Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) (17 page)

"Good idea," he murmured.

"Would you really have said no if you were in my place?" she asked after a long moment, curiosity brimming in her tone.

"Yeah," he said, "I would have." He wasn't a forgiving person. He wasn't a particularly giving person either. Lillian though… Lillian was. And that was just one more reason she didn't belong in his world any more than people like him belonged in hers.

"Why's this so personal to you?" she asked.

"Why is what personal?"

"The Vetrov family. This case. Why do you care so much?"

"Someone has to," he said, skirting around the truth. "Drug addicts are nobodies to the rest of the world. They're a problem, subhuman. And when they die, they're nothing more than another statistic to most of society."

"Hmm." Lillian traced the edge of a tile on the countertop, her lips pursed.

"Hmm?"

"You don't believe that?" she asked, still tracing the edge of the tile with one finger.

"No. I don't." Addiction pissed him off, but the people battling those addictions were still people to him. And so long as they were alive, they had a shot at turning their lives around, of being something more than just another nameless, faceless drug addict. "They do some messed up shit, but even the worst of them deserve for someone to give a damn whether they live or die. They deserve a chance."

"That's the difference between you and me then." She looked up at him, her expression hard. "You look at them and see a reason to hope. I look, but all I see is someone else ruining lives for a stupid drug."

"If that's all you see, why did you agree?"

She shrugged a shoulder, her expression softening. "Because you're right. They don't deserve to die for their addictions." She paused, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "You really believe these people are being murdered?"

"Yeah," he said, wishing that weren't true for a thousand different reasons. If he didn't believe in his gut that Anton and Paulo Vetrov were killing people intentionally, he could walk away from this case, and so could Lillian. The loss of life would still suck, but he'd learned a long time ago that he couldn't save everyone. This time though… well, this was different than an accidental overdose. This was murder. And that made all the difference in the world to him, for reasons he didn't plan to explain to her. Not now, and maybe not ever.

"You don't want me to do this, do you?"

"No, I don't. I know what seeing this shit every day does to a person. And I know how badly things can end. The thought of you getting caught in the middle bothers me a whole hell of a lot." He took a deep breath, staring down at the countertop instead of at her. "But we need your help enough for me to justify getting you involved."

"It's my choice, Tristan."

"Maybe so, but that doesn't mean I couldn't have refused your help."

"You wouldn't have."

"No, I wouldn't have," he muttered, not even attempting to lie to her. "But that doesn't mean I like it. The thought of you getting hurt because of my stupidity is intolerable. I need you to be safe." So far as brutal honesty went, that'd been both.

She scrutinized his expression.

He held his breath, waiting for her to demand to know why her safety mattered so much to him. But she didn't. She simply nodded her head as if whatever she'd seen on his face was answer enough for her.

"Where do we start?" she asked.

"We'll start with moving me in here." He leaned against the doorframe, smirking at the thought. He'd be in her face day after day, posing as her boyfriend. And she really thought she'd be able to resist him?

Not a chance in hell.

"Today?" she asked, the word little more than a squeak.

"Is that a problem?" He arched a brow.

"Ah… no."

Liar,
he thought, amused.

He stepped forward, backing her up into the counter, before leaning down over her. She shivered and inhaled when his lips grazed the shell of her ear. She grasped at the countertop, her eyes locked on his.

"Hope you have a spare room, beautiful," he whispered, "because I sleep naked."

Chapter Twelve

"It isn't important, Lillian," Tristan muttered an hour later, glaring at her from the driver's seat.

"Seriously?" She rolled her eyes at him, flipping closed the vent in front of her before she froze. Did he have to keep it below zero in his car? "I'm supposed to be your girlfriend. I think your girlfriend would know what happened to your parents."

"I already told you what you needed to know," he argued, reaching out to adjust the air conditioning.

"No," she said, shaking her head, "you didn't. You told me you have an assumed name which, for the record, isn't assumed if it
is
your name."

"Tristan Riley isn't my name."

"Oh my God," Lillian groaned, fighting the urge to bite him. "You were born Tristan Alexander Riley. Assuming the Angelo last name after your uncle adopted you doesn't mean you aren't a Riley any longer. Your "fake name" is your actual name."

"Whatever," he said, turning his head to glare at her. "Christ, you're irritating. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You just don't like being wrong," she snapped, turning to stare out the window. The early afternoon sun stood like a giant ball overhead, its light reflected back in prisms from the water spread like tentacles throughout Seattle.

