Ragged and lurid pink, it traces a vicious path from between her narrow shoulder blades to the small of her back. It’s too irregular to be a surgical scar. An accident, perhaps? Whatever its origin, it’s recent. No more than a few months by my best guess.
Dios mio, poor baby.
I suspect that out of all of her companions, the two of us have the most in common.
“Another daiquiri, ma’am?” A smiling waiter in white shorts and flip-flops bends over me.
“No, thank you.”
The waiter nods and walks away.
On paper, this job is straightforward. Gain access to the room of honeymooning Saudi Prince Khalid, relieve his new bride of her wedding present—a one-hundred-carat ruby necklace with a flawless twenty-carat stone as its centerpiece—and escape with my head intact.
In reality, there are a few substantial kinks.
One, Prince Khalid travels with a cadre of heavily armed bodyguards.
Two, the necklace won’t be sitting out on the coffee table, waiting to be swiped. Cracking a safe is inevitable. And safecracking takes time, especially if done quietly.
Three, there’s only one road to and from this exclusive resort, which will quickly be shut down if the necklace is discovered missing, thereby blocking my exit unless I can arrange to escape via scuba gear into the Caribbean Sea. Which I won’t, because I can’t swim.
And last but not least, there’s Golden Boy.
Who is staying in the room directly beneath Prince Khalid’s suite.
Who, if properly handled, could invite me up for a nightcap, thereby providing access to Prince Khalid’s suite via the balcony. It involves a climb up a drainpipe and a series of low walls, but I can’t hack the front door keycard reader as I normally would because Khalid’s door is guarded by men with semiautomatic weapons, so the only other way in is through the balcony. And the only way to get there is from the balcony of the room below.
Unfortunately, Golden Boy must have had his hotel room broken into in the past, because in addition to the keycard reader, he’s installed a portable door lock with an alarm that will sound if the door’s opened. And if he’s gone to the trouble to do that, the probability that there are other security devices inside is high. Which means my best bet to safely access his room is by “befriending” the man himself.
Luckily, he just glanced at me for the third time in five minutes.
God bless my mother. My long legs and high cheekbones are all hers. If I’d taken after my father, I’d look like a hobbit. Not a bad thing in and of itself, but certainly not helpful in seducing handsome American men who carry themselves as if their whole life has been one extended homecoming king coronation party.
But Golden Boy isn’t your average skirt-chasing playboy with more money than brains. Though he works hard to appear casual and normal, I see past his façade. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This one has a taste for blood. Which brings me back to my original question.
Is the risk worth the reward?
Of course it is. Wolves are no match for me.
Smiling, I rise from my chair and head to the bar, walking slowly so Golden Boy can take his time eyeing my bare legs. He slides off the edge of the pool and stands waist-deep in the water so he can get a better look at me.
I make a bet with myself on how long it’ll take him to make his move. Judging by the way he’s staring, another five minutes, tops.
“Do you have a lunch menu?” I ask the bartender as I slither onto a barstool and cross my legs. I’m wearing a plunging white maillot that sets off my tanned skin and showcases my cleavage, white kitten heels, and a sheer cover-up that skims the tops of my bare thighs. Even from this distance, I can feel Golden Boy’s gaze on my skin, hotter than the Caribbean sun.
“Of course,” says the bartender, a serious young man with a gap between his crooked front teeth. Not an American. He hands me a leather folio. “The conch croquettes are amazing.”
I pretend to study the menu while eavesdropping on Golden Boy and his companions. The first thing I note is that my mark has a sleepy Southern drawl to go along with his muscles and baby blues. Texas? No, Georgia.
“I’ll try them, thank you,” I tell the bartender, letting the lilt of a fake Parisian accent infiltrate my words. Then I close my eyes, tip my head back, and fan myself with the menu as I stretch my neck. My hair slides off my shoulders and down my back. A waft of humid air drifts between my breasts. Golden Boy falters in the middle of his sentence, and then abruptly continues.
“…got Tabby on a plane.”
