Zaccaro Read online

  And shit, I want Evan badly. But I don’t screw Italians, my mom would slap the taste from my mouth. Evan Zaccaro is truly my opponent. My teeth comb over my lip, gander locked onto his. “No.”

  Again my body is plastered against the wall, with him all over me. Now, it’s as if our heat has scorched the freezing glass. I want to forget the woes of my life. I refuse to believe my bakery might not be my own in the near future or that I have a next to non-existent sex life. In fact, I haven’t been touched in almost a half a year, let alone kissed.

  Never have I ever been kissed like this. My body literally aches for Evan to do with it as he so pleases.

  Evan takes to my neck again. His eagerness is exhilarating as it is arousing.

  “You smell so fucking sweet.” His deep voice coupled with the way his nose nudges my neck has my core aching.

  The sensation of his fingertips scorching across the sensitive skin at my hips makes my sex tighten in anticipation. My brain is beginning to divide against itself. Logic and desire are in an internal battle, as one hemisphere of my brain keeps registering that Evan is a COP, and the other can’t get passed his smoldering, brown eyes. My hands weave through his hair, massaging the chocolate-brown tresses. “Evan, fuck me now! Please,” I gasp.

  His low laugh is warm against my collarbone, and it sends a riot of chills throughout my being. Once again a spurt of wetness catches me by surprise. I play with the silk buttons of his shirt, but am too feverish to unclasp it. Evan places a hand over my shaking fingers. With one hand, he pulls at the Italian silk shirt. Buttons clatter onto the floor.

  We're both just a little bit drunk, but I rest my hand on his firm pectorals imagining licking each chiseled muscle. Each one has been cut from the finest stone. There is only the faintest flurry of dark hair below his navel disappearing beneath his tailored pants. The rest of Evan is taut golden skin.

  Though I’m still dressed, Evan says, “Fuck, you are a sight, Reese, I can’t take my eyes off you.” His tone has an edge to it. I have a feeling he can detect the finest hint of my body trembling. He feeds off my innocence. He sets me down on solid ground, and his thumb caresses the pulse at my wrist. Then Evan spins me around in one debonair, agile move. My palms plant against the glass as he unzips my dress. It falls to the floor, and he gasps at the sight of me as I take in the city lights below.

  The kisses at the back of my neck force my knees to cave. “I gotcha, beautiful,” Evan says reverently. He’s more attuned with my body than I am, and I’ve been stuck with myself for twenty-six years. He turns me back toward him, undoes the front clasp of my strapless bra.

  In total silence, the lace bra falls to the floor. I don’t have the biggest breasts in the world, but the sex in Evan’s eye has me alternate from drawing my hands over myself to standing tall in confidence.

  He closes the space between us again. His presence consumes me. I tell myself to breathe. The silence is everything, yet my mind was made to gravitate toward my flaws. Without a word, Evan’s hands cup my breasts, brushing his thumbs across my tingling, hard nipples. The sensation erases all thought from my cognition as it propels a sharp shot of pleasure straight to my nether regions.

  My feathery lashes kiss against my cheekbones as he bends down. His mouth lowers onto my right nipple, and I moan. He licks and flicks at the hardened bud, sending my desire in a tailspin right down to my pussy.

  My breath flows softly over my parted lips. I pant and beg, “Fuck me, Evan…”

  He groans into one breast while applying pressure to the other nipple. The pleasure and pain concept forces my body to waiver with desire. Because my brain is now defective, I don’t even argue about him not listening. Once more, I purr, “Please fuck me, Evan…”

  Paying me no heed, Evan’s warm breath caresses against the curve of my breast. Though he is oblivious to my verbalization, he attends to my body in ways I’m not even aware to ask for. I am weak, he holds me up.

  Out of nowhere, my cell phone vibrates. The old ringtone—my best friend Jamie’s ringtone—is loud and clear. My eyes close tightly as the friend-anthem song clashes with the moment. Damn you, Jamie, I wish I could say, but know this is for the best. Since junior high school, Jamie and I have looked out for each other more than we look out for ourselves. It takes sheer willpower for me to utter the word, “Stop.”

  Instantaneously Evan stops. This isn’t like before when I put my foot in my mouth mentioning not sleeping with cops. He seems aware that this is the end of the line.