Tristan maneuvered the SUV in and out of traffic, passing people as if their cars sat still.

Did all cops drive so fast?

Even now, her dad drove the exact same way.

"I'm not wrong. My
assumed
name is Tristan Riley. I'm twenty-nine. I write freelance for various high profile magazines. I have a trust fund, and I like to party."

She didn't even know why they were fighting over his name, for God's sake. So far, they'd spent more time arguing than they had coming up with a cover story. And all she had to show for it was an intense desire to strangle him and tidbits of information that made her more curious than anything. He seemed to derive an almost psychotic pleasure from irritating her. He dodged questions he didn't want to answer, telling her that she didn't need to know, or just outright ignoring the question altogether. It was infuriating!

"Where did we meet?" she asked instead of arguing with him any further.

"We met at the club and fell madly in love," he said, his tone so full of amusement she turned to scowl at him, annoyed by his teasing.

"And I just let you move in two weeks later? Um, no."

"Why not?" He swung the SUV onto the exit ramp at Northeast 8
th
Street in Bellevue. Posh homes peeked through a cover of lush green foliage all around them. "Stranger things have happened."

Lillian arched a brow, just daring him to point out that she'd let him do worse. A lot worse, and a lot sooner than a week after meeting him. More like five minutes.

He sighed, the amused grin on his face slipping. "Keep it simple, sweetheart. The fewer lies you have to remember, the better. It's easy to slip up when you're stressed, and you will be stressed. Don't make it more difficult than it has to be. Just relax."

"I can't hide my past like you can, Tristan. How am I going to explain that if it comes up?" she asked, ignoring his command to relax. How was she supposed to do that when she'd agreed to let him invade every aspect of her life for God only knew how long?

"We'll tell the truth." He flashed her a tight smile. Trying to be encouraging, she thought. It didn't work, not with the worried furrow between his brows. "You're recognizable, so there's no point trying to hide who you are."

"So until two weeks ago, everything that actually happened in my life is my cover story? And then I moved into my grandmother's house, met you at the club, fell madly in love, and now accompany you there because you like to party? Great."

Tristan smirked, his expression downright wicked as he guided the Range Rover through a quick turn onto a side street. "You accompany me to the club because I like to dance with you, beautiful. It's a highly erotic experience."

She groaned, their dance floor interlude forever seared into her memory.

Tristan shot her a small, victorious smirk before making a final turn. The massive, glass spire of the Ashton suddenly loomed into view, standing tall beneath the bright, blue sky. The place screamed luxury and hedonism.

Of course, he lived there. He probably had a penthouse too.

Lillian snorted, more surprised than she'd like to admit. After their discussion in her kitchen, she'd expected something a little less… flamboyant. But then again, she didn't really know much about him at all, did she?

"You can still change your mind," he murmured, whipping into the parking lot.

"I'm not changing my mind."

And it wasn't like he really wanted her to anyway.

She was in so, so far over her naïve little head.

"Fine," he said, pulling into an empty space before looking over at her, his expression an odd mix of earnestness and hope, "but if you do change your mind…."

She growled wordlessly, snapping the release on her seat belt. "If you don't want me to do this, all you have to do is say so." If that's what he really wanted, she'd do her best to stay away until his investigation ended. Life would be easier for both of them if she did. But so long as he wanted to see this thing through, some foolish, salacious part of her demanded she not back down either.

Tristan sighed, his gaze liquid lava as he raked it slowly down her body. "That's not going to happen, beautiful. I'm really looking forward to hearing you beg me to fuck you."

Right.

Battling down the urge to squirm in her seat, she popped the lock on the door.

"So not happening," she said before climbing out. She craned her neck, trying to take in the building before her, unable to understand why anyone would want to live here. She'd traveled the world, performing in all sorts of places. But she'd never had the desire to live in a glass castle like the princesses she so often played on stage. That just wasn't her. Maybe that's why she and Jen had always gotten along so well. They were outsiders, too simple to get caught up in the drama so many of their peers thrived on. Neither danced for fame. They'd always danced for themselves. Their peers hadn't understood that.

Lillian still carried the scars of their scorn.

"You really live here?" she asked Tristan when he circled around the Rover to her.

"Sometimes." He started across the parking lot.

"Sometimes?"

He nodded to the uniformed doorman holding the door open for them. "Elevators are this way," he said and banked to the right, obviously unwilling to explain his answer.

Lillian halted in the middle of the large foyer, refusing to give up that easily. At some point today, he would answer at least one of her questions truthfully. And this one, she decided, would be it.

