by BETH KERY
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they lay in bed, their limbs entwined, Elise’s head on his chest.
“Are you sure you are well?” he murmured, stroking her upper arm.
“I am so good,” she answered groggily. “But hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“I hardly ate anything at dinner. Emile will think I’m so unappreciative. If he thinks poorly of me, it’s all your fault,” she told him, pressing a small smile to his skin.
“I hardly think Emile and Richard are ones to judge the idiosyncrasies of two people . . . so involved with each other.”
Her warm breath seemed to cease at his pause.
“Lucien?”
“Yes,” he said, stroking her back now and once again wondering at her softness.
Another pause.
“Have you ever been in love?”
His caressing hand slowed.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I mean . . . I wouldn’t know for sure if I was.”
“I’m no expert on the matter,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But I do believe a person knows it, deep down, if they are. It’s just a matter of trusting that feeling, isn’t it?”
For the next minute, he couldn’t be sure if she slept or was thinking. She didn’t move as he caressed her, and her breathing was warm and even on his chest.
“Who was the man who died?” she asked suddenly, her clear voice startling him from his private ruminations about her earlier question.
“What?” he asked, bewildered.
“I heard Herr Shroeder tell you that someone was dead last night. He implied he’d been in prison, and you called him a sick fuck,” she mumbled, sounding very sleepy. “I just remembered that I wanted to ask you about it. I’d forgotten with everything you told me about your mother, and the terrace . . . and the restaurant,” she added lamely.
Her ear was pressed against his chest. He hoped she didn’t feel his increased heart rate.
“Remember I told you that a very important witness had informed Herr Shroeder that Helen Noble likely knew details about my mother’s identity and possible whereabouts?”
“Yes.”
“The man who died was that witness.”
“And he was in prison?” she asked, sounding a little less sleepy now.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she lifted her head from his chest. “Lucien?”
“Rape.” He expelled the word bitterly. “Worse than rape.”
He felt her mounting concern swelling in the silence.
“Did that man . . . rape your biological mother?” she whispered.
He winced. He put his hand on the back of her head and guided her back down to his chest. He’d tried to prepare himself for it. But when he heard the thick dread in Elise’s voice just now, he knew he was a fool for thinking he could accustom himself to such an ugly truth.
“I’ll never know for certain, until I find her . . . or until I speak with Helen Noble.”
“Oh, Lucien—”
“Not now, Elise. Please,” he whispered hoarsely when she tried to lift her head again. “Let me enjoy this moment with you. Let’s not ruin it.”
He felt her open her lips, but perhaps she registered a hint of his pain, because her lips closed again next to his skin. He hugged her tighter, and she reciprocated. Something swelled inside him, thick and hot, when he felt how she squeezed him with an almost desperate strength.
“I want to help,” he heard her say in a strangled voice.
“You are,” he assured her gruffly, trailing his hand along her spine, pressing her to him even more tightly. “Your being here with me is all the help in the world.”
Read the conclusion of Elise and Lucien’s red-hot romance in
Part VIII of WHEN I’M WITH YOU
WHEN WE ARE ONE
Available from InterMix on April 23, 2013
Keep reading for a taste of Beth Kery’s sexy romance
SWEET RESTRAINT
Available now from Berkley Heat
The man sitting in the driver’s seat of the car parked in an abandoned parking lot near the Cal-Sag Channel was a keg of dynamite about to blow. In fact Randall Moody had come here on this cold January Chicago night to ensure that he did. He wanted to be the one to toss the igniting match in his own good time, however, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near the explosion when it occurred.
He cautiously tapped twice on the car window.
“What the hell? How’d you find me?” Huey Mays asked after he’d peered through the window and unlocked the car door. Moody got into the passenger seat. His nose wrinkled in distaste.
“Smells like a distillery in here.” He glared repressively at Mays when he saw the other man had drawn his gun when he heard the knocking on the window, but didn’t tell him to put it away. He planned on Huey using that gun sometime soon, after all. Huey’d need it handy.
Moody shivered uncontrollably for a moment, cursing his aching joints and aging body. Dammit, Huey Mays’s life was about to come to an end. What he wouldn’t give to have his younger, more virile body, even though Mays had wasted much of his health on alcohol, drugs, and multiple daily doses of rich, fatty foods. Moody was pushing sixty but he worked out at his health club vigilantly and was fastidious about what he drank and ate. He considered aging a weakness, but what he despised even more was Huey’s lack of discipline and tendency to wallow in his carnal nature.
“One of the patrolmen saw your car out here,” Moody replied, his tone smooth and warm, carrying no hint of the bitter resentment he felt. There was no reason to elaborate further. Mays knew as well as anyone Moody had one of the best information networks in the city. If something significant was going down in Chicago, chances are Randall Moody knew about it. Thirty-five years in the Chicago Police Department and carefully established contacts in both government and the underworld had seen to that.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Huey muttered. His hands moved nervously along his thighs as he wiped the sweat off his palms, but Moody was glad to see he merely placed his gun in his lap instead of putting it away. “You’ve gotta help me get out of this mess. The feds are breathing down my back to name names, you know.”
