Thrill Me to Death Page 2

  “I have two hundred of them. Is there one in particular I’m supposed to see right now?”

  “This one claims to be your bodyguard.” Breezy exhaled, her green eyes tapered by smoke and accusation. “So you really did it, huh?”

  “I had to,” Cori said. “That little scene up in Bal Harbour convinced me.”

  Breezy nodded knowingly. She hadn’t been shopping with Cori the day a menacing black Jag swiped her so close that the side mirror knocked her handbag to the ground, but she’d shared the postevent trauma.

  “Where’d you find this guy?” Breezy asked. “He’s smoldering hot.”

  “The insurance company hooked me up with some high-end security operation, and I requested someone intimidating and visible. I want to send a message to that weasel that I’m not afraid of him.” She had deeper reasons than that, but her stepson had unwittingly offered her the perfect excuse to beef up security.

  Breezy snorted. “I notice that weasel hasn’t made his appearance yet.”

  “Thank God.” The last thing Cori needed on her first major social outing as the widow of William Peyton was a run-in with the son of William Peyton. “After contesting the will, I doubt even he has the audacity to show up tonight.”

  “If he does, you’ve got one sizeable stud up there being paid to protect you. Here, he gave me his card.” She snuffed her cigarette in a planter and reached back into her bag.

  Cori started toward the steps. “I thought he was coming tomorrow, but Marta’s already set up the guest house. I’ll go talk to him.”

  “Trust me, it won’t be painful.”

  “No thanks, not interested. I’ve only been widowed for three months.”

  “But you haven’t been laid in three years. So you might change your mind when you see…” Breezy tilted the card toward the light to read it. “Max Roper.”

  Cori’s foot slipped off the limestone step. “What?”

  “Executive protection and personal security. Max Roper.”

  Cori seized the card, the blood draining from her head so fast the letters danced. “No. The universe could not be so cruel and twisted.”

  At the top of the stairs, a shadow eclipsed the glittering party lights. She didn’t have to look and he didn’t have to speak.

  She knew who it was.

  “The universe is most definitely a cruel and twisted place.” His sinful baritone rumbled right through her. “You of all people know that, Mrs. Peyton.”

  She looked up and swayed a little. But that was surely from her high heels sinking in the lawn—not the impact of a man she had loved and hated at the same time.

  “What are you doing here, Max?”

  “Lucy Sharpe sent me.”

  “You?” She injected a healthy dose of disgust into the syllable.

  “Me.” He descended two steps, which did nothing to diminish the sheer size of him. Maximillian P. Roper III was six feet four inches of unforgiving muscle and man. No doubt he made an excellent bodyguard.

  But he wouldn’t be hers. Never, never, never.

  “Cori, do you know this man?” Breezy closed in as though her wispy one-hundred-and-one pounds could actually keep Max Roper at bay.

  “We knew each other in Chicago,” Max said.

  “I knew her in Chicago,” Breezy insisted. “I never met you.”

  Cori cupped Breezy’s elbow to urge her away. “I’ll talk to him alone, Breeze. Then he’ll be leaving.”

  Max’s gaze never wavered from Cori, those hundred-proof eyes refusing to reveal anything as mundane as a feeling. A tailored sports jacket covered what she knew to be a Herculean chest, and in that chest pounded a heart that she’d once considered her most treasured possession.

  “There must be a mistake,” she said. “I arranged for a bodyguard, not a DEA bloodhound.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked—a full-fledged grin for Max Roper. He reached out a hand for a formal shake. “I’m here to provide you with unparalleled personal security.”

  She backed away. Touching a charged lightning rod would be less dangerous than touching Max again. “Let me get this straight. You’re one of the Bullet Catchers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Lucy Sharpe sent you to protect me?” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “Lucy has her reasons and we rarely question them, Mrs. Peyton.”

