Dirty Little Lies (8 page)

And how much had stayed exactly the same.

She swiped her hotel key through the lock and entered her room, with Frankie right behind her. She might have tried locking him out, but he’d only find a way to break in while she slept. Not that she minded a good invasion fantasy, but with her luck, she’d expect Frankie and end up face-to-face with someone trying to kill her for fucking up a secret conspiracy to murder the congressman.

Ian had given them half a day to catch up on their zs. While she’d waited at the hospital exchanging small talk with the wily nurse on duty, Frankie had reportedly dug up an address on Parker Manning, Rebecca Manning’s brother. Ian, after debriefing Marisela one last time on the exact details of her run-in with the assassin, had had his driver deposit her at her hotel.

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching Parker Manning?”

Frankie’s grin oozed sensuality. “One of the night shift guys is keeping him in sight. We’ve been assigned as partners. Where you go, I go,
vidita
. Ain’t that how that works?”

So they had at least eight good hours without any responsibilities.

Frankie secured the dead bolt on the door with a loud click.

This was not a good idea.

Marisela found the zipper hidden in the side seam of her dress and released the material, determined to take a hot shower and dive into bed. Alone. Yet when she saw the hunger in Frankie’s hazel eyes, flashing in the flecks of jade green that had been melting her insides since age ten, she nearly stumbled. She turned her back to him and yanked her feet out of her sandals.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she ordered, padding barefoot to her suitcase where she snatched the Tijuana T-shirt Brynn had bought her in Mexico as a joke. ONE TEQUILA, TWO TEQUILA, THREE TEQUILA, FLOOR. Man, could she go for a shot of the strong agave blend right about now.

“Like how?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

She glared at him from over her shoulder. “Like you want to devour me.”

“I do want to devour you.”

Her mouth watered, but she jumped and writhed out of her dress, trying to deny how her body instantly reacted to Frankie’s sensual suggestion. Her muscles ached in protest, but other than a tiny yelp, she kept the pain to herself.

“Too bad, because I’m not in the mood,” she insisted.

Liar. Liar, liar, liar.

In one great and crazy act of defiance, she whipped off her thong, allowing her bare breasts and throbbing
concha
to torture the man for the split second it took her to toss the lingerie on the floor and then drag the sleep shirt over her head. Screw the shower. She was going to bed. Without him.

Unfortunately, standing nearly naked in front of Frankie again, watching his eyes blaze with pure lust, caused an instantaneous stirring that rushed straight to her nipples.

When she yanked at the hem of her shirt, her breasts poked at the material, hard and tight. His gaze dropped, lingering first on the indisputable twin signs of her arousal, then sliding lower. Just a sweep of his stare and a throb bloomed to pure torture.

“You so sure you don’t want something to soothe that ache?” he asked.

She slinked, closer to him, feeding off the warmth she could feel sluicing off his body. Yeah, she wanted him. But he wanted her right back.

“I was just at the hospital. Remember? With Ian? Maybe I already had my aches taken care of.”

He captured her arm and swung her back to him, as if they’d taken the dance floor again. Pressed close against him, her body ignited. Her breath came in shallow rasps.

“You don’t give a shit about Ian Blake,” Frankie whispered, dipping his mouth close to her ear. “Not when you can practically feel my lips on you.”

The heat from his flesh burned into hers, taunting her with the possibilities of pleasures to come if she could just let go. Surrender. Take what he offered, what she wanted with every fiber of her soul.

“Let me go,” she said softly.

“No,” he replied.

“I can make you.”

“You won’t.”

She tried to relax, but her body thrummed to the familiar tango she and Frankie danced, kicking out for power, swaying for control.

“Only because I’m exhausted,” she conceded.

“The shooter gave you a workout,” he said, slipping his hand up her arm until he could curve his fingers around her shoulder. “I know you could use a rubdown.”

“I’ll call a masseuse!”

“No one knows your body like I do,
vidita
.”

She allowed him to prove his point, unable to resist the pleasure kneading into her body from his. He drew both hands against her shoulders, rubbing, caressing, coaxing out the stress that had tightened her to such tautness, she feared she might snap.

