EMILY
I don’t push Shane to talk during the short ride downtown to our apartment. I understand him well enough to know that he’s waiting on Seth’s call, battling inner demons he must first name before he can even think of defeating them. It’s something I know well from the many demons that consumed me after my father’s death. And Shane’s demons are clearly holding the same emotional blade on him that mine had on me, ready to cut him deeper and deeper if he lets them, with the worst demon of all, the one coming to claim his father: death. No, I amend silently. It’s not the worst. Guilt is the worst. All the guilt you put on yourself for everything you should have, could have, might have done differently with the person but can’t now.
I sigh, and sink deeper into the leather seat of the Bentley, letting the demon-filled silence speak to me, letting Shane speak to me. Because the truth is that, despite his silence, I do not feel shut out at all. Not when he allows his emotions to whisper darkly in the air, viciously taunting him and me with the way they affect him. Speaking to me in a way he would let them speak to no one else, and I am eager for that moment when we will be naked and next to each other as he’s promised. When I know I will fully understand what he is feeling and, then soon after, what he is thinking.
An eternity later, it seems, though it is only minutes, we turn into the parking garage of the Four Seasons, and Shane wastes no time finding us a parking spot in the private residence section. He kills the engine and we’re about to exit when his cell phone rings, and I swear every muscle in my body tenses, my nerves on edge with whatever news it will hold. Shane answers it, and almost immediately I surmise from a few words that again he’s speaking with Seth, who is not only the man who sees to our protection, but the man I know will have answers about Shane’s father’s treatment.
The communication is short, with Shane querying, “And?” and then: “Are you sure?” Neither of which tells me much. Finally, he says, “Make sure,” before he ends the call and slides his phone back into his pocket. But rather than turning to me, or getting out of the car, his hands settle on the steering wheel, and those demons of his aren’t whispering now. They’re shouting. Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re holding knives and jabbing them in his chest and mine right along with it. “What happened?”
“The treatment program is real,” he says, without looking at me, his voice a tight band. “But the success rate isn’t eighty percent. It’s twenty. Seth had the records hacked to indicate eighty, to ensure that if Derek or Mike investigates, they feel like my father is going to make it.”
Oh yeah. Knives in the chest, all right. “Shane—”
“I need out of this car and garage,” he says, popping his door open. “I’ll come around and get you.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, exiting the Bentley.
I don’t wait on him. I don’t bother with my wrap, opening my door, and I’m on my feet, shutting it again by the time he’s standing in front of me, his expression stark, shadows clouding his gray eyes. We stand there, seconds ticking by, neither of us speaking or moving, his tormented emotions standing between us like one of those demons, and I hold my breath, waiting for his cue to what he needs or wants right now, afraid he will push me away.
“Come,” he finally says, his voice a rough, gravelly tone, his arm wrapping around my waist as he sets us in motion toward the lobby, our hips aligned, his instinct, thankfully, to keep me close, not push me away. So much so, in fact, that he holds on to me as we enter the garage elevator, and I have this sense he’s holding on to me to protect me. As if he feels like I’ll be gone soon too, and this affects me. Because he cares about me. Because he’s hurting and I want to take away his pain. There are so many things I want to ask him and say to him right now, but I know this isn’t the time or place. I’m not even sure this night is the right night for these things.
We reach the entry door and exit to the lobby, where one of the staffers greets us. Shane manages a polite, even friendly, reply, displaying a skill for appearing unflappable and unaffected by life that speaks to his success as an attorney. It also drives home the fact that he chooses to allow me to see the real him. He gives me that trust willingly, as I do him, and it’s not something either of us has with anyone else in this world. It matters in ways I don’t believe I even knew could matter before meeting him.
We continue our walk to the elevator, and while Shane still appears cool and casual, like he’s living any other night, he jabs the call button a little harder than normal, an edge of anticipation clinging to him as we wait for the doors to open. One second, two, ten, and when finally they part, Shane wastes no time guiding me inside the car. Still holding on to me, he punches in our floor and our security code. The doors close, and the moment we are alone, Shane’s hand comes down on the back of my head, and he’s leaning into me, his breath warm on my cheek, on my mouth. And my hand is on his chest, his heart thundering beneath my palm, and mine answers, pounding against my rib cage, his sudden lust for me overwhelming, contagious. I need him. I want him.
