Wicked Dirty

by J. Kenner

  He took a step toward her. "It's just that I need a little favor..."

  * * *

  Lyle was up before the sun on Monday, which meant that Natasha was as well.

  "Can I just turn in my resignation?" she asked, her voice sleepy over the phone. "Because it's barely past six, and I think this constitutes unreasonable work conditions."

  "I need you to reschedule everything I have for today and tomorrow."

  "Um, okay." There was a shuffling, and he assumed she was sitting up in bed. "Why?"

  "Something's come up."

  "Something named Sugar Laine?"

  "Nat..."

  "Hey. Fine. And no, I'm not going to ask why you're suddenly engaged to a girl who I, as your personal assistant, didn't even know you were seeing until you introduced her at Wyatt's opening."

  "You heard."

  "Everyone heard. Well, except people who never get on the Internet, and I'm pretty sure that breed doesn't live in Southern California."

  "Good point, and yes. We have plans. So I need you to clear my schedule."

  He waited for her to say more. To ask about their relationship, about how long they'd been together, about why she'd never arranged details for any other date.

  But all she said was, "No problem."

  And that, he thought, was why she was such a good assistant. "I need you to do a few other things as well. Some reservations I need you to make first thing, and then there's a pile of paperwork on my desk for you to go through and a few calls you need to return. You have your pad?" Natasha never went anywhere without her red portfolio, and Lyle assumed she kept it on her nightstand when she slept.

  "Of course. Go ahead."

  He ran her through the list, she promised to handle it all, and he hung up feeling that everything was on track.

  Hopefully, it would stay that way.

  His office was in his condo, and he showered and changed and was on the road well before Nat arrived. As his PA, she had access to pretty much all aspects of his life, and while he sped down Santa Monica Boulevard away from his Century City condo, he wondered just how much she'd figured out.

  Did she know about the girls he'd hired over the years? Had she guessed that he was paying Laine for the pretend engagement?

  It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Nat was smart and observant--two of the reasons he'd hired her. She was also discreet, and anything she knew or suspected would stay locked in the vault. That much he was sure of.

  She also wasn't judgmental, and he was certain that she genuinely liked him, despite whatever of his flaws she'd picked up on.

  With all that in mind, he shouldn't care what she knew.

  But he did.

  The possibility that she knew he'd paid Laine for a night in his hotel, to be his date at the opening, and now to be his fiancee ... well, that possibility ate at him.

  Not because of what Nat might think about him, but because he didn't want her thinking less of Laine. He'd already thrust her into the spotlight. And though the public comment was congratulatory right now, he knew damn well that sentiment could turn on a dime. And Laine shouldn't have to put up with any of it.

  When he reached Venice he pulled through a drive-in coffee shop and grabbed two lattes. Hopefully that was her drink, because even though they were on the verge of matrimony, he didn't have a clue as to any of those little things. He needed to find out--method acting, after all--and he had to admit he was looking forward to submersing himself in the role.

  This time he had to park almost a block away, and he walked to her house carrying her coffee and sipping his. He rang the buzzer at the gate, surprised when there was no answer since it wasn't yet eight.

  Maybe she was asleep. Or in the shower.

  Or maybe she was pulling your chain last night, thought better of getting up close and personal, and is hiding inside, hoping you'll just go away.

  Sadly, that probably wasn't an outrageous theory. Except for the fact that she loved her house, and while he might not know a lot about her, the one thing he was sure about was that she'd do anything to save her home.

  He was considering climbing the fence and waiting on her front porch when a dog's deep bark sounded from the end of the block toward the beach, followed by Sugar's familiar laugh, then her gentle chide for the dog to slow down.

  "Come on, Lancelot. Time to get you back home so I can shower and--oh! Lyle. Hi."

  She came to a dead stop in front of him, the dog still tugging at the leash so that she had to work to stay in one place, the muscles in her arm straining as she held tight to keep the dog from bolting.

  "Lancelot? Is he your knight in shining fur?"

  "It's a good thing your work is scripted. You'd never make it in stand-up comedy." Her eyes dipped to the coffee. "Is one of those for me?"

