| |
Cleo waited in front of the casino until Alec pulled up. “I can hardly believe you got Bales to talk to you,” she said as she fastened her seatbelt. “How did you manage that?”
“I beguiled her with my charm, of course,” Alec said.
She didn’t want him to think she’d noticed how enticing he could be when he tried, so she asked, “Did you supplement that charm with a dose of truth serum?”
He shot her a nasty look. “What did you find out from Liz?”
“Besides that she hates Annaliese? Not much. I caught her as she was finishing up practice, but she wouldn’t sit down with me. She was too ‘busy.’” She put the word in air quotes. “She’s pretending she and Sebastian were talking reconciliation. You should have seen the eye rolling over that. It looked like a chorus line of slot machines with all the dials spinning.”
He laughed then sobered. “Why would she feel the need to pretend? It’s not like the divorce was a big secret.” He was silent for a minute. “Who do you think was going to be the flavor of the month after her?”
“I have no idea. What did you get from Bales?”
“I got some good background. We can go over it tonight and see what looks promising. Wives number two and three are still in Vegas. We should interview them if we can. She also gave me names of other women Sebastian was seeing.”
He swerved the car unexpectedly toward the curb. They were still in the business district, and they came to a stop in front of a florist shop.
“What kind of flowers does Annaliese like?” Alec asked as he popped his seatbelt.
“What?”
“What’s Annaliese’s favorite flower?”
“Uh, sunflowers.”
“Be right back.” And he was out of the car.
She waited impatiently until her returned with a long white florist’s box that he tossed in the back.
“You bought flowers for Annaliese?”
“My mother raised me to be a good guest. Besides, Annaliese is saving the paper the price of two hotel rooms. The least they can do is spring for flowers.”
So he was setting out to charm Annaliese.
“Don’t worry, sunshine. I’ll get you flowers too one of these days.” He pulled the car back into traffic.
“I don’t like flowers,” she said.
“All women like flowers.”
“Not all women. Some of us think they’re a frivolous waste.”
“Sure you do,” he said in a tone thick with disbelief.
What galled her the most was he was right. She loved getting flowers, but compared to all her other lies this one was miniscule. Not even visible with a high-powered microscope.
“There’s something else Bales told me,” Alec said.
“What’s that?”
“She says Willa is one of the women who was having an affair with Sebastian.”
That distracted her from the flowers. “Willa? That can’t be right. She’d have said something.”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a glance. “I got the impression Sebastian was seeing her on the down low.”
Cleo opened her mouth to object further then shut it again. Willa wasn’t a dancer any longer, but she did have to work with Liz. Keeping an extracurricular relationship with Sebastian quiet was the prudent thing to do if she didn’t want to suffer Liz’s wrath. And with Sebastian dead, the drama would increase exponentially.
“I think Bales is lying.” Said the pot about the kettle.
“Why would she?” Alec asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s got a grudge against Willa and is trying to stir up trouble for her.”
“Or maybe it’s true.”
“Or maybe I’m taking sides because I like Willa and I don’t like Bales. I warned you I was too close to this to be objective.” She still thought Bales was a liar. Willa simply wasn’t a good enough actress to hide the emotions Cleo would expect if she’d been involved with Sebastian.
“It’s a good thing I’m here then, isn’t it?”
Did he really expect her to agree with that? “So you can keep me honest?”
He shrugged. “Or maybe so you can blame me for being an ass when I ask questions you’d rather not. That way you get to keep your friendships intact.”
“Don’t you dare ask Willa about her and Sebastian.”
Alec shot her another look she interpreted as someone has to.
“I’ll ask her.” She didn’t want to, but she didn’t trust him not to be a jerk about it. “But let me pick the time, okay?”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
What would make her happy was getting on a plane and heading back to Denver, but she’d blown her chance at that in a big way, so she didn’t bother mentioning it.
~***~
Jada was working again that evening, so they had the condo to themselves. Cleo ordered a pizza from her favorite pizza parlor.
She set the pizza box on the breakfast bar, moving the crystal vase with the sunflowers to the side. As she had expected, Annaliese was charmed by the gesture. “He’s a keeper,” she’d told Cleo with a wink. Cleo had rolled her eyes.
