Page 49 of His Deadly Lies

He stares at me sideways. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. Tell me more about you and Ricardo. It seems like such an odd arrangement. Especially since he’s heading your operation so young.” I stress each word, forcing myself to sit there and talk like a reasonable person when I feel half drunk. From one drink.

What’s happening to me?

“Why is that odd?” Carter asks. “You’re poised to handle your father’s operation.”

“Yeah, but only when he steps down. Now you’re arguing semantics with me.”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Let’s just say we’ve been together for a long time. I've watched him grow up.”

“I bet you even laughed at his toddler antics. Come on, admit it. You were there the whole time scowling at him, but I’m sure even you giggled a little bit.”

He’s not really answering me, and I don’t understand why.

“Talk to me,” I urge him sweetly, reaching out to grip his knee. He jolts but says nothing, doesn’t push me away, and I slide my hand further up his thigh. It’s nothing but muscle there, too, his leg as unyielding as the face of a mountain.

He grabs my hand as I approach his crotch and says in a low voice, “Next time you touch me, Princess, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

For some reason, the consequences are so far outside the scope of my imagination that to picture them is impossible. Rather than push him further, I whistle out a low tune and turn on the radio.

“Far be it from me to bear any more responsibility,” I reply flippantly. “Fuck, I love this song! I love dancing and music. It’s freeing. Don’t you want to feel free, Carter?”

He’s so weird. He doesn’t even laugh at me or comment. Rather he pulls the car to a halt at a red light and turns to face me head-on. “How many shots did you take when I was gone?”

“None, you oaf. I’m not a ‘take a shot at a club’ kind of girl.” Doesn’t he know that about me? He seems to know everything else.

He watches me enough. He’s always watching, like some kind of big white-haired bird.

The comparison, along with the mental picture, has me giggling to the point where I lose control of myself, and my laughter ends on a snort.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” At least, that’s what I try to say. The words come out as a slurred mess.

Damn. I can’t form a coherent thought to save my life. What the hell is happening, and what the hell kind of martini did I drink?

I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, Carter’s opening my door and hauling me out of my seat. I beat at his chest, frustrated, confused. Every part of me spirals higher and higher.

He ends up carrying me up to my room when my own legs fail to hold my weight. It’s a small thing for him to handle me and still get the door closed behind us.

I slide down his body.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says.

How am I looking at him?

I don’t really care that he’s older right now.

Or that he’s my fiancé’s bodyguard. He’s a gorgeous older man, and pressed up against him, it feels right. It feels hot. And maybe he won’t push me away if I try to steal just one kiss. I crush my lips to his, hard and a little fumbling, latching on to him. He tastes like—

Everything.

I grip the back of his neck and drag him as close as possible, our tongues tangling together. The distance between us is still too much for me, and I need more, the feel of his stomach, his chest, his hips. The sensation and heat of his hands on my exposed flesh.

I need him.

We clash together like an explosion, and even the strange disconnect between my head and my body isn’t enough to keep me from realizing that this means something. Soon even that last bit of self-awareness disappears, and there is only Carter.

14

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