Acres, Natalie - Sex Club [Cowboy Sex 5] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (19 page)

No doubt, whatever situation Tristan and Bailey were trying to escape, it was far more dangerous than her predicament. They’d changed their names and faces! “Who does that?” she asked aloud. “I mean, what kind of trouble are the two of you in that you would need to change the way you look?”

Bailey frowned. “It would take a long time to explain our situation.”

Ansley turned her head from side to side, checking the grounds for anyone, security perhaps, or foot traffic from the hotel’s guests, or maybe a scary man who stood about eight foot tall and carried a machine gun and explosives. Super. If she thought she’d have to look over her shoulder before, she was crazy wrong. She’d walk backward with a mirror in hand, or better yet, learn to turn in complete circles as she strolled down the street. That way no one could sneak up and catch her off guard. This was an impossible situation, a deadly one, too, apparently.

Why couldn’t she fall for men without baggage? Why couldn’t she be attracted to the nerd who spent his days behind a computer and came home long enough to have wild sex only to return to his desk and play online games until bedtime? So it may have been boring, but she could do boring. What she couldn’t do was men running from the mob!

“We appear to be all alone, and I’ve got all night.” And apparently she was back to considering her options, regardless of how dangerous they were.

“What would you like to know?”

“For starters, why didn’t you say something? Don’t you think your employer has a right to know who they have on staff?”

“Ansley, we couldn’t tell you because we didn’t want to put your life in danger.”

“Wonderful,” she grumbled. “So now you tell me. I guess you think I’m as good as dead anyway, so why not, right?” A second later, she was coming to terms with the possibility that Jordie Anne could, in fact, put an end to her sensational life. “You think that lunatic will kill me, don’t you?”

“No! That’s not why I told you!”

“Then why did you tell me?” she asked, enunciating every syllable. How dare Bailey and Tristan put her and her family in danger by coming to work for them. She’d watched movies, seen documentaries. No one survived when the mob wanted them dead. The mafia’s enemies could run, but they could not hide!

“I don’t know,” Bailey admitted, turning off the ignition and clutching the keys in his right hand. “I guess I thought if we had a chance to make something out of this—whatever this is—I wanted to start out on the right foot. I needed to be honest with you.”

“You wanted to be truthful, did you? That’s swell. Maybe now you won’t mind telling me what you did to the mob. Why are you running from criminals? What will these guys do to you if they find you? Will they kill you?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated, and it would take all night if I answered all your questions now.”

Ansley left the car and slammed the door. Within seconds, she realized she didn’t know where she was going. A few moments later, Bailey caught up to her and pointed off to the left. “We’re over here at the cottage.”

“Fabulous,” she muttered, walking faster as she traipsed through a beautiful garden area. Suddenly, she stopped. Swinging her arm behind her, she shook her finger at the elaborate and quite notorious guest accommodations. “He’s staying at the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“
Here?
At The Grove Park Inn? Oh, this just kept getting better and better all the time.” Actors and scholars, screenwriters and musicians were the kind of people who afforded the luxuries at The Grove Park Inn cottage. The average hotel guest didn’t reserve the cottage unless they stayed there for a couple of nights on a special occasion.

Bailey arched a brow like he wasn’t quite following her.

“Do you have any idea how expensive that place is?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m staying here part-time, too. It’s pricey.”

She thinned her lips, took another few steps, and wheeled around to face him once more. “How in the hell can you afford this?”

“Our father was a very wealthy man. When he died, Tristan and I inherited everything he had.”

“And let me guess—the money was dirty?”

“Filthy.”

“It’s blood money, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the hell are you working for my family?”

“We wanted to start a new life.”

“Really?” she asked, pursuing the cottage. “That’s interesting. From where I’m standing, it appears that you’re still hanging on to the very life that provided you the kind of means to pay thousands of dollars per week to live in the cottage at one of the most expensive resorts in America!”

“If that’s not the white cat calling snow angels pale.”

She’d never heard such a backward expression in all her life. She reached the door and realized she’d been insulted. Bailey had that in common with Tristan. They each had a way of putting her in her place without her knowledge. She was slow to the draw where their verbal jabs were concerned, which infuriated her even more.

She knocked twice. Glancing over at Bailey, it was only then that she realized his arms were loaded down with her luggage. She reached for one of the bags, and he said, “Don’t worry, honey. Theft wasn’t part of our family’s legacy.”

“That’s good to know,” she bit out, forcing a smile when Tristan opened the door. Marching by him, she called out behind her, “Let me guess—money laundering, illegal gambling, prostitution, extortion, and murder—that’s more your family’s cup of tea?”

“Fuck!” Tristan yelled. “You told her?”

“She needed to know.”

“The hell she did!”

“What’s wrong, Tristan? Afraid I won’t perceive you in the same light now?” Ansley asked from the end of the hall. “For the record, I know all about The Grove Park Inn. This place is swanky, and the cottage doesn’t come cheap.”

