Lure of the Wicked (13 page)

“What about that witch?”

“And we’re back to the dead guy in my wardrobe,” Naomi said with a twisted smile. “Did you get the photo I sent?”

“Yeah. No ID as yet. Any chance you took some samples?”

“I did.” She glanced at the armoire. “While I was using expensive bath gel to clean the blood up.”

“Nice. Give them to Miles, it’ll give us a better lead,” Eckhart said.

“Okay.” Frowning, she snatched the ugly patchwork purse from the floor and added, “I’m headed out. As soon as you get your hands on those blueprints, I want them.”

“If they exist,” he said. “I’ll tell Miles to be ready.” He paused, and for a brief second she heard a low, almost imperceptible three-note whistle. “So, who are you going out with?”

Naomi bit back a smile. “I’m just getting out while I can.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound assured. “Just try not to break him.”

“Hey—”

“And don’t forget the blood.”

“Fuck you, Eckhart.” Naomi disconnected the comm, dropped the unit into the rainbow-vomit purse, and went in search of the white pea coat she’d seen somewhere in her luggage.

Of all the outfits the Mission had set her up with, none of them screamed
date with the spectacularly sexy Phin Clarke
. Hell, if she had her way, she’d have strapped herself into something made out of buckles and synth leather, replaced all her piercings, and hauled him out to the Pussycat Perch or the Shell Casing for a night of grueling, sweaty, skin-to-skin dancing.

Watched him take his turn feeling like a fish on a hook.

Instead she was wrapped from shoulder to knee in gray designer silk and sporting crimson stiletto boots that likely passed for the rich-bitch version of fuck-me fashion. It would have to do.

Naomi shrugged into the coat, pulled the purse over her shoulder, and tried not to grimace at the horrifying rainbow leather. It was the only purse big enough to conceal a gun and a handful of bloody swabs.

She didn’t think she’d manage to get away with a holster in the dress.

She rubbed her hands together, glanced briefly into the mirror hanging over the mantel, and, wordless, offered an extended middle finger to the neat, put-together reflection before leaving the suite.

Naomi made it as far as the garden before nerves curled into a tight little ball of uncertainty in her chest.

What the hell was she thinking?

This wasn’t her world. Phin wasn’t her type. Here she was, Naomi West, missionary, headed out to the topside nightlife as if she belonged, looking every inch as if she belonged—

She hesitated at the lobby door.

But she didn’t belong. Not here, not with him, not out there. It was all an act. Fine. She needed out, she needed her gun. She needed to get the blood samples to Miles.

She
wanted
to bend the oh-so-smooth Phin Clarke into knots. Break him into delicious pieces, so that when she left this godforsaken prison with its ignorant, sheltered inmates, Naomi could say she had one bright, interesting moment that didn’t involve bullets and blood.

Gritting her teeth, she shoved open the double doors, made it two steps in before her skin prickled in sharp awareness. Wrenching her gaze from the fountain, she met the palpable, speculative wall of three pairs of eyes. Staring at her.

Phin’s twinkled. Challenge.

Another game? Raising her chin, Naomi’s pace lengthened, her heels echoing as she crossed the marble floor. “Phin, Mrs. Clarke,” she offered by way of greeting.

“Good afternoon, dear,” Gemma said as she straightened. Beside her, standing by the computer monitor, a striking woman with wheat gold hair smiled at her. Calm. Serene.

And more than a little appraising.

Although Naomi recognized the tall silhouette, she’d eat her purse if the woman was any kind of concierge.

“Naomi.” Phin’s hand slipped to her lower back as he gestured to them both. “You’ve met my mother, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” she began, only to frown when the older woman’s smile deepened.

“Now I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Lillian Clarke. Mother, Naomi Ishikawa.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed. Flicked from Lillian’s strong features to Gemma’s chocolate dark eyes, shining with merriment. To Phin, who watched her with the same easy smile that shaped Lillian’s mouth. “By marriage?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

Naomi’s fingers twitched. “You think you’re so clever,” she murmured, and patted his cheek. His eyes flickered—surprise or something else, she couldn’t tell—and she stepped out of his reach, offering a hand to the striking blond. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Clarke.”

Nice to meet the woman who had air-kissed Abigail Montgomery the night before. Nice to look into her clear, green-gold regard and smile as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

As if she weren’t wondering just how much this second mother knew. About her. About the body she’d shoved into the polished armoire.

About the things she’d done with her son.

Planned to do still.

