Hot Property Page 8

Yeeessss! There it was, everything—flour, sugar, spices, vanilla, Hershey’s cocoa. She rummaged through the shelves but didn’t find chocolate chips. Not that she was surprised, with a guy who could bench press a Mack truck. He might drink cocoa maybe, but chocolate chips for cookies—not so much.

  She was just putting the finishing swirls on the frosting atop the brownies when Nick walked into the kitchen.

  “Remind me to invite you over anytime,” he said with a grin. “I’ll pour the milk.”

  “Good. I was afraid you might not like me going through your cupboards.”

  “If this is the result,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as he opened the fridge, “feel free.”

  “I was stressed. Chocolate seemed the logical solution.”

  “That or booze. We could do both. I have a sweet French red a friend of mine sends me from Paris that’s good with chocolate.”

  Zoe shook her head. “I drank enough before lunch. Maybe milk will help me sleep tonight.”

  Sex always helped him sleep, but since he was trying to stay on the straight and narrow, he decided to settle for milk, too. “Try not to be stressed. You’re safe here.” A relatively truthful statement unless Harry sent in the heavy artillery. “And I’ll make us some supper later. Maybe pudding for dessert. That should help you sleep.” He set the milk carton on the table.

  Zoe’s eyes lit up. “What kind of pudding?”

  “What kind do you like?”

  “Coconut cream.”

  “No shit. Same here.” He didn’t exactly believe in Karma— correction, he didn’t believe in it at all—but there was some kind of voodoo rapport going on with this babe next door. Next thing she’d be saying she spoke Croatian. Wait, wait, wait. If she’s Harry’s spook, maybe she knows I like coconut cream pudding.

  Christ, the ambiguity and suspicion were beginning to hurt his brain.

  “I’ll get some glasses.” Right now, he didn’t want to think about Harry.

  While Nick was jettisoning thoughts of assassins, Zoe was thinking there was something about sitting at an old Formica table with a dishy guy like Nick, eating brownies and drinking milk, that triggered some hitherto unfelt sentimental sense of contentment. Maybe it had been too long since she’d indulged in such simple pleasures. Or maybe the contrast between her previous apprehension and the dependable ecstasy of chocolate in any form accounted for her unusual feelings. Perhaps it was nothing more than coming within the sexual force field of a super-gorgeous man like Nick Mirovic.

  She was beginning to feel like a fifteen-year-old with a crush.

  Obviously, the retro-brownies and milk were to blame.

  She should have taken him up on his offer of wine—a more mature beverage.

  “I probably shouldn’t say this.” Nick’s voice was ultrasoft.

  Better you than me. She was very near to propositioning him. “Say whatever,” she casually replied, not feeling casual at all. She was, in fact, very close to abandoning discretion altogether. Really, he could be in an ad for one of those home exercise machines—you know the ones . . . a halfnaked guy that’s all hard, glistening muscle telling you for only twenty dollars a month you can look like him. Not that Nick’s muscles were glistening, but maybe later after some hot sex, she luridly thought.

  “I was thinking, maybe you could come along with me—at least for a week or so.” He was probably being stupid, but she had a thin smear of chocolate frosting on her bottom lip that was just crying to be licked off and his hard-to-control libido was pressing him to do just that. For starters.

  “Really?”

  She smiled, and her face lit up like some artless, unspoiled, Renaissance Madonna. Not a good analogy in his present lecherous mood—maybe more like a real grateful chick. “Sure. We’ll give it a try.” Ambiguous words, although his dick interpreted them differently, his erection surging upward in anticipation.

  “I probably shouldn’t say this,” Zoe murmured, lifting her brows slightly in indication of the identical phrase, “but you turn me on.” She grinned. “Or maybe it’s the chocolate. It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, right? Although I apologize,” she quickly added, his expression so completely neutral she figured she’d blundered, “if I seem too pushy. I’m perfectly fine with platonic, too.”

  He leaned back in his chair and studied her from under his lashes.

