The Real Mrs. Price (26 page)

She leaned back and looked at him, satisfied with herself as if that shit made any sense.

“It's contradictory,” he clarified. “On the one hand, I'm Mr. Happy, Accepting, Loving Dude, and on the other, I let my head rule my heart, and I'm repressed.” He shrugged. “I can't be both.”

“Sure you can,” she said indifferently. “You can be that Happy, Mr. Accepting and Loving Dude but be repressing it.”

“Does that make sense to you?”

She nodded. Of course she'd nod. Marlowe wanted to believe this crap, so she didn't question it.

“Look,” she said, leaning toward him and staring sympathetically into his eyes as if he had some condition. “I get it. You feel things, and you feel them deeply,” she said, starting to sound pretty damn condescending. “But you hold back, because you're afraid to feel those things. They don't make sense to you, and they don't fit your lifestyle.”

“You have just talked yourself into believing this nonsense just like you've talked yourself into believing that I'm the devil.”

“But you are, Plato.”

“Then why spend time with me, Marlowe? Why sleep with me?”

She had to stop and search her own soul for answers to those questions, because clearly, she didn't have any readily available.

“I'm attracted to you,” she admitted.

“Cobras are beautiful, baby. Would you want to curl up next to one of those?”

Again, Marlowe gave his analogy some serious thought. “The bones said you were coming, and the minute I saw you, I knew it was you.”

“The bones. Bones of the dead possum.”

“And I dreamed you before that. Right before that.”

“Dreamed me.”

Marlowe's gaze drifted off into some memory that she recalled. “It's all figurative, Plato, not literal. It's about intuition and not science and not facts. I knew you before you told me your name, because I dreamed you. I dreamed a dark and menacing being hovering over me, entering me, and sexing me.” Her gaze drifted slowly over his body. “Smelled like you, tasted like you, felt like you.”

“It was just a dream.” He said it, but he only sort of believed it.

“Could've been,” she surprisingly agreed. “But my intuition tells me that it wasn't.” Marlowe took a deep breath. “You may not be the literal devil. In fact, I'm sure you're not. But you are a version of evil. You wallow in it. You bask in it. You even enjoy it.”

She wasn't accusing him. She had him pegged.

“You know this about me, or you suspect, and you're okay with it?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically. “I'm terrified of it. On some level, I'm terrified of you. But on another level, I'm drawn to you for reasons I do not understand.”

Marlowe had taken on a mystical vibe that showed in her eyes, in the way she spoke. It was almost as if she were under some kind of spell—if you believed in spells, that is. But she had an eerie, otherworldly look and sound to her that started to unnerve him. And then all of a sudden, a buzzer went off, snapping the two of them out of this … whatever the fuck it was they'd just been enveloped in.

She grinned. “Casserole's done,” she said gleefully, bouncing up off that sofa. “I hope you're hungry. I made enough of this stuff to feed an army.”

He sat still, his skin tingling, the hairs on his arms standing straight up, and Plato wondered what the hell had just happened.

*   *   *

He couldn't sleep. Marlowe had dumped him in the spare room again, keeping to her promise that the last time the two of them had sex together, in Austin, was, well, the last time. Plato didn't protest because he needed time to himself to clear his head and to figure out his next move. She was distracting, and he was ready to get this over with and move on. She was addictive. And she was scary.

Price needed those PINs, and he was getting more and more desperate. Plato didn't expect him to show up here again so soon after the other night, especially when the police showed up the next day to search the place. Plato believed that Price would come for Marlowe directly, thinking that she had that drive on her or that she knew where it was. The name
Hilliard
was never far from his thoughts. Hilliard was the dead man. He had to have been. Price killed him and then did everything he could to make it look like he was the one found in that car.

He probably hadn't counted on Marlowe being suspected of murdering him, but that was neither here nor there. He didn't come running to her rescue when he found out that she was a suspect, which meant that he was probably fine with it. Driving to every small town within a hundred-mile radius of Blink hoping to just stumble across Price was a ridiculous plan and a huge waste of time. He was going to have to find a way to draw Price out of hiding, and that
way
was sleeping in the other room, probably naked, and trying to keep Marlowe safe.