“Connor gives incredible pep talks,” says a female voice, warm with laughter. “I think this man could convince me to do anything.”
“Oh yeah?” says a male voice, not Golden Boy’s. Judging by the deep, commanding tone, my money’s on the big beast, not the pale one with the African-American woman. Tabby must be the redhead, then.
I listen, lazily fanning air over my cleavage, swinging my leg back and forth, a black widow patiently waiting for her prey to enter the web.
“There’s a few things I’d definitely like to convince you to do, woman,” says the beast, chuckling. Then there are some exaggerated kissing noises, which prompt a chorus of groans.
“Get a room, you two!” scolds another female. Must be Yellow Bikini. The voice is too adult to be the scarred girl.
“They spend any more time in their room, Darcy, we won’t see ’em at all,” drawls Golden Boy.
“They’re newlyweds! Give them a break!” says a different male voice. He has a German accent. Zey’re newlyvedz. Black speedo.
“Speakin’ of breaks, I need another beer. Anybody else ready?”
Golden Boy takes drink orders from his companions. I hear the splash as he jumps out of the pool. Trying not to smirk, I start a silent countdown in my head. Five, four, three, two—
“’Scuse, me, bartender? Can we get another round?”
I open my eyes to find Golden Boy standing next to me. He’s looking at the bartender at the end of the bar, who nods in acknowledgment. Then Golden Boy turns his head and looks at me.
Electricity jolts through me when our eyes meet. It’s disturbing how strong it is. It’s been years since I felt serious attraction to anyone, and muscular blonds aren’t my type in the first place. Dark and dangerous is more my thing.
Although, admittedly, Golden Boy has the dangerous part down. The look in his eyes is anything but tame.
“Hi,” he says, staring at me with blazing intensity.
Here’s the part where I need to figure out his type. Dumb and bubbly? Smoldering seductress? Girl next door? There’s a key that unlocks the door to every man’s libido. And once his libido is engaged, his brain takes a nap for the duration.
I’m so grateful I’m a woman. We can get turned on without completely losing our intellect to our genitals.
“Hello,” I say neutrally. I remove my sunglasses. Neither of us smiles.
He asks, “What part of Paris you from?”
I have to physically force myself not to blink. There’s a slight difference between a Parisian accent and other French accents, and the fact that he picked it out is alarming.
And impressive. I’m inclined to like him, but of course I don’t allow myself to.
“You know Paris?” I ask coyly, avoiding his question.
He cocks his head. “A little.”
Hmm. That could mean he’s only seen the city in movies, or he lived there for years. He’s giving away about as much as I am.
“The eighth arrondissement,” I parry, testing him. “Gare Saint-Lazare.”
His face remains impassive. “Swanky neighborhood. You from there originally?”
I get the sense he’s testing me, too. Why do I like it? I decide to change the subject to see how he handles it. “What’s your name?”
One corner of his mouth turns up. A roguish little dimple appears in his cheek. “You avoided my question.”
“And you just avoided mine.�
��
“Yeah, but only because you started it.”
“Funny, you don’t strike me as a man who lets anyone else take the lead.”
He chuckles. “With a rear view as fine as yours, darlin’, you can take the lead anytime you like.”
Now we’re smiling at each other. For the first time in a long time, I’m having what could almost be described as fun.
The bartender arrives with the drinks. “Shall I charge it to your room, Mr. McLean?”
“Yep,” Golden Boy answers without looking away from me.
The bartender leaves with a promise that my conch croquettes are almost ready.
I say, “So, Mr. McLean, where in Georgia are you from?”
If he’s surprised I pegged his accent, he doesn’t show it. He lifts a shoulder, self-confident, nonchalant. “Little town nobody’s ever heard of.”
“Oh come on. Now you have to tell me.”
The dent in his cheek grows deeper. “Perry.”
My smile widens. Unfortunately for him and his ego, I’ve spent a lot of time in the American South. I say, “Home to the annual Georgia National Fair. Cute little historic town center. There’s, what, ten thousand residents in Perry?”
