Dark Side of Dreaming
When she finds herself bound to a stranger’s bed, former cat burglar Cleo Moran
knows she should’ve stayed in retirement. However, the thought of ending the cursed
dreams that plague her sleeping hours was simply too enticing to resist. She also feels a
strong sensual pull to her captor—but knows better than to act on it.
At first, Sasha Michaels wants only his captive’s professional expertise and contacts
to track down the man who attacked his sister. Then Cleo wakes up and, with words
and action, stirs something much more primitive within him. Neither understanding
nor willing to accept her resistance, Sasha attempts to bind Cleo to him with sexual ties.
Their tentative relationship, however, is jeopardized by secrets on both sides…and
a common enemy who is escalating in violence.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Dark Side of Dreaming
ISBN 9781419928406
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dark Side of Dreaming Copyright © 2010 Ann Bruce
Edited by Kelli Collins
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication July 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in
part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing,
Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
D
ARK
S
IDE OF
D
REAMING
Ann Bruce
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the
following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
For Dummies: Wiley Publishing, Inc.
James Bond: Danjaq S.A. Corporation
Ketel One: Double Eagle Brands N.V.
Ann Bruce
Prologue
She appeared in the dream like she had many times before. Proud and primitive, a
crude spear in one hand and an equally crude dagger in the other. She never spoke,
letting her dark, liquid eyes speak for her.
By now, the play of emotions was as familiar to Cleo as the back of her hand. The
initial bewilderment widened those impressive eyes, making the warrior look childlike
despite the ancient battle gear. Then there were questions, questions Cleo couldn’t
answer. Anguish followed, making Cleo feel the deep, bitter ache as her own. The
feeling morphed slowly, painfully into fury and, finally, hardened into resolve, brittle
and unforgiving.
Her face masklike and her steps sure and steady, the warrior advanced on Cleo. The
dagger twisted as the warrior shifted and tightened her grip, readying herself.
Heaviness settled over Cleo’s lower legs and, even knowing the futility of it, she
struggled against the invisible bonds that encased her bare feet, keeping them rooted to
the ground. Fear writhed likes snakes inside her. Her ears filled with the sounds of her
too rapid breathing. Her heart crashed against her ribs with each beat.
The warrior closed the distance between them, raised the dagger. Despite the
pervading darkness, the blade glinted. Cleo lifted her arms but they were insubstantial,
like mist, dissipating as the warrior’s dagger went through them, through skin, through
bone, stopping only when it pierced the still solid, still beating heart.
The pain was excruciating, making her entire body quake. She screamed but there
was no sound, making it infinitely worse. She reached for the warrior, met only air, and
panic smothered her. Trembling hands went to her chest. She felt the protruding hilt of
the dagger, felt her heart, felt it stop beating, but she didn’t die. She woke up.
6
Dark Side of Dreaming
Chapter One
The paper-white moon was full and illuminated the world in a crisp, cold light,
softening flaws while adding an elegant luster.
And Cleo Moran wished for a cloud to drift over the damn thing. But really, she
couldn’t blame anyone but herself for failing to check the lunar calendar. You forget
little details like that a few years into retirement.
Thankful her mark didn’t have guard dogs, she dropped from the stone fence onto
the enclosed grounds with a soft thud. Twinges of pain shot up her legs, making her
grimace. Her knees were definitely going to remind her why she’d wholeheartedly
embraced retirement at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.
Timing her movements to avoid capture by the external security cameras, Cleo stole
along the shadows cast by tall, leafy trees and high bushes, darted across the grounds
and flattened her back against a wall of brick. She waited, heard nothing and moved on,
picking her steps with care. She found the French doors that led to the kitchen,
unlocked them with her copy of the key and slid inside. The glowing keypad next to the
door beckoned. She tapped in five numbers and the red light switched to green.
She pushed back the hood of the zipped sweatshirt, gave her eyes a moment to
adjust to the darkness then moved swiftly through the house, the soft soles of her shoes
silent on the hardwood. Through the kitchen, down the hallway, past the foyer, up the
stairs and second door on the right. A flimsy lock a curious toddler could’ve gotten past
and she was in a masculine room that served as a home office-cum-library. Her eyes
went straight to the fireplace mantle, where she recalled seeing the statue through the
window during the recon two nights ago.
The mantle was empty.
Damn.
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Ann Bruce
Cleo scanned the rest of the room but couldn’t spot a twelve-inch stone statue of a
woman.
Damn.
She was going to have to go through the other rooms in the house and hope a like-
minded individual hadn’t gotten to the statue before her. Good thing the homeowner
wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. She’d paid an exorbitant amount to ensure his
absence.
Cleo quit the room and moved to the one next door. A guest room furnished with
the basics—bed, bedside tables, dresser, chair and a very nice landscape that would’ve
tempted other thieves. The next two doors revealed an opulent bathroom and a linen
closet. Her movements were brisk as the search continued and time ticked away.
The master bedroom was next, nearly pitch black, with the heavy drapes drawn.
She had the search routine down pat. Fireplace mantle, furniture sur—
Her gaze stopped, skittered back to the fireplace mantle—and the statue. Elation
and relief shot through her. She crossed the room, palms already tingling with
anticipation. Her fingers wrapped around it, one by one, almost reverent. The stone was
cool and—
Pain exploded in her head, a blinding white flash. Then there was only darkness.
* * * * *
She liked bondage as much as the next girl.
Cleo, however, didn’t think her current bound state was a prelude to more
enjoyable things.
She yanked on the rope that secured her hands together and tethered them to
something above her head. There was some give as the cloth-covered rope stretched,
but not nearly enough. Stubbornness being a trait of all Moran women, she tried again.
And again. And again.
A small noise of frustration escaped her throat.
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Dark Side of Dreaming
Despite the dull, throbbing pain in her head, she decided more leverage was
needed and twisted on the bed and sat up. And noticed the man seated in the armchair
in the far corner of the room. He was immersed in the shadows that swathed the room,
so she saw nothing but a menacing outline blacker than the surrounding darkness. His
silent regard felt like a thick blanket suffocating her senses.
Fear made her mouth go dry and her skin prickle with heat and sweat.
It was a full minute before she found her voice, a little hoarser than usual, but she
lifted her chin to compensate. “Did you enjoy the show?”
No response. Not even so much as a muscle twitch. Her chest noticeably rose and
fell with each shortened breath.
“Are the police on their way?”
More silence, and the lump in her throat grew.
“I need that statue more than you need another dust collector.” She was babbling,
knew it and couldn’t stop herself. “It needs to be returned to its rightful home.”
The silence continued and agitation flickered through her, slicing past the fear.
“Look, I tried the legal route, but you flatly refused all of my offers. I had no other
choice.”
A whisper of cloth on leather. He’d moved. Finally. She was beginning to think he
was a statue himself. Then he rose, an imposing shadow that made her very aware of
the pulse thrumming in her throat. He came toward the bed, stopping at the foot, and
moonlight, stark and chilly, spilled over him.
He’d never be labeled handsome, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Formidable
frame, dark hair, deep-set eyes, broad face with rough-hewn features that looked as if
they’d been carved of the same stone as the statue. Unlike the statue, his face was
masklike with its lack of expression. It took a concerted effort to ignore the tiny voice
that urged her to cower against the headboard.
“Cleo Moran.”
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Ann Bruce
The sound of her name spoken by that deep, cold voice sent a jolt through her. Of
course he knew her name. His administrative assistant had passed on enough messages
from her in the past three months. And the man was reputed to be a shark, so he would
remember the name of the woman who’d tried repeatedly to buy a relic for several
times more than its appraised value.
“If I wouldn’t sell the statue to you, what makes you think I’d just let you steal it?”
Absurdly, she winced. Steal had such an ugly ring to it.
“You weren’t supposed to have a say in the matter.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up and she was amazed his face didn’t crack. In fact,
it sent a shiver of sensation snaking along her spine.
“I’m the one who should be angry, not you,” he said, the ice in his voice thawing.
He slid a hand inside the front pocket of his trousers and his regard changed, feeling
almost like a touch.
Jittery, but from more than simple fear, she brought her hands up and pulled back
the strands of hair that fell over her eyes and clung to her lips. “You weren’t supposed
to come back here tonight.”
A dark slash of a brow lifted and, without a hint of pique, he drawled, “So, the
enthusiasm in my date tonight was faked.”
She cursed her babbling tongue. Well, she’d never encountered this situation before
and there wasn’t a For Dummies guide that covered it.
“Unfortunately for you, I need more than a pretty face and man-made assets to
entice me.” A degree of heat wrapped around his voice. “Then I come home and you
waltz in.”
She had trouble filling her lungs with oxygen. “What now?”
His eyes glittered darkly. “Since the woman you hired to distract me didn’t do her
job, why don’t you?”
She licked suddenly dry lips. “I’d rather you call the police.”
10
Dark Side of Dreaming
Alexander Michaels knew kidnapping was a felony, but it seemed a small price to
pay to keep the woman sitting on his bed. He couldn’t remember the last time someone
of the opposite sex intrigued him to this degree. He wanted nothing more than to crawl
on the bed and peel away each article of clothing hugging that sylphlike body. With his
teeth. Would she hold still and keep silent? Or would she writhe beneath him and make
sexy little sounds in that husky voice of hers?
Lust surged through his body, hardening it even more.
If he’d personally spoken to Cleo Moran over the telephone, at the very least he
would’ve agreed to meet with her face-to-face. Her voice alone would’ve earned her
that much.
She turned away and gingerly rested her head against her arms, but not before he
caught her wince. He felt a pang of remorse and moved to the side of the bed. She
didn’t flinch when the mattress dipped under his weight.
“How’s the head?”
“I’ve been better.” She rolled her forehead on her arms, giving it a pseudo-massage.
“The sad part is, I’ve been worse.”
“Think a trip to the hospital is in order?”
She shook her head. “I’ll live.”
He shifted, started to reach for the ties then stopped, dropping one hand onto the
headboard and the other onto the covers. After several moments, she realized he wasn’t
freeing her and looked up. A brow cocked in question. “Are you waiting for an
invitation? Or do I need to beg?”
Another surge of lust. His fingers clenched on the headboard as he imagined her
pleading with him for something more satisfying and immensely more pleasurable than
her freedom.
“I don’t know if you’re clever enough to be faking this.”
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Ann Bruce
“You’re the one who hit me on the head,” she remarked dryly. “Hard enough to
knock me out for…?”
“Less than an hour.”
She made a face. “Trust me. Right now, I’m in no condition to wrestle with you.”
And that was what he was afraid of. Disappointment flickered through him. He
reached over and made quick work of the makeshift bonds. The ropes loosened then
slid free to coil in a small heap on the bed.
“Was it really necessary to tie me up?” asked Cleo, rubbing her chafed wrists. “And
to the bed, no less?”
He shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. “It felt like the thing to do at the time.”
“Most people would’ve called the cops.”
“I’m not most people.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered, following up with a soft hum he couldn’t
decipher and looking away briefly.
“Relax.”
Her gaze turned wary. “What are you planning?”
“You’re the criminal here. Not me.”
“I only have your word for that.”
“If I wanted to do something nefarious to you, I would’ve done it while you were
unconscious.”
Her lips pursed and he got to his feet before he could make a lie of his statement.
“I’ll go get something for your wrists and your head. While I’m gone, don’t make me
regret freeing you.”
Of course, he thought as he went to the en suite bathroom, if she tried to escape, it
would give him a reason to put his hands on her, crawl all over her, rub against her.
Jesus. He ran his hand down his face. The woman was in pain and all he could think
about was molesting her.
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Dark Side of Dreaming
He wet a washcloth under hot water and wrung it out. After grabbing a bottle of
over-the-counter painkillers and filling a glass with cool water, he returned to his
visitor. Even though he hadn’t been gone long, she was curled up in the fetal position,
eyes closed, long lashes resting on the curves of her cheeks. As he neared, those lashes
fluttered then lifted. She started to push herself up.
“Stay down.”
She checked herself, then sat up—and immediately winced when it took her head a
second to catch up. She cradled her head in her hands and rubbed her temples.
“You take pleasure in being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn?”
At his amusement-laced words, she shot him a disgruntled look. “Something like
that.”
He set the damp washcloth on the nightstand next to the skullcap and various tools
he’d stripped off her, handed her the glass of water and sat down. The mattress dipped
and Cleo drew back to keep from sliding into him, not that he would’ve minded. He
switched on a lamp and golden light washed over the room. He got his first good look
at her—and felt a fist squeeze the air from his lungs. Dark red hair fell to her chin and
flipped out at the ends, green eyes tipped up at the outer corners, pale skin stretched
over a triangular face with sharp cheekbones. Everything about her made him want to
reach out and touch to see if she was as soft and smooth and silky as she appeared.
With effort, he reined in his impulses and forced himself to loosen his grip on the
bottle of painkillers before it cracked. He held it up for her to see and shook it. “One or
two?”
She peered at the label, tentatively felt the back of her head and held up a
forefinger.
He popped the lid, shook out one coated tablet and offered it to her. Irritation shot
through him when she took the tablet, taking great care to not touch his palm, and
inspected the pill before swallowing and chasing it down with a mouthful of water.
“Thank you.”
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Ann Bruce
He swapped her the washcloth for the glass and remained silent as she wrapped it
around one wrist, then the other. Her low sigh curled around him, tugged at him.
“Better?”
“Much.”
“Good.” He propped a pillow against the headboard and sat back, fingers laced
behind his head. “I want to know why you were trying to steal the statue.”
“Because you wouldn’t sell it to me.”
A smile threatened at her blithe response, but he suppressed it. “Who’s your
client?”
“I don’t have a client. The statue…belongs to my family. I heard some rumors, did
some digging, found out your agent recently purchased items from the estate of a
deceased collector in Amsterdam who was never fussy about paperwork and whose
heir needed fast cash.” She shrugged. “It was simple math.”
“Proof of ownership? Provenance?”
Her mouth tightened. “No, which is why I offered to buy it from you in the first
place. I’m still willing to purchase it—and your silence about tonight’s excursion—from
you. Name your price, Mr. Michaels.”
He waved a careless hand at the rest of the room. “Ms. Moran, does it look like I
need the money?”
For an instant, he saw a trace of panic in those catlike eyes, but it was blinked away.
“Then why am I not enjoying the hospitality of the local PD?” She cast her gaze
about the room, touching upon two landscapes done in oils by a European master. “Or
do you have your own secrets to hide?”
“That would make your life easier, wouldn’t it?” A corner of his mouth curled
upward. “Unfortunately for you, I am a law-abiding citizen.”
Her lashes lowered. “The media doesn’t always think so.”
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Dark Side of Dreaming
“People in my position are easy targets. Stories about corrupt corporations and the
people who run them, even false ones, sell papers.”
And if there were the faintest possibility of Russian mafia ties, the press corps was
more than willing to blow them out of proportion—even if they had to print retractions
later on.
“So, why am I here?”
“You got past the outer gate, avoided the pressure sensors around the house, got
past the locks and disabled the security inside the house.” Her expression remained
bland throughout the litany, and he was oddly amused by it. “This excursion, as you
put it, is not your first time.”
“Are you recording this and waiting for a full confession from me?”
“I’m sure you already know I don’t have security cameras inside the house.”
“Considering what you keep in this mausoleum, you might want to rethink that.”
“Would they keep someone like you out?”
Silently, she tipped her head to concede his point before sweeping the room with
her gaze once more. “You might not have cameras to deter thieves from appropriating
your property, but you could have certain sexual proclivities that involve video taping.”
She glanced pointedly at the discarded rope. “Bondage might be the tip of the iceberg.”
He chuckled and got to his feet again. “Feel free to search the room. If there is a
camera, I’m sure you’ll locate it. It might take some time though.”
“You’re still not getting a monologue Bond villains are so fond of.”
“I’m not interested in a monologue, as entertaining as that might be.” He paused a
beat. “I want to hire you.”
Alexander Michaels loomed over her and Cleo stared at the man the press
occasionally and unimaginatively labeled a thug. He looked the part, with his large,
muscled frame and rough features. And she, who’d only been attracted to the trim,
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Ann Bruce
debonair type who could tell the difference between a Bordeaux and a burgundy with a
single sniff, was tempted to drape herself all over him to know how his hardness would
feel against her softness. She told herself it was Stockholm syndrome, but that rang false
in her own ears.
“You already made the offer and I turned it down.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t need to pay for sex, Ms. Moran. For you, however, I’d
be willing to make an exception.” He moved to the end of the bed and leaned a
shoulder against the thick post. “But that wasn’t the offer I had in mind.”
The warmth of embarrassment flooded her cheeks.
“Something was stolen from me and I want you to get it back.”
She did a slow blink. “That’s a job for the police.”
“All the authorities—domestic and international—have gone through the motions
and it still hasn’t been recovered. I would assume you have the experience, skills, inside
knowledge and connections they lack. There are people who would talk to you but
would prefer to avoid them—and me.”
“There are any number of private agencies that specialize in that type of recovery.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but you might have a special interest in what was stolen from
me.”
She froze. “You think I took this item from you?”
“It did cross my mind,” he admitted.
“The only item you have that I’m interested in is the statue.”
“Exactly.”
Her brow wrinkled with confusion. “Are you telling me the statue you have is a
fake?”
“No,” he said and waited.
For a moment, Cleo tried to suck in air, but the burgeoning hope in her chest made
it difficult.
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Dark Side of Dreaming
“You found the other statue,” she breathed.
“My curator did, actually,” he corrected. “Are you interested?”
Yes, she wanted to shout, but a small voice inside her head urged caution. “Where
and when was it stolen?” she heard herself asking, mind racing with possibilities.
“From my curator’s office five months ago.”
Both brows rose. “Why was it there?”
“She was studying it.”
He was so smooth she almost didn’t catch the lie. There was more to it than
professional interest. Instead of calling him on it, she tapped a forefinger against her
lower lip. “By now, chances of locating it are slim.”
“Are you interested?”
“Would you be willing to sell me both statues if I recover it?”
“I’m a collector. I generally keep what I buy.”
Her lips pursed. “But these statues don’t fit in with the rest of your collection.”
“You did your homework,” he murmured.
But not thoroughly enough. Somewhere along the way she’d slipped up and was now
paying for it.
“Why are you so determined to hold on to them? In comparison to everything else
in this house, they have little monetary value.”
There was silence. Then, “My curator is quite attached to them.”
“Your sister can’t be swayed?”
“Not on this.”
Even though she expected his answer, disappointment settled heavily over her.
“Will you accept my offer?”
She could double-cross him, but the mere thought of it made her queasy. Michaels
had a reputation for being tenacious. He wouldn’t shrug off a betrayal, but would
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Ann Bruce
devote his time, energy and considerable resources to tracking her down. She’d
foolishly used her real name when she’d contacted his representatives. After all, at the
start, she’d had every intention of obtaining the statue legitimately.
“You’ll have to hire someone else to recover the statue for you, Mr. Michaels.”
“Sasha.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion.
“Call me Sasha. A woman who’s been in my bed should call me Sasha.”
