Those bittersweet chocolate eyes turned assessing, then narrowed dangerously, as if he didn’t like her attitude. “I don’t normally sleep with a woman until I know her name.”
Arching an eyebrow, she tried to tug her elbow away, but his fingers tightened. Not enough to hurt; just enough to let her know that he wasn’t planning on letting her go anytime soon.
Heat gathered in her lower body, and she nearly shook her head in despair. What did it say about her that the thought of being trapped by him was at least as arousing as it was upsetting? Maybe more so.
Think of Curtis, she told herself grimly, as she tried to ignore the arousal winding through her. Think of how sexy he’d been at the beginning—strong, masterful, hotter than hell. And he’d turned out to be the fucking Marquis de Sade—both physically and emotionally.
She couldn’t go through that again.
She wouldn’t go through it.
Which meant she had absolutely no business being this turned on. This intrigued. Not by any man and certainly not by this one, no matter what had happened between them on those stupid balconies. He was trouble with a capital T, and she wanted nothing more to do with him.
Liar, the little voice in the back of her mind said, but she tuned it out. Sometimes denial was a girl’s best friend.
“I wasn’t aware we’d slept together.” Using every ounce of willpower she had, Lacey kept her voice cool, her eyes level. Her self-control was rewarded when his charming smile turned into a not-so-nice scowl.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” She cocked her head to one side as if puzzled, and waited for his fury to ignite. Unlike with Curtis, it seemed to take more than a smart mouth to set him off.
He leaned forward until his face was only an inch or two from hers, until his perfect mouth was well within kissing distance. She jerked her head back at the thought, but he followed her, closing any distance she tried to put between them.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” The words were low, husky, and instantly evoked images from the Great Balcony Escapade in her head. Images that had her breath hitching in her throat and her nipples tingling inside her flimsy excuse for a bra.
For long seconds she had no comeback, her brain so scrambled by sexual awareness that she couldn’t do much but stare at him and drool. And damn it, he knew it, knew how he affected her, the edgy frustration in his eyes giving way to a sexual satisfaction that was nearly palpable.
His fingers relinquished their hold on her elbow and slid slowly, languorously down her arm to her wrist. They lingered there, stroking softly, until the spark of need inside her had become a five-alarm fire.
Once again, Lacey tried to pull away, self-preservation paramount in her head.
Once again, he held her trapped—as much with the dark power of his gaze as with the sensual hold of his fingers around her too-sensitive wrist.
“I’m Byron Hawthorne.”
“Lacey Adams.” She choked out the words before she could think better of them, and even as she told herself she was being an idiot, she couldn’t bring herself to regret them. Standing here with Byron felt better than anything had—Tuesday night excluded—in a very long time.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lacey Adams.” His fingers uncurled from her wrist, and she felt an alien sense of disappointment at their loss. Until his other arm wrapped around her, so that his right hand rested on the small of her back.
“You too.” Is that my voice? she wondered frantically of that soft, breathy intonation that was barely more than a whisper.
“Come sit down. Have a cup of coffee with me.” As he spoke, his hand exerted a subtle pressure on her lower back and he began to steer her toward a nearby table.
And she let him, despite the warning bells clamoring in her head.
Let him guide her, though every instinct she had told her he was dangerous.
Let him direct her like a lamb to slaughter, though the rational side of her brain was telling her to get out and get out fast. This was a man she could lose herself in, and she’d worked too damn hard to find herself after Curtis to ever let that happen again.
“I ordered you a café au lait and some beignets. The waiter should be by with them any minute now.” He stopped in front of a small garden table and pulled a chair out for her.
She almost sat, almost gave up her vow to swear off men, just that easily.
Almost forgot Curtis and everything she’d suffered at his hands in an effort to appease the blazing sexual need that just wouldn’t go away.
But as Byron’s words—as well as the command behind them—sunk in, she froze in place. Then jerked out from beneath his restraining hand before he could stop her.
As she did, a bunch of thoughts whirled in her head, each one fighting for supremacy.
He’d ordered without consulting her.
He’d ignored her when she came in, even though he’d obviously seen her.
He was sure of her—so sure that he’d bought her doughnuts she didn’t want and a coffee that she did.
He expected her to do exactly as he told her.
The thoughts circled faster and faster, until a new one came to the forefront, coalescing out of months and years of annoyance and fear and more pain than any woman should have to endure.
He was just like Curtis. Just like the man she’d fought so hard, and for so long, to escape.
He had the same sexual magnetism.
The same lack of concern for her wishes.
The same need for control—ordering for her, ignoring what she said, guiding her to do what he wanted her to do and to hell with what she wanted. And she’d almost gone along with it—just like she had with Curtis. Almost followed him like a good little girl without a brain—or a will—of her own.
Had she learned nothing?
After all this time—and all the pain—was she just as stupid and self-destructive as she’d always been? It had taken her months to get away from Curtis, well over a year to get her self-confidence back. Was she really going to give all that up just because she was attracted to a man? Just because he wanted her to?
