by Cherry Adair
Taylor shook her head, then started looking around for her shoes. “Do you study being a pain in the ass, or is it a gift?” she asked in German.
“It’s a gift,” he answered fluently in the same language. “Is that where you make your home? Germany?”
“I’m a quarter German.” Which of course didn’t answer his question, nor was it true. Languages came easily to her, and Taylor wanted to know how much he’d understand when they reached Zurich. Now she knew. “German-Austrian, actually,” she finished in English.
“Thanks for the genealogy update, but I’m more interested in what you’re hiding.”
Bent over, one shoe in her hand, she glanced up. “Hiding? You searched me before we boarded.” And it had been an exciting if rather impersonal experience. At least for her. Because the second he’d put his hands on her, her body remembered a shadowy room in San Cristóbal.
“Hiding in Switzerland,” he prodded.
Taylor blinked. She was starting to get twitchy about those damn eyes of his. The thundercloud gray seemed to probe directly into her brain. She didn’t like the idea that he could read her mind one bit. Here was a man not in the least distracted by her breasts, or her smart mouth, or any of the other smoke-and-mirror tactics she usually used to hide in plain sight.
He saw her.
Oh, please. Get a grip. No, he didn’t. It was her overactive imagination working at full throttle. Ah. There was her other shoe. She slipped it on, then leaned back in her seat and slid one smooth leg over the other. She noticed a small muscle clench in his jaw. “We’ve already had this conversation. Remember?”
“What’s in Zurich besides your lockbox?” He wasn’t going to give it up.
Neither was she going to be easy to crack. My sister, my home, safety. “Clocks? The Alps? Cheese? Watches? Unbelievable chocolate? Take your pick.”
“Lax banking regulations and no extradition treaty.” That slight trace of British accent clipped the words as neatly as a privet hedge.
Taylor rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and shrugged. “Well now, if you know that, I’m not hiding anything, am I?”
“There’s more here you’re not telling me.”
“Well, in the vernacular, duh.” She glanced around the room. “Where are the other two stooges?”
“Kipping in the back.”
Taylor widened her eyes. “Lord, I hope that isn’t as nasty as it sounds.”
“Sleeping.” The gray of his eyes seemed to swirl and settle as he watched her, expressionless, from hooded eyes. “What caused you to become a thief?” he asked evenly.
Daniel’s Uncle Ralph had hired her to work in his Zurich company, Consolidated Underwriters. She’d been seventeen, scared, hungry, and willing to do just about anything. He started her in the mail room, and moved her up the ladder quickly. She’d had what Ralph Turner believed to be a God-given talent. She could save the company billions of dollars a year in claims by retrieving, and returning, stolen property.
“My mother is very sick,” she told Hunt. The lie came easily. Just a small quiver. Don’t overdo it.
“Still?”
“It’s been protracted,” she answered soberly, smoothing the thin silk over her knees and making her eyes look sad. “Yes. A very long time. Her medication is so expensive. Surgery would help, but we have no insurance.” She quickly considered; Brain tumor? A new heart? Restore her sight? What lasted a long time and was expensive?
“Remarkable woman,” he said.
Huntington St. John was the . . . stillest man she’d ever seen. He didn’t fidget, or shift in his seat. He didn’t cross his legs or tap his fingers. He just sat there watching her.
She forced herself to be just as still, giving him a guileless look.
“She must have amazing fortitude to hold on and suffer so . . . this long after her death,” he said dryly. “She passed away when you were, what? Seventeen?”
Shit. Had her mother really died when she was seventeen? She had no idea. She and Amanda had been in Zurich by then. For all she knew, he was making it up. But just in case he knew something she didn’t, she said, “I was talking about my stepmother.” Who didn’t exist. Taylor couldn’t tell by his Hmm if he believed her or was giving her enough rope to hang herself. “I—It’s too hard to talk about.”
“I’m sure it is. You’re very . . . athletic. Let’s talk about that instead.” He changed topics with ease, as if they were conversing over coffee at the park on a Sunday afternoon.
