Killer Curves Read online

  “I’m not going to argue with you on an empty stomach.” And as if on cue, her belly grumbled. She’d been so nervous and acutely aware of Ciaran’s presence at the party, she’d only nibbled on the massive amount of food the restaurant had provided. “I need stamina to go another round about my impending spinsterhood.”

  “Sarcasm is not necessary, Sloane.” Mallory sniffed. Jesus take the wheel, no one did a guilt trip like her mother. “But speaking of eating…” A long pause had Sloane squeezing her eyes shut. Oh. Hell. “Did you receive the name of the dietician I emailed you?”

  Sloane groaned, the slight pounding in her temples edging toward full-blown headache. This topic was nothing new either, yet the sour swill in her stomach and tight squeeze in her chest never eased. Her mother honestly meant no harm with her “helpful tips.” Neither of her parents were—or had been—openly demonstrative. Not with each other or their children. Reserved was a good description. “Decorum above all” should be the family motto. Still, in her own way, her mother saw recommendations for nutritionists, trainers, and surgeons as concern and her own brand of affection. Mallory couldn’t see that each piece of advice poked at the tender place in her soul that never felt good enough.

  “Don’t pout, Sloane,” her mother chided. “I only sent you that information because he came highly recommended from several of the women I lunch with.”

  “Great,” Sloane drawled. “So the topic of conversation at the country club has been my weight. Wonderful.” The same women she would most likely have to spend the weekend with, socializing. Oh goody.

  “Oh stop. Dr. Colbert could help you manage your lifestyle, give you better nutrition tips, and assist you in being more active. What is the harm in that, Sloane? You have such a pretty face.”

  The “If only your body matched” remained silent but blared so loudly, her elderly neighbor could’ve caught it without her hearing aid. The vise on her chest squeezed harder.

  Clinophobia is the fear of beds.

  She inhaled, and after a moment, slowly exhaled, the grip on her rib cage easing a fraction.

  Part of her understood the criticism didn’t originate from a place of malice—her mother honestly did worry about Sloane’s happiness and future. But the other half… God, the other half longed to ask her mother if she could just lay off and accept her for who and what she was. Mallory’s concept of a fulfilling, purposeful life differed from Sloane’s. Did she sometimes wish she possessed the slender, hipless builds her mother and sister had been blessed with? Yes. Did she sometimes envy them their marriages and children? Of course. Especially in the last two months since her engagement ended, and the house seemed to echo with deafening silence. And loneliness. Even if her sister had separated from her husband, she’d experienced the fulfillment of companionship, family, and security. Of love.

  An image of sky-blue eyes in a face of strong, sexy angles flashed across her mind followed by a hot spiral of heat coiled low in her belly. If she hadn’t run from the patio and avoided Ciaran for the rest of the evening, she might have ended up under him in her bed, writhing in orgasm. She’d called him dangerous, and the label fit. With one conversation, he’d had her questioning herself. Had her contemplating taking another risk. Had her—just for an instant—considering the risk would be worth the one night of sin his piercing gaze had promised. Yes, he was dangerous. Even more so than she’d originally supposed.

  Phillip had enchanted her with his attractive features, flawless charm, and pretty compliments. But Ciaran’s blunt honesty and unapologetic sexual magnetism had captivated and aroused her in ways her ex hadn’t in the two years they’d been together. At the end of her relationship with Phillip, she’d been a timid, bullied shell of who she used to be. Phillip had battered her pride; she suspected Ciaran would destroy it, not even leaving scraps.

  A wry smile twisted her mouth. Not that it mattered. Ciaran hadn’t approached her, either. Which solidified her assumption that she’d either been a lark, an amusing distraction to pass some time, or wasn’t worth the chase to him. At this moment, he’d probably forgotten all about the size-fourteen school teacher whose panties he’d melted with an offer to maim or kill and had picked up a Victoria’s Secret model wannabe who didn’t need to wear Spanx beneath her dress. Why that thought should sting so badly was beyond her.

  God, I’m so pathetic. She continued up the sidewalk, eager to get inside, down some aspirin, and veg out in front of the television and whatever Housewives were cat-fighting tonight.