She felt her cheeks warm but ignored it. “I retired five years ago and, judging by
tonight’s performance, I’m clearly not the best candidate for the job.” With calm
masking her disappointment, she met his gaze. “You’d better place that call to the
police.”
His expression was inscrutable as he regarded her. When Michaels finally stepped
back, a sense of inevitability filled her. Over nearly a decade and countless jobs, she was
going to be put away because she’d allowed eagerness and emotions to make her
careless.
Michaels circled the bed to pick up the cordless handset sitting on the opposite
nightstand and punched in a number.
“Eric?” A pause as he listened. “Stop grumbling. I didn’t wake you. I can hear a
laugh track in the background.” Another pause. “Bring the car out front. I have a visitor
who needs a ride.”
Startled, Cleo looked over her shoulder at Michaels as he disconnected.
“My driver will take you where you need to go.”
She blinked. “That’s it? You’re just letting me leave?”
He nodded. “Think about my offer. If you change your mind, call my assistant.”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” she said softly. “You’d do better to find
someone else, and you’ll want to do it soon, before the trail grows completely cold.” She
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Dark Side of Dreaming
hesitated. “And you should talk to your housekeeper about her habit of writing down
security codes and leaving them in her purse, along with neatly labeled house keys.”
His lips twisted wryly. “I’ll do that.”
Her gaze darted to the door, then back to him. “You don’t need to trouble your
driver.”
“It’s late,” Michaels pointed out. “There are people more dangerous than you out
there.”
Annoyance clipping her words, she insisted, “I’ll grab a taxi.”
“Eric will drive you,” he said flatly. “If you’re worried about me knowing where
you live, let me reassure you that I’ll be looking it up tomorrow morning anyway.”
Cleo made a face. She should’ve known better than to use her real name. A few
minutes on the internet would give Michaels everything from her home address to her
last tax return, and she should’ve known better than to attempt to simply take the
statue. After all, stealing was what started it all.
He held out a hand and, with some reluctance, she took it and let him help her off
the high bed. Standing in her stockinged feet next to him, she felt like a Lilliputian.
Michaels’ grip tightened when she tried to tug her hand free. He drew her close, and
closer still until she could feel the heat emanating from his large body. For a second, her
own body swayed, tempted to know the feel of his.
“I’m willing to wait until you reconsider my offer,” he murmured. A broad,
calloused hand skimmed the curve of her shoulder, trailed up to cup the back of her
neck. “Until then…”
Heart pounding, nerves tingling, Cleo tilted her head back. Her lips were actually
throbbing in anticipation. His head lowered, her lashes fluttered, his hand tightened
and she stopped breathing. His lips whisked across hers, featherlight. Yet heat washed
over her, making gooseflesh ripple over her skin.
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Ann Bruce
Distantly, she heard a rough, masculine sound and stretched up onto her toes. Lips
brushed back and forth over her own, sipping at them, caressing them. The kiss was
gentle, restrained, and Cleo sighed. His tongue took advantage and ventured beyond
her lips, teasing the slick skin on the inside of her mouth. His fingers slid into her hair,
his head slanted and the kiss deepened. He rubbed his tongue against hers. A hot shiver
shook her body and Cleo made a little noise in her throat, then sucked his tongue in
deeper.
The hand in her hair fisted. Pain speared through her and she gasped sharply.
He tore his mouth away. “Fuck,” he panted, dropping his forehead to hers as his
fingers unclenched one by one. Their harsh breathing intermingled. “Sorry.”
Of their own volition, her lips sought his.
“Don’t,” he warned thickly. “Not unless you’re willing to get back on that bed.”
She went still and, for an instant, considered climbing back on top of the sheets and
pulling him down over her. The fantasy was brief but powerful, making her body ache
and throb. She held her breath, but that only made her more aware of her body and the
arousal pumping through her bloodstream with each heartbeat. She clenched her
thighs, not sure if she wanted to stop the sensations or prolong them.
After an interminable moment, Cleo took a step back, feeling so shaky it was a
wonder she didn’t stumble. She felt his muscles tense but he let his arm fall away. Body
still heavy with arousal, she stared at him mutely, not quite sure if she could even
speak, let alone know what to say.
In the end, she gathered up her things and, without bothering to put on her
sneakers because her fingers felt too clumsy to deal with something as intricate as
shoelaces, skirted around him and escaped.
20
Dark Side of Dreaming
Chapter Two
The black sedan pulled up in front of a low-rise building and, without waiting for
the driver to get the back door for her, Cleo thanked him and got out. She unlocked the
ornate wrought iron door, glanced back once more at the sedan idling on the sidewalk
and the man who was waiting for her to make it up to her apartment, stepped over the
threshold and back into the last century. Cracked but gleaming black and white ceramic
tiles; textured wallpaper too stubborn to be steamed off; marble stairs worn by so many
feet they dipped in the middle; and a brass and glass elevator that, while charming,
worried her from time to time.
The sense of home eased her muscles and made her aware of the deep exhaustion.
The two flights of stairs up to her apartment seemed to take longer than usual, and by
the time she shoved her key in the front door lock, Cleo was mentally crossing off the
shower she’d planned to take before hitting the bed. Nix the bed; she’d be lucky if she
made it to the sofa. She pushed open the door, went inside—and the hair on the back of
her neck rose.
A shadow moved to her left, and training and instinct kicked in. Her left elbow flew
up and smashed into something that wasn’t as hard as bone. Still dense, but more give.
A muscled shoulder instead of the face for which she’d been aiming. He was tall, even
taller than Alexander Michaels. Without pause, Cleo drew her elbow forward and
smashed it back again, this time lower. It dug into an equally muscled side, but a grunt
sounded above her head.
She spun, right arm out, palm angled back, the heel aimed at where she’d heard the
grunt originate. Before she could bloody her assailant’s nose, her wrist was captured in
a fist and she found herself flat on her back. A burst of pain and light, then her head
was throbbing from the sudden impact with the hardwood floor. Her wrists were
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Ann Bruce
seized and yanked over her head. The heavy weight pinning her down squeezed air
from her lungs. She saw a ski mask and caught a whiff of stale tobacco just before a
gloved hand clamped over the lower half of her face. Without thought, she sank her
teeth into the leather and flesh underneath. A hissed curse and the hand jerked away.
She sucked in oxygen and screamed.
Unintelligible words, followed by the click of a revolver being cocked, and her
scream died abruptly.
“Bom.”
With a gentleness more unnerving than force, Ski Mask pulled her hair back from
her face. Cleo’s teeth sank into her lower lip to still the trembling. A cold muzzle
touched her temple. Her muscles burned as she beat down the instinct to fight. She
hardly dared to breathe.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Cleo held herself very still, even as fear moved like ice over her skin and her heart
thundered against her ribs. She looked into eyes outlined by black wool. The darkness
concealed their color, but not the sheen that was as unsettling as his touch. Her chilled
skin became clammy even as the moisture in her mouth evaporated.
“Where is it?”
Confusion blanked Cleo’s mind. A gloved hand wrapped around her throat in
warning. “The statue. Where is the statue?”
“I-I don’t have it.”
The hand tightened long enough for spots to dot her vision and the muzzle dug
into her temple.
“I’m not lying. It’s not on me.” She swallowed then forced her body to relax. “You
can search me if you don’t believe me,” she said, even though there was no way she
could hide a foot-tall statue under her current attire.
22
Dark Side of Dreaming
On top of her, Ski Mask went tense with indecision even as the pressure against her
temple eased and his eyes searched her face. At last, he pushed up, grabbed a breast
and squeezed. Nausea rose in her throat. A hand patted down her ribs. And the gun
shifted away, as if forgotten. Even as her plan was still a vague notion, Cleo’s muscles
reacted. She seized the wrist holding the gun with one hand, pried a finger loose with
the other and, without hesitation, jerked it back. The joint snapped and Ski Mask
howled.
After that, it was all a blur.
The gun went off beside her head, deafening her. Ears ringing, she clawed for the
weapon, pulling it free even as a closed fist slammed into her cheek. She lost the
revolver as starbursts of pain flashed, blinding her with brilliant white light. Not giving
herself time to recover, she struggled to get away. Cursing her in a string of Portuguese,
Ski Mask fell on top of her. Instinctively, she brought both knees up and kicked out a
foot. At the last moment, he jerked to the side and she caught his thigh. Cleo shoved
herself up, sighted her target and smashed the top of her forehead into the middle of
Ski Mask’s covered face. There was the crunch of cartilage and the hot drip of blood
through fabric, followed by another howl of pain, and Cleo scrambled free.
She lunged for the gun, grabbed it. Behind her, the door crashed open, making the
room vibrate with the force of the impact. She whirled around, gun gripped with both
hands. But feet pounded down the hall and she was alone.
When Eric found her, the gun was on the floor in front of her because she was
shaking too hard to hold it.
* * * * *
The adrenaline had left her system, but Cleo no longer wanted to fall onto the
nearest soft surface and sleep. She wanted a shower. She wanted to scrub away that
invisible film making her skin crawl. She wanted to stand under a hot, punishing spray
and pretend her home was still safe.
23
Ann Bruce
But she couldn’t. She had to answer questions for the two officers who’d answered
Eric’s nine-one-one call. She had to make them believe she wasn’t a step away from
breaking down. The faster she gave them the answers they wanted, the sooner they
would leave.
She huddled on the sofa, feet tucked beneath her butt, hands clasped around a mug
of hot tea Eric had prepared. Her fingers, though, refused to be warmed. Eric stood
beside the sofa, dividing his attention between the front door and Cleo. Across from
her, Officer Nadeau continued jotting in his small notebook.
“Are you sure nothing is missing?”
“I haven’t gone through everything in detail, but so far it doesn’t look like it.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Cleo shook her head.
“An ex?”
She started to shake her head again then stopped. “Not a recent one.”
“Recent?”
“I haven’t dated anyone in three years.”
“Someone in your daily life ticked off at you? Someone at work?”
Another shake of her head, not bothering to explain she no longer worked for a
living.
“Can you think—?”
The radio on his shoulder squawked, cutting him off. Apologetic, he held up a
forefinger to Cleo and answered his partner, who was guarding the building’s main
entrance since Eric had to kick in the door, busting the lock, after he heard the gunshot.
He hadn’t crossed paths with Cleo’s assailant. Ski Mask, apparently, had been thinking
straight enough to exit through a back door.
“Cal, I have a man down here who wants to come up,” came the disembodied voice
from the speaker. “Says he’s a friend of Ms. Moran’s. Name’s Alexander Michaels.”
24
Dark Side of Dreaming
A thrill shot through her before common sense prevailed. Then she aimed a look at
Eric. He only shrugged, expression as decidedly unapologetic as his movement.
“Ms. Moran?”
She nodded at Nadeau, who relayed the message to his waiting partner before
going back to his questions.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to do this to you?”
Cleo took a sip of green tea, welcoming the warmth that worked its way down her
esophagus. “You don’t think the break-in was random?”
“I’m just covering all the bases.” He leaned in closer. “Have you noticed anything
out of the ordinary lately? Any strangers who made you uneasy?”
“No and no.”
Nadeau frowned, not happy with her answer. “During the attack, did the assailant
say anyth—”
The front door opened, and Cleo’s skin tightened with awareness.
“Cleo.” The wealth of worry and relief in Sasha’s low, tight voice made her eyes
close for a moment. Both the pounding in her head and the tensed muscles in her neck
eased. When she lifted her lashes, he was there, filling her vision, looking reassuringly
solid. A dangerous thought flitted through her mind. If she wanted to, she could let
herself fall apart; he would be there to hold her together.
How was it possible for her to feel this way after only meeting him hours ago?
She drew an unsteady breath, tightened her fingers around the mug to keep from
reaching for him. “Eric shouldn’t have called you,” she murmured. “There was no need
for you to come.”
“Like hell,” Sasha muttered, tension rippling through him as his gaze traveled over
her face. He reached for her, but his hand stopped an inch from her skin, as if afraid his
touch might hurt. “What happened? Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
She grimaced. Did she look that bad?
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Ann Bruce
“It’s not my blood,” she said, in case she’d missed a few spots when she’d cleaned
up earlier.
“You have a nasty cut on your cheek, which is already sporting one hell of a
bruise.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You should see the
other guy.”
“Don’t joke about it.” Despite the anger heating his tone, he was gentle as he used
two fingers to tip her chin up and to the side. His expression darkened even more as he
skimmed the pad of his thumb over her bruised cheek. “It looks painful.”
Her lips twisted ruefully. “It is painful.” With measured movements, she pulled
away from his touch. “But I’ll live.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I’ve been right so far, haven’t I?”
A male throat cleared. Cleo glanced around Sasha and at Nadeau, who was now on
his feet. Reminded of the spectators in the room, she felt heat crawl into her cheeks.
Annoyance darkening his eyes, Sasha rose and turned to face the officer, blocking her
from view as if trying to shield her. She poked the small of Sasha’s back. When he
didn’t move, the poke became a shove. Reluctantly, he shifted to the side as he
introduced himself to Nadeau and offered his hand. Nadeau shook it.
“What happened?” asked Sasha.
Nadeau glanced at Cleo, who gave a small nod.
“Right now, it appears Ms. Moran walked in on a burglary in progress. The burglar
didn’t have time to take anything, though. There was a struggle, Ms. Moran got hold of
the gun and the burglar took off.
“We’ll talk to the neighbors, trace the gun, run the DNA from the blood through the
national database, contact the management company and review the surveillance
footage.”
26
Dark Side of Dreaming
Sasha looked down at Cleo. “You shot him?”
The corners of her mouth fell. “No.” As if on cue, the top of her forehead throbbed a
little, which meant her aim had been off, and she reached up to rub at the spot.
Thankfully, there was no bump. “I broke his nose with my head.”
Sasha nodded at the bullet wound in the far wall. “Who did that?”
“He did. The guy has lousy aim.”
That impressive jaw tightened, making her want to grasp his hand and squeeze, to
reassure him. Instead, she brought the mug to her lips and swallowed another mouthful
of tea.
“Are we done with the questions?” she asked Nadeau.
“Just one more…did he say anything to you at any time?”
“No,” she replied without hesitation, shaking her head. “Nothing beyond some
unimaginative name-calling.”
Nadeau nodded, closed his notebook and pulled out a business card. “If you
remember anything else, please contact me.”
“Of course,” she said, not fluttering an eyelash as she lied.
* * * * *
The water ran warm and pink as it washed away his blood. He replayed the scene,
relived the anticipation of her arrival, of their first meeting. She’d fought him, like he’d
known she would, and he’d overpowered her, like he’d wanted to.
Then she was supposed to recognize him. He was the man she’d been saving
herself for.
He’d known her the moment he’d spied her through her window. They were
connected. After all, they both sought the statues. And…and she was the woman he
saw in his dreams, the woman waiting for him to save her. He knew that. But she didn’t.
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Ann Bruce
Anger was a thin, searing sensation—and he immediately smothered it. Control. He
had to maintain control. Over himself, over his emotions and, soon enough, over Cleo
Moran.
After drying his hands, he taped the broken ring finger together with his middle
finger. The pain had dulled to a throbbing ache but winces still escaped him. With care,
he felt the tender flesh of his nose—and hissed as pain lanced directly into his brain. As
he set and bandaged it, thoughts of punishing Cleo distracted him. The punishment
would be elaborate and drawn-out. He thought of the beautiful marks, raised and
burning, he would leave on her skin and his breathing quickened. She would cry out
and squirm to get away, but it would be an act because she would want the punishment
as much as he wanted to deliver it. It would end with her in tears and begging for
mercy, but her words would be muffled by the cock that was even now hardening.
He killed the light, padded from the bathroom and let the soft snoring guide him to
the woman he would pretend to be the woman of his dreams.
* * * * *
Solitude was a distant dream, but Cleo remained hopeful. Nadeau and his partner
didn’t leave until after a crime scene tech showed up to snap pictures, sweep the
apartment, dig the bullet out of the wall, swab Cleo’s hands for GSR and collect the
shell, a blood sample, Cleo’s clothes and the .38. Eric went out and, despite the lateness
of the hour, returned with shiny new locks for Cleo’s door.
When she heard the front door close on Eric for the final time—hopefully—Cleo
rubbed at her eyes, blew out a sigh. One more to go.
“Is there someone you need to contact? Family?” asked Sasha.
“I have no family left. Longevity is not a Moran trait.” She shrugged. “It’s a curse.”
“Or it might have something to do with your chosen profession.”
Her lips parted, but she recovered in the space of a blink. “Former profession. My
visit to your place was not the start of a comeback tour.”
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Dark Side of Dreaming
“Why did you get out?”
“Isn’t early retirement the American dream?” She expelled a breath and shrugged
once more. “I wanted to settle down, enjoy the fruits of my labors.”
“Get married? Have a few kids?”
The muscles in her face went slack, then stiffened. “Hardly,” she said, and gave him
her back. She glanced around, rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s late. I’m tired.”
He took a step closer. “You’re not staying here. Pack a bag.”
She shook her head without looking at him. “I don’t need to go to a hotel,” she said,
moving into the bedroom. Sasha followed closely behind her. “The locks have been
changed.” It wouldn’t keep Ski Mask out, but it would slow him down and give her
advance warning. “Whoever it was is not coming back tonight.”
“I’m not taking you to a hotel. I’m taking you home with me.”
Tiny wings fluttered in her stomach, making her pause in the act of opening the
door of the walk-in closet. “I’d rather stay here.”
“Your home’s been compromised. You can’t stay here tonight.”
“No.” Cleo yanked open the door, gripped the edge of it with one hand and stared
blindly at the contents.
“You can stay in a guest bedroom.”
As if sharing his had been option A. She breathed out, breathed in, and caught a
trace of his warm, masculine scent. The temptation wrapped around her, tugged at her.
Feeling desperate, she pulled the lapels of her robe together with one hand and fisted it,
twisting the terrycloth until it tightened around her throat. She strode to the low dresser
drawer inside the closet, pulled on the top handle and sunk a hand into the jumble of
clothes. The feel of the materials, cool, soft, satiny, offered a brief distraction. She
squeezed her eyes shut, inhaled, exhaled, then closed her fingers on a handful of articles
and whirled around. Sasha filled her doorway, making her bedroom feel
claustrophobic.
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Ann Bruce
“No,” she repeated, and pushed past him. Somehow, she made it to the tiny
bathroom. Sasha filled that doorway too. Annoyance was stamped on his features.
“Cleo—”
“No,” she repeated, this time with emphasis. “Unless you plan on knocking me out
again and carrying me off, I’m going to take a hot shower, then crawl into my own bed
and try to forget this day happened.”
The door slammed in his face.
Sasha heard the snick of a lock. For a moment, he considered doing as Cleo had
suggested. It would be easy. A hard twist would break the flimsy lock and she was in
no shape to physically resist him. After what she’d been through, he’d be able to
subdue her with one hand. His gut twisted and he dismissed the tempting notion. He
didn’t want to see her defeated.
Besides, that wouldn’t encourage her to explain to him why she’d lied to the police.
The shower came on. As he moved away from the door, he pulled out his cell
phone, called Eric and told him to head home. Even though others had already done so,
Sasha did another sweep of the apartment. Guilt didn’t weigh him down as he searched
Cleo’s home. After all, she’d done the same to him.
