Wicked Pleasure
“Sorry about that.” She attempted to pull back, to drag herself away from his body, the temptation, the regret. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I was.” He didn’t let her go.
He had allowed her to plow into him. Just as he had allowed her to climax over and over, before he turned tail and ran. Well, now he could watch while she walked away. Turnabout, and all that bullshit.
“Well, aren’t you just the watchful one.” Her voice was shaking as she jerked out of his grip. “If you’ll excuse me, I was just leaving.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
Her head jerked back to Ian in shock, even as she was aware of Cam’s fingers curling around her arm once again.
“Whatever games you’re playing, I’m not involved,” she said, her voice cold. “I don’t need this job bad enough to play them.”
“Jaci, please.” Courtney rose to her feet, her expression concerned, as her gaze shot to Cameron. “There are things involved that you’re perhaps not aware of.”
“Then I’ll stay unaware of them.” She pulled at her arm, then turned on Cam when he refused to release her. “Let my arm go, Cameron Falladay. I refuse to play your games, either.”
His lips quirked. The scar at the side of his face, slashing over his cheek, whitened as he stared down at her.
“You’ve already lost that option, so let’s play the one facing you instead,” he suggested.
He released her when she jerked at her arm. She barely glimpsed the surprise on his face, as she brushed past him and stalked through the formal dining room to the foyer beyond.
Screw this job. Between the Robertses and her own weakness where Cam was concerned, the potential for destruction was much higher than the effects of bankruptcy.
“Ms. Wright.” The butler, Matthew, moved from the small office between the main mansion and the residential wing, his expression questioning. “May I help you?”
“I need a cab.” A polite smile, a gnashing of teeth. “I’ll be waiting outside for it.”
His gaze glanced over her shoulder, then back to her. “It may take more than half an hour for one to arrive,” he warned her. “Perhaps you could wait inside?”
“I’ll wait outside.”
She moved for the doors, only to come to a rather abrupt stop as a strong arm hooked around her waist, lifted her from the floor, and began to carry her toward the stairs.
“Forget the cab, Matthew,” Cam ordered, his voice cold.
“Let me go, or I’ll have you arrested for assault.”
“Stop threatening me, or I’ll turn you over my knee and paddle your bottom,” he grunted, as he moved past the staircase toward the back hall. “We’re going to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” Her voice was shaking with anger and pain. “And you and Ian Sinclair can shove this job right up your . . . omph.” His arm tightened around her just enough to shut her up and leave her fuming.
“Let’s not get naughty, Jaci,” he drawled as he moved through the hall.
“How about homicidal instead?” She kicked at his legs, only to hear his chuckle when her slender heels connected with a pair of tough boots.
It was almost laughable. She had awakened with an enthusiasm she hadn’t had in years, and now here she was, on the verge of bankruptcy and being toted through the Sinclair mansion like a misbehaving puppy by a man who couldn’t even be bothered to stick around in her bed after fucking her half to death.
His arm flexed beneath her hands and the controlled motion against her back assured her that her weight was barely noticed and her struggles didn’t effect him in the least.
“Here we go.” He stepped into a sunlit office, closed and locked the door behind them, then sat her on her feet. “Don’t bother trying to run out. The door won’t unlock without the proper code.”
Her gaze flew to the door. There, on the side panel, was a security lock. She hated him. She hated herself because she wanted to stay, even as she wanted to run.
“This is so juvenile,” she informed him, as she straightened the thin summer knit shirt she wore over the band of her skirt. “Hauling me around like a damned sack of potatoes. Where the hell do you get your nerve?”
“From a Cracker Jack box.” He moved across the room. He was dressed in jeans and a white cotton shirt, his black hair lying loose around his face, brushing his collar and framing his dark face as he glanced back at her.
“Now, why do I believe that?”
Jaci crossed her arms over her breasts and glared back at him as he hooked a leg over the corner of the desk, perched on the edge, and watched her coolly.
“So. Roberts?” He arched a brow.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’m going to start making people pay me every time they ask me that question,” she snarled. “I wouldn’t need to work.”
His expression didn’t change.
There was none of the lover that had taken her the night before in his face. This man was different—as though the passion and lust they had shared had never happened. And she wondered if her heart could have broken worse seven years ago?
“According to the congressman, you attempted to steal fifty thousand from the desk in his home office. When you were caught, you attempted to seduce him. His wife walked in and threw you out of the house.”
In reality, she had walked in on the congressman, his wife, and their secretary while the three were involved in some very nasty sex games. Black leather and attachments, and Rick Roberts in a very compromising position.
And they had believed she would join in! No, they hadn’t just believed, they had attempted to force her to join in.
Jaci remained silent, staring back at him, refusing to say a damned word. She didn’t dare. She could feel the fury pulsing inside her, anger burning through her system as the feminine core of her shuddered in trepidation, because the look in Cam’s eyes was deadly.
Courtney had warned her that Cam was after Richard Roberts’s blood. He couldn’t sleep with her, but he could use her as an excuse to bloody someone he didn’t like to begin with. Only a male could understand that one, she decided.
