Loose And Easy Page 24

  From up on the catwalk, he checked the whereabouts of the plainclothes cop. The guy wasn’t bad at his job. He just wasn’t good enough not to tip off Dax. By far, the more interesting person working the room was Suzi Toussi. According to his reckoning of the sale tags, she was close to selling a quarter-million dollars’ worth of naked angels here tonight.

  He was impressed and even thinking of buying one of them himself. The Johnny Ramos paintings were very cool, stark, very hard-edged, and Dax liked that. He wanted a coolheaded, hard-edged guy watching over Easy. But the other model, the blond-haired guy-the paintings of him were different, somehow more profoundly involving, more emotionally complex. One on the west wall, in particular, kept drawing Dax’s attention. It was one of the most transcendent paintings he’d ever seen, the kind of piece he wouldn’t mind looking at for the next fifty years, the kind of piece that might help a guy get through the night sometime-and God knew, every now and then a guy needed a little help getting through the night. Nikki McKinney’s process for her art included photography and paint, and for this piece she’d printed a life-size, high-contrast photograph of the angel in a creamy sepia tone on canvas and painted over the top of that in incredibly luminous, sheer colors, more like glazes, in a dozen shades of yellow, gold, and blue. The angel seemed to be in the act of lifting off the canvas, and in Dax’s eyes, there was no doubt about where he was going: straight to Paradise.

  And there was something about him that said he could take you there, too.

  He felt Jane come up beside him, from a moment spent talking to another guest. “I used to pray to that angel,” she said.

  Dax nodded. He definitely understood the impulse.

  “How much is it?” he asked.

  “It’s not for sale.”

  He gave her a curious look.

  “I think we’ve all prayed to it at some time or another over the last few years, since Nikki painted it,” she explained. “So the other angels come and go, but we keep that one.”

  And Dax guessed he understood that, too.

  “Thanks for showing me around,” he said, and she smiled.

  “You’re welcome. If I see Johnny tonight, I’ll be on the lookout for your little sister.”

  That was sweet, he thought.

  “Thanks.”

  The lovely, wild Jane went back to talking to the other party guests, and Dax set his sights on the real wild thing in the gallery, Ms. Suzi Toussi.

  She was easy to find-dark auburn hair and jade green shantung silk. There wasn’t anyone else like her, probably not in five states.

  At twenty feet and closing, she looked up and caught his eye, and he grinned. She’d been watching out for him.

  Good thing. She needed to watch out for him.

  “Ms. Toussi,” he said.

  “Mr. Killian.” She turned from another man to greet him-and he liked that. It felt right, like the way things ought to be.

  “I was hoping you might have a back way out of here,” he said, not mincing words.

  A small moue of humored understanding curved her lips and lit the hazel depths of her eyes.

  “You do seem the sort,” she said, lightly crossing her arms over her chest, which just did amazing things underneath her halter top.

  “Sort?” He wasn’t at all sure that was a compliment.

  “The sort who needs a back way out of most things,” she said, and his grin broadened.

  “The more discreet, the better.”

  “Of course.” She did a quick glance around the gallery. “Is it the man in the poorly fitted gray suit and the intriguingly nondescript navy blue tie?”

  She was good, very good, absolutely nailing the plainclothes cop, and his grin got even broader.

  “Come on, then,” she said. “Let me show you the etchings I keep on the second floor.”

  She led the way up the stairs, chatting to him the whole time, pointing out paintings as she spoke, giving a darn good impression of someone doing a hard sell. At the top of the stairs, instead of taking the catwalk, she directed him to a door at the west end of the landing, and once they were through it, his estimation of her went up another twenty points. They’d passed through to the building next door, an architectural firm, and in under a minute, they were standing in the firm’s foyer, and she was keying in the security code in order to open the front door and let him out.

  “You must know these guys pretty well,” he said.

  “Well enough to have their security code,” she agreed, tossing him a smile over her shoulder.

  Yeah, he just bet she did, which didn’t really set as well as it should have, considering how convenient it was proving to him.

  “Thanks for helping me out.”

  “My pleasure, I’m sure,” she said, concentrating on the keypad.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? To show my appreciation?”

  She finished with the code and turned to face him with her hand on the doorknob, ready to let him out.

  “I’m a little busy right now,” she said.

  “I meant later.” Light from the streetlamps on Seventeenth was doing the loveliest things to her skin, casting it in warm ecru and soft shadows.

  “How much later?”

  He wanted to kiss her, but even by his rather loose standards, that was probably rushing things.

  “I’m going to be in Singapore at the end of this month,” he said. “I know a great coffee shop on Licho Street.”

  “I’m sure it’s charming,” she said. “But I don’t think I’ll be in Singapore at the end of the month.”

  “ Bangkok in September?”

  She shook her head, a small smile playing about her mouth. “Not likely.”

  “How about the patio at Duffy’s Bar at seven o’clock.”

  “In the morning?”

  He looked at his watch. “About six and a half hours from now. I won’t have long, about half an hour. I’ve got an early flight to catch out of here.

  But I’d like to see you.”

  “That’s, um, very sweet.”

