Kristen Parker sat in a casino lounge, sipping soda and praying her heart
wouldn't burst in her chest. Cigarette smoke swirled in ghostlike fashion and
the sound of coins spilling from slot machines rang in her ears.
Maybe she should give up, she thought. Throw in the towel, forget this crazy,
dangerous, God-help-me notion. Of all things, she'd come to Las Vegas hoping to
find a fantasy lover, to engage in a one-night stand that would fulfill her
deepest, most intimate desire. In short, Kristen wanted to sleep with a
stranger. Her. The proper, well-behaved daughter of a state senator.
Anxious, she waved away the smoke. She was thirty years old and had slept with
one man her entire life — the federal lawman her father had wanted her to marry.
She glanced at the vacant spot on her finger, the place where her ring used to
be. Determined to clear her mind, she finished her drink and pilfered the cherry
from the bottom of the glass. Just as she lifted it to her lips, she turned and
caught her breath.
A tall, dark stranger now occupied a space at the bar. His skin was the color of
polished bronze and his hair shone as black as the night. When their eyes met,
her knees went weak. He didn't smile; he didn't flirt. He simply watched her,
like a predator calculating its prey.
How long had he been there? How long had he been watching her? With the cherry
pressed to her mouth, she froze, afraid to bite into it, to let the sweetness
roll off her tongue. He raised his empty glass then held it, his gaze never
faltering. Was he saluting her? Mocking her?
Finally, he smiled. Just a hint of a smile, a quick, sexy twitch of his lips.
Kristen thought she might die. He was everything she'd imagined — and more.
Exotic-shaped eyes and cheekbones that could have been sculpted from clay.
She sucked the cherry from its stem, and he smiled again, flattered, it
appeared, by her all-too-obvious attraction to him. Embarrassed, she turned
away, then wondered what he would do if she approached him, if she offered to
buy him a drink. She glanced at her empty ring finger again. It wasn't as if she
were cheating. She had every right to meet this man.
The short walk to the bar seemed to take forever. Finally, she made it, just shy
of losing her nerve. "Is this seat taken?" she asked, then nearly cringed at her
opening line.
"Be my guest," he responded, his voice deep and rich.
"Thank you." He looked like a modern-day warrior, she thought, a Native American
in blue jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair was short and combed away from
his face, but several strands fell onto his forehead. Up close, his eyes rivaled
onyx stones, too dark to reveal the window to his soul.
Settling onto the barstool, she fidgeted with her purse, placing the jeweled
handbag on her lap. It was her only adornment, aside from a set of pearls at her
ears. "May I buy you a drink?"
He shook his head then shifted in his seat. He moved like a panther, big and
powerful, a man who knew his own strength, a man who didn't let life intimidate
him. "Let me buy you one instead."
She merely nodded, wondering what to say next. In most instances, she was a good
conversationalist. But this was different. This was —
He interrupted her thoughts. "You don't look like the type to hit on a guy in a
bar. You seem like such a nice girl. A salon-styled brunette, with blush-pink
nails."
Cursing her politically correct image, she frowned. What was she supposed to do?
Prowl the casino in stiletto heels and a miniskirt? "I'm not a nice girl."
He trapped her gaze, pinning her in place. "You're not?"
"No." Suddenly, she feared he would hypnotize her, bend her to his will. Yet
somehow, the possibility made her warm. Wickedly warm. Beneath her ladylike
dress, she wore a barely-there bustier and thigh-high hose. Her rebellion, she
thought. The kind of lingerie a senator's daughter wasn't supposed to wear.
That half-smile returned to his lips, hinting at his amusement. "I'll be damned.
I had no idea I was in the company of a wicked woman."
"Well, you are." She decided she would keep him guessing, play the game for all
it was worth. "You can't judge a book by its cover."
"I like to read," he said. "Especially in bed."
Was that a sexual innuendo? Or was he being serious? She couldn't tell by his
tone, and his smile had vanished.
A female bartender appeared. Kristen ordered another lemon-lime soda. Her
companion opted for a second round of whatever he'd been drinking.
"What's your name?" he asked, giving her his undivided attention.