The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Lillian, won’t you?” Her grip was gentle, her fingers long and fingernails devoid of polish. A single gold ring glittered on her ring finger, matched twin to the woven band on Gemma’s.

“Lillian,” Naomi repeated dutifully. She brightened her smile to skin-searing wattage, turning it on Phin. He blinked. “I am ready when you are.”

To kick your ass from here to the lower city streets
, she added silently. Her jaw felt stiff, smile too tight.

“Have fun,” Gemma said gaily. “Do deliver my best to Franco, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mother.” His hand firmly back at Naomi’s hip, he bent to press a kiss to the woman’s cheek. Gave the other woman, his other mother, the same farewell.

“Be careful.” Lillian touched his chin, shot her a small, narrow smile. “Both of you.”

Naomi let him guide her away from the desk. Firmly held her tongue as he beat her to the double doors and propped them open for her.

Only part of it was anger.

The man looked good enough to eat. His suit was something smooth and tailored, some designer who specialized in crisp lines. Simple. It was a dark, smoky gray, offset beautifully by the black button-down shirt beneath it. He didn’t bother with a tie, leaving the collar open to frame the lines of his neck. The barest hint of muscle below it.

He’d brushed his hair back, held it in place with some kind of fine pomade, and Naomi couldn’t help but notice how it showcased the angled lines of his cheekbones. His smooth-shaven jaw.

Silver cuff links, different from the ones he’d removed earlier, winked as he gestured across the garden to a small, discreet door.

Naomi gritted her teeth. “What the hell was that?”

“My parents,” he replied mildly. He didn’t let her stop, kept a firm hand at the curve of her lower back as he guided her into the corridor.

Naomi shrugged out of his grasp, easily keeping pace with his long stride. “Don’t give me that bullshit. That was a setup.”

This time his eyes glinted when they turned to her. Flicked to the spiky knot of her upswept hair. His slow, easy smile made her want to climb inside his skin and lick him bloody. “You wore your hair up.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she retorted, but his obvious appreciation triggered a low, liquid slide of awareness. Of anticipation. “You purposefully didn’t tell me about your parents.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention.” Phin paused at a thick wooden door, one hand braced on the panel. “I don’t hide my life from people.”

“Cleverly shed blame.” Naomi looked up at him, at the smooth lines of his indulgent expression, and admitted to herself that she couldn’t decide between licking him and punching him.

Maybe she could punch him square in the mouth. And then lick it better.

“What’s the problem, Naomi?” He raised his eyebrows, smiled right into the face of her irritation, and touched her lower lip with the tip of his index finger. “Are you mad because you didn’t know or mad because they wanted to meet you?”

“Neither,” she snapped. “I—”

She what? Why was she mad? Because she felt set up? Because she didn’t want to know that Phin had two mothers?

When she didn’t even have
one
?

She shoved at the tendrils of hair framing her face, shaking her head hard. “Never mind, can we just go?”

“Your wish,” he murmured, and swept open the door.

It led to another corridor. Another simply decorated, nicely painted hall. Without another word, he led her past several intersections, past doors that led somewhere Naomi couldn’t see.

They walked through a wider foyer, its brass elevator free-standing in the middle of the round, open room. Columns decorated the walls, beautiful vases and lush potted plants offering vibrant color to the pale cream shelves inset into the walls.

“I live here,” Phin explained as he caught her craning her neck to see what lay beyond the elevator frame. “This is the family wing. Across the compound is the staff wing.”

“Your staff lives here?”

“Some,” he replied, and swept open another door, another simple lock. “Here we go.” Naomi stepped into the chilled, dark recesses of a parking garage.

She raised her eyebrows. “Who knew?” She should have. Why hadn’t Mission intel mentioned a parking garage? Of course there would be other ways to get to the resort. Deliveries wouldn’t come through the elevator.

Damn it. She wanted blueprints almost as badly as she wanted her gun.

“Your chariot awaits.” He pointed toward a sleek silver luxury car with its engine idly humming. It was almost as long as a limousine.

Almost as redundant and self-indulgent.

Heiress
, she reminded herself tightly, and stepped off the landing. Phin followed her closely, chuckled when a man in a neat black uniform stepped out of the car to open her door for her.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, sliding into the roomy, extravagant interior. Cream-colored leather, real leather unless Naomi’s tingling fingertips were wrong, enfolded her weight, smooth as butter. She could stretch out her legs, take up an entire seat, and still there’d be room for five more in the excessive space.

“Thank you, Martin.” Phin slid in beside her, unbuttoning his coat with one deft hand. “Champagne?”