  The emphasis on Cori’s married name wasn’t lost on her. Did he believe what everyone else did: that she’d married an older man for his money, and won the lottery when he died in their bed, leaving her an heiress to a big, juicy estate and a seat in the Peyton Enterprises boardroom?

  Surely Max, of all people, knew her better than that. Maybe not, though.

  And she wouldn’t explain. She stopped caring what Max Roper thought about her a long time ago, and he’d be gone before her party ended. “I’ll call Lucy and make other arrangements,” she said simply. “Perhaps she doesn’t realize we have a—”

  “Conflict of interest?”

  Is that what he’d call it? The memory of soul-soaring kisses and heart-cracking tears and gut-wrenching accusations flashed in her brain. “That assumes interest, Max.”

  “Still the lawyer, I see.”

  She jutted her chin defiantly. “I never finished law school, but I can still argue.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.” His eyes danced. Curse him.

  “Don’t bother.” She tried to sidestep him. “I’ll go call your boss and tell her you’re not what I had in mind.” Now there was an understatement.

  He pulled out a cell phone and held it toward her. “Just press one. It’s programmed to Lucy’s private line.”

  She took the phone, regarding him closely for signs of a bluff. He was so very, very good at that.

  If he’d spent the last five years chasing evil drug lords, the job hadn’t ravaged his handsome face; if anything, he looked better. Older. Wiser. Scarier. His dark hair was just as thick as it had been back in the days when Cori’s fingers explored it endlessly, but he’d grown it longer, letting it touch his collar and dip farther over his ominous-looking brow. A brow that still knotted at the sight of her, as though he could never figure her out but refused to stop trying. His strong jaw remained set and unyielding, but she knew how to slacken it. She knew every weak spot on his body.

  “Or you could just stare at me.”

  She narrowed her eyes, pointing the phone at him. “You still think you’re a world-class bluffer.”

  “Anytime you want to play a hand…” He leaned an inch closer. “You can find out.”

  She didn’t move. “The last time I bet you, I lost.”

  He dipped one millimeter closer, blocking all the light behind him and sending a whiff of a familiar, musky scent right down to her toes. “The last time you bet me, I made you come using nothing but a two of diamonds and this.” He blew softly on her face, fluttering her bangs. “Wanna bet, Cori Cooper?”

  She locked her knees, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “I go by Corinne Peyton now.”

  “So I read in Town and Country.” At her surprised look, he added, “The clipping was in your file.”

  “You knew who I was when you accepted this assignment?”

  “Of course.” He angled his head. “And, by the way, my deepest sympathies on the loss of your husband.”

  There was no indictment in his voice; none of the veiled resentment at her fortune. Another bluff? Or was that the gentleness he rarely displayed? God, Max could always get her with softness. No matter how big and tough and mean and bad he was, when he turned soft, it killed her.

  No, she reminded herself sharply, it killed her father.

  She opened the skinny silver phone and pressed the TALK button. The screen lit up. “You said press one?”

  Max flipped the phone closed. “I’m the best she’s got, kid.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “I hear the Bullet Catchers are all the cream of the security crop. I’m sure we can find
a suitable replacement.”

  He reached for the phone, but she tugged it toward her chest.

  He relented and let her have it. “Before you call, why don’t you tell me exactly what your problem is,” he suggested. “Then I can help Lucy pick the right bodyguard for you.”

  The shatter of glass on metal reverberated from the patio. In one split second, Max whirled around, blocked Cori with his massive body and whipped out a handgun.

  “I just want to talk to her!” The strident voice echoed across the lawn, loud enough to hush two hundred inquisitive guests who peered at the scene from around the pavilion and on every balcony. “I don’t need a fucking invitation to my own father’s house.”

  Oh, God. Billy.

  “Don’t shoot him, Max,” Cori said, stepping away from the human wall he’d made. “He’s my stepson. And he…” she added with a definite edge, “is my problem.”

