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When their mouths met, everything else seemed to fall by the wayside. Perhaps brought on by their near fight, the kiss quickly turned hot and impatient. Kyle gripped her hips and guided her backward, trapping her against the front door. Ryla
Apparently driven by the same need, Kyle yanked her T-shirt off, then hooked his hands into the waistband of her yoga pants and panties and hastily pushed them down her hips. Eager to hurry up the process, Ryla
As their tongues clashed and fought, she pushed his jeans down, and a thrill of excitement coursed through her when his heavy, hard shaft brushed up against her stomach. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and found a condom.
“Hurry,” she panted urgently, watching as he ripped open the wrapper and rolled the condom on.
He slid his hands under her bottom and lifted her up against the wall, positioning himself right between her legs, where she was wet and ready for him. He gazed down at her heatedly, his hair falling into his eyes. “As long as we’re doing this, for however long it lasts, there’s no one else. Got it?”
She tightened her arms around his neck. “There’s no one else I want.”
Seeming to be satisfied with that answer, he thrust hard and deep, entering her in one stroke. Ryla
Kyle held her firmly against the wall and began moving inside her, his voice deep and husky. “It’s perfect.”
LATER THAT EVENING, Kyle sat alone in Ryla
They’d been curled up on the couch together, pretending to watch a movie but mostly just making out like a couple of sixteen-year-olds, when her pager went off. She’d checked it, apologized with a quick kiss, then had headed into her bedroom to return the call in private.
The normalcy of the moment, the everydayness of it, had made Kyle realize that this was how things could be between them. Cozy weekend nights together, a good bottle of wine, hitting pause on the TiVo remote while one of them had to sneak off for a work call. A far cry from his “play hard” days spent wining and dining the girl of the week.
But as he sat there on Ryla
Yep, it was official.
He was falling for her.
Panic set in upon that realization, and in his mind’s eye he saw himself pulling a Road Ru
Or he could go with option two.
Stay and do whatever it took to convince a certain stubborn, sassy assistant U.S. attorney that this was more than a hot, casual fling.
Undoubtedly, that was a risky proposition. He wasn’t even one hundred percent certain that he was ready for a commitment, and more important, he had no clue how—or if—he fit into Ryla
He heard her cell phone ring again, then a short moment later she came out of the bedroom.
“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile. She set the pager on the coffee table, then picked up her wineglass and curled up on the couch. “I left a message for the emergency judge and had to wait for the clerk to call me back.”
“Did you get your search warrant?”
“We did.”
“What kind of case?”
She took a sip of her wine. “Terrorism. The FBI got a last-minute tip about a guy being deported tomorrow at six a.m. who they believe is co
Of course that’s what it was. Because everyone took calls from the FBI and helped take down radical terrorists at ten p.m. on a Friday while wearing yoga pants and casually sipping a glass of wine.
“You amaze me, Ryla
And that’s when he made up his mind.
She could set all the rules she wanted—but this was one matchup against a federal prosecutor he intended to win.
Twenty-eight
WHEN THE WEEKEND was over, duty called once again.
On Sunday evening, after a four-and-a-half-hour flight, Kyle handed his overnight bag to the valet and walked up to the front desk of the Ritz-Carlton San Francisco.
“I’ll be in your former neck of the woods,” he’d told Ryla
“You’re going to San Francisco?” she’d asked. “What for?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
She’d looked him over with a curious expression. “What are you up to now?”
Despite all her valiant efforts, Kyle had refused to give anything up under cross-examination. He had a lot riding on this trip, since the next twenty-four hours would drastically impact the launch of Rhodes Network Consulting. Either his actions would go down as one of the cleverest ideas in marketing history, or he was about to make a complete ass out of himself.
Only time would tell.
The front desk clerk smiled as Kyle approached. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. How can I help you?”
“I have a reservation, under Kyle Rhodes.”
The clerk glanced up from the keyboard, her sudden recognition evident, then went back to typing. “I see we have you booked in one of our Club Level suites, staying with us for one night.”
“Could you arrange for me to have a late checkout tomorrow?” he asked. “I have a morning meeting that might run long.” Or maybe not. At this point, he gave it 80/20 odds he didn’t even make it past the front door.
“Certainly, Mr. Rhodes.”
Just then, Kyle’s cell phone vibrated. He checked and saw he had a new text message from Ryla
KNOCK ‘EM DEAD, DIMPLES. WHATEVER THE HECK IT IS YOU’RE UP TO.
“Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?” the front desk clerk asked.
With a smile, Kyle tucked his phone back into his jacket. “Nope. I think I’ve got everything I need.”
SHORTLY BEFORE TEN the following morning, Kyle climbed into a taxi outside the hotel.
“Seven ninety-five Folsom Street,” he told the driver. When the taxi pulled to a stop a few minutes later, Kyle peered through the window and checked out the modern, six-story office building before him. After paying the driver, he stepped out of the car and adjusted his tie.
Time to face the music.
Portfolio in hand, he pushed through the double doors and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He watched as the floor indicator counted upward at what seemed to be an excruciatingly slow pace, finally springing open to reveal a simple, minimalist-style reception area.
A receptionist sat behind a white and gray marble desk, her eyes going wide as saucers as soon as Kyle stepped out of the elevator. The wall behind her was devoid of any artwork, bearing only the company’s all-too-familiar name in lowercase letters: