Heat Seeker (12 page)

“There have been some questions,” he finally admitted. “He was fingerprinted, DNA’d. We managed to get our own results into each test easily enough, but we thought a verification by you would go farther.”

She nodded at that. “The people you’re dealing with aren’t the most trustworthy. And arranging a meeting with Warbucks isn’t going to be as easy as you think. I’ve been working for more than a year to prove my discontent with the agency and my country in general. He’s only now beginning to test me.”

Returning amid a scandal had done some damage to her social life, but not to the certainty that she would turn against the CIA if given the chance. John knew for a fact that rumors were already circulating that Bailey Serborne was now
a disenchanted agent and possibly available to the highest bidder.

It was information that the CIA couldn’t afford to act on, though, simply because of the power that backed her. They hadn’t even placed a watch on her, which was a testament to the financial and political clout that existed within the world she had been born into.

So how did a society princess, an heiress unlike any other he’d heard of, end up risking her life and fortune in a career that could end any day with her death?

What sense of honor, injustice, or vengeance had led her here?

There were so many secrets, so much of her that he was only now realizing that he didn’t know or understand. Parts of her that she hid, that she refused to share with anyone, man or woman. An intimacy she was determined to keep to herself.

“What proof do you have that Warbucks was involved in the death of your friend or your parents?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I don’t have time to sit and tell you my life story.” She used a small flip of her hand to indicate the dress she was wearing. “We’re going to be fashionably late as it is. Get in your best evening suit and we’ll head out.”

“To where?” he asked curiously. She was obviously attempting to assert herself and her dominance in this. For the moment, he was allowing it.

“Samuel Waterstone’s get-together. He and his wife are celebrating their anniversary tonight. Forty-five years of marital bliss.”

There was a regret disguised in the bitterness of her voice that made something in his chest ache. Made him regret choices himself. Could he and Bailey have been celebrating an anniversary this year? he wondered. If he hadn’t “died.” If Trent Daylen hadn’t managed to get on the wrong side of Warbucks in Australia?

“The families we’re watching will be in attendance at this party?” he asked her.

“Every one of them plus several dozen more. Add to that list a few box-office stars, a couple of very dull television personalities and even some of Aspen’s finest political figures and you have a gallery of the rich and boring.”

She had little respect for the world she had been born within. But John had realized in Australia that Bailey never simply gave her respect or trust. Male or female, people had to work to prove themselves to her.

As Trent Daylen, he’d done that somehow. Through the months that they had worked together, he’d found some way to earn that respect and trust. A respect and trust that John Vincent wasn’t earning quite so easily.

“I’ll make certain I don my finest threads, then.” He quirked a smile in her direction and yet still received that strangely somber look in return.

He wondered if she knew what that look did to him. If she knew that he wanted to wrap her in his arms and protect her from the world when she looked so sad.

“That would definitely be a good idea.” She nodded. “Tomorrow you’ll come out to the cabin. I’ll have my father’s tailor there fit you with some new suits. You’ve done very well as a successful broker, but now you need to show your intent to rise higher in the world. You’ll have one of a very few of the richest heiresses in the world that you’re courting. You need to show your intent as well as your seriousness in the matter.”

His brow arched. “Should I be looking for engagement rings then?”

She tilted her head and stared back at him coolly. “Call Cartier’s in England, make an appointment with the manager to see his finest diamonds in, say, six weeks’ time. That will prove your intent as well as give you ample opportunity to complete your job here before you have to actually buy the diamond.”

He snorted at that. “I have my own diamond sources, my dear, I think I can take care of this on my own.”

She shrugged. “However you wish to deal it, as long as word leaks out. Now, we’d better be leaving soon or we’ll be
more than fashionably late and end up insulting our host and hostess. That’s something we really don’t want to do at this point.”

Insulting the Waterstones wasn’t one of the things that was high on his own list of problems to avoid, but he would take her word for it.

“And once we arrive?” He moved from the bar, stepping over to her slowly, letting her feel the heat of his body as it mixed with hers. “Are we lovers, Bailey, or still tiptoeing around each other like a couple of teenagers?”

She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring with a hint of nervous excitement as a glitter of hunger lit her eyes. She wanted it just as damned bad as he did. The need that had erupted between them five years ago hadn’t abated. If anything, it had only grown hotter.

As she stood still and silent, he let his hand caress her hip, feeling the heated flesh beneath the silk of her gown. Then looping his arm around her waist, he jerked her to his chest.

Soft, silken hands flattened against the bare muscle as her gaze widened and flew to his.

“This isn’t necessary,” she retorted breathlessly.

“Don’t think you can dominate me, Bailey,” he warned her carefully. “Don’t think you can dress me, or tell me how to conduct my part of this little operation. I’ve been handling my own tailors as well as my own jewelers for years.” His head lowered as he spoke until his lips were only a breath from hers.

Damn her. She was strong, resilient, but she hadn’t yet learned that he was stronger and a hell of a sight more stubborn. She’d learned that lesson about Trent; now she had to learn it about John.

“This isn’t a game we’re playing between ourselves,” he continued. “Don’t pretend that it is.”

“Isn’t it?” A challenge flared in her eyes, like fire inside the purest emerald. “Don’t lie to me, John. Don’t pretend it’s any more than it really is. It’s a job. One we’re both determined to complete, nothing more.”

“Like hell.”

He’d be damned if he would allow her to leave here, on his arm, believing that load of crap that she was trying to convince herself of.