Self-disgust had her spine stiffening and her jaw locking. Oh no, she wasn’t going back there. Not now, not ever again. She’d come too far to just throw her newfound confidence away on the first easy grin to come her way. Even if it did belong to the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
Or maybe because it did.
“I don’t have time for coffee.” Her voice wasn’t as forceful as she would have liked, but it got the job done. Made his eyebrows draw down in confusion and annoyance. Made him frown unhappily, as if he wasn’t used to his orders being thwarted.
And he probably wasn’t. Curtis sure as hell hadn’t been. But that was just too damn bad.
“One more cup—”
“No.” She pulled away from him, this time refusing to let Byron’s scowl—or his tantalizing fingers—stop her. “Thanks for the thought, but I have work to do.”
“Don’t go, Lacey. Have some breakfast.” He held out a hand, palm up, in entreaty, and she almost fell for it. Almost stayed because he looked disconcerted and lost, like a little boy who had just misplaced his brand-new toy.
But she wasn’t a toy, and she never would be again. “I already had breakfast—which you would have known had you bothered to ask.” She shoved her book and papers into her bag with trembling hands, more concerned with getting away than she was about making sure she had all her belongings. Then she gave Byron a smile she was far from feeling, and turned and headed for the sidewalks of Decatur like her favorite pair of Manolos depended on it.
The more she wanted to turn around, the faster she walked.
Well, that sure as hell hadn’t gone the way he’d planned it. Byron watched Lacey walk away, appreciating the sexy sway of her curvy ass despite his overwhelming sense of frustration. And failure.
What had he done wrong? He didn’t know, but he must have done something—Lacey had left so fast i
t was amazing she hadn’t sprained an ankle in the ridiculously sexy four-inch heels she was wearing.
He continued to stare in her direction long after she’d disappeared into the midmorning crowds. Why did her interest—or lack thereof—matter so much to him anyway? If the lady wasn’t interested, then he was man enough to move on.
Bullshit! He slammed a hand through his hair in irritation. Did she really expect him to believe that she was as unconcerned as she tried to appear? He snorted. All women should be so unconcerned. Did she think he hadn’t seen her nipples harden when he touched her? That he hadn’t felt the hitch in her breath or the sudden warmth of her skin when he’d held her wrist in his hand?
And, God knew, his body hadn’t lit up like this—at least not for a flesh-and-blood woman—in longer than he could remember. His dick was so hard it was impossible to breathe without pain, and every single thing he wanted to do with Lacey was running double time through his head.
Sinking into the small, almost doll-like chair next to the table he’d selected, he went over the scene from the balcony for what had to be the fiftieth time in two days.
Replayed it like a favorite song.
Savored it like a fine wine.
The fact that he’d been reliving it probably made him a loser. But he was okay with that—more than okay. That half hour with Lacey had been, bar none, the hottest sexual experience of his life, and he could only imagine what it would be like when he finally got inside her.
And I will get inside her, he vowed grimly as the waiter delivered his order for two. There was no way he’d let sexual chemistry like this go to waste, not when it was this rare. And this powerful.
Not when she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.
Picking up the small, white cup of café au lait, he took a long swig as he contemplated what he’d done wrong in approaching her. And how the hell he was going to fix it.
Because one thing was for sure: He needed to fix it.
She was the first woman he’d been interested in since he’d discovered that damn blog—the first one who could take his mind off his fantasy woman and her deepest desires—and he wasn’t about to let her slip through his fingers.
“Excuse me?” At the tentative voice, he loosened his death grip on the coffee cup and turned to see a young girl of maybe fifteen staring at him. She had dark hair and blue eyes and looked more than a little wary. Not that he blamed her—he probably looked like a cross between a thundercloud and a pissed-off serial killer.
“Yes?” He tried for his most reassuring voice, but it must not have been very convincing. The girl looked like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was.
“This fell out of your friend’s bag when she was leaving.” The words came out in a rush as she held out a couple sheets of notebook paper. “It looks like she spent some time on it, so I figured maybe you could return it to her.”
He stared at the slightly crumpled papers for a minute, nonplussed, then forced a smile as he took them. “Thanks. I’ll see that she gets them.”
“Okay.” The girl turned to leave with a palpable air of relief, and again he wondered what he had done to make her so nervous. He felt bad—after all, she’d given him the perfect reason to seek out Lacey again, and he was going to take it.
He didn’t even want to think about how desperate this would make him look. Hell, he was desperate. Why should he bother to hide it? Something about Lacey lit him up like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange on a big trading day, and he wasn’t going to fight it. Not this time.
Failure simply wasn’t an option.
Pushing the uncomfortable memories of his old life to the back of his mind, he glanced down at the top piece of paper. Read a few words out of curiosity. Then read them again as his entire body stiffened into one giant hard-on.
I lay in bed at night, naked, and dream you. Dream your mouth sliding over my breasts, your hands smoothing down my stomach, your fingers playing with my clit.