“I told you they would. I also told you why it wouldn’t be in your best interest to do so,” Moody said calmly.
“They say it’ll reduce my sentence to almost nothing.”
“Almost nothing? Your best scenario—best, mind you—would be five years in federal lockup. Might as well say an eternity when it comes to you, Huey. Have you thought about what that’d be like? No cocktail available every time you get nervous. No cocaine to give you a nice jolt.” Moody slowly removed his leather gloves and stacked them neatly on his black cashmere overcoat. He inspected his well-manicured nails. “And, of course . . . you’ll be on the receiving end instead of the instigator in the type of sex you prefer—”
“There’s not a chance in hell!” Huey shouted. His eyes looked bloodshot and wild. Moody was pleased to see he looked like a man who stood right on the edge.
“And the fact of the matter remains, Huey. Any benefit you receive from pointing fingers will be very short-lived. It’s time you took responsibility for your own actions.”
“Nothing?” Huey entreated gruffly. “There’s nothing you can do for me?”
“Your fate is in your own hands, I’m afraid,” Moody said, his gaze flickering down to the gun in Huey’s lap.
“I should have gotten rid of Shane Dominic years ago.”
“When the time is right, Dominic will be taken care of, I assure you of that.”
“Or better yet, we should have just whacked her back then.”
“Your
wife is a lovely woman. We aren’t such monsters that we kill something so delicate and rare,” Moody remonstrated.
“Better you would have married the bitch, then.” Huey’s smile resembled a snarl as he stared blankly out the front window, obviously picturing something much more pleasant in his mind than the black winter’s night. “I got her good, though. Both her and that asshole Dominic.”
Moody shook his head sadly and reached for the handle on the passenger door. “This is your chance, Huey, to show your wife she married a strong man, a disciplined man. Do yourself a favor and take advantage of the opportunity while you still possess not only your freedom and your honor, but your manhood. Don’t let Shane Dominic take that away from you as well.”
Moody patted Huey’s knee in a gesture of paternal encouragement before he exited the car.
***
Shane Dominic noticed Clarissa’s sharp brown eyes on him in the reflection of the mirror on the antique armoire and coat tree. He dropped his hand from where he’d been pressing his fingertips to his scalding eyelids and caught her in his arms as she spun around.
“You know how horny this dress makes me,” he murmured next to her neck. “You wore it to the City Club dinner last fall. I could barely string two words together during my speech because I kept thinking about getting you into bed and stripping you out of it.”
Clarissa’s laughter vibrated into his lips as he pressed them to her throat.
“That was last fall, Dom. What about tonight?”
His fingers found the zipper on the sexy burgundy cocktail dress and lowered it. “Tonight I can’t wait for bed. I’m going to have to take you right here in the hallway, I think.”
He smiled when he felt her shiver beneath his marauding mouth. Her fingers delved into his hair, urging him down to the breast that he’d just revealed by sweeping aside the clinging fabric of her bra. He paused, however, and grabbed her wrist. When he pushed it behind her it forced her back into an arch. She moaned as he inspected her small, pink-tipped breast. He blew on it softly.
“You’re such a tease, Dom,” she mumbled. But she arched higher for him, pushing her nipple closer to his mouth.
He chuckled before he licked her nipple lightly. “You’re the one who teased me all night by wearing this dress. Now you’re going to have to pay for it.”
“I can’t wait,” she whispered.
He glanced up at her. His eyes chose that unfortunate moment to burn and water. He clenched his eyelids shut for a brief second to get relief.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Clarissa asked.
“What?” he mumbled, not really paying attention. He lowered his head to Clarissa’s beading nipple, his entire attention focused on the sensation of every tiny bump rolling across his tongue. Single-minded, that’s how Clarissa always described him.
She moaned in pleasure, so it surprised him when she jerked at his hair with the hand he wasn’t restraining behind her back. He glanced up at her.
“I think you’re trying to change the subject. I think you’re exhausted, that’s what I think. You’ve worked nonstop this week on that corrupt cop investigation only to have another speaking engagement tonight at the Magellan Club. You’re burning the wick at both ends, Dom. Why do you feel you have to hide your fatigue from me?”
“I don’t feel the need to hide anything from you, Clarissa,” he assured her before he bent his head again to attend to a tight nipple.
She snorted.
Shane regretfully straightened to his full height. He didn’t need to be an expert on human behavior to know that she wasn’t going to allow him to make love to her until she said whatever was on her mind.
“If you refer to my work, you know I can’t tell you much beyond what the press releases about any Bureau investigations,” he said as he removed his overcoat and hung it on the entryway armoire. The jacket to his tuxedo followed.