Alec reached into the fridge and brought out a beer to go with the pizza.
“How much water did you drink today?” Cleo asked.
He looked blankly at her from behind the open fridge door. “Water?”
“Yes, water.”
“Why would I drink water? Fish fuck in it.”
Her lips tightened. “What color is your urine?”
He made a few indignant noises before saying, “That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?”
“Humor me.”
“It’s yellow like everyone else’s.”
She took the beer from his hand and put it back in the fridge. “If you’re urine is yellow, you’re not fully hydrated. Beer will make it worse. This is the desert. You have to be aware.” Sheesh. She sounded like her mother. “You need to drink water until your urine is clear.”
To torment him further, she retrieved two half-liter mugs from the top cupboard and handed them to him, followed by the pitcher of filtered water from the fridge. “Fill these please.”
“With water?” Alec asked suspiciously as though he thought this was some kind of joke.
“Yes.”
“Just plain water.”
“You can add ice if you want.”
Grumbling under his breath, he filled the mugs.
His lack of enthusiasm amused her, and throughout their meal, she kept urging him to drink more. He did as he was told, complying, she was sorry to say, with more grace than she had as a teenager when Annaliese had first gotten on the hydration bandwagon.
After they ate, they sat at the kitchen bar and went through their notes, discussing the information he’d gotten from Ms. Bales and what kind of story they wanted to write.
Having accepted that a story would be written, Cleo wanted to make sure Sebastian wasn’t painted as some sensationalized caricature. Alec held the position that Sebastian didn’t need enhancing; his life was colorful enough. Cleo suspected he really meant lurid, but that he refrained from saying so to keep her from flipping out.
“Before we get too deep in this, I want to clarify something,” he said.
She glanced up from her notes to find him more somber than she’d ever seen him. It was an unusual look for him and a little disconcerting.
“We need to play this close to the vest. Even though we haven’t run into them yet, there’s other press around. I don’t want them getting wind of how hard we’re pursuing these interviews.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. If the reputable media knew what lengths they were going to, they’d laugh themselves silly. “They won’t care.”
“They should. They get scooped all the time on big stories.”
“Not all the time.”
“Really? Who broke the Lewinski story?”
She winced. “That wasn’t a tabloid.”
“No, it was the Drudge Report, and that story forced everyone to take Matt Drudge seriously. And before you say it, yes, Newsweek had been sitting on it. The question is why.”
She tried not to squirm. A story that eventually led to a presidential impeachment hearing should have come from legitimate press. “So Drudge embarrassed us. He’s still not a tabloid.”
Alec’s eyebrow rose, and she realized she’d referred to the legitimate press as “us.” Why didn’t she just take out a full-page ad proclaiming she was too good for tabloid journalism? That’s how he had to see it. She couldn’t even claim he was wrong because she desperately wanted to be too good for the job she now held.
Surprisingly, he didn’t pound her about her Freudian slip.
“I won’t argue with you about where Drudge fits in,” he said. “I could, but I won’t. What about John Edwards’ infidelity, Jesse Jackson’s love child, Limbaugh’s addiction to pain killers, Clinton’s affair with Gennifer Flowers? Those were all tabloid scoops.”
He wagged his pen at her. “And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that, in 2010, the Pulitzer committee decided the National Enquirer should be eligible for consideration. Wouldn’t that just chap their cheeks if a tabloid won a Pulitzer?”
That was the understatement of the century.
“So you can believe they don’t care what we’re doing,” he said, “but we’re still not going to let them know what we’re doing, right?”
“If that makes you happy.”
“It does. Just remember when you see them, loose lips sink ships.”
She decided to humor him. “Yes, boss.”
They worked surprisingly well together. At times, she almost forgot they weren’t working on a real news story for a real newspaper. As she focused on the information they needed, she even forgot how attractive he was. And then he’d pass her something, their hands would brush, and she could almost hear the sizzle of electricity. The first time it happened, her eyes jumped to his face to find a startled look in his eyes.
