Hunt Me (Love Thieves #3) (20 page)

Anya stiffened, her spine straightening, and anger seethed up from the depths of her hungry eyes. “Just to clarify, you want to exchange services?”

“Fair is fair.” The words weren’t him. But her reaction intrigued him. How far would she be willing to go? “We could even negotiate it down to twelve hours. Twelve hours of just you, me, and a bed and wherever that takes us.”

“Thanks for your
generous
offer.” Venom dripped off the words as she pressed a hand to his chest and pushed away from him. “But I don’t prostitute myself. Good evening, Maxwell.”

He let her go, watching her all but stomp off the dance floor despite never once slamming her feet down. A traitorous smile tugged at his lips. Thankfully, she didn’t turn around to see it. She might be a thief, but she wasn’t willing to bargain with her body.

He approved.

With every stride carrying her away from him, her hips rolled invitingly. Smoothing a hand over his tie, he pursued. He checked his craving. The image of her drenched in golden sunlight and surf on a beach left him hard and wanting.

First things first. She needs my help.

And, by God, she will have it.

“Arrogant son of a bitch.” Anya spit the words onto the bar, irritation clacking in the shallow breaths between them. Why his offer surprised her, she didn’t know, and she wasn’t going to examine it too closely. The outrageously blatant suggestion, however, threw off her game, and, rather than fumble further, she’d abandoned the aforementioned son of a bitch on the dance floor.

“What can I get you for you, ma’am?” The bartender swiped a red cloth across the mahogany bar.

His calm motions swirled the cloth in a soothing, swishing motion over the wood in hypnotic circles. The placid smile on his too-perfect tanned face and full lips spoke of perfunctory sympathy, caution, and just a splash of rebuke for her decidedly un-ladylike behavior.

Go to hell.

Anya swallowed the scalding thought, sliding her tongue over her tempt-me-old-flame-berry-pink lips, while fighting the urge to sneer in frustration. The ripple effect took effort and control, both long practiced on people and in front of a mirror. The desultory dissatisfaction on her face gave way to the debutante pout. Walking away had probably been a mistake, but it wasn’t in her to prostitute herself for a job. She wasn’t sure what made her angrier—that he’d asked for her body or the fact she’d been tempted.

He always tempted her, and she always resisted. Her job was in the way. Work she would not compromise. Not for the first time, she regretted not meeting Max somewhere, some when else.

“White wine spritzer.” The deep-throated baritone, dark and smoky like forty-year-old scotch stroked her senses. Excitement skittered through her, fanning the flames of her annoyance. She would not be turned on and pissed at him at the same time. The arm belonging to the owner of the voice appeared in the periphery of her vision, but she ignored him.

“Dirty martini.” She slapped her order down in a brisk tone.

“White wine spritzer,” the baritone repeated, slipping the order over hers along with a one hundred dollar bill.

“White wine spritzer, it is.” The damn bartender grinned, all white teeth and tanned skin.
Shark
. Point to Max.

She spun on the bar stool, black dress falling open to reveal long, toned legs in a pair of almost-not-there red strappy heels. Using her body to distract him—she wasn’t proud. Her tormentor studied her, wearing a dangerous smile that beckoned her, predator to predator.

“You left too soon.” He pressed into her space, overpriced tuxedo hugging his body. His too-muscled, too-strong, and too-male-to-be-contained by the traditional black-and-white suit.

Damn, he looks good.

“No point in staying. The food is dry. The wine is expensive. The company is dreadful.”

“Touché,
chérie
. I thought the evening just got started, and we have only a few hours left until midnight.” His green eyes gleamed with a reflection of a dozen crystal chandeliers that filled the grand ballroom of the ambassador’s mansion.

“Midnight?”

Her bare leg brushed the warm cloth of his pants. The contact burned along her calf, but she refused to jerk her leg away, even as the tingles raced up to her thighs and swirled in a vortex in the vicinity of her belly.

“Midnight, the New Year—out with the old, in with the new….” His breath puffed little circles of erotic heat on her flesh, a tide of goose bumps sprinting along the skin of her neck, shoulders, and following the plunging neckline to her cleavage.