Even though it was a typical one-bedroom unit and space was limited, she had
room for an office with an antique desk, chair and bookcases. Books, ranging from
leather-bound art history tomes to the last Donald Westlake, were stacked haphazardly
on the shelves. A young woman with dark hair and Cleo’s eyes smiled at him from a
framed picture standing on a corner of the desk. Her cheek was pressed against a
toddler who sported a tuft of dark red hair. He picked up the photograph and angled it
for a better view. The two sets of green eyes gazing back at him were startling in their
vividness and likeness. He replaced the picture frame and tried the desk drawers. They
were unlocked and held the usual assortment of pens and sticky pads.
30
Dark Side of Dreaming
He closed the drawers and made for the bedroom. Dark-wood furniture, rich
fabrics, feminine without making him uncomfortable. Her closet and its array of neatly
hung clothing yielded no secrets. And had the burglar been of the garden-variety kind,
he should’ve at least tossed the bedroom for valuables.
In the end, Sasha found nothing more than what Eric and the local PD had—
scratches on the front door lock, scuff marks on the floor where the struggle had taken
place and the hole in the plaster where the bullet had embedded itself. As he stared at
the bullet hole, the unsettling mix of fear and anger that had ripped through him and
made his stomach pitch when he’d received Eric’s phone call made a comeback. Had
she been slower, weaker…
Sasha scrubbed his face with both hands and turned away from the ugly reminder.
Dwelling on what could’ve happened wouldn’t help him. For both his and Cleo’s sakes,
he needed to keep a cool head, something that had never been a problem until now.
He returned to the living room and dropped onto the sofa. This room, like the
others in the apartment, was a blend of old and new. Plaster walls, ornate molding
around the tall windows and on the ceiling, corner gas fireplace. The furniture was a
mishmash of styles, but the pieces went well together. Nothing too outrageous or
expensive. Her past profession had been to keep herself comfortable, not to indulge a
secret fantasy to deck out her naked body with diamonds.
An imaged flashed in his mind’s eyes, making Sasha shift as heat darted straight to
his groin. He pushed a breath out between his teeth and scrubbed his face once more
until the image dissipated.
He sat back. The white-and-green-striped sofa was deep but not quite long enough
for his frame, and he winced at the thought of spending the night on it. He’d slept in
worse places, but that had been years ago.
He propped his feet up on the trunk that served as the coffee table. On one end was
a round wooden armchair with a brown leather seat, and an armless chair covered in a
solid green fabric was on the other. The oil paintings on the walls were vibrant city
31
Ann Bruce
scenes and he wondered how she’d obtained them. Almost instantly, he dismissed his
suspicions. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to display stolen artwork so openly in her
home.
She was, however, foolish enough to want to remain here for the night. Was it sheer
stubbornness, though, or was it something else?
The bathroom door swung open and a soft, citrusy scent wafted into the living
room.
“You’re still here.”
There was a note of surprise in her tone. He rose and faced her. The robe had been
replaced with a skimpy tank top made of some stretchy fabric and flannel pajama
bottoms that barely clung to her hips and pooled on the floor even with the hems rolled
up. Water had darkened her hair to nearly black with hints of red. The cut and bruises
stood out sharply in her pale face. In contrast, the skin on her shoulders and arms were
red from heat and friction.
He started to go to her, but she held up a hand, palm out. “Why are you still here?”
“People with head injuries shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m in no danger of going into a coma.”
“Humor me.”
She released a soft sigh. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She looked from him to the sofa and back again. “I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”
“Is that an invitation?”
Color stained her cheeks and she looked away, but not before he caught the sudden
grimace.
Sasha cursed and was across the room in two strides. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He ignored the hand waving him away and cupped her shoulders. They felt—she felt—
too easily breakable in his big hands. “Do you need to lie down?”
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Dark Side of Dreaming
“No, no.” Her fingers were not entirely steady as she pinched the bridge of her nose
then combed them through her tangled hair to massage her temple. “I just need the two
aspirins I popped to kick in.”
He caught her forearm before she dropped it and brought it up closer to him. There
was a ring of dark smudges around her wrist, some like fingerprints. More bruises
courtesy of her assailant. Needing to know what other injuries she’d omitted, his eyes
fell to her neck, her chest—and stopped. His mind blanked, his muscles stiffened. He
pushed a spaghetti strap off her shoulder, baring the upper curve of one breast. A red
haze colored his vision. More fingerprint-like smudges marred her skin.
“I’m okay,” she murmured as she carefully extricated her wrist from his loose hold
and repositioned the strap. “He bruised me and I repaid the favor by breaking his
finger and his nose.”
“Was that all he did?” he demanded, voice tight.
“Yes.” Her eyes searched his face. “If you don’t believe me, call Eric. He can tell you
all my clothes were in place when he found me.”
He almost reached for his cell phone.
“I’m okay,” she said softly. “I just need all the drugs in my system to do their
thing.”
He exhaled hard. “How many is that so far?”
“How many what?”
“Pills.”
“Just three. Not enough to OD.”
He pushed back a hank of hair from her cheek. “You need something on that cut.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly. “I know. I’m out of
bandages in here and was going to get the first-aid kit from the kitchen.”
“Stay here. Tell me where it is and I’ll get it for you.”
“Cupboard above the fridge.”
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Ann Bruce
He found the white plastic kit and joined her in the bathroom. Steam was still rising
from the claw-footed tub and curling through the tiny space. Cleo was leaning over the
vanity and peering at the cut in the mirror. The spot she’d wiped clear on the mirror
just large enough for her face was fogging over quickly. She met his eyes in the mirror.
“Thanks. I can take it from here.”
Before she could do more than gasp, he grasped her waist, turned her to face him
then lifted her onto the vanity counter.
“Don’t move,” he ordered before she could protest, and popped open the first-aid
kit before studying her injured face.
He worked quickly, first spraying the cut with an antiseptic spray then applying
two butterfly bandages. Carefully, he sifted his fingers through her hair, feeling her
head for bumps and cuts. There were none; she hadn’t lied about that, at least.
She sighed, the soft sound more than simple relief. Sasha’s movements slowed.
“I…thank you.” The words were uneven, uncertain, as if they were foreign to her.
“I’m not done,” he murmured.
She stilled and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be too nice to me,” she said, the hitch in
her husky voice making her words more like an invitation than a warning. “I won’t fall
for you.”
He knew his smile was little more than the baring of teeth. “That sounds like a
challenge,” he remarked, and moved closer, deliberately crowding her. Her knees
automatically widened for him, making blood surge in his lower body. He slid his
fingers from her hair and down the back of her neck—and felt a small shiver run
through her body. Instinctively, his eyes went to her throat and saw the pulse
thrumming under her translucent skin quicken. His own did the same. He brushed the
pad of his thumb over it, again and again. His blood thickened and muscles tightened.
Wanting to feel her pulse beat against his lips, against his tongue, he nudged her head
back, lowered his.
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Dark Side of Dreaming
Her hands shot up and grasped his wrists. He dragged his gaze up, watched her
lips part, watched her suck in a ragged breath, watched her lashes lower. She started to
lean back from him, but he captured her shoulders and held her in place. She stiffened.
“Don’t.”
The word was barely a sound, but it drifted to his ears. “I’ll go slow,” he promised,
“I won’t hurt you,” and pressed his lips to her skin. She inhaled sharply and the fingers
still locked around his wrists flexed, but she didn’t pull them away. Her pulse raced
against his lips, stirring relief and satisfaction and a desire that made him ache, made
him want to push her down and bury himself inside her heat. He felt the press of her
inner thighs as she closed them around him, and he groaned.
Sasha Michaels would end up hurting her. Of that, Cleo had no doubt. But it was
difficult for the voice of reason to be heard over the clamoring of hormones. Her sex
clenched hard, desperate for the feel of him, the heat of him, the friction of him moving
in and out of her body.
And all he’d done was kiss her throat and tease her with the heat and brush of his
body.
At the flick of his tongue, she bit down on her lower lip but a soft moan still filled
the humid room. The wrists in her flimsy grip went taut, as did the body between her
knees. Cleo braced her feet on the doors of the vanity and pushed, shifting herself closer
to the edge, closer to him. Sasha, however, didn’t take the hint and pull her to him.
Instead, he dragged his open mouth across her collarbone, snagged the strap of her top
and dragged it off her shoulder, teasing her briefly with the scrape of his teeth. She
shuddered.
His breath feathered her nipple, making it pucker, then it was engulfed in the wet
heat of his mouth. Her body arched, pushing into him. There was a choked cry and she
realized it came from her own throat. Her short nails dug into the muscles and tendons
of his wrists then raked along his forearms.
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Ann Bruce
She closed her eyes, immersing herself in the darkness. There was nothing but the
heat and pull of his mouth, the sound of her labored breaths and the beating of her
heart. Needing something to assuage the pounding emptiness between her legs, she
wrapped them around his hips, bringing them groin to groin.
Oh God.
She felt him—hard, hot, throbbing. The erection seared her, as if the barrier of their
clothes didn’t exist. Wetness trickled from her sex. Her hips moved, just a tiny bit. The
fingers curved around her shoulders tightened to the point of pain and muffled words
that were little more than hoarse groans vibrated against her flesh. She plunged her
fingers into his hair, fisting them, intending to draw his mouth to hers. Then he closed
his teeth on her nipple, worked the captured tip relentlessly with his tongue and any
remnants of coherent thought dissipated.
As her abdomen muscles quivered, Cleo bit down harder on her lip, not quite able
to stifle a wordless cry, and arched her back. Oh God. She could come with just his
mouth on her breast.
He released her nipple, nipped his way to the other one and laved it, sucked it. She
gasped as air hit the saliva coating her uncovered breast, cooling it, contrasting sharply
with the heat enclosing the other one. Fire and need rolled through her, making her
squirm. Her fingers slid from his hair, stroked down his back and gathered up the
material of his sweater until she found bare skin.
She breathed his name, made it an entreaty. He rose, delved his hands into her hair
and took her mouth, swallowing her whimper of relief. He licked inside her mouth, soft
and slow, like he wanted to savor the taste of her. She rubbed her tongue against his,
tried to draw it in deeper, but he only drew back. His lips whisked over the bruise on
her cheek, the touch delicate, burning. She made a noise, one of frustration. He took her
bottom lip between his teeth and bit down, sharp enough to sting.
“Easy. We have all night,” he murmured, then swept his tongue over the small
hurt.
36
Dark Side of Dreaming
Oh God.
The ache at her core intensified, muscles tensing, making her aware of the
emptiness. Cleo dug her fingertips into his back, found the furrow of his spine and
trailed down, hitting the waistband of his jeans and following it around. And was
grateful she was already sitting when the impressive bulge of him seared the center of
her palm. Curling the fingers of one hand into the waistband, she pulled him closer as
she molded her other palm along the length and width of him and squeezed.
Sasha went rigid. Then she felt the lightning bolt of shock ripple through him. He
groaned into her mouth. His hands angled her head for a better fit as his lips became
harder, his tongue went deeper, faster. She reveled in the force of the kiss. She wanted
to return it but couldn’t do more than absorb his lust, let him take from her what he
wanted. She fumbled with the fly of his jeans, taking two tries to pop the button and
undo the zipper. Her hand plunged inside the opening, found coarse hair, then his
erection.
Suddenly a heavy arm wrapped around her with bruising strength and lifted her
buttocks from the counter, just enough for him to jerk down her pajama bottoms and
panties.
The shock of the cold granite against her bare skin tore through the haze of desire.
She arched her head back, breaking the kiss. “Sasha,” she gasped. “We can’t—”
Two fingers parted her intimate curls, found the opening of her body and plunged
inside. Cleo inhaled sharply, hands clutching at his shoulders as her head spun. His
fingers twisted, stroked her from within, and she forgot her protest. She clenched her
inner muscles, her entire focus on the delicious feel of his rough fingers against her
inner walls.
“Fuck,” he muttered, forehead dropping to hers. He cursed again, then pulled his
fingers from her body and stripped her panties and pajama bottoms completely off. He
straightened, pulled her to the edge of the counter, gripped her hips with one arm and
guided the head of his shaft to her moist cleft. There was an unbearable pressure as he
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Ann Bruce
worked the wide knob past her natural resistance. Her fingers clawed at his sweater,
wanting it gone. Then he was in.
Sasha’s guttural groan reverberated through the room. Large hands cupped her
buttocks, lifting her, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around him. He stumbled
back a step and hit the wall, turned, slammed her back against it and impaled her on his
shaft, seating himself to the hilt.
Cleo’s muscles quivered uncontrollably as she panted desperately for oxygen. She
was stretched around him, the sensation of fullness exquisite. She could feel him all the
way to her navel. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as every tingling nerve ending
stretched taut.
“Cleo?” His voice was harsh, shaky. “Are you okay? How badly did I hurt you?”
Unable to speak, she shook her head and lashed an arm around his neck. Her legs
tightened as she tried to move against him, the feel of him inside her so still turning
torturous. She needed him to move, to thrust—
He pulled back until only the head was inside the clasp of her body and plunged
back in with renewed force. Her entire body shook, but she only clung to him even
more tightly. He pumped into her with short, powerful thrusts, and her voice returned.
She buried her face in the side of his neck and moaned. His musky scent filled her
nostrils. As he continued to pound between her legs, she felt the ridged head of his
penis inside her, moving back and forth, and a wild pleasure made her sob. It was too
much. She could feel moisture seeping from her sex, bathing his shaft, easing his
thrusts, the sound of it all darkly erotic.
Tears dampened her cheeks. Her fingers twisted in his hair. He pushed up inside
her. She tightened around him. His teeth scraped her shoulder, bit down. And the
tension broke, shattering her. She heard her own gasping cries, felt her entire body
convulse as she drowned in the waves of hot, quivering bliss.
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Distantly, she felt Sasha surging into her wetness, fierce, wild, all control gone. He
was muttering unintelligibly, feverishly, into her ear. He shoved hard into her, his
fingers hurting her and, with a choked groan, he came, body shuddering.
For the longest time, she could hear nothing above the rapid beating of her heart.
She felt the uneven tattoo of Sasha’s against her breast and closed her eyes. The
darkness only intensified the beat. Then a hot wetness trickled from where their bodies
were still joined…and Cleo went numb.
Sasha felt the sudden stiffness of the slender body he had pinned against the wall.
Breathing still labored, Cleo turned her head to the side, away from him, and the fingers
in his hair fell away. She was withdrawing from him, putting distance between them
without actually moving away, and the exhaustion that had threatened to buckle his
knees moments earlier vanished.
Her hands hovered over his shoulders, uncertain, then the heels of her palms were
pushing at him, trying to make the distance physical. His fingers tightened on the
resilient flesh of her buttocks as the faint sense of panic morphed into anger. She gasped
softly, her inner muscles fluttering. Fuck. He clenched his teeth and sucked in air as his
body did something he would’ve thought impossible—it responded.
She went completely still, not even daring to breathe, as if she was in the presence
of a dangerous animal. And Sasha wanted to snarl.
Instead, his hands shifted upward, found the dip of her waist and he spoke,
somehow managing to force the words past the constriction of his throat. “I can’t pull
out until you let go.”
Her head turned and, through the damp strands of her hair, her eyes met his and he
saw when she realized her legs were still wrapped around him like a vise. Shock,
embarrassment and something she concealed by lowering her lashes before he could
label it. Her teeth sank into a corner of her bottom lip as she unlocked her ankles and
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lowered her legs. He held her steady as he withdrew from her slick passage, his own
teeth gritting as the sensation of it rippled through him.
He lowered her until her feet touched tile. When he took away his hands, she
stumbled then sagged against the wall, and he smiled grimly.
She pulled up the straps of her tank top, as if that small action would serve to shield
her. He, however, already had the sight, feel, taste of her breasts imprinted on his brain,
and she was still naked from the waist down.
Her gaze rose to his chin then fell back to his throat. She swallowed. “That can’t
happen again.”
“Why?”
She wrapped her arms around herself, cast her eyes about the bathroom. “I don’t
know you.”
As if that ended the conversation, she tried to sidle away. He slapped a hand beside
her head, blocking that escape.
“Try again,” he suggested, a hint of steel in his voice.
Her kiss-reddened mouth tightened and he expected her to tell him to go to hell.
“I don’t trust you.”
He nearly flinched. The words were like a physical blow to his gut, making it
difficult to draw breath. He lowered his head, purposely invading her personal space,
and her spine flattened against the wall. For some reason, that only pissed him off even
more.
“Whether you like it or not,” he bit out, “you need my help.”
“You’re going to compile a list of all the petty thieves in this city and interview each
and every one for me?”
“You lied to the police earlier.”
Her expression didn’t change. She blinked once, slowly.
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“You tried to steal the statue tonight and someone was here waiting for you to
return. I don’t believe in coincidences.” His hand moved to her throat, his thumb atop
her pulse. He felt the sudden leap but didn’t back away. “Why did you lie to the
police?”
“I’m a criminal. It’s what I do.”
“You’re not good at it.”
“I’m retired. That particular skill is rusty from lack of use.”
“What secrets are you keeping, Cleo?”
Her eyes widened then she laughed, the short sound hollow. “You can’t seriously
expect me to answer that.”
“I can’t help you otherwise.”
“What makes you think I need your help?” she snapped.
Under his thumb, her pulse raced, and he waited. Small fists dug into his chest and
pushed, but he didn’t budge.
“Why are you so concerned? You met me less than ten hours ago. I have a healthy
ego, but even I won’t buy that you rushed over here because of overwhelming lust at
first sight.”
“Whoever attacked you tonight also put my sister in the hospital for a week,” he
said harshly, watching the fierceness leave her gaze. Even now, the words made him
want to push his fist through a wall and he had to remove his hand from her throat.
However, unable to not touch her, he cupped her shoulder and squeezed. There was no
protest even though he knew he wasn’t gentle. “Now, who are you protecting?”
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Chapter Three
Cleo drove west. Too many artificial lights kept the night from being truly dark, but
she kept the headlights on to keep from attracting police attention. For that same
reason, she did the speed limit even though her right foot twitched in protest. She
wanted to reach their destination quickly because she wanted out of the Japanese
compact and away from the man filling the passenger seat and the tense silence
between them.
She flexed her fingers around the steering wheel, eyed the radio controls, tightened
her grip then checked the rearview mirror once more. No one followed them.
“Who is he?” Sasha asked quietly.
For a moment, her mouth wouldn’t move, her lips wouldn’t part. She stared at the
road, not wanting to say the words.
“Cleo?”
She swallowed to moisten her mouth. “Someone I used for background work.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Long enough that I wasn’t suspicious when he told me about the statue.”
“He knew?”
“That I would be interested? Yes, but not why.” She tucked loose strands of hair
behind her ear. “What happened with your sister?”
“A man broke in while she was working late. He assaulted her, then stole the statue
and escaped.”
“Nothing else was taken?”
“No.”
“And the police? Did they—?”
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“Nothing. The case dead-ended. Same with the private investigators I hired.”
