“Want more?”

“God.” She couldn’t possibly come again, and yet the erotic sensation shivered over her skin, settling like a heavy weight in her pelvis.

“Thought so,” he murmured. After moving the vibe down until the ends barely bracketed her clit, he drove into her hard. Mercilessly. Over and over.

The vibrator buzzed on her even as his cock pounded from inside. She tightened, tightened.

“Lindsey,” he growled.

She raised heavy lids, seeing his intent face.

“Come for me now.” He moved the toy so the brutal vibrations hit her clit fully on both sides. His hips rotated, mercilessly grinding into new places inside her.

Her breathing stopped as every…single…nerve in her whole body fired simultaneously. A massive outburst of sensation broke over her, twirling her in pleasure, tumbling her away.

She gasped right before another hit. And another. One tornado after another.

Little by little, the convulsions eased. When she managed to pry her eyelids open, he was staring at her, his gaze intimate. Perceptive.

“Nice.” As she shuddered under him, he set the vibrator aside, put an elbow under her other knee so her legs were lifted into the air. He drew out and plunged deep, pumping fast and long, followed by shorter shocking stabs. When he sheathed himself completely, he was so huge and hard, she could feel every pulse of his shaft as he released inside her.

Risking a reprimand, she ran her hands over his shoulders, the velvet skin stretched tight over bunched muscles, a tactile symphony of sex.

With a measured breath, he eased his cock in and out, like a sweet farewell. His lips curved as her vagina clenched around him in tiny after-tremors before he pulled out. “You’re a treat, all right,” he rasped.

She wouldn’t be calling him a treat—he was more like the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

After giving her a brief hard kiss, he headed for the bathroom, and she managed to turn her head to watch. The man was simply gorgeous. He always wore a shirt at the club; naked, his shoulders seemed even broader. The line down his spine to his ass was bounded by muscle, and his butt was world-class. He was even tanned, despite the overcast San Francisco skies.

With a frown, she realized white lines of scars marred his smooth skin. She’d felt the tiny ridges while they were making love. And he had a long, stitched-up gash. Jeez, she didn’t even know what he did in real life. Maybe a cop? Her stomach clenched at the thought.

Hearing the shower come on, she considered joining him for one more wonderful chance to watch water flow down the valleys created by his bunching muscles. To run her fingers over his tight, tanned skin. She giggled as she rolled out of bed. She sure couldn’t see him in a tanning salon. He didn’t seem to have an ounce of self-consciousness or conceit.

Not like me. She donned the cheap terrycloth robe with the fraying hem. A secondhand purchase. Not pretty. Not sexy. But hey, it was what she had.

Her mouth turned down. Before she’d married Miguel, she’d felt pretty. Before she’d married Victor, she’d felt sexy. Neither feeling had lasted very far into either marriage. Experience had taught her a guy would say anything and act any way to get what he wanted. Intellectually she knew she was pretty enough; unfortunately, her subconscious still heeded Victor’s and Miguel’s opinions.

At least deVries had honestly found her sexy to desire. Had liked her enough to want to be with her. Totally awesome. He likes me.

She tied the robe closed. Didn’t it just figure that now she had someone over who might appreciate hot lingerie, she couldn’t afford any? Her life sure had changed in the blink of an eye—from a Texas ranch, to college, to Victor’s fancy San Antonio house, to being on the run and broke.

She bit her lip. She couldn’t live like this the rest of her life. Not only for herself, but for everyone else being hurt. Victor’s brother, Travis, wouldn’t have shut down the smuggling operation. Guns, drugs, slavery. Travis had to be stopped. Somehow.

The last time she’d talked to a cop, she’d almost died.

Her cheerful mood was broken as a chill swept over her. She’d slept like an exhausted puppy with deVries in her bed. Not worrying about whether Travis Parnell might have found her and sent someone to silence her.

She glanced back at the shower and headed for the kitchen.

A few minutes later, she set the small café table in front of the bay window. Pretty convenient she’d baked quiche the day before—it made a great ready-made breakfast. He’d probably think her an idiot to feed him, but Mama had exacting notions about hospitality.