“Are you serious?”
Heiress
, her Mission brain warned again. “Not before dinner,” she covered quickly. “It goes to my head.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She frowned, bracing both hands against the seat as the car slid into motion. “That champagne goes to my head?”

“That anything does,” he said lightly. “Still.” He reached over, slid open a compartment to reveal two crystal glasses and a bottle of what Naomi could only assume was expensive champagne. “It’s here if you want some.”

She was half tempted. Mostly because it was something for her hands, her mouth to do that wasn’t pushing Phin down on the butter-soft seat and exploring his concealed chest, his stomach, his—

She flicked a glance at the opaque window panel that separated the driver from the back. Jumped when Phin’s low, knowing laugh slid into the collar of her coat and wrapped like a vise around her ribs.

“I didn’t bring the massage oil,” he said, stretching out his legs across the clean, pale floor of the car. His shiny, polished shoes nudged her red boots. Just a touch. “But I can probably find something just as good.”

Chapter Eleven

H
is hands filled her imagination. The warmth of his palms. His deft fingers kneading, stroking, feeling her body. Heat swirled low and tight. Naomi straightened. “You wish,” she retorted lightly.

“You’re tense again.”

Outside the tinted glass, rain splattered, turned the muted lights of nighttime traffic and the glow of the city in shimmering rivulets. It hummed. Different from the steady, unending thrum of the mid-low levels beneath them, but just as alive.

Hungry.

Her eyes flared. “I’m wondering what I’m going to have to pay for this night.”

“Pay?” Phin smiled. He studied her, from the tips of her crimson boots to her smooth, bare legs crossed under the hem of the silk dress. To her mouth. “I thought you said
I
had to pay for my women.” The glow in his eyes should have scorched everything it touched.

A corner of her glossy mouth quirked. “I’m not your woman.”

“Am I paying for you?”

“I’m not for sale.” Naomi wanted to climb inside those eyes and cover her naked body in sweet, dark chocolate. Only vaguely aware of this little contest of verbal words, she slid her tongue over her bottom lip, easing the tip over that missing center ring. His eyes flamed to wicked, hungry life as he watched her lick the gloss away.

“Good,” he said hoarsely. “Then there’s no mistaking this.” And then he wasn’t across the car anymore. He wasn’t in the opposite seat. Between the space of one breath and the next, Phin sank to his knees in front of her, his eyes brilliantly dark, glittering like ancient gold in a face suddenly taut with the heat Naomi knew drew him like a moth to flame.

That’s what she was. Fire. And she couldn’t help the sleek, intimate tug of arousal between her legs, the uncurling warmth that spread through her limbs like liquid silver as he speared his fingers into the loose wave of her gathered hair and tilted her face between his palms.

“Phin,” she warned him, her eyes on his, “you’re so going to get burned.”

“God, I hope so,” he said roughly, and kissed her.

He kissed her like a man drowning, in desperate need of air. He feasted on the full, lush curve of her lips as if he starved. He wasn’t rough, he didn’t force her, but, God, he didn’t have to.

She wanted him. Wanted this.

Wanted more.

The luxury vehicle purred around them like a sleek cat as he swept his tongue into her mouth. It slid between her lips the way she wanted another part of him to mimic, deep, claiming. Assaulting every sense. She tasted the smooth rasp of his tongue, the minty, wet heat of his mouth, smelled his musky aftershave and drew it deep into her lungs. Wanted
more
.

Impatient, her breath catching, she pushed at his jacket. At the too expensive material that he shrugged out of, leaving it crumpled to the floor.

A low sound of approval rasped from his throat, jerked when she struggled with the buttons of his shirt.

Phin tore his mouth from hers, let her take in deep, shaking breaths of air as he pushed her hands away and slid his fingers around her hips. “Damn it,” he muttered, wrenching her off the seat and into his lap. Her knees hit the floor, sharp points of rasped pain. He grunted, hissed out a breath as her thighs bracketed his waist.

As the center of her body settled over him like it knew exactly what it wanted. What she wanted.

“Not,” he managed, “the way I’d imagined this.”

He pulled off her coat, tossed it over his shoulder without care for the snowy white fabric. His fingers mapped her ribs, her breasts. Plunged into the neckline of the gray dress and found the same scarlet lace that she’d known he wanted to touch in the massage room.

She’d worn it just for him tonight.

“Your fault for assuming,” Naomi replied raggedly, even as her head fell back. A groan escaped her. His clever fingers rolled her nipples, teased them to tight peaks of nerves, and she closed her eyes in pure, leashed ecstasy. “So good.”

