“And that is?” She took a sip of her wine and then shot him a smile that had his cock straining against the zipper of his jeans.
He studied her for a few seconds, running his eyes over her clothes and jewelry. “I call it nine questions.”
“Nine?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a fairly random number.”
“Not really. It’s the number of items you’re wearing—if you don’t go commando, I mean. It also”—he glanced down at himself—“happens to be the exact number of items I’m wearing as well.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient?” She pursed her lips into an inviting O.
Had he thought his dick was hard before? As he watched her lick her lips, the blood rushed from his head so fast that for a minute, he was afraid he might pass out.
And wouldn’t that just be a kick in the ass, particularly on what promised to be one of the most erotic nights of his life?
“Am I correct in assuming that there’s a fee for every question asked?”
“You are, indeed. One item per question.”
“Are any subjects off-limits?”
He smiled then. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. If we come to it.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Lust raked through him with vicious claws, had him clenching his fists and struggling for air as their gazes met—and held. She was so sexy, so interesting, so goddamn perfect for him that he couldn’t help wondering if she’d slip away the second he dropped his guard, or woke up—whichever the case might be.
“So, do we have a deal?” She sat watching him, waiting, an air of expectation around her that he would do anything to uphold.
“We do,” he murmured.
“Excellent.” She held a smooth palm out for him to shake, and he laughed before pulling her into the circle of his arms.
“Sorry, baby. But there’s only one way to cement deals like this.”
“Oh yeah? And what is that?”
“I think you already know.” With that cryptic pronouncement, he swept down and stole a kiss from the woman he had already decided he wanted to make his.
Lacey’s lips were warm and firm, and so tempting that Byron almost decided to forget the whole thing. But he was determined to learn more about his wary lover before he once again tumbled her onto the nearest available surface. The game seemed like the perfect way to do just that and to keep things light, as she demanded.
Lacey lost herself in Byron’s kiss, despite the skitter of unease working its way up her back. Why did he always have to ask questions? Why was he always trying to learn more about her?
A part of her told her to run in the other direction. It would be so much harder to keep Byron at arm’s length—to keep herself from caring about him—if she learned more about him. If she shared herself with him.
But she didn’t want to run, not when being with him was more exciting than anything she could remember. Not when he seemed to want to see the real her, not some figment of his own imagination.
Why she cared so much, she didn’t know. But she did, and it was incredibly stupid all the way around. If all she wanted from Byron was a good time, why did it matter if she knew what his favorite color was? Or what had made him move to New Orleans. Or if he was an only child.
It didn’t matter. Of course it didn’t. And yet—
Byron broke off the kiss with just the right amount of reluctance, and she took a minute to give her spinning head a chance to focus. It was ridiculous, really, how crazy this man made her. Crazy and mixed-up and so aroused that half the time when she was around him, she didn’t know which way was up.
Like now. She’d planned on sending him away, on telling him she couldn’t see him anymore. Instead, she’d invited him in and started playing with him. Teasing him.
Of course, she was the one getting all hot and bothered. If they didn’t get started on his question game pretty soon, she wouldn’t be able to remember her own name, let alone any other pertinent information.
“So, who goes first?” Byron’s voice was warm and his eyes hot as he watched her closely. He looked as out of control as she felt, and for the third time in as many minutes, she thought about just taking him to bed and saying to hell with the rest. But he’d started this thing, and she was determined to see it through—even if it killed her. No way was she chickening out.
“You do—it was your idea, after all.” She settled back on the couch and took a long sip of wine, hoping that it would bring her down a notch. Or three. God knew she needed it.
“All right, then. I’d still like an answer to the question that started this whole thing.” At her blank look, he continued, “You said that you like to check out the local flavor wherever you live. Do you move around a lot?”
“I do. I like to see different parts of the country—and the world. My feet get itchy if I stay in one place too long.”
“Where else have you lived?”
“That’s two questions—and I don’t see the payment for the first yet.”
“I thought this was just a friendly game between friends.” His voice was warm and intimate and had her seeing stars by the second syllable; she was so dazzled that she almost acquiesced. But the small gleam of triumph lurking in the back of his eyes gave him away. He was as competitive as she was—and played just as dirty. The thought shouldn’t be such a turn-on, but it was.
Determined to stay on top, she said sweetly, “Of course it’s friendly. Or it will be as soon as you take off your shoes.”
Lacey nearly laughed at the disgruntled look on his face, but when he sat back on the sofa and slipped off both of his tennis shoes, she knew she was in trouble. She’d never paid much attention to men’s feet one way or the other, but one look at Byron’s feet—still encased in socks—and her heartbeat was already speeding up. Maybe it was the implication that very soon the rest of his clothes would follow. Maybe it was the thought of having him naked for her viewing pleasure. And maybe it was just that she was completely, around-the-bend crazy. Tonight certainly wasn’t the first time she’d had the thought in the past few days.