  Billy Peyton easily pushed past Breezy’s ineffective arms and ambled across the lawn, drawing every eye to the luster of his long, platinum blond hair. Cori knew what the cellular buzz from South Beach to Coral Gables would be tomorrow: Billy Peyton was wasted. Not exactly news.

  She squared her shoulders, bracing for the worst. She’d become adept at acting like his behavior was normal, a trick she’d used to keep William from getting enraged over his only son’s antics. “I’m right here, Billy.”

  As she took the steps to the upper lawn to meet him, Max was right beside her.

  Billy stumbled as he approached her and she reached out to steady him.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  He leaned back and even in the dim party light, she could see his enlarged pupils and pink-rimmed eyes. What was it tonight? Weed? Coke? Ecstasy?

  His eyes swept over her. “That’s a pretty stupid question, Mom.”

  Disgust roiled, but she kept her tone modulated. “I received the papers, and my attorney will contact yours. There’s nothing else to discuss. Especially not tonight—this is a critical fund-raiser for the Foundation. Please. Do me a favor and leave.”

  He lowered his head in a bull-like gesture that might have been threatening, if he wasn’t just this side of throwing up and his floppy surfer locks didn’t ruin the whole effect.

  “I don’t want to discuss shit and I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about your Foundation. Where’s the bar?”

  “It’s closed.”

  “Open it.”

  “Get out of here,” she said through gritted teeth, vaguely aware that Max had moved behind Billy. “Without making a scene.”

  As he opened his mouth to argue, Max seized him around the neck. Billy tried to lunge, but Max easily overpowered him with his left hand.

  In his right, he held up a sleek black gun.

  “Holy fuck—” Billy’s eyes widened in terror and he jerked again, but Max immobilized every muscle with one squeeze.

  “Watch your language around the lady,” Max growled, pointing the gun straight up.

  “Who the hell are you?” Billy grunted, twisting his head to see Max. “Get your fu—”

  Max yanked tighter. “I said, watch your language.”

  Cori took a step toward them. “I’ve hired a bodyguard, Billy. You’re wasting your time threatening me.”

  He snorted. “You are swimming in delusions of grandeur, Cor. I just want what is mine. Just because you got flat on your back for—”

  Max wrenched his neck, maybe a little harder than necessary. “It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Peyton.”

  Fury flashed in Billy’s pale blue eyes and he tried to shake his head. “This is my dad’s house and I’m—”

  Max cocked the gun. “Leaving.”

  Billy stared at the weapon, sweat beading over his upper lip.

  “Is there another way out besides the front?” Max asked Cori.

  She indicated the north lawn. “You can take him around the guest house.”

  Billy glared at her, his dilated pupils sparking with hatred. “Whore.” He mouthed the word at her so Max didn’t hear it.

  “He shouldn’t drive,” she said quietly. “I’ll meet you in the front and get a car and driver.”

  “No need. I’ll take care of him,” Max said, walking away with Billy tightly in his grasp. “Billy and I are going to have a talk.”

  She watched them disappear into the shadows, still able to hear Billy’s protests and Max’s low, single syllable responses. Ironically, there was a certain comfort in the idea of Max Roper responsible for her life. After all, he owed her. Big.

  But he couldn’t stay. Aside from the fact that they had combustible chemistry, the real problem was that she’d never, ever been able to hide anything from him. And if he found out what she was trying to do, he’d try to stop her. He’d tell her she was crazy, stupid, and wrong, and then he’d wave the autopsy report in her face just like the police had done.

  William died in his sleep of natural causes.

  Until she discovered what—or who—killed her husband, she wasn’t safe. She needed a bodyguard…but she didn’t need that one.

  Breezy appeared with two glasses of champagne and a sly smile. “Well, I’d say you made the right call on the whole bodyguard thing.”

  Cori reached for a flute. “Oh, I still have his cell phone.”

  “How clever of you.” Breezy chuckled and raised her drink in a mock toast. “That guarantees he’ll be back, even if you do get someone else for the job.” She took a sip and winked. “Which, we both know, you won’t.”