"Kristen Parker." She smoothed her bobbed hair. True to form, she'd had it
styled at the hotel salon just hours before. "What's yours?"
"Brent."
"Just Brent?"
"Yep." When the drinks arrived, he paid for them, using a fifty-dollar bill.
While he interacted with the bartender, accepting his change, Kristen studied
him. She had expected him to favor bourbon. Or beer. But his glass contained a
vodka mix of some kind. Curious, she leaned in to test his cologne and
discovered an unfamiliar scent. Woodsy. Erotic. A shiver crept up her spine.
What did she expect from a stranger?
After leaving a tip on the bar, he turned to look at Kristen, but she'd already
moved back, keeping herself at a safe distance. "What do you do for a living?"
he asked.
She reached for her soda and took a sip, hoping the icy drink would calm her
system. "I'm a grant writer. Mostly government grants," she added. "What about
you?"
He crooked his finger. "Come closer and I'll tell you."
She berated herself for getting nervous, for being distracted by his cologne.
Leaning forward, she clutched her handbag.
"I'm a thief," he whispered.
Her jaw went decidedly slack. "You can't be serious."
"But I am," he insisted, his mouth still pressed to her ear. "Dead serious."
A shiver trailed down Kristen's spine. She pulled back to look at Brent, to meet
his gaze. "What do you steal?" she asked, her voice not quite steady.
"Women," he said.
"That's not funny."
He leaned toward her again, so close her heart pounded an anxious rhythm to her
brain. She reached for her soda and took a sip. The cherry in her glass floated
to the top, brushing her mouth. But she wasn't about to eat it, to suck on the
sweetness the way she'd done before.
"I'm a jewel thief," he finally said.
Jewels? Shimmering stones? Priceless heirlooms? She tried to picture him,
dressed in dark clothes, scaling walls and deactivating alarm systems. He
watched her with those onyx eyes, and she shook her head. She could tell he was
amused by her reaction. "I don't believe you."
He merely smiled. "Come up to my room and I'll prove it."
Kristen wondered if that was her cue to fall at his feet, to melt like the
nervous female she was. She tilted her head, mimicking a diva, doing her best to
seem unaffected by his offer. "Why? Do you have the Hope Diamond tucked under
your bed?"
He sat back in his seat, chuckled at her wit. "Speaking of stones… What's your
birthstone?"
"Sapphire. I was born in September." But she'd never owned a birthstone setting.
She rubbed the empty spot on her ring finger, frowned at the tan line around it.
"What's yours?"
"Ruby." He snared her attention with his voice, with the deep, rich tone. "It's
said that rubies grow dull if a person ignores them. They're supposed to be worn
and seen." He lifted his vodka-spiked drink and took a long, hard swallow. "They
also have the power to reconcile quarreling lovers."
"I don't quarrel with my lovers."
"Don't you?" He glanced at the vacant spot on her finger. "What kind of ring
used to be there?"
Caught off guard, she gulped the air in her lungs, cursing his observation. "A
diamond."
"A diamond is supposed to be the ultimate gift of love," he remarked. "But with
a large stone, rubies are worth two to three times a diamond of equal size and
quality."
"Then my husband should have given me a ruby." She studied his hand. He wasn't
wearing a ring, either. When she looked up, she found him staring at her. "But
what does a lawman know?"
"A lawman?" He raised his brows. "You were married to a cop?"
She sipped her soda again, wetting her lips, ignoring the aggressive cherry. "A
deputy U.S. marshal."
"A federal dude." Brent made a humored face. "Was he boring?"
Boring wasn't the word she would have chosen, not for an overly dedicated deputy
whose job ruled his world. "He was a member of the Special Operations Group. He
still is," she added.
"Oooh. A tough guy." He grinned at her. "Riot control. High-threat emergencies.
I'll bet he was gone a lot."
She flinched, and his smile fell. They sat quietly for a moment, the sights and
sounds of Las Vegas swallowing them whole. A band played at the small stage in
the lounge, filling the bar with familiar tunes, with love songs of days gone
by. Vintage music, she thought. Faded memories.
