Heated (Most Wanted 2)

"Torment," I said firmly, making him laugh. "And here I was starting to think you were a nice man. You're not."

He eased back so that I could see his face. Desire and heat and a feral ruthlessness that cut straight through me. "You're right," he said. "I'm not."

While I worked hard to keep myself from whimpering, Tyler rose to his feet. He held out his hand, and I took it with both curiosity and anticipation. I hoped he was leading me to the bedroom; I hoped he intended to finish what he'd started. I feared that he had something else in mind, though--and, damn the man, I couldn't help that sizzle in my blood that came from the mixture of curiosity and, yes, anticipation.

Without a word, he led me into a short hallway, then through yet another formal room.

To be honest, I was swimming in such a sensual haze, it's a wonder I noticed anything at all. But small things jumped out at me. The paintings. The molding. There were antiques tucked into every corner, yet the room still looked elegant, not cluttered.

We moved down yet another hall, and I entertained the insane idea that all he was really doing was walking me in a circle. More torment. More anticipation.

When I said as much, he laughed. "I'm not that cruel. The place is just huge. You could get lost in it. I do sometimes."

"Really?"

"No, but it makes a good story."

"Is that what you do? Make up stories when the truth isn't good enough?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Absolutely."

"Well," I said. "That's a conundrum."

"What is?"

"You're being honest about being dishonest."

"Maybe I'm just trying to keep you interested," he said, a hint of heat returning to his voice.

I didn't quite meet his eyes. "I don't think you have a thing to worry about there."

We'd reached the open door to the master bedroom, and I was surprised to see the contrast between its interior and the rest of the penthouse. This room contained the modern furniture that Tyler had said he preferred. Sleek lines that accentuated function over form, but nonetheless suggested money and taste.

Interesting. It told me that he was a man who was willing to compromise--but not on the things that were personal and important to him.

There were a pair of closed French doors on the far side of the room, behind which I assumed was a bathroom. A huge bed dominated the space in front of the windows, beyond which the lights of the city twinkled like surrogate stars.

I expected we'd move to the bed, but instead Tyler led me across the room toward those double doors. As we moved across the space, I focused on the details, looking at the room as I might look at a crime scene, trying to discern whatever I could about the man who occupied this space. The dresser--with his personal items laid out precisely on top--suggested organization even while the clothes tossed carelessly across the back of an armchair showed that he didn't take it to the level of obsessiveness.

There were no photographs, no books, nothing personal in the room. Nothing except a handmade quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. And that one item stirred more questions in me than all the intelligence I'd dug up on this enigmatic, powerful, and potentially dangerous man.

I must have hesitated, because I felt a tug, and when I looked over to him, his expression was cloudy. He tilted his head toward a set of double doors on the far side of the room. "Not the bed," he said simply. "Not yet."

"I was looking at the quilt," I said, inexplicably speaking in a whisper. "An heirloom?"

"Yes," he said simply.

I started to ask more, then stopped myself. This wasn't a date, and no matter how much I might be enjoying this night, I needed to remember that this was a mission. Knowing the bits and pieces might help me paint a better picture of the man, but I couldn't imagine that a quilt had any connection to Amy.

I didn't need personal details. And I damn sure shouldn't want them. I knew Sharp was dirty. Maybe not in trafficking women--god, I hoped not--but in the way he lived, the way he operated his businesses, the way he looked at life. Tyler Sharp thumbed his nose at the kinds of rules I'd dedicated my life to enforcing.

And yet in just a few short hours, he'd managed to twist me up. I told myself that was understandable--you go into an op planning to seduce, and seduction is going to happen. And, yes, Tyler Sharp had well and truly seduced me. He'd revved me up, made me want. Made me need. He'd pushed me farther than I'd ever gone before, and I couldn't deny that I liked it.

But this little field trip through the penthouse had given me the chance to gather myself together, and that was good. I still wanted his touch--oh, god, did I ever--but the sensual mist that had clouded my thinking had evaporated, and I was focused on my mission.

