Off the Record, page 5
And tonight she had a plan to find out exactly what he knew.
She scanned the room and, not finding Ebon, deliberately chose a semi-circular booth tucked in a back corner of the labyrinthine space carved out of a disused industrial cellar. The uneven, reclaimed wood table boasted a single candle, the exposed stone walls angled in cozily, and there wasn’t a window in sight.
Perfect spot for a seduction.
It was the only way, she’d concluded after extensive analysis of the alternatives.
And if she was really, brutally honest with herself, she rather fancied it.
She hadn’t wavered in her belief that any attempt at a relationship would be ill-fated and disastrous, but that brief taste of him she’d gotten in Manchester had softened her resolve. Who was to say they couldn’t satisfy their twin cravings and still remain friends? That’s more or less exactly what Ebon had suggested on that awkward morning-after at university. This could be the ideal opportunity to reopen that door—and sneak a peek into his investigation in the process.
She’d just discovered that her covert corner seriously lacked phone reception when Ebon appeared, unbuttoning his coat.
“Great table,” he remarked approvingly, slinging his slightly drizzle-damp coat over the other end of the wooden bench. “What’re you drinking?”
“I believe the word cider was mentioned on the phone.”
“Two seconds.”
She finger-combed her hair and applied a coat of lipstick while Ebon went to the bar, then hastily scrubbed it off on a spare tissue before he returned. Too obvious—he’d spot her intentions a mile off.
“Here we are, fresh from the West Country.” He returned with two low, fat glasses of golden liquid.
She slid down to make room, giving him no choice but to squeeze into whatever space she left before the edge of the bench—which, as it happened, was just enough for their thighs to brush, and for his unmistakable, clean, paper-and-ink scent to wrap around her like age-softened cotton sheets.
“Cheers.” She raised her glass and he clinked his obligingly. The first taste of the crisp, cold cider was dry and heady and dangerous on her mostly empty stomach, so she set it down, mindful she’d have to pace herself if she wanted to retain control of the situation.
“So that was a bit odd, bumping into each other at Miroslava’s flat this morning,” he said jovially.
“Getting right to the point, I see.”
“I’d hate to spoil this delicious, artisanal beverage with an awkward attempt to tiptoe around the elephant in the room.” He raised comical brows above his glasses as he took an exaggerated sip, and she smiled despite herself.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on and then I’ll tell you whether I’m doing the same,” she suggested.
“I told you. Drug smuggling.”
“Well, what a coincidence. That’s exactly what I’m investigating.”
“How’s it going?” he asked, evidently unruffled by her step into his obvious lie.
“Fabulous. Yours?”
“Excellent,” he replied smoothly, but she detected a hint of frustration in his posture.
He shifted in his seat, pivoting toward her, inching slightly closer.
“Forget the story. It’s not important. We’ve crossed paths on investigations before and it’s always worked out. I care more about you than headlines, anyway.”
She frowned at his sudden change in tone, watched his gaze drop to her mouth before leveling on her eyes, and had to sink her teeth into her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Did Ebon Brody seriously think he could seduce her into leaking information?
It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so irritating. First he’d found his way into her investigative territory, and now he was stealing her flirt-for-facts plan. Admittedly she’d been a little uncertain about the seduction route, but realizing that he intended to attempt exactly the same thing made her more determined than ever.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she replied softly, letting her hand find its way onto his thigh.
He flinched in surprise, then relaxed, probably remembering he was supposed to be encouraging this kind of behavior.
He slid his hand to her hip, his thumb gently stroking her lower back, and she silently cursed the way her nipples tightened at such a slight touch. This seduction needed to be calculating, precise, effective.
She’d better pull herself together, and fast.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation in Manchester,” he began. “About not wanting to ruin our friendship with an attempt at a relationship. I couldn’t agree more.”
“Really.”
He nodded. “At the same time, I think we both know we’re stupidly attracted to each other. Always have been, from my side at least.”
She hummed, a faint encouragement for him to go on, readjusting her position so her hand slipped farther up the inside of his thigh.
He swallowed, and she bit back a tiny swell of triumph.
“Maybe we could configure a scenario where we take advantage of the latter without compromising the former.”
She arched a brow in interest. So that was his play. “Friends with benefits?”
“I suppose. But not in an ill-conceived, secretly-in-love-with-one-another way like you see in films. Proper friends who sometimes—”
He choked off the end of his sentence as she whipped her hand beneath his shirt, trailing a finger along the waist of his jeans. She paused when her knuckle brushed the line of hair bisecting his abs, then resumed her slow, meandering exploration.
“Sometimes what?” she prompted, enjoying the way he became more off-balance with each second. This was his idea, apparently. Couldn’t he handle the reality of what he was proposing?
“You know, just… Sometimes we could… If you want…”
“Fuck?” she asked, plunging her fingers beneath the denim.
He gasped, and she had to suck in a breath of her own when her palm brushed the hard, hot length of him through his boxers. She used her free hand to open his fly to give herself more space—God knows she needed it, given the size of him—and repositioned her other to get a good grip on his thick cock.