Soon, she was sliding things across the counter to avoid touching him. Every time she did, his lips quirked into a hint of a smile, as if he knew exactly what she was doing and it amused him.
At ten o’clock, when they’d been at it for six hours, he stood up and stretched. “That’s enough for tonight. I’m going to catch the news and decompress.”
“Great.” She shut down her laptop. Normally, the evening news was a mainstay for her, but her emotions about Sebastian were too raw to listen to strangers talk dispassionately about his death. Besides, Alec would make note of anything they needed to know.
After a quick shower, she brushed her teeth, put on her borrowed nightgown, made a cup of tea, and stared at the bed.
The television newscaster’s solemn tones drifted in, but she couldn’t make out the words. Would Alec come to bed when the news ended? She glanced at his side of the bed and wondered if she could talk him out of sleeping there.
Yeah. Fat chance.
He was a guy. He’d be hoping not just for a repeat performance but, undoubtedly, an expansion of that morning’s adventure. Her face grew hot as the memory made her girl parts go all tingly.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. As fun as it was, and oh God, it had been gloriously fun, Alec was a coworker. There would be no more hanky-panky in this bed.
If Annaliese and Jada found her on the living room couch when they got home, Annaliese would give her a boatload of grief, and Cleo would feel like an immature child. She didn’t relish that thought, but she’d sleep there anyway. As soon as Alec vacated it. In the meantime, she slid between the sheets, propped her pillow against the headboard, then opened the book she’d tried to read on the plane.
Before she’d even read a full page, she set down her tea, got out of bed, and picked up the furry white throw pillows that decorated the bed in the daytime. With the covers thrown back, she aligned the pillows down the middle of the bed.
There.
If she fell asleep before Alec came to bed, that would stop her from infringing on his side. Sighing as she settled in, she found her place and started to read. The hero had just learned the heroine’s big secret and was he ever pissed. Then their passionate fight turned to straight passion. Cleo fanned her face.
As a child, she’d been susceptible to dramatic suggestion. Movies, books, video games, it didn’t matter. She’d internalize the drama. Annie Oakley, Wonder Woman, Nellie Bly—even Ellen Ripley when she’d gotten old enough for scary movies—were a few personas she’d taken on. Within a week or two, she’d have it sorted through and try to hang onto the traits she liked and flush the ones that didn’t suit her. She’d driven even normally tolerant Annaliese crazy with her donned personalities, so reading about hot, crazed sex probably wasn’t the smartest choice, but Annaliese wasn’t a big reader, so if Cleo wanted an escape from reality, this was it.
She was thoroughly engrossed when Alec walked in. The sound of the television had disappeared sometime in the past few minutes, she realized.
Clearly unaware that she was vibrating like a violin’s plucked E string, he pulled off his shirt without glancing her way and threw it over the arm of the loveseat before going into the bathroom.
She stared at the closed door and swallowed hard. He was probably doing something mundane like brushing his teeth, but even that seemed hot to her. She imagined the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing and rolling as he changed angles. He would look so . . . male.
The tingle in her girl parts intensified. She clamped her legs together, but that only made it worse.
The bathroom door opened. Her eyes tracked him across the room. He emptied his pockets, setting his wallet and loose change on his nightstand. Any second now, he would unzip, drop trou, and slide into bed. The memory of the lovely erection she’d glimpsed that morning filled her mind. She clapped her hand over her mouth to ensure she didn’t make some noise that would give away how much she’d like to see it again. Suddenly, her pillow barricade didn’t seem like nearly enough of a barrier.
When he unbuttoned his jeans, she dropped her book, threw the covers back, and raced to the bathroom.
Leaning against the door, she pressed her hands over her eyes. She’d just fled the room as if it were on fire. What must he think?
“Cleo?” He tapped on the door. “Are you all right?”
Oh, lord.
She dropped her hands. “Yeah. Uhm.” What possible excuse could she use? “I, uh, forgot to floss.” She buried her face in her hands again. How lame was that? She didn’t even carry floss when she traveled.
Did she hear him chuckling?
