Killer Curves Page 11

  Here was the DEA agent who’d seen the worst humanity had to offer and waded in to the morass to defend the defenseless even if he was tainted by the muck. Here was the guard who willingly put his body and life on the line to face threats on behalf of clients. Here was the man who had kicked the shit out of two armed assailants in a dark school parking lot, regardless of the danger and the fact that he’d been outnumbered.

  Here was the defender, the fighter…the predator.

  Ciaran shifted, and in one movement, stood in front of her, shielding her from Phillip.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Ross,” Phillip sneered, his derision plain. Idiot. His arrogance didn’t even allow him to recognize the danger right in front of him. “But Sloane and I are having a conversation that doesn’t include you, and I’d like to finish our discussion without you.”

  Phillip’s hand appeared to the right of Ciaran, reaching for her.

  She stumbled back a step at the thought of him touching her… But he didn’t have a chance to. Ciaran’s arm shot out, his fingers locking around Phillip’s wrist, and from her ex’s whimper, the grip probably wasn’t gentle.

  “Anything you have to say to her, you can damn well say it in front of me. As a matter of fact, I fucking insist on it. Now, because it’s her parents’ party, I won’t cause a scene by planting your ass on this floor, but, Phillip? Are you listening, Phillip?” A pained gasp was Ciaran’s only answer. “Good, because I need you to hear me.” Ciaran’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “You touch her, even brush by her on accident, and I’ll snap this hand in two. Are we clear? Nod, goddammit.”

  Phillip must’ve obeyed, because Ciaran freed the other man. And when he finally moved from in front of her and turned, they were on the patio alone.

  “Are you okay?” The rumble like an ominous roll of thunder hadn’t evacuated his voice, yet. The harsh lines of his face and the hard slash of his mouth hadn’t softened, and she almost lifted her hand to smooth the furious strain from his features. But mortification mixed with a profound mixture of gratitude and humiliating seed of hero worship kept her arm locked to her side.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment, the just-this-side-of-tamed black curls grazing his sharp cheekbones and clenched jaw. Shoving his fingers through the strands, disheveling them further, he glanced to the side, but she doubted he was admiring the shadowed garden and tennis court. Not when a low gravelly rumble emanated from his chest like a disturbed lion denied the gazelle it’d been stalking for dinner.

  “Sloane.” He returned his attention to her, and the fierceness in his hooded scrutiny scalded her. “I know this is your parents’ event, but if you need me to take you out of here, all you have to do is ask.”

  A trembling breath escaped her lips as her eyes slowly closed.

  Save her. Is that how he saw her? An insecure weakling who couldn’t stand up to the big, bad wolf of her ex-fiancé?

  Hell, how could he not?

  And wasn’t that just damn humiliating?

  She jerked her chin up, praying the shadows concealed most of the heat flooding her cheeks.

  “I appreciate you stepping in with Phillip, but I’m not some damsel in distress in need of rescuing.” She’d survived a childhood of bullying, a fractured engagement to an abusive jerk, and taught entitled trust-fund babies. Fuck Prince Charming and the white horse he rode in on. Two months ago, she’d learned to rescue herself. “I’m a big girl.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. According to Phillip, she was a real big girl. Bastard. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Did I say you couldn’t?” Something shifted in his expression, and if possible it harshened until the planes could’ve been carved from unforgiving rock. “That asshole must’ve really done a number on you.”

  Again, his words struck way too close to the truth. And she backpedaled, as if the physical space could insert an emotional gap.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  He snorted. “Don’t bother. You wear your pain as clearly as your sexy-ass curves. And for the record, Sloane?” He lowered his head, his gaze capturing hers, his lips so close she could almost feel the movement of them. “They are sexy. As hell. It’s a damn shame you don’t seem to realize it—or that someone made you doubt it.”

  She blinked, her whirling mind unsure which of his revelations to grab onto first. Her obvious pain? The embarrassment of that. Sexy-ass curves. God, she would never get tired of hearing him, who resembled some long-forgotten pagan sex god, utter those words.

  And that she clutched on to them with greedy desperation only fired the shame and disgust for herself from simmer to conflagration.

