The Temptation (Filthy Rich Americans 5)

Fog filled my head, and I didn’t understand why Jillian had said going down on a woman wouldn’t violate the no-sex rules. “Why?”

“Why can’t I get a blow job, but I’m allowed to use my tongue? Because she knows I love doing that, and she was probably hoping it’d make me more likely to lose the bet.”

The image was instantaneous—him on his knees in front of me, my bare thighs resting on his shoulders. Would he close his eyes as his mouth worked me over, teasing me? Or would he keep them open so he could watch every gasp of breath I took?

It was a thousand degrees on the plane, and still I shivered inside my jacket. Despite all the warnings I’d given myself, I threw the same demand he’d issued earlier, only my voice was a whisper. “Show me.”

His hand clenched on top of mine, perhaps a reflex at the heat my words caused in him. He squeezed almost to the point of discomfort. “Well, that’s a spectacularly bad idea.”

Only there was an edge buried in his statement that said he liked my idea very much. He released me, straightened, and adjusted his seatbelt. Or possibly he was disguising the way he had to adjust himself inside his jeans.

With his touch gone, some of the tension between us dispelled, clearing my head. It allowed me to get back on my game. He was another safe to crack, a puzzle to unlock, and I needed a new approach. “You’re right,” I said. “If you think you can’t handle it—that it would be too tempting for you— then we shouldn’t.”

His icy blue eyes narrowed at my challenge. “I didn’t say I couldn’t handle it.” I expected him to say more, or at least come back with a sharp retort, but instead he scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Emery . . . I’m a third of the way through this thing, and it’s only going to get harder the more time we spend together. The bet is ridiculous, and no one’s keeping score except me, but . . . it means something to me to finish it.”

Guilt sliced down through my center. He was trying to improve himself. Why was I making it harder on him? “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

That probably wasn’t likely, but he looked relieved.

It wasn’t long after that when the attendant appeared, prepared the cabin for dinner, and then served us. We had linen napkins, fancy silverware, and actual plates—it was like eating at a high-end restaurant. I almost wished Vance had made me sit in the back row where the seats were smaller and wouldn’t recline while I was fed a tasteless frozen dinner.

How on Earth was I going to go back to flying commercial? He was, of course, used to the luxury. This was commonplace to a one-percenter like him. He’d never had to sit shoulder to shoulder with the plebs in economy plus and fight to find overhead compartment space.

He finished his salad and set his fork at an angle across his plate, signifying he was done. “If someone helped Jillian fake her death, I don’t think it was Lucas Ridley.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

After we’d shared sips from the bottle of vodka the night of Jillian’s memorial, he’d told me his theory about Lucas running off to the Caribbean with her. It seemed highly unlikely. I knew she’d been taking sailing lessons, but only because she’d called me one afternoon in a terrible mood and said she’d just fired Lucas for being an asshole.

She never mentioned him before or after that phone call.

But I was all for ruling out every suspect, and thankfully Vance seemed to feel the same.

“I spoke with the security manager at the marina,” he said. “According to the logs, Lucas didn’t use his boat at any time while The Trident was out. Plus, he didn’t set sail until after the news about Jillian’s disappearance had broken.” Sadness crept into his voice. “You said she fired him. Maybe Sophia was right. Jillian’s death hit him extra hard because they were friends and how things ended between them.”

His sadness was mirrored in me, but I refused to let it stay. I didn’t want things to be as they seemed, and maybe if I wished hard enough, I could will what I wanted into existence. “Okay, so it wasn’t Lucas,” I said. “We’ll keep looking, or we’ll find a way for me to get back in front of Lambert’s safe, or—”

“Both,” he said simply.

It was the same thing I imagined him saying to a jeweler when he was unable to choose which outrageously expensive watch he wanted.

“Both,” I repeated on a breath, pleased not to have to guide him. He was already onboard with my agenda.

When our plates were cleared, I took the opportunity to visit the restroom. There was plenty of leg room, but he was a gentleman with impeccable manners, so he unbuckled his seatbelt and rose to his feet when I did, giving me more space to pass. I sucked in my breath as I inched my way around him, fighting the urge to rub suggestively against his toned form.