Guilty Pleasure Page 2

He resettled his big frame against the passenger seat, a whisper of fabric on leather, but the flex of his fist against his muscled thigh belied his calm exterior. “No tech. No internet. No travel beyond the range of my ankle monitor. I got the speech, Vivienne. Stop stalling”

  The sound of her full name on his lips was a bullet to the heart. Taciturn and austere, with no flicker of the heat that used to burn strong and insatiable between them.

  Tangible proof the past was gone.

  And the present was a cold, hard bitch.

  Just like me, she reminded herself, buoying her resolve.

  “In addition to those stipulations, you’ve also been remanded into my care until the trial.”

  “Fuck that.”

  There was no particular emphasis in his words, but that didn’t make his shock less palpable. It was a living thing in the confines of the luxury car. The air around them crackled with the restless energy of it.

  “Should I turn around then? I can call ahead to make sure your cell is ready by the time we arrive.”

  She felt him bristle at the constraints of his current situation, as though his essence was pacing the car like a caged lion, testing the bars for weaknesses. It didn’t take him long to realize there was no escape. Wes had always been a staunch realist.

  The charged silence of his acceptance oozed over her skin, thick and uncomfortable, unbroken aside from the soft rush of the air-conditioning and the muttered curse that crossed his lips.

  She refused to label the loosening in her chest, because it felt a little too much like relief for her own peace of mind. She arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Good to know my company still ranks higher than incarceration.”

  “Just barely,” he mumbled, and with that unflattering summation, he purposefully and studiously ignored her for the rest of the trip which, thanks to the notorious LA traffic, took three times as long as it should have.

  Not that it mattered. His opinion didn’t concern her, and he’d proven a long time ago that he wasn’t susceptible to anything as basic as human emotion, so the state of his feelings was irrelevant. Vivienne was going to set things right, and his cooperation was neither essential nor desired. She would do what needed to be done, and once she had, she could finally lance this painful, recurring boil that sprang up every time their lives intersected.

  Besides, Vivienne reasoned, flipping on the signal light, his silence was no more than she deserved.

  She was, after all, the reason he’d gone to jail in the first place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WES HAD SPENT a lot of years convinced that prison was his worst nightmare.

  He’d had only a vague notion of what it meant to be locked up back then, but he was intimately familiar with how it affected those you left behind. He’d watched his mother wait for his father, first with dreamy idealism, then with stalwart resolution, and finally with glassy, narcotic-numbed indifference. At six years of age, Wes had promised himself he’d never end up like his dad, never do that to his own family.

  His scoff was silent and self-directed. He’d managed to keep only half that bargain, and on a technicality, no less. Because he didn’t have a family of his own. Ironic, then, that his punishment was to be a court-enforced game of playing house with Vivienne Grant.

  Maybe jail hadn’t been so bad after all.

  The erroneous thought hit him just as Vivienne glided the luxury automobile into its designated spot in the underground parking garage of her high-rise condominium.

  The building was posh. Top-of-the-line. The kind of place he’d been determined to be able to afford for her one day. Their relationship had been long dead by the time he’d reached that goal.

  She’d changed a lot since then, a lifetime ago, but not this. Not her easy familiarity with the best the world had to offer.

  There were some physical differences, of course, but nothing that couldn’t easily be attributed to the passage of time.

  A sleek, straight haircut, a rigidly professional wardrobe, and the daring glint in her eyes had mellowed and morphed into confident determination.

  But the shift from the girl he’d loved to the woman he resented wasn’t in her surroundings, or her appearance, so much as a tectonic shift in her essence. As though some part of the Vivienne he’d known had not made it through the carnage.

  She was still a force to be reckoned with, but there was nothing scattershot about her anymore. She was laser focused. Precise. A corporate warrior who’d abandoned the volatile bow and flaming arrow of her youth in favor of the cold, exact steel of a scalpel. And her new weapon of choice suited her well. So well that Wes wondered if his memories of her, wild and reckless and overwhelming, were mistaken. The woman getting out of the car seemed impenetrable to him, an avatar.

  Wes closed the door on his useless musings and followed her through the parking garage toward the elevator, the staccato beat of her heels bouncing in the cavernous structure lined with expensive cars. He watched as Vivienne swiped a small fob in front of the receiver before dropping her keys into her purse. The brass door slid open to reveal the elevator car, paneled in dark, carved wood that had been polished to a gleaming shine. An intricate brass handrail bordered the interior, glinting in the diffused light of the crystal chandelier.

  Since he was closer, Wes lifted his hand to press the button before realizing that he didn’t know where she lived.

  Vivienne slanted him a glance that felt significant, before she reached past him and pressed the button numbered 37 with a perfectly manicured finger. Scarlet.

  The spicy, sultry fragrance of her signature scent hit him in the gut. Made especially for her at the same little French parfumerie that her mother used to frequent. He wasn’t sure if he liked the fact that the stranger beside him still smelled like Viv.

  Wes took a self-preserving step backward. “I promised you the day we met that I’d never use my tech skills to find out anything about you,” he reminded her.