"I didn't mean to upset you," he said.
She released a shaky breath, wishing he hadn't stumbled upon her pain, the ache
of a distant marriage. "I never told him that. I never told him how difficult it
was for me when he was gone. That I didn't like being alone." She studied Brent,
wondering why he claimed to be a thief. His so-called profession made her
curious, but it confused her, too.
He thrust a hand through his hair. "So how'd you meet the deputy marshal?"
"My father introduced us. Dad's a state senator, and the man I married —" She
stalled, refusing to say his name. "He was always so controlled around me. So
proper."
"But you wanted something more? Something wild. Something free."
"I wanted him to stop treating me like a politician's daughter. Like a woman he
wasn't allowed to ravish."
Brent reached out to touch her cheek, to skim his hand along her skin, to graze
her with the pad of his thumb. "Come to my room, Kristen."
Her knees turned to liquid; her pulse jumped desperately to her throat. She
wanted him, every dark, dangerous inch of him. But it was too soon. "I can't."
A frown creased his brow. "Why not?"
Because she wasn't ready, she thought. Because she needed more time before she
slept with him. "Things are moving too fast." And getting too emotional. "Tell
me who you are. Tell me something about your family."
"My father worked in a factory, and my mother died when I was ten." He paused.
"I resemble her. She was part Cherokee."
"So that's the tribe you're from?"
"Yes, but I'm not registered with the Cherokee Nation. I'm not eligible for a
CDIB. A Certificate Degree of Indian Blood," he clarified. "My mother's family
didn't qualify for tribal membership."
She looked into his eyes and saw his discomfort, but he brushed it off with a
smile, hiding his soul, the man behind the mask.
"Do you want to dance?" he asked, changing the subject, steering her away from
his ancestry, from the pain of losing his mother.
Kristen touched his hand. Suddenly she wanted to let this man hold her, this
self-proclaimed thief, this stranger. She wanted to learn more about Brent, more
about jewels and legends, more about why he had such a tender yet lethal heart.
"I'd love to dance with you."
They walked onto the cozy floor, and as he took her in his arms, she put her
head on his shoulder. Inhaling his cologne, she closed her eyes. They were the
only couple swaying to the music, to lyrics created just for lovers.
"Tell me about sapphires," she said.
He pressed his lips to her temple. "They come in all colors, except red."
"Like rubies." She opened her eyes. "We're nothing alike, are we?"
He shook his head. "No. But that doesn't mean we wouldn't be good together." He
touched a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair. "They say sapphires won't shine
if they're worn by the wicked or the impure." He smiled a little. "I think
you're more innocent than you led me to believe."
She drew a shaky breath, recalling her claim to be wicked. "This is my first
affair."
His smile deepened. "Are we having an affair, sweet Kristen? Is that what this
is?"
She nearly sighed, touched by the way he said her name. And when he spun her in
his arms, she noticed a striking blonde enter the lounge. A woman who appeared
to be watching her and Brent.
Much too closely.
The song ended and Brent caught sight of the blonde. Damn, he thought. He hadn't
expected to run into her, not like this.
"Who is she?" Kristen asked, as he led her back to the bar.
"Her name is Marissa Clay." He stalled, studied the blonde again. She'd taken a
seat at a corner table. "She's a prominent jeweler in the area."
Kristen frowned at him. "Do you know her? Personally, I mean."
"We've crossed paths." He met Kirsten's gaze. Was she jealous? Threatened?
Wondering what the hell was going on?
"She's striking."
No kidding, he thought. Marissa Clay was too damn flashy to be ignored. She
lived and breathed Las Vegas, with her costly baubles and designer threads. She
wouldn't approach him, would she? No, he thought. Marissa knew better than that.
She probably hadn't meant to get caught staring at him and Kristen on the dance
floor. "She doesn't matter."
"What does matter?" Kristen shifted next to him, still nursing her soda. She had
bluish-green eyes and hair as silky as mink.
"You do," he said, a tightness forming in his chest, the need to possess her
overwhelming.
"You just met me."
