One Wrong Move Page 14

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Camden

  Days later, Camden found Rayma lounging on a chair near the beach. Dex was on guard a few feet away. Dusk painted a mural of purple and gray across the sky, and sea foam frothed leisurely on the sand. The sun rested against the top of the ocean and offered rays and shadows across the earth.

  Her hair was twisted up in some type of ponytail atop her head, half of it spilling out. The thought of tugging free those strands and running his fingers through them turned him on. He shook himself out of his reverie before she noticed the effects of his fantasy, and plopped himself down on the sand next to her chair. The surf saturated his denim shorts but he didn’t care. The cold water against his tightness was an aching relief.

  “Don’t you think you should be inside?” he asked. The waning sun produced a dull light to read by, but the kaleidoscope of colors against the horizon was like peering into a deep abyss of heaven. He inhaled, and the scent of the sand and the salt combined with her perfume roused his hormones.

  He’d never wanted a woman more than he wanted Rayma. And she was off-limits. As a witness, a relationship with her was strictly forbidden and could subject him to a hell of a mess.

  Rayma stood, and her leg accidentally grazed his shoulder. He wrapped his hand around her ankle to stop her, but she shook him off. Sand flew across his chest.

  “No,” she said as she gave him a sideways glance and gathered her belongings, her movements stiff. “I must go in, per your request.”

  “Dammit, Rayma. If you’re going to listen to my requests then I demand you sit back down and hear what I have to say.”

  She sighed, practically fell back in her lounger, and grabbed her book, making a show of her anger.

  “Someone is trying to kill you—”

  “Not someone,” she said. “Darrell Weberley. Someone you work for. Someone you could have busted by now.”

  “And you’re on the beach as if you have no cares in the world.”

  “Didn’t you know? There are agents all around me.” She waved her arms as if to show him. He’d trust Dex with his life, but he trusted no one when it came to Rayma.

  Not even himself.

  He waved at Dex to indicate he could take a break and thus give him alone time with Rayma.

  “You can stay mad at me all you want,” Camden said. “But that won’t change anything. If you think I should just let you go, then you don’t know this business, or how much danger you would be in if you left here. If you think I should let you go so you can play bait, you’re out of your mind. They’re out to kill you, and I won’t be able to protect you, or myself, if they find out I’m not really a chef.”

  “I wouldn’t tell them.”

  “Darrell isn’t stupid.”

  “Someone must be. You’re still his chef, and he’s still dealing drugs.”

  “Do you know an agent was watching over your house the night those goons came in to kill you? We could put dozens of agents around your house and it wouldn’t matter when Dare found out you were back there. If I hadn’t overheard them talking about their plan that night, you’d probably be dead.”

  “Should I thank you for saving my life?” she asked.

  “Unless you think Beacon could have saved you.”

  What the hell was he doing? Was he expecting gratitude from this heartless woman? That wasn’t his original intention, but damn, she got under his skin in more ways than one.

  Starting with the way those nipples strained at her barely there top.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. She opened her book and glared at it. Why was she pretending to read when the damn thing was upside down?

  She turned it upright, and her gaze moved across the page, but the waning sunlight convinced him it was all an act, an obvious attempt to ignore him.

  Shadows stroked every curve of her body, and he wondered if the chill bumps dancing across her flesh were because of him.

  He hoped so.

  He fingered the strap of her top. She shuddered, but kept her eyes averted. That night in her attic flashed through his mind. He wanted to do more, so much more with her, and that memory burned him like a brand.

  Despite what Rayma thought, he didn’t consider women only good for one thing. He admired women, appreciated them, respected them, and would never force one to do something she didn’t want to do. He didn’t mind challenging them out of their comfort zone, however, and he definitely wanted to draw Rayma out of hers.

  His palm skated down her waist to untie the sarong that covered her, and he wondered why she kept herself hidden. Most women with a body like hers would be itching to expose it.

  She ignored him, but didn’t push him away. Her breasts rose and fell with every breath. He rubbed his hands down the inside of her leg and then up the other.

  Her eyelids fluttered, but she continued to study the book and ignore him. He knew it was foolish to give in to his temptation to touch her, tease her, and make her react, but he couldn’t help himself.

  He studied the angles of the house and knew their location was private. The other agents had all left the area, and he could hear Lacey arguing with Moore over something, voices rising but staying distant. He shifted to kneel, and his knees dug into the sand as the waves crashed against the shore.

  Slipping his finger under Rayma’s bikini bottom, he slowly touched the folds of her warmth. She quivered and bit her lip, her hips slowly undulating. His finger slid deeper and he peeped one more time at the house. The sun was down, too many shadows now, and he was sure no one could see, so he dipped his head and tasted her.

  The book fell in the sand. She gasped and clutched the back of his neck. “God. No.”

  She opened her hips and rested her head on the lounger. His tongue moved against her as he drank.

  She bit down a soft moan. He slid his finger in and out of her as his tongue continued to lick her wet heat. She tightened around him, her body trembling as she came, and he slowed his ministrations.

