by Reina Torres
Jordan cleared his throat. “Well thank you for taking the time to speak to us, Miss King. That was very informative. We’ll be sure to get the word out.”
Vicente unhooked the button at the waist of his suit coat and draped the garment over the back of the couch after he slid it off his arms. Sitting down on the comfortable cushions, he pulled out his phone.
A text message from Cruz made him regret ever giving the man his phone number.
YOU LOOK GOOD ON TV
There was a link in the next message.
Steeling himself, Vicente clicked on the link and waited for the video to load.
It was the news segment filmed at the Helping Hearts Center and there he was, standing behind Sloane. If he’d had any clue that the cameraman had included him in the shot, he would have moved away.
“It’s a good thing I don’t work undercover.” Having his face in a video like this would make it impossible.
He was ready to close the app on his phone and send a message back to Cruz when he stopped his finger over the X. He watched the clip that they posted online and then watched it again.
It wasn’t easy given that he’d been there the whole time and seen the whole uninvited interview. What they’d put online was barely an eighth of the interview. Realistically, it happened. He knew it, but the way this Jordan guy had cut the piece together, there was hardly anything he recognized.
It gave him a fresh perspective on her life.
He didn’t think reporters would ever want to do a story about him, but if they butchered things the way this hack did to what Sloane said, he would have their butts in a sling.
How did she deal with this?
He thought back to all the stories he’d seen about her on television throughout the years. All the seemingly inane answers that she’d given. How many times had he formed an opinion about her not because he knew anything about her, but by what the media had reported? How many times had there been a ‘real’ story behind the fluff that they posted about Sloane.
It didn’t make sense.
It wasn’t about sense.
It was about sensation.
He decided not to reply to Cruz. Instead, he just shut off his phone and tossed it onto the couch cushion beside him.
He owed Sloane an apology, but it just seemed too odd to talk about it now. How was he going to explain how long he’d judged her for nothing more than what was said about her?
Sinking down a little on the couch, he waited for her to come back from her bedroom so they could discuss her schedule. After getting a feeling for what it was like on a given day, he knew they’d need to talk about what they could do to protect her and allow her to continue her work. He knew he wasn’t going to convince her to put it on hold until they had definite proof that she wasn’t in danger.
“Agent Bravo, I-”
Startled, he turned on the couch, dropping one arm on the back as his eyes took her in. She’d come back into the room silently. Light feet on carpeting would do that he guessed.
His eyes roamed over her, struggling to understand what it was he was looking at. “What is that?”
She paused for a moment, narrowing her eyes at him as if she was trying to decipher a foreign language. “What is what?”
Pressing two fingers to his temple, Vicente muttered under his breath while he collected his thoughts. “I thought you were getting ready for… ready to sleep.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, she set her hands on her hips. “I did, and this,” she gestured along the side of her body from her chest to her waist, “is what I normally wear to bed.”
All he could see was a shiny robe with sleeves that hung down to her wrists and a bottom hem that barely… barely made it to the middle of her thighs.
And those thighs.
He’d seen her legs earlier, but thighs?
Long, shapely, and colored like peaches and cream down to her pale pink toenails. The air he’d had in his lungs fled like his good sense, leaving his chest tight and other parts of him aching and uncomfortable.
“Madre de dios! How about wearing some pants?”
“You’re actually going to tell me what to wear in my own apartment?” Her laughter wasn’t anything more than a huff that kind of sputtered from her lips. “That’s not going to work.”
“No,” he turned the tables on her, “that outfit isn’t going to work.”
She stared back at him with a curiously calm expression on her face. “You are the one who basically moved into my apartment. You can tell me where I can and cannot go. What I can and cannot do ‘outside’ these walls, but can you explain how what I wear in my apartment has anything to do with my security?”
He had no answer for her. It was an irrational outburst, but it was what it was.
Sitting there, looking up at her, watching her turn in one direction and then another, the hem of her robe fluttered just enough to take his breath. That teasing scrap of silk she’d tied around her body stole his sanity in one wavering movement.
Under her robe, Sloane King, was wearing something even shorter. If she sat down on the sofa beside him, there was no way he’d be able to pay attention to anything about her schedule. All he’d think about would be something completely inappropriate.
Like how her thighs would feel under his hands.
Facing down criminals?
Not a problem.
Plush thighs and eyes full of challenge?
He couldn’t seem to turn his mind away from the thoughts of her, and those shapely legs, and everything else in between, out of his head.
Blowing out a breath, Vicente shook his head. “I should have been more specific.”
It didn’t help that his admission changed her expression from a bit of consternation to an almost smirk that had him wanting to kiss it off.
Well, the smile… and maybe the rest of her clothing.
“Look,” she drew his attention back with a softer tone of her voice, “I’m sorry if I’m being a bit stubborn. It’s been a long day for me, but I’m sure it’s been just as long for you. So, if it will make things easier, I’m going to go and change.”