  "I hope you like lattes?"

  "I guess that makes you my valiant knight. I'm seriously caffeine deprived this morning." She took a long swallow, then sighed with pleasure. "At the risk of sounding ungrateful, why are you here?"

  "We have business."

  "Um." Her forehead creased and she looked a little baffled. "Right. Well, okay. But I need to get him back next door and then I need to shower and then I have to get to Maudie's for the morning shift. So if there's something engagement-y that we have to do, can we do it in the afternoon?"

  "Is he yours?" Lyle nodded toward the dog.

  Her mouth twisted with annoyance, presumably because he'd ignored her question. "My neighbor's. He pays me to walk him most mornings so he can study. We just finished. I was taking him home."

  "I'll go with you."

  "Well, okay. Suit yourself."

  He followed her to the garage apartment behind the two-story house beside hers. The dog trotted up the stairs, then barked at the door, which was opened by a dark-haired guy in gray sweats and a bare chest, his hair still damp from a shower.

  "Hey, Sugar. Hey, Lancie boy." He crouched down and nuzzled the dog. "So I'll see you next on Wednesday, right?"

  "It's Laine, Jacob," she said, and Lyle noted her exasperated tone. "And what? You don't need me to walk him tomorrow?"

  "Are you kidding? I'd love for you to walk him tomorrow."

  She stared at him, clearly confused, until finally Jacob said, "Duh. Joy called. Said you needed to skip?"

  "Joy said?"

  "She's wrong?"

  "No--no, that's all good." Her brow furrowed, and Lyle could tell that she was trying to decide if she'd forgotten about some plans she'd made with Joy. "Anyway, I'll see you Wednesday, then."

  "Cool." He shut the door, and she hesitated on the stairs.

  "Let's get back," she said. "I need to phone Joy."

  "You don't," Lyle said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "She called him as a favor to me."

  "To you?"

  "I told you. We have business to take care of today."

  "And so you had her call out for me? From everything?"

  "Just today and tomorrow."

  They'd reached her gate, and she paused, looking more than a little put out. "You do know that the loan's not the only thing I need money for. There's still the pesky matter of food, utilities, transportation, and taxes. Plus, on occasion I like to go to a movie or buy a book."

  "I'll have my assistant email you an expense report," he said dryly. "Full reimbursement for all funds lost due to any activity you undertake in the capacity of my faux fiancee. Fair?"

  "Pushy and controlling--and a lot annoying since you didn't run it by me first--but on the whole it's fair enough."

  She was, he noted, fighting a smile. A fact that he considered a very good sign.

  "So what is this business we have to deal with, anyway?"

  "First off, I thought we'd go to Tiffany's."

  "Why?"

  "Well, you need a ring."

  "Oh. Right." She glanced at her hand. "I hadn't thought of that."

  "And then we need to hit your bank and take care of your loan."
>
  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Really?"

  "That was the deal, wasn't it?"

  She swallowed. "Well, yeah. But I thought--well, I figured I had to play the part first."

  He couldn't help but smile. "You planning on backing out on me?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then let's go. I don't like that it's hanging over your head."

  She blinked, and he saw tears in her eyes.

  "Thanks." Her voice quavered, and her voice was thick. And right then, he thought, she positively glowed.

  The knowledge that he'd done that sent a potent rush of pleasure through him, like a jolt of electricity.

  And he couldn't help but wonder, if he ever really proposed to a woman, if she'd look even half as happy as Sugar looked right now.

  17

  Even sitting at the loan officer's desk, I can't stop looking at the ring. It's silly, I know, because it's nothing more than a prop. But still...

  I hold out my hand, letting it glow under the bank's fluorescent lights as I wait for the woman to return with my paperwork. "Sparkly," I say, grinning up at Lyle, who's leaning against the wall checking his phone.

  To his credit, he doesn't run screaming out of the room despite the fact that this is probably the fifteenth time I've said that between Tiffany's and the bank.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "But it's so pretty, and it looks different everywhere we go. Sunlight, incandescent, fluorescent." It's a platinum-set classic round cut on a diamond studded band, and I think it's about the most beautiful thing in the world.

