she’d previously had no use for around his neck like a leash.

  Patrick glanced at the strip of faux black crocodile she held in her hand. His eyes sparked, his mouth twisted, his nostrils flared. “You’re going to pay for this, sweetheart.”

  She gave a gentle tug to the belt, tweaked the ring in his nipple, managed to keep from pulling his mouth down to hers. “Exact your price, jungle boy.”

  “You’d better believe that I will.”

  In front of them, Luc’s camera began to whir. “Ah, yes, Annabel, you angel. This is the sexy I was looking for. Keep it up. Don’t stop.”

  “I’m wearing my friggin’ underwear here,” Patrick growled to no one in particular.

  What he was wearing was a pair of very formfitting, long-legged briefs in basic black. Annabel shivered. “Women won’t be able to resist.”

  “The ad will sell millions,” Gennie added breathlessly.

  Patrick snorted. “Millions of pairs of my underwear?”

  “No.” Luc shook his head, continuing to shoot. “We’ll Photoshop them right off of you.”

  “Oh, that’s even better,” Patrick said, and Annabel laughed, turned, tugged on the belt as if leading her pet. He grabbed hold of the faux leather and forced her back. “Aren’t we supposed to be posing here or something?”

  “No, no. This is perfect,” she insisted. “This is the attitude the ad needs. ‘Sex and the Safari.’ Hot studly jungle boys and the women who keep them leashed.”

  He groaned and leaned closer to whisper, “This won’t go up on a billboard, will it?”

  “The agency probably won’t use our faces at all. Just our bodies. It’s all about sex and anonymity,” Annabel answered, then realized Luc had stopped shooting. She shaded her eyes and glanced beyond the blinding lights to where he stood with his eye to the camera, his hands still. “Luc?”

  “Huh. Strange.” He shook off the comment and began shooting again.

  “Strange doesn’t even cover it,” Patrick said.

  “Down, boy.” Annabel tugged on his leash and returned her attention to Luc. “What’s strange?”

  Letting his camera hang on its strap, Luc walked toward them, stopping at the edge of the set. He stared at Patrick’s leg, blew out a curious huff. “Did you know your tattoo looks like it’s written in code?”

  Annabel’s heart thumped. Her gaze shot to Patrick’s, then to his leg where he was staring, his mouth a grim line, his temple throbbing. Her voice croaked out in a whisper. “What do you mean, a code?”

  Luc shook his head, shoved his hand over his hair again. “Code’s probably not the right word. It’s just the way the design is laid out.”

  “Show me,” Patrick demanded.

  “Okay, look at the pattern of the scales.” He pointed as he spoke. “It’s balanced and symmetrical. At least the sections that are red, blue and green.”

  “And the yellow?” Annabel asked, nearly breathless.

  “That’s the thing. The bars of yellow seem random, but they’re not. Turn around,” Luc ordered Patrick with a spin of one finger. “It starts here.” Annabel studied the snake’s head, where Luc pointed out the first series of yellow markings. “This is the key. There are ten individual shapes right here, and they’re scattered the length of the snake.”

  “Ten shapes,” Patrick repeated, staring down at the part of his thigh he could see. “Zero through nine.”

  “I’m probably imagining things, but I design a lot of mandalas.” Luc looked from Annabel to Patrick as each stared. “It’s Sanskrit.” He gestured as if at a loss to explain. “A ritualistic geometric design. Colorful. Symbolic of the universe. They’re used in Hinduism and Buddhism to aid in mediation. Which is why the pattern stood out.”

  “The code,” Patrick said, looking down at Annabel.

  She got to her feet, loosened the leash from his neck. “Sorry, Luc. Shoot’s over. We’ve got to go.”

  12

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s in his tattoo,” Sydney said. “I never would’ve guessed.”

  “I know,” Annabel replied. “The photographer I occasionally work for discovered it today.”

  “Discovered what?” Ray asked, walking into the kitchen and sliding the patio door closed on its tracks.

  “The code,” Sydney said. “The information Dega wants from Patrick. Soledad hid it in his tattoo.”

  “What?” Ray’s voice raised the rafters. “How do you know? And why the hell didn’t someone tell me?”

  “She is telling you, Ray,” Sydney replied. “They only found it today.”

  “We’re still in the dark as to exactly what the information is going to reveal,” Annabel added. “We left it in the hands of the FBI.”

  Snapping up his sweatpants in the small private study off the kitchen, Patrick shook his head, listening to his brother and the two women go at it in the other room. He’d closed himself in here earlier, while Sydney and Annabel worked on throwing together a quick dinner of burgers and fries.

  So much for the downtime he’d desperately needed.

  He’d spent the four hours before arrivin
g at the house bare-ass naked, or near enough, having literally every inch of his tattoo scrutinized, measured, photographed and scanned in the FBI lab.

  He’d spent the last thirty minutes doing his own study while sitting in the same chair his and Ray’s father had sat in every night after dinner for years. Patrick supposed he’d been looking for the same peace and quiet, the same sense of privacy their dad had come here to find.

  The room had been off-limits then; as boys, they were only allowed in by invitation. As a kid Patrick had been awed by the room, had spoken in a whisper anytime he’d been inside. Later he’d come to realize that this study, and not the family room, was the true hub of the household. Out of it bills were paid, home remodeling contracts analyzed, decisions made on family vacation destinations.

  Sitting here now, swiveling from side to side in the cracked leather desk chair, which had to be thirty years old, Patrick realized that their father had probably loved this room for another reason, as well.

  It kept him near their mother, who had puttered endlessly in the kitchen and family-size breakfast room. Patrick realized that fact because he liked sitting here and hearing Annabel’s voice nearby.

  After he and Annabel had made the drive from the FBI office to the Woodlands and filled in Sydney as she arrived home from the office, Patrick had come in here to unwind, to get a grip, to wait for Ray to arrive home. And to decide if the pain and the cash would be worth removing the tattoo.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to live beneath the specter of Russell Dega for the rest of his days. What he wanted was the normalcy of family life this room caused him to feel.

  And he wanted it with Annabel.

  Unfortunately, plans for his future—their future—were going to have to wait, as would any thoughts of returning the skin on his leg to rights. He was branded with more than a memory of Dega and the time Patrick spent with Soledad.

  Patrick was carrying what might turn out to be a record of not only Dega’s piratical activity but years’ worth of Caribbean crime.