Golden Boy watches me with blistering focus. “Fifteen. What did you say your name was?”
I let the silence stretch out between us before saying softly, “I didn’t.”
When his eyes flash with desire, I know how I’m going to play him. He likes a challenge. Which means Girl Next Door and Dumb and Bubbly are out the window, and Smoldering Seductress is in the house. I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue, lower my chin, and look up at him from beneath my lashes.
He sets his empty beer bottle on the counter and slides onto the barstool next to me, all without taking his gaze from my face. His big thighs are spread open on either side of mine, effectively trapping me.
“So,” he says, “beautiful, nameless mademoiselle. Are we going to be friends or not?”
I can’t help myself. I laugh at his directness. “I don’t know, handsome American Marine. Perhaps we should take a moment to discuss your definition of ‘friends.’”
He leans closer. He’s bare chested, barefoot, and soaking wet from the waist down. The bulge in his black swim shorts is clearly visible, and impressively large. Five-o’clock shadow glints copper along his square jaw. If I were any other woman, this man would be devastating.
Into my ear, he says softly, “Anything you want it to be.”
Does he think I’m a prostitute? I’m not offended, but this is awfully forward, even for an American. Most men take a lot longer than five minutes to get to the propositioning.
Obviously he’s not like most men. I need to be careful with this one.
When he leans back, I tilt my head and consider him.
Up close, he’s even more handsome than he looked in the pool. Masculine and a little gritty, in spite of his sleepy Southern drawl and baby-blue eyes. He’s got big, rough hands, a superhero’s square jaw, an appealing cleft in his chin, and a lot of tattoos on his chest and arms that I’d like to trace with my fingers. Or tongue.
But I don’t ever sleep with a mark. It’s a policy I’ve never broken. If he takes me up to his room, I’ve got two potent pills to slip into his drink that will conveniently allow me to side step the minefield of sex with a stranger.
I might take a quick peek into his shorts while he’s passed out to check out that bulge he’s packing, but that’s as far as it will go.
“I already have a lot of friends.” I say it with just enough warmth that he knows it’s not a brush-off.
“I bet you do.” His voice is husky now. He lets his gaze drift to my lips, then to my cleavage, then down my legs, boldly and unapologetically eating me up with his eyes.
Under his admiring gaze, I feel like a cat that’s been stroked down its back. I wouldn’t be surprised if I started to purr. “And so do you.” I nod in the direction of his companions in the pool, who watch us with open interest.
“They can wait. I wanna get to know you better first.”
I stifle the urge to laugh again. He’s making this too easy. “Such an eager beaver!”
His eyes grow hotter. “A word of advice, darlin’,” he drawls, grinning. “Don’t say any words that are euphemisms for your lady parts unless you want me to think you’re flirtin’ with me.”
“I see. No mentions of muffins, cookies, secret gardens, or cockpits. Got it.”
His grin is so wide, it’s practically blinding. “You are flirtin’ with me.”
Bat, bat, bat go my eyelashes. “Would you mind if I were?”
His grin fades. He reaches out and gently strokes a lock of hair off my shoulder. He skims his fingertips slowly down my arm until he reaches my wrist. His touch leaves a trail of sparks in its wake.
He cuffs my wrist in his big hand, settles his index finger over my pulse point, and, after a moment of silence where I think he’s counting my heartbeat, says gruffly, “You know I wouldn’t. But I’ve got another warnin’ for you, beautiful mademoiselle. I don’t do small talk. When I want a woman, I go after her.”
He raises my wrist to his lips and brushes a sweet, soft kiss across the pulse pounding there. Electricity crackles through my body. All my nerve endings sit up and suck in a startled breath.
Looking into my eyes, my new friend Mr. McLean says, “So unless you tell me right now you don’t wanna play this game, I’m comin’ after you.”
Mierde santa. This man must get laid a dozen times a week.
