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  He didn’t say anything about keeping him there.

  *

  Will

  Pausing in the act of refilling Southpaw’s food bowl, I pick up my ringing phone. “Mom,” I answer. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure, sure. Just watching my programs.” In the background I can hear the little dings signaling Vanna White to turn the letters on Wheel of Fortune. Such a familiar scene. One I haven’t visited since shit hit the fan in New York and I left town but remember like the back of my hand. “I just wanted to see how the road trip was going.”

  I think of the woman on the other side of the wall. “You could say it’s getting interesting.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s…nice to hear.” I straighten at her obvious disappointment. “Have you talked to anyone?”

  There it is. Never fails. At least it took her a full thirty seconds this time to ask. “Who would I have talked to?”

  Ding. Ding. More letters being turned. “Your father, maybe?”

  Biting down on my tongue, I resist the urge to say he’s not my father. He is, though. Denying it is pointless. “No, I haven’t heard from him, Mom. I never did. He showed up the same time every year, no calls in between.”

  Her laughter is light, dismissive of the truth. “But I thought things could be different now. Since there are no more secrets.”

  “Those secrets are why I want nothing to do with him.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t understand why it isn’t the same for you.”

  “He’s a man. All men make mistakes.” Her voice wobbles when she adds, “He shared so much with us over the years. Shouldn’t we forgive and forget?”

  Ironically, this is one of the major reasons I’ll never forgive the bastard. My mother is too trusting by nature and he took advantage of that. As far as I’m concerned, he still is taking advantage, leaving her to wonder if he’ll ever come back, now that we know his true identity. The alternative is having him break off their odd relationship, though, and I don’t know if she could handle that, either. “Listen to me carefully, Mom. He’s a criminal. He’s not the good man you thought he was—and you need to stay away.”

  I leave out the part about me warning Silas to stay away from her, in our one and only phone call, before I left New York. Not that I have a lot of faith in him listening.

  “I’m a grown woman, Will. I decide how to spend my time.”

  Knowing from experience there’s nothing I can do to make her budge, I take a breath and move on. For now. “I don’t want to argue with you.” I clear my throat. “Are you okay for money?”

  “Yes, yes,” she rushes to say, sounding equally regretful over us trading words. “It’s really not polite to talk about finances over the phone, though.”

  “You just summed up what I do for a living.” When she laughs, I can’t help but smile. “I’ll call soon, Mom. Take care.”

  “You too, Will.” Silence stretches. “I’m…you take care. Bye now.”

  We hang up.

  My mother being enamored with Silas is nothing new. It’s something I’ve been around my whole life. Her effusive praise and excuse making. I know what he really is, though. I’ll be here for my mother when she realizes it, too.

  Minutes later, when Teresa opens the door to her room, the phone call is forgotten. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved she’s wearing more clothes this time. Hell, it’s possible she’s just as edible in that little flimsy, floaty outfit as she was mostly naked. I’ve had over an hour to digest our first encounter, however. Long enough to realize she likes knocking me off balance with her looks. The question is, why does she want me off balance?

  She slides a hand up the doorframe, and the hem flutters higher up her thigh, that smooth skin begging for a man’s hands. Mine.

  “Hi,” she murmurs. “Ready to go?”

  Fucking right I am. Just say the word. “In a minute.” I prop my own forearm on the frame and step closer. “I’m taking you in.”

  A touch of irritation highlights the green in her eyes. But since I’m a gambling man, I’ll bet she’s annoyed because I throw her off balance. Not just because I’m a presumptuous cockhead. After a short stare-down, she shakes back that thick mane of hair, revealing the sweet slope of her neck. “Well, gosh. Don’t let me stop you.”

  I smile.

  She narrows her eyes.

  Look, I’m the first to admit I like putting everyone on notice that I’m not an easy customer, whether it’s the mailman or the hotel clerk I interrogated earlier. Teresa’s story about the room mix-up checks out as much as possible in this shit-show establishment, but I’m still wary as hell. Today wouldn’t be the first time a rival hedge fund played dirty, trying to find some ammunition against me. I’ve never been part of the blue blood boys club and they don’t like my wild card image. Don’t like that they can’t find a formula for my stock plays. They can’t match my level, so they prod for weaknesses.