He leaned his head back against the cushions. “Thank you.”
Closing his eyes, he waited for the next onslaught on his senses. All he had to do was get through one talk and go to sleep.
Start the torture all over again in the morning.
This was supposed to be simple. Protect his charge. Keep her alive, and then move on to the next job.
He’d done it a hundred times. Solve the crime… move on. Find the kidnap victim… move on.
But Sloane. She was temptation.
She was walking, talking frustration.
The couch cushion beside him sank the slightest bit and he turned his head, cracking open one eye to see what she’d done to drive him insane.
And he wasn’t disappointed. She was one step away from a homemade hazmat suit. Thick socks, sweatpants and a sweatshirt that looked several sizes too big, a scarf that almost covered her mouth and a knit cap that was pulled on so tight it looked like a shower cap. In a word she was… overboard.
His sigh made her smother a laugh, and when his hand hit the cushion beside his thigh with a heavy thump, she jumped to her own defense.
“I’m covered.” She gestured at herself. “From my ankles all the way up to my nose. I’ll even stand up, so you can measure the length. Or I’ll hold my hands at my sides and you can see that it’s longer than my fingertips. Would that make you happy?”
“If I give you my gun, will you put a bullet through my head and end my pain?”
“I never knew that FBI Agents were so fatalistic… and afraid of women.”
That got him.
Both eyes were open and narrowed on her. He turned and toed off his shoe before drawing his leg up onto the sofa cushion. “I’m not afraid of women.”
Her look called him a liar.
“I have a job to do.”
“Then do it
, but you’re on my ground. In my apartment, Agent Bravo,” she clipped the syllables to enunciate her words, but she didn’t seem the least bit cowed by his presence or his building frustration. “It’s not like I’m walking around here naked. If there is someone out there trying to harm me, can I at least wear something comfortable at home? I’m sure my uncle will have them dress me up like a porcelain doll if they managed to shoot me. Until then, this apartment is supposed to be my sanctuary. My place to just be… me. I swear to you,” she sighed, “I’m not trying to be annoying. I think it just comes naturally. Some people just don’t like me.
“I’m sorry that you’re one of them. I wish I knew what to do to make it better, but I’ve never been able to meet everyone’s expectations. I don’t see how I’ll start now.”
He heard the soft scratch of her voice in her throat, saw the hesitant brush of her hand on her thigh, skimming the folds of those ridiculous sweatpants.
She had a point. A good one.
She wasn’t in prison. This wasn’t house arrest.
He was asked to protect her.
What difference did it make what she wore? If she was safe, then he should suck it up.
Deal with it.
Take care of her instead of treating her like she was his partner in a stakeout.
It wasn’t her fault that he was barely keeping his hands to himself. That every time he caught a glimpse of her legs and the firm curve of her backside, he wanted to peel off every inch of her clothing and cover her with his body, his hands, and his mouth.
“You’re right,” he hated to make the admission, because the instant he’d opened his lips, he’d wanted to confess what he felt- no, what he needed from her. “This is your apartment. And for now,” he managed another breath, “we’re here to keep you not just safe, but I’ll try not to drive you crazy.”
Leaning her cheek on her hand she sighed. “Too late.”
A moment of silence fell between them before she reached out her hand and laid it on his arm. “I’ve been on my own for quite a while. So, this is kind of odd for me. I know I live in Texas and my college roommate did have a concealed carry permit, but this,” she gestured at his shoulder holster, “is all new to me. I’ll try,” Sloane’s pointed look held more than a hint of humor, “but that’s the most I can guarantee.”
He looked down at her hand on his arm and tried not to flex his forearm against her touch. It was electric. It was warm and inviting.
Suddenly, the couch was too small.
Sloane was too close.
And his clothes were too tight.
He was a hairsbreadth away from stripping that whole pile of clothing off of her body and pulling her into his lap, just so he could taste her lips.
Trace the seam with the tip of his tongue.
Fist his hand in her hair and pull her flush against his chest.
Need.
The need he felt almost obliterated his control.
“So,” she whispered the word and her fingers shifted against his arm, tracing his skin with fire from her tentative touch, “you wanted to talk about my schedule?”
Salvation.
And disappointment.
It was going to be a hell of a long, hard, night.
Again.
On my own two feet.
Sloane woke up with her motto on repeat in her head.
It was the thought that wheedled its way into her head the day after she’d lost her sister. All she wanted to do was lay in bed and stare at the wall. She’d handled becoming an orphan with grit and determination. She’d managed to hold herself together because Kimberly seemed wholly incapable of doing so.
Papers had to be signed. Business taken care of. And as much as she loved her sister, even Uncle Glen who loved Kimberly best, knew that Sloane was better equipped to take care of the cold and impersonal things that came with a death in the family.
But was she the best choice?
It turned out it didn’t matter, she was the only one able to lock away the mind-numbing pain and put a pen to paper, make the arrangements, and talk to the press.