“The monetary value of the statues on the open market isn’t great, so the value on
the black market would be even smaller,” she murmured, then paused to glance at him.
“That’s why you assumed I was working for someone else.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
She turned her eyes back to the road, but the weight of his gaze was an invisible
hand pushing against her. “Why are you after them?”
“I already explained.”
She felt the continued scrutiny, felt her palms prickle with heat and sweat. Then he
settled back in his seat and they traveled the remaining miles without speaking.
Traffic was light. It became even lighter and the streets even quieter the closer they
drew to their destination. In a neighborhood where narrow streets were flanked by
apartment buildings that looked institutional even when they had been new eighty-
some-odd years ago, they were the only ones stirring. Ole called the area home because
he didn’t want the IRS to know he could afford better.
“Up ahead. Second red brick high-rise,” she announced, and drove right past it. As
she parked the car two blocks down in the shadow of a gnarled, towering tree, her
passenger stirred, reaching behind him and pulling out a small object. It was a matte
black semi-automatic. She killed the engine and looked at him.
“Is that necessary?” she asked as he checked the firearm with brisk movements.
“You were nearly killed tonight,” he reminded her, and tucked the weapon back
under his dark jacket. “You sound disapproving. Never used one in your former line of
work?”
“The difference between burglary and armed robbery is ten to fifteen years.” She
grabbed the door handle but didn’t pull it. “It might be better for me to go in alone. He
might not talk with you there.”
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“If he did sell you out, talking to you isn’t high on his list either.”
Her lips pursed, but she got out of the car and closed the door with as little noise as
possible. He followed suit. Keeping to the shadows without making it obvious, they
made their way to the building. Slim lock pick in hand, Cleo made quick work of the
front lock. No point in using the buzzer to alert their target.
The lobby was dim and small. The elevator car creaked but got them to the eleventh
floor safely. In the equally dim hallway, the smells of previous meals, many of which
featured cabbage, assaulted them. They padded to eleven-oh-four—and Cleo faltered,
dread coiling in her stomach.
The door was ajar.
An arm shot across her chest, pushed her back and to the side. Her head jerked up.
Weapon drawn, face grim, Sasha mouthed two words. Stay here. Feeling her pulse rapid
and heavy on her tongue, she snatched at his sleeve and held on tight. When he looked
back, she gave a sharp shake of her head. The line of his mouth eased slightly and his
hand closed over hers. Its shocking warmth made her aware of the chill of her own flesh
and a shiver rippled through her.
He squeezed her hand, offering comfort even though he was the one going into a
possible trap, and she mouthed two words back at him. Be careful. He nodded.
Swallowing hard, she loosened each finger one by one and watched helplessly as he
disappeared inside.
Pistol in a standard two-handed grip, Sasha went in low and fast and nearly silent.
He heard the creak of the door hinges and the rustle of cloth over the rapping of his
heart. Away from the door because door frames were dangerous places to be, he swept
the space with the muzzle of the pistol. Foyer to living room to kitchen. Nobody waited
for him.
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Two doors along the far wall. One closed. One ajar. His pulse sped up. A wedge of
light from a narrow window found a foot. Bare and pale, it was thrust between the door
and frame like something forgotten.
Breathing still slow, he moved forward, navigating between furniture ladened with
computer parts and gaming systems, opened the closed door, found the bathroom,
cleared it, then toed open the adjacent door.
The body was on the floor, head and limbs at odd angles. He was bony and pale
and naked except for a pair of briefs. Sasha pulled out a penlight and dropped to his
haunches. With two fingers, he felt the throat for a pulse even though he knew he
wouldn’t find one. He flicked on the penlight and the strong beam revealed glassy eyes
staring at the ceiling. Squiggly red lines radiated from the pupils. Burst blood vessels.
He checked the torso, the lower body, the back. Flecks of dried blood above the ear, but
no open wounds. Dark marks ringed the throat. He’d been strangled by someone
who’d bled on him.
The soft snick of the front door closing brought his head up. Another soft sound as
the deadbolt slid home.
“It’s me.” Cleo’s soft voice carried to him, and he lowered the pistol aimed at her. It
was too dark to see her eyes, but he could feel her regard. Then her body went
motionless, almost unnaturally so, and he knew it wasn’t because of him. He rose,
strode to her and read the question in her eyes.
“Mid-forties, brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, skinny build?” he asked
gently, and she became as pale as the corpse in the bedroom. Her gaze drifted beyond
him. He caught her elbow, afraid she’d faint, but she remained upright, not moving a
muscle. Seconds dragged by. Worry made his grip tighten around her elbow. He
jammed the pistol in the back of his jeans then tipped her chin up until her blank eyes
met his. “Breathe, damn it.”
She blinked slowly, then parted her lips and took a shallow breath. Then another.
And another. She continued until her breaths became even and steady and by rote,
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breathing because she had to. Her head turned as she tried to see around him, and the
rest of her tried to do the same.
He tugged on her elbow and she glanced up. “You don’t need to see it.”
Her brow puckered. “I have to be sure,” she said, and extricated herself from his
grasp. Even though his muscles tensed in protest, he let her go and followed, keeping
close.
With measured care, as if she’d aged a decade between the front door and the body,
Cleo lowered herself to her knees. A shudder went through her as she sought the
carotid artery. Sasha knew the flesh under her fingers was cold and rubbery but she
didn’t pull back. He held out the penlight. She took it and went through the routine.
Another shudder when she found the specks of blood on the body, on the worn carpet.
His hand found her shoulder, squeezed.
“It’s Ole,” she murmured, closing the lifeless eyes. “Ski Mask came straight here
after running from my place.”
“Most likely.” Her hand went to her shoulder, closed around the fingers he’d rested
there. He twisted his fingers until they were laced with hers. There were faint tremors
but also strength in her slender hand. He hauled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet,” she said, the strength in her fingers returning to her voice, and moved
past him into the living room. As her gaze swept the area, she patted her pockets until
she found what she wanted, pulled out latex gloves and tossed him a pair. She returned
his flashlight and pulled out her own. “Five minutes.”
Cleo was grateful Sasha didn’t object; he only closed the blinds in the living room
so they could use the flashlights.
She worked her fingers into the latex. They were old school, but they worked. An
odd sense of detachment took hold as she continued looking over the small, one-
bedroom unit filled, in some places, to the ceiling with electronic toys. There was an
entire wire shelf of computer parts because Ole was constantly upgrading his machines.
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The tiny dining room had been turned into an office and he’d somehow managed to
cram two desks, a chair, two filing cabinets and a bookshelf into the limited space. His
living room was a Mecca to gaming and Cleo didn’t think she’d ever seen what the
floor looked like in that area. Judging by the scattered soda cans, empty cellophane bags
and burger wrappers, he must’ve bought a new game recently.
“This place looks tossed,” remarked Sasha.
“I’ve never seen it look any different.”
They went through the apartment, and Cleo was forced to revise her opinion of Ski
Mask’s intelligence when not only were Ole’s cell phone and notebook computer
missing, but Ski Mask had also taken the time to remove the hard drives from the
remaining servers.
While Sasha searched the bedroom, Cleo abandoned feeling her way under the
desk and hurried into the kitchen. She lifted the Vietnamese, sushi and pizza takeout
menus until she got to the magnetic calendar that had been buried underneath. She
squinted, trying to read the messy scrawl in the box for three nights ago.
J’s @ 10.
“Find anything?” Sasha asked from behind her.
She didn’t start, didn’t jolt, didn’t give away her guilt. She let the menus fall back
into place and the hand holding the flashlight fall to her side, aiming the beam of light
at the floor before turning to him and shaking her head. “Nothing.”
He drew closer, and guilt magnified her heartbeat until she was certain he could
hear it. She waited to see the accusation, the dismay in his eyes, but the same shadows
that concealed the heavy pulse in her throat made his gaze unreadable.
His hand cupped her cheek, tipped her head back and she dared not breathe. His
thumb, broad and calloused, skated over her cheek, the soft area under her eye. “You
need food and sleep, and not necessarily in that order.”
Her heart didn’t cease its hammering, but she only nodded.
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* * * * *
They reported the homicide because he insisted. The call was anonymous because
she insisted.
While Sasha drove, Cleo dozed not because she was tired. The act was cowardly,
but she never claimed to be brave and had no aspirations to such lofty heights.
When they reached her apartment, she crawled out of her clothes, into another tank
top and panties and into bed, and bit down on a corner of her bottom lip when Sasha
did likewise, sans nightwear. She didn’t notice her own stiffness until a heavy arm
curled around her waist and dragged her against him, molding his front to her back. He
draped a leg over one of hers and, suffused with his warmth and lulled by exhaustion,
she slept.
* * * * *
She couldn’t breathe. The pain was too sharp, too fiery, too consuming. She tried to
move, wanted to stagger back, but her legs wouldn’t obey her commands. Shaking
fingers found the hilt, but didn’t have the strength to pull. Her heart fought to contract
despite the blade piercing it. She opened her mouth to scream but there was no sound.
Panic and pain escalated to raw fear. It was a living, breathing thing that writhed and
grew inside her, overtaking all else.
Something snatched her wrist, jerked, and Cleo latched onto that one real substance
and used it. Madly, blindly, she fought. The pain of the blade was forgotten because it
was no longer there. Instead, she felt a suffocating weight, bruising manacles, physical
things she could push and shove, scratch and claw.
She heard a voice. A rasp. Low and fierce. She heard it again. Her name. And she
came awake in one great rush.
Her eyes flew open. Nothing. Then her pupils adjusted and there was Sasha, dark
eyes unfathomable, jaw a hard edge. Safe. Absurdly, the word echoed in her mind as
relief weakened her and her lashes fluttered down.
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“Cleo?”
There was a question in his strained voice. She heaved out a breath and managed a
single nod. She felt the hesitation in his muscles before sheets rustled and his weight
was lifted from her body. Air shuddered in and out of her lungs as she lifted one hand
and pressed it to her heart as if to keep it from jumping through her chest. For long
moments, the blood pounding in her ears demanded her full attention.
“Cleo?” Sasha murmured again, tone softer but still rough with sleep and concern.
Her lashes lifted and, slowly, like silk veils falling away one at a time, watery
morning light revealed the familiar bedroom and the too familiar man sharing it with
her. He was on his side, propped up on an elbow, fingers of one hand still wrapped
around her wrist like a steel shackle.
She swallowed and shook her head, still too busy drawing in oxygen to speak.
“How bad?”
A sudden chill descended and a shudder ran down her body. She had to swallow
before she could speak. “What did I say?”
Silence, then, “Nothing.” His lips twisted. “You didn’t reveal any deep, dark secrets
in your sleep.”
Her gaze skittered away from his, her throat constricted, and she slid to the edge of
the bed and started to swing her legs over the side. The fingers around her wrist
tightened, firm but not painful, until she glanced back.
“And I won’t ask,” he added, a bitter curve to his mouth. “You don’t have to run.”
Her pulse slowed, tripped then raced because of a different kind of fear.
“I c-can’t—” She heard the quiver, started over. “I can’t go back to sleep. I’ll only
keep you up if I stay.”
The curve of his mouth was no longer bitter, but neither was it a smile.
“Sasha—”
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“Stay,” he demanded, and released her wrist to clasp her hip, his palm rough and
searing on her skin. His hand was large, easily twice the size of hers, and even though
she found comfort in that knowledge, her muscles went rigid. Slowly, as if afraid she’d
panic, he dragged her back until her shoulder brushed his chest, her hip his abdomen,
her thigh his semi-erect penis. Arousal flared, making muscles low in her body clench.
He settled on his side, arm heavy across her middle.
Seconds ticked by as she waited, tense and uncertain and expectant all at once.
Nothing else, however, was forthcoming. When she looked up, he was watching her
with an intensity that made her skin tight, as if she’d been lying in the sun too long.
“Your move.”
She stiffened. Payback, she thought, for not sharing her deep, dark secrets. A swirl
of something wild and hot and reckless churned in her belly, spread and pressed
against her lungs. She met his gaze, saw the challenge, the mockery echoed in the twist
of his lips, as if he knew she wanted the oblivion of sex without the responsibility of
initiating it. Anger joined the swirl of emotions, masking a moment of helplessness.
Her hand flew to the arm across her body, intending to push it away. But she
slowed. Her fingertips dug into warm, hair-roughened skin. Stilled, savored the tiny
sensations zinging from the tips of her fingers to her palm to her stomach and lower.
She inched closer, nuzzled her face in the hollow of his shoulder, seeking his scent and
his heat, and her body followed, pressing more fully into him. He sucked in an audible
breath, his muscles like steel, and something inside her eased. When he breathed out, it
was harsh and ragged.
She pressed her lips to skin stretched across a clavicle, leaving a trail of soft kisses.
She flicked out her tongue, tasted salt, and he hardened fully to burn against her thigh.
She heard her name. It was little more than a rasp. Her hand lifted, cupped the back of
his neck and pulled him down to her. Their lips touched, parted, met again. It was soft,
gentle, teasing. And the hand on her hip became clutching, rubbed down to her
buttocks, squeezed roughly and sought the furrow in between.
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“No,” she gasped, reaching back and catching his wrist. Payback. He actually
growled, making her shake with unbelievable arousal. His fingers flexed, stirring silky
pubic hair. She repeated her protest even as her head fell back and her eyes closed.
When she managed to lift her lashes, his gaze blazed into hers. And the intensity
made her want to look away. He didn’t like her stopping him, but he was still. The
muscles in his wrist flexed and tightened. She swallowed then pulled it away from her
body. Her fingers slid from around his wrist, against his palm and laced with his. She
brought their hands to his shoulder, shoved until he took the hint and fell on his back.
She went with him, sat up with her thighs on either side of his hips. His hips arched.
His erection pulsed against her buttocks and she couldn’t find the strength to tell him to
stop.
After a long, breathless, aching moment, she found his other hand and squeezed, as
if drawing strength from him, and shifted higher up his body until she straddled his
waist. Pressing his hands to the mattress on either side of his shoulders, she bent down
and stopped, an inch of space separating their lips. He lifted his head and took her
mouth with his. He kissed her, urgency making him rough. His tongue thrust between
her teeth, licking inside her mouth, his teeth nipped, demanding a response.
Cleo made a small sound as she melted into him, her body like softened candle
wax. The kiss went on and on, by turns hungry, demanding, coaxing. He used his
mouth and tongue to do what she wouldn’t let him do with the rest of his body. She
broke away when the need for oxygen overrode the need for him. His lips rubbed over
her jawline, making her moan, and she returned the favor. His stubble grazed her lips,
her cheek, her sensitive neck, triggering fantasies of it against her inner thighs.
Oh God.
She tasted her way down his throat, eliciting a groan when she savored his pulse
against her tongue and nipped it with her teeth. Beneath the dark mat of hair, she found
a flat nipple and licked it once, twice, then sucked it between her lips. A shudder ran
through the body beneath her. She lavished attention on the other nipple before
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following the trail of silky hair bisecting his muscled abdomen. She shimmied down his
body. His erection thrust from a nest of curls, straining toward her. She skimmed her
lips over the ultra-soft head, tormenting him with the promise of her mouth. His hands
clenched, seeming to rub the slender bones in her own hands against each other. He
muttered a curse, a plea, and she flicked her tongue over his head, tasting the drop of
salty pre-come, and took him between her lips.
His shaft was like velvet over steel and having him in her mouth was making her
ache deliciously. Her tongue circled his head, laved the underside of his penis. Her lips
sank down his shaft until he brushed the back of her throat. He cursed again, gave a
small thrust and she jerked back, releasing his cock.
“Fuck,” he muttered thickly. “Sorry…don’t stop…”
There were more words, incoherent words, but she didn’t need them. She took him
inside her mouth again and sucked rhythmically, swallowing as much of him as she
could. Wanting to feel him in her grip, she tried to untangle their fingers but he
wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he tugged on them until she reluctantly let him fall from her
lips. Released from her mouth, his erection bobbed and glistened. A ribbon of fire
worked through her clitoris, leaving her hot and wanting.
She sat up, tried to free one hand but he resisted until she whispered what she
wanted. Her hand fumbled around in the nightstand until she found a condom. She
ripped open the packet with her teeth, extracted the latex ring and rolled it down his
length with her lips.
He exploded, all restraints shattered. He seized her hips, fingers digging in,
positioned her over his prick and thrust hard into her, nearly slamming them together.
He went in deep, igniting a spark of pain. She whimpered, feeling overwhelmed and
ravished. She fell forward, bracing her hands on his chest to stay up. He drew back,
bucked upward, thrust, and there was only pleasure flooding her senses. She bit her lip
but sounds, feral and raw, still escaped her throat and mingled with his.
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She closed her eyes and flexed her inner muscles around him as she rode him to the
frantic pace he set. Her nails dug into his skin as he sealed her hips to his and ground
up into her. Her head spun faster and faster with each hard stroke.
She cried out as she came, barely aware of Sasha’s body arching with the force of
his own climax.
She collapsed on top of him, head on his chest, too weak to do more than gasp for
air. His arms wrapped around her waist.
“Did I hurt you?” he panted hoarsely.
She managed to shake her head. “No. You keep asking that.”
“I was rough. I lost control.”
Yes, she thought, and later she would ache in places she’d forgotten existed, but that
thought only triggered another muscle contraction deep inside her. His arms tightened
around her as he muttered a curse. Because she needed the contact, she reached up and
laid her fingers over his mouth.
“Was I complaining?” she asked drowsily, brain fogging over with exhaustion.
After a moment, she felt the tension seep from his shoulders and let her eyelids
close. She yawned, and felt his faint smile beneath her fingers. A wisp of a thought
floated through her mind. Her lashes flickered as she struggled to stay awake, to retain
the thought.
He eased a sigh from her when he kissed her fingers, murmured softly, and she
gave up the struggle.
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Chapter Four
The ringing jarred Cleo from sleep, followed by her mattress shifting more than it
should. She opened her eyes. Sunlight beamed through the gaps in the curtains, forcing
her to squint. She was draped over Sasha, who was reaching for the cell phone he’d left
on the nightstand. He glanced at the caller ID, cursed then answered the call. It was a
short conversation.
“No…no…okay…no…two hours.”
She started to roll off him, but a heavy male arm around her waist checked her
movements.
“My sister,” he began, voice still raspy with sleep, “wants to meet with us in two
hours. Her office.”
“Why?”
“Elena thinks she can help.”
“With?”
“The statues.”
Cleo stilled, then wedged her arms between them and pushed up until she could
see his face. “How does she know about me?”
“She called the house, Eric told her to call my cell phone and she harassed him until
he explained why.”
“He could’ve let her assume your date went really well last night.”
“She knew my date was a setup.”
Her brows drew together. “The girl was close to perfect for you.”
“She only met the physical requirements.”
“What made you suspicious?”
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“Strange women generally don’t throw themselves at me like that. One ex said I
was too intimidating.”
Stupid women, she thought, and immediately stiffened, hoping she hadn’t spoken
aloud.
“And I had Eric run a background check on her,” he added.
She stared at him. “You have issues.”