  My only weakness in their eyes is a working-class upbringing. A reputation for settling disputes with my fists, instead of lawyers.

  Growing up in Jersey City, being the biggest guy made me a target for every punk in the damn neighborhood. So I learned early how to be prepared. How to fight. Intimidate. Battles are backhanded in the New York financial market, though. They’re not the kind of fights I grew up participating in and they often get personal. However, both types of battles require determination. And my determination to succeed meant nothing was going to hold me back when it came to putting my fund on top.

  Landing on the Forbes list next to men I’ve never heard of wouldn’t have meant a damn to me if it hadn’t been for my father’s influence, though.

  Resentment curls in my stomach. I use the term father loosely. While I was growing up, he visited me exactly once a year, on my birthday. Yet his name was synonymous with Jesus Christ in our house. My mother never stopped singing the God-man’s praises. After all, he was the one keeping the lights on. Paying for us to eat. Live.

  Over the last few years, I’ve settled into a less volatile way of life, having learned the hard way that investors don’t give their money to a fund run by a hothead. My new lease on life hasn’t stopped those rivals from attempting to undermine me, though. On two occasions, competitors have sent a belligerent, insulting drunk to my table during dinner meetings, hoping I would take a swing and make a public scene.

  There has never been a woman used as bait, though.

  If Teresa was, in fact, sent by a rival, what purpose would it serve? I’m not in the habit of whispering market values in between sweet nothings. Fuck, I don’t even know what a sweet nothing sounds like. But I’m having a hard time buying this dynamite girl showing up in my room, in a shitty Dallas motel, with no shirt. If someone was hoping to make me look like an unstable fund owner, now would be the ideal time. Investors are already skittish over my extended leave of absence from New York. Kicking me while I’m down could be a nail in the coffin. With Southpaw’s and my movements documented on Instagram, it wouldn’t be difficult to find me, either.

  So it would be wise of me to stay away from Teresa, right?

  See, caution really isn’t my style. I’ll get to the truth one way or another. In the meantime, I’m almost curious to see what she’s got in store. If she has been coached, I’ll see through it right away and she’ll get nothing of value out of me. I’ll have no choice but to walk away if she’s lying to me—lies are kind of a recurring theme in my life lately and I’m finished being on the receiving end. That being said, caution means staying in my room knowing this knockout exists on the other side of the wall. And that simply isn’t happening. I don’t have to remind myself to keep my wits about me, either, because they never take a vacation.

  “Are you finished taking me in yet?”

  Not by a damn sight. My suspicions do nothing to stop me from being turned on. She looks like a sin I want to commit. Frequently. “You can’t put a feast in front of a man and expect him not to gorge himself.”

/>   She tilts her head. “There’s not going to be any gorging tonight, sweetheart.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  “I bet you call all the boys sweetheart.”

  Her laugh catches her off guard. She jerks a little, before dropping her hand from the doorframe. “Actually I call them more trouble than they’re worth. That doesn’t bode well for you.”

  This is another reason I didn’t do the cautious thing and stay away. It doesn’t hurt that she’s sexy as a motherfucker and twice as fascinating. But if she wanted to get me in a compromising position or attempt to get insider secrets out of me, would she be wasting time by playing hard to get? “I won’t deny I can be trouble.”

  She brushes a hand against her pocket, probably checking for the room key, before stepping out. The door shuts behind her, the move bringing us up close and personal. A breath apart. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’ll tell you.” I settle a hand on her hip, easing her back against the door, watching her lips for protests. “Now that your door is closed, do you feel more secure that I won’t try and back you into the room?” Our hips meet and she whimpers, low and needy at the evidence of what she’s inspired. “I can kiss you without doing that. I’m kind of a prick, but I won’t take more than you offer me.”

  “I wasn’t worried you’d back me in.” She’s staring at my mouth, too, her voice verging on breathless, and her interest makes my ball sack ache. “If you were that type of man, you had your opportunity earlier.”

