Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [70]
Some say near-death experiences heighten the senses. It might be true, because my senses were honed in on him like a bird dog on a chicken wing. I felt his fingers tickle against my back even as the knuckles of his left hand whispered featherlike over my chest, across the swell of my boobs, and onto my neck. His breath smelled of ecstasy in waiting as he kissed the corner of my mouth.
“Do-me earrings,” he said as he slipped his fingers beneath my glittery hoops and cupped my neck with his palm.
His lips against my collarbone made my knees go weak. I’ll never know exactly how we ended up on the couch, but we did. I was leaning up against the armrest like a drunken sailor and he was sitting beneath my knees.
He ran his hands up the arch of my left foot to my ankle.
I’m afraid I didn’t quite manage to stifle my moan. He grinned, then propped the pad of my foot against his hip and moved his hands upward, slipping the gown away as he went.
“Do-me legs,” he said.
I had never been happier in my life that I had actually shaved. The gown was just past my knees now. I sighed as he massaged my calf. My muscles went lax. My foot slipped forward. It pressed up against his erection.
Our gazes met, fire on lighter fluid. And then he was leaning across the couch, between my legs, eyes dark and intense and—
He stopped, gaze shifting just the slightest degree, body freezing instantly. I felt the drop in temperature immediately.
My mind was scrambling. I turned toward the rear of the house, and then I realized what he was looking at; Vincent had dropped his tie near the back door.
“Who did you say your escort was?” he asked.
I have nothing against lying. In fact, it’s generally my first instinct, but it had been a coon’s age since I’d seen a guy naked. I wanted to something awful, but history suggested that Rivera wasn’t the kind who really appreciated creative fabrications.
I held my breath for an instant, fighting honesty, then, “I can’t tell you.”
He was frozen above me, one arm braced against the back of the couch, one on the armrest. His biceps stood out in taut relief beneath his dark, touchable skin, and his eyes were screaming lewd suggestions that I dearly wanted to take him up on. “Can’t or won’t?” His voice was low, gruff, warning me to give the right answer. But Vincent had helped me out long ago when I had needed a friend, and I had no intention of betraying his trust.
“He did me a favor.”
His eyes were dark and deadly, but somehow my hormones didn’t give a shit that I couldn’t tell if he planned to kiss me or kill me.
“Lots of guys would, McMullen,” he said. “If given a chance.”
I felt anger course through me, but I held it in check. “How sweet of you to say.”
He stared at me. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
I swallowed. “It doesn’t matter who I was with,” I said, and found that with his hard-muscled body pressed against me, I had very little pride. A butt-load of libido, but very little pride. “I didn’t do anything with him.”
“Except nearly get yourself killed.”
“That’s not his fault.”
“Then why not tell me who he is?”
I scowled. “He’s semifamous and doesn’t want anyone to know—” I stopped, realizing the flaw in my reasoning. If he didn’t want anyone to know we were together he certainly wouldn’t have attended a public event with me, but Rivera had already jumped past that point.
“Know what?” he asked. “That he had a gun?”
“What? No. I—”
“He was the one who fired the shot, wasn’t he?”
I winced.
“A gun that is probably not registered.”
“Listen, Rivera, I didn’t know—”
Anger chased frustration across his face. “What?” His voice had risen. His teeth were gritted. He stalked to my easy chair and turned. “That you could have been shot? That you could have been raped and tortured and murdered?”
“Don’t get—”
“Dramatic?” he asked, and laughed as he jerked into a seated position. The warmth of his body abandoned me, and in that