Midnight Masquerade Page 6

  Nothing she didn't want to do.

  Her fingers closed about his. Nice hands, strong, surprisingly burred from physical activity, and sensitive in the way his fingers meshed through hers. Not possessive or demonstrative but with a light, confirming pressure.

  "Let's get out of here."

  The minute she said the words, consequence dug in its heels. She'd just said yes to sex with a stranger, or at least to the opportunity for it to happen. She rarely said yes to sex with men she'd known for ages.

  Yet when Nick Flynn slid out of the booth, her hand still cradled within his, she followed.

  He guided her with the touch of his fingertips at the small of her back. No groping, no grabbing, just that light connection. Anything more might have sent her running. Her heart beat wildly. Her breathing quivered as much from excitement as anxiety.

  Nick Flynn was exciting. Just the thought of where their walk might lead had her emotions rocking on a tight-wire of nervousness. She was in control. She clung to that knowledge. Nick might promise nothing she didn't want, but if he tried to force more upon her, she was more than capable of saying no in many different—and some quite painful—ways. If she didn't think she could handle herself, she wouldn't have said yes to LaValois's suggestion. She wouldn't be here coaxing a strange man to his room.

  But as Marchand had said, Nick Flynn was the weak link to getting where they needed to be to both get what they wanted. And right now was the time and the place because the handsome lawyer wanted her enough not to ask any questions. And she was just jazzed enough by the simmering tension between them to carry through on the plan.

  Nothing she didn't like.

  She canted a look at his dark, patrician profile. Could she trust him to keep that promise?

  It was a long walk to the elevators. His suite was in the old section of the hotel, separated by a glass hallway studded with a scattering of antiques and replications. A ritzy place. He must have been pulling down pretty darn good pay to put himself up in such style. With his tailored Armanis and manicured hands, despite their sexy roughness, she couldn't exactly picture him in a motor lodge. This was bachelor nirvana—elegant, hedonistic yet with no commitment. Was that the kind of man he was? She wasn't sure she didn't lean more toward the motor lodge type.

  He rang for the elevator that seemed to be waiting just for his call. The doors slid open, and Rae knew once she stepped inside everything about her life and her self-image would change.

  She crossed the threshold boldly and waited for the doors to close upon her decision.

  As the car vibrated upward, they stood side by side, more like strangers sharing the ride than soon to be lovers sharing much, much more.

  "Rae, what?"

  "Excuse me?” She glanced at him, but he was watching the ascending numbers above the door.

  "Your last name."

  "Just Rae."

  He looked at her then. “How am I supposed to find a ‘Just Rae’ in the greater D.C. area when I want to see her again?"

  She just smiled until he got the idea.

  "Oh.” He managed a deprecating chuckle. “I guess I deserved that. It's not like we're developing a lifelong relationship here. Is it?"

  "What do you want it to be, Nick?"

  This time his laugh was a tad strained. “I guess we'll have to wait and see."

  Yes, they would.

  And thankfully he shut up until the door opened to his floor.

  He steered her down the twists and turns, his hand on her elbow, a bit more aggressive but far from demanding. She felt herself tensing with each step. She didn't have to be here, doing this. Getting to know Nick Flynn could have ended at that bar downstairs.

  But this was the more direct, more certain way to convince him that she was what she pretended to be.

  "Here we go."

  She noted the brass numbers on the door, waiting with knees locked to keep them from trembling as he used his key card to open the way to no going back.

  The room was dark, smelling of recent maid service and recycled air. Before turning on the light, Nick crossed the long living area to open the French doors that led out onto a decent-sized balcony. Rae was drawn to the sight of him silhouetted against the night sky, to where he breathed in its sultry, perfumed air as he leaned upon the wrought iron rail.

  Giving her time to make the first move.

  She joined him.

  "This is nice."

  "One of the perks of the job."

  If she'd had time, she would have spent it trying to decipher the interesting bite to his words.

  "The firm pays for your room?"

  "Yes. They brought me up here from Baton Rouge to take care of some contract work for them. Louisiana still uses the old Napoleonic codes of law that their own lawyers aren't licensed to handle. But by the same token, I can't practice here without applying to the Bar. If the firm likes my work well enough, they'll take care of that hurdle for me. Consider this an engagement period."

  "They're very generous in their engagement presents. You must be very good at what you do."

  "I try to be very good at everything I do."

  She thought she was ready, but when he turned toward her, smelling of bourbon, his expression sharp with desire, she froze. Paralyzed with panic, she lost herself in the smoldering darkness of his stare coming closer, closer as he lowered toward her. Her breathing stopped. Then he stopped.

  "I owe you a drink."

  He'd been ready to kiss her. The sudden statement threw her off guard. She blinked and tried to regroup.

  "What?"

  "At the Noir the other night. I went for drinks and you disappeared."

  "Oh. I'm sorry about that."

  He waited to see if she'd offer more in way of an explanation. When she didn't, he smiled thinly. “I think I've got some club soda around here someplace."

  He left her there on the balcony to berate herself.

  Coward, coward. Why had she come up with him if she couldn't go through with the plan? How was she going to convince him of what she was supposed to be if she got a deer-in-the-headlights look every time he got personal.