  Those protective instincts that fired to life earlier ride back in on a wave of irritation. She shouldn’t be so trusting. Even of me. “And if I’d changed my mind? Or decided dinner was too much trouble?”

  Green-gray flash up at me—and at the same time, cool metal presses to my neck. “I live in Los Angeles. Both times, I’ve had my stun gun.” A flutter of lashes. “Sweetheart.”

  Surprise filters in as I turn my head slightly, getting a good look at the object she’s holding. It looks like a flashlight, but the sharp points and divots along the surface tells me it doubles as something more hardcore. “Good girl.”

  Her chin comes up. “Good girl? That’s it?” A wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “Most guys would have called me a crazy bitch or something equally offensive by now.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Not disappointed. Just…”

  “Contrite over lumping me in with most guys?”

  “Not even close.”

  Heat licks at my veins, my groin. Where the hell has this girl been hiding? The honest truth is, if she confessed to being a plant right here and now, I’d still be interested. While that’s a hard pill to swallow, I think walking away would prove more difficult. Pressing her into the door, I lean in to absorb her rushing exhale. “Are you going to use that stun gun on me if I kiss your sexy little mouth?”

  There’s conflict and lust battling in her eyes. She doesn’t want to enjoy the way I talk to her, but she does. A lot. And if that gentle rock of her hips is any indication, she likes being plastered to me even more. “N-no. I won’t use it.”

  “Put it away.” I brush our lips together, and Jesus Christ, she’s so soft. So giving. There’s a vibration inside her that matches my own, only I can’t remember ever being aware of mine before. “You’re about to get excited and I don’t want your finger on the trigger.”

  Her head falls back in unspoken invitation and I accept, raking my tongue up the silky skin of her throat. The stun gun is lowered to her side. That tight body molds to mine, writhing against my waiting cock, even as she says, “Confident, are we?”

  “If I wasn’t, woman, you’d have already chewed me up and spit me out.”

  “I still might,” she breathes, her eyes bright with excitement. With challenge. That response sets off a corresponding pound of need so loud, it almost drowns out what she says next. “You’re not the only one who’s trouble.”

  Fuck. I’m so worked up, I’m beginning to sweat, just from talking to her. If this was a jerk-off fantasy, I’d rip off that short skirt and bang her to kingdom come, right here in the hallway. This is real life, though. She’s vetoed my motion to gorge—for now—and I don’t second-guess women with stun guns.

  So I drop my head and fuck her mouth, instead. It’s meant to be slow and thorough, but the second our tongues twine together and she whimpers, my restraint fizzles out like a torch dropped into the ocean. I’ve witnessed how assertive she is, but she submits to me, face turned up, arms slack, mouth mine. It’s a deadbolt clicking into place. Because God knows, I’m as dominant a man as they come. Yet I’ve never experienced this raw a level of satisfaction being the aggressor before. My senses are trying to find an anchor and can’t, being driven crazy by this mysterious woman who holds a stun gun to my neck one minute and gives me carte blanche with her sweet mouth the next.

  I allow us to break for air, before we collide back together, one of her thighs lifting to hug my hips. If I wrap the other one around me, I’m not sure my cock will forgive me when we stop, so even though I catch that leg and keep it tight and elevated, I focus my hunger on her mouth. The texture, the way she matches my rhythm. Our lips open wide, my tongue slides in, finds hers for a lick, retreats out, followed by incredible slanting suction. Shit. Shit, no one has ever tasted this good.

  Teresa moans into my mouth, her palms slapping my shoulders, and I realize we haven’t come up for breath in a while. It’s so bad my lungs are burning and I didn’t even notice. I’m having trouble thinking around her. “Look, woman,” I pant, rubbing our damp lips together. “I can’t help it if you taste better than oxygen.”

  There’s a catch in her breath, confusion joining the arousal in her eyes. “If that wasn’t gorging, we have different definitions of the word.”