His time here was running out. He could feel it. The window of opportunity was widening, but it wouldn't stay that way for long. Price had to have been more skittish now than he'd been before. He'd seen Plato hovering around his woman, his house, and the police had visited more times than any man would be comfortable with. It was a hunter's responsibility to know his prey and not the other way around. Plato had been sniffing around Marlowe long enough. It was time to wrap up this job and go.

 

Poison

D
AMMIT IF
L
UCY
hadn't planted that ugly seed in his brain, and dammit to hell if it hadn't taken root. It was nonsense, ludicrous. It was dangerous and ridiculous. And yet it held merit with Roman. It offered a solution to a situation where previously there was none. And it provided a chance for some small semblance of redemption—not complete redemption, but some—and for his mistakes, some redemption was far more than he deserved.

It was after midnight when he knocked on the door to Lucy's hotel room. Roman knew that she was probably sleeping, but because of her, he hadn't been able to close his eyes, so he didn't feel too terrible about waking her up in the middle of the night.

She answered the door rubbing her eyes and tying her robe. “What time is it?” she asked, stepping aside as he invited himself inside.

“How seriously have you been thinking about this?” he abruptly asked.

Lucy shut the door and shrugged. “I started thinking about it after speaking to Chuck,” she admitted, sounding almost embarrassed. Lucy sighed and sat down on the side of the bed. “I've never been fixated on money, Roman,” she said sincerely. “I've never fantasized about what it would be like to be rich. All I ever wanted was to live comfortably and to be happy. I love my job. I love my home. I even love my car. But then, when I think about what Ed's done to me, to our lives … when I think about that, and then I think about all that money that he's manipulated for God knows who, I can't help wondering what it would feel like to walk away and start all over from scratch. To reinvent myself and my life, and to scrub off any evidence that he was ever a part of it.” Lucy pursed her lips together. “It seems like a reward. Like something I deserve. It feels like Ed paying me back for the shit he put me through.” She pointed to her two front teeth. “These aren't real. After he hit me, I had to have them replaced,” Lucy explained tearfully. “No man had ever laid a hand on me before that day. I'd never been afraid for my life, before that day. I've been terrified ever since.”

She had no idea what this money could cost her. Lucy talked as if it was Ed's money that she wanted to take, but the truth was far more dangerous. Still, Roman had to admit that the possibility of getting his hands on money like that made him hopeful in a way that he hadn't been in a year. He couldn't just buy into this idea without admitting why. For some reason, Roman sought validation for even considering this plan. He needed for her to see that he wasn't just greedy. Roman had a reason for needing this kind of money, probably the most important reason of all.

He tentatively sat down in the chair across from the bed, rested his elbows on his knees, and took a deep breath. Confessions were difficult, but this one needed to be made here and now because Roman was seriously considering doing something that could cost him … his life.

“I was married, Lucy,” he pensively began. “I was married for ten years. I was a cop and I, uh … got hurt—shot.”

Lucy's expression shadowed with sympathy and shock.

“I ended up addicted to prescription meds.” Roman spared her the mundane details and got straight to the point. “And it cost me everything—my job, my home, my family.”

“Oh, Roman,” she murmured sincerely. “I'm so sorry.”

He nodded. “Don't be.” Telling her this next part was going to be painful. Roman had never told anyone about it; he'd never even spoken about it to his ex-wife. But he didn't have to, because she was suffering the same way he was suffering. “I'd lied and told my wife that I was no longer taking pills.” A lump swelled in his throat. “I swore to her that I was clean, and I begged her to let the boys spend the night with me.” Roman swallowed and then cleared his throat. Telling her this was even harder than admitting that he was an addict. “One night couldn't hurt. Right?” He stared helplessly at Lucy and then drifted back to a memory he'd wished like hell he could cut out of his head. “We had pizza.” He smiled. “Watched movies. Laughed and wrestled.”

Roman remembered tucking the boys into bed and then going into his own room, reaching into the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a brown vial.

