Girl Gear 5: Wicked Games (9 page)
"Oh, sweetie. Am I glad to see
you.
"
Sydney
breathed an audible and visible sigh of release.
At the same time a chorus of, "Hey, Ray," went up around the room. Kinsey joined in, but Izzy's voice was barely a whisper—a contrast to the intensity of her bone-crushing grip on Kinsey's hand. Kinsey knew exactly what—or rather, who—it was that had captured Izzy's attention. The bedroom-eyed
man standing beside Ray Coffey was at least six foot two, with shoulders broader and harder than Ray's, bulging biceps and quads, and skin
the color of sweet pecan pie.
"Hey, all. This is Joseph Baron, a buddy from the station." Ray crossed the room and draped an arm over
Sydney
's shoulders, helping her to her feet. "Baron, these are
Sydney
's girls, uh, women. I'll let them all introduce themselves."
With that, the meeting was unofficially adjourned, and Kinsey was off the hook, with one week to come up with alternative fund-raising ideas she could live with. Though
Sydney
with an idea was like a dog with a bone…
Right now, however, there was a much more interesting mating game underway at Kinsey's side.
While introductions were made, she watched Izzy watch Baron make a circle around the room, surreptitiously doing what she could to wipe away any dirt remaining on her face. She smoothed back her short chunky dreads, as well as the loose hairs curling over the wide cloth headband—today in bright red—that held her hair out of her eyes.
Love amid the ruins. Kinsey chuckled to herself. "Uh, Isabel?"
Izzy waved off Kinsey's teasing. "Hush with that. I'm busy here naming my children. Eloise Rose Baron has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Kinsey could only laugh, chuckling again when Izzy let out a long, lustful moa and whispered, "Damn, but that man is hard, and so very fine."
Izzy pushed up out of her chair as the chatter fizzled and Ray herded
Sydney
toward the door. Kinsey walked with Izzy into the hallway and toward the lobby, sensing the twitching of the other woman's man radar as she waited for Baron to follow. "I wonder what
Sydney
knows about him?" Kinsey asked.
Izzy blew out a breath and shivered. "The only thing that matters right now is the lack of a wedding band on his left hand and what exactly that means."
"That shouldn't be too hard to find out." The two women reached the lobby where, eyes closed,
Sydney
stood with her forehead resting on Ray's chest. "Except it doesn't look like
Sydney
's in the mood right now to be pried loose from Ray for girl talk."
"No need," Izzy said with a shake of her head. "I'm spending the night in her guest room. Mamma needed my room for visiting family."
The corner of Kinsey's mouth quirked upward. "How convenient for you."
"Girl, you had better believe it."
Sydney
stepped away from Ray then, pushed her hair from her face, telling him with her eyes that she wanted to go. Nodding, he glanced beyond the receptionist's station and lifted his chin in a questioning gesture. "Hey, dude. You ready?"
Both Kinsey and Izzy turned their gazes toward Joseph Baron as he entered the lobby. He grabbed Ray's hand in one of those intensely complicated male handshakes that Kinsey had never understood.
Izzy simply sighed one more time, whispering for Kinsey's ears only,
"
Fine, I tell you. Fine."
"Right behind you,
dawg
." Baron spoke to Ray, but his gaze had found Izzy's and had yet to leave. Kinsey would've wanted to run to the rest room and wash her face had a man been looking at her with such dark intensity.
But not Izzy. Chin held high, she wore the remaining grit and grime of the day's labor with pride, and Kinsey had a feeling that her attitude as much as her clear cocoa skin, was responsible for Baron's attention.
Sydney
sliced the tension by clearing her throat. "Kinsey, why don't you—"
The front door opened, bringing a burst of heat, the glare of the setting sun and, surprise, Doug Storey. Kinsey swore her grin spread all the way to her ears.
"Kinsey, hey," he said, coming toward her, flashing a smile as wide as hers. Then his expression became concerned again. "Anton told me about the fire. Oh, hey, Ray,
Syd
."
Sydney
looked up at Ray imploringly. "Ray? Please?"
"Yeah. We're outta here." Forgoing more introductions, Ray tucked her against his side and took charge. "Doug, you and Kinsey come on out to the house. Patrick's cooking, and I've got to get
Sydney
home. Baron, you good with driving Izzy out in
Sydney
's car?"
"You got it," Baron said, tearing his gaze from Izzy to glance back at Ray.
Nodding his thanks, Ray spoke to
Sydney
. "Baby, where are your keys? Good girl," he added when she dug into her pocket and handed them over.
He tossed the key ring to Baron, who crossed the lobby and pushed open the door, then waited for Izzy to head out after Sydney and Ray. Izzy waggled her brows at Kinsey and followed. That left Kinsey alone in the lobby with Doug.
"Whoa. Talk about a whirlwind. Ray certainly knows how to get things taken care of, doesn't he?" Kinsey turned and walked back toward her office, assuming Doug would follow. He did, and his warmth at her back was nicely comforting. "I thought you were catching a flight out this morning."
"I was." Doug stood just inside her doorway as she straightened her desktop and logged out of the computer network, shutting down her PC for the night. "But I called Marcus West first thing, and he wanted a lunch meeting. I wasn't about to say no. And then Anton told me about the fire when I stopped by the office afterward. Is everyone okay?"
"The structure's a total loss, but no one is hurt. We're working on fund-raiser ideas." Or idea, singular. One she did
not
want to tell him about yet. "So, how'd the meeting go?" She loved how they had already settled into discussing one another's days. "Things better between you two now?"
