by Elle Kennedy
“She was . . . very, very fragile. I was just a kid, but even I could see how delicate she was. It’s funny, she wasn’t crazy-skinny or even all that petite, but I could so easily picture her getting blown away by the tiniest gust of wind. She looked like she’d break if anyone touched her with even the slightest bit of force.”
Trevor knew the type. He’d met both men and women who exuded that same fragility. No inner strength—that’s what it boiled down to, but he didn’t want to paint a black spot on Isabel’s mother’s memory by insinuating she wasn’t strong.
Then again, he had come damn close to killing himself after Gina’s death, so he wasn’t exactly in a position to judge.
“I found her in the bathtub. She slit her wrists, and the water was . . . Jesus, it was so red. I remember thinking at first that it was fruit punch or something, and I couldn’t understand why she was taking a bath in juice.” Nothing showed on her face, but bitterness had crept into her tone. “I started shaking her, and when she still didn’t wake up, I realized it was blood.”
Sympathy clogged his throat. He let go of her hands and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Do you know why she did it?”
Sighing, Isabel rested her cheek on his shoulder. “She left a note. I never read it, but years later, my father told me what it said. Apparently she was tired of life.”
He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t.
“That was it? That’s all she wrote?”
“There was some other stuff, but it’s not important,” Isabel said vaguely.
Trevor’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he didn’t want to push her for answers. He was scared that would only push her right out of the room.
“I don’t blame her for being tired.” Isabel laughed, but it sounded hollow. “I was a bundle of energy when I was a kid. She was constantly running after me, begging me to sit still.”
An alarm went off in his head. “Isabel . . . you don’t blame yourself for her death, do you?”
“Of course not,” she said quickly.
Too quickly.
Before he could press, she hurried on. “Anyway, after she died, I went to live with my grandparents in Jersey, and honestly? I was relieved. I loved my dad, but I always sensed the danger in him. Know what I mean?”
“I can’t even imagine what it would be like growing up with a mobster for a father.”
“What did your dad do?” she asked curiously.
“He worked at a lumber mill.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about him. Is he still alive?”
“He died during my first tour of duty. Lung cancer. The doctors said inhaling all that shit at the mill might have been a contributing factor. The man didn’t smoke a day in his life.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She paused. “What about your mother?”
“Alive and kicking.” He grinned. “She lives in Denver, remarried about five years ago. She and Gina were shopping buddies.”
“They were close?”
“My mom adored Gina. So did Krista—that’s my younger sister. Kris moved to Wyoming a few years back when her husband got transferred for work.”
“Do you keep in touch with them?”
“I’ve been making an effort to call and e-mail this last year, but right after Gina died . . .” His heart constricted with pain. “Well, you saw the shape I was in. I pulled away from them, same way I did with everyone else in my life.” He searched her eyes, which were so unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. “What was it like in Jersey for you?”
Another cloud of sadness floated across her face. “I had some good times there. Went to school, made a lot of friends. My grandfather died of a heart attack when I was fifteen, so after that it was just Nona and me. She died a few years later. We got in a car accident.” A pause. “I was driving. There was nothing I could do. It was the dead of winter, the roads were a mess, and we were rear-ended by a snowplow. Our car shot forward and smashed into a pole, and Nona died on impact.”
Trevor touched her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
She gave a little shrug. “It was a long time ago. I was eighteen when she died, so I didn’t need a guardian or have to move back in with my dad. I went to NYU, studied criminology, and was recruited by the FBI.”
The reminder was slightly jarring. He kept forgetting that she’d been a Fed before she went to work for Noelle. He could totally picture it, though. Isabel in one of those tight-fitting suits those female Feds loved to wear, her blond hair pulled back in a tight bun, a standard-issue Beretta holstered at her hip.
Damn, why was that image so frickin’ hot?
“And you got assigned to the organized-crime unit,” he finished for her.
“Yup.”
“Using your family history to infiltrate the De Luca organization.”
“Uh-huh.” She fidgeted beside him, then ducked out from under his arm. “I’m tired of talking. Actually, I’m tired, period.” She began to rise. “I should go to my—”
“Stay,” he cut in.
Her eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t give her the chance to protest. Grabbing her hand, he yanked her down, right into his lap. Then he cradled the back of her head, brought her mouth to his, and kissed her.
• • •
Even if she’d wanted to object, Isabel couldn’t conjure up the ability of speech. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Trevor’s mouth felt like heaven against hers. His lips were firm yet soft, gentle yet rough, and his kiss was both tender and greedy. The contradictions made her mind spin, sent her pulse careening.
She kissed him back with a fervor that surprised her. She didn’t try to stop him, didn’t push him away, didn’t pretend that she wanted to be doing anything other than this.
God, this. His tongue licked its way into her mouth, bringing a moan to her lips. He swallowed the desperate sound and angled his head to deepen the kiss.
“I love the way you taste.” His mouth broke free, his voice so hoarse and thick with desire that her heart beat even faster.
When he cupped her breasts over her shirt, they both groaned.
“And I love the way you feel,” he rasped, sweeping his thumbs over her hardening nipples.
