Indiscreet

“Yeah, yeah.” He shook back his hair, which suddenly seemed burdensome, if not a reminder of the savage life he’d known. “It’s not my hair that’s the problem.”

It wasn’t even the piercings or the tattoos. It was the expression in his eyes. And that he wasn’t sure he could change.

“Not completely, no. But you do look like a thug. And if you want to cater the New Year’s Eve showing at Devon’s gallery, I can’t have you looking like one.”

He sobered completely. “Cater? Me? Are you out of your mind?”

Annabel’s dark brows lifted. “Oh, that was another Patrick Coffey seducing me earlier with promises of grilled salmon and crème brûlée?”

“Seduction and catering are two completely different animals.” Catering meant putting his work out for those other than family, appearing in public, behaving accordingly. People pointed out too often that his behavior mirrored the don’t-give-a-damn look in his eyes.

“It’s cooking, Patrick. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“The serving? The presentation?” She was handing him a silver platter loaded with a legitimate reason for her to keep him around. And all he could think about was the exhaustion of maintaining a civilized veneer despite the rude stares and speculation.

His survival skills told him he’d be borrowing trouble should he accept. His protective instincts quickly took charge.

This wasn’t about him. This was about Annabel.

“I’ll handle the arrangements,” she was saying. “I have the menu already approved. All you’ll have to do is prepare the food.”

“And the back side of the deal?” The side he figured he would like even less than putting his passion out to be judged by strangers.

Annabel’s closed expression confirmed his suspicion. “After the showing on New Year’s Eve, we’ll say our goodbyes.”

Yeah, he’d had a pretty good idea that was going to be it, and it still sucked that she wasn’t wanting to keep him around.

Annabel was the only one with the guts to tell him about his potential. She never treated him as a pariah. Whether or not she truly believed in him didn’t matter. She’d given him reason to harbor a remnant of the same hope he’d held on to for three years.

He huffed. Maybe one savior per lifetime was all he deserved. And he sure didn’t want Annabel suffering Soledad’s fate.

Draining his bottle, he lazily pushed himself to his feet and dug into his pocket for his knife. With Annabel looking on, he flipped open the blade. He stared at her for a long moment, looking for even a hint of apprehension, seeing nothing but a mild curiosity.

He wanted to damn her for being unflappable, but damned himself for letting her get to him instead.

As he raised the knife, the flame of a lighter on the street below caught his eye. His heart bolted; his blood raced. His muscles contracted, and he froze, watching the first bright glow of a cigarette catching fire. He couldn’t make out any of the smoker’s features—

“Patrick?”

—only dark clothing, dark hair. It could be Dega. It could be anyone, except the balcony seemed to be in the smoker’s direct line of sight. Another long draw and the cigarette fell to the ground. The smoker turned and walked away, swallowed immediately by the shadows.

“Patrick?”

If he hit the fire escape, he could be on the street in seconds. He could make sure. He would know—

“Patrick!”

Annabel grabbed his wrist. Adrenaline shot him in the heart; he flinched. It was a long, tense moment later before he was able to force enough of a smile to put the both of them at ease.

With a roll of her eyes, Annabel released his wrist and shoved him away. “I hate it when you do that.”

This time he knew what she was talking about: the way his feral instincts kicked in anytime he sensed danger. He glanced back down to the street, only to see that his hesitation had cost him what edge he might’ve had. Shit. A lot of protection he was going to be. Shaking his head, he turned away, slid his free fingers into his hair close to his scalp and pulled.

Only then did he use the blade.

He watched Annabel look on as the hunk of hair fell to the balcony floor. She watched as he sliced off another and another until he stood there with nothing but choppy tufts on his head. He returned the knife to his pocket. She returned her gaze to his face.

If asked, he would’ve denied the pleasure that rushed through him at seeing the encouragement in her eyes. When it reached her mouth, he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on that one last remnant of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he deserved to have survived.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, and when he inclined his head in answer, she turned on her heel and motioned for him to follow. “I’ll get the clippers from my makeup case. You get the broom.”

