Devil In Her Bed Page 6

  Just one more drink to settle my nerves since I made this impromptu visit to meet with a long-time client, Théodore Tremblay, owner of one of the most exclusive virtual romance boutiques. Théo had strongly considered flying the coup as he never worked with any of my team members before. He was with me way before I left Boulder Marketing and wanted to make sure my hands were in the mix.

  So here I am. Away from the home I believed would save me from the stalker. Hell, save me from myself. If it weren't for Lincoln, I'd have virtually no communication in Willow Bluff. So I need this damn drink before the terminal across the way closes with the last anxious person on his or her way back to San Fran.

  My purse has been strung along the chair behind me. I reach around, pull the shell of it into my lap and push aside the return flight ticket that would have placed me on the flight back home a few seconds ago. Then I dig for more money. My fingers are shaking so badly that my wallet falls open and clatters to the floor.

  Business cards, a few choice charge cards and photos go flying. I normally use my debit card, which is stuffed in a pouch on my cell phone.

  Grumbling all the way, I bend down to pick up items.

  “Mighty fine picture you have here, Miss…” a man says, holding a wallet-sized photo within the tips of his middle and index finger.

  I stand. Our eyes meet, his eyes are dark, devious yet thrilled. “Can't keep my eyes off you…” he says.

  He makes no move to offer over my picture. I snatch the photo from him. Hosea took the photo of me. He made two copies, and didn't sign it, deciding to put the words, “can't keep my eyes off you,” instead. He was endearing. Very endearing, and he had a way with words before Sammy died and I lost it.

  “Thanks,” I murmur as the stranger leers up and down at me. I keep my gaze on him, until he begins to walk away.

  Soon as he does, the blood in my body rushes through my veins so hard that my heart deflates.

  What's the worst thing about being Siobhan Lowe? Besides losing my only sibling, my older brother who I never once fought with, except for being in the third grade and telling him I had a crush on the Murrell boy who kept calling me ugly. Sammy beat the snot out of Hosea, and found out the boy had a crush on me all in one instant. Though my parents are always around, and I’ve always had my father to look toward, instead I put all my faith in my brother and boyfriend. I lost them both. Now there's a faceless man, somewhere near or far, who knows more about me than I'm capable of telling a soul.

  I clutch my purse, grab my coat from the rail, and almost twist my ankle in my heels to backtrack and pick up the leather-bound folder I used this afternoon for eye candy as a reason why On Demand Marketing is the best.

  I stalk past an elderly couple, and almost stumble over the wife’s rollaway, while heading to the bathroom. The terminal for San Francisco closes just as I weave around the entranceway of the ladies’ room.

  Hands pressed against the stall door, I push my way inside and grip my hair before tresses can cascade into the clear toilet water.

  I dry heave. I had lunch at Anthony's Fish Grotto with my client but nothing comes up because I hadn't really eaten due to my anxiety.

  After a few minutes of attempting to extract my esophagus to no avail, I step out of the stall, place the folder on the counter, and open my purse.

  Bingo. Toothpaste and toothbrush.

  Mouth minty, I leave out of the bathroom and glance at the monitor again. SAT is now boarding. I don't know if it's a full flight, and I’ve already missed my scheduled flight for San Francisco. However, there’s another plane scheduled to leave for Texas at eight. Either way, I could call home. Or better yet? Show up on Regina’s doorstep, with my palms held out. It would serve her right for the guilt trip.

  Lincoln. Crap. It’s Thursday. Tonight, we are supposed to do dinner.

  I sink down at an empty row of chairs for the terminal to San Fran. The airline has yet to update it for the next destination and time. I pull out my cell phone to give him a call.

  “Hey, Lincoln.” My tone is monotonous as I prepare to apologize.

  “’Ello, Siobhan, I’ve returned from London. I literally just landed in San Francisco, and guess which lovely woman is on my mind.”

  “Oh goodness, I’m calling to let you know I won’t make it to dinner tonight. I’m sort of stuck in San Diego.” I can hear the loudspeaker at the San Francisco airport I left not six hours ago.

  “Business deal taking longer than anticipated?”