“So do you.” His fingers skated over the curve of buttocks and her muscles
tightened. “That’s probably why it works between us.”
She snatched his fingers. “Sex,” she countered as she dragged his hand to a less
erogenous zone. “And deprivation. It’s been a few months for you and even longer for
me.”
Satisfaction, wholly male, gleamed in his eyes. “How much longer?”
She started to roll her eyes but a wide yawn caught her off guard and she had to lift
the back of her hand to her mouth.
His fingers tangled in her hair and forced her head down to his chest. “Go back to
sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”
She murmured wordlessly, stretched and settled back down. She let her hands fall
to his sides. His skin, warm and supple, enticed and she trailed her fingertips over it,
went low.
“Cleo.”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t tease,” he warned, voice dropping a notch.
She stilled, then warmed and melted when she felt his growing erection press
against her. She slowly slid a leg along his side, bending her knee. He grasped it,
stopping her movements. She heard a muffled curse. Beneath her, he was tense,
muscles taut like piano wire.
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She shifted her head, flicked out her tongue and licked one flat nipple. He sucked in
air and dug his fingers into her knee. “I’m not teasing,” she said softly. A faint smile
curled her lips and she added, “Not too much,” and reached down and wrapped her
fingers around him. He cursed, the word strangled. Lips parted as she concentrated,
Cleo lifted herself slightly onto her knees and made Sasha curse again when, with slow,
measured movements, she guided him to her sex, rubbed the tip of him between her
labial lips, against her clitoris.
“Fuck.”
In a blur of movement that left her breathless, he flipped her onto her back. She
heard the crinkle of cellophane. Then he loomed over her, hips pinning hers to the bed,
forearms braced on either side of her, hands clutching her shoulders.
“Sasha—”
A hand slapped over her mouth, stilling her protest. She felt him positioned at her
cleft and the protest was forgotten. He thrust into her with one long, smooth stroke, and
she whimpered, the sound muffled by his hand. He started to pull back and she
wrapped her legs around his hips, desperate to keep him inside her. A rough sound
escaped him. There was amusement, but she didn’t care. He pushed back in, hard
enough to give her momentary relief, she moaned and he did it again, deeper, the
friction painfully exquisite.
While struggling to free her own hands, she bit his, wanting it gone, wanting more.
He yanked it back, growled, but she fisted her fingers in his cool hair and dragged his
mouth down to hers. He resisted, nipped at her bottom lip then sucked it between both
of his and soothed it with his tongue.
Cleo gave a small sob of pleasure, even as the ache within her intensified. She felt
the throb of it in her veins, her muscles, her very skin. She lifted her head, seeking more
of his mouth, and he gave it to her. Their tongues tangled, the kiss rough, wet. Sasha
angled his head for something deeper, buried his tongue inside her mouth like his cock
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inside her body. He drove into her repeatedly, tongue and cock, until she felt full of
him, tight, stretched, wanting to burst but not able to.
She relaxed every muscle, let him take her, let him piston away between her thighs,
every desperate thrust stroking the slick, ultrasensitive skin within her. Her hands
clasped his neck, moved to his shoulders, clutched at long, bunched back muscles. Her
fingers curled into his skin, letting him feel the bite of her nails.
He tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in the pillow. He palmed her ass,
tilted her hips and groaned when she shivered uncontrollably underneath him as the
orgasm crashed over her. She cried out from the shattering pleasure. Through the haze
of intense satisfaction, she realized his thrusts were no longer rhythmic. They were wild
and uncontrolled as he sought his own release. Groaning, he lunged inside her, again
and again, wrenching her hips up to meet each powerful thrust. Then he threw his head
back, muscles corded, and shouted as he came, searing and endless.
He withdrew from her body with a wet sound, flung himself onto his back and
peeled off the condom. Cleo’s noise of protest was soft and wordless, and he would’ve
chuckled had he had the energy. A small hand sought his chest, fingers sifting through
the short hairs.
Can’t, he thought, but she wasn’t a mind reader. Or maybe she was and simply
wanted to torture him because those hot fingers dragged down his body, tugged on his
pubic hairs, skimmed over his penis. Sensation shot through him. Impossibly, he felt
himself stir, felt blood rush from his head once more. She turned, pressed her face into
his arm, and he felt her smile. A rasp that was her name escaped him.
Her lips parted and her tongue flicked out, tasted his skin, but before he could ask
for more she was shifting, rising above him. The tips of her hair tickled his chest, his
abdomen, his thighs. She planted her hands on the flat planes on either side of his sex,
as if framing it. Her head lowered. “You didn’t let me finish last night,” she said softly,
and took his semi-hard cock in her mouth.
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There was that instant of relief, and his sigh was long and ragged. She sucked,
making him forget all about relief as his skin and every muscle in his body tightened.
When she pulled back to swirl that luscious tongue around the crown, he groaned,
tangled his fingers in her hair and tried to force her head down his shaft again.
“No,” she whispered, and twisted away. Frustration slammed into his chest, closed
around his throat. Then he felt the liquid glide of her tongue along his aching length
and his head fell back. He fisted his hands in the sheets to keep from reaching for her.
Her lips and tongue were hot and slick as she nibbled and licked up and down his
cock. Slowly. By degrees, he grew, hardening to the point of pain, and his balls felt
ready to burst. Cleo mouthed along his shaft, giving him the hint of teeth every now
and then to wrench a groan from his chest. When she finally enclosed his balls in her
wet mouth, it took everything he had not to flip her over and take her. She suckled him,
rolled him with her tongue. He could feel the orgasm gathering like a hot fist.
He was sweating and shaking by the time she released him from her mouth with a
pop.
“Cleo.”
With one hand, she gripped his cock, rubbed the pulsating head over her lips,
making his blood burn under his too-tight skin. She blew a breath over the head,
tongued it, and he cursed. Then her lips parted even more and her mouth engulfed him.
Another curse, silent because he couldn’t breathe. A hand wrapped around his balls
and squeezed gently. His pusle skyrocketed and he swelled even further. He thought he
begged, wasn’t sure, thrust his hips. She made a sound. Protest, amusement,
encouragement, he didn’t know, didn’t care. The tiny vibrations were enough, more
than enough, and he was lost.
He ripped at the sheets as the near-blinding orgasm took over, shouting and
shuddering uncontrollably as Cleo swallowed the come jetting from him.
* * * * *
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Elena Michaels’ office was cramped not only because it was small, but also because
it housed three shelves of books and artifacts. Somehow, someone had managed to
squeeze into the remaining space three wooden chairs and a matching desk, behind
which Sasha’s older sister sat. Her eyes, identical to her brother’s, were frosty when
Sasha rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and strode into the room. Cleo hung back
on the other side of the threshold. She told herself she wasn’t hiding behind Sasha. He
was so large he simply blocked most of her from view.
“When will you call off my babysitter?” Elena asked in lieu of a greeting, her softly
accented voice like something from a James Bond movie.
Beside Cleo and out of Elena’s sight, a young man—twenty-something, well-built,
crew cut, dressed in dark jacket, white shirt, dark slacks and shiny loafers—grimaced.
“Bodyguard,” Sasha corrected, unperturbed. “Babysitters generally don’t need a
license to carry.”
His sister made a noise. She didn’t sound impressed. “When, Sasha?”
“When I no longer have to worry about you being attacked.”
“I no longer have the first statue and you have the second. There’s no reason for
anyone to come after me.”
“No, Elena,” Sasha said quietly, and he captured Cleo’s hand and pulled her into
the room.
“Cleo, my sister. Elena, Cleo Moran.”
Elena Michaels’ mouth snapped shut, protest forgotten with the new visitor. Cleo
didn’t offer her hand. A silence, neither awkward nor entirely comfortable, ensued as
they measured each other.
Elena had her brother’s coloring and cheekbones, but her features were more
refined. Her mouth was fuller, wider and, judging by the brackets on either side,
stretched more easily into a smile. She was tall, shoulders broad, and in a past life,
might’ve been an Amazon queen.
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Cleo noted the slender cane resting against the bookshelf behind Elena and sat
down. Elena’s smile was small and tight, but she followed suit. Cleo’s gaze didn’t
flicker when Elena cupped her knee, squeezed and breathed out softly. Sasha closed the
door before taking the chair adjacent to Cleo.
Cleo’s eyes swept the desk, caught on the enlarged photos spread out in front of the
other woman and the scribbling on the glossy images.
“You deciphered the inscriptions?” Cleo asked, leaning forward.
Gaze turning speculative, Elena nodded.
“A curse,” murmured Cleo. It wasn’t a question.
A dark brow shot up. “You already translated it?”
“No,” said Cleo with a half-smile, “but isn’t it always a curse?”
Elena mirrored Cleo’s half-smile and it transformed her face from handsome to
stunning. “Quite true.” Elena picked up a photo and held it out. Cleo took it, angled it,
studied it. It was a close-up of the base. From left to right, Cleo traced the engraved
inscription. She looked up and met Elena’s eyes, a question in her own.
A frown marred Elena’s forehead. “Some of the glyphs bear a similarity to Mayan
writing, so I’ve been able to translate a few of the words inscribed on the bases of the
statues—blood, together, eternity and death.”
Cleo’s lips felt stiff. “So, something along the lines of ‘death to those who dare
separate them’? And it was probably sealed with blood. How romantic.”
“Perhaps. To the two people whom these statues represent, it probably was. Love is
a very powerful thing.” Elena tapped a manicured nail on a photo. “The statues’ history
is murky at best. There is no record of who found them, where or when. Carbon dating
puts this statue at about twenty-five thousand years old. However, that just proves the
stone is that old, not that the statue was carved at the time.”
Elena paused, but Cleo didn’t fill the silence.
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“Pre-Columbian,” the archeologist continued. “The blocky, column-like style and
shallow relief carving suggest Tiwanaku. They were known for their beautiful stone
figures that were advanced for their time. However, the eyes are usually huge squares,
not like the more natural ones on these statues.”
“And?” Cleo prompted.
“And the Tiwanaku have no known writing system.”
“The inscriptions,” Cleo murmured.
Elena nodded. “Yes.”
“You mentioned Mayan.”
“There are similarities, but there are differences I can’t match to any other known
civilization.”
“Another tick in the fake column?”
“Possibly.” Elena cocked her head and dark, lustrous curls shifted and fell over one
shoulder. “What’s your interest in them?”
“They were in my family’s possession for a short time.”
Elena slid forward in her chair, the speculation in her eyes morphing into avid
interest. “When? How?”
“They came into an ancestor’s possession in the late-eighteenth century,” Cleo said
evenly. Beside her, Sasha didn’t move, but she could feel the heaviness of his scrutiny
and had to curl her fingers into a ball, resisting the temptation to cover her throat and
the quickened pulse beneath her skin.
“How?” Elena repeated.
“I’m not entirely certain.”
“Are there documents? Journals?”
Cleo shook her head. “Just stories passed down from generation to generation.” She
shrugged. “The details became fluid over time.”
“How long have you been searching for them?”
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“Since the first time my grandmother told me about them.” She attempted a rueful
smile but her facial muscles felt too brittle. “Obviously, my detective skills aren’t the
greatest.”
“Your grandmother,” Elena echoed. “May I speak with her?”
A pang, not dulled by time, pierced Cleo’s chest then spread hotly over her skin.
“She died when I was young.” She swallowed then deliberately focused on the artifacts
behind the other woman. “Why do you want them?”
“Professional interest. It’s my field of study.”
Cleo’s gaze sharpened. “Nothing else?”
“They’re beautiful and fascinating puzzles. I spend so much time trying to unlock
their mysteries during the day, I dream about them at night.”
The question leapt to the tip of Cleo’s tongue, but years of silence kept her quiet.
“Elena,” Sasha said, “you told me you wanted to meet for more than exchange of
background info.”
Elena shot a frown at her brother then looked back at Cleo. “Two weeks after I
received the second statue, I got a phone call from the man who sold it to me. He
wanted to buy it back at the price I paid for it. When I declined the offer, he increased
it.”
Cleo’s lips parted, but she couldn’t speak as fingers of ice unfurled in her stomach.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Sasha.
“At the time, I didn’t think it was important. Frankly, I’m still not sure if it’s
relevant. Besides, with the first statue, there wasn’t another buyer. He just…took it.”
“Markus Rehm,” Cleo murmured to Elena. “He was the man who sold you that
statue.”
Elena nodded and said, “Yes.”
At the same time Sasha echoed, “‘Was’?”
“Rehm died three months ago,” said Cleo.
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Blood drained from Elena’s face, leaving her pale beneath her honey tan. “How?”
“Car accident.”
“Was it an accident?”
“I don’t know,” replied Cleo, then she met Sasha’s eyes and knew his doubts
mirrored her own. After all, neither of them believed in coincidences.
“I suppose you can’t question him now,” Elena murmured, voice still hollow with
shock. “Find out who else wanted the statue.”
“He didn’t mention a name when you talked? Tell you who was interested in the
statue?”
Elena shook her head. “Actually, I didn’t even ask. I thought nothing of it.” She
pressed her fingers down on the photos until the tips whitened. “I have no intention of
parting with it, and I very much want the other one returned to me.” She glanced down
and Cleo saw anger, bewilderment and sadness chase each other across her face.
“They…belong together.”
Cleo glanced away, feeling more like an intruder for looking at Elena’s face than she
did when breaking into Sasha’s home. She cleared her throat, sought for something she
could handle.
“The night of the break-in. Will you walk me through it?”
* * * * *
Gasping for breath, she grasped the hilt, pulled. The blade slid a quarter inch and
the searing pain made her breathless. Liquid trickled over her fingers, the backs of her
hands, the heat and slickness of it unmistakable. Blood. Her blood. Agony blackened
her vision and tore a scream from her throat.
Cleo awoke on a rush of adrenaline, muscles quivering, pulse racing, breathing
harsh. She jerked upright. Her gaze skittered around the darkened room. Fireplace.
Drawn drapes. Shelves upon shelves of books. Leather beneath her, a velvet throw
pooled in her lap. Fisting her hands in the soft material, she swallowed, relief making
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her jittery. She’d fallen asleep in Sasha’s library. She drew her knees up and heard
something thud loudly onto the floor. Her eyes followed the sound, saw large stone
eyes staring back at her and she shuddered.
“How bad?” Sasha asked from the doorway.
She shook her head, her silence too ingrained. She heard him come closer but didn’t
look up. He stepped over the statue like it was insignificant, like it wasn’t the lure he’d
dangled earlier to get her to return with him to his house, and crouched down in front
of her.
“What kind of nightmare would make you cry?”
She stared at him, brow furrowed, then lifted a hand to her cheek, finding it hot and
damp. She’d never cried before in her sleep. Then again, she’d never felt her own blood
spilling out of her body.
“Talking about it will get me fitted for a straitjacket.”
“Try me.”
When she remained mute, he captured her hand and squeezed. “It’s about the
statues,” he said, his words not a question.
With wariness in her own, she searched his gaze, yet she found nothing but
patience. It was dangerously seductive and the pull she felt was actually physical, like a
string in her chest drawing her toward him. It took an effort of willpower to free her
hand from his. Her hand went to her throat, her fingers fluttered against her still rapid
pulse.
“I dream of her killing me,” she said softly, almost hoping he wouldn’t hear her
confession. “All the women in my family dream of her.” She took a breath. “Ever since
my great-great-great-grandmother took the statues from the ruins she found. I’ve
dreamt of her since I was fourteen. It starts off innocuously enough, but it gets worse
with each instance, until one morning you just don’t wake up.” She paused, dug in her
fingernails until they left tiny crescents in the skin at the base of her throat. “But you
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want it to end long before it reaches that point. My mother couldn’t wait that long, so
she swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills instead when I was twelve.”
She waited for the doubt to cloud his eyes, the laughter to leave her cold.
“Who raised you?”
“My grandmother.”
“Where was your father?”
She shrugged, the movement not as smooth as she would’ve liked. “Men have a
tendency to disappear after confessions of nightmares and curses.”
A long silence. Cleo lowered her lashes and curled her fingers into fists, braced for
the inevitable.
“Will finding the statues and returning them to their resting place break the curse?”
he asked.
Cleo blinked, doubt clouding her own eyes. “That’s it? You’re just going to believe
me?” she asked, voice tentative.
“Did you lie to me?”
“No.” A pause. “Not about this.”
A wry smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Then I believe you. Nothing else
explains why you want the statues.”
Slowly, she bit down on her bottom lip, uncertain of his easy acceptance.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
Needing space, Cleo shifted to the side and got to her feet. Sasha straightened up
but only followed her with his gaze. Gathering the remnants of her courage, she
scooped up the statue, shivered when the cold rippled over her skin and tilted the
statue toward the golden lamplight spilling from atop an end table. She trailed a
forefinger along the woman’s profile. The high forehead, the long nose, the firm chin.
Not beautiful, but strong, regal, elegant. Objectively, Cleo knew the details were quite
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exquisite, especially considering the primitive tools available to the artist all those
centuries ago.
Yet it felt awkward in her hands. Too heavy, too rough, too cold. She set it down
and hugged herself, wedging her fingers between her upper arms and ribs to warm
them.
“Cleo?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t know. The statues didn’t come with an
instruction manual, but that’s the assumption I’m working under.” Feeling the tension,
she cupped the back of her neck and squeezed. “It’s getting late. I should go home.
There’s nothing else for me to do here.”
“Stay. Whoever’s after the statue will kill to get it and to keep from being identified.
Your place isn’t safe.”
“Neither is yours. If I could get in, so can someone else.”
“Then why didn’t he break in here and take it himself in the first place? Why did he
involve you at all?”
Memories of the attack assailed her, of the lover-like gentleness that even now
made her stomach churn. She dug a white-knuckled fist into her middle, twisted it, but
the sick feeling remained. “I…don’t know.” But she had suspicions she preferred to
leave vague. “Ski Mask knows I don’t have the statue. His next move most likely is to
break in here and take it.”
“Or he could decide it might be easier to do an exchange.”
“I failed spectacularly. If he’s smart, he’s not going to wait for me to make a second
attempt. He’ll do it himself.”
“And what if he’s been keeping tabs on you and decides it’s easier to exchange you
for the statue?”
The words didn’t make sense at first, and she stared at him blankly. Then heat
crawled under her skin and her pulse tripped.
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“Not likely,” Cleo said finally. “Kidnapping me would be a huge gamble. He
wouldn’t know for certain you would agree to the trade.”
“If you go back to your place, I’ll be right behind you. Until he’s caught, consider
me your shadow.”
“No,” she said, and headed for the door.
She didn’t hear him move, but he was suddenly blocking the exit. She skidded to a
stop, both hands flying up to brace herself, but managed to keep an inch of space
between her palms and his chest. The urge to close that tiny distance made her yank her
hands back and tuck them close to her body. It wasn’t enough. She lowered her lashes,
but images of her hands sliding up his chest while the rest of her slid up and against his
body refused to be dispelled. The heavy, melting sensation in her lower body made her
draw a deep breath.
“Yes,” he countered, sounding calm and reasonable, as if he wasn’t seducing her by
simply standing there.
“It could take weeks, months to capture him,” she pointed out. “Years, even. And
what if he’s never caught? What then? Do you plan on sticking around indefinitely?”