SHE COULDN’T TEAR her gaze away. She’d tried, truly she had. But he was entirely too compelling, making the task an impossibility when she’d thought herself impervious to his physical allure.

After she’d repaired the mess he’d made of his hair, they’d made love with the lights on. For the first time since he’d bought her at auction, she’d wanted to see his face while their bodies were joined. Until now, she’d imagined him as a fantasy, a mystery, a lover that came in the night when her defenses were down and her body an open book.

Their encounters were purely sexual, a disassociation from the rest of her life, an entertainment, recreation, an indulgence. Tonight that glass bubble had broken. He was real, a man, a beautiful male specimen of whom she couldn’t get her visual fill.

Her sheets were fine white Egyptian cotton, the headboard an extravagant Victorian piece in dark wood. Patrick lay sleeping in the center of the bed, an arm beneath his head in lieu of a pillow, the barest edge of a sheet draped over his groin.

Dark hair tufted in the pit of his raised arm, ran in a line from his navel down beneath the sheet. His chest was bare, his legs lightly covered, while the thatch that cushioned his sex grew thick. Yet the lack of hair on his head was what drew her attention.

She’d clipped him close so that no more than a dark fuzz remained. That darkness served to highlight the deep bronze glow of his skin. The silver hoop in his ear matched the one piercing his nipple, and both looked as if they were simply an extension of his skin.

It was his tattoo that caused her to shudder. Not the intricate tribal art ringing his biceps. That one she’d discovered beneath more than a few white dress shirts on other men. Never in her life, however, had she seen anything like Patrick’s snake.

The design was inked in multicolors: black, blue, red and green, with sharp highlights in yellow. The snake wound its way around his right thigh—she counted four coils—before arcing over his hipbone to end above the swell of his buttocks. With Patrick lying on his back, she had to visualize the fangs and the wicked, wicked eyes.

But even the remembered image was more than enough to cause her to shiver. She reached for the comforter, which had ended up on the floor earlier, and wrapped it around her shoulders. When she glanced again at Patrick, his eyes were open, even though he remained perfectly still.

“I hate the way you do that.” His uncanny ability to come awake on full alert made her crazy. She hated the idea of him watching her while she slept, when she was vulnerable….

“Watch out or you’ll give me a complex.”

“Give you a complex? What about the dozens you already have?”

She’d lost count of the number of times over the past seven weeks she’d tackled one or another, hoping she could offer him more than memories of great sex to take away from their time together. She hated how he seemed to ignore his amazing potential. Especially his ability to adapt and survive.

A slow, sleepy grin spread over his sinful mouth, though it never reached his eyes. Using no more than his abs, he lifted his upper body off the mattress while stacking pillows behind him. It was only when he finally leaned back that she remembered to breathe. God, but he was beautiful.

“Dozens, huh? Guess I’ve never counted.”

He was cocky and cute and too much of both. She’d determined that their time would be limited. She had even set the date for their end. None of that meant she couldn’t continue to dig into his psyche while she had him here—though, knowing Patrick, she easily imagined him walking out stark naked.

She considered him critically. “Why do you never stay and eat what you’ve cooked?”

The expression in his eyes gave nothing away, even as his smile seemed to freeze. “I always eat what I’ve cooked.”

“But you don’t eat with the people you’ve cooked for. This past year I’ve had dinner at Sydney and Ray’s at least once a month. As soon as the meal is served, you walk out of the room.”

“I’ve forgotten my table manners.”

He didn’t even flinch when he said it. He didn’t break eye contact, and he kept a totally straight face. Either he was a hell of a liar or he truly believed that he was the savage beast he claimed to be. A part of her heart broke for him.

Another part wanted to slap him and tell him to get over himself already, that she was immune to his act. Except that would make her an even bigger liar than he.

Another few silent moments passed, moments she spent wondering what his three years of captivity had been like, if he’d had friends, if he’d had lovers, how many he’d had. If they’d appreciated his intensity in bed the way she did. If one of them had taught him the skills he so expertly plied.

Funny, the jealousy sparked by that thought. Not so funny that she recognized the full grip of the unhealthy emotion.