  Chapter

  Two

  S ome idiots had all the money and none of the brains.

  Max definitely put Billy Peyton in that category, especially once the worm confirmed it by whimpering at the sight of a gun, and then puking his guts out on the side of the causeway. But even before that, Max had recognized subpar intelligence when he’d taken Billy’s keys and opened the door of a Lamborghini Gallardo. Only a moron would drop two hundred grand for a toy that could best be described as cute.

  All right, it was fast.

  Whipping the yellow sports car through the streets of Coconut Grove, Max congratulated himself on resisting the urge to let Billy Peyton drive his face into a tree. Or even better, letting him flip the cute little car over the bridge and into Biscayne Bay. Although that would have made the world a better place, it might also have left Corinne Peyton without the need for a bodyguard.

  Billy managed to get his window down and hang his head out, moaning softly. Hot, moist wind gusted through the car, defeating the air conditioner, but Billy needed fresh air or he’d blow again.

  “So why do you hate her?” Max asked, raising his voice above the growl of the engine and whine of the wind.

  Billy ran his fingers through his unkempt mop, holding his head up enough to look at Max. “Because she’s full of shit and wants me dead.”

  “Looks to me like it’s the other way around.”

  He grunted and let his head fall back. “I hate to break it to you, dude, but you’re babysitting a conniving, gold-digging whore.”

  Max twisted the knob to jack up the air-conditioning. “Oldest story in the book, huh, Billy? Rich old man, hot young babe.”

  “He wasn’t that old. And she isn’t that…well, yeah, she is.” He closed his eyes in disgust. “She’s no dumbshit, that’s for sure. She blew into town and picked the richest, loneliest, most vulnerable man she could find.”

  Could they possibly be talking about the same woman? “First of all, she didn’t blow into town and pick a rich, vulnerable guy, Billy. She met your father at DePaul Law School and didn’t move here until after she married him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have a file on her.” Of course, he knew this long before he read that file. He’d made it his business to find out what had happened to Cori Cooper after he got back from purgatory in the Caribbean.

  Billy’s lips curled in a snide grimace. “Did your file say how she fucked him blind, deaf, and dumb
until he gave her everything she wanted?”

  Max’s stomach lurched and he blamed it on Billy’s breath. Could she really have transformed from Cori Cooper, budding public defender, to Corinne Peyton, trust-fund trophy wife? Could she really have gotten over him that fast?

  That reminded him of his real reason for being assigned her bodyguard. Billy, regardless of the fact that he was half-toasted and smelled like vomit, might have some valuable information.

  “You gotta get over it, Billy,” he said conversationally, just like two guys driving home from party night. “It’s no crime for your father to fall in love and marry.”

  “The crime,” Billy said, his voice suddenly lucid, “was when she got him to change his will while he was crippled with a boner for her.”

  Been there, had that boner. But Cori, as gorgeous as she was, had never used her appeal to get what she wanted. Her wits, her humor, her incredible powers of persuasion, absolutely. He’d been on the receiving end more than once and had predicted she’d make a formidable attorney. But she never was a woman to use her sexuality to achieve an end. At least, she hadn’t been five years ago.

  “Still,” he said, keeping up the casual tone, “being hot is not a crime.”

  “Killing him was.”

  Max yanked the steering wheel to the left and accelerated around a slow-moving Lexus.

  “He died of a heart embolism,” Max said. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t considered murder.”

  “My father was in great shape. He had a physical a couple of weeks before he died.”

  This might be easier than he expected. “So what are you saying, Billy? How did she kill him?”

  “I don’t fucking know. Maybe he just died of a blow job that gave him a heart attack,” Billy spat. “All I know is she knocked off my old man and got a couple billion for her services.”

  Max’s fingers itched for the Ruger that lay on his lap, but Billy could be a star witness someday.

  “What’s the deal on the lawsuit? You questioning the validity of the will or just trying to scare her?”