“I would have followed that reasoning if you were about to end your internship, but you’re taking a job there now. You can’t keep this relationship a secret and expect it to work.” She had gone past concern and moved into preaching, a transition I wasn’t crazy about since her logic was sound.

“Ignore her,” Becca said, waving a hand dismissively in Olivia’s direction. “Tell me about the sex—and don’t think about holding any details back!”

Olivia butted in, intent on ruining any fun. “Yes, tell us about the sex. Are you using protection?” Her eyes narrowed, and she watched me closely.

Jeez. “Yes, Mom, I am using protection,” I spat out. Becca elbowed Olivia and then leaned forward.

“Jules, I say do as much with that beautiful man as you can. And when you are done with him, pass his number on to me!”

I grinned at Becca and stuck my tongue out at Olivia. “Lighten up on me. I’m twenty-one. I’m allowed to make a few mistakes.”

Her eyes sharp, she took a swig from her beer and met my offhand look head-on. “I just don’t like it. He seems...dangerous.”

* * *

KENT BROWARD HEARD the elevator ding and looked up from the legal brief, listening for a hint at who had arrived. He hoped it wasn’t a member of his staff; privacy was needed for tonight’s meeting. His palms perspired, and he wiped them quickly on his dress pants. He clenched and then relaxed his fingers, willing the tension to leave his hands. Shit had officially hit the fan.

The man walked down the carpeted hall, headed for Broward’s open door. He glanced in dark office doorways, the wing silent and still. It was as the attorney had said—empty. He held a briefcase loosely in his right hand, an expensive suit hanging perfectly on his muscular frame, the fabric swooshing slightly as he walked. An air conditioner clicked on, the cool air welcome on his hot skin. He was always hot. His stride was relaxed; no tension tightened his body. Killing was not new to him.

The man walked into the office without knocking. Broward was sitting at his desk, his head cocked, and he jerked to his feet when the man entered. The man turned, closing the door, and Broward spoke as soon as the lock clicked into place.

“Jesus Christ, what are we going to do about this?” Broward ran his hands nervously over his shaved head, and covered his face. “This is bad, this is very bad.” He pointed to the man. “You. You got me into this!” His voice had reached a shrill level.

“No.” The man’s deep voice filled the well-appointed room. “The money got you into this. Don’t blame me for your poor decisions.” He set his briefcase on Broward’s desk and unclipped the latches.

Broward wrung his hands and looked at the man. “Look, as soon as you told me, I closed the accounts, I hid the trail. Now you gotta get me out of this. Permanently out. I don’t want anything to do with this business or this family anymore.”

The gun came out of the briefcase, fast and deadly. The man saved his witty comeback and made his statement by squeezing the trigger.

Eighteen

Kent Broward’s body was found in his office Wednesday morning at six-fifteen by Sue Mendoza. Mrs. Mendoza had cleaned the fourth floor for the last three years. It was the first dead body she had ever seen.

His body was facedown on the plush cream carpet, a pool of blood surrounding his head and torso. He had been shot twice, twin holes of death marring an otherwise average body.

When Sue Mendoza discovered the scene, she promptly fled the room, locked herself in the nearest office and called her priest. Three minutes later, she dialed 911.


6:30 a.m., Wednesday

“YOU HAVING PANCAKES ALSO?” The rude voice of Martha interrupted the conversation I was having with Brad. I looked into her wide eyes and pursed lips and shook my head. Pancakes sounded good, but it was obvious from her stance and tone that she did not want me to have pancakes.

“I’m fine with just eggs and grits, thank you.”

“Good. Brad, I fixed three. That should be more than enough for you.” She unceremoniously dumped three delicious-looking flapjacks on a plate and slid it across the island to Brad, who was sitting one bar stool over from me. Brad winked at me, grabbed the maple syrup and poured a generous amount over the top of the pancakes. Martha fixed my plate, giving me a scant helping of eggs, grits and bacon. I hopped off the stool and went to the fridge, grabbing orange juice and two glasses from the cabinet.

“There. You two should be taken care of. Brad, you know what to do with your dishes.” The round woman glanced at me, wrinkled her nose slightly, then pulled off her apron and hung it by the door. Without a parting word, she swung open the back door and stomped through, letting it slam shut behind her. I let out a breath of air and poured the juice.

“I know she can cook, but doesn’t her grouchiness get a little old?” I called over my shoulder as I put the lid back on the juice.