“Emily,” he whispers softly, a gruff, affected quality to his voice, and then he’s kissing me, the taste of all his emotions bleeding into my mouth: Anger. Guilt. Pain. More anger. It’s a kiss of dark chocolate, bitter but somehow addictive, sinful. It consumes me. He consumes me, and I lose track of time and place. I can’t think of anything but how he tastes and how his hand feels when it slides up my waist and covers my breast. I moan with the intimate touch, the tease of his fingers over my thin blouse that pebble my nipple, my hand covering his, my mind reaching for sanity. “Shane,” I pant out, trying to pull myself back in check. “Shane, I—”
He reaches behind him and hits the button to stall the elevator, and my already racing heart starts to thunder. “What are you doing?”
“This,” he says, maneuvering me into the corner, his mouth already back on mine, his hands sliding over my backside, where one hand cups and squeezes and the other makes its way back to my breast. And while my mind tries to reach for reason, my body, my emotions, respond to the dark hunger inside Shane. The animal quality that I’ve never felt in him consumes him now and claims me. His need feeds my own. I taste it. I crave it. I burn for it and him. He answers those sensations by creating more, his powerful legs framing mine, his tongue licking into my mouth. His hands travel my body, and somehow my blouse is open and my bra is shoved down, nipples hard as pebbles against his fingers that are tugging and pulling.
I am wet. I am hot, but when he reaches for my waistband, when I’d let him further undress me, the sound of a buzzer permeates my mind, and reality hits me. We’re in an elevator. The alarm is going off. “Shane,” I say, grabbing his wrist, only to have his fingers stroke my sex through my slacks, sensations rolling through me, my body all but demanding I forget objections. “Shane,” I say again, somehow staying focused. “There are cameras.”
“I’ll have the security feed destroyed,” he promises, and he’s already kissing me again, and with one deep stroke of his tongue against mine, which I feel everywhere, I want his tongue, and I struggle to find resistance. I even let him unbutton and unzip my pants. Still, though, that alarm is sounding, seeming to get louder, insisting that I hear it, reminding me where we are. “Shane.”
He answers by nipping my bottom lip, a deliciously rough, sexy bite that he follows with a lick. With just that easy of a distraction, I am not thinking, but feeling again, my tongue seeking his, every soft spot on my body wanting every hard part of his. But when his warm palm flattens on my naked hip, skimming my pants downward on one side, the idea of being naked in the elevator sparks one thought: we are being watched, an idea that shakes me fully back to my senses with the hard, cold reality, and I grab Shane’s shoulders. “Stop.”
“After you come.”
“Before,” I hiss, and when he leans in to kiss me again, I pull back. “Damn it, Shane. Stop. Not here.”
The fierceness of my voice fills the car, and he jerks back, looking down at me, his gray eyes glossed over with lust that quickly sharpens into understanding. His chest expands on a deep breath, his hands leaving my body to settle on the wall on either side of me. “You don’t like the elevator.”
“It’s not about the elevator,” I say, grabbing his collar and stepping into him, my voice low, for his ears only. “It’s about who might see us before you clear the tape. Like your brother or father who could be watching us right now.”
He lowers his head, tilting it low, all but burying it in my neck, and I can sense him battling to tame the beast this night has unleashed in him, softly murmuring, “What the hell is wrong with me?” He inches back to look at me, his eyes clear now, control restored. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. This isn’t me.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I murmur softly back. “You’re human too, Shane, and I don’t want you to stop being human any more than you want me to. But no one else needs to know that right now but me.” I flatten my hand over his chest. “Let’s go do this in private.”
His eyes warm, expression softening. “What did I do to even deserve you?” He doesn’t wait for or expect an answer, glancing down and then adjusting my bra to cover my exposed nipples. “I hate to tell you this, but the buttons to your blouse are missing,” he says without apology as he adjusts my pants back into place.
“It’s a short walk to the apartment,” I say, tugging my zipper up and tying the ends of my blouse at the waist.
He cups my face and kisses me. “I’ll buy—”
“Me a new one,” I supply. “I’d rather you just take this one off me.”
His eyes darken, a hint of that lust returning as he takes a step and stretches across the car to punch the button to set us in motion again. The car starts to move, and his hands come down on my arms, pulling me to him. “I’m not—”
“Oh yes, you are,” I promise him. “The minute we get inside the apartment, because I’m about to combust.” I soften my voice. “I’m supposed to be naked and next to you, remember?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “You are.” The car halts with a ding, the speed at which we’ve arrived proving we were close to home when detoured by our little encounter. “Let’s go get you properly undressed,” he says softly, draping his arm over my shoulders and pulling me into the cocoon of his body.