"You still matter." He wanted to lead her to his room, show her how unbridled
lovemaking could be. Ravish her the way her husband had never done. Stupid
bastard, he thought. What sort of man would marry a woman like Kristen, then
leave her longing for more? A deputy marshal, he thought. A federal cop. Which
was exactly why Brent was posing as a thief.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"Your husband," he answered. "And what a jerk he must be."
She nearly smiled. "You remind me of him."
"Oh, yeah?" Peeved, he almost grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, proving that
he wasn't like the man she'd married. But he couldn't bring himself to cause a
scene in the bar. "I'm not a jerk."
"I didn't say you were. You're big and handsome. He's good-looking, too." Her
voice turned sharp. "But as far as I know, he doesn't have blondes following him
around."
"She isn't following me." He glanced over his shoulder at the woman in question.
She'd stopped watching him and Kristen, but her presence made him uneasy. He'd
told Marissa about Kristen. He'd spilled his lovesick guts. Turning away from
the blonde, he snared his drink and downed the contents. "She owns a slew of
retail stores. Strictly high-end stuff."
"And she's curious about you?"
"I'm a notorious thief. Why wouldn't she be?"
Kristen made a face at him. He knew she wasn't buying his story. And now
Marissa's interest in him had thrown her for a loop.
"Are you being watched by undercover cops, too?" she asked. She thrust her chin
toward an elderly couple drinking margaritas and eating chips and salsa. "Or
international spies?"
He deserved her teasing, he supposed. He'd told her something strange about
himself. Most people didn't go around claiming they committed crimes. But he
wasn't lying. He was only playing the game, doing what was expected of him.
She glanced at Marissa, then back at him, suspicious, uncertain. "Is she really
a jeweler?"
He nodded. The blonde had supplied him with the stones he needed.
Kristen gauged his silent reaction. "So, exactly how does one train to be a
thief?"
"I majored in it at college." In truth, he had a degree in criminal justice. But
that wasn't something he wanted to discuss. Not here. Not now. Brent had a
specific agenda and he didn't want to veer from his task. He hadn't come to
Vegas on a whim. Nor was he on a job. This trip was personal. He'd come to meet
Kristen.
They sat quietly for a moment. Then she asked, "Where did you go to school?"
"Los Angeles, but that's not where I'm from, not originally." He knew Kristen
was from L.A. He knew all sorts of things about her, details he wasn't allowed
to divulge.
Something caught her eye and she turned, drawing Brent's attention toward the
door. A trio of teased-and-sprayed women entered the lounge and headed for
Marissa's table.
When they settled into their seats, Kristen frowned. "They're all blondes."
She picked up her soda and sighed. "I wonder if they really do have more fun."
"I wouldn't know." He managed what he hoped was a relaxed smile. "I'm partial to
brunettes."
She chewed on her bottom lip. "Like me?"
"Yes." Kristen Parker was the woman he'd always wanted. She had qualities he
admired, a gentleness that made him yearn to protect her.
"Why wasn't your mother's family eligible for Cherokee enrollment?" she asked
suddenly, stirring his emotions even more, touching on a subject that had always
troubled him.
"My ancestors didn't meet the requirements for the final enrollment," he
explained. "They were separated from their tribe during the final rolls and one
of the requirements was permanent residency within Indian Territory, which is
now located in present-day Oklahoma. My ancestors fled to Missouri with some
other Cherokees when the government was forcing the Nation to move to Indian
Territory. "
"Isn't there a reservation in North Carolina?"
"That's the Eastern Band Cherokee. They hid out in the mountains during the
removal and were eventually allowed to remain in North Carolina. But I don't
have any Eastern Band ancestors."
"You're still Cherokee," she said.
Brent shrugged. The Bureau of Indian Affairs didn't recognize him, and some of
the Native community treated him like an outsider. Being an unregistered
mixed-blood was his personal cross to bear.
She looked into his eyes, and his heart went soft. He wanted to be with her, to
hold her, to accept her compassion. "Have dinner with me," he said.
"Where?"
"In my room." He paused. "I'm just talking dinner. Whatever else happens is up
to you." He motioned to the house phone on the wall. "I can order something
ahead of time. A couple of steaks, potatoes smothered in butter, two chocolate
desserts."