  It wasn't personal. She had to remember that. It wasn't personal. It was for Ginny and Thomas Grover.

  But even as she followed him toward the kitchen area, she found herself wondering what his kiss would be like. He had the confident look of a good kisser. If only she could relax and get past the taste of liquor on his breath.

  He found that bottle of soda and placed it on the kitchen bar next to the ice tray and two glasses. But he hesitated before pouring. With the bar between them, she felt some of her own confidence returning. Enough to slip off her jacket and give it a casual toss over the back of the nearest chair. She knew there was nothing subtle or concealing about the cream-colored stretch lace camisole she wore, but instead of staring through its delicate patterned sworls to find the pucker of her nipples, he stared straight into her eyes.

  A long second passed.

  "You don't want to be here, do you?"

  Taken aback, she asked, “Why would you say that?"

  "Ever since the elevator you've had the look of the condemned about you. I'd hoped...” He reached out then, his fingertips grazing the curve of her cheek in a slow, sensory sweep. “I'd hoped you'd want to stay."

  His caress ended at the side of her throat where he could test her galloping pulse and ride her bucking swallow.

  "Why?"

  Just for the sex? was what she didn't add but really meant.

  "Because you're the first person I've met since coming here that I've made a connection with. And I'd hoped—” He broke off, his hand dropping away. When she continued to stare at him, saying nothing, he smiled regretfully. “I'll call you a cab."

  The exquisite vulnerability in that honest claim broke through Rae's resistance. Acting from the heart instead of the head, she leaned across the counter, her hands bracketing his swarthy face when he would pull back in surprise.


  The first touch of their lips stirred thunderous passions. The tentative slide of her tongue along the soft seam of his mouth sizzled, a bolt of pure desire.

  Nothing you don't want.

  Amazingly, emphatically, what she wanted at that moment was him. Nick Flynn with his charm-you-out-of-your-panties smile and those dark, soulful eyes changing from sly dog innuendo to puppy dog sincerity in a blink. Nick Flynn of the whisper sweet, soul-sucking kisses and unhurried touch that had her toes curling.

  Nothing you don't want.

  Was he kidding? She couldn't imagine him doing anything she didn't want at this emotionally-charged moment.

  Except send a sudden splash of soda water cascading over the front of her when tipped by his elbow.

  Crying out in dismay, she jumped back to survey the damage. The tropical sea color of her skirt now showed two dramatically different depths. Watching her brush ineffectually at the spreading stain, Nick's gaze had gone from a house on fire to the cold ash of regret.

  What else could go wrong?

  Nick wondered as she plucked the soggy lace of her tank top away from her skin. The briefly tasted heaven of her lips was now a rapidly evaporating hope. No sense in trying to recover from the comedy of errors performed at his suddenly inept hands. The flames of opportunity had been thoroughly doused.

  "Want that cab?” he asked, trying not to sound as morose as he felt at that moment.

  "I want your shower. I feel all sticky."

  She was staying.

  Elation swirled through his mind, slowing his response until she looked at him in question, all gorgeous and soaked through. And smiling a good sport smile that dropped his heart to his feet.

  Abruptly as sweaty palmed as a kid, he nodded toward the bedroom. “In there. There's a robe on the door you can use while your things dry out. Then I promise to be a more coordinated host."

  Her smile took a sultry bend. “I look forward to that, Nick."

  Watching her sashay into his bedroom, impatience almost had him following in a lather of anticipation and urgency.

  Down boy.

  Instead, as he heard the indescribably delicious sound of this particular woman running the water in his shower, he turned his restless energies toward mopping up his mess. Once that was done, he looked toward the wet bar, feeling suddenly, desperately dry. A drink would help get him through the next few moments ... He started reaching.... but would be a hindrance later on. He scrubbed his palms on his trousers.

  Rae of the no last name was intoxicating enough for any man.

  What was it about this one? Yeah, she looked great and the opportunity to see more had him chafing, but his needs didn't stop at a quick roll in the sack the way they did with the other women he'd met and mated. With her predecessors, he'd been impatient to bed them then even more impatient to have them gone. With Rae, he was looking forward to the “after.” After the passion finished its tornadic roar and quieted to a manageable tempest. After the physical was satisfied, when the two of them could curl close together and share themselves.

  He wasn't much for sharing. He hoarded his past and his emotions as zealously as he did his bank account, so this notion came as an out of left field surprise. Why would a sexy hooker want to linger in his bed listening to him spill his tawdry secrets? Why would she want to hear him talk about his lean years in Louisiana, when hopes and dreams seemed so impossibly out of reach? Why would she care to learn what was really on his mind? What he really wanted, needed, to confide in her was his dissatisfaction with that same dream. How could a woman like her relate to his sudden, irrational urge to flee from that finally realized goal of success and wealth?

  And why did part of him believe instinctively that, of all the people he knew, she would be the one who would understand?

  He didn't know her from Adam or Eve, but here he was, ready to spill his guts about matters of firm confidentiality and client privilege. Mr. Lonely Hearts searching for a sympathetic ear.