“Unbelievable.” His chuckle strained from him, broke when he slid one hand under the hem of her skirt and found her bare leg. She choked on a gasp, sucked in a breath as his fingers slid across the sleek warmth of her inner thigh. “I intended to take this slower.”

“Fuck slower,” she murmured, and jumped when his palm centered over her. It pressed hard against her clit, lace and all. She moaned, her skin going up in flames. “A-actually, no, never mind. Fuck me, Phin. Just me. Right now.”

His eyes blazing, every muscle tensed, leashed, he laid her back on the seat. Spread her legs, his hands rough and shaking. Without warning, his fingers curled around her red lace thong, pulled it aside. Naomi grasped at the hem of her dress as he freed his erection from his slacks.

This. This was what she craved from Phin Clarke. This part of him, raw and wanting.

Jaw hard, he bent over her, pressed his mouth to the wild pulse at her throat. “I’m sorry,” she thought he muttered, and then couldn’t think at all as he slid inside her with one powerful thrust.

She braced her arms above her head, slammed them into the seat to keep from colliding with it as she moaned, jagged and unrefined. He caught her mouth with his, captured her wordless encouragement as he withdrew from her desperate, yearning body and slid deeper, slick and hard and hot. It spun wild heat into nuclear fission, filled her with so much sensation, so much
him
.

Her legs tightened around his waist as Naomi’s climax shattered, too fast and intense. It rolled over her, a wave of sensation so forceful it bordered on pain. Phin drank her wild cries, pumped his hips, desperate to feel every clench of her muscles, every velvet squeeze of her orgasm. Stroked her with his own body until he stiffened, toned muscles rippling in his back as he came hard, trembling with the effort to keep himself upright.

She was laughing before their mingled sweat started to cool.

Gasping for air, Phin lifted his face from her neck, his eyes hazed. Rueful. “That,” he said slowly, “was not the way this evening was supposed to start.”

Naomi’s laughter flowed through her body. Made him flinch, hiss in shock and sensation as it wrapped around his still deeply seated cock and squeezed.

“Don’t do that,” he managed, and smoothed one hand over her hip. “You’re going to kill me.”

Naomi shifted, her heart slowing its rapid beat. She took in a deep breath, struggled to keep it from trembling. “I don’t plan on it,” she said, and hoped her tone sounded as light as the fervent prayer wasn’t. “I’ve just started with you.”

Phin smiled. Slow, knowing, it reached from his mouth to his eyes, made them gleam with a promise Naomi didn’t know how to read as he said, “It gets better.”

She elbowed herself up, mind spinning in a thousand directions, and flinched as the driver tapped discreetly on the dark panel of glass between the seats.

Phin offered her a plain white handkerchief. “We’re here,” he said as the car began to slow. The bastard looked smug, satisfied.

Used.

A touch of smug satisfaction curled in Naomi’s chest, too. She’d made him move sooner than he’d wanted. Made him act when he wanted to wait.

Made him come harder, faster than he’d planned. A delicious shiver curled through her. That’s exactly how this was going to be.

Her rules.

Her choice to walk away.

She met his eyes, held his heated gaze as she slowly dragged the handkerchief over the still-pulsing cleft between her legs. Her muscles jerked under the rasp of soft cloth.

Knew he noticed when his nostrils flared, cords gathering in his neck as he tensed. “You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low and intense.

Too intense.

Because it was the easiest response, she laughed, crumpling the cloth in one fist and throwing it at him. “You’re impossible.” He caught it out of the air, folding it delicately between his fingers.

When he brought it to his nose, inhaled deeply, Naomi’s smile faded. She knew what he smelled; she could smell the mingled fragrance of them both, her musk and his, just on the air between them. A slow, coiling spring tightened in her belly, between her legs, and she forced herself to remain seated. To clamp her traitorous knees together and button her coat.

She fixed her hair. Loosely upswept and tousled was such an easy fashion to mimic. “So where are we?” Naomi strove for carefree, for casual curiosity. For easy indifference.

“You’ll see. Naomi, are you protected?”

She didn’t laugh. She wanted to, but his expression was so serious as he tucked in his shirt. Smothering her smile, Naomi nodded. All missionaries were. It was part of the yearly physical. But he didn’t need to know that much. “I’m safe,” she said lightly.

The look he gave her burned. “Not the word I’d ever apply to you, sweetheart.”

A shiver ghosted over her skin. So intense.

So . . .
sweet
. Shit.

The door opened, Phin’s uniformed driver standing on the other side. She saw night and rain-hazed lights behind him. Something made of glass.