Suddenly I’m filled with longing so strong and bittersweet, it steals my breath. I wish I were a normal woman, a tourist on vacation with her friends who could indulge herself in a summer fling with a sexy stranger. I wish I could say yes to this beautiful man, let him make love to me, let myself go.
I wish I could forget all the sins that led me to this moment.
But I can’t. They follow me like a shadow, dogging my every step. My only path to freedom is repayment of my debts, and Prince Khalid’s new bride’s ruby necklace is next on my debtor’s list.
So I smile and toss my hair and pretend to be someone I’m not, stuffing my longing for a different life into a dark, abandoned corner of my heart where all my other useless yearnings go.
“I like to play games, Mr. McLean,” I say lightly. “But since you’ve warned me, I should warn you, too. I always win.”
When he smiles, he does it with his whole body. It’s like he lights up from the inside out. “It’s Ryan,” he says. “And damn, this is gonna be fun. Tell me your name.”
I use the fake name on my fake passport and say, “Angeline Lemaire.”
Ryan nods. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Angeline.”
Before I can say another word, he tugs me closer and crushes his mouth to mine.
2
Ryan
She tastes like strawberries and sunshine and secrets that go deep, and kisses like it’s her last day alive. Whoever this siren calling herself Angeline really is, she’s sexy as fuck.
She’s also clearly dangerous.
If my cock were any harder, it would be titanium.
Her hands are balled to fists on my chest, the one sign of resistance to the otherwise total surrender her body melts into as we kiss. Along with everything else about her, it’s an intriguing contradiction. Like the sadness in her eyes that’s paired with cold calculation. The self-confidence paired with the vulnerability. The pounding pulse paired with the disinterested smile.
She makes a sound deep in her throat, a soft, feminine moan. It makes my cock twitch. I tighten my arms around her and pull her closer.
“Wait!” She gasps, breaking away. Her eyes are startled. She lets out a surprised little laugh. “Wait a minute!”
Breathing hard, we stare at each other, our noses inches apart. I give her five seconds to get her bearings. Then I growl, “That’s as long as I can stand,” and take her mouth again, fisting my hands in her hair to
hold her head in place.
From somewhere far off, I hear catcalls and clapping.
Her hands flatten over my pecs. After a moment, she winds her arms around my shoulders. Then she gives me her weight, leaning into me with a little sigh as she goes slack against my body. The kiss softens but also deepens, so now it’s slower and less greedy, but somehow even more intense.
Judging by how hard her nipples are against my bare chest, how irregular her breathing is, and how she’s digging her nails into my skin, I’d say she’s just as turned on as I am.
When the kiss finally ends, a minute or a century later, I’m dizzy. I mutter, “Fuck.” My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed a handful of gravel.
Her laugh is low and throaty. “Well said.”
I open my eyes and look at her. She’s flushed. Her eyes are half-lidded. She has that hazy, satisfied look a woman gets after she comes.
The amount of blood leaving the rest of my body to boil in my cock can’t be healthy. Pretty soon I won’t be able to remain upright.
I grin at her. “This is already turning out to be a fantastic friendship.”
She stares at me for a second, then breaks into full-throated laughter, her head thrown back.
Goddamn. If I thought she was gorgeous before, watching her laugh is on a whole other level. She’s fucking stunning.
The waiter arrives with her conch croquettes. When he glares at me as he sets the plate down on the bar, I know he was hoping to be in the exact position I am now. You and every other guy in the place, buddy.
I smile blandly at him. He stalks off like a wounded puppy.
Angeline gently pushes me away, smooths a hand over her hair, and looks like she’s trying to rearrange her face into something a little more composed than the horny-sex-kitten expression she’s wearing now.
I say, “Hey, Angel.” When she glances at me sharply, I explain. “I’m calling you Angel now. Less formal, since we’re such good friends and all. As I was saying—Angel—I have to go distribute these drinks before one of those animals in the pool throws something at me, so I want you to sit here and think about what you’re gonna say to me when I get back.”
Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set Page 64