She wanted to deny what was between them because she didn’t understand it, because she didn’t know who or what he was to her. He understood that. That didn’t mean he would tolerate it.

Using one arm to hold her in place, he gripped the side of her face with his palm. As she parted her lips to blast him with that sharp tongue of hers, he took possession of it.

Kissing Bailey was like being engulfed in flames. The damp heat of her tongue, the satiny softness of her lips beneath his, were like a narcotic that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of. The more he had of her, the more he wanted.

He felt her hands slide slowly up his chest, hesitant, trembling, her fingers stroking against his flesh until they clasped his neck.

She shuddered in his grip, as she had that first night in Australia. Tremors of need raced beneath her flesh as a soft, almost unwilling cry passed her lips.

John kept the kiss gentle. There was no need to take her roughly, to assert his dominance, his hunger. It was there in each lick of his tongue against hers, in the rub of their lips, the way her hands gripped his neck, the way he held her to him. Her body softened into his, as though it realized what her mind didn’t. That she was his. That her heart, her body, belonged to him.

That slender, sweet body conformed to his now. Her hands held tight to his neck as she leaned into him, burning in his arms like a flame as he began to kiss her with hungry demand.

She asserted her own demand. She took what he gave and then pushed for more until lips and tongue were working together with heated moans and hands that couldn’t stay still.

He wanted to slide the fabric of that dress up her thighs until he reached what he knew were the dew-shrouded folds
of flesh between her thighs. She would be wet for him, hot. The remembered feel of her sweet pussy drove through his head and sent pulses of need clenching in his balls.

His cock was a wedge of pure steel, straining at his slacks as he lifted her closer, unwilling to release her for even a second, wanting more of her than he had ever imagined wanting of a woman.

She was his.

His hands tightened on her as he lifted her impossibly closer. His palms slid to her rear, tightened in the smooth, toned muscle as a groan tore from his chest.

His hips bunched, grinding his cock into the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling the heat of her pussy, flexing and throbbing for the remembered sensations of being buried deep inside her.

God, she had been so tight. She would be tight around him now. She hadn’t had another lover in five years, but soon, very damned soon, she was going to have him again.

“Call it a game now, damn you.” He tore his lips from hers as he stepped to the couch several feet behind him. Turning, he bore her to the cushions, pushing her dress up her smooth, silk-covered legs as he slid between them. “Tell me you’re not as damned hot for this as I am.”

He made the mistake of glancing away from her face. The draped material of her dress fell over one swollen breast, revealing the hard, velvet-covered tip. Tight and flushed, her nipple beckoned his lips, his tongue.

He felt starved for the taste of her, the feel of her.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “You want me just as bad as I want you, Bailey, and you refuse to admit it.”

“I don’t deny it.” Her breathing was rough, hard. “I never denied wanting you.”

She denied herself the chance to take it, though. He wasn’t denying himself.

Flattening his hands against her knees, he ran his hands up her thighs, feeling the silk stockings she wore until he reached the lace band.

She shook her head as he pressed her legs farther apart,
her fingers clenched into the cushions of the couch, but she didn’t ask him to stop, she didn’t deny the touch.

Pushing the material of the dress higher, he finally found what he was searching for. A sapphire-blue thong, the small triangle covering her pussy already damp, the folds of her flesh outlined beneath the material.

“Spread your legs farther,” he ordered roughly. “Let me see, Bailey.”

Had it ever been this hot before? John knew it hadn’t been. Never had he seen her like this, watchful, waiting, uncertain in her femininity and her response to him.

Her legs parted, the silk tightening over her sex as he slid his fingers to the edge of the panties.

“This is mine.” His palm covered the mound and the feel of the wet heat beneath it nearly had him coming in his pants. “Mine, Bailey.”

She trembled beneath him as his fingers slid beneath the snug material and found the syrupy heat he’d dreamed of for five long years.

He couldn’t stop the touch. He couldn’t keep from dipping a finger inside the snug, clenched entrance or delving inside to caress the sensitive tissue inside. He couldn’t stop the hunger that dragged a ragged groan from his chest or the demand that he take more, that he have more of her.

Another finger. Pulling the panties aside, he watched as his fingers took her, thrusting, working slowly inside her as her hips arched and a strangled cry passed her lips.

She was tight around his fingers, her muscles fluttering, vibrating around his flesh. He tore the panties from her, the scraps of material fluttering to the floor as he gripped her thigh with one hand and watched as he possessed her. Fucking her with his fingers, loving her cries, the way she arched to him, and finally the way her body tightened, jerked, and heat surrounded his fingers as her orgasm rushed over her.

The folds of her pussy became flushed. Her clit stood out like a tiny dark pink pearl that throbbed and glistened as her juices coated his fingers and the swollen curves.

It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. This,
watching the effects of her pleasure on her body, seeing her release, feeling it. Owning it.

“You’re mine,” he bit out roughly. “Mine, Bailey.”

She shook her head even as she shuddered through the final pulses of release.

“All fucking mine.”

ALL FUCKING HIS.

John’s words echoed through her mind that night and into the next morning as she fought her body’s demand that she give in to the utter possessiveness that had filled his tone.

He had been very un-Trent-like. Trent hadn’t been that dominant, that possessive. He had been more casual, more fun-loving. But hadn’t she always sensed a darker core in him?

Driving along the mountainous road that led to Aspen the next afternoon, she fought to put aside the conflicting feelings that were making her crazy. She couldn’t get her heart, or her body, to meet with her mind where he was concerned. Was he, like Micah, a dead man walking? A man much closer to her than he wanted her to know?