“Okay,” he murmured, after drawing her attention to his discarded second shoe. “I did my part. What’s the answer to the second question?”
“As an adult, I’ve lived in San Francisco, New York, Chicago, Paris, Phoenix, Boston, Milan and now New Orleans.”
His eyes widened at her list, but all he said was, “Which one did you like best?”
“Wow, three questions in one turn. You’re a lot easier than I thought you were going to be.” She raised an eyebrow and gestured to his pants. “What’s coming off next?”
He laughed. “Never mind. I’ll save my questions for something I can’t find out in casual conversation.”
“That might be a good idea.”
“All right, then. It’s your turn.” He leaned against the sofa, arms spread over the back as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Only the sudden wariness that flickered briefly in his eyes told a different tale. It made her want to start out easy when she knew she should be going for the jugular—at least if she wanted to win their little game.
Deciding on a compromise, she asked, “What’s a New York guy like yourself doing living in the Big Easy?”
“How’d you know I was from New York? I don’t have an accent.” He looked more than a little startled.
“It’s the attitude, the way you hold your body. You’ve got New York written all over you. After you live there for a while, it’s easy to recognize the signs.”
“I guess so.” But he still looked surprised, and less than pleased.
The investigator in her knew there was a story there and wanted to dig, but the woman didn’t want to alienate him—or to take the fun out of the game. Not yet anyway. To distract them both, she reached down and pulled off a sock, twirling it above her head for a few second before letting it fly.
She watched as it landed on the potted palm she kept next to the balcony, then turned
back to Byron with a grin. Her diversion must have worked, because the disgruntled look had been replaced with amused appreciation.
“Your turn,” she said. “And just to show you what a generous person I am, I won’t charge you for the question you just asked.”
“I didn’t—” He broke off, chagrined. “I didn’t realize ‘How’d you know’ counted.”
“They all count. Rules are rules, after all.”
“So you’re not a rule breaker?”
She paused, considering his question for a minute. “I never used to be.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I’m learning to unbend a little bit. God knows I’m breaking all the rules sitting here with you.”
His eyes changed from chocolate to obsidian and he leaned forward, a look of dark arousal on his face. “I’ll be happy to help you break a few more rules, if you’d like.” He reached for her hand, stroked his thumb back and forth across the sensitive skin of her palm.
Her body lit up from the inside, like a surge of electricity had whipped through her and turned on every part. “I don’t know about that. I think the one I already broke is enough for me.”
“And which one is that?” His voice was so low and gravelly, so dark and tempting, that she felt her palms and her panties go damp.
“Are you sure you want the answer to that? You’re on question number five.”
His gaze caught hers and held. He didn’t look away for a second, even as he peeled off both his socks. Then he reached up and took off the little gold hoop he had in his right ear—the one she’d found incredibly sexy from the second she’d first laid eyes on it. “Oh, I definitely think it’s worth it. Things are just getting interesting.”
“I’m breaking the no-involvement rule,” she said, as he reclaimed her hand. “I promised myself I’d stay away from men for two years—no relationships, no sex, nothing but friendships, if I even allowed myself that.” She could see the question in his eyes and answered before he could ask it. “I managed to lose myself during my last relationship. I needed time to find me again, to figure out who I am now and what I want out of life.”
“And did you figure it all out?” His hand tightened on hers, a silent offering of support that had her heart stuttering in her chest.
Because her reaction to him freaked her out, and because the question hit much closer to home than she was ready for, she did the only thing she could do: She dodged it. “Hey, no fair. It’s my turn—you keep skipping me.”
The rueful twist of his mouth said he knew exactly what she was doing—and that he wasn’t going to call her on it. “All right, then. What’s next?”
“Something easy.” She wanted, needed, to lighten things up. “What’s your favorite ice-cream flavor?”
He grinned. “Rocky Road.”
She couldn’t stop her knowing laugh. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“I don’t know.”
She reached down and took off her sock, did the same twirl-and-toss routine as she had with the first. Then waited for him to move on, but he merely stared at her with raised eyebrows.
“What?”
“That was two questions.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“Sure it was. Think back.”
She did, and was astounded to realize he was right. “Well, if the second one counts, I want something better than ‘I don’t know’ as my answer.” She lifted her pant leg and unhooked her ankle bracelet.
“But I don’t know.”
“Tough luck.” She gave him a hard-ass look as she put the anklet on the end table next to her. “Make something up. And make it good.”
“Well, then, let me think.” When he finally spoke, it was with a wicked grin that put her instantly on edge. “Rocky Road is . . . complex. There are all these layers and textures to it that make it so much more interesting than plain old vanilla. The smooth, satiny chocolate that seduces your mouth from the very first bite. The crunchy, prickly nuts that add a lot of flavor and just the right hint of salt.”
He brought her hand—the one she realized he’d never quite let go of—up to his mouth. Ran his lips across her palm in a tender kiss. “And then there’s my favorite part.”