Of course, her mama would consider deVries more of a devil than a guest, and she’d be right. Be that as it may, if Lindsey fed the man, maybe he’d mellow and actually talk to her. Breakfast with the Enforcer. God.

On the way back to the kitchen, her gaze fell on the antique rolltop desk. And the newspaper clippings showing Craig’s body, his police uniform stained with blood. More articles were there about the hunt for Lindsey Rayburn Parnell who had apparently shot her husband, Victor, then murdered a cop to escape. Lies, damn them.

Footsteps reminded her of her guest. Breath catching, she shoved the rolltop down to cover everything even as deVries walked out of the bedroom. Her voice shook as she said, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” His gaze ran from the desk up to her face.

“I have some breakfast for you.” She hurried over to the kitchen island, picked up the plates, and carried them to the table. Be cool. Be cool. After a calming breath, she turned and gave him a bright smile. “I hope you like quiche.”

He hesitated, obviously surprised. “Long as eggs are cooked, I’m good.” He joined her, nodding when she lifted the coffeepot. “Thanks.”

While he ate, she burbled about the weather, the club, anything she could think of. She’d never had trouble talking with people. Psychology and social work degrees had perfected her ability to plow through the most awkward of moments.

If only he would stop looking around the room. The worry she might have left something else out made her squirm. Even worse, every time his eyes met hers, her brain emptied of thoughts like water swirling down the drain.

As he took his last bite and leaned back with coffee in hand, she finally asked, “So, what do you do for a living?” Aw heck, she sounded dumb. Nonetheless, she was dying to know where those scars came from. “Are you a cop?” Her fingers tensed on her cup.

His eyes were more green than gray in the morning light, and she could have sworn amusement lurked in the depths. “I work for Simon.”

Right. Rona’s husband owned a security and investigations firm. “Is it that dangerous?” Oh shit, she’d blurted her question out.

“What?” He paused with his cup halfway to his mouth.

Her gaze dropped to where his leathers covered the stitches on his hip.

“Happened during my time off. A buddy tripped—the clumsy bastard—and I ended up with this.”

Jeez, was his buddy playing with a knife or something? “Oh. That’s a crappy thing to happen on a holiday.”

“Guess so.” Although his eyes had somehow darkened, his lips twitched.

She eyed him suspiciously. Sometimes she got the definite impression he thought she was funny, even that he was teasing her—but surely not. Honestly, as a social worker, she had awesome instincts about people. Normally. However, the Enforcer somehow managed to wipe her mind as if she were a computer and someone hit Delete File.

“So where in Texas were you raised?” he asked.

“Um. Did I say I was from Texas?” Why had she been stupid enough to ask him questions?

“Got the accent, babe.”

“Oh.” Here she’d thought it wasn’t very noticeable. Where in Texas… Hmm, she sure wouldn’t mention her town on the Mexican border where everyone knew Lindsey Rayburn. “A-around Dallas. How about you?”

His gaze was on her fingers…and the napkin she was crumpling. “Born in Chicago.” He glanced around the room. “Guess you don’t have to do anything to make a living.”

At least she could tell the truth for this one. “Oh, but I do. I work as a receptionist.” Well, she would work for another day or so until the woman whose position she’d filled returned from maternity leave.

“Receptionist?” He straightened. “Right. Bullshit.”


WHEN THE PRETTY submissive’s gaze jerked up, deVries almost winced at his rude statement. Still—no receptionist could afford this place. The table where they sat would take a year’s salary. The rest of the furniture was of the same pricey level. Not possible.

He’d already been annoyed over her “raised around Dallas” bullshit. She was a piss-poor liar. “Did you inherit money or something?” Like this condo.

She gave him an incredulous look. “I wish.”

Curiosity drove him on. He’d never been able to release a question once his teeth were dug in. “Guess you must have married for money, huh?”

“I—” Red swept into her face, one shoulder went up, and damned if her head didn’t give an unconscious affirmative. “I—” She picked up her cup as if it could provide a shield.

Married for money. One major kick to the gut. It brought a partnering thought. “You telling me I fucked a married woman?”

“No. No, I don’t have a husband.”

That, at least, looked honest. “Divorced, huh?” Was that how she’d ended up rich? His mouth tightened.

When her cup shook, she set it down. “Why all the questions?”