My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4) Page 3

  “Do I see if she wants to meet for a drink?” I asked, cutting her off because I didn’t want the reminder. I knew how I felt.

  As Mindy checked out her cards at the poker table at the Luxe, her favorite gambling spot, she said, “Yes, you want to have a drink with her, because you definitely need some lubricant.”

  I laughed. Mindy didn’t mince words and that was one of the reasons I enjoyed our friendship. “Noted. Use liquor for lube. Any other advice?”

  She slid some chips to the center of the green felt, staying in. “Yes. You used to like music? Went to concerts together, right?”

  “We did. Lots of local and indie bands. That was one of our things.”

  She shrugged, as if to say duh. “There you go. Brent said there’s some new band at his nightclub tonight. A hot, young indie-rock band. Take her to that. It’ll be like old times.”

  “Is that what I want? Old times?”

  “Yes. That’s what you want,” she said as she set down her cards, winning the hand with a trio of sixes.

  “Nice,” I said, with a low whistle of admiration.

  She dragged a handful of chips closer. “So what was it like? Seeing her?”

  That was the question of the day, one I’d been pondering since leaving the Petrossian Bar a few hours ago.

  How could I even begin to describe seeing Annalise? It was like resistance meets infatuation. The whole time, I’d reined in my desire to kiss her, touch her, taste her lips. Because, well, that would be wholly inappropriate, and I had no clue if she wanted it. A wild, delirious thought popped into my brain. Had she looked me up for the same reason I’d tried to find her ten years ago?

  Ah, hell. No. I couldn’t go there. Couldn’t linger on the biggest heartbreak of my life. On the absolutely epic shellacking I’d walked right into, like a fool who thought the past could be resurrected. The past was best left buried. Tonight would just be . . . fun.

  “It was awkward, but easy at the same time,” I said, after much consideration. “If that makes sense.”

  Mindy nodded thoughtfully, her blue eyes serious. “Yeah, it does.”

  “We sort of slid right back into conversation about work and past memories. It was good, even though I still feel like there are a million things I want to ask her.”

  Mindy patted my arm. “I know. But perhaps it’s best to save ‘Do you ever think about me?’ for another time.”

  “Good point.”

  “Keep it light and fun,” she advised, then tipped her chin to my phone. “And maybe let her know the plan for tonight.”

  I texted Annalise the details, lingering to appreciate the ease of communicating now with the woman I’d once had the hardest time in the world staying in touch with. So much had changed over the years. Even things like . . . text messaging. We hadn’t had this luxury when we were younger.

  When Mindy finished the round ahead, she thanked the dealer, collected her winnings, and walked away from the table. She was a measured player, always knowing when to stop. We wandered through the casino, then down the hall toward the restrooms, stopping outside the ladies’ room where it was quiet so we could catch up on other matters.

  “Did you see the report from Morris?” she asked, mentioning the private detective I’d hired. Mindy had worked with the guy, so when I was looking for a solid recommendation, I’d taken hers.

  “Yeah. Not much there. The guy goes to the grocery store, and to buy sheet music at the piano shop. Doesn’t even take his girls to school. I swear I don’t get it. How can he be the head of a street gang?” I dragged a hand through my hair in frustration. I’d hired the detective to gather some intel on Luke Carlton, the mild-mannered local piano teacher by day, leader of the notorious street gang the Royal Sinners by night. The cops were trying to gather enough evidence to bring him in, and I wanted to do everything I could to help take down the fucker I was sure had played a role in plotting my father’s death.

  “But that’s how it’s always been,” Mindy said. “This guy has supposedly been running the Royal Sinners for years, so he damn well knows how to be inconspicuous.”

  “That’s the trouble,” I said, as my phone buzzed.

  Annalise: A concert! Sounds great. I will be there.

  I promptly forgot about Luke and zoned in on those last four words. She would be there.

  My Annalise.

  4

  Annalise

  I peered in the mirror, considering the skinny jeans and boots I wore, as the phone trilled in my ear.

  “It’s two in the morning,” Noelle grumbled when she picked up, sleep thick in her voice.

  “I know,” I said, checking out the side view. Not bad. “But you instructed me to call you the second I had a report.”

  My older sister groaned, then I heard sheets rustle, and I assumed Noelle was dragging herself out of her tiny bed in her tiny flat in the Fifteenth arrondissement. “Fine. Report.”

  “I’m seeing him again. Tonight,” I said, a grin tugging at my lips.

  “You’ve already seen him once?”

  “Yes. This afternoon.”

  “And you didn’t think to give me a report then?”

  “I wanted to wait until I knew for certain that there would be another time. He just texted me the details a few minutes ago.”

  “Mon petit papillon,” Noelle said in a playful huff, using the nickname she’d bestowed on me many moons ago. It reminded me of what Michael used to call me. Not a butterfly, but he had given me an affectionate little name, and I hadn’t thought about it in ages. I thought about it now, though, and how much I’d liked it. “Tell me more about tonight.”

  I gave her the details of our coffee conversation, because it was Noelle who had encouraged me to see him in the first place. Time to move on, mon petit papillon. No more crying in the croissants, she’d said a few months ago.