  "It is a wonder of nature," he says, and I wrinkle my nose at him.

  "Let me be girly," I say. "Besides, if anyone's paying attention they'll just see me being appropriately giddy."

  I hold out my hand and wiggle my fingers so that it seems to shoot off sparks. "It's just that engagement rings mean something," I say as Lyle takes the seat next to me. "Or they should."

  I force myself not to look at my hand for a moment. "When I was nine, we almost lost the house."

  "Really? What happened?"

  "Taxes. My mom thought my dad had paid them, but of course he hadn't. That's the year he left us. So when the bill came, she had nothing in the bank."

  "She sold her engagement ring," he guesses.

  "Good call. But can you guess the punch line?"

  His brow furrows as he shakes his head.

  "It was fake. Completely fake. Wasn't even worth two hundred dollars. I wasn't supposed to know--she was trying to be the good parent and not tell me the truth about my asshole of a dad--but I overheard her talking with a friend one night."

  I frown, remembering. "Even then, she tried to cut him slack. She said that it was the sentiment, not the price tag. Because the ring was just a symbol that they were together. But as far as I was concerned, the sentiment was that he didn't value her enough to get her a real ring. It didn't have to be expensive, but it should have been something other than a craft store stone."

  Once more, I hold my left hand out for him to see. "But this--well, this has real sentiment. And it's a symbol, too. The symbol of my victory over this loan," I say, tapping the desktop where Lyle's check for the full balance had been sitting just minutes before.

  "So thank you," I add, then shrug, a little embarrassed that I got off on such a tear.

  Lyle doesn't seem to mind. In fact he takes my hand and brushes his finger over the stone, then looks up at me. "What did she do?"

  "Do?"

  "About the taxes?"

  "Oh." I frown. "I don't know. I guess she got help from someone. Maybe a friend."

  "Like you," he says, his grip tightening slightly on my fingers.

  My heart trips a little in my chest.

  "Yeah," I say softly. "Like me."

  The loan officer comes around the partition, and I catch a glimpse of her nametag. Joan.

  I start to pull my hand away, but Lyle twines our fingers, then winks at me. Engaged, he mouths, and I roll my eyes. But I squeeze his hand, too. For Joan's benefit, of course.

  "All right," Joan says. "You're all set."

  I look from her to Lyle and then back again. "That's it?"

  "That's it," she confirms. She hands me a receipt that shows a zero balance. "You'll be getting the rest of the paperwork in the mail, but your part is done."

  "So no foreclosure. No more loan payments. Just ... done."

  "You two should go celebrate." She nods at the ring. "I probably shouldn't say, but I saw your pictures yesterday. You make a lovely couple."

  "Thanks," I say, standing.

  "I think Joan is right," Lyle says. He's standing now, too, and he slides his arm around my waist. I lean happily against him, because that's what newly engaged couples do.

  "Celebrate," I say. "You know, I think that's an excellent idea."

  Joan congratulates us again, and we head out into the bright California sun.

  As soon as the door closes behind us, I hold out my arms and spin, laughing like a little kid. Then I spin my way over to Lyle, who catches me mid-twirl and holds me by my waist.

  "Hi," I say, easing close, so that I'm pressed against him, my arms tight around his neck. I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. "And thank you."

  "You know, we're getting married," he says. "People might be watching."

  "Good point," I say. "I can see why you're such a good actor."

  "I like to get into the part," he says, and I'm suddenly very aware of the way he's holding me. Of the scent of his cologne.

  There's a low thrum of awareness growing inside me, and before I can talk myself out of it, I capture his mouth with a kiss, then just about reel under the intensity with which he kisses me back. So thoroughly and completely that I'm not sure if I've ever really been kissed before. Like all other kisses were just practice for this one. This man.

  I'm lightheaded when he breaks the kiss, and he has to hold my arm to keep me from stumbling.

