Page 9 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

Chapter Six

Duncan

T he sexy waitress had the wiles of a street merchant when it came to negotiating her pay.

I escorted her to the door after eventually agreeing to give her far more than I’d ever anticipated.

She had a very high opinion of how much her time and skill were worth, and she was absolutely willing to walk away if her demands were not met.

I admired that in a person, if it was backed up by competence.

Which it clearly was, in her case. This woman was the real deal.

High-quality production, under pressure, in real time, while I watched.

That was the kind of focused, high-octane energy that I liked to infuse into all of my projects.

It was expensive, but it was always, always worth it.

Except for one thing. One dumb, selfish, childish issue I was embarrassed to find myself sulking about.

Ever since that unexpected conversation I’d found myself having with her at lunch today, I’d been considering asking the hot, intriguing Sunset Grill waitress out.

This fantasy had made my afternoon brighter than it had been for a long time.

Now my cute, provocative waitress with the dark, flashing eyes had morphed into a key employee for this project, which made that scenario no longer feasible. Who knew for how long.

Derek had the poor judgment to approach me at that moment. “So, did you hire her or what?”

“Derek, do you remember when I told you to deal with all that crap piled around my office? Filed, recycled, disappeared?”

“Uh,” Derek mumbled uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

“Put the phones on voicemail for the evening, Derek, and do it.”

Derek scurried away, and I stared out the window.

What was the waitress doing being a goddamn academic, anyhow?

She’d ignored me utterly while she was writing, which had given me a long, leisurely opportunity to study her profile—the sensual shape of her full lips, her smooth skin, the thick, wavy texture of her black hair.

I wanted to tug on one of those fuzzy dark ringlets just to watch it spring back into shape.

She had that old-fashioned, pinup-girl type of curviness. Lush and sexy. It made my hands clench with the urge to touch her. Handle her. Hoist her up to wrap around me.

It had been a long time since I’d gotten any, I realized, doing some calculations in my head.

I was actually pretty good at sublimating the need for sex at this point.

Dealing with women was so exhausting. Their unspoken expectations, the fuck-ups I didn’t remember having committed, the endless demands to demonstrate emotions I did not feel. It made me feel hunted and confused.

Talk of love gave me acid stomach. And the perennial need to know “where this relationship is going,” which of course, was usually straight to hell.

I never had the stomach to lie to my hook-ups, as many of my male friends casually did.

For some reason, I just couldn’t pretend.

I got the urge for sex as often as the next guy, but I could shove it under the rug when necessary.

My usual stratagems were extreme exercise, overwork, cold showers, and my own right hand.

I did okay, for the most part, but every now and then, the sex thing reared up, tossed the rug aside, and bit me hard in the ass.

I’d never been bitten like this, though. Today in the restaurant, when she provoked me, I felt the urge roar to life, and now, after thinking about her for a few hours, it felt like a big, dangerous animal—snorting and snarling, rattling the bars of its cage.

My dick had been hard on and off all afternoon.

I grabbed my jacket. I had plenty more work to do, but work never ended. I could keep myself busy until midnight or beyond, and often did. But tonight I needed air and movement. I could go pound a punching bag in the gym, but I’d already spent two hours there that morning, from five until seven.

I had to unload some of this excess energy before I did something stupid, like break my personal code.

I repeated it silently in the elevator, grinding my teeth.

Don’t fuck your employees. I might as well just shoot myself in the head rather than pull a stunt like that.

I’d save myself a lot of time and trouble.

I’d had the ideal scenario in my head before she walked in.

It was a self-serving, horn-dog scenario that I wasn’t particularly proud of, but I couldn’t stop imagining it.

A hot affair with a gorgeous, luscious girl—one old enough to be hungry and curious, but a little too young to be seriously husband-hunting.

One who was still just trying things on for size, figuring out what she liked, not ready to settle down.

I would offer myself up as one of her learning experiences and let her squeeze me like a lemon.

A girl who would be content with nights of juicy, pounding sex, not a whole lot of conversation, maybe some nice gifts from time to time—flowers, jewelry, clothing, electronics, whatever.

A woman who had no connection with my family, or my professional or social life.