She wasn’t wearing a bra, and each touch, each gentle pinch, sent a jolt of heat right down to her core. Their ragged breathing moistened the air as their mouths broke apart again. She sucked in a breath, only to inhale Trevor’s incredible scent.
With a soft whimper, she gripped his strong jaw and brought his mouth back to hers, needing that connection again.
Needing him, damn it.
Her fingers trembled as she touched his face. The stubble shadowing his chin abraded her fingertips, serving as a reminder of his sheer masculinity. He was so very male—broad shoulders, solid chest, sexy beard growth.
A thrill sizzled through her as Trevor gently lowered her onto the bed and covered her body with his. They were both fully clothed, yet her skin was on fire, tingling and pulsing, little sparks crackling in her nerve endings.
“I haven’t done this in so long,” he said huskily, then moved his mouth to her neck and sucked.
Isabel shivered. God, that felt good. So good she could barely focus on what he was saying. “Done what?”
His lips kissed a path up to her ear. “Made out with a woman.” His tongue tickled the shell of her ear. “I feel like I’m totally out of practice.”
Somehow, his sheepish admission put her at ease. Her fingers were no longer trembling as she traced the hard line of his jaw.
“Me too,” she confessed.
They kissed again. Long and slow, tongues dancing, bodies arching and straining to get closer. With a groan, Trevor thrust one firm thigh between her legs and ground against her. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of boxers, but the material of those boxers was thin, so thin it was impossible to hide his arousal. Isabel moaned when she felt that thick erection pressing into her thigh.
Thril
ling. Terrifying. She couldn’t decide what this was.
All she knew was that she didn’t want it to stop.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hooked one leg around his trim hips, a move that deepened the contact between them, intensified the friction. Every inch of her ached. Breasts. Nipples. Clit. Even random body parts she wouldn’t have associated with arousal throbbed with exquisite agony. Her neck. Her belly. The backs of her knees.
She’d never experienced anything like this before, this overpowering need to have a man inside her. To be claimed. Possessed.
“No sex.”
Her eyes flew open as Trevor’s half growl, half moan of anguish registered in her head.
An instantaneous gust of disappointment blew into her. “What? You don’t want . . . ?”
“Oh, I want. I want it very, very badly.” His whiskey brown eyes gleamed with such passion it took her breath away. “But not tonight. Not when it’s so late, and definitely not when it’ll have to be rushed.” That gaze burned hotter. “I want to take my time with you, sweetheart.”
Her pulse raced. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
He slid his hand down her body and cupped her mound.
Isabel nearly bucked off the bed. “But you just said . . .”
“I said no sex.” His laugh was surprisingly cocky. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do . . . you know . . . other things to take the edge off.”
To punctuate that, he rubbed her aching core in slow, teasing glides.
Pinpricks of pleasure danced over her flesh. When he applied pressure on her clit, she moaned softly, her hips beginning to move in a restless rhythm. The tension building inside her was unsettling, unfamiliar.
Male satisfaction darkened his eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Isabel.”
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. “I don’t even look like me.”
Trevor smiled, an odd, secretive little smile. “Yes, you do. You look exactly like you, baby.”
What on earth did that mean?
She didn’t have time to dwell on her jumbled thoughts and confusing emotions because Trevor used that moment to slip his hand underneath the waistband of her leggings. His finger dipped inside her panties, and they both groaned when he encountered her bare sex.
“Christ, that’s hot,” he choked out. “Are you always like this?”
She managed a nod, though it was getting harder and harder to concentrate, what with Trevor’s fingers deftly moving up and down her slit.
“It’s easier to wax it all off than dye the carpet to match the drapes every time I change hair color.”
He stiffened, a flash of pure possessiveness setting fire to his eyes. “How often do your targets get a peek at the carpet, Isabel?”
A laugh burst out. “Not often. But now I’m always prepared, thanks to the French Riviera fiasco.”
“What happened on the French Riviera?”
“The man I was tailing loved nude beaches. I didn’t have time to hit a salon so I used some dye that ended up being way too strong. It burned like a bitch, totally wasn’t meant for such a delicate area.”
Speaking of delicate areas, Trevor’s hand was still between her legs, except he wasn’t stroking anymore.
“You walked around naked to get close to the asshole?”
“Yup.” She rolled her eyes. “Now can you ask Jealous Trevor to leave the room so we can concentrate on more urgent matters?”
The humor returned to his eyes. “Urgent, huh?” He dragged his fingers along her folds and toyed with her wet opening. “You’re feeling a sense of urgency?”
She gasped when he pushed one finger inside her.
He chuckled.
Heart pounding, she watched Trevor’s face as he pleasured her. His gorgeous eyes glittered with heat, lust, satisfaction.
And he was watching her right back, his gaze never leaving hers as his finger moved in and out and his thumb tended to her swollen clit.
It should have felt intrusive, that ravenous gaze fixated on her face. She should have felt exposed and vulnerable, but she didn’t. His hunger just fueled her own.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mumbled.
He added another finger and quickened the tempo, leaning in to kiss her as those talented digits worked her tight channel, as the pad of his thumb rubbed her clit in a persistent circle.