  Evan embodies the ultimate gentleman. He stands to his full height. A coldness clings to my body, and it seems he’s taller than before, taller, sexier, or my senses are amplified, and bruised with desire. I’m eyelevel with his taut chest. That Mediterranean gaze searches my wayward one as he softly bites the nail of his thumb. Without words, Evan beckons me back to him. And, oh boy, it takes every inch of my willpower to tear my gander from his enthralling one. The lips of my pussy quiver and I force myself not to stare at him.

  Drenched in silence, he reminds me of a lion stalking his prey, calmly waiting for me to react. A piece of my soul dies. I lean against the window, attempting to catch my breath. I’m not a fucking one-night stand type of girl. It’d be more embarrassing completing the walk-of-shame after giving himself a cherished piece of me. Leaving now is easy-peasy.

  “Th-thank you, f-for the drink.” My eyes flit over the man I should have never taken a ride with. I take a breath, hoping I haven’t been the tease of the century. “I’ll call a taxi when I get to the lobby downstairs.”

  Evan nods, rubbing the back of his neck as I kneel to grab my dress and bra. I’m passing the large, deconstructed dining room, while shoving on my bra, not sexy like at all. On a mission to hightail toward the front door, I make the ultimate mistake of looking back. He stays planted. Why does the pit of my stomach clench in disappointment? Upon turning forward, I almost topple over one of the marble statues.

  I wonder the price of it, and then the weight. Can I get this thing downstairs and to the bank? I'm sure it could pay the back-due mortgage at my bakery ‘Flour Shoppe’ and then some. Zipping up the back of my dress, I step to the side and back away from what must be a Greek marble piece.

  A loud crash, behind me, cuts the monotony of stillness. My eyes close momentarily. It’s an automatic thing I’ve done since I was a child. Dad beat goons to within an inch of their life before my eyes, I was never physically punished. Not sure if I thought closing my eyes meant I was invisible, or I’d go unnoticed from my latest gaffe.

  The air escapes from my lungs as I turn slowly. There are pieces of broken clay all over the floor.

  I give a huffed breath as Evan starts toward me. “Take it easy, Reese. Watch your st–”

  “Damn, I am so sorry,” I begin. “Look, how much did it cost? I'll pay for it.” One day, within the next millennium… God, why didn’t I turn around and flee as soon as Evan showed me his badge!

  “Reese, stay put,” he orders. As my mouth moves a mile a minute offering to once more pay, Evan adds, “It was one of a kind. Aztec. My mother… gave it to me.”

  “Look, I… I…” Shit, I can’t replace it. And as he steps toward me with more concern for my well-being, I blurt. “Oh, my goodness. Your mom…”

  Yeah, I’ve seen lots in my lifetime, which normally makes me perceptive. This is one of those times where being ditzy is best. My throat clamps. There’s a connection here. And it’s not the fact that I should steer clear of the cops because my father was murdered by one. But the fact that he’s grieved a mother just as I have grieved my father.

  Evan nods, finishing my sentence, “My mom’s deceased.”

  “Sorry.” A breath sucks into my throat, filtering through my lungs. My body is still geared toward fleeing. “I’m so… very sorry.”

  “Please, don’t move,” he holds out a hand. Then Evan steps over to me, careful to sidestep some of the larger pieces. My bottom lip begins to tremble, and I want to abuse myself fo
r this blunder, but he has me in his arms in one quick swoop.

  “Evan, I am sor—”

  “No more apologizing,” he issues a soothing command. As Evan sets me down near the window again, the hot zone, my mouth opens for another round of apologies. My father was taken from me way before his time, and I have one single item of his.

  “Shhhh,” Evan’s fingertips graze from my temple down my face. The upsurge anxiety attack which threatened to overpower me vanishes. “Wonder why I have so many statues?”

  His question further erodes at my guilt. My eyebrows knit together, and I realize this is a touchy subject as we both stare at the fragments of broken clay. The art pieces do make the place eclectic, disjointed even. If it weren’t for the various statues, there’d be no color in this place, no color what so ever. The place would be cold, lavish but lifeless.