"That sounds good." She glanced in the direction of the elevators. "What floor
are you on?"
"Seventeen. My room is a suite."
"What else would a thief have?" she said.
"What indeed," he responded, preparing to call room service, to set the wheels
in motion.
After making the call, Brent returned to Kristen. "Ready?"
She nodded and when they exited the lounge, she looked back at Marissa, still
curious, he supposed, about the jeweler.
They walked through the casino and made their way to the nearest elevator.
Once they were inside, he pushed the button that accessed his floor. "It's just
us," he remarked, noting the elevator was empty.
A moment later it stopped, jarring from the abrupt halt.
"What's going on?" Kristen asked, her eyes growing wide.
Brent glanced at the control panel. "I think we're stuck."
"Stuck?" Kristen parroted.
Instinctively, Brent picked up the emergency phone on the elevator control panel
and notified security. Afterward, he turned to Kristen. "They're going to take
care of it as soon as they can."
She fidgeted with the strap on her purse. "How soon is soon?"
"They didn't specify. It depends on what the holdup is, I guess. They asked if
we were all right. I told them we were." He roamed his gaze over her, over her
slim blue dress and lean, ladylike curves. "Are you okay?"
"I'm not claustrophobic, if that's what you mean." She looked at the blank wall
beside her, then moved away from it. "But it's kind of creepy being trapped in
here."
"Do you want to talk to security?" He knew the drill for elevator emergencies.
"They'll stay on the line. They'll keep in constant communication with us if it
makes you feel better."
She relaxed a little. "I'd rather talk to you."
"Just talk?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "What else are we supposed to do?"
He took a step toward her. "I've heard sex in an elevator is pretty damn fun."
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. "I could never…I mean…what if the door
opened and we were —"
He chuckled at her girlish reaction. "Getting caught is part of the thrill."
She leaned forward and punched his shoulder. He rubbed his arm, and suddenly
they both laughed.
An instant later, they stared at each other. Silence consumed the confined
space, bouncing off the walls, pounding against his heart. Something passed
between them, something warm and stirring. Unable to stop himself, Brent skimmed
a hand over Kristen's cheek, caressing her skin. She looked at his mouth; he wet
his lips.
And then it happened. Brent lowered his head to taste her. The kiss was gentle
at first, but it grew deeper, wetter. Openmouthed and carnal. Heat shot through
his veins, traveling straight to his groin.
Just as he grabbed her hips to rub her against his zipper, the elevator bumped,
then started to move. He cursed beneath his breath and pulled back, knowing she
didn't want to get caught in a compromising position.
When the door opened on the seventeenth floor, hotel security and a maintenance
specialist waited on the other side.
In spite of his spiking pulse, Brent maintained his composure. "We're fine," he
assured the other men as he took Kristen's hand, preparing to guide her to his
room.
She didn't say anything, but her skin looked flushed. Brent couldn't help but
smile. He liked her innocence, the sweetness she tried so damn hard to conceal.
And now all he could think about was fulfilling every fantasy she'd dared to
dream.
The view from Brent's suite was breathtaking. Kristen stood on the balcony and
viewed the city lights, the sparkle of Las Vegas.
Dinner had yet to arrive, but it was on its way. She tipped her head back and
allowed the warm, summer air to caress her face.
"What are you thinking about?" Brent came up behind her, his voice smooth and
inviting.
She turned to look at him. "You." The way he'd kissed her in the elevator, the
taste of his passion, the power of his body.
"I was thinking about you, too." He moved forward and leaned against the balcony
rail. "Tell me your most secret fantasy, Kristen." He paused, gazed into her
eyes. "Give me details. Come closer and whisper it in my ear."
Her pulse caught in her throat. Could she be that provocative? That bold? She'd
already told him that she wanted to be ravished. Wasn't that enough? Wasn't that
—
A loud knock sounded, and she realized room service was at the door. Grateful
for the interruption, she asked him to answer the summons.
He frowned and turned away, and she remained on the balcony, her mind spinning.