Gymnastics, ballet, and a natural ability. “My daddy trained me as an acrobat,” Taylor said, suddenly feeling Southern, and adding a little lilt before she thought about it. “He was in the circus.”
“Of course he was.” His lips twitched. Or she thought they did. But when she looked again, his mouth was a thin, grim line. Good. She didn’t want to amuse him. She wanted to snow him.
“I loved it,” Taylor told him, just warming up. “Of course, I was only allowed to visit him in the summers—my parents were divorced by then—but I adored the animals, and the smell of the greasepaint—”
“Called?”
“Max Factor?”
“The name of the circus,” he said patiently.
“It was small. Family owned, so it wasn’t very well known . . .” She needed a name—quick. “Coretti. The Coretti Family Circus. They traveled around from town to town. Drew pretty good audiences. They had three magnificent white tigers, four African elephants, and of course the lions. Pumbaa, Mufasa, and Scar.”
Oh, that was a nice touch. It was always good to keep things simple, not too much detail, but just enough to give verisimilitude.
“And clearly the owner of the circus liked Disney,” he inserted, voice Sahara dry.
Damn, he was quick. She could not imagine this man sitting through The Lion King, but she’d do well to remember not to underestimate him. “Oh, the circus was around long before Disney stole our lions’ names. Actually,” she leaned toward him as if spilling a state secret, “I think Pop Coretti is getting together a lawsuit. He figures if Disney wanted to steal his lions’ names, then they should have paid for it. I don’t think he has a shot, but Pop is a hard man.” Was he buying this? She couldn’t tell. She held his gaze, her own steady as a rock. No blinking.
One heartbeat. Two. Ten.
A small muscle leapt at the corner of his mouth. “Pop sounds like a stubborn man.” He was sounding more British by the minute. What did that mean? He was relaxing? Believing her? Or just the opposite?
“Oh, you have no idea. I was practically adopted by the trapeze artists,” Taylor informed him. “My father was always so busy, you know? So I learned as the Coretti children learned. Being an only child, I loved being among them. Eleven kids. Meals at Mama Coretti’s caravan were insane, noisy, and filled with laughter.” Lord. She could almost see it. Taste it. “It was a wonderful life. I hated going back home in September.”
His lips twitched. “I’m sure if one word of that fairy tale were true, that would’ve been the case.”
“Damn.” Taylor smiled at him as she curled her legs under her. Lord. How could she resist a man who got her? “What gave me away? It was the lions, wasn’t it?”
“I’m sure,” he said quietly, “that if you truly wanted me to believe that story, I would have believed it. You’re too damn good to slip up.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” She was intrigued by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was amused, yet he refused to crack a smile. She cocked her head. “Do you ever laugh?”
“If something is amusing.”
There was . . . what? A lessening of tension around his eyes? A warming of the familiar permafrost? “When was the last time you found something amusing?”
A glint flickered in his winter-gray eyes. Intrigued, she suspected he was secretly amused, yet his expression remained grave. “Your story was pretty damn funny.”
Taylor leaned back, her smile widening. “I certainl
y enjoyed it.”
“If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?”
Her smile slipped a little. “Completely?” When had she last told the truth to anyone other than a member of Consolidated’s Super Hush-Hush Recovery committee? A long, long time ago. She was far more adept at fabrication than truth. “In my line of work the truth doesn’t come up that often.”
This was the first time in over ten years that Taylor had been tempted to spill every secret she had. Tempted. But she wasn’t foolish.
“Now would be an excellent time to start,” Hunt said, not moving. “And yes. Completely.”
“How about mostly?”
He inclined his head slightly, dark hair glossy in the muted light. “Why do you steal?” The accent was back. He was back to being annoyed. “Surely to God you must have more than enough bloody money for fifty lifetimes by now.”
Taylor met his gaze with a level look of her own. “I make five percent of what I retrieve.”
“Retrieve . . .” His eyes glittered. “Insurance. Jesus bloody Christ. You work for an insurance company? You might have mentioned—”
“Underwriters. A group of European gentlemen,” she told him, “who prefer to remain anonymous. And the job title on my business card reads ‘International Real Estate Broker.’ ”
“How long?”
