The Player's Club: Lincoln (12 page)

“Apparently, it’s not worth as much as I thought,” she returned, in an equally low voice. “And if Henri’s any judge, he doubts I’d even get mugged for it, so I guess I’m safe.”

The raw pain and bitterness in her voice weren’t camouflaged by her light tone and lopsided smile. “What kind of trouble are you in, Juliana?”

She blinked, then flashed a megawatt smile at him, fake as a Los Angeles golf course. “Nothing I need saving from. Although, aren’t you the gentleman to ask? And they say chivalry is dead.”

He opened the passenger-side door to his Maybach, closing it after her. When he climbed in, they drove in silence to her condo. “I’m your mentor,” he said slowly. “We’re pretty open in the Player’s Club. Like I said, we’re like family.”

“I’m full up on the family front, thanks,” she said tightly. “Really, I’m fine. Just doing some financial restructuring and unloading some stuff I never even wear.”

She was lying. They both knew it, but her smile was daring him to counter her. “I could help,” he said. “You think you can do everything by yourself, but you can’t.”

“And what, I’m supposed to trust you?” she said, her mouth dropping open. “You’re stalking me. You’re trying to get me to fail. Why the hell would I open up to you?”

“I don’t… I’m not trying to get you to fail,” he spluttered, parking in a visitor spot.

“You’re not helping me to succeed, either. But it doesn’t matter—I’m going to make it anyway. Thanks for the ride.” She got out and slammed the door.

He followed her quickly. “Damn it, I’m not done talking to you.”

“So what?” When he put a hand on her arm, she jerked away from him, her violet eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare touch me, buddy, I will kick your…”

“Juliana!”

She turned, midsnarl. There was a cameraman, kneeling on the sidewalk by her front door.

“Nice,” he said, and there was the unmistakable whirring click as the man took photos. “Who’s the guy, Jules?”

“Jeez, today? Really, Rod?” She rubbed her hand over her face. “You haven’t taken pictures of me in weeks, and now you’re ambushing me by my frickin’ house?”

The photographer, a short, Hispanic-looking guy with a backward baseball cap and a black photo bag, shrugged as he slung his camera on its strap. “Slow news day. Brangelina’s in France, everybody seems to be on location or in rehab. I gotta pay the bills.”

“Don’t we all,” she murmured. “If I look all ugly and old on the next tabloid cover, I’m going to run you over with my car, Rod.”

“If you could catch me,” the photographer said with a grin. Then he frowned at Lincoln. “You okay here, with him?” he asked her, his eyes never leaving Lincoln’s gaze. “Need me to call somebody?”

“Huh? Oh. No, but that’s nice of you,” she said, shaking her head.

Rod glared at Lincoln, an interesting mix of protectiveness and curiosity. “Got a name, buddy?”

Lincoln started to answer, then realized that his picture was now going to be in a tabloid. The man wanted Lincoln’s name to tell the paper who Juliana was with.

Lincoln stepped up to the short photographer, who was doing his best to seem taller…and who looked scared as hell.

“How much are the photos worth to you?” Lincoln asked quietly.

The guy blinked. “You’re not going to kick my ass, are you?”

“Not yet,” he said, and Rod shrank a little. “I’m buying those photos. How much?”

Now Rod’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Um…three thousand.” He mugged.

Lincoln knew the guy was lying. He also knew that it didn’t matter. He pulled out his wallet, drawing out six five-hundred-dollar bills. “Good thing I went to the bank today,” he said. “Now let’s have that memory stick, shall we?”

“Hey, I’ve got other photos on it!”

Lincoln sighed. “Then let me see the camera.” He took it, erasing the digital images. “All right then. Money’s yours.”

“Who are you, the mob?”

Lincoln smirked. “As far as you’re concerned, I may as well be. Now take a hike.”

Rod scrambled away.

When Lincoln turned back, Juliana was staring at him. “You carry that much cash, and you’re giving me crap about a few diamonds?”

He shrugged. “Walking-around money.” Then he took a deep breath. “Listen. I’m sorry I followed you around today. I don’t know…yes, I am trying to protect the club. But you also fascinate me like nobody I’ve ever known. I can’t seem to keep myself away from you.”

At that, she smiled, even as she looked a little puzzled. “I’m not trying to hurt anybody,” she said softly. “I’m just trying to take care of myself.”

“You know,” he found himself saying, “if you told me what’s wrong, how much trouble you’re in, maybe I could help you. I don’t know, a loan or something.”

And he really didn’t know why he was suddenly offering charity to a woman who routinely drove him crazy.

“Sure you could,” she said, and her voice was so full of…not exactly bitterness. Just a sort of jaded weariness that made him tired just listening.

“Let me come up,” he said, “and maybe you can talk to me awhile. Just lean on me a little.”

She walked over to him, her head on his shoulder.

“It’s tempting,” she said, then pulled away, slowly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to lean on anybody yet.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. He wanted to help her, somehow. He wanted to be with her more. “Let me take you to dinner.”

“What, did I miss a challenge memo? Does Terrence have another old girlfriend he’d like to open up to?” she asked, with a shaky laugh.

“No. I just want to know more about you.”

She smiled sweetly—she was more vulnerable than he ever thought he’d seen her. Then her expression fell.

