Hottest Mess (SIN 2)

"Love you, too," she responds. And then, right as I'm about to end the call, she says, "Jane."

"Yeah?" I'm frowning, something in her voice making my insides tighten with dread.

"Your father--he saw the pictures outside the Balcony, too."

"Oh." I bite my lower lip, wondering what exactly Daddy saw in those pictures. Did he see more than the two of us getting in a limo? Did he see the truth?

Because Eli has known for years how Dallas and I feel about each other. Or, at least, how Dallas feels about me. He's never spoken to me about it. But he's made clear to Dallas that if anything happens, he'd disinherit us in a heartbeat. And years ago, the embers that burned between me and Dallas were one of the reasons that Eli sent Dallas off to boarding school in London.

I hold my breath, wondering if my mom is going to expand on her comment. We've never really talked about me and Dallas except to push the lie that he and I couldn't really be together after the kidnapping because it brought back too many dark memories.

So I don't know what she really thinks. What she really feels.

What she fears.

I don't even know if she sees what's really between her two kids.

She told me once that she sometimes regrets the spiderweb of adoptions that made Dallas and I brother and sister, but I don't know if that's because she understands that those machinations now keep him and me apart. I don't know, and I've never asked.

I'm not going to ask now, either.

"Well, anyway," she says brightly, "you need to run. I just thought I'd mention it. I love you," she says again, and then the line goes dead.

Weird, I think. And troubling. Because as much as I fantasize about not having to hide from the world or my parents, I know damn well that I'm really not ready for that fantasy to become a reality.

Dallas is already at the kiosk when I arrive. He's still in his work clothes, a charcoal suit paired with a crisp white shirt, all of which is perfectly tailored. He looks good enough to eat, and if the unapologetic stares from passing women are any indication, I'm not the only one who thinks so.

"You look amazing," he says as I approach, and I have to laugh.

"I was just thinking the same thing."

He starts to reach for my hand, apparently remembers that we are standing on one of the busiest streets in the city, and pulls it away ruefully. "I thought we'd have a drink at The Pierre," he says, referring to the hotel that is just across Fifth Avenue from us.

"Sounds great." I follow him there--also forcibly keeping my hands at my sides--and we head through the opulent lobby to the Two E bar. The hostess clearly recognizes him and starts to seat us at a prominent table in the center of the room, but Dallas deftly steers her to something more private in one of the corners.

As we order, I remember what he said on the phone earlier today, and a little frisson of disappointment cuts through me when I realize that the tables don't have cloths. Apparently there will be no illicit touching happening. Which, sadly, is going to make happy hour a whole lot less happy.

As if he can read my mind, Dallas's mouth quirks up. "We can find another bar," he suggests, then leans closer so he's certain not to be overheard. "Or I can see if I can make you come without even touching you."

A trill of anticipation laced with desire runs down my spine, but I force myself to keep my cool. "Mr. Sykes," I say. "You couldn't possibly."

"A challenge?"

"A dare," I retort playfully, and when I see the heated look of a man recognizing a gauntlet being thrown, I wonder what exactly I've set myself up for.

"I won't say that I'm accepting your challenge," he says, "but if I were, I'd start by saying that I like your outfit. Your skirt that hits below your knees. Your shirt that's buttoned almost to the base of your neck. It's very proper, Ms. Martin. But I know that you're hiding a secret."

I swallow. "Am I?"

"Mmm," he says, leaning back in his chair as the waitress brings our two martinis. She leaves, and Dallas takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "A lacy bra," he continues. "And under that skirt, I bet you're wearing no panties at all."

I just lift a brow, trying to look unaffected. "I'll never tell," I say. "And you're not allowed to find out for yourself."

"Oh, but I will," he says. "I'll put my hand on your knee. On the soft cotton of that skirt, so simple it's sensual. I'll slide it up slowly, until I can brush the skin on your knee with the pad of my thumb, and you'll feel the shock of my touch all the way to your cunt."

"Dallas," I say, my voice hushed. I'm squirming a little, and I'm sure he can tell. "Someone might hear."

"They might," he says. "Does that turn you on?"