I follow the path I want you to take, let the tips of my fingers brush my nipples as my palms cup my breasts.
I tug on the tight crests, feel lightning shoot through me, and imagine you sliding into me. I’m wet and aching and the promise of you only makes me crazier. I feel your cock brush against my inner thigh, feel—
Byron drew his own shaky breath as the words abruptly came to an end. Smoothing one far-from-steady hand through his hair, he let the harmless-looking piece of notebook paper settle onto the table. No wonder the girl who had given it to him had been wary; he was shocked she’d managed to work up the nerve to come over here at all after reading what Lacey had written. If—
He cut his thoughts off abruptly, refusing to spend one more second dodging the holy-shit realization that had grabbed him by the balls as he’d begun to read what Lacey had written. That same realization was currently shaking the shit out of him like a great white shark, and no matter how many times he told himself that what he was thinking couldn’t be true, he knew that it was.
The woman he’d been fantasizing about for months lived right across the courtyard from him.
The woman who wrote the blog entries that had him tossing and turning all night lived in the same damn apartment building as him.
The woman who had given him the hottest sexual experience of his life was also the woman who had become his most devastating fantasy.
After all his agonizing, all his frustration, it was one more kick in the ass to realize she’d been within his reach all along.
What were the chances of that?
Unable to look away from the paper, he read the beginning of Lacey’s newest fantasy one more time, each word whipping through his mind like wildfire. Emblazoning itself on his brain until he couldn’t forget it if he tried.
Draining the second cup of coffee in one gulp, he folded the papers and shoved them into his back pocket before heading on to Decatur. Sliding past a group of kids dressed entirely in black—all of whom were white enough against the dark clothes to pass for the vampires they obviously aspired to be—he ambled toward the studio where he built his furniture and wondered what he was going to do with his newfound knowledge. Because one thing was for certain: Doing nothing was completely out of the question.
Chapter Four
Lacey ground her teeth in frustration as she stared at the Mardi Gras Madam herself, Veronique Rosen. The woman who was credited with single-handedly running the largest prostitution ring in American history looked somewhat different in person—a little older, a little grittier, a little more used—but she was definitely the same woman whose picture had been plastered all over every supermarket tabloid in the country eighteen months before.
She had the same bleached-blond hair, the same cornflower blue eyes. Same big—obviously fake—boobs. And yet it was like the woman had complete and total amnesia, as if the conversation they’d had over the phone weeks before had been nothing more than a figment of Lacey’s overactive imagination.
“Veronique, come on.” Lacey slammed her glass of iced tea on the table harder than she’d intended as she struggled to keep the anger from her voice. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe this ‘I don’t recall’ routine that you’ve suddenly got going on.”
Veronique took a long drag off her cigarette and stared at her with eyes so glazed and flat that Lacey had to remind herself she wasn’t talking to a dead woman. Veronique might be stoned—and more than a little drunk—but she was still alive and kicking. At least for now. “I don’t really care what you believe. You’re the one who’s been hassling me.”
Lacey bit her tongue against the blatant falsehood. When she’d gotten hold of Veronique weeks before, the other woman had been very accommodating—not to mention extremely interested in telling her part of the story to Lacey in exchange for some free publicity, in order to wrangle herself a book deal from a major New York publisher. Now all that seemed to have disappeared. Veronique’s unwillingness to discuss even the most basic details of the c
ase bordered on the obsessive. Or the terrified. It was just one more suspicious instance in a long line of them that was raising Lacey’s hackles.
Veronique took another long drag off her cigarette, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower, younger than it had ever sounded before. “There’s a lot more going on here than you think. A lot more than the press reported on.”
Lacey’s stomach clenched as excitement, pure and undiluted, ripped through her. “Like what?” she asked in the softest, most soothing voice she could summon.
“Like all those girls I had working for me. They were well-trained, expensive. Where do you think they came from?”
“You told the police most of them were college students.”
“Yeah. College girls. Right.” Veronique’s laugh was anything but humorous.
“They were enrolled at UNO. Loyola. Tulane. The story checks out—I’ve done the research.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re dealing with men who can turn lies into truth. Men who can make stories check out, even when they’re full of gigantic holes. What makes you think you can change that?
“The cops—” Veronique stopped abruptly. Looked away.
Lacey leaned forward, lowered her voice. “What about the cops?”
“They’ve come around, warned me and some of the other girls off.”
“Warned you off about what?”
“What do you think?” For the first time, Veronique looked angry. “Ever since you got your hands on that police file, they’ve been damn nervous.”
“They asked you not to talk to me?” Lacey’s stomach clenched as she thought of all the doors she’d had slammed in her face in the past two weeks.
Veronique’s laugh was sarcastic. “Yeah, they asked us.”
“What would happen if you did tell me something?”
For long seconds, Veronique was silent. Then, just when Lacey was sure she wouldn’t answer, she murmured, “We’d end up like the other girls—missing or dead. And no offense, Lacey, no book is worth that.”