  “Is this the part where I swoon in appreciation? Does that usually work with woman? You play hero, assure them they’re pretty, and they fall to their knees in gratitude?” God, she was such a bitch. But she couldn’t shut up, couldn’t halt the pain from rolling out of her mouth and lashing out.

  Not a muscle moved in his face or big body, but she didn’t miss the flare of heat that flashed in his eyes like dry lightning at the mention of her going to her knees. Nor could she ignore the spasm in her sex at the image of grasping his hard flesh in her hand, guiding it toward her mouth as he stared down at her, lust stamped on his features.

  She sucked in a breath, shifted backward. But he stalked forward, claiming the space she placed between them as his own.

  “Duchess,” he growled, his hand pinching her chin and tilting her head back. “When you get down on your knees in front of me, it won’t be out of gratitude. It’ll be because you want to be there. Because more than anything else you want my cock in your mouth.”

  The gasp became tangled in her throat. Outrage—she should feel outrage at his raw, crude words. Men of her acquaintance didn’t speak to her like that. Hell, even in bed Phillip’s dirty talk had been limited to grunts and a self-satisfied “That’s it” as he rolled off her. The only thing missing had been a congratulatory pat on his own back. And it’d been okay, she’d never considered herself a woman to be turned on by a man growling an f-bomb or uttering “cock” or “pussy.” But just like before when he’d drawn the vivid, sexual picture of what he did to women who found themselves in his bed, her sex quivered at his blunt, erotic words.

  What was he doing to her? Anger, mortification—those were the emotions that should be flooding her. Not desire. Not need and an aching emptiness that begged to be satisfied, filled.

  He angled her chin higher until the back of her neck ached in protest, sank his fingers into the hair at the base of her skull, and tugged. She whimpered, the gesture like a lever that connected directly to her clit. Squeezing her thighs against the throb, she clutched his shirt in one hand and wrapped the other around his thick wrist, simultaneously holding on and trying to push him away. It mirrored the same indecision waging war inside her. Her mind screamed a warning to walk away while her body issued a silent plea for him to give her everything he described. Everything she pictured in her head.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m no hero.” Something dark and tortured flashed in his hooded gaze, but it was there and gone before she could claim for certain she’d seen it. Then he lowered his head, nipped her bottom lip, and she almost forgot her damn name much less what she’d glimpsed. “You’re my client.” The tip of his tongue soothed the pleasing yet painful sting. Oh Jesus. “My sole purpose in being here is to make sure you’re not harmed.” He drew on her upper lip, sucking lightly. “And yet all I want to do is go in there and break that motherfucker in half for daring to talk to you. Fucking breathe the same air as you.”

  “Ciaran,” she whispered, in protest…encouragement? She shook her head—or tried to. His grip on her chin prevented the movement. And the show of dominance shouldn’t have been sexy. Shouldn’t have triggered a series of flutters in her sex or dampened her panties. But damn, it did. He did.

  “I need to concentrate on who the hell is terrorizing you, b
ut instead, all I can’t think about is this.” He pressed a thumb to her mouth, the inner skin grazing her teeth. “This is what I’ve been thinking about since the night you entered that restaurant. This mouth. This beautiful, sinful mouth. And not only is losing my focus dangerous, but I don’t do clients. I don’t get involved with them, and I damn sure don’t want to spread them out on their pristine beds and fuck them until we dirty up their sheets.”

  Not hardly sonnets or flowers. But from the clenching in her belly it might as well as have been the most romantic thing ever uttered since Cyrano de Bergerac. Her lashes fluttered, then lowered, her breath breaking against the pad of his thumb like waves on a rocky shore. Was the hunger burning inside her really reflected in her gaze for him to see? Probably. She wasn’t used to experiencing this kind of snaking, curling heat much less used to hiding it. She was a novice, an amateur, while Ciaran had undoubtedly been dodging desperate women for years.

  “Ciaran,” she breathed, shaking her head.