He took two full steps before realizing she'd stopped. He turned toward her, frowning.

"Sometimes?" she repeated.

"I live here when I'm working, Lillian."

"When you're working?"

"Mmhmm."

"Explain."

Did he stay here for appearances? If so, where did he live?

He inclined his head, scowling at her as a tall blonde stalked by on dangerously high heels, a coy, come hither look on her face when she noticed Tristan. To his credit, he only looked for the briefest of moments before averting his gaze, his expression impassive.

"Can we please discuss this in private?" he demanded when the blonde sashayed her way through the foyer and out the doors, her shoulders back and her ass swaying in her tight miniskirt.

"Yeah, fine," Lillian grumbled, suddenly missing the heels she'd never bothered to wear.

Who needed heels that high at noon anyway?

"So," Lillian said as soon as the elevator doors closed.

Tristan tilted his head back and sighed. He'd really hoped she'd give up that particular line of questioning since had no intention of answering her. She wouldn't understand even if he did tell her what she wanted to know. He lived here because his job demanded it, but given a choice, it wasn't what he would have chosen for himself.

"So," he said.

She narrowed her eyes.

Tristan mimicked her expression.

"You know what?" she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "Never mind. Talking to you is like talking to a freaking child."

He opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it without a word.

The elevator lurched to life.

They subsided into silence.

The soft strains of Bach filled the small space.

The first three floors crept by, not nearly fast enough for Tristan. The longer they stood there, not speaking, the more he became aware of her. She reflected back at him no matter where he looked, her form beckoning him from mirrors all around the elevator. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath she took, the way she held her arms only serving to accentuate them beneath the fabric of her tank-top.

Jesus.

By the fifth floor, all those mirrors had him on the verge of doing something entirely insane. Like backing the feisty ballerina up against one of them…. He gritted his teeth, trying to calm himself as the thought brought a rush of images roaring to the surface of his mind. They were graphic, reminding him of one of the more erotic dreams she'd starred in since bursting into his life with all the force of comet. Didn't help that they slowly headed to the spot that very dream had transpired. The mere idea of having her inside the penthouse with the city spread out far below when he couldn't place her little hands on the windows and take her from behind made him crazy.

He really couldn't wait until she forgave him so they could bring that particular fantasy to life.

"How long did you dance?" he asked in a desperate attempt to focus on something else.

"What?" She jerked, surprised by his sudden question.

He glanced over to find her hands clenched into fists. That little sign of her discomfort made him smile. Maybe he wasn't the only one suffering the effects of being in the damn elevator.

"How long did you dance?" He took a step closer to her, watching her in the mirrors.

A tremor ran through her body. And Christ, what a body. He knew nothing about ballet, but she'd been built to dance. Even in her modest black skirt and royal blue tank top, she exuded sensuality. She wasn't stick thin like he'd assumed a ballerina would be, but curvy and soft in all the right ways.

"Well?" he asked when she didn't answer.

"Professionally? I joined the Company at seventeen." She uncrossed her arms, licked her lips, glanced away and then back. "But I've been dancing since I was three."

"Three?" He arched a brow and took another taunting step toward her.

The tension between them spiked higher. A fresh wave of lust rolled over him.

"Yes." She backed away from him, her eyes widening as she caught on to his little game.

"I bet you were a cute little ballerina," he teased, taking another step toward her with one eyebrow arched and a smirk on his lips, daring her to call him out…. and hoping she wouldn't.

"What?" She bit her bottom lip, her gaze hovering near his mouth.

Oh yeah, she was definitely distracted.

"I bet you were a cute little ballerina," he said again.

Her back thumped into the mirrored wall. He kept advancing toward her, recklessly chasing the rush of heat that enveloped him anytime he got near her.

"Pigtails, pink tights, and tiaras," he teased.

"Hmm." She pressed her legs together, shifting. Oh yeah, she was definitely right there with him in elevator fantasy hell – ache for motherfucking ache.

"When did you decide you wanted to dance professionally?"

She didn't bother with an answer this time. Instead, she tilted her head backward, her eyes wide as he crowded her into that tiny space in the corner. Close enough to touch her, but not touching. That would only end one way.

"You miss it, don't you, Lillian?" He whispered the question, leaning down over her in the corner, one arm propped on the wall beside her head. His breath stirred a tendril of hair along the side of her face. A few scant inches separated his lips from hers. And goddamn, did he ever want to eliminate that little space.