“And it seems you’ve forgotten that it’s impolite to stare,” he finally said, interrupting her fruitless musings.

When she realized she was doing exactly that, she forced herself to pull away. “Your facial bone structure fascinates me.”

“If that’s a come-on, it’s the lousiest one I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not a come-on,” she said, even as her pulse quickened. “I was simply visualizing your skull’s interocular and bizygomatic breadth.”

He knew as well as she did that craniofacial anthropometry was the last thing on her mind. Yet she couldn’t find the strength to turn away when he whispered, “Show me.”

Letting the comforter fall, she moved toward him, enjoying the flare of his nostrils as he took in her nudity and her complete comfort in baring her body. She crawled up to straddle him, dislodging the sheet so that she sat atop his thighs, settling over the softness of his scrotum, his penis tucked close to her sex.

She placed her hands on the smooth skin of his torso, sliding her palms upward until making contact with his jaw. Her fingers explored the structure of his face, moving from one point to another.

“This is the bizygomatic breadth,” she said, measuring from the most lateral point on one cheekbone’s zygomatic arch to the matching point on the other. “And this is the biocular width,” she added, moving her left hand to span the space between the far corners of his eyelids. “A forensic sculptor would use these measurements as well as others in reconstructing your face.”

She pressed her fingertips to each spot until Patrick closed his eyes and moaned from the pleasure of her touch. She wanted to moan, as well, because his cock had stirred against her belly, his shaft thickening and rubbing over her sex.

“I can see why you liked studying this stuff. Who knew the human skull could be such an erogenous zone?”

“Our study subjects didn’t feel a thing,” she countered. “They were dead, and quite unconcerned with eros.”

Patrick lay still for several moments more, allowing her to explore the fit of the skin on his face, the structure of his skull, until the room seemed to echo with their dueling heartbeats and their husky breathing.

She stopped the exploration of his jawline, her thumbs pressed to his cheekbones, as his erection began to firmly make its presence known there where her belly tingled. When he opened his eyes to catch her staring, she moved her hands to her thighs.

Strange, this nervousness making her uneasy. Yes, he constantly surprised her, but she wasn’t used to being caught off guard. “It’s like you’re someone I don’t know. You look so different without all that hair.”

“A good different?”

“An effective different.”

“So consider me the variety spicing up your life.” He said it with a wiggle of both brows, which stood out against his perpetually bronzed skin.

That, he certainly had done, she admitted, moving her palms from her thighs to his abdomen, pressing lightly the taut muscles there. When he groaned, she felt the hum from her fingertips to her elbows.

Yet oddly enough, she wasn’t wanting sex as much as she wanted to explore his body. Considering that he was quite the randy young man, she wouldn’t be having her way completely, she mused without complaint. She had never known such intense satisfaction, and in reality would hate seeing him go.

But she had long since learned the importance of cutting free dead weight.

And behind those uncanny beautiful eyes and wickedly sparkling wit, she feared that was exactly what she would find instead of the artist’s soul her foolish heart insisted he hid. Better to die not knowing, than to know…and die a little more inside.

The older, wiser Annabel approached relationships anticipating their inevitable end. An end that was all too near for her and Patrick, giving her the freedom to enjoy his body without the guilt of self-betrayal.

Or so she worked to convince herself as she leaned forward to grab a condom from the bedside table. Patrick opened his mouth over her breast, but she pulled back before he could do more than wet her skin with his tongue.

Tearing open the condom packet, she moved from straddling Patrick’s thighs to kneeling between them, caught by the fire that stirred in her belly simply by looking at him. Yet it was nothing compared to the fire of taking him into her mouth.

Leaning forward, she parted her lips over the head of his cock and sucked him between her lips, holding him there while running her tongue along the sensitive underside seam. Her mouth burned from his heat; her pulse raced in response to the visceral sounds he made.

He thrust upward. She took him to the back of her throat before drawing her lips firmly from the base of his shaft back to the head. Once there, she teased him again, her tongue circling and swirling around his glans until, in a sharp panting breath, he begged her to stop.