“I’m asking for your side of the story, Jaci,” he said.
She had walked in on the sexual drama and had nearly been raped. For years after that, the Robertses had lied, schemed, and connived to destroy her because of it.
“There is no ‘my side of the story,’” she finally answered. She had learned that early on. The Robertses had struck first, and they had struck hard. Anything she had said or done would have lashed back at her as a lie.
“Do you remember the night I told you I would kill over you?” he asked her, his voice so dangerously soft that it was almost terrifying.
“He hasn’t hurt me,” she said stiffly. “And after last night, you have no right to these questions.”
“Then what do you call it, if destroying your reputation isn’t hurting you?” His head tilted to the side, the sunlight falling through the windows behind him caressing the raven black hair that framed his savage features. “And, sweetheart, I hate to tell you, but last night only made certain that that bastard has to deal with me. No one strikes out at what belongs to me.”
“He’s an irritant. Nothing more. Now, I really need to leave, before I have to swallow any more of this ‘belonging to you’ crap. Because, trust me, belonging to you would really make me homicidal now.”
The look he gave her was rife with irritation. “You’re as stubborn as you ever were.”
“And you’re just as arrogant.”
He grunted at that. “Ian didn’t fire you.”
“Sounded to me like an invitation to walk.” She cocked her hip and glared back at him.
“It was an invitation to accept a helping hand.” He sighed. “We can help you with the Robertses, if you can explain the situation.”
She stared back at him silently. Oh yeah, she was just going to “explain” the whole sordid episode and watch him gut the congressman. Sorry, but the thought of blood spilling just made her ill. It might have been seven years, but Cam was the type of man who never forgot a promise. Or a warning.
He shook his head at her continued silence. “This job entails quite a few secrets that you’ll be privy to,” he finally stated. “It’s yours if you want it, but only after you understand exactly what goes on here.” He rose from the desk and moved behind it.
Lifting a folder, he slid it across the desk. “Read these, sign them, then we’ll talk.”
She stared back at him silently, aching. Where was the man who had kissed her? Who had knelt in front of her and given her the greatest pleasure she had ever known in her life?
She moved slowly to the desk, picked up the folder, and opened it. As she read, she frowned in confusion.
“A confidentiality agreement?”
Of sorts.
Cameron nodded. “Before you sign, know this: What you’re facing if you talk isn’t a court battle or a prison sentence. It’s hell, like the Robertses could never imagine visiting on you. You, your family, every friend you have or could make in your lifetime, will be subject to the same hell. The people you’re facing are lawyers, doctors, senators, and military personnel. They’re members of organizations that run everything from NASA to the welfare system and beyond, in every nation of the world.”
She raised her gaze slowly. “Is that a threat of some sort, Cam?”
“It’s a promise.” He inclined his head coolly. “There are no state secrets, no national threats involved, but members of the club are from all sections of state and federal, and private enterprise. There are approximately five hundred members to date, though only a small percentage are here at any one time. You may at any time see those members. It’s our job to ensure their privacy, as well as their security here within the mansion.”
Her brows lifted. The agreement was that she understood the repercussions of divulging any information learned about the club and its membership, and that the repercussions would be harsh.
Her understanding was that she had the option of leaving, or accepting the position, with a full comprehension of those repercussions. In the statement, she would sign that she understood that the information wasn’t illegal, nor involved any information of state or national concern.
“If it’s not illegal, then what is it?”
“Sign the papers.” He nodded to the file. “You can still walk out once you sign, but the job isn’t yours until you have a complete understanding of the confidentiality required, and the punishment inherent in breaking it.”
It was simple enough. Clearly stated. She laid the file on the desk, accepted the pen, and signed it quickly, before pushing it back to him.
“Now, what’s so damned important about your precious club?”
“It’s a club for men who share their women. Their wives and lovers. A safe, protected group of men from which to choose the third in their bed and to ensure the secrecy of it. The club is a ménage club, Jaci, and it’s existed for two centuries without detection. Now, are you taking the job or walking out?”
She stared back at him in disbelief.
“You’re lying.” She couldn’t come up with any other response. The idea that any such club could exist without the newspapers and gossip rags getting hold of it was ludicrous.
Senators and NASA? Lawyers and doctors and military personnel? More than five hundred members, and no one leaked this information? Their wives especially. Women talked; she knew they talked. They gossiped like hell, and for some of them, their favorite topics of gossip was their sex lives—married or single.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He shrugged as he took the file and shoved it in his desk. “There are no sexual games played out in the club itself. It’s just that, a club, a meeting place, and for many of the members abroad, much more convenient than a hotel—and much more secure. Within your position, you’ll come in contact with those members in and out of the club. We do nothing to risk knowledge of the membership, as many hold sensitive positions. They’ve been made aware of the job you’ll be doing, and should you see any of them here, you’re not to mention it outside the club. Period. Not to other members or anyone else. If you talk, I can’t protect you, nor can Ian and Courtney Sinclair.”