  I wasn’t crying in the croissants—or my pillow—anymore, thank you very much. I hadn’t for many months. Still, was I truly ready? And ready for what?

  To love again, Noelle had said, and I had scoffed and shaken my head. But Noelle had suggested simply starting with a date.

  Fine, a date seemed reasonable, if I could call it that. And there was really only one man on my mind when I considered who I’d want that date to be with, and it seemed kismet once I learned I’d be flying to Las Vegas for work. Finding Michael had been no easy task, but persistence had paid off, and I’d tracked him down, then sent the letter to his office.

  I was nervous, sure, but he’d also always made me feel safe. And for my first time out with a man in two years, that was comforting. But, after all, we were high school sweethearts.

  Falling for Michael Sloan—back when he was Michael Paige-Prince—had been the easiest thing in the world when I was sixteen and living far, far away from home. He ran the radio station at our school and played guitar in a band with some friends in the afternoons. He was laid-back, easygoing, and quick with a joke. I was the arty French girl who liked the same indie music and who took pictures of him and the other guys playing their instruments in the garage. We were teens in love, bonding over music and style, American jargon, and kisses that lasted well past midnight. Endless kisses, the kind that made me feel like my skin was humming.

  “Call me when you’re done with the concert,” Noelle said from the other end of the line.

  “So you do like my report at any time of day,” I teased.

  “I’m a glutton for punishment when it comes to you. Just make sure it’s a good report.”

  “What would make for a good report?”

  “You know precisely what would make for a good report.”

  Yes. Yes, I did. Was it so wrong to hope he’d kiss me tonight? The flutter in my chest said a kiss would only be right; the spate of nerves flying across my skin told me the opposite.

  I inched closer to the mirror, pursing my lips, studying them, wondering what it would feel like . . . It had been so long since I’d felt anything. I ran my ind
ex finger over my top lip, both wanting something desperately from Michael and terrified of how I’d feel if anything happened.

  Anything at all.

  A few hours later, I entered the dark, pulsing nightclub and found him at the far end of the steel bar, his eyes on me the whole time as I walked toward him.

  I wanted to photograph him. I imagined raising the lens to my eye so I could capture the cut of his jaw, the determination in his gaze, and the tiniest twinkle of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

  Framing him in my mind’s eye, I snapped the shot. Michael, in dark jeans and an untucked navy-blue button-down. There—I’d have it later to linger on.

  “You look handsome in your navy shirt,” I said when I reached him. I lifted my hand as if to run a finger across the collar or down the row of buttons. Then I scolded myself and dropped my hand to my side. That was muscle memory, an echo of the past.

  I had no more permission to touch his clothes than I did to kiss him.

  His eyes raked over me, as if he too was recording all the details. “And you look as stunning in dark green as you did in black.”

  Stunning.

  He’d never failed to compliment me when we were younger, and he excelled at the pursuit as an adult too. “Even in this dark club, you can tell the color of my top? And that it’s different from earlier? I’m so impressed, Mr. Sloan. I never knew your color-matching skills were so top-notch.”

  He shrugged casually. “Impressive, I know. I’ve been working on it for some time. Can I get you a drink?”

  “A drink sounds fantastic,” I said, and he gestured to the bar, then placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the press of people waiting to get service. A spark zipped through me from the possessive touch. The hum of music surrounded us, the low thump of the nightclub, though the band hadn’t started yet.

  At the bar Michael raised a finger, and the bartender at the far end nodded, indicating he’d be on his way.

  “That was quick. Do they know you?” I asked.

  “No. Brent just has really good bartenders. They’re fast with all the customers. Which is one of the reasons this place does so well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And he’s married to Shannon now?”

  Michael nodded. “They eloped this summer. Translation: got back together and went to a twenty-four-hour chapel to tie the knot.”

  I laughed. “Perfect for them. And congratulations to the happy couple. How is your sister doing?”

  Michael made an arc with his hand over his belly.

  A morsel of glee spread through me. “How exciting! When is she due?”

  “About six months I believe. She just told us,” he said as the bartender arrived, a young man with a goatee who asked what he could get for us.

  Michael turned to me, letting me go first. “Champagne,” I said to the man behind the bar.

  “Make that two,” Michael added.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a champagne fan,” I mused as the bartender set to work.

  He arched a brow. “Why not? Do I seem like I have a dislike for drinks that are delicious?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’d just have figured beer or scotch or something strong and manly.”

  He held up a hand. “Wait. Now I’m not manly? Because I ordered champagne?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “This is coming out all wrong. You’re very manly. And champagne is very good. I’m glad we didn’t have to sneak around to find some. Do you remember the time on New Year’s Eve when we tried to figure out how to steal some from Becky and Sanders’s collection?”

  “Never found that damn champagne,” he said, but the sparkle in his eyes as they latched onto mine told me he remembered the other way we’d rung in that New Year—a long, lingering kiss at midnight that didn’t stop at the lips. It went on and on, and led to hands under shirts and below belts, to low, muffled groans, heated sighs, and our names falling off each other’s lips.