  But she'd known Ginny Grover. She'd been there to witness his moment of shame and glory. Was that the attraction? Was he clinging to those circumstances, using her familiarity with the Grovers to punish himself for his part in their ruin? Looking to her for some sort of forgiveness?

  Jeez, that was sick.

  And he felt sick. Had felt sick since he'd watched Zanlos sign Grover's name with the man's dead hand and had said nothing.

  Towels.

  There were no towels in the bathroom. He'd tossed them into the hamper this morning for housekeeping and hadn't replaced them from the stash in the linen closet.

  While the water still pounded within his tiled tub enclosure, Nick, his arms loaded with the generic whites provided by hotels around the world, slipped into the bathroom thinking to unobtrusively lay the stack on the sink and go. But as he set the towels down, his gaze was caught and mesmerized by the silhouette behind curtain number one—his prize of choice.

  And while he stared dreamily at that languidly moving figure, red-tipped fingers grasped the edge of the curtain and pulled it open part way. Far enough to expose the bare arm and shoulder and wet head of his soon to be indignant guest.

  "Yes?"

  He gestured blindly toward the sink. “I brought towels."

  "Oh. Thanks. But I was really hoping you were here to do my back for me."

  "I could do that,” he offered up a little bit slowly.

  And before he could get all the way out of his jacket, she'd caught him by the tie to drag him toward the tub.

  Nick had the presence of mind to step out of his shoes and toss his wallet to safety in the sink before surrendering himself to the jetting spray.

  And surrendering his common sense to much, much more.

  Chapter

  Six

  I'm in control. I'm in control here.

  Nothing you don't want.

  Rae let the water beat upon her back as the words beat upon her flagging confidence.

  She couldn't convince herself of the first because of the seductive appeal of the second.

  Truth be told, she wasn't in control, of the situation or her own emotions. Marchand LaValois manipulated the first and Nick Flynn the second, and here she was, the one with the most at stake, going with the flow.

  Right down the drain.

  She didn't like using Nick, because she liked him, genuinely enjoying his company and being here in his rooms. How easy it would be to forget her purpose and Marchand's plan to indulge in the passions of the moment.

  And oh, with Nick Flynn, there was passion aplenty. Behind that first look across the room, beneath the clever banter of their conversation, within the slightest brush of his fingertips. It wasn't going to be a problem giving herself over to this evening's inevitable end. The problem was going to be in living with herself afterwards.

  Think of it as undercover work.

  Under the covers work was more like it.

  Over the rush of the water, she heard the door to the bathroom open. All of her self-defense mechanisms immediately came on line. She started rinsing off, waiting for him to tear open the curtain and ruin everything.

  But he didn't.

  And as she waited in the billowing clouds of steam, her own temperature began to rise at the thought of him there on the other side of the droplet-dappled sheet of semi-opaque vinyl.

  What was he waiting for?

  An invitation?

  Yes.

  That's exactly what he was waiting for, and the notion had her steaming hotter than the spray.

  Seeing him standing there, looking part sheepish, part predatory, his swarthy features already slicked by a sheen of moisture, created an instantaneous need. And since she couldn't go out to him, undressed as she was, she brought him to her.

  She lifted her lips to him in silent offering. He kissed her, once softly, as if trying out something new and making sure he understood how everything worked so he wouldn't have to read directions later. Then, again, with the aggressive skill of someone w
ho knew exactly how to manipulate every nuance of desire and need with the varying pressure and position of his mouth upon hers. A fast learner.

  As she stepped back, dragging him into the tub with her, he took her right to the tiled wall beneath the shower head. Grateful for the support, her knees in danger of collapse, she unbuttoned his increasingly wet shirt while his hot, seeking tongue made love to her mouth, sliding in and out in suggestive repetitions. An urgent, hungry sound growled up from her throat as she peeled down his shirt. After tossing it over the curtain rod, she traversed the sleek contours of his back and shoulders with hurried revolutions. Beneath her palms, he was rock solid, a stud, not a soft chair jockey, and she let him hear her approval with a rumbling purr of appreciation.

  His one hand tangled in the heavy wetness of her hair while the other stroked down from her shoulder, fingers splayed wide. His thumb grazed the fullness of her breast, hitting her tightly beaded nipple as if it were a speed bump. Though her breath sucked in, he continued the journey, traveling along the curve of her torso to the gentle nip of her waist, skimming over rounded hip to claim a handful of firm cheek. He tugged her into him, rocking, rubbing, letting her get the full picture of how she was driving him crazy with need. That evidence strained the front of his trousers in impatient and impressive detail. Needing a first hand sampling, Rae insinuated hers between the press of their bodies, finding that rigid and ready sex that was more median divider than speed bump, and tormented him into a groan of objection with her not so gentle travels.

  He tore away from the greedy suction of their kiss to stare at her as if in wonder, blinking water from his enviably thick lashes as he pushed her hair from her face.

  "Eighty percent of all home accidents happen in the bath,” he panted. “Let's move this someplace safer."

  Not believing such a place existed as long as this fierce urgency pulsed between them, Rae nodded and reached back for the shower control, shutting it off. Her own control was way beyond the simple turn an on/off knob.