Dirty Rich Secrets Part One Page 3

  He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling into my hair, and this time, there is more than hunger in his kiss. This kiss is possessive, almost desperate, and I answer his demand in every way. His hands move to slide under my sweater, warm and familiar, and when he would pull it up, I catch his wrist, my words rasping out breathlessly. “This means nothing,” I warn. “I still hate you.”

  His eyes darken. “You can still shoot me.”

  “I might.”

  “Then I guess I better give you a reason not to.” He kisses me and drags the sweater over my head, and damn him, I don’t stop him this time. I let him. I want him.

  “You owe me this,” I say. “That’s all this is.”

  “Then I better do it right,” he says, unhooking my bra and dragging it between us and then away. His gaze rakes over my breasts and nipples before he’s molding them to his chest, his mouth back on mine. I don’t even know how it happens, but I end up on the floor on top of a fluffy white rug, and we’re both naked. He’s pressing inside me, stretching me, pulling me close, the fire crackling beside us, the world dark except for the here and now. There’s a desperation between us. I feel it in him. I do. There is nothing about the here and now with this man that feels fake.

  “I’m not letting you go, Ashley,” he says, stroking hair from my face. “I’m not letting you go.”

  “You don’t make that decision.”

  “I already did,” he says, and he’s already kissing me again, drugging me, his hands all over my body. One hand cupping my backside, pulling me against him, into him, thrusting hard and deep. I arch into him, cling to him, the wild burn of need between us, like nothing I’ve ever experienced, except with him. It’s always there. He’s always all in, all there, demanding the same of me, taking everything. And damn him, he has everything, he has all of me, and there is no turning back.

  I’m in this with this man, just as he said, to live or die.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ashley…

  I shudder into orgasm, burying my face in his neck, as he rolls me to my back, driving into me, a guttural moan sliding from his lips as he tilts his head back and quakes into his own release.

  When he collapses on top of me, he turns to protect me from the weight of his body, and we settle back on our sides, his hand at my back. He quickly hands me tissues from who knows where, but I’m aware of our history in this moment, of me getting a shot to ensure we didn’t get pregnant. That’s how together we were. We had the baby talk. We both knew we didn’t want kids, and yet, I’d secretly wondered what it would be like to be the mother of his child. Now, I know why that would never work for him or us.

  Shoved back into reality with this thought, I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing with this man. I jerk to a sitting position and try to move away, but he’s already right there, sitting with me, pulling me around to face him. “Talk to me. Just please fucking talk to me. I’m still me, and we’re still us.”

  “How can I believe anything you say to me?”

  “Trust your instincts. They’re good.”

  “Says the man who lied to me over and over while I blindly believed him.”

  “Because,” he says, “I wasn’t lying about what matters. We weren’t a lie. You want answers. I know you do. Ask your questions. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “I’m not doing this naked in the middle of a strange cabin. I need to be dressed for this conversation.”

  His jaw clenches, and I can feel his need to resist, but he nods. He stands up and takes me with him, scooping up my clothes and handing them to me, his eyes meeting mine, holding my stare. He wants to say something, and I find myself hanging on a breath, waiting for some confession that either makes me forgive him or hate him all the more, but it doesn’t come. He cuts his stare and then turns away, grabbing his pants.

  I toss my clothes on the table and pull on my sweater, sans the bra that takes time and awkward effort. I just need what I told him I need: to be dressed. It somehow feels safer. I’ve just pulled my jeans back on when he steps in front of me, but he doesn’t touch me.

  “I won’t just kill for you. I’d die for you. I just want you to know that.” With that, he picks up the two mugs. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” He turns and walks away, his words lingering in the air: I’d die for you.

  Lord help me, not only do I believe him, but I don’t want him to die. I don’t want to die either. I do need those answers. I need to be smart and that means I need a gun that I can use to protect myself. Adrenaline surges through me, and I pull back on my sneakers, and as much as I just want to follow him, I need a bathroom. I scan the room and find the door I seek, hurrying inside and doing my business. One look in the mirror and I groan. My makeup is gone, except for the mascara under my eyes that should be on my lashes. My hair’s a mess, but I don’t care. I want my answers.

  Exiting the bathroom, I almost expect to find Noah standing there, but he isn’t. Noah. He’s not Noah. He was never Noah. This very thought sets me back into action, and I hurry in the direction he’d gone when he’d left me to dress. I find him sitting at a small wooden table and just looking at him is like seeing him for the first time in months all over again. He’s the person I called my best friend. He’s the person I loved.

  “Are you going to join me?” He motions to the hot chocolate in front of him and another in the spot waiting on me across from him, both with fresh whipped cream on top. “I heated them up.”

  Memories of us in front of a fireplace with hot cocoa, a movie, and lots of hot sex are hard to shove aside. I decide not to try. This is all a part of why I’m here, why we’re here. I walk to sit down across from him. He leans forward and sets my gun next to me. “Keep it. You might need it.”

  I don’t touch it, but that gun matters. It’s control. It’s my control, but it’s not answers. “Why me?”