Finally, she entered the suite to see the table set up with their meal, with
steaks and potatoes and parfait glasses filled with chocolate mousse. A
mouthwatering aroma filled the luxurious room, but all she could think about was
Brent.
"Do you want to eat?" he asked.
"Do you?" she responded.
"It's your choice." He rubbed his palms on his jeans, dangerously close to his
fly. "I'm willing to do whatever you want."
She locked her knees to keep them from buckling. She knew he was ready to put
his hands all over her. She could see it in his eyes.
Kristen glanced at the table, at the linen tablecloth and lemon-garnished water.
A single flower provided a delicate centerpiece. He was offering her a romantic
dinner. But he was offering forbidden intimacy, too. It was up to her to decide
what would come first.
She took a step toward him. One baby step. "What's your fantasy?" she asked.
He moved closer, his body big and strong and muscular. She dared a glance at his
zipper and wondered how hard he was. When they were merely inches apart, he
pressed his lips to her ear.
"I want to make you come," he told her, his voice rippling down her spine. "As
many times as I can."
Kristen's heart fluttered like a caged bird. Dizzy, she held on to his shirt,
afraid she would melt, dissolve right at his feet. Now it was her turn to say
something erotic, her turn to tease him. "I've always wanted to sleep with a
stranger. With someone like you."
"What else?" he asked, his mouth still pressed to her ear. "What else turns you
on?"
"Tell me," Brent said. "Tell me what turns you on."
"I already told you." Kristen paused, trying not to teeter, to wobble on her
feet. "I want to sleep with a stranger."
"And what do you want the stranger to do to you?" he coaxed, pressing her for
more information, for more secrets.
She drew a deep breath, summoning the courage to tell him the rest. "I want to
watch him make love to me. In front of a mirror," she added, waiting for his
reaction.
He stepped back to look at her, to give her a wicked smile. "Voyeurism?"
Her skin turned hot. "It isn't voyeurism for a couple to watch each other. Is
it?"
"Why don't we find out?" He took her hand and led her to the bedroom, where
ornate wood furnishings and mauve-colored walls made an opulent statement.
She glanced around, noticed two mirrors, and felt her pulse quicken. The one
beside the bed was a work of art, scrolled and beveled like a gilded sculpture.
The other was simple, a pane of glass attached to an armoire.
Nervous, anxious, she waited for him to make his next move.
He guided her to the armoire and stood behind her. She could see a portion of
the room reflected in the glass. But she could see him, too. The strong, hard
angles of his face. The width of his shoulders.
He reached for the zipper on her dress and opened it, slowly, much too slowly.
Cool air caressed her spine. The garment fell from her body, drifting to the
floor.
When she stood before Brent in a bustier and thigh-high hose, his hands
trembled. He slipped his arms around her, held her, gazed at her with wonder in
his eyes.
Kristen all but melted.
He traced her cleavage, trailing a line down her stomach, stopping in the center
of her G-string panties. "Black lace and promises," he said. "You're so
beautiful."
"You make me feel beautiful." She'd worn the midnight ensemble just for him, for
her stranger, for the lover of her dreams. She turned her head to meet his lips,
to let him thrust his tongue into her mouth. She made a moaning sound and he
finished undressing her, peeling satin and lace from her body.
Finally, she was naked, except for her stockings and the pumps she'd been
wearing. The thigh-high hose aroused him, she realized. The smooth, silky feel
of her legs.
He dropped to his knees, and her breath rushed out. She didn't close her eyes,
not for a second. She didn't even blink. She watched him pull her tight against
his mouth. And when he teased her with his tongue, tasting her, making every
nerve ending come alive, she slid her hands through his hair.
Kristen couldn't stop the want, the need for more. She rocked her hips, showing
him what she liked, what felt too good to ignore. He indulged her bad-girl
whims, making her slick and wet. And dizzy, she thought. So incredibly dizzy.
The room twirled in a blaze of color, in shimmering lights and soft hues.
Relentless, he kept licking her, tasting her, driving her to the brink of glory.
She focused on the mirror, even though she feared it would shatter, explode into
a million glass-winged butterflies.