Trevor’s blistering kisses only stoked the fire building down below. Isabel clung to him, rocking her hips into his wicked hand. Her pulse drummed a frantic beat in her ears, her lungs working overtime to process the oxygen she was inhaling in shallow bursts.
“Come on, Iz, let go.” His hot breath tickled her nose, and then his mouth took possession of hers and she got lost in another reckless kiss.
Her muscles coiled tight, the pressure between her legs becoming so hot and unbearable she thought she’d die if she didn’t get some relief. This was uncharted territory for her. And it scared her, so much so that she found herself desperately trying to suppress the rising waves of arousal by focusing on Trevor, on his pleasure.
She reached out and fumbled with his boxers. “I need to touch you. I need . . .”
She gave up on talking and focused on wrapping her fingers around Trevor’s shaft.
His answering groan was loud and laced with desperation. As his fingers thrust deeper inside her, his cock thrust into her hand.
The haze of pleasure in his eyes floored her. He was the sexiest man she’d ever met, and suddenly her new goal in life was to make him come apart.
“Oh, Iz, that’s good.” His voice was strangled, hoarse. “A little faster, sweetheart.”
She tightened her grip and stroked him faster, teasing his engorged head with the pad of her thumb on each upstroke. They were both breathing heavily, their foreheads touching, hips moving.
Soon his expression became tortured and a low groan left his sexy mouth. “It’s been too long, sweetheart. I’m . . . fuck, I’m gonna come.”
As he trembled with release, her own pleasure mounted, the pressure increasing, but then his passion-glazed eyes locked with hers and that pressure spontaneously receded, the climax retreating as it always did. But God, she’d come so close to . . . well, to coming. How was that even possible?
“Christ, Isabel. That was . . .” He suddenly halted, narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t . . .”
“No,” she admitted.
“Well, we’ll just have to fix that.”
When his expression turned sensual again and his fingers slid deeper into her core, she stilled his hand and smiled. “Trust me, it won’t happen tonight. I’m way too exhausted.” Noting his visible unhappiness, she hurried on. “I promise you, I enjoyed this as much as you did. It was . . . gosh, it felt incredible, Trevor.”
“Really?” he said hoarsely.
She gave him one last stroke, then released his cock and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I’ve never been more turned on in my life, Trev. I don’t need an orgasm to verify that I just had my world rocked. And believe me, my world was totally rocked.”
She wasn’t lying, the way she was usually forced to do, and Trevor must have picked up on her sincerity, because he shot her a crooked grin.
“Fine, but next time we see each other, you’d better be well rested, sweetheart, because I plan on keeping you up all night.”
Her smile faltered, but she didn’t think he noticed. Just in case, she broke the eye contact between them and slid up to a sitting position. Her hand was wet and sticky, prompting her to reach for the tissues on the bedside table. As she cleaned up, she noticed Trevor watching her.
“What?” she said awkwardly.
“I’m glad you stayed.”
A tentative smile curved her lips. “Me too.”
He sat up to brush his lips over hers. When he drew back, he looked slightly troubled.
“What is it now?” she teased.
“Just wondering whether you’re going to pull away from me again, or if this
time you’ll actually stay the course.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t,” he murmured. “Don’t say anything. Just kiss me good night, Iz.”
Trevor captured her mouth and kissed her, and Isabel’s heart did the impossible—it leapt and sank at the same damn time. The mention of the future dampened her spirits, but the kiss . . .
The kiss was pure passion. Pure liberation.
“You should go.” He gave her one last kiss before helping her to her feet. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
They walked to the door, Isabel hesitating before turning the knob. “Trevor . . .” She trailed off, uncertain.
“Don’t overthink it,” he said gruffly. “Okay?”
After a long beat, she nodded. “Okay.”
But ten minutes later, when she was lying in her own bed and staring up at the ceiling, overthinking was exactly what she did. Overthinking, analyzing, agonizing . . . and wondering if letting Trevor in tonight had been the biggest mistake she could’ve made.
Or the best decision of her life.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Isabel found a ninety-eight-page dossier on Tomas Meiro in her e-mail inbox. Paige had outdone herself this time—she’d gathered so much intelligence that Isabel’s head spun as she sifted through it all. Photographs of the man were conspicuously absent save for one, which was perplexing. With all the charity events and galas Meiro supposedly attended, one would think his picture would have been snapped a lot more than once.
She studied the photograph on the screen, acknowledging Meiro’s undeniable good looks. Tanned skin, dark hair, caramel-colored eyes. According to Paige’s notes, he wasn’t an exceptionally tall man, but his body filled out a suit rather nicely.
His wife, Renee, was also in the picture, a plain woman with a long, thin nose, too-close-together brown eyes, and acne scars that she attempted to cover with makeup. Isabel didn’t consider herself a cynic, but there was only one reason a man like Meiro married a woman who looked like that—and it started with m and ended with oney.
“Reading the Meiro file?”
Trevor entered the suite’s living room wearing faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots. His hair was damp from the shower, and a few water droplets glistened on his forehead.