  “Sloane, there’s another reason I called.” Well, damn. She’d almost forgotten her mother was still on the line. Sighing, she tuned back in to the conversation, but Mallory’s uncharacteristic hesitation echoed in her ear, and disquiet pulsed inside Sloane like a flashing caution signal. “I should have let you know earlier, but…” Her mother cleared her throat. “Phillip is coming to the party.”

  She screeched to a halt at the bottom of the stoop steps as if a road block had sprung up before her. A road block that warned Caution: Betrayal Ahead. Shock encased her, but the bright flames of anger quickly dissolved the icy disbelief.

  “What?” She stared at her front door, her voice low, trembling. “Please tell me you didn’t just say my ex-fiancé will be spending the weekend with my family. With me.”

  “When we invited him, you two were still together. We couldn’t just rescind his invitation. He’s still a business associate of your father’s, and John loves him like a son. That didn’t change just because your relationship did.”

  Tears, sudden and hot, burned her eyes and clogged her throat. Pain radiated from her chest. Not because in a matter of days she would be facing the man who’d eviscerated her pride and esteem before he’d walked out the door. God knows she wasn’t looking forward to that, but once—just once—she wished her parents would take her side. Okay, Phillip was like a son. But she was their daughter. Besides, would they be so eager to include him if they knew how he’d treated—mistreated—her? Too bad shame had kept her lips sealed…still did.

  She squeezed her eyes close, refusing to allow one tear to drop.

  “Sloane—”

  “Thanks for letting me know, Mother. I really have to go, so I’ll call you later.”

  She didn’t wait for Mallory’s reply, instead she ended the call and stared blindly down at the phone’s screen for several long seconds. As if any moment, her mother’s telephone number and name would pop up. As if she would call back to promise to retract her invitation to her asshole ex.

  As if.

  Sloane tucked the cell into her purse and climbed the brownstone’s stairs, her tread heavier than only minutes earlier. If the celebration wasn’t in honor of her parents’ thirtieth anniversary, she would say to hell with it and skip the party. But she couldn’t. She loved her parents; they didn’t see eye-to-eye on her appearance, her career choice, or her personal life, but she wouldn’t deliberately hurt them. And not showing up next week would fall squarely in that category.

  Possessing a conscience truly sucked sometimes.

  Slipping her keys free of her pants pocket, she grabbed the door knob.

  God, she smothered a groan. What if he brings his new girlfriend—

  The front door creaked open.

  Stunned, Sloane stilled, the hand clutching her house keys frozen midair. Her heart thudded in her ears like a bass drum. Ice slid through her veins, replacing blood with a burgeoning, oily fear.

  She’d closed and locked the front door before leaving for school that morning. She was certain of it. With the emails and phone calls, she didn’t take chances. So why…

  Her breath burst from her lungs in rapid, loud puffs that seemed to boom in the eerie, suffocating silence. She pushed the door and it swung wide, the creak like nails scraping down a chalkboard. The light spilling in from the street lamps did little to dispel the shadows in the foyer and hallway. Swallowing, she stepped over the threshold.

  And gasped.

  Horror fil
led her.

  The pretty, delicate table she’d found at a Charles Street antique shop lay overturned on the floor, pieces of the Tiffany lamp that had sat upon it scattered across the hardwood. The gilded, oval mirror that had hung on the wall now occupied a corner, bits of glass clinging to the frame like silver tears. Her purse and bag drooped down her arm, and they dropped to the floor with a dull thud. She barely noticed as she moved farther into the foyer. Something cracked under her foot. A glance down revealed one of the Thomas Kinkade Victorian lighthouse figurines she collected. Shards of the porcelain as it’d been broken—destroyed.

  A harsh sob escaped her. She lifted her hand, encircling her neck as if she could manually contain the whimper. Grief welled inside her like a geyser. Her home, her things. Who would do—

  A floorboard groaned.

  She knew that sound. When she’d bought the brownstone, the squeaky step at the top of the staircase had been delightful, part of the old building’s charm. Now…

  She slowly lifted her gaze, her pounding heart lodged in her throat.

  He stood on the second floor landing, one foot planted on the creaky step.

