The Beach Alibi Read online

  The door opened. She smiled, standing there looking nothing like the woman he knew from the office. Not that he knew her well—or knew her at all—but he'd seen her. He'd noticed her.

  He'd just never expected . . . this.

  Her legs started with incredibly high heels and disap­peared beneath the midthigh hem of a black dress he'd have to ruck up to her waist to get under.

  The thought gave him pause . . . and an electrical buzz over the skin cupped tight to his balls.

  He nodded, keeping his gaze on her face and away from her deeply scooped neckline and the gorgeously plump curves of her tits. "May I come in?"

  "Sure." She took a step back. "I thought you might be in a hurry. I'm ready to go."

  He followed her inside, pushed the door closed behind him, swore not to think about the perfect fit of his cock and her cleavage. "One thing I'd like to do before we go."

  "Okay," she said slowly, looking up at him with her eyes wide and her smile not quite so. "What is it? Can I help?"

  He was the one who smiled then, who took a step closer, who shook his head when she started to back away. "You can help by standing still."

  "Okay," she said again, gesturing with one hand. "And what else?"

  He took hold of her hand, brought it to his chest, held it there so she could feel the desperate beat of his heart. "You can let me kiss you. And you can kiss me back."

  "You want to kiss me?" she asked, spreading her fingers wide there, his sternum beneath her palm.

  She flexed her fingers once, twice, her gaze caught by the movement as if seeing his bare skin instead of his black suit coat and gray blue dress shirt sans tie.

  When he didn't answer immediately—or at all—she raised her gaze and asked him again with her eyes. You want to kiss me? And suddenly he realized there was noth­ing he wanted more.

  A want that caught him like a hard knock to the jaw be­cause it seemed so right for all the wrong reasons.

  "Yeah," he said softly, covering her hand with his, "I do. We get this out of the way now, things will be less awkward later."

  It took her a minute, but she finally nodded. And then she wet her lips. "You're probably right. Nerves don't make for a very convincing argument."

  "Yeah. My thinking, too." His heart tripped faster; the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth was a dead giveaway that she'd noticed.

  "So," she began, smoothing back her hair with her free palm. "Here? Now?"

  Her voice was breathless. That much helped, the fact that what they were doing wasn't sitting any easier with her. He brought his hand up to cup her face, hoping she under­stood the reality of what he was facing.

  And that she wasn't two steps away from backing out.

  He nodded, gave her a tight smile. "Here and now works just fine."

  She slid both hands up his chest to his neck, cradled his nape first, then the base of his skull, and lifted her face, lips parted, eyes sharp as if taking him in like she would the rules to an exam.

  Or better yet. Like a freak on display behind bars.

  No, he thought, shaking his head. He wasn't going there, couldn't afford to go there, not now. Not with Emma's mouth inches away, his balls buzzing, and his life worth whatever they made of this night.

  He lowered his head, covered her mouth, took full ad­vantage of her lips, which were yielding and accepting and so very hot when she kissed him back.

  She slipped her tongue along his, played with his, tempted his, withdrew and seduced him into her mouth. Wet, wild, and wow, he mused, that same tingling sensation wrapping tight fingers around the base of his cock.

  This was no kiss for show, no role for which she was practicing, no test drive of the goods. This was the real deal; he turned her and backed her into the door, held her by the waist, and ground his mouth hard against hers.

  She whimpered, continued to kiss him while pulling him closer. She threaded the fingers of one hand into his hair, used her palm in the small of his back to urge him to step into her body.

  He did, spreading his legs open on either side of hers, dipping his hips so that there was no mistaking what it was pressed like a piston into her belly.

  When she wiggled against him, he reacted like any sane man and slid his hands from her waist up her ribcage to the sides of her breasts.

  He'd been right. She wasn't wearing a bra. And she would fit him like a glove.

  He palmed her nipples until they popped like gumdrops. He wanted a taste, wasn't sure he could tear his mouth free, didn't know if this was the time or the place to take things so far with the night that stretched ahead.