Taylor shrugged. “Close to ten years now.”
He sat up straighter. “And where the bloody hell was this group of ’European gentlemen’ when you were being beaten senseless in a San Cristóbal jail?”
“They aren’t responsible for my well-being,” she told him, puzzled by his anger. “I was the one who got caught.”
She saw a muscle clench in his lean jaw. “You could have died in that hellhole.”
“Thanks to you,” she said lightly, “I didn’t.”
“Do you know how much fu—how much frigging time you could have saved by just telling me who you were and what you were doing in Morales’s safe?” he asked with lethal fury.
“I didn’t know who you were,” she pointed out reasonably. “I had absolutely no reason to trust you, and plenty of reason not to.”
“Do you trust anyone?” he asked flatly. “Anyone at all?”
Taylor frowned. “I don’t understand you. Why are you so livid? We played the game. I forfeited. You won.”
“Answer the question.”
“No,” she told him, baffled by the question, and his anger. “There’s no one I trust.” His expression was back to being inscrutable. “About the same amount of people you trust,” she added lightly. “Right?”
He rose to tower over her, blocking out the light. Taylor’s heart leapt into her throat as she looked up at him.
Hunt wanted to strike something. Hard. “There might only be a handful,” he told her. “But there are people I trust.”
Jesus bloody Christ. There was no one she trusted? No one she could depend on? No one guarding her back when she risked life and limb for some lifeless cold pieces of metal and stone?
Worse. She clearly didn’t expect it to be any other way. She was bloody fine with it. With remarkable restraint, Hunt reached down, slid his hand under her silky hair, and curled his fingers around her nape. Her eyes widened as he pulled her to her feet, his gentleness in inverse proportion to what he was feeling. Which was wild. Primitive. Feral.
Anticipation, not fear, showed on her face as she rose on her toes so they were almost eye-to-eye. Air locked in his lungs as he looked his fill. He wanted to put his mouth against the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat. He wanted to take her down on the floor and fill his hands with her soft pale flesh.
“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” she asked, unaware, or uncaring of his mood. Her pretty mouth curved into a smile as she stood on her toes, sliding her palms up his arms for balance. “After I tell you everything, I’d have to kill y— Mmmph!”
He took her mouth in a slow, soft, drugging kiss. The kiss was inevitable. Predestined. She let him in, her breath soft on his face. He kissed her lightly. A brush of lips. An exchange of air. He threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head to draw her closer. She felt fragile beneath his hands. Slender bones and creamy skin. Agile, well-toned muscles and a quick-thinking mind. None of which would help her if, no, when she was finally bloody well captured.
He studied her for a long moment.
“That’s a pretty ferocious frown, Mr. St. John,” she murmured in a husky contralto, sliding her arms about his neck. “Are you contemplating kissing me properly, or killing me?” She pressed her soft feminine roundness against him, and he struggled to restrain his elemental response to her touch.
“Kissing you . . . improperly.” A shudder of need clawed through him, but he did his best to keep his cravings banked as he wrapped an arm about her waist and bent his head, keeping his exploration of her mouth tender. His tongue dueled with hers. God, she tasted sweet. Fiercely, hungrily, he feasted on her mouth, feeling as though he’d never kissed a woman before.
While one hand tangled in her hair, the other spanned the small of her back, his thumb caressed her smooth skin through tissue-thin silk. He was starving to touch bare skin, but kept his hands where they were. Silky hair and the promise of satiny skin. He had to be satisfied with those. For now.
His lips trailed a path across her cheekbone, then he traced a pattern with his tongue around the shell of her ear. She trembled. Her skin heated and warmed as he moved to her closed eyes and pressed a kiss to each lid. Her lashes fluttered against his skin, and the scent of her skin made his head swim.
Hunger, insatiable and not even close to satisfied, made him take her mouth again. A little deeper this time. Slow and deep until she shifted restlessly against him, pale eyes hazy and unfocused . . .