“In that case, you should probably move along because you are definitely not the new.” Anya made the mistake of flattening her hand to his chest, as though planning to push him away.

The pulse in his throat leapt, matching the pounding cadence beneath her palm. She would have slid her hand away, but, like a striking asp, he captured her in his larger grasp, holding her hand fast to him.

“You came to me, remember?” He kept her on edge, barely acknowledging the bartender’s return with the flute of effervescent white wine. The thick length of his thigh rested solidly against her crossed legs as he trapped her hand beneath his. The sheer weight of him filled the air, blotting out the ballroom with its tinkling glasses, swishing gowns, well-mannered men, and murmurs of a dozen languages.

“You said no, remember?” Her heart rattled like a maraca shaken by a frenetic gypsy dancing under torchlight and weakened her challenge.

“Actually, I don’t.” Max brushed the knuckles of his free hand down the column of her throat, pausing to lay a finger to the pulse point just above her collarbone. The scents of chocolate, coffee, and male flooded her nostrils, boiling away good sense. “I told you your cost. One night with me, twelve hours, in my bed, at my whim, free to do whatever I wanted.”

“You might as well have said no.” She moistened her lips, tasting the warm glide of lipstick and a mistake. His dark gaze dropped, focusing on her mouth. His pupils flared, and the shivery slip of black dress with its almost non-existent back seemed to evaporate under the steam in his stare.

“Make me a counter offer,” he invited, his knuckles continued their lazy strokes along the column of her throat. Her skin tightened, tingling in anticipation of where his fingers would go next. Her heart jumped and twisted, a fish on a line.

“You could have me owing you one.” A weak attempt at wresting control as he toyed with the line.

“I’d rather have you under me and then over me.” From any other man, the line would have been laughable, but he made it sound like a caress, the words gliding over her nipples—teasing, tormenting, tempting.

“Not an option.”

“Why not?”

She had no easy answer for his question. If it weren’t for the idol’s weight burning a hole through her clutch purse, she’d have already drawn him off into some secluded corner where they could torture each other through their clothes. But she needed to return the idol. Dammit. Time ticked down and not just to the midnight celebration, but to whenever the film on the damnable flat cam would break. The tight security would tighten further.

Maybe if she’d just cut and run right after slipping out of the vault, but that hesitation had cost her, and the flat cam still held her image. She’d lost her exit the moment she hesitated. Her backup plan had failed when she broke protocol. Returning the
Fortunate Buddha
was far from ideal, but she could save her ass now and retrieve the statue another time.

“Because you’re not my type.” A terrible lie, and they both knew. Max flashed white teeth as a chuckle rumbled up through his chest, vibrating her hand.

Instead of responding, he retreated a step, taking his scorching connection with him. Before Anya could exhale a breath of relief, he tugged her along. He held her traitorous hand a willing captive. The strappy heels on her feet kept her at eye level with him. He drew her inexorably toward the grand gold-and-red parquet floor, gleaming under the thousands of incandescent lights above.

His fingers curled around her nape, cutting off her escape and drawing her into the sway of his body as he began to move to the music that filtered through her clogged ears. This close to him, she’d almost forgotten the presence of the musicians at one end of the dance floor with their myriad of strings, horns, and percussion.

He tugged at one curl, an almost boyish playfulness softening his hard features. As he stepped into the beat of the music, he guided her effortlessly. Where she was soft, and curved—he was tough and thick. The hint of muscle stretching the white shirt flattened her breasts as he closed out all the empty space between them. He continued to toy with her neck, finally sliding his hand down the expanse of bare skin in a trail of tingles until he rested his palm to the small of her back.

“I think you’re mistaken about your type,” he said into her hair. “But you’re running out of time, and the gendarme does not take kindly to thieves here, even beautiful, sensuous American ones with a pair of fuck-me pumps and a body with promises of soft plunder.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Seductive, not sweet, and her reply tasted sour on the tongue. His scent overwhelmed and left her wanting to rub her body to his. She followed him, a slave girl desperate to be in his harem.