Sex with Tyler might be damned entertaining, but at the end of the day, sex was just sex.

And it was going to have to remain that way.

Chapter Ten

I think it was the candles that did me in.

He pushed open the doors, and I saw the room bathed in the golden glow of at least two dozen candles. They were on the floor, on stands, on small tables near the oversized bathtub. The room smelled of lavender and vanilla, and I breathed in deep.

"How?" I asked. "When?"

"I sent a text to the hotel from the car."

I couldn't help but laugh--he looked so incredibly smug.

He took my hand and guided me to the two steps that led up to the deep marble tub already full of lavender scented bubbles. "Go ahead," he said. "Get in."

I stepped out of the shoes, then paused and turned back to him. "I don't understand you," I said plaintively. "You make me strip. You bring in that waiter. It's racy. Raw. I don't know--dangerous maybe. Hot, definitely."

"You forgot wild."

"Wild," I agreed. "But this ..." I swept my arm to indicate the candlelit room. "This is wild, too. Wildly romantic. Sensual. Calm and serene and wonderful."

"And that bothers you?"

"It confuses me," I admit.

I see humor light his eyes. "Maybe I want you confused. Or perhaps I'm trying to prove a point."

"What point?"

"There are a lot of ways to pleasure a woman," he said, and his tone suggested we hadn't even begun. "Hard and raw, soft and sentimental. How can I know what she wants until I see how she reacts?"

"Oh." I swallowed. "And what is it that I want?"

"You? Sweetheart, you want everything," he said in a tone that made me go weak in the knees. "And I'm looking forward to giving it to you." He nodded to the tub again. "In."

I didn't argue. Merely moved carefully on the cool marble up to the edge of the tub. I tested the water and found it to be the perfect temperature, a little on the hot side, but nowhere close to scalding. With a sigh of absolute pleasure, I slid in.

Tyler tucked an inflatable pillow behind my head and I smiled up at him. "Joining me?"

"No," he said, as he started to take off his watch, a beautiful instrument that looked to my eye like an antique. "I'm not."

He set the watch carefully on a nearby table, and since he then started to unbutton his shirt, I decided that he must be teasing.

I watched, enjoying myself thoroughly, as he stripped off his shirt. His body was deliciously perfect, tan and lean, with the kind of defined arms and chest that you'd see on a swimmer. I wanted to reach out and touch him. To find out for myself if the smattering of chest hair was as soft as it looked, and if the muscles were as hard. I wanted to run my lips over every inch of him.

Mostly, I wanted to tumble him into the tub with me.

Instead, I settled for watching him sit on the edge, still in those elegant gray trousers. He looked like something from a pin-up calendar, all easy sensuality in slacks with no shirt and his hair slightly tousled.

He was exceptional, and I couldn't help but wonder how many women he'd brought to his room, touched, bathed, taken to bed.

I wondered--and wished that I hadn't let the thought enter my mind. I had no right to jealousy. Tyler wasn't mine--couldn't be mine--and whatever connection I might fantasize that I felt tonight was just an illusion. How could it be real when we were both clutching tight to our secrets?

"Deep thoughts?" he asked, stroking my hair.

I smiled up at him. "Just thinking how gorgeous you are."

His brows lifted. "I'm flattered."

"Like hell. You know you're amazing."

"And in so many ways," he said, with a cocky grin.

I laughed, then started to splash him. He caught my hand. "Hands on your knees," he said. "I'm going to bathe you."

I opened my mouth to--what? Complain? Question? In the end, I said nothing, just leaned back on my pillow with my hands on my knees and let him take charge.

He started with my legs. Gently, he lifted each leg in turn, putting my heel on a little step inside the tub that I guessed was made for that very purpose. He stroked my skin with scented soaps, then slid his slick and slippery hands along my feet, my calves, my thighs. When he reached the juncture, he stroked my sex lightly, sending trills of pleasure dancing through me. And then his hand was gone again, as if he'd intended nothing more than a preview of what was to come.