Tease Me Read online

  So he’d rushed it, moved it up on the schedule and spent all day making sure the finishing touches were just perfect on it. When the dad had come to pick it up—he couldn’t have been much more than a kid himself—he’d been so excited and so proud and so grateful that Byron hadn’t been able to help responding. Any more than he’d been able to stop himself from giving the guy 20 percent off the agreed-upon price, as a baby gift.

  And his father wondered why he was happy being a carpenter? How could he not be? The look on that young dad’s face had been more than equal to the money he would have made on Wall Street for the same amount of hours.

  Plus, the satisfaction that came with doing something that he loved, instead of just something he was good at, couldn’t be denied. He loved building furniture, loved making something that might very well become a family heirloom one day. Loved making people happy in a way that didn’t revolve around their wallets or bank balances.

  If that made him a failure in his father’s eyes, then so be it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been fucking typecast for the role since the time he was a toddler anyway.

  Annoyed all over again, he shrugged into a set of clothes that didn’t have sawdust all over them before gathering up his wallet and heading for the door. He’d made an ass of himself this morning, and experience had taught him that flowers could go a long way toward healing the breach. Besides, she hadn’t said flowers were against the rules.

  With one last glance at the computer, he made a conscious decision to shrug off his crappy mood and enjoy the evening with his new lover.

  Because one way or the other, Lacey was going to be his. Even if it was just for a little while.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lacey paced her apartment, a glass of wine in one hand and a Godiva chocolate bar in the other. This was just one more reason why she didn’t like to get involved, didn’t like to date. Once you let a man get inside your head, you were stuck wondering about him. Worrying about him and yourself and whatever petty little fight had started all the angst. The next thing you knew, you were drowning your sorrow in booze and chocolate, waking up the next morning with a hangover and a bad complexion.

  She studied the chocolate in her hand; told herself she didn’t need it. That she was going to throw it out. Then took a big bite anyway, washing it down with the port she’d splurged on a few weeks before.

  This whole thing totally sucked. She was the one breaking her own rules to be with him—ending her self-imposed celibacy months earlier than she’d ever contemplated—and Byron had still managed to act like he was the offended party. All she’d done was set down a few rules—guidelines, really—and he’d gotten all pissy. Almost as if he’d wanted her to care about him. As if he’d wanted something more.

  But that was ridiculous. They barely knew each other. Of course, that was her own fault. She was the one who’d cut him off when he’d tried to talk, tried to invite her out to eat. She was the one who insisted that sex was the only thing that mattered.

  It is all that matters, she told herself, even as she took another bite of chocolate. It was all she would let matter, because there was no way she was getting involved with another gorgeous, brooding male with a chip on his shoulder. She’d already been there and done that, and she had the scars—emotional and physical—to prove it.

  Determined to work, she sat down at her computer, but found herself pulling up her e-mail instead. Her agent had written to check up on how the book was progressing, and before she let herself think too long and hard about it, Lacey dashed off a breezy response about how her sources had turned to shit. If that didn’t freak Kimberley out, nothing would.

  Her next e-mail was from Becca, a wish-you-were-here note from her baby sister as she backpacked her way around the world. For one brief moment, Lacey wished she was in Greece too, especially when she saw the ominous title of her third e-mail, this one from her editor.

  Melissa had written LET’S TALK TOMORROW in the subject line of the e-mail—a sure sign that she wasn’t happy about the long e-mail Lacey had written her earlier in the day, explaining her dilemma. Not that she was surprised; it wasn’t like she was pleased as punch herself.

  Shoving away from the computer, she dragged her thoughts from Byron and onto the book she had already accepted a substantial advance for—an advance she’d already spent more than half of. She didn’t have time to worry about a guy—not when her career was on the line.

  Circling her dining room table, Lacey looked at the pictures she’d printed out throughout the day. Pictures she’d done her damnedest to avoid, since the implications had become obvious.

  There were fifteen of them on the table. Fifteen.

  Fifteen girls in the last four years—ranging from fourteen to nineteen—who had simply disappeared from their hometowns in Canada.

  Fifteen girls who had gone missing from different parts of the country and then showed up dead in New Orleans weeks, months and sometimes years later.

  Fifteen girls whose lives had been cut short because someone was doing his damnedest to keep the dots from being connected.

  She was very interested in knowing who that someone was—not to mention the picture those dots made.

  Most of the girls—at least the ones under eighteen—had been classified as runaways by the NOPD, a classification that stank to high heaven, as most of them had been good students from good families, with no history of aberrant behavior. How the hell the police—and the New Orleans FBI, for that matter—had gotten away with it was something she would never understand. Someone—probably more than just one—in both those offices had to know. It would take a few people in each organization to manipulate the evidence. Even then, the only way it could have worked was if they had made sure to keep each faction, from homicide to kidnapping, sex crimes and human trafficking, from knowing about what was being investigated by the other factions.