Nineteen
Taylor had never experienced anything as profoundly exciting as Hunt’s kiss. A sharp, sweet spear of sensation pierced through her entire body as his mouth continued to move over hers.
The lights in the cabin were dim, and the unobtrusive hum of the aircraft surrounded them in a quiet, protective blanket. She loved the heat and taste of his mouth, loved the texture of his tongue playing with hers. The pleasure of touching him, of him touching her, made her shiver with heat. Taylor tightened her arms around him.
Every part of her participated. Lord. It was like drowning. Or being reborn.
In a move so coordinated it could have been choreographed, Hunt started maneuvering her backward without breaking the kiss. As long as he holds me in his arms, and I stay on my toes, Taylor thought fuzzily, I won’t fall.
A door opened behind her. She lifted heavy lids, then blinked to bring her surroundings into focus. A bathroom. A quick flash of bronzed mirror-covered walls, plush carpeting, and soft, golden light. Like the rest of the plane, it was sinfully luxurious despite its small size.
Hunt freed the hand he’d used to cup her skull and reached out to push the door shut, closing them inside. The absolute control he used to close the door that quietly was so obvious she almost expected to feel the vibration and hear the sound of it slamming. Instead it closed with a quiet snick.
Her heart raced. Knife-edge anticipation. She had a quick flash of all those old black-and-white movies where they lit just the villain’s eyes. She shivered, but was too mesmerized to be scared. Although some small, sane part of her brain warned her that she should be. Sizzling mutual awareness rushed in to fill the air between them with heat.
Taylor reached out to touch the pulse beating in his lean, unshaven jaw. He trapped her gaze. She wondered how she had ever thought his gray eyes cold.
“This is what you want.” It wasn’t a question.
Her “Yes” was soundless. Was there any doubt? She couldn’t breathe as electricity arced between them. Want unfurled in her belly, and her pulse throbbed unevenly all over her body.
His mouth caught hers again in a kiss so carnal, so devastating, she went blind and
deaf as he ruthlessly used his skill to arouse her to fever pitch. He stroked his tongue into her mouth, slow and deep, until she reciprocated.
They broke apart, breath ragged. His eyes, glittering like fancy black diamonds, pinned her in place as he settled large hands on her hips. Bunching the thin silk of her dress in his fists, he backed her against the counter. Then slowly drew the fabric—inch by maddening inch—up her thighs.
She said his name in a hot, restless, urgent whisper as she clutched his arms for support. The tile was cool against her hips, but Hunt’s body was scalding hot as he crowded her. The ridge of his erection pressing against the cleft of her thighs made her dizzy. Fire danced in her veins as his hands skimmed across her bare skin, pulling the bit of red silk over her head and tossing it aside, forgotten. It floated to the floor.
She stood before him wearing two small scraps of sheer red lace and felt a flush of pleasure suffuse her skin at the hot look he gave her.
“God,” he said reverently, tracing the upper swells of her pale breasts with the back of his fingers. “I’ve never seen anything this perfect.” His deft, elegant hand moved lower, fingers skimming, too gently, as if learning every curvy inch of her.
Taylor’s head dropped back as his fingers glided down the damp valley between her breasts, then stroked the blue-veined skin beneath the edge of the demicup bra.
Her nipples, drawn tight and hard by his touch, ached. She fumbled to reach for the clasp.
“Porcelain—” His English accent was back in the ragged, hoarse tone.
“About to shatter,” Taylor said brokenly as he took his sweet time undoing the front clasp of her bra, then slowly drew the straps down her arms. It too landed somewhere on the floor. He cupped one breast, moving his thumb cleverly back and forth across the hard distended peak of that nipple until she had to bite her lip not to cry out.
His large, tanned hand looked shockingly male against the milky paleness of her skin. Hands trembling with urgency, she started unbuttoning his shirt, peeling the fabric away from the furnace of his skin.
He hooked his thumbs in the narrow ribbons on her hips and yanked the lacy thong down her legs. She kicked it off, hands going to the crisp dark hair on his chest, leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of his chest.