  The thought returned him to the moment and the reason he was here. It wasn't about getting laid, even if the distrac­tion of sex did a bang-up job of taking his mind off the threat to his life.

  A fact that surprised him because he'd never been ruled by his dick. Though he was certain that would have been true in this case, had the woman in his arms been anyone but Emma.

  He gentled the kiss, moved his hands to her shoulders, eased his mouth away. She appeared shell-shocked, much as he felt. A situation that reinforced for him that he'd been right to suggest they get this first strike out of the way.

  He smiled, felt her answering one like a lead pipe to the back of his knees. Stumbling through the rest of the night wouldn't be so bad, he supposed. He'd look the pussy-whipped part he was playing.

  "Well," she finally said, stepping around him and out of his space, "I suppose that went well."

  He nodded. Well was weak compared to what he'd been thinking. "We should go. The cab's waiting."

  "Sure. Let me fix my lipstick, grab my bag, and I'm ready."

  Gripping the doorknob as if nothing else in the room ex­isted, he decided it was a good thing one of them was.

  Four

  The cab ride over had been too quiet. The bar now was way too loud. Emma couldn't decide which was better.

  Being able to hear nothing but her own thoughts because she couldn't raise her voice above the crowd, or because the man at her side hadn't said a word since nearly kissing her out of her panties.

  Okay. That wasn't quite true. They'd talked. Small talk. Surface talk. Nothing talk. Smithson Engineering's paid parking and 401K plan. The weather. The depiction of the city on television in the CSI and Law & Order shows.

  Stuff she supposed was first date material. But not any­thing to do with the reason they were here.

  She lifted her glass, sipped at the Vodka Collins, needing to keep a clear head, though getting a good buzz would go a whole lot farther in the breaking down of inhibitions de­partment.

  Not that she'd been much the Catholic school girl earlier when faced with Kelly John's hands and mouth and impres­sively packaged lower body.

  Oh, the lashes Sister Agatha would've administered had she been witness to the scene. Emma stirred her drink with her straw and laughed softly, figuring more than the backs of her thighs would've been switched black and blue.

  "Something funny?" Kelly John asked, taking her by the elbow and guiding her away from the small cluster table where they'd been standing to an equally small corner booth that had just come available.

  She slid into the half circle seat padded in hot aqua and hotter pink, feeling much like she'd dropped into a gumball machine as colored lights strobed over head. Kelly John slid in at her side, cornering her, though not threateningly, with the bulk of his body.

  She waited for a shiver to pass before speaking, crossed her legs so that the toe of her shoe caught the fabric of his pants leg. "I was wondering how many lashes Sister Agatha would have doled out had she caught one of her girls in ju­nior health class ever kissing a boy like that."

  She didn't have to explain the that. He got it. "Is that where you learned, then? In Catholic school?"

  "To kiss?" she asked, glad they'd moved. It was easier to hear over here. Easier to focus solely on him and tune out the unwanted noise.

  He shook his head, lifted his rocks gl
ass, glanced up briefly as he did. "To kiss like that."

  She watched him suck back the Seven and Seven, caught speechless by the idea that the kiss had been more for him, as well. More than the usual. More than he'd expected.

  Just. .. more.

  "Uh, no. And to be honest"—she lowered her eyes, toyed with the rim of her glass—"I'm not sure I've ever ex­perienced a kiss like that before."

  Kelly John stretched his arm along the seat back and leaned forward, his fingers plucking at strands of her pony-tail. She glanced up, meeting his gaze, dark and heavy-lidded and echoing with man's wicked appreciation of women.

  When he spoke, his voice was low, husky. Raw. "Smile at me, Emma."

  She did, and even she knew the lift of her lips wasn't true but false with nerves and anticipation. Canting her head flirtatiously, she tried again, whispering, "Sorry. I'm not so good with this acting thing."