No one would know about her. She would meet no one, be vetted by no one, be judged by no one.

A few nights a week, a car service would bring her to my condo, where I would peel off her clothes and make her come screaming.

I would exhaust her with pleasure, and then, after a long, erotic shower, good coffee, and a hearty breakfast, a car service would take her away again to whatever else she did during the day.

And I would get back to work. Refreshed and restored.

My life still beautifully uncomplicated.

Sex was awesome. Nothing like it on earth. But only under controlled conditions— without repercussions, regrets or strings attached. Hard conditions to create, unless I turned to professionals. And that was definitely not my vibe.

So much for my pornographic fantasy. The snooty, smart-mouthed poetry professor was not that hot, curious, uncomplicated, sexually adventurous girl I had envisioned.

Twenty-nine was plenty old enough to be husband-hungry.

And Nell D’Onofrio was complicated as all get-out. Demanding. Too smart for her own good.

She would definitely be too smart for my good.

This one would not settle for being some sex-crazed meathead’s undemanding fuck buddy. She would want to converse. She would try to connect with me on levels that I didn’t even know existed. And my mind just didn’t work that way.

It was sad but true. I had enough experience to know that I would disappoint that woman. Depressing, but better to just suck it up right now, from the get-go.

I was the kind of guy who preferred to know in advance what I would eat for lunch. I wanted uncertainty and drama in a sexual liaison even less.

The evening air was cool, and the street was wet with rain.

Traffic blared from the downtown avenues.

I picked a direction at random as it occurred to me that she’d be working much more closely with my younger brother than with me.

Bruce was a charming, flirtatious womanizer.

We’d scheduled a meeting with Bruce for the following evening to discuss his project and introduce them.

Bruce was going to lick his chops when he saw her. He was good at talking to women. Connecting, conversing, being charming, being funny. Unlike myself.

That usually didn’t bother me, but tonight, it irritated the living shit out of me.

I rounded the corner onto Eighth Avenue, stopped in my tracks, and retreated swiftly into the shadow of a restaurant awning when I saw Nell D’Onofrio standing at the curb a few yards away, arm up as she tried to flag a cab. It swept on by.

There was a constant stream of yellow cabs, but they were all taken.

She kept on trying, and after each arm-flapping attempt, she turned to scan all the people swirling around her.

We were on Restaurant Row, near the theater district, which was always crowded.

I could read body language in a glance, having served for years as an NSA field agent abroad.

I immediately recognized the indicators of stress her body betrayed.

She was afraid of something.

Curiosity ignited inside me. What could a girl like her have to be afraid of on a well-lit, crowded street? An asshole ex? That was an old classic.

I could rip the shithead’s throat out for her if she wanted me to. I had the skills.

Whoa. That bloodthirsty thought had sneaked up on me while I struggled not to stare at the way that button strained over the swell of her tits.

How sooty and long her lashes were. I loved the exotic, cat-like upward tilt to her eyes and brows.

Hers wasn’t a glossy magazine sort of pretty, and that was fine with me.

I’d never gone for hollow cheeks or toothpick legs.

I liked a nice round ass, and that deep inward curve at her waist that cried out for the grip of my hands.

She had that Mediterranean milkmaid look: creamy golden skin, wide hips, full, bouncing tits.

Dimpled knees, maybe. The skirt was just a shade too long to ascertain the knee situation. But a guy could hope.

She finally saw me lurking and gawking, and shrank in on herself, clutching her blazer closed. So she felt the animal rattling its cage, after I’d tried so hard to play it cool. So much for my best efforts. With this girl, they were sure to always fall short.

“Looking for a cab?” I asked.

“Not having much luck.” Her gaze darted around, avoiding mine. “It’s so hard to get one when it’s raining.”

I couldn’t stop gawking at her—despite her discomfort, despite the fact that I had already drawn my conclusions about how I would handle this. Which was to say, according to my rock-solid principles and innate common sense. Don’t think with your dick. That’s never been its forte.

But it was late, and she was all alone, and the rain was pattering down harder now. I needed to know what she was afraid of, and if something could be done about it.

And, incidentally, if her knees were dimpled.

“I’ll drive you home,” I blurted out.