  When he pulled away, he knew by her jerky movements that she was no longer in the throes of passion, and not at all happy with what just happened.

  ***

  Rayma

  Rayma hated him. He was exactly the kind of man she accused men of being. An egotistical, sex-driven maniac who thought every girl wanted to be with him.

  She hated that it was true for her, hated the way he made her insides feel like a butterfly attempting to weave through hurricane winds. She hated the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and lit on her as if she were the focal point of his private musing. His hands were soft, yet rough like a man’s hands should be.

  Her body betrayed her at his touch.

  She snatched her sarong and wrapped the minuscule cloth around her waist. She swayed, almost losing her balance, but dug her heels into the sand to regain some semblance of normalcy, if not mentally then at least physically.

  Camden gripped her elbow. “Are you okay?”

  Thank God the sun had gone down. Maybe he couldn’t see the way her face flamed. How could she have let herself go like that?

  “I’m fine,” she muttered. She should be better than fine, after that explosive orgasm, and if she could just get herself together, she might be able to take the upper hand. Use him like he had used her. She had a story to write, after all.

  “Don’t be angry at me,” he said. “You could have stopped me.”

  Oh, so this was all on her, was it? What a jerk. Well, two could play this game. “Why should I stop you? Might as well have a little bit of enjoyment while I’m here.”

  “So why not go back to my place and finish that enjoyment.” His voice was like a slow, sexy drumbeat. Her hips almost swayed to his rhythm again. And to just think about his mouth literally being on her moments ago.

  She was so mad at herself for surrendering to his touch. “No, thanks. I’m done here.” She wheeled around and tramped through the sand to the house, praying she wouldn’t have to face
any of the agents, especially Moore or Lacey. No doubt they’d be able to tell exactly what had happened out here on the beach.

  As she opened the door, Camden followed her inside. Moore stormed past her and told Camden, “I’m taking the night off.”

  “Must be nice to go out,” Lacey called after him.

  Moore whipped around. “Oh, give me a break. I’m starting to think I need to put a homing device on you. You disappear all the time.” With that, he turned and left in a huff.

  “Where’s he going?” Rayma said, to no one in particular.

  “There’s nothing in the house to eat,” Lacey fussed as the door slammed behind Moore.

  “There’s plenty to eat if you weren’t too damn lazy to fix it,” Camden said.

  Rayma’s temper rose at Camden’s callous words. Lacey might bitch way too much, but she was not lazy. She cooked and cleaned for everyone, did their laundry, ran errands and went to the store for all the agents, and guarded Rayma the rest of the time. She imagined that in itself had to be tiring.

  Before she had a chance to join the argument, Lacey continued. “I was supposed to be off today.”

  “Me, too,” Camden said, “and when I’m hungry, I’ll fix myself something to eat. You can do the same. I’m damn sure not cooking.”

  “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

  The tension in the house had been rising over the past few days. It had oozed from Lacey all afternoon, as if she resented watching over Rayma soaking up the sun. What else was she supposed to do when she was stuck here? And Lacey had seemed to enjoy the sun just as much.

  “I don’t need babysitting,” Rayma asserted, tired of the fights but powerless to do anything about them. She had been alone too long to try to live with a woman whose moods fluctuated every moment.

  Lacey rolled her eyes. “I’m going out,” she said, then stalked out the door, leaving Rayma alone with Camden again.

  No matter how much she enjoyed his touch, she wasn’t about to be weak again, regardless of how quivery her legs still were.

  “You need to stop being so hard on her,” she demanded. “She works her butt off around here to keep things going. Her job is just as important as yours and not nearly as recognized.”

  “Well, maybe if she wouldn’t bitch all the time.”

  “She has every right to when she’s treated like shit.”

  “She isn’t treated like shit, but she wants to be out where the action is and wants to blame everyone for that not happening, even though she knew exactly what this assignment was when she took it. Her job isn’t easy, I get that, but give me a break. I have to put myself in a drug dealer’s control and keep my head on straight so I don’t get killed, when all I want to do is curl up in the sand and let the waves wash over me. Then there are people like you who think I’m a bad person, just because I’m trying to bust creeps like Darrell, like I’d waste the past few months of my life trying to bust him and then turn on my crew so I can work for him.”

  Surprise at his outburst kept her from responding.

  “You think I’d do it for money?” He raised his shoulders, then lowered them, but she wasn’t sure if it was a shrug, a stretch, or a mask of agitation. “Money doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  Rayma pointedly examined the unconventional carvings on the ceiling that looked as if angels were peering down on them, the white walls making it look as if heaven was just around the horizon, and the marble tile floor, obviously expensive.

  “This isn’t my house,” Camden said.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Special Agent Tom Dunsky and his wife Melinda. She’s a sculptor and makes a lot of money. This is one of many the agency uses as a safe house during operations, and they’ve leased it to us for as long as we need it.”

  Rayma nodded and studied the floor, unsure what to do next as awkwardness consumed her. She felt bad for accusing him of being in with Darrell, even though she hadn’t ever really believed that. He took his job way too seriously to become a criminal. He reminded her of James in that aspect.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Camden rubbed his hand through his hair. His jaw was tense, brows furrowed. “Sorry for what happened moments ago. I lost my head a moment. Stress, I guess. If you want to report me to my superiors, I understand.”