  As if God had pressed pause on the video of life, they stood there, staring at one another. The dark eyes that peered at her from the red-rimmed slits of a black ski mask seemed to glitter in the dusk-deepened shadows. A gloved hand gripped the newel post cap. It was the sight of that black glove that shattered her paralysis.

  She backpedaled, and the movement triggered the intruder like a bullet expelled from a gun. He charged down the stairs. With a strangled cry, she whirled. The open front door loomed just several feet in front of her, but it might as well as have been miles. She dashed for the entrance, but her heel slipped on the shattered pieces of the figurine. With another low scream, she slipped, her shoulder slamming into the wall, her hip clipping the small mail table. Pain radiated through her, snatching her breath.

  Move! Move now!

  Horror clawed at her chest, but she obeyed the shriek in her mind. She shoved off the wall. Darted for the door. For freedom. For safety.

  Her fingernails scraped the edge of the jam, relief and an almost hysterical joy surged inside her chest. Please, God. Thank you, God…

  Pain exploded at the side of her head, her scream muffled by a gloved hand. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the burst of black and gold stars that crowded her vision. A whimper escaped her as a cruel grip jerked on her hair, arching her neck until tendons whined in complaint.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The raspy question contained a note of malicious glee that caused nausea to churn and roil in her gut before racing for her throat. He wrenched harder on her ponytail, his fingers biting into her skin. Even through the knit mask, she swore she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek. Feel the hum of a nasty chuckle. “You and me, we got—bitch!”

  Terror transformed her into a wild thing. She couldn’t hear the rest of his sentence—was terrified to hear it. She bit the fingers covering her mouth, clamping down hard. The thin material of the gloves didn’t provide him protection against her desperate attack.

  “Goddammit!” he howled. “Get off me.”

  But she only clenched harder. And drove the heel of her shoe down the inside of his ankle and into his instep.

  With a vicious curse, he yanked his arm away and shoved her.

  Toward the entrance.

  Stumbling, she quickly steadied herself and lunged, barreling out of the house and onto the stoop. And didn’t stop. She bolted down the steps and onto the sidewalk, running for her life as if the masked intruder chased her, intent on dragging her back into her home to finish whatever he’d broken into the house to do.

  Chapter Three

  “Ooh. You look like hell.”

  Ciaran Ross grunted as he stepped into the lobby of GDG Security Solutions. Functioning on three hours of sleep, the grumble of sound was all he could manage prior to coffee. Speaking of…

  He flipped the tab on the insulated cup in his hand. The strong, fragrant aroma of dark roast teased his nose, and like Pavlov’s dogs, he felt his stomach tighten in anticipation of the first hit of the brew hitting his tongue. When he’d been a DEA agent, he’d come across more than his fair share of drug addicts. His reaction to the coffee with two creams and three sugars wasn’t very far off from that of a junkie feenin’ for their next high. He tipped the cup and sipped. Oh yeah. He might be edging into crackhead behavior, but fuck it. He so needed this.

  Only after a couple of more gulps did he meet the amused gaze of the petite woman with raven black hair and violet eyes manning the receptionist’s desk.

  “Uh, rough night?” Willow Clark arched an eyebrow with a pointed glance at his coffee cup.

  Ciaran visually swept the open, empty space of the lobby before answering. The warm browns, deep reds, and blues of the area put a person more in the mind of a friendly doctor’s office rather than a personal security firm that contracted ex-soldiers and cops who weren’t afraid to kick ass and take names. But the décor as well as the careful restoration of the Back Bay brownstone that housed the offices of GDG Security Solutions had been deliberate. From the garden-level meeting rooms to the parlor floor offices, he and his partners had tried to keep in mind that their clients wanted to feel secure in the knowledge that former military and law enforcement guarded them, not have the hell scared out of them.

  Returning his attention to Willow, he stated, “Reinhold.”

  “Aah.” Willow nodded with an exaggerated grimace. “’Nuff said.”

  Yeah, the name of one of their most recent—and difficult—clients was indeed enough explanation. Instead of heading home after Shane and Fallon’s engagement party, he’d received a call from the security detail assigned to Carlton Reinhold’s home. The business executive had hired GDG to protect him from the threats of a disgruntled employee…disgruntled because the exec had been boning the employee’s wife. Just stupid as hell.

