“Ms. Smith,” he says, and the snap in his tone jolts me to the core. I look at him, giving him the control he wants over me.
In that moment he owns me as he’s promised, and Lord help me, as I look into the steely hardness of those gray eyes and find a predatory gleam, part of me wants to be owned by this man. I’m wet with the idea, my nipples aching, and my knees weak. He knows it, too. I see it in the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, and the freedom he feels to lower his gaze for an inspection that goes from my toes to my head, lingering in the more erotic regions. I swallow hard, feeling every second like a stroke of his hand, the lick of his tongue. I’m in big trouble, which he confirms when he grabs my hand and pulls me hard against his hard body.
“We need to talk,” he announces.
My hand flattens on the wall of his truly impressive chest. “Yes, we do,” I say, sounding remarkably firm, despite all the places he’s making warm and tingly.
He stares down at me, his expression unreadable. But the thundering of his heart beneath my palm tells me he’s powerfully affected by me, too.
“No time like the present,” he finally murmurs, taking my hand in his bigger one and pulling me inside.
“Not now,” I say. “Not here.”
“Now,” he insists, and the intimate way he laces his fingers with mine stirs odd feelings in my chest.
“Your mother—”
He pulls me forward and in a few steps we’re inside the elegant library, where walls of books are illuminated by droplights from a high ceiling. I turn to face him, not sure what to expect next with his changing moods.
He shuts the door, and before I can blink, he’s advanced on me and I’m against the wall. His hands are pressed to the wall above my head, but he doesn’t touch me. And I want him to. Too much. So damn much.
“Topic number one,” he says tightly. “You aren’t using your own security people. You’re my responsibility.”
My irritation is instant. “I am not your responsibility.”
“Don’t push me on this, Ms. Smith.”
“You know what? It is Ms. Smith to you. And don’t order me around like I’m your submissive. I didn’t sign your damn contract.”
“I think we’re both clear on that fact.”
“And you were right: We definitely need boundaries.”
“I won’t have my security process compromised by outsiders who aren’t fully accountable to me. You’re using my security team. Subject closed.”
“Spare me the dictator routine. I already told Jacob I’d use your people.”
“When?”
“On the way over here.”
“Why?”
“Because you and my father would be like the Clash of the Titans. You and I clash enough on our own. We don’t need to add more to the mix.”
His eyes sharpen. “Is that what you call what we do?” he asks, his voice a rough, low tone that creates a tingling in my nipples. “Clashing?”
I swallow hard, trying to control the heaviness of my breathing that I fear he’s already noticed. “You have a better name for it?”
“Many words come to mind. Should I start listing them?”
“No,” I say, certain I won’t approve of his choices. He glances at my mouth, and I suddenly remember the spicy, delicious way he tastes. Instinctively, my hands flatten on the hard wall of his chest. “Don’t kiss me,” I warn. The heat darting up my arms tells me how bad an idea touching him was.
“But you want me to,” he says, his hands sliding to my wrists, and somehow he makes it darkly erotic. This isn’t one of our spontaneous moments that we dismiss the next day. This is different, uncharted territory.
He leans closer and I splay my fingers on his chest, applying pressure. “I said don’t.”
“Because you don’t want me to, or because you’re afraid of where it will lead?”
“Because I said it. That’s the only reason you need.”
“Yet you didn’t deny that you want me to.”
“Eve really wanted the apple, and look where it got her.”
“If anyone’s being tempted by a poison apple”—his head lowers, lips close to mine, breath warm and tempting on my cheek—“it’s me.”
My fingers flex against hard muscle. “Mark—”
“I think it’s because you’re afraid of where it might lead, of the power you think it might give me over you.”
I try to tug my wrists away but he holds me easily, a gleam in his eyes. “I never fell into bed with you,” I say. “I was captive to the emotions you were feeling, feeding off those. You don’t have the power over me.”
“No. You have the power. That’s what you don’t understand. You have the power—or I wouldn’t be lying in bed at night remembering how you taste.” He pauses for effect. “And I do remember how you taste. All of you. Every last inch. Your mouth. Your neck. Your nipples. Your—”
“Stop it,” I hiss, knowing exactly what he was going to say next. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
He inches backward, releasing my wrists, and taking the promise of a kiss with him, those gray eyes resting keenly on my face. “What am I trying to do?”
“This is a game. It’s manipulation.”
“I want to fuck you. Many times. Many ways. How is that manipulation?”
“One minute you want to fuck me. The next—”
“I always want to fuck you. I just want to do it my way. With your pleasure at my mercy. Your hands tied up. Your legs tied up. Your clit on my tongue.”
“Stop.”
“Why? Am I making you wet?”
I glare, my only defense against an answer I’m not going to give him.
“I’ll find out myself,” he says, dragging my hemline upward before I know his intent.
I grab his hand and my skirt. “Don’t even think about it.”
