murmured in his ear.
It was a matter of fact. A statement. Not a guess, not a conclusion or summary. She said it with the assuredness of someone saying the sun would rise again tomorrow.
“How would you know that?” he questioned, allowing himself to be pulled into her arms, allowing her hands to caress him with seductive moves he’d rarely been privy to. He wanted her to tell him something believable. Something that would allow him the freedom to ravage her in his bed without reservations as to her intent.
But she hesitated. Not long...but long enough for him to know that it was she, not Jimmie, that was the devil within the Vinetti family.
When she finally did reply, her answer was already rehearsed, her voice a low purr. “No one could ever get passed you.” Her clothes were removed before he took a breath, her body pressed into his, locking him between her and the tapestry someone had hung at a crooked angle on the wall.
He studied the vines and Valencia oranges in his periphery, everything seeming to hit him at once. The alcohol, her tempting caresses, her betrayal of either he or Jimmie (he wasn’t quite sure which) and the disengaging numbness that always set in when his decisions were finally made.
“You could take the breath right out of any man,” he whispered. She took it as an invitation, he supposed, because she dropped to her knees, her lips searing a path down his chest as she moved to unzip his pants. Before she could get her mouth around him, he grasped her face in his hands, forcing her to lift her eyes to meet his. “But as flattered as I am, I make it a point not to fuck people who try and have me killed.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He’s a cool customer, I’ll give him that,” Jimmie murmured, pushing the coffee pot across to Ashli. “He didn’t even flinch when he told me about your evening.”
“Not everyone is as terrified of you as you seem to think,” she answered, pouring herself a cup of coffee before getting up and returning it to the counter.
“You look like shit. What’s the matter with you?”
She popped the toast up, even though it wasn’t nearly done, and tossed it on to a plate. She tried to come up with a snappy retort for him but her mind was too mollified by the previous evening’s events to be able to vocalize a creative response. Instead, she sank back down across from him and slid the plate his direction. “Brent Calhart’s office in Washington ran a check on him for us.”
“What came up?” he tilted the heavy wooden chair back on its legs, ignoring the toast. “Not that I count on our lawyers to know much of interest.”
“He’s done time.”
“Can we clear it?”
“No.”
“No?” His chair screeched across the floor as he moved back from the table causing Ashli to wince. His eyes met hers, challenging her to complain about noise in light of her self-inflicted hangover. But she remained silent, her nose deep in her mug as if the steam from the drink was somehow going to unfog her brain. “Since when can’t we clear a record?”
“Since it’s a federal charge.”
“Federal? What kind of guy have you hooked up with here?”
“He’s done his time and hasn’t gotten even a speeding ticket since.” She turned away from him, grabbing a dish towel and wiping off the slate counter nearest her, concentrating on the specially designed cracks that had been laid by an Italian craftsman she’d flown over when they bought the place. She had known this would be a sticking point with him – he wanted people with executive office access to have clear records. It was moronic, considering Jimmie’s long and distinguished criminal career but he had made rare few exceptions over the years.
“Even under Coppell?”
“Even under Coppell,” a deep voice acknowledged. “Ashli-”
She whirled, the presence of their west coast security advisor catching her off guard. It was unlike Jimmie to bring him in for
It was a matter of fact. A statement. Not a guess, not a conclusion or summary. She said it with the assuredness of someone saying the sun would rise again tomorrow.
“How would you know that?” he questioned, allowing himself to be pulled into her arms, allowing her hands to caress him with seductive moves he’d rarely been privy to. He wanted her to tell him something believable. Something that would allow him the freedom to ravage her in his bed without reservations as to her intent.
But she hesitated. Not long...but long enough for him to know that it was she, not Jimmie, that was the devil within the Vinetti family.
When she finally did reply, her answer was already rehearsed, her voice a low purr. “No one could ever get passed you.” Her clothes were removed before he took a breath, her body pressed into his, locking him between her and the tapestry someone had hung at a crooked angle on the wall.
He studied the vines and Valencia oranges in his periphery, everything seeming to hit him at once. The alcohol, her tempting caresses, her betrayal of either he or Jimmie (he wasn’t quite sure which) and the disengaging numbness that always set in when his decisions were finally made.
“You could take the breath right out of any man,” he whispered. She took it as an invitation, he supposed, because she dropped to her knees, her lips searing a path down his chest as she moved to unzip his pants. Before she could get her mouth around him, he grasped her face in his hands, forcing her to lift her eyes to meet his. “But as flattered as I am, I make it a point not to fuck people who try and have me killed.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“He’s a cool customer, I’ll give him that,” Jimmie murmured, pushing the coffee pot across to Ashli. “He didn’t even flinch when he told me about your evening.”
“Not everyone is as terrified of you as you seem to think,” she answered, pouring herself a cup of coffee before getting up and returning it to the counter.
“You look like shit. What’s the matter with you?”
She popped the toast up, even though it wasn’t nearly done, and tossed it on to a plate. She tried to come up with a snappy retort for him but her mind was too mollified by the previous evening’s events to be able to vocalize a creative response. Instead, she sank back down across from him and slid the plate his direction. “Brent Calhart’s office in Washington ran a check on him for us.”
“What came up?” he tilted the heavy wooden chair back on its legs, ignoring the toast. “Not that I count on our lawyers to know much of interest.”
“He’s done time.”
“Can we clear it?”
“No.”
“No?” His chair screeched across the floor as he moved back from the table causing Ashli to wince. His eyes met hers, challenging her to complain about noise in light of her self-inflicted hangover. But she remained silent, her nose deep in her mug as if the steam from the drink was somehow going to unfog her brain. “Since when can’t we clear a record?”
“Since it’s a federal charge.”
“Federal? What kind of guy have you hooked up with here?”
“He’s done his time and hasn’t gotten even a speeding ticket since.” She turned away from him, grabbing a dish towel and wiping off the slate counter nearest her, concentrating on the specially designed cracks that had been laid by an Italian craftsman she’d flown over when they bought the place. She had known this would be a sticking point with him – he wanted people with executive office access to have clear records. It was moronic, considering Jimmie’s long and distinguished criminal career but he had made rare few exceptions over the years.
“Even under Coppell?”
“Even under Coppell,” a deep voice acknowledged. “Ashli-”
She whirled, the presence of their west coast security advisor catching her off guard. It was unlike Jimmie to bring him in for
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