  Still, this was insane. To do this—to keep the media from making a connection, to keep the families from discovering what had been going on—meant the cover-up had to be huge. And had to go at least as high as she’d originally feared. Maybe higher.

  But who? And how many? New Orleans politics had been dirty since the dawn of time, and certainly since Huey Long had been governor in the late 1920s. But even if playing dirty was one of the state’s recognized pastimes, that didn’t make things any easier.

  Not all the politicians were dirty, certainly, but a bunch were. The key was going to be finding out who was, and what connections they had, with Washington and with the underbelly of New Orleans crime. Because she would bet her whole damn career that whoever was involved in this cover-up was playing both sides against the middle, and benefiting like crazy from both. Otherwise—

  A knock on her front door abruptly cut off her thoughts, and her eyes flew toward the balcony. Byron’s apartment was dark, but it had been lit up like a firecracker for most of the night.

  Her heart started to pound faster, even as she told herself it wasn’t Byron on the other side of the door. Maybe Mr. Andalukis had stopped by with some of his wife’s cookies, or maybe Sarah from next door wanted to run out to the store and needed her to babysit the twins for a few minutes.

  Surely, after the way they’d left things this morning, it wasn’t Byron. Still, she couldn’t help smoothing a hand over her hair any more than she could stop herself from glancing down despairingly at her ragged leggings and tight tank top. Curtis always complained if she didn’t look good, always hassled her if she wasn’t dressed up whenever she was around him. She hoped Byron wasn’t—

  As soon as she realized what she was thinking, Lacey froze. When had she started thinking of Byron as the new guy in her life? When had she started thinking of what he wanted or liked over her own desires?

  And comparing him to Curtis—she shuddered at the thought. For one, he was a much better lover, and that was saying something, as Curtis had been very smooth at the beginning of their relationship.

  Besides, sh
e wasn’t in the market for a relationship—in any way, shape or form. Sure, last night had been great, but that didn’t mean she wanted something serious. In fact, she was positive that she didn’t.

  How could she? Less than twenty-four hours after sleeping with Byron for the first time, she was worried about impressing him. Worried about him getting upset because her career was falling apart around her and she wasn’t at her best. It was exactly what she’d sworn she wouldn’t do, exactly the trap she’d promised herself she’d never fall into again.

  And yet here she was, dithering away, both hoping and dreading that it was Byron on the other side of the door.

  Well, she wasn’t that woman anymore, she reminded herself as she marched toward the foyer. And she wasn’t going to get herself worked up because some man might be unhappy with her. If Byron said one word, she’d tell him to go to hell and then slam the door in his face. She’d—

  Lacey threw the door open with a flourish, prepared to tell Byron off if he so much as looked at her funny. But when she met his eyes over the hugest, most beautiful bouquet of fuchsia stargazers she had ever seen, she stopped dead. And prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her; she had a feeling that was the only way she was going to be able to keep from jumping him in her foyer. Again. How the hell was she supposed to resist a man who managed to guess her favorite flower his first time out of the gate?

  “Oh, Byron, they’re beautiful.” She had a hard time speaking past the sudden lump in her throat, but somehow she managed. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “I’m glad you like them.” He smiled as he handed her the bouquet.

  She waited for him to say more—maybe something cheesy about them reminding him of her, or maybe that they weren’t as beautiful as she was. Any of the old, tired lines would do, and then she wouldn’t feel so bad about having worked herself into a snit about him.

  But he didn’t say a word, just stood in her doorway and smiled at her with warm eyes. Her heart melted just a little, despite her determination that it wouldn’t.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she found herself apologizing.

  “Why? I was the one who stormed out of here. I came here to apologize to you.”

  “Come on in.” She stepped aside, her palms starting to sweat as he brushed past her. “I’m sorry I’m not dressed—I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Don’t worry about it, and please don’t change on my account.” His gaze went from warm to hot in one second flat. “I think you look great.”

  It was all she could do to keep from gaping at him. As it was, surprise had her fumbling her grandmother’s vase, and it would have crashed to the ground had he not caught it with nimble fingers.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled as she felt her cheeks flush almost as deep a fuchsia as the flowers. Damn redheaded complexion.

  “Hey, that color looks pretty good on you,” he said with a grin, setting the vase on the counter before pulling her into his arms.

  “Ugh, don’t make it worse.” She buried her face in his chest, soaking in the licorice and sandalwood scent she was beginning to associate with him.

  “Why not?” He bent down until his lips were mere centimeters from her ear. “I think it’s sexy.”

  “Now I know you’re just being nice. There is absolutely nothing sexy about blushing.”

  “Sure there is.” He pulled away, then trailed a finger over the low-cut neckline of her tank top. As he did, she realized her blush had managed to cover her entire upper torso. “It’s very sexy to stand here and wonder how low your blush goes—and whether or not I’ll get to see the boundaries.”

  He dipped his fingers inside her shirt and stroked her nipple once, twice. “Whether I’ll be able to touch them.”