“We’re both thinking about it.”
His cell phone rings and he stiffens, drawing a deep breath before his hands fall away from me and he steps back a good foot. He pulls out a phone I haven’t seen before and quickly answers, “Give me a minute.” He covers the receiver. “I need to take this,” he informs me.
I manage a nod despite my reeling senses, but his energy has changed, and his eyes harden along with his voice as he adds, “Alone.”
The slap of the dismissal shakes me to the core, jolting me into a flicker of a memory of the past I never wanted to visit again. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the flashback. Mark Compton really is the apple. He’s stealing my control, to create his own.
I leave the room, pulling the door shut behind me. “The end,” I whisper. I will not let him play these games with me.
Mark . . .
I watch Crystal leave, and am cursing at the look on her face before she’s gone. Then I curse the damn disposable phone that chose the worst time to ring—when I should be glad that it stopped me from doing something we would both regret. I hadn’t meant to do what just happened, and that’s a problem. My plan to make her hate me won’t work if I can’t keep my damn hands off her.
Punching the Answer button, I say, “Give me good news.”
“Kilmer started the morning out with some devastating financial news that he spent all day trying to correct, but failed.”
“What happened to no names?”
“It leaves room for confusion, and I know you don’t like confusion. Trade out the phone. Text me the number and I’ll call you from another line.”
“Fine. What other news do you have for me?”
“There’s chatter about Ava in some of my circles.”
“What kind of chatter?”
“She was seen at a dive motel known to be popular with unsavory types, since they keep no records.”
“When? Where?”
“The day before yesterday. That’s all I know. I’m meeting the source tomorrow.”
“You don’t know if she’s still in Cali?”
“No.”
“Was she
alone?” I ask.
“According to the information I was given, she was with a known mercenary.”
“A mercenary. By choice or as a prisoner?”
“My source wasn’t willing to disclose the information.”
“Let me guess,” I say through gritted teeth. “He wants money. Translation: You want money.”
“Another ten K.”
I’m irritated, but if Ava’s befriended a crazy killer, I need to know. “Ten K up front. Another five-K bonus when I get answers.”
“I can live with that arrangement.”
“I’m sure you can. I’ll transfer the money later tonight.”
“Then you’ll have answers tomorrow. This might be a good time to think about what you want me to do with Ava when I have her.”
“Find her. That’s what matters right now.” I end the call and tuck the disposable phone in my pocket to retrieve my regular cell, punching in Blake Walker’s number.
“I have a reliable lead that Ava is alive and well,” I say when he answers. “What have you heard?”
“From whom?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“I’m not willing to disclose that information.”
There’s a short pause. “You’re going after her on your own,” he says. It’s not a question. “You still want vengeance.”
“I’m keeping my ear to the ground to protect my family.”
“Then give me your contact’s info, and let me protect them for you.”
“I pay you to protect my family—and so does San Francisco law enforcement, since they’ve now contracted you as well. And I trust your people, Blake. But if your family could be in danger, would you wait for someone else to protect them?”
Considering he’d confessed to me his own vigilante quest to kill a man who’d murdered someone he loved, we both know the answer. A beat passes. Then two. “Just promise me you’ll give me a chance to act on anything you find out before you do.”
“I promise to be as transparent as you,” I say, making it clear that I’m aware he’s dodged my question about what he knows about Ava. “And you make sure your staff is vigilant about watching for unusual threats.”
“We were in airport security right after 9/11. We know how to look for the unusual. But I need an assurance that you won’t act—”
“Just do your job, Blake, and make sure Jacob pays special attention to Crystal Smith.”
“I’ll call him when we hang up.”
“Good. Do that.” There’s a knock on the door. “I need to go.”
I end the call as my father pokes his head in the door enough for me to see his blue and red team jersey. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, stashing the phone in my pocket and walking in his direction, wondering if Ms. Smith said something to make him think otherwise. “Just a quick business call.”
“Your mother’s asking for you,” he says, and I sense nothing beneath the comment. “The Chinese food was dropped off downstairs. Jacob is bringing it up.” The doorbell rings. “That’ll be it. We’re eating in our bedroom. Your mother doesn’t want to try to go to the table. She’s afraid it will wear her out.”
He disappears, and I face what is inevitable. A cozy dinner with me, my parents, and Ms. Smith, whom I just told I want to fuck. I’m treating her like a damn yo-yo, which is wrong and I have to fix it. Based on how upset she was when she left, perhaps I already have. Calculated anger was one thing, but that was pain—the very thing she’s tried to help me get past.
“Mark!” my father calls, and I scrub the roughness of new stubble, joining him and Jacob in the hallway. “Get the rest, will you, son?” my father asks, his arms loaded down with bags.
“Got it,” I say as he heads toward the bedroom. “You heard that Ms. Smith changed her mind about using us for security?” I ask Jacob softly.