  “Shh,” he hushed, the pressure of his thumb silencing her protest. Then the sensuous sliding of the digit between her lips, parting them to penetrate her mouth, made her forget any objection she’d been about to voice. Instinctively, her tongue curled around the invader, sucking lightly. His dark, carnal groan rumbled above her, and her moan mingled with it as his flavor—bold, dark, rich—exploded over her taste buds. Suddenly ravenous, she drew harder, tighter on his thumb.

  “Damn it,” Ciaran snapped and replaced his finger with his tongue.

  She shook against him, helpless to the fury of his kiss. Kiss, hell. It was a marauding, a plundering, a conquering. He didn’t ease her into passion, he flung her into it with a ruthlessness that should’ve scared her, but instead thrilled her. Made her crave more. Stretching her mouth wider, she switched her grip to his arms, hanging on for this ride. Ciaran angled her head to the side, dove deeper, demanding she get wilder with him. The meeting—or clash—of lips and tongues was wet, uninhibited, and explicit. She had no problem imagining sex with him. His kiss let her know it would be messy, untamed, fierce, and primal. No holds barred.

  And she wanted it with a strength and need that had her wrenching free of his grip.

  Even with the chatter and laughter flowing out of the open patio doors, all she could hear was her harsh breathing and the pounding of her heart. Her pulse seemed to thump in time to the throb in her tingling, tender lips. Unbidden, she lifted her fingers toward her mouth, but dropped her arm at the last moment.

  But Ciaran had caught the aborted motion, his narrowed perusal flicking to her hand before lighting on her face.

  “Sloane,” he said, voice low, rough. He moved forward, but her hand shot up, palm outward, warding him off.

  “We should go back inside,” she murmured.

  She didn’t wait for him to reply, but turned and headed back toward the dining room and the relative safety in numbers.

  Ciaran wielded some kind of super power that caused her to transform into a woman ruled by her emotions instead of her head. She’d been there, done that.

  And had the wedding registry, china pattern, and ex-fiancé to prove it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sloane slid the glass door open, the soft swoosh almost imperceptible. Still, she glanced behind her to ensure a tall, wide-shouldered bodyguard hadn’t exited the bathroom early and followed her downstairs. Not that she was running. Again. Just that after the kiss earlier…she needed space.

  Jesus Christ, that kiss.

  Okay, yeah, maybe she was running.

  But any woman with common sense, tough layers of scar tissue on her heart, a resolve to avoid relationships like the plague, and oh yes, a stalker on her ass, would’ve made tracks as fast and hard as possible. She and relationships went together like Ike and Tina—a big, flaming disaster with its own soundtrack. And she’d sworn relationships off, instead focusing on finding her way career-wise, seeking happiness and contentment with herself, not with a man.

  Not that Ciaran wanted a relationship with her. He’d made that abundantly clear by stating he didn’t “do” clients. And though his actions had contradicted his words, she believed him. He didn’t become involved with clients, and a kiss, though hot as hell itself, didn’t constitute a relationship.

  So she let her guard down that once. But she couldn’t afford to do it again. Because if she did, if she allowed him to touch her again, she would cave. Without a doubt she knew she would. The insane desire that had consumed her when he’d parted her lips with his would convince her she could surrender and not face consequences. Not become emotionally entangled. Not want more. Denial was not pretty—neither was ugly-crying into a pillow at three o’clock in the morning.

  Trusting men—loving them—had only led to pain and betrayal. And perhaps worse, loss of self. And Ciaran was more “man” than most. She couldn’t allow passion to blind her to the ultimate outcome waiting for her at the end of that pitted, pot-hole-ridden road.

  Loneliness. Hurt. Shame.

  Powerlessness.

  Only an idiot would hit her turn signal to head down that street again.

  Sighing, she stepped out onto the limestone patio and descended the two steps to the pool area paved in beautiful, smooth sandstone. Her parents had spared no expense in transforming the huge pool area into a tropical oasis. LED lights illuminated the deep blue waters while lush trees and overhanging flowers and plants created the illusion of paradise and privacy. A small waterfall spilled from the second level where hedges concealed a Jacuzzi spa. This was the one area that deviated from the clean, elegant, New England style. It was different, vibrant, exotic. Maybe that explained why she loved it so much.