  His fingers moved from her hair to stroke the skin of her nape, the length of her neck beneath her ear, the exposed line of her collarbone. "Then don't act. Be as real as you were when you kissed me."

  A tall order. She had no idea where that real had come from. And searching his eyes to find it brought the tightness back to her tummy, caused dampness to blossom between her legs as if sex was the obvious endgame.

  And if it were?

  The thought of the erection he'd pressed to her earlier, the thought of him sliding slowly, deeply, into her body pro­duced the sort of smile he'd been waiting for, one that left her breathless with all she saw in his eyes.

  "Is that better?" she asked, her voice as raspy as his.

  He moved in closer, his upper body pressing her back into the booth, his mouth hovering along the edge of hers, his breath warm on her skin. She thought she might melt into butter there in the seat. He was amaz­ingly hot.

  Oh, how short had her fantasies fallen.

  "There's a camera in the corner. In the light fixture." He lifted her chin with two fingers, caught the corner of her lips with his. "Keep your eyes on me, and we'll have what we need in no time."

  What she needed was a cold shower or a stiffer drink or Kelly John between her legs. "You want I should kiss you back?"

  Her words hovered over his skin like a mirage, like heat waves shimmering above asphalt. She felt them, and she waited. And waited, breathing him in, her nipples tighten­ing, her sex swelling, wanting, aching.

  Unbelievable, this desire for this man she hardly knew, this man who had shown her what she'd been missing with a kiss she hadn't known existed.

  When he nodded, she turned her face ever so slightly and tasted his lips with the tip of her tongue. He opened his mouth, but only enough for her kiss to fit, for her tongue to touch the cool edge of his teeth, for her mouth to tremble with wanting him.

  The contact was simpler than their first time but no less intense. The simplicity introduced a new intimacy, a secret, a bond, until Emma felt she and Kelly John were breathing the same air, sharing heartbeats, waiting for the other to be the first to move away.

  She didn't want to move anywhere that took her out of his reach. What she wanted was to get into his lap, beneath his clothing, under his skin the way he'd worked his way down to the surface of what made her tick.

  She caught his lower lip between hers, ran her hand over the hard muscles of his thigh, wishing they had never left her apartment, that they'd tumbled into bed there instead of coming here to perform for a camera. . . .

  She squeezed his leg, loving the way the muscle barely yielded, and reluctantly released his most kissable mouth. She'd been caught up in a fantasy of hot sex with a hot man when this encounter had nothing to do with her orgasms and everything to do with keeping him alive.

  She did cup his face, brush his hair back over his ear. "You're an amazing kisser."

  "Ditto," he said gruffly, taking hold of her hand and pressing his lips to the center of her palm. When he looked up into her eyes, he did so from beneath those long, dark, paintbrush lashes. "What else did you learn in Catholic school?"

  She grinned without prompting. "You can't begin to imagine."

  "Try me," he said, releasing her hand and reaching for his drink.

  She did the same. "Okay, then. Cleanliness is next to god­liness. Nuns possess an otherworldly ability to detect nico­tine."

  His responding chuckle encouraged her to continue. "Let's see. Rosary beads are not designed as accessories so forget trying to coordinate them to your uniform. And, no matter how much we might wish it so, Latin will never die."

  His elbow propped on the table, his hand holding his glass, he shook his head. "So, basically, Billy Joel got it all wrong."

  "Yes, exactly. We were all much more interested in sin­ners than saints."

  "And now?"

  "I think I've managed to find a nice balance and done so"— she held up one finger—"without splitting my personality."

  He didn't respond except to down the rest of his drink in one gulp, signal to the passing server for another. While waiting, he reached for the hand she'd lowered to the table, stroking his thumb over the backs of her fingers.

  The slow lazy motion no doubt looked good on camera, but no camera she knew of could capture the tension swathing their tiny corner of the bar. What the hell had she said?

  Sinners and saints and split personalities. Which one of the three had set him off?

