Hot Sexy Desire Page 6

  “Well, um, nice to meet you. Are you here to…?”

  “You too. And I’m here to see Lola. I need to have a special wedding dress made.”

  “Congratulations,” I say, although her ring finger’s oddly empty. Maybe she had to get it resized or something. She doesn’t strike me as the type to forgo a ring, like some of the more practical couples I know. People who are that pragmatic do not have Lola design their dresses. Or have their long nails painted with pink cherry blossoms against a vivid pearlescent magenta, accented with small faux-diamond chips.

  “Anyway, thanks again,” she says, then she grabs a cup of coffee and leaves.

  I get a fresh mug too, and the fruit cups from the vending machine. I start to walk away, then stop. The spider!

  I squat down and pull the cup off the eight-legged creature. It looks at me balefully over its imprisonment. “You’re lucky I don’t hate you.”

  I decide it’s a male and scoop him into the cup, then put a lid on it, intending to take him outside where he can’t terrorize anybody else.

  But then I get a better idea.

  “You know what, Mr. Arachnid? You should come home with me.” I stand and start walking back to my cubicle, juggling my four cups. “Why? Well. You have to help me. You like being helpful, don’t you?”

  I’m talking to a spider like it can understand me. A giggle wells up. It’s fun and oddly comforting to think I have a co-conspirator, even if he’s just a teeny little thing…and probably unwitting.

  * * *

  Antoine

  Today’s pickup goes without a hitch. Mrs. Lim is a nice woman, and the papholes are being slower than usual. But I know it’s only a matter of time before they figure out how Kristen is leaving the place. If they applied the same persistence to solving world hunger, nobody would starve.

  Kristen’s in a perky mood. Maybe things have gone well at work. Certainly there’s no shithead cousin trying to tell her how she should live her life…or who she ought to marry and have babies with to inherit money she doesn’t want.

  “Do you need to get anything from your place?” I ask. “Make me a list and I’ll have it sent over.”

  “I don’t think so. I brought everything I need yesterday.”

  Both my eyebrows rise before I can stop them. “Huh.”

  “Why huh?”

  “Because you only brought a carry-on case.”

  “So?”

  “Most women need at least two truckloads of stuff.”

  Kristen giggles, reassuring me that she’s okay. The social media reaction hasn’t gotten much better, especially with some shitholes claiming they saw her flashing other underage kids. Hopefully she hasn’t logged on to Facebook or Twitter.

  “Is that a subtle dig at Liza for taking four suitcases on her honeymoon?” Kristen says.

  I shrug. “It isn’t like she’s going to be wearing a lot of clothes. Even if she were, Dominic would strip them off her.”

  Kristen presses her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Ack! Gross, Antoine! He’s my brother!”

  I laugh. It’s fun to tease her, and the side benefit of having her forget all her worries isn’t bad either.

  And she’s super adorable when she’s being teased.

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  She’s adorable like the sister I never had. Not adorable as in a sexy, hot, desirable woman I’m doing my best to put in my “don’t touch” box.

  But it’s impossible to find her less than mesmerizing when her eyes sparkle, her cheeks flush and there’s a big smile on her soft lips. My skin prickles as awareness sweeps over me, and I tighten my grip around the steering wheel.

  Like the SINH. Like the SINH.

  This isn’t helping. SINH sounds like sin, not a libido-killing acronym for Sister I Never Had.

  Libido: one. Antoine: zero.

  Fail.

  Chapter Twelve

  Antoine

  When we’re about fifteen minutes from Dominic’s penthouse, Kristen orders Chinese for dinner. My mouth curls distastefully at the papholes outside the building. But that’s about as far as they’re going to get because security won’t let them any closer. I take the SUV into the underground garage, and we take the elevator from there to the top floor.

  “Persistent, aren’t they?” Kristen says.

  “Have to be, I guess. Those lowlife scum would’ve starved to death years ago if they weren’t.”

  “Right.” She nods. “As long as they stay away, I can deal.”

  “They will.”