  “Why you? To start, I needed a cover, a way to get close to a client of the law firm where you worked. And no. No one there is in danger. I promise you. They’re safe.”

  “What client?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He left the firm. He’s not a threat to them. Is he a part of the threat we’re facing? Maybe. He’s a powerful person. He’s got a past with the CIA. He’s dirty.” He leans in closer. “What’s important right now, is you. What you need to know is that when we met on the street, what I felt was real. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I needed you to show up at the bar, and it had nothing to do with duty.”

  “But I was your assignment. You found me to use me. And think before you answer. You said you wouldn’t lie to me again.”

  “Yes, Ashley. You were my assignment.”

  “And you’re an assassin.”

  “What are you asking?”

  “Was part of that assignment killing me?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ashley…

  His answer isn’t fast, and I lean forward this time. We’re close and staring at each other. “Were your orders to kill me?” I demand.

  “Only if you became a problem. You were never going to be a problem. I had to create a cover story, a believable life, complete with a girlfriend, and why wouldn’t I choose a woman I couldn’t stop watching?”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? How many times have you chosen women as targets because they were fuckable?”

  His jaw sets hard. “That is not how it was with you.”

  “But it was with others?” I snap back.

  “If you’re asking me if I ever fucked someone who didn’t know who I was, yes, I did.”

  “Why me?” I repeat. “There are hundreds of choices at the firm. I was low on the food chain, a paralegal.”

  “That made me less obvious.”

  I swallow hard and sit back. Once again, my inability to finally make that law degree happen slaps me in the face. “Because I was nothing and disposable.”

  “The fact that you had no family ties made you appealing, yes, but it also made us app
ealing. In that, we were the same. We were alone without each other.”

  “Your family—”

  “Everything I told you about me was true.”

  “Liar. Noah.” I stand up and try to turn away, but he’s there instantly, catching my wrist and turning me to him.

  “I am Noah. I broke every protocol in existence by using that name with you. That’s how much I needed to be real with you.”

  “I don’t know how you want me to respond to that,” I whisper. “It’s a name. Just a name. You are so many things I didn’t know you were. And how do I even know it’s true?”

  “Right. Just a name.” He releases me, and I’m stunned when he leaves me there. He actually walks out of the kitchen.

  He’s pissed. Now I’m even more pissed. I rotate and follow him. “Are you really angry because a name isn’t enough for me? Do you know how much you hurt me? Do you even care?”

  He whirls and pulls me to him. “It’s not just a fucking name. I was an assistant district attorney. I went after the kingpin of a cartel. I didn’t back down. I was going to end up in witness protection, just like you. That’s when the CIA recruited me. And yes, I’m a fucking assassin. And no, I don’t regret one single person I’ve killed. They were all like that kingpin.”

  “You said you’d have killed me if I became a problem.”

  His energy whips and cuts. “Do you really believe I’d have killed you?”

  “That’s not the point. You just said—”

  “I don’t regret anyone I’ve ever killed. The end. You’re going to have to decide if you can live with that answer when this is over, when I get you your freedom back because I will. Unless you grab that gun and kill me. Just make sure you won’t have any regrets.”

  He releases me but doesn’t walk away. “The gun is right there in the kitchen waiting on you. I’m surprised you left it. That’s what you wanted. The damn gun.”

  “I don’t want the damn gun. Not to use on you.”

  He studies me several long beats. “Don’t call me Noah. Ever again. I’m Aaron. Keep it that way.”

  With that, it’s as if he’s shut a door. He turns away and walks to a small bar in the corner, pouring himself a whiskey. It’s then that I realize the assassin part of his story overshadowed everything else. I find myself closing the space between us, and when we are once again facing each other, his stare is intense, unreadable, heavy.

  “You took down a kingpin?”

  “Yes. I took down a kingpin.”

  “And you lost everything?”

  He downs his drink and sets it down. “You know my story. My parents died when I was ten. My sister died when I was twenty. There was no you in my life back then. What cost was there? Don’t make me a hero. I’m not the man I was back then.”

  “Are you trying to convince me to trust you or to hate you?”

  He drags me to him, his fingers tangling in my hair. “I don’t regret who I kill, but I do look forward to the next one. I’m so fucking not a hero that I never even gave a shit what that meant for you.” He sets me aside. “I’ll get you out of this. I owe you that much. And then I’ll let you go.”

  That cuts and burns. Now he’s not even fighting for me. My eyes burn. “I hate that you’re playing mind games.” I turn and walk away, but he catches my arm.

  I whirl on him. “Stop grabbing me. Stop. I need to think.”

  He releases me. “You have plenty of time. There’s a blizzard outside. You might want to grab that gun and hold on tight because you’re stuck with me a while.”

  I stand there, staring at him, the part of me that believes I know him, certain that I’ve hurt him. I want to step to him. I want to touch him. I want to talk to him, but I’m not objective with this man. I need to breathe. I need to think. I back up and walk to the kitchen, the only place I know that I can escape to right now. Once I’m there, I notice what I didn’t before because of my hyper-focus on Noah; the wind whips and whistles beyond the cabin. I grab my hot cocoa and gulp it down when I swear I need that whiskey he’s drinking. I don’t focus on him trying to scare me out there. I focus on trying to understand him, understand us. I go back to the past and try to remember what was real and what was fake.

