Hottest Mess (SIN 2)

Despite the dim lighting--or perhaps because of it--there are still a few people mingling about, but I soon leave them behind. By the time I reach the hedge maze that blocks this area from the more private family garden, I'm the only one around.

When Dallas and Liam and I were children, this maze was exceptionally easy to navigate, primarily because the hedge was only a foot high. Now, more than twenty years later, it's eight feet tall, but I still remember my way through, and I'm clear in under five minutes and heading toward the garden shed.

As soon as I reach it, I collapse onto the small wooden bench that sits flush against the stone wall. I breathe deeply, grateful to be hidden from view. Away from the party. From Dallas. From everything.

Except I'm not. He's followed me, of course.

I hear him first--the sound of his footsteps. Firm. Determined. Steady.

He's not running, but walking quickly. Then he is standing in front of me. My head is down, so I see only the soft leather of his Brioni loafers and the cuff of his Dior Homme jeans. Casual clothes for a casual party. But there's nothing casual about his manner. His stance alone radiates power, and though he says nothing, I know that he is worried about me.

Hell, I'm a little worried about me.

Slowly, I tilt my head up to look at him. I've stared at him for hours tonight, but despite my roiling emotions, I can't help but be riveted by him now. Or maybe it's because of those emotions. Because Dallas Sykes is beautiful. A living sculpture. A model of male perfection.

His legs are clad in the faded denim, tight enough to accent his muscular thighs, not to mention his semi-erect cock. He wears a plain white T-shirt under the thin gray cashmere sweater that I bought him for his birthday almost four months ago. He looks sexy as hell--like he just walked off the runway of a men's fashion show. And it's all I can do to still my fingers that want nothing more than to grab a fistful of cashmere and pull him violently toward me.

I don't. Instead I continue my inspection, tilting my head back further to see his face. I expect the hard line of his jaw to be tight with frustration and his emerald green eyes to burn with irritation. I expect those lips to scold me--to ask what the fuck is wrong with me.

Instead, he says, "I'm sorry."

I blink, the words as unexpected as a slap.

"I thought you'd like it," he says. "Something hot. Something for us."

"Something hidden. Something secret." As soon as I say the words I regret them. "I'm sorry," I say. "It was hot--incredibly hot. And I did like it. You know I did. It's just ..."

"We can't be open," he says, then sighs. "I know."

He drags his fingers through his caramel-colored hair, and I watch as his expression hardens.

"It's not just us, you know," he says, moving to sit beside me. "Everything about these parties is secret. I'm playing a role. I know we haven't talked much yet about Deliverance, but you understand that, right? I'm--"

"The man with the golden cock," I say. "Yeah, I get that."

He winces. "We both know that's not true."

"Dallas." Shit. Fuck. "I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't, and it's fine." He looks at me gently, his voice turning softer as he says, "I told you that I'm glad I've never actually fucked any of them. I only want you."

His words warm me, but they don't fully soothe. "I believe you," I say, matching his soft tone. "But being glad that you haven't fucked them is completely different from being glad that you can't."

He closes his eyes for a moment and nods, acknowledging the truth of my words.

I'd been shocked to learn that I was the only woman Dallas has ever penetrated--and that was seventeen years ago when we'd been captive and terrified. Before he'd been tortured.

Before he'd been broken.

Now he plays a game of smoke and mirrors, satisfying hordes of women, but never literally fucking any of them. And since no woman who's romped in his bed wants to admit that he didn't actually lay her out and fuck her hard, his reputation just keeps growing. And frankly, considering his skill in bed, I bet most women didn't even realize he was never inside them; they were too busy wallowing in the aftershocks of multiple orgasms.

Honestly, it's one hell of a marketing scam. All of it is, really. The playboy persona. The King of Fuck reputation. He flirts with, touches, and beds a procession of women because that feeds an illusion and serves his purpose--Deliverance. An elite vigilante organization dedicated to rescuing kidnap victims and punishing their tormentors.

Until I learned that Deliverance was essentially Dallas's brainchild, I'd been firmly of the opinion that it was a dangerous group that needed to be stopped. I'd done enough research and written enough articles and books on kidnappings and vigilante justice to know that mercenaries often do more harm than good. But I know Dallas; I understand his motives. And, honestly, I'm not sure what to think now, at least not about Deliverance. And so I'm officially withholding judgment until I learn more.

That in-depth educational experience hasn't happened yet. But I know enough to understand what he's doing. Creating camouflage. Hiding in plain sight behind the facade of a man who is too much of a player to be a threat.

"I've been living a life built on secrets for years, Jane." His voice is soft, pulling me back from my thoughts. "Secrets are familiar territory."