Born to be Bad. Crystal Green
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4
IT WAS OBVIOUS, GEMMA thought as a stair creaked under her high heel, that Waller Smith thought she was crazy for coming upstairs so soon.
His jaded, be-my-guest glance had told her as much after she’d made sure Roxy was occupied, then sneaked up to the second floor.
Really, all Gemma wanted to do was take a quick look around, to see if that man and woman who’d climbed the stairs earlier in the night were still engaged in business. To see if anyone else could’ve been lured upstairs for…what? Sex? Drugs?
Damien Theroux’s “other matters” that Lamont had mentioned just this afternoon?
Discovering Smith in the bar tonight had given Gemma a swift kick in the rear. Clearly, the older reporter was interested in Theroux’s story, too. That meant she was really against the clock because not only did she have to impress her editor with some earth-shattering information about Theroux within two weeks, but now a co-worker was threatening to scoop her.
And she’d be damned if that happened again.
Besides, Roxy said that Theroux had left for the night, so Gemma had a few minutes to poke around before the head waitress wondered what her new employee was up to. Since most of the patrons had gone home, too, Roxy was busy taking liquor inventory, buying Gemma some time.
Another stair protested as she put her weight on it. Gemma closed her eyes, stood still, listening to see if she’d attracted any attention.
Nothing. All she heard was an animalistic cry from somewhere down the hallway.
Yup, they were still up here—that horny couple.
Heart pumping, pulse beating in her ears, Gemma quietly climbed to the top of the landing. The hallway was dark, lit only by a flickering lantern encased by a copper-and-glass box and attached to a plank wall. The striking mélange of old wood, mustiness and sweet cigar smoke accompanied the rusty yawp of the floorboards as she walked over them. Several closed doors greeted her, but one had been left ajar, a thick, buttery light melting through the cracks.
Naturally, she headed toward that one, pushed it open just enough to look inside. As she did so, a cataclysmic thump from down the hall shook the wooden floor. Laughter followed.
Gemma’s hyperimagination provided a reason for the crash: two bodies falling out of a bed during the throes of sex.
Gemma talked herself down. She wasn’t going to get caught nosing around up here, and prizewinning reporters never let a little fear stop them.
Or even a little guilt.
So she forged ahead into the lit room, ignoring the loud giggling of her hidden, rollicking neighbors.
A Tiffany lamp offered quiet light to this… Was it an office? Damien’s workplace?
Excellent. Sometimes a man’s cave could tell you a lot about the guy himself.
An Asian-detailed carpet pooled under an antique cherrywood desk. A laptop computer with a laser printer contrasted sharply with the elegance of bronze sculptures, a French Empire couch, potted palms and redhued paintings of a sleeping woman.
The good life, Gemma thought. That’s what Damien Theroux was all about. Riches, decadence, excess.
Pleasure.
Spellbound, she started toward his desk, her reporter’s instinct telling her to open some drawers, go through paperwork, search for something that would give her a story. At the same time, she hesitated to go through a person’s belongings, souvenirs of privacy.
Then she heard it—a creak on the stairwell.
Hadn’t Roxy told her that Theroux had gone home?
Darting out of the office, she shut the door to a slit, trying to leave it the way she’d found it. Then she stepped into the hall, seeking a hiding place, glancing around at all the closed rooms.
She tried one knob. Locked.
Dammit!
Then another. Locked again.
As she tried to find a deep shadow that would make for a decent cover, she perked up her ears.
Only to hear nothing more than a long, satiated female groan from the occupied room.
Great, Gemma, she thought, almost laughing at herself. You’re hearing things. Theroux is safe and snug at home, and here you are, thinking he’s dogging you.
Nonetheless, she didn’t move for a few minutes, just in case he was walking up the steps really, really slowly.
While she waited, the woman’s moans became rhythmic, and there was a muted thumping against the wall, as if the man had her body pinned to it, ramming into her, making her dig her nails into his back with the force of his thrusts.
Gemma leaned against her own wall, pImages** coating her mind, dripping down her body like sweat—or the light path of a man’s fingertip.
She remembered Theroux standing near the supply room doorway, watching her until she couldn’t take in air. Remembered him hovering over her, his breath moistening the side of her neck. Remembered his fingers cupping her breast, molding it like an artist skimming over his work.
Caught up in the moment, Gemma slid her hand up her ribs, under her breast, separating her fingers and catching her nipple between them. Rubbing, she felt it harden under her tank and lace bra, felt it throb with yearning.
She closed her eyes, dizzy, moving her fingers in time to the drumbeat of a body thudding against old wood.
Behind the door.
“Don’t tease.” It was a female voice, urgent, threaded with need. “Touch me there.”
Gemma’s other hand glided over her belly, wishing Theroux’s hand had nestled there tonight. There…and slightly below. She eased her fingers upward, under the bottom of her tank top, over her sweat-misted skin.
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