  Kristen smiles up at me like I’ve just single-handedly slain a horde of dragon-riding barbarians with nothing but a sword and wooden shield. I can’t help but feel a hundred feet tall.

  But only as a guy who has brotherly feelings for her, not as a guy who wishes he could somehow use it to his advantage.

  I unlock the door and open it. Kristen walks in first, and I follow…then stop at the piles of boxes forming a mini Mt. Everest in the foyer.

  “What the…? What are those?” I say.

  “Stuff I need. You know, clothes and shoes and things,” Kristen says.

  “I take it back. You’re worse than Elizabeth.”

  She laughs and bumps a shoulder against mine. A sudden urge to wrap my arm around her lights my brain up like a Christmas tree, but I catch myself in time. Her infectious mood is making me let my guard down…which is weird as hell because normally I’m a paranoid, suspicious bastard. That’s what makes me good at my job.

  “When did you find the time to buy this much stuff?” I ask, in an attempt to drag my thoughts away from how lovely Kristen looks, how open and brilliant her blue eyes are…and how alone we are in the penthouse.

  “They must be from Jo. I just didn’t know she was sending this much stuff.”

  “Who’s Jo?”

  “A personal shopper. You know, someone who helps you…coordinate and choose clothes, among other things.”

  I stare at Kristen. “People actually make money doing that?”

  She nods, entirely too serious. “Yup.”

  “Wow. And here I thought paying somebody to cuddle with you was dumb.”

  “Supply and demand.” She shrugs. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind paying someone to cuddle with me, depending on the person.” She then starts to go through the boxes, checking the contents.

  What the hell? Pay someone to cuddle with her? Pretty much any guy would want to do that for free.

  Actually no. No man should cuddle with her. That’s offensive. Like, “I want to pummel the bastard with my fist” offensive. I might even throw in a few kicks for free.

  Kristen continues as though she’s read my thoughts. “I think it’s nice to have a sweet connection with someone, not just sex, you know? And I’d love a silent cuddle since the whole…you-know-what, to make me feel like not everyone hates me.” She pauses and laughs a little awkward laugh that puts an aching hitch in my chest. “Well. Not everyone hates me. I got roses at work. Isn’t that funny? It’s like that guy must never go online. Because if he did, he wouldn’t have sent flowers to Public Enemy Number One.”

  I stare at her, doing my best to control my fury. I know exactly who her Number One Admirer is. Fucking Nicolas.

  “Did the mailroom scan them?” I ask.

  “For what?”

  “Could be a bomb.” It is a bomb. The kind that’s going to earn Nicolas a punch in the nose.

  Kristen giggles. “Nothing blew up. And they smelled divine.”

  “Anthrax,” I say, unable to help myself. I’m feeling too damn petty. And pissed off.

  I told Nicolas to stay the hell away from her, and I meant every syllable. He thinks this is some kind of a competition in manipulation. Sending her flowers when everyone else is piling on is just something he can do to make himself appear like a gentlemanly supporter. He doesn’t understand or care that Kristen is a real, genuine person with feelings and an easily bruised heart. He only cares about beating me.

&nb
sp; And I’ll be damned if Nicolas will con Kristen into marriage and having a baby with him. That’s… My upper lip curls. I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

  You can marry her and have a baby. Then Nicolas can’t. Voilà, problem solved.

  I roll my eyes. That’s the stupidest suggestion my brain’s ever come up with in three decades of life. Voilà, my ass.

  I don’t give a shit about Papy’s proposition, but this whole situation with Nicolas is pissing me off. He could marry any girl—except Kristen—and have a baby. Then I wouldn’t have done anything, and he would’ve been fine. Now, I’m going to sabotage him. Not because I want to win. But because he isn’t good enough for Kristen. She deserves far better.

  Thankfully, the arrival of our food stops my dark plotting. I tip the delivery guy and help Kristen lay out hot cartons of moo goo gai pan, beef with broccoli, fried rice and a big plastic container of egg drop soup.

  My appetite’s minimal. I’m too restless to eat, but I can’t abandon Kristen and hit the gym like I want. As safe as Dominic’s penthouse is, I’m here to watch over her, and I take her security seriously.