She did stop, but she didn’t remove her mouth. She left her lips pressed beneath the ridge of the head and slipped a hand between his legs to fondle his balls. Then the soft skin of his sac, the weight of his testicles, the swollen extension of his erection that formed a ridge all the way back to his anal opening.

She loved all of it, loved the feel, loved learning where to press, where to stroke, where to tickle, where to squeeze. He was an incredible canvas of tactile sensation, and he aroused her beyond belief simply by being.

When he drew up his knees and opened his legs wider, she knew he was ready, just as she knew she could no longer wait. Their accord as lovers couldn’t possibly be more perfect, and she wondered over it yet again while rolling the condom down the length of his shaft.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she crawled up his body, lifting onto her knees, then lowering herself over his erection. For as long as she was able to manage, she remained unmoving, staring into Patrick’s eyes, which glittered with all that he felt, and with a promise to give her exactly what she wanted.

It was that unspoken vow that choked her up, that way he had of telling her he would always be there, would never let her down. That he was the real deal, as real as it got. Not the polished perfect product of wistful fantasy.

And that was when she closed her eyes and began to move. The sex she could count on. Counting on anything else, anything more, would be simple stupidity. No matter what his eyes said. She knew better.

She knew…knew…knew nothing any longer but the surge of desire, the purely physical lust that consumed her, that seemed to take away her mind and leave nothing but her body.

Sensation surrounded her as she lifted and lowered her hips, selfishly setting the rhythm that would bring her relief. Patrick held her, his fingers digging into the muscles of her buttocks and urging her to increase her speed.

The tendons and veins on his neck stood out in sharp relief as he strained to match the pace she set. He thrust upward to each of her downward strokes, and she braced her hands on his shoulders, loving the way his muscles bunched as he grasped her hips to direct her movements.

It was too much—the combination of looking into his eyes, seeing the way he wanted her, watching his struggle to hold his own completion in check.

She tossed back her head, riding his body as the swell of orgasm became the center of her world. Shuddering, she cried out, digging her fingers into his shoulders as the heat of his release filled her.

Still shivering, she glanced down, caught defenseless by the emotion brimming in his eyes and the arm he brought up and hooked behind her neck.

He pulled her down for his kiss, grinding his mouth to hers even as he ground their bodies together. His tongue swept into her mouth, branding her, claiming her, marking her as his possession.

For once in her life, she didn’t pull free from such a demanding kiss.

Or back away from the idea of belonging to only one man.

3

“CHLOE WILL BE HERE in ten minutes to go over the details of our Christmas Eve dinner. Are you thinking of dressing today?”

Patrick glanced from the omelette pan to Annabel’s face, then down to his gray jersey athletic shorts, which were threadbare and lacking support. The absence of a jockstrap or briefs didn’t improve matters any. Especially since his thoughts had been wandering to the bedroom, and his cock was of a mind to head back that way.

“A T-shirt ought to do me. Maybe a bucket of ice water. But you’ll have to watch the omelette.” He lifted a brow, indicating the eggs, cheese, tomatoes, cilantro and chorizo simmering on the stovetop.

Annabel tightened the belt of her silky robe, the creamy white-and-blue-green swirly patterns reminding him suddenly of Caribbean waters beneath endless skies. A reminder that took his thoughts back to the cigarette butt he’d picked up from the sidewalk outside the loft at dawn.

He tensed but refused to glance at the evidence of his suspicions lying on the countertop. He’d been planning to deliver breakfast in bed to Annabel. If he’d known she’d be up and dressed before he finished cooking, he’d never have left the butt in plain sight.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Annabel walked closer and pinched a square of diced tomato from the cutting board next to the stove. Her mouth gave a little twist as she considered his suggestion. “Why don’t I get you the clothes, and you finish fixing my food?”

“Hungry woman,” he growled, hooking an arm around her neck and pulling her away from the counter into a kiss.

It was a fiery kiss, full of tongues and warmth and a satisfaction that their mouths fit so well together. Yet the kiss was a distracting ruse as much as anything, and he kept his eyes open.