She spun around, locked her arms around Frankie’s neck, and pushed him back. Not away from her. Oh, no. She kept him tight in her possession, her mouth locked with his, her body pressed fully against him so that every curve of her body, every aching muscle, every nerve ending flamed with want. His hands were instantly under her loose shirt, roaming and touching and pleasuring. When they fell back against the door, she whipped the nightshirt over her head and yanked the elastic tie from her hair.

Frankie tore out of his clothes in record time, and without another word they clashed together. Lips roamed. Hands dipped and parted flesh. He used the door to balance their bodies, the leverage crucial as the delirium of passion overtook them. Marisela grabbed at the slick surface of the door, desperate to find something to clutch onto, finally settling on Frankie’s hair. She climbed and clawed, hot to have him inside her. When he finally pushed inside, deep and hard, her sex melted around his and her breath released in a steamy hiss.

Marisela didn’t think, didn’t speak, didn’t try to manage more than moans of pleasure as she soaked up the sensations of his body linked to hers. They came in rapid succession, each spilling the others name into the thick, humid air.

In a clumsy stagger, Frankie pushed away from the door. Marisela crossed her legs around his waist, hanging on as the delirium ebbed. By the time they splayed onto the bed, naked and sweaty and spent, she could barely breathe, much less keep her eyes open.

“I don’t know why you thought this was a bad idea.”

She stirred up enough energy to smile. “For you, sex is never a bad idea.”

Frankie drew lazy loop-de-loops across her backside with his fingertip. “And it is for you?”

She took a deep breath, inhaling as much of his scent as she could. In case she didn’t indulge again for a while. In case she found the means to resist. “Just because it feels good doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

He chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”

Marisela yanked the comforter away from the edge of the bed, covering them against the air-conditioned chill. “Well, that’s one way to kill the mood.”

Frankie laughed. “As if our mothers didn’t try to kill that a long time ago. Accept it. We’re meant to be together. Like coffee and milk,” he said, kissing the curve of her breast. “
Guayaba
and cheese,” he continued, lowering his lips until he could flick her nipple with his tongue. “
Arroz y…
”

“Hungry?” she asked, twisting out of his reach.

He chuckled. “Not for food.”

Marisela eased into the comforter, tucking the fabric between them and leaving him in the cold. She’d played long enough. Now, she needed sleep. And distance. Lots and lots of distance.

“Too bad,” she said with a yawn, snuggling deeper into the mattress and allowing her eyes to close. “Because food’s all you’re going to get. If you call room service. From
your
room?”

She expected an argument. Some sort of protest. Instead, when she peeked an eye open, she caught one last glimpse of his gorgeous
culo
before he put on his pants, grabbed his shirt, and turned to leave the room.

When she sensed he’d swung back in her direction, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She heard his chuckle as his face descended toward hers and he brushed a soft, sensual kiss across her lips. If she’d had the energy, she might have slapped the smug expression she knew he wore right off his face. Or surrendered to the overwhelming urges coursing through her to drag him back to bed.

But luckily for both of them, she was too damned tired to do anything more than fall asleep.

* * *

From his customized chair behind the antique mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father, Ian listened, eyes shut, to the sounds of Titan International an hour after dawn. Computers beeped and buzzed. The smack of files flying from one in-box to another broke up the sound of employee chitchat. The strong scent of coffee sneaked under the doorway and tempted Ian to wake up and face the day. Not that he was hiding. He was simply exhausted—and as such, he couldn’t grab hold of a thought, an idea, a painful truth connected to this case buried deep within his psyche.

He opened his eyes, leaned forward, and reexamined the note Denise Bennett had provided.

Remember Rebecca Manning
.

Coupled with what the assassin had said to Marisela about revenge, the message was simple enough to interpret. That wasn’t what plagued him.

He flipped the tiny square over, to the drawing. He’d seen this flower before. Only not done in pastels, but in bold colors. But where?

His door opened and he quickly flipped the note over.

“Brynn,” he said, watching as his twin eased into the room as if she owned the place. Which, technically, she did.