As much as she might like to stay in there forever, the bathtub was not conducive to sleep. She splashed cold water on her face then patted it dry. Okay. So he knew she’d lied. She was still going to walk out there and pretend she’d rushed to the bathroom because of a flossing emergency. If he were any kind of gentleman—what were the odds of that?—he’d let her get away with it.
She walked out just as he picked up her book. A small, distressed noise issued from her throat.
He turned and looked up at her.
“Romance, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.”
She tried to snatch the book out of his hand but he stepped back, flipping it over to read the back. Determined not to demean herself by getting into a tug-of-war, she let him have it, but her face burned with embarrassment as she tucked one leg under her to sit on the bed.
He flipped through a couple of pages then stopped and read.
“Holy fucking shit!” He looked at the cover again then up at her. “This is smut.” He sounded impressed.
She unfolded her legs, stood, and grabbed it out of his hand. “No, you’re thinking of the letters to Penthouse.”
“Yeah, that’s smut,” he agreed. “But so is this.”
“It is not.”
He snagged it out of her hand, found what he was looking for, and read the passage aloud. “‘She landed on the bed beneath him. Whatever consideration he’d shown her in the past was gone. His touch was firm and demanding, nearly brutal, as he hastily explored her body, removing her clothes as he went.
“‘She couldn’t keep up. When she was down to her panties, he rose to his knees to pull his T-shirt off. His jeans followed.
“‘He grabbed her panties and pulled them down, barely giving her the chance to lift her hips from the bed, then he fell on her, forcing his way inside her, demanding that her body accept his full length whether she was prepared or not.’”
Alec stopped to clear his throat but then read on. “‘His ferocity took her by surprise. As did her response to it. When he drove into her, like a battering ram against castle gates, her hips rose in response, meeting his violence with violence of her own. Her hands cupped his lean buttocks, her nails digging crescents into the tender flesh, urging him deeper, encouraging his savagery.
“‘Their coupling was too turbulent to last. The need for satisfaction escalated with each vicious thrust until a shockwave of shattering intensity took her.’”
He looked at her over the top of the book. “Sorry. Any time there’s vicious thrusting and she’s digging her nails into his ass hard enough to leave crescents in his tender flesh, it’s smut.”
If her face got any hotter, she was going to burst into flames. “It’s not smut. You won’t find any cunts, pussies, or . . .” her brow furrowed, “well, there might be a cock, but just one or two.”
He started laughing. “Honey, what do you think he’s thrusting with? And where do you think he’s poking her?”
She tightened her lips. “I know what they’re doing.”
“Oh, but as long as there’s some euphemistic name for the body parts, it’s not smut. Is that it?”
“Well, no, of course not.”
“Really? So if that same scene was written with graphic language— For instance, if I wrote . . .” He held the book up out of her reach and silently read the last bit again, then let his arm fall to his side and looked into her eyes. “She dug her nails into my ass hard enough to draw blood. I was giving her every inch I had, but the greedy little bitch wanted more. So I thrust harder, pushing my cock deeper into her pussy until she threw her head back and cried out―”
He drew a breath, adding a dramatic pause.
“And her sweet―” All teeth and tongue, the word came out nearly a whisper that sent a shiver through her.
“Warm―” His voice dropped, drawing out the em, giving the word heat and a vibration she felt travel down her spine.
“Wet―” He drew it out then bit it off.
“Pussy”—his lips puckered around the word, and he said it as though he could taste it on his tongue—“tightened around my cock.” His voice was low. He sounded sinful, like rich, dark chocolate. “I let go, blind with pleasure. The pulses of her climax milked me until I had no more to give.”
She swallowed. Hard. She was vibrating again, and the ache between her legs urged her to jump his bones.
“That’s not smut?” he asked, his voice baritone deep.
“Yeah,” she said, appalled at how high pitched her voice sounded following his. She cleared her throat and tried again. “That’s smut.”
“So why is that smut and what you’re reading isn’t? It’s the same scene.” When he looked into her eyes, she shivered with how intimate it felt. “Or is it because it’s from a guy’s point of view?”
“Uhm. Well . . .”
“Or maybe it’s because it got you hot?”
“It did not! I don’t get turned on by smut.” He wasn’t convinced. She could see it in his eyes—those dark, bedroom eyes. He was probably reading cues she couldn’t control.