With his arm still around her neck and his face nuzzling the skin beneath her ear, he used his free hand to slide the omelette from pan to plate. He then set the pan on the counter, covering the cigarette butt, before turning his full attention to the woman in his arms.

Dodging his affections, she grabbed another bite of tomato, this one out of the omelette, complete with a dangling string of cheese. She reeled in the cheese with her tongue, chewed and swallowed, afflicting him with that smart-ass smirk that never failed to tie his gut in knots.

Thought she was going to get the better of him, did she? She’d better be thinking again. This time when he grabbed her, he didn’t let her squirm free, but delivered another hard, teasing, drive-by sweep of his tongue through her mouth.

“You taste like tomatoes,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist. He pulled her close for a kiss that was leisurely and lingering, that swept him away with possibilities and promises—until fear came crashing in, the fear that she would drown his ability to scent danger.

Still he kissed her, pushing his hips against her so that his erection found and settled into the softness of her belly. He pulsed there, throbbing, aching, and he backed her into the edge of the counter for a more secure hold.

She wound her arms around his neck, one hand at his nape, the other pulling his head down with forceful insistence. Her hunger matched his own. Her tongue tangled with his, and her taste set him on fire.

For all her sass, she tendered a sweetness that stole his breath, reminding him that he was a man and that he had survived. She was a huge reason he was finally grateful for the latter; he’d gone so long not giving a damn.

While the idea of remaining a part of her life kicked his self-preservation instincts awake, the idea of leaving triggered something more compelling—the need to protect what was his and no other’s. In a matter of weeks, Annabel had become an addiction his sworn enemy wouldn’t fail to exploit.

The thought gave him pause. Maybe he should run as far away from this woman as time allowed before the inevitable happened, before he lost the edge that had kept him alive, and Annabel paid the price.

He started to break the kiss. With a sound of distress, she cupped his jaw so tenderly he couldn’t pretend that all she felt was lust.

That all he felt was lust.

He growled into her mouth, seeking more of what she was always so ready to give…then perversely grinding away every trace of gentleness until only raw passion remained. He didn’t even release her when the bell rang and the loft’s private elevator whirred in the shaft, signaling Chloe’s arrival.

Annabel moved her hands from his neck to push against his chest, and tore her mouth free with a gasp. Then she glared at him. “I hate it when you do that.”

He feigned an indifferent shrug, reached for the omelette plate and cast a pointed glance at the front of her robe, where her nipples had risen to the occasion. “Yeah. I can tell.”

“Arrgh!” She balled her hands into fists, turned and stomped toward the door, but not before glancing down and adjusting the folds of her robe.

Patrick peeked around the floor-to-ceiling lava lamp sculptures that divided the kitchen from the main room of the loft and watched her very fine ass swish away. Sending her off with a long, low wolf whistle, he tossed the pan into the sink and snagged up the omelette and the cigarette butt.

Making his way through the back of the kitchen to the hallway, he headed for Annabel’s bedroom. Shimmying out of his jersey shorts, he kicked them into the corner of the walk-in closet where she let him keep a few things. Standing there bare-ass naked, he scarfed down all of their breakfast while deciding on an action plan.

Clothes first, then down to the street to seek out more clues. There was a massive chance that the Jamaican-made cigarette was a coincidence, even though in the eighteen months since his return he’d never found a store that carried the brand.

And he’d looked, because he’d gotten used to taking an occasional drag to relax.

After setting his empty plate on Annabel’s chest of drawers, he dug into his duffel for a T-shirt, jeans and the knife few people knew he had—a knife he’d taken from one of Dega’s men and kept hidden behind a loose chunk of cinder blocks supporting the barracks.

If Russell Dega was actually here on the hunt, Patrick had damn well better be ready for a showdown.

“SORRY TO HAVE DRAGGED you out of bed,” Chloe Zuniga said as Annabel closed the elevator’s sliding grate behind her. The two women headed for the kitchen, Chloe giving Annabel a thorough once-over. “I thought you’d be expecting me, not still be in bed getting all kinds of lucky.”