His hands grabbed my waist, startling me, and I jumped a little. He stood behind me, nuzzling my neck with his soft lips and scratchy stubble. I giggled a bit, set the juice on the counter and pressed back, feeling my ass fit perfectly against his hard body.

“Easy,” he growled, running his hands up and down the sides of my body, then cupping a breast in each hand and squeezing gently. My nipples instantly hardened against my bra, and I pushed harder against him. He spun me around and used his hands to grip my ass, pulling me tight against him. I grinned, looking into his face.

“What?” he asked, smiling down at me.

“You know Martha’s going to inspect our plates as soon as you leave for work. Are we eating, or are we...” I reached down and grabbed his crotch, rubbing it suggestively, feeling his flesh grow under my hand, the outline now visible in his pants.

“You really have to ask that question?” he said, inhaling when my hand gripped him firmly. He suddenly released me, and I wobbled, caught off balance. His eyes were dark, aroused, and he took a few steps back, unzipping his dress pants.

“The sink. Bend over it.” His voice was authoritative, deep, though I could hear a slight hoarseness to it, verifying his need.

I wore a black pantsuit, and removed my jacket, shivering slightly in the cold house. I met his gaze, seeing pure authority there. I took two steps to the left and turned, facing the sink and looking out the window that hung above it. Darkness still blanketed the street, and the kitchen light no doubt illuminated the room to anyone on the two-lane road. “Brad, the light—”

“Unzip your pants and drop them around your ankles.” His order came from behind me and I heard his footsteps sound on the stone floor. I hesitated, but felt the need twitch inside me, the twinge when my cunt squeezed tight and begged for stimulation. As I heard the familiar rip of foil, I unzipped my pants and pulled both them and my already wet panties down around my ankles. I bent over the sink, resting my elbows on the edge of the counter, and arched my back, offering myself to him.

I felt his rough hands, sliding down the curve of my skin, traveling closer, closer to my apex, and my eyes closed when he reached the wet area between my legs. “God, you are already wet,” he breathed, tracing my opening with a finger. I flinched at his touch, tightening my inner walls. He ran his finger over my taint and the place where it met my wetness, playing with that skin, and I gasped, gripping hard granite with my hands. I pushed back against his fingers, wanting something, anything inside me.

Brad pressed against me, putting a hand up my dress shirt. He bit my neck gently, then sucked at the skin, and I tilted my head back, opening my throat to him. “Put your fingers in me,” I whispered.

He sucked on the soft lobe of my ear, then whispered into it, the tickle of his stubble driving me crazy. “We don’t have much time. I’m gonna have to make this quick.”

Before I could formulate a response, his fingers were gone and he shoved himself inside my wet, tight core. I called out in surprise, a twinge of pain hitting me. Recovering, I fucked him back, pushing on the sink with my hands, welcoming the fullness inside me, moaning from the feel of it.

I grounded out a moan, flipping my hair over my shoulder and looking behind me, into his eyes, steel traps of passion. My juices, flowing out around his stiffness, lubricated our movement, and I gritted my teeth and bounced off his hard thighs, pulling my body on and off his cock. He took over, moving both hands under my bra till they cupped my bare tits and squeezed, pinching my nipples in a way that was half pleasure, half pain. I gasped, my head tilted back, and he rammed me over and over in quick succession. I could see our reflection in the window before me, our two faces, his fierce and masculine, mine breathless and on the verge of ecstasy. Knowing that anyone on his quiet street was seeing us lit a fire in my body, and a surge of arousal shot through me. I let go of the sink and ripped open my shirt, grasped the front clasp of my bra and undid it, exposing my pale breasts, the curve of my chest, twin blurs of pink. I saw Brad’s hands, clear in the reflection, pinching my nipples, and the image made my legs weak.

He moved in and out of me, long, measured strokes, my body aching with every outward pull. Then he slowed, burying his hardness inside so deep, so strong, and I clenched my eyes tight with the pain of his depth. Then he slowly withdrew, my muscles tensing, squeezing him tightly, feeling his girth as it traveled out and then I was empty, needing, gasping from the vacancy. I pushed back, wanting him again, desperate for the heat and sensation of his cock. But his hands held me, and he bumped me gently, teasing me with the tip. “Do you like me fucking you?” Brad’s voice, deep and dark in my ear, his breath hot. I met his gaze in the reflection, his face strong and in control, mine desperate and unrestrained.