“Sophie,” he said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean—”
“What, did you want to draw up a contract first?” She stroked him from tip down, need beginning to gnaw between her legs in time with the throb beneath her fingers.
“No, but I thought—Jesus, that feels good.”
“I’m sure Jesus is delighted you thought of him in this context.”
Ebon’s hoarse laugh turned into a rough, startled grunt of pleasure as she pulled her fist back up, tugging him, relishing the combination of silky flesh and steely firmness.
“You make an interesting suggestion,” she said agreeably, glad she was able to keep her voice steady despite her hitching, excited breaths. “I have to admit I was thinking along similar lines these last few days. We’re two intelligent, mature adults. Surely we can set and respect boundaries, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Brilliant.” She shoved her hand down and up once more and he slapped his palms on the table, bracing himself against her building momentum.
“We’re agreed, then. Do you think we need to set ground rules? Or just promise to keep things physical and stomp the brakes if any pesky emotions creep in?”
Ebon didn’t respond, bent over the table, his rasping breaths making her wet as she watched—and controlled—the steep ascent of his arousal.
She eased the pace of her hand, not quite ready for this to end. Ebon practically growled at the sudden slowdown.
“As you say, we can be sensible about this. We’ve come close to a similar arrangement before. Why not…”
She trailed off as a young woman approached their table, still wearing her coat. Ebon made a feeble effort to straighten up and try to appear like he wasn’t on the receiving end of an enthusiastic hand job, but it was unnecessary. The woman barely glanced at them, then turned to scan the rest of the room before heading back in the direction of the door, presumably looking for whoever she was meeting.
“Why not make it official this time,” Sophie continued, resuming the rhythm she’d only slightly lessened when the woman approached.
Ebon made a vaguely affirmative sound, his eyes squeezing shut. She knew he was close—she could feel him tightening and pulsing beneath her hand.
With his eyes shut, she dared to slip her fingers under her skirt, knuckling her clit through her knickers and tights. For a second she let her lids drift closed, nearly losing herself to the heat of Ebon’s rigid flesh beneath her hand and the synchronized pressure between her legs, then snapped them open, remembering her mission.
Through sheer force of will, she dragged her spare hand back to the seat beside her and narrowed her eyes at Ebon. Sweat beaded his brow despite the chill in their rock-walled corner, and a bright flush made his sexy, prominent cheekbones stand out more than usual.
“This is only a taste of how we could be together,” she murmured, working him harder, faster. “Imagine a whole night in the same bed, nothing between us but air. No reservations. No secrets. No holding back.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, his expression pleading, endlessly kissable lips slightly parted.
“Sophie,” he begged, sending a thrill soaring and bursting in her chest like a bright, white firework.
“We’ll share everything. Give ourselves to each other completely. And…” She paused, forcing aside her reluctance to say what she knew she had to, what had brought her to this moment in the first place. “And you’ll tell me why you were at Miroslava’s flat.”
She regretted the clumsy, ugly words as soon as they left her mouth, but it was too late. Ebon’s expression twisted into bewilderment and then unease, but it was too late for him too. A second later, he sucked in a breath and let it out in a hissed profanity as he came in Sophie’s hand, his conclusion spilling over her fingers, warm and wet.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, snatching a cocktail napkin from the table as she inelegantly withdrew her hand and stood up, cheeks burning with guilt.
Without a word, she fled to the toilet, squinting in the sudden transition to bright, fluorescent light as she rushed to the sink and scrubbed her hands. She soaped and rinsed and soaped and rinsed, until the bang of the door to admit a pair of laughing women finally prompted her to meet her own gaze in the mirror.
What the hell were you thinking?
When she’d made a plan to seduce Ebon to try to get a whiff of what he was working on, she’d imagined loosening him up with a few drinks, flirting, exchanging playful touches and suggestive glances. Maybe even a teasing kiss they could easily wave off later.
Not jerking him off under the pub table and nailing him with a forthright question about his investigation.
“Oh my God,” she said miserably, pressing her still-wet hands over her face. She and Ebon had employed some fairly underhanded tactics to get at each other’s stories in the past, but nothing like this.
And to think she’d actually enjoyed it right up until the end.
No wonder all of her relationships crashed and burned. She never knew what she was doing from one minute to the next, running hot and cold and second-guessing herself until she was dizzy and disoriented. The complete opposite of her precise, high-performing, driven professional self, this haywire romantic version was exactly the reason she needed to stay absolutely clear of anything even vaguely resembling a relationship.
Which, she decided then and there, included any kind of no-strings arrangement with Ebon.
She left the toilet feeling sick to her stomach, with no idea how or if she could repair the situation. She didn’t meet his gaze as she returned to her seat, but in her peripheral vision, she caught his damnably sweet, apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Soph, I—”
“Don’t. This is my fault. That was so inappropriate.”
“It was my suggestion.”