  “Not exactly. Let’s just say I was a one-woman circus. I played the clown, I jumped through hoops. Sold everything short of my own soul just to prove my loyalty and acute understanding of what my client’s needs are.” I take a breath. Damn, all things considered, I had a good day and was in my element until returning to the airport. “But that’s the way the cookie crumbles, when I have to regurgitate everything my assistant Tamara already said because I’m the boss.”

  His sly chuckle makes my eyes close. This catches me off guard. There isn’t much that I know about Lincoln Zager, aside from the motivation he offers when we run until our hearts explode. Or the perfect motivational phrase to meet a rigorous goal—which is virtually the same thing. He has this knack for attempting to cajole my emotions. Make me happy.

  Hosea pops into my head. The love of my life was unconventional and different. When we were kids, people were confused by him. Growing up in Texas, there isn't much room for certain types of diversity. It just turned out Hosea had a penchant for poetry. Lincoln’s laughter reminded me of Hosea’s, when he is writing a poem. He was very good at his job. Too damn good. Sometimes I had to squeeze my way into his line of vision.

  “My return flight to San Francisco just left. I sort of had an anxiety attack so here I am. Stuck in San Diego,” I say, once again eyeing the monitor of flights.

  “I have stock in Titan Airlines. A persuasive amount. How about I get you back to me?”

  My eyebrows thread together at the depth of his statement. Back to me… “Uh…I don’t want to impose.”

  Throat clogged, I fan my face and attempt to reshape his perception without telling him I’m crazy. “As soon as the meeting adjourned, I hailed a taxi, got to the airport, and sat here… shamefully drinking wine. I purposefully missed my plane, Lincoln, so I’d feel bad for asking you to help me. I feel like a fool, an anxious fool…” All right, that’s enough to read between the lines. I can’t get my ass on that airplane. At least not to Willow Bluff. I've gotten out of that damn house after a month of being in a jail of my own making. Now, I see the idiocrasy of my idea. To catch a stalker or die trying sounded ingenious in the throes of madness.

  “I’ll come get you.”

  I scoff. “You’re over eight hours away without traffic.”

  “Well, I’m still navigating toward the airport exit. Perhaps, I delayed for a reason. So no steering through security all over again, since I haven’t even left the terminals yet. I’ll catch the next flight down. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “How will we get back to Willow Bluff? Look, I don’t want to impose. I also didn’t want to lose a running mate, so here’s my sordid story of how I had to stand you up. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll do neither of the sort. But enlighten me, how did you plan to get back home?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll rent a car.” Or maybe I'll face my demons in San Antonio… I’ll get over no longer having the two best men in my life, Sammy and Hosea. “Or maybe I won't —”

  “Nonsense. There’s a flight boarding now. I’ll be in San Diego in a little under two hours. We can hitchhike back up the coast for all I care. We will make it quite the adventure, you’re not to do any of the sort alone.”

  Baffled by the type of man I am unable to say no to, I initially nod my head in agreement, and then utter, “Yes,” before we hang up.

  I sit down at the seat and crack my knuckles. It’s an odd habit, and I expect to be the old lady with the biggest, bony fingers on the block i
n the future, if my stalker doesn't grow tired of me and murders me first. As I wait, Hosea Murrell takes over my mind…

  ***

  The pristine sound of Al Green’s “Sha La La” continued to flip flop in the background as I turned up the stereo in the bedroom of our condo. Then the surround sound would dip low, and I stopped mouthing the words while swaying to the beat in just a pair of lace panties and bra. My eyes turned into slits as I glanced back at Hosea. He reclined on the bed, back against the headboard, typing away on his MacBook.

  “Keep it up, you’ll be the one having my favorite artist, Al Green, on rotation. Though the song on repeat will be ‘Let’s Stay Together.’” I snapped, though this was our routine like an old, cranky couple.

  A half-smile was on his lips.

  With the remote in my hand, I turned the song back up, knowing full well that he’d use his Samsung cell phone to mute the song yet again. But as Al Green begged for her to make him happy, I danced, and took subtle peeks over my shoulder. Prior to Hosea turning off the music each time, I’d succeeded at captivating my boyfriend’s attention for fractions of a second. Almost as if he didn’t want me to know he was watching, but damn right I felt him. His love enveloped and wrapped around me.