“I don't remember how many I took,” he said solemnly. “Three, maybe four.” He shrugged. “Enough to help me sleep through the night.” Without him realizing it, a tear streamed down his cheek. “Must've been noon by the time I woke up. The youngest, Joshua, came into my room and shook me awake. Told me that his brother, Carson, was asleep in the bathroom and wouldn't wake up.”

That image of his seven-year-old son lying on his back on the bathroom floor wearing his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas was permanently scarred in Roman's head.

“Tried to wake him, but I got nothing. So I rushed him to the hospital.” He looked at Lucy. “He'd found the pills,” he said hoarsely. “Thought they were candy.”

Lucy covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Roman,” she murmured.

“He, uh … lived, but he's not the same. He'll never be the same.”

Lucy rushed over to him, pushed herself onto his lap, and wrapped her arms around him. “Roman,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “I'm so sorry. I am so sorry for you.”

He wrapped his arms around her, too. With money, Roman could pay off all his son's medical bills, the mortgage on his house for his ex-wife and kids to live in. He couldn't fix what he'd broken, but he sure as hell could make it easier on his ex, Jessica. If he could at least do that, then it was something. And something was a whole hell of a lot more than he deserved, but his kids deserved it. Jessica deserved it. It was money that wasn't doing anybody any good, and it never would, unless … unless they followed through with her plan and got the big guy to buy into it. Shit. Even he would have to admit that twelve million was an attractive lure. Roman doubted seriously that his employer was giving him that much to find Price.

*   *   *

Roman would never recall who kissed who first. It had come when it was needed, though, and served its purpose, to soothe and comfort. He remembered wanting her and needing to feel her skin against his, because when was the last time he had made love to a woman who wasn't some buxom blonde on his laptop, getting hammered by some random dude?
Control, Roman. Pace yourself, Roman. Be careful, Roman.

His dick swelled until it was painful. Lucy reached down and took hold of it and guided it into her. Roman moaned and then immediately withdrew. Warm and moist, she was too much, too soon, and he'd have come in seconds if he hadn't pulled out when he did. Roman needed for this to last, and he needed the opportunity to savor every part of her. Lucy's nipples begged to be sucked, and so he wrapped his lips around each small peak, pulling and tugging as Lucy arched her back and pleaded with him not to stop.

He held her by her waist and rolled her over on top of him. Lucy lavished him with passionate and wet kisses as she straddled him and then began to push her hips down onto his shaft, so slowly that it was agonizing and delicious. He cupped her behind and guided her down until he ended and she began.

“Don't move,” he whispered between kisses, mentally willing his body not to explode in that moment. “Please, don't move.”

Lucy lay still on top of him, planting tiny kisses along the edge of his mouth, his chin, his cheeks. “You feel so good, Roman,” she moaned. “I need this,” Lucy said, breathless. “I need you.”

He gradually eased in and out of her at a pace that steadied him. Lucy moaned again and raised and lowered her hips to meet his. She raised herself up to a seated position, planted her hands on his chest, and stared into his eyes while she rocked on top of him. Roman was in no hurry for this to end. And he had no idea what was waiting for him on the other side of that orgasm building low in his gut, but for now, it didn't matter. Lucy mattered. Her pussy mattered. Her touch. Her kisses. She was so much more than he deserved.

“I'm coming, Roman,” she whispered, tossing back her head, closing her eyes, and crying out as her hot juices ran down between his legs. “Oh—my—ohhhhh!”

Roman closed his eyes, reached behind her, pressed his hand to the middle of her back, and pulled her down to him, kissed her as if his life depended on it, and drove into her over and over again, until he came so hard that he nearly passed out.

 

True Face

M
ARLOWE WAS DISAPPOINTED
to find that Plato was gone the next morning. She'd tossed and turned most of the night, knowing that he was just down the hall from her, but she'd made a promise to herself to keep her distance, and she was keeping that promise. Shou Shou was right about Marlowe leading with her heart instead of her head. She'd made enough of a fool of herself over him as it was, so for once, she decided to walk that straight and narrow and to deny her passion in exchange for some damn common sense.