“Give me a break, Dom. You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
He hid a grimace when he saw the expression of stark annoyance on her face. He’d let the familiar phrase out of his mouth before he’d had time to censor himself. But worse, he’d apparently delivered the line in that brusque manner that never failed to push his fiancée’s red button of irritation.
Don’t you dare use that Special-Agent-in-Charge tone with me. Christ, no wonder they say you’ve got a heart of stone, Dom.
Clarissa’s past accusation echoed in his head as he gently pulled the fabric of her dress back into place on her shoulder.
She had a right to be pissed at him. He’d barely spoken with her in a week and a half, he realized guiltily. Robert Elliot, the United States Attorney for the northern district of Illinois, had just handed him those much-sought-after arrest warrants four nights ago designated for several cops in the Chicago Police Department.
But no matter how good his reasons for doing so, Clarissa wasn’t likely to appreciate him ignoring her for the past ten days only to have him maul her the second he had her to himself.
He led her into his book-lined study and sat her down on the leather couch.
“I know I haven’t been able to see you much this week. Tell you what,” he said softly. “Let me go and get out of this monkey suit. I’ll make us a drink and we’ll talk.”
Her dark eyes swam with tears as she looked up at him. Clarissa was one of the smartest and most successful financial analysts on LaSalle Street. She didn’t cry easily.
“We’re going to be married in two months, Dom. Why can’t you even admit to me that you’re exhausted? Can’t you show even a shred of vulnerability in front of your future wife?”
He smiled. “You want me to tell you that I’m exhausted? Okay. I’m about ready to fall flat on my face. I’ve probably slept a total of eight hours in the past week and my eyeballs feel like they’re going to burn through my eyelids. My vision is so blurry that I told the president of the Magellan Club that he needn’t bother with getting me a drink from the bar because another gentleman was already getting me one.”
“What’s so terrible about that?”
“That other gentleman was his wife.”
Clarissa’s lips twitched with humor. “You didn’t.”
Shane shrugged sheepishly.
“You also told the superintendent of police that you were going to give a nice Liverpool kiss to the next man who ribbed you about being named the ‘Sexiest Man in Chicago’ by Chicago magazine. I didn’t understand that you were threatening him until John McNamara explained to me that a Liverpool kiss was a street-fighting technique—a brutal head-to-head blow.”
“That threat counts for women, too,” Shane said with a mock somber expression. Clarissa grinned.
“Maybe you should have threatened someone besides the superintendent of police, considering the fact that more than half the city sees you as being responsible for taking away their trust in the Chicago Police Department.”
Shane’s eyebrows went up at that. “Operation Serve and Protect exists for the sole purpose of returning the public’s trust in the CPD. Jake Moriarity knows that. That’s why he’s backed the FBI’s investigations of CPD corruption one hundred percent.”
“Are you sure that’s the only motivation behind your mania for this investigation?”
Shane paused in the process of untying his bow tie. “Mania? That’s a bit harsh.”
Clarissa didn’t break their stare.
“This case falls directly under several FBI directives for investigation. Christ, we’ve uncovered the largest organized theft ring in known history, one that crosses multiple state lines and is run by public officials. What other motivation do we need?”
Clarissa looked vaguely uncomfortable at the question but she didn’t look away, nonetheless. “Well . . . there are those insinuations that Channel Six News made
about your connections to the Vasquez family.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I know a quarter of the cops and most of the detectives on the CPD. I not only have worked with dozens of Chicago cops, I call many of them friends . . . including Joey Vasquez.”
“But how many of those cops did you attend elementary school with like you did Joey Vasquez?” Clarissa persisted. “And . . . and that news report said Huey Mays’s wife is Joey Vasquez’s sister and that you’ve known her for ages . . .”
She trailed off but continued to study his face hungrily.
Shane froze before he jerked the bow tie off his neck, the sliding silk making a hissing sound. “I knew Laura Vasquez, Clarissa. I haven’t spoken to her in over a dozen years. What’s your point?”
Clarissa exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what my point is. You’ve just seemed so obsessed with this case.”
“You tell me I’m always single-minded about whatever’s on my plate.”
“You are. You have a one-track mind, Dom.” She shook her head and laughed softly when he lifted an eyebrow and lowered his gaze to her still erect nipple pressing against thin fabric.
“They showed a picture of her, you know,” Clarissa said, laughter still clinging to her lips. “On the news. Laura Mays, I mean. She’s extremely beautiful.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Her expression turned a little sheepish. “Of course you have good reason to be obsessed with this case. Some of the things those cops were doing . . .” She shook her head in mixed disbelief and disgust as she removed a clip at the back of her head. Her dark blonde hair fell around her shoulders. “I mean, using the police department resources to steal from innocent people, severely beating some of those innocent people, three of them nearly to death in the process, extorting untold amounts of cash from drug dealers and other criminals . . . it boggles the mind, to be honest. They were nothing more than a vicious organized gang operating out of the offices of the CPD.