  Those minute moments in life were worth it all.

  Soon as the music cut once more, I spun around on the polished wood floors. Hosea’s eyes went back to the manuscript he was reading, the sparkle in his hazel eyes gone. He loved me hard, but work consumed him. It consumed us both.

  Hosea had one New York Times Best Seller by the time we graduated college, yet his subsequent published work wasn’t received as amicably. I had offered to monitor the literary world for a while to determine how he could market his future work, but something had changed. Hosea had declined. He was now an editorial agent for one of the top companies in Los Angeles and Hosea took his job seriously. His pleasing lips were set in one line, whatever he was currently engaged in wasn’t engaging at all.

  As I twirled my hips, erotically yet in all fun and games, I noticed a silly grin plastered on a face full of stubble.

  The music faded. “Siobhan, you know how busy I am.”

  “So…”

  “You never play fair. Let your clients hound you, and you’re as sweet as a kitten to them, but as evil as a rattlesnake to me. Oh and that damn mouthpiece you have gets scary. It can take forever to get you back to me…”

  ***

  Back to me… I gulp. Lincoln Zager couldn’t have meant anything by it.

  ***

  “First of all, I don’t have a mouthpiece. But does that mean I don’t get any attention?” I had asked, lifting my foot on to the edge of the bed. The toned shape of my leg and thigh was before him, as I applied hydrating oil to my freshly-showered skin.

  Hosea left me to my own devices for a moment as he seemed to think before saying, “Hmmm, not necessarily, it just means I’ll only consent if you work harder.”

  I climbed onto the bed, on hands and knees. Then I straddled him. “Work hard? Boy, I’ve had you since we were kids. I own you forever. So what’s this business about working hard?” I assured, fingertip tracing an infinity across his chest.

  He grabbed my wrist, and planted my fingers against his lips. “You know exactly what I mean by get to work.”

  Hosea’s honey eyes glanced toward his dick, which was fully erect, making the cloth of his boxer briefs stand to attention like a teepee.

  “So it’s like that?” I smiled seductively, reaching up to kiss him lightly on the mouth. Our lips connected, I moaned against the sweet taste of his thick, wide, pleasing mouth.

  He bit his bottom lip as the sugar walls of my pussy drenched down on his dick. Hosea reached out to place his hand on my hip. I swatted his hand away.

  “I’m in charge. And you told me to get to work.”

  He mocked me. “Oh, so it’s like that?” Eyes twinkling and heavy with lust, Hosea leaned back against the pillows.

  I twirled my hips and stroked further down onto his shaft.

  ***

  In a daze, I return to the present, seated at the terminal, which is now displaying “Boarding the remainder passengers for Denver, Colorado.” I feel but a child as Lincoln towers above. How long had he stood there calling my name?

  A cashmere sweater tugs softly at rock muscles and the V-neck makes my eye trickle down from such hard features to the top of a well-defined chest. He's in premium jeans that hug against a boulder of a bulge I'm currently eye-level with.

  “You came,” I hardly utter. Something akin to disappointment storms through my body. My heart should be in a cage, locked for the rest of my eternity. Yet, there is no numbness.

  “Of course, I came.” His voice is harder in person. The distance of oceans between us has expired, and I had honestly forgotten the nickname Batman until the steel of his words reaches out to me. “It took a little longer than I anticipated. I had to make a call to one of the big wigs at Titan Aerospace, push my name around for a bit of clout.”

  “Why did you come?” The words filter from my lips before I can reel them back. How ungrateful am I? I look away in embarrassment at my behavior.

  “What sort of bloke am I to leave a lady in distress? Besides, we’ve already agreed that your misfortune will become an adventure.”

  “Wow, my mental image of said adventure is a Budget rental car or one of these other rental companies, Lincoln.” Or home. San Antonio. Where the people I truly give a damn about can look upon me with disdain, distrust, or sympathy when only justice will do.

  “You've declined a plane ride. I'm opposed to car rentals.”