“If I have to.” He cocked his head. “Why are you so eager to be rid of me?”
She crossed her arms over her middle, hugging herself to keep from touching him.
“Cleo?”
She hesitated, settled for a half-truth. “I prefer to be alone.”
Something moved through his gaze, something very much like pity. “No, you
don’t,” he said. “You’re just used to being alone.”
She stared at him. I prefer it, she wanted to say but couldn’t because her throat was
suddenly too tight and too hot.
He stepped aside.
* * * * *
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Elena switched on the bedside lamp because, while it was still early, the autumn
sun had dropped below the horizon, and sat up. She took the pill bottle and glass of
water from the nightstand and washed down an anti-inflammatory. As she massaged
her knee, she considered a hot soak in the tub. However, it was past her bedtime and
the noise would bring Carl, her glorified babysitter, to her door.
She lay back down, plunged the room into darkness and waited for the throbbing to
subside.
Five minutes later, the light was back on and Elena reached for her cane. She could
ask Carl to bring a heat pack from the kitchen, but she didn’t think he got paid enough
to serve as her maid. Hoping the exercise would loosen her joint, she took the stairs
instead of the elevator.
She reached the kitchen entrance and stopped. Cold air swirled around her feet,
molded her robe against her legs. Her gaze shot to the gaping back door.
Elena spun around—and smacked into a wall. No, a body. A person.
Terror gripped her, paralyzed her. He shoved her. Her head hit a real wall and she
saw bright lights. A hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream. Her wrist
was seized and twisted until her fingers loosened and the cane clattered to the floor. She
struggled, but a sharp pain shot up from her knee as it gave way. But she didn’t
crumple to the ground. She felt a pinprick. The world slowed, went fuzzy around the
edges. She pushed at her assailant but her fingers only brushed him, too weak and too
useless. Then she fell and darkness rushed to envelop her.
* * * * *
She was running from him. Again. She didn’t run far, but she ran just the same. She
had to put an end to it before it became a habit.
Cleo gripped the wrought iron railing, taking minor comfort in the coolness of the
metal and the knowledge she couldn’t damage it no matter how much force she
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exerted. Beneath her bare feet the concrete was rough and she dug in her toes, needing
the sensation to ground her. A breeze ruffled her hair and danced over her skin.
He was giving her space. He hadn’t tried to manipulate her into his bed, hadn’t
offered to give her comfort as an excuse to touch her.
Yet the breathless feeling of being chased wouldn’t go away.
He wasn’t crowding her. Not anymore. Sasha Michaels was doing something more
insidious—he was letting her miss his presence and dwell on a remark she should be
able to dismiss but couldn’t.
It was absurd. She couldn’t have gotten used to him being around within twenty-
four hours. She hadn’t lied when she’d said she preferred to be alone. Not really. There
was comfort in the familiar. She’d spent her entire life keeping people at a distance.
Years of making sure she depended on no one but herself. Her fingers flexed around the
railing. It wasn’t, however, like she had much of a choice.
She closed her eyes, tilted her head back as if to offer herself to the rising moon. She
liked being comfortable, she liked the familiar…but…but the unfamiliar was oh so
tantalizing. Who knew having someone to lean on could be so addictive? He wanted to
catch his sister’s assailant and Cleo was his best lead, but it didn’t feel that simple.
Oh God.
She fell into the railing, felt it bite into her middle, used it to remain standing. She’d
pulled back from him, but there was that sense of too little, too late.
She spun around, her breathing suddenly labored. She needed to finish this
business and move on. Soon. Now.
Cleo hurried inside, pulled on socks and sneakers, stuffed pockets with what she
needed, returned to the balcony and swung a leg over the railing.
* * * * *
If the noise level from a block distant was any indication, the pub was packed. Cleo
hunched her shoulders until her nose brushed the collar of her black fleece pullover.
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There were only a few cars parked around the block since, she supposed, most of the
patrons lived within stumbling distance of the establishment.
A shiver worked its way across her shoulders and she shoved her hands deeper
into the kangaroo pocket of the pullover. She turned the corner, completing her
reconnaissance, spotted the pub—and a German sedan that hadn’t been there earlier. It
was an older model, but it blended in with the domestic vehicles with the help of the
burned-out streetlights. A man sat in the driver’s seat. He turned his head, the
movement familiar.
Sasha Michaels.
Her feet tried to stop but momentum kept her body moving. She stumbled and
nearly kissed concrete. As she steadied, a twinge shot up from her knee, making her
wince, and she considered doing a one-eighty. Then she saw his head swivel in her
direction, his eyes narrow.
The car door swung open. He emerged, went around to the other side and waited
for her to go to him. Impatience rolled off him, making him imposing, a little menacing
even, despite the casual blue jeans, untucked gray tee shirt and hip-length leather
jacket. His short hair was ruffled, like his fingers had made several trips through it. His
mouth was a thin, hard line. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, as she crossed the length of
sidewalk, steps measured despite the fluttering in her stomach. She stopped when any
closer would make meeting his eyes physically uncomfortable.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t be here,” said Cleo.
He opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Get in.”
She waited.
“I knew you’d try to take off on your own, so I had Eric watch you. He saw you get
in a taxi cab and called the taxi company. Now, get in.”
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Her gaze cut to the door, then back to him. “No.”
“If I have to, I’ll force you in the car and keep you tied up until you come to your
senses.”
There was a warning in his low, even tone. Temper stirred, warming her, easing
some of her body’s rigidness. “The last man who tried to force me to do something I
didn’t want to do ended up with a broken nose.”
“You’re not going in there to set yourself up as bait for a killer.”
“I’m not.”
The tension didn’t ease, but he no longer looked on the verge of dragging her off by
her hair.
“Ole was here three nights ago,” she explained, inclining her head toward the pub.
“He wouldn’t have marked it on his calendar if he was just stopping in for a drink.”
He glanced at the name of the pub. “He wrote down J’s.” At her surprised
expression, he added, “I saw the calendar before you covered it up.”
“J is for Jamie. She works there as a bartender.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Ex.”
“Does she know what he did for a living?”
“I don’t know, but I’m betting she worked Wednesday night. I’m running low on
leads.”
“Why the secrecy?”
Inside the kangaroo pocket, her hands clenched then relaxed. “It’s one thing for you
to talk to Ole, it’s another thing with someone like Jamie. If the authorities ever question
her, she’ll give them your name. Unlike me, you can’t exactly leave your life behind and
disappear if things go south.”
She saw the frustration, the hint of something more, then it was blinked away. “Let
me worry about that.”
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She shook her head. “If you really want to help, I need you out here.”
* * * * *
After securing the unconscious woman with liberal amounts of duct tape, he tossed
the townhouse. He found notes and pictures spread out on the desk in the office and
stuffed them in an envelope to take with him when he left. Like he’d suspected,
however, the statue wasn’t on the premises. Back to plan B.
He returned downstairs to the kitchen and his captive. Pretty, he thought, fingering
her hair. Maybe even beautiful with her lush figure, but too tall for his tastes. He liked
to dominate, a little fear, maybe a few tears…and it was easier to intimidate and, if
necessary, to hurt if they were small. Like Cleo Moran.
Something stirred within him and he closed his eyes to savor it. It was strange and
heady, this feeling that made his skin tingle and tighten. Knowledge, power, violence
and the rightness of it all. He’d felt it when he’d first laid eyes on Cleo Moran months
ago and felt it again when he’d dreamed of her that night…and every night since.
Another moment to wallow in the sensations then he opened his eyes. The woman
was still out. He felt her neck for a pulse. It was faint but steady. He had gotten the
dosage right. He’d been worried since it was his first time.
She stirred, made a small noise. He smiled then gave her another dosage of
tranquilizer.
* * * * *
The pub was busy, despite the inside décor comprised of faux leather and scarred
wood. Hockey games were on the LCDs angled from the ceiling. The lights were dim
and peanut shells crunched under her sneakers as Cleo crossed to the end of the bar.
She hoisted herself onto a tall stool where she would have a good view of the front
entrance and a semi-decent view of the short corridor leading to the bathrooms and the
back exit.
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One of the bartenders—young enough to be asked for ID, light brown curls,
average height and dressed in a tank top that emphasized her ample curves—made her
way over.
“What can I get for you?”
“Ketel One, rocks.”
The bartender reached under the bar, rattled some ice and slid an ice-filled rocks
glass on the counter. She poured a shot of vodka over the ice. “Menu?” she asked as she
pushed the drink toward Cleo, who shook her head and held out a twenty. “Keep the
change.”
The bartender grinned. “Thanks.”
Despite reservations about the cleanliness of the bar, Cleo braced both forearms on
the surface and leaned in closer. “Jamie, right?”
The grin dimmed. “Yeah.”
“Were you working Wednesday night?”
Jamie’s mouth pursed, healthy suspicion in her narrowed eyes. “Why are you
asking?”
Cleo pulled out the photograph she’d pilfered from Ole’s apartment and showed it
to the girl. Ole and his college roommate smiled up from the three-by-five. It was an
older picture. Ole, however, had hardly changed in the intervening years. She tapped a
finger above his head.
“Did you see this man? He would’ve been in here around ten that night.”
Wariness flitted across the girl’s face. “It gets pretty busy at that time.”
Cleo placed a bill on the bar. Ben Franklin stared up from the center of the note.
“Will this help jog your memory?”
Her eyes dropped to the bill beneath Cleo’s fingertips. “Are you a cop or
something?”
“Or something.”
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Jamie rolled her lips inward. Then, with a slowness that bespoke of wariness, she
plucked the money from Cleo’s fingers and tucked it away in a back pocket. “That’s
Ole. He’s a regular. Drinks whatever’s on tap. Great tipper.” Glossed lips pursed and
dark brows drew together. “Is something wrong? Is he in trouble?”
“Ole’s not in trouble.” Not anymore. “I just need information about the man he met
that night. Do you remember another man with him?”
Another smile, this time slow, as if savoring the recollection. “Oh yes. Tall, dark and
drop-dead gorgeous.”
Cleo’s lips twitched. “How tall? Over six feet?” She tipped her head toward the
older man tending bar on the other end. “Taller than him?”
“Definitely. At least two inches.”
“Black hair or dark brown?”
“Black.”
“Eyes?”
“This amazing shade of blue. They must’ve been contacts.”
“Is his skin dark or pale?”
“Tanned,” Jamie answered then gestured to herself. “Even darker than me.”
“Any distinguishing features or marks? Scars, moles?”
“Nothing.” Jamie shook her head. “He’s perfect, like he could be a model.”
“Do you remember anything else about him?”
“Great dresser. His clothes looked expensive.”
“Anything else?”
“No,” replied Jamie, an exasperated frown tugging at the corners of her generous
lips.
“Did they sit at the bar?”
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“No, they took the table along the wall on the other side, had a couple of drinks,
some nachos.”
“How long were they here?”
She shrugged. “Twenty-five, thirty minutes? Not long.”
“Who waited on them?”
“I did. It was a slow night and one of the waitresses called in sick.”
“Did he say anything to you besides give you his order?”
“I asked him if he was new to the area, and he said he was visiting.”
“Did he say where he’s from?”
“Somewhere in South America. Venezuela…Portugal… One of those places.”
Cleo bit down on the tip of her tongue, deciding an impromptu geography lesson
wouldn’t help the interview.
“Did he give you a name?”
Annoyance flitted across her youthful features. “No. He hasn’t come back here
since.”
A man three stools down waved an empty pint glass, snagging Jamie’s attention. “I
have other customers.”
“If you remember anything else…”
“I’ll let you know.”
Cleo lifted the glass, letting the rich fumes curl up her nostrils, took a sip and, via
the mirrored wall behind the bar, studied the crowd through lowered lashes. No one
with a recently busted nose. A middle-aged couple came in, waved at a table of people
and went to join them. She eyed the lone figure seated at a corner table then dismissed
him. Too skinny and his nose unmarred. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jamie
whisper something to the other bartender and, a pack of cigarettes in one hand,
disappear down the corridor.
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Moments later, her cell phone beeped. She read the text message and nursed her
drink for a while longer. Leaving the vodka virtually untouched, Cleo slid off the stool
and hurried toward the corridor. In the dark, narrow space, she slowed, brow puckered
with confusion as she glanced about. After several seconds of playing lost, Cleo yelped
as the back fire door squeaked open and she walked into Jamie.
“Oomph!”
“I’m so sorry!” Cleo jumped back then shot out a hand to steady the girl. “It’s so
dark here.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” Jamie pulled back, ran both hands over her hair to smooth it
down. “If you’re looking for the women’s washroom, you passed it.”
“Thanks.” Cleo peered at the girl. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”
“You didn’t. Now I have to get back before my boss comes looking for me.”
“Oh, of course,” said Cleo, stepping aside for the girl to pass. When Jamie rounded
the corner, Cleo pushed open the door labeled with the female symbol. She locked
herself inside a stall and began scrolling through the call history of Jamie Swatowski’s
cell phone.
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Chapter Five
He worked in the dark, finishing his task in the dining room before moving
throughout the house to close blinds and curtains. Then he returned to the dining room
and switched on the light. The woman duct taped to the kitchen chair flinched as if
struck and blinked several times while her pupils adjusted to the sudden brightness. He
pulled out a chair and sat down in front of her. Gently, he cupped her chin, then not so
gently when she tried to jerk away from his touch. His fingers dug into her cheeks and
forced her to meet his gaze. Her cheek was swollen and bleeding from a small cut, but
there was no fear, no silent pleading or tears.
Stupid woman.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
She glared at him, murderous intent making her eyes gleam.
“You do.” He smiled, amused. “You made me hurt you. You should’ve given me
what I wanted the first time I asked.” He pushed a hank of tangled hair back from her
face. “It’s not you I want, so behave and I won’t have to hurt you.”
He was lying and the sneer she somehow managed even with her mouth taped up
said she knew it too. He smiled tightly, wrapped his fingers around her throat and felt
the rapid, erratic pulse that gave lie to her bravado. Pleasure widened his smile and,
because he could, he tightened his fingers until her face reddened and the chair scraped
and banged against the linoleum as she struggled to escape the choke.
His hand opened and caught her jaw when her head fell forward. She jerked away
from his touch. Noisily, unevenly, she pulled in air through her nostrils.
He took out the cell phone he’d silenced before his earlier excursion and saw that
he’d missed two calls.
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* * * * *
Light peeked through the thin gap of the drapery panels in the living room of Jamie
Swatowski’s two-story home. The modern, sprawling house didn’t look like the home
of a mere bartender.
“He’s in there,” Cleo said, softly so her words carried to Sasha’s ears and no further.
“Now explain why you suspected the bartender.”
“Jamie Swatowski’s uncle used to arrange jobs for Ole.”
“A handler.”
“Yes, and he died two years ago.”
“And his niece took over.”
“I wasn’t sure before now,” admitted Cleo. “But she’s bending her uncle’s rules and
mixing business with pleasure.”
“Did you work with him?”
“No, I kept Ole and his associates under surveillance for three months before I
made contact and decided to only deal with Ole.”
Amused, he glanced at her and murmured, “And you say I have issues.”
“I risked jail time or worse. You risked a bruised ego.”
His amusement faded. “Then why?”
She didn’t move, her expression didn’t change, but he felt her drawing within
herself. When she finally spoke, he had to strain to hear her. “Because I knew I couldn’t
do a cubicle for thirty-plus years.”
Then she blinked and he knew nothing more would be forthcoming. Sasha peered
through the binoculars again and his world went green.
“It’s time to give the cops an anonymous tip,” Cleo said.
“I still don’t have visual confirmation.”
“Then we have to get closer for a peek inside that house.”
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He lowered the binoculars and aimed a steady look at her. “No, I have to get closer.
You’re staying here.”
Her mouth tightened. “Am I supposed to be your lookout?”
“No,” he admitted. “If Fortune’s girlfriend did call to warn him, you’ll be safer here
and the recon’ll be faster without you.”
She blinked once, twice, as she gathered her thoughts. A buzzing noise shattered
the quiet. Keeping her pinned with his gaze, fearful she would sneak off if he looked
away, he pulled out his cell phone. The screen did not display a caller number.
Suddenly, the cell phone felt heavier than it should be.
Fingertips touched his arm, light and tentative. “It’s him,” she said, echoing his
thoughts.
He took the call. “Yes.”
There was silence on the other end, as if the caller was reconsidering his move.
Then a soft cry of pain—a feminine cry.
“Sasha?”
Elena.
His world lurched to a halt then reeled. Sasha said nothing, could say nothing. The
invisible fist that struck his solar plexus wouldn’t let him suck in air that was suddenly
too damn thick anyway. Fortune hadn’t been reconsidering his move; he’d been hurting
Elena, compelling her to speak.
Jesus Christ.
Cleo’s fingers fisted in his sleeve but he couldn’t look at her.
“Sasha, I’m fine,” his sister said, tone too taut.
“If he’s hurt—”
“Don’t do anything fool—”
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The smack of flesh striking flesh, stark and sudden, cut her off. Sasha’s heart
hammered against his ribs and his throat closed. He nearly crushed the phone in his
grip.
“It’s not your sister I want,” said the accent-less male voice, blithely, as if he hadn’t
signed his own death warrant.
“Don’t touch her again,” Sasha warned, voice harsh with the effort to force the
words past his constricted throat.
“Not if you give me what I want.”
“What?”
“The statue. I’ll trade your sister for the statue.”
“When? Where?”
A chuckle. It grated. Had Fortune been standing in front of him, Sasha would’ve
put his fist through the other man’s face to kill the sound.
“I will give you thirty minutes to get the statue then I will call with the location.” A
pause, and the muscles in Sasha’s shoulders bunched as he could feel Fortune’s
anticipation of his next words. “Cleo will bring it to me.”
His stomach knotted and, with calm he didn’t feel, Sasha said, “No, I’ll do it.”
“I want Cleo. She will bring me the statue and I will let your sister go. If I see
anyone else, Elena dies.”
Fortune took Sasha’s silence for reluctance. “I want Cleo,” he repeated. “She won’t
be stupid enough for heroics. You, on the other hand…”
Sasha bit back the words that threatened to spill forth, none of them productive.
Fortune was lying and they both knew it. Cool, slender fingers molded themselves to
his cheek, forced him to look at the woman beside him. Her gaze bore into his, her eyes
shining with resolve. She nodded once.
* * * * *
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The drapes were drawn in the back of the house and no light shone around the
edges.
Sasha waited, saw no movement and hurried closer to the house. At the base of a
tall, mature tree, he tucked his weapon in the waistband of his pants and climbed up,
any sound he might’ve made masked by a breeze rustling dry leaves. With care, he
edged out onto a limb and lowered himself onto the sloped roof, then the balcony
spanning the width of the house. He reached for his weapon even as he crouched down,
back to the wall next to a set of French doors. He listened, heard only quiet from within,
but knew that meant nothing.
With the speed of long practice, he peered inside and took in the bedroom beyond
the gauzy curtains in a single scan. Empty. The lock gave easily and he went in low and
silent. Keeping his crouching position, he moved away from the French doors and the
easy target they presented. He listened at the interior door, cracked it open and looked
swiftly. Clear.