  As the silence lengthened, her cheeks turned pink, then cherry red. “Say something,” she finally muttered, unconsciously licking away the smidgen of chocolate on her bottom lip. “ ‘No thanks’ is fine.”

  “I’m trying to figure out if Harry sent you. If you’re supposed to proposition me. If I’m supposed to fall for it.”

  “This is where I say, ‘Harry who?’ Not that you’re likely to believe me, but I haven’t a clue who you’re talking about.” She smiled. “But thanks, I thought you were blowing me off for other reasons.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted faintly, his smile slightly cynical; his dark gaze, on the other hand, beaucoup sexy. “It’s strictly self-preservation, babe. A man would have to be dead to blow you off.”

  “How sweet.”

  “That’s me. Sweet as hell.”

  “So what do you think?”

  He softly swore.

  “If I was naked, you could see I wasn’t carrying any weapon.” Good God where did that come from?

  At this point his libido was practically frothing at the mouth, reason was crumbling fast, and a man of less restraint would have succumbed. She is making this way too easy. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  “Is thirty seconds long enough?” The pulsing had accelerated to a hard throbbing rhythm; she was seriously horny and it was all his fault.

  The smallest hesitation and then he said, “Yeah. Show me what you got.”

  Her eyes flared wide for a second. “Here?”

  “Here’s good.”

  It was a take it or leave it tone.

  Under any other circumstances, i.e., one where she hadn’t gone without sex for almost a month, and the man eyeing her wasn’t God’s gift to women, she would have selected the leave-it option.

  Unfortunately, her body was seriously revved up for reasons that mostly had to do with the magnificent specimen of male virility seated across from her. Okay, so that was an unbelievably shallow reason—pure physicality should never be such a driving motive. Even thinking of the word driving catapulted a delicious, lustful ripple straight up her vagina.

  Or maybe the chocolate was to blame.

  “Are you still with me, babe?”

  His low, raspy tone effectively sealed the deal.

  She smiled. “Yeah—I’m here.”

  Sixteen

  “Are you finished eating then?” she asked, as if anything mattered but consummation in her current ripe-for-sex mood.

  “For now.”

  His smile was pure machismo. She felt the heated insinuation of future possibilities in every quivering sexual nerve ending, particularly those that were busily flooding her vagina for easy access.

  “If this show’s actually getting on the road”—he lifted his chin just a bit—“stand over there by the fridge where I can see you. And undress slowly.” His brows rose faintly. “I want to survive this roll in the hay.”

  “You should talk.” She shot a glance at his pantry as she rose from her chair, astonished to find that a hint of menace was curiously beneficial to sexual arousal. “I should be the one who wants to keep you in my sights.”

  Not a phrase he cared to hear under the circumstances. “What if I said I wanted to handcuff you?” A deterrent to assassination—not without its prurient element, his libido pleasantly reflected.

  “If you didn’t have an arsenal in your kitchen,” she replied, moving the two steps to the fridge, “I might be open to the idea. But since you do—no thanks.” Pragmatism was still nominally in charge.

  “I’m not playing then.” No way—screaming libido or not—was he about to take a chance of d
ying for a fuck.

  “You can’t say that.” Peevishness in every word.

  “I just did.”

  Christ—that take it or leave it tone again. There were times a smart-ass, take-charge kind of guy was a real pain. “I could use my vibrator.” She gave him a pointed look, her version of an ultimatum.

  He smiled. “Okay if I watch?”

  “You’re pissing me off,” she muttered, glowering at him.

  “I wish I could help you out. You have no idea how I wish I could help you out,” he murmured.

  “Yet handcuffs are a requirement?” Followed by a petulant little sniff.

  He ignored the petulance. He even understood; he was under ruttish duress as well. “There are people from my past who won’t allow me to make mistakes—sexual or otherwise. It’s just a fact. Believe me, if not for them, I’d be fucking you right now.”

  “You’re talking about this Harry person.”