  He knew it was the wrong thing to say the second it came out of his mouth, even before her spine stiffened and accusation flooded her eyes. Despite his best intentions, all he’d managed to do was conjure the ghost of another vow he’d made to her, one that he’d reneged on.

  Promise me, Wes, that no matter what, I’ll always be more important to you than work. That we’ll always put each other first.

  Stupid, childish notions that had been selfishly asked and callously disregarded.

  But obviously not forgotten.

  “How very chivalrous of you, Wesley.” His name on her lips dripped with scorn.

  She wasn’t so bad with invectives herself.

  Any other time, he’d be glad the building was too distinguished to subject them to Muzak, but not today. Not when the silence between them was thick with tension. With history.

  Hell, he’d have given his left nut for a little soft jazz right now, and he hated soft jazz.

  This wasn’t going to work. Them. Together.

  Not if the past was going to haunt them like this. And how could it not?

  You’ve been remanded into my care until the trial.

  What the hell had she been thinking accepting that deal? And what the hell was he doing, going along with it, like the proverbial lamb?

  When they passed the twentieth floor, Wes pulled the shell of his phone out of his suit jacket.

  He popped it open and removed two thin plastic rods that could pass as part of the casing in any reputable scan.

  As they approached the twenty-fifth floor, he screwed them together and stepped up to the elevator controls, inserting the tool into the small hole at the bottom of the brass panel. With a quick push, the latch released. From there, he popped open the plate and set to work.

  Wes could sense the moment that her interest piqued, could tell that she was leaning to the side in an attempt to see around him. Even pi
ssed at him, Vivienne’s curiosity had always gotten the better of her. He shifted his shoulders to block her view—and the security camera’s—so neither could see what he was doing. Wes disabled the coax cable for the camera first, then bypassed the alarm. They’d just passed the thirtieth floor.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s my line,” he countered, his fingers on the wires as he watched the floor count tick upward. Then he unplugged the twisted-pair cable—blue and white—just as the thirty-sixth floor lit up, and the elevator juddered to an early halt. The chandelier swayed above them, tinkling in the silence as he shoved the pieces of his phone back into his pocket and turned to face his quarry.

  “Why’d you get me out?”

  She owed him that answer, and they weren’t going anywhere until he got it.

  “This couldn’t have waited until we got to my apartment?”

  No way was he giving her full home-court advantage. Hell, he never should have gotten into her vehicle in the first place. In his desperation to get as far from FCI Terminal Island as possible, he’d failed to play this obscene scenario out to its obviously doomed conclusion.

  Sloppy.

  And if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was not being sloppy.

  “I’m more comfortable in small spaces these days.”

  If Wes didn’t know better, he’d have thought she flinched at the bleakness of the jibe, but before he could be sure, her expression deadened. She shook her head. Disappointed in him.

  Well, welcome to the fucking club. He’d let someone get the drop on him, and he’d ended up in handcuffs for that oversight. Now he was out for himself, and the rules no longer applied.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed your time in the slammer, because if you keep this up, you’ll be going straight back.” She lifted her fingers to her temple, as though a sudden headache had struck.

  “My God, Wes. You’ve been out for less than an hour, and you’ve already hacked an elevator!” Viv’s helpless laugh held a note of desperation as she gestured at the missing control panel. “And here I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d care that you’re the target of a federal investigation. That for once in your damn life, you wouldn’t flout the rules just to prove that you could.”

  That’s what she thought this was about? A jab at authority?

  “I’m sorry. Am I not being rescued right? I’d hate to deviate from your script. I know how much you hate it when your plans go slightly awry.”

  “What I hate is your single-minded devotion to making sure everything ends up awry, whether it’s my plan or not!” Her brown eyes were sharp with accusation. “Do you have any idea how serious this is? Max Whitfield is a very powerful man. Never mind that Liam Kearney has joined forces with him to end you. They think you screwed them both over. This is personal to them. They can ensure your whole life falls apart. Do you get that?”

  “My whole life has already fallen apart!” The words snapped in the tight confines of the elevator car with a heat he couldn’t contain. Fury sparked in his blood, lightning in search of a conduit.

  He wasn’t afraid of Whitfield and Kearney. He didn’t give a shit about the FBI. His life’s work was about to be taken from him, the company he’d built out of nothing and sacrificed everything—everyone—for. And he’d be damned if he’d stand by and watch it all go to hell.

  “And how is being in jail for the rest of your natural life going to help that?”

  “I’m not going to sit around and let this happen!” And if she didn’t understand that about him, then she’d never really known him. The realization that maybe she hadn’t lent a dangerous edge to his voice. “If I don’t fight this, I will have nothing left. Do you understand that? Nothing to show for all the years I poured into building Soteria Security from the ground up.” He didn’t want to look at her in that moment, but he couldn’t look away. “I gave up everything.”

  The word was layered in the bitterness that always coated the resurrected memories of her, of them, he’d worked so hard to bury.