Her chin snapped up and her eyes locked with his, summer-sky blue in the gloom, and she had to look away, even as the disconcerting, shining affection she saw there warmed her from her toes to the tips of her fingers.
“You didn’t suggest I pull you off under the table,” she muttered.
“I suggested we…you know…indulge ourselves.”
“And then I turned it into a cheap crack at your story.” She pressed her palm over her eyes. It sounded so much worse out loud.
“Come on, Soph. Look at me.” He gently pried her hand away, then held it in his own. Reluctantly, she let herself find solace in the face she’d always trusted, and in the warmth of the fingers closing around hers.
“It’s fine,” he insisted. “We’ll pretend it never happened. Although that’s a shame, because it was bloody good.”
She laughed through her lingering guilt, so grateful to have a man like Ebon in her life. He always forgave her, always cheered her up, always saw through her numerous, unfixable flaws to the best of what she was.
“All right, but only if you accept my apology for being a right shit, trying to drag information out of you like that. I can promise that’s not usually how I get my sources to open up.”
“You might scoop me more often if you did.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ebon, that’s disgusting. As if I would ever.”
“You know I’m kidding.” He squeezed her hand before dropping it. “I accept your apology, but only if you’ll accept mine. I also came here tonight thinking I could snog out your secrets.”
She smiled. “I know.”
His jaw dropped. “Seriously? How?”
“You’re an open book—to me, at least. I smelled your plan a mile off. Thought I’d beat you to it.”
“There you succeeded. So. Apologies duly exchanged?”
She nodded. “All level.”
“Grand. Then let us never speak of this again. And also find another pub. This wooden bench is digging into my arse and I swear one of these stones is dripping on me.”
She saw right through his effort to change the mood and flee the scene of the crime, and she couldn’t be more in agreement. “My artisanal cider wasn’t that good anyway. The Duke?” she asked, referencing a brightly lit, inexpensive, unpretentious chain pub around the corner.
“I’ll get the first round,” Ebon promised, then guided her out of the booth and toward the door with a reassuring, decidedly platonic hand on her lower back.
Chapter Six
“Get up, you tosser! Come on, ref, are you bloody blind? Unbelievable.” Ebon dropped back into his seat, muttering the most colorful profanity he could think of—and turned to find Oren staring at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Everything all right?”
“Just dandy, except for this ignorant, stupid ref who’s this close to giving a penalty for a blatant dive.” He waved derisively at the referee jogging along with the action on the pitch below as Tottenham fought to defend a one-nil lead.
“Right. And the other thing?”
“What other thing?”
“The one that’s made you a grumpy, intolerant, miserable sod these last few days.”
Ebon crossed his arms and scowled at a forward’s bad pass. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s Sophie, isn’t it?”
“No,” Ebon insisted on instinct, bolting upright in his seat—then sank down again, realizing he’d never get a lie past his older brother. “How did you know?”
“You’ve got your Sophie-sulky look on.”
“Excuse me?”
“The one you get whenever there’s a blip in that weird eye-fucking standoff you two maintain. Like when she started to get serious with that banker. Or the time the speech therapist you were seeing wanted you to meet her parents.”
“That had nothing to do with Sophie.”
“Whenever you so much as go on a date, it has to do with Sophie, because it means you’re contemplating life with a woman who isn’t her,” Oren said matter-of-factly.
“That’s absurd. I’ve known Sophie more than ten years and I’ve dated plenty of women in that time. We’re friends, that’s all. It’s only recently occurred to me there might be potential for something more, and that went spectacularly wrong.”
“So that’s why you’re acting like the ref just stuck a red card straight up your arse? What happened?”
The evening was clear but cold, the long-awaited spring nowhere in sight, yet Ebon’s face heated as he recalled the night in the pub with Sophie. Forty-eight hours later, he wasn’t sure whether he was more furious that she’d read him like a book or that he’d enjoyed her retaliation too much to stop her. Although they’d spent the rest of the night in easy camaraderie and their friendship seemed undented by that awkward encounter, he was no closer to discovering if or where their investigations crossed—and worse, he couldn’t stop fantasizing about a repeat performance.
“She clocked my plan straight away,” he told Oren, carefully omitting how long—and how vigorously—Sophie had kept him going before he realized she knew what he was up to.
“Well done, Soph,” Oren remarked approvingly.
“Don’t take her side,” Ebon snapped. “My story’s still moving at a snail’s pace and for all I know, she’s on track to publish tomorrow.”
Oren visibly sobered, the Phoenix’s success always at the top of his priorities. “I don’t suppose you could go back to some of your earlier sources and ask whether she’s contacted them? Or better yet, tell them not to speak to her if she does?”
Ebon winced. “It was hard enough getting most of these women to trust me enough to speak to me. They’ve already been silenced by their abusers. I don’t want them to feel silenced by the person who’s supposed to be helping them.”
“You’re right, we can’t do that.” Oren propped his chin in his hand, his gaze reaching far beyond Tottenham’s valiant but ineffective effort to increase their one-goal lead.