Topside security.

Grimacing, she ignored the driver’s proffered hand, smoothed down her dress as she stepped into the bitter cold. Her knees only wobbled a little.

Her chest wobbled a hell of a lot as Phin unfolded from the car behind her. The man wasn’t like any agent in the Mission. She knew there was muscle under that so-expensive suit, but he hadn’t earned it fighting for his life in the lower levels of New Seattle. She doubted he’d ever been past the security checks on the city’s highway.

He’d be useless in a fight. Useless in the streets below where the sun didn’t reach.

So why the hell did her throat go tight and achy when he said stupidly sweet stuff? When he touched that spot low on her back?

Phin took a black umbrella from the impassive driver, smiled at the man as if he hadn’t just been screwing his date in the backseat of the man’s car.

If the driver knew—
No
, Naomi thought, shaking her head with a grim little smile. Martin knew. Phin probably paid him too well to so much as bat an eyelash.

Phin snapped open the umbrella, raised it over her head as he gestured to the storefront at the end of the small walkway. “We’ll be stopping here for a little while, then on to dinner. Are you ready?”

“I have no idea,” Naomi said dryly. “I don’t know where we are.” It was somewhere in the heart of the downtown district, somewhere topside where business and the elite rubbed elbows with each other. She could see that in the neat, precise blocks, in the carefully planted trees placed in exact lines down each street.

In the cameras on every corner and slow, low-flying patrols of the sec-comps. About as safe as a low-security prison.

Not very safe, and still a prison.

The Cathedral of St. Dominic would be five minutes away by vehicle. The Mission had an office up here, but Naomi wasn’t sure exactly where. She didn’t come up here if she didn’t have to.

Phin’s fingers curved around her hip. “It won’t kill you.”

A grim slash of amusement had her shutting her mouth on the words that would only encourage him to ask questions. Questions she wasn’t prepared to field.

After all, as a missionary, she’d gotten really good at finding things capable of killing her. She’d also gotten better at killing them first.

He led her up the walkway, to the glass door that didn’t have a sign or logo. Nothing to indicate what it was, where she was. Frowning, she tipped her face up, peered past the edge of the dripping umbrella. “What are we doing here, Phin?”

“Getting ready.” His casual lack of information earned him a look she knew wasn’t friendly, but he chuckled, dipped his head to trace her lower lip with slow, lingering caress of his tongue.

Her blood warmed, sizzling away the cold that tried so hard to curl into her coat.

“Trust me.”

“I really don’t,” she said, wry, brutal honesty, and he touched her cheek. His fingertips were cold, but gentle.

His eyes held hers steadily. “I know.”

When the door swung open, mechanically operated from somewhere inside, he guided her into the warm interior. Naomi frowned impatiently while he shook out the umbrella. The foyer was simple, decorated in stark, modern lines. She didn’t know anything about fashion, not this kind, but she guessed it was supposed to be plain, edgy.

Without anything on the walls, it just looked empty to her.

“Andy?” Phin’s voice echoed down the hall.

“Come on in!”

The voice that floated back was smooth, polished, and decidedly not a voice that belonged to an Andy. Naomi’s eyebrows rose as he gestured.

“After you.”

The world that Naomi stepped into unfolded as unexpectedly as the woman who reigned over it.

The studio practically screamed stark modern edge, decorated in clear-cut lines of black and white. Everything was one or the other, every piece of furniture, every mannequin, everything down to the black-framed mirrors, the white carpet, the white veins in black marble. The lights set into the ceiling were harsh and unforgiving, as austere as the decoration that surrounded her.

But it wasn’t the decoration that had her gasping in surprise. The real color blossomed from every corner, every wall-to-wall display of evening gowns, day suits, luxurious lingerie, every conceivable item for every part of a woman’s day.

Knowing her jaw was hanging open, unable to stop herself from staring, Naomi spun in a slow, overwhelmed circle.

“What kind of goddess have you brought me, Phin?”

A short, slim platinum blond crossed the open, white-carpeted floor. Her herringbone suit was bright, blaring red, the pants cut too long in the leg and designed to fall neatly over her wickedly pointed black stiletto heels. She wore no blouse under the structured, fitted jacket, only a black lace bra showing just enough ample cleavage to catch the eye.

Her diamond white hair had been razored straight at her chin, her bangs a long, unforgiving line swinging just over her wide, blue eyes. She was arresting, strong-featured, with cheekbones high enough to give her face an unforgettable edge, but it wasn’t her too-wide smile that set Naomi’s hackles up.