We exit the elevator onto our floor, and I hug myself to hide the gap in my blouse. In a few steps, we’ve rounded the corner to the hallway that leads to our apartment, and Shane leans in, kissing my temple. My lips curve with the tenderness of his action, while my gaze travels down the long hallway to our door, my brow furrowing with the sight of a man standing in front of it. “Who is that?” I ask, noting the way Shane’s fingers flex on my shoulder and the slight tensing of his body.
“Adrian Martina,” he says, “and no one I want you to meet.”
“The drug cartel,” I whisper, recognizing the name Martina, though I’m not sure how or when I found out that detail. When the Escalade showed up in our garage, I believe.
“Yes,” he confirms. “And as much as I want to send you back to the elevator, you need to stay with me. The reasons for that decision are too many and too complicated for me to explain right now.”
“Understood,” I say, quite clear on the reasons, starting with the risk that someone could be potentially waiting for me at the elevator or elsewhere. And if that isn’t a good enough reason, there is no question that me leaving would simply look like running, which will make Shane look afraid and weak.
And so we walk the hallway that is always long and yet not long enough this time, considering each step is leading us closer to a man who is a criminal, who is dangerous in ways I don’t think either of us wants to fully understand. Martina is tall, dark, and extremely good-looking, an air of power, intelligence, and money radiating off of him. His dress pants are black, expensive, while his white shirt is starched, his jacket and tie absent. He is not a man in bandanas and a white T-shirt. This is a man who operates on the same playing field as Shane. One I fear might just be capable of intellectual destruction as readily as he is capable of physical destruction. He is terrifying, and he is now only two feet away.
Shane halts us a good foot from Adrian, releasing me and stepping forward, while the drug lord does the same, meeting him toe-to-toe. “I heard you wanted to speak with me,” Martina says, his accent rich but his English perfect.
“A phone call would have suited me.”
“Phone calls can be recorded,” he says. “And I like to invest in building my new friendships.”
Friendships? They’re building a friendship?
“Let me be crystal clear,” Shane replies. “We’re not friends. We will never be friends. But allies with a common cause that includes getting you the hell out of my business, perhaps.”
“Well then, potential ally,” Adrian says, “why don’t you show good faith and invite me inside?”
Shane doesn’t immediately react, and I don’t believe that’s indecision but rather a strategy I hope leads to a decline of this man’s invite into our home. But when he turns to me and motions me forward, draping his arm around me, I’m pretty sure Martina’s rejection isn’t in the cards. “You must be Emily,” Martina greets me, offering me his hand, which I can’t take without my blouse gaping.
He notices too, his gaze touching my blouse, his lips quirking as he gives me a nod instead. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, pleased with the sincere tone I’ve mustered.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening,” he continues, a hint of amusement in his eyes that I know is about my torn, open blouse. “I’ll be as fast as your man allows.”
Shane walks me past Martina, toward the door with the words “your man” in my mind. I’m not sure why that bothers me coming from this man, when with anyone else, I think it might please me. Shane opens the door and motions me forward, catching my waist and stepping up behind me to whisper, “Go upstairs.”
I enter the apartment, flipping on the lights to illuminate the long hallway that leads to the place I’ve started calling home and safe. A place where a drug lord is not welcome. Moving forward, my feet touching the pale bamboo floors, I feel Martina behind me, and my instincts demand I turn to face the door, and him. And, sure enough, I find him just inside the doorway, close, too close, and I am now staring into his brown, intelligent eyes that don’t ever leave my face, and yet this man has a way of making you feel touched by his presence. This is a man who could seduce his way into many a foolish woman’s bed, or equally so into many a foolish banker’s or businessperson’s secret bottom drawer holding the key to their vault. And he wants to be Shane’s business partner. I just want him gone.
Shane appears beside Martina, his eyes sharpening on me. “Emily—”
“I’m going upstairs,” I say, forcing myself to turn, heading down the hallway. I’ve just approached the stairwell and placed a foot on the bottom step when I hear Martina say, “You’re protective of her, as I am of my sister. But know this, Shane Brandon. If you are loyal to any agreement we make, now or later, as I assure you I will be in reverse, I will protect her, even kill for her.”
My blood runs cold at the veiled threat that to me clearly has an unspoken addition: if you’re not loyal to me, I’ll kill her. And who knows how he defines loyalty or what nasty task he might demand as proof? Footsteps sound on the hardwood floor behind me, spurring me into action, and I quickly head to the upper level, but I don’t enter the master bedroom immediately in front of me. Instead, I flatten against the wall and lower myself to a squat, taking shelter behind the railing of the stairwell, where I intend to do my best to listen in on the conversation being had between the man I love and a man whose claim to fame is a family-run drug cartel. But really, when you’re in bed with a drug cartel, is there anywhere you can truly find shelter?