  The memory moved through me, heating me up. Or maybe it was just being near him now that did that.

  “And now we don’t have to track it down like thieves,” he said.

  “And now it turns out champagne is good for you. Did you know that?”

  “I read that recently. What’s the story there?”

  I tapped the side of my temple. “Supposedly, it helps improve memory.”

  “Ah,” he said, holding my gaze meaningfully, his tone turning serious. “But I don’t seem to have any problem at all where that’s concerned when it comes to you.”

  And just like that, I was speechless.

  5

  Michael

  My pulse hammered, and I hoped she couldn’t tell how goddamn hard it was to stand this close to her, to be so near to her, and not talk about the things I most wanted to know. The why.

  Why she was here?

  What did she want?

  Did she ever think of me?

  And how the hell was she doing, after everything that had happened to her?

  But I couldn’t go there. Not yet. I couldn’t handle that kind of conversation. It would remind me too much of why I had loved her like crazy. Because I’d talked to her about all those sorts of things once. Real things. Life and death and love and hope and dreams.

  If we dared tread on that territory, I’d be lost.

  But I also couldn’t help but reveal that I’d never forgotten for a second what we’d shared.

  She leaned against the bar, and I stood facing her. Annalise’s green eyes seemed to know me intimately still. Her voice was the sound I’d longed to hear on those nights when I needed it most, and her lips were the ones I’d craved all the days we were apart. Now she was so close I could grab the hem of her shirt, tug her to me, and kiss her. I could run my hands along her arms and thread my fingers into her hair. I wondered if my thoughts were written on my face, or if my wishes were clear in my eyes.

  I had to clench my fists to remember Mindy’s advice.

  Don’t ask her if she ever thinks about you.

  “So, where do you live now in the city?” she asked, and I startled, her words knocking me back to the present.

  “Hmm?”

  “Where do you live?” Her lips curved up, soft and naughty.

  “Why do you ask? Are you planning to surprise me later?”

  The question tossed me back in time to the day I met the willowy redhead from Paris. She’d just arrived at my dad’s best friend’s home to stay with them for the year. My first thought had been that I had to see more of her.

  Want me to show you around town? I’d asked her the day we’d met in Becky’s kitchen.

  I would love that.

  Is there anything you want to see in Las Vegas?

  Surprise me, she’d said, with a curve of her lips, the hint of a smile.

  I will, I’d said, and that had been the beginning of the love affair of my life.

  I blinked back to the present as she leaned in closer to me at the bar. “Would you like that?”

  I knit my brows together, trying to stay rooted in the present instead of tripping back and forth between then and now like a time traveler caught in a slip. “Would I like what?”

  “For me to surprise you?”

  God, yes. So much. Surprise me. Come over. Knock on my door, dim the light, and kiss me like it’s the thing you’ve been dreaming about all day.

  Before I could answer, the bartender returned with our champagne. I thanked him then raised my glass, clinking it with hers. “To . . .” I began, but I didn’t finish.

  6

  Annalise

  A flicker of sadness passed through his blue eyes as I lifted the glass. In that bare second, everything that had unfurled between eighteen years ago and today jabbed at me, like sharp little needles prickling my skin. My fingers itched to run through his hair, to offer a reassuring touch, something that showed I understood what was unsaid. I resisted the impulse, not knowing how it would be taken, and afraid, too, of
how it would feel. Good or bad.

  “To the present,” I said since that was what I most wanted.

  “To the present,” he repeated.

  As he took a long swallow of his drink, I studied him. By nature I was an observer, and I cataloged the details—his lips on the glass, full, curved, and kissable; his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he drank; his strong, sturdy fingers on the stemware. Then, the bend of his wrist, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up twice, revealing his forearms.

  Muscular and corded.

  Why were forearms so delicious? But I knew the answer. They spelled strength and power, and the ability for a man to anchor himself over a woman as he took her.

  I slid my eyes away from him, trying to chase off my own dirty thoughts.

  He set his glass down on the counter. “You said work brought you to town, that you’re shooting the catalog all over the city. Are you enjoying it?”

  “Immensely,” I said with a nod. “The models are beautiful, the locations are playful, and the lingerie is, as you say, to die for.”

  His eyes flashed with mischief as he made a noise of approval. “Big fan of lingerie myself.”

  “That so? Something you want to tell me?” I asked, coyness coloring my tone as we bantered, so much that it filled me with an effervescence that rivaled the champagne’s effect.

  “Very funny.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I meant . . . on women.”

  That buzzing intensified. This was chemistry. This was the electricity in the air before a storm. I was wrong about him being a safe choice for my first time out in years.

  Now that I was centimeters rather than an ocean away, I was intensely aware of how not-safe he was.

  I threw caution to the wind. “Anything in particular when it comes to lingerie? Baby dolls? Corsets? Garters? Hip-huggers? Bikinis? Cheektinis? Stockings? Bikini briefs? Boy-cut shorts? Thongs?” I asked with the speed of a freight train, rattling off anything and everything silky that hugged a woman’s bare flesh.