“The world,” Uncle Glen had reminded her enough times to commit it to memory, “was waiting to hear about the Kings.”
And there were times. Many, many times. That Sloane just wanted to tell the world exactly where to step off. That the ache in her chest and the dull throb in her head was just that.
Hers.
The world could… well there weren’t polite words that truly explained what was in her head.
When Kimberly died, the ache had gotten worse, the throbbing in her head sounded like a jack hammer 24/7.
And yet, the world needed an update on the tragedy that was the King family.
Waking up on her back. Her covers thrown to the floor. And her eyes gritty from the tears she’d shed the night before.
The talk with Agent Bravo- Special Agent Vicente Bravo- had gone well. He’d relaxed around her in some ways. Maybe it was his time at the center.
Most people gave her the ‘aww, you poor little rich girl’ look and that was it. Yet, sometime during their day together, he’d loosened up a bit, relaxed the hard line of his shoulders, and given her a smile that didn’t look like it was FBI issue for difficult subjects.
And it had changed the way she looked at him too.
Yes, Sloane King was just as shallow as the average person. She judged others like they judged her, only she had to keep her feelings under lock and key, because, “Cameras are everywhere.”
But somehow, they’d broken the ice between them and when Agent Bravo looked at her she knew he didn’t see her as the spoiled rich girl he’d expected.
And if her life didn’t already suck more than the average bear’s, during their conversation about his work regarding her case and her schedule that she couldn’t give up, she’d found herself totally, stupidly, attracted to him.
Complications.
She needed them like a hole in her already empty heart.
Besides, she told herself last night when she’d laid in bed, it was a one-way thing. Totally safe.
Like the way she had a thing for Oded Fehr from the Mummy films. She could have a healthy, or at least she hoped it was healthy, fantasy life with the gorgeous and mysterious Medjai warrior, and it didn’t hurt anyone.
Sure, she’d spent a few dollars here and there on batteries. But that was normal.
Right?
Shifting onto her side, Sloane reached off the edge of the bed and managed to pick up her blanket off the floor. Dragging the light cotton blanket over her body, she turned her back to the door and tried to lie still.
Tried to blank out her mind.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to work.
The ache she’d felt only the stirrings of the night before, was back with a vengeance. It hadn’t helped that she’d been the one to think about him. Like conjuring a demon on a supernatural television show, or that ghost story about the girl in the mirror, she’d brought him up in her thoughts and that had sent blood coursing through her veins.
And with that rush, came others. Hormones and all kinds of tingling feelings that she really didn’t have time for.
Not with the object of her potential fantasies in the next room and her door, damn her, open because when she’d purchased the condo she’d gone with one just a step or two above a studio. Almost two bedrooms and a bathroom was more than enough for her, but never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought she’d had a temporary bodyguard asleep on her sofa.
Correction.
Sprawled on her sofa.
She’d made the mistake of going to get a bottle of water from the kitchen and there he was. One leg over the arm of the couch, the other foot on the floor, the blanket he’d covered up with haphazardly draped over him, more off than on.
Blankets were wasted on them, she’d thought, they both kicked them off every night.
And that made her pick up two bottles of water instead of one.
And then
, lying in her bed, covered with her blanket for at least a few moments, she’d let herself imagine.
Let herself dream.
Her thigh draped over his. One arm tucked under his shoulder, the other held in his secure grasp. His thumb smoothing over her palm as he kissed her, smothering any kind of protest, not that she was planning to.
Her breaths shortened and seemed to fill her ears in the silence of the room. If just the thought of touching him, having him touch her, made her toes curl and her skin heat even in the cool air-conditioned bedroom, she knew she was a goner.
And that ache within her wasn’t about her heart, it was all about the parts of her that were instinct, and instinct was the last thing she trusted.
Then why, she wondered, was it so easy for him to get under her skin? How, in just a few hours, had he worked her defenses loose?
And why did her breath catch, and her nipples tighten, as she worked a hand under the waistband of her pants and down between her legs… all because she imagined it was him.
It was Vicente Bravo, a man who’d walked into her life and shaken everything loose.
Chapter 6
The next morning had started off on an odd foot, thanks to Sloane. And she knew it.
She’d woken up a good hour before her alarm, her hand under her sleep shirt, smoothing over her belly and working its way up to her breast.
She kept quiet, pressing her teeth and her lips together, as she’d feathered a slight touch over her nipple. From there, it had gone downhill, or just down, working her way past the waistband of her leggings.
It was a heady thing. A stolen moment of passion, even if it was DIH: Do it Herself.
Sloane could count the number of men she’d slept with on one hand, the number of times she’d managed an orgasm during sex on one finger.
There just hadn’t been a man that satisfied both the need in her body and her heart.
Her fingers faltered as she replayed that thought over again. The man in the next room had nothing to do with her heart.
Right?