  Ciaran’s number-one rule: Don’t shit where you eat. As Reinhold had discovered, becoming involved with employees or clients only ended one way—threats to his dick and a brick with “Burn in hell” painted on it catapulting through the living-room window.

  Or worse.

  God knew it could be so much worse.

  Ruthlessly squashing that particular line of thought, Ciaran strode to the front desk and picked up the small stack of envelopes in his inbox tray. Most of the mail was addressed to the GDG marketing department. As one of the four owners of the private security firm, he’d drawn the short straw and ended up in charge of promotion, advertisement, and media. Which, considering his partners, made sense. Shane and Khalil ranked networking—hell, smiling—just above a Hallmark Channel marathon. And Maddox…well, since no one could ever predict what the hell would come out of Maddox’s mouth, they’d found it safer to keep him behind the scenes.

  He, Shane Roarke, Maddox Wright, and Khalil Jordan founded the firm three years ago, employing and contracting personnel to provide security and protection for high and low-risk clients. When he’d left the Drug Enforcement Administration four years ago after serving in their Operations Division, he’d floundered like a fish scooped out of its bowl and abandoned to flop around and struggle to survive in a suddenly new and alien environment. Leaving the agency had left him adrift—until GDG. His friends and the company blessed him with purpose. Granted him direction.

  Offered him absolution.

  “Exactly. Where’s Lauren?” While Willow was one of their most valued employees, the Artful Dodger, as they called her around the office, was more known for her talents with discreet retrieval of sensitive documentation and items rather than answering the phones.

  “Her son’s daycare called, and she had to go pick him up. Apparently he and the Cream of Wheat he ate for breakfast didn’t agree.” She grinned and the piercing at the corner of her bottom lip lifted. “So you have me manning the helm for the rest of the day. Lucky you.”
/>   “Lucky. Now there’s a word,” he drawled. “Not the first one that came to my mind, but…”

  She laughed. “Now who’s the sweet talker?”

  “Uh, excuse me,” a voice rang out.

  Both he and Willow glanced toward the lobby entrance. But while she rose and circled the desk to greet their newcomer, Ciaran remained rooted to the spot. Lust tended to do that to a man. Grab him by the balls. Stop him dead in his tracks.

  Sloane Barrett.

  Goddamn.

  The impact of her slammed into his chest with the force of a sledgehammer. Just as it had the night before. Then, he’d noticed her as soon as she’d entered the dining rom. How could he have missed that long, dark hair that looked like it’d been styled in one of those high-end salons that served mimosas and canapés along with its shampoos and cuts? Thick, luxurious, rich—and perfect for a man to twist his fist in. Perfect for tugging. The waves framed a face that could have graced the cameo his grandma had worn every Sunday morning to mass. Cool and composed, with graceful brows arching over beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Elegant bone structure, high cheek bones, and the faint, sexy-as-hell indentation in her chin lent her features an air that could have been haughty except for the wide, almost carnal mouth that was stunning in its sensuality.

  The ends of her hair brushed her breasts that had his mouth watering for a taste. Not the flat or barely-there flesh that seemed so fashionable in magazines and catwalks around the world. Anyone looking at her would know she was a woman, not some prepubescent girl. A narrow waist, a sensual flare of hips, and legs the perfect length for wrapping around a man’s hips…and holding tight for a rough ride.

  All that beauty, and then she’d picked up a Sam Adams. In a bottle.

  Last night, his response to her had been too visceral, too deep…too hungry. Sex was a physical release, a stress reliever. Not the craving that had gnawed at him just at the sight of her. That should’ve been his first warning to keep his distance from her. The second should’ve been that she was obviously a friend of Fallon’s. A wealthy, Beacon Hill friend. In other words, the women he stayed away from. Women like Sloane Barrett weren’t the hit-it-and-quit-it kind. She would expect cuddling, whispered praise, and reassurance in the morning after. Hell, she would expect a fucking morning after. And with him, there was no such animal; he hadn’t slept beside a lover in four years. Not since…