“It’s a tomb in here,” she announced, flipping on the light. He squinted, but didn’t complain. It was too early and he was too tired for an argument over something so trivial. And if ever siblings had perfected the art of fighting over minutiae, it was he and Brynn.

“Good morning,” he said, standing. “The Mexican sun looks good on you,” he commented.

He wasn’t offering the compliment without cause. His sister’s red hair gleamed with blond streaks, and despite the fact that he knew she was militant about using sunscreen, UV rays had pinkened the skin on her flawless cheeks and the tip of her nose. She looked carefree. Friendly. Charming.

“Well, the Boston sun isn’t doing a damned thing for you,” she concluded.

Looks could be so deceiving.

He retrieved his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged into it. “I’ve been up all night.”

“I heard,” she replied. “Did you know Craig Bennett from school?”

Ian shook his head. “I was a few years ahead and at Oxford when the whole scandal broke.”

“Didn’t Father work on the case in some capacity?”

“Indirectly.”

She shed her sunglasses and scarf, worn more for their stylishness than for protection against the mild summer weather. “Checked his notes?”

Their father had kept copious diaries, files, and dossiers on all his cases, all encrypted, of course. And all decoded on an as-needed basis by either Brynn or Ian. Immediately after his return from the hospital last night, Ian had consulted the records and archives. “He met with Bradley Hightower’s father, but only to give his advice regarding relocation. The entire Hightower family moved to Paris only a few weeks after the state attorney opted not to press charges.”

Brynn’s nose crinkled the way it always did when she was thinking hard. “I didn’t know the girls, either, but I don’t suppose that’s any surprise, considering their background.”

“The Manning father once worked as the Bennetts’ yacht captain. He was harbormaster for some time, as well.”

“The mother?”

“Housewife. They did not, as we should say politely, run in our circles.”

“Funny,” Brynn said with a chuckle. “When we lived here as children, Boston always felt so very small compared to London. Now I realize how many separate worlds exist here.”

A soft knock at the door announced Max’s arrival. He came in with two steaming mugs of coffee. While Ian was eternally grateful for the caffeine jolt, he’d hoped to see Max balancing three cups. With one for himself, he’d be more inclined to stay.

“I’m headed back to the hospital,” Max explained. “The next shift of hospital employees comes on in twenty minutes. I want to make sure our bases are covered.”

Brynn accepted the coffee and rewarded Max’s generosity with a kiss to his cheek. “Good to see you, Max.”

Max smiled rather uncomfortably and backed out of the room. “Enjoy your visit, you two. Try not to kill one another while I’m gone.”

Ian arched a brow as Max shut the door behind him. “Bring me up to speed,” Brynn ordered.

“I have the case under control, Brynn.” Ian shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to pick a fight, but he also didn’t need his sister interfering in his investigation.

Brynn sipped her coffee, her eyes locked with his over the rim of her mug.

“I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t, Ian. I seem to recall a time when you and I could at least discuss work without invading the other’s turf.”

Ian tapped his finger on the file hiding the note. “That all changed when you returned to the States. You had Europe, I had North America. Seemed a fair enough arrangement.”

“You’re still smarting about Marisela?”

“Hard not to when I have to stare her in the face every day.”

“You shouldn’t have fired her. If you’d been thinking more clearly, I wouldn’t have had to intervene. Besides, I’ve had her with me for the past two and a half months,” Brynn reminded him. “You’re the one who recalled her for the fund-raiser at Houghton House?”

“I needed a female agent,” he answered simply.

“And you got one who’s already tangled with the shooter and lived to provide us the only information we have. Look, Ian, I’m sorry I had to step in during Marisela’s first case, but you left her…and me…no choice.”

Ian took a hearty swig of his coffee. He’d made mistakes on that former case—mistakes he would not make again. “Let’s move on to the case at hand.”

Brynn cocked an eyebrow, but capitulated to his suggestion. “Here’s what I know so far. An assassin took a shot at Craig Bennett during the fund-raiser, but Marisela spotted the barrel of the gun and fired.”