She and Mr. Lyons had been playing an amusing little game for over a week now. She pretended not to
know him, who he was, where he could be found, and he pretended she wasn’t snooping around town
asking questions about him and his deceased mother and where he lived. It had gone so far as direct
conversation several times. Like she hadn’t come prepared, she thought mockingly. Papers, notes,
memos, pictures, the whole nine yards. She had studied the man for weeks before demanding this story.
She still couldn’t believe Kane had stood by her and brought her with him to contact Callan. Not that he
wasn’t breathing down her neck half the time. He would be now if he hadn’t had to run back to D.C. to
talk to a scientist they thought might have been involved with the original experiments. And Merinus was
supposed to be finding out about Callan’s mother and making contact with the elusive object of her
fascination.
So here she was, on the story of her life, and instead of the investigative reporting she should be doing
on the man below, she was watching him sun himself. But what a sight. Tanned, muscular skin. Long,
golden brown hair, the color of the lion that was supposedly infused into his DNA structure. A strong,
bold face, gorgeous, almost savage in its planes and angles. And lips, full male lips with just a hint of a
merciless curve. She wanted to kiss those lips. She wanted to start with his lips and kiss and lick her way
down. Across that broad chest, the hard, flat stomach to the erection rising from between his tanned
thighs. She licked her lips at the thought.
She jerked as she felt her cell phone vibrating at her hips. She grimaced impatiently. She knew who it
was. It had to be her oldest, most aggravating brother.
“What, Kane?” she hissed as she flipped the phone open and settled it against her ear. She was rather
proud that her eyes never once strayed from all that male glory below.
“It could have been Dad,” Kane reminded her, his voice flat and hard.
“It could have been the Pope too, but we know the averages on that one,” she muttered.
“Bitch,” he growled almost affectionately.
“Why Kane, how sweet,” she simpered. “I love you too, asshole.”
There was a brief chuckle over the line, making her smile in response.
“How’s the story going?” His voice turned serious, too serious.
“It’s getting there. I have an appointment later today with a woman willing to talk about the mother. She
was murdered in her own home. Dad doesn’t know that.”
Maria Morales, known as Jennifer Lyons in the small Southern California town had died at the hands of
an attacker, not a thief or a random victim, but someone who wanted only blood.
“What do you think you’re going to learn researching the mother?” Kane asked her. “You need proof
on the son, Merrie, don’t forget that.”
“I know what I’m after, big shot,” she bit out. “But to get to the son, I need information. Besides,
someone’s trying to give me the runaround on Morales. You know how I hate that.”
There was a puzzle there, just as big a puzzle as the one stretched out on the deck below her. Sweet
Heaven. She watched as his hand moved to his scrotum, not to scratch as she assumed, but to caress,
stroke. There went her damned blood pressure.
“I’m research, remember?” he bit out. “You are just contact.”
“Well, I can do some of both,” she hissed.
There was a weary sigh across the line.
“Have you made contact with Lyons yet? Offered him the deal Dad has set up?” Yeah, the deal of a
lifetime, show yourself, tell your story for us, and we’ll make you famous. Fuck your life. She hadn’t liked
that deal to begin with but she knew it was the only one Callan was ever likely to receive that would
provide any measure of security.
“Not yet. Getting there.” She fought to breathe evenly as his hand clasped the base of that thick cock
and he began stroking all that firm, wonderful flesh.
He was going to masturbate. Incredulity flared through her system, especially her vagina, at the
realization. Right here before her eyes the man was going to masturbate. She couldn’t believe it. His hand
barely circled the broad shaft, moving slow and easy, almost lazily from tip to base.
She felt the flesh between her thighs heat. The muscles of her vagina clenched, moistened, her womb
contracted as sensual heat speared her body like a bolt of lightning. Her nipples hardened, ached. Her
body became so sensitive she could feel the breeze caressing her bare arms now, like the stroke of a
ghostly lover.
Gracious, was this how men felt when they watched women masturbate? No wonder they liked it so