Page 22 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Nell

I looked around, impressed. His apartment was huge, and almost empty.

Austere to the point of chilliness. Blond wood on the wide expanse of gleaming floor.

Three gray couches, grouped in a square around a low table with a vast plasma TV and entertainment console.

A big, shadowy kitchen sat in a distant corner.

Picture windows framed stunning, brilliant cityscapes on two sides.

A big terrace. A scattering of black-and-white photographs hung on otherwise blank walls.

“Wow,” I murmured. “Is this place, uh … yours?”

He nodded.

Um. That answered any questions I might’ve had about how lucrative the business of intelligent data analysis program design had been for him. It beat academia all to hell. Not that it mattered. God knows, I hadn’t chosen academia for money.

He disappeared into the kitchen. Lights flipped on. I heard water running, clattering, and clinking. When he came back out, he was holding out a big glass of wine to me. The wine was so densely red it looked almost black.

“This stuff will knock you out on an empty stomach, so sip slowly,” he said, taking the roses I still held. “I’ll find a jug for these. And I’ve got water on to boil for some artichoke ravioli, and some red sauce. That work for you?”

I accepted the glass gratefully. “That sounds like heaven.”

I savored the complex, aromatic wine as I gazed at the photographs. They were stark, dynamic, full of high contrast. One showed a young man diving off a cliff into a lake. He was still upright, his body starting to jackknife, his face a mask of concentration.

I looked more closely and realized that it was Duncan’s brother, Bruce. A younger version.

I studied them all, moving down the hall.

There was a young girl curled up asleep, her mouth open.

The same girl again, older, laughing, swinging on a rope swing, hair flying like a banner.

She was pretty, with the same narrow face and uptilting eyebrows as Duncan.

Then a photograph of a handsome older woman in profile, staring off a porch, smoking a cigarette. She looked like Bruce. Mother. Family.

There were landscapes, too. Deserts and mountains, barren and stark. Cruelly sharp contrasts of light and shadow made them almost like moonscapes. They were lonely, aching, extremely personal. I called to the kitchen. “Did you take the pictures?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Are there any pictures of your father here?”

He came out of the kitchen and leaned against the entryway, sipping his wine. “No. He’s long gone. Haven’t seen him in years. Off in California, working on his fifth wife. She’s welcome to him.”

“Oh.” I stared down into the cup of blood-red wine. “I think I can one-up you on that one. I doubt my father even knows of my existence.”

“No? Your mom kept it a secret from him?”

I stifled a snort. “In a manner of speaking. Are these landscapes Afghanistan?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you know about Afghanistan?”

“Bruce told me you were stationed there. Said you were a spy.”

He grunted. “Bruce babbles a lot. About things he knows shit about.”

“So? Did you take them there?” I prodded him, staring at a picture of jagged mountain peaks, the sun a blazing halo behind them.

“Yes, most of them,” he said.

“Was that where you learned to fight like that?” I asked.

He hesitated. “More or less.”

“Amazing photos,” I offered. “I wouldn’t have dreamed you had an artistic side.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Heaven forbid that you engage in something as frivolous as art,” I teased.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you busting my balls?”

“No. I just like your pictures. I like what they say about you.”

He looked alarmed. “What do you mean? What do they say?”

“Relax,” I soothed. “I couldn’t tell you in words. I can’t discuss visual art intelligently. I don’t know how. I just like the way they make me feel.”

A cautious smile started in his narrowed eyes. “Thank you.” Duncan lifted his glass.

I lifted my own in response, toasting rare, delicate moments of connection. The very kind that got me worked up and longing for things I could not have. The dangerous kind. The tinkle of crystal was a chime, sweet and faint as a blown kiss. The sound of an unspoken pact, delicately sealed.

Stop it, D’Onofrio. Stop it right now.

I had to stop projecting wishful fantasies onto every single interaction that I had with him. It was stupid and self-destructive.

I’d been privately dubious about the wisdom of eating a plate of pasta at two in the morning, but when Duncan set the plate loaded with plump ravioli, red sauce, and a generous dusting of savory pecorino, something inside me stood up and cheered.

We ate in silence, consuming every last bite. Afterward, he quietly watched me finish my wine. His unwavering gaze made heat rise in my face.

“I expect you’re going to want a shower, after a day like this,” he said.

I nodded.

