She was still berating his wayward cleaner.
“You never disturb Mr. Roth.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, trust me.”
That deep, smoky voice hit him in all the right places. He wanted to know her name.
Then, the elevator doors closed, and they were gone.
Damn, he’d missed his chance.
With a shake of his head, Zane headed back to his bedroom.
That’s when he noticed the door to his home office was ajar.
He frowned. The cleaning service had strict instructions not to disturb his office. And the door had been locked.
He often left confidential contracts and plans lying on his desk.
He pushed the door open. Light streamed in through the windows, and there was no sign that anything had been touched or disturbed.
Maybe he’d forgotten to lock it?
The Riv3000 was set low in the wall behind his desk. Its black, toughened door matched the shiny, black surface of his desk.
He walked over to the side table and grabbed himself a bottle of San Pellegrino from the mini fridge. Then he sat at his desk. He had work to do. His mother said he worked too hard, but his business didn’t run itself, and he had lots of employees depending on him.
He opened his briefcase and pulled a black box out.
He sat the box on the desk and opened it.
The Phillips-Morley necklace gleamed up at him.
It was beautiful. A symbol of love.
Zane snorted. It was a good, solid investment that would put a smile on his mom’s face.
That was it.
He turned to the safe, then pressed his finger to the scanner, and heard a discreet beep. He pressed in a code, and the door opened.
He set the necklace inside the safe and closed the door.
He sipped his water. Instead of work, he found himself thinking of enraged gray eyes, and he smiled.
Monroe
Lips traveled down my body, then across my bare stomach.
I moaned, writhing on the sheets.
“You like that, don’t you?” a deep voice drawled. He nipped my skin, his teeth dragging over my inner thigh. “Your skin is so smooth.”
I moaned. So good. I needed more.
That clever mouth closed over my clit.
I cried out, the pleasure so intense, and I slid my hands into that thick, brown hair. He licked and sucked, and a second later, I splintered apart with a shattered cry.
With a gasp, I sat up in my twisted sheets, my chest heaving, the orgasm still shivering through my body.
Oh, fuck a duck. I’d just had an X-rated dream about Zane Roth.
And had the best orgasm I’d had in years.
I flopped back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. My thighs were sticky and my belly still warm and trembly. Shit. Crap. Shit.
Cursing under my breath, I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It had been a gift from Sabrina, and she’d laughed herself silly when she’d given it to me. Instead of numbers on the clock face, it had stick people doing it in different sex positions. I squinted. It wasn’t even doggy-style o’clock.
It was still early and I didn’t have to open the shop for several hours, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to lie in bed thinking about Zane Roth…and any sexual position, doggy style or other. I climbed out of bed and hit the bathroom.
Unlike Zane’s massive bathroom, mine was compact and ordinary, with tiles that had probably been white in a previous life, but were now a sort-of dingy gray. Nothing like his sumptuous, palatial master bathroom with its giant shower, sexy tub, and awesome view. I instantly pictured us rolling around on the tiles of his bathroom, Roth gloriously naked.
I groaned and pressed my hands to my eyes.
Dropping my hands, I looked in the mirror. My black hair was spilling everywhere, my cheeks were flushed.
“We do not have sex dreams about billionaires, O’Connor. The daughters of criminals, about to commit crimes themselves, do not breathe the same air as sexy, hot billionaires.”
I shed my pajamas and then got in my not-giant shower, and images of a naked Zane and his very fine cock danced in my head.
“Ugh.” I turned the water to cold. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” Okay, cold was sucky. I allowed myself lukewarm, and washed my hair.
When I was done, I dried off, ruthlessly suppressing X-rated billionaire thoughts.
God, my brother was in trouble, and here I was, thinking about a hot guy.
I wiped through the fog in the mirror and pulled my hair back in a tight ponytail. I dressed in my usual uniform of jeans, and my black and red Lady Locksmith polo shirt.
I needed to get back inside Zane’s penthouse.
Pondering that, I headed into my kitchen. It was snug, but had been renovated not too long ago. It was mostly white, with a simple gray countertop. I poured myself some orange juice, then pulled out ingredients to make cookies. I needed them to bribe Rollo, plus I was the queen of stress-baking when I was anxious.
As I mixed the batter, I turned over my problem in my head. How to get back into Zane’s penthouse? I dumped a bag of chocolate chunks into the bowl. I could feel the deadline Mag’s captor had given me ticking down in my head.
Thankfully, baking helped. It didn’t solve my problems, but as I placed the cookies on the tray, I felt a little more even. I stuck the tray in the oven.
Soon my apartment smelled like cookies. Who could feel depressed with the smell of cookies in the air? After my choc-chunk delights cooled, I packed them into a container. I had to open my shop, then later I’d visit Rollo.
After I opened, the shop got busy. I sold locks, recommended a safe, cut keys, and checked in with my team of locksmiths. Sabrina arrived and dived into serving customers. When it finally quieted down, I sat down to write my latest article on the best locks for windows.
I avoided Sabrina’s latest wedding interrogation. Maybe I should call my ex, Joe, to go to the wedding with me? We were still on friendly terms. We’d had no real spark, but he was a nice guy.
Hell, dreams of Zane Roth had given me a better orgasm than Joe ever had.
Box of cookies in hand, I sailed through the store. “Sabrina, I’m heading out for a bit.”
“I’ve got it.”
Outside the shop, I unlocked my bike. I rode down the street, dodging traffic. Rollo lived in my neighborhood, so I didn’t have far to go. I reached his place, locked up my bike, and walked down the steps to his basement apartment. I knocked on the door. Then knocked again.
“Go away,” a voice said through the door.
“Rollo, it’s Monroe.”
There was a grunt and the door opened.
Rollo looked like a younger version of Doc Brown from the Back to the Future movies. Mag and I had loved that series as kids. Rollo’s wispy, brown hair was a crazy halo around his head. His features were dominated by a high forehead, and large, brown eyes.
“Down payment.” I held out the tub of cookies.
Rollo snatched it and tore open the lid. He wandered back into his studio apartment and I followed and closed the door.
I’d met Rollo in the alley beside Lady Locksmith. Back then, he’d been homeless and hungry.
I’d helped him out, and got him into a shelter. Eventually, once I’d learned of his computer skills, I’d helped him find a job, and get this apartment.
Wrinkling my nose, I wound my way through empty soda cans and chip packets. He needed a broom. Or a shovel.