  She, on the other hand, seems to be ravenous. “Doesn’t Lola give you a lunch break?”

  “Yup,” she says between bites. “But I didn’t eat lunch. Well, I did…but it was sort of sad.”

  “How come?”

  She swallows her fried rice, then unloads everything, starting with the way her coworkers treated her, and her feeling self-conscious and targeted. “It could be I’m just projecting,” she says. “But I can’t help but feel bad, you know? Like I’m some new exotic species of albino ape brought in from the North Pole. Yeah, I know, apes don’t live in the Arctic. But you know what I mean.”

  “Sure,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid. Or that your coworkers aren’t being rude to you by staring, whispering and taking pictures.”

  “The picture thing might be something I imagined…” She sighs. “I’m sure it’s awkward. We don’t make the tabloid news, the people who wear our clothes do. Well, some of them anyway.”

  True. Lola, Inc.’s haute couture items are popular among celebs. The kind of people who routinely get photographed and talked about.

  “It’s seriously messing things up at work. I can’t be effective when everyone’s starting at my boobs! Or speculating. Or tittering. Or judging.” Kristen pushes her food around, but eventually finishes her dinner, then looks at my still half-full plate. “You aren’t hungry?”

  “Just the opposite of you,” I lie. “Big lunch.”

  “Oh. Want me to put all this away?”

  “Nah, I got it.” I stand, put Saran wrap over my plate and put it in Dominic’s super fancy fridge. Then I look at Kristen. “Why don’t I clean up here, and you can just…do whatever. Catch up on job stuff if your coworkers annoyed you too much to focus in the office.”

  She laughs. “Thanks, but I didn’t bring any work home. I’m going to shower, relax, read a filthy romance novel I downloaded and go to bed.”

  Then she rises to her toes and kisses my cheek, one hand on my shoulder. She smells faintly of the jasmine and floral shampoo she likes so much. The contact burns me, her lips like a glowing brand on my cheek. My skin grows tight, and before I can react, she’s already off to the second level…and her room.

  Down, Southern Traitor.

  My dick has no intention of returning to its more socially acceptable state. I wipe a hand over my mouth, eyes on the stairs, even though Kristen isn’t there anymore. Restlessness builds until I feel like I’m about to bounce off the walls. Shit. Why did she have to kiss me like that? I mean, if I were actually her brother, it’d be okay…but I’m not. So she shouldn’t have, right? It makes things weird and complicated, and I don’t need weird or complicated when it comes to Dominic and Kristen.

  I didn’t meet Dominic or become his friend until we were twenty-three. I came to Los Angeles with no money and no real plan except to get the hell away from my crazy family and all their histrionic turmoil. Dominic and I met at work—doing super-tedious but needed-to-be-done shit that was part of paying our dues. I don’t even know exactly what made us bond, but we did. He and I got along well, and he liked me, saying, “A man who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty to get the job done is golden.”

  After work, we drank, shot the shit and hung out. He was down to earth, and I enjoyed his straight-from-the-hip style after my drama-crazed family.

  It wasn’t until later that I learned he was the owner of the company, and was working his way around various jobs to learn the business. When I asked him about it, he said, “I didn’t think it was important. Do you?”

  And it wasn’t. We would’ve become great friends no matter what.

  But because I didn’t meet Dominic until we were twenty-three, I didn’t really know about Kristen. I only knew he had a baby sister, who was off at college and studying whatever people who like fashion study.

  I didn’t get to meet her until three years later. On a rainy street in Los Angeles. Dominic was inside a Starbucks, grabbing a table and coffee and waiting for his sister to arrive, and I was out, enjoying the rain. Living in L.A., I miss a good precipitation from time to time. There’s nothing more cooling and soothing than a fresh rain.

  Then I saw her…and my heart skipped two beats, something I thought only happened in corny chick flicks and romance novels. But she looked so fresh and sweet, like a gorgeous blossom in full bloom on the savannah.