“The best one is off my bedroom,” he said. “Come this way.”

Ah. Well, he could hardly be blamed for assuming, I thought wildly, as I followed him and my suitcase down the hall. Was this what I had intended? And if not this, then what? Get real. Calm down. Go with the flow. Don’t be a baby.

He showed me through a vast, minimalist bedroom with a wall of glass that revealed the entire island of Manhattan, and from there to a huge, fabulous en suite bathroom—the shower big enough for an orgiastic army, jets of water pointing in ridiculous directions.

He found me a couple of big, fluffy towels, indicated the shower soaps and shampoos, gave me my own personal scrubby sponge—and left. Not joining me in the shower.

Part of me was relieved. A stronger, louder part of me was flatly disappointed. Where was his overbearing alpha male vibe when I needed it?

But he’d gotten all careful and respectful. Probably treating me like blown glass because of my trauma. It was a good sign, actually. He was a good guy. He had self-control. Yay, him.

I stayed in the pounding hot water, wishing sharply that he’d joined me. Looking at him naked and wet would be the most potent distraction I could imagine.

Duncan Burke was all wrong for me. I’d known it even back before he ever spoke to me. His mind was wired in a way that was alien to me. He would annoy, insult, and disillusion me. He already had, and he would do it again. It was a sure thing. A death-and-taxes sort of sure thing.

This, set against the fact that he aroused me to a screaming pitch of excitement.

The man was an incredibly gifted lover. There was also the fact that he’d saved my life tonight.

He’d used his own body as a shield. That guy had been pointing a gun at us, and Duncan had shoved me behind him.

That was something important to factor into the equation—that he was a heroic guy beneath his blunt edges.

Brave, valiant, self-sacrificing. Incompatible with me or not.

Insensitive to my silly romantic notions or not.

I wanted him. By the time I got out of the shower, my decision was irrevocable. I toweled off, shook my hair free of its clip, and shook it loose.

I hung the towel back on the rack and looked at myself in the mirror, naked but for my ruby pendant Lucia had given me, hanging between those large, full breasts that had always embarrassed me.

I’d felt since I was twelve as if my curvy body were flaunting itself against my will, demanding attention that I did not actually want.

But Duncan seemed to like my figure. Finally, the boobs were good for something.

I reached up, touching them gently. They were much more sensitive than usual—goosebumped with delicious anticipation at the thought of what lay ahead.

My nipples tightened in excitement, and I walked out into his bedroom naked.

Duncan had showered in another bathroom and wore a terrycloth robe. He glanced over at me, and gasped.

“Holy God,” he said hoarsely. “You’re just … look at you.”

“Did I get around to thanking you for saving my life?” I asked him.

He looked alarmed. “I don’t think we discussed it, but you certainly don’t have to thank me by?—”

“Hold it right there,” I cut in. “Not another word. There is no exchange being made here. No trading. No payment. This is just me, asking something from you that I want, and hoping I get lucky. So make love to me. Before I lose my nerve.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He took a step toward me.

“I know this is a mistake,” I said.

He stopped short, looking perplexed. “What? Why? How do you figure?”

“It’s a mistake,” I repeated. “But I don’t care. Life’s too short. I realized that when those guys shoved me into that car, and I thought it was over for me. Everything could go away so quickly. And I like the way you make me feel. I want to feel this.”

He reached me, touching a gentle finger to my lips. “Don’t work yourself into a state,” he said. “Hey. How much wine did you drink?”

“This is not about the wine I drank!” I said savagely. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Duncan Burke! Don’t you dare condescend to me!”

“I would never dare,” he said forcefully. “You are terrifying.”

“Oh really? Do I intimidate you?” I put my hands on my hips, striking a pose.

He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Some parts of me.” He tossed off his robe, displaying his naked body, his huge erection. “Other parts of me are fucking fearless.”

Oh, he was perfect. I’d spent all that time admiring his face, but there were riches untold underneath all his clothes, with all those lean, defined, capable-looking muscles, just the right amount of hair, beautiful thighs and flanks, long, narrow feet.

And his thick, broad cock. I wanted to touch him all over. Squeeze him. Lick him like a lollipop.

He tossed the comforter back and pushed me until I tumbled backward onto the silvery gray sheet. It was cool against my damp skin. I scrambled up, curling my knees beneath me.