“Apparently the woman staying here doesn’t either.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Ansley asked.

“I should’ve told Brock that looking after you would cost him. You’re bound and determined to be a pain in my ass.”

Ansley relaxed. She’d braced for an insult but was relieved when she realized Tristan was obviously just sexually frustrated. “Tristan,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Hon, you really have no idea how much of a handful I can be, do you?”

“I have some idea,” he grumbled. “Trust me.”

“Good. Because you see, since you and Bailey lied to me, or at least fibbed by omission, I plan to get even. I won’t be a small splinter in that hard ass of yours. I’ll be a thorn certain to leave a scar.”

Chapter Nine

“Let’s come to an understanding right off the bat. I am not Marilyn Monroe. I’m not a ditzy blonde desperate for love and eager to get off by fucking a jackass who apparently has a whole lot of money!”

“Well it’s good to know I’m not temporarily residing with a ghost,” Tristan said, opening the closet door. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t thank you. I’m not happy about this.”

“I can tell.” A second later, he couldn’t help but inquire, “Why did you bring up Marilyn Monroe, exactly?”

Ansley unzipped her luggage and stared down. He felt a smile tug at his lips as she immediately closed her suitcase with a rapid flick of the wrist. Apparently, she’d forgotten how she’d packed. Her lingerie was strewn about. Sexy, colorful thongs and matching bras topped her bag. He should’ve asked her to model the items, since he’d already seen them.

“Marilyn Monroe was always in bed with the wrong people,” she explained. “If she wasn’t fucking presidents, she was screwing members of the mob.”

“And you know this how?”

“I’m a history buff. I graduated from UNC with a double major in history and business. And don’t you dare change the subject here.”

He didn’t realize history included an extensive study on dead actresses linked to US presidents. “I didn’t know we were discussing any one topic in particular. But if we are, let’s revisit what you first mentioned.”

She frowned. “I’m so furious I don’t remember what I said!” She stalked to the closet, peered inside, and grabbed a few clothes hangers.

“I believe you brought up getting off by fucking a jackass.”

“Yes,” she grated out. “I was talking about Marilyn.”

“Damn,” Tristan rasped, catching her around the waist and drawing her back against his chest. “There for a minute, I thought you had a real hankering for a jackass.” His lips met her lobe and he nipped at the texture. “If so, I can help you out, sugar.”

A heavenly sigh slipped from her lips. The sound was close to a womanly moan, the kind of reaction a man hoped to receive when he was trying his luck for the first time. Ansley’s vocal release was enough to provoke him. He slid his hands to her belly and lifted her shirt, flattening his palms against her middle as he caressed her bare flesh, inspired by the silken skin underneath his fingertips.

She didn’t wiggle or push him away. Instead, she stilled against him. Her reaction was anything but expected.

“What do you want, Ansley?” he asked, kissing her neck, running his tongue right under the edge of fabric as he dragged his mouth lower, turning her so he could lavish his kisses over her collarbone. “Is this what you need?” They were face-to-face. He searched her eyes as she nodded in agreement.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered. He pressed against her as his lips worked her over. He kissed up and down, the wanton need to focus on her breasts nearly driving him mad as he left gentle pecks on her chest and neck, lips and cheek. At her ear again, he rasped, “What can I do for you, baby?”

His erection grew as he played with her. His hands traveled, propelling along her torso. Had he ever wanted a woman more than he longed for Ansley? Not even close.

She didn’t just light a fire in the pit of his stomach. A raging inferno scorched his insides.

“You know what to do,” she whispered, locking her wrists behind his neck.

Her reply was man’s music, a tempo already set, a beat determined, and a song chosen. She’d given her permission, and he never thought for a second that she wouldn’t.

As he ground against her, he fought against the unexplainable need, the desire to strip her down and bury his dick deep inside her warm, yielding pussy. He wanted to make love, show her how slowly and passionately he could take her.

These ideas weren’t normal. He didn’t make love. He got his rocks off when he found someone physically attractive, and even that was rare. After the dirty deed, he pretended to sleep. He avoided pillow talk. Then, when he thought an escape was safe, he left, leaving in the middle of the night in order to dodge the gal he’d taken to bed. He never formed any attachments or emotional bonds.

Ansley was different, and he’d already faced the truth. It was too late to safeguard his heart. His intense feelings were already part of the package. He wanted to hold Ansley close and fall asleep with her head on his chest, her body sprawled across his, and he longed to know how it would feel to wake up in her arms.

“Tell me what pleases you,” Tristan said, wanting her to direct him so he could take the appropriate lead. He needed to be sure they were headed in the right direction, that she realized while they’d have some time together one-on-one, there was more to consider here.

He’d watched her with the Killian brothers. He’d seen her with Bailey. If Tristan wanted Ansley in his life, he’d have to share her. If he forced her to choose, she might choose him because of the undeniable chemistry between them, but he wouldn’t keep her happy. She had too much of a developing connection with Bailey and too much history with Elliott and Graham.