Pulse quickening now but hands still nice and dry and wrapped around the pistol
in a two-handed grip, he edged the door open just enough and slid into the hallway. No
sound came from downstairs. Unease knotted in his stomach.
Stepping heel to toe, he checked behind the other three doors on the second floor
and cleared the rooms. He went to the stairs, saw more of nothing and, heart rapping
because the stairs were open, made his way down.
The bullet he’d been expecting didn’t come and he moved quickly once he reached
the bottom, suspicion and fear gnawing at the edges his consciousness. Foyer, empty.
Living room, empty. Kitchen, empty.
Dining room—his sister, bruised, battered, bound.
And alone.
Sasha’s stomach dropped and his heart lodged itself in his throat.
* * * * *
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Cleo watched the house through the night-vision binoculars once more but could
detect no movement. She lowered them and hugged herself, rubbing her palms up and
down her upper arms, trying to warm herself even though she knew the cold came
from within.
This waiting was gut-wrenching. As each second ticked by, the images in her
mind’s eye became progressively gorier, from Sasha bruised to broken to bleeding to
dead. Nausea roiled in her stomach. She took a shuddering breath, hoping the cold air
would clear away the images. It didn’t, and she dug her fingers deeper into her arms, as
if that would stop the trembling. She glanced at her watch as his final instructions
replayed in her head. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, go back to the car, drive away and find
Eric.
Twelve minutes had gone by. Another three and she would call Eric, but from her
current position. As if she could leave Sasha.
She lifted the binoculars again, thoughts frantic as she tried to pull together a
contingency plan.
Leaves crunched.
Cleo froze.
It could be Sasha returning, rescue mission successful, or the cavalry in the form of
Eric, or an animal scavenging for a late-night meal. But her instincts screamed.
More crunching, faster now.
Palming the revolver Sasha had given her, Cleo rose to her feet, keeping close to a
large tree and the cover it provided. Her clothes were dark and the black skullcap hid
the sheen of her hair, but moonlight made invisibility impossible. She could hear the
blood rushing to her extremities with each pump of her heart. Slowly, she slid her
finger from the trigger guard. Her muscles were taut, aching with the urge to run, but
she moved carefully, quietly enough to be masked by Mother Nature.
When she was ten feet away, she molded herself to a tree trunk and waited.
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Twigs snapped. Loud. He was close. Her palms went hot. Footsteps, running. They
stopped. Cleo wanted to swallow but didn’t dare make a sound.
She turned and peered from behind the poor buffer of the tree. Tall, slim, curls
brushing muscled shoulders. Her gaze fell, found the glaring white of gauze around a
middle finger.
She couldn’t breathe, feeling like a one-ton truck had rolled over her chest. She
fisted her hands, squeezing the grip of the revolver. A gust of wind lifted leaves from
the ground, sent them swirling then smacked her with them. Calm settled over her like
an icy mantle, steadying her hand, loosening paralyzed muscles.
She stepped out from the shelter of the tree, aimed, cocked and fired.
* * * * *
In the open night air, the gunshot was like the pop of a firecracker, but it was all too
familiar to Sasha. Unarmed because he couldn’t leave Elena weaponless, he sprinted
toward the wooded area, praying silently yet fervently as he did so.
* * * * *
Her target turned at the last moment and the bullet snagged his arm, yanking it
back even as he leapt for her. Cleo shifted, tried to sidestep but was too slow.
Something struck her hand, knocking the gun out of it a split second before a weight
crashed into her and took her down, slamming the air from her lungs. The back of her
head grazed a rock and there was a starburst of pain.
A hand slapped down over her mouth and a man who matched Jamie Swatowski’s
earlier description stared down at her, eyes burning with intent and fervor.
“Don’t fight me.” The voice was heavy with a vehemence that sent shudders of
revulsion down her spine. “Você me conhece. You and I—”
She swung a fist, glanced the broken nose and the crazed light in those eyes became
something recognizable, something acceptable—fury.
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Hands clamped around her neck. She jerked her chin down, making it harder for
him to choke her. His hands slipped, wet with water. No, the liquid was hot. Blood.
With the heel of her hand, she threw a strike at his upper arm, found wetness where his
blood had soaked through cloth. He howled but didn’t pull back. Twisting her entire
body to make space, Cleo managed to bring her knees up to her chest, planted both feet
against his ribs and pumped.
He flew backward. The hands around her neck broke away. Fingernails scraped her
skin but she could breathe again. Gulping air, she shoved onto hands and knees then
onto her feet. Recovering, her opponent scrambled to his feet and launched himself at
her again.
She saw his arm come up and threw up her own to block the strike. The force of the
blow sent shockwaves down her arm and a gasp of pain escaped her. There was a blur
and she pulled back, but the second fist snapped her teeth together and the metallic
flavor of blood filled her mouth.
She speared her fingers into his Adam’s apple and his head jerked back. In a single
motion, she ducked under his arm and aimed a low kick to the back of his knee. The leg
folded and, with a sharp cry, he went down.
Cleo aimed a kick at his ribs but he dodged it, managed to snatch her ankle and
wrench it. She landed hard on her forearms and palms, the impact jarring her entire
body. She rolled onto her back, letting the momentum swing her free foot across his
face. Her heel connected with cheek and nose. Blood spurted. He yelled, the sound
enraged, and his fist tightened painfully around her ankle and yanked her back. His
hand came up and she saw the glint of a blade.
Sasha’s mind went black and his mouth dry. For a heartbeat, panic threatened to
consume him. Cleo on her back…a man half on top of her, knife poised in one
hand…and blood, dark in the pale light, stained both of them.
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Sasha seized the wrist with the knife, jerking it away from Cleo, and smashed his
knee into the other man’s face. Fortune shouted, the sound morphing into a sudden and
painful exhalation of air when Sasha buried a knee in his abdomen. Sasha slammed him
onto his back, pinning Fortune’s empty hand under his own body, and twisted the wrist
in his grip until the fingers opened and the knife thudded onto the ground. He plowed
a fist into his opponent’s face and the head snapped to one side, a pitiful moan drifting
from the bloodied mouth. Another punch snapped teeth together and Fortune’s eyes
rolled back. Sasha checked himself mid-strike, lowered his arm.
“Here,” Cleo said, voice hoarse and trembling, and he looked up. Face drawn and
pale where the bruises weren’t already blooming, she stood with the revolver in one
hand while the other held out her leather belt. Sasha took it, dragged the unconscious
man to the nearest tree and secured his hands with his arms encircling the trunk.
Then he was beside her, pushing her hair back with hands that weren’t quite
steady. He took the revolver from her limp fingers and wiped away a streak of blood on
her cheek. Her forehead fell against his chest and her fingers curled into the waistband
of his jeans. Shivers ran the length of her frame.
“Where—?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t cut me.”
He ran his hands under her fleece, front and back, needing to confirm her words.
“I’m okay,” she said, and drew him closer. “Thank you.”
His arms went around her and squeezed until something inside him eased. “You
softened him up for me.”
A weak chuckle shook her body. “We need to let Elena know we’re okay.” Her
fingers fisted until he felt her knuckles digging into his abdomen. “And we need to call
the cops.”
“Cleo—”
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Her hand flew to his lips, cutting him off. Then he heard it, the sound of
approaching vehicles, and his stomach knotted with a different kind of fear.
Before he could stop her, she pushed out of his arms and moved to get a better view
of the new arrivals.
Four black SUVs stopped in front of the house. Doors opened and men emerged.
Half a dozen surrounded the house. No lights, no sirens, no uniforms, no easily visible
string of letters on either the vehicles or their clothes. They didn’t need them. And when
a man in a dark suit turned his gaze in their direction, as if he knew they were there,
Cleo stiffened.
When Sasha reached for her, she flinched and skittered out of his reach. Without a
backward glance, she went to the agent waiting for her.
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Chapter Six
The sun was coming up when one of Ackerman’s agents dropped her off in front of
her building. Cleo took the elevator, too tired to care when it gave a small lurch before
taking off. She went into her apartment and found Sasha Michaels waiting for her.
Hair rumpled, cheeks stubbled, clothes wrinkled. He looked like a man who’d been
pacing and worrying for hours. Her steps faltered as conflicting emotions slammed into
her. The need to feel his arms close around her was almost a physical ache, but her feet
remained rooted to the floor.
When her eyes found his, something cracked. He’d played her since the start. She
knew that. Had always known, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. The pain sliced so
deep it stole her breath. She took a step back, her first instinct to run, but this was her
home. He was the intruder, not her. But her throat was too tight to yell at him to leave.
He said her name and she could only shake her head. Her eyes darted to the bedroom
door, and her feet were moving in that direction.
Her wrist was seized from behind. He yanked her back. She stumbled and crashed
into him. He held her and, in silence, she fought him, fought the arms she’d wanted
around her moments earlier. Frustration and anger from more than just the last few
days poured out of her. She forgot her training and her control, and simply punched
and shoved and kicked. He didn’t retaliate, but caught her hands and kept her pressed
against him to minimize the blows.
“Cleo, stop it.”
She felt the bite of tears and only fought harder. He cursed, then tightened his arms
around her and lifted her off her feet. For a surreal moment, she was too stunned to
react.
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A door crashed against a wall and then she was falling. There was a beat of fear
before the bed broke her fall. She bounced once. Before she could push herself up, his
heavy body was on top of hers. He was stiff, muscles taut, and let her take the full brunt
of his weight.
To her dismay, arousal flared, but so did the heat of her anger. Male fingers pushed
into her hair and a mouth covered hers. She twisted her head to the side, breaking the
contact. The fingers twisted in her hair fisted. She gasped at the small pain, and he
forced her lips back under his and speared his tongue inside her open mouth.
The kiss was deep and hard and raw, and it was all about dominance. The force of
it dug her head into the mattress. Her legs were trapped under him but her hands
weren’t, and she used them. Her short nails dug into his shoulders and raked across his
skin, stopping short of drawing blood. She pushed at him and he only rubbed himself
yearningly against her, circling his hips and making her traitorous body tremble.
It was unbearable. A hoarse sound tore from her throat and she bit him, teeth
sinking into his lower lip. His head jerked back. She stared up at him, breathing as loud
and labored as his. His eyes burned into hers until she had to lower her eyelids, dim the
sight of him with the veil of lashes. His mouth was wet with something dark. Blood, she
realized. She’d hurt him.
Something shifted inside his eyes, inside her. His fingers loosened and he planted
his palms on either side of her head to push himself off her. And, not quite steadily, the
hands that had been shoving at him skated across his shoulders, up the sides of his neck
and into his cool hair. He froze, not daring to breathe. She tugged and, after the briefest
of hesitations, he came, stopping when his lips hovered scant inches over hers. She
lifted her head and closed that gap. With a soft swipe of her tongue, she licked at the
blood. A shudder ran through him. He breathed her name. She licked the soft skin of
his inner lower lip, the slick surface of his teeth, the ridged roof of his mouth.
He drew back. “I—”
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Her hand covered his mouth and she shook her head. “Not yet,” she said huskily,
and replaced her hand with her lips. When she stroked his tongue with hers, he
groaned and returned the favor. He was gentle now, but no less urgent. She felt it in the
grip of his fingers and heard it in the rasp of his breath in his throat.
His lips skimmed over her bruises, lightly but she felt each touch as if it was a
brand. He tasted her jawline and sampled her neck, making the nerve endings under
the sensitive skin sizzle. As she shivered, he skimmed his hands under her body and
rolled onto his back, taking her with him.
He pulled at her clothes in between wet, open-mouthed kisses, undressing her until
she straddled his still-clothed form in glorious nudity.
He made a wordless noise as he filled his hands with her flesh. The feel of his
calloused palms caressing every dip and swell of her body spread liquid fire under her
skin. She moaned, savoring the sensation, then she shifted down his body until she
found his sex and ground hers against it.
Her fingers went to the fly of his jeans but he caught them, laced their fingers
together and pulled her down to him until he could close his lips around the jutting tip
of her breast. She cried out and pushed her swollen flesh against his face, wanting
more. He obliged, nipping her gently then soothing with broad strokes of his tongue.
She freed her hands and braced them on either side of his wide shoulders. He found
the curves of her sweat-dampened flanks and followed them to her buttocks. Fingers
stroked the furrow in between, and she quivered, arms threatening to collapse as
something dark and delicious rippled through her.
Those same fingers dipped into her sex, found her wet and painted her nipple with
her own juices. Her breath hitched. When he sealed his lips over the nipple and sucked,
a broken sob escaped her throat.
Then, with words and hands, he urged her up the length of him until her sex was
above his face. He put his hands on her buttocks and guided her down to his waiting
mouth. He licked up the center of her, flicked his tongue against her clitoris, and she
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shuddered, inhaling sharply between parted lips. Another pass of his tongue had her
head falling forward as if the weight was suddenly too heavy. Her hair swung forth and
curtained her face, wisps clinging to damp cheeks and lips. She moaned his name and
pushed against his mouth, begging for more.
He tortured her, swirling his hot, rough tongue over her slick, soft skin, nibbling at
her labia, sealing his lips over her quivering bundle of nerves and sucking until her
back arched. She wanted to move, to pump against his face, and told him so, but his
hands tightened until they hurt, forcing her to keep unbearably still.
His teeth grazed her clitoris, biting gently as she forgot to breathe, muscles seized
by the intensity of the feelings. Then his tongue thrust inside her open flesh, wet and
hot, and her breath came out in a rush. He went back to her bud, teasing her with his
teeth until she was on that razor-thin, trembling edge again.
“Sasha…please…”
He alternated, giving her a little more each time, a little harder, a little deeper, until
reason was a memory and all she could do was feel. She came as he sucked on her
clitoris, fireworks bursting behind the darkness of her closed eyelids.
Her body was trembling, still caught in the throes of a climax when he caught her
waist and rolled her under him, desperate to be inside her. He tore at his clothes, heard
ripping sounds and didn’t care. Naked, he dug his fingers into her thighs, spread them
wide and buried his entire length with one long thrust. She gasped, body arching, eyes
flying open and meeting his. For a moment he couldn’t move, too lost in the feel of her
gripping his cock. Tight and slick and burning and still spasming from her orgasm.
“Fuck.”
He drew back and lunged into her again. Hands clutched at his shoulders as she
writhed beneath him, trying to get closer, dragging him down to her. He went, bracing
his weight on stiffened forearms. His mouth found hers, and he shoved his tongue past
her lips and let her suck the taste of herself off it. Her arms snaked around his neck,
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holding him tight as if afraid he’d pull away. She lifted her legs and wrapped them
around his ass. When her foot slid down between his buttocks and grazed his testicles,
his control snapped.
He tore his mouth from hers, needing air more than her taste, and rammed his cock
into her again and again. The friction and velvet grip of her body seared the pleasure of
each thrust into his brain. He felt her entire body tighten, then she was crying out his
name and convulsing under him. Her nails bit into his skin and he didn’t care. Her
inner muscles milked him, and he ground into her one last time before rapture
exploded through his body.
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Chapter Seven
“What did the doctor say?”
Elena Michaels jolted and she swung her head around so fast her hair flared. “Blin! I
didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry. Old habits and all that.” Cleo hesitated, then shrugged off the backpack, set
it on the floor and lowered herself into the empty chair beside the other woman. She
tipped her head toward the man sleeping in the bed. “What did the doctor say about
Carl?”
Elena eyed her critically. “He looks better than you.”
A corner of Cleo’s mouth lifted. “I just flew in.” Her eyes took in the new lines on
the other woman’s pale face, the purple smudges under the eyes. However, even sleep-
deprived and stressed, Elena managed to look striking. “Since Carl’s not in the ICU, I
take it he’s stable?”
Elena followed her gaze, nodded. “The doctor said he’ll pull through.” She drew in
breath, expelled it slowly. “Fortune—” She cut herself off, glanced sideways at Cleo. “Is
that his real name?”
Cleo shook her head. “Rafael Fonseca.”
“South American?”
Cleo nodded. “Brazilian.”
“Is that where you were?”
Another nod.
When Cleo didn’t elaborate, Elena sighed then continued. “That night, Carl said he
went outside to do a perimeter check and Fonseca shot him. The bullet just missed his
heart. He lost a lot of blood because it took so long to find him. It’s a miracle he didn’t
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bleed out.” Elena’s fingers tangled in the gold chain around her neck, pulled it taut.
“The doctor said the surgery was relatively quick. No complications.” Her laugh was a
harsh sound. “He wasn’t the one who had to sit in the waiting room, fearing the worst
while each second dragged by like an eternity.”
Cleo lifted a hand, halting it an inch away from Elena’s shoulder, awkwardness in
the sudden stiffness, then drew it back to her side. In the ensuing quiet, there was only
the beeping of the monitors attached to Carl.
Elena asked, “Have you seen Sasha?”
Every night in her dreams since she left him asleep in her bed. After a week,
hearing his name made her chest tight, her gut knot. She laced her fingers together,
watched the knuckles go white, unlaced them. “No.”
“You should.”
“Maybe,” Cleo murmured. Her next breath was long and uneven. “If he wants to
see me.”
“He does.”
The spike of elation was thrilling, and she savored it for a heartbeat before she
ruthlessly squashed it. “Maybe. You can’t know for certain. We…we didn’t part on
good terms.” Her lips twisted in a humorless smile. They’d parted on no terms since
she’d given in to cowardice and snuck out while he’d still been sleeping.
“Yes,” Elena countered, “I can know for certain. I have known him since he was
born.”
With her fist, Cleo tried to massage away the sudden lump just under her
breastbone. “It’s you I needed to see.” Using her foot, Cleo nudged the backpack closer
to Elena. “This is yours.”
Elena looked down but made no move to take the backpack, didn’t ask what was
inside. Her chest rose and fell visibly with her next breath. “Where did you find it?”
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“Fonseca’s home in Curitiba.” Cleo laced her fingers over her middle, tipped her
head back and closed her eyes. The tension furrowing her brow didn’t ease. “I found a
journal with it. It’s written in Portuguese, but I translated enough.”
They call to me. It is my destiny to find them and reunite them.
I dream of them. I dream of her.
I found her.
Remembering the words he’d underlined twice, Cleo shuddered as invisible fingers
of cold and wet skipped down her spine.
Elena murmured, “Why do you believe giving me the statues will break your
family’s curse?”
Cleo unlaced her fingers and pulled out a small velvet pouch from an inside pocket.
“According to his journal,” Cleo began, “Fonseca believes himself to be the
reincarnation of the priest or shaman—those are the closest translations I could find in
English for the word he used—who carved those statues for the woman he loved.” And
like all neurotic shamans of old, he’d protected them with a curse.
“He convinced himself I’m the reincarnation of that woman.” Cleo opened the
drawstring pouch and, watching the other woman intently, shook out its contents onto
her waiting palm. A hammered gold bird glinted in her hand. “But he’s wrong.”
Blood drained from Elena’s face, and her hand inched up to her left
shoulder…where the warrior in Cleo’s dreams wore the bird.