The climax hit her like a burst of rain, like water falling from a heat-laden
sky. She bucked against his mouth, but Brent didn't stop until it happened
again, until the second orgasm left her mewling like a kitten.
He carried her to bed, removed her shoes and stockings and followed her down.
And then he stripped off his clothes and kissed her — a kiss so deep and
stirring, she knew she was lost. This was the moment she'd been waiting for all
her life. The freedom of fantasy, the beauty of reality.
They caressed each other, making the foreplay last. The mirror beside the bed
reflected the symmetry of their nakedness, and he opened his legs a little
farther, giving her a more intimate view. He was hard and thick and fully
aroused, with a drop of semen beading at the tip. She rubbed the moisture into
his skin, and together they watched as she stroked him.
He produced a condom from what seemed like thin air. The foil packet glimmered
in his hand. Like magic, she thought. Like everything about this night.
After he sheathed himself, he snared her wrists, holding her arms above her
head, pinning her to the bed. "I've got you."
She gazed up at him. "Bondage?"
"Possession," he told her. "I'm taking what's mine." In the next instant, he
grabbed her hips and entered her, thrusting hard and deep.
Kristen thought she might die. They made love like maniacs, rolling over the
bed, tangling the quilt, branding each other. He used his teeth; her nails bit
into his skin. He sucked on her nipples, one, then the other. She clawed his
scalp, holding him to her breast, giving him what he wanted. What they both
craved.
Once again, the room spun. Only this time, Brent went spinning out of control,
too. She felt his release as deeply as she felt her own. As deeply as their
joining, as two hearts beating desperately as one.
Wrapped in hotel-monogrammed robes, Kristen and Brent ate dinner in bed,
balancing plates on their laps. He added extra butter to his potato and cut his
steak into big hearty bites. She nibbled on her food and smiled at him.
"We forgot the dessert." He climbed out of bed and headed for the other room,
determined to retrieve the chocolate.
Feeling calm and cozy, Kristen reached for her water on the nightstand and
accidentally knocked over Brent's wallet and another leather case he'd left
there. She got out of bed to pick them up. Among his scattered belongings was a
deputy U.S. marshal badge.
Kneeling on the floor, she picked up the metal star. He returned to the room and
she lifted her gaze, flashing the badge at him.
He set down the parfait glasses and they stared at each other, trapped in a
soundless moment.
"Care to explain this?" she finally asked, fighting a familiar pain, an ache she
couldn't seem to deny.
"There's nothing to explain," Brent said. "You know who I am." He paused to take
a deep breath. "The game's over, Kristen. We can't keep this charade going
forever."
She gave him a troubled look, and he squinted at her. Apparently she wasn't
ready for it to end. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. "This affair is
dangerous." Dangerous to his heart, to his ego. The things she'd told him about
her husband made him ache inside.
He came forward and knelt in front of her. The contents of his wallet were
scattered, but he ignored his credit cards, his ID. It didn't matter if Kristen
saw his driver's license. She'd known his true identity all along.
They'd agreed to role-play, but he'd struggled to follow the rules. He hadn't
been able to pretend that he didn't know her, at least in his mind. "I'm sorry
my badge upset you."
"I didn't expect you to bring it."
"Why? Because it reminds you of the man you married?" He took the case from her,
closing it, shutting out the badge. They were playing a new game, he thought.
Speaking through the lines, stirring each other's emotions. "Your husband didn't
know you felt neglected."
"I should have told him, but I didn't want him to feel guilty about spending so
much time away from home. I respect what he does. I can't fault him for being a
member of the Marshal's Service Special Operations Group. He's an incredible
deputy." She smiled a little. "The best."
"He thinks you're an incredible wife." He returned her smile. "The best."
Their gazes locked and he prayed that he would never lose her. That she would
always be part of his life. "You made love with another man on your anniversary.
No wonder they call it the seven-year itch."
Her eyes widened at that. "My husband wasn't too keen on this affair, not at
first. We argued about it."
"Can you blame him? What man wants his wife sleeping with a stranger?"
"But you're not a stranger." She shot him a naughty smile. "You're my fantasy."