What the hell am I doing?
Anya withdrew from the intimacy of the dance. She forced her attention away from him and scanned the over-pedigreed crowd in their clouds of thousand-dollar-an-ounce perfume. He sidestepped another couple, threading through the crowd with enviable ease.

He spun her, twirling, around his celestial body before dragging her in. With a brush of his lips, he tickled the skin just behind her ear. His breath stabbed at her, tiny hot lasers of pain and temptation.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, bound by the hard band of his arm around her and his fingers digging into the curve of her hip.

“Looking after you, gorgeous,” he murmured, becoming damn near immovable as he studied the room behind her. She tried to catch his eye.

It was a mistake. Tipping her head, she exposed the long column of her throat. She’d forgone most jewels for the night, settling on an elegant but simple strand of low-quality but high-color diamonds. They possessed enough flash to be noticeable but not enough to be memorable. The choker enhanced her vulnerability, cupping in a V just below her pulse, which, even as she thought about it, began to pound like a drummer at a parade march.

His gaze roved over her face as though feasting on every nuance of expression. He nudged her chin with his own, bumping it gently. The smooth surface belied the hint of stubble raising goose bumps across her body like fans doing the wave at the Super Bowl.

When he pinned her under with one languorously devouring look, her traitorous nipples tightened, and she dug her fingers into his arm, nails raking through suit jacket and shirt to dig at the flesh beneath.

“I bet you’re a screamer, too.” His words trembled with a warm throaty quality, laughing between the syllables. The last warning he allowed before his face dipped toward hers, blotting out the light, the room, the sound of wine glasses, whispery accents, and even the swish of expensive silk.

His lips slanted across hers, tasting of impatience and demand. She opened her mouth to rebuff him, but the flavor of him stormed her senses as though he were the allied forces and she the beaches at Normandy. She swung her right hand up to slap him, but her fingers fisted into his hair instead, drawing him deeper into the kiss.

Anya strained against him, the words detailing his vile conception turning to ash under the fire of his passion. A flush of chillier air stole her breath even as his lips slid along hers. After a brief interlude, his tongue caressed the seam of her mouth—teasing, tasting, tempting, and finally withdrawing—the absence of him so much keener following the hint of invasion. She shuddered, the cold skating along her nerves. Blinking slowly, she tried to wrestle her traitorous response even as he leaned away and settled his weight to the door he’d just shut.

The
closed
door to what appeared to be a
private
room.

Son of a bitch.

“There’s that beautiful temper. I thought you’d melted to a puddle of wax instead of tempestuous demon for a moment there.” He grinned at her. Did he enjoy the way her hands clenched, the flush scalding her cheeks, or the fact she could barely control the grinding of her teeth?

“Go to hell, Max, and get out of my way.” She drew erect and jutted her chin out. She understood arrogance, even if she didn’t appreciate it in others. She met his challenge with rebellion, absolutely denying the wild, naked feeling their kiss exposed.

“I don’t think so.” Disappointment dimmed his smile but did little to detract from the chiseled jaw, achingly green eyes, and Roman nose. He was every bit the aristocrat the pretenders in the other room wanted to rub elbows with, as though they could absorb the blue blood through osmosis.

“Fine, I’ll go out another way.” She wanted a mirror. Her lips felt swollen, soft, and pouty. The last thing she wanted was to look how she felt even if her hormones raged on overdrive. Pivoting on one four-inch heel, she stumbled a half step and frowned. A nook boasted floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves and a veritable cornucopia of red, black, and brown leather-bound law books. United States law books.

“What the hell?”

Max shrugged and slid his long, tapered hands into the pockets of his slacks. Still leaning on the door, he looked like he could be waiting on any corner of the world—save for his five thousand dollar tailored suit hugging every delicious muscle.

“The ambassador is fond of his eccentricities. The study of the American legal system is just one of them. But this room is meant for private study.” He tapped the door with the heel of one shoe. “And soundproofed. It’s also duller than dirt for most of the refined palates out there, so we have some quality time without anyone listening.”