  I wink at her. “Mine is better.” Feeling her retreat a little, I push some loose strands of hair from her face. “We don’t have to compare notes tonight.”

  Her exhale is shaky. “That’s more than enough euphemisms on an empty stomach.”

  We share a quiet laugh, our gazes connecting. Holding.

  If you’re here under some false pretense, Teresa, just tell me.

  I almost say the words out loud but manage to keep them to myself. There might even be some small part of me that doesn’t want to know just yet. “I’ll go grab Southpaw and we’ll head out.”

  Teresa nods once and I steady her before stepping away. Just before I open the door for Southpaw, I look back to find her staring into space, a frown marring her pretty features. When she realizes I’m watching her, she meets my gaze head on, her expression half bemused, half serious…and I can feel a barrier forming that wasn’t there a moment ago.

  I’ve known this woman less than a day.

  But I’m going to knock that barrier down.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Teresa

  Way to keep your eyes on the prize, idiot.

  What happened to This is a job. Eyes open. Take it seriously?

  It got scrambled up by earthy man smell and hairy, corded forearms. And that mouth. Mother of God, that mouth. I can’t even imagine how many women need to be kissed to achieve that expert level of skill. I don’t want to know, either, because it makes me want to smack him, which is scary in itself. I’ve dated players who might as well have mounted their notched bedposts on their mantles and I never gave a flying squirrel about their pasts. Yet I’m jealous over a guy I’m supposed to be conning?

  Paging common sense. Come in, common sense.

  We’re crossing the twilight-draped parking lot, heading for the tavern. There is a dozen or so motorcycles parked outside, Queens of the Stone Age blaring from its dark depths, smokers congregated in a circle near the entrance. Will wanted to take me to a nicer place downtown—maybe an outdoor café where Southpaw can cool his heels while we eat—but what little common sense remains in my hollow head told me that was a bad idea, so I suggested the tavern. I need a quick escape route to my
room, where I can lock myself in the bathroom if he comes on to me again. And he will.

  Sex—or at least, the promise of it—is going to be part of this job. I kind of encouraged that idea by introducing my nipples to Will before telling him my name, didn’t I? Resisting the pull for more, for all, wasn’t supposed to be so difficult, though. I never expected to feel this level of attraction for Will. Nor did I expect these currents running between us to be so…personal. I can’t really describe the way we look at one another, because I’ve never had anyone look at me like Will does. Like he’s dying to get to the bottom of me. Metaphorically and physically.

  Who was the girl who went all limp and needy in the face of his aggression? I don’t know her. I’m not interested in meeting her, either. Especially now, when there is so much at stake. How my brother lives his life. Maybe his life in general. So maybe that kiss was a good thing. A warning shot. If I let him physically overwhelm me, mistakes could be made. I could slip up and say something that would clue him in to why I’m really here—and that kind of mistake would lead to Will getting in touch with Silas. I won’t be in New York to protect Nicky from the fallout if I fail Silas. Not to mention, a mistake could screw up Will’s relationship with his father even more than it already seems to be. Which would put a big ugly target on my back.

  When I look at Will, I need to remember that he’s just a man. He might be smarter than the average bear and sexier than hell, but his species is genetically predisposed to disappoint. Or get bored. Or bounce just when things look optimistic. I’ve been there, done that, and this stupid flutter he gives me in my stomach isn’t going to distract me from the task at hand.

  Will tosses a chewed-up tennis ball up in the air for Southpaw. He leaps for it, landing on the asphalt with a happy grunt. He charges Will, ducking down to head-butt his owner’s thigh, then drops the slobber ball between his boots. “You want to give it a whirl?” Will asks, holding up the dripping green object. “I can give you a tetanus shot later.”

  “Ha. Um…” I start to decline. Not because I don’t want to throw the ball, but because I’m finding it hard to even look at Southpaw. I’m not supposed to know he’s got a date with death, but I do. And my cold, dead heart apparently isn’t quite as cold and dead as I thought, because I want to cradle his big, dirty head and sing Angel by Sarah McLachlan at the top of my lungs. I swallow hard and paste a smile on my face. “Sure.”