  He skimmed his lips down her neck and over her bare shoulder. “Whether I’ll be able to kiss them.”

  Lacey’s knees turned weak at the first touch of his lips on her collarbone, and suddenly she was flushing for a whole different reason. “You know,” she whispered, her body strung so tightly she didn’t trust her regular voice to actually function. “You’re making it really hard for me to keep my distance.”

  “Good.” Byron grinned as he pulled her body flush against his own. “Right now, keeping my distance is the least of my priorities.”

  “Oh, really?” She met his eyes with a smirk of her own, wondering how this could be the same man who’d slammed out of her apartment this morning. Wondering what his change of heart meant. “What about the rules?”

  He shrugged, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I figure there’s something to be said for taking pleasure where we can get it.”

  “Really?” She searched his face, looking for the truth.

  “Really. Now, do you want to keep talking about this or do something more interesting?”

  “That depends on what you have in mind.”

  He leaned down until his face was only inches from her own. “Guess,” he murmured, right before his lips closed over hers.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lacey’s lips moved under his, stroking, caressing, teasing him into a frenzy, and Byron was loving every minute of it—right up until she broke off the kiss and strolled deliberately out of the kitchen.

  He stared after her for a few seconds, wondering what she was up to even as he struggled to get his body under control. How was it possible that one kiss from Lacey had him so hot that his hands trembled and his cock actually throbbed?

  From the second she’d answered the door—though he’d promised himself he’d take tonight slow with her, get to know her despite her best efforts to the contrary—all he’d been able to think about was bending her over the nearest chair and having his wicked, wicked way with her. Climbing onto the nearest horizontal surface and letting her ride them both into the sunset. Lifting her onto the kitchen cabinets and getting something cooking.

  As his thoughts registered, Byron could feel himself flushing. Had he somehow channeled his teenage self and been unaware of it? It was completely embarrassing how being around her wiped everything out of his head but the driving need to be inside her, any and every way she would let him.

  Still struggling to get himself under control, he followed Lacey into the family room, where she was standing at the bar, pouring herself a glass of wine.

  “Hey, what can I get you?” She glanced over her shoulder with a grin, and everything inside him seemed to freeze. God, she was beautiful. Not just in the conventional sense, but in so many small ways he couldn’t fail to notice. Ways he’d never thought to look for before her.

  It wasn’t just her face, though, God, she looked good. It was the smattering of freckles across her nose and the patterns they formed. Her high cheekbones and the incredibly kissable hollows beneath them. The peekaboo dimple in her left cheek that flashed only when she smiled just right. And her smile, the one that lit up her whole face and made him feel—for a few seconds—like he was the only man in her world.

  “Byron?” Lacey called his name for the second time, and he suddenly realized that he’d been standing there, gaping at her like a total idiot.

  “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “Oh, sure, sorry.” He shook his head, made an effort to concentrate. “Do you have a beer?”

  “Of course.” She bent to open the small bar fridge, and her yoga pants stretched taut over her sweetly rounded ass. It took all his restraint not to drop to his knees behind her and take her right there. God knew, all the work he’d done in the kitchen to calm himself down had been totally undone in the two minutes since he’d been in the room with her.

  “I’ve got Purple Haze, Strawberry Harvest and Red Ale.”

  He stared at her incredulously, wondering if he’d heard right. “Are those beers or song titles?”

  She laughed. “Beers. Whenever I move to a new place, I like to try out the local breweries. These are all from Abita, and they’re really good.”

  Figurin
g it wouldn’t hurt to play along, he tried his damnedest not to look doubtful. One or two sips wasn’t going to kill him, after all. “Okay. Which one is your favorite?”

  “I like them all, but I guess it depends what you want. Are you in the mood for raspberries or strawberries?”

  He didn’t have to think twice, as a picture of her raspberry-colored nipples flashed before his eyes. “Raspberries.”

  “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.” She tossed him a beer with a purple label, and he shook his head while twisting off the top.

  “I don’t know about this, Lacey. No self-respecting beer has a purple label.”

  “This one does. It used to be available only at Mardi Gras—hence the name and the color—but it got to be so popular that they brew it all year round now.”

  He stared at the bottle doubtfully for another minute before taking a swig, and was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly it went down. “It’s actually pretty good.”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.” She led him over to the couch, then gestured for him to sit. “Are you sure you’d rather stay in tonight?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a trick question?”

  She laughed. “Good answer.”

  “So, you move around a lot?”

  She cocked her head to the side, somehow managing to look like an inquisitive little cat—one he wanted to do nothing more with than to pull her into his lap and pet. But she obviously wanted to call the shots tonight, and he was intrigued enough to follow where she led. For a while anyway.

  “Is that what you want to do with the evening?” she asked. “Play Twenty Questions?” Her voice was low and inviting and took the sting out of the question.

  “Actually, I’ve got a better idea.” God knew, he had a few of them. But tearing her clothes off before the first glass of wine—for the second time in as many days—seemed more than a little rude.