Wanted (Most Wanted #1)(65)
Author: J. Kenner

In front of me, the skyline rose, the buildings lit like jewels against the night sky. I felt much like those buildings, as if I was light from within, only a few pinpricks of illumination escaping from wherever his tongue had seen fit to tease me.

And he was teasing lower and lower until finally there was just the triangle of my sex. Then my slick folds, a combination of my own arousal and the froth of cream.

His tongue stroked me, deeply and efficiently, as if it was his obligation to get every last bit of cream. And with each lave of his tongue, I felt the orgasm building inside me, tighter and tighter and tighter, until finally I soared even higher than the skyline and burned at least as bright as the lights in the sky.

“Wow,” I said, when I came back to earth. “I like your dessert.”

I eyed him hungrily, noting his erection beneath his shorts before tilting my head up to meet his eyes. “Got any more cream?” I asked, then made a show of licking my lips. “Because if you do, I know exactly what kind of treat I want.”

His laugh reverberated through me. “Sweetheart,” he said as he unbuttoned his shorts. “You can have as much as you want.”

seventeen

I spent the next few nights on the boat with him, popping into the condo only to reassure Peterson I was alive and get fresh clothes. Most nights we spent on the boat, making love under the stars, relaxing on the deck with wine, or snuggling in the stateroom and watching everything from Terminator to The Hangover to The Untouchables. We settled into a comfortable familiarity that I loved, and the only time I felt unhappy or insecure at all was when I remembered that this was all going to end—and that the end was coming soon.

“Evan,” I’d say, and he would know, just from the tone of my voice. He’d pull me into his arms and kiss me and tell me that the only thing that mattered was the moment. And as he made love to me, slowly and sweetly, I tried hard—so hard—to believe him.

Sometimes, I even came close.

Not that we were complete shut-ins. I joined him one night at a reception for all the students in the art class that Cole taught at a community center right on the edge of Wrigleyville. The center’s walls were now studded with everything from still lifes to graffiti-like murals to delicate pencil sketches. And Cole was making the rounds like a proud parent, with Evan looking almost as proud as his friend.

“So what do you think, baby girl?” Cole asked pulling me into a hug.

“I’m impressed,” I said. “And your students look like they’re having a great time.” It was true. The students, who ranged in age from twelve to eighty, were making the rounds like celebrities. As far as I could tell, Cole’s reception was the highlight of their year. “Where’s Tyler?” I asked, realizing that I hadn’t seen his face among the crowd.

“California,” Evan said.

I remembered the phone call I’d overheard on the boat. “Trouble?”

“Nothing he can’t handle.” He took my arm. “We’re going to go find a drink,” he said to Cole. “Good job, man.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

I glanced around the cavernous room as he led me to the bar. “Maybe I should do something like this for the foundation’s fund-raiser,” I said. “Instead of picking a host, I could just have it on neutral territory.”

“Who’s vying for the honor?” Evan asked, as we waited for the bartender to make our drinks.

“Who isn’t? And the moment I pick someone, I’ve basically said fuck you to all the others. I’m not sure I want to piss off the Who’s Who of Chicago. There’s Thomas Claymore. Reginald Berry. I mean the list just goes on and on. Even Victor Neely is on it, and you know how much I love him.” I made a sour face.

“Sweetheart, I feel just the same.”

“I have to admit he’s not high on my list of potentials. Not only could Jahn not stand him, but the prick isn’t even offering to donate any of his collection to the foundation. Apparently he’s already finalized arrangements to donate his manuscript collection to a museum in Belgium. And I think he’s negotiating with the British Museum about some of his paintings.” I peered at Evan’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d heard rumors; I didn’t realize the Belgium deal was in the can.”

“You’re thinking of the Creature Notebook, aren’t you?”

His mouth curved up in a humorless smile as he took his Scotch from the bartender and handed me my wine. “How well you know me.”

“Yeah, well, I was thinking of it, too. I’d love to get the original notebook for the foundation. I even asked Esther to approach him about it.”

“You did? What did he say?”

“No go. I wasn’t terribly surprised. He paid a shitload to keep that notebook out of Jahn’s private collection, and I don’t see him willingly donating it now.”

“I don’t, either,” Evan said. His brow was furrowed, as if he was considering a thorny business problem.

“What is it?”

“I just don’t like the guy.” He glanced around the room, and I saw him lock onto Cole. “I need to run something by Cole. Will you be okay by yourself for a moment?”

I laughed. “I’m the daughter of the man who’s going to be the next vice presidential candidate,” I said. “Trust me when I say that I can fake my way through any party on the planet.”

He kissed my cheek. “In that case, I’ll be back in a minute.”

As I watched him walk away, I couldn’t help but wonder what was so urgent that he needed to discuss it with Cole right then—and why the Creature Notebook had reminded him.

Not that I had long to think about it. Cole had done the reception up right for his students, and had invited more than a few of Chicago’s elite, and I soon found myself chatting with Thomas Claymore, who—under the guise of polite chitchat—made his bid to host the foundation’s gala.

I listened politely, then managed to extricate myself, talking first with a young woman who was one of Cole’s students and then with a short man in a perfectly tailored suit who held out his hand in greeting.

“Ms. Raine,” he said, his face bland face. “So glad to see you here.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Larry,” he said, still holding my hand.

I started to gently tug my hand free, but Larry tightened his grip. I frowned, assuming he was one of those men who just never quite managed the art of the handshake. But then his fingers tightened even more, and even before he spoke, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in warning.