  “How will we get back?” The fear of capturing the stalker exacerbates me. I glance at the darkly handsome man full of confidence, but of course he isn’t privy to this sinking feeling.

  “Never doubt me, Siobhan.” He gestures toward the exit.

  “Never say never, Mr. Zager.”

  Taking a deep breath, I bite my lip. What sort of entertainment am I to this very wealthy man? I’ve piqued his interest in such a manner that he’d catch a plane to San Diego in order to escort me back to a hell of my own making.

  Chapter Eight

  Siobhan

  Salted air licks against my skin, and I've stuffed my chilled fingers into my coat, since I hadn't traveled with a single pair of gloves. The sun is immersing into the horizon off in the distance, at the end of the ocean. The marina in San Diego becomes further and further away by the second as white suds kick out toward the bay we just took a taxi ride to.

  Lincoln and I lean against the upper deck railing of a superyacht conveniently named, “Coco’s Revenge,” after a poodle, not Lincoln’s poodle. He doesn't strike me as a frivolous pet owner.

  One of his vastly rich friends had gone through a divorce and though he lost much in the proceedings, the man was granted the wife’s beloved poodle. His wealth increased exponentially after that divorce and obtaining the token poodle, Coco.

  “Though I doubt your stalker will follow us out onto the Pacific Ocean, the crew has been informed to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity,” Lincoln says. His shoulders are broad with tenacity. “There’ll be a change of clothing in the rooms if you’d like, Siobhan. My mate has become rather the entertainer after purchasing Coco’s Revenge.”

  “Hmmm, what amusement compelled your friend to loan you his yacht? I suppose it would be more embarrassing to tell the truth that I was too skittish to get on a plane. Did you tell him it was to score some hot ass?”

  Lincoln chuckles. “While I am particularly fond of your bum, your secret is safe with me…eh, let’s add the crew members to the equation also. The owner owed me a favor. And my story stands, that I wouldn’t have you travel up the coast alone.”

  “All right, Mr. Zager, the verdict is still not out for you,” I say.

  His mock innocence only coerces me to further tunnel myself into the mistrusting person a faceless man has transformed me into. “I am a southe
rn girl through and through. I moved to the city with the man who I’d loved since grade school. Who I technically married after church one day—on the premises—with a sour apple Ring Pop as kids.” And I sure as hell am not busting it wide open for a man I’ve only known for all of three weeks.

  “Astounding visual, Miss Lowe,” he begins, eating me alive with his gaze. I almost wonder if he is that damn good at reading my mind until I realize he meant the church reference.

  “Well, what have we here? I’d say we’re out of our normal element, as promised,” he says, with a dark gaze casting over the sea. Then he pulls me in once more with that sinful gander. “I assure you, I will not be the first to bite.”

  My eyebrow rises at his insinuation. This man toys with my mind. He leaves me speechless. I take the safe route. “This has been a very long day. I’ll see you after I change.”

  Lincoln has the total assurance that forces me to chant, no matter how chivalrous and unpredictable he is, there's no way he is getting in my panties. No one does a thing out of altruism anymore. Hell, no one does anything without a motive. I've got a stalker on my hands and Lincoln Zager won't be getting in my way.

  Gone is the notion that someone “might be” watching, because Lincoln’s gaze slithers all of my body as I start toward the entrance. A server just inside the entryway, in close enough proximity to do our bidding or grant us privacy, stands to attention.

  “You’ll be pleased with your room accommodations, Miss Lowe,” the crew member assures me while escorting me to a stateroom. He mentions that every drawer and closet was filled with new items at my disposal. He asks me to be ready for Lincoln at 8 p.m. sharp. I suppose the cloud of confusion on my face prompted him to add, “for dinner.”

  Now I've showered in a luxury bathroom and have sieved through clean and tagged undergarments in all shapes and sizes. Whoever the hell Lincoln’s friend is, he has a habit of spoiling the ladies and has no clear preference regarding size. There’s size zero attire, up to the double digits.

  While rummaging through clothing fit for gallivanting on the Vegas Strip before or after dark, I find a treasure of an ensemble, meaning a dress with more material than the status quo on Coco’s Revenge.