“Which is?” Was that high-pitched breathless noise really her voice? It sounded like she’d swallowed a canary.
He grinned. “The marshmallows, of course. They’re softer and sweeter than the rest of the ice cream. All warm and creamy and delicious.” His tongue darted out, once, twice, and he licked her palm like he would an ice-cream cone—or a woman. Long, slow drags of his tongue that had her nipples pebbling and her already strained breathing shifting into hyperdrive.
“Yep, marshmallows are definitely my favorite.” He delivered one well-placed nip over her mound of Venus that nearly had her eyes crossing, then pulled away to settle back on the couch, his breathing calm, his gaze completely unruffled.
He was good, so good that she would have totally bought the casual act—if she hadn’t had a pretty damn good view of his very healthy erection. It made her mouth water even as it reassured her she wasn’t the only one affected by the powerful sexual chemistry between them.
Once again she considered ending the game and taking him back to her bedroom. But if she did that, he would win, and she so wasn’t ready to let that happen. She wanted him on his knees first.
So, while it took every ounce of concentration she had, she managed to get her body and her breathing under control.
When she was finally able to speak, there was nary a hint of the overwhelming arousal she felt in her speech. “That does sound good. Maybe I’ll pick some up the next time I’m at the grocery store.”
His eyes widened at her nonchalance, and she almost blew the whole thing by bursting out laughing. Somehow she managed to swallow back the giggles long enough to say, “I think it’s your turn.”
Her amusement must have shown through, though, because his lips twitched suspiciously. “All right, then.” He nodded toward the long table behind them as he slipped off his watch. “What are all those pictures of girls for?”
“A book I’m writing.”
“So, you’re a writer? What kind?”
“True crime. And trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to hear any more about it tonight. It’s been a pretty crappy day.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. Your turn.”
She pulled off her bracelet. “Why do you always smell like sandalwood?” He shrugged. “I smoke a lot of pot and burn incense to disguise the smell. Sandalwood is the most common ingredient in incense.”
She could feel her eyes widening, though she tried her damnedest to look as blasé about the whole thing as he did. “Seriously?”
“That’s another question. If you want an answer, you’d better pony up.” He nodded to her camisole.
She slipped off her ponytail holder and handed it to him instead.
He grinned wickedly. “No, not seriously. I’m actually a carpenter, and I use sandalwood or its oils in some of the furniture I make. It repels moths and other insects.”
“Ugh! That was totally uncool.” She pretended to pout as she secretly admired his ingenuity.
“But so much more interesting than the truth. You did say I could make things up.”
“True,” she acknowledged. “But you asked two questions last time and I didn’t make you take off two things.”
“And how is that my fault?” His grin was self-satisfied and wicked as hell. It was also sexy enough to curl her toes. “You need to be more cutthroat.”
She took a second to swallow, knowing the jig would be up if she actually drooled on the man. “So that’s how you want to play it? I thought you said this was just a friendly little game between friends.”
“You’re the one who made it into something else. I’m just trying to keep up. Besides”—he shrugged, and she couldn’t help admiring just how neatly he’d flipped the tables around on her—“I only play to win.”
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“Isn’t that funny?” She dipped her index finger in her wine, then brought it to her lips, where she slowly sucked the delicious liquid off it before running her finger over her bottom lip. His eyes followed her every movement, and she couldn’t help being gratified when they glazed over. “So do I.”
He didn’t say anything for long seconds, so she finally said, “Your question.”
His voice was somehow even more hoarse than it had been when he asked, “Why me?”
“Why you?” She didn’t understand the question.
Standing up, he slowly pulled off his shirt, and it was her turn to lose focus as all Byron’s glorious muscles went on display. “You said you were breaking the rules by being with me. What made you choose me to break them with?”
Chapter Thirteen
Gregory stared down at the file in front of him in disbelief. For nearly a minute, he sat frozen, unable to think or move or breathe. Unable to act like the leader his men needed.
The last thought galvanized him, made him snap out of the unpleasant shock that had whipped through him as he’d gazed at the information Micah had unearthed on his little redhead.
He snorted. His little redhead—what a misnomer that was. Lacey Adams was a true-crime writer who had come to New Orleans to investigate the prostitution-ring debacle that had brought an end to one of his most lucrative business ventures.
Just the thought of Veronique and what had happened caused his fists to clench in annoyance. That whole thing should never have happened—would never have happened if the little whore he’d put in charge had been as good at keeping her mouth shut as she was at shoving shit up her nose.
The only reason she wasn’t dead yet was because she had been smart enough, during the time the escort service was riding high, to secure herself the NOPD police commissioner as a lover. In exchange for free sex whenever the bastard wanted it and a closed mouth on Veronique’s part, he had protected her. Watched over her. So that even the very brief time she spent in prison had been at the best women’s prison in the state—one where serving time was more of a pastime than the hard labor his men went through if they got caught.