  "Well," I say breathlessly. "You really are a great actor. I think that kiss convinced anyone who was looking."

  "Same to you," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "I really believed you were enjoying it."

  I manage a flicker of a smile, then look away. I'm aware of every single nerve ending in my body right now, and all I really want to do is continue that kiss. Well, that and all the things the kiss might lead to.

  Stop it.

  I need to think non-sexual thoughts. Things like asphalt. And cars. And--I glance around the street--bank buildings.

  Which reminds me of my loan.

  Which reminds me of Lyle.

  Which puts me right back where I started.

  I grab his hand. "We should walk. We look silly just standing here."

  He glances at his watch. "You're right, it's getting late."

  I pull out my phone and check the time. Between the two hours it took to browse and buy at Tiffany's, drive time back to Venice, and the hour we spent waiting and then talking with Joan, it's now almost two o'clock. No wonder I'm hungry.

  "Should we grab some lunch?"

  "Actually, we should probably eat on the road if we want to have any time at the park today."

  "Park?"

  "Sugar Laine, you just paid off your loan," he says in a booming announcer-style voice. "What are you going to do now?"

  I just stare at him, my eyes wide.

  "Go to Disneyland?" he says, making the tagline of the familiar commercial a question.

  "Lyle. I don't--" But I can't get the rest of my words out. My throat's too clogged with tears.

  "Oh, shit," he says. "I'm so sorry. I thought you'd want to. You said you hadn't gone since the day of the accident, and I know how much the house means to you, and I thought that after paying it off--fuck. I asked Joy if you'd like it, but I should never have sprung it on you like this."

  "No," I say, then throw my arms around him and sob against his chest. "These are happy tears." I hiccup a little, getting his T-shirt all wet.

>   He holds me, letting me dump all of that emotion on him, and when my tears finally stop and my breath isn't coming in painful heaves, I take a step back and manage a broad, watery smile.

  "Thank you," I say sincerely. "That's probably the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever done for me."

  "I should have asked. I'm thrilled you're happy, but that was reckless of me. I was only thinking that I wanted to do something nice for you. But those could have been sad tears."

  "But they weren't," I tell him. "A little melancholy mixed in, maybe, but in a good way. Thank you," I say again. "Really."

  I take another deep breath, then check the time again. "Yeah," I say. "Lunch on the road." I glance down at my jeans, T-shirt, and canvas flats. "I'm good to go now if you are."

  "Then let's hit the road."

  It's not as simple as that, of course. His car is parked in a lot four blocks from the bank, and then we have to navigate to In-N-Out for our mobile lunch. After that, we hit traffic getting to the freeway, and then, of course, there's construction on the 91. So by the time we actually park, get our tickets, and step onto Main Street, it's almost five o'clock.

  I really don't care, though. We still have lots of hours, and I fully intend to cram in as much as possible.

  To his credit, Lyle doesn't balk at my insanity, which starts out on Main Street at the theater where we watch Steamboat Willie and all the other vintage cartoons. Then we start working our way through the park, seeing all my favorites from my childhood, especially Pirates of the Caribbean.

  We shoot aliens with Buzz Lightyear, go underwater in the submarine, and zip around the Matterhorn. And, because you're really never too old, we also hit the carousel.

  We hold hands for every ride, which I enjoy more than I probably should considering our relationship is pretend. He holds my hand while we walk, too, which makes sense in case we're seen. But he's in a ball cap and sunglasses, and as far as I can tell, no one recognizes him.

  Best of all, he puts up with all my detours, my squeals of delight when I see a character walking the street, and my very frequent window-shopping excursions, during one of which he buys me a vintage Mickey tank top.

  I'm pretty much in heaven, and by the time the Electric Light Parade starts at eight forty-five, I'm also exhausted.

  "We can stay longer," Lyle says from our primo spot on Main Street. "But if you're hungry, I have a reservation at one of the restaurants at the Disneyland Hotel."

  Except for some snacks from the fruit stand in Adventureland, we haven't eaten since lunch. I hadn't felt hungry before, but now my stomach growls. Loudly.