  The past—back in that bathroom, the first night after we met—

  I still can’t believe he’s in the bathroom of the bar after I caught him flirting with that woman. Or maybe he wasn’t flirting with her. Maybe she is a married client with kids because right now, he’s kissing me, and I don’t want him to stop. I’m against the bathroom wall, his big, hard body pressed to mine, and I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I only know the taste of him, one-part whiskey, one-part demand—the woodsy, wonderful scent of him, and his touch, his strong hands molding me closer.

  His hands settle on my waist, his lips lingering above mine, his breath a warm, wicked promise of another kiss I want so damn badly. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day,” he murmurs, his voice somehow both silk and sandpaper that I feel on every nerve ending I own.

  Nor have I been able to stop thinking about him, which makes those words exactly what I want to hear. “The girl who fell on the ice?” I laugh nervously, trying to caution myself not to read too much into anything with this man, not when I’m this hypersensitive to anything he says or does. “I’m sure you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

  He strokes my hair off of my face and fixes me in a brown-eyed stare, he’s so damn tall, dark and good-looking that it steals my breath. “You were adorable and sexy this morning.”

  He thinks me being clumsy is adorable and sexy? “You were a gentleman,” I say. “That left a lasting impression.”

  “Is that right?” he asks, mischief in his eyes. “My manners left an impression? That’s why you came here tonight?”

  I blush, and I’m really not a blusher. “And I like your suit.”

  He laughs, a low masculine rumble I feel from head to toe. “Is that right?” he asks again.

  “Yes,” I say. “It is.”

  Someone knocks on the door, and I jolt. “Oh God,” I whisper, grabbing the lapels of that very suit right now. “They’re going to know we were in here together.”

  “Then maybe we should just fuck and make the scolding we’ll get worth it.”

  My eyes go wide. “No.”

  He laughs. “I’m teasing. Mostly.” He takes my hand. “Leave this to me. I’ll handle it.” I don’t have time to argue because he’s already charging forward and taking me with him.

  “Noah!” I call out, using his name for the first time on my own, and it feels as intimate as I feel panicked right now.

  He opens the door, and I don’t know who is outside, but he says, “Evening, ma’am,” and I cringe even before he’s out the door, pulling me in front of him, with his back to whoever he just spoke to. I never see our visitor.

  He walks me forward with his hands on my waist until we clear the hallway. Once we’re in the bar, he steps to the side of the wall and places me against it, stepping in front of me. “Drinks? Dinner? My place? Your place?”

  “Coffee,” I say, not about to let this get out of hand if that’s even possible at this point.

  His eyes heat, wickedness in their depths, before he says, “There’s a coffee shop in my building.”

  “There’s a coffee shop next door, too.”

  He laughs. “All right. I get it. Slow down.”

  “Yes,” I say softly, my body tingling wildly in disagreement as I add, “Slow down.”

  His hands shackle my waist, and he pulls me close, our lower bodies aligned. “Coffee,” he says, and he makes it sound sultry. He makes it sound like sex.

  “Coffee,” I reply, sounding breathless.

  We stay like that for a moment and then he laces the fingers of one of his hands with mine and leads me through the bar. We exit into the Houston winter night, and the cold air is a shock to the heat this man is stirring in my body. I shiver, and he pulls me under his arm
, using his body to shelter mine. “Good thing it’s a short walk,” he says, setting us in motion toward the coffee shop he obviously knows as do I.

  In all of two cold minutes, he’s holding the door to the shop for me, and I’m hurrying inside. Another couple of minutes, and we both have white mochas as we sit down at a tiny table for two, facing each other, just me and this man.

  “Tell me about yourself, Ashley,” he says softly, and when he does, I don’t feel like he’s just speaking words, filling space. There is something in this man’s eyes that says he really wants to know me. And, God, I really want to know him. I want to know him in that deep, burning way you hope you feel one day and then when it finally happens, like now, it terrifies you for one reason: you already know that if you let him, this man will steal your heart, and that gives him power. The power to lift you up and make you burn, yearn, and smile, but he can also hurt you.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ashley…

  “I still love you. I still love you so fucking much that I can barely breathe thinking about losing you.”

  At the sound of Noah’s voice, I come back to the present, emotion balled low in my belly. I turn to find him standing in the doorway, his missing T-shirt and boots back in place. “I still love you,” he continues, “so damn much that it hurts to think about me without you.”

  “And yet you just said—”

  “I know what I said.” He closes the space between us, stepping close, but not touching me. “And it’s not about playing games. I know every reason I shouldn’t have ever gotten involved with you. I know every reason I should let you go, but I don’t want to let you go.” He lifts his hands to touch me, but catches himself, his jaw flexing before he lowers them. “Don’t touch you, right?”

  “I don’t think clearly when you touch me.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”