  Sure it was. That was him-sweet. It seemed to be going around.

  “Duffy makes great coffee.”

  She let out a soft laugh. “I know.”

  “It’s a date, then?”

  She laughed again, and opened the door. “Good night, Mr. Killian.”

  He wanted to touch her, just once, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked, and to sort of imprint her, he guessed. But he didn’t. He kept his hands to himself.

  “Good night.” That’s all he did-say good night, and look at her mouth, and walk out the door, and wonder if she would show up at Duffy’s.

  He’d be there. That was for damn sure.

  Well, if this wasn’t the craziest, most soul-searingly sensual thing she’d ever done, getting hot and naked and tearing up the sheets with Johnny Ramos, Esme didn’t know what would be, not that Esme the Wanton gave a damn.

  Oh, my, God… she arched her back, and he pushed into her again. Oh, my, God.

  The temperature in the bedroom had risen fifteen degrees since they’d started taking each other’s clothes off. He’d turned on a bedside lamp, and she could see the flex and give of his muscles with every move he made. She could feel the matching rhythm of his body inside hers.

  He did it again, thrust into her, and her eyes drifted closed on a wave of pleasure.

  Oh, my, God… they should have been doing this years ago. She’d been wrong that long-ago night in Roxanne. She should have… should have… oh, my, God… He was so deep inside her, pressing into her, short, hard thrusts, winding her up, taking her higher, pushing her closer, until she… until he slowed it down again, pulling out of her, kissing her, and slowly working his way down her body with his mouth.

  She moaned in frustration and pleasure, and then just in pleasure as his mouth found her breasts, and his fingers slipped inside where his cock had been and he started the whole cycle again, the teasing of her until she thought she’d die
of it.

  Johnny… she opened her eyes on a soft breath and threaded her fingers through his silky dark hair, watching him tease her nipples… Johnny.

  He was everywhere, skin to skin with her, his hands on her, large and strong, holding her, one on her upper arm, the other under her hips, pulling her tight against him. When his mouth slid even lower, her breath caught in her throat. She wanted his tongue on her, knew how magical that could feel, and he didn’t disappoint her.

  With every languorous stroke, she sank deeper into a well of pure sensation, until she couldn’t even think. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him to her. She felt the crest of her release rising toward her, and she waited, breath held, loving the soft, wet heat of his tongue, the pressure he applied, and loving it oh, so very, very much when he oh, so very gently… sucked.

  The crest inside her rose and crashed, flooding her with the most intense pleasure, moment after endless moment, his tongue still on her as she came, holding her in thrall to his mouth… Johnny.

  He’d been so bad, the baddest boy in school, to have turned out so very, very good.

  When her hips relaxed back into the bed, he raised his head, and the look in his eyes was almost her undoing. She’d been claimed, the intensity and fierceness of his gaze said it clearly-she’d been claimed, and she was his.

  Another, completely different kind of thrill went through her on a deep, visceral level. Without releasing her gaze, he moved up her body and thrust into her again, and the pleasure was so hot and sweet, she felt herself falling into a state of utter and complete acquiescence. She didn’t mistake his action for anything other than what it was-the putting of his mark on her while she was still throbbing from the pleasure he’d given her, no one else, only him.

  From the day they’d met, he’d always been there, watching over her, wanting this, to be so close to her, a part of her, and he’d been right to want it, understanding better than her what was possible between them. From the day they’d met, he’d been a constant in her life, never getting too far away, her own guardian angel.

  And, oh, God, her angel knew his way around a woman.

  Pleasure rolled through her with his every move.

  His mouth came down on her cheek, kissing her, and moved to her mouth, consuming her. His hands were in her hair, her bobby pins long gone, and she was coming undone again, her release powered by the force of his body, rock solid and honed.

  He tilted her head back and slid his mouth down to the side of her neck, and holding her, his breath echoing harsh and fast in her ear, he came, stiffening above her, his pleasure triggering her own. She was sinking and floating and couldn’t seem to hold him tight enough. Her mouth was open on his shoulder, tasting him. She was filled with the scent of him, with the hard length of him, feeling the strength and heat of his body covering her, and she never wanted it to end.

  He was doomed. Johnny had never felt it more surely in his life. When a woman felt this good, a guy was doomed. He’d do anything. He’d seen it before, when his friends had fallen in love, and yes, that was the “L” word. It made men crazy.

  But what was a guy going to do? There was no walking away from this, and that meant he wasn’t in charge anymore. It meant this slip of a female with the soft voice, and the soft skin, and the divinely soft piece of heaven between her legs was in charge. It scared the hell out of him. This was more danger than he’d signed on for tonight.

  Curiosity had gotten him into this. He’d been as curious as a goddamn tomcat about her, and look where it had led him-straight into Doomsville. Suddenly, he needed her.

  He needed the wonder of this, of being inside her, of being so consumed by her. He needed one place where he could let down his guard, one safe place, and he’d found it with her. Carefully, he eased himself free and pulled her close into his arms. Somewhere, though, sometime, somehow, she’d needed the same thing, a safe place, and she hadn’t found it.