  I don’t know how long I stood there watching her, studying the elegant curves of her face and the bright joy in her blue eyes, until that damned car with the idiot driver who shouldn’t have been out on a wet day swerved toward her.

  I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. My entire focus was saving her. I didn’t care what happened to me.

  And I did save her…only to experience adrenaline-fueled elation and then quickly taste the bitterest disappointment at learning that she was Dominic’s baby sister. I’m not willing to destroy my friendship with Dominic. I did the “dating the best friend’s baby sister” thing once, and it was the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I’ve learned my lesson. Losing Eddie was like cutting off an arm. I’m not doing it again.

  I throw myself on the sectional, turn on the TV and flip through the channels. Dominic’s penthouse is fairly well soundproofed. But I swear I can hear the water running in Kristen’s en suite bathroom. And my worthless Southern Traitor is conjuring up the image of her standing nude under the rainfall shower, water sluicing down her smooth skin…along her shoulders…between her full, ripe breasts and sweet nipples and going lower and lower until it flows over the apex of her thighs…

  Damn it.

  Don’t forget she’s going to read something filthy. You think that’s gonna turn her on? whispers the evil Southern Traitor.

  No, no, I’m not going there.

  Maybe she’ll get horny enough to touch herself. This isn’t the Victorian era. Women have vibrators these days…and they know how to use them.

  I put a hand over my eyes. It doesn’t help. My mind, ever the unhelpful bastard, conjures up an image of Kristen lying naked on her bed, sheets twisted around her, a hand between her parted thighs, two fingers dipping into her pink, glistening flesh…

  Fuck me now.

  Argh! Fuck is the last word I should be thinking of. I need to think of something super gross, pronto. Like…

  I draw a blank. What the hell? I know a lot of gross things. It’s a prerequisite for being a guy.

  Finally, I get something. Nicolas naked, having sex. I think I felt a bit of acid reflux. Well, nothing kills the libido like my cousin.

  Except…he isn’t having sex with just anybody. He’s having sex with Kristen. And they’re going to have a baby. Rage shoots through me like a volcanic eruption. I jump to my feet and start pacing. Of course, none of that’s going to happen. It’s my brain getting confused about what I need to calm down because I’m not at all cal
m. It isn’t better than being inappropriately turned on, thinking about Kristen because the burning feeling in my gut is jealousy, and I shouldn’t be jealous. I should be merely upset because Nicolas isn’t good enough for her.

  Maybe I should call Tolyan and ask him to watch Kristen for a couple of hours so I can go to the gym downstairs and work off this aggression. Otherwise, I’m going to bite somebody’s head off or do something equally stupid and inadvisable.

  I pull out my phone, thumbing through my contact list for his number.

  A bloodcurdling scream.

  Kristen!

  The phone falls from my hand as I leap three steps at a time up the stairs to her room, my gun in my hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Antoine

  Adrenaline, rage and fear pump through me. The few seconds it takes to reach her room stretches out into an eternity. A man can do a lot of damage to a helpless, vulnerable woman in that time. The fucker can assault her. Grope her. Terrorize her. And so much more.

  If some fucker has hurt her, he’s not walking out of here alive. I should’ve killed the asshole in her apartment, too. Word needs to spread that if you hurt Kristen King, you’ll pay with your life.

  The gun is comforting in my hands—an old, trusted friend. I leap into the bedroom, then kick the door to the bathroom in, gun raised, ready to blow the fucker’s head off.

  But…there’s nothing. I don’t spot anyone except Kristen wrapped in an oversized towel. There’s no place for an intruder to hide. Fury and adrenaline roar in my head, and my skin prickles like there’s electricity running over me. Where’s the motherfucker who scared her?

  “Oh my God, Antoine!” Kristen gasps.

  “Where is he?” The windows are closed, the locks engaged. The bathroom’s slightly foggy from the shower, and the scent of her soap and shampoo lingers.

  She points at the bottom of the heavy glass stall door. “Down there.”

  “What?” I don’t see anything. Adrenaline is making it hard to focus. My heartbeat thunders in my head: boom boom BOOM!