“Blake worked a deal with the building management to have Jacob at the gallery today. Walker Security’s working on a plan to carry the gallery through the trial.” He motions to the bathroom. “Care to save water with me?”
“Not if you want to be there on time.”
He leans in and kisses my neck. “Good point, because I could definitely make you my breakfast and forgo the shower.” He throws off the blanket and starts walking toward the bathroom, gloriously, wonderfully naked. My God, the man has a great ass. I drop back on the bed and sigh blissfully as his scent whispers all around me. Things might be bad but they are really darn good, too.
Rolling onto my stomach, I grab the remote from the nightstand and turn on the news, then reach into my drawer and pull out my new journal. Sitting up and resting against the headboard, I stare at the image of the Eiffel Tower on the cover, not overly eager to open it. After the meeting with the police, and seeing how Rebecca’s words have become such public fodder, I’m not so sure I want mine documented. Still, I open to a blank page and remove the pen clipped inside, and find myself re-creating the very first entry in Rebecca’s journal that I’d ever read.
Dangerous.
For months I’ve had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of him–like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite. And another. So good, I’d forgotten there’s a price for overindulgence. And there is a price. There is always a price.
The word dangerous bothers me, just like it had Detective Grant. It has always bothered me. Its use was a big part of what drove me to look for Rebecca.
Chris asked me if she feared anyone. She did. She feared Mark and the power he had to hurt her, but that isn’t so odd. I had that same thought about Chris last night.
I glance up and my gaze lands on the television as a photo of Ava appears next to a pretty blond newscaster. Scrambling for the remote, I turn up the volume.
“Guilty or not guilty? That appears to be the question with a woman who first confessed to killing a missing young woman named Rebecca Mason, and attacking another. Now our sources say that in tomorrow’s bail adjustment hearing she’ll change her plea to not guilty, claiming she was coerced to confess by someone threatening her life.”
An image of Rebecca replaces that of Ava. “The real question becomes ‘where is Rebecca Mason?’ So far there has been no body found, and without one, police will be hard-pressed to support a murder charge. Could the answer lie in the high-end art world she worked in? Or perhaps a link to underground sex clubs and billionaire clients? Our sources say it might just be possible. Tune in tomorrow night for a special report with Kali Wilson.”
The story leaves me shaken, and when the bed shifts I glance up to find Chris, fully dressed in a black long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans, sitting next to me. “I guess it’s out now.”
His lips tighten. “It appears it is.”
“What do you think?”
He takes the remote from me and turns off the TV. “I think this is about to get very nasty.”
• • •
Forty minutes later Chris and I step outside of our building. He hands the attendant a large bill to retrieve our car, and the kid’s eyes light up at Chris’s generosity before he rushes away.
The instant he’s gone, Chris grabs the lapels of my coat and pulls it open, exposing my slim-fitting pale blue suit-dress to his sizzling inspection. My cheeks heat and I yank it shut. “Behave. We aren’t alone.”
“You look too damn fuckable to be around Mark Compton. Tomorrow you wear a bag. A big, ugly one.”
I laugh but I don’t miss the underlining edginess to his mood or make the mistake of dismissing it. He’s not even close to over being pissed at Mark’s attempts to seduce me. I push to my toes and kiss him. “I’ll have a bodyguard,” I remind him. “Two, actually. You and Jacob.”
He seems to have more to say on the matter, but his cell phone rings and he snags it from his pocket. “Amber’s rehab facility,” he announces grimly. “It’s already after nine,” he tells me before answering. “Can you call Jacob and tell him we’re five minutes away?”
I nod, digging my phone out of my purse while trying to listen in on his conversation. By the time I punch in Jacob’s number, I hear Chris say, “Whatever it takes. Money isn’t an issue,” and I have the impression he isn’t getting good news.
“I’m here,” Jacob answers, not bothering with a greeting. “Where are you two?”
“Five minutes away.”
“I’ll be inside the gallery. I got here early. Your ‘Bossman’ let me in.”
I laugh at the nickname the staff uses for Mark, but it chokes out of me, as laden with tension as Chris’s body language. “Sounds like Ralph is there and teaching you his gallery slang.”
“He is and he did,” Jacob confirms. “Apparently ‘Bossman’ is code for ‘Asshole.’”
“I take it he isn’t in a good mood?”
“He has moods? I heard he only did ‘Asshole’ and ‘Asshole.’”
“He’s normally arrogant and difficult, but fair and rather generous with his employees. But right now, his mother has cancer, and Rebecca . . . she mattered to him.”