His gaze dropped, releasing her finally. She nearly cried out in relief. Then she realized he was staring at her chest. She looked down and saw her nipples, hard as ice chips, showing through the satiny nightgown.
She crossed her arms over chest. No! she told her unruly libido. He’s a tabloid whore. I don’t want him touching me.
Her libido wasn’t fooled.
She started to look up, intending to meet his gaze, but her eyes caught the bulge in his jeans and got stuck there. Clearly, smut did turn him on.
He tossed the book onto her nightstand and took a step toward her.
She retreated.
His eyes lit with amusement, and a lopsided smile spread his lips.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He took another step. “Yet.”
She retreated again. “What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Something I’ve wanted to do since I first laid eyes on you.” He took another step.
She backed into the dresser. Before she could sidle away, he closed the distance between them. She leaned back as far as she could.
“You’re so skittish.” Laughter tinged his voice.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Sh.” He laid his index finger against her lips.
She looked back and forth between his eyes, hoping for some clue about how far he planned to take this. Please, please, let him be jerking my chain, she thought, only to follow it with, please, please, let him kiss me.
He trapped her face between his hands and lowered his lips to hers.
His kiss was soft, but there was nothing tentative about it. The kiss was a promise. The blade of his tongue swept across the seam of her lips.
She had just enough tattered control left not to throw her arms around his neck, but not enough to keep them at her sides, so she ended up cupping his elbows. Was it panic that made her heart race or something else? She didn’t want it to be something else, but she was afraid it was because fear didn’t usually make her feel like melting, and it never, ever made her want to press up against a man and grind her pelvis against his. This, the angel on her shoulder whispered, is what happens when you fantasize indiscriminately.
He tugged on her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. Before she could stop herself, she made a small, hungry noise.
His eyes opened, gleaming with heat and laughter. He released her lip and took possession of her mouth.
Her fantasies about him had all been X-rated with very little focus on his mouth—or at least about his mouth on hers. That was clearly a major oversight. The man kissed as though he’d invented the activity. Thoroughly. Without rushing. Time stopped and all that existed was his lips against hers, touching, tasting, enjoying.
His hands dropped to her hips, and his tongue slipped into her mouth before she even realized she’d opened her lips.
Fourth of July sparklers were going off at random points all over her body.
This. This was Olympic-class, free-style kissing.
And she had to make him stop before she lost all control.
She put her hands against his chest, intending to push him back, but she couldn’t resist flexing her finger over his firm pectorals. He shifted his stance, his hands grasping her hips more firmly.
She hadn’t meant to encourage him, but she felt him shift gears, preparing to go for the gold. Her heart thumped once, twice, almost painfully hard. She flattened her hands against his chest and shoved. He fell back a couple of steps.
Her rejection would have looked more sincere if her mouth hadn’t tried to follow his as it broke free.
He looked as stunned as she felt.
They eyed each other in silence. She could feel the gravitational pull. Any moment, they’d come back together. It would be like disappearing into a black hole. There would be no escaping.
“Who taught you how to kiss like that?” She hadn’t meant to ask that out loud.
“Betty Sue Mullins. I was fourteen. She was seventeen.” Alec’s smile reeked of self-satisfaction and his eyes gleamed. “She said I was a natural.”
“Good grief. Fourteen?”
“Yup.”
“And she was seventeen?”
He nodded.
“What was she? Your babysitter?”
“Hey.” His too-pleased-with-himself smirk morphed into a scowl. “Fourteen-year-olds don’t need babysitters.”
“I’m afraid to ask how old you were when you lost your virginity,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Has anyone ever told you that you overshare?”
“I’ve never had any complaints.”
“Well, this will be a first for you then. Keep your lips—and everything else—to yourself.”
“Fine. But you weren’t exactly beating me off with a stick.”
“Remind me to pick up a Louisville slugger tomorrow.”
Her comment hung in the air for a moment before he burst into laughter. “You’re not nearly the hard ass you pretend to be, you know.”
She decided he didn’t know anything, and that her best response was to ignore him and sleep on the couch.