  Perceiving my humiliation, Evan speaks, “My mom, she was a curator for one of the top museums in New York, and then she headed the expansion of the museum in Los Angeles when I was about nine or so. If word got out that there was an original Picasso at the edge of the world, you could bet your ass my mother dropped everything to investigate.”

  “Oh God,” I whisper. A terrible sinking feeling rushes over me as I comprehend that what I had broken was truly priceless. Tears burn my eyes, but my throat is clamped, and my usual arsenal of apologies for being clumsy is stuck down my windpipe. Again my eyes close, the useless defense mechanism does nothing because Evan continues to speak.

  “Most of her findings are in the museum in Downtown Los Angeles. Shit, I’m not even aware as to why I’ve decided to mention this,” Evan pauses though it’s obvious he wants me to stop apologizing.

  Biting on my bottom lip, I gesture for him to continue, “She was on the board at the Smithsonian. When mom died my father couldn’t bear to look at the few–and I say that lightly–pieces of art she chose for home instead of selecting to have on exhibit.”

  I can’t look away from the man I shouldn’t even be having a general conversation with, let alone converse about something so intimate.

  His story is full of emotion, yet pride resides there too. “They were married eighteen years. I was twelve when my father lost my mom, but I knew love. That good Italian love where nothing could tear it apart. The happily ever after stuff. But cancer nipped that shit in the bud.”

  Why me? Why is Evan being so open with me? Set aside the fact that my mother has made me shun the Italian half of my heritage. But, Evan is entirely too open. And then says he’s never talked about this with another woman before. There’s a connection between us, built rock-solid. But I can’t just divulge how my father died. Blood flashes before my eyes each time I blink, yet I’ve never told the story. I surely never intend to, least of all, to a cop. I’m the daughter of a slain drug lord, at the hand of LAPD’s finest, no less. Yet, I’m drawn to Evan in ways I never imagined were possible.

  3

  Reese

  The sky is a flurry of turquoise and lilac as dawn takes hold. A cool morning breeze cuts into the warmth of the hearth burning before us. Tiny embers float into the weak morning light. We’ve been lying here on the wicker loveseat outside on Evan’s veranda. Somehow, this stranger before me has me wide open. Not sexually. But we have talked the night away. There’s something erotic about being in our undies, simply chatting.

  “So, you used to be a homicide detective?” My gaze meets Evan’s, as my index finger swirls languidly over his rock-hard chest. Soft, silk to the touch, yet powerful, hard, steel beneath my fingertips. Though I can’t bring myself to fully divulge the dilemma of my business or otherwise, I don’t want him to see straight through me. Might be ridiculous, us being strangers, yet this uncanny connection forces me to desire more about him, hence my asking a personal question when, so far, we’ve kept the topics general.

  “Yeah, I was the walking cliché,” he replies, voice a lazy dream. “My job consisted around advocating for the dead. They can’t talk, I talked for them.”

  “I bet you were a hero to their families.” I lick my lips so as not to leave my bottom lip dropped, so in awe of him. Evan’s like the savior I never got the day I watched my father be gunned down. “Why become a Narc detective?”

  A tension thickens between us, but whereas some would turn away, Evan’s eyes meet mine. “People say there’s nothing as sinister on this green earth than the murder of a child.”

  “Oh God,” I wince, hands raised to the heaven. “You officially win, with regard to worst job ever. I would break down and attempt to murder all the potential suspects just at the thought of them…” I pause, skin crawling.

  He downs whiskey on the rocks. That soft, mesmerizing laughter wraps around me.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t make a good cop.” Evan elaborates, “But I caught him. He’s on death row. Let’s not get into a debate on the procedural safeguards for those on death row.” Evan gives another wry smile, similar to the one he offered after I apologized profusely. “The investigation was probably the longest time I went without sleeping, though. Prior to that case, I felt such a sense of accomplishment when working out the clues, putting the puzzle together in order to give rest to weary family members. Now your turn, Reese.”

  I toss my drink back. Like the little chickenshit I am, taking a sip of this rather good wine has become my ploy. It’s the same thing I did about an hour ago when we were unable to agree about the best underrated rock band. My brain doesn’t comprehend ‘agree to disagree’ and my brain surely doesn’t comprehend the ability to trust. I place the empty wine glass onto the side table, and shrug. “I really don’t have that interesting of a job…”

  “Don’t downplay yourself, Reese,” Evan adds, reading me full well.