  “Oh please. As if anything in your life has ever meant more to you than work.”

  His body vibrated with the fight, and he stepped closer, exploiting his height advantage.

  “I’m not asking for your permission, Vivienne, and you’d do best to stay out of my way. Someone fucked me over, and I will make them pay.”

  He was riled up now, chest heaving, every breath fueling the fire, the anger, inside him. But Vivienne didn’t heed the warning. Instead, she fed the flame.

  In the span of a heartbeat, Wes’s shoulders hit the elevator wall, and before his brain had fully registered that she was clutching a fistful of his shirt, her purse hit the ground and she surged onto her toes, crushing her mouth to his in a bruising, rage-fueled kiss.

  Yes. The word blazed through his blood. Through his body.

  Wes dragged her close as he reversed their positions, shoving her back against the carved wood. He opened his mouth over hers, angling for more, more of her tongue in his mouth, more of the heat coursing through his veins, more of the way she consumed him.

  He’d been expecting fight.

  Prepared for flight.

  And then she’d gone and blown his mind by choosing fuck.

  Her hands were frantic, shoving at his jacket, and he let go of her to help pull it down his arms, fighting free of the confines.

  She broke the kiss as she yanked his shirt out of his pants, and Wes tried to catch his breath, to slow the roar of his blood and the heaving of his lungs, but he was too far gone. Too far in. He needed it. Needed this.

  Her hands worked the buttons on his shirt and he shoved his fingers in her hair, anchoring his palms on either side of her face so he could taste her again.

  High voltage.

  Lit gasoline.

  It had been too long since he’d touched her.

  He craved this, the slide of her tongue against his, the rake of her nails down his bare chest.

  The confines of the elevator filled with the harbingers of sex: the rasp of their breathing, the clank of his belt, the rush of his blood in his ears, the scrape of his zipper.

  Fuck yes.

  Her fingers galvanized him, and his cock pulsed in time with the thick beat of his heart.

  She made a sound in the back of her throat, a needy hitch that he recognized, and just like that, they were them again. It erased the distance, the fights, the years between them, and he hated her for the power she held over him. But he couldn’t resist it, either.

  He’d never been able to resist her.

  With a growl, he pulled his mouth from hers and spun her to face the wall. Her hands came up to press against the wood and she turned her head. Despite the desire pounding through his veins, he was transfixed for a moment by her profile, her long lashes at half-mast, the quick tug of her teeth against her full bottom lip. He did his best not to ruin the gold zipper that ran the length of her spine as he yanked it out of his way with less finesse than he’d have liked, but he was desperate for her skin, for the constellation of beauty marks high on her shoulder blade, just to the right of her bra strap, that he used to idly connect into a star pattern, sometimes with his finger, sometimes the tip of his tongue, back when they used to kiss and talk and fuck the night away.

  He shoved the material out of the way to reveal them, tracing them with his thumb before dipping his head and blazing the same trail with his mouth. Vivienne shivered under the hot swipe of his tongue before turning to face him, her delicate shoulder blades pressed against the dark wood, and just like that, she was pulling her top down, revealing her black mesh bra with strategically placed seaming, and he was pulling her skirt up, baring creamy thighs and matching panties. The red dress bunched around her waist as they met in the middle.

  There was relief bound up in the heat that slammed
through his body. She’d always had a thing for delicate, sexy underthings, the kind that could send a man to his knees. Not everything about her had changed.

  Wes grasped her by the back of her thighs and hoisted her up until she was balanced on the brass railing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, high heels digging into his ass, urging him closer. His hips lurched forward, and she bit his lip as their bodies made contact, skin to skin.

  Everything got mixed up then. Past. Present. Anger. Desire. Right. Wrong.

  And Wes was powerless to do anything but feel it all as he tugged her delicate panties out of his way and slid deep into the slick heat between her legs.

  It was heaven. The kind that would invariably end with a long, slow descent into hell, but in that moment, in Viv’s arms, he didn’t care. He just gave in to the burn.

  * * *

  God, it had been forever since she’d had sex like this. The hard punch of lust. The bittersweet edge of desperation. Just the right amount of rough.

  Wes had always had a knack for just the right amount of rough.

  She’d gotten wet in an instant, the second their mouths had met. Proof that, despite her best efforts to erase the past, her body remembered him—the spiraling ache, the dark, hot friction of them together.

  Why it surprised her, she couldn’t say. Chemistry had never been their problem. Not back when they’d dated, and not now when she hated him and craved him in equal measure.

  She didn’t care that she was kind of his lawyer.

  She didn’t care that she still bore the scars from their breakup.

  She just wanted this, the wild that he brought out in her.

  The heady pleasure of having Wes hot and hard between her thighs overwhelmed her senses. She breathed him in, tracing the ridges of muscle that lined his shoulders and flexed in his back as they moved together. The rock of his hips made her whole body come alive, pulsing with need.

  Vivienne let her head fall back as his mouth traced the sensitive skin of her neck, shocking her with his tongue, surprising her with his teeth, soothing her with his lips.