  Would he have given up more of his anger than revealed by the tic at his temple if there hadn't been a camera in the room? And what about that anger? Was it self-directed or, as she feared, aimed at her for whatever it was she had said?

  Less than an hour into this assignment and she was al­ready screwing things up. She turned over her hand to lace their fingers together. "I'm sorry. I said something wrong. I'm not sure what it was."

  He shook his head, still not looking at her. "It's not you. It's—"

  "—me. It is me," she insisted, because she hated that lame excuse more than she hated anything. "What did I say? I need to know so I won't say it again. I don't want to mess this up for you."

  She reached up with her free hand to stroke his cheek, to brush back the hair over his ear as a lover might do. Part of the caress was the act.

  But another part, a larger part, was the pleasure she got from the contact of her skin to his. A pleasure that seemed so simple, yet one so rich with meaning, one she hoped might convince him of her sincerity, her determination to do this thing right.

  It was what came beyond tonight that excited her. And terrified her. After tonight, they wouldn't be on display in front of an unknown audience. They would be two people with an intimate history, and she didn't want to tell him good-bye.

  Not without more of a reason than this assignment com­ing to an end. "Kelly?"

  His gaze rose; he turned his face into the cup of her palm. "Split personalities. I feel like that defines my life. That being myself got left behind when I went to work for Hank."

  She lowered her free hand to their joined ones on the table, holding his between both of hers. "You do this a lot, then? Pretend to be someone you're not? Or at least pretend to be in a situation that's, uh, not quite one hundred percent real?"

  "You don't think this one is real?"

  She considered him carefully. "Well, it's not, is it? At least this part. The you and I part? We're not involved the way it would obviously seem to anyone walking by."

  Or anyone viewing a tape later, she almost added, stop­ping because that was a scenario that made this situation very real for him.

  He was acting with her, yes. But that was it. That was all. The rest was one hundred percent genuine.

  And when the curtain came down, only then would he know if the role had saved his life.

  She didn't want to mess things up for him; that's what she'd said.

  She hadn't said she wanted to do right by Hank or per­form well because she took pride in her job. She hadn't said she wanted to be sure her involvement didn't jeopardize her own life.
/>
  She'd said she wanted to do this right for him, because of him.

  What he couldn't figure was why.

  Standing near the back hallway and waiting while Emma did her thing in the rest room, Kelly John thought back over the evening so far, amazed how easy she was to be with, how well she played her part.

  How much he wished this was real and not a scenario in­volving Spectra IT. Those just never did go down well. Even should everything turn out like a peach, parading Emma for the crime syndicate's radar was going to haunt him forever.

  Considering he was already haunted by what had gone down in Nicaragua, he doubted he'd be losing more sleep than he normally did.

  Or maybe he would, he mused, pushing off the wall on which he was leaning as Emma came into view, and swal­lowing like a man whose thirst would never be quenched.

  Oh, yeah. Sleep would be lost. For reasons having noth­ing to do with Spectra and everything to do with her very long legs.

  Five

  They hoofed it the six blocks to the theater. Once outside the club, Kelly John had started to hail a cab. Emma had stopped him. They had time, she said. The evening was breezy, her shoes quite comfortable, and she'd enjoy the walk.

  Had she said she didn't want to be cooped up with him in close quarters, she couldn't have been more clear.

  Still, she walked at his side. Close to his side. Touching the hem of his jacket, twining her fingers with his. Brushing arms. Dropping her head to his shoulder for a moment while she laughed.

  "You sure your feet aren't killing you?" he asked, be­cause he couldn't imagine walking more than a meter in the shoes she had on.

  She laughed again. The sound was musical, a storm of notes that whirled around him, tightened up and touched down deep in his gut. "I wouldn't have suggested we walk if I thought I couldn't make it."

  "Yeah, but there's a difference between making it and making it with nothing left but two bloody stumps." He glanced down at her feet. Slender and sexy and attached to the end of legs that made him drool like a Neanderthal. "Those heels look like wicked-ass finishing nails."