  “And what happens if I report you?” Rayma asked, needling him. She had no plans to report him, but it was fun to see him squirm.

  His gaze jerked to her, surprised. “I’d lose my job more than likely. Might even face criminal charges.”

  That confession surprised her. “Criminal charges?”

  “Things turn complicated when you develop a relationship with a witness.”

  “Wow. So if I ever got really mad at you…”

  His eyes crinkled, face relaxed once he realized she was teasing.

  “Can we forget it ever happened?” Rayma asked. She didn’t want to forget it. His touch still burned on her. But she knew it would be best if they could both go on without having to second guess each other.

  “Why don’t you let me fix you something to eat?” Camden asked.

  “Thought you said you weren’t cooking.”

  “For you I will.”

  Rayma held up her hands to deflect his approach, although he didn’t even try. No matter how potent his touch, she wasn’t about to succumb to his charm again. “If you think we can pick up where we left off—”

  “Dex is here,” he said. “We can invite him for dinner. Look, I won’t touch you, I won’t even look at you. I won’t put on any sexy music or ask you to dance with me. I’m hungry. I’m going to my house to fix something to eat, and I just thought you might be hungry too.”

  Rayma considered her options. She could go with him and fight off her urges to sleep with him, or she could go with him and seduce him, really get that story she craved. Or how about a memoir about a woman in a safe house who falls for one of the agents? She was still just mad enough to make him out as the asshole she sometimes accused him of being.

  Or she could stay here and figure out what she’d eat, then go to her bedroom and toss and turn all night.

  Her decision made, she squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t sleep with him, but having dinner wouldn’t hurt. Just another addition to the story she’d write.

  She followed him outside and into his detached apartment. She’d been in his apartment before, but it was a quick peek and she hadn’t paid that much attention. This time she studied it, trying to get a glimpse into the person who stayed there, the kind of person he was.

  It was small but cozy, full of bright colors and chic statements, but also masculine to the point of sexiness. One door led to the bathroom, and the rest of the apartment was open. A small kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances, was attached the living room by a bar. The living room held a flat panel TV and a tan suede couch, with several green plants.

  The bed filled the space to the right of the living area and although it was marked off by wooden beams, it was still one room. All she could think about was that bed, about being in it with Camden. Her skin flushed at the thought.

  He uncorked a bottle of wine and snatched two glasses from the freezer, then cut up cheese and sausage, placed them on a plate with crackers, and handed them to her.

  She sat at the bar and accepted the wine, but when she tried to clink her glass with his, he’d already turned away to the pantry.

  She took a sip. “Yum,” she murmured as she piled a piece of cheese and sausage on a cracker. “I’m not usually a white wine fan, but this is good.”

  “It’s a Chenin Blanc from the Hill Country. No, not of France, of Texas.” He smiled, and she watched as he arranged shrimp and cocktail sauce on a plate and placed it on the bar.

  “Is this how you seduce all your women?” Rayma asked. “Feed them wine and cheese? Hand feed them some shrimp?”

  “Do you want me to hand feed you shrimp?”

  “No.” She dunked one in cocktail sauce and chomped do
wn, very unladylike.

  As long as she kept it lighthearted, she was having a good time. As long as she remembered he kept two glasses in the freezer for a reason, she could continue to enjoy herself.

  As long as she didn’t think about his fingers being inside her, she could remember this was all an act, all for a story.

  “Did you have this planned?”

  “No. I actually planned on using that shrimp in a stir-fry, but I’ll get more. A benefit of being on the Gulf Coast.”

  “Why not make it now?”

  Camden studied her, topped off her wine, and said, “Okay.”

  She watched as he tossed some shrimp in olive oil, took out cut-up veggies, and tossed them together. He stole some of the sausage from her plate, added seasonings she couldn’t see, and performed magic around the stove.

  Just as he promised, he stayed away from her. He turned on the stereo, and she sat on the barstool while he returned to preparing the meal. He treated her as if she were any guest in his home and not a woman he’d had his hands on moments—more like in—earlier.

  “It’s ready.” Camden carried the plate to the bar table. He topped off her wine again—had she drank that much already?—and sat beside her.

  “Thank you. It looks delicious, though the crackers and cheese would have been plenty.” She laughed at his mock scowl. “Hey, you said you were going to cook. I don’t count cutting up cheese as cooking.”

  She grabbed a cracker, scooped up some of the stir-fry on it, and munched down.

  “What do you like to eat?”

  “Well, I love pasta and chocolate.”

  “Together?” Camden’s eyebrows raised a notch.

  Rayma laughed, feeling lighthearted after the wine, comfortable after his smile, and easygoing after the mood music set just the right tone. Not too sexy, nothing romantic, but nothing hard-hitting either. Like a sunset on the beach, relaxing piano intertwined with acoustic guitar. “If you could somehow make the two work, I’d consider trying it.”