Free Jude; The Fallen (The Fallen Series, Book 2) by Tara S. Wood, Lorecia Goings Page B

a whip or wear a jaunty hat.”
    He flipped the card over in his hands. “But this says-“
    “Those aren’t my teaching credentials, Jude. It’s what I do. What we do when we’re not in the classroom. We find things. Ancient places, lost places, relics, religions, civilizations. Life,” she stressed. “People. It’s amazing work.”
    He gazed at the card again before turning cold eyes on her. “And then you sell it to the highest bidder.”
    Her jaw clenched and her eyebrow went up. “No. I don’t deal on the black market. Alex may dabble, but that’s his gamble. The laws are very clear about that sort of thing, and the prison system over there isn’t the five-star affair like it is here in the States, nor is it worth the massive amount of cash I would have to throw away to steer clear of it. I like hanging onto my hands and my money.”
    “But he takes risks,” Jude pressed.
    “We both do, to some extent. These things belong to the world. It’s a sacrilege to let them wither away and die under the sand, or in some Saudi prince’s private collection that he nicked without the proper paperwork. Those things, we find. We find, and we get them back. A lot of these antiquities are hidden away on yachts that keep to international waters. That’s Alex’s specialty.”
    Jude’s eyes widened as he dropped the card onto the desk with a splutter. “Pirates. You're talking about pirates, aren't you? That's what Alex does in his spare time, right? He's a fucking pirate! That's why you let Ash stay with his parents? Because Long John Silver isn't home long enough to be a father to his little girl?”
    She pretended to ignore him, continuing to rifle through her bag.
    “Coriander?”
    She flinched at his tone and whipped her head up. “Nobody said anything about,” her fingers shot up to make air quotes, “pirates.”
    “Then how do you define men with large quantities of firearms on the open sea ambushing unsuspecting vessels?”
    She wrinkled her nose. “It's all subjective. Those idiots off the coast of Africa, yeah, they're pirates. But what Alex does, it's...he's,” she paused, frustrated. “It's just different, okay? He knows what he's doing and makes sure no one gets hurt. Pirate is such an ugly word. Try, 'nautical acquisition and redistribution specialist'.” She shook her head and went back to the bag, muttering, “I mean, really, it’s not nearly as nefarious as you make it sound.” She shoved at the bag and jerked her head up to face him, the scowl covering the whole of her face. “And why do you care in the first place?”
    “Because it's wrong, Coriander. You can put a pig in a tutu and put it on stage, but it will never be a ballerina,” he frowned.
    Her brow lifted in confusion. “What in the hell does that mean? Have you been watching Dr. Phil reruns again?”
    He grabbed her arm and yanked her around the edge of the desk, hauling her against the wall of his chest. “It means, no matter how prettily you choose to define it, it is what it is.”
    His mouth went dry as the pain in his soul receded, and something low stirred in his groin, burning beautifully as he felt her breath on his face.
    “And what is it?” she asked, her lips parting.
    His eyes darkened to slits as his mouth slowly descended. A second before they made contact, he whispered, “Wrong.”
    Her mouth was soft and wet, and opened like a flower unfurling into the sunlight. Warmth, precious and cradling, enveloped him as he angled his head to plunder the depths of her mouth. Coriander made a small gasping sound as his tongue snaked out to tangle with hers. The breathy noise went straight to his cock, making him hard in an instant. His hands pressed their way up her arms, sliding over skin like silk, to cup the back of her head and hold her in place while his mouth ground over hers.
    She sagged against him, winding her arms around his waist for support, and pressed her body to his. His back lit up like Christmas, the