He raised his brows at her. "Did you like messing around with a thief?"
She laughed, and he knew the charade was truly over. Once again, they were
husband and wife. He was the SOG deputy her dad had introduced her to. "I'm
sorry I never ravished you. But you always seemed too proper for kinky sex."
Her cheeks colored, and he grinned. Kristen had been a virgin when he'd married
her — a good girl who'd secretly longed to be bad. If only he'd known then what
he knew now. Seven years was a long time to uncover his wife's fantasies.
She smoothed a strand of her hair. "I never expected you to wear a different
cologne, to drink vodka instead of bourbon or pose as a thief. It was exciting,
but it made me nervous, too."
He lifted one of her discarded stockings from the bed. "I never expected you to
seduce me with slinky lingerie. I guess we were both playing by our own set of
rules."
"We did that in our real lives, too." Her voice turned sad. "From now on, we'll
tell each other everything. Communication is what holds a marriage together."
His chest constricted. "Our marriage was in trouble, wasn't it?"
"Sometimes it was distant, Brent. Sometimes we just floated through it."
"Not anymore." They wouldn't be ghosts living in the same house. They would be
partners in every way. They would live up to the vows they'd taken. "We'll start
over. We'll make things right."
Her eyes misted. "I'm glad we talked about your heritage. You rarely talk about
yourself, about the things that matter."
His chest turned tight again. "Why does me being Cherokee matter? I'm not even
registered."
"It's still part of your legacy. Something you can pass on to our children
someday. I want you to be proud of your roots, to teach our kids to be proud."
He touched her cheek. In the past, he'd been far too focused on his job to
concentrate on raising a family. But now he wanted to bring a new life into the
world, to share that blessing with her. "I'm ready to make a baby if you are."
Her lashes fluttered. "Are you sure?"
"Positive." Already he could see his unborn children in her eyes. "I'll do my
best to be a good husband and father. To be there when you need me."
She put her arms around him, and he held her, as close as he possibly could.
When they separated, he opened the nightstand drawer, where a colorfully wrapped
box was hidden. "I have something for you, Kristen."
Curious, she reached for it, and he watched her, thinking how beautiful she was.
She fidgeted with the bow for a moment. "Is this an anniversary present?"
He nodded, anxious for her to delve into it. "It's from your lover. That rotten
thief."
"You mean the thief who stole my heart." She tore off the ribbon and went after
the paper like a child on Christmas Eve. "Oh, my goodness. Oh."
There were three velvet jewelry cases inside the box. She flipped open the
ring-size case and found her wedding band. He'd altered the setting, adding
rubies and sapphires around the diamond. "Our birthstones," she said, her voice
filled with wonder.
He studied her starry-eyed expression. "You left your ring at home, so I brought
it to Vegas. I took it to Marissa Clay and she redesigned it for me."
"The blonde in the lounge? I wasn't sure if she was even a real jeweler. The way
she stared at us." Kristen stalled. "Oh, my God. Did you tell her about us?
About my fantasy?"
"Of course not. But I told her how much I love you. I went on and on about my
wife. I couldn't stop talking about you. I guess that's why she was staring."
"And what about the folklore?" She slipped the band onto her finger, where it
belonged, where it would remain. "'Rubies grow dull if a person ignores them.
Sapphires won't shine if they're worn by the wicked or the impure.'"
"I read about that ahead of time. I was supposed to be a jewel thief. I figured
it wouldn't hurt to know this stuff. Especially the part about rubies having the
power to reconcile quarreling lovers." He gestured to the box. "Open the rest."
She uncovered a necklace and bracelet that complemented her ring: diamonds,
rubies and sapphires. "It's perfect. All of it."
"And so are you." Once again, he took her in his arms and held her, grateful, so
incredibly grateful, that she was his wife.
She hugged him, her body warm against his. "I love you, Brent Parker."
"I love you, too." He scooped her up and placed her on the bed. When she shed
her robe, the jewelry he'd given her glittered against her skin. He kissed her,
more than ready to make love, to start a family. Because their affair, their
lifelong liaison, had only just begun.
The End