Doug nodded, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb. Today he wore black-pinstriped suit pats and a dress shirt just this side of rust. He looked very continental in the buttoned-up, sans-tie combination, and Kinsey had to force herself not to drool. "Marcus bought new property at the edge of downtown's Westmoreland district."
"And he wants you to design his space," she said, grabbing her purse from a drawer in the credenza behind her desk.
Doug grinned. "You know, Kinsey, you really are getting into a bad habit of finishing my sentences for me."
She grinned from the inside out. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"What would you call it?"
Shrugging, she checked her purse for her keys, not quite ready to agree that she'd unconsciously done exactly what he'd claimed. "I'm merely making conversation."
"Good."
"Why so worried?" She frowned.
"No worries. Not really. Just making sure we're on the same wavelength here."
"And what wavelength is that?"
He pushed away from the door and strolled toward her, taking his own sweet time as he rounded the side of her desk.
She stayed where she was, keeping the lacquered-mahogany workstation between them. The desk was wide and broad, giving her tons of space on which to work, but the open design offered absolutely nothing behind which to hide.
Not that she was hiding. She just liked the idea of Doug having to chase her before she gave in. And he did, sort of, rounding the end of her desk and stalking her as she backed up into the credenza.
She'd gone as far as she could go, yet he kept on coming, stopping only when his body was pressed to hers so completely that she could feel muscles and buttons and his belt buckle and his thick sexual package beneath.
He trapped her by bracing his hands on the credenza on either side of her hips, trapped her further when he bent to nuzzle the side of her neck there at the spot she loved—the one he never missed and nuzzled oh, so well.
He even managed to nuzzle as he mumbled against her skin. "The wavelength that says no one in this office is going to be getting married and doing that sentence-finishing thing on a regular basis."
"Please." She lifted her chin to give him better access, proud of herself for keeping her voice steady when she felt the strange urge to slap him silly. "The only reason I'm here with you is to get back my stolen bikini bottoms."
"I've been thinking about that."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah." One hand moved from the credenza to her waist, slipping beneath the crop top of orange-and-avocado silk she wore over matching ankle-length pats. "I've been thinking a deal is in order."
"What sort of deal?" she asked, though the minute his skin touched hers, she was afraid she'd agree to anything.
"A bet." His hand cupped her rib cage, sliding upward until the heel of his palm brushed the full curve of her breast. He groaned, and she did the same.
"What sort of bet?" She sounded like a CD on repeat, but thinking of a witty response was out of the question. In fact, thinking at all had become damn hard to do, now that he'd moved his hand to rub the flat of his thumb over her nipple covered with the filmy, gauzy lace of her bra.
"Football," he said with gritted teeth, as if anything more was too much to push past his binding erection. "Why the hell are you wearing a bra?"
She'd asked herself the same question seconds ago, even as she'd wondered if getting up to lock the door would spoil the moment. "In case you haven't noticed, I need one. What about football?"
"This weekend's game." He wedged her legs apart with one knee and didn't even pretend to ask permission as his other hand settled possessively between. "The Texans win, I keep your bottoms. The
"How fair is any of that?" she asked, then gasped as he pressed the long edge of his index finger up against her sex.
"I like winning." His hand beneath her top made quick work with the hooks of her bra. "And getting my way."
"I can tell," she said as her breasts fell free, and he moved both hands to cup her fully. She couldn't help herself; she placed her hands over his and pressed herself into his palms.
He growled and shoved his erection against the seam of her pants, grinding against her until she whimpered and edged toward orgasm.
"Why the hell are you wearing pants?" he demanded.
"I like pants."
"Learn to like dresses."
"Bossy."
"Damn right," he said, and stepped back completely, leaving her panting and hanging on the edge.
She stared at him, looking for signs that he'd truly lost his mind. "What was that all about?"
His grin was bigger than that of a cat with a canary, sexier than a devil given his due. He smacked his lips as if he couldn't wait to eat her up.
"That was about having dessert before dinner. Now, let's go before the traffic kills us."
Chapter 5
A
fter three and a half hours spent indulging in fine wine, conversation and even finer friends, Kinsey waved a final goodbye to Ray Coffey.
He shut his front door, and she and Doug headed down the suburban home's long pebbled walkway toward their cars. Dinner had been great; even
Sydney
perked up after a shower and a plate of Patrick's cooking. Who wouldn't when faced with a meal like the one he'd just served?
Seafood and fruit in an amazing combination of sweet citrus and hot spice, and a pudding or custard sort of dessert, the likes of which Kinsey had never eaten but could easily find herself addicted to.
Patrick hadn't even stayed to eat, Ray explaining away his brother's vanishing act as the norm. The ravenous group of six had simply gone on to praise Patrick in absentia as they ate.
They'd avoided talking about the fire or the fund-raising auction, and had instead chatted about Izzy's recent humanitarian efforts working with Doctors
Without
Borders in
Mexico
.
Having listened to her stories, Izzy's dinner partners all admitted to their feelings of inadequacy in the charity department. Izzy had rolled her
doelike
eyes at such ridiculousness, as she called it, and turned the conversation to Baron's and Ray's lifesaving efforts.
At the end of the evening, Kinsey had felt like a toad for complaining about being scheduled for the auction block. It was the very least she could do to help. And who knew? She might meet someone to whom she wouldn't mind being sold.
Someone who wasn't Doug Storey. As if.
Using the light from the moon and the streetlamp, she dug through the contents of her purse for her car keys, trying—but failing—to stifle a groan. She was stuffed. Miserably, uncomfortably stuffed. "I don't think I've ever eaten that much at one sitting in my entire life."