Secrets and Sins:Raphael(2)

She stiffened. Closed her eyes. She knew that voice, its owner. She'd  only met him once-the week before-but the rumbling, sexy timbre that  hinted at all kinds of dark, hot secrets and promises had been etched in  her memory like initials carved into a school girl's desk.

She inhaled a breath. Turned around on the barstool.

And still wasn't prepared for the gut punch that was Raphael Marcel.

A teasing smile that carried the faintest hint of mockery curved his  mouth-a mouth she had no trouble imagining sensual and inviting or hard  and cruel. Or maybe both at the same time. Especially as he leaned over a  woman, a diamond-hard glitter in his dark-blue eyes while he drowned  her in pleasure …                        
       
           



       

That thought had her expelling the breath from her lungs in a soft gush  of air. So not going there. But once introduced, expunging the image  from her mind was akin to stemming up a flooding fissure with a wad of  tissue. Pointless.

Raphael Marcel was an intimidating blend of sex and danger. Both had her  leaning back against the bar's edge. And tipping her drink up for a  healthy sip.

"So, princess, give," he said, sliding onto the stool Ethan had vacated.  "What brings you down from the lofty tower to grace us lowly peasants  with your presence?"

Princess. Not an endearment coming from that mouth curved in a mocking  smile. But … not an insult either. Not with that deep voice with its hint  of sensuality. As if he concealed some sexy, naughty secret-about her.  She blinked. They'd met once in his office for forty-five minutes a week  ago. Why did he feel free to be so familiar with her? The answer  immediately came on the heels of her question. Because she doubted  Raphael Marcel acknowledged boundaries or protocol. No. The man with the  bad-boy piercings and attitude to match probably manufactured his own  set of rules.

"A drink," she shot back, scrambling for the composure that had been  ingrained in her since she'd been in Pull-Ups. "And it's Beacon Hill.  Hardly slumming."

"I hate to break it to you, but that's just geography." He peered at her  drink, a pierced dark eyebrow arched high. "What the hell is that  you're drinking?"

"I think the bartender called it a Peppermint Patty."

"A Peppermint Patty," he repeated, disbelief heavy in every word. "Um. Wow."

She couldn't help it; she chuckled. It sounded as if a rusty spoon had  scraped her throat raw, but it was genuine. And the warm glow in its  wake was welcome and needed. Desperately needed.

He leaned an elbow on the bar, his beer bottle with the blue-and-white Sam Adams label dangling between his fingers.

"I have to say I'm a little disappointed, though." He dipped his head  toward the bar's front door. "Seeing you here with another man. Kinda  ruining my Ken and Barbie image of you and your fiancé."

And that fast, the glow was snuffed out. She cleared her throat, toyed  with the stem of her glass. Everything but look into this man's eyes and  admit the humiliating truth.

"That was my brother," she murmured.

"Ahh." He splayed his fingers over his chest. "Thank God. My faith in  love is restored." He grinned, and the mortification in her belly gave  way to something else. Something she had no business feeling toward an  almost-stranger when the man whom as of one week ago she'd been about to  marry hadn't inspired the same leaping-off-a-high-dive sensation.

"Somehow I doubt that," she said, the observation popping out of her  mouth before she could reconsider the wisdom of engaging him in a verbal  fencing match. Intuition warned her he was a master.

With his long dark hair, eyebrow and ear piercings, graphic long-sleeved  shirt, and black cargo pants, he resembled a rocker, not a security  specialist. But unable to quash her curiosity after meeting him in his  firm's office after a home security consultation, Greer had Googled  Raphael Marcel. Not only was he a partner and half owner of the  successful and respected firm Liberty Security Services, but apparently  he was a brilliant computer programmer and information systems expert.  Her search had pulled up several articles that had heralded how his  skill and talent had saved several Fortune 500 companies from losing  money, clients, and their reputations by detecting the weaknesses in  their security and IT systems.

He might look like a sexy rock guitarist, but he possessed the mind of Steve Jobs.

"Y'know, when the two of you left after your consultation last week, the  office was teeming with how cute you were as a couple." His smile  widened, turned just a tad bit more wicked. Okay, way more wicked.  "Gavin and Greer. G&G. Greervin." He snickered, tipping his beer  bottle up for a long sip. "Where's Ken, anyway?"

"We broke up."

"Oh." He blinked. "Well. Damn."

She coughed. Chuckled. Then bent over clutching her stomach, laughter  spilling free as if a balloon had been punctured in her chest. And if  her hilarity contained the barest tinge of hysteria, well …  There wasn't  much she could do about that. Wiping moisture from her eyes, she  straightened, an arm still wrapped around her middle. Raphael studied  her, the corner of his sensual mouth quirked even as what appeared to be  sympathy darkened his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, smoothing her palms over her hair, suddenly restless, antsy.                       
       
           



       

"No need to apologize," he murmured. "But I have news for you, princess.  If your intention is to get drunk, that frou-frou drink isn't going to  cut it. And … " As if time slowed to half speed, he shifted to the edge of  his barstool, lifted his arm, and brushed a knuckle down her cheek. He  silently studied her with an intensity that seemed not just to see her,  but peer deep past the perfect social-butterfly persona to the flawed,  sometimes scared woman beneath. "For the record, I already figured out  your ex had a stick up his ass. Now I know he had his head up there,  too. Because if he let you go, he's an idiot."

Her breath stuck in her throat, captured by the fist of need lodged  there. And as his gaze roamed her face and the echo of his gentle caress  hummed under her skin, the hunger strangling her was more than  physical. Yes, he was wildly sexy like an exotic, untamed, unpredictable  creature. His confidence and I-don't-give-a-damn attitude were as  alluring to her as his hooded, knowing stare and lean, muscled body.

Yet there was something behind the sex and swagger. The simmering desire  he didn't even attempt to conceal as he lingered on her mouth before  returning to her eyes. That heat touched her, stroked her battered  spirit and bruised self-esteem in ways that put her two steps above  pathetic and only one above a Bachelor contestant.

But there it was.

"You don't know me," she murmured, and if there was a shade of desperation tinting the protest then she couldn't erase it.

Another gentle caress stroked under her bottom lip. "You're right," he  agreed simply. "I don't know if you like the crusts on or off your  PB&J sandwich. I don't know if you prefer to fall asleep to the  sound of the television or total darkness and silence. But even an  idiot-including that lackwit you were engaged to-can't deny your beauty,  elegance, sweetness, and intelligence."

With any other man, she would've scoffed, waved the words aside as  blatant flattery-blatant bullshit flattery. But not with Raphael. She  wasn't well-acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of his personality, but  she sensed he didn't do smooth sweet talk. Not because he couldn't-she  didn't doubt he was more than capable of enticing a woman out of her  panties. Most likely he just wouldn't bother. And that made his words  that much more precious.

"I don't eat peanut butter and jelly."

His eyes rounded as his lips parted on a loud, exaggerated gasp. He  slapped a palm to his chest as if her admission had wounded him.

"What the hell? Are you American?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. God, he'd made her laugh more times in  the minutes they'd been together than she had since finding Gavin with  another woman three days earlier. It didn't seem possible she could  discover humor in anything when the life she'd planned and built for  herself was crumbling apart at the foundation. But …

Raphael tipped his beer up to his mouth for another sip. She swallowed,  attempting to wet her suddenly dry mouth and throat. Something more than  amusement coiled inside her. Something proper bankers' daughters didn't  utter aloud. Something that should've had her pushing away from the bar  and cutting a path through the crowd for the front entrance.