  “I’m not sure he’s a person.”

  “And I could be working for him?” She was beginning to understand.

  “Yup.”

  “And he would want me to do something not so nice to you,” she said in an almost normal tone.

  He laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. “Yeah—something lethal.”

  “You don’t mean kill you?” she breathed in disbelief.

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Her face went pale and she sank onto a chair. The thought of people killing people could really take the wind out of one’s sexual sails, not to mention rattle one’s sense of personal mortality. “You don’t think Willerby might be planning that for me, too, do you?”

  He was staring at the face of fear or that of a very good actress. “I don’t know him,” he answered honestly, not in a position to offer blanket assurances even if he wanted to. “So I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “Joe told me Willerby was dangerous, but I never imagined he meant seriously dangerous.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Her fear looked genuine. Or at least he thought it did. He wished there was a way to know for sure.

  She went silent, hands folded in her lap, her fingers clenching and unclenching.

  He didn’t move or speak, determined not to get anymore involved than he already was. The practical part of his brain was hoping she might decide to hire some real security and let him off the hook. The impractical part was focused on the pink flush beginning to color her cheeks and the gentle rise and fall of her bodacious breasts. Predictably, his hotheaded libido was yelling at him to pick her up, carry her to his bedroom, and take her mind off her troubles with some mutually gratifying sex.

  “I have no idea what to do,” she finally said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  She offered him a rueful smile. “That’s not comforting.”

  “Sorry.”

  She grimaced faintly. “With a closet full of firepower, you’re supposed to know what to do when bad guys threaten people.”

  “Even if I did, I doubt you’d want to hear about it.”

  Sliding down, she looked at him from under her lashes. “How is it possible that my life has fallen apart in only a few short hours?”

  “Don’t look at me. I have nothing to do with any of it.” And if he was smart he’d steer clear.

  “I know.” She softly sighed. “It’s my own fault, as Joe pointed out to me. He warned me against taking on this investigation,” she muttered, making a small moue. “And of course I didn’t listen.”

  “And now your ass is in a sling.” Nick suddenly grinned. “Nice ass though.”

  She smiled back. “Thanks. A couple minutes ago, I was going to eat you alive and now—well . . .” She blew out a breath, wrinkled her perfect nose. “Okay, so maybe I still feel like a little nibble.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking advantage of a lady,” he drawled, clearly amused, “but the simple facts are, if anyone’s gonna come after me, it’s not gonna be in broad daylight, and Willerby’s stooges can’t get through my security. So if you’d care for a nibble or maybe more, I could take your mind off say”—his brows lifted ever so faintly—“this current unpleasantness.”

  She sat up, leaned her elbows on the table, and looked at him with an appraising and decidedly droll expression. “That was one smooth and, may I say, lucid invitation.”

  He leaned forward, so their faces were close. “If you’re interested in additional lucidity—pleasure-wise, sex-wise, orgasmic-wise—I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Such confidence,” she purred, warmed by the smoldering heat in his eyes, aware that he was effectively finessing her fear and misgivings.

  He grinned. “Some people just have the knack.”

  “Lucky me.” It was nice to feel the piquant shimmer of arousal again instead of quailing panic. How kind of him to take her mind off the disagreeable Willerby dilemma, not that his motives were completely altruistic. Still. “You’re ever so polite,” she murmured.

  He laughed softly. “I have my moments.”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  His brows flickered upward in surprise. Even as he was thinking it had been a long time since he’d heard so innocent a request, his less ruminative self said, “Go for it.”

  “Are handcuffs required?”

  He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not, but he said, “Maybe later,” because he didn’t as a rule let down his guard completely.

  “Not now though.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  He watched her push her chair back, rise to her feet, walk around the table, and as she leaned over to kiss him, he abruptly shoved his chair back and pulled her down on his lap. “Let’s do this my way,” he said, running his palms down her back. “So I can feel you.”

  “And me you,” she whispered, shifting her bottom against his erection in a tantalizing little wiggle. “Ummm . . . lovely,” she murmured, as he sucked in a breath. With an enchanting little smile, she moved again in a slow, leisurely seesaw vacillation that, in contrast, spiked through their senses at lightning speed.

  Fingers splayed, he grasped her hips and exerted pressure downward, holding her against his engorged cock for a silent, protracted moment, his dark eyes close and flame-hot.

  Then she kissed him or he did her, the exact convergence mutually inspired and willful. Neither of them was a person of restraint, or perhaps a certain urgency was at play after so many hours of holding out against temptation. A distinct impatience suffused their kiss—a ransacking, ravenous devouring of each other, not a taste but a gluttonous prelude of what was to come.

  Impatient for more, he tried to pull away.

  “No, no,” she cried, gripping his face. “Not yet.”

  He could have easily broken free, could have done whatever he wished to do considering their relative strengths. But glancing at the red teapot clock, he saw that it was only four. At least five hours until dark. If Harry’s people came, it would be at night. Maybe not tonight, but some night. So what the hell— he had time for kisses.

  He gave her his full attention then. Gently curling one hand around the back of her neck, holding her lightly captive in turn, he tempered his fervor. His kisses were less forceful now, his tongue exploring in a lambent, grazing rhythm, his free hand drifting softly down her back, sliding upward again, his fingertips coming to rest on the plump outer curve of one breast.

  The feel of his fingertips sinking ever so slightly into her flesh shouldn’t have ignited such flame-hot desire. He was exerting the merest pressure, restrained, delicate—without intrinsic demand. And yet a quintessential authority somehow sprang from that gentle touch, causing her breathing to change.

  Gratified, he inhaled her fluttering, erratic breathiness, drew her closer. A moment later when he tenderly cupped her breast and slid his index finger back and forth over her taut nipple, she arched her back, pressing into his hand, asking for more.

  Flexing his hips, he thrust upward, ramming his c
ock against her cunt.

  A skittish cry broke from her lips.

  His hands clamped down hard on her hips this time, exerted a rough downward pressure, needing more than teasing foreplay.

  They both groaned at the wild rush of pleasure inundating their senses.

  No longer in the mood to wait, Nick debated where he’d left his handcuffs. Lucy was into S&M, so handcuffs were a regular adjunct to their sex—not that he was averse when in one of his black moods. But rather than moodiness, he was driven by necessity this time, and he needed them.

  “I’m done,” Zoe murmured, abruptly pushing him away.

  His heart skipped a beat until he saw that she was reaching for the zipper on her slacks.

  “Done kissing?” he inquired, just to be sure. Not that he couldn’t have persuaded her to his way of thinking regardless, but it never hurt to know the terrain.

  “Yup.” The zipper was down and she was standing up.

  The smokin’ hot blonde next door was full of revelations. First she was on, then off, then on again, and this time in an impatient, purposeful way that was both gratifying and rare. Women sometimes preferred a less imperious facade—not that there weren’t always exceptions. But, Christ, Miss Chandler was treating this fuck like a trip to the grocery store.

  Not that he gave a damn one way or the other as long as the payoff was beneficial.

  And it sure looked as though it would be. Her shoes were already off and she was sliding her slacks down her hips.

  He was about to come to his feet and start stripping off his clothes when some inner voice of reason stopped him. Instead, he checked out the table—no knives or other lethal weapons— noted that the counter was too far away to reach, made a point of shoving away the closest chair that could be used as a weapon, and decided this particular sex act was gonna play without handcuffs, due to extenuating circumstances . . . like a fast-approaching orgasm. He sat back to enjoy the view.

  She didn’t appear to be performing some prescribed role. She was clearly frenzied, aroused, her nipples jewel hard under her T-shirt, the expeditious removal of her slacks and panties not the actions of a working woman for hire. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, her lush mouth partially open as if the feverish heat within required egress. And when she jerked her T-shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor, the room went silent, save for her rough breathing and Nick’s suppressed gasp.