“I did. Royce Walker was going to talk to her tomorrow if she didn’t change her mind. We dodged a bullet on that one. He never asks. He tells you as he rolls over you. And Ms. Smith doesn’t do well with force.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I say, “which is why her sudden change of heart seems a bit too easy. What reason did she give you for agreeing?”
“She said it was to protect you.”
“How so?”
“She says if you keep intentionally baiting her into arguments, you’ll need protection from her, so it’s only fair you should pay for it.”
I laugh. “She knew you’d repeat that. So tell me: Who’s baiting who?”
Jacob lifts his hands. “I plead the Fifth, considering I have to protect you both. I’ll leave it to you two to wrestle out your differences.”
“Hmm. That’s a visual I can’t quite get my mind around.”
“Creative visuals, a lethal weapon when I want to be one, and I grill a great steak. My specialties, at your service. Can I get you anything right now?”
“I’ll settle for Chinese right now.”
“Have it your way,” he says, turning to leave.
I back up and kick the door shut, and the security system automatically locks it. I walk the short distance to one of the two master bedrooms and find my parents on the massive oak bed while Crystal stands at the small conference table my mother uses in place of a desk. As she removes food from a bag, Crystal’s gaze lifts and finds mine and the detachment in her stare speaks volumes. I’m right. I hurt her, and I did it in some deep, cutting way I don’t fully understand.
Quick to look away, she finishes emptying the bag as I cross the room to join her. “I hope you’re going to eat tonight, Mother.”
“It sure smells good,” she says. “The first thing that has in a long time.”
“Excellent,” I say. “I believe I have the drinks.” I halt directly across from Ms. Smith and set my bag on one of the two chairs.
She places a container in front of me. “Cashew chicken.”
“How do you know it’s mine?” I ask, trying to get her to look at me again.
Her lashes lift. “You just seem like a cashew chicken kind of guy.”
“I told her,” my mother informs me. “She gets the same thing.”
“So you’re a cashew chicken kind of girl?” I ask.
“And her birthday is next week, too,” my mother adds. “November twenty-third. One day after yours.”
“But you’re about a decade older than me,” Crystal says, giving my father his food.
“Older and wiser.”
She snatches a drink from in front of me and passes it to my father, a combative energy between us. “Younger and more versatile.”
My father roars out laughter. “I do believe our son has met his match, Dana.”
“That’s why I hired her,” Dana says as Crystal kicks off her shoes and walks to my mother’s side. “She doesn’t stand down to anyone except me.”
Crystal sets a tray over my mother’s lap and then places her food and a soda on it. “Now eat, and I want nothing left. You need to gain weight.”
I laugh and settle into my chair. “I guess you’re right. She backs down to no one.”
Crystal returns to the table and it’s all I can do not to watch every move she makes. Once she’s across from me again, opening her plasticware, I say, “Versatile, but unwilling to try new things.”
“Old and incapable of thinking outside of the same box.”
I want to drag her back into the library and fuck her right now. She glares a warning at me over the way I’m looking at her, but my father and mother are absorbed in jabbering away, and I ignore her. “We need to finish our talk.”
“We did. Or I did. I’m done, Mark Compton. The End.”
She means it this time.
Seven
Mark . . .
“What do you think, son?”
“About?” I ask, jerking my gaze to my father.
“How about coming and watching some of the pitchers throw this weekend with me? Dana says she and Crystal are having a girls’ pampering da
y on Sunday.”
I arch a brow at Crystal. “Oh?” The more I see her closeness to my mother, the more curious I am about her mother.
“We have a stylist coming in for hair and nails,” she says, her lips curving as she looks at my mother. “It’s going to be fun.”
“I can’t wait,” my mother says, dragging her hand down her hair. “I think it’ll make me feel a little more human.”
“So what do you say, Marky boy?” my father presses. “We on for some baseball?”
“You have practice on Sunday?”
“A pitching camp. I really could use your input.”
Fighting the feeling that I can’t face this part of my past right now, my lips manage a curve and I say, “Sunday it is, then.”
The light in my father’s eyes is my reward. “We can go by that burger joint by the practice field we used to hang out at. Good memories.”
He’s right. They were, and I don’t want to let one bad piece of my history destroy some of the special moments I’ve shared with my father.
“I was thinking,” my mother says, and her solemn tone draws all of our gazes as she sighs and starts again. “I was thinking about Rebecca, and how young she was and how young you were when life got all twisted. Things change so quickly. Life is here and gone, and—”
The jab to my gut plunges deep, and I lower my eyes, fighting the emotions by beginning to count, leaving room for nothing else. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. When my gaze lifts it collides with Crystal’s, and I see the question in her eyes. She wants to know what my mother is talking about . . . and part of me wants that one person whom I can actually tell.
“Everything happens for a reason,” my father tells my mother. “We just don’t know what it is until later. But I’m betting that you’ll inspire a lot of people to fight when this is over.”