* * * * *
By the time she heard the tread of feet, her doubts magnified until they threatened
to make her hyperventilate for the first time in her life. It was too late, however, to
scramble out of the bed and back into her clothes.
The door swung open, nearly silent, and Sasha stood on the threshold. He remained
motionless, expression shuttered in the meager moonlight, and regarded her with
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hooded eyes. He was partially undressed; his tie was unknotted and draped around his
neck, his shirt collar open and his suit jacket crumpled in one hand.
Cleo’s stomach clenched and so did the hand holding the sheet to her bare breasts.
She drew a long, quiet breath, willing herself back to the calm, easy state where the idea
of waiting for him naked in his bed had seemed like a smart move. Her eyes closed, and
when they opened, her fingers were still fisted.
“You really should change the security code,” she said in lieu of a greeting, voice
husky from the tightness of her throat.
“I was waiting for you to come back.”
His voice cut through the darkness, much like the first time she’d woken up in his
bed, low and warm and edged with something that made the wings in her stomach beat
faster. Still, relief tumbled through her and her fingers relaxed their grip. She’d been
afraid the security code had been an oversight, but she’d convinced herself Alexander
Michaels didn’t forget little details.
“I had to go,” she said.
“Not like that.”
“I—” Her throat closed, but it didn’t matter since she couldn’t apologize and
couldn’t find the words to explain.
He moved from the doorway, not the fluid motion she was used to seeing but with
a stiffness that spoke of reluctance. Despite his austere expression, his breathing
quickened, making her very conscious of her pounding heart and the heat crawling
over her senses.
“Sash—”
“I don’t want to talk,” he muttered thickly, cutting her off. He reached the foot of
the bed and his hand closed around a fistful of fabric. “And neither do you. Not now.”
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Rustling sounds filled the room, abnormally loud. The sheet was suddenly too
warm and Cleo stirred under it, torn between wanting to shove it off to cool her heated
skin and keeping it in place because fear flitted at the edges of her awareness.
“Turn on the light.”
She didn’t move, couldn’t move.
“Do it, Cleo.”
The warning in his low, guttural tone made her pulse trip. She clamped both arms
against her body, trapping the sheet, before stretching an arm to flick the switch. The
sudden brightness made her flinch and lower her lashes. Before her pupils fully
adjusted, she felt him tugging on the sheet. She resisted, clutching at the material
because she would be too vulnerable without it, but he was stronger and the sound of
her name on his lips distracted her, making her shiver inside.
He pulled steadily until her bare breasts swelled and her nipples peaked under his
hot gaze. The need to have him take her in his mouth was a physical ache, making her
bite down on her bottom lip and squeeze her thighs together. His eyes skated
downward, as if he knew what she was doing, and the ache intensified. He grabbed one
end of his tie and yanked. It slid free with a hiss, the sibilant sound a warning.
“Put out your hands.”
She sought out his gaze, saw only glittering darkness and squeezed her eyes tight.
Unsteady, she did as he ordered. Swiftly, silk encircled her wrists, tightened, and her
arms were drawn over her head and back, forcing her to lie down. He was careful not to
touch any part of her while he fastened the other end of the tie to the headboard, but
she felt his breath on her cheek and her head tipped back, blindly offering him her lips.
She felt the stroke of his thumb, the rough pad followed by the hard edge of his
nail, and flicked out her tongue to taste the salt of his skin. Wanting more, she tried to
suck the digit into her mouth but he drew back. Driven by instinct, she tested her
bindings and experienced a flutter of panic when they didn’t give.
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A noise of protest rose to her lips, and remained there when his hand closed around
her throat. It felt large around the slender column. He found her heavy pulse, skimming
it over and over again with his thumb before skating down to the sensitive hollow. Her
lips parted because she couldn’t get air otherwise. In contrast, his breathing became
slower and deeper as he traced a collarbone and continued on. His roughened fingers
found a breast, squeezed, pinched a nipple and she gasped, back arching in unspoken
entreaty.
When his mouth replaced his hand, Cleo shuddered in relief. She reached for him,
but his tie only tightened around her wrists. Frustrated, she moaned and brought up a
knee, deliberately rubbing her thighs together. His mouth lifted and she inhaled sharply
at the shock of cool air on her wet flesh. He murmured something indecipherable and
his lips pulled at her other nipple. She twisted, tried to roll onto her side, to give him
better access, but his hand gripped her waist, kept her down, and the bed dipped as he
stretched out beside her.
He was half on top of her, one heavy leg between hers. Breathing his name, she
hooked a foot over his knee and gave a small thrust of her pelvis against his thigh. Two
layers of fabric separated them and she could’ve cried. She felt wet and heavy and
desperately needed his touch.
His fingers dug into her waist, hard enough to leave marks but she didn’t care.
They snaked under the sheet, over the quivering expanse of her middle and found the
quivering flesh farther below.
He went rigid when his palm slid over her sex.
“Fuck.” The curse was strangled. “Oh fuck.” This time, the words caressed her skin
as he explored her nakedness, rubbing his fingers up and down over it, again and
again, making her muscles clench repeatedly. “You’re bare,” he growled, sounding
incredulous, as if not quite believing what his stroking fingers were telling him.
Somehow, a short laugh escaped her. “I was in Brazil.”
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He buried his face between her breasts, nipped her with his teeth in punishment.
Fingers thrust inside her and amusement fled. They twisted, stroked the satiny flesh
inside. She moaned and squirmed to get closer to him. And nearly screamed when he
bit off another curse and sprang from the bed.
Her eyes flew open even as the sheet was whipped off her, exposing her
completely. Beside the bed, Sasha was tearing off his clothes as his greedy eyes roamed
her body. She throbbed under his gaze, her own greedy eyes taking in hair-roughened
skin, hard muscles and long limbs. Buttons popped and pinged, and he was finally as
naked as she. He was beautiful, more than ready for her, and her mouth watered.
He knelt on the bed, hands on her thighs, pushing them wider to make space for
himself. He cupped her buttocks, lifted them, and the anticipation coiled inside her
until it became painful. His head lowered, his breath hotly caressed her skin then his
mouth was on her sex.
He licked all over her naked flesh with broad, lavish strokes, and she moaned in
short-lived relief. His tongue prised between her nether lips, circled her clitoris then slid
up inside her. She felt the tip of his tongue as he explored, withdrew and thrust back
inside her.
Oh God.
Somehow her thighs were draped over his shoulders, and she wanted to lock them
together, to keep him there, to let him pleasure her forever. She felt the scrape of his
stubble and the sensation made her inner thighs tremble and her inner muscles clench.
Sasha made a rough sound and licked deeper inside her body, as if he couldn’t get
enough of the taste of her. Liquid fire raced through her veins, pooled at her sex. She
started to reach for him, wanting to bury her fingers in his hair, and was reminded of
her binding. A sob broke from her throat.
His tongue thrashed inside her until she didn’t know if every muscle in her body
would go rigid or dissolve beneath the sensual onslaught. He sucked hard on her
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clitoris. She came apart, brilliant lights bursting in her head, blinding her to everything
but him. Her mouth fell open but the force of the climax stole her voice.
She was still falling when he came over her and rammed his full length deep inside
her. That unlocked her voice and she cried out as new ecstasy gripped her. Having
tended to her, he was remorseless and selfish in pursuit of his own orgasm, pumping
his hips hard enough to bruise her thighs. She lifted her legs and clasped them around
his hips, trying to slow his frantic pace, but he didn’t seem to notice and she gave
herself up to the rampant pleasure, letting it overtake her senses once more.
Lying beneath him as he fucked her hard enough to slide her body back and forth
on the bed, she closed her eyes and centered her mind on the jerking, throbbing friction
of his cock inside her. He was relentless as he used her. Tears seared dual paths down
her temples. It didn’t hurt, just simply too much. Then he was coming, shuddering
violently, endlessly, as he spilled inside her. Finally, he collapsed on top of her,
crushing her beneath his heavy weight.
As his chest heaved, Sasha thought about levering himself off the woman beneath
him. She wasn’t complaining, but that might be because she couldn’t breathe.
He buried his face against her neck and inhaled the scents of shampoo, sweat and
sex. And he lay there, content and drowsy with satiation as he drifted into semi-
slumber.
As he balanced on the cusp between sleep and wakefulness, Cleo made a noise and
stirred and, incredibly, so did his cock. Still inside the velvet clasp of her body, he
hardened and grew in both length and width. He felt more than heard her sharp intake
of breath and cursed softly even as he pushed his hips downward and his cock deeper
inside her.
He lifted up, bracing himself with his forearms, caging her between them. His lips
opened over hers and his tongue unfurled inside her mouth, giving her a taste of
herself. With the sharpest edges of their lust blunted, the kiss was soft and slow and
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deep. Her body arched, the movement sinuous as she sought greater contact from groin
to chest. She sucked on his tongue and fire seared in his bloodstream, making his
muscles tremble.
Jesus.
The soft, smooth insides of her thighs slid along his flanks, making his heart gallop
a mile a minute in his chest.
“No,” he gasped, and caught her knees. He pushed them down and, teeth gritted,
pulled out of her body. The feel of it, the sound of it made him shudder, and the urge to
push back in so he could do it again nearly overwhelmed him. When she protested, he
squeezed her flesh in warning and sat back on his haunches. “Turn over and get on
your knees.”
She went still, lips parted, eyes wide with uncertainty.
“Do it,” he ordered, and smiled grimly when he saw the rush of dark desire that
mirrored his. After a final look, she drew her legs together and rolled onto her front. He
cupped her hips and helped her to her knees. Without his asking, her hands found the
headboard and clenched.
She arched her lower back, presenting him with her rounded backside. The pale,
sweat-kissed globes made his palms itch and his cock twitch. His hands skated from her
hips to her buttocks, stroked them, squeezed them. Unable to resist, he bent down and
sank his teeth into the plump flesh. A sharp intake of breath, then she tightened but
didn’t pull away. Soft moans filled the room as he nipped and sucked a random pattern
over her skin, marking her as his. Her back arched and her knees inched wider. He
knew what she wanted and he wanted it too, but not yet.
After a final bite, he drew back, palmed her buttocks and pressed the cushions
apart, exposing the dark furrow in between and the puckered ring of muscle.
A gasp of surprise escaped her throat when he circled it with a forefinger. He felt
the shock ripple through her. His hands slid lower to her soft pleats, slid inside and
explored her depths.
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“Jesus,” he breathed, and she answered with a low moan.
She was wet, wetter now with both their climaxes, and his penis pulsed insistently,
demanding to be sheathed. On his knees, he shifted closer until he could open his
mouth over the nape of her neck and bury his hard bulge between her lower cheeks.
She panted his name and twisted, but he moved his hands to keep her in place, one on
her lower back and the other around in front to cover her smooth mound. He ran his
palm over her, loving the feel of her soft, damp sex.
She wriggled her bottom, enticing him, trying to position him, but he only trailed
his mouth along the slope of her shoulder and bit her. She trembled against him,
panting like she’d just run a marathon, and arched her lower body even more. Her
buttocks clenched around his cock and he thought his head was going to explode. He
sank his teeth deeper into her flesh.
“Not yet,” he rasped, and slipped the fingers coated with her juices inside her
mouth.
He heard a low, strangled sound, and then she was sucking on his fingers. Her
tongue was soft and slightly rough as it eagerly licked every square millimeter of his
skin clean. Her head lowered, wanting more of him, and his groan reverberated against
her shoulder. He wanted her mouth lower, sucking as strongly and deeply on his cock
as she was on his fingers.
Fuck.
Something inside him snapped. He grabbed himself, positioned the head and
plunged inside her soft, willing flesh. Cleo’s head fell back and rolled on his shoulder.
He wrapped both arms tightly around her ribs as he fucked her, grunting with every
forceful thrust that touched the end of her.
As he drove with frantic pace into her, she flinched and writhed in his arms,
sometimes pushing back against him, sometimes trying to twist away. He cupped a
breast, pinched her nipple and she sobbed, her head digging even harder into his
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shoulder. Then his grappling fingers slid lower, found her hard clitoris and she came,
inner muscles spasming around his cock.
He withdrew from her body, his erection still hard and slick with her juices. He
grasped himself, found the delicate crinkle and pressed, seeking entrance. When she
tightened against him, he pinched her clitoris and she whimpered.
His mouth found her ear, lipped it. “Easy, Cleo,” he whispered. “Relax.”
She made a wordless sound, shook her head.
“Yes,” he murmured, and dipped a finger into her cleft to wet it and slipped it past
the ring of muscle into her most private place. He stretched her, stroked her, readying
her. She tensed, another wordless sound, then her buttocks rolled enticingly. Her head
turned, she sought his mouth and he gave it to her. He withdrew his finger, replaced it
with the head of his cock and nudged. The crown went in. She bit down on his lip. It
stung but he didn’t care. Hands clamped onto her hips, he pushed, sheathing another
inch of his cock. He tasted salt on his lips and stilled. His muscles shook with the need
to move but the thought of hurting her was enough to hold him back.
He broke the kiss. “Cleo, I’m sorry.” He told himself to pull out, to let her go, but
couldn’t. Jesus.
“Don’t…stop.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, not sure if his mind was fabricating what he desperately
wanted to hear.
He heard her swallow. “Sasha…” she murmured, and rocked her hips gently,
experimentally.
“Yes,” he said fiercely, and eased his penis into her, inch by inch. It was an eternity
before she took all of him. Hot, dark pleasure engulfed him. She was incredibly, almost
painfully tight. His cock throbbed, each beat urging him to pull out and push back in.
He did, slowly, loving the feel of her stretched around him, the sensation so intense it
was almost unbearable. He did it again and her body adjusted, easing his passage. His
groan mingled with hers.
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He drew back and, with more force, thrust into her. Her muscles contracted around
him and her choked cry resounded around the room. They were all the encouragement
he needed. Thoughts of gentleness and patience dissipated and he drove into her
repeatedly, each time harder than the last until he was slamming into her. His breathing
became as fast and choppy as hers. He wrapped both arms around her, molding his
body to hers. The sweat between their skin was like glue, sealing them together.
Urgency and desperation rode him as he panted her name over and over again and
took her with something close to violence. Then she was crying out, quivering
uncontrollably in his hold as she came. He felt her inner muscle spasms along his shaft
and quickened his pace, clutching at her body hard enough to leave marks. Suddenly,
his world exploded. With a shout, he shuddered and climaxed, arms crushing her to his
body as her final spasms milked him.
Her entire body sagged, replete and drained at the same time. When he undid the
tie and freed her hands, her arms fell to her sides, the muscles like jelly. She closed her
eyes, ready to give in to exhaustion, but male hands clasped her body and dragged her
to the edge of the bed. Despite her protest when Sasha slid an arm under her knees and
another across her back, she instinctively draped her arms around his neck and rested
her head on his shoulder. He carried her into the bathroom. Where he found the
strength to do so after some of the best sex of her life, she didn’t know and was too
weary to ask.
He stepped into the bathtub and propped her against the wall. She yelped. The tile
was shockingly cool against her sex-warmed skin and she reached for Sasha’s body. He
chuckled as she plastered herself against him. She grunted her disapproval but didn’t
draw back. A rushing sound, then water hit them, instantly hot, and Cleo sighed. She
allowed him to wash her, trace erotic patterns on her skin with a bar of soap and go
down on her once more because he couldn’t get enough of her bare sex. Her sex was
tender, but he was so patient and gentle, tears gathered in her eyes.
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Not bothering to dry them, he took them back to the bed. She went willingly when
he arranged himself on his back and her on top of him, draped over him like a living
blanket. Under her ear, his heart beat away and his lungs worked like a bellows.
Carelessly, he palmed one buttock, as if simply needing a place to rest his hand.
When their vitals slowed to near normal, he twirled a lock of her hair around his
finger and tugged.
“Why didn’t you come to see me first?”
Sleepiness dissipated and consciousness returned full force. A knot formed in her
gut. “Elena called you.”
“I’m family—and she said the sooner I stopped snarling at everyone around me, the
better.”
Cleo’s smile was faint and brief. “What did she tell you?”
“Just that you came to see her.”
“Nothing else?”
“She said you would tell me everything I need to know.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “I’m surprised you let her get away with that.”
“She hung up and turned off her cell phone,” he admitted. He squeezed her buttock
in warning. “What did you find out in Brazil?”
Her pulse quickened, beat harder until she felt each thump in her stomach. She
pushed herself up and off him. Even on her back, she could feel the invisible pressure
on her chest. He rolled onto his side, reached for her wrist and held it while she spoke.
She told him about finding the second statue, about the journal, and decided Elena
could tell him the rest when she was ready.
“You’re not telling me something,” he said when she finished, and she realized his
fingers were on her pulse.
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Feeling vulnerable, she tried to sit up. He released her wrist but only to spread his
hand over her ribs and push, keeping her down. Cleo stared up at him, very aware of
her heart racing under his palm.
He searched her face, gaze focusing on each feature in turn, and she laid a hand
over his. Muscles and tendons flexed beneath her palm. Green eyes met dark. “You
have to trust me,” she said quietly. “I’m trusting you agreed to sell me out to Ackerman
and his clandestine little group before you met me.”
He tensed. “Did he tell you that?”
“No,” she said, and slid her palm over his wrist and back again.
“You’re assuming a lot.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” he whispered, sounding relieved, and gathered her closer to him. “He
approached me after Elena’s attack. We didn’t know about you until the first night you
broke in. I called Ackerman while you were unconscious.” His voice lowered. “Had I
waited for you to wake up, I would’ve kept you to myself.”
There was a melting sensation in her middle and she had to subdue the urge to rub
against him and purr. She settled for pressing her lips to his shoulder. Because her
willpower was nonexistent with him, she licked a small patch of his skin, savored the
salty taste.
“Cleo—”
“Considering how careless I was, I’m surprised he wants to add me to the payroll.”
“You accepted his offer?”
“I had a choice?”
His eyes became hooded. “Ackerman mentioned his department is underfunded.”
“No.”
“You want out of that life. Doing it for the other side doesn’t make it any different.”
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106
There was warmth and a curious ache inside her chest as she felt something within
crack. “I know. That’s why I told Ackerman the details of my contract still need to be
negotiated.”
“Cleo—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips, a tiny smile tugging at her own. “I’ll handle it. If
it gets too stressful, I plan on using you for sex.”
“Just sex?”
His tone wasn’t playful. It made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of a
precipice. She closed her eyes, stepped into the void and whispered, “No, not just sex.”
“Good,” he said, and pressed a long, hard kiss to her lips, as if sealing an
agreement, until the warmth swelling inside her chest burst and hot wetness trailed
down her temples and into her hair. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him
closer. When he broke the kiss, he rolled onto his back and, since she refused to let him
go, took her with him. The silence of the room around them and his heartbeat under her
ear combined to tempt her into sleep.
About the Author
Ann Bruce is the pseudonym for a self-professed computer geek who, in between
snowboarding, reading comic books and wearing out the buttons of her PS3 controller,
writes because it’s an acceptable means of explaining all the voices in her head.
Ann welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address
at
.
Tell Us What You Think
We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at
.
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning
publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC
on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you
breathless.
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