  My mouth hitches upward. Fuck, I am. Telling you about me, is just as intimate as sex. Instead of admitting the truth, I say, “I’m not. Although my work isn’t nearly as dangerous, I’m just frustrated with myself.” Instead of telling Evan the name of my business, I toss the ball back in his court. “Back to this ‘Who done it?’ stuff. Heads up: dumb question here, so you caught the child…” I pause, even the words give me the creeps, “The child murderer, right? Why quit doing what you love? I can see the pride in your eyes that being a homicide detective and putting the pieces to a puzzle together had to be…” Kind of like the finished product of my latest, greatest cupcake recipe.

  Those warm brown eyes darken as Evan says, “I didn’t quit.”

  My eyebrows rise. So far, Evan has been mellow, I sense that having the notion he quit is hard for him.

  “I still help families, and the general public live in a safer environment. Now, there was a long, lengthy court battle. That bastard got death row, but what does that mean in California? Yet and still, he’s sitting behind bars, with men who will live long lives and die on death row. Him too. In my opinion, the motherfucker hasn’t truly paid. My apologies for my language.”

  Evan stands abruptly, the tension is dead. His eyes twinkle as he picks me up and into his arms in one quick swoop. I laugh at his spontaneity.

  “We’ve been outside long enough, Reese. If someone were to observe this gorgeous body of yours, I’d have to retaliate.” Evan carries me past the sliding glass wall.

  “Mmmm, retaliation?” I joke, “I knew sticking with you would be entertaining.”

  “Oh yeah,” Evan says. My body goes sailing into the air. I shriek in laughter when physics forces me to fall, sinking onto the plush mattress of his bed. The feather duvet puffing around me. Though I traded Wild Turkey for a clean, crisp wine a while back, I giggle incessantly.

  Evan grabs my thigh, his large fingers, enveloping around the curviness of my flesh. “Besides,” he says, dragging me toward the edge, “you’ve damn near killed me half the night, with those tantalizing, big brown eyes…”

  “I think I can live with that,” I retort, all smiles. Try as I might, I can’t pull away from his hold. He mumbles about how good I smell, and I make a me
ntal note to thank Jamie for his perfume.

  “Turn over,” Evan orders.

  In another life, I’d question him. We’ve known each other for a mere moment in the span of a lifetime, yet the motion is as automatic as inhaling fresh ground coffee on a Sunday morning, I roll over to my stomach.

  As I lie across his bed, Evan’s large hands knead into my back. He’d tossed me over with so much strength, my entire body is aching for him to take me. My fingers instinctively cross, my God, my luck has changed. At least for tonight while in the company of a man I wouldn’t dream of being with.

  My voice is somewhere between a rasped croak and grumpy cat’s purr, yet I am not self-conscious as I ask, “Were you a masseuse in another lifetime?”

  From deep within the rock-hard planes of his six pack, Evan gives a boisterous laugh. He has a knack for not responding, and I’m learning the art of silence as his knuckles work wonders at the top of my spine. Evan truly is a mind reader, in some aspects, because my eyelids flutter before closing as he begins to rub my lower back. Then his large hand and fingers expand.

  “This ass is the first thing I noticed about you.” He says, cupping one of my butt cheeks.

  The anticipation is at its peak. On impulse my back arches for him. Once more, a thrill of laughter coming from the body etched in Italian gold marble behind me. I almost frown, yet the sides of my lips twitch before curving upwards. He. Knows. Exactly. What. I want. And I refuse to beg again.

  Evan’s fingers slip past my thong.

  Take it off! I internally grumble, yet I’ve learned so much of this man in such a little time. He’s smiling at my expense.

  My lungs fill with fresh air as Evan presses a thumb into my wet slit while he continues to rub my ass. My mind is washed away of my business woes, the only thing left is the memory of his touch. His touch from thirty minutes ago. An hour ago. Two hours. Every stolen caress as we talked, the expectancy. He skillfully strokes the sensitive flesh at my clitoris until my lungs force me to take a breath.