“Don’t pity me, Lincoln. I would seriously hate that.”

He cupped her cheek with his hand, and she leaned toward him. He kissed her forehead, her temple. The curve of her jaw.

“I don’t. I couldn’t.”

“All right.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll put these diamonds away, then I’ll let you feed me.”

She pulled away enough for him to look into her eyes. “Want to come up while you wait?”

Probably a bad idea,
he thought.

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I do.”

JULIANA WAS FLUSTERED when Lincoln followed her into her condo. Today, the club had been the furthest thing from her mind…well, Lincoln was never the furthest thing from her mind, a fact that bothered her constantly. She didn’t have time to listen to hormones, and a romantic entanglement with a man who made her crazy—and who hated how she was planning on making a living, and who judged her, and who thought paparazzi ought to be exterminated like roaches—was probably one of the stupidest things she’d ever considered. And she’d chosen some doozies in her day.

So why are you going to dinner with him?

“Why don’t you take a seat,” she said, as she strode with purpose toward her bedroom. “I’ll only be a sec.”

She saw him eye the couch, then look at her, his gaze low lidded and slumberous, a slow smile dawning on his face. She felt her body heat, but before she could return the smile and possibly walk back toward him, she forced herself to head to her bedroom.

The jewelry was jumbled in a velvet bag. She took it out, separating as best she could, before any of the delicate gold and platinum chains could form nasty knots. She’d have to do more research—she’d been such a good customer of Henri’s, she’d expected a little sympathy, at least. No dice there, she thought, more philosophically than bitterly. She probably should have known better.

“What happened here?”

At his question, she shut her jewelry case with a snap, hurrying back out to the living room. “What? Where?”

He pointed to a bright, clean square of paint on her living-room wall. She felt her cheeks color.

“Oh, that.” Her laugh sounded forced, even to her own ears, so she bulled through. “A painting I didn’t want anymore. A friend of mine decided to take it—it suited her sitting room so much better.”

He was staring at her, as if he were staring through her, right to her soul…right through her lies. She smiled brightly. “I’ve been thinking of redecorating, anyway,” she added.

His expression was clear:
sure you were.
But to his credit, he didn’t say anything.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked, moving to her kitchen and opening her small wine fridge. After the day she’d had, she could certainly use a drink.

He nodded, walking next to her. Her kitchen was not that large; he seemed to take up all the spare space in it. She could feel him, looming behind her, not in a threatening way. But in a large way.

She poured two glasses of Riesling—the only pale wine she had left, she noted with chagrin—and turned to hand one to him.

He was right there, in her space, looking at her fixedly. Suddenly, she had trouble breathing.

“Boy, is it hot in here,” she breathed, “or is it just you?”

He smiled, that boyish smile she so rarely saw on him. The smile she was beginning to love.

“Juliana,” he murmured, and took the wineglasses out of her hands, then put them back on the granite countertop. Then he put a hand on either side of her, resting on the counter, effectively trapping her.

Her heart fluttered wildly, and she tilted her head to look up at him. “Don’t…don’t you want the wine?” she asked stupidly.

He nodded, his face getting closer to hers. “Yeah. But it can wait.”

With that, he leaned down and kissed her…softly at first, his lips just brushing hers, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing more he’d rather do to kill a few hours. She sighed against him.

What this man could do with his mouth…

All their previous kisses had been fast, furious, almost violent—an explosion of passion, almost against their respective wills. This time, he’d obviously made a deliberate choice. He was courting her, giving her plenty of time and space to pull back, if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to, she decided, as her hands smoothed up his shirt and her fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer. And she was going to make a choice of her own.

As she pressed herself against him, the kiss went deeper. She parted her lips for his tongue, advancing with the same gentle relentlessness that had opened the kiss to start with. It was like a sigh, soft and sweet and comforting. Then, by degrees, it went hotter, a steeping simmer that was working its way to a boil.

She worked her fingers into his hair, tugging his head to hers…rubbing her body against his as a way to somehow balm the unholy tension that was slowly building in her system. He groaned against her mouth, and she felt his body go hard against her stomach. Shamelessly, she rubbed against his fly as her nipples hardened against her bra and she felt herself go wet.

“Lincoln,” she gasped, pulling away to draw a deep, fortifying breath. “Lincoln…”

He tugged her up, lifting her as if she were weightless and putting her down on the countertop. He stood between her legs—the difference in height was negligible now, and she could feel his hardness between her thighs, against her core. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her taut against him, and her nails scored his shirt as she wound her legs around his waist.

They were boiling over. He tugged at her blouse, and she found herself yanking at it, vaguely recognizing the plinking sounds of buttons as they hit the hardwood floor. She nipped at his lower lip, her body shivering at the deliciously erotic growl that he emitted as a result. His hands moved up to cup her breasts, and she arched her back…

And promptly hit her head on one of the cabinets.

“Ow,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her head.

He laughed, and in that moment, he looked ten years younger. “Maybe the kitchen’s not the right place for this.”

“Oh? And where’s the right place?” As if she didn’t know.

Without another word, he scooped her up, her legs still anchored around his waist. He carried her the short distance to her bedroom, nibbling on her neck the entire time until she was trembling with desire.