She didn't. She stood as stiff as a mannequin, her arms at her sides, her lips stubbornly closed.
"Sell it," he growled against her mouth, and deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers, pushing his tongue inside to taste her. She shuddered, then slid her arms up and wrapped them around his neck.
Still, she tried to hold her body away from his, and that wouldn't do, not with Larkin's man watching. Cael tightened his grip, pulling her tightly against him, breasts and hips and thighs. The contact hit him low in the gut, and he felt an erection begin to stir. He held her there, knowing she felt it, using his automatic reaction as a weapon to bring her into line. She didn't know whether he had any intention of hurting either her or Sydney Hazlett in any way, and by God he meant to keep it that way, because that fear was his only means of keeping her in line.
"Don't," she whimpered, and the fact that she begged told him how frightened she was. He could feel her heart, hammering away in her chest, and he pushed away the instinct to comfort her.
"Then act as if you mean it," he said again, and kissed her a second time.
She hesitated for a split second, then did as he ordered. Maybe fear wasn't a natural reaction for her, because now all he felt was anger, humming through her like an electric current. She plastered that skinny body against him and kissed him as if she were trying to set him on fire with her mouth. His erection shot to full attention, and he backed her against the rail, holding her there with all his weight as he met her ferocity with his own.
Shit. This was more real than he'd bargained for.
LIKE EVERYONE ELSE at the Fog Bank, Frank Larkin watched the nasty little squabble taking place at the bar. He recognized Jenner Redwine, because he'd studied her photograph when he had her and the Hazlett woman reassigned to the suite beside his, but he didn't know the squabbling couple.
"Who is that?" he asked Keith Gazlay, an industrialist from Seattle. Gazlay was a sharp-eyed man who was there with his third trophy wife; they kept getting younger, and this latest one was younger than his children - at least the three by his first wife. He'd had a second family, a girl and a boy, with his second wife - the first trophy wife - who had been a mere fifteen years younger than him. Number one had taken him to the cleaners, and their relationship was bitter; after that, he'd been smart enough to get prenuptial agreements.
"I don't know," replied Gazlay, eyeing the screaming woman's breasts, which were about to pop out of her tight red dress. "But I'd like to."
Evidently marriage number four was already in trouble. Frank hid his contempt for Gazlay and turned to signal Dean Mills. He had a brief word with his chief of security, then turned back to watch the rest of the show while Dean followed his instructions.
The black-haired woman was drunk and unreasonable, not listening to anything anyone said. The man she was screaming at was watching her with a distant, dismissive look on his face that said he was finished, regardless of any apologies she might offer the next day. Another man was trying to explain that the whole incident was his fault, while Jenner Redwine looked acutely uncomfortable and kept trying to edge away, only to be prevented by the crowd, which had thickened around the scene.
Dean Mills returned, his voice low as he imparted the information Frank had requested. The man was Cael Traylor, from northern California; he owned a series of restaurants, car washes, and Laundromats. The woman was Tiffany Marsters, who evidently did nothing except fuck for her bread and board.
Dean didn't elaborate on his recital; he didn't have to. They both knew that businesses such as Traylor's were an excellent cover for money-laundering, so he was probably dirty. Frank found that reassuring. A man who had something to hide wasn't likely to go poking his nose into anyone else's secrets.
Frank's head was aching, the pain more intense than usual. The music was making the throbbing worse, and even his vision seemed to be throbbing. He'd had to put in an appearance tonight, the first night, so he pushed the pain away. No one could know there was anything wrong with him, or the vultures would be picking his bones before he was dead. All of them were vultures, rich vultures who thought their money made them better than everyone else. He'd show them. Once and for all, he'd show the world how stupid they all were, how he'd always been smarter and laughed at them as he took their money.
Someone else whose face he recognized moved into the scene by the bar: Faith Naterra. She and her husband, Ryan, had originally been booked into one of the suites adjoining Frank's. He watched as she approached the Marsters woman, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her away.
This was better than a soap opera, and just as idiotic. Now Ryan Naterra had gone up to Traylor and was talking to him, evidently introducing him to Jenner Redwine because the two shook hands. He turned back to Dean. "See what's going on," he murmured, and Dean melted into the crowd. Shortly afterward, Traylor and the Redwine woman left the bar, with Dean discreetly following.
Frank suspected he'd just seen Traylor seize the opportunity to dump a woman who was more trouble than she was worth, and latch on to one who was worth a few hundred million. That was fine with him; it wasn't as if either of them was going to live much longer, anyway.
Chapter Twelve
JENNER WAS ALMOST HYPERVENTILATING WITH TERROR by the time they reached her suite. The more frightened she was, the angrier she became. No matter how often or how deeply she had to kiss him in public, she'd be damned if that meant she'd let him do whatever he wanted in private. Her willingness to touch him, and be touched by him, stopped at the door.
He was a damn good actor, and that scared her even more, because it put her at an even greater disadvantage. How would she know what to believe, and what not to believe? He was so convincing in his role that, if she hadn't known better, her heart would be pounding at being the focus of so much male intensity. He wasn't playful, he wasn't giving her time to get to know him better; every move he'd made, every look he'd given her, had been those of a man who had his sights on a woman he wanted.