  Facing her, both of them on their sides, he smoothed his hand gently up her back and over her shoulder. He’d felt the scars while they’d made love. He’d seen them, and he knew exactly what it was he’d seen-a kanji, of all the damn things. Someone had cut a kanji into her shoulder. It was healed, but it was there. Undeniable.

  He smoothed his hand over her again and brought it to rest on the scar, then gently ran his fingers down the length of it. A tattoo he would have almost understood, but not scarification, not on Esme Alden, not by choice. No, Easy Alex hadn’t asked for this to be done to her-which begged a whole lot of questions.

  “Hero?” he asked. He’d recognized the character, knew it from his friend Skeeter’s artwork.

  SDF’s resident kick-ass blonde wrote and illustrated the Japanese-style comic books known as manga, and heroes were always part of her stories.

  In his arms, Esme sighed and moved closer, her body softening against his.

  “I ran into a woman in Bangkok who had a knife.”

  Well, that sent a chill down his spine.

  “This is Japanese, not Thai.”

  “So is she.” She said it like it was the end of the discussion, but it wasn’t, not by a long shot.

  “And she did this to you because?”

  The question was met with silence. She was thinking, though, thinking hard. He could almost hear the gears grinding in her head.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what happened,” he suggested. “That’ll be the easiest.”

  And still she kept thinking, not talking.

  Okay, fine. She didn’t need to talk, not really. He was putting it together all on his own, remembering her on the roof of the Wazee Warehouse-so calm, so cool, so skilled.

  “It was like at the Oxford, wasn’t it,” he said. “Except things went bad. You were ‘recovering’ something, weren’t you?” She was a damn cat burglar, a thief.

  “A fourteenth-century gold Buddha,” she admitted after another long silence. “It was stolen from the ordination hall of the Wat Pho temple in Bangkok. It’s an important piece, a sacred object, and the monks pray every day for its return. They’ve been praying for over twenty years for its return.

  Dax and I got a line on it, and figured we could add some actual recovery expertise to their prayers, so we went for it. I just got a little ahead of him, ended up in a tight spot.”

  Okay, a legitimate cat burglar.

  “What happened to the Buddha?” It was obvious what had happened to her, and the thought of her being in a “tight spot” scared the hell out of him.

  “Still missing. I blew that one.”

  And gotten herself cut and scarred for life by some psycho Japanese bitch with a knife.

  “This business you’re in, this private eye, put your ass in a sling thieving and impersonating god only knows what besides cheap hookers-have you really given this career path the thought it deserves?” He didn’t think so, not really. “Seems to me there’s an awful lot of risk involved.” Too much damn risk. It was crazy. She needed another job.

  “I’d say I’d given it about as much thought as you’ve given your job. U.S. Army Ranger seems to have an awful lot of risk involved in it, too.”

  Touché.

  If anyone had told him back in high school that he and Esme Alden had anything in common besides a lot of unresolved fascination and lust, mostly his, he’d have told them they were nuts. But here they were, both a little battle-hardened, both putting themselves on the line for what they believed in. Of course, he’d take combat over psycho, knife-wielding Japanese women any day of the week.

  Geezus.

  The urge to protect her, which had always been ridiculously high in his book, was now through the roof.

  Goddammit. Love. He should have seen this coming. What in the hell had he been thinking? That all these years he’d just wanted her because he hadn’t been able to get her? That it had just been some sort of conquering caveman instinct?

  No such luck. It had been love, and he was doomed. He knew it, and yet he knew if he loo
ked really deep in his heart, if he looked beyond the stark-edged danger of the thing, the truth was that he didn’t give a damn. If he’d known being doomed felt this good, he’d have thrown himself over the edge of it a long time ago.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Something was wrong.

  Sitting at his desk, Franklin looked at his phone for the tenth goddamn time in as many minutes and knew he had a problem-two of them. Mitch and Leroy had disappeared off the goddamn planet.

  Mitch would have answered his phone with the last breath he had, which made Franklin wonder if his guys were dead, and really made him wonder who in the hell Johnny Ramos was in real life. He sure as hell wasn’t just some damn north-side Loco, not if he’d gotten the drop on Mitch and Leroy. Those two boys had been street-fighting men since the day they’d been born, and the streets they’d been fighting in were Denver ’s. Bleak owned this damn town, and he’d lost two men somewhere between Genesee and Commerce City? He didn’t think so, not to one gangster and a girl.

  So who the hell else was out there gunning for him tonight? Somebody sure as hell had beat up and handcuffed Kevin Harrell. Who was that?

  Goddamn cocaine. So help him God, he’d known better.

  But the deal had been so sweet, no fail, a sure shot-and that should have been his first goddamn clue. There was no such thing as a sure shot.

  Coming to a decision, he speed-dialed another number, and then waited through seven long rings before somebody answered.

  “Yo.”

  “Rollo? It’s Franklin.”

  “Franklin, you pussy, what the fuck are you doing calling me at two o’clock in the goddamn morning?”

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “How much?”

  “A thousand bucks.”

  “Fuck you.” Rollo hung up the phone, and Franklin gritted his teeth.