  She climbed the winding steps to the Jacuzzi, strategically placed floor lamps guiding the way. The tension that had strung her tight since arriving that morning slowly bled from her shoulders and spine, the knots in her belly loosening. This part of the house had always been her favorite spot. Peaceful and secluded, she could disappear here. No prying, critical eyes could scrutinize her here. Even the generously appointed pool house that was a mini-me version of the main home had provided her with a sanctuary. It didn’t surprise her that once again she’d run here.

  Anticipation weaved through her as she slipped from her cover-up and set the clothing and towel on the bench next to the bubbling spa. With a sigh, she eased into the hot, gurgling water and couldn’t contain her moan. The water streaming from the jets massaged her back and feet. The remaining strain in her body evaporated along with the rising steam, and closing her eyes, she sank down until the gently waving water lapped at her chin.

  Her mind blanked of emails, phone calls, career choices, attacks, asshat exes, and kisses—okay, maybe not kisses. But here, she could pretend an erotic tangle of lips and tongues hadn’t leveled her. Here she didn’t have to make any decisions about her future or whether those choices would disappoint those she loved.

  Here, she could just be—

  Click.

  She opened her eyes, but stygian darkness greeted her. The LED lights from the pool and the surrounding lamps no longer illuminated the area, and her oasis suddenly became a menacing, shadow-filled jungle with plenty of hiding places for predators.

  A chill trampled over her skin despite the hot, bubbling water.

  Don’t be silly. Someone just shut off the lights by mistake. Nothing to be scared of…

  “Hello?” she called out, hating the tremble in her voice. “I’m out here.” Silence. “Hello?”

  When more silence, thick and heavy, met her words, she slowly straightened. She tried to listen for a hint of sound that would be amplified in the complete darkness, but the frantic slamming of her heart roared in her ears, deafening her to anything else.

  Forget this. Foolish or not, I’m out of here.

  Palming the shallow ledge in the Jacuzzi, she pushed herself up…

  Hard, bruising hands clamped her shoulders. Shoved her down. Underneath the water.


  Oh God!

  She screamed, but the garbled cry only resulted in a mouthful of chlorinated water. Shutting her lips, she struggled, twisted, trying to free herself of the iron-hard grip. She clawed and pinched at the thick wrists and hands, but the hold didn’t loosen, the implacable fingers digging into her muscle with evil, deadly intent.

  Terror filled her, surging from her belly and pressing against her sternum. Her shrieks bounced off her skull like a horrifying cacophony. Pressure built in her chest, her lungs burning, beginning to scream from the lack of air. Fear pumped in her veins, stealing precious oxygen.

  Desperate, she continued to scratch at her attacker, but her wild movements slowed, grew more sluggish.

  No! God, no.

  She cried, her mouth stretched wide as she wrenched and jerked, but even her fight weakened as her brain seemed to register the imminent danger and clicked into survival mode. Every bit of energy poured into her lungs, clinging to the last scrap of breath. She scraped her wet nails down tough skin once more, the attempt to damage feeble…

  Then the pressure disappeared.

  She launched upward, coughing up water before dragging in a noisy, greedy lungful of air. Followed by another. And then another. Pain seared her chest but she didn’t care. Jesus, she was alive.

  Dread and panic pounded in her head, throat, and body as she whirled around, searching the obsidian shadows for her attacker. She whimpered, terrified that he still lurked, enjoying the sight of her fear before grabbing her again.

  “Sloane!”

  Ciaran.

  “Ciaran,” she shouted. Or tried to. It emerged sounding more like the croak of a bullfrog. “Ciaran, up here.” She tried again, and though her voice cracked, it was louder.

  Seconds later, firm but gentle hands clasped her upper arms. Even in the dark, with his frame and face hidden in shadows, she recognized his touch. Recognized him.

  He lifted her from the spa and cradled her close.

  And she let him.

  John Barrett shot up from the stool at the kitchen island as Ciaran shouldered his way through the glass door that separated the kitchen and the back of the house, Sloane cradled in his arms. Matthew Daniels, Sloane’s godfather, rose more slowly, shock slackening his features.