"Her name's Eva Lopez, and her father owns the land that borders Ortega's. There's a party there tomorrow night. And I think Eva needs to make a new friend."
Dallas grinned. "Let me guess. There's a weak spot on Ortega's perimeter that's accessible from the Lopez property."
"And that's why you run this show," Quince quipped. "You're a bloody genius."
Dallas's gaze flicked back down to the picture. The girl wasn't Jane, but the eyes were similar. The cheekbones as round and perfect. Her mouth wide enough to swallow a man's cock.
He'd meant what he'd told Jane just now--he wanted to be friends. And he also wanted more.
He might get the friendship, but he knew damn well the more was not only off-limits, but impossible. He wasn't the man for her. He could never be the man she needed. The man she deserved.
He knew all that--hell, that simple, basic truism had settled into his bones. But that didn't mean the wanting went away.
The woman on Quince's phone wasn't Jane, but he could pretend she was. If that's what it took to get him through this assignment, then yes, he could pretend.
It sure as hell wouldn't be the first time. And, goddamn it, that was the job.
That was the role he played.
"Dallas Sykes is a goddamned bastard on toast," I say, huffing a little as I try to catch my breath. We've just run three miles in Central Park and now we're back at the Seventy-second Street exit, waiting to cross with the light.
Beside me, Brody jogs in place. "Because he went with some Argentine babe to a party?"
"Went to a party?" I repeat. "More like he practically fucked the bimbo on the dance floor." I bend over and wheeze. I hate running--that runner's high myth is a huge load of bullshit--but I force myself to do it, just like I force myself to weight train, practice at the firing range, and go to self-defense classes. I may never be attacked again, but if I am, I intend to do some damage before I race the fuck out of there.
"You saw the picture," I remind him.
"How could I miss it? You shoved it in my face at least five times before we headed to the park."
I scowl, because he's right. I'd been nightmare-free last night, and I'd awakened in a good mood, enjoying a pleasant little Dallas hangover following our conversation. And then I'd turned on the computer, and the first thing in my feed was about eight hundred different pictures of the man I crave, up close and personal with yet another woman who isn't me.
And suddenly my good day was shot all to hell.
I'd saved the picture on my phone and then proceeded to share my pain.
"First of all, I don't think she's a bimbo," Brody says reasonably. "I looked her up on my phone before we started the run, and she's an Oxford grad."
This doesn't make me feel better.
"And second--well, I think we both know what second is."
"That I shouldn't be jealous of who my brother sleeps with? Yeah, we both know."
I sigh, because he's right. Brody usually is. But somehow that doesn't make the pang of jealousy--and of loss--any less painful. And the fact that Dallas and I don't share a single drop of blood only makes it worse, not better. Because if it weren't for those adoption orders, there'd be nothing keeping us apart. But there is. We're siblings. And that makes it not only taboo but technically illegal.
Brody is the only person other than Dallas who knows my secrets. All of them. The kidnapping. What happened between Dallas and me. And all the rest. Because it wasn't just that Dallas and I lost our virginity to each other. If it was just that, I think I could move on. I could--rightly--blame what happened on trauma. On fear. On the need for consolation and human contact.
But i
t wasn't just that. In some weird way, our captivity was an excuse to physically consummate something that we'd emotionally sealed years before.
And it hurt all the more because once together, fate and circumstance and social mores had ripped us apart again.
Not that I'd told Brody any of that right off the bat. When I'd first met him, I'd just wanted to fuck him. Or, more exactly, I'd just wanted to get fucked. I'd been acting out. Acting stupid. Fast cars, faster sex, and lots of bad decisions.
I'd gone to a bar near Columbia and met him there. He wasn't a student--he'd dropped out the previous semester to tend bar, and he'd made me laugh as I sipped house wine and ate spiced almonds. I'd sat there until closing, taken him home, and let him fuck my brains out.
To say I'd been something of a mess in those days would be an understatement. I'd gone from guy to guy to guy searching for something--someone--to make me whole. To fill the gap left by Dallas.